Antarctica by Claire Keegan Page A

that.’
    ‘Glad you approve.’
    He blushes and looks out the window. The restaurant stands on stilts over the water, the muddy backwash breaking against the poles that hold them up. The sun’s so bright he can hardly see, as if it’s having a big orgy in the sky and blinds every eye so nobody can know what’s really going on up there. That’s what he’s thinking when the waitress brings the drinks and crackers.
    They light cigarettes because there’s nothing else to say. Just a few words and it’s all opened up. It’s as if she’s slid the zip of his pants down. She can’t believe she’s driven all the way out here to meet up with a guy she’s never laid eyes on. One little ad placed in the
Times Picayune
, a woman wanted in bold, a few phone calls, and this. The fact that they’re here says everything, and now that they’ve seen each other, it’s done.
    She takes out a Marlboro. He flicks the lid off the lighter and holds out the flame. She lowers her head and exhales through her nose, looking at him. He thinks she’s like one of them movie stars, like Lauren Bacall orMadonna or somebody, with those fancy clothes and those long fingernails. She downs her Scotch before the food arrives, leaving a thick smear of lipstick on the glass. He wishes he could tell the guys down at the mill about this. Big Andy could put that in his lunch box, but Big Andy can’t hold his own water after two beers. He starts on the crackers, snatches off the plastic wrappers and gulps his beer.
    ‘When’s the last time you ate?’ Roslin asks.
    ‘Yesterday.’
    When the food arrives, Roslin handles her crawfish like china and sucks the heads, throws the shells on the side and drinks her second Scotch. Guthrie piles forkfuls of dirty rice on his crackers and pushes them into the corners of his mouth, washes them down with mouthfuls of beer. He squeezes lemon juice and Tabasco on the oysters, slurps them down.
    ‘You want me to make you one?’ he says.
    ‘Uh-uh. I’ll pass. You want one of these?’ she says, holding a crawfish by the claw. ‘They’re real good. Spicy.’
    ‘Nah, if I start eating those things, I’ll never stop. Like cookies.’
    ‘And affairs.’
    He straightens up.
    ‘Ain’t true,’ he says. ‘I ain’t never done this before.’
    ‘First time for everything, I guess. You placed that ad outta desperation, then, huh? Of course, if that’s the case, I’m responding to desperation; don’t say much for me now, do it?’
    ‘Guess we’ve got something in common.’
    ‘I never said I’m desperate; I said you was.’
    ‘You just doing a survey then, huh?’
    She laughs.
    The cook pushes through the swing doors from the kitchen. He’s damp around the armpits. When he goes out on to the porch, a blast of hot air swings into the room. They can feel the temperature rising.
    Guthrie starts talking, tells Roslin about working down at the mill, the way Lardhead got his hand caught in the saw ’cos it was where it shouldn’t have been, how he collected all that insurance money, but it was his right hand and he was right-handed. Roslin tells about how she painted the whole shotgun apartment, every room eggshell-blue, couldn’t get the paint out of her hair for weeks; about that time she broke down on the highway and made a fan-belt out of her pantyhose. They skirt the conversation around their home lives, each trying to peer into the other’s kitchen window without making it obvious, wondering if there’s a high-chair in there.
    They order another one after the dishes are taken away, and one more before he pays the bill. Roslin watches him peeling the bills off the roll.
    ‘You didn’t get nothing caught in a saw, did ya?’
    ‘No, ma’am. All my bodily parts function just fine.’
    He pulls out her chair. The waitress yawns as she collects the glasses and the five-dollar tip. When they bang the screen door, they disturb the cook having his snoozeon the porch before dinner. He hears them talking