As he approached the house two black Labrador retrievers sounded the alarm. They circled his truck howling but when he rolled down the window and spoke to them they turned friendly; and when he climbed out the dogs came up and begged for attention. He scratched their heads and squeezed their ears. They nudged him playfully, licked his hand, and followed him up the flagstone walk, their tails wagging like a pair of metronomes.
He had rehearsed what he planned to say, but the moment he saw her all of that went out the window.
She was pulling a tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven when she heard the dogs barking out front. A thrill passed through her. She set the tray on the counter, pulled off the mitts, undid her apron and hurried out of the kitchen.
“I see you met Rough and Ready,” she said from the porch.
“I almost burned your letter.” Even as he said the words he was shocked by his own voice. In Florida, when she mentioned her friend in San Francisco he wondered about the relationship, though he did not ask her about it because the details...well, he was just not that curious. However, it had been six months without so much as a postcard and, dammit, he felt jilted. He couldn’t help it.
“Don’t be that way,” she said. She took him gently by the hand and led him up the steps into the house, then, up the broad stairs to her bedroom.
Three hours later when they came down again, she was barefoot as she set a platter of freshly-baked cookies on a large round oak table in the kitchen. Her eyes were dancing. “Tea? Or milk?”
“Milk.”
She pulled down two glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table. He followed her with his eyes. She was borderline awkward, but when she moved a certain way she morphed into something else that was indescribably beautiful. He could not help but stare, watching for the seamless transition, even in the simple act of opening the refrigerator. She was poetry in motion.
She gave him a naughty look as she poured the milk out. Then, she curled up on the chair beside him. They joined hands, their fingers intertwined, and feasted on the cookies.
“My favorite,” he said, “chocolate chip.”
“I didn’t know you were the jealous type,” she said, adding an inflection with her eyes.
Suddenly furious, he stared back daggers; but only for a moment. She had acquired a milk mustache that he thought was quite becoming. “Have a look, Bozo,” he said, nodding at the mirror on the wall.
She turned to the mirror and let out a shriek. Like an elf she jumped up, grabbed a wet dishrag from the counter and wiped her mouth, then, with a neat backhand lofted it over her shoulder into the sink. Her face was flushed, her freckles turning that weird shade of green. She came up behind him, wrapped her slender arms around his neck and began to roughhouse.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” He pulled her around until she faced him squarely.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” she said, indicating the letter.
“So, what did you mean by ‘back among the living’?”
But she was already pulling him by the arm. “Come, get up, get up and I’ll show you the rest of the house. It’s way cool.” She led him through a kind of atrium with a skylight past an upright piano into the central living area. The furnishings were spare but in excellent taste. The room was commodious, all in stone and wood, a blend of utility, comfort, and beauty. An assortment of prints and framed photos of horses adorned the knotty-pine walls. Navaho rugs partially covered the flagstone floor, thrown this way and that. The south-facing wall was mostly glass. The large windows rose to a vaulted ceiling, which created the impression of tremendous vertical space. The large room felt even larger. The stairway was at one end, and at the other a massive stone hearth, obviously the work of a master stone-mason. The mantle and chimney were impressive.
But the main attraction was the library. The entire north wall was comprised of bookshelves, row after row. Additional stacks had been arranged at right angles. It was easily the largest private collection he had ever seen. He wandered among the shelves, pausing here and there to sample the collection which was wide ranging. The library also showed refined sensibilities. Several shelves were loaded with the classics, including the works of Plato, Josephus, Homer, Hesiod, Virgil, Ovid, Philo, Plutarch, Herodotus, Aristotle, Plotinus, the Greek playwrights, and many others. There was also a large literary section featuring both classic and contemporary authors. On the adjoining shelf was an extensive Native American collection. Considerable space was devoted to science, especially natural history. Several shelves were filled with books about psychology and religion, including Buddhist, Christian, Gnostic, Hindu, and Sufi texts. There was a section devoted to history and politics, and a shelf of how-to books, plus a collection about horses. Finally, there was a shelf of technical volumes and journals on various agricultural and business-related subjects.
She met his inquiring look and said matter-of-factly, “It’s my aunt and uncle’s library.”
“So, what’s your surprise?”
She looked thoughtful and seemed about to answer, but just then they heard wheels on gravel. A green International Harvester carry-all suddenly appeared in the driveway. They went out together and, surrounded by wagging retrievers, helped her aunt Mary unload a dozen bags of groceries and other store-bought stuff. Tallie introduced him.
The older woman was all smiles and after greeting him, announced that company was coming for supper. “And they’ll be here at six,” she said in a tone that implied “Help! I’m running late, as usual.”
Mary and Tallie headed into the kitchen. Tom retrieved his bag from his truck, and went upstairs to shower.
When he returned twenty minutes later delicious smells were emanating from the kitchen. With a flourish Mary removed her apron and went up to change. Tallie stayed to finish dinner and fix the salad. She recruited Tom to set the table.
Fifteen minutes later the guests arrived, a pleasant looking older couple. Tallie encouraged them to make themselves at home in the living room where Tom joined them. After introductions Tallie served wine and cheese, then disappeared once again into the kitchen. The man’s name was Peter Martin. He was an archaeology professor from the University of Chicago, and was accompanied by his attractive wife, Stephanie.
