The grid stakes cast shadows, daubing the field with black smears. Frank and Maggie rigged a barrier rope. The rope was suspended from pine posts quickly struck into the soft ground. At the center of each rope span Frank hung a small sign on which he printed, with Jake’s approval, the words “Restricted Area. State of Maryland Archaeology Site.” Jake had made him add the additional words “Do Not Enter.”
Frank had managed to keep most of the discoveries out of sight in deference to Jake. A large piece of canvas taken from the cover of one of the farm implements was stretched over the Q location to hide the crew skeletons. However, he could not disguise the large cannon which was still off to the side of the excavated area. Also, the sword parts were still embedded in the spot where they had been found, waiting on additional careful and patient work to fully uncover them.
Meanwhile, Jake and Spyder were busy supervising the catering staff near the farmhouse where the tables were being set up. Two young women in white dresses were occupied arranging flowers and food trays on white tablecloths. A small folding table had been set up with rows of name tags arranged alphabetically for the attendees. Two refrigerated trucks from the Chesapeake Hotel arrived and disgorged great quantities of liquor and cooked food.
The Pastor had gone home and returned, attired in the dark clothes of his ministry. Frank kidded him that this was the first time he had seen him dressed up; he did not recognize him standing on the porch in his black suit. Frank and Maggie remained in their work clothes, such as they were. They planned to stay behind the rope barrier, away from most of the guests, and to return to archeological work the instant the visitors left. Maggie did brush out her long blonde hair.
Several waiters and serving persons were bustling also with the setup work. Men dressed in white coats were assembling the beer kegs. Along the back of one table were neatly arranged bottles of various whiskeys, gins, and mixers. One of the black waiters waved to the Pastor.
“Terment pays pretty good, doesn’t he?” observed the Pastor.
“Yes, Pastor,” the man said, almost in a whisper. “It’s not like the General Store days though, is it?”
“No,” said the Pastor.
“We all got to eat.”
“Yes.”
“You find them graves yet, Pastor?” the man asked.
“No, but I’m going to keep myself at it.”
“We’re all praying for you,” the man said as he arranged the liquor bottles.
Out in the yard, a young waitress put down her tray on a table and pointed at the river.
“My God, look at that,” she said.
“Jake, something’s wrong,” someone else said.
Over the tops of the tall trees at the edge of the riverbank they could see the great arm of the crane, its black pulley wheel stark, the spokes outlined. The boom was wavering, moving slowly then more quickly, back and forth. A turkey buzzard, looking for dead animal carcasses, circled above the moving crane, while steel cables began to slap at the pile driver hammer resting on the barge deck.
“Looks like that bird has found something. That bird bothering your crane, Jake?” said one of the early guests, laughing. He was a big man in a white tennis shirt, pencils and pens stuck in the tiny pocket on his huge chest.
“Seems like it, doesn’t it?” said Jake, trying to grin. He started towards the shoreline, first walking, his eyes following the moving sprocket tip of the crane, then running as the crane began to wobble even more. The buzzard suddenly flared straight up and flew off. The crane moved faster, slipping back and forth in a wide arc.
“It’s as if a giant is shaking it from below,” said Frank.
The crane arm steadied to a vertical position, then began to head downward towards the water surface. It creaked, an ugly noise, as it went, its wire cables reeling forward into the water, the barge itself showing a decided list. The hammer mechanism tipped forward starting to collapse.
Jake and Spyder had reached the shoreline. The cabin and caterpillar tracks of the great crane were at such an angle that the whole rig began to slip and slide slowly across the deck of the canted barge, the great arm and tip closer to the water. Then with a lurch and creak, the long arm stopped not more than fifty feet above the water and stretching well towards the middle of the channel, cables looped into the water like tangled fishing lines. At this moment, with the strained pile driver braces bending, the hammer restraint broke and, metal screeching, the huge hammer crashed into the river causing a massive geyser of brown water.
Jake’s face was taut, his mouth halfway between his usual smile and a new look that Frank had not seen. It was a look of cunning laced with intense hatred, like that of a cornered beast. Jake was at the same time trying to determine who did this to him and how he could punish that person. He must have been thinking that the culprit would be hard to find and that was making him all the more angry.
