The Archaeologists

by Hal Niedzviecki

  I’m on it, Hal says, this time with more enthusiasm.

  Great. Great. Keep me posted.

  Will do, chief. Hal writes Keep Me Posted on a fresh blank page. He snaps his notebook closed. Meeting over. Everyone gets up. He’s got the top story again. Mitch tried to horn in. Sarah’s looking at him like he’s a superstar. She keeps cornering him by the coffee maker, leaning in close and whispering little gossipy tidbits.

  You wanted to see me, Boss?

  Hal, come in. Sit down.

  The head of Wississauga Cable TV Community News Channel 47 is Carla Fairlane. She’s got pictures of her three grown up kids arrayed on her battered desk. She wears minimal makeup and is remarkably resilient, having survived decades of internal re-thinks, corporate reassessments, industry realignments, government regulations, and government deregulations. It’s been a lengthy process of consolidation, cost-cutting, and malicious neglect, all of which have culminated in their present-day state of bare-bones, barely watched, repeated four times daily cable access local news bookended by several hours of inane amateur-hour talk shows. Behind the Boss hangs a series of cheaply framed plaques commemorating awards the television station earned in previous decades. Hal notes that the plaques stop some ten years before he was hired, around the same time their corporate taskmasters replaced local news coverage with a national news broadcast anchored by a greying dignitary whose singularly sonorous voice relegated their government-mandated community coverage to a semi-amateur skeleton staff of underpaid journeymen, has-beens, and young up-and-comers just passing through.

  Which am I? Hal wonders.

  The Boss, looking at him, smiles. Hal, she says warmly. How are you?

  I’m good, Hal says carefully.

  So…it’s been a year since you joined us.

  It has?

  Yes it has. And I just wanted to sit down with you and just see how you were doing.

  Oh. Okay.

  So…how are you doing?

  Good. Really good.

  How are you finding our little community?

  I…I like it. It’s different, of course, from the city. But I like it.

  He’d acted as if it was a major hardship to say goodbye to his apartment in the village, to his friends, to the clubs and restaurants and lounges none of them could even afford though they somehow seemed to keep ending up in. He’d pretended that moving to a place like Wississauga was an unbearable setback. But, really, he’d been relieved. In Wississauga, there are people everywhere but you don’t see them, you don’t feel their eyes tracking you as you walk down the street—Who’s he with? What’s he wearing? Where’s he going with who he’s with? In Wississauga, people avert their gaze, hide behind drawn shades and tinted windshields, move from interior to interior without making a big show of themselves. Hal feels freed by the nothingness, liberated by the generic mix of malls, parking lots, high rises, highways, and pre-planned neighbourhoods. Fences, walls, and locked doors mark the terrain, delineate spaces, make everything clear.

  He’s on TV every night, and no one even knows him.

  I’m glad you’ve settled in, Hal. The Boss puts on a news casting face, blank and important.

  Here it comes, Hal thinks.

  You know, the Boss says, leaning in, you’ve got real talent. And you’re hungry. I can see that you’re hungry. And that’s great. I’ve been in this business for a long time. I won’t even tell you how long! And I can see that you have something, Hal.

  Thanks, Boss.

  But you know, Hal, it takes more than just drive and ambition and smarts. You’ve got that, I’ve seen it. You also need more.

  Oh. Okay. Hal feels colour moving to his cheeks.

  You need to soften up a bit, Hal. The Boss looks at him. Our viewers like a bit more of an…informal approach. They want to feel like they know who they’re dealing with, like if they saw you on the sidewalk they could just come right up to you and shake your hand and give you an earful.

  An earful, Hal says uncertainly.

  You know, shoot the shit with you.

  The Boss’s phone rings. She waves it away with her long fingers. The voice mail will get it, she says. Voice mail! I remember when we used to have real people answering the phones around here.

  Hal isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. He doesn’t say anything.

  Are you getting me here, Hal?

  Uh…sure.

  I want you to lighten up. Try to be less stiff, less formal.

  Sure. I can…be…

  Just be yourself, Hal. I mean c’mon! It’s not like you’re reporting breaking news of earth-shattering consequence. We don’t have much of that around here. The Boss laughs at her own joke. Relax. Let loose a little. Connect.

