The Archaeologists

by Hal Niedzviecki

  June snaps her hand into a fist. No!

  June, it’s not—it’s just to—

  No! I can’t!

  June. It’s just something to calm you—

  I can’t!

  What? What is it? You can tell me.

  I’m—

  June?

  I think I’m—pregnant.

  Chris’s cheeks colour. Then fade to white. Flash of—

  anger, June thinks. Annoyance. No. Jealousy.

  June, you’re pregnant?

  June half nods. No. I mean, it was only just, last week. When Norm and I—but still. I think I am. I feel…different.

  Are you sure?

  Could Chris really be jealous of her? The idea fills her with unexpected confidence. Chris is gorgeous, has an important job, lives in a fancy condo downtown. But…she broke up with her boyfriend.

  She’s lonely, June thinks.

  Have you said anything to Norm yet?

  June shakes her head. Don’t, she says. Don’t say anything.

  Okay. But…you should take a test. They have these new ones. You only have to be…a week. I…saw an ad for them. In a magazine.

  June doesn’t answer.

  Anyway, you better not…Chris plucks the pills from June’s hand, slips them back in the vial. She seems shaken.

  What are those? June asks.

  The pills? Nothing. They just…calm you down.

  Do you take them?

  I—they’re for clients, comes in handy. I mean, sometimes I… Chris laughs uncomfortably. I mean, you wouldn’t believe the stress I’m under….

  June nods. You and Marcus?

  He broke up with me.

  What happened?

  Oh, what happened? Chris laughs dryly. We were both… always…working. It just wasn’t meant to be, I guess.

  You’re beautiful. You’ll find someone.

  I guess.

  They sit together on the love seat. Their legs touching. Nylon to sweatpant. Outside in the backyard and beyond, birds call each other, the wind rustles new leaves.

  It’s so quiet here, Chris says.

  Usually, June says. They both laugh.

  It’ll be a great place for…kids.

  June nods.

  They sit. The phone rings. Then Chris’s cell, oddly in beat with the faint background hum of chanting protestors: Not your bones. Not your bones. Not your…

  So, Chris says, deftly extracting her phone and turning it off. You want to tell me what’s going on?

  June nods.

  TIM AND CHARLIE

  Saturday April 19

  TIM LURKS IN THE SHADOW cast by the Colonnades apartments. It’s late afternoon and the tall building blocks the sun, cutting shade into the parking lot. He’s stalling. Just get it over with. He swore he’d never come back. But he needs money. He needs to put gas in the car. He can’t go home without—

  gas in the car. 50 bucks. Or, maybe, like—a couple a hundred.

  He has debts. The China. He was supposed to sell it. Instead he—

  Maybe five. Five grand would—

  He’s never gotten a penny from anyone his whole life. That cheque his dad sent him. Burned it right up, Tim thinks with satisfaction. But now. Now he’s—

  A buff guy in a tracksuit springs through the doors, car keys jangling. Tim slips inside. He is confronted by the same weirdly green stolid plants standing dutifully in the dusty otherwise lifeless lobby. No spring here. No summer either. The perpetual fall twilight reminds Tim of the lower depths of the woods, weird Charlie’s Indian crypt, and then, after that—

  the hole, Tim thinks.

  The dank porous dark at the bottom of the hole where he—

  I couldn’t see—and—

  She hit me. She fucking—

  She hit him and he fell, skin against wet mud, and there was—

  There was—

  She was—

  Only, he couldn’t—he couldn’t stay awake.

  And she—

  When he woke up, he was alone. Alone at the bottom of an empty hole.

  After that, he’s not sure. He wasn’t even sure what day it was. His whole body ached. There was dirt everywhere, under his fingernails, ground into his clothes, in his hair, in his ears. He remembers waking up at the bottom of the hole. He remembers—digging—with his hands, on his knees—also, he took some pills. At some point. A few more of the pills. Had to, Tim thinks. There was this beat in his head, not drums, more like a chant, a murmured reverb getting louder and louder, settling deeper and deeper. He scraped and clawed to that horrible insistent rhythm. Rhythm.

  Digging and digging and digging through rock and clay and loam, each layer colder and harder than the next.

