The Archaeologists

by Hal Niedzviecki

  Something falls in the kitchenette, a pot or a cup, smashing bits scattering.

  Oh!

  Rose misses the handles of the walker.

  Cupboards bang against each other.

  Knickknacks fly off the corner credenza.

  Rose falls forward.

  A girl in pink holding a yellow bouquet slams into the wall.

  Ah!

  Rose hits the carpet with a slow motion thud. The girl’s blonde head, decapitated, rolls against her cheek.

  She comes to. Rose hears sighs, murmurs. Burglars? One of those horrible home invasions she hears about on the television? She lies still, listening, as the sounds move around her small rooms. Gradually she detects a rhythm, a hum almost like a chant, the almost song going louder and quieter as it swirls around her. And it’s cold, Rose realizes. She tries to raise her head from the floor, but she doesn’t have the strength. Not burglars, she knows. The primeval freeze moves through her, comes to rest in her rattling chest. This is something else. An uninvited guest. Evil wedging its way in. Rose feels frigid, impotent anger, her rage constricted by weakness and infirmity. They all want something. Something from Rose. She’s just an old lady. What can she do for them? She just wants to be left alone to rest. But they come, they keep coming. They open the door. They bring it with them.

  Then footsteps behind her. The swish of cold evening air, like a knife cutting. Rose draws a deep breath and tries to yell. Nothing comes out but a rasping exhale of spit and raisin oatmeal pap. The window slams shut and locks.

  PART FIVE

  JUNE

  Saturday, April 19

  THE DOORBELL RINGS. It’s 7:30 in the morning. June shifts into Norm and sighs. Her head is on his shoulder. Her legs are wrapped around his. It’s her second true sleep in weeks.

  A fist pounds against the door. Then the doorbell, ringing again.

  June stirs. Norm?

  A muffled yell—Open up! OPP!

  Norm?

  Huh—wha—?

  The doorbell—ringing.

  Norm wakes. He was dreaming. June with blue hands, skeleton hands, walking through the felled forest in a white nightie. June straddling a stump, lace flowing around a big round belly protruding.

  Norm, there’s someone—

  Police! Open up!

  What the hell? Norm throws on his robe. Where are my—

  Police!

  —slippers?

  Norm! June cries.

  Stay here, he barks. He hurries down the stairs, bare feet slapping hard wood.

  Police! Open up!

  Yes, okay, I’m coming!

  June stands at the top of the stairs, her naked arms covered with goose bumps. She folds her arms into her body. She’s freezing.

  I’m coming! Norm yells again, fumbling with the alarm code, the locks. He finally gets the door open. Two men in faded sports coats lean eagerly into Norm’s face. Behind them stand two uniformed officers.

  Ontario Provincial Police, one of the men in suits says flashing a badge.

  Police? Norm repeats dubiously.

  Police. Mind if we come in? They push past Norm into the house.

  Norm? June calls from the top of the stairs. The two look up at her.

  Go back to the bedroom, Norm snaps.

  Can you come down here please Miss?

  June! Go back to the bedroom!

  Miss—

  June hesitates.

  June! Norm barks. She’s never heard him raise his voice before. She flees.

  The two detectives, portly, in their fifties, peer suspiciously around the brightly lit foyer. Melting morning light seeps into the hall through the open front door.

  I’m Inspector McLintock and this is—

  But what is this about? Norm blurts.

  The two inspectors glance at each other.

  We’re investigating reports of a find of Native remains at these premises.

  What?

  Sir we have reason to believe that there was an excavation of archaeological significance on these premises.

  This is private property. Norm speaks clearly, loudly, breathing between words. He’s aware of his wife, upstairs, hiding in the bedroom, listening. I want you to leave.

  Sir we’d like to—

  I want you to—

  If we could just take a look around the premises?

  There’s nothing here for you to see.

  Sir it’s illegal to excavate or otherwise disturb or distribute Native remains.

  I don’t know anything about that.

  Sir. We received a complaint. I’m afraid that we have no choice but to act.

