Sharyn McCrumb - Lovely In Her Bones

Silence. Lerche became aware that the two people whose existence he had forgotten were staring at him expectantly.

“Er-what?” he asked uneasily.

“The dig!” Milo prompted him. “What do you think? It would give you more data for the chart.”

“Not to mention helping out some live folks,” Stecoah grunted.

Alex blinked at them. “Yes, all right. We’ll go.”

Mary Clare Gitlin, graduate teaching assistant in anthropology, had discovered that she could grade multiple-choice tests to the beat of almost any song played on the local country radio station. “It wasn’t God” (mark one wrong) “who made honk-” (mark one wrong) “y-tonk angels” (no mistake). She didn’t care whether this was a coincidence or a revelation of some major truth about human behavior. It relieved the monotony of grading a hundred freshman quizzes. The rest of the graduate assistantship was proving most enjoyable, she thought. Alex Lerche was certainly a nice man to work with. She was lucky she hadn’t been assigned to Dr. Ziffel, an irritable pedant nearing retirement after a mediocre career, who resented every talented student in the department. The few times she had encountered him, he had made a point of imitating her East Tennessee accent, his derision masked as a social smile.

Alex was a little too serious, but she preferred that to Ziffel’s bitter humor. Alex was dedicated. He had a trick of leaning forward when he talked to you, and of using his hands with the fluid grace of a mime, painting his meaning with an economy of perfect gestures. To Mary Clare’s way of thinking, he looked like a scientist, while the rest of the department looked like a bunch of bureaucrats. They went to class in suits and ties and pretended their first names were Doctor, but Alex seemed oblivious to the trappings of academia. He showed up for class in corduroy jeans and a white shirt rolled up to the elbows, with his white blond hair combed in a wave across his forehead. Every now and then he’d come in wearing a suit jacket and tie-and you knew that she’d picked out his clothes that morning-but by ten o’clock he’d look the same as always and be engrossed in the puzzle of an old bone, like a happy bloodhound. Mary Clare smiled to herself. He was a nice man and a good scientist. It seemed a waste to have him cooped up in a classroom teaching general anthro when he could be doing important fieldwork. Someone with Alex’s skill and knowledge should be out there making discoveries all the time, not just on occasional field trips for the undergrads’ benefit. Mary Clare circled the F she had written on the top of a quiz. What a waste! Still, in fairness to Alex, she didn’t think the university job had been his idea. The person who wanted a secure income, faculty prestige, and a fancy house instead of a campsite-that wasn’t Alex. It was her. Mary Clare sighed. Best not to speculate on what doesn’t concern you, but it was a pitiful shame just the same.

Tessa applied the wire whisk to the bowl of eggs with more force than necessary, making a yellow and white maelstrom in the mixing bowl. Tonight was quiche night, since this had been her afternoon for volunteer work at the Crisis Center and she had her aerobics class at seven. Alex would be home soon. From her worktable by the kitchen window she could see the driveway, and she found herself watching for the car with increasing apprehension. It was not dread so much as a last trace of stage fright before the beginning of a performance.

She had talked about it that afternoon with Ginny at the Crisis Center, and they had decided that she was overreacting. A name on a piece of paper was hardly evidence of adultery, Ginny had pointed out, but she conceded that the situation would bear watching. The important thing was to remain calm and keep the lines of communication open. She told Tessa to remember that although the male libido was an emotional form of pond scum, men did not really want to leave their wives. Infatuations were simply passages in ego gratification; infantile, of course, but what else could you expect? She advised Tessa to behave just as usual, only more loving, more attentive, and more understanding. Finally she had given her a photocopied article on “Advanced Degrees as Community Property” and enrolled her in the center’s divorce law seminar. It never hurt to be prepared.

Tessa was sliding the quiche pan into the oven when she heard the car door slam, ending an imagined series of conversations between her and Alex. (“Of course you’re not having an affair with her, dear. You wrote her name on your notes because you have discovered the missing link and are thinking of naming it after her!”) Should she walk to the front door to meet him, or would that seem too artificial? What should she say?

She decided to stay where she was for the sake of the psychological advantage (the kitchen was her sphere; besides, she had to get supper out of the way in order to be on time for her class). When Alex came in, she was setting the table.

“Dinner’s nearly ready,” she told him. “I have to rush off to my class, but if you’ll leave the dishes on the countertop, I’ll do them when I get back.”

“I always do the dishes on your class night.”

“It’s all right. I don’t mind doing them later. Want some coffee?” I sound manic, she thought. I sound like a stewardess. Trying to act normal is the most unnatural behavior of all.

“Coffee would be fine,” said Alex warily. “If it isn’t any trouble.”

“Not at all.” Tessa began measuring coffee for the percolator. “And how was your day?”

“Oh, fine. Got an interesting case today.”

“Alex-” Tessa started to say that she didn’t like to hear about his gruesome cases before dinner, but remembering Ginny’s advice, she amended this to: “That’s nice. Tell me all about it.”

“I don’t know much about it yet,” Alex admitted. “A group of Indians up in the mountains wants me to do an exploratory dig to help them get tribal recognition from the government.”

“Maybe I’ll have tea. I’ve been drinking that awful instant stuff all day at the Crisis Center, and I can already feel the caffeine on my nerves.”

“Tea will be fine, then, Tessa.”

“No. You have coffee. I’ve already started the percolator.”

“Whatever. Uh, anyway, this tribe wants me to find some evidence that the land they’re on is traditional tribal land. Apparently there’s some question of their losing it to a strip-mining operation.”

“I think I’ll fix a salad to go with the quiche. Would you rather have leaf lettuce or spinach?”

“Whatever’s easier. I think it should be an interesting dig. I don’t have any data on Eastern Indians for my discriminate function chart, and this will give me a chance to get some.”

“Spinach, then. Leaf lettuce isn’t really good unless you fry bacon to go with it, and there’s enough cholesterol in the eggs as it is.”

“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks. I’d be back in time for term break in case you wanted to take the beach cottage again this year.”

Tessa closed the refrigerator slowly. “Back?” she echoed. “Back from where?”

“Sarvice Valley, the place is called. We’ll be camping, of course, but there’s a little town nearby with a tourist court, so we can rent a room there to hook up the computer in.”

“You’re going away on a dig?” said Tessa, comprehending at last.

“Just a minor one,” said Alex faintly.

“I see.” Tessa’s voice was cold.

“You won’t need me for anything around here, will you?”

“What makes you think I don’t want to go, Alex?”

He shrugged. “Precedent.”

“Well, you’re right. I have too many commitments here to pick up and run to the mountains with you.” Tessa frowned as another thought occurred to her. “And I suppose you’ll be taking your graduate students with you?”