by Donna White
Sam’s dad walked into the kitchen. “I see you’re at it again. Froot Loops and Scooby-Doo. The breakfast of champions.” As she continued to watch the TV, he added, “You know, I’m having my lunch right now. Along with the rest of the population of London.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m sure you have a point to all this, old man.”
“I did, but my Alzheimer’s is kicking in again and I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.”
Sam gave a little laugh.
“I got you a present.” Her dad pulled a cardboard box from behind his back and placed it on the coffee table.
She put her bowl down, picked up the box, and examined the return label. “No way. You didn’t. Really?”
She tore open the box and revealed hundreds of shiny, rubbery bright pink paintballs. “Oh, you are going to be so dead and so pink when we go out, Dad.”
“Listen, lady, I bought the pink paintballs because I know it’s your favorite color and you look so good in it. Don’t you be threatening me.”
“So when’s the match? Or are you too scared your little girl is going to kick your butt again?”
“How about right now, little girl? You versus me. Me versus you. The Terminator Field. Fourteen hundred hours.”
“But what about work?”
“I quit.” He smiled.
“Yeah, right.”
“Nah, someone has to pay the bills here. I just thought I would take the afternoon off since I have to work tonight. You up to a game or two? I think we could both use a break, huh? Get our minds off things for a bit?”
“Yeah.” Sam gulped the last of her cereal down and ran to her bedroom.
“Loser makes supper, and I want KD, extra ketchup!” she yelled, grabbing her camouflage pants and a T-shirt.
****
In the prep shack Sam filled her hopper with the small pink balls and secured the lid. She checked her air tank and hoisted the gun, feeling its weight. As her dad pulled his camouflage shirt over his head and adjusted his neck guard, she grinned. “You are so going to need that, Dad. You’re dead meat already.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure about that, princess. Experience is more valuable than speed and agility. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.” He grabbed a couple of handfuls of paintballs, filled his hopper, and pushed down the lid. “Here,” he said taking an extra handful. “Take these for your spares. You’re going to need them.”
Sam placed the balls in the extra-large pants pocket on her thigh. “You are going to be so covered today,” she said, laughing. “Just wait.”
Her dad laughed as he put his helmet on and tightened the strap. “Shall we get this over with, sweetness? Oh, by the way—I want steak, done on the barbeque, medium rare, baked potato, and Caesar salad on the side. Plenty of sour cream. On the potato, of course.”
“Best not to think of something that’s not going to happen, Dad.”
Sam ran out of the shack, across the field, and took her position behind a pile of tires. She crawled through the tall grass and came to a wooden barrier, then peeked through a tiny hole at the bottom. A blur of camouflage flew across.
“Gee, Dad,” she muttered quietly, “the whole idea of wearing camo is not to be seen. I can see fast-moving targets.”
She stuck the barrel of the gun through a hole and squeezed the trigger, sending a paintball splattering on the opposite wall.
“You’re wasting your ammo, princess!” her father yelled.
Sam grinned.
She jerked her gun out of the hole and crawled toward a pile of logs. Her dad raced across the field again and dived behind a bush. She fired her gun again, this time hitting a tree. A bright pink spot confirmed her poor aim.
“Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah!” her dad yelled out.
Sam crouched and studied the arrangements of tires, logs, and bunkers. She crept to a thick stand of evergreen trees and watched her dad make his way to the pile of tires she had hid behind just moments earlier.
“So the ol’ man can move, eh?” she mumbled. “Not for long . . .”
Sam fired another shot. The paintball hit the tires, adding a bright pink circle to the myriad of green, blue, and yellow spots left from other games.
“Ha ha ha ha haaaa!” her dad yelled. “You’re losing your touch, princess!”
She crouched and inched her way toward a tall tower. She took an oblong green grenade out of her pocket, pulled the pin, and threw it over the tires. Without a moment’s hesitation, she scrambled up the wooden slats nailed to the side of a tree. The grenade landed with a huge splat.
“You’re going to have to practice that toss, Sammy. You throw like a Yankees pitcher!”
Sam sat and leaned against the wall of the tree fort. “That’s what you’re supposed to think, Dad.” She smirked.
She looked down onto the field through a small hole in a board. Her dad was still crouched behind the tires, looking toward the stand of trees she had been hiding behind. He crept toward the bush, then jumped in front and stopped. He looked from side to side and shrugged. Sam held her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
He edged toward a pile of logs and slunk around its base, holding his gun in position. Sam watched as he jumped around the edge, expecting to see her, and then shook his head again.
“I better put the guy out of his misery,” she whispered, sticking her gun through the hole in the board.
A barrage of bullets plastered her dad, covering his camouflage outfit in neon pink. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” he screamed, pulling his arms over his head and running for the nearest bunker.
She held her finger to the trigger and hit him in the legs, his helmet, and his back. With one final shot she aimed for his butt. The paintball made its mark.
“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!” he yelled.
She climbed down the ladder, hoisted her gun to her shoulder, and walked up to her dad.
“You scream like a banshee, Dad,” she teased.
