spot on the mattress was a pair of shorts and t-shirt, white underwear, socks and sneakers. Hers. They were laid out carefully. Beside them, Connor's diaper bag, packed to the brim. The corners of one diaper poked out beside the unmistakable blue box of wipes and a Playtex nursing bottle in the side pocket.
When she saw the car keys beside the bag and her clothes, she stammered, “Clay, what...” She looked at the shrunken figure in the chair. It looked up at her with eyes too far back in the skull to be alive.
“Get dressed,” he hissed.
She scooted past him, laid Connor on a semi-clean area of the bed. When they fell across her body, the clothes caressed her like Clay's hands had done once, long ago when she thought he was perfect. She finished dressing except for her socks and sneakers. Clay looked ahead of him, towards the crib.
“Clay?”
He moved a little. Perhaps to indicate he was still alive.
“You can stay,” he said. “I'd like that. I mean, there isn't any place you can go. Not now.”
The image of the ark in Lavish came to her then. Like watching a movie, the Carboneau woman climbing aboard with her crew, waving to the crowds then disappearing below deck.
Connor laughed at some unseen delight. Holly looked at him. Her heart resumed its rapid beating of earlier.
Clay was still talking. “Stay here. Stay with me. We can still be a family.”
His was a dry-paper voice. Holly stared at her son. Full of life. So small and tiny. A noise came out of her, half-shout, half-whimper. All she knew, all she could see, was her son, and the single thought in her head.
She lifted the diaper bag, slung it over her shoulder and grabbed the keys. She put them in her pocket and carefully lifted Connor. He squealed with delight. His diaper felt wet, but there was no time left. She didn't dare look at her boyfriend, but felt something brush against her legs as she passed, like a thin branch. Then it was gone. It was hard to walk. She was barefoot and her muscles, now that she was exerting them, threatened to knot up and send her toppling over.
Clay left his hand in the air. He couldn't close his fingers around her leg. Even if he had been able to find the strength, she wouldn't have stopped. Not this time.
The car started outside. He turned his head, looked at the clock.
“Holly!” he shouted. The word came out like a moan, unintelligible. A sound outside of tires on gravel, the click-click of the gears shifting
The numbers of the clock changed. He turned his head back and forth, looking for something to fix his gaze on, but everything had become blurry. He closed them, and pretended that Holly was still tied to the bed. Still with him. He didn't feel so alone then.
That voice, so perfect and calm, said beside him. “You did the right thing, Clay.”
He sighed and whispered, “Go fuck yourself.”
* * *
It was nearly Summer in the remote Arctic town of Resolute Bay, at least as much as summer ever came this far north. Greg Nassun pulled back the fur-lined hood of his parka and was instantly reminded that the season meant something entirely different here. It was still early in the morning, but the temperature would soon climb to plus ten Celsius. If it stayed this way for a couple more weeks, the thinning ice of the bay would break up enough to free the icebergs, allow an occasional cruise ship to pay the island a visit. The two weren’t normally associated with each other, but up here you took advantage of open water whenever it presented itself. Not that it mattered. Greg didn’t plan to be here much longer.
Though the cold seeped down his neck, the few minutes of un-obscured vision was worth leaving the hood down. His growing frustration would keep him warm enough for the moment. He knew why Francois wanted these readings done, especially today. He’d brought out a small card table from the hotel room and set it up on the hill, a short way past the distance marker and its
Greg checked the compass duct-taped to the top of the table.
Francois wasn’t listening. Greg’s boss was convinced something was going to happen this morning. He didn’t say this outright. But Francois Gourmond
Fine. That was fine. He agreed to this charade only as long as Gourmond let him go home tomorrow. Four weeks without a sunset was long enough, thank you. He wanted to be back in Quebec, under artificial lights and real starlight. Vacation in the States, perhaps, pay a visit to Mickey Mouse or lay on a beach. Go someplace
The crowd behind him wouldn’t shut up. D
Even Dora, who’d come by with a complimentary cup of coffee twenty minutes ago, bubbled with excitement. Everyone was either terrified or relieved that it would all be over in a few minutes, waiting impatiently for the allotted time to pass and praying nothing happened. Nothing at all.
On the table in front of him, the long, plastic compass remained stable, the needle’s position unchanged from yesterday, and the day before. He would do these final measurements today, log them, email them to Francois, pack and go home. The flight was booked –
The compass needle shifted.
The needle stopped. Greg leaned over the table. He was fairly certain the letter N still faced geographical north. But the needle pointed almost due West. “That’s just wrong,” he sighed.
Someone in the crowd turned towards him. Greg swore under his breath. The last thing he needed was to become a spectacle for anyone so bored even
He ignored the sudden, interested stares and took out another, palm-sized compass from the inside pocket of his parka. He needed to compare measurements, see how off the table reading was. The man who’d overheard him was speaking to Dora. The large waitress walked nervously to where Greg still hunkered over the table.
Both compasses, the one on the table and the one in his palm, pointed due west. “Something wrong with your compass, Hon?”
The needle stopped. He did a quick calculation in his head, one done so often he rarely needed the calculator tucked in his other pocket. Roughly an eighteen percent declination. That was
“Your needle keeps moving,” Dora whispered. People began to crowd around the table.
“Please,” he said, trying not to sound irritated, “let me alone for a minute. I need to fix this.”
“Look!” Someone pointed. “It’s moving again!”
Mutters in English and French. Someone began praying in Inuit, at least Greg assumed it was a prayer since the old woman had fallen to her knees.
“It’s not moving,” he shouted. “Back away, please!” But it
