The Archaeologists

by Hal Niedzviecki

  I promise, Susan tells her loudly. This will be worth it. It’ll be like taking five classes. Like taking ten classes.

  It’s after two when they finally leave. Susan, still amped up, decides to treat herself to a sandwich.

  Jared had lingered on the doorstep, of course, while the others negotiated piling into an old idling station wagon. Susan looked at him expectantly, magnanimously, aware that she had put this young man in motion, and that she had some small control over where he would end up. I’m really, he said, then stopped, leaning in as close to her as he dared. I’m just…it’s amazing that we—met. This is just so much more…What we’re doing. It’s so…real.

  Susan had nodded, kept her face impassive. But it was true, wasn’t it? What they were doing was real. She could feel it, feel them staking their claim the way the roots of the trees in the valley just across the street dug deep underneath the river’s banks and held on, held on no matter what. Out West it had been different. Everything coated in inexpressible grief, everything uprooted, there just didn’t seem to be anything left to hold on to. Apologies, acknowledgments, promised reforms, all of them unable to shine a light down into the phantom pass leading to the nowhere land of the disappeared. It was a place of total darkness, a place she struggled to imagine—the unreal. She sees that now. They did their best, worked desperately to shine a light. But in the end, it hadn’t really mattered. What could you see, in such a place?

  But here…Susan thinks. She’d hugged Jared, just a quick hug from the top of her body, before pushing him off. Good night, she’d said. And he’d smiled at her as he squeezed his way into the beat-up wagon and drove off.

  And so, midnight snack, she thinks manically, piling on the layers she finds in her dad’s kitchen: lettuce, arugula, the innards of a perfectly ripe avocado, some Kalamata olive paste squeezed out of a tube. Then, guiltily and quickly, as if someone might discover her transgression, she adds a juggling knife blade of mayonnaise, Hellman’s, the go-to spread of her 14-year-old self.

  Her mouth watering, she puts the sandwich on a plate and cuts it slowly in half, revelling in the process, revelling in all of it. Resisting the urge to search for toothpicks, Susan pushes through the front door into the cold clear spring and its stretching night sky. She settles on the creaky old bench on the porch. After two, the street is dead in exactly the way Susan remembered it from her adolescence: a feeling, particular to the affluent suburbs, that everyone had been put under some kind of benevolent lockdown for the night. For your own good, here there be conformity, Susan’s thoughts go, rambling unconstrained through the exhausted passageways of her mind. Up early, in the office by 8, home at 7, in bed by 11. Sweep it under the carpet. Keep your secrets in the basement, where they belong.

  Finally, she lets herself bite, chews slowly as the segments of the sandwich become one unified delicious whole. When was the last time she made a sandwich? She is, she believes, seeing things much more clearly now. It’s not about escape, running away or forward or anywhere else. It’s not about baths and plush towels and afternoon naps and a kitchen with every appliance you can imagine. It’s not about late-night snacks, though, god, this sandwich is so fucking good. Thanks Dad, she thinks, just letting her mind go where it will. Mental note: replace the beer and the food and vacuum the living room. Her dad likes things neat and tidy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, Susan thinks. The kitchen is well appointed, but it’s not like everything is brand new top-of-the-line decadent. Her dad’s never been exactly a gourmet, but after her mother left, he developed a decent foodie sensibility, avoided becoming one of those guys who, left to his own devices, lives on frozen pizzas and Hungry Man frozen dinners, if he remembers to eat at all.

  Shane, she thinks then, slowing her exuberant chewing. He doesn’t eat much. And when he does eat, he eats crap. She wishes he was here with her. Why isn’t he? Why isn’t he with her? She hadn’t asked him. The idea, she realizes sorrowfully, never crossed her mind. With Shane beside her, she imagines the bus trip would have felt less like an exhausted retreat that would follow her wherever she tried to go, and more like the beginning of something, something new and—like college kid Jared said—real.

