by Various
“Yes, it’s amazing.” I’m suddenly tongue-tied and overwhelmed, unable to express the depth of emotion, but he seems to understand.
“It never goes away—that’s the great thing. It’s not as pure, of course, as the first one, but the confidence you gain over time gives you a satisfaction that makes all the subsequent discoveries grow in sweetness.”
It’s the first time he’s talked to me like a colleague in all the months I’ve been working with him. It’s the sort of conversation I’d dreamed of having with him before I came to Egypt, and all I can do is smile and bob my head repeatedly in acknowledgment, like a child lapping at melting ice cream, desperate not to lose a single drop.
“Mia, are you coming?”
I tear my gaze from Richard’s face and look up at Lenor, who’s waiting for me at the top.
“You can all go ahead,” Richard says to her. “Mia and I will be right behind you.”
She looks from him to me, her lips thinning like they do when she’s concerned, but she doesn’t know that things are different now, that he is different.
“Yes, go ahead,” I manage to say, laughing a little with giddiness, but touched when she hesitates, not moving until I repeat myself. “It’s okay, go on.”
She disappears from view, and I hear her calling to Jenny and then the sound in the distance of car doors slamming and an engine revving before they drive away.
“Did you want to see the sarcophagus?” Richard offers, pulling the flashlight out of a back pocket. He extends it to me and I take it, walking over to the cavity and dropping down beside it, spreading full length across the rough ground, heedless of any discomfort. Our work has widened the gap; it’s now close to two feet across in one section. I switch on the flashlight and hang my arm down in the darkness, the glow bouncing around the chamber until I steady it. I inch forward, my head over the side, craning to see as I sweep the light over the interior. After a moment I spot what at first I mistake for a small rectangular box. I sweep past it and then back, exclaiming as I realize that these are the remains.
“Do you think it’s a child?” I ask, struggling to fathom that something so small could hold what was once a fully grown human being.
“Perhaps, or it could be a woman.” Richard kneels beside me, his voice as hushed as mine, as if we are in a temple or some other sacred space, which in a way it is. “Perhaps the wife of a minor official. Here, pass me the torch,” he says, reaching out a hand. “I’ll hold it while you try to get a picture—your eyesight is probably sharper than mine.”
He hands me his phone as I pass him the flashlight, and then he stretches alongside me, his body close against mine as he shines the light back into the hole. Clutching the phone with both hands, I reach down into the opening and move my arms around, stretching and craning my neck, until I’ve got the sarcophagus in view. I’m concentrating hard on focusing and taking at least one clear shot. Something slithers against my lower back, sliding down to the bare skin where my T-shirt has ridden up, and I startle, crying out, only to realize it’s Richard, who moves fast, his hand dropping to cup my ass.
I roll away from him, his phone falling, forgotten, from my fingers and plunging down into the chamber. “Get off me!” I cry, trying to shove him away, but he resists, raking his fingers against me, clenching me in a bruising grip. His face is up against mine, his breath hot on me, and he’s still smiling.
“Relax, just relax,” he murmurs, as if I’m a shying horse he’s trying to settle, and he brings his other hand up to touch my face, letting the flashlight clatter harmlessly behind me. He kisses me, pulling my body toward him, but I bend my right leg at ninety degrees and slam my knee, as hard and fast as I can, into his groin.
He lets go immediately, rolling onto his back and clutching his crotch, cursing me even as he struggles to get up and away. “You bloody bitch! What the hell did you do that for?”
I don’t bother answering such a stupid question, breathing hard as I stagger to my own feet. I’m swearing, too, cursing my own stupidity for letting my guard down around him.
He’s looking around frantically, just now noticing that his phone is missing. “What did you do with it? Did you drop it down there, you stupid cow?”
That sounds like a rhetorical question, too, and I head for the ladder, suddenly hyperaware that I’m down here alone with him, and feeling as if I’m trapped in the wild-cat enclosure at a zoo.
He pays no attention to me, grabbing the flashlight before it’s kicked through the opening and shining it down in the gaping hole again, crouching on the side like an overgrown frog, trying to spy his phone.
