by Dana Cameron
“No, your father’s father. Oscar. Do you remember what happened?”
“Remind me.” I pulled out my backpack and began looking for the papers I’d put aside. Brian might slow down if he saw I had work; he wouldn’t if it was just pleasure reading.
“You kept seeing him everywhere. You told me you’d see him on the street, in traffic, at the library. I don’t know what the psychological phenomenon is, if you’ve just got someone on your mind or you’ve got a wish looking to be ful-filled, but I think you’re looking for Tony where he isn’t.”
My grandfather, Oscar Fielding, was one of the dearest people in the world to me. My first and best instructor in archaeology, he literally made me what I am today. And if that includes a certain talent for archaeology, then it also includes a reinforced Fielding stubbornness, too.
Brian sighed. “I think you’re just looking for trouble. I’m worried about you, Em.”
“I’m worried about me, too!” I slapped my papers down on the flimsy tray. “It was Tony! He…dammit, he blew a kiss at me!”
Brian fiddled with the catch on his tray table. “There’s no evidence—”
I could have killed Brian for discounting me so readily. Nothing could have driven me crazier. “I saw him with my own eyes!”
“Is there any problem here?”
We looked up. The cabin attendant sternly regarded us; our argument had risen above the vibration and noise of the engines and we were drawing attention to ourselves.
“No. I’m sorry,” I said. I looked at Brian. “There’s no problem.”
He put on his headphones, cranked the CD player up, and closed his eyes.
Three hours is a very long time to try not to talk to someone.
Monday morning I saw a blue-chino-covered butt sticking out from behind the refrigerator door. It was several sizes too large to be Brian’s, and I absolutely would have forbidden the crack of doom I saw lurking below where the waist-band should have been.
“Who the hell are you?” I said, marching into the kitchen.
Whoever it was started and smacked his head against the inside of the refrigerator. “Aw, jeez! Now look what you made me do. Bump my head.”
The butt backed out and a man unfolded himself from my refrigerator. Shaped like a pear—perhaps a bowling pin would have been more accurate—the guy was maybe fifty. His black hair was longish and unevenly cut so that elflocks stuck out from under his paint store gimme cap. Hooded sweatshirt in navy blue, work boots spattered with every color in the Sherwin-Williams rainbow.
He was chewing on an unlit cigar, one that was unraveled at the end, so that it looked as if it had exploded. All I knew about cigars, I learned from observing my colleague Dora Sarkes-Robinson. And even I knew that a good cigar didn’t smell or look like that.
“Yeah, I’m real sorry. Who are you?” I asked, my head throbbing without my coffee.
“Artimus Apostolides. Call me Artie. You know, you’re out of cream.”
“I don’t keep cream in the house. What are you doing, here, Artie?”
“Donald Keyser told me to come. So here I am. You really don’t have any cream? Your coffee is kind of strong.”
Ah, it was beginning to make sense. Keyser was who we thought would be doing our electrical work; he’d promised that either he or one of his people would be out to do the several jobs we needed—upgrading the electrical for the attached outbuildings so I could have my new washer and dryer out there instead of in the basement, adding the new box for the main house, some other items—as soon as possible. When we were discussing the projects with him, he’d promised us the moon. Now that we were trying to get him to do the work, he acted like we were lucky to know him. “No cream. And we were expecting you to come more than three weeks ago.”
“I’m here now. It would have been a lot easier if you could have had us here last week. Saved me some trouble.”
I bit back a retort, and watched him searching the counters. “Here we go, here we go.” He found the sugar bowl, dumped in two heaping tablespoons of sugar and stirred, then carefully replaced the wet spoon back into the sugar bowl. I felt my teeth grinding.
“Look, Artie, are we going to do a little electrical work today? Sometime soon?”
“Sure we are. Or I am—you’re not one of those kind of ladies who hover around and watch my every move, are you?”
I sighed. “Only when I’m writing the checks, Artie.”
