More Bitter Than Death

by Dana Cameron

  The hotel had a little combo playing in the reception area, and the lights came down when they went on. This was obviously meant as a treat, but the musicians were more enthusiastic than talented, and those who were grooving to them did so with a pronounced sense of irony. Though most of the older folks left the floor in a hurry, some remained and cut a fair enough rug, but then the younger cadres came out, graduate students, some ABDs, a smattering each of new PhDs and undergraduates snaking their way onto the floor, laying claim to the one place this weekend where they might have some authority. One Gypsy-clad young lady slinked onto the floor, taking a willing guy by the hand; I could see a pint bottle of vodka stuck in his back pocket. Their skins were tribally pierced and colorfully illustrated. Ties and skirts were still in suitcases waiting for paper presentation time; now it was either hyperbaggy pants or skin-tight jeans hovering three inches and more south of where I thought they should properly rest. Others were scrounging the “free” food at the buffet, squirreling some away for later. Standard operating procedure.

  I didn’t know many of them and realized that as much as I might feel it, I was no longer a part of the puppy crowd. At their age, for us, it had been a single pierced ear or maybe long hair for the guys, big, bad hair for the girls. I wasn’t even an aging puppy, I was a big dog now, and the thought made me sad as I watched the dancing.

  The game, our game, was scheduled during the dance reception. I wasn’t much for dancing, myself, and the music was usually pretty wretched. The other folks in the game would stick around for a few minutes, sometimes, but we always ended up in someone’s room, with the same nasty sticky deck of cards we’d been using to cut for years—featuring the shaved and slicked charms of the Chippendale dancers—and a new deck for the game itself.

  The game had started out as a reaction by me and my friends when we were the puppies. We got tired of trying to meet up with the people we were trying to imitate, trying to accost for whatever reason. We decided that if they could withdraw, pointedly excluding us, to their rooms for private drink, and who knows what else, then we could jolly well do the same. So we instituted the poker game and kept it to ourselves, fifteen years ago or so, with all the vindictiveness of snubbed mid-twenty-somethings. There hadn’t been much variation over the years—everyone brought something to drink, ordered something to eat, and left their attitude at the door, as much as humanly possible—but the rules were strict: no discussion of professional news, only catching up with each other. No telling others outside the group about what went on in the room, save to say that it was a card game, nothing more. No television, and no radio either, because it only distracted and caused fuss. Bring cash and no whining, about anything.

  I picked my way through the crowds toward the exit. Over the years the game had devolved from a rebellion into a retreat, a counter to the overstimulation that characterized most conferences. For many of the attendees, the attraction of being at a conference was the chance to slip the leash, behave badly in the company of their understanding professional peers, or find a little extracurricular sexual activity. I had been naively shocked when I realized this, early on, and it only tired me to think of it now. Drinking too much and dancing too late were one thing, but I just didn’t understand how, morals quite apart, anyone could possibly have the time or the energy for an affair.

  So the game was a chance to catch up with friends who’d known each other for, well, almost two decades now; the longevity, a shock in itself. We’d passed the age in our lives when a wave across the room was enough to hold us until the next conference, because there’d always be another event. Now, however, we wanted to spend some time with each other.

  I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised when my graduate student Meg Garrity appeared in my path.

  “I was wondering if you needed another hand at the table,” she said. I saw her flushing red to her roots, which were now what I assumed was her natural brown, for about two inches, then to another three-inch fringe of platinum. It looked interesting, but I couldn’t tell whether she was doing it on purpose or just getting sloppy about color maintenance.

  I blinked. “Well, I—”

  “I mean, only if it’s cool,” she hastily added, when she saw my surprise. I realized she’d been watching me, waiting for this moment.

  “Well, we’re actually pretty full.” I saw her face go carefully blank, and she nodded. “It’s just cards, Meg. It’s just a bunch of us getting together, you know, to catch up and all. It’s nothing special.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” she said quickly. But if the look on her face was any indication, I did have to explain.

