South Pole Station

by Ashley Shelby

  “Or what, you tell everyone I forced Bonnie out?”

  Bozer spun a level in his hands. “And make it come with cornbread and potato salad.”

  “We don’t get cornmeal here.”

  “Then use back channels.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Honey, if the Polies find out you double-crossed Bonnie, things won’t go well for you. My requests are small.”

  Pearl was annoyed, but if this was the price of intrigue, it was cheap. She nodded at Bozer, and stepped aside so he could begin measuring the shelves. On her way to the door, she reached for Moosewood, but Bozer casually moved it beyond her reach.

  That night, Pearl invited Birdie to her room for the first time. She wanted to show him the notebook—not the pages in which she’d documented her plan to take over the kitchen. Just the recipes. The book had been with her for eight years. It was hardbound, indestructible. Green leather, strong binding—pockets on the inner boards that bulged with scribblings, recipe cards, and other detritus from her various gigs. It was her book of tricks. It had every recipe that had ever worked, including the ones she’d written herself. She didn’t know why she was showing it to Birdie. She hadn’t shown it to anyone.

  With the clean, pink nail of his index finger, Birdie pointed to a handwritten table written in the margins of the first page. “‘Oven, liquid, sugar’—what is this?”

  “A chart of high-altitude adjustments. Baking at elevation.” She leaned closer to Birdie and placed her own finger next to his. “Take sugar, for example. Because the elevation is so high at Pole, I have to remove a tablespoon of sugar from every cup I use or else everyone’s teeth will fall out. Increased evaporation increases the concentration of sugar. It makes everything taste too sweet, plus it weakens the structure of whatever I’m baking.” Gingerly, she picked up Birdie’s hand and set it in his lap so she could begin turning the pages. She flipped until she got to the recipe she wanted.

  “I made this one up when I was a set-net deckhand on a tender out of Nome.”

  “Seawater Bread?” Birdie said.

  “It’s really basic. Dry yeast, a little sugar, four cups of flour, and a cup and a half of warmed seawater. I got it right off the deck. Let it proof overnight, drop it in the oven around five a.m., and voilà, fresh bread in the middle of the Norton Sound.”

  Birdie took Pearl’s hand and placed it on his chest. “You’re the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met,” he said.

  “Why, because I can make bread from seawater? Anyone can do that.”

  “No,” Birdie said. “Because you did.” Pearl didn’t know why she felt embarrassed; she tried to pull away, but Birdie held her fast. Maybe it was all the things he didn’t know. The things no one knew. She thought back to the day she walked onto that longliner docked at Cordova Boat Harbor on the Orca Inlet, a seventeen-year-old foster-home runaway. She’d just talked to Captain Whitty about crewing on his March halibut trip, and she was halfway down the dock before she remembered she couldn’t take no for an answer. Not without fighting for a yes, anyway. It’s what she’d been doing her whole life by that point: seventeen years spent fighting for a yes. The ones in Cordova who didn’t fight—the former highliners, the ones who collapsed along with the herring fishery after the oil spill in ’89—they walked around town like half-people. Pearl knew she was too young to be a half-person, so she’d turned around and marched back up toward Captain Whitty’s boat and pounded on the door with her fist. “Open the door, Captain,” she’d shouted. “I gotta say my piece.” She heard him curse, but the door eventually opened, and with it came the unmistakable odor of a ruined dinner.

  “Well, say it, then,” the old man growled.

  “I can work on no sleep and still have a smile on my face. I can splice line, I can cook, I got a strong back and a good head on my shoulders. And I make the best damn coffee in the state. And if you don’t like how I work, you can throw me overboard. I don’t care. But you’ll give me a chance.”

  They’d stood facing each other for a minute, the only sounds the waters of Prince William Sound slapping against the side of the boat. That was when Pearl glanced over Whitty’s shoulder and saw the remains of his dinner smoking on the galley stove. “Plus, it doesn’t look like you know how to cook,” she said.

  “I do okay,” Whitty grumbled, but he stepped aside to let her pass. She walked into the cramped cabin and glanced at the frying pan. A black lump of something emitted a thread of smoke.

