by Dana Cameron
“Meg’s in good shape, I think. A bit prickly, yet, and I don’t just mean that spiky hair of hers, but I think she’s just sizing us up too. I wouldn’t have had her in the program if I didn’t think she could do it. Any mail or anything?”
“Oh yeah, the department administrator called. The goofy one.”
“Chuck? Oh, be nice to Chuck. I like him and he puts my check in my mailbox. What did he want?”
“He left a message on the machine. ‘Ah, Professor Fielding?’” Brian began to imitate Chuck’s slow, hippy-surfer cadence. “‘Like, I know you’re not there, but I thought you should know, it’s time to order books for next semester, and I know you’re rilly, rilly busy and all, doing the fieldwork thing—rave on!—so if you want to call me with the titles and all, I’ll take care of it for you, ’kay?’”
I laughed. “Okay, I’ll get back to Chuck.” Then I was distracted by my rumbling stomach. “I gotta go, Bri, I’m starving.”
“You haven’t eaten yet?” Brian’s voice was filled with alarm. Being hungry was about the worst thing he could imagine.
“Not yet, I’ve been trying to get something for the past half hour now.” My stomach rumbled louder, as if in chorus to our discussion.
Brian sighed. “I’ll be glad when this is over, hon.”
“The dig’s only a couple more weeks.”
“No, when all this is over. When we can have a normal life together, and not spend all our time on the phone.”
It was my turn to sigh. “I know, I know. It’s not forever, but for now, we have to be where the work is. Somerville’s not so far from Caldwell, maybe we can start looking for a new home someplace between Massachusetts and Maine when I’m finished here.” I was employed at Caldwell, a small private college in Maine.
“Maybe look for a house?” He sounded hopeful.
“Not this year, sweetie.” I hated to be a wet blanket, but we’d been over the finances every way till Sunday. It just wasn’t in the cards with the dirt-pay of an as-yet-untenured assistant professor and a chemist who’d only recently made the change from prestigious but impoverishing postdoctoral research grants to a small company. “Besides, we don’t need a house to be together.”
Brian snorted. “We need a house if we’re going to be together in the same building as your books.”
“Not if we clean out your record collection. No one listens to vinyl anymore anyway.”
“You philistine.” Then Brian began our traditional spiral of good-byes. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I gotta go.”
“I know, I know. Go get a sandwich. Come home this weekend?”
“I’ll try.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And?”
It took me a minute to figure out what he was waiting for. “And next time you can be the warlord.”
In the face of everything else, my husband’s phone call had buoyed me, distracted me so that I hadn’t even thought to tell him about this morning. Never mind; I’d tell him next time we spoke. I slapped together a peanut butter sandwich, stuck it in my mouth, and headed down to the dorm’s laundry room with my basket. As much as I was grateful for the opportunity to rent the dorm space for the crew for the duration of the dig, hot showers and cold beer aside, I was a hundred times more grateful to be able to wash my field clothes on a regular basis. I may be a slob, but mine is a hygienic sort of clutter.
Not wanting to put the sandwich down on any of the gritty surfaces of the other washers, I held it in one hand while I loaded the washer with the other. I had just slapped the coin tray with my six quarters into the machine when my crew chief, Neal Fenn, came in with a duffel bag full of his own laundry.
One eye on the rising water in my tub, I nodded to him. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Neal ducked, his short sandy hair, streaked with premature gray, just brushing one of the water pipes that were suspended from the ceiling. They weren’t all that low, and I’m not a short woman; generally speaking, I had to stand well back to see all of Neal at once. He’s not beefy-huge, but the fact that one is always left with an impression of legs, knees, and elbows seems to accentuate his height even more.
The water now covered my clothes, and I could see a bit of dried grass that had been stuck on my trousers floating on the top. I stuck my sandwich in my mouth again and measured out the soap. Watching the debris swirling on the surface of the water and now fully able to appreciate just how unfragrant I had been, I threw in an extra quarter cup of detergent.