  “Honestly, Meg, it’s not like it’s the hot ticket of the social season. It’s just…friends…no big deal. I mean, we don’t even talk about work, all that much. If it was only up to me, I’d say yes, but it’s not. You understand. Maybe you and Neal will be free later for that drink?”

  She nodded, but she turned away, her jaw set. “Sure, no problem. I’ll catch you later.” Meg hurried off, even before I could say another word. I saw her find her fiancé Neal and lead him to the dance floor. He complied with a fair competence and I wondered why I should be at all surprised he could dance.

  She didn’t understand, I realized, she even thought that I was trying to keep her out of something. Well, I was, but not the way she thought. This was not some kind of Star Chamber, a sanctum sanctorum where important and discipline-changing decisions were made. It was a room of friends in their late thirties and forties trying to act like human beings.

  Shit. Well, I would have thought exactly the same thing at her age. I didn’t even know whether I’d have had the guts to ask to join the game, if I’d been in her place. But it wasn’t my decision, and it was over now.

  With a sigh, I turned and headed for the elevator banks.

  “Hike up your skirts, ladies, we’re entering the gates of hell,” I said, as I finished dealing the cards. Brad DuBois removed the emptied plates. “Who’s in? Carla?”

  “Wait a minute, don’t change the subject!” Scott said. “Never mind skirts! You were in your underwear?”

  Jay Whitaker furrowed his brow. “Never mind that. Are we here to play cards or what? Chris, man, lend me twenty?” Jay ran his hand through thinning brown hair; at least he’d had the sense to cut off the damned ponytail he’d been clinging to for years, leaving the last of his misspent youth behind him. He’d been partying hard since he arrived the night before and needed a shave and a change of chinos, but that was understandable as this was as much of a vacation as he ever got: The struggling contract company he’d founded kept him digging all summer, and in the lab all winter.

  “Of course I was in my underwear,” I said. “That’s what makes the story embarrassing. What about it, Chris?” I was only asking to keep Jay on tenterhooks; it was just so funny to watch, and plus, it kept him off his game. He and I played hard in our competitions over the years.

  “I’m folding.” Chris threw down his cards in disgust. “I might as well still be at home, snowed in with Nell and the herd. Here,” he said, handing some bills to Jay, “make these last awhile this time, Jay-Bird.”

  “I’m sure that Nell would love to hear that,” I said. “Looks like lots of folks got hit by the storm on the way in last night; I noticed the crowd seemed pretty thin. What about it, Brad?”

  Bradford DuBois, occasionally known to his intimates as “Brad the Boy,” stood up, which didn’t take long. He was short, thin, brown hair curled as tight as his uptight attitude. He was one of the most phenomenally lucky archaeologists I ever met, which counts almost as much as being good, which he also was. “I’m out. Anyone want a beer? I brought low-carb.”

  “Thank God!” Carla said. “Now we can get down to the serious partying.” She snorted in disgust, whether at her cards or the notion of Brad’s fake beer, no one could tell.

  “I’m sorry, but can you please tell me the point of lowcarb beer?” Lissa, known only to her parents a
s Elizabeth Bell Vance, wiped the last of the crumbs from her place at the table onto her empty plate. “Isn’t that water? Bring me a Bass. And a glass, would you? Thanks.” Lissa was a poster child for the perfectly turned-out blond sorority sister, never a hair out of place, even when she chases bulldozers across battlefield sites in her hard hat.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going all carnivorous and carbophobic on us?” Chris asked. “Weren’t you a vegetarian this time last year?”

  “Now we’re totally vegan,” Brad said. “Still am. And occasionally, we go uncooked, just for good measure. I’m just watching my weight. Some of us could stand to.” He glanced meaningfully at Chris’s straining shirt buttons.

  “And by doing so, with one stroke, you’ve eliminated two of man’s finest achievements: the invention of fire-on-demand and animal domestication.” Chris remained happily unconcerned with his diet and his thickening waistline. “Bring me a beer, boy!” he called in his best imitation of Hagar the Horrible. “Make it two! Real ones, none of your pallid Schweinwasser!”