  “What was it?” Pearl asked.

  “Spam and white bread,” Whitty replied, as though he were saying “filet mignon.”

  Pearl grabbed the pan and tossed its contents out the galley window and into the harbor. “I’ll cook for you,” she said, “but I also want to fish.”

  “You’re too small,” Whitty said quickly. “Not strong enough.”

  “Try me.”

  After making the captain a proper dinner—chicken à la king—Pearl had walked home that night in the gathering dusk of evening, gainfully employed and free. The ghostly outline of the Chenega mountains rose up in the gloaming. And up on the hill above the harbor, the lights of Cordova turned on one by one.

  * * *

  Bonnie’s final mistake was the Carrot-Mushroom Loaf, a culinary disaster that occurred the third week of December. The thing sat on the serving platter like a hunk of human feces, the warming lights bouncing off its gelatinous exterior, giving it an unnatural sheen. It went untouched. The fact that Bonnie now had only one cookbook excused nothing: that the recipe was buried in the back of the book, as if even the Moosewood Collective knew it was a crime against carrots, only amplified the mistake. The kitchen at South Pole Station was built for desperate circumstances, but Carrot-Mushroom Loaf was an indisputable sign of surrender.

  The next morning, Pearl and Bonnie were summoned to Tucker’s office. Pearl whistled as they walked across the Dome toward the admin module, but Bonnie remained silent. Her dark hair hung limply around her face and she kept her eyes on her boots. Pearl started in on “Free Bird,” just to see if Bonnie would say anything. It took a full minute, but Bonnie finally raised her head. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, though it sounded halfhearted.

  Inside Tucker’s office, Pearl could barely sit still. Her knees bounced at sixteenth-note intervals. Bonnie sat slumped in the other chair, her hands clasped over her belly. Tucker studiously avoided looking at Pearl, and instead focused his gaze on Bonnie.

  “I made a mistake,” Bonnie said sullenly. “It won’t happen again.”

  “This isn’t about the Carrot-Mushroom Loaf, Bonnie,” Tucker said. “I imagine that carrots and mushrooms suspended in aspic have an interesting mouthfeel.” Pearl noticed the corners of Bonnie’s mouth turn slightly upward at this. “This is about scheduling. You know we’re constantly tinkering with schedules.”

  “Not in the galley.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “That’s why she’s here, I guess,” Bonnie said. Pearl felt her heart begin to race. Now that the moment was at hand, it was proving excruciating. Tucker kept his eyes fixed on Bonnie. “You need a break from this relentless schedule. You and I both know that with construction of the new station, we’ve seen an explosion in the transient population. We’ve got staff coming and going from Palmer and McMurdo, and the fluctuations have had a major impact on kitchen operations.”

  “So?”

  “I think letting Pearl take on the head cook responsibilities for a while will give you a much-needed opportunity to relax, refresh—reflect.”

  “I think Bonnie’s handling the kitchen just fine,” Pearl said. “I mean, with the missing cookbooks, anybody would have to get creative.”

  Bonnie shot a withering look at Pearl. “Funny thing about those missing cookbooks. I never had a problem with them until you came.”

  “Bonnie, this isn’t a demotion,” Tucker said. “Your salary remains the same, your contracted job title does not change. It’s ju
st a change of pace. It’s less work for the money.”

  Bonnie sat forward in her chair. “I don’t come down here to do less work, Tucker. I know this has been the plan from day one. You want me out.”

  “Bonnie, please—”

  “You think I’m an idiot? They tried to DQ me on the physical. Morbidly obese? Borderline hypertension? Never a problem—for four years, never a problem—and then suddenly Richard Simmons is signing off on the VIDS physicals. The union had to get involved.” Bonnie jerked her thumb at Pearl without looking at her. “So you bring her down, have her hide my cookbooks, and deliberately turn the crew against me. Her fake-ass sunshiny bullshit is unmistakable. She’s a sociopath.” Bonnie hauled herself out of the chair. “You both are.”

  After Bonnie left, Tucker dropped his head into his hands. Pearl felt immobilized. Her legs had stopped bouncing. The nervous energy now seemed to bind her to the chair.