A moment later Mary came down the stairs adjusting an ear ring and greeted her guests. After an enthusiastic round of hugs and hellos they settled into the business of catching up.
“When did you get back from Paris?”
“Last weekend,” said Stephanie.
“Marvelous!” said Mary. “Paris! Wow! I can’t wait to hear about it.”
“It was my treat,” said the professor.
Stephanie asked about the equestrian trophies on the mantle. “In a former life,” Mary replied, “I used to compete. Ancient history now. Speaking of which, Peter has been part of an archeological expedition.” Tom understood this was for his benefit. “In Egypt.”
“Yes, in the southern desert,” said Peter.
“Didn’t you say you’ve been working on a book?” Mary asked. “Or did I misunderstand?”
“Actually,” Peter said, “it will be an anthology one of these days.”
Tallie came in and announced that supper was ready. They carried their drinks to the table where they were immediately refilled. The food was served and what a meal it was, homemade stew with dumplings, a fresh fruit salad, and biscuits straight from the oven, light as air, served with butter and homemade blackberry preserves.
While they ate Mary got her detailed report about Paris. The conversation then lurched briefly into politics, and eventually worked its way around to the other dinner guest.
“Tom’s a logger,” Tallie said with unmistakable disapproval.
Tom set his fork down and looked at her.
“Really?” said Stephanie.
“You run a chainsaw?”
“Yes.”
“Those noisy things scare the daylights out of me,” Peter said.
“It isn’t for everyone.”
“Tell us about it, what you do,” Stephanie wanted to know.
Tom briefly described the job, the woods, the boss and crew. When they ran out of questions he turned to Peter, “Sir, what will your book be about?”
“I always forget the name of the site,” Mary said.
“Nabta Playa,” said Peter. “It’s in the middle of nowhere. No roads. No motels. We fly in and basically have to rough it. There is nothing but desert for 100 plus miles around in every direction. It’s the most forbidding place I’ve ever seen, by far. The southern Egyptian desert is a furnace. Daily temperatures, even in winter when conditions are tolerable, often exceed 110 degrees. But eight thousand years ago it was a very different place. In those days Nabta Playa was a grassland and had a temperate climate; and a sizable human population.” The professor paused. “But I’m starting to ramble,” he said. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”
“No, please go on,” said Tallie.
“How did you learn about the place?” Tom said.
“Our work at Nabta Playa dates to 1973 when several of my colleagues happened to be passing through the area en route to somewhere else. By chance, they had stopped for a rest or lunch break and discovered potsherds, which are bits of old pottery, one of the best indicators that a site may have archeological significance. The team returned the following year and we’ve been digging ever since. They recruited me in at the start of the third field season.”
“So, what have you found? Anything important?” Mary said.
“Oh yes,” Peter replied. He explained how, during the third year, when the team began to investigate some unusual rock outcroppings, they were shocked to discover that the large stones were in fact megaliths. A very long time ago, someone had moved the stones into position. It was clear that the placements were intentional. “There is no longer any doubt,” Peter said. “But who, and for what purpose? We still do not know. Later, we found a standing circle reminiscent of Stonehenge, though much older, and numerous other strange stone formations, all of them artificial. We also recovered many artifacts. We’ve shown that humans occupied Nabta Playa over a period of many thousands of years. The oldest potsherds date to the close of the last ice age. Some of the largest stones also date to the same period.”
“Wow! That’s really old. But how could you date them?”
“Good question. Some of the stones were buried under eight to ten feet of sediment. They call it ‘a playa,’ you see, because it’s a kind of natural basin. That’s what ‘playa’ means. Long ago, when the place was lush grassland, the basin collected seasonal rains. And it’s possible, fortunately, to estimate the rate of deposition with reasonably good accuracy.” But now Peter hesitated, as if searching for the precise words. “Believe me … it has been immensely satisfying to work with talented professionals. Wendorf’s team, of which I am proud to be a part, is a great bunch of people. And the work is...very satisfying. It’s such a thrill, I can’t describe the feeling, just incredible, to uncover literally a forgotten epoch of human history. Still, I must confess, the work at Nabta Playa has also been the most frustrating experience of my career. It is humbling to study an ancient site for ten years and come away with no final answers. In truth, we are no closer to understanding the significance of Nabta Playa, today, than when we first found it. Some of my colleagues think the stones are aligned to stars. But this is still unproven. The stones remain a mystery...”
“But I love mysteries!” said Tallie. She had come from the kitchen to announce dessert.
Mary suggested they retire to the large room. Peter led the way and proceeded to feed the fire already burning in the stone hearth. When they were comfortably seated around the fire, Tallie served coffee and generous helpings of lemon meringue pie, made from scratch. They enjoyed the pie and coffee while Mary regaled them with stories about the old Wimmer spread in southern Colorado where she had been born and raised. The old ranch was located near Westcliffe, in the lee of the Sangre de Cristos Mountains. In her late-forties, Mary was still an attractive woman. Intelligent and charismatic, she had a way of talking that put you at ease. Finally, she said, “I expect Bernard back this evening. Sometime late.”
