“Got it,” I said to her departing figure. The tray of crackers and steaming Velveeta cheese dip—which kept well perennially frozen, I was told—sat next to the block of ice, now covered by Raj’s beautiful prayer rug. He must have placed it there sometime after we gave Sigrid her bath. I gently drew back the rug, now heavy with melt and stuck to the tacky surface, letting my fingers glide over the smooth cold surface that was thawing in gentle waves. Overnight, the block had shrunk to half its original size. Only inches remained between the child and the stuffy kitchen air. In places, the baby’s body was clearer than ever: the tiny fingers, nails a dull gray, his wide, flat nose and cracks for nostrils, the eyebrows just a brush of fine black hair.
After checking on Sigrid—she’d shown little interest in getting out of bed that morning—I suited up and headed outdoors with the cheese dip, feeling like a waiter who’d forgotten where her section was. The sky was a soft faint lavender, the sun a yellow sheen at the horizon. The air felt raw but nothing like the usual blast of bitter misery. Nora’s cry made me turn toward the distant beach. She was running away from us, looking back and laughing. Raj, jogging toward her, called out, Go long! He popped a toy-sized football from hand to hand, feinted a throw, then lobbed it hard. The ball sailed over her head. Nora howled something like No fair! as she sprinted toward the beach and open sea where icebergs yawed and swayed like ghost shipwrecks. She snagged the ball and kept on going until she was a dot, until Raj took up a fast trot toward her, imploring her to come back.
Wyatt strummed an unplugged electric guitar with a tuneless dud-dud-dud-dud as he belted out “Margaritaville” along with the CD player. Under his down vest, he wore a Hawaiian shirt that strained over long underwear, skullcap cockeyed on his head. A cigar consumed itself in a petri dish, smoke fading skyward. He sat on one of several blankets spread out over the metal roof, heels of his orange boots dug into the joinery to keep from sliding down. Palm trees fashioned out of paper towel rolls tufted with cleverly cut green paper for leaves had been taped haphazardly around the roof. Nearby, Jeanne struggled to balance a few glasses on a tray next to a bowl that contained exactly one orange, one lime, and a fake banana. A ladder led the way to the party.
Wyatt gestured magnanimously at the spread. “Join us, won’t you? The water’s fine.”
Balancing my tray, I started up the ladder. Nora and Raj, arms slung around each other, made their way toward us across the pale expanse. I set the cheese next to the drinks tray. A bottle of tequila—Where has that been hiding?—cozied up to a pitcher of Kool-Aid. I made myself a strong one.
“Jeanne and I here were just discussing what we missed the most about, I don’t know, real life, whatever that is. Jeanne?”
“Cheese. Fresh milk. Cream,” Jeanne said. “And French bread. Fresh crusty bread with real salted butter and jam in the morning. It would almost be worth going home for. Almost.”
Wyatt plucked at the strings of his guitar, gazing off through his glacier glasses at the bergs, majestic as they floated in their ice kingdom. “For me,” he said, “it’s the smell of fresh-cut grass. And actual trees. The color green. That organic smell. Farm smell. Dirt, tomatoes hot on the vine.”
Nora was chasing after Raj now, who had sprinted off to try to catch an errant fly ball. She tackled him, and they rolled a bit on the icy ground, laughing.
“Ah, young love,” Wyatt said, flipping his glasses up on his head. “I remember the day. Sort of.” He turned to Jeanne, who handed him a “margarita” and a chipped ceramic bowl of peanuts. He took the snacks and said, “Why, thank you, Jeanne, for arranging this lovely party. I’m sure Nora will remember it forever.”
She said, “You’re very welcome,” as she arranged ham sandwiches and cups of tomato soup on a tray.
The football came crashing down between us, flipping the cheese tray. Hot Velveeta coagulated in the air and showered down in hard yellow droplets; tomato soup sprayed all around us, landing in gelatinous piles of gore.
“Whoa, sorry guys!” Nora came clambering up the ladder. “Sorry, Jeanne! Are you okay? Raj can’t throw to save his life. Anyway, I think I won the game.”
“Of course you did, it’s your birthday!” Wyatt shoved some couch cushions in Nora’s direction as she helped Jeanne clean up the mess. “Come on, have a seat.”
Leaving Jeanne to it, Nora plopped down on the cushions, letting herself fall onto her back, releasing her arms out behind her with a rapturous sigh. “What a brilliant way to spend a birthday,” she said as Raj scooted up next to her. “Sunbathing in the Arctic.”