  “Can you handle the winter alone?” Tucker said into his hands.

  For a moment, Pearl was tempted to say, “Isn’t that why you hired me?” Instead, she nodded. “No problem.”

  After leaving Tucker’s office, Pearl returned to the kitchen, where Kit was peeling radishes and humming along to his Discman. Wordlessly, she walked past him and stepped into what used to be Bonnie’s office.

  It was a mess of papers, file folders, and dirty dishware. Pearl cleaned off the desk where Bonnie had mapped out so many meals, and took a seat on the wooden crate she’d used as a chair. She picked a food scab off the cover of Moosewood Cooks for a Crowd. There were so many colorful Post-its attached to the pages that it looked like a small parade float. Pearl was about to close the book and toss it on the pile of papers on the floor, when something caught her eye. An inscription on the inside of the cover.

  Someone once said, “Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.” We’ve abandoned our sanity already by going down to Pole. All we’ve got is each other, and this book. Make ’em drool, honey.

  Your man, Dwight

  From: Warren Slownik (wslownik@nsf.gov)

  Date: January 18, 2004 3:30:58 PM EDT

  To: Tucker Bollinger (tbollinger@vids.com), Karl Martin (kmartin@vids.com), Carla Nicks (cnicks@vids.com), Simon Murphy (smurphy@vids.com)

  Cc: Alexandra Scaletta (ascaletta@nsf.gov)

  Status: URGENT

  Subject: CONFIDENTIAL: Injury Incident

  A quick thank-you to everyone who provided input during today’s conference call. I’ve passed your questions and concerns on to Alexandra. In the meantime, I want to reiterate the importance of protecting our grantees’ privacy by keeping this incident out of the media for as long as possible. An e-mail has been sent to all VIDS support staff and NSF grantees regarding the incident, so please be prepared for questions. I’m certain there will be many from this group. In the meantime, any press inquiries should be directed to Alexandra’s office.

  I’ve attached the injury incident report, prepared by Dr. Nicks.

  Warren

  the divide

  2003 December 26

  03:13

  To: cherrywaswaiting@hotmail.com

  From: Billie.Gosling@janusbooks.com

  Subject: Beakers

  C.,

  I am sorry to report that Phil and I are no longer an item. He said he needed a partner with more of a “buy-in.” He said my cynicism is “poisonous.” Mom promised not to sign him up for another book. She launched a jeremiad in editorial board yesterday about climate change and polar bears and how ironic it was that most of the world’s research on global warming is taking place smackdab in the polar bear’s natural habitat. No one besides our new intern chose to remind her that there are no polar bears at the South Pole, but that’s only because he doesn’t yet know fear.

  B.

  p.s. What the hell is a Beaker?

  * * *

  2003 December 30

  20:34

  To: Billie.Gosling@janusbooks.com

  From: cherrywaswaiting@hotmail.com

  Subject: RE: Beaker

  B.,

  A Beaker is the South Pole term for a scientist, even though I’ve never seen any of them handling beakers. I’m sorry about you and Phil. Put it in your work. The climate change denier did a Q&A and the whole station turned out for it. I didn’t really understand what was going on, but the Beakers were frantic by the end. I’m told this Denier—his name is Pavano—is down here because of “Congressional interference.” Anyway, the guy invited me to go with him to the ice-coring camp as his “research assistant,” probably because I’m the only person who’s nice to him. He’s definitely not trying to put the moves on. The guy comes across as sort of asexual. I imagine him genitals-free. Anyway, we leave in a couple weeks. I’ll report back.

  C.

  The morning after Frank Pavano’s lecture, Cooper met Sal and Sri in the cafeteria line. They both looked hungover. “My brain hurts,” Sri said as he spooned Pearl’s Orange Walnut Spice Oatmeal onto his tray. “It spent all night looking for those IQ points I lost to Pavano’s ravings.” Cooper picked up some buckwheat pancakes and poured Pearl’s chokecherry syrup over the stack.