Artie nodded, satisfied, took a big slurp of coffee, and then frowned. “Oh.”
“So what’s up first today?” I went over to the coffeepot. It was empty, but still turned on; my headache redoubled at the sight. I flicked off the switch.
“I thought I’d just get an idea of what the job was going to be.” He settled back against the countertop, and slurped some more coffee. “You’ve got to sort these things out carefully, don’t want to have to redo anything.”
I reached into the manila folder on the table. “Here’s a list of what has to be done. Mr. Keyser said the work should only take about five, six days. Tops.”
“I’m not going to be rushed, do a shoddy job. You wouldn’t want that.”
I want my coffee, you oaf, is what I want. “I don’t want a shoddy job. I do want it done quickly. Do you need me to call the alarm company, let them know the power will be out?” I had already charged up cell phones and computers, pared the food down in the fridge to those that wouldn’t spoil in a hurry, and taken all the other precautions. Several times, now.
“I’ll let you know.” He finally set his cup down, rubbed his hands, and looked around. “All right then.”
Nothing. He stood there, slurped thoughtfully.
White stabbing pains behind my eyes made it difficult to be civil. “Yes?”
He sighed. “I really like a cruller or something with my coffee in the morning, don’t you?”
“I really like my coffee in the morning, but I’m not getting that,” I said. “You’ve drunk the last of it.” I knew for a fact that buying coffee beans was on my list of errands today; we’d gone through the crumbs and the emergency coffee—the assorted samples, gifts, etc., that accumulated at the back of the cupboard—at this point.
“Did I? Oh. Your boyfriend there, he told me to help myself. Next time, you’ll have to get downstairs a little quicker, huh?”
“Husband,” I said, through gritted teeth. Couldn’t figure out if “husband” was a clarification or malediction.
“Oh.” He began to pore over the punch list, looking around as he did. “Box is downstairs?” he asked, without looking up.
“Yep, I’ll show you,” I said, eager to do anything that would get him moving.
“No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll find it. You just go on about your business.”
I bit back another retort, in the hopes that he was underway now.
No such luck. “So, you gonna make me knock all the time?”
“What do you mean?” All the time? Hell—that didn’t sound like five or six days to me.
“I had to knock to get in today. Your boyfriend—”
“Husband.”
“—let me in. Usually, people give me a key or leave the door open.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I said. “You’re going to have to knock. One of us will let you in, I promise.”
He looked hurt and his mustache drooped. “You don’t trust me?”
“I’m not in the habit of giving keys out to anyone.” Damn, I sounded stiff; I knew I was not scoring any points with this guy, and my tone was making it worse every second. But I was also beginning to suspect that there were no secret words to get him to work. “I’ll leave you to it. If you have any questions, just holler. I’ll be upstairs—no, cancel that. I’m going out. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
My heart beat a little faster as I opened the door to Café-Nation; maybe it was just joyful anticipation of my morning fix, maybe it was just a contact high through the density of coffee molecul
es in the air.
“’Lo, Emma,” the woman behind the counter in the blue apron greeted me. “Red Eye?”
“Lord, yes, Tina. Feed me coffee, make me human.”
“Well, I can do the one; the rest is up to you. You want it here?”
“Yes—no, I guess I better get back to the house. To go, please. And a pound of beans, whole.”
“Less than two minutes.”
As she busied herself with the holy apparatus, I sat on a stool by the register, an earnest and grateful supplicant. I sighed, then rummaged through my wallet for my Café-Nation card, the one that asked “Have you been CaféNated today?,” and counted off how many more trips I had before I got a free drink. Not this time, but not many more to go. I’d already been through two cards since the place opened a couple of months ago.
One of the kids who worked there came in, smiled, and said hi. It took me a second to remember her name: Bell, bell…Isabel. Isabel had a dumbbell in a piercing over her eye. I had always thought the piercing looked painful, but maybe if I had one, it would keep me from falling asleep facedown on my students’ blue books.
