She began to laugh a high, shuddery laugh. It was not loud and it was not strong, but it convulsed her, and she shivered at the horrible sound of her own laugh.
She could not return the mummy to the museum. The trustees would snatch Amaral-Re from her arms and send out the invitations for the unwrapping party.
She could not return the mummy to Dr. Brisband. He was safe only if he did not have the mummy. Were she to put the mummy on his doorstep, he would really be arrested.
If she tried to protect Dr. Brisband by saying, “I did it,” not only would she be arrested (if they’d arrest the director of the city museum, they would certainly arrest a plain old high school senior), but they would insist that she produce the mummy.
And then the same thing would happen: The trustees would arrange for Amaral-Re, princess, to be destroyed.
She had said to Lovell and Donovan, to Maris and Jack, that pyramids were beginning to look logical.
Indeed.
For where—where on this earth?—was she going to hide a mummy, if even the museum wanted to destroy that mummy?
Emlyn went back into her bedroom. She held her hand at a slant in front of her face so she would not have to see Amaral-Re’s sad eyes focused on her ceiling. But it was impossible. She knelt by her own bed, as one saying prayers, and stared at the gold and the indigo-blue of the guest in her house.
You are wrong, Harris Brisband, thought Emlyn. Amaral is not an object. She is herself. I owe you, Amaral. I became yours when I took you. And you became mine.
The integrity of the mummy.
Integrity meant having honor and truth in your soul. But it also meant completeness, soundness, unbroken perfection.
Emlyn lacked integrity. She had stolen.
But for the moment, Amaral still possessed her integrity.
Emlyn took her museum card from its hiding place in an old shoe box filled with index cards, notes from projects beginning in third grade. Yes, she was right. That card, too, used the word stolen.
My heart has stolen forth and goes quietly to a place it knows well.
Was Amaral talking about death or love? Had she stolen away from her house to meet a boy she adored? Or had she stolen her last breath and gone quietly to another world?
And me, thought Emlyn. What have I prepared for all my life? To let Dr. Brisband be accused of stealing from his own museum? To let an innocent man lose his career and his future?
But if I tell, I will have to produce the mummy. And then it won’t be Lovell and Jack and Maris and Donovan with the rusty saw on the kitchen table. It will be the Board of Trustees with a shining stainless steel saw on the gleaming expanse of their table at their fund-raiser.
And Amaral’s integrity, and mine, will be ruined forever.
Eighteen
EMLYN TOOK EVERY BOOK, CD, stuffed animal, perfume bottle, and piece of junk off one of her shelves. She lifted the board from its angle irons. She slid Amaral onto the board, which was exactly long enough but not nearly wide enough. The board was twelve inches wide. Amaral, at the shoulders, was several inches more.
From a long, shallow kitchen drawer filled with oddities, Emlyn got a roll of wrapping paper. It took an entire roll of Scotch tape and every scrap of wrapping paper in the house: birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and wedding shower included. Amaral looked spectacular. Anybody would want that present.
Emlyn put on a jacket with huge baggy pockets. Then she grabbed a flat sheet from the linen closet, folded it until she could jam it into one of the pockets, dropped the car keys into another pocket, and shouldered Amaral: board, paper, ribbons, mummy, and all.
“Wow,” said the elevator guy. “Somebody’s getting a cool present.”
“You bet,” said Emlyn. “I don’t do things by halves.”
He went with her to the car, and together they opened the rear of the wagon, and Emlyn crawled inside to put the backseat down. Now she took the foot end of Amaral and the elevator guy helped with the head end, and they slid the mummy neatly into the Ford. “Thanks,” said Emlyn.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That papier-mâché doll I brought in earlier this morning,” she said. “It’s a surprise.”
“Way cool,” he said. “I want somebody to spend that much time and energy on me.”
Time and energy had certainly been spent on the dead girl three thousand years ago. Sixty days of embalming. The funeral and procession. The love and sorrow that must have surrounded her; the song and dance and funeral feast.