“Things are quiet tonight,” he began, shoving his glasses up his nose in a characteristic gesture. “I guess it’s because of—”
“When’s a good time to strategize for tomorrow?” I interrupted, licking some peanut butter off the back of my hand.
“How about now?” Neal answered.
“Okay.” As I hopped up on the washer next to mine, I noticed Neal wasn’t sorting his clothes, and I bit my tongue to keep from pointing out this fact. Neal was a grown adult; if he wanted to put the darks in with the whites, all on the hot water setting, that was up to him. “You first.”
“Alan’s down a little further than he was this morning.” Neal tore the tops off a small package of detergent and one of powdered bleach; I shuddered as he threw both of them in at the same time, right on top of the dry clothes. “He’d have gotten more work done, but I had to get him to clean up his balks—they were bowing way in. Again.”
He didn’t have to say anything more; after two years of graduate school and this his second field season with me, Alan should have been able to keep the walls of his unit straight as he worked. Doing this would allow him to see the relationship between the layers of soil in the ground, the most important evidence that we use to reconstruct the history of a site. Alan’s lack of progress and ability was a genuine concern.
I chewed my lip, thinking this over. “And then there was that little spat between him and Rob—”
Neal broke in. “Rob was teasing him about going so slowly. He didn’t mean anything by it, he never does, but Alan took it too seriously and blew up at him. I just told Alan to cool down and then I took Rob aside and told him not to bug Alan anymore. He doesn’t understand that Alan’s really not getting it.”
I sighed. “Okay, well, we’re stuck with this situation for a couple more weeks. Nothing we can do about it. For this year,” I finished significantly. “As for Alan’s work, well, if his notes are okay, and he’s not blowing through any significant features, we’ll just keep him where he is and keep an eye on him. Otherwise, if it looks like he’s going to miss the very early stuff, we’ll…make other arrangements.”
Translation: If Alan didn’t show more care as he came down on the fragile seventeenth-century material, we’d move him to a less sensitive area. Which, to an archaeology student, was about the most humiliating thing that could happen. But better he learn on something that wasn’t as delicate than destroy valuable data. Especially my valuable data, I thought protectively. And this on top of his moods and drinking.
I decided I needed to change the subject. “How’s Rob doing over by the pine trees?”
Neal was silent for a moment, which was nothing unusual. He was a thoughtful guy, not a real chatterbox by nature. I’d learned to interpret his silences pretty well, I thought.
“Good,” he finally said. He closed the lid of his washing machine and threw out his soap boxes. “Rob wasn’t thrilled about moving from his old unit to the new one—I think he’s, er, been enjoying working next to Dian—but he settled down to it and made good progress after lunch.”
I nodded. “Did you tell him that I wanted to put Meg by Dian so that she could watch Dian’s stratigraphy?”
“Yeah, he stopped slamming his tools around after that.” Neal lowered his voice confidentially. “I think he thought you were trying to break them up or something.”
“Well,” I said with a sniff, “I do actually have better things to do than wor
ry about his affairs de coeur.”
“He made a production out of setting up the unit very precisely,” Neal said, “and then began digging like a champ after lunch.” He paused, frowning. “He took his sweatshirt off. I warned him that he’d be covered with mosquito bites but—”
“But it’s such a small price to pay for showing off one’s brawny shoulders to two potentially adoring females,” I observed dryly. “Besides, he’s such a little gorilla that nothing could bite through all that hair. Did you explain that I think, judging by the lay of the land, that in addition to being an extension of the test pit near where Pauline found those first potsherds, he has a good chance of finding a defensive wall or ditch over there? If there’s anything still left, that is.” The ditch might not have looked like much of anything, just a shallow trench that eventually filled up with dirt over time. Nothing might remain of a masonry wall, if the stones were taken and reused by later generations. It was incredibly important to the project to determine what kind of defenses the English built and was a vote of confidence on my part to stick Rob there, despite his raging hormones.