“There! I see it,” he cries, and he shoots upright, looking around, clearly trying to think of something he can use to get it out. “Fetch me that shovel.” A command, pointing at the tool lying up top on the far side of the trench.
“Fetch it yourself.” I wince at the pain from the road rash peppering my side after grappling with him. My ass cheek is smarting; I can feel the imprint of his hand like a brand. I start up the ladder, but he calls my name, his voice like a shot, and I stop.
“If you leave now, you’re done,” he says, each word like a slap. “You can pack up your bags and drive straight to the airport, because you’ll never set foot on my site again.”
His site. His. It’s as if everything that happened today never took place—that I didn’t find the tomb, that I’ve contributed nothing and never will. Oh, I knew from the start of this project that he’d take credit for this dig, that his name would be the lead on any research paper we published, but mine would be there, too, Mia Grace Jensen, right there, for everyone to see. And now he’s threatening to take even that away from me, and as I stare into his craggy, unforgiving face, I believe him.
It’s only a few steps from where I’m standing to fetch the shovel, but it feels like it takes forever, my pride smarting along with my skin. I could kill him; that thought scuttles through my mind like a scorpion. I let it go and hand him the shovel before retreating.
His plan doesn’t work. He can reach the bottom, but not with enough leverage to scoop anything. He finally gives up, hurling the shovel back over the side of the trench in frustration. I make a mental note of where it lands, because I’m sure I’ll be tasked with retrieving it once he abandons this fruitless effort and we can finally leave.
“I’m going down there.”
“What?” I look over at him, startled. He’s standing at the edge like Superman, legs akimbo and hands at his sides, staring down into the pit. “That’s crazy.”
“It’s not that deep—I can get down there easily enough, but I’ll need your help getting back. There’s rope in my car.” He tosses me his car keys, not even bothering to ask this time if I’ll fetch it.
“It’s too risky—you don’t know if it’s stable.”
But he’s already sitting down and swinging his legs over the side, the great Egyptologist at it again. I turn away, shaking my head as I climb up the ladder.
I’ve only taken a few steps toward the car when I hear the second strange noise of the day. It’s a rumble at first, like distant thunder, but there’s not a rain cloud in the sky. It’s followed by a loud crack, like a tree split by lightning, and I turn back just as Richard gives a high-pitched, decidedly unmanly scream.
I run to the edge of the trench, only to retreat, coughing wildly, as a mushroom cloud of dust rises from it, obscuring everything. I squint, coughing and waving my hands, trying to see through the haze. When it finally settles, I climb carefully down the ladder and cautiously approach the edge of the jagged opening, peering over the side. Apparently my concerns were justified—a section of the floor of the chamber has given way and Richard has fallen through it, plunging deep into an abyss and triggering some type of cave-in. All I can make out in the darkness is jagged chunks of rock. And then I hear moaning, a ghostly sound, before Richard speaks, his voi
ce so faint and far away that I can barely hear it.
“Mia? Are you there? Get help.” The moaning starts again, and then he calls, “I’ve been crushed. I’m bleeding. Get help.”
I don’t reply, standing there in silence for a long minute before climbing slowly back up the ladder and walking toward the car.
It surprises me to see the Jeep standing next to his Land Rover. Lenor must have insisted on leaving it for me, the four of them all crowding into the second small SUV for the trip back to the city. She’d obviously had the presence of mind to stop me from being dependent on Richard for a ride.
I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine, backing out and turning the wheel hard before driving away, up the makeshift road we’ve created across this stretch of desert.
The ancient Egyptians believed that after death a soul must face the judgment of Osiris, who placed the heart on a great golden scale, weighing it against the feather of truth. If the heart was light, the soul could continue on its journey into the afterlife. But if the heart was heavy, a monstrous god with crocodile jaws would devour it, and the soul would simply cease to exist.
My phone rings, vibrating in the console where I left it this morning, and I flinch at the sound, glancing down at the screen and recognizing Jenny’s number. I know she’s wondering about the delay, they all probably are, everyone eager to start the evening’s celebration. The phone rings and rings, but I don’t answer.
