One Small Step

The din of Yiddish, Hungarian, and other accented voices halts when Walter Cronkite leans forward, rips off his glasses, and declares: This is it. They’re committed!

A hush descends over the Grand Lounge of the worn, century-old Palace Hotel. Below lazily turning ceiling fans, men in untucked cotton shirts and women clutching handbags sit shoulder to shoulder on sagging couches and mismatched armchairs, all staring at the Zenith console squatting at the front of the room like an altar. Young children sprawl cross-legged on the floor, elbows knocking, whispering until shushed.

I’m perched on a folding chair wedged into a corner. Fifteen, narrow as a sapling, wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses, the only thing about me that could pass for cool is my blue T-shirt with Mets written across the chest in looping script.

When a picture flashes of the Eagle descending, the silence is broken by a woman shrieking with joy. Turning toward her, I spot a girl about my age settled next to a punch bowl table laden with seltzer bottles sweating onto paper doilies and plates of rugelach cut into careful thirds. A magazine rests in her lap, likely one of the many moon-landing specials stacked high on every newsstand.

Feeling like I’ve seen her before, I keep peeking at the girl as she watches the room more than the television. When she turns her head again, quick and birdlike, her eyes find mine. For a suspended second, we’re locked together, before she looks away.

From the TV, Cronkite’s voice surges forth: Velocity looks good!

The image suddenly shivers, dissolving into a storm of gray snow. A shared groan ripples through the room. Mr. Silberman — a gaunt Romanian tailor with sunken cheeks and nicotine-stained fingers who’s appointed himself master of ceremonies — springs to his feet, a lit cigarette clamped between his lips. With forearms marked by scars, he reaches for the rabbit-ear antennae swaddled in aluminum foil, twists them with theatrical precision, then smacks the side of the set with the flat of his hand.

The picture snaps back into focus.

“If there’s a problem,” Mr. Silberman announces solemnly, smoke curling from his mouth, “nobody touch nothing. I’ll fix. I know technology.” He stretches the word — tek-nolo-geee — pulling it long and thin, like dough rolled out on a kitchen table.

A ripple of laughter passes through the adults as they revel in their ability to watch two men and a fragile machine, a quarter-million miles away, inch toward another world. As a man with numbers on his arm once told me, they understand miracles. Their being here in this hotel is one of them.

The girl plucks absently at one of the embroidered threads on her sleeve. When she lifts her head, our eyes meet again. This time, she gifts me a smile, which lasts long enough for my stomach to jolt like an elevator that’s come to a stop between floors. I feel suddenly weightless, floating.

Cronkite’s voice brings me back: Fuel is going fast.

His tone carries an edge. The room tightens, every breath hinged on Cronkite’s words.

I force myself to turn back to the screen. But the afterimage of her face clings to my vision.

We stare at the ghostly white smudge of the lunar module while numbers — altitude, velocity, fuel remaining — are explained by Cronkite, each one sounding final. The broadcast periodically cuts to Mission Control in Houston: rows of engineers in white short-sleeved shirts, ties loosened, most smoking, all staring straight ahead as though afraid to blink.

The descent feels endless.

“Why so long?” a woman whispers.

“It’s the moon,” her husband murmurs back. “What, you want they should hurry?”

She smacks his knee without looking.

Altitude now five hundred feet.

Another woman’s voice rises from the back. “We should pray!” Others nod in agreement, pleased to be reaching back to words that once mattered when nothing else did. But the only vocal response to that woman is a man chiding, “There’s a prayer for a safe moon landing?”

Again, snow floods the screen. Mr. Silberman springs to his feet once more, cigarette glowing like a tiny beacon, and performs his ritual with the antennae.

Program alarm… one-two-zero-two! Mumbling breaks out. But before theories can take flight about what “1202” means, Cronkite adds: That’s a computer alarm. We don’t yet know what it stands for.

“So why worry us if you don’t know what it is?” someone grumbles.

A minute later, Cronkite adds: We’ve learned that the alarm was caused by radar feeding extra, unnecessary data into the computer. This is not a failure of the system.

The adults don’t need him to explain it. They just sit there. Waiting. Not panicking.

Suddenly, I feel a light brush of a leg against my shoulder. I look up, and my heart stutters as if it’s slipped briefly out of orbit.

She looks down at me, hazel eyes set in a face that’s too pretty for words. We may be the only people in the room not glued to the TV. She gestures toward my shirt. “You a Mets fan?” she asks rhetorically.

As I nod yes, I peek at what the girl’s holding. Three familiar faces float on the cover — Jerry Grote, Jerry Koosman, and Tom Seaver. It’s the Mets yearbook!

Cronkite’s words surround us, but I barely register them. With every seat in the room occupied, I take a risk, scooting over and patting the narrow space now empty on my folding chair. She hesitates, then sits. There’s barely an inch separating our tushes. Electricity sparks across it.

Fuel… sixty seconds.

A shared gasp ripples through the room, while I blurt out the first question that pops in my head. “You think they can catch the Cubs?”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “’Cause they have Seaver.”

She says his name worshipfully and, however irrational, I now dislike my former favorite baseball player.