Emlyn covered the mummy with the bedsheet. Her mother wasn’t a buyer of plain white sheets. She liked sheets with flowers or cowboys, with plaids or snowmen. Their linen closet was a history of childhood taste in sheets. This sheet was from when her brothers were in love with choo-choo trains.
Now the shape in the station wagon was neither a mummy nor a gift-wrapped present. It was just a mess: wrinkled, swollen laundry.
Where, thought Emlyn, is a place that’s dry and dark and hidden and has a room for a five-foot stiff?
Stiff, she thought. Rhymes with skiff. Sounds like scull.
She and Amaral drove out of the parking level and into the street. Although it was not the direct route, something made her take the road past the museum.
She couldn’t even get close. The block was thronged with people. This was the crowd museums always hoped to attract and seldom did.
From a block away she could see people high on the museum steps with microphones and cameras. Across the street, parked in the middle of everything as if to thumb its nose at people who used parking spaces and put quarters in, was the network van.
A traffic policeman was yanking his arm in the air as if he were hauling on some heavy pulley. He wanted Emlyn out of that intersection. She rolled her window down and pulled up next to him and said, “What is happening at the museum?”
“A press conference,” said the policeman. “There’s nothing like a mummy-stealing to bring out the crowds. I need you to drive on, please.”
He did not look inside the Ford. He did not really even look at Emlyn. He was looking at the big picture and missing all the little pieces.
She parked four blocks away. After locking the doors, she actually circled the car, trying the handles. This was not a good day for some hophead in need of a radio to look under the choo-choo sheet instead.
She jogged down the road, joining the crowd and pressing rudely through. Finally, she reached the bottom step of the museum entrance where the cameras and reporters and police stood.
Police. Now that she was out of her car, no heavy, solid, locked doors between herself and them, she was afraid. They were no friendly neighborhood helpers, the ones they told you about in kindergarten. These were men and women eager to slam you to the ground, handcuff you, and arrest you for mummy theft.
They’d be very polite, she said to herself. They’d say, “Ma’am? Would you be willing to discuss this with us?”
They were hung with weaponry, as the mummy had been hung with jewels: arms held slightly away from their own sides, ready to pounce.
On me, thought Emlyn.
She felt sick and afraid, guilty and visible.
The crowds shifted and changed around her. She had not eaten in a long time. She hoped she wouldn’t faint or do any other stupid thing to call attention to herself.
The criminal, she remembered, returns to the scene of his crime.
It was true. She had.
It seemed that Dr. Brisband was not locked up, because he and several others stood around on the very top step, waiting for the microphones to be readied.
Now that she thought of it, they wouldn’t waste jail space on him. This was like computer theft or Wall Street theft. White-collar stuff, where you said, “Naughty, naughty” and made them pay a fine, and then they could write a book about it and go on talk shows.
A very attractive woman a little older than Emlyn’s parents was the first to speak. Her frosted hair was shoulder length, b
lunt cut; her fine suit showed off slender legs and trim ankles. Heavy designer jewelry made clear her excellent and expensive taste. She introduced herself as the chairman of the Board of Trustees.
She went over the same things that Emlyn had read in the paper, making Dr. Brisband sound like a snake. “We hope,” she said as frostily as her hair, “that Harris Brisband will behave honorably and return the mummy to the museum.”
The crowd murmured, but Emlyn could not tell what they were thinking. Were they thinking of gold and what it was worth? Or were they thinking of the mummy they had loved as children and brought their children to see, too?
The moment the questions began, it was all too clear where the interests of the crowd lay.
“Once he gives the mummy back, can the public buy tickets to this party?”
“How much will they cost?”
“Does everybody get to do some unwrapping?”
“Are you going to auction the mummy’s gold off or display it in the museum?”
“Do you just get to keep the gold, or can you have a piece of the mummy?”
“On a talk show last night, I don’t know if you saw it, but they were saying that powdered mummy was very well known centuries ago as a cancer treatment.”
