The Cat's Pajamas

by Soraya May

  What would it be like to just kiss a guy with no consequences?

  Farrah began to cluck quietly under her breath, and I made a face at her. “Shut up.”

  “Seems like it to me…” Farrah finished braiding, and bent to kiss her daughter on the head. “There! All done, daughter of mine.” May clapped her hands. “Thanks Momma. Auntie Cat, can I go upstairs to your room? I want to see what it looks like in the mirror.”

  “Sure, go on. Just be careful on the stairs; you know they’re creaky.”

  As May bounded up the old stairs, I stood up, walking down the length of the bar to retrieve a cloth. “I am not chicken, okay?”

  “Fine then. Prove it. Next time you get to kiss a random hot guy with no consequence, you have to go for it. Done?”

  I took a deep breath as I wiped the wine stains off the bar. “This is a terrible idea. It has to be an out-of-towner, okay? I’m not randomly kissing Andy, for instance. He’s a nice guy, and if he asked me out, maybe I’d say yes. But…”

  But you’re not the kind of girl who makes crazy decisions. Until the time you made a crazy decision to run away to here.

  “Awwww. I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. But okay. Next time a hot stranger turns up and you have the chance to kiss him, you have to promise me you’ll go through with it.”

  “I’m not throwing myself at some guy just to prove to you that I’m not chicken. I’m not completely stupid.”

  “I know, I know.” Farrah slid down from the stool and began to gather up her things. “Just, if the mood strikes you, promise me you’ll try it. Just once. Okay? I really think it’d be good for you to do something crazy.”

  Our eyes met, and I saw the concern on my friend’s face.

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Maybe here, so far out of my real life, I should just do something crazy with no consequences. It’s not like it’s going to matter in the end.

  “I can’t promise anything, but,” I saluted with mock-seriousness, “I do solemnly swear that in the incredibly unlikely event of a hot stranger wanting to kiss me, I will not kick him in the nethers. Cross my heart.”

  Farrah smiled broadly and slung her handbag over her shoulder. “What an invitation. If I were a guy, I’d find that irresistible. Right, I gotta go; need to get that daughter of mine to her afternoon craft class, and then get on with prepping for stocktake.” She turned and raised her voice. “May! Time to go, sweetie.”

  May clattered down the stairs, hanging onto the banister. For a small child, she could make a surprising amount of noise when moving around in the old bar, although I loved to have her here, and she had become something of a mascot for the customers. “Here, Momma.”

  As they left, May turned back in the doorway to look at me. “Auntie Cat, don’t forget to ask about the dragon bones, okay?”

  I nodded, composing my face into a serious expression. “I won’t forget, little sister.”

  My little office was next to my bedroom, just big enough to fit a desk, a printer stand, a filing cabinet, and a chair. I had to be sitting down to close the door, but everything fitted as long as I kept still and didn’t make any sudden movements. I had no idea what the room was originally intended for when the old bar was built, but I strongly suspected it was a large airing cupboard. Feet pressed up under the desk, I was bent over my computer placing orders. Next week, the bar was hosting an open mic event, and I expected a good turn-out from nearby towns. Most of the musicians were pretty self-sufficient, and I enjoyed the relaxed, uncomplicated atmosphere of the gig. I didn’t have to do much except keep the drinks and snacks coming, and sometimes the music was even half-okay.

  “Right, done.” I muttered to myself. “Was there something else I was supposed to do?” I looked around the little office, and noticed the bones perched on top of the filing cabinet. May’s words about the bones came back to me, and I smiled at the little girl’s joy in finding them. “Of course.”

  A few minutes’ search found a contact address for the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology at the city university up north. It looked like a departmental secretary’s address, but it would do. I composed a quick email, explaining the location of the bar, attached a couple of photos of the bones, and asked if anyone would be interested in coming to look at the site. It seemed pretty unlikely, but I had promised May I would ask, after all.

