The scientist said the whale here is excellent then he did not order it. Every table at the restaurant faced the harbor where a docked cruise ship was bigger than the mountain behind it. I watched three thousand people disembark north of north looking for dinner. The whale on my plate arrived medium rare on a bed of blended parsnips. The scientist said the whale was more sustainable than the two fat spears of asparagus served with it because those had to be flown to this arctic island on an airplane, whereas the whale had been shot a few miles out to sea with an explosive-tipped harpoon invented by a team of veterinarians who named their weapon the Whalegrenade-99. The only problem with eating whale was wanting more.

Home, I went to a barbeque with two kinds of hot dogs and the good yellow mustard on soft buns from a plastic bag. When I held my paper plate out to my friend at the grill, I did not say Do you have any whale? because it’s not polite to ask for whale, especially on the 4th of July.

I tried to buy whale online, but it was all dried. Every night I practiced my order in the languages where whale was still legal. I crawled into bed ready to get what I wanted. The whale was delicious, I said when I turned out the light. What? said my husband. We didn’t stop going out to eat, but I did stop enjoying it. Nobody understood the word special anymore.

I was banned from the aquarium. National Geographic cancelled my subscription. The taxidermist I met online blocked me after the blubber question. I browsed rare bone websites on company time. The fish market outside Tokyo stopped taking my calls. So did the museum in New Bedford. I won the online auction for the toggle harpoon from the 19th century, which arrived too clean. I rocked in my chair and rubbed in my lotion as my husband hung the double point over the crib.

I never crossed whale off the grocery list. Ma'am? said the stockboy when he found me in the frozen food aisle at the end of his shift. Can I help you? My toes were white in their sandals and I said Probably not. He tied his apron tighter. Three days later, my son was born. I watched the doctor cut me open. Her knife was very small. We were all crying: my husband, the baby, and me. They put a little blue hat on his head.

When my stitches had healed I was still huge, still resting bowls on myself at breakfast. The doctors looked at the baby in my arms and they looked at the ultrasound and they said nothing was inside me except me. The baby ate constantly. His skin was warm and his hair was soft. You’re a mammal, I said to him in the middle of the night, a little mammal.

After six months I left my milk in the fridge and a lasagna in the freezer. I kissed my son, I kissed my husband, I zipped my coat. Hospital? said the taxi driver. We drove to the airport.

At the marina north of north, no wetsuits zipped over me. The scientist tossed me layers of forgotten wool and outdated rubber from locked closets and plastic bins. We loaded buckets and coolers and radios into the boat. Nothing on earth could convince the ocean to want me, and the Whalegrenade-99 was shorter than I’d pictured. The scientist and I loaded it into the cannon, which was mounted to the port side. I recited the signs of a successful shot: noise from the detonation, blowing out air, sinking without moving. I visualized the spot behind the eye, above the flipper.

Home, the baby sat in his high chair and played with his bib. He was expecting mushed peas on an airplane spoon. I brought up one of the vacuum sealed bags from the chest freezer in the basement. I sharpened the knife and cut twelve perfect cubes of red meat, putting one on the baby’s white tray. He picked it up in a pinch, his small fingers soaked with spit. I held my own piece and opened my mouth wide. I showed him my teeth moving up and down. I bit again and again and then swallowed. He mimicked me and his eyes went wide as he held out both hands for more. Mmmm he said, because we are born with that sound. I put the whale in his palm, and picked up my own piece. One for him, one for me. One for him, two for me.