More Bitter Than Death (6 page)

I looked away and took another sip of my drink; I wasn’t so curious about the story as I was about my feelings, now that I’d seen him, testing them gingerly, the way you step on ice that you know is probably too thin to support you. When I got done being fascinated by the melting ice floating and clinking unheard in the glass, I looked up and saw that Laurel was watching me.

She did a little chin jerk and eyebrow thing, asking me wordlessly if I was okay; I just rolled my eyes and nodded. There was no reason for me not to be okay, I just found myself going over a long-buried past and wishing I didn’t need to. I’d successfully avoided it for over a decade; I didn’t see why I should bother digging it out now. Laurel nodded and turned, immediately caught up in another round of where-can-we-meet-and-talk with yet another passerby.

“Hey.”

Meg and Neal had come into the bar. I hooked Lissa’s abandoned chair by the stretcher and pulled it over for them.
They sat down, one butt-cheek each on the chair. “Not interrupting anything, are we?” Meg asked.

I couldn’t detect any layer of hurt in her voice, but I was acutely aware enough of having been less than gracious in my dealings with her all day. “Nothing at all,” I said. I had just been about to excuse myself, but this seemed like a good time to make sure Meg and I were cool. “You guys got time for that congratulatory round I promised?”

“Always,” Neal said. “Meg’s told you, then?”

“Word’s been getting around.” I leaned over to Sue and Laurel and shouted, “Meg and Neal just got engaged. Two of my best students!”

“Well, I know what we need to do, then!” Laurel once again easily caught the attention of the harried waitress, who came right over. Other tables might go dry and pine for a sup of beer, but those who sat with Laurel never would. “Got any champagne?” she shouted. “We’ve got an engagement to celebrate!”

“I wouldn’t call it champagne,” the waitress said, shaking her head, looking alarmed. She glanced around her, and seeing none of the other staff, said confidentially, “I’d stick with the hard liquor and beer, if I were you.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said. “Emma?”

I looked around. “Whiskey’s okay with everyone?”

Everyone nodded. “Whiskeys all around, then,” I said. “Single malt, if you’ve got it.”

By the time she came back with our drinks, Lissa had made it back with the popcorn and her colleague. I explained to them what was going on and lifted my glass. The others fell silent for a moment.

“To Meg and Neal!”

“To Meg and Neal,” the others chorused. One of their friends—the Gypsy-clad woman—already in the know, wandered over and added, “And all the babies to come!”

“Go to hell, Jordan!” Meg said.

Quick as lightning, she flicked a piece of popcorn and landed it squarely on Jordan’s chin. The young woman clearly knew to expect it, and her laughter infected the rest of the party.

Suddenly it seemed that everyone was swarming around our table, and the energy of the bar changed, shifting to our side of the room. Meg and Neal answered all the usual questions—no, they didn’t have a date set, but probably after Neal defended his dissertation successfully; yes, they would probably stay in Maine for the time being; honeymoon destinations were limited by a graduate income, but there was a chance they could borrow a friend’s family’s condo in the Caribbean for a week. Pretty soon the conversation switched back to our work at Fort Providence and then early sites in general, and then everyone started to splinter off again, group energy renewed.

My energy, however, was gone for the day, and my head was starting to pound with the noise and excitement. After a decent interval and the second round, which for me was a quick soda, I excused myself, hugged the happy couple, and made my way toward my room. Leaving the bar was a good start, but my room was still an oven, and I knew that even if I sat up long enough to drink some water to stave off dehydration, it would still be an hour before I had any chance of getting to sleep in there.

I got the water and cracked the window, but I knew I couldn’t stay in there to roast until it cooled off. Checking the thermometer, I saw that it had gone down ten degrees since my complaints, and was probably repaired for the night, but I decided to pull on my boots, jeans, and parka and go out to look at the moon in the snow. By the time I got bored and cold, it might be possible to get some sleep.

I actually made it outside without getting caught by anyone in the lobby or the bar, which was something miraculous, even considering the conference attendance was lower
because of the canceled flights. Although our group was often close to five hundred or more, I heard we were down to about four hundred today. There’s always someone wandering around at conferences, and it’s always a pick of the draw to see whose floor you’ll be on, what famous person you’ll run into in the restroom, or who’ll be sharing your table at the boxed lunch.