  About half an hour later, I was filing when a reply popped up:

  Dear Cat,

  Thank you for your email. I would be very interested in coming to look at your site. How does next week sound?

  Regards,

  Ryan Sanders, PhD.

  Associate Professor, Department of Anthropology and Archaeology

  Surprised, I thought for a moment. I guess next week’s fine; it’s not like we’re that busy, and I’ve still got to do something about the damn oven anyway.

  Dear Dr Sanders,

  Sure, next week’s fine. Just let me know when I can expect you.

  All the best,

  Cat.

  Standing up, I reached for my phone to message Farrah. May will be delighted to hear this.

  Cat: Hey, hon. Tell May that someone from the university is coming to look at those bones?

  Farrah: Wow, that’s cool. She’ll be really excited. Is there any money in it?

  I thought for a minute. If there were, that could be my solution for fixing the oven.

  Cat: I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe there’ll be a wall plaque in it at least.

  Farrah: Better than nothing I guess. So when can we expect a visit from Indiana Jones? Hubba hubba.

  Cat: Next week. Although from the tone of his emails he sounds like he’s about seventy. So I don’t think he’s going to be the guy of your dreams. Sorry.

  3

  Ryan

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Eagle Air Flight 3 to Nelson Regional Airport. We’re currently waiting for clearance to taxi down to the runway; while we wait, please ensure that your seat backs are upright, and your tray tables are securely stowed for takeoff.”

  On a small airplane, everything is smaller. You get small seats, one on either side of the aisle, and you get a small snack, often served by a diminutive flight attendant. The flight attendant walked toward me, checking each seat in the little turboprop aircraft, and I glanced at her.

  Yep, quite short. Excellent deductive powers there, Dr. Sanders. Or maybe you’re just really easily entertained. Definitely one of the two.

  Why the hell don’t I just drive? Everyone knows what happens with archaeologists on airplanes. I’d seen enough Indiana Jones movies to know that sooner or later I was going to end up having to jump out of one in a life-raft, and every flight I took got me one step closer to that catastrophe.

  Settling into my seat, I extracted my phone, furtively, from my trouser pocket and tapped out a message.

  Ryan: Ahoy, cousin Ant! Guess where I’m going right now, matey?

  Ant: You do know that sailors don’t talk like that, don’t you? Also I am not your matey. Idiot.

  Ryan: Aw, c’mon. What do your crew call you then?

  Ant: Skipper. Or Ant. Or Antoinette if they’ve done something wrong. But not matey.

  Ryan: What does your owner call you? Does he still want to marry you and take you off to a life of luxury as a pampered wife? Poor deluded fool.

  Ant: You mean THE owner, not MY owner. I am not a superyacht. And I think he’s cooling on that idea, thank goodness. What about you? Didn’t you have a blind date last week?

  Ryan: Yeah. About that.

  Ant: That bad, huh? Anyway, I’ll bite. Where are you going?

  Ryan: Cable Bay! Got an excavation and assessment there. Looks pretty major, but you never know until you do it.

  Ant: Oh wow. I haven’t been back since I was little. Any chance you could check out my Grandad’s house? It might have fallen down by now. I’ll send you the address. Also say hi to your Mom from me when you talk to her. I’ll call her soon.

  Ryan:
Sure, can do. Gotta go, I’m on the plane. Hope your business is still afloat. Ha ha. See what I did there?

  Ant: Why is there not a ‘disgust’ emoji?

  “Sir, could you turn your phone off or set it to flight mode, please?” I gave a guilty start as the flight attendant hovered next to me.

  “Sorry, forgot.” I switched the phone off, and was rewarded with a cheerful smile.

  “Thank you, sir.” She continued down the aisle, counting off the other nine passengers, and I closed my eyes briefly.

  Right. Focus, Sanders. Let’s get this assessment done, and get out of here as soon as possible. I had plenty of work to do back in the city, but an opportunity like this didn’t come along very often, and as soon as I’d seen the photos the bar owner sent me, I’d rearranged everything I could, disappointed some conference organizers, called in some favors to cover my teaching, and headed for this tiny airplane.

