Authors: Sarah Andrews
Matt had his turquoise blue contact lenses on, which always had a startling effect. He drove various loaders and a mammoth forklift built by Caterpillar. It could lift enormously heavy loads, like the big metal shipping containers that brought materials in from the States and carried waste materials back. It had a big counterweighting butt emblazoned with a cartoon of Garfield and its nickname: Fat Cat. “Morning, Dave,” Matt said, without glancing up.
“Matt.” Dave settled down and shoveled into his eggs. For several minutes the only noises from their table were the soft sounds of munching and forks hitting china.
“Yup.”
“So, you goin’ to Black Island this week?”
“Hope so.”
“You gonna drive the Challenger, Flipper, or one of the snow machines?”
“Dunno.”
“Whatcha haulin’ out there?”
“Water.”
“You and me, we’re like an old married couple,” Matt said finally, as he pushed aside his plate and moved his coffee closer to his large chest. “That was four one-word sentences out of five, and a total of only two words over one syllable.”
“You ought to go back to teaching, Matt.”
Matt laughed. “But I hate kids, remember? That’s why I came here. You see anyone under eighteen in this room?”
Dave looked about him. “I’m not sure as I see anyone under thirty.”
“Over there by the milk machine. The DA who’s putting in the new box of nonfat.”
“What’s ‘DA’ stand for, anyway?”
“Dining assistant.”
“Oh. Thought maybe the
D
stood for dog. They work purty hard for their wages, and they sure are the bottom of the totem pole around here. They never go anywheres. Imagine coming all the way down here and never seeing the outdoors, even, except one day a week, and you’d get a different day off than everyone else, too.”
“You’re changing the subject. What do you think of her?”
“Aw, hell, Matt.”
“You like her?”
“She’s cute.”
“I know her. I could introduce you.”
Dave blushed slightly, a change in coloration that only really showed around his eyes, where the glacier goggles protected the skin from tanning. “A bit young for me, Matt.”
“What, you looking for long-term commitment and deep meaning? You’ve been here, what? Eight weeks? And you haven’t hit on a single female. C’mon, folks will think you’re gay.”
Dave grinned. “Think
we’re
gay, you mean.”
“No, really, man, you gotta start checking out the chicks.”
Dave looked around. “Half of
them
are gay,” he said, now trying humor to throw Matt off his case.
“Why, because they aren’t climbing into your lap?”
“You gotta admit some of the women here are tougher than both of us put together.”
Three more men walked up to their table, arranged their trays, and sat down. Dave idly took a census of their gastronomic decisions. Steve, a Fleet Ops comrade who had stood his share of shifts out at Pegasus, weighed in with a nice-looking cheese and black olive omelet, while Wilbur, who
ran a loader on the road being constructed up past the layout yard, had decided on a big bowl of the homemade granola heaped with Greek yogurt, nuts, and stewed fruit. Joe, who was helping construct the floating ice dock that would service the supply ships, had gone for the waffles. As they forked their first mouthfuls of food and swilled their first ounces of juice, coffee, and water, Dave took a big draw on one of his glasses of milk, wondering what kind of nonsense the gang of three was going to come up with this time.
Steve delivered the first volley. “Any new babes to check out? I hear where yesterday’s C-17 made it in from Cheech, so it’s possible.” He glanced around the room, scanning the tables.
Matt said, “Chasing skirt’s bound to be one big exercise in frustration in a place where the ratio of bucks to does is seven to three.”
Joe said, “What are you, gay?”
“It’s the thrill of the hunt. Oh, Wilbur, there’s your honey now,” said Steve, eyeing a young computer tech who was just emerging from the waffle line. “What’s her name?”
“Burnie.”
“Short for Burnadette?”
Wilbur shook his head. “Nope, short for burns my ass. She just storms through the dining room like she’s some grade school principal in pursuit of a kid accused of shitting in someone’s lunchbox.”
“Nice tits,” said Joe.
Wilbur shot him a look.
“I don’t mean yours,” said Joe. “Hers! You gotta admit, she’s got tits made in heaven, and when she rolls her ass like that—”
“Stop it!” said Wilbur. “She ain’t giving me any, so I can’t stand to watch, so I ain’t, and I sure’s hell wish you’d quit giving me the blow by blow.”
“What is it you guys named her?” Dave asked. “You have such a way with language.”
“We call her Hell No,” said Steve. “Guess why.”