The cold air shocked me as I stepped out of the revolving door on the side of the lobby. The wind had died down somewhat, but it was still snowing like fury, and the moon was nowhere to be found, of course, behind the clouds. There was plenty of ambient light from the Christmas-lit hotel and the parking lot, and I figured that I could follow the walks around to the back and maybe even down to the lake, if the outside lights were still on there.

The walks weren’t shoveled out, but it still wasn’t deep enough to be a nuisance yet: The storm was swinging up the coast and we were still inland from it. The walking was easy, through the light fluffy stuff, and was actually easier than it had been earlier, as the slush had frozen solid, into an uneven surface. Now the new snow made it easier to keep from sliding. As long as I brushed myself off good before it melted on me when I returned inside, I wouldn’t even get all that wet.

I love walking through snow, if only for the acoustical tricks that it plays on you, deadening sound, distorting the sonic impression of distance, and giving you a sense of solitude that is altogether too difficult to come by in the crowded Northeast. One of the benefits of doing archaeology out of cities, or traveling to places off the beaten path, was the comparative quiet. Or rather, there was a different, quieter set of sounds that weren’t purely human in origin. But there weren’t even any animal sounds now—everyone but me was safely snugged away for the duration of the storm—and the creak of branches overhead, the wind coming across the
frozen lake, and the feathery soft sound of landing snowflakes were worth escaping the cacophony inside. The noise of my crunching boots made very little impression on the woods surrounding the hotel.

The long, shallow path that led down to the lake was not only lit, it was pristine. The landscapers had created a series of many short steps punctuated by longer, level landings, so the trip down was designed to be inviting and gentle. I decided that I felt warm enough to continue to the bottom, and then would head back to my room, pleasantly worn out.

I got the cadence of the staircase quickly: five regular stairs followed by three to ten regular paces of flat landing, then the next set of steps. Bump, bedumpt, bedumpt, swish, swish, swish. There was the occasional turn, so that it wasn’t a straight shot down to the lake, and I assumed that during the day, the walker would be treated to various vistas or landscaped intervals. I counted about twenty of the steps-and-strides combinations, and made it down to the bottom after several minutes of hard work. I wasn’t worried about getting lost, even though the snow was heavier now, as the railing would lead me back to the top of the stairs and the back of the hotel.

There was a little beach down by the lake at the bottom of the steps, where the pines fell away into a circle. Maybe when it wasn’t covered by an even layer of snow that seemed to flatten and compress the difference between shapes and heights, you could identify boulders, chairs, perhaps outdoor grills and chimneys for lakeside gatherings. There was a raised area to the right, which was a gazebo or covered deck, which might have been ideal for small wedding parties, maybe a buffet or the bandstand for larger affairs. With the blanket of snow, it was impossible to tell but imagination filled in the spaces. Trees spread out to both sides beyond the clearing, and it looked as though paths followed the circumference of the lake to the left and right. Mountains rose up
into the clouds across the lake, lit and shadowed by the snow. On the left-hand side of the clearing, I could see the dock, all closed down for the winter, and the ice spread across nearly half of the lake.

I didn’t dare go down off the stairs to explore, though if the weather cleared up, I promised myself a walk around when it was a little easier to navigate. I looked out across the lake, through the veil of falling snow, and was rewarded with a glimpse of the moon, through a break in the wispy clouds. The vision lasted no more than two seconds, and it was quickly covered up again.

I had just turned around to go back when I heard a tremendous thud, followed by a sharp noise like the crack of a rifle. That surprised me, but I immediately attributed it to snow falling off weakened branches and a branch cracking under the weight. It didn’t end there, though; I heard rustling/crunching noises that were too large to be scattering squirrels or birds and too small and consistent to be branches settling or rebounding.

It sounded human.

I felt my mouth go dry again. “Hello? Is someone out there?”

The noises ceased suddenly, only to be replaced by what sounded like gargantuan moaning. That definitely sounded like something alive, in the animal-not-tree sense.

“Hello?” I tried again, feeling nervous and vastly stupid, all at once.

Nothing was to be heard but the wind, the snow, and the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. In the two minutes I’d stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the cold had driven its way through my parka and into my bones. In the long ten seconds during which I’d heard the not-quite-natural noises, it froze the heart of me as well. I wanted to be out of there, now.