  The rest of us put in our orders and Brad was kept busy for a few minutes ferrying beers to us. Carla, of course, changed her mind three times about brands, and he actually obliged her twice, then finally told her to go to hell when she complained about the label coming off the last bottle.

  “And may I say thank you again for rescuing me, Em?” Lissa said. “I swear, Bea Carter’s just like a big, obnoxious octopus, and once she gets you trapped, she sucks the life out of you.”

  “Kinda mixing your metaphors there, aren’t ya, Lissa?” Carla said.

  “You know what I mean. And Brad, thank you so much for finally, finally shaving that darn porn-star mustache of yours. You look ten years younger.”

  Brad bowed, on his way back with the beers. “Francine likes me clean shaven too.”

  “Anyway, who’s got dirt?” Lissa asked, after she opened her bottle and carefully poured it into a glass. As if we hadn’t heard that hoary old line a thousand times.

  “No, you’re not going to do this to me!” Jay said. “Let’s play the damned game!”

  Scott was right there with him: “I’m out, too, but Emma, tell me what happened! There was underwear, you left off with underwear!”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. Carla and I exchanged raised eyebrows: something was up with Jay’s hand. “So I was in there cleaning the bathroom—”

  “You clean the bathroom in your underwear?” Scott said.

  “Naturally; how do you do it?”

  “I don’t clean the bathroom,” he announced stiffly.

  “Figures,” Lissa said. “Makes his poor wife Cathy do it.”

  “But I’m sure she doesn’t take off…” he started, confused. Was it possible? Had he missed it? You could practically see the questions running through his mind.

  “You don’t want to drag your shirt over a wet tub or toilet,” I explained, “and you just end up splashing yourself anyway, and since you’re probably going to just shower after you get done with the housework—”

  “And if you strip down to your birthday suit,” Lissa added, “you’re giving up important support and protection, and trust me, if you don’t want to have your shirt slapping against a wet tub, you sure don’t want your boobs to either.”

  Trust Lissa not only to have made the experiment, but also to come back and report on it.

  “In any case,” I interjected firmly, “since it was cleaning day, it also meant that it was laundry day. So my garb was of a somewhat eclectic nature. It had been a couple of weeks since the laundry mound had actually moved closer to the washer so…” I paused to reshuffle my cards, not because I didn’t know what I had, but to see Jay’s reaction. He watched me like a dog tracking a steak, and then he sat back and looked at his own cards in disgust. So his was that good a hand? I thought.

  I continued out loud. “So when I leaned out the window to wave to Brian, you know, give him a little thrill while he was working in the backyard?—I was wearing a more festive variation on my usual undergarments. Recreational, shall we say?”

  “You were wearing your date bra,” Carla said.

  “Alas, yes. I was wearing my lucky leopard-print bra—”

  “Lucky Brian, more like. A matching ensemble, perhaps?”

  “No, more’s the pity. Not that that would have helped anything, because as I was leaning out to wave, I did not realize that Brian’s friend Roddy had dropped by to pick up some reports. No, it was Roddy who got my blinding smile and animal-printed cleavage.”

  “What did you do?” Lissa asked.

  “What could I do? I faced it out. I just kept waving and said, ‘Hi, Roddy, tell Brian to take out the trash when he comes back, would you’? Then I quietly collapsed under the window in a fit of mortification.”

  Jay was torn between what was clearly a fabulous hand and getting the lowdown on this heretofore unsuspected element of housecleaning. “But what were you wearing below the wai—below the windowsill?”

  “Ah, that’s where I was glad that we don’t have a balcony with French doors or anything that posh. I told you it was laundry day; I was wearing a pair of Brian’s plaid flannel boxers. It was quite a rig, let me tell you.”

  Carla took a swig of beer. “Sounds comfortable.”

  “It is,” I said. “Why do they always make men’s clothing so much more comfortable and durable than women’s clothing?”

