The observation comes from Peggy Newcombe, the Kansas congresswoman who’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met in that highly practical way that makes you realize what utter bullshit most people spout. She’s a get-things-done kind of person, and I’m glad she’s with us.
“And apparently this is just the start,” I say. From our base’s rooftop, I take in the tarrying sun, its multi-colored brilliance washing the sky in shades of twilight. “Winter’s here to stay for a while.”
“Yup.” She squints into the radiant horizon. “This may be our last sunset for the next four months. Now the fun really begins.”
The space between sunrise and sunset has shortened more every day during the three months since we’ve arrived. Now there’s barely light at all. We’ll live in darkness for the rest of the winter until around September, and have very few outlets beyond the walls of the base where we’re conducting research. Our winter work focuses on greenhouse gases like CO2 and methane, measuring these particles in the atmosphere. We also study the fossilized particles found in ice cores.
Winter will be setting in, and the long Antarctic night is coming. There will be times when it’s so cold, breathing outside for any amount of time would make the lungs hemorrhage. We’re relatively safe as long as nothing goes wrong. That sounds self-evident, but we’re on our own until summer. No one can get to us, and we can’t get out. We have a doctor in our group, but his medical reach is relatively limited. We are past the PSR—point of safe return.
Grim walks up to join us, wrapped in the extreme cold-weather wear uniform we all sport. He has one of those faces that never tells you anything until he’s royally pissed over something stupid you’ve done. His face is like the rest of him—stern and austere. He doesn’t say much, but there’s no one I’d rather have at my back if things ever go to hell.
“Men shut their doors against a setting sun,” he mutters, gazing unflinchingly at the last rays illuminating the sky.
“Shakespeare?” Peggy asks, brows lifting. “You’re a hard man to figure out, Grim.”
“Don’t try,” I advise her. “It’s like banging your hand against a brick wall.”
Grim grunts and takes the lid off the thermos he’s holding. He flings his arm out, tossing water over the side. The liquid literally crystallizes in the frigid air, turning to ice and falling to the ground in frozen spikes.
“This is the most amazing place on Earth,” Grim says, the closest thing to wonder I’ve ever seen on his face as he watches the sun’s swan dance. “Like living on another planet.”
He’s right. The perfectly flat, lifeless plateau appears so starkly white you forget color. The quiet rests in a well so deep you don’t remember sound. And the loneliness some days grows so thick, it’s impenetrable and you forget how it feels to be touched.
Those are the times I think of Lennix most. Of how she’s moving on with her life. It’s May. She’s graduated and is probably on the campaign trail for Mr. Nighthorse. She’s a launched missile now, deployed and doing what she was created to do. Maybe she’s met someone. Kissed someone else since me. Slept in someone else’s bed. I cage a growl behind the bars of my teeth. The thought of someone else touching, having Nix . . .
“Doctor Larnyard was looking for you, Kingsman,” Grim says, slanting me a wry look. “Man doesn’t take two steps without consulting you.”
I nod and start toward the stairs that will take me back inside. I allow myself one last glimpse at the final sunset.
It’s spring in the States. Flowers and sunshine and lengthening days. For some reason, I think of the map I sketched in Lennix’s hands. In the span of her palms, we were separated by only inches. On the scale of real life, we’re separated by thousands of miles, by epochs. And with the austral winter swallowing up all the light, I’m not sure how or if I can find my way back to her.
26
Lennix
“These numbers look good,” Jim says, tracking the columns of data with one finger. “Your plan’s working, Lennix.”
“Well instead of trying to get all the people we can’t convince to vote for you,” I say with a broad smile, “we’re building a coalition of all the people who have every reason to vote for you. We need every black and brown vote, the woman vote, the gay vote. If they’re marginalized in any way, they need to know you’ll be their voice, but they have to put you in power before you can speak for them. That’s our message and we just keep saying it.”
“Nice,” Mena says from the couch, her long legs folded under her. “Are you the speechwriter now, too?”
I shake my head, smiling and poking at the cold pizza boxed on Jim’s desk. The team often teases me about all the hats I wear on the campaign team. Truth is, turns out I’m damn good at politics. I feel like one of those infants people toss in the water, and they just start swimming. It all feels intuitive; people and their needs make sense to me, and politics should be about meeting the needs of people.
“Hey,” Portia, the campaign finance director, says from the doorway to Jim’s office. “The sheriff’s out here and needs to speak with you, Jim.”
“Maybe he’s interested in that town hall on the MMIW issue we proposed,” Mena says, eyes alert.
“You may be right.” Jim re-knots the tie he loosened hours ago and drops a tender kiss on top of Mena’s head when he passes on his way out of the office.
Well alright now!
I wait until the door closes behind him before springing into squealing action.
“Oh, my God!” I throw myself onto the sofa beside her. “What was that all about?”
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile. She’s not fooling me.
“Auntie, out with it. You and Jim? Tell me everything.”
“Lenn, don’t be silly. We’re just friends.”
“Yeah, he and I are ‘friends,’ too, but he’s never kissed my head like that. I haven’t seen him kiss anyone’s head like that.”
An irrepressible light enters Mena’s eyes and her smile isn’t far behind. “Okay. We’ve gone out a few times.”
“How have you managed to keep it a secret? This campaign is so tightly knit, I gain five pounds when anybody eats ice cream.”
“We’ve been discreet, but I think it could lead to something serious.” She pauses, giving me a speculative look. “Speaking of something serious, have you heard from that guy you met in Amsterdam?”
I swallow the knot thickening in my throat. “Who? Maxim?”
“Right, him.” Mena studies my face. “He seemed like a great guy from what Kimba said.”
I make a mental note to keep my auntie and best friend apart in the future. “You can’t believe a word she says.”
“So he isn’t handsome, thoughtful, sexy and a PhD?”
“Oh, yeah. He actually is all those things.” And more.
“And?” she persists.
“And . . . he’s in the wilds of Antarctica and I’m here.” I shrug and stretch out on the couch, laying my head in my godmother’s lap. “He told me from the beginning it would be just that week.”