“Think we’ll find a comet?”
He laughed. “If we’re lucky.”
We did not find a comet; we didn’t even sweep the skies for very long, only long enough to get a taste of the slow pace Maria Mitchell and other early astronomers must have lived. I imagined coming out in the evenings to the roof walk of her family’s home in the center of Nantucket, studying each quadrant of the sky and noting each familiar star. Organizing the entire dome of the heavens into an orderly space, and getting to know each one.
Waiting for a comet.
“Do you think Gibson did this? Or would he have calculated the orbit without seeing it?” I asked Dad. From reading Andrea Darrel’s diaries and researching the Harvard Computers, I’d learned some comets had been identified from photographic plates. A huge part of discovering comets also included calculating their trajectories; while all comets were parabolic, comets like Gibson’s—and Halley’s, and any other returning comets—were elliptical, periodically bringing them back through the inner solar system.
“He might have. It’s a naked-eye comet, so he would have seen it at some point—but he caught it earlier than most people, either by photography or by telescope, as the first discoverer.”
We carried the telescope back inside, to a little room across the hall from the roof walk where it would be safe from the elements,then headed downstairs. Dad slid his sandals back over his socks at the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”
“Pizza?”
Dad rolled his eyes, but only because it was his job to pretend he wasn’t as excited about pizza as I was. “Why am I not surprised?” He smiled. “Yes, I think I can handle pizza.”
***
The next day, I told Cora about the telescope and the sky sweeping over lunch. “Cool,” she said. “Have you been to the observatory yet?”
I hadn’t, though I knew two existed: the downtown Vestal Street Observatory, where the Maria Mitchell offices were, and the Loines Observatory a bit outside of town. “I keep meaning to go to one of the Open Nights but I haven’t quite made it.”
“I could take you over some time,” Cora said. “Give you a tour.”
“Really?” My eyes widened. “I’d love to.”
“Ask your dad if he wants to come,” Cora said, eminently casual. “Sounds like he’d also enjoy it.”
“Sure.” I tried to match her tone while inwardly wanting to scream in excitement. “Sounds great.”
A few days later, Dad and Ethan and I headed to the Loines Observatory at nine o’clock. I’d enlisted Ethan because if there was even the slightest chance Cora wanted to hang around my dad, I would make that happen. With Ethan around, I’d have an excuse to leave Dad and Cora to their own devices.
“We could play romantic music, too,” Ethan had teased, waving his phone back and forth like at a concert. “Serenade them.”
“You mock. But wait until you see how effective my methods are.”
The observatory was a few blocks north of town, across from a graveyard. I peered into the cemetery as the three of us walked along the sidewalk. One of the things I’d learned from night excursions was Nantucket did not invest in streetlamps as regularly as I’d like. Maybe rich people drove everywhere? Or maybe I was used to pollution warmly lighting the night sky?
“I think that’s it.” Dad looked from his phone to a steep driveway hidden in the trees across the street. A chain blocked the entrance, but at the top we could make out two domes peeking out from the forest.
“Very welcoming,” I said.
We jogged across the street and up the drive. It ended in a small area with two round buildings covered in cedar shingles, their domed roofs metallic. A large deck connected the two, and more endless woods surrounded them.
“Hey, guys.” Cora popped out of one of the buildings, its door propped open. “You found it!”
Inside, a massive telescope took up the majority of the space. It towered above us, pointed toward an open panel of sky.
“This is amazing.” Dad walked a loop around the telescope. “Thanks for letting us in.”
“For sure.” Cora patted the base of the telescope fondly. “This is a twenty-four-inch Ritchey-Chrétian. There’s Maria Mitchell’shistoric seven-point-five-inch Alvan Clark refractor, too—it’s used for public stargazing.”
“What’s a refractor?” Ethan asked, hands in his pockets. I’d noticed that about him—he never pretended he knew something if he didn’t. He’d always ask for more info, unafraid—as I was—of looking foolish.
“It’s a type of telescope,” she said. “Popular in the eighteen hundreds. This one’s a reflecting telescope, we got it in 2006. Reflecting means it uses mirrors.”
“A Cassegrain reflector, right?” Dad peered closer.
