The Archaeologists

by Hal Niedzviecki

  So, Tim says, how, uh, long…

  His dad shrugs.

  Shouldn’t you be—is anyone—?

  Nurse. Left.

  She left?

  Quit.

  His father reaches for his smokes. He pulls one out with a shaking hand and drops it. Tim doesn’t help him. The errant cigarette rolls along the coffee table. Both men trail its path with their eyes. On the kitchen counter, a stack of tins: Ensure High Protein Drink.

  You supposed to be drinking those?

  Tim’s dad shrugs. Points to the bucket.

  Jesus, Dad.

  Son, Tim’s dad whispers.

  Son? The word tastes bad, bile floods Tim’s dry-dust mouth.

  You. Got. The. Let. Ter?

  Yeah, I got it.

  In the lamplight, Tim sees invisible movement, micro-abscesses, migrations of disease. Tim’s dad leans over the bucket again. His face darkens with effort and finally a wad of blackish slime drips out.

  Uh…Dad?

  His father collapses back against the couch, gasping for breath.

  Dad?

  Tim looks down at the cluttered table, looks away. Say it, he thinks. Why don’t you just fucking say it? His dad is doing something now, with his hands. Tugging at a finger. Tim pulls the letter out of his pocket. He holds it in a fist, slowly crumpling the thin piece of paper. Say it. You have to say it. He’s dying. So what? So fucking what?

  Take it, his father mutters, extending his thin quivering hand. Tim remembers a different set of hands. Strong and thick and swollen. Fingers like juicy sausages. Bursting fists.

  The man, a stranger, proffering a shaking palm.

  A gold ring. His wedding band.

  Take. It. Their eyes lock and Tim, again, sees him—the man he remembers, good old Dad, bloodshot black moon pupils as arrogant and hungry as ever. He knew, Tim thinks. He knew I’d show up. His father stares into him, eyes blazing, hand outstretched. The dulled ring dances in his quivering hand.

  Don’t take it. Don’t even touch it.

  Tim snatches the ring off his father’s white palm. He weighs it in his own hand. It’s heavy, heavier than Tim thought it would be. Now what? Put it on? No. Throw it in his face, shove it down his throat. His father looks on and, for the first time, Tim sees something else, something he doesn’t recognize, in the man’s expression. Tim’s fingers curl around, the ring forming the centre of a fist. His dad, just some old dying man, closes his eyes and drops his chin to his pajama-chest.

  Tim’s dad is slumped, semi-conscious, his chest heaving air against an almost closed throat. Tim sits in the easy chair across from him, ring in one hand, long thin unlit joint in the other. Time in moments. In seconds. In gasps. Wake up, Tim thinks over and over. Wake up wake up wake up.

  Finally, the old man stirs. He wheezes, coughs.

  Hey, Tim says. Are you—how do you feel?

  His father regards him balefully. Tim hears what he’s thinking, what the old man would be saying if he could get the words out: Like a big bag of shit, asshole. How the fuck do you think I feel?

  Or something to that effect. Carly says Tim talks like he’s in a bad movie. You should hear my freaking dad talk, Tim says. Another reason to hate his father, who inculcated him in the many glories of the catch phrase: Use it or lose it. No point flogging a dead horse. Early bird catches the worm. Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed—

  Ugh, gross! He said that to you?

  Tim doesn’t remember now. Did he say that to him? Did he say any of it? He remembers a burly man with a loud barking voice used to issuing commands and orders. An excessive man who smacked his lips, ate takeout Chinese with grotesque gusto, grease smearing on his chin. Tim should have known that he would never admit to—to what?—to it. To anything.

  Dad, Tim says quickly. We’re going to—I want you to smoke this. It’ll help. Okay?

  It’s true. Clay sold to cancer patients. He charges them extra, Tim remembers him saying.

  He makes room for himself on the couch. The smell is strong next to his father: stale sweat and fresh vomit. Tim lights the joint. He holds it to the old man’s lips.

  Here, he says.

  His dad sucks in. He closes his eyes.

  Tim does the same.

  His dad exhales, doesn’t cough.