“I guess that barge musta sprung a leak,” said the man with the ball point pens in his shirt pocket. “Happens to the old barges all the time. All that weight of the crane and the pile driving equipment.”
He continued, “Over in Baltimore the crews always try to put off the worn out equipment for jobs down here in the country.” As the man spoke two large oil drums toppled off the raised side of the barge and rolled from the high point to the low corner, splashing their complement of diesel fuel all over the deck as they tumbled, finally jumping the small restraining barrier at the edge and falling into the Nanticoke River with a splash of dark water. The drums quickly righted and floated next to the half sunk barge in the weak current, diesel fuel and hydraulic oil colliding in a rainbow of water hues, the color patterns drifting out from the large letters spelling Terment across the rusty barge steel siding.
The cable that had been hanging from the tip of the crane let go and roared out on the sprocket wheel, the tail of the steel cable whipping through the air towards the shoreline where Jake and the others were watching. The oncoming missile caused screams and several people put their arms up in defense as the cable hit the water surface, fortunately far short of the beach. Like a stone that a child skips at the seashore, the cable crashed against the water surface and sent a great spray of river water into the group drenching two or three persons closest to the river. After the cable had left the crane, the sprocket on the crane arm spun furiously for a few moments, then slowly creaked to a stop. Finally the noise was over and the afternoon river quiet returned. In a few minutes the buzzard came back and returned to its incessant circling.
Frank scratched the back of his neck and pulled his hat forward.
“Well, that was a real nice show, nice welcome, Jake,” said one of the guests. “How long you figure that’s going to hold things up?”
“I don’t know,” he said, as he trudged back up to the party from the shoreline. “We’ll have to pump out the barge, steady up the crane. Not long I guess.”
Spyder immediately went to the station wagon and made a call, the imperturbable grin still on his face as he talked. More guests were arriving. The lane from the road to the farmhouse was filled on one side with station wagons and pickup trucks. Cars, tilted crazily with the high round crown of the road, were left on the highway outside the gate, wheels perilously close to the ditches.
From the road, Frank heard a new sound. The human butterflies had started chanting at the side of the road. The song interspersed with the murmur of the cocktail party. He could not see the butterflies but knew they were there, wings moving in rhythm, lined up along the road, the old woman cheering them on again from her perch behind the yard full of birdfeeders.
The Pastor had mentioned to Frank that the African visitor was leaving River Sunday, was going back to London. His visit to River Sunday had been short and was spent only with Mrs. Pond. The Pastor said that his church elders had invited the butterfly expert to dinner thinking that because he was African he might be interested in some of the black issues of the town. The man declined the invitation saying to the elder
s only a quick ‘no’ and nothing else.
As soon as Jake heard the human butterflies, he became very agitated and went to the station wagon to talk with Spyder. From what Frank could observe, Jake talked excitedly with the guards. Spyder shrugged his shoulders several times. Then, as Jake grabbed his arm and shook it, Spyder finally nodded. Right afterward Spyder and the guards, there were three of them at the gate checking in the visitors, walked off to their left and out of Frank’s sight.
Jake stood at the gate, ignoring the incoming guests as he watched Spyder walk away. Then, rubbing his hands, Jake seemed to calm himself. Frank saw a change come over Jake, his smiling personality returned, as he began to talk and joke with his investor guests.
A small cloud covered the sun for a moment and a whisper of cold swept across the site. Frank shivered and for a moment held his arms around his body. He was almost naked in his work shorts. He had not shaved and his face itched.
More than a hundred came to the party. The guests followed a routine. They arrived, were served a drink, and walked over to look at the wrecked barge and pile driver. Some walked quickly by the excavation, most not even looking at it. Frank was sure they had been prompted by Jake’s staff to show no interest. Many simply stood in small groups, talking, drinking and partaking of the many refreshments which the Terment Company employees carried around on small shiny silver trays.
