Food’s here, she yells.
Finally Norm shows up, flailing the letter.
Look at this! he says. Will you look at this?
What is it?
It’s a letter from the Walletville Regional Authority. They say they’re going to turn the gorge into a road.
A road?
Can you believe it? I can’t believe it.
June spoons eggplant curry, pad Thai—she remembered—and basil chicken onto Norm’s plate.
This is crazy! Norm says. They want to run it all the way up to the 472.
They do?
I cannot fucking believe it!
Norm only uses the f-word when he’s really mad.
Here. June passes him a plate. Norm starts shovelling food in his mouth.
Listen to this, he says, between mouthfuls. The consultation with the public will take place April 15 at the Hardwood Community Centre. April 15! That’s in five days! Five days!
But June isn’t listening. She’s staring at his mouth moving, his strong white teeth masticating, his lips shiny with sauce.
Idiots! Do you know what this will do to our property values?
Norm rants on. Chews. June refills his plate. June pours him a glass of ice water. June doesn’t eat. Her stomach is both bloated and empty.
Five days! They probably think we won’t have the time to really put up a fight. Well they’re wrong about that!
June can’t shake the feeling of her dream. Like someone’s watching her, only not watching her. Like she’s watching herself watch herself.
I’m going to write a letter to my councilman. Courier it over tomorrow. Norm chugs his water and stomps out of the kitchen and into his study.
A road by the river, she thinks. That’s crazy. It’ll never happen. It’s too crazy. June puts the leftovers in the fridge. She feels validated, re-using the containers and their lids even if it’s only temporary. She sticks Norm’s soiled plate in the dishwasher and stows hers back in the kitchen cabinet. June sits back down at the kitchen table. Now what? She looks around. Everything gleaming, polished, bright. Outside, it’s just the opposite—dark sticking like wet mud. And inside, her mind is full of shadow. June closes her eyes. Something’s going to happen. When? She takes a deep breath. Waits. Nothing happens.
They’re in bed watching the blatantly low-budget ten o’clock local news on the community access channel. June’s already dutifully praised Norm’s letter to their councillor. She’d stood in his den and nodded as he droned on. Now Norm’s hoping for signs of burgeoning dissent against the planned road. Nothing, Norm says. A smiling blonde sticks a microphone in the face of a high school football coach. Norm switches channels impatiently, finally lands on the national news. On the other side of the country there’s a protest, something about missing Native women. Horrible, June thinks. They watch in silence for a few more minutes before Norm glances over at June.
Well, he says, ready to turn in?
June nods as she knows she’s supposed to and Norm kills the TV. He fumbles on his night table for his eye mask.
After a bit, June slips out of bed. I’m gonna read a bit downstairs honey, she says. She pecks him on the cheek.
But honey, I thought you were tired?
I was, June says, I mean, I am, but after that nap I’m not quite ready to sleep yet.
Try not to stay up too late, Norm says, clearly trying to avoid allowing himself the hint of irritation he thinks he’s probably entitled to.
June deposits her book on the kitchen counter and lets her feet take her aimlessly through the main floor of the house. She finds herself standing in the front hallway, her hands fidgeting through her ropey hair. Her head buzzes. She keeps having these glimpses of herself from odd angles, out of body, just plain out if it. This is new—this sense that someone is, that there’s someone, somehow—
looking down at her.
Of course there’s no one—
But still. She just wants to—make sure.
June searches the main floor. Front hallway closet, all the shoes lined up, coats hanging. Someone could be—
June flips through coats. Ridiculous. This isn’t working. I’m—
She turns, suddenly, to catch an image of herself. She’s in the backyard, twirling in a wet white T-shirt. Nipples sharp like a horror movie starlet’s.
What the hell?
She should get Norm. He’s probably asleep by now. So what? Wake him up. Tell him—just say, hold me. Can you hold me? Norm sleeps like it would take some kind of major disaster to stir him out of slumber.
