The Archaeologists

by Hal Niedzviecki

  And what’s all this stuff? Tim indicates the semi-circle of objects around her makeshift stuck-in-the-ash candelabra.

  Oh, that’s…Tim can tell Charlie’s embarrassed now. It’s… nothing.

  Tim leans in, his pale cheeks sparsely bearded in wispy wheat stubble gone golden in the candlelight. He picks up a stone bit, knocking over an empty Hello Kitty Pez container in the process. The stone is a grooved rough-hewn triangle, sharp at one end, stubby at the other.

  Arrowhead, Charlie says matter-of-factly. I found it in the forest.

  Huh. Yeah? Tim fingers the object. He imagines using it. To hunt. Deer. Birds. Enemies. Who are Tim’s enemies? Stab or be stabbed, Tim thinks. Kill or be killed.

  Next Tim picks up what looks like an old comic book. He squints at the title. Alpha Flight?

  It’s—Charlie starts off excitedly. But then she stops herself. It’s a comic book, she says flatly.

  Tim brings the comic up close to his face. A price of 65 cents marks it as a relic from a bygone era. But the circles of water damage on the faded cover make it clear that this isn’t going to be one of those finds some loser’s going to shell out a thousand bucks for or anything. On the cover, the clearly identifiable evil villain is threatening a muscle-bound man and woman who, from their long black hair and beaded headbands, Tim gathers are supposed to be Indian or Native or whatever Charlie calls it. The choice is yours, Shaman, he reads out loud from the bad guy’s bubbled dialogue. If you save Snowbird, your daughter dies. Snowbird? Shaman? Tim giggles.

  Charlie plays with the bulgy cuffs of her ski jacket.

  So it’s like a team? X-Men-Avengers kind of thing?

  I haven’t read it in a while, Charlie says desperately.

  Tim peers suspiciously at the comic again, before finally, mercifully, dropping it back onto the shrine of objects. Immediately, Charlie leans forward and repositions the comic to its original spot next to the now righted Pez dispenser. Tim is already inspecting a dirty stuffed animal, its purple fur ragged and matted. What do we have here? Tim says, pointing at the misshapen creature, a hippo or elephant or something.

  Nothing, Charlie mutters. Just something from when I was a kid.

  Tim picks up the hippo and holding it gently to his chest, tenderly sniffs the top of its frayed head. When I was a kid, he says, I had a kangaroo. I loved that thing. I took it everywhere with me. What did I call it? Kangy Kangoo or something. He grimaces in pretend embarrassment. Man, if my parents couldn’t find that thing at bedtime, I would just lose my shit. Just go mental…

  Charlie listens to him gravely, her eyes focussed on the stuffed animal. Tim makes to put it back, and she quickly reaches for it, plucking it out of his hands and hugging it to her jacketed chest.

  This looks cool, says Tim, already in the process of grabbing the cylindrical piece of stone sitting in the centre of the semi-circle display of dusty objects. He’s sweating, but he shivers.

  Careful! Charlie says. I think that’s like, really really old.

  The coldness of the object spreads through his palm, up his arm and into his chest.

  Tim shivers again, more violently this time. He wants to put the stone down, but instead finds himself inspecting it. He brings it to the candlelight and sees a face: gouged-out sunken eyes and protruding forehead. The carving is longer and more complex than he first thought, adorned with serpentine curves twisting and encircling a stretched body leading to a haunting, empty face that seems to be in mid-scream.

  I found it right in here.

  Tim’s shivering freely now, his breathing ragged. The torso is twisted, a woman’s arms tightly bound, wrapped above her belly, her hands skeletal imprints in the rock flesh over the bulge of her breasts. But Tim is pulled back to the woman’s face, the way her concave cheeks seem to have been drained of air—like she’s buried alive. Tim turns the object around and around in his hands, mesmerized by the way the rough porous rock eats the flickering light. Trembling now, he feels the walls of the cave pressing toward him, the pipe cold, so incredibly cold, the kind of cold that burns. Hold on to it, he tells himself, don’t fucking let go. His ragged breathing is horribly audible, each pull of air like a death rattle. Hands madly shaking, he slowly brings the woman’s twisted tapered feet to his mouth.

