A Dance with the Heavens
What are you looking at, boy?
Eight-year-old Brendan Wilke lay on the grass near his father’s farm in Princeton, North Carolina and stared at the stars.
“I’m going to be an astronaut,” said Brendan. “I’m going to fly a rocket and explore you.”
Foolish child, replied the stars. Do you have any idea how vast I am? You’re just another dreamer, a swirl of dust destined to go still before I can blink. You will never reach me.
“I’ll find a way.”
____________________
Seventeen-year-old Brendan Wilke parked the family pickup outside Marisol Brenner’s house. He took a boxed corsage from the empty passenger seat.
“Wish me luck,” he said, looking up and tracing the alignment of Dubhe and Alkaid in Ursa Major out to Polaris.
I herald no fortunes and grant no favors, said the stars. Rub your rabbit’s foot or rosary beads. You’re on your own, boy.
Later that night, on the peak of Hickory Ridge, the stars watched as Brendan had his first kiss with Marisol. Oh, they feigned indifference, like always. But Brendan could tell—by the way they held breathless and still—that they approved.
____________________
Five years on, in the Physics Lab at Appalachian State University, Brendan bent over a light table with a loupe, examining transparencies on loan from the University of New Mexico Observatory. Thirty-six images, taken of the same spot every night over the course of three weeks. There. Grid G-12. A pinprick of light, slightly brighter than the others. A week later, a minuscule bulge like a cell entering anaphase. Another week later and again only the one round dot.
Brendan checked ascension and declination in the Norton Star Atlas, Ninth Edition. Back and forth, from the index to the notes that came with the negatives. Nothing.
“A binary star no one’s identified,” he said, smiling at the spread of photos. “I’m starting to discover your secrets.”
I have no secrets. Everything I am is for anyone to see. Look your whole lifetime—a million lifetimes—and you will see only a molecule of what I am.
“I’m fine with that.”
____________________
A month later, thanks to borrowed funds supplemented by a check his father had signed only after significant grumbling, Brendan stood by the Flecker telescope as faculty from the U.N.M. Astronomy Department took turns peering through before confirming the “Wilke Double Star.”
Outside, Brendan gazed at the Albuquerque pre-dawn, from Rigel at the tip of Orion’s toe down the serpentine of Eridanus to Achernar, and said, “What do you think of that?”
The stars harrumphed. You’ll have to do better than that to impress me.
“Challenge accepted.”
____________________
Eighty-two-year-old Brendan sat on the porch of Cypress Lake Senior Manor watching —what is that? Deneb? Or Altair?—peek over the treeline. They were further, dimmer than they had ever been. Some nights he couldn’t make out anything but blackness.
“You win,” he said. “A lifetime of charts and graphs, and I barely know anything.”
That’s because you unlearned what you understood as a child. You can’t know me. You can only love me.
“You’re right. I can’t. And I do. I just wished you loved me back.”
That is not a power I possess. Only you. What is beauty without eyes to behold it? You were spawned to gaze up in wonder. After all your labors, haven’t you realized my truth?”
“No. Tell me.”
I am you. I hold you in my embrace, and you swirl through me. We are stardust, aligned for an instant in the never-ending dance. It matters not whether you sleep or wake. The outcome is the same. Come, boy. Dance with me.
____________________
Luisa Romero’s physics teacher pointed to the screen.
“For the midterm, I want you to write a paper on an astronomer. Discuss their tools, methods, discoveries, impact on the field, and so on. It can be someone famous or obscure, historic or contemporary. On the course site, there are some suggestions to help get you started. Pick whoever you like, but I want you to submit your choice by the end of the week.”
Luisa scrolled through the list.
> Ptolemy. Copernicus. Galileo. Kepler.
Boring, she thought. And done to death.
> Hypatia.
No, that's just what they'll be expecting me to do!
> Vera Cooper Rubin. Nancy Grace Roman. Jocelyn Bell Burnell. Carolyn Shoemaker.
Maybe.
> Brendan Wilke.
Who the heck is that? Luisa clicked the link.
WILKE, BRENDAN L. (1936-2018) - In a career spanning fifty years, Wilke is credited with cataloging over 1400 distinct objects. His work encompassed visible-light, x-ray, and radio astronomy; he also made notable contributions to the fields of celestial mechanics and stellar spectroscopy. (See autobiography)
She flipped through the front matter, stopping on the author photo. Check out this nerdy old guy! With his Brylcreem combover and Buddy Holly glasses, he looked like a mash-up of Clark Kent and Bill Nye.
She turned to the Preface.
When I was ten years old, I used to ride my bicycle through gullies along the farm roads on summer nights. I’d pedal as fast as I could, then turn sharply and launch myself up the embankment, pretending I was a rocket soaring into space. For a glorious instant, I’d hang in midair with nothing but the star-strewn sky filling my vision horizon to horizon. But, of course, gravity always wins and I would come crashing back to Earth. One brief flight even cost me a broken arm—though a week later I was back, with cast and splint, launching my rocket-bike toward the heavens.
Ha! Luisa did the same thing, except on a trampoline. She would bounce higher and higher, looking straight up and reaching, as each time the stars got a little bit closer. Until she bounced clean over the edge and separated her shoulder. A few days later—a steel pin in her collarbone—she was bouncing away again.
“Alright, Professor Wilke. Let’s see what you have to say.”