Sue’s ghost story in my head, I turned and ran up the stairs, stumbling over the roughness of the terrain, grateful
for the handrail and the fact that I could see no other footprints but mine as I ascended, as hastily as I could. Whatever was out there, hadn’t come from the hotel, and so therefore was probably not human. My movements were clumsy, and I knew that I was probably just scaring myself, but that didn’t keep me from slogging as fast as I could until I got to the top and ran around the front to the doors of the hotel.

I don’t care how dumb I might have looked: You don’t go wandering out by yourself in the middle of a snowstorm and then go off to investigate unearthly noises when instinct is telling you to run the hell out of there as fast as you can.

I
GOT BACK TO MY ROOM AND WAS IN A COLD SWEAT
. The heat had gone down rapidly, and the room was now habitable. I took a shower to calm down. My heart rate slowed, but I was by no means relaxed. I checked the clock: It was just past one. Too late for company, though it would be easily found if I wanted it; too early to go to bed, as I was less inclined to sleep than before I went for my nerve-wracking walk. At home I would just be thinking about whether there was anything else to do before I hit the sack, but conference time and energy is never the same as at home, and I knew I needed to do something to unwind before I went to bed. I could check on my slides, that would burn a few minutes. The mundane task of reviewing the images and my forthcoming talk would calm me down enough to sleep.

I found my tray, checked the location of the preview room, and found my way down to the second-floor mezzanine. As I wandered over to the rail, I could see the desk across from the main doors, several lounge areas scattered around, and the restaurants off to either side. Outside the
coffee shop was a pinball machine, now silent, and I promised myself a game later.

I was lucky, and the room wasn’t locked; I found the light and the projectors were all out and waiting for use. Pretty soon I was immersed in scanning through my paper, reconsidering one image over another for a greater impact; the little plastic tack-tack of the slides being inserted into the carousel the only noise. It calmed me like nothing else could.

The door opened. I glanced over.

It was Duncan.

I would have gnawed off my leg, like an animal in a trap, to get away from there. I very nearly turned and ran when I saw that we were going to be alone in there, but pride wouldn’t let me do that, and since I was already halfway done, I kept on going, stomach churning. Duncan paused by me, then went to work on his own slides. Maybe he would see that I wasn’t interested in talking. I would run through my slides as quickly as I could and get the hell out, pride intact, boundaries maintained, and no messy interactions.

It was a good plan, but it went awry right away. I have a fifty-fifty chance of having the kind of carousel that doesn’t work on the projectors at any given conference, and I’d come up short this time. I kept promising myself that I was going to go to one of those computerized presentation programs, but I always worry about other, more pressing things and never got around to it. Now I was paying the price for it. I turned the carousel over to make sure that the little metal flange was in the right place, and then the plastic circle that keeps the slides in place fell off and my slides tumbled to the carpet, some of them cartwheeling clear across the room.

“Fuck!” The word came unbidden and was pure acid; my emotions were getting the better of me. It had nothing to do with the possibility of getting lint on my slides.

I got most of them and then paused as I crouched; there
were three over by Duncan’s chair. Correction, there had been three. He’d picked them up and come over to where I was. I stood up slowly, and took them by the white plastic frames, careful not to touch the film or his hand.

“Thanks.” I didn’t really meet his gaze, just gave him a casual flip of the head and an unconvincing imitation smile as I turned back to the carousel on the table.

I could practically feel him hesitate behind me, and sighed with relief as he moved toward the door. I heard it shut and relaxed, just then noticing how my fingers were trembling as I tried to replace my slides in order.

Then I heard soft footsteps on the carpet behind me.

“Emma, can’t we talk?” He had a riveting voice, low, a little husky, very sure.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?” I kept my eyes on my work, carefully blowing a hair from the dark square of the image. Nice picture, artifacts from Fort Providence, very early seventeenth-century, the photographer did a good job on them…

“No, I mean, really talk. About…about what’s bothering you.”

I kept focusing on the slides, each tinny little click as they fit into the slots a small victory for me and my composure. “What’s bothering me
.
” I shook my head. “What do you want, Duncan?”

That was a mistake. “I want you to talk to me like I’m a person. We can’t go on this way forever, can we?”

I shrugged. “It’s worked okay so far.” Even as I spoke, I could feel my face growing hotter and hotter.

He shrugged. “We don’t run into each other all that often. The big conferences are so big we don’t meet. The little ones…I’m not usually at.”

Duncan never bothered with the regional meetings. Not a big enough audience for him.

