The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  “It was awful,” she said, “just awful. The bitch wouldn’t shut up. She got hysterical, telling everyone to get the fuck out, emphasizing it was her place, saying Sutter was using it as a fuck pad. I haven’t heard the F-word so much since Pulp Fiction.”

  As she spoke, I could still see that horrible woman on the stairway, pointing a finger.

  “Sutter tries to shut her up. But does she? Hell, no, just screams louder, saying she’s going to call the fucking cops, have him fucking arrested. Place empties like it’s on fire. You should have seen it. Everybody grabbing hats and coats and taking the stairs, neighbors peeking out, people looking over their shoulders as if they expected the place to blow up.”

  When she realized I was crying, she said, “Don’t worry, Jen. It’ll be okay. Nobody’s blaming you. Everybody saw what happened. Sutter should have divorced that bitch years ago.”

  I waited in vain for Sutter’s call, for an explanation, for roses. On Monday, when flowers still hadn’t arrived, I gave in and called his home number. “Hel-low,” he answered in his cheery British accent, “I’m not available at the moment, but if you’ll leave a message…”

  I called his cell. No answer there either. Maybe I should call Martha. No, best to call Carla again. I punched in her number, and the first thing she said was, “Oh, Jen, I’m so miserable.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ricardo. He dumped me. We got into a fight over something so stupid I don’t even remember. He said there was no way to make me happy and just walked out the door.”

  I slumped into a chair and imagined a maelstrom of angry forces swirling about the universe—Blanca, Fuentes, Catherine, the old Indian couple—looking for a place to settle.

  Looking for me.

  They found me about an hour later when my mom popped in with groceries and announced she’d invited Al Lopez for dinner. “You’ll like him, mija. He’s Tampa-riqueño—from Puerto Rico.”

  Somehow, I got through the evening with Al Lopez, and a day or so later, while I was making a half-hearted effort at putting together my slides and notes for my dissertation defense, Martha called.

  “National Geographic just phoned,” she drawled happily, as if she wouldn’t know how miserable I was. “Some Aussie named Daniel Boone. Imagine a name like that. Talks just like that Crocodile Hunter man. Wants to ask you about Nicaragua.”

  “Did you tell Sutter?”

  “Didn’t you hear? Dr. Sutter’s resigning. Leaving the university.”

  I sank into a chair. “What happened?”

  “Well, after the party, he took his wife to California, to that Betty Ford place. Checked her in, paid some ridiculous sum of money. Then guess what?”

  I rolled my eyes. Why couldn’t she just tell me? “What happened, Martha?”

  “Well, her lover showed up, that Hans guy with the long hair and earrings. Sneaked her out, and they went off smoking a joint of happy stuff. Can you believe?”

  Yes, I told her, I could believe.

  “So Dr. Sutter flew off to London to talk with his lawyer. Said he couldn’t live another day married to that hussy. You oughta see the claw marks on his cheek.”

  “Wait a minute, Martha. Back up. What does that have to do with him resigning?”

  “Way I heard it was this: word got out about the party, so His Lordship called Sutter in and told him the board is breathing down his neck. Asking how the university can maintain its standards on sexual harassment when it’s common knowledge the dean himself is…”

  I closed my eyes, listened, and tried not to cry.

  Diane phoned that evening, just as I was crawling into bed. Just to hear her voice cheered me up. Diane, my old Thelma and Louise pal. I could tell her my problems. She’d understand.

  Before I could tell her anything, she said, “Listen, the reason I’m calling is Tan. He died. Massive heart attack. They buried him yesterday.”

  I forgot all about Daniel Boone, and wouldn’t have remembered at all until he called and reminded me in his Australian accent that we needed to work out the details of the trip to Nicaragua. Life had to go on, so I said yes, he could make the hotel arrangements.

  Yes, three days should be adequate.

  Yes, I was looking forward to meeting him as well.

  I called Rosario to alert her, and discovered she’d already wrapped up her doctoral studies at Stanford and was back at her old job at the Nicaraguan Cultural Institute.

  Yes, she said, she’d coordinate with the US Embassy and meet us at the airport.

