On a Thursday, the day before I was to fly up for my interview at Columbia University, our receptionist marched into my office with a manila envelope.
“Nicaragua,” she said.
Holbrook Easton, I thought, but when I saw the cheap paper and how poorly the Smithsonian address had been typed, I opened the envelope slowly, dreading the contents.
Out came a photo of the rotting corpse of Lieutenant Fuentes.
I slammed the photo on my desk. The receptionist came hurrying back in. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, just overloaded with work.”
“I hate to tell you this, but Mr. Rosen just called. Wants to see you right away.”
I locked the photo in my safe, took a few deep breaths, and traipsed down to the legal affairs office where Mr. Rosen was waiting. He was on the phone, but hung up when he saw me.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the gold coin?” he said, waving a sheet of paper. “I’m told you also removed shards of pre-Columbian pottery from an archaeological site in Nicaragua. And a human skull. For heaven’s sake, Ms. Richardson. A skull? This is the Smithsonian. We don’t pirate artifacts from other countries. And we don’t remove human remains either. There are protocols, conventions, rules about these matters. What we do is—”
“Hold on. Stop right there. I didn’t pirate anything.”
I plopped into a chair and told him how we’d bagged, photographed, and marked everything for delivery to the Nicaraguans, but were set upon by depredadores and barely escaped.
“Why didn’t you explain that the other day?”
“You didn’t seem interested.”
“I was busy, Ms. Richardson. You could have waited.”
“I also have a job, Mr. Rosen. Are we finished here?”
“Not by a long shot. I need a copy of your report to the Nicaraguan authorities.”
“I don’t have a report. The lady in charge doesn’t want one, not in writing.”
He glared at me over his glasses. “Let me see if I have this straight. You made an important archaeological discovery in a foreign country. That right?”
“Right.”
“You also removed artifacts and human remains from said site, yet you didn’t report it to us and didn’t report it to the Nicaraguans. Am I correct?”
“I tried to get your advice on how to handle it, but you were too busy to hear me. As for the Nicaraguans, I gave them a full report over the phone. I can put you in touch with the person in charge. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind explaining it.”
“That’s not the way we do things. I need a full written report of your discovery, everything you removed and an explanation of why you removed it. Signed and notarized.”
“All I can provide is a partial report. No names or location.”
“Would you like to see a copy of the agreement you signed when we employed you?”
“I’m well aware of what I signed, but I’m not going to endanger the lives of innocent parties.”
“You realize you could be censured, don’t you? People have been dismissed for less.”
“Fine, bring it to the board. I’ll be happy to explain what happened.”
I tried to slam the door when I left his office, but it had one of those air pressure things that closed it with a whisper, which made me even angrier, so I went to my office and flung all my work backload against the wall. Damn lawyers. Damn Gonzales. And damn this job!
Another cramp hit me on the way home, while I was on the metro. The second was worse, and by the time I reached my house in McLean, it felt like a rusty knife was inside my abdomen.
I called Stan’s number on my cell. No answer.
A car pulled into the driveway.
Stan, I hoped, and trudged to the door.
It was an old van, the motor running, with two Hispanic-looking men inside, staring at the house. If ever I’d had an Indiana Jones moment, this was it. The cave was collapsing. Things were exploding. Someone had let the snakes out.
I bolted the doors, dashed to the kitchen and fumbled for the Beretta in my purse.
Those bastards. How dare they come after me in my own home!
After me, a pregnant woman.
I popped in the clip, chambered a round, flung open the door, and marched outside with the pistol. By then they were climbing out as if coming to get me.
I aimed with both hands. “You sons of bitches! Hijos de putas!”
They jumped into the van and backed into the street as if they’d seen the devil, tires screeching, taking out a small dogwood and slamming into a parked car. Horns blared. There were curses and fist shakes from other drivers. Then they were gone, two men in an old rust-colored van with Maryland plates, leaving me in the driveway with a loaded pistol, still screaming.
Another cramp hit, this one so severe I doubled over in pain.
I retreated into the house and tried Stan again. Still no answer. Damn him. Why didn’t he answer? I lumbered into the garage, bent over in pain, and called 911.
Chapter 59
I vaguely recall a ride in an ambulance, a room marked SURGERY, someone putting an oxygen mask over my face. A female voice said I was having a “spontaneous.”
Then it was over. My love child gone, purged from my body, with neither the father nor my husband to comfort me. Just like the girl in the glyphs.
Lonely Girl. Stupid Girl.
The dream of Alan was so real I never wanted to wake again. Alan, my love, so close I felt the beat of his heart. So close I smelled his aftershave.
“Fly away,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”
I felt his arms around me, pulling me up, and I was stripping off my hospital gown, looking for my clothes, when the old Indian woman shuffled into the room with her basket of mushrooms. “The story is not yet finished,” she said.
“Why do you keep saying that? Just tell me how the damn story ends.”
She set her basket on the bed stand, next to Tan’s reconstructed water jug. “The story ends the same as this jug. Either in pieces or back together.”
