the sealâand I see heâs smiling.
âI could get used to this,â he says.
âTo what, exactly? Close encounters with deadly predators? The subzero temperatures? The six-day workweeks?â
âYou,â he says. âI could get used to you.â
WITH CONSTANT DAYLIGHT, time loses its urgency, and itâs easy for me to believe weâll be here forever. Yet eventually the sun sets for an hour a day, and then a few moreâand soon conversations on the base begin to eddy around the transition from summer to winter season. As our time at McMurdo grows shorter, I canât stop myself from thinking ahead. Real life begins to intrude into every moment. Lying in Kellerâs bed one afternoon, I tuck my head under his chin. âWhere do you live now? Back home, I mean?â
We still donât know some of the very basic facts about each other. Here, none of it matters.
âAfter the divorce, I got an apartment in Boston,â he says. âWhen I came here, I put everything in storage.â With myface against his neck, I feel the vibration of his voice almost more than I hear it.
âI have a cottage in Eugene.â I curl an arm around his chest, wrap a leg around his. âPlenty of room for two, if you wanted to visit. Or stay.â
The moment the words are in the air, I feel myself shrink away from them, anticipating his reaction. I pull the sheet over my bare shoulder, as if this could shield me from hearing anything but yes.
Yet he lifts my chin to look at me, intrigued. âReally?â
âSure.â
A pensive look crosses his face, and I think of his life before, how rich and full it mustâve beenâand now this: a dorm room with frayed sheets and scratchy, industrial woolen blankets, and ahead only the promise of a storage unit in Boston, or a tiny cottage and a wet Oregon spring.
Then he smiles. âRemind me,â he says, âhow long have you lived alone?â
âWeâre practically living together here. Iâve spent more time with you than with any non-penguin in years.â
He pulls me up and over until Iâm on top of him, looking down at his face. Our weeks here, with long workdays and rationed water, have left him windburned and suntanned, long-haired and scruffy. I lean in close, and he says, âWhat are we waiting for?â
WE DONâT TALK much about it after that day. I donât think about what Keller might do for work in Oregon, about thefact that heâd only recently begun a whole new life. All I can think about is him coming back with meâthe first time Iâve been able to bring home something I needed, a part of the place that always seems to make me whole.
The last days in Antarctica before heading Stateside usually make me jittery, but this time itâs Keller whoâs on edge during our final week at the station.
âItâs always hard to leave,â I assure him. âBut weâll be back.â
âI know you will,â he says. âYouâve got a career. Iâm just a dishwasher. And everyone wants to be a dishwasher in Antarctica.â
Heâs right; the competition for the most menial jobs at McMurdo is astounding. âBut you got here,â I say. âYouâve proven yourself. Theyâll want you back.â
Our last days are busyâIâm gathering my final bits of data and wrapping up the project; Keller, as well as working in the galley, has been filling in for Harry Donovan, one of the maintenance guys, whoâs been sick. Weâre spending less and less time together, which doesnât concern me because soon weâll have nothing but time. Weâre among the last of the summer staff still hereâalready the base is shrinking down, getting closer to its winter size of two hundred. In six more weeks, the sun will set and not rise again for four months.
When I see Keller at Bag Drag, at the Movement Control Center from