They’re picking their landing spot manually now.

I realize the question I need to ask. “What’s your name?”

“Marsha.”

“Jeff.” I stick out my hand, hoping it’s not clammy. When her hand meets mine, my insides flutter. I want us to keep speaking, but the pull of events is too great to resist. We turn back to the screen, where an animation shows the lunar module descending. Then back to a live shot of Mission Control and those same stone-faced engineers.

Thirty seconds.

A reverent silence descends over the group, which leans forward as one.

Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.

Cronkite exhales, slips off his glasses for the hundredth time, and exclaims: Man on the moon. Oh boy. Oh boy!

Meanwhile, the Grand Lounge explodes.

Applause crashes into shouts, chairs scrape, bodies surge. People embrace whoever is closest. Children are pulled into arms. Kisses are planted on cheeks. Mazel tovs ricochet off the walls. Someone pops a seltzer bottle too fast; it bursts forth in a silver fountain, earning only laughter. An elderly Polish woman clamps down on her granddaughter’s shoulder so tightly the girl squeaks. Mr. Silberman plants a kiss on the crown of his wife’s head.

Somewhere in the noise are Marsha’s shriek and mine. We turn to each other at the same instant. Heat floods my cheeks. I’m seized by a sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss her — right there, in front of everyone — but fear freezes me in place. The wanting alone is almost too much to bear.

Cronkite comes back on the screen to clarify that the astronauts will now prepare for EVA — extravehicular activity — which will take hours. The crowd begins to disperse. Women head for the kitchen, already planning dinner. Men shuffle outside to smoke, shaking their heads in disbelief. Others wander upstairs, still visibly excited, as if afraid the feeling might vanish if they don’t cling to it.

Mr. Silberman rises, folding his arms as if satisfied that, for tonight, everything that needed fixing has been fixed. As he walks out, he pauses just long enough to glance at us, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Marsha and I stay seated, watching the tide recede. Soon only a handful remain — the geeks who will watch every second of coverage. In the thinning room, with the moon finally claimed, everything feels newly possible. I turn to Marsha and blurt out, “Wanna listen to the Mets play the Pirates? I’ve got a radio. We could hang out on the porch.”

She considers this, then frowns slightly. “You play ping pong? I saw a table out back.”

“Yeah,” I reply too quickly. “Sure.”

I lead her through the communal kitchen, past counters cluttered with dishes and utensils, and out the back screen door.

The yard slopes unevenly away from the hotel, the grass patchy and worn thin by kids, dogs, and neglect. We’re serenaded by cicadas, the sound thick and insistent. Near a tool shed rests the ping pong table, its green paint bleached by sunlight, with a net that sags in the middle.

I shrug. “Sorry. It’s not the best table.”

“It’s fine,” Marsha says. She bends to drop her yearbook on the grass and retrieve paddles, tapping one against her palm, testing the weight. Then she grabs the ball and tosses it to me.

“Let’s warm up.”

I send over my usual serve, the ball skimming low, barely clearing the net. I expect her to chunk it into the mesh the way my mother always does. Instead, Marsha makes an athletic lunge and returns with a sharp wrist snap. The ball streaks toward me faster than I expect. I place only the tip of my paddle on it, and the ball slices off the table into the grass. She grins at me.

We rally for a minute, with Marsha moving quickly, cutting angles, using spin, winning exchanges. Panic crawls up my spine.

I call the flip for serve correctly, the paddle falling with the SPALDING logo facing up. But my nerves betray me — my ball floats high, hanging in the middle of the table. Marsha smacks it past me.

In the middle of the next rally, with Marsha chasing down every shot of mine, I catch myself watching her instead of the ball — her hair falling into her face, the way she keeps brushing it back without thinking.

After I smash one of her returns into the net, I pause to consider the situation. As good as Marsha is, I’m stronger, I’ve got a few extra inches in reach, and I know this scarred table, with its unpredictable bounces. So I slow the pace, place my shots deeper, aim for the chipped edges. We start trading points evenly until I finally inch ahead.

At 20-19, the ball feels tinier, the table narrower, the air heavier. We fall into a prolonged rally, neither of us willing to gamble on a kill shot. When she finally pushes one a hair too wide, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath underwater.

Marsha leans on the table, breathing hard, strands of hair stuck to her cheek. “You’re better than you let on.”

I nod, but the win already feels small. “I only won ’cause I know this table.”

She beams. I gesture toward the back of the yard, where the fence gives way to a narrow path leading into a strip of trees, and work up the nerve to ask, “Wanna go skip rocks?”

Seeing her puzzled expression, I add, “There’s a brook back there. We throw rocks. It’s stupid, but — ”

“Let’s go,” she blurts out.

We leave the paddles and ball tucked beneath the table and slip onto the narrow path, the ground springy underfoot. The trees draw closer as we walk, their branches knitting overhead, sunlight breaking into pale shards that flicker across our faces.

As we amble along, Marsha says, “Esto es hermoso.” She smirks, and suddenly an image of her in the front row of a Newtown High School classroom emerges. I know why she’s familiar. I say slowly, “Estás en mi clase de español.”