  What are you doing? Charlie whines. Be careful! That’s like, really really old!

  Tim pulls in through the pipe.

  What are you doing?

  He tastes dirt, dust, ash, bone, smoke, ancient buried truth—life, then death. He coughs, trying too late to reverse the process, but now it’s stuck in his throat, and, pipe loose in one fist, he flaps his arms around frantically.

  What are you doing? Charlie is yelling. What’s wrong with you?

  Charlie, he gasps through the pressing particulate air. I…can’t—

  You’re okay, she says evenly, eyes moving from his bulging cheeks to the jerky dance of the carving in his fist. You’ll be okay. She puts her hand around his fist, stilling the jerky tremors. You’re okay. Just…breathe.

  Finally, Tim manages to swallow. He drinks down ashy spit. Then, still panting at the musty air, he gasps: Charlie. The other night. I saw—

  He wants to tell her. Tell someone.

  You saw something?

  I saw—my mother.

  Your mother? She doesn’t understand. He lowers his head to her ear. Breathes in the smell of her.

  She’s dead, he whispers. She died a long time ago.

  Oh…

  What should I do, Charlie? He knows he can’t ask her. Let’s—hey, Charlie, we should—He puts the ancient carved pipe down in front of them. He fumbles for the last of his stash.

  SUSAN

  Tuesday, April 15

  SUSAN WAKES IN THE QUIET ROOM and knows instantly where she is. It’s the way the light pushes through the drapes and spreads softly against the yellow walls. She swings herself out of the small bed and pulls open the curtains. The window is open. Cool air flutters in, fresh but also somehow damp and musty. She stands looking out of her childhood bedroom at the familiar view: the front lawn with its lumpy spread of grass and single large misshapen maple tree; the empty street flanked by rows of parked cars; the rows of houses with more or less similar front lawns, plus or minus a tree or shrub or two. Behind the houses across the street, hidden from view, is the ravine, is the river. The river. That’s what she’s smelling, what she’s tasting. She breathes deep, inhales the mineral sheen of water and undergrowth and low-lying land recently drenched. The smell reminds her, more than anything, more than sleeping in her old room in her old little bed, of growing up here, of being a kid. A goofy kid with buck-teeth who liked to go down to the ravine and sit alone by the edge of the water and idly wile away a weekend afternoon tossing sticks and stones and long strands of yellowing grass into the current. Sticks and stones, pulled under, disappearing. Growing up, she didn’t care for the other kids, didn’t particularly want or need friends. They weren’t mean to her like they were to some of the others. Sticks and stones. Break my bones. She ignored them, and they ignored her. Susan stretches her arms overhead, takes another deep breath. Growing up. Do we ever really? The smell: rocks and moss and sun on skin. The river, still flowing. Still there. Why is she here? What’s coming next?

  She finds her dad in the bright kitchen. He’s bustling around, checking off a list.

  Hey! Susie! You’re up.

  She kisses him on a soft cheek. Sorry, Dad, I guess I haven’t exactly been much of a…guest.

  It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ve never seen anyone sleep so much. I checked in on you a few times…just to…make sure you were still…okay.

  That was nice of you, Daddy.

  Yup. That’s what dads are for!

  They stand looking at each other, grinning.

  You must be starving. Sit down, I’ll make you something.

  He makes her a tofu scramble. Susan watches him bustle around the kitchen, his movements precise and economical. When was the
last time someone cooked for her? Out West, they survived on cheap diner meals, on dumpster-dived day olds, on the weak coffee and suspiciously rubbery grocery store muffins provided by government officials at public hearings. Her dad drops rye bread in the toaster and Susan’s mouth waters.

  When it’s all ready, he joins her at the kitchen table. Susan makes no excuses, eats hungrily, washing down mouthfuls with gulps of extra pulp Tropicana.

  I’m sorry, Suze, her dad eventually says, I have to get back to packing. The cab is picking me up at 12.

  You’re leaving! Susan suddenly remembers. Her dad is going on a trip with his girlfriend Laura. Chile and Peru, Machu Pichu and Lima, Susan vaguely remembers something about a jungle resort and mountain climbing. How long is he going for? Two weeks? Three? Daddy, I totally forgot. I slept all day yesterday and now you’re…

  No, no, you didn’t know I’d be—

  It’s such bad timing, Susan says.