****
The streetlights came on as Sam closed the door to the house and her dad locked it. She pulled her jacket on as she felt the chill of the evening air. “Great meal, Dad. You make a pretty mean bowl of KD. Not too hard, not too soggy. I think you finally got it this time.”
“Good to know. I was worried we might have to start eating steak and potatoes for a change.”
“Can I drive?” she asked as her dad unlocked the car.
“No. You don’t even have your beginner’s.”
“But I’ve been practicing with Uncle Darren out in his field.”
“Uncle Darren’s been letting you drive?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, like I said—”
“But why does it matter if I don’t have my beginner’s? I know how to stay on the right side of the road.”
“No.”
Sam slid into the passenger side of the car. “You’re no fun, Dad. No fun at all.”
Her dad started up the car. “I don’t know about that. Seems you had a lot of fun pelting me with those paintballs this afternoon.”
“Oh, yeah. That reminds me.” She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a CD. “I’ve got your theme song here.” She pushed it in the stereo and the music pulsed from the speakers:
“He bit the dust. He bit the dust.
Hey, it’s a shame. It’s a crying shame.”
“Ah! Very funny!” her dad said, starting to sing along. “‘Hey, it’s a shame. Hey, it’s a crying shame. He bit the dust. He bit the dust.’” He smiled. “For your information, I did not bite the dust.”
“Oh, yes you did. You bit it and swallowed it, and you’re still choking on it.”
“That’s not dust I’m choking on. Next time, request something other than Kraft Dinner for your victory meal. Please.”
He pulled the car into the museum parking lot and they got out. A large truck pulled up and started backing toward a wide garage door.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Sam’s dad rubbed his hands together like a little boy in a candy shop. “It’s the first time this museum has ever had anything like this. Imagine mummies and shabtis and amulets and all those ancient treasures taken from the tombs of pharaohs and delivered right to our doorstep.”
He stopped and looked at Sam. “You don’t seem to be that excited about this. Are you?”
“Yeah, yeah. I was just remembering how Mom and I would come here every time a new exhibit arrived. And we’d watch you open the boxes and ooh and aah over everything.”
Sam’s dad put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze.
“Hey, Jim!” Jake stuck his head out the museum door. “We’re ready whenever you are.”
Jake held the door open while they walked into the dimly lit museum. “What’s with the army fatigues, Sam?”
“Dad and I went out for a little game of paintball before supper.”
“And how come you’re not in your outfit, Jim?”
“’Cause he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing neon pink.”
Jake gave Sam a puzzled look.
They all walked through the museum, past the displays and into the hall.
Two stuffed wolf statues sat at the edge of a First Nations exhibit, their glass eyes reflecting the light from the red Exit sign. “Kind of creepy in here when the lights are low, huh?” Sam said.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “Makes you think of Night at the Museum, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Sam said.
The first of the crates to be unloaded were on the smaller side. After they were placed in the corner of the loading dock, Jake removed the screws from one of the wooden lids with a drill, lifted the lid, and looked inside.
Sam peered over his shoulder. “Dad told me to help over here. He wants me to unload everything, put it on the tables, and check the inventory.” She held a clipboard and a pencil in her hand.
“Be my guest,” Jake said, stepping back. “I’ll get to those other crates over there.”
Carefully, Sam reached into the crate and pulled out an item covered with layers and layers of bubble wrap. She removed the tape and took the plastic off, placing the wrapping into a cardboard box. She turned the object over to see its inventory numbers and found the same numbers on the paper. “Item number AF/EGY-2309, Ram’s Head Amulet.” She placed it on the table beside her and pulled the next item out.
Time passed quickly, and within two hours Sam had most of the objects placed on the table and was working on the last crate. She had thoroughly enjoyed checking out the canopic jars, rings, necklaces, Saqqara-type birds, sistrums, and all the other items taken from the ancient tombs in Egypt.
“You ready for a break yet?” Sam’s dad stood by one of the tables and began looking at the set of canopic jars. “Let’s see if I remember this right. The baboon-headed jar contains the lungs, the jackal holds the stomach, the human-headed one has the liver, and the falcon holds the intestines. Kind of disgusting, don’t you think? The Egyptians brought us many wonderful inventions and fine art, but I have to admit that some of their beliefs were a tad off.”
“Well, I don’t know. Seems to me there are all kinds of religions with beliefs in things you can’t see. Angels, spirits, gods, demons . . . heaven, hell.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Sam. That idea of heaven kind of keeps us going, eh?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Sam checked off another item on the list. “You go ahead. I want to finish this first. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll put the coffee on.” He turned to Jake and the truck driver. “You ready for a break?” he asked.
“Sure. I was ready hours ago,” Jake said as he placed an empty crate in the corner of the room.
“Sounds like a great plan,” the driver replied. They walked out the door.
Sam reached into each corner of the crate and felt around in the mound of Styrofoam chips for anything she may have missed. “Hey, almost missed this one,” she mumbled. She pulled out a small package and removed the wrapping to reveal a wooden box. Carvings of birds, lions, elephants, and snakes adorned the top and sides. She turned the box over to record the artifact number and paused. “Strange,” she muttered. “No number.”
