Page 47 of Under Story

Or at least Laurel thought she knew it. She’d never had to watch Pete change or make a torturous decision. In her mind, he remained as idealistic as he’d been in 1980.

“Please,” Clare said. The word had history and depth: she had never asked Laurel for something so directly. Eli put his hand on Laurel’s knee. It was time to stop resisting.

Laurel and Clare compiled data from the course of the orchard’s life. Gloria was right—it did make Laurel feel better—but the process was wrenching. After that, they packed the farmhouse. Clare would be moving to a condo in Madison. Despite the sale, she couldn’t retire, so she had applied for a part-time job at the symphony.

“That’s what I wanted to do, you know,” she said, “when I was a girl.”

They sat in the attic, sorting through Laurel’s childhood belongings. Laurel put a stack of CDs in the give-away pile. “To work for the symphony?”

“Well, not exactly. I wanted to be a musician.”

“Really? Why didn’t you?”

“My father was a drunk. When my mother died, I went to live with her parents. They agreed to pay for my college tuition, but only if I majored in something practical,” Clare said. “My mother had been a piano teacher; she was the one who taught me. But my grandfather was a businessman. He always said that she could have made more of herself.”

Laurel looked at Clare. “I thought you wanted to study trees.”

Cross-legged, her mother shrugged. “I liked it. But never as much as music.”

So the orchard had been her father’s dream. Laurel felt ashamed by her surprise. She knew what it was like to put her own ambition second.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” Clare smiled. “If I hadn’t taken forest biology, I wouldn’t have met your father.”

She taped a box of books and tried to stand, but stopped in a crouch.

“Oof. Old knees,” she said. “Help your mother up.”

In June, the galley begins to prepare for McMurdo’s Midwinter Feast. A celebration always takes place on the Southern winter solstice, and this year, the theme is Sleepover. Residents have been invited to wear pajamas and go to bed in the galley. As always, the menu is closely guarded. The kitchen has been hoarding rare ingredients for months: canned tomatoes and frozen cheese for pizza, cocoa for hot chocolate.

By the time the first guests arrive—a postal worker and the head janitor, both wearing Snuggies—the galley hums with anticipation. Everyone commends the pizza, along with the spiked 7UP, and Diego’s pigs in blankets are declared the continent’s best. There are plenty of Christmas pajamas and furry slippers; the IceCube scientists wear coordinated bathrobes. Laurel doesn’t see Eli. She dashes to and from the kitchen until Jules taps the microphone. As the lead steward, he stands to immoderate applause.

“One hundred and nineteen years ago,” Jules says, “the crew of the Belgian Antarctic Expedition, trapped in ice, spent an accidental winter on this untamed continent. Being no more than human, they needed something to look forward to; and, needing something to look forward to, they chose the darkest day of the year. We’ve celebrated Midwinter ever since.”

More cheers and whistling: Jules waits, smiling.

“When you come to this place, you give other places up. But strangers become family, and for many of us, Antarctica feels more like home than home does. I see your weirdness, how you fit in here but nowhere else. I see how you brave cognitive impairment and electrocution by shower just to keep this station running. And I thank you—because otherwise, we’d know a little less of this world and how to take care of it.”

A meteorologist in a nightshirt shouts “Hear, hear,” and Nita blows her nose. Louis hisses that the toast always goes on too long, but his eyes are pink.

“With that,” says Jules, “I read the words of Captain Scott: ‘We are very merry, and indeed why not? The sun turns to come back to us to-night, and such a day comes only once a year.’

“I read the words of President John F. Kennedy, who sent this telegram on Midwinter’s Day in 1961: ‘Since the onset of the winter night, you have experienced unusual loneliness, cold and fatigue. Your perseverance in the face of deprivation dignifies human nature. The harmonious cooperation that exists among you is an example to us all. Your calm fortitude and friendly international exchanges are coming to fruition in the Antarctic Treaty, which testifies to the faith we have in your endeavors, you, and those who await your return.’

“For the second Midwinter in a row,” Jules continues, “I refuse to read the card from the Czech base, as it mainly serves to remind us of last year’s Olympic results in women’s tennis. I will, however, put it on the bulletin board along with Midwinter greetings from other stations, so that we may bask in the warmth of global friendship, except when it comes to the Czechs.”

Amid boos and laughter, Jules raises his glass. “Tonight we eat, drink, and watch scary movies, which begin at nine. The kitchen will be treating us to grilled cheese at midnight. Charades are encouraged, along with Truth or Dare. And if you see your crush in the room—well, I can only hope that you’ll pass them a note.”

Cleanup takes until nine. Afterward, the stewards scarf leftover pizza and change into their pajamas: silk for Louis, flannel for Charlie, sweats for Laurel. Nita makes a nest of blankets, and everyone piles in to watch The Shining. The kitchen staff are holding court near the popcorn machine. As the credits play, Ingrid runs over with a note for Charlie.

“It’s from Diego,” she says, as Charlie opens it. Laurel reads over her shoulder.

Do u want to watch another movie @ my place?

Below that are two boxes. Charlie checks one marked Yes.

Louis tries to initiate Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board. Meeting resistance, he huffs off to join the kitchen staff. Laurel and Nita are alone.