  And then?

  Tim shakes his head in frustration, pain pounding the sides of his skull. And then back in the woods, somehow. Waking up under the tree, next to the fire pit, back to Timmy’s old spot.

  Only, the chanting was gone. And everything seemed—

  different.

  The sun had been strong. The gulley all lit up, impossibly bright, irrevocably alive. Tim had fallen back against hard cold dirt, everything spinning. But he’d resisted the demand to close his eyes, to cover the bright air with his dirty dark fists.

  Good fucking Jesus, his head!

  Despite the headache and the way every muscle in his body felt like it had been pounded into submission, Tim forced himself to stare up into the nascent light green of the great tree’s unfurling leaves, foreground offset by the stunning blue of a painted blue sky. He’d laid there until the spin settled and he’d managed to understand what he was really feeling underneath the relenting pain. Relief, he thought now, steadying himself against the lobby wall. Why? What had he done? The bottom of the pit—digging—so where were the—

  Tim closes his eyes.

  Carly’s voice: Don’t think about it. It’ll come.

  He’s all messed up. His head feels like it’s splitting in half. He’s out of gas. He’s out of the China. He wants to go home, but he doesn’t have any—

  money.

  So back here, back to the good old Colonnades. He’s not angry anymore, he tells himself. It’s just what he’s owed. That’s all he wants. Just a little bit of what he sure as shit deserves.

  The next thing is the elevator, the way its soft gliding stop seems to take two times forever. The door opens with a jerk and Tim lurches himself forward and on down the hall, a simulacrum of a man in a hurry. At his dad’s door, Tim doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the doorknob and pushes. It’s locked. Tim yanks at the knob, rattles it. Nothing. No response. He waits a few seconds then starts slapping at the door with the flat of his hand. Dad? Hey Dad? C’mon Dad, he thinks, or maybe says, picking up the pace of his percussion. Wakey wakey. Wakey wakey, old man. Don’t do this to me. Don’t fucking do this to me.

  He’s going hard now, really slamming at the door—

  Wakey wakey, Daddy, wake the fuck up. Don’t you do this to me, ya goddam—

  he’s kinda—

  yelling—

  freaking out here—

  Abruptly, Tim kicks the door. Starts punching it.

  Fuck! Fuck! Open up you fucking asshole! Open the fuck up!

  He’s screaming now, the veins on his forehead bulging. There’s no beat, no rhythm, just the rage in waves, a great dam abruptly unimpeded, a river running over and through.

  Fuck! Fuck!

  Tim doesn’t even notice the woman standing near him.

  Excuse me, she calls. Excuse me. Young man?

  Finally, she steps forward and tries to grab one of his flailing arms.

  Huh—wha?—

  Young man, she snaps nasally!

  Tim turns, the woman steps quickly away from him.

  Can I help you? she asks.

  Can I help you? he snarls.

  Now she’s standing in front of the open door of her across-the-hall apartment. Woke her up, Tim thinks. He scrutinizes her, a lady in her sixties, dishevelled
in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. Flu. Home sick from work.

  I live here, she proclaims. She looks at him with bleary discomfort.

  Good for you. You want an award? Tim is breathing heavily. His face is blotchy from exposure and effort, his army surplus outfit liberally blotched with mud and dusty sap stains. The reek of sweat and pot and vomit fills the hallway. Tim smells himself in the closed confines.

  Listen, he says. I—it’s cool. I’m just trying to—

  Who are you looking for? she asks.

  The…the old guy. Who lives here.

  Oh. She frowns. Her red nose crinkling. I’m afraid he…are you…?

  Tim looks down at his boots. His feet in there, the bog soak of moist sock rot. He can feel his peeling red toes. Tell her. Why not? His mom would be her age.

  I’m his son.

  Oh. Oh dear. The woman digs into her housecoat pocket and pulls out a wad of tissue. She blows her nose. He…I’m sorry to say that he’s—

  Dead, right?

  She nods. I’m terribly sorry.

  Figures. I mean, I figured. Okay. Okay then. Tim jams his fists into his pants pockets. He moves down the dingy carpet toward the elevator. He can’t feel his legs under him. The hallway is dark and narrow, closing in.