“Yep, he very carefully explained that to Meg,” Neal said. “You know, to bring her up to speed.” He leaned against his washer and grinned knowingly. “Dian is in good shape—she thinks she might be hitting a seventeenth-century living surface; the soil’s got that dark, greasy feel to it. She and Meg are getting on okay, and she thinks Meg is catching on just fine.” Another small frown suddenly replaced his grin.
I hazarded a guess. “What about Meg?”
He shook his head, puzzled. “I don’t know. She’s going awfully fast, for someone who’s just started with us. She seems to talk a lot. She’s not the easiest person to get along with.” He fell silent suddenly.
I don’t need this, I thought, not more friction. Alan’s outbursts were enough, a blight on an otherwise great crew. “What’s the problem?”
No answer. Then, “She’s just got an attitude. She’s not interested in accepting help where it’s needed.” Neal started rummaging through his pockets, picking out change.
Aha. I thought I might know. “Where was it needed?” I asked gently.
Neal colored. “Well, it was nothing in particular. I just offered to give her a hand, to get her started, and she blew me off.”
“Is her work okay? Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, her work’s good.” Neal clammed up again for a few moments. He went over to the Coke machine and started putting his coins into the slot in a deliberate fashion. “She’s just kinda brusque. Her work’s fine, I guess.” He got his soda and then began to clean the lint trap in the dryer he wasn’t going to need for another twenty minutes.
And it was that anticipation, Neal’s attention to detail, that was the key to the problem, I realized. Neal is very disciplined, very organized—that’s what made me glad to hire him as the crew chief—but sometimes he was a little stiff when others, in his estimation, didn’t measure up. Precision is a good quality in an archaeologist, but a good supervisor knows when to emphasize it and when to lay off.
I sighed and leaned over to check the progress of my wash. When Neal started in with the terse monosyllables, I knew he wasn’t going to be any more generous with his thoughts.
“Who else?” I changed the subject. I’d talk to Meg myself tomorrow and see if I could figure out what was up from her side of things.
We ran down the list of other students, Neal offering his suggestions, me agreeing or reorganizing things so that we got the most work done with the most care possible. Finally, I gave him my plans.
“We’re getting down to Fort Providence,” I said. “Obviously, everyone has to be super cautious not to miss anything, from here on in. The English were only at this site for a little less than a year and they wouldn’t have left much behind. If we’re going to find anything of that period, we’ve got to keep an eye on every soil change, every little thing. We can’t afford to blow it,” I finished, almost to myself.
“Don’t worry, Em, we’ll get it. Your hunches have been right so far.” Neal’s words were comforting, but the sudden thought of all I had riding on this project made them fall flat.
“We need more than hunches and good luck.” A thought struck me. “Oh, before I forget, I got your note about Professor Markham coming out to visit the site tomorrow. Did he say what time he’ll be round?” The washer finished and I began loading the wet clothes into the dryer.
Neal shrugged. “He said he was having lunch with friends in the area and would drop by near closing time.”
“You gave him directions?”
“He said he knew the way.”
“Well, it’s nice he’s making the effort, even if we don’t have any monumental architecture or gold treasures.” I shut the door to the dryer and started it. “Just let everyone know that there will be a Divine Visitation; they already know they need to be on best behavior for me,” I joked, “but extra-best behavior for Tony would be appreciated, of course.”
“No problem, Em.”
“Night, Neal.”
I started up the stairs when Neal called out hesitantly. “Are you okay, Emma?”
I paused in the half shadows of the staircase, the smell of clean warm lint and detergent in the air, neither of us able to see the other’s face. The sound of the washing machine and dryer filled the silence that hung between us. “Sure, Neal. Thanks.”
“I mean,” his words came out hurriedly, “I just mean, what with this morning and all.”
“I’m fine. Really. Good night.”
