by Dana Cameron
After everything was put away, I walked down the hall and knocked on Alan’s door.
“Go away,” came the muffled reply.
“It’s Emma.” So you don’t get to say that to me, I thought.
There was no answer, but I could hear movement inside the room.
“Alan, you’ve been really on edge lately,” I said through the door. More than usual, I said to myself. “You’ve barely said two words to me in the past week. What’s going on?”
Still there was nothing.
I sighed again and summoned up the wherewithal to pursue this. “Alan, I’d rather not have this conversation out here in the hallway, through a closed door, but we are going to have it. It’s up to you.”
Suddenly the door opened. I composed myself and prepared to confront Alan once and for all, but that was not going to be possible. He had a full duffel bag with him and pulled the door shut after him.
“Everyone else is heading out too,” I said neutrally.
Alan looked startled at this, and I realized that he had been planning to leave, bad weather, chemical fumes, or no. His face was red and tormented, looking anywhere but at me.
“Alan, what’s going on?” I asked gently.
“I’m leaving…I can’t stand…I don’t…” He rested his head against the closed door and I could see a vein pulsing in his temple, his jaw working. The hand that still clenched the doorknob was white-knuckled.
“Something’s really troubling you,” I said. “Please tell me.”
“You’re the last person I can tell,” he answered abruptly. He turned away from me completely. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I just can’t keep…oh, forget it.”
He headed away down the hallway and I asked quietly, “Alan, are you coming back?”
He stopped. “I want…I can’t…I don’t know.” He then simply fled down the hallway and out into the stairwell, while I stared after him, no better informed and much more confused.
Chapter 7
ENOUGH, I TOLD MYSELF, I’M GETTING OUT OF HERE. I went upstairs to my room, grabbed a backpack and stuffed a couple of clean pairs of underwear and shirts into it, thought about leaving my notebook behind, and then thought the better of it and threw it in anyway. You never know when inspiration will strike. I shouted, “See you Sunday night!” in the general direction of the students’ rooms and bolted down the stairwell to the parking lot and my beat-up Civic.
Quite apart from the emotional turmoil that seemed to be compounding in our little group, and even in the face of the week’s staggering finds, it is always something of a relief to get away from the site. A little distance never hurts, and downtime becomes even more important when you’re overwhelmed with a deluge of data, particularly of this caliber. Your judgment gets worn out, otherwise. So it was with only a very small pang of guilt that I began the three-hour drive toward Boston, grateful that it was my week to have the car and I could be self-propelled.
It wasn’t such a bad arrangement. The drive helped take the edge off, and since I was driving south, I had a clear sail to the New Hampshire border. The rain lessened to dull skies as I headed south, and I pitied the poor vacationers just starting to meld into a logjam on the northbound side of I-95.
Our apartment was in Somerville, a city with a high density of Boston and Cambridge academic types who can’t afford to live in Boston or Cambridge or the more remote suburbs. It wasn’t a bad apartment—it was in a place with nice a sense of neighborhood—but it was on the smallish side and getting smaller every year, it seemed, with the growing library collections Brian and I were both accumulating.
The worst thing about it was that I was almost never able to be there except on weekends, even during the school year. We got it when Brian was hired by his friend Kam to work in a Cambridge lab, and when the Caldwell job came up for me in southern Maine, we simply decided that it would be easier and cheaper for me to take advantage of the on-campus housing rather than trying to make an untenable commute between Massachusetts and Maine every day. We knew we’d need to move sooner rather than later, but it had always been our hope that a house would materialize in our future, and so put off moving with that hope in mind. Lately we’d given up and just thought about a bigger apartment someplace in between.
I parked in a huge puddle in front of our place and saw that Kam’s Jaguar was already parked up the street, a marked contrast to the econoboxes that belonged to the folks who lived in the double-deckers around us. He’s always been loaded, but there you are; the jerk is also gorgeous. At least he’s got the good taste that so many rich folks seem to lack.