  Wait, she calls after him. Are you…okay?

  He stops, half turns. Keep walking. There’s nothing here anymore. Just some lady. Somebody’s mother. Somebody’s freaking math teacher or something. Once, once upon a time, his mom helped him with his math homework. Addition. Multiplication. Subtraction.

  Are you sure you’re okay, young man? Maybe you should—

  Did you know him?

  The woman shakes her head. Not really. He was quite…private.

  He was an asshole.

  The woman winces. Well I wouldn’t speak that way about…

  So when did he croak?

  He passed two nights ago.

  Two nights ago? Are you sure? What time? Do you know what time?

  Sick-lady math teacher takes another step back toward the sanctuary of her own apartment.

  I’m sorry, she says. All I know is what the super told me. Maybe I should get the super?

  She stares down at her fuzzy slippers.

  Looks up.

  The hallway is empty.

  Tim checks himself out in the rear-view mirror of the inert Pontiac. His face, smeared with streaks of drying dirt, is pale and drawn. His hair has gone flat and stringy. His eyes bulge out of their sockets. Skin peels and flakes off the sides of his nose. Nice look, he thinks. So what? At least I’m still—

  Last man standing. It’s official. His dad is dead. Maybe that explains why—at the bottom—he woke up; it was warm, almost hot. And the bones were—it was so quiet. Then the sound, the song—not a song, the chant—that wordless, soundless prayer. Tim remembers lying there, just lying there and letting the pulsing heat seep into him. And then he was crying, tears running down his cheeks. Only, he hadn’t felt sad, not really, just—

  alive.

  And he woke up. And there was nothing. His hurting head, empty. And he knew, then, that his mother was gone. That his father was—

  Yeah, so, what’s the problem? Time to celebrate, right? Get yourself a big steak. Ha yeah. Celebrate. A nice big juicy bloody steak.

  Tim yanks open the car door and retches. Nothing comes out. He dangles his weightless head, spitting bile. Finally, he slumps back against the car’s padded seat. Through the filthy window he surveys the dead dump clearing, portal to the woods, his home away from home, home on the range, home is where your heart is, home is where you hang your hat, home. Ha. I’m an orphan. Hey Carly, guess what? I’m a—

  His mind races and his heart jumps up and down like a jack-in-the-box trapped in a hollow chest.

  He doesn’t know what he is.

  He tried, right? At least I tried.

  What did he expect? That after all these years he could come back, snap his fingers and make everything better? Same shit, different day—right Dad? Only, for a second, Carly, she was there. He feels his neck, the skin tight against the hard press of his throat. He imagines that he still smells it, the faint rosy waft of her perfume. Maybe he does. She came to say goodbye, Tim reasons. And now it’s time for him to do the same.

  From his pocket, Tim extracts a plastic baggie full of dirt and grey stone. The remains of the old pipe. The pipe was smashed to bits when that crazy lady hit him and he fell into the—into his mother’s—but he saved what he could, hurriedly scooped dirt and shattered stone into empty plastic. Sorry Charlie. Tim shrugs. He carefully pours what he managed to salvage into the creased grimy paper of his father’s letter, folded in half. He stuffs the makeshift envelope back into the filthy baggie. One last time, he thinks, stepping out of the car. His legs are dizzy under him. He holds onto the roof until his muscles stop shaking and he can stand without falling.

  Tim sits cross-legged in the dirt under the giant tree. The sun is in decline. It’s almost dusk and the air is getting brisk. He’s made a fire in the pit. Real cozy like. Lazy breeze swirling ash. Pull up a stump. Make yourself at home. Smoke drifts up in naked boughs, dulls sparkling rays of the late setting sun. The giant tree towers over him. The old boulder, his sore back against it. Solid, immutable objects. Some things are for sure. Knowable. Forever. The hard rock against his stiff neck. The old tree groaning in the gloaming. The breeze shifts smoke and river air in his face. Tim coughs, his whole empty body creaking forward like a hollow tin can caught in a gust of wind.

  This is like dying, he thinks. Distant decomposing breezes and smoky moments of fleeting sharp awareness. He’s not dying. Naw. He’s just going to—

  close my eyes. For a bit. Get some rest.