Frank, standing at his barrier rope with Maggie, had seen many of these persons at the hotel the day he arrived. Some were white, some black. The talk that he overheard was generally about the new houses to be built. The black bartenders in their white coats moved among the groups, with small trays, serving drinks and food. The guests talked excitedly about the Terment Town project, the jobs it would create, and especially about who was going to win bids for the work of building houses. When someone did come over to the dig site, however, Frank tried to portray the facts of the wreck as he and Maggie had surmised them. One woman wanted to know if he had found any dinosaur bones. Others noticed the cannon and asked whether the wreck was a treasure ship. He told them that there had been a small gold pouch and he was keeping his eyes open. One offered to help look for treasure but he declined the person’s offer saying that the site was going to be closed up very soon and that there was no reason to think that any treasure was on board. Maggie said to him between answers that she would never have been able to be so patient.
She said, “I don’t like the talking part anyway. I got in trouble the only time I tried it. I’ll just let my work talk for itself.”
Jake Terment, from time to time would stand near, eavesdropping, eyes on the ground as he listened. Frank knew Jake was listening to what he was saying about the shipwreck. Frank was courteous. He knew he had to continue trying to maintain a professional standing with Jake. He still wasn’t completely convinced he couldn’t pull this off and satisfy both his boss and Jake as well as his new friends, Maggie and the Pastor. Somehow as a professional he still felt that Jake would be reasonable. It was a matter of convincing Jake with the right words, words he had not found yet. Frank was good at listening and keeping his mouth shut. The same tactics he used on the president of his university to get and hold his job, he thought he could use here. If he was courteous to these businessmen and then careful in his discussion of the wreck, he could work with Jake to get the job done right. That was the way he had always managed, survived. In turn, if he were successful with Jake, his job at the university would be secure.
A black businessman wearing one of the ubiquitous light blue cotton suits that most of the men wore raised his hand and pointed at Frank. “You can tell me something.”
“What’s that?” Frank answered him.
“I hear that there was a graveyard up here, for black folks. What can you tell me about that?”
“Well, we haven’t found anything yet that would show that for sure. We know there was a legend about a graveyard.”
“Tell me what you have found.”
Frank looked at Maggie and continued, “The ship was burned. Some men died on board, probably sailors. We don’t know why they died.” Frank scratched his neck, wondering if he had already said too much.
Jake intervened, putting his arm around the man. “I hope you are getting the information you want about the site.”
“Yes, I am,” said the visitor. “I understand this might be a slave graveyard here. That’d be quite an important find, wouldn’t it?”
The Pastor came over. Jake continued, glaring at the Pastor. “We are going to do everything we can to analyze all this before we go further with the project. Let me assure you, we will leave nothing undiscovered that might help in local history. By the way, while you’re here I want to introduce you to one of the main contractors. Did you get a drink?” Jake steered him back into the crowd.
The Pastor’s eyes followed as they moved away from the wreck site, his face showing disappointment. In his shame at the black businessman’s relationship with Jake, the Pastor did not return Frank’s glance.
A half hour went by. Frank could hear most of the conversations at the party from his vantage point at the edge of the site. He listened as the Pastor talked with a small group of guests.
“Things have changed since the garbage war, haven’t they, Pastor?” asked a man, about thirty, his shirt printed with the outline of a faucet, the symbol of a local plumbing company.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s different around River Sunday. Maybe it’s not.”
“What’s this about a garbage war?” asked a woman, her hair pulled up against the heat, teetering on her stiletto heels, streaks on her pantsuit where she had already slipped on the tufts of grass.
“It all happened maybe twenty years ago,” the speaker smiled, his arm on the Pastor’s suit covered shoulder.
“We were younger in body,” said the Pastor, smiling.
Maggie walked up. “What happened, Pastor?” she asked.
The faucet man continued, “I was just a kid at the time. We kids thought it was funny. See,” he leaned forward, “What was going on was that in those days the town of River Sunday burned its garbage once a week. There wasn’t any clean recycling like there is today. In those days there was just a dump and it was pretty raw. We’d go out there to shoot the rats feeding on the rotten food. All the garbage from the whole town was collected into a great pile and then burned. The smoke smelled to high heaven.”
He went on. “The problem was that the land where the dump was located was owned by Old Man Terment, Jake’s father. The town government, all white folks, managed the place, and Terment gave the orders. To get rid of it, the trash had to be burned. The garbage was burned when the wind suited the town government. Since they all lived in the big white houses down along the harbor side, the wind suited them when it wasn’t blowing out over their houses and wasn’t blowing out over Terment’s mansion on the island either. Unfortunately the only other way the wind ever blew in River Sunday was directly over what we used to call the colored section where all the black folks lived in those days.