  Tim cracks open a can of protein drink. They sit smoking the rest of the joint in a condo silence extenuated by the barely perceptible sound of the TV news from next door. After a few more hits, the old guy chokes down a few sips. Then, cheeks flush, his dad looks around, suddenly more animated. Tim watches, feeling that ever-present tightening in his chest—desperation, last chance hope. Do it, he thinks. Say it. He stares at his father, now nothing more than a wasted heap. Tim wants his dad to glare back, wants him to let loose from his full, fleshy lips with one of his patented streams of all too familiar aphorisms: Be careful what you wish for. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Don’t kick the messenger. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it! And then a couple of stinging slaps on the back for good measure. Fuck you. Tim feels that familiar rage coursing through him, his muscles cordoned, his fists tight. Fuck you, you dying old fuck.

  You killed her, he finally says, staring down at the thin, frayed carpet. His ears buzz. He can’t tell if he’s whispering or shouting. You killed her and you buried her in the backyard and you planted grass over her. Fucking grass.

  No, the old man says. He shakes his head frantically, pants laboured breaths.

  Tim had always believed that he’d find her, one day, that she was out there, maybe even looking for him too. But now he knows the truth. What he’s always known.

  She wouldn’t have left me, he says. She wouldn’t have done that.

  No! Tim’s dad groans. No!

  Last night. He saw—

  She’s gone; he knows that now. Whatever happened, she’s gone.

  No, his father says again, muttering now, sounding unsure. No…grass…

  Tim’s father closes his eyes and leans back. He breathes easy.

  Dad? For fuck’s sake, Dad. Are you fucking high?

  Tim stands up. He digs a hand into his pocket and pulls out a thick zip-lock. Part of his stash. Most of his stash. He looks, one last time, at this old man, this wasted stranger. He drops the bulging bag on the coffee table next to the open can of protein drink and his dad’s pack of Pall Malls.

  HAL AND SCOTT

  Saturday, April 12

  THE CAR LOT is separated from the Pacific Lucky Dragon Mall by a groomed park filled with unfamiliar oriental flora: mini-trees with emerging red leaves, compact bushes cut into the shapes of bugs and animals, bright pink peonies and delicate white chrysanthemums reaching for the not-quite arrived spring. Ponds gently gurgle, seemingly awaiting the time when a fresh crop of oversized, bulgy-eyed goldfish once again swirl complacently in their murky depths. Hal can see that there are several such parks surrounding the Mall, their benches occupied by Chinese grandmothers bundled in cloth coats and quietly chatting in the shade of paper lamps. It’s like they’ve stepped into another country. But no one bothers them, gangly giants—especially Scott—amidst all this intricate foreign perfection.

  So they keep going, following a tiled path to the main square. The Pacific Lucky Dragon Mall is a huge building built to look like a series of interlocking pagodas. From a distance, it seems quaint. But up close, the building looms, a succession of engulfing boxes, the main one decorated with ubiquitous Chinese characters and a gigantic mural relief: two impassive snakes entangled with each other, their serpentine forms curling off the walls.

  Hal glances over at Scott, wanting to catch his eye. So what do you think? It was Hal’s idea, a rare outing for them that didn’t involve going directly from Scott’s SUV into Hal’s apartment. Sarah did a story on the Chinese mall, how it was a hub for the local community and was also becoming a popular regional attraction, people coming all the way from the city for the shopping, the food court, the stacks of illegally copi
ed Hollywood movies still in theatres. Hal suggested they go check it out. He promised Scott lunch, Scott loves Chinese—moo shu pork, egg rolls, Kung Pao chicken, all regular items on their delivery itinerary. I dunno, Scott said noncommittally. C’mon, Hal said. It’s something to do.

  It’s more than just something to do. It’s something to do in public. Scott looks nervous. Hal wants to grab one of his meaty hands and assure him that everything is going to be just fine.

  Somehow, they’ve managed to never directly talk about it. But Hal knows why they never go out. It’s that word. Out. Scott’s a personal trainer. He spends his days encouraging everyone from housewives to executives to make the most of their 45-minute sojourn with their own sweat. His body is their motivation, an unattainable trophy just out of reach. Scott’s not just peddling his knowledge of fitness, but the proximity of his perfect physique. The guys want to become him. The girls want to attract him. It’s all part of the package. Scott plays it up. He flirts with his lady clients, trades racy jokes with the middle manager men. Maybe Scott wouldn’t deny it if you asked him point blank, but who’s going to ask him? Hal didn’t have to ask. He met him in the gym. Scott showed him how to use the elliptical machine, off duty; it wasn’t a work thing, just one guy doing another guy a favour.