  “Don’t forget cheaper,” Chris added.

  “It’s a conspiracy,” I said.

  “I can’t believe you’d wear any men’s clothing,” Lissa said primly. “I mean, yeah, maybe for kicks in bed, but it’s just…I don’t know…weird to wear it in public.”

  “I’m still dealing with the fact that she was half naked in front of a man,” Scott said.

  “Oh, come off it. I wear less on the beach,” Lissa said.

  “You wear less to the supermarket,” Scott retorted.

  “The beach is a different context,” Brad said. “You don’t just hang out at home naked, do you?”

  We all exchanged looks. “Not naked, but not always dressed for company,” I conceded. The rest of them nodded: that sounded about right.

  “It’s different when you have kids. Don’t get me wrong,” Chris said. “I don’t want mine to be prudes, but I don’t want them in therapy either, seeing dear old dad scratching and grinning in the altogether.”

  “Can we please get back to playing cards!” Jay was ready to blow a gasket.

  “Sure,” I said. “Coming around. How many you want?”

  I dealt cards to Lissa and Carla. Jay made a reluctant show of holding; I held my breath and took one.

  “Man, can you get over Roche, with his ‘Julius Gilbert Garrisons’?” Lissa said. “Talk about your constant refrain! Julius Gilbert Garrison this, Julius Gilbert Garrison that, we are here today to honor a man who—”

  “Who has caused more shrinks to retire early,” Chris filled in, “fat on the pickings of desperate archaeology students—”

  “Who has been a bigger setback to women’s self-images than airbrushing—” I added.

  “Who is more steadfastly evil a villain than Darth Vader, Hannibal Lector, and Hitler all rolled into one,” Carla finished.

  I glanced over at Scott; he was doing his best to keep his head down and was noticeably quiet.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Lissa said. “I like the guy, I just thought Roche’s butt-kissing was a bit florid.”

  I looked at her sharply. “You like which guy? Not old Roche?”

  “He’s all right, but I was talking about Garrison,” Lissa said.

  “The man’s a dickhead!” Carla said.

  Lissa shrugged. “He’s always been nice to me.”

  “Was he hitting on you?” I asked.

  “No, he was getting me some data from the nineteen forties on forts that he knew about.”

  “And he wasn’t a jerk to you?” I said.

  “Not a bit. He’s an
awful oenophiliac, but I can forgive that in most people.”

  “You can forgive someone for having a blood-clotting disorder? That’s big of you, Liss,” Scott said.

  “Actually, it’s blood thinners he’s on, I heard,” Lissa said. “And I said ‘oenophiliac,’ not ‘hemophiliac,’ you dope. As in, if you cut him, he’d hemorrhage wine.”

  “Not lately, I’ve heard. He’s been on the wagon.”

  “Then you’re behind the times,” Jay said. “I saw him lapping it up earlier. And yeah, he’s not a bad guy. Bit opinionated, maybe.”

  “He shouldn’t be drinking, not with that ticker of his,” Scott muttered. “Petra says he’s on a boatload of new prescriptions.”

  “Well, I’ve never minded him either,” Brad chimed in.

  “Who asked you?” Carla was really annoyed now. She liked consensus in her loathing. I have to admit, I was surprised at Brad as well.

  Brad ignored Carla. “I don’t have a problem with him. He’s not a friendly guy, but he’s usually been decent to me. And look what he’s done for the field. Practically established the field in the Northeast, one of the founding members of ASAA, authored some of the most important artifact studies of the early years. You can’t deny that.”

  “Fine. By any standards, yes, he’s achieved a lot, but it’s like admiring the pyramids without asking who suffered to get it done. Runs roughshod over people, uses and abuses them.” Carla looked to Scott. “Help me out, man. Tell us some horror stories from your days as his lackey.”

  “Nope.” He fiddled with his beer bottle, giving it all his focus. “I don’t live in the past. It was tough, it’s over now. That’s it.”