She unrolled the wrapping and looked for the label, in case it had fallen off in the packaging, then looked into the crate. Nothing.
“Hmm.” She scanned the list of the items for that crate on her clipboard and scratched her head. “All of the items are accounted for. There’s no ‘wooden box’ listed here.”
She turned it over and over again. “Filthy thing,” she said, wiping the black dirt on her pants. “Let’s clean you up.”
She grabbed a small paintbrush hanging from a hook on the wall and carefully brushed the soot and grime away from the wood. The images became clearer and clearer.
She took a closer look and noticed a series of wavy lines traveling in different directions around the box. Short lines traveled upward while longer lines moved lengthwise.
With a few more quick strokes of the brush, she blew the dirt and grime away until each line became distinct.
“This isn’t a solid piece of wood,” she whispered. “It’s like a . . . a puzzle. A set of blocks put together, each holding the other like a log house, but . . .” She turned the box over and over in her hands. “But it’s more complicated than that.”
She paused and held the box to her ear. “Anything inside?”
She shook the box. Something rattled.
“Dad’s going to kill me for doing this, but, oh well.”
With one hand Sam held the box and with the other she tried to pry a wooden piece from its place. Nothing budged. She tried another piece, and then another. Still nothing moved. She traced her finger over the lines.
“Wait. It’s like one of those Rubik’s cubes from the old days. You have to think ahead. The pieces have an order to them and . . .” Sam sighed. “This is going to take some work.”
She placed her finger on one of the bottom corners and followed the length of the piece and stopped. Using one finger as a marker, she traced the next line as it moved upward to the top of the box.
“Now if I move this piece and then this one at the same time, then . . .” Wedging her nails into the grooves, she pulled at the pieces, then turned the box over to get a better grip and pulled again. Nothing happened.
“Now this is pathetic. Come on, Sam. You can figure this out.”
She traced her fingers over another set of lines, stuck her nails into another groove, and pulled. Nothing budged.
“Now I’m getting upset,” she said.
Sam’s dad, Jake, and the truck driver returned to the room.
“No more time for coffee, dear. Glen just told me he’s got to get going. Can you help us with the last crate?” her dad asked.
“Is it the coffin?”
“Well, sort of. A replica, actually, but I’ve heard you can hardly tell the difference.”
Sam placed the box on top of a file folder on a side table and went over to help.
All eyes were on the crate as the driver used the forklift to carefully place it on the floor. In a way, Sam wished she didn’t know the coffin was a fake. It took away the thrill of seeing something people had created thousands of years ago. But when the wooden lid of the crate was lifted up and the canvas pulled away, everyone stood in awe.
“Look, they even etched in the cracked age lines to make it look authentic,” Sam’s dad said, running a gloved finger over the coffin. “And look at this paint job. Even the colors are faded in some spots, and the paint is chipped. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was the real thing.”
The driver closed the doors to the truck, thanked Sam’s dad for the coffee, and drove off.
“You want to open the lid, Sam? Jake?”
Both nodded eagerly. They lifted the coffin’s lid, placed it on a table, and looked inside. The second coffi
n inside it was even more colorful and more elaborate than the first.
“See, this part here is the cartouche,” Sam’s dad said, pointing to a series of symbols at the chest area of the coffin. “It’s kind of like the pharaoh’s signature. And these hieroglyphs tell us he was a pharaoh and a high priest.”
Sam examined the coffin, taking in the brightly colored human eyes, trees, animals, gods and mythical creatures.
“I’ve got some more info here.” Her dad pulled out his briefcase and opened a hefty folder. “They’re handouts for the tours.”
They each took a paper and studied the hieroglyphs. Sam looked from the coffin to the paper and back again. She took a pen and circled the symbols as she found them on the coffin and wrote notes along the borders of the paper.
Her dad yawned and looked at his watch. “Oh my, it’s getting late. Come on, Sam, Jake. We still have to move these things into the display room. He tossed his pile of papers and folders onto the side table and grabbed a trolley. Sam and Jake carefully placed the items inside.
“I’ll take it to the display room if you want to fill another cart while I’m gone,” Jake said as he pushed the cart through the doors.
Sam went to the supply room to get another trolley while her dad gathered his file folders and papers and threw them into his briefcase.
When the second trolley was filled, Sam pushed it through the doors, down the hallway, and toward the new display room. Her dad followed, locking the storage room doors behind him.
Jake came up from behind. “Mind if I get the keys from you now? I have to open up early, and I really want to head home now.”
“Sure. I’ll see you around ten,” Sam’s dad said as he passed him the keys.
“Thanks.” Jake pocketed them and walked out of the room.
“Is Madge going to be setting up the display tomorrow, Dad?” Sam asked, wheeling the trolley into the room.
“Yes, she’s got some help coming from the museum in Toronto. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just wondering if she’ll need any help.” She paused. “I’d rather do that than the Juicy Fruity job any day.”