The Archaeologists

by Hal Niedzviecki

  Hello, I’m Hal Talbot and this is Wississauga Cable Community News!

  Rose scowls expectantly into the camera’s lens.

  Once again we’re here with Wississauga’s oldest resident, living legend and dispenser of the wisest wisdom you’ll find anywhere, Rose McCallion. Rose, it’s great to be here again, how are you today?

  Oh, well, she says, I’m alive, which is accomplishment enough at my age.

  Hal smiles. Ha ha. You’re not only still with us, he says, but you look great.

  Well that’s very nice of you to say young man, Rose drawls in a tone that makes it clear they both know how, as Rose would say, full of baloney Hal is. Anyway, I’m still here, thank the lord Jesus. She raps brittle knuckles against her chair’s armrest. And I’ll still be here tomorrow, too.

  Of course you will, Rose!

  With his grin on auto pilot, Hal guides Rose through a series of predictable and popular dialogues: Rose on the weather (too cold, too hot, too wet, too dry), Rose on politicians and bankers (liars and thieves), Rose on people these days (so rude, where are they going in such a big hurry?), Rose on her childhood (we didn’t have so much as three wooden pennies to rub together). Hal steers away from other subjects Rose tends to veer into, topics that make Rose look less like a cranky seer and more like an attack dog gone senile. These include the rest home staff, anything to do with what the cable community news team officially calls multiculturalism, and, of course, Rose’s daughter. Get onto any of those themes and Rose goes bitter and rancid. The rest of the time, Hal thinks, she’s acting, playing a role, hamming for the camera, sure, why not? But when she gets really angry, she forgets herself, forgets the camera, and the results are not particularly pretty. People want the cliché, Hal’s tried to explain to Scott. Not the real person. When things go bad, Hal ends up back at the office in front of his computer, laboriously editing together Rose’s sporadic congenial moments. Plus, Hal thinks, it can’t be healthy for the old bird to get so worked up.

  All the same, he can’t resist throwing something unpredictable into the mix. He waits until the end so he can easily edit out her response when things inevitably turn sour. It’s become tradition to show some of Rose’s more, uh, contentious pronouncements to Sarah. They sit in one of the small conference rooms and ohh and ahh and I-can’t-believe-she-just-said-that as Rose blames the China people, the homosexuals (as she calls them), her daughter, and the lazy rest home staff on any number of her misfortunes. Hal always feels sullied after these sessions with Sarah. He’d rather just press delete, consign Rose’s misanthropic ravings to the netherworld of erased data. But Sarah’s so eager, so excited. She gets the room all set up and practically drags him in.

  So, Rose, he says, after patiently nodding his way through a discussion of how, in Rose’s day, an orange was an annual spherical marvel carefully peeled and sectioned out to the entire family over the course of the Yuletide season. So Rose, this week the City’s unveiling their plans to build a new road down by the river.

  Another road? Rose barks. When I was a kid the Cartwrights were the only family in Walletville that even had a car. It kept getting stuck in the mud! Not much good, that’s what we thought of cars!

  Then you’re against the road?

  I didn’t say that, now did I? After all, men have to work, don’t they?

  Yes they do Rose.

  But I’d be careful, if I was them. I’d be very careful.

  What do you mean Rose?

  It’s an old graveyard down there, isn’t it? Everybody knows that! Some things, young man, are best left alone.

  Hal takes a sip from his tea. Actually it’s just water, but the tea cup makes the whole thing look more homey. Where’s she going with this? Is she acting or serious? The problem is that when Rose is at her best, it’s usually a bit of both.

  So you’re saying…

  They’re cursed you know. Those Indian bones! Men have to make a living, but it’s a foolish thing if you think you can just pave over all of that. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, I’d suppose.

  What do you mean Indians bones, Rose? There’s no way he’ll be putting any of this on the air, but he might as well find out exactly what she’s getting at.

  These days people don’t put much stock in things like that. But it still happens, believe you me. Even just the other day the girl who comes to see me—nice girl, a little bit queer—she told me that she’s got, may Jesus help her, an Indian ghost right there in her backyard just above the river. She lives on that old Grove Street, the one with the big houses. It’s the second oldest street in Wississauga after Main, and I bet you didn’t know that Mr. Reporter.