I’m not going out there, June mutters to herself. Instead, she heads into the basement. She reaches shakily for the string light in the furnace room. The good thing about one-bedroom apartments is that they don’t have basements. June peers gingerly into the dark gap behind the water heater. Nothing. She opens the storage closet. Vague shapes, an old bread machine, a parka, two pairs of cross country skies, their bindings stiff and cracked, stuff they don’t want but can’t seem to throw out. For some reason, she reaches into the black space behind a musty smelling tent. She feels her hand close around a cool weathered wood shaft. A shovel, she thinks.
Oh! Another sudden flash. Herself. Outside. In the backyard. Digging. She’s—
digging.
She pulls the shovel out. It’s an old thing, worn-down handle, rusted blade with flecks of red dirt from a previous decade’s labour. Nothing that she can imagine ever belonging to Norm. Probably left here, forgotten. But still: an object with—
history.
June hefts it, feels underused muscles contracting.
Fine, she suddenly says. Who’s she talking to? Fine then.
Outside the backyard light hazily illuminates the centre of the large lawn. The hairs on the back of June’s neck stand up. She shivers. She’s taken off her sweater. Why? She’s preening. The thin T-shirt sticks to her chest. It’s part of the show, the craziness. Do you like it? You like what you see? Keep watching. There’s more where that came from.
Of course there’s no one. Who could be watching her? But she talks to—whoever, him, it’s a him, she thinks—whoever he is. She talks to him, keeps up a running muttered monologue, words and thoughts blurred together like the rain and sky. Just keeping you informed, okay? How’s this? Is this what you want?
She pushes the shovel hard into the ground and leans on it. A chunk of grass turns over, roots and all. Empty earth underneath. June’s hollow stomach churns. Rain runs cold down her neck.
Tomorrow, she promises herself, I’ll be done with this. I’ll be a good wife, she thinks in the direction of the dark forest canopy breaking out from the river gorge. I’ll go to the grocery store, she promises the pressing grey-black blob of the sky. I’ll make a nice dinner, she tells the strange emptiness of the sodden backyard. I’ll rub up against Norm. I’ll let him…She’s defiant now, her face flush with guilt and exertion. You see? You just get to…watch. I’ll let him… in me. I’ll tell him to. I will.
But right now, June just wants to dig. She yanks the shovel out of the ground, fills it, tensing from the weight, the muscles in her arms now synchronized to this repetitive, instinctual motion. Time passes—an hour, two. She keeps going. Then, suddenly, she hears something, a pained cry, incoherently guttural. She whirls around, trying to surprise the gully emptiness of tree and wet sky. Who’s there? No one. No one’s there. Just—the nothing inside her, a fog settling in. Anyway, it’s too dark. Too dark to really see.
TIM
Thursday, April 10
Climbing: a series of physical actions Tim’s body has become completely unfamiliar with. His soft palms and willowy fingers scrape against the tree’s trunk. He clings to the tree’s skin, wrapping his long legs like a vine. His toes curl in prehensile imitation. Then he squirms, motion measured in inches, his face pressed against the tree, stubble dragging, clothes sticking. And so he propels himself upwards, shinnying his skinny, tired, muscle-devoid frame toward the partially visible
and, once again, grey sky.
Tim makes it to the lower branches. Sweat runs into his eyes. He feels the sting but can’t let go to wipe. He’s only, maybe, fifteen feet up. Still, he thinks, some serious damage if you fell. And it feels higher. From here he can actually climb. Big branches spaced monkey-bar lengths apart. This is how he remembers it. The bottom of the world receding, the branches just the right height to grab on to.
He emerges into the sky. The sun is gone for sure now. It’s getting late. It could be getting late. Either way the brackish monotony of spring is not exactly evoking a fresh brand new day. Tim’s gotten himself twisted around. He can see the river now, a brown band below him. The river isn’t as sluggish as it looks from the ground, white rapids discernable upstream, spring melt chafing against the bank. And beyond that, there’s the thin strip of woods, considerably thinner on the east side, since the river has no cliff drop to protect it from the inevitabilities of development. On that side the river abuts sprawling lawns sporting elaborate decks with hot tubs. Nice life sitting there and watching the river go by, Tim thinks. The river on its way to the lake, carrying with it the unmistakable scents of growth and rot mixed in with upstream factory chemicals, bobbing bits of random garbage, dog shit, cat shit, car parts, more than a few streams of lite beer-infused urine. But it’s pretty in its own weird way, from a distance, from up above, a giant waste disposal system spiralling into the great lake.