  Only, hadn’t she always known she couldn’t stay with him? What they’d had, it was—too real, Susan thinks bitterly. She misses him. Misses him in a way she’s never missed anyone before. She misses him tangibly, misses his breath on her ear as he whispers some sarcastic remark about a yellow smear on a lawyer’s tie. She misses the way his broad smooth chest covers her when they fuck, their bodies fitting together. Finishing, his head would turn to one side, revealing the scar running ragged down his cheek and under his chin. He’d shrugged when she’d trailed it, dismissing her unasked question. He doesn’t like to talk about himself. From the other side of the country, Susan sees, now, how much he tried to keep hidden, how much he’s like so many others she met out West: desperately trying to keep those portals to the darkness sealed and shut. But the darkness seeps out anyway, doesn’t it? She sees that now. When she was with him, he was so…alive. When he walked into a room, everyone noticed. It was the way he swaggered, the way his steps conveyed an excess of inner assurance. He was always moving. Only—he wasn’t going anywhere. Not moving, Susan thinks. More like—forcing himself in place, holding his muscles at bay, holding the door closed. You can’t live like that, hiding who you really are. But what’s the alternative? Throw the door open, flood the world with your murky, blood-black soul. It’s a relief, isn’t it? Giving yourself up to that nowhere place of loss and darkness. That’s why she couldn’t stay. Shane’s silence, whispering to her: Come with me. Don’t worry. It’s easy. In the end, it’s easy. You just…let go.

  She feels sick now, the rich middle of the sandwich pressing against her abdomen.

  What would he say if she confronted him? It’s all just a show, isn’t it? You’re not even here. He’d shrug and pronounce something oblique yet sharply true: If the cancer doesn’t get you, then you better bet on the cure.

  Shane is quiet, sits in the back of the room, rarely voices an opinion. But when he speaks, people listen.

  He’s one of them. Has been all along.

  Susan swallows back the urge to throw up.

  Goddamn him. And how much she misses him.

  He’s—

  And she isn’t. She can’t be.

  Susan slams the plate with the half-eaten sandwich down on the bench beside her. She jerks up, puts her hands on the wood railing and gazes out across the front lawn. She takes deep lung-fulls. It’s okay. You’re okay. Her long lean fingers reflexively tighten over the old worn rail. Susan’s hands are glow-worm white on the peeling wood. Not everything is permeable, shapeless, endless expanse. She can’t save him. What if she could have saved him? Sometimes things are solid, put in place, built to last. A road can last decades, centuries. It can turn one way, or another.

  Susan squints down empty, straight, good old Lower Grove Street. The streetlights produce only the barest circles of illumination, obscuring more than they reveal. But for Susan everything is clear now. If you live in shadow, that’s what you become. She doesn’t want to live like that. What can’t be seen. The river valley, long shrouded in darkness. To save it, it needs to be revealed. That’s what she’s going to do. Clear the brush from the thicket. Usher light into the dark.

  TIM AND CHARLIE

  Thursday, April 17

  CHARLIE! HEY. CHARLIE.

  He’s getting good at climbing trees. Tim perches on a branch, one foot on the ledge of the girl’s second floor bedroom window. He taps with his knuckles. The glass gently vibrates in its frame.

  His breath is rotten. He can taste his own hissed whisper.

  Charleeee…

  Charleee…

  Charlie!

  Charlie moves groggily, long green nightshirt over her knees. She peers out, then opens the window. Tim smells girl, spices, cleanser.

  Charlie. It’s me.

  Charl
ie stands there, looking out at him blearily.

  You uh…wanna get high?

  She lets him in.

  Tim sits on the floor with his back against the bed. He crosses and uncrosses his long bony legs. He doesn’t entirely know what he’s doing here. He followed and this is where his legs took him. He shouldn’t be here—he’s not stupid, he knows that. But the last few days—it’s like he’s been in a labyrinth. Every time he tried to leave, he found himself further in. The river gulley. Criss-crossing accidental paths. His father, dying. His mother, a ghost, a fleeting presence. That woman—in the backyard—digging. He’s been watching her. Day and night, he’s been watching her. Tim shakes his head, trying to get it all clear in his mind. Who’s watching who? What day is it? He needs to—

  He puts his hands on the carpet, palms down. The soft give under him makes him feel like he’s about to fall right through.

  Charlie is kneeling across from him, her long nightshirt stretched across her bare legs. She watches wide-eyed as he slowly rolls a massive joint, methodically crumbling dry leaf into a wide funnel.

