South Pole Station

Pearl didn’t have a man, unless you counted the British ex-pat, Birdie. He’d been making eyes at her since he arrived. There was nothing wrong with the guy—he was a little soppy, but his accent made him rather endearing. In fact, he was almost lovable, in a goofy kind of way. Unfortunately, he wasn’t much of a looker—balding, with beady eyes and ruddy cheeks—but that didn’t matter. Even if they struck up a friendship, they likely wouldn’t be swapping bodily fluids. Pearl had been celibate for five years on purpose. She felt that she’d reached the Bodhi Tree of sexual enlightenment, and this stint at Pole might make her a Buddha. It wasn’t that she was asexual—there had just been too many disappointments for it to be a coincidence. She felt misled about sex. They must not be doing it right, she’d thought at first. Then, You must not be doing it right. Then, Maybe you’re gay.

She’d given her virginity to a seasonal cannery worker in Cordova, Alaska, the summer between her sophomore and junior years of high school. Without her foster parents’ permission, she had followed a school friend from Portland up to Alaska to crew on a herring fishery. The friend hooked up with a deckhand, which, in hindsight, had been a far better bet. Pearl noticed too late in the game that the cannery worker had a womanish nose that quivered, and a tiny, timid mouth. When he brought her back to his rented rooms on the harbor, he told her he was an art student at University of Alaska. Later, she realized that this disclosure should have prompted a hasty exit, but she was sixteen and not well versed in the portents of bad decisions. They stood around in his rooms awkwardly, looking at his canvases. Each was a rendering of SpongeBob SquarePants engaged in lewd acts. “A concept run amok,” he told Pearl. When they finally got into bed, he went limp and would not touch her anywhere below her waist.

Back home in Portland a few years later, Pearl ran into a baseball player from high school she’d had a crush on (he was playing for Lewis & Clark College now) and after an hour-long conversation at Starbucks, he brought her back to his off-campus apartment, where they had sex: the first time to get it over with, and the second time because maybe it would be better. The sex felt to Pearl like a battering ram trying to breach a cervix. How funny, she thought as he grunted behind her, that all the electricity between them in high school—the furtive glances, the long stares—translated into this National Geographic special on the mating rituals of bonobos.

When a psychologist at VIDS headquarters had warned Pearl not to get pregnant—“selfish and avoidable,” he’d said—Pearl had announced her celibacy with pride.

The psychologist had just laughed at her. “Yeah, I saw that on your questionnaire. There’s condoms aplenty down there, but just do me a favor and pack birth control. A pregnancy puts everyone at the station at risk,” he said.

When Pearl ventured to ask how a pregnant woman put the station at risk, the guy smiled and leaned forward in his chair, as if recounting the details of an NFL game. “Spontaneous abortion. Massive blood loss. Early labor. Hypertension. You want the menu? ’Cause there’s more.”

“I don’t need the menu,” Pearl replied. “I was just curious.”

“Well, now you know.”

“Do you offer this menu to your male applicants?” Pearl asked.

The psychologist laughed again. “When men develop the ability to get pregnant I’ll consider it.”

*

Marcy’s meeting took place on the fourth floor of Skylab, an orange tower connected to the Dome by an underground tunnel. It housed laboratories, a music rehearsal space, and Bozer’s pool table. When Pearl arrived with Bonnie, most of the other women were already sprawled on the Naugahyde sofa. Pearl was unable to tear her eyes away from the sofa—its very presence meant that a Naugahyde couch had been approved on a cargo list, loaded onto a C-17, and ferried down to South Pole. Surely, such things could not be possible, she thought.

“You okay, Pearlie?” Marcy asked, tapping the chair next to her. Marcy’s appearance was even more disturbing than the sofa’s—her face was drawn, her eyes sunken into her face, limned by purple shadows. Her unexpected R-and-R had sparked rumors of a cancer diagnosis.

As if reading Pearl’s thoughts, Marcy yawned. “Shit, I’m tired. Bozer has us pulling double shifts three times a week.” Pearl quietly took a seat.

“Let’s lay it all out on the line tonight, girls,” Marcy said once everyone was seated. “Time to stake claims.”

“Aren’t some of you already in relationships?” Cooper asked, rubbing her swollen eye with a ball of Kleenex.

“Honey, I’m not trying to play a game of Clue here,” Marcy said. “I don’t want to end up fucking Colonel Mustard in the Library, only to find out that Mrs. Peacock blew him in the Ballroom. Look—most of you know I do this every year. There’s nine of us and about a million of them. It’s easier if we know the score before we get too far into this magical mystery tour.”

“Obviously, Dwight’s off-limits,” Pearl said, glancing over at Bonnie.

“Obviously,” Marcy said. “What about Floyd?” When no one replied, Marcy nodded. “Yeah, poor Floyd.”

“Sri would be cute with a different chin,” Cooper offered.

“Sri is married,” his lab tech replied sadly. After a pause, she added: “I like his chin.”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Marcy barked.

“Denise.”

“Enter.”

Denise pushed the door open with her shoulder. “Sorry, everyone. I lost track of time.” As Denise struggled out of her parka, Bonnie leaned over to Pearl. “When she’s in the room I feel like a lab rat,” she whispered.

Denise heard this and held her hands open, as if to show Bonnie she wasn’t carrying recording equipment or a gun. “I’m just here as a Pole female. Is that okay?” Bonnie grunted and crossed her arms.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Marcy said. “What about the men artists?”

Pearl felt her stomach turn over.

“The historical novelist is hooking up with the interpretive dancer,” Cooper said. “And the literary novelist has a thing going with one of the cryo techs. That leaves Birdie.”

“That the one with the birthmark on his face?” Marcy asked.

“No, that’s the historical novelist. Birdie’s the one who’s constantly mooning over Pearl,” Cooper said.

All of the women turned to look at Pearl, and her face burned with embarrassment. So others had noticed his attentions. She tried to gauge the women’s interest in him without asking outright. No one had leapt up at the mention of his name. And he seemed harmless, didn’t seem the type to wheedle or plead for sex. Pearl imagined him growing old waiting for her to take his hand—even his name suggested the gentle flutter of wings. And anyway, the Polies had advised her to ally herself with a companion for the duration; as a woman, she would have her pick, so she picked Birdie because he looked like a man who could be strung along. Pearl remained silent, but knew her raging blush made it obvious.

“Okay, Birdie’s taken,” Marcy said. She nodded at Denise. “Bozer’s spoken for. Floyd, nobody wants, and besides, he has that mail-order bride out of Novosibirsk. Sri’s got a chin problem—also, married. Everyone else is fair game, right?”

As Marcy looked around at the women, Pearl could see deep sadness etched on her face. She could see the other women saw it, too, but they said nothing. “That’s it, right?”

“What about Sal?” Cooper said quietly.

Marcy smiled for the first time since she’d walked into Skylab. “Sal’s all yours, honey,” she said. Pearl was relieved to see she wasn’t the only one whose cheeks were on fire.

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