  “We’d like to keep the press out of this,” I said.

  “Of course, Jennifer. You keep your people quiet; I’ll do the same with mine.”

  The day before my dissertation defense, on a blustery Thursday, I loaded my slides and notes and kissed my mom goodbye, promising I’d be back in a week or two. As I was going out the door, she handed me a small bag. Inside were candles, corn, and a Mayan moon medallion.

  Chapter 79

  Columbia University

  Rain was blowing sideways when I arrived in a taxi and ran up the steps of the building that housed the archaeology department. For most students it was just another Friday, another day of classes, but for me it was Judgment Day. Today I would stand before a committee and present my case that not only had I discovered Father Antonio’s cave; I’d also unraveled its secrets. And they’d anoint me the latest star of the archaeological world—Dr. Jennifer McMullen.

  Or condemn me to more months of dissertation hell.

  A sign on the elevator read, OUT OF ORDER.

  Damn it. Why couldn’t they keep this stupid thing operating? I kicked the door, crossed the lobby, and was almost at the stairs when a young woman in a yellow rain jacket fell in beside me, her face and hair wet from the rain.

  “Well, well, well,” she said. “Today’s your big day and you didn’t invite me.”

  Elizabeth Alvarado.

  My stress level went up another notch. But before I could get away, the bright lights of a television camera came on, and there stood her cameraman.

  “Why didn’t you report your discovery?” Elizabeth said, now speaking Spanish into a microphone. “This is a Nicaraguan affair. I’m Nicaraguan, that cave is in Nicaragua.”

  By then, everyone in the lobby was staring, and when I heard laughter, I hurried toward the stairs. The dean’s mistress, I imagined they were saying. The woman who’d killed her husband and been involved in that shooting on the stairway. The woman who couldn’t get by a single semester without creating a scandal.

  The Other Woman.

  At last, I was in my office, yanking off my raincoat and trying to catch my breath, cursing Elizabeth. From my briefcase, I took out the bag my mom had given me. She was probably sacrificing a chicken about now, sprinkling its blood on the ground and chanting to the gods in the old language, bringing out the neighbors. Too bad she couldn’t sacrifice Elizabeth.

  Or Hosmer.

  I crossed to the window, opened it, and flung a few kernels to the wind. I also lit candles and was trying to decide if I should wear my moon medallion when the phone rang.

  “We’re moving it to the Halsey Room,” Martha announced in her Georgia drawl.

  “Why the Halsey Room?”

  “Elevator’s broken, or didn’t you notice?”

  “So what? I climbed the stairs.”

  “So did I, but Frieda says we’ve got some important visitors coming. Doesn’t want’em climbing the stairs. Then you’ve got that Boone fella from National Geographic with his crew and equipment. He can’t haul all that stuff up to the fifth floor.”

  I suppressed a curse. “Have you heard from Dr. Sutter?”

  “Not a word.”

  I hung up and checked voice mail. Nothing from Sutter, not even a good-luck-with-your-committee. But there were other messages—from reporters, a preacher in Alabama, a priest, and Frieda Gruber: “Call me the moment you get in,” she said in a shrill voice.

  Now what? I punched i
n her campus extension and listened to the ring. Her answering service kicked in: “You have reached the office of Dr. Frieda Gruber…”

  I slammed down the phone and consulted my watch. Fifteen minutes. My hands shook. My palms were sweating. “Don’t be so jumpy,” I said to the wall. Frieda and Abby were on my side. Besides, you didn’t get this far in a doctoral program only to flunk at the defense.

  But why was Frieda calling? What was this business about visitors? And where was Sutter? Surely he wasn’t going to abandon me when I needed him most.

  Martha stuck her head into my office. “Ten minutes,” she drawled, holding up ten fingers. “You’re never gonna guess who showed up.”

  “Who, Martha—the King of Spain?”

  “No, honey, a bishop and some priests. Also a few rabbis, a mullah, a honcho from the Southern Baptist Association, reporters, and, oh yes, you’re gonna love this—a delegation of Senecas from up-state. Wait’ll you see’em in their get-up, all feathuhs and beads.”