  It might be nothing. But you have to check it out. Once lost, memories are gone forever.

  “Coffee?” The sound of the flight attendant’s voice made me open my eyes. She was leaning over me, blond hair tied back in a neat ponytail, holding the coffee pot.

  “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

  Airline coffee never really gets any better, but drinking it passes the time.

  In the seat across the aisle from me, a silver-haired lady pored over a magazine, and she looked up at the sound.

  “Coffee, ma’am?” The flight attendant beamed at her.

  “Thank you, dear.” I looked across at the magazine, and she noticed me looking. “Damn cryptic crosswords are impossible to understand sometimes.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it’s very much a matter of getting inside the head of the crossword-setter, I think. Once you know their style it’s a lot easier, but the first time you get a new one, it can seem pretty, well, cryptic.”

  “True. Oh, to hell with it.” She folded up the magazine with a snap. “Are you going home, young man? The coast is a lovely place.”

  I shook my head. “No, heading out for work. I do a lot of short trips to different places. I’m an archaeologist. Ryan Sanders.” I reached out a hand, but the distance across the aisle was greater than I’d expected, and we settled for a sort of wave at each other.

  “Oh, how interesting. Kay Williams.” She beamed at me. “I think I’ve heard your name in the press; you’re quite young for such an illustrious career.”

  I suppressed a smile. “As much as I’d like to accept the compliment, you’re thinking of my Dad. Professor Philip Sanders? He w—is an archaeologist, too. He presented a TV show about ten years ago, The Prehistory of You - maybe that rings a bell.”

  “Oh, of course. I remember now; silly of me. You do look a lot like him, though.” She put her head on one side. “In your job, I suppose you get a lot of jokes about having a hat and a whip, huh?”

  “Well, yeah. I do actually have a hat, but a whip isn’t very useful in a library, which is where I spend half my time. The other half is spent on my hands and knees in other people’s rubbish heaps. So it’s not quite as glamorous as Indiana Jones would have you believe.”

  “I can see what you mean. Do you have a family? Little ones?” She shifted to face me. “It must be hard on them if you’re traveling all the time.”

  “No, no children.” I paused. “It’s hard to hold on to relationships when you’re trying to climb the academic ladder. Besides,” I tried to sound lighthearted, “I’m kind of digging through other people’s relationships - what they ate, where they lived, where they died. Sometimes those other people are dinosaurs, but the principle is the same.”

  Kay looked down for a moment, and I could tell she was thinking about something. “Be…be careful you don’t spend so much with the past that you don’t think of the present. Heaven knows I’m not the type to give advice to people, but…”

  I waited for her to finish her sentence. Instead, she pushed up her sleeve, bangles jingling, to show her upper arm. On it was a small tattoo, a red heart, and a single word: ‘Don’.

  “My Don and I were always so busy with our days, getting on with career and family, that we didn’t take the time to tell each other how much we cared. He had a brain haemorrhage last year; he would have been sixty-eight.” She looked down at the folded magazine in her lap. “I got this six months ago, and until then I don’t think I’d ever told anyone how much I missed him. Not even myself.”

  I paused, then leaned toward her across the aisle. “Thank you. You’re right. I just…” I tailed off, not knowing what to say. I was happy enough, but hearing her story made me think about the hours I’d spent deep in books, or out on dig sites, about the relationships which had dwindled to convenience and then finally slipped into the past.

  She looked up, and her eyes glistened. “What you’re doing is wonderful. The past needs to be preserved. Just don’t lose your own chance for happiness while you’re doing it, that’s all.”

  A gentle cough made me look up; it was the flight attendant, blue eyes looking between us with concern. “Is everything okay? Ma’am, is your son able to help—”

  “Oh, he’s not my son,” Kay said, smiling. “We just—”

  “We’re friends,” I interrupted. The flight attendant looked relieved, and put out a hand. “If there’s anything I can do, just call me, okay?”

