James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

“I thought I was already doing that. I only have a month left,” said Porter, sensing an unrevealed weight in the room.

Kinnard felt a immense surge of emotion. He could see Porter’s predicament better than anyone else. Including Porter. He knew how much this doctoral candidate needed him. But what could Kinnard do? He didn’t have the strength to say what needed to be said, and he didn’t have the power to alter the situation.

Porter let his eyes drop as he waited. He scanned the scattered papers and books on Kinnard’s desk, as Kinnard shot him short glances. A bent copy of American Archaeology with a female figurine on the cover, rested on top of a number of other magazines. Stacks of unread research papers choked one corner of the table, threatening to topple and roll off. A copy of Newsweek, hidden just under Truman H. Campbell’s, The Atlantis Bridge: The Egyptian/ Mayan Family.

Porter picked up the book. “Not your regular reading,” he said to the professor of Near Eastern Studies.

“How is it going with Ms. Alred?” said Kinnard, straightening his briefcase in preparation to leave. In reality, he was just hiding the nervousness in his hands.

“You actually taking this seriously, Dr. Kinnard?” Porter said, lifting The Atlantis Bridge and flashing the glossed cover at his supervising professor.

“I don’t know what to take seriously anymore.”

With a shrug, Porter said, “As well as you probably would have guessed. I know it wasn’t your idea to put me with a partner. No one’s ever liked working with me!”

“That’s how it is?” Kinnard said.

Porter, who had pushed his way to a grin, let it slip away. He nodded.

“I’ve enjoyed working with you.” Kinnard pulled a stubborn file from his leather bag, tearing the card and warping the pages in the process.

“You know, you’ll subconsciously give those papers a lower grade because they’re hashed?” Porter said, eyeing the manila folder.

“Alred’s a great lady. Top of her class. Excellent woman,” said Kinnard, letting the folder hit the floor to his right. “You should marry her; tell her your middle name.”

“Always looking out for me,” Porter said.

Kinnard looked at him with sober eyes. His eyebrows high, his eyelids drawn together, he bit the inside of his bottom lip and said, “I don’t like this.”

“Still fighting with your wife.”

Kinnard sat and leaned back in his chair.

Porter lifted himself to the desk. “I’m kidding with you. Who wouldn’t feel the tension in this room?! It’s like cigar smoke from six card players trapped in an office the size of mine without a vent.”

Kinnard nodded and gazed at the edge of his desk.

“Don’t worry,” Porter said through the silence as heavy as iron. “I’ll get my dissertation done.”

“I’ve already left a message on Alred’s answering machine,” Kinnard said.

“I’ve heard of those contraptions! Setting up a date for me?” Porter said, sitting back again. The chair groaned beneath his weight. He put his hands behind his head and tried to close his eyes, which were laced with red streaks in a shattered glass pattern. “I’m really not interested in Erma Alred. I just wished she’d like me a little. The D in my name is starting to mean Discord, I think.”

“I’ve told her everything, so she won’t yell at you when you spill the news.”

“Good!” Porter said. “Whatever it is, I don’t think I can stand looking into her cold green eyes again. Albeit, they are kinda nice-”

“They’ve changed the date for dissertations. All papers are due on the fifth of May,” said Kinnard.

“I was baptized on that day,” Porter said.

“You and Alred will also argue your material on the fifth.”

The air chilled.

“But…you said…I have till…the twenty-first,” said Porter.

“They’ve moved it up,” Kinnard said without looking up.

“It says so in the schedule,” Porter continued, “I read it! I have five weeks!”

“I’m sorry, Porter.” Kinnard put his dark-rimmed glassed back on.

“That’s an implied contract! They can’t change it!”

Kinnard stood, the light gleaming off the top of his head. He kept his face hard. There was nothing he could do. There was no point in wasting breath and any more emotion over it.

Porter got to his feet, realizing he was wailing at the wrong person.

Kinnard walked him to the door. “You have a little more than two weeks. Don’t waste your time making formal complaints. They’ll only add to your ruin.”

April 21

10:36 p.m. PST

“Where’ve you been?” Porter said with his best smile. He had pistachio bits in his teeth, which he tried to clean away quickly with his tongue. The result was an unplanned comedic grin.

“Thought I’d find you at Bruno’s,” said Alred leaning against the library table. “You came to a place more conducive to study.”

The library overflowed with books. The volumes, piled high and jammed in the rows, waited under layers of dust for a new building to hold them. A maze of tight shelves, reaching for the ceiling, choked all four floors, promising students an adventure if they dared to enter.

The sun had disappeared and darkness spilled across Porter’s back from the large window overlooking the employee parking lot in the rear of the building. Cold air blew freely through the vents as if someone had turned it on to freeze the students out. Porter worked under the brightness of a florescent lamp. He had spread his books beneath the single light, pulled others from the shelves, opened them and started stacking. Only for a moment did Alred think the pages of one of the books might catch fire if it got too close to the light. Porter had scribbled his thoughts and flipped through indexes. According to Bruno, many of these books he’d either read or poked through before. That’s what made him a good scholar; he’d studied all or nearly all the books of his interest the library held.

Alred’d had enough of Stratford’s Michael H. Weiss Memorial Library a year ago when she’d lost herself among the stacks as a research assistant for Dr. Ulman. She loved working for the man, but disliked doing everyone else’s dirty jobs. That’s why she had put her trust in Dr. Masterson, before he’d betrayed her. The more she progressed with Ulman’s find, the more she disliked it. She wanted to throw up every time she saw Porter’s codex.

It wasn’t Porter’s anyway. He was hogging it.

No matter. Alred was good. She didn’t need the manuscript in her possession to succeed. She used it often enough and took adequate notes.

But she hated it anyway. The codex and everyone attached to it were ruining her life. She had to conquer the project.

Porter seemed to recreate his office wherever he went. From the many opened and discarded volumes, he had one book open before him, a number of his fingers stuck in the pages he’d passed.

“Since you didn’t show up,” Alred said, “I decided to ask Bruno about you. Then I read for a while.”

“Were we meeting there?” said Porter.

Alred smiled a little. “You’ll make a great absent-minded professor.”

“It is my highest aspiration,” Porter said with a growing grin as he leaned back a bit, shadow dribbling over his face as he pulled away from the only light in the room.

“5:00,” said Alred, checking her watch to see exactly how many hours ago that had been. She leveled him with a dry gaze.

Porter’s glow dulled. As if just remembering his small bag beside his book, he jumped, “Want some pistachios?”

“Food’s not allowed in the library. I thought Mormons were supposed to be perfect.”