“It went on this way for years,” the man said, looking around at the faces to make sure he still had their attention.
“All my childhood I just remember my parents saying that Jake’s father done said this or done said that. His way was the way things were going to be done. Whenever there was a new road or a new building or a new fire department or a chief of police, why, Terment was consulted. When the Governor came to visit River Sunday it was Terment had the State Police send some men on motorcycles to give an escort. Just about the only thing here he didn’t have much control over was when the Washington people came and give you that award, Pastor.”
The Pastor smiled. “The Washington people got voted out of office pretty quick too, didn’t they?”
The faucet man nodded and went on, “What some of us refer to as the garbage war took a while to come about. The first skirmish started one night when the wind was blowing over the white section o
f town. People were out sitting on their porches in the evening the way folks used to do in River Sunday. Garbage smoke started coming over them, making everyone very uncomfortable. People called up the fire department saying that there must be an uncontrolled fire at the garbage lot. It was like somebody had thrown a skunk into the middle of Strand Street.
“Well, the fire department went to the dump, sent out all five trucks they had in those days, even the old pumper. All the guys were sitting around the fire station so they ran out all the trucks just for something to do. The trucks put the fire out and the chief of the fire department had to drive out to Peachblossom and tell Jake’s father what had happened. The old man was having guests. The whole party was ruined by the smell of the garbage. The fire chief had some explaining to do. He told Jake’s father that it was an accident even though apparently there was some suspicion about the fire’s origin. There was talk that the fire had been set but there was no indication as to who had done it.
“So then the next week when the wind was blowing the same way again, the fire started up mysteriously again. The same people called the fire department and complained. We kids watched all the trucks go roaring out to the garbage lot again.
“By this time the fire chief knew something was going on. He knew that these garbage lot fires were not no accident. He had been lambasted by Jake’s father. There were a lot of upset folks in town. Just believe it when I say the fire chief was suddenly not a very popular person.
“He was told by Jake’s daddy, ‘All the money we pay you and you can’t keep that fire from breaking out.’
“Of course nobody cared about the fire breaking out. They just cared that it broke out when the wind was wrong. You got to remember too in those days that the fire department members was white men, all ages, but all white.
“In the next few weeks it got so whenever the wind was blowing over the town folks knew that the garbage was likely to start burning. Finally Jake’s daddy and some of the other businessmen had a bigger fence constructed. They put barbed wire on the top of the fence too. The idea was to keep out whoever was sneaking in there and setting off the fires.
“After they got that new fence the fires stopped burning when the wind blew over the town. The fires were lit when the wind was blowing over the black folks just as before. Everything seemed back to normal.
“The final garbage war battle took place a few weeks later. Folks black and white have always suspected that our friend, the Pastor here, organized the drivers. No one ever talked. You don’t want to admit to it, do you, Pastor?
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the Pastor grinned.
“Well, you do too.” The man flicked the lime rind out of his drink. “All the garbage truck drivers were black in those days. So what happened was that they came in late on purpose from their pickup routes. The dump was locked up already according to Terment’s orders. They left their trucks outside the fence with the rotten garbage still aboard. Then about midnight all of the men went back and got their trucks. They drove the trucks to Strand Street, stopped in front of the courthouse and dumped the loads right there. The trash covered everything. The boxwoods, the Confederate statue, the Revolutionary War statue, not the Vietnam monument because it wasn’t built yet. Trash was half up the doorway of the old courthouse building. Come the morning the people who worked in the courthouse could only get into their offices by entering the big side windows or the back entrance. No one dared open the front door for fear the garbage would spill inside. Most of the courthouse employees, the judges and the clerks, did not stay in their offices for long, the smell of all that garbage was so bad.
“Terment came down there and the fire chief and the mayor and they walked around for about an hour discussing the situation, their eyes on the ground.” The faucet man bent over, demonstrating the position of the town leaders as they deliberated on the crisis. His audience laughed. “Might have done them more good if they had looked up to Heaven rather than down for an answer,” he said. “The citizens, meanwhile, white and black alike, were standing back and watching them to see what they were going to do. The smell got worse and worse as the sun come up.
