by Beth Orsoff
"Hey, he offered to set up my tent, and if you recall, I did let my hair air dry." That’s why it looked as awful as it did. I’d have to figure out something before Blake arrived or I’d be wearing my baseball cap for the entire shoot.
"Only because Jill wouldn’t let you plug in your hairdryer!"
"Since when did you become Ms. Wilderness America? As I recall, you used to like electricity too."
"That doesn’t mean I can’t hammer a nail."
"Well, I’m sorry if I’m not as good a volunteer as the rest of you. My coming here wasn’t my idea and if I could leave this stupid island right now I would. But I can’t. So just get over it already and tell me what you want for dinner."
By the time we finished the meal—ziti arrabiatta with sauce from a jar, canned green beans, and garlic toast—I’d stopped worrying about Brie and her overactive imagination. I had better things to worry about. Like how I was going to survive on the island for three and a half more weeks without getting fired by my boss in L.A.
It took most of the night, but I was finally able to access all of my e-mails. I responded to the ones that couldn’t wait and managed to send a few new ones too. The first was to Charlotte. I apologized for the mix-up with CW, and told her how I’d asked my colleague Lindsay to fill in for me while I was out of town and how glad I was that she was able to help. Then I gave Charlotte my sat phone number and told her to call me any time, day or night (the calls always seemed to go straight to voice mail anyway), and if she couldn’t reach me to leave a message and I’d call her as soon as I was able to. I added Charlotte’s agent, Charlotte’s lawyer, Rick, and Lindsay to the cc list and hit send.
That ought to get me out of hot water with Rick and piss off Lindsay. A win-win. Next I typed an e-mail to my entire client list letting them know I was in Alaska working on a monumentally important project for the Save the Walrus Foundation. I also told them to contact me if they or anyone they knew were interested in getting involved in this or any other cause. Rick hadn’t signed off on the new practice group yet, but I knew if I could prove to him there was money in it, he would. I’d convinced myself once Blake started promoting the documentary, it would go viral, and new clients would come pouring in. Someone would have to represent them, so why not me?
I stopped fantasizing long enough to read the e-mail over again, fix the typos, add Rick’s name to the cc list, and hit send. My last e-mail was directly to Rick. I wrote him an effusive apology stating for the record that he was right, I was wrong, and I was taking steps to make sure something like this never happened again. Then I told him how amazing Wilde Island was (I lied), how much Blake was looking forward to coming (I assumed), how grateful Blake was we could make this happen for him (he better be!), and how I just knew this whole thing was going to turn out great for all of us (I prayed).
And at four in the morning I went to bed.
And at six Jake crawled into my tent and woke me up. "Blake’s on the phone for you."
"What?" I answered sleepily.
He repeated his statement, louder this time.
I didn’t bother getting dressed. I just yanked on my boots and ran up to the cabin in my pajamas, pulling on my coat and scarf on the way.
"Sorry," Jill said, as I dashed into the office. "I lost the signal."
"How could you lose the signal?"
"You know how temperamental these things are," she said, holding the phone out to me. "Just call him back."
I grabbed the phone and ran back outside. I ignored the drizzle and punched in Blake’s cell number. My call went straight to his voicemail, but I continued to stand outside holding the phone in front of me with the antenna pointing at the sky hoping he would call me back. I waited until the drizzle turned into a downpour before I finally gave up.
I found Jill in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. "You want some oatmeal?" she asked.
It was warm and I was freezing, so I said yes. "How did you even know he was on the phone?" I asked, joining Jake at the table.
She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. "He told me who he was when I answered it."
"You mean this thing actually rings?" I said, grabbing the phone off the table.
"Yes, but it’s rare. The antenna has to be locked onto a signal, but you can’t be talking on the phone. It was just dumb luck he happened to call as I was taking it off the charger."
That made me feel a little bit better. "How did he sound?"
"To be honest, a little drunk."
I smiled. No denying Blake liked to party.
She glanced at Jake before she whispered, "Don’t you think it’s a little early in the day for him to be drinking?"
"Not for him," I said, then quickly added, "he’s not in L.A." so she knew what I meant. I did the math in my head. "It’s midnight in Australia so he’s probably out bar hopping."
Jill nodded and poured the oatmeal into three bowls. I was surprised Jake ate it so willingly. It looked like gruel, and tasted like paste. I’d take Pop Tarts over oatmeal any day.
"Do you have any fruit?" I asked, hoping to liven it up.
Jill shook her head. "Not until the end of the week."
"What happens at the end of the week?"
"That’s when Captain Bailey drops off our supplies."
So that’s how the food got here. I’d been wondering. After last night’s meal, we were dangerously low on pasta. I never thought I’d feel this way, but I was actually craving salad, or at least vegetables that didn’t come from a can.
After breakfast Jill helped me order the supplies I needed before Blake arrived and told me since I’d done such a great job monitoring the radio the day before, I could do that from now on. I think the truth was she’d heard my argument with Brie (it would’ve been hard for her not to), and despite her insistence that we work it out, she was making an effort to keep us apart. I wasn’t going to object.