I tch-tched over the lack of our lawn, now mud. The little patch of dirt in front of the house was merely a collecting place for weeds and the occasional plastic bag. Our landlady was charmed when we put an ironical ceramic gnome out there. It was just to fill up space because the soil would support only a couple of spring bulbs, which took more fertilizer than it was actually worth to get them to grow.
Grabbing my backpack I bounded up the stairs, so light of heart that I didn’t even notice the other people crowding our second-floor hallway until I had practically landed on them. Two faces, one startled and one serene with only a raised eyebrow, turned to greet me.
“Marty! Kam!” I cried. “This is good timing, when we all three show up at exactly the same moment! Couldn’t have timed it better!”
“Jesu, Emma, you scared the wits out of me,” Marty complained. She fumbled her enormous Chanel handbag out of the way and reached out her arms to me. “It’s good to see you, dearie.” Mariam Asefi—Marty—was my oldest friend, an improbable roommate from college days. She was a petite, dark-headed, porcelain-skinned creature, urban and urbane, with a talent for hyperbole.
“Yes, excellent timing,” Kam added, still doing his imitation of Mr. Spock. He was like a cat who had grown out of kittenish bounding, and although tolerant of bounding in others, was more disposed to dignified propriety for himself. He was elegantly thin, a clotheshorse of the first water, with dark eyes that made you want to drown yourself in them.
I gave my friends a hug and the door suddenly opened. “Brian!” I dropped away from them to assault my husband. He was the perfect fit; not too much taller than me, not so broad that I couldn’t steal his shirts and sweaters when necessary. His Chinese ancestry gave him a slightly exotic look, but other than that, I’d really married the all-American boy.
“Sweetie!” I stuck my nose on his neck. God, you smell good!” Warm man and shampoo; there’s nothing more intoxicating.
He nuzzled me back. “You too. I’ve missed you.”
We were lost in private welcome for a moment too long.
“Ahem.”
“Leave them be, Kam.”
“Well, they’ve gone so far as to invite us to dinner, they might consider our presence,” Kam complained.
“You’re just jealous because I don’t kiss you like that,” Brian retorted, giving me a final kiss and setting me aside.
“Enough,” I said. “I’ve got amazing news—”
“So do I,” said Kam. Brian exchanged a look with him and he nodded.
“I have some news that will wait for later, but a thirst that burns now,” Marty said. “I require immediate attention.”
“Allow me.” Kam pulled out two bottles of what even I could recognize was hideously expensive champagne. Sure enough French.
I looked incredulous as Brian suddenly materialized with our champagne flutes, wedding presents that had seen very little use over the past five years. I could have sworn that they had been lost, languishing in the back of some cupboard. “What the hell is going on here?” I asked.
Marty looked as startled as I felt. “Don’t look at me. I have no idea. About this, I mean.”
Brian set the glasses on the table with a flourish while Kam wrestled with the first bottle. Then Brian took my backpack away from me, waltzed me away from the door and into the middle of the room, then swung back to escort Marty
next to me. He shut the door just in time to take the first glass that his friend had filled and hand it to me.
“Brian? What is it?” I said.
He smiled devilishly and put his finger up to his lips. “Don’t worry, hon. It’s cool. Extremely cool.”
Marty looked impatiently at Kam; the small bubbles were obviously calling to her, but it was clear that Kam was going to make a toast. “So?”
“So.” He paused a moment further, then raised his glass dramatically. “To United Pharmaceuticals.”
“United Pharmaceuticals,” Brian echoed. They drained their glasses, while Marty and I simply stared, confused.
“I don’t see why we should be wishing them well,” Marty said. She sipped, however, thirst overcoming scruples. “Biggest drug company in the world doesn’t need our goodwill.”
“Oh, but that’s exactly what they need,” Brian gloated. “That’s precisely it.”