  We could get a warrant to search the premises, the other, previously silent, officer intones. He steps forward, puts his fleshy face right up to Norm’s. That would involve public proceedings, he says, pronouncing every word as if spitting. Very public proceedings.

  You don’t have a warrant?

  No sir. But we would like to speak with your—

  Then you have no right to be here. I’m going to ask you both to leave.

  The inspectors glare at each other.

  Sir, I would advise you to—

  Good day, Norm says, slamming the door. He locks it and executes the security code. The red alarm light blinks on. Norm stands in the hazy hallway, lost in the interior air drifting disturbed around him, that world of billions of inexplicable particles. His feet are bare and cold. A dizzy spell takes him and he puts a hand on the wall.

  Norm?

  June stands at the stop of the stairs. Cheeks puffy, she resembles a teenager shaken from a weekend sleep-in.

  Norm?

  They’re gone, he says.

  Norm—I—

  Norm looks up the stairs at his wife.

  It’ll be okay, he adds quickly.

  No. Norm. It’s not okay. June walks slowly down the stairs. She takes his hand, pulls him out into the backyard. They step out into the cold day just beginning. June marches Norm to the edge of the pit. Look in, she says to him. Do it.

  Norm kneels, the knees of his pajamas going wet and muddy. June?

  Don’t you see them?

  See what, June? Norm gets lower, squints desperately into the muddy hole.

  The bones Norm! The bones!

  June? What bones?

  June sits in the kitchen staring at the steam rising from her mug of coffee.

  Norm’s in his study, making calls. June gave him the card of that lawyer, her old college friend Chris.

  Norm’s dressed now. Blue button-down shirt, red striped tie, like he’s heading into the office. He’s calling her now, Christine —Chris—the two of them calmly discussing—

  Jesus Christ. What is he telling her?

  The coffee in her mug trembles, liquid syncopating.

  Morning has broken into day, overcast and granulated. She won’t go out there. She’ll keep the blinds closed. Norm says everything will be okay. She believes him. When the police came, at first she thought it was about what happened—

  the other night—in the backyard.

  She…with the—shovel.

  Where did the bones go? She didn’t tell Norm about him, the ragged man-boy with the wild eyes. What could she say? I hit a man with a shovel and then went to bed and had the best sleep in a month? I’m homicidal and crazy and maybe I’m—?

  No, June, you’re not—

  He took the bones. She hit him with the shovel and he took the bones.

  Norm didn’t ask her anything. He just held her, there, in front of it, in front of the empty hole.

  He took them, she finally says out loud. The words ring through the kitchen then disappear.

  June blows steam off the liquid in her mug. In the backyard, Norm had seemed unfazed, as if he’d been expecting something like this all along. It’s okay, he said. He held her close and stroked her hair. We’ll be okay, he said. Weirdly, she believes him. She’s the teenager who borrowed Daddy’s car for a spin and crashed into the neighbour’s mailbox.
She’s waiting in the kitchen while her parents confer with the lawyers, the neighbours, the police, alleviating the damage, patching things up before bringing the full force of their disapproval down upon her. Whatever happens, Daddy’s going to take care of it. Whatever it takes, he’s going to make it all go away.

  Embarrassed, June inspects her fingers. Ravaged skin, thin veneer wrapped around bright white bone. Her nails are ruined. She runs a fingertip across the underside of her wrist. The jagged line leaves a faint red scratch. June swallows, tastes coffee and spit. There were bones. A man came, a man-boy with red in the whites of his eyes and flailing arms. He said—They’re mine. And I—she picked up the shovel and now…June puts her head down on the table. Now there’s just an empty hole. June closes her eyes.

  Dreaming. People. Yelling.

  People.

  Chanting—

  Give back the bones! Give back the bones! Give back the—

  June picks her face up off the kitchen table. She hears the cracking beat of a megaphone chant.

  I’m—dreaming.

  Give back the bones! Give back the—

  Is she still asleep? No—she’s—

  Give back the—

  Norm? Uh, Norm?

  —hearing things?

  Norm!

  He comes hurrying into the kitchen.

  Norm?

