Free The Astronaut's Wife by Robert Tine

looked into the mirror and caught the eye of his wife standing behind him. “Seems like they’ve got me dead and buried already,” he said with a crooked grin.
“The press loves a story. Particularly if it’s got a nice juicy dead body in it...” She put her hands on his shoulders. “I’m sure you are just fine, Spencer.”
“Sure I am,” he said. He picked up his razor and examined his beard in the mirror.
On the television set Dr. Conlin was assuring everyone that, indeed, Commander Armacost was in fine fettle. “Commander Arrnacost is considerably younger than Captain Streck,” the doctor explained. “And had no predisposition to stroke, as far as we can determine. There’s no family history, no history of sustained elevated blood pressure, no blood gas irregularities.. .“
Spencer seemed to have lost all interest in having his health discussed on live national television. Instead, he swathed his face in shaving cream. Then he picked up his razor and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time and was not quite sure how he was supposed to use the thing Slowly and tentatively he raised the blade to his skin, hesitated a moment, then drew the blade across his chin. Instantly a minute line of blood appeared in the froth of the shaving cream.
Jillian saw him do it and she went to him and took the hand that held the razor in her hand and examined it closely. Blood dripped from the blade.
‘Spencer.. .“ Her voice was full of concern. “‘You’ve cut- yourself, honey.”
“I’m okay,” Spencer said. “Really, it’s nothing. The television just threw me off a little. That’s all.”
“‘Let me do it, Spencer,” said Jillian. She tried to take the razor from his hand.
““I’m okay, Jillian,” Spencer insisted. ““Please, just leave it alone. I can handle it.”
With her free hand she dabbed at the blood on his chin with a piece if tissue paper. Then she looked into her husband’s eyes, a quizzical smile on her face. “I think I see the problem here... Spencer, you are right-handed,” she said.
They both looked at the razor. Spencer was holding the blade in his left hand.
Jillian took it from him. “Let me,” she said very softly, as if she was talking to a child. “It’s okay, let me do it, honey. Please.. .“ And slowly, Spencer opened his left hand and allowed Jillian to take the razor. Slowly, gently, as if dealing with a spooked horse, she raised the blade to his neck and ran it over his skin.
Spencer’s eyes looked sad and closed to the world around him. “Alex is dead,” he whispered. Suddenly he looked like a little boy who had lost his best friend. Bereft and lost, foundering at sea in a ocean of melancholy emotions.
Jillian knew that look and was just as heartbroken for her husband. “I know,” she said. There were tears welling in her eyes now. “I know, Spencer. . .“
She looked at her husband in the mirror, but he looked past her, staring into at his own reflection, gazing into his own eyes as if looking into the workings of his own mind.
    Jillian and Spencer had never thought that the Strecks were particularly observant Jews, but Natalie was insistent that the instant she returned from the cemetery where Alex had been buried the seven days of shiva had to begin. The week of mourning was intense and the rituals had been followed to the letter. Natalie had covered all the mirrors, drawn the drapes to darken the entire house and had served the “seudat havrach” meal to the members of the immediate family.
    By the time Jillian and Spencer arrived the Strecks’ relatives had been joined by a number of men and women from the NASA program, as well as other friends and neighbors. Men and women clad in funereal black stood around the Streck room feeling self-conscious and talking in hushed tones.
    Periodically the front door opened, admitting along with guests harsh shafts of bright afternoon sunlight. Spencer and Jillian entered on a blade of light, shutting the