Phase Shift (2 page)

One look at the crowd so far and I can tell
that won't wash. You don't drag yourself out of the house along
with crates of your most valued possessions downtown on a week
night to hear about archaeological altruism. Many have been the
nights Palmer entertained me with stories about how someone had
gotten angry with him because he'd diagnosed their wanna-be museum
pieces as having no monetary value. Can you imagine? They get angry
at him! As though it were his fault that dear, departed grandma was
cheap and purchased an imitation Tiffany instead of the real
thing.

The spartan corridor which leads from the
school entrance past the cafeteria and gift shop seems to go on for
miles, and the shoulder bag that carries my lap top seems to gain
weight with every step.

I check my watch. Artifact night isn't
scheduled to begin for at least another twenty minutes or so, but
you wouldn't know it, judging by the sheer number of people lining
up single-file against the painted cinderblock of the corridor.

A row of metal tables has been set up
opposite the Lower Rotunda (which is much blander than the majesty
of the gilded, tiled, domed Upper Rotunda on the floor above), and
in front of the Ontario Archaeology Gallery. Under a low roof in a
dimly lit corridor sit three people, two men and one woman, looking
quite bored, indeed. These are my partners in crime for the
evening.

On the far left is a man I've never seen
before. I read the placard in front of him. I recognize the name as
belonging to the current archaeologist on the Ministry of
Transportation payroll. I smile and wave at the man sitting beside
him, an old archaeologist friend with a residual Czech accent and a
quick sense of humor. Beside him, a bookish woman, with dark, brown
hair—Palmer's ex-girlfriend, Suzanne Pascoe. She wears a
Chanel-style, baby-pink suit which compliments her complexion. And
though I hate to admit it, she looks good. Damn good. Her smoky,
mascaraed eyes widen slightly when she sees me.

In front of the empty seat beside her the
card reads "Professor Richardson". She was expecting Palmer. She
thought Palmer was coming and isolated his seat so she could have
him all to herself. It's sad, really, when you think about it.
Palmer broke it off with her long ago so he could be with me in
good conscience, yet she's still hung up on him.

Fun night this was turning out to be. So
far, I was to be isolated from the only friend who turned out for
the evening, and forced to make small-talk with my husband's ex.
Lovely.

The co-coordinator for the evening is some
guy named Runkleman. Ian, I think. A man matching Palmer's
description of Runkleman is standing close to the totem pole. He is
tall and gangly. His neck is so long and thin, it seems almost
impossible his skeleton is able to maintain his head in an upright
posture. He holds a blue Lucite clip board, and wears a ROM
identification card. It hangs from a chain around his neck, and is
redundantly clipped to the right chest pocket of his dress
shirt.

"Excuse me," I say, "I'm Molly McBride? I'm
filling in for Palmer Richardson tonight?"

The man looks down his prominent Romanesque
nose at me. "I thought Dr. Richardson was sending his wife."

"I am his wife." I smile and try to look
ingenuous.

"Uh huh," Runkleman retorts.

People usually have one of two reactions
whenever I'm introduced as Palmer's wife. There's the
I'm-Horrified-He's-Robbed-The-Cradle look, usually given by women
approaching the half-century-mark and beyond. Then there's the
You-Old-Dog-You look, usually to be found on the faces of men
around the same age as Palmer. Breaking with tradition, Runkleman's
prissy gaze seems to weigh in with the former.

"The panel's over there," he says, shooing
me back to the table. For years now, the museum has been organizing
semi-annual nights like this and Palmer's been diligently attending
for as long as I can remember. This is the first time in my memory
he's ever missed a night, something or other about a valuable
donation to the department he has to accept tonight or not at
all.

I take a deep breath and glance back toward
the panel. At some point during my run-in with Runkleman, Suzanne
has played musical chairs. The empty chair is between the two men
now. Suzanne sits on the far end beside my archaeology buddy. Thank
heaven for small miracles. I turn my attention back to Runkleman,
but he's already gone, shaking hands with another man, equally as
peckish yet at least a full foot shorter.