  He takes her hand. It’s okay. They’re just—it’s a—

  He leads her into the front sitting room, the piano room, Norm calls it, imagining that at some point his offspring will patiently play the grand notes of one of Bach’s simpler sonatas.

  June pulls at a corner of the curtain covering the big bay window. They peek outside.

  Give back the bones!

  Oh my god, she mutters.

  It’s her, the woman from the community centre. The red-haired freak who kept yelling—what was it?—I’m very disturbed! I’m very disturbed! Here the chant is different, but the ardent high-pitched cadent rhythms are the same:

  Give! Back! The! Bones!

  Jesus Christ, June mutters.

  She dares to take a second look. I’m-Very-Disturbed is resplendent. Pale strawberry hair with a single dark feather sticking out. Around her neck a long thin scarf like the kind you see those protestor types wearing to cover their faces. She’s also sporting a pair of beaded buckskin-looking pants straight out of Tonto’s closet. And, on her feet, a menacing set of military issue black boots.

  June doesn’t know what to make of it. She represses a sudden, insecure giggle.

  Give back the bones!

  It’s not funny.

  I’m-Very-Disturbed is pacing up and down the sidewalk yelling hoarsely into the megaphone. She’s got a small group with her. Five acolyte braves in dirty hoodies and ragged jeans, a mini-tribe all brandishing the same sign: Wississauga for the Wississaugans.

  There are…Wississaugans?

  Give back—

  Uh, Norm?

  They’re crazy, Norm mutters.

  Then June does laugh. She buries her face in Norm’s shoulder and laughs till she’s soaked through the fabric of his shirt.

  It isn’t funny, she gasps. It isn’t funny.

  Norm smoothes her hair. They watch the protest through the window. June wipes her face on his shoulder.

  News is here, Norm points out.

  June looks up in time to see the Wississauga Cable Community News van park across the street. No sign of that kid, the reporter. The chant gets louder, red-haired leader screeching with renewed intensity.

  Give! Back! The!—

  She’s going to lose her voice, June thinks.

  The phone rings. It rings four times, stops, then starts again. June holds on to Norm.

  What should we do?

  I called your lawyer friend, Norm says. She’s on her way.

  She’s on her way?

  Yes.

  Why? Are they going to arrest me?

  No, sweetie.

  Norm?

  I don’t know.

  June peeks through. June watches as Hal Talbot hops out of the van and hurriedly starts setting up a tripod. He looks flustered, his suit rumpled, his hair mussed. With the news here to make it official, a small crowd of spectators gathers. Ladies with strollers, an old retired couple, a gaggle of renovators, lawn care professionals, and cable company installers. Suburbia’s daytime detritus. June’s never seen so many people on her street. A cop car pulls up behind the news van, its officers not even deigning to leave the comfort of their vehicle.

  Give them back! Give them back!

  Chant’s changed, June notes.

  Uh huh.

  Would you like a cup of coffee, Norm?

  That would be…nice.

  They retire to the kitchen. Thinking of Christine and the reporters and the police and the protestors but feeling unexpectedly relieved, June brews a fresh pot.

  Finally, the doorbell dings again. They stare at each other. June has the sudden urge to burst into laughter. The doorbell goes a second time. Ding-dong. Norm takes a sip from his cup and returns it to the saucer. The sounds calm June. Normal noises: Norm’s pursed lips slurping coffee, the phone ringing, the doorbell dinging. Amidst all that noise, she feels somehow relieved. Give back the bones? No. Sorry. Don’t have them. He’s—they’re—gone.

  The bell rings again. They’re still just looking at each other. Norm sighs, gets up.

  It’s probably your—lawyer friend.

  June stays where she is. She feels her limbs, a heaviness in her arms and legs. She wants to go upstairs and climb into bed. She’s tired. Exhausted.

  Angry shouts coming from outside.

  The protestors: Give back the—

  And the reporters: two or three of them now shouting through the wedge of half-opened doorway: Are the remains on the premises? Would you like to comment on the protest? Can we see them? On the allegations?