“Jake’s daddy never said anything himself. He let other folks do the talking. So bymby, the mayor went over to the crowd that had gathered. That mayor always had a talent for knowing how to solve situations, mainly by pleasing Terment. That’s why he was in office so long. He puffed up the way he did and he said to them people, “We’re burning the same day each week from now on, regardless of the way the wind blows.” That was the end of the excitement. Pretty soon the trash was cleaned up and some new paint was put on the front door of the courthouse.
“In the end the town had to pay the garbage men overtime. No one else would do the cleanup. You see, the white people in town in those days thought that garbage collecting work was work only for the black folks. So the guys that made the mess also got paid for cleaning it up. Old man Terment was a smart man and he got the point that he wasn’t going to win against these odds. The garbage war got settled the way things were done in those days. Just a little push from the opposition.” The man winked at the Pastor.
At that moment the sound of barking motorcycle exhausts interrupted the murmur of the party. A River Sunday policeman led a limousine among the parked cars. The guests turned their heads towards the noise. They cleared a path as the limousine pulled into the party area. The name of a famous film company was brightly printed across its side doors.
Frank watched as guests began to crowd around the car and to scream at each other in excitement. The women looked at their men while the men in turn looked at their male friends with grins and victory signs of anticipation. They yelled, “It’s Jake’s wife, it’s Jake’s wife, the movie star. Did you see her poses in Playboy? Showed everything, man. Firm tits. She shaves off all the hair on her pussy. We’re getting visited by a movie star. Oh myyyy God, can you believe it.”
Serena stepped out of the car, effortlessly, smoothly, like fluid. The men crowded around the movie star. She had two bodyguards who restrained the most aggressive men trying to push against the woman, to touch her, to be part of her body. Serena was dressed as though she had no clothes on at all. The color of her tanned flesh could be seen through every seam in the transparent fabric she wore. Her sexual perfume drifted out on the hot afternoon air. Even Frank, his mind rarely drifting these hours from concern for the project, was caught off guard by the fantasy she portrayed so expertly. A song came into Frank’s mind, a song from long ago that would not stop, its melody hammering in his brain.
“We gotta get outta this place
We gotta get outta this place”
He saw again a dimly lit bar. His buddies were there, still young. There was Texas the jeep mechanic who was a poet, always taking out his latest poem and set it in front of him while he drank. There was the helicopter pilot they called Alaska, formerly a bush pilot, who talked about sawdust on honky tonk floors, and sitting beside him, the black soldier everyone called Philadelphia who loved jazz music. In those days he, Frank, was just called Boston, the student. They were all good killers and they had survived together.
The bar was full that night with a couple of hundred American and South Vietnamese soldiers, their guns checked at the doorway. Suddenly up on the small stage a young white American woman jumped out from the flimsy side curtain, her blonde hair rounded up like she was at a beach party. She was dressed like a high school girl complete with sports letter on her sweater, mini skirt, and brown loafers. “Seattle,” said a soldier, “This one’s fresh in from Seattle. She ain’t been fucked out in the boonies yet.” She undid her clothing in front of them, the men cheering her on with more and louder yells and whistles each time she removed another bit of costume. She threw the colorful clothes out into the waving drunk crowd until she was completely naked. Then as the music boomed louder, she laughed and jumped spread-eagled on her belly out into the mass of arms, like she was sliding
on the sweat in that room. The soldiers passed her on, one grabbing a bare arm, another a bare foot, she cheering as her young body rode around the room on their up thrust palms, her energetic legs thrusting into the cigarette smoke. Finally, she clambered forth out of the multitude of arms and skipped back up on the stage.
“we gotta get outta this place
we gotta get outta this place”
His mind was back at the site again. He was standing at the barrier rope watching Jake look at his wife. Jake had an expression of total pride. Frank’s ears hurt from the screech of her microphone. Jake’s wife expertly held the mike back from her face and the noises ceased. She smiled and began to speak in the soft voice Frank recognized from her movies. By her carefully chosen words she gave the impression of being just one of the crowd herself, anxious to find out all about the project. She talked about Jake in warm family tones and about her desire to come here to see River Sunday. She wanted, she said, to visit the old family mansion to see where Jake had been a child. Frank could see the movie magic working in the faces of the crowd as the men and even the women fell in love with this actress one after another.