I smiled back; something of a feat for me, at the moment, but she had access to the coffee, and therefore my happiness. “How’s the pack?” I asked Isabel.
“Oh, they’re fine,” she said. “Got a new picture. Wanna see?”
I nodded and she pulled out her wallet. The picture was of her three pugs: Liam, Casey, and Wee Mikey. Bulging marble black eyes and panting tongues strained to reach the camera lens. I could swear they were smiling, all linked up with their little green harnesses.
“Nice,” I said. “Wee Mikey isn’t so wee anymore.”
“No, but that’s not why we called him that, anyway.”
“Oh?”
“Well, it’s kinda gross, but when we’ve got them all harnessed up together? Everyone runs to have a pee? Mikey’s aim is pretty bad. Pees all over the other guys, pees all over himself. It’s a mess.”
“Oh,” was all I could manage.
“Charming,” Tina said. She handed me my double cappuccino with an extra shot, and grinned as she measured out the bag of Columbian beans.
I handed her my card, which she stamped, and the money for the coffee; I tossed the change into the jar.
Tina looked at me a little more closely. “Here,” she said, reaching under the counter and pulling out a small stick of chocolate.
“I didn’t order a mocha,” I said.
“No, but you look like you could use the fix.”
“Hey, thanks; you’re not wrong about that. See you, Isabel. Take it easy, Ms. Willner.”
She picked up the counter cloth as she completed our ritual. “You too, Ms. Fielding.”
Back home, I fled immediately upstairs to my office. Odd, I thought as the door knocked over an unseen obstacle, the room should be clean. I thought I’d cleaned it earlier this summer. Once I fought my way in, I realized that I had, and I could see that the rug was recently vacuumed. But between the notes and crates of artifacts dumped after the fieldwork, and the piles of books pulled for lecture writing, on top of the rush at the beginning of a new academic year, you were bound to lose a little surface area.
I saw a note stuck to my computer, reminding me that I’d promised to bring some books on introductory archaeology to Raylene Reynolds. She and her husband Erik ran the Lawton Yacht Club and Tiki Bar, one of my favorite haunts. Raylene homeschooled her kids. I had piled the books up and left them by the door, so I’d remember to get them to her.
After I got the fans started up and the place began to cool down, I pulled out my collection of near-completed syllabi. Four courses this semester, one of them brand new. Yuck. While it was indeed better to burn out than rust out, I could have done with a little more rest and oxidation.
I worked out the updates for the first three classes, and then tackled the new one. Inspiration hit me, and I thought of a topic for a lecture that would round things out nicely and get me the basis for a paper that I promised to present later in the fall. I got a tingly feeling at this bit of deluxe recycling. No, not recycling. Multiple use and good planning. Yay, me.
The lights went out. The fan blades became visible as they slowed to a halt. The CD player died.
“Seven variations on six filthy words!” Deep breath; no problem, I’d prepared for this. I turned off the lights and the fans and the radio. My computer was running on its battery, and I’d squirreled away some bottles of water to keep me going a little longer.
I kept at it for another two hours and made some good progress, but it was getting hot up there. Moving downstairs was not an option—I’d be way too distracted by the work that I hoped was going on—but outside…I was never good at working outside, and besides my battery was running low now. I backed up my work and then the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Em, it’s Meg. Are you going to be on campus any time soon?”
“Um, not sure. Anything wrong? You sound anxious.”
“I am, I guess. I wanted your opinion on something.”
“Can’t do it over the phone?”
“Not really. It’s not…about anything…you know. It’s the wedding.”
“Okay. But I’m not sure what I can do about that.” I glanced over at my clock, a battered and battery-run near antique that had also seen use in the basement and barn. “Actually, I could use someplace with power; we’re out here. I’ll see you in my office in an hour?”
“That would be great!” The relief in Meg’s voice made me wonder whether my student had been telling me the whole truth. “See you then.”