There is a growing buzz coming from the
queue building behind the claret velvet crowd control barriers.
They are the usual bunch one might see on an occasion such as this,
each of them grinning eagerly as they await their turn, passing
time trading stories about their respective finds. The only
difference between the patrons of the show and these ones tonight
is that outside of the odd oil painting in gilded frame, this crowd
is devoid of any artifacts larger than those that might fit into a
standard, file storage box.

Time to take my place on the panel, I
suppose. My old archaeology buddy stands, grabs my hand in his, and
shakes it enthusiastically. "Molly," he says, "good to see you
again." He lets go of my hand.

My brain searches for his name and settles
on one of two possibilities. "Serge! It's been a while." I guess I
got the name right because he’s still smiling.

"Is this you?" he asks. He points to the
placard marking my spot. "I heard ol' Paulie married a professor at
the University, but I had no idea it was you."

Paulie? Polly? Pally? The nickname throws me
off. Nobody I know has ever called Palmer 'Paulie', not even his
mother. "Yeah, this is me."

"How is the old guy anyway?"

"He's..." The pause between words lengthens
exponentially as I try to think of something clever to say, but I
am so taken aback by the whole Paulie thing I can't think of
anything. "...good." Quickly, I snatch up the folded cardboard
placard marking my spot and read the name on it. “Professor
Richardson,” it says. It was meant for me. If they’d meant Palmer,
they would have used “Dr.” I shake my head in disbelief. I hate
when people assume you can’t be married without taking your
husband’s last name.

"Hey, listen, Serge: you wouldn't happen to
have a thick, black marker hanging around, would you?"

"Thick...black...no, why?"

Inside my purse is a ball point pen, which I
use to scribble out "Richardson" on the placard. Above the
scribbles, I write "McBride" in thin, blue letters. When I'm done,
I hold the folded cardboard up to eye level at arm's length and
examine my handiwork. From a distance, it looks like "Professor
Richardson" covered with a bunch of blue scribbles. I sigh,
surprised at how good it feels to oxygenate my lungs. The pen
threatens to roll off the table, but I catch it before it
falls.

Serge points out a set of electrical outlets
behind us and I set up my computer before dropping into my seat. My
back is jarred by the hard metal of the folding chair.
Nevertheless, I settle in for the long-haul.

If the grey-haired biddy sitting across from
me rolls her eyes one more time I swear I'm going to deck her. "I'm
pretty sure, ma'am," I tell her once more, "the key (as I've
already said) is in the maker's mark. This plate was manufactured
at a pottery house in Gloucestershire. According to my source..." I
pause to scroll down the document displayed on the screen of my
laptop, "this particular pottery house did make flow blue Willow
Ware out of Staffordshire, but only until about 1940 or so when
there was a fire that burned the plant down. They moved the
operation to Gloucestershire and continued to manufacture this
plate from there after about 1945.

"If your grandmother had this plate in her
possession, she couldn't have purchased it before then."

The woman shakes her wrinkles at me and
clucks her tongue. "You must be mistaken, dear. Please, check
again."

"I have checked again. And again. I'm sorry.
Post 1945."

The woman clucks her tongue once more and
continues to shake her head. "I'm sure you're mistaken.
Please—"

"Really, there's no mistake. Here." I turn
my computer around so she can see the screen. "I've highlighted the
portion that confirms the post 1945 date."

The woman recoils in her chair as if I've
unleashed a can of pepper spray at her, and commences fanning the
air before her face with her hand. Apologetically, she says: "I've
never had much use for computers." Now I'm the one about to recoil
in my seat. It used to be I'd have to schlep my entire reference
library with me to every dig I've ever been on. Boxes and boxes of
books and binders and folders in order to identify that one piece
of elusive Wheat-sheaf patterned Ironstone, or find an approximate
date for a collection of Edge-ware, and then I discovered the
department's scanner and CD-ROM burner. I spent the better part of
reading week last year scanning all of my loose papers, articles,
and dog-eared favourite pages from books, saving them to my
computer and burning them all to CD-ROM for back-up. As much as I
hate to admit it, I'd be lost without my computer.

"Besides," the old lady continues with her
excuse, "the print on the screen is much too small for me to see
without my reading glasses.

