Grimshaw On The Ice from Issue 83
Three months on the ice and the thought of three more made me skull-duck crazy. After a while, you start to see white rainbows. There are more shades of white here than polar bears: sunset white and sunrise white. Ice white, blue white, and just-about-to-crack-open white. Egg white, dark white, pus white.
We made a game of it after Grimshaw hit his head. “I’m seeing white,” he said, then realized his mistake. He meant fake white. Wrong white. The kind of white that dances a two-step in front of you while you clutch your forehead and try to remember what happened.
Specialists on the island were few—we liked to call it the island to feel exotic, like one morning we’d wake up to cacao trees and amaryllis, a dozen monkeys beating their chests. I bribed our only surgeon to take a look. He puckered his cracked lips around a flask and tipped his chin to the ceiling. Clicking his tongue after a long pull of whiskey, he leaned over Grimshaw who looked like a pile of damp clothing in the corner of the bunkhouse. The surgeon unfolded the corkscrew on his Swiss Army knife. “This ought to relieve some pressure,” he said, then laughed wickedly. He hadn’t been right since his first winter.
“Get out,” I told him, kicking the door as it shut behind him.
Grimshaw squinted at me and moved his arms slightly, as though trying to hoist himself from the bed. Slowly, I lifted him up and angled for the door. A petrified ox could have moved easier than the two of us. I nearly dropped him. Two hundred twenty- five pounds plus subzero gear and work boots heavy as ice blocks. Even my best fireman’s carry wouldn’t cut it. Later that night I salvaged an old wheelbarrow from the junk pile and heaved Grimshaw out of the bunkhouse. His head bobbled like a puppet’s as I wheeled him across the ice, one leg dangling over the side of the barrow. The heel of his boot clapped an embarrassing beat against
the metal.
Fifty yards from the research station, I stopped to let Grimshaw have a look at the sky.
“Look,” I said. “Look at them all.”
“Star white,” he said.
“You nailed it,” I told him. “The captain says you’re gonna make it, Grimshaw.”
“Liar,” he said. He rolled his eyes in their sockets until his gaze met mine. He might have smiled. “Don’t let them put me in the pile, okay? Wheel me someplace else.”
We made a game of it after Grimshaw hit his head. “I’m seeing white,” he said, then realized his mistake. He meant fake white. Wrong white. The kind of white that dances a two-step in front of you while you clutch your forehead and try to remember what happened.
Specialists on the island were few—we liked to call it the island to feel exotic, like one morning we’d wake up to cacao trees and amaryllis, a dozen monkeys beating their chests. I bribed our only surgeon to take a look. He puckered his cracked lips around a flask and tipped his chin to the ceiling. Clicking his tongue after a long pull of whiskey, he leaned over Grimshaw who looked like a pile of damp clothing in the corner of the bunkhouse. The surgeon unfolded the corkscrew on his Swiss Army knife. “This ought to relieve some pressure,” he said, then laughed wickedly. He hadn’t been right since his first winter.
“Get out,” I told him, kicking the door as it shut behind him.
Grimshaw squinted at me and moved his arms slightly, as though trying to hoist himself from the bed. Slowly, I lifted him up and angled for the door. A petrified ox could have moved easier than the two of us. I nearly dropped him. Two hundred twenty- five pounds plus subzero gear and work boots heavy as ice blocks. Even my best fireman’s carry wouldn’t cut it. Later that night I salvaged an old wheelbarrow from the junk pile and heaved Grimshaw out of the bunkhouse. His head bobbled like a puppet’s as I wheeled him across the ice, one leg dangling over the side of the barrow. The heel of his boot clapped an embarrassing beat against
the metal.
Fifty yards from the research station, I stopped to let Grimshaw have a look at the sky.
“Look,” I said. “Look at them all.”
“Star white,” he said.
“You nailed it,” I told him. “The captain says you’re gonna make it, Grimshaw.”
“Liar,” he said. He rolled his eyes in their sockets until his gaze met mine. He might have smiled. “Don’t let them put me in the pile, okay? Wheel me someplace else.”
The next morning Grimshaw was gone. Dead white. Ghost white. Now-you-see-him, now-you-don’t white.