  If Hosmer had shown up at that moment, I’d have beaten him to death with my statue of the Mayan corn god. Once I calmed down, I said, “Are they hostile?”

  She laughed. “Hostile? A bunch of Irish priests hostile because of a little thing like a female Moses? Of course they’re gonna be hostile. You’re Darwin taking on the Creationists. This could be another monkey trial. You’re gonna be famous.”

  She stepped into the office and closed the door. In her red blazer, she could have been a sales clerk for a hardware store. “Look, Jen. All you’re doing is reporting what you found. Right? As for the holy men, they don’t have a vote, so don’t worry ‘bout them. You just get in there and…”

  She stopped in mid-sentence and pointed at the candles. “Your mom?”

  “She’s Mayan. What can I do?”

  “Well, for one thing you can put’em out before they set off an alarm. Now stand up and let me have a look at you. Best defense in front of men is look sexy—tastefully sexy—also, you’ve got to appear vulnerable, you know, like the kinda woman they’d want to take home and bed.”

  “We’re talking priests here, Martha. They don’t have a vote.”

  “Hey, just telling it like it is.” She walked a circle around me, picking off lint, smoothing out wrinkles. “Dress looks great, Jen. Must drive Hosmer crazy that you’re taller’n him.”

  She finished her inspection and glanced at her watch. “I better see how things are going.”

  I blew out the candles, put on heels, grabbed my briefcase, and hurried to the ladies’ room. The image I saw in the mirror was pale and lifeless, the result of a sunless winter, tears, and too much time in front of a computer. There were also shadows beneath my eyes and the beginning of an angry zit. I covered it with makeup, brushed my hair, and was putting on fresh lipstick when Carla popped into the room, bringing with her a cloud of strong perfume.

  “They’re ready, Jen. Martha sent me.”

  “God give me strength,” I muttered, and followed her out the door.

  In the hallway, she said, “Guess what?”

  “What, Carla?”

  “Ricardo’s here. He wants to have lunch with me.”

  I glared at her in her long purple skirt with the scarves and jangling bracelets and couldn’t decide if she looked more like a Turkish hooker or a Gypsy from a caravan.

  “I thought you said you were finished with Ricardo.”

  “Oh, Jen, he brought me the most beautiful orchid, blue and pink and white with the most spectacular bloom. How can I say no to a guy who does that?”

  I rolled my eyes and followed her down the stairs and along a tiled corridor, our footfalls echoing on the floor, Carla so full of Ricardo I wanted to shove her out a window. As we neared the Halsey Room, I heard laughter and the buzz of conversation.

  A stab of fear shot up my middle. Carla squeezed my arm.

  “Just take a deep breath, Jen. You’re going to do fine.”

  Frieda Gruber stood at the door like a sentinel—blue pantsuit, brick-shaped body, butch haircut and a frown. “Didn’t you get my message? Dr. Hosmer’s annoying the hell out of everyone.” She wrinkled her nose. “Christ, tell me that’s not your perfume?”

  “It’s mine,” Carla said in a little girl voice.

  “Well, it’s too strong. What are you trying to do, clear the building of cockroaches?”

  She pushed open the door and motioned us in, and when I stepped inside, I thought I’d gone to the wrong place. Spectators had crammed themselves into every square inch of the room: students and visitors in several rows of chairs against the walls; Martha and my committee of three around a central table; Daniel Boone to the side with his bright lights and cameras. Campus security guards along the walls, and I was vaguely aware of that city detective who still wanted answers about the shooting.

  There, too, were rabbis, the bishop, a mullah, six priests, the Baptist in his tailored suit, Elizabeth Alvarado and her cameraman, and the Seneca delegation in full tribal garb.

  The only person not there it seemed was Lane Sutter.

  Chapter 80

  Everyone stood. I could have been a judge entering a crowded courtroom. Or a bride at a wedding. The room became so perfectly still I could hear the howl of outside wind. Frieda led me to my place at the head of the table and motioned everyone into their chairs. Carla scooted away and sat next to Ricardo. I took out my notepad and laid it on the table.