She picked up the jug and smashed it on the floor.
I awoke with a start, my heart drumming against my ribs. The pillow that had been Alan was now just a pillow, crumpled and lifeless. The water jug was now a plastic water pitcher, and as my mind cleared, I realized it was Friday, the day I was supposed to be at Columbia University, and I was lying in a hospital bed in Tyson’s Corner, my soul as empty as my womb.
A nurse came into the room. “You have a visitor, a police woman. She’s outside.”
A heavyset woman in uniform entered the room, introduced herself as officer so and so of the Fairfax County Police Department. She apologized for the intrusion, said she was sorry for my loss, and asked me to explain what happened.
“I miscarried.”
“We’re aware of that, Ms. Richardson, but that’s not why I’m here.”
She sat down and opened a notepad. “Witnesses say you were waving a pistol around in your driveway, screaming at someone in a van.”
“They were threatening me.”
She made a notation. “How were they threatening you?”
“I…I’m not sure. I was upset. Scared. I don’t remember.”
“How do you know they weren’t service people…maybe coming to mow your lawn?”
“Our lawn service people drive a truck.”
“Can you describe them?”
“I just woke up. I’m nauseated, confused, head spinning…”
She stood and handed me a business card. “If someone is threatening you, we need to know. We can help you.” At the door, she said, “One more thing. Some of your neighbors are upset about that pistol. I wouldn’t do it again.”
Stan showed up in time to get me discharged. He avoided my eyes and said nothing. The drive home was also in silence, as if I’d suffered nothing more than the loss of a toenail. When we entered the house, he slammed the door and began his annoying pace around the kitchen.
> “What the hell were you thinking, Jennifer? That pistol’s not even registered.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Lock the fucking door and call the cops. Not go into a fit of insanity.”
He marched into the garage, took the pistol from my Volvo, and headed for the door.
“Where are you going with that?”
“Returning it. You’re too unstable to own a gun.”
“What if those men come back?”
“They’d be fools. Besides, you don’t need a pistol. What you need is an anger management course. Get that temper under control before you kill somebody else.”
I threw my discharge folder at him. A coffee cup too. I also called him a bastard and son of a bitch before he slammed the door behind him and left.
By Sunday, I could barely function. Couldn’t do much of anything except cry. How could my life come to this? A loveless marriage. Depression. A vindictive treasure hunter after my scalp. A miscarriage. Not just a miscarriage, but the loss of Alan’s child. Our child, the last thread that bound me to the only man I ever loved.
Gone. Just like all my other dreams.
My mind grew sharper, more focused, and again I saw the world as a living interconnected organism. If Stan hadn’t had a fling with the doctor’s wife, I wouldn’t have slept with Alan. If I hadn’t slept with Alan, I wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. Maritza wouldn’t have tried to kill herself either. The lieutenant would still be alive, the cave would still be lost, and I wouldn’t be lying in bed, bawling like a baby. All because of Father Antonio’s letter.
Well, I’d paid the devil his dues. Time to move on.
But how?
The word “commandments” came to mind, as in cave commandments. Maybe there were commandments in the cave for naïve little girls like me, authoritative orders dictating what and what not do. Or maybe I could make up my own commandments.
Why not? I reached for the pad next to my bed and began scribbling.
Commandment 1—Complicity: When you’re beat up and lying in a gutter, ask yourself why.
The answer was simple. I’d fallen for a man I barely knew. I’d had unprotected sex, and I’d been stupid for going to that cave by myself. Guilty as charged. Guilty, guilty, guilty.
Commandment 2—Never make crucial decisions in time of stress.
Like renewing my vows with Stan. Yes, this was good. I felt better already.
Commandment 3—Wallowing: Place a limit on the time for grieving.
Good. Crying sucked. No more crying. I’d spent enough time in that cesspool of despair.
Commandment 4—Temper: Get it under control.
Good luck with that one.
Commandment 5—Moving On: Get off your butt and take care of business.
Yes, decipher that damn text. Call the university and make another appointment. Move to New York and start a new life. Without Stan.
Chapter 60
New York City—Columbia University
The men in the rusty van stayed away. So did the cops. I wrote my report for Mr. Rosen. My spirits rebounded. My body healed, and exactly one week after my release from the hospital, I put on a dark suit jacket with white blouse, caught a shuttle flight to New York, took a taxi to Morningside Heights, and stepped into a new life.
Shade trees and walkways. Magnificent halls of learning. Students with backpacks and long hair and inquisitive minds. Yes, I was going to find a home here.
I marched into the building that housed the archaeology department, took the elevator to the fifth floor and found the dean’s office. “Oh, my,” said the white-haired lady at the reception desk. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Well, Dr. Sutter said Mayan background, so I suppose I expected…”
“Feathers and native attire?”
She laughed. “Of course not. Mayan has nothing to do with it. Most of our students are…well, more casual. Just wasn’t expecting someone so professional looking.” She stood, introduced herself as Martha, and pointed to a closed door. “He’s waiting for you. Go right in.”