I gathered up my stuff, told Artie that I’d be about three hours, and called the alarm company to let them know that our power would be out for the day and they shouldn’t call in.
The trip took less time than usual, in part because the traffic was long gone, and partly because I was indulging in my latest bad habit of driving too fast. My first new-new car, a sound and eager engine that didn’t shudder over sixty-five, and suddenly, I had discovered my inner speed-demon. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so much as a walk on the wild side as edging one toe over the line, but it was a small escape.
I got there early enough to dodge into the library and find one of the books I needed to check for my class. Ha! Another week and it would have been on reserve or out. As much as I love teaching, I get so much more work done when there aren’t any students around. Now was a great time to be on campus, as everyone there was trying to prepare for the mob scene that was freshman orientation.
A woman hurried from the library to the Fine Arts building; something about her long black hair was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I craned to get another look at her, but a pack of male students heading down Maple Walk erupted with bawdy laughter, and I scurried up the stairs to the department to avoid them.
I was on my way to my office when I heard a raised voice down the hall by the main office. Veering down the other corridor, I was confronted by the unlikely spectacle of our department administrator, Chuck, exchanging words with my colleague from the Art History Department, Dora Sarkes-Robinson. It was her voice I’d heard. The contrast between the two couldn’t have been more marked: Chuck was a white, five foot hippy in granny glasses, and Dora was black and she towered over him, an imposing figure of a queen crowned with a lattice of intricately woven braids. Chuck was wearing a hemp shirt and a pair of army surplus pants. His hair was in dreads, possibly last combed shortly after his birth, which had to have been just after the Bicentennial. Dora was dressed in something impeccable and Italian; Cerruti, I was willing to bet, only because she told me so repeatedly, and it was something the gods themselves would have envied.
“Huh, so your paper’s on Raphael Santi, then?” Chuck, whose pronunciation usually reminded me more of West Coast surfers than his actual Maine upbringing, spoke the Italian carefully.
“Yes.” Dora seemed amused, which in itself was reason for curiosity. And reason for caution. S
he highjacked other people’s lives when it suited her, and generally carried on her own affairs with the noble disregard of a Medici pope. I had reason to know this for a fact: Dora’s insinuation of herself into my affairs several years ago had involved me in a criminal investigation and led me in the right direction to identifying a killer. Two killers, to be exact.
“And you think that it was him, and not that other guy—”
“Perugino, an influence in his early years,” she corrected, a slight trace of irritation barely concealed. Raphael was Dora’s specialty, kind of the way architecture was Frank Lloyd Wright’s. And she was used to getting her own way.
“—who was responsible for the painting? Neat!” Chuck’s enthusiasm was as genuine as it was all encompassing. I think that part of the reason he was a sixth-year senior was that the classes at Caldwell College provided Chuck with an endless kaleidoscope of neat experiences. For my part, I thought Caldwell was probably the safest place for him: The world wasn’t ready for Chuck, and he wasn’t ready for it. Plus, on a more selfish note, despite his occasional trips to the outer rings of Saturn, he kept things going remarkably smoothly at the Anthropology Department.
“Yes.” Again, it was more of a cat watching a particularly playful mouse that characterized Dora’s response. “And now, may I have the slides?”
If Dora was at this stage, they’d been going at it for some time. Her patience—never Olympian—was wearing out, but interestingly, Chuck was immune to the signals that would have had the rest of us scurrying.
“Oh. No, sorry. I can’t let anyone who isn’t in the department take slides. Sorry.”
I watched as Dora drew herself up ever so slightly—this wouldn’t call for all her formidable force of personality—to respond. “Ah, I understand completely. But I need those slides. Surely you can make an exception.”
“Nope.” He shrugged and smiled. “Sorry. Rules.”
“Of course, naturally. But I’m sure the rules are more to keep the undergraduates from running amuck”—Dora wrinkled her nose—“and getting their jammy fingerprints all over the slides. I’m certain that it doesn’t apply to the faculty.”