“Did the board plan this whole thing as a publicity stunt so you can get lots more money for the mummy bones?”
Nobody answered. The chairman just stood there, being graceful. Eventually, giving the chairman the kind of look Emlyn wanted to develop and give stupid people, Dr. Harris Brisband took the mike.
“From time immemorial, people have wanted to destroy mummies. There is something about their hidden bodies that entrances us. The desire to be vandals is common to many of us. We want to slice and destroy. To rip and tear.
“A mummy cannot be unwrapped. Every bandage is glued to the one below. The only way to get down to the bones is with a saw. That was explained to the board. They cannot get what they perceive to be jewelry without destroying the mummy. They don’t care. As far as they are concerned, the mummy is nothing. It does not deserve to exist. They are eager to hack the mummy to bits. They are motivated by greed. They want to sell tickets; they want to be on television.
“This mummy has been displayed in our museum for nearly one hundred years. By reason of the will of the original founder and donor of the museum, the mummy is for the children. She is to be on exhibit at all times, at their eye level. If the trustees continue with their heinous plans, they are breaking the trust they were given.”
I was one of those children, thought Emlyn.
The board would fire Dr. Brisband. He would never find another job as museum director. His future had been torn away, just as Amaral’s linen would be torn if those trustees got hold of her.
“When are you going to return the mummy?” demanded a reporter.
“I do not possess the mummy.”
“Who does possess the mummy?”
“I have no idea. The police have no clues.”
The police have no clues, thought Emlyn. Relief washed over her like cool rain.
The police had no clues.
“I hoped it was a Mischief Night or Halloween prank,” said Dr. Brisband, “and if so, we would find the mummy on our doorstep the first of November. But you reporters and this foolish board have ruined that hope. Now, because of you, whoever has the mummy will destroy it, hoping for gold. I cannot stress enough that the value of the mummy is in the mummy itself. Her antiquity, her beauty, her integrity.”
But the reporters had lost interest. They were on their cell phones, getting instructions for other stories, yanking up their cables, slouching back to their van. The chairman and Dr. Brisband were merely tape, to be used if there was airtime and cut if there was not.
The crowd dwindled. A few went into the museum but most drifted off. It turned out they were just office workers from nearby buildings, sitting on the steps in the sun for lunch. Dr. Brisband and the other museum officials went inside.
Emlyn leaned against the heavy stone balustrade of the great museum steps. Every town and city had its cemeteries. All religions wanted their dead to lie in safety, and in groups, and with markers. Nobody wanted her grandmother shoveled up and auctioned, her wedding ring ripped off her finger.
But if that grandmother had died three thousand years ago? When did a body stop being sacred—and start being funny? When did a person stop being honored and start being a party game? Was there a cutoff date? If Amaral had died twenty years ago, they would still be careful with her. But a hundred years? Two hundred?
Perhaps you stopped being a dead person and became stuff once your grandchildren and your great grandchildren were dead, too. Then your whole family was just stuff, and it was fine for strangers to rip your ring off your finger.
A chilly finger stroked the back of Emlyn’s neck. A hot breath followed.
Emlyn leaped away as if from bee stings.
“Emlyn, Emlyn,” said Maris. She was smiling. “There isn’t anybody who can slip into a trance the way you can,” said Maris. “We’ve been standing behind you for fifteen minutes. Your little face mirrored a thousand emotions, Emlyn.”
Donovan was smiling, too. “You never thought of glancing behind you, Emlyn. That’s step one, you know. Keep track of the enemy.”
Lovell was not smiling.
Jack was not smiling.
“Cute trick with my mother,” said Maris.
Emlyn felt as if there were dozens of them. They, too, held their arms a little out from their sides as if they, too, were armed with revolvers and clubs, ready to pounce. They were, after all, an excellent team.
“We’re going to follow you,” said Maris politely. “There are four of us. We will work in shifts. You won’t go anywhere without us. We’ll find the mummy.”
