The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  “Oh, Mami, please”

  “Don’t you ‘Oh, Mami’ me. I know loneliness when I hear it.”

  I had another erotic dream that night, and when I awoke from the excitement, dogs were howling outside my window. All across the nation couples were making love or holding hands and reading poetry. And here I was, curled up with a pillow.

  Alone.

  Chapter 68

  Mexico City

  We arrived at mid-afternoon, checked into adjoining rooms at the luxurious Melia Mexico Reforma, and by nine that evening, were sitting across from each other at a noisy little restaurant in Plaza Garibaldi. All around were the sounds of Mariachi, tourists laughing and enjoying themselves, cigarette smoke in the air, a pitcher of sangria on the table.

  “I could rattle off a dozen reasons not to get involved with you,” I said.

  “Just give me one. I’m not in a fighting mood.”

  “For starters, you’re the dean and I’m a student.”

  “Are you in any of my classes?”

  “No, but…”

  “Do you fell coerced, pressured to come with me?”

  “No, you’re not the type, but how about you’re still married.”

  “Separated. Haven’t slept with her in years. Besides, she lives in Switzerland with a lover named Hans: thick neck, long blonde hair, earrings in both ears.”

  I didn’t ask why he was still married. Didn’t care since there was no future with him. But I did care about word getting out. “What about the university? Suppose they find out.”

  “They’ll never know unless we post it on the bulletin board.”

  He ordered salmon. I ordered steak on the theory that carnivores made better lovers, and before long, we were chatting like old friends.

  “The men in your life,” he said in his British accent. “Tell me about them.”

  I put down my fork. How could I tell him about Alan without ruining the evening?

  “Well, there was Stan. We met at Duke when he was in law school.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Football player in Tallahassee. But all he wanted was you-know-what. I wasn’t the type, so I dumped him. Only way to get me in bed was a ring on my finger.”

  He laughed, tore a piece of the lead wrapper from the wine bottle, fashioned it into a little ring and slipped it on my finger. “Will this work?”

  A tourist from the next table sang out, “Oh, come on. Marry the poor man.”

  Everyone around us burst into applause. They drank a toast and called over the Mariachi singers to play Cielito Lindo. We put on sombreros and sang along. An artist sketched us in exaggerated strokes—us sitting there in our big hats with a pitcher of sangria, grinning like the tourists we were. Afterward, we bought the sketch, paid the bill, and sauntered down the street with other noisy tourists. “I just don’t want to get hurt,” I said to Sutter.

  He pulled me to him and looked into my eyes, and for the first time I noticed how pleasant he smelled—a clean, civilized man whose after-shave and expensive wool had survived an evening in Plaza Garibaldi. “I’m not going to hurt you, princess. I’m the one who’d end up hurt.”

  He kissed me, right there on the sidewalk as people and traffic flowed around us and streetlights shoved back the night.

  He kissed me again in the back seat of the cab, and before long, I was returning his kisses with the passion of a teenager. It felt good; the old fire was back. Something inside me said this was the way it was meant to be: fire and passion and lust, and it was okay to be a woman again.

  The kissing in the elevator turned to shameless fondling. It had been almost a year since I’d made love to a real man, and one year was too long.

  Another minute was too long.

  The elevator stopped. The door slid open, and at last we were inside the room, yanking off clothes. He eased me onto the bed. Beneath me, the sheets smelled of fresh air and sunshine, and were as soft as the touch of his fingers on my nipples.

  “Wait,” he whispered, and tumbled out of bed.

  He turned on the radio. Out of it came the soapy voice of Marco Antonio, crooning Tristesa y Soledad as if his woman was packing to leave.

  A moment later he was back. “There’s something I should tell you,” he said.

  I pulled the sheets around me. “What?”

  “Well, I have this…little problem, It’s embarrassing.”