  “Thanks, will do.” She continued down the aisle of the small plane.

  She looked at me again—the tears had gone, replaced by a conspiratorial gleam.

  “That was pretty smooth, young man. I think there’s one thing that young lady could definitely do for you. You should ask for her phone number.”

  Taken aback, I looked from side to side. “Uh, well, maybe.”

  Man, now I’m getting pimped out by old ladies on airplanes. Is it something about me?

  Leaning across and poking me, Kay cackled cheerfully. “Maybe? Go on. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

  I looked down the aisle, where the flight attendant was busy serving snacks, facing away from us. She was pretty, shapely curves under a pencil skirt, rounded calves in sensible court shoes. “Well, yeah, she’s pretty. But—”

  Another prod; she had sharp fingernails. “Are you chicken?”

  “I’m not chicken!” I spoke louder than I’d intended, and for a minute thought whoops, what if she heard that? “It’s just cliché to try and pick up flight attendants on planes, that’s all. I’m sure she gets guys asking for her number on every flight.”

  “Maybe she does. Who gives a darn? You should go for it. Take it from me, you’re only young once.” She settled back into her seat and wagged a manicured finger at me. “Handsome young man like you ought to be doing that all the time.”

  I smiled despite myself. “You, ma’am, are a bad influence.”

  “I started late, but I’m making up for lost time.” She cackled again.

  I thought again about my work, trying to distract myself from the old lady’s urgings. The last year had been more successful than I could have ever hoped for. Conference talks, publications, a funded grant, albeit a small one—but the academic treadmill never stopped turning, and I needed another major find within the next six months to keep my publication record moving forward. My existing projects were winding up, and they wouldn’t make me the wunderkind of the archaeological establishment on their own.

  I’d been wanting to write a book, a detailed summary of all the fossil investigations I’d done over the last five years since I graduated college, but the time I’d need to do that didn’t come easy. Plus, teaching and the continual need for job applications took up most of my spare time when I wasn’t traveling.

  I loved the daily hard work of being on a dig site, the careful labor of uncovering bones and preserving and labeling specimens, the meticulous capture of everything that was uncovered. To students, I always said it was a ‘snapshot of history’, detailed enough that nothing need be lost.

  I enjoyed the physical work, too; digging holes, ex
cavating, construction; I’d worked on a building site during college breaks, and—before his illness—my father often joked that if I’d become a carpenter, I’d be better-paid and have more job security.

  Well, you were right, Dad. And you would have known.

  Because of the constant travel, I’d never settled anywhere for long; why bother putting down roots if you were only going to have to pull them up again? My cousins were all settled—except for crazy Antoinette, who told everyone she was ‘married to the sea’—and that meant that at family gatherings I was spared the worst of the questions about marriage, house and children.

  The rattle of the (very small) snack cart brought me out of my thoughts. The flight attendant was working her way back down the aisle, placing a chocolate bar and a napkin on each waiting tray.

  See, a small snack. Knew it. I grinned to myself. Sanders, if that’s your idea of comedy, you really do need to get out more.

  As she made it to our aisle, she paused and drew some more napkins from a compartment in the snack cart.

  “For you, ma’am; a snack,” leaning over Kay, who was frowning at the crossword again. She turned to me.

  “And for you, sir,” blue eyes looking into mine, “with my compliments, and I hope you enjoy your flight.”

  I smiled back. She was pretty, for sure. She continued down the aisle, exchanging a word here and there with other passengers, and I went back to my book, a slightly tedious review of carbon-dating methods from the 1950s to the present.

  After a few minutes, I heard a hissing sound coming from beside me. Kay was looking at me. When she caught my eye, she silently indicated in the direction of the flight attendant.

  I shook my head, smiling. Maybe, but…

  She rolled her eyes, then looked down at my tray where the uneaten chocolate bar and napkin still sat. At that moment, the intercom crackled and a voice broke into the passenger cabin.