South Pole Station

by Ashley Shelby

  “Let me get the okay from Bonnie on this,” Pearl told Cooper. She walked to the back of the galley, past Kit, who was going through boxes, looking for the missing cookbooks, all the way to the back door. She stood there for a respectable amount of time, then returned to the caf line, where Cooper stood waiting.

  “She says it’s okay,” Pearl said.

  * * *

  October 28, 2003

  Bonnie got called in by HR yesterday. They said she’d violated protocols by authorizing the delivery of station food to the Swedes camping out on the plateau. She denied it, of course, blamed it all on Cooper. Cooper won’t talk, thinks she’s protecting me. VIDS can’t do anything about her—she’s NSF—so they wrote Bonnie up. Bonnie told Kit and me that it was the first violation on her record, ever. Still hasn’t mentioned the missing cookbooks to me, though. I plan on dissembling the three-ring binder (SP) tonight. There’s nothing of value in it anyway. I volunteered to take the Midrats shift from Bonnie. She seemed surprised and actually thanked me. She told me the swing shift gets harder on her as she gets older.

  One day, Bonnie mentioned that Marcy had called an all-women’s meeting in the library.

  “What’s it for?” Pearl asked, as she prepped for lunch.

  “Seasonal Staking of Claims,” Bonnie replied, whipping a vat of minestrone into a ruby froth. Her greasy dark hair had escaped from her hairnet and was plastered to her forehead.

  “What claims are we staking?” Pearl asked.

  “It’s how we parse out who’s hooked up, who isn’t, and who’s fair game. It gets hairy when somebody steals someone else’s man ’cause she didn’t know there was a claim.”

  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.r />
  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.

  * * *

  Running Midrats gave Pearl a distinct advantage, though it was not without its drawbacks. On the plus side, there were fewer mouths to feed, so Pearl could spend more time on the food. The con was that the Midrats crew was made up of staunch Bonnie allies—grizzled old hands who’d formed an ironclad bond over this midnight meal. It took a few weeks before their irritation over the change in personnel faded.

  Pearl hewed close to the set Midrats menu at first—irregularities raised eyebrows at Pole. Routine was vitally important to the operation of the station and to the minds of the people working there, and curveballs were not appreciated. So Pearl started by cooking exactly what was on the menu. Sloppy Joes on a Bun (Tempeh Joes on a Bun). Honey Dipt Chix with Mashed Potatoes, Gravy (Pilaf). Texas Tamale Pie (Veg. Tamale Pie). Turkey Club Sandwich w/Pasta Salad (Szechuan Rollups w/Tempeh).

  Once the Midrats meal had been served, Pearl would hunch over her notebook, trying to meld flavors in her mind, to imagine what dishes might revive the long-dead taste buds of the veterans without creating resentment. She identified the foodstuffs that were lowest on the totem pole: dates, Melba toast, lentils, capers, tempeh.

  November 4, 2003

  Found out Bonnie has hated the plantains we get in bulk ever since she tried a Sweet Potato and Roasted Plantain gratin (Still Life p. 123) to bad reviews. She told me she tried to get the plantains off the shipment list but VIDS says they’re a cheap source of potassium and don’t get mushy as quickly as bananas do. Typically she sautés them in butter and brown sugar once a week and serves them as a breakfast side. I already have three potential dishes in mind, but since I’m charged with the daily soups, I’m going with a plantain sopa. Tucker has warned me about the “parochial tastes” of Polies, but I think he’s only talking about the repeaters. The fresher Beakers and support staff still have taste-memories of halfway decent food. Won’t take much to reawaken that.

  When Bonnie had been running Midrats, she lumbered in a half hour before service, pulled the prepped ingredients from the fridge, and started cooking. Pearl rarely left the kitchen after dinner service now. She took her time with the meals, and the meals on the menu not only tasted better, they also looked better. The presentation was nothing out of the ordinary—fussiness would have resulted in ridicule. But it was just different enough to create a sense of beauty that was almost invisible.

  She also started pickling vegetables. This activity was an acceptable use of the station’s vinegar stores because the supply of fresh produce would run out about a month after the station closed for the winter. Pearl pickled everything from carrots to the tiny gem-like chili peppers grown in the greenhouse. To be festive, she tied ribbons around the jars and displayed them near the condiment tray. One night, she canned an entire shipment of damaged peaches, and set one jar aside for Birdie. When she handed it to him, he was so happy, he kissed her. To Pearl’s surprise, it wasn’t horrible.

  For the first meal swap, Pearl decided to start with the vegetarian meals, since they’d likely arouse less attention and because the vegetarians tended to have a more forgiving palate. The scheduled Lentil-Walnut Surprise (p. 147, MW) was bypassed in favor of a black-pepper-glazed tempeh, served with sherry-braised leeks, fried capers, and hoppin’ John. The sherry was cooking sherry a year past its expiration date and the hoppin’ John was made from a five-year-old bag of dried black-eyed peas that Pearl found in the pantry. Still, Pearl thought it stellar. No one at Midrats said a word.