  Her dad shakes his coiffed head ruefully. It is, he says.

  But you’ll have a great time!

  Susan picks up her quarter-filled glass of juice and puts it down again. Her sweet father, he’s always tried his best for her. He’s shrunken a bit, his short hair gone grey, his face tighter, the lines around his eyes more pronounced. All in all, he seems smaller, more compact, a happier version of himself. He seems good, contented—settled, she thinks. Her dad clears the dishes and Susan finds herself drifting down familiar, dangerous territory. Is that what happens? We get older, more comfortable, more settled? What does he do all day? What does he think about? Vacations? Why shouldn’t he go on his trip? That’s what people do. They do things that make them happy. He worked hard, didn’t he? He deserves it, doesn’t he?

  So, her dad says, are you feeling better? Maybe you want to go and see my doctor? Get a checkup? Just in case?

  No, Dad, I’m fine. I was just—exhausted.

  Okay. Good. Good. Her dad’s got a dishtowel, is nervously polishing a gleaming white plate. And, do you think you’re—are you—?

  He can’t quite bring himself to say it, but Susan knows what he’s asking: What’s she planning? How long is she staying? Where will she go next?

  It’s his house. He deserves, at least, to—

  Dad, is it—is it okay if I…stay here a while?

  Of course. You know that. Mi casa es su casa.

  But the Spanish sounds forced and his grin curls awkwardly at the edges. He doesn’t trust her. He doesn’t want her to stay at his place all alone. What does he think she’ll do? Anger rises in her, but she pushes it back. That’s not why she’s here.

  Dad, she says, I’ll take care of the house. Keep an eye on things. If you like, I’ll stay here until you’re back. Then I’m due back in Vancouver. A lie, slipping out of her. Or maybe it’s the truth. Either way, she wants him to know: There are people out there who value her, who care about her, who are waiting for her. Don’t worry Dad, she says, I’m not moving in.

  Sure, of course, stay, stay as long as you need. That’s fine. Can you—he says this uncertainly, as if the terms of their contract have changed—the plant, in my study?

  I’ll water it Dad. For sure.

  And…if the lawn gets a bit…?

  Mower still in the shed?

  Yup.

  They grin at each other again. That was always one of her jobs. Mowing the lawn.

  Dad, she hears herself saying. I’m really sorry that you aren’t going to be around. I was hoping we could—she pauses here, not sure what she was hoping. Anyway, she goes on hurriedly, I’m going to do some writing. I want to try and get down everything that’s… happened. This friend of mine, from out West. Shane. He said…

  She trails off, noting how alarmed her dad looks, alarmed at the prospect of one of her scruffy boyfriend radicals making an appearance.

  Abruptly, her dad turns and starts putting the breakfast dishes, now clean and dry, back in the cabinet.

  Shane read some of my essays. He thinks I should try and maybe get a book together.

  A book! her dad says.

  He sounds surprised, Susan thinks. But not in a bad way. Well, she says. I mean, I don’t have nearly enough material and I’m really just at the very beginning of—

  Her dad’s cell rings. He hurriedly digs it out of his pocket. It’s Laura, he says, giving her an apologetic look.

  No problem, Susan says, but he’s already walking out of the room.

  Susan sits on the porch step. It’s just after one, the street characteristically quiet and empty. High noon in the suburbs, Susan thinks. So now what? She thinks of Shane, who would make a great character in a western, her Indian cowboy in work boots. She’s horny, she realizes. Maybe she’ll draw a bath. Do—things. When was the last time she’d been alone? When was the last time she’d had a bath? Squatting, sleeping on couches, sleeping at Shane’s tiny shared apartment. The space she now has seems gratuitous, almost inconceivable. A whole house to herself. The sun is high above, warming yellow-green lawns, expansive squares delineating perfect swatches of defined property—mine, yours, Susan thinks, the whole world diced and sliced into bits and pieces. So what? It’s not like it was any different out West. If she’s got a problem with the way things are—and she does, oh yes she does—she might just as well have stayed there as come back here. But, she tells herself, here you are. You got on the bus and rode across the country to be in this exact place. She takes a deep breath. Again, she smells the river rot of the ravine as it stirs to life. The smell fills her with sudden loneliness. She used to spend hours down there. It was her playground, her library, her friend. Her father whisked away in a taxi. Shane and his crooked knowing smile left far behind. Her briefly happy childhood, much of it spent down by the river—a time when her parents still loved each other, still loved her without conditions and judgment. Now she’s here, alone. C’mon Susan. Get a grip. Susan exhales. The wind blows and here she is. The river, across the street, hidden, buried, inaccessible—a reminder. She tilts her head back and lets the sun’s weak rays play over her face.