Dr. Marcus Lane Sutter, Dean of the School of Arts and Humanities, sat high and lordly behind a mahogany desk, looking like English nobility with his tailored gray suit and thin white mustache. He took off his glasses and stepped around the desk to take my hand, bringing with him the richness of wool. From the way he smiled, he seemed to like what he saw, and I didn’t think he was so bad either, an older, more polished version of Alan.
He motioned me into a padded chair and took a seat on the sofa facing me, but when he spoke in a clipped British accent, I felt the entire distance between Florida and England.
“I’m told you’re a native Mayan speaker.”
“Yucatec Maya.”
“You also read Mayan hieroglyphics?”
“It’s my specialty.”
“Fascinating. You could be our first doctoral candidate with a Mayan background.” He put on his glasses and flipped through my transcripts. “Let’s see, B.A. from Florida State, M.A. from Duke, graduate credits from Georgetown. Now working at the Smithsonian.”
He flipped through more pages. “The registrar says all you need is twelve more credit hours, two advanced certifying exams and a dissertation. You also applied for an assistantship?”
“A teaching assistantship, but I’ll take whatever is available.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. McMullen. All those positions are filled. We held one for you until last Friday, but since you didn’t show up…”
I could have cried. Last Friday I’d been lying in a hospital bed in Virginia, but I wasn’t going to whine about it. Instead, I leaned forward and looked Sutter in the eye.
“Suppose I told you I just made an important discovery?”
“Where?”
“Nicaragua. The Cave of Commandment Glyphs. Would you like to see the photos?”
The restaurant was French. It was near campus and had the same dignified air as Sutter’s black Mercedes. A tall man in a double-breasted suit escorted us to a booth in the rear. Edith Piaf was singing one of her trademark vibratos. Around us, a few business-looking types were eating lunch and chatting over their drinks. Sutter ordered for me. I waited for the tea to arrive and then handed him 8 x10 glossies of the nine glyph plates.
He put on his glasses and examined them. “Have you notified the Nicaraguans?”
“Not officially.”
“You realize it’s a requirement?”
“I’m an archaeologist, Dr. Sutter. I’m well aware of the protocols.”
“How sure are you that it’s what they say—Ten Commandments and all that?”
“Only one way to find out…and that’s to decipher them.”
“Who is going to do that?”
“I am. I’d like to tackle it for my dissertation.”
We talked. I told him about Rosario and the depredadores. The salad arrived, and after the server left, Sutter lowered his voice. “If I do some juggling, I can get you a teaching assistantship this summer—private office, waiver of all tuition.”
I almost choked on an olive. “Summer? As in two weeks?”
“Three weeks. An undergraduate course in Mayan hieroglyphics.”
“I’d also like an assistantship for the fall semester.”
“We’ll work it out.”
“Wait, wait, just stop, there’s got to be a catch.”
“Of course there’s a catch. Photos aren’t good enough. Not for your dissertation committee. They’ll demand to see the place. I’d like to see it too.”
“But I can’t—”
He held up a hand to stop me. “I know you can’t reveal the location. Not yet. So what I’m suggesting is toward the end of your program, we all go down to Nicaragua together—you, me, your committee, your friend, Rosario. What do you say?”
“I say we’ve got a deal.”
We shook hands. Edith Piaf was doing one of her dark an
d smoky ballads, and in that moment I remembered the way Alan always wanted to settle a deal, and it wasn’t with a handshake.
“Are you quite well?” Sutter asked in his British accent.
“I’m fine. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.”
Afterward, he drove me to a taxi station, but unlike Stan, who would’ve dumped me at the curb, Sutter helped me out of his Mercedes and walked with me to the taxi. He shook my hand and bussed me on both cheeks. One last wave and he was gone, and as he drove away I thought how I hadn’t felt this good since Ana Maria Island.
Commandment Six. Pursue your dreams. Work hard at it. Never give up.
Chapter 61
I turned in my two-week notice, boxed all my files and reports and the water jug and began the painful task of wrapping up loose ends. Diane acted as if my departure was the end of the world.
“Don’t look so glum,” I told her. “We’ll always be friends.”
I had lunch with Tan and Niro and wished them well.
I also finished reading Father Antonio’s manuscript and concluded that no matter how many dangers I faced, his were worse. The only people after me were incompetent treasure hunters. His pursuers had been agents of the Inquisition, head-hunting savages, the entire Nicaraguan cavalry, a jealous husband, and even a pirate named Vampire Jack.
I flipped through the pages again. I’d never find time for translation, so I removed the pages about the gold and commissioned a native Catalán speaker to translate for me.
My other problem was Stan, who complained about everything. Why didn’t I go grocery shopping? Why didn’t I put air in the Volvo’s tires? Then one morning when I could stand it no longer, I said, “I’ll be leaving in a few days. What are you planning to do?”
“I’m staying put. A few months apart will do us good.”
“Absence didn’t work before.”
The Girl in the Glyphs Page 19