“But I don’t want it to be like that,” he was saying. “I mean, doesn’t this feel bad to you?”

“It’s small potatoes compared to how I felt when you dumped me on my ass!” I hadn’t meant for it to come out like that—I hadn’t meant for it to come out at all.

He moved back, surprised by my anger. “That was a long time ago. Can’t we even talk to each other? Can’t we be civil?”

I sat back and looked at him closely for the first time: Yes, he had aged, but the lines in his face added character. He was tanned, but not the same way I remembered: this was more an expensive winter vacation tan than a fieldwork brown. He’d always been a little proud of his hair, and so he still hadn’t cut it short, though I noticed there was a skillful part that might just disguise a receding hairline. A little bit of grey in the beard, now carefully and closely trimmed. Gray eyes, still no need of glasses. Damn his eyes.

“Hmmm. I say hello, I nod, I keep out of your way. No firearms, no knives. Civility city.”

“Not my definition of civility, but I can see that it’s been an effort for you.”

There was the first sign of his temper. Good—why? Why does he care?

I took a deep breath, and the words came out like soda rushing from a shaken bottle. “Yeah, an effort. Why shouldn’t it be? We had a lot of plans and you changed your mind all of a sudden, and I was left looking like an idiot.”

There was the faintest flicker of satisfaction across Duncan’s face: I’d revealed a weakness. “And you’ve always hated looking like—”

My face went warm again and I tried to unclench my teeth. “You don’t have the right to psychoanalyze me, Duncan. You never said goodbye, you never had anything to say for yourself, so don’t start now. You don’t have the right.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Okay, I’m going about this
the wrong way. I didn’t handle things well when we ended. Then it was, what…another two years before we saw each other? Not much had changed, I was still figuring things out. Then another five years, and then you were married, and I was married and we never sorted it all out, the way I should have when we broke up.”

“Let’s get the semantics right, shall we?” I jabbed a finger at him. “You split.”

“Fine, okay,” he said quickly. “I apologize for not being a better human being then, for not knowing better how to do things.”

I looked at him, disbelieving. If there were words I’d ever wanted to hear, it was these, but they were nearly twenty years too late.

“I’m serious, I mean it. But I’m glad I did it; it worked out better in the long run. I’m just sorry you’re still hurt.” Duncan shifted and sighed. “I miss you—!”

I threw the slide carousel down onto the table.

“Wait! I don’t mean it like that! Jesus, I forgot what your temper could be like!”

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t stick around then, isn’t it?” My temper’s only getting worse as I get older. He didn’t do anything to improve it. I never let myself go like this. I could barely contain myself and I hated it.

“Emma, it would have been a mistake! I thought it was then, and I was right! I knew I wasn’t ready—what kid is when he’s twenty-three?”

I took deep breaths, working to calm myself. “I knew. At least, I was pretty sure.” And I was a year younger than you, I added to myself.

He shrugged. “Maybe you were. Can’t you forgive me for not being ready? For being scared?”

It was my turn to shrug. “I don’t have a problem with people being scared. I have a problem when they don’t handle it well.”

“I apologized for that already.”

We both knew there was a big, nasty elephant still standing in the middle of the room. “And the other thing?” There were a lot of “other things,” and I was curious to see which one he’d pick.

“Yeah, and you know that lasted about ten minutes, same as my next half-dozen ‘relationships.’ It’s taken me a long time to sort out my act.”

I said, “I just want to keep the story straight. You were seeing her long before you walked out on me.” Christ, why couldn’t I keep from sounding so shrill? “If we’re going to discuss it. Civilly.” As soon as I said it, I realized that I didn’t want to discuss it, I was too tired and had too much else I’d rather do. Get a Brazilian wax, clean a septic tank, shove splinters under my nails…

“Okay.” He turned to the door, then paused. What would it take him to get all the way through that door and close it behind him? “My mother really appreciated the note that you sent. When Dad died.”

Damn it, that was low. And just when I had been working up a really good head of steam. “Your dad was a great guy,” I said simply. “And your mother…I really liked her a lot. It was the least I could do.”

“She misses you. A lot. She likes Cindy—my wife, now—but she really liked you. She wouldn’t mind hearing from you.”

I snorted. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“It’s for Mom. That’s all.”

“I’ll see you, Duncan.”

He finally left. I waited, then picked up my slides, finished placing them back in order, and left the slide room. I ducked back into the doorway when I saw Jay was also heading for the elevators. Thank God; I was pretty sure he didn’t see me. I just didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone.