  Relax. Let loose.

  Exactly.

  Connect.

  That’s right.

  Hal fingers the fraying cuffs of his cheap, blue, no-wrinkle Oxford button down. He needs another one. $21.99 at Mens ClothingWarehouse.com. Scott buys his clothes at boutiques in the city.

  Are you seeing someone, Hal?

  What? The word comes out raspy, like there’s something in his throat.

  You know, dating, going out, whatever you kids call it these days.

  Oh, uh, no. No. I just…I’ve just been…

  I understand. You’re focussed. I respect that. But live a little, Hal. Get out there. Have some fun. Play the field!

  Fun.

  Yeah, you know, lighten up. People want to see you out and about.

  They do?

  Sure they do. Sure they do. They want to see you putting on a little bit of a show. Preferably with a nice young lady on your arm.

  Ah…

  Get out there young man. Time’s a wasting. Don’t be so serious!

  Get out there, Hal says.

  You’re going to go far in this business, Hal. I really do believe that. Now, do you have any questions for me?

  Uh…I’m…Sure. I get it. Loosen up. I can do that. Hal lets out a stilted laugh.

  Great, the Boss says. That’s great, Hal. And thank you. Thank you for all your hard work.

  Hal gets up. The Boss extends her hand and he shakes it, her cool dry palm against his moist hot one.

  Hal stands in the hall. It’s quiet. Everybody else has probably gone home. Hal is usually the last one to leave. Scott says he works too hard. Scott says he should take it easy. Just like the Boss, Hal thinks. How weird is that?

  The door to the ladies room swings open and Sarah pushes out.

  Hey! Hal! Sarah’s smiling. It’s the end of the day, but she smells fresh and soapy. She’s perky and blonde and Trevor is always making comments about her “knockers.” She could have any guy she wanted. Just about.

  Sarah…hey…

  You in a hurry?

  I was just—

  What did the Boss lady want?

  Oh…nothing. Nothing really.

  Really? Nothing?

  She just wanted to…it was like a…one-year kind of review, kind of.

  Really? What did she say?

  Hal looks longingly at the dimly glowing red exit sign at the end of the hall.

  Hey! Sarah says with pep. We should celebrate! It’s your one-year anniversary! Let’s go have a drink! Do you want to get a drink?

  Scott calls her the weather girl. How’s the weather girl? Whoo… nice blouse weather girl…

  Oh, Sarah, I can’t…I’ve got a…I want to but I’ve got a…thing.

  In another minute he’ll be in the car, on the way to the Save-A-Centre Grocery. Scott’s coming over for dinner tonight. Actually, it’s a celebration too. It’s their three-month anniversary. Another anniversary. Hal’s promised to cook something romantic.

  A date? Sarah teases.

  No, it’s not a…it’s just…Hal pretends to look at his watch. I’m…late, he announces. He can feel the heat on his cheeks. Lobster, he thinks suddenly. Hal saw them cook lobster on Wississauga’s Cooking with Wanda! It looked pretty easy. You just
toss them in the hot water and wait until they turn red.

  CHARLIE

  Thursday, April 10

  HERE WE ARE, CHARLIE! They step off the elevator into the dingy hall. All the other kids are downstairs in the main floor recreation room. In the recreation room there are balloons, streamers, and plates of cookies. There’s a banner that says Welcome Columbus Secondary. Up here it’s dark and quiet. There’s a nurses’ desk but nobody’s sitting behind it. The lady steers Charlie by the elbow of her red parka. She’s not Charlie’s teacher. Charlie’s teacher stayed downstairs with the rest of the kids.

  It’s just at the end here, the lady says cheerfully. Are you sure you don’t want to take your coat off? I can hang it up for you downstairs.

  Charlie crosses her arms and hugs the puffy red jacket.

  No thank you, she says in a small voice. I get cold.

  It’s true. She does get cold. But it’s hot in the old people’s home. The rest home, Charlie thinks, correcting herself. Their teacher told them to call it the rest home.