Tallie turned to Tom, “He’s my uncle and ... that’s your surprise.”
“Um...” Tom said.
“Uncle Bernard knew your faculty adviser.”
“Leadbetter?” Tom stammered.
NINETEEN
In Florida they had discussed many things. Actually, he did most of the talking, she the listening. She did not enjoy talking about herself. He talked to open her up.
He knew she did not approve of the logging. But once he got rolling, a light appeared in her eyes. She was definitely interested. Once when he paused, she peppered him. “But how did you go from being a philosophy student to operating a chainsaw?”
So, he told her about Carl “Battery Acid” Olsen.
“I had known Carl from before, through my faculty adviser, Nolan Leadbetter, who hired him during my sophomore year at state. Professor Leadbetter was a leading zoologist, and that summer he was trying to complete his grand-opus, a study of the prairie dog in Colorado. The study had been in the works for ten years. But Leadbetter needed an experienced field guide for the final phase of the project. He recruited Carl because “Old Vinegar” had a reputation as the finest guide in the state.
“Wait. I’m confused. You studied zoology? You told me you were into philosophy.”
“I’ll get to it.”
“OK. Tell me about Olsen.”
“I want you to meet him. He’s a maverick. Way back when, during the 1940s and 1950s, Carl had been a member of the U.S. Geological Survey team charged with the geodetic mapping of the Colorado River basin; after which, for many years, he pursued a career as a big-game hunting guide. At which he was very successful, and much sought after. Carl’s trademark was a guaranteed clear shot. He knows the high country better than any man alive, he calls it the “Big Open.” Most of his business came through referrals from friends or acquaintances. Oh, he occasionally led large hunting parties, but he preferred a more personal experience, and usually hired out to individual trophy hunters. Carl’s retired now, but he keeps busy running a small post and pole operation over in North Park. That’s where I had my start in the woods. He’s based in Walden.
“Why do you call him ‘Old Battery Acid’?”
“Carl’s in the habit of speaking his mind and has a sharp tongue. But when you get to know him you discover he’s actually very open-minded. Only, he refuses to suffer fools.
In the spring of my senior year, I had taken a job as a managerial assistant (a glorified file clerk) at the Larimer county courthouse in Ft Collins. I needed the income after completing my course-work in philosophy. I’ll get to the switch from zoology. I was flat broke after four years of academia.
But I guess I’m just not suited for office work. Truth is, I hated the endless paper shuffling, the gossiping secretaries and my harping supervisor, not to mention the mind-numbing tedium. I was bored to tears. I used to watch the clock, counting the hours, even the minutes. The worst part was the stale office air. The building had hermetically sealed windows and a forced air ventilation system that drove me borderline crazy. The perpetually recycled air was like slow asphyxiation.
At break time I would flee the tomb, race down two flights of stairs, leaping three or four at a time, to ground level and out into the sunshine to fill up my lungs with breathable air. The other office workers, meanwhile, eager for their nicotine fix, would light up and stand around blowing smoke at one another as they engaged in idle chit-chat.
One morning during the first week of June, I was on break when I literally ran into Carl in the north lobby. Or, rather, he ran into me. I was coming out of the men’s room when he hit the door from the other side with a full head of steam, knocking me six feet backwards. I landed hard on my tail and lay there sprawled on the terrazzo.
Olsen stood in the doorway, a look of surprise on his grizzled old face. He gave a grunt. “Tom Lacey, what are you doing down there?” he shouted. “Speak of the devil.”
I felt like giving Carl a piece of my mind but instead, just sat there glowering at him. Olsen stepped over, did his business, zipped up his fly as he moved to the sink, turned on the tap, and began lathering his hands. “You gonn’ make it?” he said.
I was already on my feet. “What’s it been, Carl, two years?”
My own voice sounded like an echo. You see, running into Carl had dredged up some painful memories. Talk of Nolan Leadbetter was out of the question. The man was a ghost. We just stood staring at the floor. Strange what you recall in such a moment, unrelated things, minutiae, vivid despite the passage of time.
Seconds passed. Finally, Olsen sneezed. It came out of nowhere and was so sudden he nearly lost his glasses.
“Gesundheit.”
Carl resettled his wire-rims on his nose, then, pulled out a much-abused handkerchief and blew with decision. He wiped his beak one way, then the other. Finished, he stuffed the wad back in his hip pocket. “Memories,” he said in an offhand way, as if thankful to be done with them.
“I’m trying to recall the last time I saw you,” I said to him. “You don’t get into town much, these days, do you?”
By now we had relocated to the hallway.
“Nope,” the old man growled in a tone that said, “no further comment.” But he added with a wink, “Only this week I’m visiting my daughter and grandkids in Greeley.”
“So, how’ve you been?”
“Not so good.”
“You haven’t been sick?”
“Last February they opened me up like a fish, here to here,” he said, motioning across his abdomen. “Removed half my duodenum. Then, stapled me back together like a Christmas turkey.” After a second, he added. “They should have installed a zipper...”
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