“Okay, I need some more clues,” I said. “Fill me in here.”
“Drink up first, there’s more where that came from,” Kam said, as he refilled their glasses. “To put it bluntly, directly, and concisely, we’ve been bought out.” He and Brian clinked glasses again and emptied another round of wine.
Rather than share their elation, I was alarmed, and shook Brian’s arm. “Wait a minute! This can’t be good! I mean, won’t there be layoffs? You could lose your job! And you’ve always gone on about their bad reputation and…and…everything! Why aren’t you worried? Stop drinking that champagne and tell me.”
“It’s all upside,” Brian answered. “They do have a crappy reputation for their pricing policies and for their waste treatment problems. That last lawsuit was very bad press for them, and it was clear that they needed to do something about it. The old CEO was voted out and a new one with some fairly advanced ideas voted in. And if everyone loves a good villain, then everyone also likes a reformed villain better. United is making a big splash in the media right now, lots of ads about their new outlook. Heavy on the New Agey imagery, medicines from nature, etcetera taking a page out of The Body Shop’s book. And that’s why they want us, all of a sudden, to bruit about their new approach to things and new policies on testing. We’ve got the reputation and they’ve got the money. Better yet, to keep all that goodwill coming in, they are retaining all of our employees—”
“Except for Kelley,” Kam interjected. “Our aging hippie president will be retiring to her dream commune a very wealthy woman.”
“—they are saying that we can inform the staff of the policy changes and they are buying our stock, they are buying our options! They’re gonna buy our options, they’re gonna buy our options!” Brian continued in a singsongy voice. He began dancing around the room again, little droplets of champagne flying from his glass, and twirled me around again. “So what do you think of them apples?”
I could only stare at my husband. “Holy snappers. I mean, congratulations!” I gulped down some fizzy, and it didn’t do anything to clear my already buzzing head. “Holy—”
Kam nodded smugly. “I know. It’s called selling out while still keeping your legs crossed. Brilliant, isn’t it?”
Then he did something that I wouldn’t have bet on in a thousand years. Kam took Marty’s glass away from her and set it on the table. Then he took her in his arms, dipped her backward, and kissed her passionately.
Imagine Queen Victoria flicking a spitball. Imagine Henry Kissinger break dancing. That was the extent of our disbelief.
Brian stopped dancing to stare at them. I kept right on staring dumbly, poleaxed for a whole other set of reasons, now. “Hey, wait a minute,” I said finally. “You guys have been seeing each other, haven’t you?”
“Well,” Marty said as soon as she was able to draw breath again. “Among other things.”
“And how long has this been going on?” I continued. “When were you going to tell us?”
“A while,” Kam answered, setting Marty back on her feet and smoothing out his tie. “And consider yourself told.”
“I was going to tell you at dinner. That was my news,” Marty said, picking up her glass again and emptying it as if nothing unusual had happened. “So there you are.” She nonchalantly accepted a refill from Kam and turned to me. “So what was your news?”
I shook my head slowly and shrugged. Brian shook out of his stupor and opened the other bottle of champagne and topped me up. “Nothing much. Let’s see. I found that body last week, you all know about that, and then the next day there was the gun-toting loony threatening us—”
“Emma!” Marty and Kam gasped in tandem; finally I was able to shock them, but the best still remained.
“—and just yesterday I think I’ve just discovered conclusive evidence that I’ve got the goods on one of the earliest English settlements in America, but nothing much besides that.”
“Are you okay?” Marty asked.
I was touched by my friend’s concern. “Oh, yeah, fine.”
“Well, good.” She paused. “So let’s order the pizza, then.”
“Marty! Don’t you even want to hear about the site?”
“Well, yes, but I’m hungry,” the supremely a historical Marty protested. “At least call it in before you tell us everything.”
The next morning, when I awoke, groggy from too little sleep and too much celebrating, I found Brian poring over the paper. I watched him for a minute, enjoying the way the sunlight reflected off his dark brown hair, his skin like warm honey. We were such a good match together.
