When the water was ready, Augie made himself a mug of coffee, sweetened with a generous helping of condensed milk, and decided it was the most delicious drink he’d ever had—better than whiskey, even. They continued to sit at the table after eating, their dishes stacked in front of them and the oil stove humming beside them, not saying anything, just enjoying the tones of silence. The kerosene lamps illuminated the hut and the stove kept it surprisingly warm, even as the temperatures outside plunged. Augustine set the dishes down in the basin and left them for the morning, then unwrapped another one of the cots for Iris. They weren’t accustomed to sleeping so far apart; in the observatory, they had curled up in the nest together, for warmth. Iris watched Augie fold the plastic and shake out the sheet, then fit it to the mattress. They took out their subzero sleeping bags and laid them on top of the beds.
In the night Augie woke to hear the howls of a pack of Arctic wolves. They sounded close—in the mountains behind the camp, he guessed, perhaps sniffing around their abandoned snowmobile and marking it as theirs. They can have it, Augie thought, and drifted back to sleep.
IN THE MORNING, he lay on the cot for a few extra minutes, enjoying the warmth of the oil stove still chugging away. When he got to his feet, he shuddered to hear the cartilage in his joints cracking, his bones clicking against each other like dominoes falling down the length of his body. He was sore from the tumble he’d taken off the snowmobile the day before, but he’d live. He found a scouring pad and soap, warmed up some water, and washed the skillet and tin camping plates from last night’s dinner. When he was done he wandered outside and looked back at their hut to see the smoke curling up through its slim silver chimney and disappearing into a pale blue sky. The sun had already climbed well past the tips of the surrounding mountains. He heard Iris before he saw her, the hollow beat of improvised percussion accompanied by the keening hum that could only be hers. He followed the sound and found her sitting on top of an upturned dinghy by the edge of the lake, tapping out a rhythm on the hull with a piece of wood, her skinny legs crossed beneath her, the green pompom of her hat jiggling in time with the beat. Augie waved to her and she waved back before returning to her composition. Something about her was different, and it took Augie a moment to realize—she looked happy. He left her to her music and turned back to the camp.
There were the three huts, two large white ones, one smaller green, set in a row, a cluster of oil, kerosene, and gas drums gathered behind them. Augustine inspected them in turn. The other white hut was more barren than theirs, but mostly the same. It had two more cots—a backup dormitory, he thought, perhaps for the summer season when the population of the little camp swelled. In the green hut he found the food stores and more cooking supplies. This seemed to be the cook tent, presumably used as such in the warmer, busier summer months. During the winter the operation probably shrank down to the one tent they’d taken up residence in. The cook tent was packed with canned and dehydrated food, a huge array of it—more fruit cocktail and instant coffee and creamed spinach and mystery meat than they could consume in years. The variety was staggering, the quantities ample, the quality questionable, but it was vastly better than what they’d had before. They would not go hungry here, nor would they freeze to death—that much was clear.
Back outside the cook tent, the air was incredibly still. The sun had warmed the basin surrounding the lake and the temperatures were almost balmy—about 35 degrees Fahrenheit, he guessed. He loosened his scarf and stood still, letting the light soak into his old, battered skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good. On the small island toward the center of the lake, he saw the Arctic hares bouncing up and down on its banks, watching him. He wondered whether they summered there or bounded across the ice to the mainland before it was too late and the ice turned to water, trying their luck in the mountains that ringed the lake. Or perhaps—he smiled to think of it—they were swimmers.
There was one more building that he hadn’t looked in yet. It was the control shed next to the radio antenna array, and he was saving it for last. A solid structure of wood and metal, it was set apart from the cluster of tents, nearer to the array than to the living quarters. Augustine walked to the radio shed and put his hand on the knob, then paused without knowing why. Surely this can wait, he thought, and let his hand fall back to his side. The radio was the reason he’d come here—a chance to contact what was left of the outside world—but suddenly it seemed secondary. They could build a home here, and wasn’t that what he’d really wanted? He turned to look at the camp and saw Iris lying on her back on the overturned dinghy, staring up at the sky, her crude wooden drumstick clutched across her chest like a funeral bouquet. He left the building and returned to her.
“Walk with me?” he called to Iris.
She lifted her head and swung her legs off the dinghy. She shrugged—a yes. Augie took her hand and pulled her to her feet.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s explore.”
THE ICE WAS still solid despite the creaking sounds it made. They skated back and forth, falling occasionally, attempting to race and spin and jump on its thick, slippery surface. Iris wanted to walk out to the island, but halfway there Augustine began to stumble. It was as if his legs weren’t obeying him. The second time he fell to his knees they turned around and headed back for the camp. The Arctic hares watched the two humans go with perked ears and quivering noses. He stopped to rest two hundred yards from shore and Iris waited by his side, attentive and mute, laying her palm against his forehead as though she were playing doctor.
Back at the camp, Augustine lay down on his cot and Iris made coffee. It was watery and black—she hadn’t used enough of the instant powder or any of the condensed milk—but he drank it gratefully and closed his eyes. When he opened them again the light outside was fading and Iris was sitting at the card table reading one of the romance novels. Her lips moved as she scanned the page. Two lovers in gauzy silks clutched each other on the cover.
“How is it?” he croaked, and his voice came out rusty, as if he hadn’t used it in days. She shrugged and made a teetering motion with her hand: so-so. She finished the page and turned the book facedown on the table, then got to her feet and began to root around the kitchen area. He gradually realized she was replicating the meal he’d made them last night. He felt a kernel of pride that she had paid attention, that he had taught her something useful without even intending to. Perhaps this is how fathers feel, he thought. The smell of the corned beef made him hungry, and when the food was ready he dragged himself to the table, where they ate in front of the kerosene lamps. After he finished washing the dishes, he turned around to find Iris asleep on his cot, curled around the paperback novel like a crescent moon. He fastened the door, just a little latch to make sure it didn’t blow open in the night, and warmed his dishwater-damp hands in front of the oil stove. Then he blew out the kerosene lamps and lay down beside her, the two of them nestled in the narrow cot. Iris shifted slightly and the book fell off the cot, but she didn’t wake. As he drifted off he focused on her breath and finally identified the source of the nagging fear that had been plaguing him all this time: love.
AUGUSTINE DRIFTED THROUGH high school and most of college under a cloak of social invisibility. He was quiet and smart and watchful. It wasn’t until he was a senior in college that he realized the two girls sitting on either side of him in his thermodynamics class were smitten with him—that he could have either of them, perhaps both, if he wanted. But did he want them? What would he do with them? He’d already had sex once, in high school, and he had found it pleasant enough, but too messy and awkward to be worth pursuing it again. And yet—this kind of romantic charge was new to him. It was beyond the puzzle pieces of human bodies; it was an emotional mystery. An experiment he’d never had the variables to conduct before. Not one to back down from an intriguing research project, Augustine didn’t hesitate to sleep with both girls in quick succession. It came out that they were in a sorority together, and they immediately became vicious, to him and to each another, when they realized they were dating the same boy. The semester ended with tears and nasty letters and one of the girls dropping out, but to him the experiment had been a success. He’d learned something, and he’d realized there was so much more to learn.