“I feel so sorry about the little bugs,” she soothed. “We all know they have to be managed though, managed that’s for sure, because I’m like you, I like butterflies but I wouldn’t want to live with them.” The crowd laughed loud and long and began to surge toward her again.
Serena, her talk finished, began her silky movement among her admirers, her eye contact radiating heat and driving them to an orgasm of excitement.
Frank heard a boat horn out on the river. Jake’s big white yacht appeared through the tree line, cruising gracefully up the river. The craft could not come all the way up to the site however because of the half sunk barge and the teetered crane and pile driver hammer apparatus. It anchored against the far shore, fairly distant, and with the sun behind it as the afternoon grew, it became a white shape against the blackening trees.
The crane itself was still at the same abrupt angle. Several more of the large diesel fuel drums had rolled into the river and were bobbing near the sunken end of the barge. There was a large swell of oil on the surface and some fish, white belly up, floated in the slick.
The party was going too long. Frank wanted it to end so he could begin work again. With Jake’s threat to close operations in the morning, the late work tonight would be important and critical to finding any more of the mystery of the wreck. Jake had made his opinion clear that all he wanted was for Frank to pick up his equipment and leave. He did not expect Jake to encourage this night work so he knew asking Jake to end the party and send the people home would be futile. Maggie was staring at him. Her stare meant only one thing. Get this party out of here so we can work.
Outside the gate, the human butterfly chant continued to grow in volume. Suddenly Frank thought the chant stopped for a moment then started up again even louder. The noise of the party was too great for him to be sure. He could hear guests making comments about the butterflies though. As visitors came in they remarked to Jake, mostly in fun, that they were surprised at all the insects demonstrating on the highway, that he should be careful because the bugs were coming in for their share of his party food pretty soon.
Jake in turn, responded with his remarks about “outsiders and agitators.” Occasionally one or two of the guests would agree and bemoan the future of the Eastern Shore or River Sunday. They would talk about the good old days when townspeople knew how to behave and there were no “liberals.” They would proclaim, “This kind of behavior by Birdey Pond would have been scared off quick if your father were still alive.”
Then Birdey Pond arrived. Frank was actually looking the other way when she came in through the crowd. There was a murmur, then a silence, and as Frank turned around to see what was going on, Birdey had reached the center of the group. Her white hair and strong face contrasted bitterly with the softness of Serena standing only a few feet away. Birdey stood there, her eyes scanning the groups, her feet apart, her right hand holding a piece of orange cardboard. The cardboard, which was a part of one of the butterfly wing costumes, was torn at the bottom. Where the tear was located, it was smeared with blood.
Jake turned to watch her. He was smiling but with his head bent forward as if to withstand a fist aimed at his face. “What do you want, Birdey?” he asked.
“One of the children who was demonstrating outside your farm. Your man came outside and beat the child, hurt him.”
“What man is that, Birdey?”
“Your Spyder.”
“Spyder, come over here.” Spyder walked out from behind the farmhouse into the silent group.
“Spyder, do you know what this woman is talking about?”
“They started it,” said Spyder, his voice almost childlike, like a boy who has been caught by a parent doing wrong and seeks sympathy.
“We were having a peaceful demonstration. Spyder provoked this.”
“How?” asked Jake.
“He just walked up and started hitting the marchers with his fists. One boy fell and seriously cut his arm.”
“Knowing you, Birdey, I’m sure you provoked the fight. Anyone else see this?”
Jake stared at the crowd, almost as if he was daring anyone to come forward, to verify Birdey’s claim.
“All my friends saw this monster,” Birdey shouted at Jake.
“Birdey, we need witnesses who don’t work for your causes. Is there anyone here who saw this who is not dressed in a butterfly costume?” There were titters of laughter. Jake went on, encouraged. “For all we know, you might have hurt the boy yourself just to prove your point. We can’t reason with people who would do such a thing. Why don’t you go home?”
“Jake, you always did like the short cut, the nasty trick. You’ve graduated to the big time. You hurt children. You’ve become a true menace, and I expect you’re capable of anything.”
“You have a bad old mouth, Birdey.”