  Once the place settled, Frieda introduced the other committee members, said a few high-sounding words about the meaning of a doctoral dissertation, and began a speech: “Who among us could function without the written word? Yet there was a time when great men argued the written word was inferior to the spoken. Plato and Socrates were among them…”

  Dr. Hosmer sat near her in his green suit, yellow bowtie and thick glasses, peering down at his notebook. A cross dangled outside his shirt as if to let the priests know where he stood. At first, it didn’t bother me, but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to use it to choke him to death. Who was he to hide behind a cross? He was the one who’d lied to the press, tried to sabotage me, and even linked my success to affirmative action. When I could stand it no longer, I took out my Mayan moon medallion and defiantly hung it around my neck.

  “Ms. McMullen was born in the Yucatan, in one of those little Mayan villages where spirits rule the forest and palms meet the sea. Her father was an evangelical missionary from Florida, but her mother is Mayan, and it might surprise you to know the woman we now call Jennifer was born to the name of”—she paused for effect—”Ix-Junapa Maria McMullen-Cruz.”

  The Senecas smiled and nodded. Hosmer glanced up as if he expected to see war paint and feathers. I gathered my notes, thinking the moment had arrived, but Frieda droned on.

  “Ms. McMullen has something to say about unknown writing. About a year ago, she discovered what is arguably the most ancient, extant text ever found in the Americas. On ceramic plates—semasiographic and pictographic. Has she deciphered it? Does it prove a Moses-like figure visited the Americas in antiquity? Why don’t we ask her?”

  With a flourish, she said, “I now give you our latest candidate for the degree of doctor of philosophy in the field of archaeology, Ms. Ix-Junapa Maria McMullen-Cruz.”

  The room burst into applause. I stood and thanked them, picked up my notes and strolled to the lectern, painfully aware that every eye was on me. Carla switched off the lights and began closing blinds and curtains, spreading her essence across the room. Ricardo gave me a thumbs-up and a big grin, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a tinge of envy for Carla.

  Her man was here. He’d brought an orchid. My men had abandoned me.

  Once the place was dark, I put on reading glasses and clicked on the Power Point projector. It came to life with a hum. The title of my dissertation appeared on the screen:

  THE CAVE OF THE COMMANDMENT GLYPHS:

  AN EPIGRAPHIC INTERPRETATION

  Below it was a large image
of a spiral. I let it linger a moment and flashed on other images—a man playing a flute, Glyph Girl with flowers in her hair, Rabbit Half-Moon, and Moses with her radiant face, staff, and flowing robe.

  “Who is she?” I asked rhetorically. “Is she the Moses of the New World, or is she nothing more than a village shaman? Does she have a message from—”

  Dr. Hosmer sprang to his feet. “Hold on. Just wait a second.”

  He strolled to the door, flipped on the lights, and turned to the audience. “For the record,” he said in his sharp nasal accent, “I want everyone to note my objection to this defense. It violates sound academic practices. We have no proof of the existence of these so-called Commandment Glyphs. We don’t even have photographs.” Photergraphs.

  Frieda came to her feet. “Her photos were stolen. You’ve seen them. We’ve all seen them.”

  “All I’m saying is show me evidence. All we have is the word of an ambitious student.”

  “Are you questioning Ms. McMullen’s integrity?”

  “I’m questioning everything. If you want to convince me these drawings exist, then take me to Nicaragua and show me. Let’s have them evaluated by experts. You can’t just overthrow the tenets of the world’s major religions on the word of an ambitious student.”

  Frieda flung up both arms in frustration. “For God’s sake, all we’re doing is evaluating Ms. McMullen’s interpretation of what she found.”

  “How do we know she found anything? Where’s her proof?”

  I stepped forward. “You’ll get your proof next week, when we visit the site.”

  “You stay out of this,” he said, leveling a finger. “This is a committee matter.” He turned back to Frieda. “I move we postpone until after next week.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Frieda said. “This meeting was scheduled months ago.”

  “Yes, but we were supposed to verify the existence of the text before this meeting.”

  “No, Dr. Hosmer, that was not the understanding. The arrangement was to have the defense today, verify the text next week, then have a final meeting.”