No such luck. “Emma! Get your ass in here!” Lissa called from the bar.

Much of our poker group had coalesced around Laurel’s table by this time; I was reminded of the old computer game, Life, when groups of cells formed, moved, broke off, reformed. I shook my head; I was way too tired.

“Now, Fielding!” Chris bellowed: He was deep into the beer and I went over to keep him from shouting again.

“I’m heading up to my room,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m beat!”

“What! It’s only Wednesday! You can’t crap out on us so soon!” he said. “Let me get you a drink.”

“I’m serious, man. I’ve had a rough night.”

“Why, what’s wrong, Emma?”

“Oh, I…I went for a walk and got the stuffing scared out of me. Noises outside spooked me. I ran all the way from the beach to my room. I was just checking my slides to try and calm down, but I’m going to go to sleep now.”

“Hey, Emma got scared by Sue’s ghost,” Lissa yelled, laughing hysterically.

“Emma needs to lay off work, if she’s seeing ghosts,” Scott said. “C’mon, have another drink!”

“Tomorrow, I promise,” I said. “G’night everyone.”

After a few more protests, I escaped. Once I got up to my room, I glanced at the clock but went straight for the phone anyway.

A sleepy, grumpy voice answered. “Hello?”

I didn’t let it bother me. My younger sister, Charlotte—and while she might be Carrie to her few friends and veterinarian colleagues, she’d always be my kid sister Bucky to me—is always either sleepy or grumpy. “It’s me, Bucks.”

“Hey, Em.” I heard muffled voices, the television being muted in the background. “What’s up?”

“I can’t just call you to say hi?”

“Not when you’re at a conference. Not at this time of night.
If you have the time for calling, it’s usually Brian.” There was a pause. “So how’s the weather in New Hampshire?”

Damn. She knew. “Cold. Started snowing like mad.”

“It’s already dumped more than a foot here. Duncan’s there, isn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“Seen him, have you?”

“Yep. Today at the tour I gave of the site.” I paused. “He just cornered me in the slide room.”

“Talk to him?”

“Some. Not much.” Not well, I added to myself.

“Good. He’s a shithead and I hope he burns in hell, the fat lump of pig vomit.”

“Bucky…” I don’t know why I felt compelled to defend Duncan, as I felt pretty much the same as my sister. I was just more able, or willing, to compartmentalize my feelings and leave them—I hoped—to fade over the years.

“He left you a letter, a note on your bureau, for when you came back from break and…poof! That was it.”

“It was a selfish thing to do,” I agreed carefully.

“Selfish? Selfish! You’re kidding me! Goddamned pretty boy,
mama’s
boy, son of a bitch, tail-chasing, monkey-humping, loser, suck-up—”

I let her go on for a while, knowing that it was pretty much useless to break in before she’d gotten some of the poison out of her system.

“Hey, kiddo—?”

“—and whatever happily lives in a diseased weasel’s lower intestine would cross the street rather than run into him!”

She drew a breath and I tried again. “Okay, Bucks? Feel better?”

“You know my opinion on the subject, Em. Why else would you bring it up, unless you wanted some sisterly support?”

“Ah…good question. I don’t know what I want.” I suddenly felt exhausted. Bed. I wanted bed.

“Well, I know what you need, and I have just the baseball bat for you to use. Aluminum, bought just for the purpose, kept safe and shiny all these years—”

“Bucky, lay off.”

“I’ve always hated him, Emma. I’m just glad you got out of it before it was too late.”

“He was the one who got out of it. I would have married him.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You would have come to your senses before anything drastic happened.”

“Bucky.” I took a deep breath, ashamed at how much effort it took to say the next words. “I loved him.”

“Like you love Brian?”

“God, no,” I said, without thinking. “I mean, no, of course not,
now
. But I was happy with him at the time, you know?”

“No, you weren’t. You two never stopped fighting. You were always arguing.”

“No…I mean, yes, we argued a lot.” I shook my head, trying to remember clearly. “We were young. Competitive, you know how it is.” Or maybe she didn’t; charges of laziness or performing at sub-ability levels had always been levied at my brilliant sister. Where any such comment would have driven me mad, she paid no attention and did exactly what she wanted. “We were undergraduates with a mission, ready to take the world by storm. You couldn’t not argue, not the way we were.”