  Hal puts on a sheepish face. No Rose, I certainly didn’t. You got me again. Now Rose, do you really think she’s being haunted by…uh…Native spirits?

  Of course she is dear. She came to ask me what she should do about it, didn’t she? That’s what happens! Those bones are cursed! Oh all those doctors and science folks they have today, they think they’ve got an answer for everything. So how do you explain it then? People still get the evil eye, don’t they? People still get the curse, Jesus help them. I told her, you move out of that house. You get out of there right this minute.

  On the way back to the cable community access van, Hal stops at the nurses’ station. Two women in pink look up from a lackadaisical game of cards.

  Look at that, one of them says dryly, it’s that reporter.

  Hal flashes them his best broadcaster smile.

  Good afternoon ladies.

  They nod crustily.

  I was just wondering if you could help me out for a story I’m working on.

  More on that dried out frog! one of them exclaims. The other nudges her sharply with an elbow.

  Oh, ha ha, no, Hal laughs. No, it’s something different. I’m doing a piece on volunteers in Wississauga, like, for instance, how you hardworking ladies mentor volunteers in fine institutions such as this one. And I heard that one of the volunteers right here on this floor was telling our Rose over there just how much she’s learned from her work here. I didn’t catch her name, but I’d sure like to get in touch with her for the story.

  Volunteers…one of them says, puzzled.

  Let me see, the other says, flipping through a binder.

  That would be fantastic!

  Ah, let’s see now…the volunteer on this floor…that would be… June Littlewell.

  Never heard of her, the other lady says.

  Sure you have. She’s the quiet one, pretty girl, with the ponytail.

  Oh yeah, her.

  June Littlewell, Hal says, scratching the name in his reporter’s pad. What’s she like then?

  She’s fine.

  Nice enough girl.

  You should ask our manger.

  Of course, Hal says. I’ll do that. Thanks so much for your help.

  They pick up their cards.

  Anybody home? Scott yells. He’s got his own key. He likes to just walk on in and plop himself down on the couch. Home, Hal thinks. That word keeps coming up. Grubby bachelor apartment on the ninth floor of the Victory Colonnades. Hal’s in the dark tiny kitchen, his face illuminated by the glow of the open refrigerator. He’s holding a carton of milk in his hand. He quickly licks froth from his upper lip. His tie hangs loose around his neck. Moores-for-Men knock off. Just temporary, he thinks. Everything is just… temporary. Hal wipes his face with the tie. Stupid. It’ll stain. He’s only got three. He pulls the tie over and off as he takes the four steps from the kitchen to the living room.

  The living room is the biggest room in the apartment with just enough space for a second-hand couch, a scratched coffee table, and a pathetically oversized tube TV. With Scott standing in the middle, the room gets even smaller. Scott’s six-foot-four, muscled like a jungle cat—lithe and perfectly proportioned. Add to that a tousled shock of brown hair and a perpetually boyish grin and you get what Hal thinks of as The Scott Factor: an irrepressible, larger-than-life care
free buoyancy that instantly fills up a room—infects it, Hal thinks. Today Scott’s wearing an Adidas tracksuit. He should be the one drinking from the carton, Hal thinks. Like in one of those milk ads.

  Hey, Hal says. He sighs and throws himself on the couch.

  Scott nimbly lowers down beside him. The couch’s springs creak. Hal cringes, half expecting the whole thing to collapse. Scott offered to buy him a new one. Leather. And a flat-screen TV too. Hal said no. Thanks but no thanks. Scott earns $75 an hour. Hal’s making $27,000 a year.

  Hard day? Scott puts a big hand on Hal’s neck, squeezes gently.

  Hal just exhales.

  I had Mrs. Crabapple today, Scott offers. She told me the exercises are making her arthritis worse. She told me her doctor says I’m a fraud.

  What’d you say?

  I said she was in remarkable shape and that with a little more effort she would look like a woman half her age.

  You said that?

  She booked another appointment for Friday. Scott giggles. His hand tightens on the corded muscles in Hal’s neck.

  Hey! Take it easy!

  You’re really tense.