The desert is far behind me now, a distant shimmer under the afternoon sun. It will cover us all eventually, layer upon layer of shifting sand and stone, until one day, thousands of years from now, when someone comes to dig us up and wonder how we met our fate.
The Homeless Woman
Kerry Lonsdale
The brakes on Sal’s waste management truck sound like a moose call, or rusty, old hinges. They rattle deep inside my head, jarring me awake as they do every Tuesday morning at 5:25 a.m. Clockwork. Too bad the owner of the French bistro I slept behind isn’t as consistent with the leftovers he puts out for the stray alley cats. Pierre’s porch was empty last night. So is my stomach this morning. The neglected, hollow cavern grumbles in irritation.
Rubbing the sleep crust from my eyes, I blink against the truck’s glaring headlights. They spotlight me in the dim alley, and for a moment, I’m back onstage. Fantine in Les Misérables. Adored by a theater of fans, not despised by everyone who crosses my path. I catch a glimpse of my emaciated frame cast on the garbage bin behind me and see my stooped, crooked shadow. A hunchback as ugly and pitiful as the one in Notre Dame.
I shy away from the sight of me. But I love the hulking bin filled with trash. Grateful for its wide berth. It blocks the wind, and last night’s chilling gusts neared intolerable. Almost. I’m still alive, and as far as I can tell, my digits are intact. I wiggle my toes, and my big toe pokes through the hole in my sock. The nail scrapes the inside of my worn shoe. I look at my feet. Oh, good. No one stole my boots last night. Purple galoshes I snagged off the curb, abandoned by the previous owner. They’re still on.
So are the truck’s high beams.
I flip off the driver.
He leans out the window. “Move it, lady.”
“Ease up, Mike. I know her.” Sal’s door opens. He hops down and approaches me with a knowing look. Disappointment. I see it on him every week.
I push to my feet and stand on my cardboard mattress. My legs are stiff and achy from a long night spent on a hard surface in the cold. Sal stops a few feet from me. I can’t meet his eyes.
“Morning, Sal.”
“Mia, you promised you’d go to St. Margaret’s.”
“Yep. I did. And I do, every week. You ask me to go, and I promise I will.” I scratch my greasy head through a hole in my knit cap.
“Yet here you are, sleeping on the ground.”
“Uh-huh, that’s right.” I nod, my head bouncing like one of those bobble toys I found in the trash can at the park. Bending over, I pick up my cardboard, fold it in half, and tuck it behind Pierre’s empty kegs. With any luck, it’ll be there tonight and I won’t have to waste time looking for another mattress.
Sal lifts his cap and scratches behind his ear. He reminds me of a dog, with his full cheeks and droopy eyes. He shakes his head at me, eyes shining with pity. They all pity me, unless they despise me. Disgusted by the sight and stink of me. I don’t need a mirror to know I’m a fright to look at.
“Hurry up, Sal. We’re falling behind schedule,” Mike complains.
“Give me a sec,” Sal yells back. “You’re on private property,” he tells me, his tone concerned. “Don’t make me call the police on you again.”
“I won’t.” Waving him off, I glance at the ground, turning full circle, looking for anything I might have left behind. I touch my head and confirm my knit cap is on. Yep, still there. I hold out my hands. Mittens are there, too. My right pinky finger pokes through, and I frown. I need new gloves. Tomorrow, I decide. It’s the third Wednesday of the month. Donation day. People leave plastic bags stuffed with treasure on their stoops to be picked up by the donation van. Easy pickings for vagrants.
I grin at my plan, and Sal backs up a step. My smile falls, hiding the gaps in my mouth. I’ve lost a couple of teeth these past months.
“The weather app says it’s below freezing tonight. Get inside or you’ll die out here.”
Freezing to death would be the easy way out. I don’t deserve shortcuts. I also don’t want Sal to call the cops. They’ll put me in a heated jail cell. A comfort I’m no longer entitled to.
“Let’s get on with it. Move, lady. We don’t have all day,” Mike bellows.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I screech. I’ll find another alley. One that isn’t on Sal’s and Asshole Mike’s route. They’ll never see me again.