  We’ll smoke it by the window, Tim half whispers. So your parents don’t smell it.

  Charlie nods. She hadn’t thought of that. She’s never had a boy in her room. Her room is purple-plush, ridiculous. Charlie wants black paint reflecting glow-in-the-dark stars stickered to the ceiling. She wants pictures of movie stars cut out from magazines to form a messy collage that doesn’t just cover over the purplish sheen, but repudiates it. She hasn’t seen the movies the kids talk about at school. She’s not allowed to watch movies at home, and when she goes with her parents, it’s usually something rated G about nature. But Charlie’s watched the trailers. She’s studied the plots and reviews. Actually, most of them sound kinda stupid. But still, Charlie wants to see them. It’s not about being like the other kids. It’s not about that at all. It’s about that feeling she has when she’s with Tim; she just feels so much less like herself.

  Tim holds the bulging cone up to the moonlight. His stained dirty hand in the foreground, and in the background the fringes and frills of Charlie’s room: lavender pillows and billowy taffeta hanging over a white four-poster bed. He has to push himself up, the carpet clinging to him like thick wet mud. Behind Charlie is a girl-sized white varnished desk holding what looks like a brand new iPad. Tim absorbs the details of soothing suburban luxury as Charlie sits there, big brown eyes staring at him.

  C’mon, he says.

  She springs up. Tim steps towards the open, screenless window, sticks his head out the black rectangle and breathes deeply. Charlie moves in place beside him, their silhouetted faces darkened by overhanging moonlight. Tim lights the giant spliff and takes a gulping inhalation. He holds the smoke in while he passes the joint to Charlie, who grabs it awkwardly with trembling fingers. Tim watches her as his chest flares and the burn slowly recedes to an ember in his shrunken empty belly.

  Charlie claps a hand over her mouth, her face going red with the effort of suppressing her need to cough out the smoke settling into her lungs.

  Pass it over, Tim says, finally breathing out. You’re wasting it.

  He plucks the joint out of Charlie’s baby fat fingers and takes another heavy drag. He’s getting high. He should be—What? What should he be doing? That woman is—digging. His mother is gone, drifted away, dissipated. Now it’s just a tension in his long spindly legs. Substance without matter, a yearning for something he can feel but never have. He needs to go. But he’s—

  Carly, I’m—I can’t—

  Smoke drifts between them as they silently burn the joint down. Tim lets Charlie suck at the last bit, watches her cheeks pull in as she tries to drag taffy air through the thick burning stub.

  Nothing left, he says, taking the smouldering end from her. He throws it out the window. They both watch the small red spark arc down out of view.

  Charlie giggles uncertainly, leans against him. Tim keeps his head out the window, breathing the marshy air.

  Let’s go for a walk, he says. Let’s go down.

  No…Charlie manages. She grabs his arm. Her room gyrates. No…

  Yeah.

  No…her face flushed, her eyes bright. I’ll get in trouble.

  Naw. Just for an hour.

  It’s too dark.

  Naw. Look at that moon.

  I—Charlie giggles uncertainly. Are you still on your quest and stuff?

  Yeah, Tim says. He pulls in from the window. Put some pants on or something, he says. Let’s get out of here.

  Charlie feels her cheeks burning. Don’t look, she says. She yanks her camouflage jeans out of a large wardrobe painted white with pink trim. With her back to Tim, she wriggles a leg in, falls back on her butt. She laughs, waving her legs around. Holy moly, she says. She lies on her back, flapping her hands in front of her face.

  Quiet, Tim hisses. Then more appreciatively: You’re fucked up.

  Charlie finally manages to drag her pants on. Tim paces in front of the window. He wants out. He’s suffocating in her hot house with its walls trapping rich scents of soap and cooking and appliances. Why did he come here? He needs to move, keep moving. The parts of his body are all disconnected as if floating away of their own accord. Just relax, Carly always tells him. Relax and feel. Feel what? The girl pulls her zipper closed, smiles at him proudly. He should just tell her: he’s not on a quest; he never was.

  C’mon, he says between clenched teeth. Let’s go.