Tim turns away from the rotting river. He cautiously gropes his way to the cliff side of the tree.
He arrives on the other side. Struggling to catch his breath, he gingerly lowers his body into a horizontal Y-shaped crevice, a spot, he realizes, that his body is familiar with. This was it, he thinks, surveying the view in front of him: the lookout hideout of a boy named Timmy. Tim wills himself to let go of one of the branches he’s holding on to. Awkwardly, he uses his new free hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Then he fumbles in his pockets. C’mon, he tells himself. You’ve earned it. The pre-rolled joint he finally pulls out is in surprisingly decent shape. Next, he searches for his lighter. It’s time, he repeats in his head like a mantra. Where is it? It’s time. Tim’s fingers, scraped, dirtied, crawl urgently through his pockets. Ah, there it is.
On autopilot now, as if he’s been smoking up in trees all his life, he dexterously pops the rollie in his mouth, uses his thumb to call up Che’s flame, lights up, puffs, puffs, and inhales.
Tim closes his eyes. He swallows. He feels his lungs expanding. It’s the opposite of the panic clawing at him, the ticking inevitability of some internal explosion. This is smothering implosion, inward relief repression.
He swallows spit and exhales large.
Oh yeah.
There it is.
Heat in his chest.
There it is.
Right in front of him.
Spreading then lingering.
His boyhood home.
Well what did he expect? That the sky would burst into tears? That the world would stop spinning, Carly would float down in front of him and hug him, give him head, tell him everything is finally alright? It’s stupid, he knows. To think that something in your life will change because you’ve driven an hour west on the highway, rolled down a hill, and climbed a tree.
He shrugs. Whatever. He just wanted to see the old place again. He’s not even sure why. This is where he lived. Where he grew up. He was happy here, once. Wasn’t he? He’ll get down now. He’s done what he came here to do. He’ll tell Carly: I went to see it. I went home. She won’t say anything. She won’t have to.
It’s getting dark now, evening sliding into night.
It’s time to go, Tim reminds himself. But his muscles have gone loose, his arms dangling at his sides. He’s just getting comfortable. Home, he thinks. Emboldened, he takes it all in from his perch overlook. Tim lets his gaze travel up the large sloped lawn to the big house, freshly repainted, Tim notes, with red shutters and a nice white sheen. There’s nothing special about the house, an early-eighties colonial, facsimile of some other era. From his bird’s eye nested vantage point, the house doesn’t even look real; more of an idea of a house, utterly lacking in past and present secrets. Still, this is it. This is where he grew up. If he ever did grow up.
Carly says—
Tim sighs. He digs into his pocket and pulls out the joint, half smoked. He re-lights it. He takes a drag. Then, without breathing out, he takes another. He plays the smoke over his tongue, tasting the burn, like a sweet summer field set on fire. He doesn’t swallow or exhale. Not yet. He lets the cloud settle on the back of his throat. Reflexively, his body settles back into the crook of the branches. He squints at the house again. It’s newer looking now, refreshed, but in its blank essence, it’s the same. Only the trappings have changed. His dad sold it just a few years back. A cheque arrived from a lawyer. Tim froze when he saw the fancy envelope. He immediately thought the old man must be dead. But it was just a cheque. An allotment of the proceeds that Tim immediately began shredding and then, still unsatisfied, set on fire with his Guevara refillable.
Dumbass. I could have bought Carly a—
cooler car.
The tip of the joint burns down, near enough to his forefinger to sear, but Tim hardly feels it. It’s the only callus he has on his body, a permanent blister of dead skin. He lets it smoke and smoulder a bit more, just to prove he can. Then all at once he breathes out a cloud of smoke and flicks the roach stub into the spread of foliage below.