  Yeah. Well. We can’t all be…Hal doesn’t finish. Be what? Nothing bothers Scott. His life just happens. He pushes Scott’s hand away and stands up. He surveys the apartment again. The building is only ten years old but already has a distinct air of decay. Scott lives in a spacious, brightly lit penthouse condo. In the city it would be right downtown, minutes from the party district, fancy lounges, pricey restaurants. Hal imagines Scott’s place full of gorgeous girls with long blonde hair and impressive bosoms, a post-millennial Three’s Company knock-off from the people who bring you the Wississauga Cable Community News.

  So whadya wanna do tonight? Scott says uncertainly.

  Next door is playing dance music. The guy upstairs rattles his throat again, can never seem to get it clear. Somewhere a TV’s on, the news broadcast. Not mine, Hal thinks. Network news from the city.

  We can go out, Scott says, sounding worried. If you want.

  Hal looks at Scott. He doesn’t have a clue, generally speaking.

  What do you think? Scott says, putting on an encouraging grin.

  Hal’s suddenly filled with tenderness towards him.

  Let’s stay in, he says, as if that’s some big shakeup of their routine.

  Okay. Scott smiles, relieved. So what’s up with you? Bad day? Boss yell at you?

  It’s true. Hal doesn’t feel like himself. He’s restless, edgy. Normally he’s fine with it. Their routine: take a shower, order in, wait for the 10 o’clock broadcast to come on. Hal watches himself intently while Scott fidgets and tries to get a hand down Hal’s pants. Quit it, Scott, I’m watching this!

  But eventually Scott succeeds. By 10:30 they’re going at it, Sarah’s weather forecast a familiar soundtrack to the main feature.

  I’m just…Hal pauses. I don’t know. He shrugs. I’ve got a lot on my mind.

  Oh, okay. That’s cool.

  The boss thinks I’m too serious or something.

  Like when you’re on TV?

  Yeah. And in general.

  Oh, well, we’ve just go to…loosen you up. Scott looks up at him expectantly.

  Hal catches himself almost grinning. Scott’s enthusiasm makes it seem true. He just needs to…relax. But he finds himself thinking about something else entirely. That thing with Rose, and her volunteer. Indian graveyards, curses, ghosts, the new road. It all fits together somehow. He can close his eyes and practically see it. Hal’s going to be the one to make a picture out of the pieces. Relax, he thinks contemptuously.

  You know what we should do? Scott demands, bouncing up and down on the couch in excitement. We should do a weekend in the city! That would be so fun!

  He’s like a puppy, Hal thinks. One of those little dogs with big feet that you bring home without even realizing how huge they’re going to grow up to be. In the city they can go out. Dancing. Clubbing. Gay stuff. Hal doesn’t want—doesn’t need—to go back to the city. He was supposed to hate Wississauga, a sprawl of nothing where nothing ever happens. But, he thinks, things are happening here. It’s hard to explain, exactly. That’s the challenge. To show what’s actually going on. New buildings and stores and subdivisions and condominiums spring up practically every day. Immigrants pour in from all over, not just from other cities, but from all over the world. Anything could happen, the place is a blank slate, tabula rasa, land of opportunity. Everybody at the station says it won’t be long before head office realizes their mistake, sees how fast this area is growing and starts a real network affiliate. They’ll be looking for someone young, someone pretty but smart, someone who knows the local issues. With real resources Hal could do real stories. Cameramen, editors, cutting-edge equipment. Not to mention a six-figure salary, move out of this shithole. What does Scott want? To go to the city? Sure, why not? Party central: clubs, restaurants, bigger gyms, more clients. He could market to the gay village; they’ve got lots of money, especially the older guys. Just imagine, Hal thinks, how much those sixty-something yuppie queers would pay to work out with a strapping young buck breathing encouragement all over them. He’d make a fortune. And there’s that other thing: being out. Hal’s done that already. The lifestyle. Clubs and hook-ups and summer parades. It’s just another kind of hiding, he wants to explain to Scott.

  So what do you think? Scott says again.

  Yeah…maybe.

  C’mon! It’ll be totally fun.