Now that my only job on the island was monitoring the radio, I no longer needed Hillary to talk to Jill, but I still hadn’t received the script she’d been promising me since before I left L.A. As soon as I could get a signal on the sat phone, I dialed Hillary’s number at the Save the Walrus Foundation, but my call went straight to voicemail, and I couldn’t leave a message because her mailbox was full. I hung up and tried the main number.
"Oh, Hillary no longer works here," the perky receptionist said.
"Since when?"
"A few days ago," the receptionist replied.
"I just talked to her last week. Don’t you think she would’ve told me if she was planning on leaving?"
"I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?"
I repeated it twice and even spelled it before I realized I’d lost the connection. When I locked in on another satellite signal and called back, she put me through to Bob Larson, the foundation’s deputy director.
"The problem is," he said, after I’d explained why I was calling, "we haven’t been able to locate Hillary’s script."
"Then call her at home and ask her where she left it."
"I’m afraid that’s not possible."
"Why not?" Rick called me at home all the time—whenever he couldn’t reach me on my cell phone.
"I’m not at liberty to discuss it."
"What the hell does that mean?" After half a dozen "wells" and "ums" I said, "You know what, Bob, I’d rather not know. Give me her home number and I’ll call her myself."
"I can’t," he said. "We’re not allowed to give out employee’s personal information."
"How about her cell?"
"Sorry."
I pointed out that if the parting wasn’t amicable, she was probably going to sue them anyway, but he wouldn’t budge. "Okay, Bob, then what do you propose we do? I’m assuming you’re still interested in making this film?" When suddenly it occurred to me that maybe they weren’t. I didn’t even want to think about that possibility.
"No, we’re definitely still interested," he said. "Only we can’t
find the script. I was hoping she’d already sent it to you."
"Unfortunately not." I started mentally going through the list of every screenwriter I knew trying to come up with the name of someone who (a) would be available at the last minute, (b) was interested in walruses, and (c) was willing to work for free.
"That’s too bad," he said. "Well, I’m really sorry about this, but it looks like you’ll have to write it."
"Me! I can’t write a screenplay." I was probably the only person in L.A. not working on a screenplay in their spare time.
"You write press releases, don’t you?"
"Yeah, but that’s totally different. Besides, I don’t know anything about walruses. That’s why Hillary thought she should write it." I’d gently suggested more than once that we hire a professional, even if it meant spending a little money, but she’d insisted. She said she’d read all of Sid Field’s screenwriting books, so she was sure she could write it herself.
"That was more of a financial decision. We don’t have the resources to hire a writer. We barely have the budget to cover your expenses."
Nice of him to tell me that after I’d just charged thirteen hundred dollars worth of supplies to my credit card. The foundation was supposed to reimburse me.
"Bob, I would love to write this for you, but I can honestly tell you I know nothing about walruses. I don’t even really understand how this whole global warming thing is harming them. You’d have to explain everything to me."
"I can," he said, "though I’m sure this phone call’s already costing us a fortune, so I suggest you talk to Ethan Eckert. Nobody knows more about walruses than he does."
Chapter 21
Everyone but Duncan and Ethan was gathered at the cabin for lunch. Which was just as well, since this would’ve been much more awkward with Ethan in the room.
"I don’t suppose any of you are secretly writing a screenplay, are you?" I asked over grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.
"Why?" Brie was the first to respond.
I explained my situation and to my surprise, received a fair amount of sympathy.
"I just finished my thesis," Tony said, "but I don’t think that’ll help you."
"Is it about how global warming is killing the walruses?" I could always cut and paste.
"No, it’s about the mating habits of humpback whales."
I turned to Sean, who shook his head. "I’m an ornithologist."
I didn’t even know what that was but I could tell from his expression he couldn’t help me.
We all looked to Jill. "I’m happy to talk you through the basics, but Bob’s right. Ethan’s the expert."
"What about Duncan?" I asked, purposely ignoring Brie’s glare. I was willing to avoid him to keep the peace, but not if it meant jeopardizing the documentary.
"I think it would be better if you talked to Ethan," said the ever diplomatic Jill.
"Would you want to ask Ethan for help?"
No one responded positively.
As promised, Jill let me out of radio monitoring that afternoon so I could count the walruses with Ethan and Duncan. She also suggested I take the opportunity to ask Ethan for his help. Like I’d even consider asking Ethan when Duncan was available. I dawdled as the three of us hiked down to the first haul-out site, correctly predicting Ethan would get annoyed and walk ahead, while Duncan would stay behind with me. Once Ethan was out of hearing range, I explained my predicament and asked Duncan if he’d be willing to help.
"Happy to," he said. "I’m yours until the day after tomorrow."
"What happens then? You turn into a pumpkin?"
"A pumpkin?"
I tried to explain but apparently Duncan had never seen the Disney version of Cinderella. "We’re leaving," he finally said.
"I thought you were here for the whole summer."
"Don’t worry, love, I’ll only be gone a week. Ethan and I are going up to the Arctic to tag walruses."
"Why do you need to go to the Arctic? It’s not like we don’t have plenty of walruses around here."
