My Last Continent: A Novel(13)

“I thought he’d be here,” she says.

“So did I.”

“So what happened?”

“Wish I knew.”

Amy is looking over my shoulder. “Well, there’s Glenn,” she says. “Ask him.”

Glenn is talking to the bartender, and I walk over, standing a bit behind him until they finish.

“Hey, Glenn,” I say as he turns around. “Do you have a second?”

Glenn looks at me, waiting. He has a smooth, unblemished face partially hidden by a perfectly trimmed goatee. His physical youthfulness is belied by a consistently somber expression and dark, serious eyes. I try to remember the last time I saw him smile, and I can’t.

“I wanted to ask you about Keller.”

“What about him?”

“Why isn’t he on board?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

I feel my face redden. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you.”

“Deb, I’m not sure I should be talking about this. It’s technically a human resources issue.”

“Really?” I say. “You’re going to hide behind human resources?”

Glenn sighs. “You remember that last voyage,” he says. “It shouldn’t come as any surprise that Keller is no longer welcome on this ship.”

I shouldn’t be surprised—but I am. While I knew Keller had pushed Glenn’s limits, neither of them had given me any indication that Keller wouldn’t be here when the season began.

“Why didn’t you talk to me?” I say. “I would have vouched for him. Kept an eye on him.”

“This isn’t child care, Deb. And clearly he didn’t want you to know.” I sense that Glenn is censoring a snide remark. “He came to see me in Seattle. He lobbied hard to come back, I’ll give him that.”

I’d nearly forgotten about Keller’s quick trip from Eugene to Seattle. About a job, he’d said. But he’d never mentioned Glenn.

“I did consider it,” Glenn continues, “for the sake of the APP and the fact that he’s a good worker. But I can’t take any more drama.”

“He was only telling the truth.”

“People come on this trip to be entertained,” Glenn says, “not accused.”

“They also come to be educated. What about awareness? Isn’t that part of it?”

“You know as well as I do that you can’t raise awareness if you don’t have any passengers,” Glenn says. “And those who do come here—well, they deserve better.”

“It was that one guy who started it,” I say. “I remember—”

“That passenger,” Glenn interrupts, “demanded a full refund, or he threatened to sue. I can’t afford to employ Keller. Simple as that.”

I try to process what this means.

“So I take it he didn’t tell you where he is now?” Glenn says.

I look at him, waiting.

“He’s on the Australis.”

“What? That’s impossible.”

“He asked me for a reference,” Glenn says. “Wisely, it was for a position with minimal passenger interaction. I just spoke to the HR manager last week.”

“But he would never—” I stop, the nausea I’d felt earlier suddenly surging back.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Glenn looks as though he’s about to say something more, but the nausea overtakes me, and I push past him to the nearest lavatory. I lean over the toilet, and even as I tell myself it’s just seasickness, maybe a minor stomach bug, I can’t help but remember the last time I’d felt this way, years ago, after Dennis—the caustic feeling of having been left out, left behind.





FOUR YEARS BEFORE SHIPWRECK


McMurdo Station





McMurdo Station is a U.S. base on Ross Island, on the south side of the Antarctic continent and in the shadow of Mt. Erebus. The planes used to transport scientists and staff from Christchurch, New Zealand, are like large tin cans with rows of military-grade seating, cramped and cold. At this time of year, during the austral summer, when McMurdo is the Grand Central Station of Antarctica, with its maximum capacity of twelve hundred residents, the planes are as packed as commercial jets during the holidays.

I secure my bag in the middle of the fuselage, take a seat, and close my eyes for the eight-hour flight. I’m heading to McMurdo on a National Science Foundation grant to do a census of the emperor colony nearest the base. During the station’s busiest period, the LC-130 cargo planes arrive regularly to bring people and supplies. Eventually the flights will taper off, and from February to October, except for the very rare fly-in, planes won’t land at McMurdo at all.

I hear a voice above me. “Seat taken?”

I open my eyes and say, “Suit yourself.” A guy about my age is pulling down the metal bar of the jump seat next to mine. He’s tall and thin, with overgrown dark hair that falls into his eyes and a red bandanna loose around his neck.

The guy leans his head back against the red nylon webbing that constitutes our seats, his head angled toward mine. “It’s my first time here,” he says.

“Mmm.”