Wilbur said, “‘Cause that’s her answer. The tight-assed—”
Dave said, “I gotta wonder if you boys might do better if you went it alone, rather than hunting as a pack.”
“Dang!” said Wilbur. “Here comes Wiggles!”
Joe swung his face around to catch every last ripple of movement. “My, my, my. I do like what she’s done with all those chocolate bars she’s been eating.”
Steve snickered appreciatively. “Cadbury’s ought to hire her. She’d be an inspiration to all young women who think anorexia is a beauty plan.”
Steve asked, “What’s the deal with the load from Cheech?”
“Only one female name on the flight manifest,” said Wilbur. “At least, I think Valena is a woman’s name.”
“What’s her other name?”
“I forget.”
“Walker,” said Joe. “Valena Walker.”
Matt said, “Yankee last name, first name ending in A, sounds like a babe to me. But they’re mostly bringing in beakers these days, so she could be one of those brainy ones with less hair than you have.”
Joe put a hand on his bald spot in mock affrontery. “I beg your pardon.”
Something near the food lines caught Matt’s attention. He went on point and let out a series of small beep noises, like a machine that was honing in on a target.
Wilbur said, “You got your forklift stuck in reverse, Matt?”
“There
is
a new one!” said Matt jubilantly. “Check her out! And if that’s what a beaker looks like, sign me up.”
“Where?” said Steve.
Joe said, “One o’clock high. Blue jeans, white fleece pullover, and oh, my my.”
All eyes swung toward the approaching woman.
“Exotic,” said Steve. “Gorgeous. Strong. And
built!”
“What do you think?” asked Wilbur. “She black? Latino? What?”
“I see some Asian in there, too,” said Joe.
“And tell me about those cheekbones!” said Steve. “Native American? Hawaiian?”
“Carries herself like a dancer,” said Dave, sneaking another look.
Matt swung his attention to his roommate. “I didn’t know you were a poet,” he said.
“I mean she moves real purty.”
“I’ll show her how to move,” said Wilbur.
The woman stopped about fifteen feet away and turned, scanning the crowd. Dave watched her closely out of the corners of his eyes. There was indeed something marvelous about her, but also something sad, almost haunted. The tension in her shoulders made her look uncertain of herself, almost scared.
Wilbur began to utter inchoate gurgling sounds.
Right then, Dave wished that he could shoot Wilbur out of the universe like a watermelon seed. This woman needed comfort, not drooling. He began to rise from his chair. He didn’t have a plan, but perhaps he would speak to her, ask if he might be of assistance. But no, she had made her choice and was moving quickly toward a table up at the far end of the room by the windows, where the computer geeks tended to sit. He lowered himself back into his seat.
“Sitting with the dweebs,” said Steve. “Must be a new techie. Or yeah, a beaker, even.”
“You think?” said Joe.
Wilbur let out a theatrical sigh. “Yeah, hang it up, men, she won’t have no time for the likes of us.”
Dave mapped the gentle curves of her spine as she settled into a chair. When he returned his attention to his own table, Matt was staring at him, observing him frankly. “What?” said Dave, so that only Matt could hear him.
Matt raised an eyebrow.
Dave bowed his head and lifted his fork to his mouth, pretending that he noticed or cared what was on it.
“M
IND IF
I
SIT DOWN?
” V
ALENA ASKED THE PEOPLE AT THE
table by the window.
“Make yourself at home,” said a man wearing a fleece hat that featured a band of fake fur that stood out like a fright wig. The other denizens of the table—two women and another man—continued their conversation.
Valena settled into a chair and stuck a fork into her eggs.
“No Belgian waffle?” the man with the hat asked, even before she got the first bite to her lips.
“Couldn’t wait.” She stuffed the forkful into her mouth and chewed. Relief surged through her body.
“I’m Peter,” he said.
“Valena.”
“Well, if you don’t go back for a waffle, don’t miss Wednesdays. That’s cookie day around here, and you don’t have to wait in line. Where are you from?”
“Reno.”
“Cool. What do you do here?”
“I’m here to study glaciers. How about you?”
“I’m an energy conservation specialist.”
“I see. Where are you from?” she inquired, completing the symmetry of the conversation.
“My storage locker is in Idaho.”
Valena blinked. This was the first time she had ever met anyone who didn’t think of himself as being from somewhere.