“Si,” she blurts out with a wide grin. “Took you long enough.”

The sound of running water swells, and the brook appears — shallow and clear, stones visible beneath the rippling surface. We stop at its edge. The air feels cool, almost alive.

I crouch and close my fingers around a flat, slate-gray stone cool from the water. With a quick snap of my wrist, I send it skipping across the surface — tap, tap, tap — each kiss of water clean and sure, before it disappears with a quiet, satisfying plunk.

“Three skips,” Marsha gushes. “I can’t do that.”

“Try.”

She selects a stone, steps to the edge of the brook, and with a sharp twist of her wrist, hurls it parallel to the water. The rock slaps the surface once and sinks. I look away, embarrassed by the secret victory curling in my chest.

“Damn!”

“I think you’re holding it wrong. You gotta pinch it between your fingers and thumb.”

“Show me,” she demands.

I crouch, find another smooth stone, and place it in her palm, gently adjusting her fingers. When my hand touches hers, a jolt shoots through me, sharp and startling.

“Like this,” I say, aiming for casual. I snap my wrist through the air to demonstrate, suddenly convinced that skipping stones is the most important skill in the world.

“You want it flat,” I say, urgently. “Flat is everything.”

She giggles. “You don’t really like them flat, do you?”

It seems like she’s pushing her torso forward, and I oblige by glancing at a chest that’s hard not to look at.

Marsha throws again. This time the stone skips twice before sinking.

She beams. “You’re a good teacher.”

We stand shoulder to shoulder, tossing stones, watching the ripples bloom and dissolve. The moment feels suspended, as if the world has paused — school schedules, homework, expectations all held at bay by the simple pleasure of sending small objects skittering across moving water.

The sky deepens into evening. Marsha sighs. “We should head back. My mom hates when dinner gets cold.”

“Yeah. Mine too.”

As we walk back, I glance at her, then quickly away, aware of a steady feeling blossoming in my chest and settling in.

* * *

Hours later, as the clock approaches eleven, Marsha and I sit side by side once more, absorbed back into the same dense throng. On the screen, an ethereal black-and-white image flickers — indistinct shapes resolving and dissolving amid ominous shadows. The picture freezes, washes out, returns, never quite steady, never quite enough.

From time to time the broadcast cuts back to the CBS studio, where Cronkite mans the anchor desk, calmly narrating what we can’t clearly see — where Armstrong is, what he’s doing.

When Cronkite announces that Armstrong is moving down the ladder, there’s a communal holding of breath. I glance at Marsha. She isn’t looking at the screen. She’s looking at me!

He’s on the footpad now.

Her fingers brush my hand. Hesitant, testing. I don’t move. Then, as gently as possible, I turn my hand so our fingertips line up.

He’s at the bottom.

She closes her hand around mine. I tremble.

This is the moment we’ve been waiting for.

It sure is, I think.

Seconds stretch. Our hands remain locked. Somehow, in this jammed room, we’ve carved out a private orbit.

That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

Again, the room erupts. Shrieks, cries, applause as Armstrong takes his first step onto the moon’s surface.

Mr. Silberman throws his arms wide. “You see! America! This is what a country should do!” Heads nod fiercely. Men and women weep openly.

I turn to Marsha and hug her. She hugs me back.

On an impulse that feels both reckless and necessary, I ask, “Wanna go outside and look at the moon?”

We slip out through the front porch door and settle onto the wooden steps. The air is cool, washed clean by darkness. The moon hangs high above the Catskill ridgeline, luminous and full.

And no longer untouched.

“Can you believe it?” I say, my voice barely louder than the crickets. “Two guys are on that.”

Marsha draws her knees up and wraps her arms around them. “Everything feels different now.”

Fireflies pulse over the lawn, brief yellow-green sparks blinking on and off. I swallow, suddenly aware of my own clumsy gravity.

“I’m really glad you came to this hotel,” I manage to say.

“Me too.”

Silence settles between us — not awkward, just full. As she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, I peek at her profile, outlined in moonlight. She isn’t beautiful in the glamorous television way. Just in a way that feels true.

“I wish we’d met earlier this summer,” I say quietly. “I go home in a few days.”

She turns to look at me, and wiggles her eyebrows. “But then I’ll see you again in September.”

She leans in a smidgen — or at least I perceive her as doing so — and I follow suit, now close enough to see the faint constellation of freckles across her nose.

Cronkite might as well be sitting next to me screaming, “One-two-zero-two alarm!” because I’ve got severe sensory overload. As does Marsha, I sense. Driven by twin impulses equally charged with fear and desire, we tilt further. Carefully. Unsure.

And bump noses.

We freeze, mortified for a heartbeat. Then giggle.

“Try again,” she whispers.

This time we slow everything down. I maneuver my head the way I’ve seen in movies. When our lips meet, there are no fireworks. No trumpets. Just warmth, and the quiet relief of no longer hovering.

When we finally pull apart, we return our gazes to the moon, which remains serenely indifferent to unfolding human dramas. I now understand that two impossible things have happened tonight. Mankind has made the giant leap onto another world. And somehow, I too have arrived.