So. Now.
Now he’s really high.
The good stuff.
The China, Clay calls it, because he sources from the Triad. Tim doesn’t care where he gets it from. He cares about the way the buds look and smell, the way they feel as he gently pinches them with pursed fingers. See this, he tells Carly, gently stroking the tightly packed tips with his index finger, this is premium. When Tim smokes, he likes to burn it slow, take his time, watch something on TV, The Simpsons or something, Homer’s bovine eyes bulging bigger and bigger until Tim can’t stand it anymore and he just starts giggling like a girl.
But this is a different kind of high. Tim stares intently at the house below and in front of him. Now his body has lost its slackness. His hands are in fists, clenched but ready to grab on. Again, he peers through the gathering gloom at what was once his childhood home. In the backyard of the house sit two empty plastic chairs. They stand side by side on the lawn about a foot off the patio. They are the only objects that seem to even remotely suggest that the house is occupied. The lawn is mowed, though not particularly taken care of. Tim dimly remembers his mom having a nice table and chairs out there, candles, flower pots. Now the patio is bare, empty. Tim studies the back of the house intently. Grey stacked stone facade. Sliding glass door to the kitchen. Upstairs, the big bedroom windows. The shades are pulled. Tim stares. He can’t quite—what was that? He sees it again, a swirling hint of motion. He jerks back instinctively, almost hits his head against hard bark.
It was nothing of course. What could he be seeing? The house is dark, quiet, shut up. The curtains are closed. His dad never closed the curtains. Tim had binoculars back then, the Scout 200 or something like that, ordered from the back of a Daredevil comic—naw, probably not. He can’t remember where he got them from, but he had them. He would hang them from his neck, feel them bounce against his scrawny chest as he climbed. He would stay up in the tree—up here—for hours and hours, just sitting, staring, waiting. Most of the time, the house was empty. Occasionally, there was his father to scrutinize through twin magnified scopes. His father: biting into a cold chicken leg; yelling into the phone; nodding in and out of sleep with a bottle between his legs and a ball game blaring. Tim squints harder at the house. Nothing. What he thought he saw, just in his head; hadn’t it always been like that? Even back then? He’d never seen it, not really. The thought depresses him. Time to climb down. Time to put his pointless quest to rest. All these years, all those hours of watching his father from the distance
of the tree. Watching and waiting. All those years suspecting in silence. He isn’t a boy anymore. His father is dying. This is it. One last chance.
I know you blame me for—
It’s not true. He doesn’t. He blames himself. For never finding out. What did happen? How could it have happened? His mother wouldn’t just have—
He blames himself. For spending the last six years of his life delivering pints with an affably crooked smile maintained by the joints he puffed in the alley out back on his break.
He should have done this a long time ago.
But he hadn’t been—he wasn’t—
There’s always a price. That’s the one thing Tim’s learned about this world from his father. Use it or lose it. Pay up or shut up. Time is money, kid, and don’t you ever forget it.
Now he says he’s dying. Now he says he has regrets. Tim can’t imagine it. He can only picture him as burly, angry, always angry. His face a perpetual smoulder. He wants me to forgive him.
And maybe Tim will. Hope smoulders in his lungs, an after burn. Forgive and forget, right Carly?
—Carly—
With effort, Tim tries to pull his gaze away from the house before him. The long backyard wavers, goes hazy. The grainy air merges with the clouds. Tim feels distance, emptiness, increments and measures. The space between things. At last, unable to resist, he closes his eyes.
He wakes up with a jerk. Rain falls hard and fast, big fat drops splattering off his forehead. Tim startles, grabs for balance, feels his legs dangling in the dark. He drops half a foot, his heart lurching to his throat before he finally makes tenuous contact with the branch below and manages to steady himself.
He stays like that, his eyes clamped shut, his muscles clenched, his breathing ragged.
Finally, Tim opens his eyes.
The Archaeologists Page 4