My Last Continent: A Novel(47)

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.

I drop my hands. Admiral Byrd takes a few more steps, then in one swift and inelegant move, propels his body onto my lap, belly first.

I gasp at the surprising weight of him; in all my years of research, I’ve never had a penguin sprawled in my lap like this, relaxed as a cat. I grip the rock with my hands to stay balanced, pressing my feet down into the snow.

“He looks a little heavier this year,” Keller says. He reaches for my hand and pulls off my glove. He covers the top of my hand with his palm and places it on Admiral Byrd’s feathered black coat.

Our usual contact with penguins is nothing like this; we touch them only to put on bands, to weigh them, to do the unpleasant but necessary things to learn about and, we hope, eventually to save them. I hate knowing that every time we come near, it could shorten their lives, that every contact must be pure terror, even if it lasts only a few moments.

Tentatively, I run my hand down the penguin’s back, his feathers smooth and soft and firm. I can feel his heartbeat through the thin skin of my waterproof pants.

“One day,” Keller says, “I was sitting in the snow making some notes, and he jumped into my lap. I couldn’t believe it. I snuck over here this morning, during breakfast, to see if he was still here. I knew it was him even before I looked at his band.”

“What happened? I mean, how’d he become so socialized?”

“I have no idea. I thought it was a one-time thing. When he climbed into my lap that first time, I thought he was sick, or dying. I wasn’t sure I’d see him again. And even when I saw him, I didn’t know if he’d do this again, until just now.”

“He could be a whole new project for you. The penguin who thought he was a lapdog.”

A few minutes later, Admiral Byrd raises his head and wiggles forward. Keller moves aside to make room as Byrd clumsily eases his body off my lap and hops down from the rock, as slowly and patiently as he arrived. He wades into the water, as if to gauge the temperature, then dives under.

I turn to Keller. He’s watching me, smiling, squinting a little as the sun breaks through. He’s still holding my glove and hands it to me. I take it, my hand cold and dirty from the penguin’s feathers. I get to my feet, turning to take in the vistas from another angle.

“I like it here. No room for landings. Just us and Admiral Byrd.”

“And about a thousand other gentoos.”

“You’ve been holding out on me,” I say. “I didn’t know you’d been over here.”

“I’m not holding out.” He looks at me. “I just wanted to surprise you. Me being here at all—it’s only possible because of you. I wanted, for once, to show you something you haven’t seen yet.”

I hold his gaze, remembering the first time we kissed, as we observed the Adélies; remembering how he’d followed me day in and day out, his curiosity about the birds insatiable. “So you’re my teacher now.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and settle in there, the way Admiral Byrd had settled in to me. We stand like that a long time, the wind rippling through our hair, against our jackets. I let go first, and I look out at the water, where Admiral Byrd had disappeared a few minutes earlier. When I turn to Keller, he nods toward the Zodiac and says, “We better be getting back.”

I’m standing close to him, and we’re so very alone, and I try not to think ahead, to when we won’t be. When we’re apart, I feel a tension run through me, an elastic band stretched too thin, but when we’re together, Keller calms me, much the way this landscape does; there’s a stillness about him, a quiet peace, that I haven’t been able to keep with me when we part. I wish we could stay here, just the two of us, with the penguins, build our own rocky nest and somehow survive.

Keller is looking at me as if he knows what I’m thinking, but he doesn’t move; neither of us do, for a long couple of minutes. Then he steps away. “Come on,” he says. “It’s getting late.”

I don’t want to leave, and, as if sensing this, Keller stands by, waiting as I take one long, last look around. Finally we begin walking back to the beach. We climb into the Zodiac, and as I sit down on its rubbery edge and he fires up the engine, I say, “I’m glad I met you.”

He smiles at me, then turns away, his eyes focused ahead, as we speed away from the island.





TWO DAYS BEFORE SHIPWRECK


Prospect Point

(66°01'S, 65°21'W)





I’m halfway through my jog on the treadmill, at a lower intensity than usual, thinking only of when I can get back to the business center to call Keller. When I’d stopped by earlier, the phone was in use, and so here I am, waiting. I’ve already gone back once, and the same man was still talking—a business call, from the sound of it.

The walls of the ship’s fitness center are all glass, and my eyes fix on an iceberg in the distance as the potential conversation plays over and over in my mind.

I’m pregnant. Or, I should say, we’re pregnant. Isn’t that what couples always say?

The joy in his voice. I can’t believe it.

Do you really think we can make it work?

We can make anything work. Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?

I forgot to have Susan check during the last ultrasound.