  And Christine—Chris, June reminds herself—crisply responding: The family has no comment at this time. Please step back to the sidewalk. This is private property. We’ll be making a statement at an appropriate interval. Please step back. This is private property.

  June hears the door open then shut and lock. She hears the click of Chris’s heels on the hallway’s tiles. She imagines her perfect in a pantsuit, glaring over the reporters.

  June? Norm says tentatively.

  June picks her head off the kitchen table.

  Your lawyer…friend is here.

  Christine moves to her, crouches down, gives her an awkward hug.

  Hi June, she says. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay. You just let us take care of everything.

  A flash in the ceiling. Another one of the recessed bulbs burning out.

  Oh! June startles.

  The phone rings. The protesters chant and wave their placards with a fervent enthusiasm that’s entirely alien to the placid surroundings of Lower Grove Drive. Don’t they have jobs? June goes back to the kitchen. She fills her coffee mug. Norm and Chris remain in the front sitting room, holding a hushed conference, tones just above a whisper. June sits down at the table. She wraps her hands around the warm porcelain. She stares into the depths of the slow swirl, top layer slightly greasy with melted milk congeal. She doesn’t look up to see the duo’s tentative arrival.

  Ah, June, Norm says. We think it’s best if you talk to Chris in here—

  Alone, Chris says.

  Yes, Norm agrees.

  No. June shakes her head without looking up. Norm should stay. I want him to.

  Chris crouches down again. June honey, she soothes, it’s better if Norm doesn’t stay. What you say to me will be entirely confidential. Lawyer client privilege.

  June looks down, contemplates her hands. She can smell Chris’s perfume. Her hands are worn and grainy against the glossy sheen of the glazed wood table. When was the last time she put on perfume?

  Go ahead sweetheart. I’m going to replace this light. Norm’s looking up at the ceiling
. Third one this month, he says, genuinely puzzled.

  June feels a sudden surge of affection for him.

  We’ll use your study? Chris asks Norm as she gently tugs on June’s arm, encouraging her out of her slump.

  June finds herself being led up the stairs. She wants to say something. Something normal.

  How’s, uh, Marcus? she asks, her supermarket voice loud and startling. Where did that come from? Chris’s boyfriend, right? She mentioned a boyfriend when they met in the Save-A-Centre, didn’t she? June just imagined him as a Marcus. Dark-haired, tall, work-out-four-times-a-week, little-Italy-condo-Mercedesconvertible Marcus.

  We broke up.

  Oh. I’m sorry.

  In here?

  Yes.

  There we go, let me get the light. You just sit down. Chris leads her to the leather love seat in the corner of the room. June wants to complain. She doesn’t need to be led. They broke up, she thinks. She lets Chris guide her, help her sit down. Chris turns on the lights, soft overheads that banish the backyard. June peeks out the window, sees a blur of blue—the tangled tarp. Quickly, she turns away.

  June, Chris says, sitting next to her on the love seat. Their hips touch. They broke up, June thinks. Chris is in a cream shirt and blazer number. Nylons. She really is a good-looking woman. Are you alright, June? Chris asks.

  June nods. She can’t seem to speak. She doesn’t want to cry.

  June, I need to ask you some questions, okay? I know you’re upset, but if I’m going to help you I need to know exactly what the circumstances are here. Okay?

  June looks at her hands.

  June?

  Tangled up in blue, she thinks. Bob Dylan. The tarp and the river and the sky. She used to have that disc. Still does, somewhere, in the basement, boxes of CDS she never unpacked. When was the last time she listened to—

  June?

  Can you close the curtain please?

  Chris springs up and shuts out the view. Now June, I know you’re going through a hard time. But I need you to try and relax.

  She tries to keep her face neutral. She feels like she might cry again. She puts her hands on her cheeks, feels the rough grain of her palms on her hot soft lips.

  June? You might feel better if you take—Chris fumbles in her purse. Here. Take two of these. You just put them under your tongue and they dissolve. You don’t swallow them. Okay? Here. Chris pries a hand down and drops two tiny blue tablets in June’s palm. She guides June’s hand to her mouth.