  “You mean you can’t…”

  “Not for years. I’ve tried everything. Nothing helps.” He pulled the sheet away from me. “But there’s no reason we can’t, you know, be together.”

  The first time I awoke with Lane Sutter beside me, I rolled away and felt the breath of guilt on my soul. One night in Mexico, Mariachi singers, a pitcher of sangria, a plaza called Garibaldi, and I’d succumbed to a basic animal instinct—in an unconventional manner. With Stan there’d been marriage vows. With Alan it seemed natural. But how to explain Lane Sutter?

  St. Peter would want to know.

  Chapter 69

  Sutter stayed in Mexico a few more days. I returned on Monday, in time for my afternoon seminar. There was no mention of my trip. No one knew about it except Carla, and she wanted every grubby detail. “Nothing happened,” I told her, not daring to explain what really happened.

  “You’re lying, Jen. I can see it in your face. You’ve got that too-satisfied look.”

  Never again, I told myself. From now on, I was going to be as chaste as Mother Teresa.

  Tuesday and Wednesday rolled by and no one at the university mentioned Mexico. Ditto for Thursday and Friday, and by Saturday, I felt confident we’d gotten away with it.

  Sutter called on Sunday, saying how he couldn’t put me out of his mind. We talked for a long time, the way lovers talk, and by the time I hung up and crawled into bed, I was aching for his company. Were other women that way—confused when it came to matters of the heart?

  It snowed all night and was still snowing the next morning. I bundled up in knit cap, heavy jacket and mittens, trekked to the campus, and struggled up the marble steps into the lobby. Students scurried around with back packs, scarves and snow gear. Professors dashed to and fro with their briefcases. Domingo the security guard looked up from his desk.

  “Como te fue el viaje a Mexico?” he asked in Puerto Rican Spanish.

  My mouth went dry. “Who told you I went to Mexico?”

  “People talk.”

  I hurried across the lobby to the elevator. Out of order, again, so I jogged up the stairs, trying to push down my fears, and found a small gathering of students outside my office. There were grins all around, a respectful moving aside. I opened the door, took a seat and motioned in the first student, a young woman with spiked hair and dark Gothic look.

  “Congratulations,” she said, slipping off her backpack. “Is it really the Moses glyphs?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That article in the Post. Good picture of you and Dr. Sutter.”

  In the silence that followed, I imagined my father at the pulpit, pointing a righteous finger and quoting from Numbers 32:23: “Be sure your sin will find you out.”

  The phone rang. The man on the other end identified himself as a reporter for the New York Times. “Any chance I could stop by for a follow-up?”

  I hung up.

  The phone rang again. “I’m with the Southern Baptist Association in Dallas. That discovery of yours could have significant repercussions. Could we arrange an interview?”

  The rest of the morning went like that: colleagues popping in to congratulate me, the phone ringing, students wanting to talk about it. As soon as I finished with the last student, I locked my door, grabbed a legal pad and raced across campus to the library.

  I found the article in the Post, written by their Mexican affiliate—an entire page about the conference, with a photograph of me in my long dark gown, Sutter at my side in tux and cummerbund, a caption that read, Dr. Lane Sutter and doctoral student Jennifer McMullen
bid farewell to colleagues. There was also a section about me. Me, as if I’d presented a paper on the discovery—which I hadn’t. It even included an inset map of Lake Nicaragua and a sketch of Glyph Girl. One of my sketches, as if they’d lifted it off the wall in my bedroom.

  My face turned hot. Where would they get that?

  Carla? No, surely not her.

  Dr. Sutter? No, he would no more give away my secret that I’d give away his.

  I kept reading until I found the following: Even if Ms. McMullen’s claim of discovery is validated, skeptics say the text is indecipherable, over-touted, and based on scant database.

  Database. Daterbase. An image of Dr. Hosmer came to mind. Yes, it had to be that little bastard. Who else would cast doubt on my credibility? Who else would use words like indecipherable, over-touted and database? I was going to wring his scrawny neck.

