While Murphy offered up a few more details about Danzig’s life—apparently, he’d worked a million different jobs, from bee-keeper to dog catcher to mortuary chauffeur (“that’s how he met Maria”)—Michael just kept his head down and thought his own thoughts. For one thing, he meant to get Maria’s home address before he left the base; he still had Danzig’s walrus-tooth necklace, and he wanted to mail it back to her as soon as he was back in civilization. Maybe with a print of a shot he’d taken of her husband, in all his glory, sledding through a snowstorm.
He also knew he should be calling the Nelsons’ house back in Tacoma; he wanted to hear how the move had gone and whether Kristin had shown any sign at all of being aware that she was back in her old house. He pretty much knew what the answer would be—and he knew that it would be Karen who’d tell him—but still he felt that it was his duty to keep checking in. And he wondered how long that would continue; from what he knew of comas and vegetative states, Kristin could go on indefinitely.
Uncle Barney, sitting a few feet away, blew his nose loudly into a red handkerchief. Murphy was telling a story about some colossal meal Danzig had consumed.
Calloway stood up next and told a long, funny anecdote about once trying to cram Danzig into a regulation-size diving suit, and Betty and Tina talked about how helpful Danzig had been one day when they were trying to unload some ice cores in a driving storm. Michael could hear the blizzard that was raging, whistling around the narrow windows and the corrugated steel walls of the module they were all sitting in. It could abate in an hour, or it could go on for another solid week. At pole, he had learned, all bets were off.
After everyone had spoken, Murphy haltingly led them in a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, and when a few moments of silence had passed, Franklin sat at the piano in the corner, and played a rousing version of the old Bob Seger hit, “Old Time Rock ’n’ Roll.” It was one of Danzig’s favorite songs, and Franklin was able to give it a suitably gritty rendition. A lot of the others joined in on the lines, “Today’s music ain’t got the same soul, I like that old time rock ’n’ roll!” And when the music died down, Uncle Barney announced that, in Danzig’s honor, hot grits and gravy were being served in the commons.
On the way out, Murphy waved Michael and Lawson over to one side and said, “You guys see Ackerley anywhere?”
Even when Spook was in the room, it was easy to miss him; he was that quiet and self-effacing. But Michael had to say no.
“Probably talking to his plants,” Lawson said, “and lost all track of time.”
Murphy nodded in agreement, but said, “You mind going to see if he’s okay? I just tried him on the intercom but he’s not picking up.”
Although Michael had hoped to join Charlotte and Darryl in the commons—he’d spent the whole day making notes in his room and had pretty much forgotten to eat—he could hardly say no.
“Don’t worry,” Murphy said, “I’ll be sure to save you some grits.” He turned to Lawson. “But how’s your leg? You up to it?”
Lawson, who’d dropped the ski gear on his ankle, said, “It’s fine—no problem at all. Use it or lose it.”
To Michael, he always sounded a little like a coach on the sidelines of a big game.
“Might want to use some poles,” Murphy said, and Lawson agreed. “Wind’s gusting at eighty miles per hour.”
They suited up and grabbed some ski poles from the equipment locker, and while the others poured into the brightly lighted commons, they turned the other way, up a long bleak concourse where the wind was whipping up little cyclones of ice and snow and sending them whirling, like tops, back and forth from one side to the other. Some gusts were so strong that Michael was blown back against a wall or half-buried fence, and had to wait to push off again until the wind had died down. Not that it ever stopped. There were times, in Antarctica, when you wished for nothing more than stillness, a temporary truce with the elements, a chance to stand still and catch your breath and look up at the sky. The sky could be so beautiful—so blue and pristine it looked like the most perfect thing imaginable, an enameled bowl fired to a hard blue glaze—and at other times, like now, it was simply a smudged bucket, a dull broad glare that was impossible to distinguish from the endless continent of empty ice it glowered over.
The ski poles were a good idea; Michael doubted he could have stayed upright without them. Lawson, with his sore ankle, would surely have been toppled. In fact, Michael made it a point to stay a couple of yards behind Lawson, just in case he went over and started to roll. Once the wind caught you and knocked you down on an icy patch, you could roll like a bowling ball until you hit some kind of obstruction; Michael had seen a beaker named Penske, a meteorologist, rolling past the Administration module one morning until he collided with the flagpole and hung on to it for dear life.