Free Calvin by Martine Leavitt Page B

the day before. Still, the air was white with ice crystals. They didn’t fall like snow. They hung suspended, so light they couldn’t fall, each one reflecting the snowball sun, all frozen flames. Air like that was hard to breathe. You had to melt it as it went down, you had to extract the H 2 from the O.
    By mid-morning we were two blasts of heat and color in the whole white cold world. Hobbes was growling a lot, and when the sled started feeling like I was pulling a duffel bag full of lead, I knew he was taking a ride again. By noon, I realized that keeping the same pace all day was going to be impossible.
    *   *   *
    Calvin the arctic explorer surveys the horizon. It is the same, always the same—flat, white, and without landmarks other than the kind that melt. His beautiful assistant is silent at his side, waiting for her leader to give her orders that she will follow blindly, knowing that a clear line of authority is vital to their survival.
    Susie (tromping like she wanted to punch through the ice): This really is the stupidest idea of all the stupid ideas you’ve ever had, and that’s saying a lot. How far do you think we’ve gone?
    I knew we hadn’t gone far enough.
    Calvin the arctic explorer realizes mutiny is in the ranks. He thinks of ways to distract the ranks.
    Me: Are you bored?
    Susie: No. Tired. Mad. Not bored.
    Me: I would like it if my life were a bit more boring.
    Susie: Stick with me.
    We were both sucking in some pretty serious oxygen by now, and it was harder to talk, but she walked faster when I could get her going on some rant or other.
    Me: Sooz, do you ever think about life?
    Susie: Of course I think about life. Especially when I’m dying.
    Me: What do you think the good life would look like?
    Susie: I don’t know. Not having hypothermia in the middle of a massive frozen lake?
    Me:
    Susie: Okay, I’ll play. I mean—I guess get an education, a good job, get married, buy a house, have a kid or two, travel. I guess.
    She said it quiet, like she couldn’t believe she was saying it.
    Me: I thought maybe you wanted to be, like, a great writer or something.
    Susie: How did you remember that?
    Me: I remember everything about you.
    Susie: Don’t tell anyone. I never tell anyone.
    Me: Not even the boys you dated?
    Susie: No. And stop making it sound like I dated hundreds of boys.
    Me: Dozens?
    Susie: Three.
    Me: Three? In one year?
    Susie: Could we stop talking about this now?
    Me: Only if you admit that being a writer would be your good life.
    Susie: Okay. Maybe. I mean, it would, but that’s not the most important thing.
    Me: Sounds like it could be important.
    Susie: Do you know who Marcel Schwob is?
    Me: No. Poor guy.
    Susie: Why poor?
    Me: Well, his name …
    Susie: He was a great writer—great. Nobody reads him anymore. How about Isaac Babel? Edward Everett Hale? Theodor Fontane?
    Me:
    Susie: All great writers who nobody really reads anymore. Defunct. Extinct. Forgotten.
    Me:
    Susie: There are lots of them. Most of them. That’s what happens. A few become part of the canon, and they get read because teachers make you read them. But nobody really cares about the people who wrote the books. I think I’d rather invest my time in the ones who will care, like family and friends. I mean, think of it this way, that’s what Bill is doing. He got famous, but he realized what was important. He doesn’t even like all the fame and whatnot. He doesn’t want anybody in his business. If he died I bet nobody would know.
    Me: Don’t say that! Of course we would know!
    Susie: Bill got fired from his first job. That did something to him. He stopped looking for a job and thought about what he really wanted to do. Sometimes our disappointments can be the best thing that ever happens to us.
    Hobbes: Tigers don’t do disappointment.
    Me: What are you saying? I hope you’re not trying to tell me that there’s