I turned on the steps and headed back to my room to wait for the clothes to dry, realizing just how long and odd a day it had been. It was funny how one bizarre occurrence could be so effectively blotted out by the minutiae of everyday life, as though your mind was struggling to divert itself elsewhere. The memory seemed to wink at me through the protective layers of daily duty and organization, letting me know it was still there, waiting for closer examination.
I closed the door to my room tightly and, robbed of my night off, began sorting paperwork in anticipation of the coming workday. But it was no good. Pushing my chair back, I went into the tiny bathroom, came back with my glass, poured a generous measure of bourbon into it, and then put the bottle away. I sat down, finally, to address the fact that I had stumbled across a corpse on the beach this morning.
Chapter 2
WHOEVER DECIDED THAT ARCHAEOLOGY WAS AN EARLY morning event was in a class with de Sade, I thought for the nth time as I rolled out of bed, cursed the sunlight, and scrubbed my sand-locked eyes open. Splashing a couple of handfuls of cold water on my face didn’t do much except irritate me; what I really needed was coffee. Stumbling past piles of books and papers, I found that the only tidy spot in the room was the laundry basket, and I dressed, silently thanking whatever gods were attending the faithful at this hour of the morning for having let me impose that much order on my life. Nakedness covered, resentment temporarily subdued, but still bleary, I went to find salvation in the Mr. Coffee.
The doorknob slipped from my hand and the door slammed open with more force than I had intended. I vaguely understood that people—students—were gathered in the kitchen, talking and eating. I was grateful that they knew me well enough to give me the distance I needed in the morning, while I was still in the condition I had once described, in a moment of lucidity, as B.C.: Before Coffee. A pre-Columbian state, as it were. Voices were muted and no one yet tried to assail me with the problems that I was sure had already sprung, full-blown, from the newborn day. Rob hopped up and found me a mug, filled it with coffee, and just as I raised the cup to my lips, beginning to believe that I might attain humanity within the next half hour, a lone voice broke through the respectfully muted conversation.
“Morning, Emma!”
I jerked suddenly, splashing coffee down the front of my clean shirt. I brushed at the stain but to no avail. Not trusting myself to speak yet, I waved a hand in the direction of t
he speaker. The gesture might have been “stop!,” it might have been “bye-bye,” it might have been the barest of morning greetings, but it had the desired effect of stanching further attempts at conversation. I found my way back to my room and, with some finality, shut my door.
I swallowed greedily. As the coffee penetrated the somnolent recesses of my mind, I began my morning prayer of thanksgiving, a paraphrase of Vonnegut. “Aahhh, thank you God, for this magical bean. Thank you God, for letting me need coffee: It makes me more than talking mud.” I felt my vision focusing and my thoughts sharpening, the universe suddenly revealing its inherent logic and my place in it.
And, now that I was a little more alert, I could also hear every single word that was being spoken in the kitchen. It was largely the fault of the dorm’s thin walls and badly designed architecture, but I’m also very nosy. It works out nicely that nosy happens to be part of my job description.
One voice, the same one that so misguidedly greeted me minutes earlier, rose again in irate tones above the quieter murmur. “What the hell was that all about?”
So the new kid hadn’t tried to wake me up on purpose, I thought. Ah, Meg. If you’ve been a good girl, the others will tell you how thin the walls are, how your words carry. If you haven’t, well, we’ll just see how far they let you go. Maybe they’re counting on me being semiconscious.
Apparently no one was interested in saving Meg from herself just yet, or maybe she already knew and didn’t care. She did have an attitude, I’d noticed. “I’ve seen better manners at a drive-by shooting!” she announced.
Not bad, I thought, but inaccurate. I took a big sip of coffee. My manners are impeccable; they just happen to be dormant until about ten A.M. Everyone else knows this and loves me in spite of it. I put my mug down to examine the damage to my shirt.
“She’s just not a morning person, that’s all,” a reedy voice I recognized as Alan’s said quickly. “Just let her have the one cup, and then you can try conversation.”