  At the table, Sal set his tray down heavily and stared at his food. The early consensus was that while he was clearly a bought man, Pavano had put on a good showing. Several Beakers were convinced he was actually an atheist—overnight they’d dug up speculative Internet posts from 2000, when Pavano had been questioned at some conference-on-a-cruise-ship about irreducible complexity. He’d indicated then that faith in a higher power was not a prerequisite for accepting the theory of Intelligent Design. These atheistic tendencies were noted and puzzled over—was he pandering, trying to play both sides against the middle, or was he the Sasquatch of the Intelligent Design debate, an atheist Creationist?

  “Don’t be sad, man,” Sri said, slapping Sal on the shoulder. “Pavano shall be defeated.”

  “Maybe in the long run,” Sal said. “But by then it might be too late.”

  “I know why you’re upset,” Cooper said. “It’s Pearl.” Sal looked across the table at Cooper, a half smile on his face. He looked tired; Cooper saw for the first time that his auburn hair was tinged with wiry grays.

  “Pearl what?” Sri said. “What does Pearl have to do with anything?”

  “No, she’s right,” Sal said, still looking at Cooper. “She is exactly right. Pearl is the test case. She was buying in last night. She was feeling guilty about participating in a consumer economy that is leading to the destruction of the earth. Remember what she said? ‘I don’t want the earth to be warming.’”

  “So? None of us do,” Sri said.

  “But when Pavano told her it wasn’t, she said that made her feel better. She was relieved. Pavano gave her the out she was looking for.”

  “Pearl is Everywoman,” Cooper said, through a mouthful of pancake.

  Sri looked from Sal to Cooper and back again, his black unibrow furrowed. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “And it took Pavano two-thousandths of a second to plant doubt in Everywoman’s brain.” He stared at the wall. “Shit. People are so dumb.”

  “Pearl’s not dumb,” Cooper said.

  “No, sorry. I didn’t mean Pearl literally,” Sri said. “Her oatmeal is awesome.”

  “The problem isn’t brain power,” Sal said. “It’s hope. They’re hopeful. Deniers provide hope. We don’t. We’re doom and gloom, and that’s what makes it so easy for Pavano to convert.”

  “What the hell does hope have to do with science?” Sri asked.

  “Nothing. That’s the point. Pearl doesn’t want to believe that the earth is going to burn to a crisp because human beings are assholes. Pavano can offer a different story, rainbows and lollipops,” Sal said.

  “And Pavano can also sound science-y,” Cooper said. “Or science-y enough.”

  Under the table, Sal nudged her boot with his.

  “I just wish I could get into Pavano’s head,” Sri said. �
��I bet the blueprints for world domination are in there.”

  “Or Exxon’s annual report,” Sal said.

  “Well, maybe I can help,” Cooper said. “Pavano invited me to the ice-coring camp. On the Divide.” The men stared at her uncomprehendingly. “We were talking about painting and sastrugis and stuff, and I just told him that I was hyper-focused on mittens and not because I want to be.” Cooper decided not to tell them about her portrait of Tucker or the one she’d started of Bozer. “So he offered to get me on the manifest for a flight to the Divide when he heads back in a couple weeks. To get some ideas. Different vistas.”

  “Well, isn’t that generous,” Sal said.

  “But you can’t go to the Divide!” Sri exclaimed. “Only approved scientists and techs go.” He looked over at Sal. “Hell, I’m the head climatologist and it took me two weeks to get my paperwork processed.”

  “I’d be going as a ‘research assistant.’ He says he doesn’t have one,” Cooper said.

  “That’s because he shouldn’t have one,” Sri growled. “However, he’s supposed to be borrowing one of mine.” He tapped Sal’s forearm. “NSF put him on my project budget. Like a leech.”

  “At least he’s just looking at the core archive,” Sal said.

  “No, man, they’re talking about letting him core,” Sri said. “And not only that, they want my tech to fire up the Badger-Eclipse drill for him.” He sighed. “Well, luckily NSF will never approve a nongrantee as a research tech.”

  “Actually,” Cooper said tentatively. “About that. Apparently I’m already approved. They can’t call me a ‘research tech’ but I’m allowed to go to the site with him as an ‘assistant.’ Something about a congressional override? I had to sign a bunch of release-of-liability forms.”

  The men stared absently at their oatmeal, looking sick.