  Let’s order a pizza. I’m hungry. You want to order a pizza? Hal’s legs are hot under his polyester blend. Spring is coming. Things are warming up. He’s got to focus. The new road they want to put in, that’s going to be a big story. And…Indian bones. He’s going to look into that. That could be huge. If there’s some kind of burial ground near the river, that could scuttle the whole deal. Bones. Hal’s onto something. He’s onto the kind of story he’s been looking for, the kind of story that changes things, that actually matters.

  Hal? Earth to Hal?

  Scott is still sitting there looking up at him with those big brown boy eyes. Hal tugs at the button of his pants.

  You order the pizza. I’m gonna—get out of these clothes.

  JUNE

  Monday, April 14

  THE WISSISSAUGA CAMPUS is the satellite branch of the downtown university June attended not all that long ago. It’s a seventies-style jumble of long, low concrete buildings. June wanders the paved paths that connect them, occasionally stopping to consult the map of the campus she printed before driving over. Students bustle past hurriedly in purposeful groups. Exams soon, June thinks. She suddenly feels nostalgic for something as simple and straightforward as a final exam. The students, bright-eyed, thrive on manufactured, self-perpetuated urgency. June moves slowly, her muscles pulsing under her skin. She’s wearing a windbreaker over a sweatshirt. Her jeans are streaked with mud and dirt and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Unintentionally, she fits in. Just another clueless student in dirty jeans heading aimlessly into the future with all the vigour she can muster. June checks her map.

  She’s looking for The Cartwright Centre for the Arts and Sciences. Cartwright. She’s heard the name before. He was the mayor, right? One of the founding fathers of Wississauga. Or Walletville. Or whatever you call it. Also has a wing named after him at the hospital. Probably owned that starch plant too, June thinks. The one Rose’s husband slaved away in for practically his entire life.

  The Cartwrights were a rich family from England, but the students swirling in and out of the centre seem anything but. June pushes open the door of the building and stops just inside to get her bearings. Robes, veils, turbans, and hijabs mix and match with ubiquitous T-shirts, jeans, and varsity sweats. What would Rose say about this? June’s own inner city campus had been so much more—white, she thinks. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s just that she’d always thought of Wississauga as a Cartwright sort of place. And the city was where all t
he…mixing went on.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with it.

  A giggling group of girls flow around June in a wave.

  C’mon, one of them says, her voice ringing in June’s ear. We’ll be late!

  June checks her watch. The class she’s looking for will be over in five minutes. Anthropology 303Y: History and Settlement in the Lower Wallet River Valley. Professor Nordstrom. Classroom #201. June finds the stairs, takes them two at a time. She likes the feeling of moving so deliberately. She walks into the class just as the Professor is wrapping up. Next week, he says loudly, we’re reviewing the major themes for the final. The students, thirty or so, pack up their notebooks, murmur to each other. June stands pressed against the back of a lecture hall that could easily seat eighty. Tell your classmates, the Professor yells. Perhaps some of them will be good enough to join us for a change. The students file out, talking loudly, eyeballing June, obviously not chastened on behalf of their truant fellow scholars. Professor Nordstrom packs his notes in an absentminded, semi-agitated way. He looks young to June, a slightly pudgy fellow with pink Nordic skin, thin blond hair, and wire-rimmed glasses.

  June approaches, stands near the lectern.

  Professor Nordstrom looks up, startled.

  Ah, oh. I thought you were all—he considers June. Are you one of my students?

  No, Professor, I’m—

  Good. Good then. Because I’ve never seen you before. And I usually like it if my students attend at least one of my lectures per semester. The Professor laughs sardonically, exposing small white teeth.

  Nordstrom speaks with a Nordic lilt and formal British construction.

  No, I’m not a student I’m…

  June thought he’d be from here. Someone teaching local history.

  Professor Nordstrom hefts his briefcase. Well then. Come along to my office and we will get you sorted out.

  Professor Nordstrom’s office is an unimpressive cubbyhole lined with books. A small window lets in a rectangle of greying afternoon. The Professor has to suck in his gut to squeeze behind his desk. June wants to turn away from the sight. Nordstrom lands heavily in his chair, sighs, and jovially pats the pot of his soft protruding belly.