South Pole Station

“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 just 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 ([email protected])

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

To: Tucker Bollinger ([email protected]), Karl Martin ([email protected]), Carla Nicks ([email protected]), Simon Murphy ([email protected])

Cc: Alexandra Scaletta ([email protected])

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: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

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

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