  He was sitting in his office when I found him, the grubby little man hammering away on the keyboard of his computer, Harvard diploma framed on the wall behind him.

  I slapped my copy of the Post on his desk. “Have you read this?”

  “I can’t say I have, miz, uh…”

  “McMullen. Are you the source?”

  He scanned the article with his finger. “There’s nothing here that’s not common knowledge.”

  “No, Dr. Hosmer. The information in this article is confidential.”

  His face turned red.

  “Just tell me yes or no. Are you the source of this article?”

  He pointed at the door. “Get out of my face. Who do you think you are?”

  I slammed the door on the way out. This was the second time I’d left the little worm’s office feeling as if I’d been mugged, and by the time I reached my office on the fifth floor I’d splashed gasoline on him, lit a match, and shoved his flaming body in front of a speeding train.

  The phone rang. “This is Jennifer!” I shouted into the mouthpiece.

  A man on the other end said he was with the Nicaraguan Embassy. “I have been told…eh, bueno…that in your travels to Nicaragua you’ve made a discovery of great significance. But according to the information available to us, there’s no record of it having been reported to our Department of Archaeological Research. I imagine your university is aware of the protocols.”

  “The university had nothing to do with the discovery.”

  “Would you be kind enough to send us a report? The ambassador would like it now.”

  “The ambassador will have to wait. For all I know you could be a depredadór.”

  “A what?”

  “Illicit antiquities, sir. There’s a flourishing trade in your country.”

  I slammed down the phone and was trying to control my temper when it rang again.

  “It was you,” said the voice of an angry woman. “How could you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Catherine Cohen. This is her mother.”

  I bent over and bumped my head on the desk. “I told you everything, Mrs. Cohen.”

  “No, darling, you didn’t tell me where you got your information. You didn’t tell me you’d discovered the cave. Did Catherine tell you where it was? Is that how you found it? It was her project. Now you’re getting the credit. I could sue, you know.”

  Chapter 70

  My head was pounding when I finally got home and took the elevator up to my apartment. No time for lunch, no time for the gym, nothing but phone calls and explanations. A bad day, but now it was over. Or so I was thinking until I opened the door and heard a ringing phone.

  “It’s crazy,” Carla said. “Been like this since I got home. You’ve got messages on voice mail—a bishop from Cleveland, television stations calling, Elizabeth Alvarado in Nicaragua.”

  The phone rang again. I felt like yanking the cord out of the wall until I saw the Caller ID screen: AMERICAN ANTIQUITY, the most prestigious archaeological journal in the country.

  “Hello,” I answered in my sweetest voice.

  “We don’t usually solicit,” said the woman on the phone, “but this has a Champollionesque ring about it. Any chance you could write an article about the discovery?”

  “Give me two weeks.”

  As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. It was Martha, Sutter’s administrative assistant. “Dr. Sutter just called. He wants to set up a committee meeting for Friday morning.”

  “Is it about that newspaper article?”

  “It’s about Dr. Hosmer. You might want to wear a flak jacket.”

  By the day of the meeting, I was thinking I should send a thank-you note to Hosmer. National Geographic had phoned to say they’d like to make a documentary of the discovery. Ditto for Tracce, the on-line bulletin for rock art. A literary agent also called to ask if I’d write a book on the discovery. No, I told her, but I had this fantastic manuscript about a priest on the run from the Inquisition. “We just translated it from Catalán to English. Lots of pirate action.”

  “Send it,” she said. “Pirates are hot.”

  Duke University called to ask if I’d be interested in applying for a position. So did Tulane and Florida State. Rosario also called. “Why didn’t you warn me?” she raged. “It’s in newspapers all over Nicaragua. That site needs to be secured.”

  “Fine by me. Let’s meet and I’ll tell you where it is.”