  It’s like the dog pound but for old people! Billy Zuckers called out. He was sent to the principal. He’s always getting sent to the principal. All the other kids asked stupid questions like What do they eat? and Are they allowed to leave? On the school bus everyone talked about how lame it was—Worst. Field trip. Ever, Katie Mills had pronounced before pulling out her cherry lip gloss and reapplying it for the fourth time.

  Charlie knew it was the fourth time. She’d been watching her. Katie wears skirts with leggings. Her long brown hair shines and shimmers down the back of tight white sweaters that show off her already prominent boobs. Charlie wears jeans and sweatshirts. She wears her red parka.

  When they first got to the home, all the other kids were introduced to their senior partners. Then the lady came over and explained that Charlie’s senior partner, Rose, was still in her room. So the lady asked Charlie if she’d mind going up to her room to visit her instead of having the visit in the dayroom like everyone else. Charlie shrugged. There were supposed to be games later. And there were the cookies. Everybody else was already busy meeting their senior partners.

  Here we go! the lady says, knocking loudly on the door. Rose is very special. You’ll see. She’s the oldest person in Wississauga, you know.

  I know. Her teacher already told Charlie that her senior partner was named Rose McCallion and that Rose was the oldest person alive in Wississauga and she knew Charlie was the right person to be her partner because Charlie is so mature for her age.

  The lady knocks again. Rose! Yoo-hoo! Hello! Rose! She doesn’t always hear, the lady mock whispers to Charlie, smiling brightly. Rose! I’ve got your student from the school here! The lady pounds on the door a few more times. She needs a lot prompting, the lady whispers to Charlie.

  Charlie blushes. The lady talks like Rose is stupid. But Charlie’s dad always tells her that respect for elders is the most important thing. Until today, Charlie hadn’t actually gotten a chance to meet any elders or seniors or anyone like that. Only one of her grandparents is still alive—her mom’s mom—but she still lives in Mumbai. And the few friends her parents had over to the house weren’t much older than her mom and dad. But Charlie’s read lots of stories with old people in them, and not just grandpa and grandma, those kindly storybook figures Charlie’s never met and probably never will. Charlie likes to read about other places, other times. Her favourite stories are about the Natives. Not the Indians like Charlie, but the other kind. In those stories, the old people are also called Elders and everyone is always listening to their stories. They tell important stories about the gods and hunting and who should marry who, which is way better than calling them seniors and putting them in a home to rest.

  Rose! We’re coming in! The lady pushes the door open and walks in. Charlie, embarrassed, head down, chin on the slick surface of the red parka, follows her.

  The room is dimly lit by two shaded lamps. It smells dusty and stale. This makes sense to Charlie. Why wouldn’t old people smell old? It’s not a bad smell. It reminds her of the books she takes out of the library. A lot of the books are really old and they smell like no one has opened them for a long time.

  Hi Rose! the lady says, her voice reverberating loudly in the enclosed space. Charlie looks around. She doesn’t see her, Rose.

  I’m old, not deaf. You don’t have to yell. The voice is throaty and irritated. Charlie finally tracks down the source of that raspy voice—a small withered head sticking out of an easy chair, the body lost under a heap of knitted blankets. Charlie looks, then looks away. The lady takes Charlie’s elbow and steers her in front of Rose.

  Rose! This is Charlie!

  It’s like she’s the one who’s deaf, Rose mutters.

  Charlie peeks up at Rose. Their eyes meet. Rose’s eyes, sunken into a shrunken wrinkled face that looks like an apple peeled then forgotten, sparkle blue and silver.

  Who’s this? Who are you?

  I’m…Charlie.

  Well then! I’ll leave you two to get acquainted!

  The lady swishes out of the room. The door closes behind her.

  Why are you wearing a coat? You’re inside for goodness sakes. Take that off immediately.

  Charlie shrugs, reluctantly shimmies out of her parka. She holds it awkwardly.

  Didn’t they show you where the coats go downstairs?

  Charlie nods.

  Never mind. Just put it on the chair.

  Charlie diligently drapes the coat over the back of the empty chair.

  Now, what did you say your name was?