Emlyn said nothing. It seemed pointless to show up for the last two periods of school, but she couldn’t go back to the car now. She walked slowly. Donovan walked on her left. Maris on her right. Jack and Lovell paired up behind her.
“I wish that dumb mummy had never been taken from Egypt,” said Jack. “We hate you, you hate us. And the thing is, this was supposed to be so much fun.”
“I’m having fun,” said Donovan. “You were right about one thing. This is better than cows. Now the point is, Emlyn, we’re going to get that gold. You know it’s worth it if the whole board voted to do the same thing. There is no place for you to stick that mummy, Emlyn, except your own apartment. So, Emmy, don’t worry about Maris’s cute little idea of us tailing you all over the city. We’re all five of us going to your house.”
Good, thought Emlyn. Because the mummy isn’t there, and there’s no sign that it ever was there. Of course, if we waste time going to my house, what do I do about hiding the mummy and getting the car back for my parents?
“Come on, Em, lighten up,” said Maris. “We’re friends. We want to do this together.”
“What about Dr. Brisband?” asked Emlyn.
“He can take care of himself,” said Lovell. “He’s that kind of guy. Come on, Emlyn. Where’s the mummy?”
The car keys felt heavy and hidden in her jacket pocket. She did not let her hand stray over them. She reached into her pants pocket and took out her house key instead. She handed it to Maris. “You guys go have a fun time with the mummy. I’m going to school. I can’t miss calculus. If I miss even one class, I can’t figure out what I’m doing. I’m going to be an engineer, you know, and I need advanced math.” She was not taking calculus. She did not have a math course this semester. But she was fond of fibbing. “Feel free to split up,” suggested Emlyn. “Some of you may tail me. Others may enter my bedroom and look under the mattress.”
Maris took the key uncertainly.
“You have lots of time,” said Emlyn. “My brothers have sports after school, and my parents are never home before six. The knives are in a drawer to the left of the sink in case you actually do find a mummy and wish to slice it open.”
Eml
yn bet that though they were willing to break into a museum or watch Emlyn do it, and they were willing to rip apart a priceless mummy, and they had been willing to enter an unused summer cottage, they were not quite willing to go into somebody else’s house, even with the key, and poke around and open drawers. She crossed the street when the walk light came on and turned toward the high school. It was not a short walk. They had many blocks to go. They were all, except Donovan, athletes, and when Emlyn started to run, they all, except Donovan, ran with her.
“This is a bluff,” said Maris, looking at the key. “The mummy is in your room. You don’t have any other place to put it.”
“I agree,” said Lovell. “Let Emlyn go to school. We’ll hit the apartment. It’s not breaking and entering; she gave her good dear friends her key.”
“Slow down,” said Jack. “Wait for Donovan to catch up.”
Emlyn did not slow down.
Jack said, “I don’t think the mummy is at her place. I think she took it somewhere else.”
“Like where?” demanded Maris. “She takes it out of my bedroom, by sheer accident I call home to ask my mother about something else and find out, and only half an hour later we find her at the museum. She didn’t have time to go anyplace but home.”
“I had time,” said Emlyn, “to go to the museum.”
Lovell grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop. “What are you talking about?” said Lovell.
Emlyn wasn’t up for a street scene, so she stood still, letting Lovell tighten her fingers as hard as she wanted. “I took the mummy back,” said Emlyn. “I have a master key, remember? I can get in and out whenever I want.”
Jack was stunned. “You put the mummy back in the museum?”
Maris began laughing, in a sort of stunned admiration. “You did put it back, didn’t you? I love that. It’s amazing and insane. Who do you think you are, the Robin Hood of mummies? Steal and give back?”
“No, she didn’t,” said Lovell. “She doesn’t want the integrity of the mummy compromised. That means she can’t let the museum board have it, either. They’ll compromise the integrity even more than we will. They’ll make a fortune while they’re sawing it open.”
Mummy Page 14