  Martha was filing her nails when I showed up at Sutter’s office. From behind the closed door came Sutter’s voice: “I don’t give a goddamn what you think! When a student confides in you, you have an obligation to keep it confidential. Do you understand that, Dr. Hosmer?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied a faint voice.

  I sank into the sofa, picked up a copy of Chronicle of Higher Education and pretended to be reading. Martha blew dust off her nails. “Poor Docta Hosma. He’ll be lucky to get out alive.”

  Hosmer was now speaking: “Isn’t it possible that miz, uh—”

  “McMullen!”

  “Isn’t it possible miz McMullen herself might be the source?”

  I slapped the coffee table with an open palm.

  Sutter’s voice grew louder. “Are you a detective, Dr. Hosmer?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A mind-reading psychic?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then goddammit, don’t you ever violate the confidentiality of a student again. And don’t be surprised if Ms. McMullen shows up in your office with Alan Dershowitz.”

  Martha’s intercom buzzed. Out of it came Sutter’s voice. “Listen, Martha, I want you to make a copy of university regulations concerning confidentiality.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “And have Sherlock fucking Holmes sign and date it on his way out.”

  I hurried out of the office, sparing Hosmer the embarrassment of seeing me. When I returned, Sutter was waiting beside Martha’s desk, all grins and pinstripes. He motioned me into his office, closed the door and said, “Could I interest you in lunch?”

  A long time later—I have no idea how long—Sutter drove me back to my apartment. Traffic was heavy, darkness approaching, and there were no parking places.

  “Just drop me over there,” I said, pointing to the empty bus slot on the corner.

  We kissed, and as I watched him drive away, I thought what a wonderful day it had been: National Geographic wanting to film a documentary, invitations to join the faculty at various universities, Hosmer getting his come-uppance, an afternoon with Sutter.

  Then I spotted the van.

  An older-model, rust-colored van.

  And the men inside were staring.

  I did an about-face and raced back down the street in a fury. Behind me came the sound of screeching tires. I kept running, fumbling with my cell phone.

  A man in a doorway jumped back. Kids sitting on steps snatched up their things and stared.

  I flew around a corner, searching frantically for a doorway, basement stairs, a taxi—anything—when a siren sounded behind me.
/>   A cop car screeched to a halt at the curb. “What’s the problem, lady?”

  “They’re chasing me.”

  “Who is chasing you?”

  A man who looked Hispanic came charging around the corner. When he saw the cops, he spun around and dashed back to the van and hopped into the passenger seat. The van made a dangerous U-turn in the midst of traffic and sped away.

  “Chase them,” I said to the cops. “Hurry before they get away.”

  They glanced at each other. “Would you please tell us what this is about?”

  Chapter 71

  I changed the locks at our apartment, got a new canister of pepper spray, and programmed my cell phone for one-digit dialing to the police. When I went out, it was with a blonde wig and dark glasses. When I walked along the street, I looked at parked cars with suspicion, at the trees and shadows and rooftops and dumpsters and other places an assassin could hide. It was what Alan used to do in Nicaragua. Back then, it had seemed exciting.

  Now it left me with a sick feeling. This was no way to live.

  Sutter let me cry on his shoulder. He became my confidante, the only person I trusted other than Carla. We met weekly at our little French restaurant. Occasionally I even went to his place for an afternoon of what we jokingly called “unconventional therapy.”

  It wasn’t long before tongues started to wag. I noticed it in stares and elbow jabs and the way it grew quiet when I entered the faculty lounge. I also heard it from Carla, who heard it from others. And I heard it from my faculty advisor, Dr. Frieda Gruber.

  “Listen,” she said to me in her office, “I don’t know what’s going on between you and the dean and don’t care. But I will say this: be discreet.”

  I left her office wondering what to do. I wasn’t in love with Sutter the way I’d been with Alan. Didn’t worship his shadow or feel the need to be with him every waking moment. But I’d grown dependent on him. And now I was going to have to cool the relationship.