“You should have stayed away from River Sunday, Jake. You should have stayed in Baltimore or New York where you look good on television and folks don’t have to know you well. Your money counts for more there. Now that you came home people can see you for what you are. We know you around here, Jake. You can’t scare us.”
“Nobody is trying to scare you, Birdey,” Jake said in a calming way. He looked around and smiled. “Why don’t you just go on home and let everyone have a little fun at the party.”
“I heard about you fathering a child by that poor young girl and then running off. I heard what you did cheating those farmers on the island. I heard about what you did to that preacher’s business with your fire. All taking and not giving back. Your father knew better. He tried to change, to give back, to end the ravishing of this land.”
She stepped up on the porch step. She was a tall woman and this made her even taller and more imperious. The crowd had become very quiet. Everyone, even Serena, watched her.
“Blood tells, Jake. Maybe why you never understood your father was because you weren’t really a Terment.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed.
“Those of you who can still think for yourself,” she said. “Those of you who do not live in this man’s pocket. I’m talking to you. Listen to me. The Terment development is not the kind of investment we want here in River Sunday. This man Terment is the worst kind of pollution.”
She held up the piece of butterfly wing. “I ask you to help us get rid of a man who can order this done. Jake Terment lies and cheats. Help us to stop this bridge he wants to build so he will be forced to leave. If we can delay him long enough we can stop him.”
She looked at him, defiant. “You hear me good, Terment. You’re through taking. The time has come to give back.”
She waved the wing above her head. “People, the butterflies can be our future or our past. You must decide.”
She stepped down from the porch and walked slowly toward the lane. The crowd parted as she walked through.
No one said a word.
Jake calmed down as he watched her leave. He immediately ordered the waitresses to pass out refills for everyone’s drinks. The cocktail conversations returned to their former tempo. Frank was becoming resigned to the party lasting well into the night. Then a loud scream made everyone turn their heads back toward the far end of the excavation. Frank turned and ran towards the spot. There, Jake’s wife was lying on the ground, her flimsy dress ripped almost off and blood flowing from deep scratches on her thighs. Jake arrived and pushed aside the bodyguards who were kneeling beside her trying to stop the blood.
“Is there a doctor here?” Jake yelled. A heavy set man, red faced from drinking Jake’s gin and tonics, stumbled toward Jake, his hand up, saying again and again, “Here, here, I’m the doctor, I can help her.”
In a few moments, Jake, the doctor and the security men had her moving towards the beach, one of the men calling on his cellular for the boat to come in from the yacht. “Forget the limo,” he yelled into the phone, “The boss wants her taken on the boat. Yes, she’ll be all right. Just shaken up.”
“What happened?” Frank asked one of the security men as Jake and the others went ahead towards the beach.
“I saw it all,” the man said. Then his head turned from Frank as there were three loud shots echoing from behind the old farmhouse. Some of the guests began running towards their cars. Three more shots went off. Frank looked at the man. “What in hell is going on?”
“She was standing there,” the guard said, “Just looking at the site, couple of us guarding her while that old lady was talking. Then this spotted cat come along, just purring rubbing her leg. Suddenly the cat snarled, caught its claws in her dress, then jumped right on to her chest, his claws ripping downward on her skin. She didn’t have a chance. We think she sprained her arm when she fell back. Should have been dressed up more, jeans or something back up here in the country. Tried to warn her about animals, but Jake wanted her to wear that skimpy stuff for the crowd. Anyway we got the animal off, wasn’t a sick animal or nothing. Just jumped at her like it was angry at her. Afterward, it sat there looking at us and then scampered back over to the woods again. Jake said to shoot it so there’s someone back there trying to get it.”
A guard came out of the woods, putting his revolver back in its holster.
“Get him?”
“Think I had a shot at him. Damn cat had a mind of its own.”
In another half hour, the crowd was gone. The caterers had packed up quickly and left as soon as Jake went out to his yacht with his wife. The movie limousine left quietly too.
Frank signaled to Maggie and the Pastor. They crossed the barrier and began work, the Pastor taking off his suit coat and kneeling down in his good trousers. The only sound was the scratching of the archaeologists’ trowels.