He shook his head. "The sample’s too homogeneous. Only fully grown male walruses haul out on Wilde Island. The females and the younger males follow the sea ice north during the summer months."
Just my luck. Yet two days were still better than none, and Duncan promised to find me some very basic reference materials before he left. "Or you could always ask Brie. She knows a fair amount just from spending time with me."
"She’s not going with you?" I assumed if she’d follow Duncan to Wilde Island, she’d follow him anywhere.
"No, why would she?"
"No reason." I guess even being with Duncan wasn’t worth spending a week trapped on a boat with Ethan. I couldn’t fault Brie for that.
We caught up with Ethan at the bottom of the hill. The wind had died down, so I knew the walruses had to be near. "Geez, what do you feed these things?" I asked, lifting my scarf up over my nose and mouth.
"We don’t feed them anything," Ethan said. "This isn’t a zoo."
Duncan explained it was a combination of their diet—an adult walrus can eat 200 pounds of clams a day—and being on land in large groups that made them particularly pungent. I suspected their relieving themselves literally on top of one another might have something to do with it too.
Ethan led us to a flat-topped boulder rising out of the grass that afforded an unobstructed view of the haul-out site, which he then divided up into sections—from the cliff face to the big boulder was Ethan’s, from the big boulder to the group of smaller rocks was Duncan’s, and from the smaller rocks to the end of the beach was mine.
"What now?" I asked, following their lead and lifting up my binoculars.
"Start counting," Duncan said.
Ethan stopped at 183, Duncan tallied 197, and I came up with 126.
"That can’t be right," Ethan told me. "Count it again."
"I know how to count!"
"Duncan, count her section too."
"Forget it, I’ll do it myself." I readjusted my binoculars for a wider view and started over. I’d just finished the second row when a group of walruses from the first row slid into the water, and another one from Duncan’s section rolled over onto my beach. "This would be a lot easier if they’d stay in one place."
"Why don’t you go down there and tell them," Ethan said. "I’m sure if you ask nicely, they’ll comply."
I set down my binoculars to glare at him and realized I’d just lost my place. Damn! Now I’d have to start over, again. I was only up to fifty-four when Duncan said, "One twenty-six, the same as Sydney."
"You’re both wrong," Ethan said. "It’s one twenty-eight." Then he marked it down on his clipboard and started walking. He assumed we’d follow him, and of course, we did.
The second beach was smaller, and Ethan only divided it in two. "We’ll count," he said, handing me the clipboard. "You write down anything unusual."
"Like what?" The walruses were rolling on top of one another, scratching themselves with their flippers, barking, yelping, and farting feces into each others’ faces. It was all unusual to me, and disgusting too.
"If I have to explain every little thing," Ethan said, "then you’re not really helping, now are you?"
"Something unusual would be a sudden head raise or a group dispersal," Duncan explained.
"What about that?" I asked, pointing to a lone white walrus lying in the middle of a group of pinkish brown ones. "He’s an albino."
"Counting here," Ethan yelled, without looking away from his binoculars.
"Give us a minute, love," Duncan said.
After he and Ethan tallied their sections and I wrote down the totals on the clipboard, Duncan explained that the albino walrus wasn’t really an albino. He was only white because he’d recently been swimming in the bay.
"When they lie on the beach, the sun warms their bodies. The blood flow increases their body temperature, and their skin turns pink and eventually that reddish brown color. They can only stay on
the beach for a few days though before they have to go back in the ocean to look for food. Since the water temperature’s only seven degrees—"
"Seven degrees! Shouldn’t there be icebergs?" All I saw was an endless expanse of dark blue water sprinkled with white capped waves.
"Celsius," he said. "Maybe forty-five degrees Fahrenheit. They go out to feed for several days."
"They can spend entire days in forty-five-degree water? No wonder they’re white. If that was me, I’d be blue."
"No, you’d be dead," Ethan said.
"Maybe, but my lips would still be blue."
It took us almost three hours to count all nine beaches. Longer than usual according to Ethan, which he attributed to my "incessant inane questions." Yet for all his complaining, I think he secretly liked having me around. I didn’t presume it had anything to do with me. He just liked showing off as the smartest guy in the room. So when Duncan practically handed me an opportunity to tweak him, I couldn’t pass it up.
As we’d hiked to the last haul-out site Duncan filled me in on the history of Wilde Island. Every summer herds of male walruses swim a thousand miles south to haul out on the island’s shore, leaving the females and pups to fend for themselves as they traveled north. The question Duncan couldn’t answer, and he told me no one could, was why.
As the three of us followed the trail back to the cabin, I told Ethan I didn’t think it was fair. "Why do the female walruses have to stay behind in the Arctic and take care of the babies, while all the male walruses get to come down here and hang out on the beach all day?"
"It’s haul out," Ethan said, "not hang out. The prevailing theory is it’s to reduce the strain on the limited Arctic food supply. Although no one really knows for sure."
"Don’t you think that’s unfair? Shouldn’t they at least switch off so maybe every other year the moms get to come down south for a vacation while the dad’s stay behind with the kids?"
I caught Duncan biting his lip to keep from smiling, but Ethan thought I was serious.