Science Writing
16 Planets
by Bryan Walpert
Scientists say climate change is a serious threat to human civilisation, is what I would like to say to Julie, but she’s sick to death of hearing it. It’s freezing in this lounge, and the glass face of the woodburner is dark. Probably I should light a fire; instead, I’m staring through the window at the tops of the trees, skeletal against the sky, which is blue for the first time in about two weeks. But the day is cold, very cold. Julie’s settled in the armchair, dramatically smothered in blankets, reading the Dominion Post. In the old days I would have suggested a way Julie and I could warm things up, but if I reach out a hand now to touch her leg, I might draw back a stump.
How did we get this way? I mean the earth, which is what I’d like to talk with Julie about. We’ve got to do something. Things are complicated. The armchair is positioned directly across from the couch, where I’m sitting. The couch faces the double glass doors, which lead to where the deck should be. Instead, there’s just a drop-off to the ground. Julie won’t sit on the couch because she can’t stand to be reminded there’s no deck where the deck should be. The framing’s done, so we can see how big the deck would be if I finished cutting and laying the boards. Beyond where the deck should be is our washing, hanging on the line, blowing in the wind. Towels, sheets, Julie’s jeans. Beyond our clothes-line is a fence and beyond that fence is a house that belongs to our neighbours, Mike and Helen. I can peer over the top of the fence and shout hello to Mike when he’s mowing the lawns or weeding the garden. His clothesline is more or less parallel to ours. Usually children’s things fill up the line – little socks, little jackets, but also onesies, cloth nappies; they just had their third child, a little boy called Alex. Julie told me, before she stopped talking to me, that we should give some of our baby clothes to Mike and Helen, but that I’d have to do it. I haven’t gotten around to mentioning it to Mike, though it’s been weeks now.
Things have gotten complicated; it’s hard to know what to do. I think about the starfish story my mother read to me when I was a child. You might know the story – the little girl who picks up starfish stranded on the shore, just lying there beached only a few metres from life and not even aware of it, not even able to cry out and tell us, and this girl tosses them one by one back into the water. Someone comes along and says, Hey what difference is that going to make? There are so many starfish stranded on beaches around the world. And the girl says, It will make a difference for this one. The problem with this story is that starfish are destroying the coral reefs in the Philippines. To top it off, these are predator starfish, according to what I’ve been reading. Who knew about predator starfish? Pick up one, try to throw it back, and you’re likely to get swelling, pain, sick to your stomach. What are you supposed to do when even the stupid starfish are a bloody nuisance? Who deserves to get saved?
With Julie not saying much, I get up from the couch, wander outside and over to the fence, then look over it at the cloth nappies and bibs blowing in the breeze. Mike is standing on his deck, which I built with him two years ago. I shout hello and tell him he’s doing the right thing, using the line to dry all the clothes. He looks sad, which he usually does when he sees me these days. He walks over to the fence. Our heads both just make it over the top. He stretches his hand over, shakes mine solemnly and asks how I’m going. I say I worry a lot about the earth. Then we hear Alex cry. He nods his head towards my house and says, “Take care of that woman,” then moves inside to check on the baby.
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