Darn. I’ll have to hunt for more cardboard again.
A touch of sadness wafts over me like a light breeze, slowing me down as I walk away from Sal. From my favorite alley and Pierre’s alley cat special. I kind of liked Sal.
“Mia,” Sal calls to me. He points to the tiny glass figurines aligned against the wall. A cat, a spotted dog, and a pony with a yellow saddle.
I gasp. How could I have forgotten them? How could I forget her? Sunshine yellow hair and cornflower-blue eyes. Cheeks tinged pink, the color of her favorite Sunday dress. The image of her is so clear in my mind, it’s almost as though she’s with me again.
But she’s not, and she never will be.
A low mewling vibrates in the back of my throat. I rush to the figurines and thrust them into my coat pocket, the garment threadbare and missing buttons. The Marc Jacobs label fell off long ago. The wool coat had once been beautiful, the red fabric lush. I’d worn it to the opera house. Garrett had taken me to see Madame Butterfly for our fifth anniversary.
Lost in memories, I start walking, humming Puccini’s atmospheric notes. Mike stares impatiently at me from his perch above in the truck’s cab.
“Hold up a sec, Mia,” Sal says.
Mike tosses up his hands in exasperation.
Sal goes to the truck and opens a cooler. He grabs a white paper bag and holds it out so that the golden arches face me. I smell eggs and sausage and almost sigh in ecstasy.
I reach for the bag. Sal yanks it away.
“It’s yours on one condition.” He holds up a wide finger dusted with black hair. “You get yourself to the shelter tonight. Promise me,” he adds, his tone more serious than I’ve heard before.
“Promise.” I make a grab for the white bag with the most beautiful arches in the world.
He steps back, keeping the bag from reach. “I’m going there tonight, and I’m going to look for you.”
My gaze lurches up to his. “You’re going to visit the shelter?” Nobody cared enough to check up on me.
“I’m trying to help you. I’ve been
trying to help you.”
I retreat, tucking my hands in my pockets so I don’t grab for the bag. I don’t want his help. I don’t want anyone’s help. But dammit, I’m hungry.
“Will you be there tonight?” Sal asks.
My stomach growls. His eyebrow arches.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.” I snag the bag and dart away. My hand is in the bag, unwrapping the Egg McMuffin before I exit the alley, and I devour the sandwich in four large bites. I’m done before I reach the street corner.
I walk from one block to another, around corner after corner. Taxi horns and police sirens are an orchestra of sharp notes as the city wakes up. Steam rises and hisses from the subway vents underneath me. Bacon fries and eggs scramble in the apartment buildings I pass. I try not to think how my mornings used to be, but my mind still goes there, missing the sound of running water as Garrett showered and the scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen downstairs. The hard, cold surface under my worn soles used to be varnished walnut and travertine tiles. We lived in a beautiful home once. I loved that home. Once.
I pass old haunts. The newspaper stand where I’d pick up the week’s New Yorker magazine. I’d read it cover to cover, linger over “Around Town,” my favorite section. One day, I used to think, my name would stare back at me in print. The lead role in the latest off-Broadway production.
I pass the coffee shop where I’d purchase a caramel macchiato every afternoon. My mouth salivates, and my gait slows. A light tapping on glass draws my attention, and I stop, seeking out the noise. There, on the other side of the window, a young girl sits, fidgeting in her chair, her fingernail scratching on the glass, hair as fair as Heather’s. She eats breakfast with her parents. A warm buttered croissant and hot chocolate. It’s what I would have ordered for Heather.
This little girl shows me her back as she turns from the window to play with her toys on the table, little figurines identical to the ones resting in my pocket. My hand closes around them as the scene inside the coffee shop reels me back to when I was the woman dressed in a fine blouse with a rope of pearls around my neck, sitting across from my husband in his tailored suit. I think of Garrett and our beautiful, vibrant daughter, Heather, playing with her figurines. Garrett and I, poring over pictures of a house that had come on the market. The one at the end of a street, on top of a hill. The one that overlooked the city that I’d admired since I was a little girl.