  He wakes up. The fire is blazing. The heat feels good on his face. Through closed eyes he can see flames.

  Big brown pupils float over him.

  Hey, he hears.

  Hey yourself, he says through cracked lips.

  Charlie giggles nervously.

  Did you—? He gestures weakly at the fire.

  She nods.

  Thanks.

  Here, she says, drinks this.

  He reaches for it, the jar of tea. His hands shake, spilling. She covers his hands with hers. Her skin is cool and soft. Charlie helps him bring the glass to his lips. He drinks. Again. Then again. He empties the jar.

  Charlie sits down next to him. What does she want? he wonders. Why does she keep showing up? The fire cracks. A chipmunk scampers. Tim feels himself drifting, his muscles unclenching. There’s something about the way the girl just sits there looking at him, the way she just is. It’s like, he thinks, she doesn’t fully exist. He shifts, feels her camouflage jean leg against his twig thigh. He smells her scent, sweat and hints of spice and perfume. But that doesn’t mean anything. Of course she’s real. But real how? She was sent here, Tim thinks. She was sent to me. This realization calms him. His mother—appearing and disappearing. The bones—there, then gone. His father—alive, then dead. And Charlie—disappearing, reappearing. Sent to him. Sent to help him.

  A light warm breeze blows through the river gulley. Tim looks up at the giant tree spread out above them. Wordlessly, he hands Charlie the shattered pipe bundle he’s been holding on his lap. Charlie unwraps it and carefully peers in, squinting down through the thickening twilight.

  It’s all broken. Charlie’s voice quavers.

  Sorry, Tim mutters. I…

  Sorry?

  Yeah. I was—it’s—

  Charlie stares fiercely at the crushed remains. It’s not good, she says. That was, like, really really old.

  I know, Tim sighs. The girl looks like she’s going to cry. We’ll bury it, Tim says quickly. What if we bury it?

  The Natives used to bury the bones of the animals they ate, Charlie says sombrely. Then they would say a prayer for them. It was so the animals could be reborn and stuff.

  Reborn?

  Yeah, like, so they’re not all used up an
d stuff.

  Huh.

  They sit in silence. The big tree stirs, its limbs weary.

  So—Tim says. Do you want to?

  I…I don’t know.

  Why not?

  I don’t know. Charlie frowns, her forehead wrinkling.

  Why not? Tim is insistent. He needs this. She was sent to him. Tim’s never been to a—

  funeral.

  Why not?

  Charlie’s standing now. She’s staring through the smoke at the running river. We can’t just bury it, she says quietly. We have to… show that we’re sorry.

  Sorry?

  It needs to be an offering, Charlie says definitively.

  An offering? He’d been thinking burial. Dig a hole and drop the past in. Cover it up. Make it disappear.

  Maybe…Charlie says…we should throw it in the river.

  In the river?

  That’s what we do. We make an offering. We’re Hindu.

  Yeah? Tim’s listening.

  Yeah, says Charlie, getting excited. When we moved into our house we put a bunch of money in a plastic bag and we drove over to the park part of the river and I threw it in.

  You threw money in? Like…how much.

  Charlie shrugs. I dunno. Hundreds. For luck and stuff.

  Hundreds? Tim remembers burning that cheque his father sent him, how good it felt.

  And when my daadeemaa died my pappa flew to India and threw her ashes in the river.

  Uh…Who died?

  My grandmother.

  Huh. So it was, like, a funeral?

  Yeah. I guess. It’s part of our religion.

  Huh.

  So are we going to do it? Charlie’s enlivened. She wants to do this. They’ll throw the pipe in, say a prayer. They won’t be angry anymore. They’ll know she’s sorry. They’ll understand that she didn’t mean to—

  Yeah, we’ll do it. But first we should—Tim fumbles for it, the very last of his supply. A tightly rolled joint.

  Charlie looks at it, eyes narrowed.

  This is my last one, Tim snaps. He proffers the Che lighter. You wanna do the honours?

  No, Charlie says. I don’t know. It makes me feel all weird. Like someone’s watching me.