  A week before Thanksgiving, Pearl served her Plantain Sopa—a cream-based soup made from ripe plantains—and her pickled chili peppers. She paired it with a buckwheat flatbread. This time, three people came up for seconds, including a non-veggie maintenance specialist.

  November 15, 2003

  Bonnie came into the kitchen this morning furious. Someone told her about the plantain soup. I couldn’t ask if the review was good or bad because she was like the Tasmanian Devil. She said all menu changes had to be approved by VIDS, and went on and on about the importance of proper authorization. I spoke to Tucker about it this afternoon, and he hemmed and hawed for a while, but then said he’d make some calls. Tonight, right in the middle of dinner prep, he came in and told Bonnie that VIDS had authorized me to make any menu changes I wanted during Midrats. She walked out, leaving Kit and me to deal with the rest of dinner service.

  Word quickly spread that Midrats meal was by far the best meal served at Pole. The ranks of midnight diners swelled, and the graveyard crew complained that they couldn’t get a table. For them it wasn’t about the food; it was about the company. For the new arrivals, it was the opposite. Pearl’s changes to the Midrats menu had now extended beyond the vegetarian option and into the main entrées. One night she took the leftover Cornish game hens from the previous year’s food stock and broiled individual birds with a glaze made from her own stash of homemade sour cherries. The desserts were beyond anything anyone had seen at Pole before: buttermilk panna cotta (in which Pearl could hide expiring milk—a perpetual problem), lemon chiboust, pumpkin tiramisu. Meringues and soufflés were out of the question due to the elevation, but Pearl could live without them, and the Polies didn’t know what they were missing.

  Thanksgiving was turkey three ways—smoked, fried, and roasted—with Kit smoking seven birds outside, on the far side of the Crevasse of Death. “Fifty fucking below, ladies,” Kit reminded Bonnie and Pearl. “I think that’s enough selflessness for a day off.”

  “Dream on, honey,” Bonnie replied, in a decent mood for the first time in weeks. But then Pearl felt a piece of her die as she watched Bonnie spoon jellied cranberries out of aluminum cans; the sound they made as they plopped, can-shaped, into the serving dishes was as gross as an overdubbed movie kiss.

  Yet Bonnie surprised Pearl with other culinary efforts. From out of nowhere, she produced a jar of fermenting kombucha. She also delighted everyone with an enormous batch of real mashed potatoes—Bonnie had pulled some strings to get a crate of russets from McMurdo. For the holiday meal, Pearl had been relegated to pastry chef, and she did well: pumpkin and pecan pies, of course, but also a pear galette and 105 servings of pot de crème.

  As Pearl looked out at the darkened galley, at the Polies stuffing their faces, at the paper turkeys and Pilgrims hanging from the ceiling and the twinkling fairy lights, she felt something strange. Not peace—the job was still unfinished—but a kind of serenity that she had not experienced in years. The feeling that, if she could make it hers, this kitchen could become a home.

  * * *

  After Thanksgiving, the main meals reverted to the usual, but now people were talking openly about the superiority of the Midrats meal. Bonnie was
only left with the two Moosewood books: Moosewood (MW) and Moosewood Cooks for a Crowd (MWC). Pearl continued to find it strange that she said nothing about the missing cookbooks. She’d watch the woman sitting on an upended crate in her tiny office off the galley, squinting at online recipes. From time to time, she’d shout out, “We got pistachios?” or “Any starfruit from Cheech?” Invariably, they were always a few ingredients short.

  One morning, during the lull between breakfast and lunch prep, Pearl was crouched in the freshie shack, tearing up pages from Moosewood and shoving them into the pockets of her parka, when the door flew open. She clumsily shoved the cookbook onto one of the produce shelves, but it was too late. Bozer had seen.

  “What do you want in here?” Pearl said.

  “I gotta measure the shelves for the new freshie shack,” he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He brushed past Pearl and reached up to the shelf where she’d hidden the cookbook. When he pulled it out, several of the torn pages fluttered to the ground. He started laughing. “I knew it. Knew it from the minute Bonnie told me those books was missing.” His narrow, unknowable eyes traveled the length of Pearl’s body. He scratched the side of his face; the sound of his nails against the wiry hairs of his reddish beard sent a shiver of disgust down her spine.

  “You planning on sticking around?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about?” she said, trying to sound tough.

  Bozer placed Moosewood back on the shelf, next to a crate of Spanish onions. “If you’re going to run a lifer out of a job, you best be prepared to become a lifer yourself.” Pearl’s cheeks burned. “Now, I’m not saying the old girl is any great shakes in the kitchen. Maybe she done run her course here. I’m just saying that you oughta plan on making this a multiyear gig if you’re gonna go to that kind of trouble. Now, meantime, here’s what I need to see from here on out: barbecue once a week, make it ribs.”