Then there was one more interruption of the peace of the marsh. For a few moments there was a tremendous resounding noise. This was the booming sound that Frank had heard when he first came to town. The rumbling came up the river in the late sunlight. One time and then a second time a few minutes later . This time Frank did not tense. He continued to work as fast as he could.
“The Cannon Club rehearsing,” said the Pastor.
Frank sat back on his dirt streaked bare feet and looked at his work. “Maggie,” he called, his mind back on archeology. “This Q area is not developing very well. I’m down more than three feet. Except for the remnant of that clay pipe, I’ve seen nothing here.”
He lifted out the soil carefully. He placed it on the plastic sheeting along the edge of the pit. “Before I quit tonight, I’ll run this soil through the sifter.”
“You’ve done a good job on that one,” said Maggie. “If there had been anything there you would have found it. “
He scraped again. The trowel had become heavy to his exhausted arm and shoulder. Suddenly he felt the change in the friction of the soil.
“Wait a minute,” he said. He bent his head down to look more closely. There was a change of color in the strata. Even in the poor light he noticed the brown spot. It was a piece of bone that had appeared in front of him, a pale fleck against the black. The bone was like a drug, a tonic, a revitalizing medicine. At once he was alert, exhaustion gone, every muscle tensing, fingers grasping his trowel with new strength as he skillfully teased the soil away from the bone, to make it come out of hiding.
“What is it?” Maggie said, standing above him in the darkness. Frank worked quickly, not answering her. As he excavated, the bones appeared. In a few moments, there were two skulls, side by side as if they had come to rest in a hug or an embrace. He sat back on his heels, holding his eyeglasses, breathing slowly to calm himself.
“We’ve got something.”
Maggie and the Pastor brought over the lights. After they were plugged in and turned on, the light burned away the shadows in the pit. The insects swarmed at the bulbs.
“The light makes a big difference. These are definitely old bones. This is at an earlier strata, earlier than the soldier, about the same as the giant, the sailors,” said Frank. “The soil is different. It’s got the charcoal that I found earlier, from the burned shipwreck. The skulls are burned too. See the effect on the bones, the burn fractures.”
“But why two skulls this close together?”
“One of the skulls is definitely larger than the other, probably an adult.”
“Maybe the larger person was shielding a child.”
“The large skull definitely has some African characteristics.”
“Yes, it’s probably a black man.”
“Maybe the smaller skull is African also.”
“This bone,” he pointed with his trowel. “It looks like part of the forearm of the larger person. See how it is in the fighter position.”
“Pugilist,” corrected Maggie.
“What does that mean?” asked the Pastor.
“It means the skeleton was probably burned. When a body is burned the muscles contract and make the arms and legs tighten up like a person is crouching for a fight, like a fighter’s stance. That’s why they call it pugilist,” said Maggie.
“Could this be a grave?” asked the Pastor.
“It may be. It dates to the period of the ship though. That means it would have been a burial at the time the ship burned,” said Frank. “We already know the ship was likely here before slaves were buried in this area of Maryland.”
“Yes,” agreed the Pastor.
“Or it’s two Africans who were caught in the ship fire somehow,” suggested Maggie.
“I just don’t know,” said Frank. “This is, however the most intriguing discovery yet. The sailors belonged on the ship. These people do not. This is quite a find.”
The water was filling in around the skeleton as they talked. “We’ll need the pump here,” said Frank. After they had placed the pump beside the pit, Frank pulled the starter and after two pulls the engine popped to action. Frank moved the water outlet hose so that it discharged into the marsh grass ten feet from the side of the site.
“Well, Maggie, shall we?” said Frank as he held his arms toward her with a grin.
She looked at him, unsure what he meant. Then remembrance came across her face. “Sure,” she smiled back. “Got to have the discovery dance.”
They stood in the darkness outside the spot of the lights. The light flickered off their bodies, first in shadow then in light. They locked their arms in a square dance twirl and turned themselves around and around until they fell on their sides in the muck, laughing.
“What was that all about?” asked the Pastor.
“An old tradition. Something Frank’s field students always did when we made big discoveries on our sites. You’ll have to let this go by, Pastor.”
“Like winning a skirmish in a battle,” he said.
“Yes, just like that,” said Frank.
Chapter 15
Slave Graves Page 14