  Miss, excuse me? Miss? She opens her eyes to a young man, skinny college kid, standing over her. He has on a green vest emblazoned with a logo—the words CEN in a leaf. Hi, he says perkily, now that he’s got her attention. My name is Jared and I’m from the Credit Environmental Network? I’m here today because we’re raising funds for the protection of…Susan fixes a crooked smile to her face and half listens to his pitch. She’d done her stint in organizations like CEN, gentle suburban affairs that spent half their time fundraising and the rest fostering corporate partnerships, win-win for everyone, a feel-good banner hanging over Hurontarion proclaiming Wississauga a green city sponsored by the local gas utility. Well, she thinks, regarding the scruffy young man’s bright green eyes and taut cheekbones, at least it gives cute college kids something to do. A breeze cuts across and she shivers as the sun disappears behind amassing grey clouds. Now it looks like it’s going to rain. She thinks of Shane again, his body wet in the mist, a white T-shirt splattered against his chest. He never seemed to feel the cold. God he was—

  And with the road going in down by the river it’s more urgent than ever that we—

  Wait? What did you say?

  He stops speaking, both of them jolted out of their separate orbits.

  Uh, about the road you mean?

  Yes, Susan says, about the road.

  Well, uh…he’s off script now. They’re going to…planning to… put a road in, an expressway, along the river on this side of the valley.

  But that’s old growth forest down there, Susan says.

  The young man, sensing his opportunity, tries to move back into his spiel. That’s why we’re out here connecting with people like—

  Susan stands up. She feels the familiar heat spreading through her. Shane, her dad, her fucking mother who she doesn’t speak to if she can help it, the river, hidden purpose momentarily revealed in a flash like lightning through night. The boy watches her risin
g, looking confused, awestruck.

  Miss—?

  And your organization? Susan says. Are they organizing protests against this expressway?

  Uh…we…we’re…CEN is, we’re raising money in order to—

  Susan waves away his words. You better come inside, she tells him.

  JUNE

  Tuesday, April 15

  MORNING AGAIN. June bustles herself around the kitchen, feeling the resistance of her heavy limbs. She’d been awake all night picturing it, picturing herself doing it. In the morning, she knew, she’d be going out there. In the meantime, she had lain next to her snoring husband. Hearing Norm step out of the shower, June drops two pieces of multigrain into the toaster with impatient efficiency. She is, she knows, moving farther and farther off the map. This isn’t who poor old Norm married. Norm wants something else for her, she knows. A job, a gym membership, the cocooned heat of possibility deep in her belly. She wants those things, had them before, felt them in inevitable predictable orbit around her. But somehow they drifted off course, her orbit listing past ever-more uncertain constellations. Maybe that’s the problem, she thinks. There’s something else now. Some other thing pulling her off course. She’s in uncharted territory now, her only guide a nonagenarian who believes in spirits and curses.

  Rose hadn’t even blinked when June had told her. She’d taken the idea of some kind of—haunting—as perfectly plausible, even likely. What had she said? Cursed, you know. No, June hadn’t known. Now June is starting to know. She’s starting to know that working in the backyard is similar to the feeling she gets being with Rose. Being. That’s a word for it. Only it’s hard to get into words. There’s a sense of…floating. Like she doesn’t have to do anything. She can just—be. But it’s not being like a surfing the web at your desk job being. Or stopping at the Pizza Pies Mamma Mia Express Takeout for a spelt crust Mediterranean special and a large garden salad kind of being. It’s not killing time waiting for the day to end and Norm to come home being. It’s like she’s… connected, to something, something outside her, something—