The man who was sitting to her right said, to no one in particular, “Well, I’m going to go get in line and buy some
hooch,” and got up and left. He was replaced by a tiny woman with high cheekbones on a face so heavily tanned that it evoked the original meaning of the adjective. She put one foot on the chair and squatted on it, letting the other leg dangle. “Who are you?” she demanded, leaning a little closer than Valena quite found comfortable. “You’re new. I’m horny as hell.”
Valena could smell alcohol on her breath. “Does everybody here drink on Sundays?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, hell no. Usually I spend the day skiing. But today I’m real horny. You’re just a kid, so don’t worry. Yeah. You’re just a kid. Are you any fun? Huh?”
“Don’t mind her,” said Peter. “It’s just her way of saying hello. Love me, love my hormones. Take it easy on her, Cupcake, she just got here.”
“I like in-your-face,” Cupcake said. “It keeps things fresh.”
Peter said, “Fresh is what you are, love.”
Cupcake now leaned even closer to Valena and examined her face with frank interest. “You’re a little bit of everything, ain’t ya?”
“What do you do here?” Valena said evenly, trying to back her off.
“I drive heavy equipment. Come for a ride?”
Valena said, “This is an interesting town. Just like college, only more so.”
Cupcake said, “Yeah. The food sucks, you get no privacy, but instead of ‘What’s your sign and what’s your major?’ everybody asks, ‘Where are you from, and what do you do here?’ Gets real boring, huh?”
“Oh, I’m finding the food quite tasty,” Valena said.
The woman eyed her appreciatively. “You’re good.”
“Thanks. What did you say your name was?”
“Muffin.”
“I thought it was Cupcake.”
“Okay then, Cupcake.” She moved her gaze pointedly to Valena’s left hand. “No wedding ring.”
Valena shook her head. “No wedding ring and no dice.”
“Aw, you’re no fun.”
Valena began to smile. “Yeah, well.”
The woman seated across from her said, “I’m Doris.”
“How do you do, Doris?”
“About as I please today. The rest of the time I gripe a lot.”
Valena asked, “Is there something I’m not quite understanding about Sundays in McMurdo?”
Doris said, “We work nine hours a day, six days a week. On Sunday, we kind of get out of hand.”
Another man came to the table, plopped down in the empty seat to the right of Doris, draped an arm around her, and fixed a grin on Valena. “Who are you?” he inquired.
Cupcake said, “This is Valena from Reno. Sounds like a song.”
The man began to make up a tune, and sang, “Va-le-na from Re-no, she really knew her ice, she was so very nice, that Va-le-e-e-na … from … Re-e-e-no!”
Then he held out a hand. Valena took it. He bent forward and rubbed his cheek to it as if it were a cat. He began to purr.
Trying to pull her hand away without being too abrupt, Valena reflexively asked one of the two standard questions. “What do you do here?”
“I do Doris,” he said, giving her a salacious grin. “Life is good.”
Valena yanked her hand away.
Doris said, “She needs that hand to eat with, sweetie. And she’s a grantee. Treat her nice. What did you say you did, Valena?”
“Ice. Stable isotopes.”
“Whatever,” the man said. “Beakers. Cut ‘em some slack and they talk weird at ya.” His grin moved from salacious to soupy.
Peter said, “Always remember, were it not for the beakers, none of us would be here.”
“What’s a beaker?” Valena asked.
Cupcake said, “Scientist. As in, the glassware. A fingie beaker at that.”
“And ‘fingie’ means?”
“F-N-G. The second two letters stand for ‘new guy.’”
Valena choked on her orange juice, and it came out her nose. Coughing and laughing, she put a napkin to her face.
Peter said, “So, Valena, whose project you on, or are you McMurdo’s youngest PI?”
Valena tensed. Here was her opening. “I’m working with Emmett Vanderzee.”
“Oooooh …” said Cupcake, letting the sound rise and fall. “Man, you really got hosed!”
Valena waited, hoping someone would offer information, but all eyes were on her, waiting for the same. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Can anyone tell me what happened? I just got here last night and, well, all I know is he’s been sent north.”
Cupcake patted Valena on the shoulder. “Eat up,” she said. “I got someone you should meet.”
T
WENTY MINUTES LATER, HER BODY LOST UNDER THICK
polypropylene underwear, wind pants, wool socks, floppy blue FDX boots, mittens, a fleece hat, and the capacious acreage of her big red parka, Valena found herself hustling to keep up with Cupcake. “Are you certain I need this many layers?” she asked. She was beginning to sweat, and her blue boots flopped like clown’s feet.