"By the way," she says, "whatever happened
to that nice young man, the one with the pretty brown eyes from the
University?" She cranes her neck as she surveys the immediate area,
looking for someone I can only surmise is Palmer.

"Ma'am? Might I suggest you go home and look
at the other plates in your grandmother's collection?" Suddenly, I
feel guilty I have been so abrupt with the woman, and I make a
conscious effort to soften my tone: "Maybe one of the plates in her
set broke and she replaced it with this one, not realizing it
wasn't an original."

The woman continues to babble on about
something or other having to do with how she's sure I'm mistaken
and she absolutely would have to bring the plate again when that
handsome, young professor was next in attendance.

"I'm sure he'd like that," I offer. I catch
Suzanne staring at us, apparently more interested in our
interaction than in the artifact she's examining. She smiles pertly
at me, and I smile back, trying to mirror the exact same
sentiment.

The grey-haired woman returns her plate to
her carpet bag and has (at last) mustered enough energy to rise and
leave, without so much as a thank-you.

"I see you've met Old Lady Weatherly," Serge
whispers, so close I detect coffee on his breath.

"She's here every time we are. She's quite
sweet on your Paulie. Did she mention his pretty brown eyes?"

I smile and breathe a quick laugh. Someone
is calling me—or at least, he would be, if I ever cared to change
my name legally.

"It's McBride," I tell him, and I point to
the placard in front of me. "I go by McBride?"

"Sorry," the man offers. He holds his hand
out for me to shake. "Ms. McBride, I'm Stanley Hume."

As I shake his hand, I take a moment to
study his features. He is a petite man, with narrow, rounded
shoulders, head nearly bald save for the wispy fringe around its
circumference. The lenses of his glasses are thick and round, and
set in thick, black frames which make him look like a young Mr.
Magoo.

"Hello, Mr. Hume. What can I do for you
today?"

"Call me Stanley, Ms. McBride. Please." He
is carrying a tan overcoat on one bent arm. He slings it over the
back of his chair before sitting.

"Okay." I smile ever so slightly. Let's make
this quick, I pray; I am beginning to feel sleepy. "Stanley. What
can I do for you today?"

"It's this," he says. He plunks a tin cigar
box down on the table in front of me. It lands with a metallic
thud. He smiles embarrassingly. "Go ahead," he says as if
challenging me, "open it," followed by,
I dare you
, spoken
with his eyes.

I smile my thin smile at him once more and
then toss Serge a look. You'd think the guy had the Holy Grail
itself secreted away inside that box.

The lid sticks and I fumble with it
momentarily before working it open, handling it gingerly, lest the
rusted iron hinges crumble away in my hands.

"I found it in my backyard," he says
proudly. "I was putting in a pond and hit it with my shovel,” this
apologetically. “The lid sticks because of it."

Gently releasing the lid so it rests on the
table, I zoom in on the contents: a bright blue aluminum coin with
a five-point star at its centre, the kind you make in machines at
places such as Centre Island or Niagara Falls; a faded, sepia
photograph; a thin, silvered cigarette case; and something circular
in shape which looks like the remote for a garage door opener. My
eyes first focus on the weathered photograph. Depicted in the photo
are two men. The man on the right is a regular Dapper Dan. He wears
a driving cap and dark tweed jacket over knitted vest, circa
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
. The guy on the left has a full mane
of shocking white hair and an equally shocking long white beard
which tapers to a point somewhere below his Adam's apple. Though I
recognize where they're standing, I can't quite put my finger on
where I've seen it before.

"Where was this taken?" I ask Stanley. "I
know this place."

"The Princess Gates," he tells me, "at the
Ex."

"Right," I say, mentally correcting
Stanley's error: the gates are called "The
Princes'
Gates",
not in honour of any princess (some of my students actually believe
they were named for Princess Di), but to commemorate Prince Edward
and Prince George of England's 1927 visit to the fair grounds.
Another look at the photo confirms it—the white stone archway and
Roman columns of the gates figure prominently in the photo. "Of
course," I say, flashing what feels like an uncomfortable smile,
"The Princes' Gates." I've been to the Canadian National Exhibition
at least once a year for my entire life. How could I ever have
missed that?