  Okay, Charlie says. In a second. She plops herself in her desk chair. Whoo…I’m…she giggles. Charlie spins the chair around, her arms waving in front of her. Whoo!

  Quiet! Tim says. They’ll hear you.

  He should just leave. He doesn’t need her.

  It’s sooo cool what you’re doing, Charlie says. I was looking it up on the internet, like, reading about it? And it’s sooo intense.

  Yeah? Tim says.

  Hey you know what I found? This really cool test that tells you about your spirit animal. Hey, you should take it! Charlie stabs the power button on her tablet. Her face suddenly framed in blue glow. I found it on this site that has all this stuff about, like, Natives and stuff.

  Carly does that, Tim thinks. She shows him stuff sometimes, different funny movies and photos her friends send her from their backpacking trips in Thailand or wherever.

  This will be so cool! Charlie’s fingers dance and a site comes up. Tim leans over her. He can smell her hair. Okay, are you ready? So, first off, you have to pick a word that you really relate to, okay?

  The blue light turns Charlie’s round face unnatural, compelling. Love, Empathy, Reverence, Wisdom, Growth, Intelligence, Creativity, Passion, Beauty, or Stamina, Charlie reads.

  Huh?

  Pick a word!

  Uh…The room is all fuzzy indigo glow. Tim absently scratches at an itch buried under his tangled, greasy hair. Passion, he whispers.

  Oh-kay, Charlie says. Now. Which colour most describes you? Pearl, Coral, Ultramarine, Azure, Claret, Amethyst, or Vermillion.

  Grey, he mutters.

  That’s not even a choice! Charlie yells deliriously.

  Tim doesn’t answer. He breathes. Feels the feeling of breathing.

  So I guess…Pearl? That’s like grey, she announces authoritatively. Now, what month were you born in?

  Uh…May…

  It’s almost your birthday!

  Yeah…

  What would you say is your biggest flaw? Pick one, please: Vanity, Hot temper, Keeping your distance, Day dreaming, Forgetting, Control freak, Being too anxious to please.

  Uh…

  Mine’s “anxious to please,” Charlie says. Or sometimes, like, “control freak.”

  Day dreaming? Tim says.

  Good. Charlie stabs the pad with gusto.

  Your friends describe you as…pick one please: Devoted, Caring, Leader, Stable, Successful, Smart, Strong, Driven, Well liked.

  The blue glow of the tablet makes his face hot. The smell of Charlie’s
shampoo. His legs feel wet, sinewy, about to give out.

  Let’s go, he says. We gotta…He puts his hands on Charlie’s shoulders to steady himself.

  Well I say…Leader.

  Charlie, c’mon, let’s…

  Last question! Your ideal lover would be—Charlie giggles, blushes—would be: Nurturing, Sensible, Smart, Sexy, Strong or…Active.

  Carly, Tim thinks. Or says.

  What? Charlie asks.

  I gotta, I’m…He stumbles to the window, heaves his head out.

  It’s the last question, Charlie insists. Her voice is ardent now. You have to answer.

  Tim fills his lungs. He can feel his empty stomach churning.

  Let’s say…Strong. Charlie giggles again. She clicks. Okay it’s figuring it out now. Here it comes. It’s says you’re a—Raven!

  Despite himself, Tim is listening.

  Raven, Charlie reads. Your soul is bound to the third totem, Grandfather Thunder. Grandfather Thunder appears as a flock of ravens. He embodies reverence, leadership, honour, and inspiration. He is associated with the season of winter and the element of water. His downfall is ego. You are most compatible with Wolves and Owls. Hey! I’m an Owl! Charlie kicks up her heels, spins in her chair. Whoo! Whoo!

  Tim runs over there, grabs the arms of the chair in mid-whirl. Shut up, he says, leaning into her. They stare at each other. Charlie’s smile slides into confusion. She’s gonna cry, Tim thinks. He moves away, back to the window. Starts climbing out.

  Hey, Charlie whispers. Wait for me.

  The way down looks steep. It is steep. But Charlie’s built a kind of path for herself. Footholds and handholds. Momentary plateaus where she can catch her breath and ease the burning as her muscled thighs slow her descent. Zigzag switchbacks that finally spill her out into the bottom woods, her breath coming fast from exertion and excitement.