  The truth is, Hal’s not exactly flaunting his stuff either. Would he deny it? If anyone asked? He thought about his meeting with the Boss. Less stiff. Pretty young lady. In a way, Hal figures, they’re in the same business. It’s all about the hair and the teeth and the image. It doesn’t matter what you say, but how you look when you say it—how people think you look when you say it. You have to be in love with yourself, with the way you look when words come out of your mouth. All newscasters are kinda gay, he’s ranted at Scott over drinks at their occasional hangout, a nearby Mexican broasted chicken restaurant complete with dark back booths and free fountain soda refills. But you can’t really be gay, because if people think you love yourself that much, then they won’t love you.

  Huh, Scott said, showing his big teeth. He stabbed a French fry, chewed thoughtfully.

  Well, anyway, here we are. Together. At the Chinese mall. So what? It’s not like you would look at them and think: couple. Hal leans closer to Scott, brushes a hand innocently, suggestively, against Scott’s hip.

  What? Scott asks, feigning, or perhaps even actually being completely oblivious to the way he’s doing his best to seem not completely terrified.

  Nothing, Hal says brightly, smiling up at him reassuringly.

  Inside, there are more stores—an endless number of stalls, stands, booths, and small shops announcing mysterious wares via a veritable visual cacophony of indecipherable Chinese symbols. They make their way down the main artery. It’s bright, loud, and crowded. Hal hasn’t been packed into a space with this many people since, he thinks, gay pride back in the city. Tiny old ladies emit frantic bursts of greeting to each other; mothers scream admonishments and pull their toddlers along; packs of teenagers bark loudly into cell phones. Generally speaking, the all-Chinese weekend shopping crowd happily ignores them as they saunter past. But Hal finds them harder to shut out. It’s all that chatter in another language. It’s not so much loud as it is persistent and surrounding. On TV, the cacophony was dialled down to an authentically ethnic background, the beat for a sinewy column of bright-eyed seven-year-olds undulating through the mall in their imitation of an attention deficit disorder dragon—all jerky shimmers of metallic red and green. It was some kind of holiday. In person, the noise is encompassing; it’s not the background, it’s the thing itself.

  Today the youngsters sport runny noses and formless blue sweat suits. Made in China, Hal thinks meanly. Deeper in, the mall gets darker and quieter. They wander through a maze-like dried food area, catching whiffs of ginger and earthy mushroom and pausing, briefly, to consider a bin of oddly shaped dried fish sporting bulging, agonized cheeks. Then there’s a store that sells nothing but comics featuring similarly wide-eyed, round-faced girls in skimpy tunics. Hal glances over at Scott and is surprised to see him looking around with interest. He feels the muscles loosen in his shoulders. See, this isn’t so bad. Something new. They drive by it every day. Why not check it out?

  The centre of the mall is the massive food court. All paths lead to the sprawling room festooned with outlets adorned by brightly-lit cardboard signs listing prices next to Chinese characters and the occasional semi-explanatory English word pairing—cod bamboo, mussel black bean, bok choy XO sauce. A heavy atmosphere of deep fried steam traps scents of seaweed and garlic. Downtown, in the city, Hal’s seen pigs and ducks hanging by their feet in restaurant windows, their glazed burnished skins dripping. But this is beyond anything. He watches Scott contemplating bright tongues spewing tentacles, orange discs of organ dangling like skewered aliens. Scott looks mortified. Hal scans a steam table’s vast array of burbling stews. A grinning old woman shows what’s left of her yellow teeth and proffers a heaping ladle full of what looks like offal boiling in grey oatmeal. Hal shakes his head, smiling ruefully. Uh, no thanks. He tugs Scott’s arm and motions to a brightly lit beverage stand promising freshly squeezed watermelon juice. Better to stick with liquids, Hal thinks. They move gingerly through the throng, but jerk to a stop when a very perky Asian woman sporting a tight pink workout outfit steps suddenly into their path.

  Scott!! Hal hears the woman say in tones of cheery surprise.

  Hey, Tina, Scott says, sounding considerably less enthusiastic.