  Charlie.

  Charlie? Come closer.

  Charlie steps forward. She can see the plaster of yellow-white hair sticking to Rose’s scalp.

  You’re a girl.

  Charlie nods.

  Charlie’s a boy’s name.

  Charlie nods again.

  Do you understand me? Do you speak English?

  Charlie nods again. Why wouldn’t she speak English?

  What’s a girl doing with a boy’s name? Or don’t they believe in that where you come from?

  What does she mean? Charlie was born in Wississauga.

  My real name’s Charulekha.

  Well never mind. Go make me my cup of tea.

  Charlie follows Rose’s gaze to the kitchenette. She finds tea bags and an old plug-in kettle. She boils the water and dunks the tea bag. She knows how to do it. She’s made tea for her mother lots of times. She returns proffering a steaming mug.

  Your tea’s ready.

  Thank you, Rose says pleasantly. Just put it on the table here.

  Charlie carefully puts the mug of hot tea on the side table. Then she hovers near Rose, not sure if she should sit in the empty chair. The quiet in the room is occupied by the rasp of Rose’s breathing and a farther away background sound, a kind of steady, empty thrum. It’s cars, Charlie realizes, the sound of traffic nosing along Wississauga’s busiest thoroughfare. Rose regards her with a bright-eyed stare. Charlie blushes again. Rose is supposed to tell her stuff. About how it used to be and everything. Charlie looks away, looks around the dark, crowded room. Silk-white roses greying in a vase, fraying quilts, the credenza heaped with yellowed cuttings from old newspapers.

  See anything you like? Rose snaps suspiciously.

  No…I…

  It doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone soon either way. I don’t even lock my door. Why bother?

  Rose waves a dismissive, translucent hand. They’re always barging in here, trying to get me to take this pill or that pill. I don’t need it! Before they stuck me in here, I didn’t see a doctor in…well, they had just built that new road leading from the highway. So that would have been…let’s see now, 1992? That busybody daughter-in-law of mine insisted.

  Charlie nods. She wasn’t even born in 1992.

  Doctors! Rose lowers her voice conspiratorially. They make a good living, don’t they?

  Charlie looks down at her sneakers. Both her parents are doctors.<
br />
  Rose slowly raises her mug to her pursed grey mouth. Liquid sloshes.

  Did you put in the sugar?

  Charlie nods.

  Put three in next time. I can’t taste it.

  Next time? Charlie thinks.

  They sit in the silence of passing traffic. Rose takes a few more sips, shakily returns her mug. She closes her eyes. Charlie stares at her white running shoes, at her knees, the weave of her blue jeans. She concentrates on the distant hum of traffic and the steady rumbling sound of the old woman’s breathing.

  But then, suddenly, she can’t hear it anymore.

  Charlie holds her breath. She hears: car wheels treading asphalt, thousands of shoppers circling the Middle Mall.

  Uh…Excuse me? Miss…Rose?

  She tries again, louder: Miss? Rose?

  Finally she wills herself to look up. Rose is a shapeless form tucked into a heap of fraying yellowed spreads. Charlie’s never seen a dead person. She approaches gingerly. She inspects the old lady’s pruney lips. In first aid they talked about the airway. Signs of breathing and movement.

  Rose? Charlie leans in close. She puts her ear over that wrinkled gash of mouth.

  I’m not dead yet, dear!

  Ah! Charlie jumps back.

  Ancient crone eyes sparkling.

  Scared you, did I?

  Charlie’s heart pounding.

  That’ll teach you to sneak up.

  I didn’t—I wasn’t—

  Ha! You’re just like the China-lady. Sneaking around! She stopped coming. I asked them where the China-lady went and they said cutbacks. Cutbacks! Well, they’d skimp on their own mother’s gravestone. I remember when you could walk right into the office and see the mayor. Walletville had the same mayor for twenty years, you know. A very respectable man from a wonderful family. The Cartwrights. A very proper family. But things are different now, aren’t they?

  I…I don’t know.

  Never mind. Rose sighs. Well, I suppose you’ll have to do. So let’s just get to it. Rose looks at Charlie expectantly.