“What’s that?” I said, finally. I yawned hugely and fumbled for the coffee, the need for which had driven me from the bedroom.
“Real estate,” Brian answered around a piece of toast.
For once something besides caffeine jolted me awake. “What for?” I asked cautiously.
“Houses.”
I paused. “Say that again.”
“Houses. A house.” He grinned briefly as he turned the page over. “We might want to check one of the New Hampshire papers, though, if we’re gonna find something equidistant from here and Caldwell.”
For the umpteenth time in less than twenty-four hours, I was speechless. Brian rattled the paper down. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shook my head. “Not New Hampshire. I hate New Hampshire.”
“Okay, then we’ll see what else we can manage.” He continued to scan the listings.
“So. When did this come up?” I asked, still more than a little bewildered.
“When I heard last week. I wanted to make sure it was going to work out before I told you, and so now it is.” Brian looked up and took a deep breath.
“I have to go to San Francisco next week, like, tomorrow,” he continued apologetically. “That’s where United’s headquarters are. But when I come back, a couple of weeks or so, I want to move. I want to move someplace where we do not smell our neighbors’ dinners cooking, where we do not hear people fighting across the alley, where we can live together every night and not just on weekends. We will talk about this, if you want, but basically, I’ve decided. Sound okay to you?”
Actually it sounded damned good, just nigh on incredible. I took a drink of coffee and it helped a little. The only other time I’d seen Brian this adamant was when he proposed. “Okay.”
“Good. You have anything in mind?” For the first time he looked uncertain. “I mean, we’re not up to real luxury or anything, the options are just enough for a good down payment, but if you like a style or something, we can look for that.”
I thought about it, perhaps for the first time since I was a girl. “Nope. Old is nice. I’d like a room for my own office.”
Now Brian looked downright uneasy. “Do you…do you want to call your father?”
“No.” Dad was a real estate agent; we didn’t talk a lot. “We can do this ourselves. Besides, he’s going to be on Nantucket until Labor Day with Beebee.” My father’s second wife was just five years older than I.
Brian breathed a sigh
of relief and turned back to the papers. “Good.”
The weather had cleared up late last night. I looked around the kitchen. It was sunny but small; I wouldn’t miss it. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re sexy when you’re decisive,” I said.
That got his attention and he set the papers aside. “Oh? Finish your coffee, then, and I’ll show you just how decisive I can be.”
I experienced the social schizophrenia of fieldwork late Sunday evening. So far from being half of an affectionate pair, I was back on the lonely peak of leadership. My domestic life and its staggering, fantastic upheavals once again receded in favor of my work and the totality of its demands. Alan was nowhere to be found when I came in, so I resolved to speak with him after fieldwork the next day. His increasingly erratic moodiness was the only fly in the ointment right now.
On Monday morning the fickle weather redeemed itself, promising to be as glorious as our last day in the field. The wind playfully sped puffy little clouds across the sky, as if only for the pleasure of watching their shadows skid along the river. Neal was driving, and I was semi–conked out in the passenger’s seat. The windows were down so that we could enjoy the last cool of the day before evening, so the noise in the car was nearly deafening.
The smell of wood smoke was just becoming noticeable. Rob all of a sudden piped up. “Smells like someone’s cooking breakfast.”
“Some damned tourist letting things get out of hand. They always think they need a yule log to make their instant coffee,” Meg muttered.
Suddenly I was awake. “That’s no campfire,” I said. I couldn’t have told you why I was so quickly worried, but the smell was very acrid. “Neal, let’s move it. I don’t like this one bit.” As we tore out of the tree-lined downslope, we could see smoke billowing into the sky in front of us.
The truck tore around the last rise, and we didn’t need to see the cluster of fire engines in the road and Pauline’s driveway to realize the horrible truth. Greycliff was burning.