  Scott! Tina says, and she throws her arms around him in a big hug. So good to see you!

  Oh, uh, yeah. Good to see you too.

  Is it? Hal thinks. He inspects Tina, a lithe girl with an impressive (fake) rack and fashionable blonde streaks in her long hair.

  Oh my god, how are you? Tina enthuses.

  Good, yeah, really good, Scott says. Hal watches him grin lamely.

  I’ve been meaning to call you!

  Have you? Hal wonders, cooling his heels and waiting to be introduced.

  Oh my God I miss you! Tina widens her gaze, then, to take in Hal, lingering off Scott’s elbow.

  Oh, Scott says, following her glance and still smiling blankly. This is Hal.

  Hi, Hal says, extending his hand. He shakes hands with Tina, who looks at him curiously.

  Hi Hal.

  Tina, Scott explains, used to work at the club.

  I left a few months ago, she says.

  Oh, Hal says lamely.

  So how are you? Tina says, turning her full attention back to Scott.

  I’m good, Scott says. I’m really good.

  That’s great. God. I can’t believe I’m running into you here.

  I know.

  It’s the first time we’ve been here, Hal offers.

  Scott gives him a quick look.

  Oh, really? Tina’s attention is back on Hal, or, maybe, back to the notion of Hal and Scott as an entity, a “we.”

  I come here all the time! I’m meeting my grandmother and aunt for lunch. Hey, aren’t you…that guy on TV?

  Yes, Hal says. I do the cable community news.

  Right. Right! I thought you looked familiar. You’re the guy who’s always interviewing that old lady. What’s her name again? Tina giggles. She’s hilarious! You should put that stuff up on YouTube!

  She’d hate you, Hal thinks.

  Hal’s one of my clients, Scott says quickly.

  Oh, Tina says. That’s awesome. Scott’s the best trainer in Wississauga.

  He just started, Scott says definitively, as if that singular fact explained everything—

  Hal’s appalling lack of muscle mass, how they ended up together in the middle of the Chinese mall food court.

  Everyone stands there awkwardly. Scott seems to be staring at a point just over Tina’s shoulder. Hal wants to keep the conversation going, wants to be more than just some guy who pays for Scott’s attention and randomly happens to be with him for some inexplicable reason. He tries, and fails, to think
of something to say.

  Well, Tina finally says. I should go catch up with Grandma.

  Yeah, Scott says.

  It was so good to see you! I can’t believe it! Scotty-Scott! Tina gives Scott another hug. Nice to meet you, she says cheerily to Hal. Then she twirls away.

  Back in Scott’s truck, Hal keep his mouth flatly shut. The scent of deep fry and incense lingers. Scott fires the engine. He gears into reverse but keeps his foot on the brake. Staring intently into the rear-view mirror, he says, quickly and quietly, Sorry about that.

  Hal looks out the passenger side window. It’s clouding over. Like it might rain again. He blows hot air through pursed lips. Yeah, okay. Hal’s sorry too. Sorry for being such a sorry creature. That girl—Tina—she summed it all up, the entirety of his pathetic existence. He’s the guy who interviews the old lady. He’s the guy whose boyfriend strongly prefers not being seen with him. He’s the guy who’s going nowhere because he’s so fucking uptight.

  They pick their way through the heavy afternoon traffic. Hal looks out the window. Cars jostle past the anonymous nothingness, shoppers on their way back to their subdivisions. Scott turns off Hurontarion and they’re about five or so minutes from home. Home sweet home, Hal stops himself from saying out loud with an ironic cadence. But after thinking it he finds himself actually looking forward to it. Being alone with Scott, watching TV, ordering in, stumbling into the bedroom. Maybe that’s what he wants after all. Maybe he doesn’t have to come out, make a big show of it, tell the boss, tell Sarah, tell Scott’s busty body-building pal in the Chinese food court. Isn’t that why he left the city? Gayness defined him there. It was like that was all he was and all he was ever going to be. Hal has other ambitions. He wants to tell stories. He wants to report the issues. Rose is just the beginning. A stepping stone, he thinks. Unexpectedly, he feels the anger simmering out of him. Scott didn’t do anything wrong, Hal thinks. It’s what they both want. Wississauga’s special kind of freedom. Being free from the job of having to be gay.