More Bitter Than Death (4 page)

“You clean the bathroom in your underwear?” Scott said.

“Naturally; how do you do it?”

“I don’t clean the bathroom,” he announced stiffly.

“Figures,” Lissa said. “Makes his poor wife Cathy do it.”

“But I’m sure she doesn’t take off…” he started, confused. Was it possible? Had he missed it? You could practically see the questions running through his mind.

“You don’t want to drag your shirt over a wet tub or toilet,” I explained, “and you just end up splashing yourself anyway, and since you’re probably going to just shower after you get done with the housework—”

“And if you strip down to your birthday suit,” Lissa added, “you’re giving up important support and protection, and trust me, if you don’t want to have your shirt slapping against a wet tub, you sure don’t want your boobs to either.”

Trust Lissa not only to have made the experiment, but also to come back and report on it.

“In any case,” I interjected firmly, “since it was cleaning day, it also meant that it was laundry day. So my garb was of a somewhat eclectic nature. It had been a couple of weeks since the laundry mound had actually moved closer to the washer so…” I paused to reshuffle my cards, not because I didn’t know what I had, but to see Jay’s reaction. He watched me like a dog tracking a steak, and then he sat back and looked at his own cards in disgust. So his was that good a hand? I thought.

I continued out loud. “So when I leaned out the window to wave to Brian, you know, give him a little thrill while he was working in the backyard?—I was wearing a more festive
variation on my usual undergarments. Recreational, shall we say?”

“You were wearing your date bra,” Carla said.

“Alas, yes. I was wearing my lucky leopard-print bra—”

“Lucky Brian, more like. A matching ensemble, perhaps?”

“No, more’s the pity. Not that that would have helped anything, because as I was leaning out to wave, I did not realize that Brian’s friend Roddy had dropped by to pick up some reports. No, it was Roddy who got my blinding smile and animal-printed cleavage.”

“What did you do?” Lissa asked.

“What could I do? I faced it out. I just kept waving and said, ‘Hi, Roddy, tell Brian to take out the trash when he comes back, would you’? Then I quietly collapsed under the window in a fit of mortification.”

Jay was torn between what was clearly a fabulous hand and getting the lowdown on this heretofore unsuspected element of housecleaning. “But what were you wearing below the wai—below the windowsill?”

“Ah, that’s where I was glad that we don’t have a balcony with French doors or anything that posh. I told you it was laundry day; I was wearing a pair of Brian’s plaid flannel boxers. It was quite a rig, let me tell you.”

Carla took a swig of beer. “Sounds comfortable.”

“It is,” I said. “Why do they always make men’s clothing so much more comfortable and durable than women’s clothing?”

“Don’t forget cheaper,” Chris added.

“It’s a conspiracy,” I said.

“I can’t believe you’d wear any men’s clothing,” Lissa said primly. “I mean, yeah, maybe for kicks in bed, but it’s just…I don’t know…weird to wear it in public.”

“I’m still dealing with the fact that she was half naked in front of a man,” Scott said.

“Oh, come off it. I wear less on the beach,” Lissa said.

“You wear less to the supermarket,” Scott retorted.

“The beach is a different context,” Brad said. “You don’t just hang out at home naked, do you?”

We all exchanged looks. “Not naked, but not always dressed for company,” I conceded. The rest of them nodded: that sounded about right.

“It’s different when you have kids. Don’t get me wrong,” Chris said. “I don’t want mine to be prudes, but I don’t want them in therapy either, seeing dear old dad scratching and grinning in the altogether.”

“Can we please get back to playing cards!” Jay was ready to blow a gasket.

“Sure,” I said. “Coming around. How many you want?”

I dealt cards to Lissa and Carla. Jay made a reluctant show of holding; I held my breath and took one.

“Man, can you get over Roche, with his ‘Julius Gilbert Garrisons’?” Lissa said. “Talk about your constant refrain! Julius Gilbert Garrison this, Julius Gilbert Garrison that, we are here today to honor a man who—”

“Who has caused more shrinks to retire early,” Chris filled in, “fat on the pickings of desperate archaeology students—”

“Who has been a bigger setback to women’s self-images than airbrushing—” I added.

“Who is more steadfastly evil a villain than Darth Vader, Hannibal Lector, and Hitler all rolled into one,” Carla finished.

I glanced over at Scott; he was doing his best to keep his head down and was noticeably quiet.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Lissa said. “I like the guy, I just thought Roche’s butt-kissing was a bit florid.”

I looked at her sharply. “You like which guy? Not old Roche?”

“He’s all right, but I was talking about Garrison,” Lissa said.

“The man’s a dickhead!” Carla said.

Lissa shrugged. “He’s always been nice to me.”

“Was he hitting on you?” I asked.

“No, he was getting me some data from the nineteen forties on forts that he knew about.”

“And he wasn’t a jerk to you?” I said.

“Not a bit. He’s an awful oenophiliac, but I can forgive that in most people.”

“You can forgive someone for having a blood-clotting disorder? That’s big of you, Liss,” Scott said.

“Actually, it’s blood thinners he’s on, I heard,” Lissa said. “And I said ‘oenophiliac,’ not ‘hemophiliac,’ you dope. As in, if you cut him, he’d hemorrhage wine.”

“Not lately, I’ve heard. He’s been on the wagon.”

“Then you’re behind the times,” Jay said. “I saw him lapping it up earlier. And yeah, he’s not a bad guy. Bit opinionated, maybe.”

“He shouldn’t be drinking, not with that ticker of his,” Scott muttered. “Petra says he’s on a boatload of new prescriptions.”

“Well, I’ve never minded him either,” Brad chimed in.

“Who asked you?” Carla was really annoyed now. She liked consensus in her loathing. I have to admit, I was surprised at Brad as well.

Brad ignored Carla. “I don’t have a problem with him. He’s not a friendly guy, but he’s usually been decent to me. And look what he’s done for the field. Practically established the field in the Northeast, one of the founding members of ASAA, authored some of the most important artifact studies of the early years. You can’t deny that.”

“Fine. By any standards, yes, he’s achieved a lot, but it’s like admiring the pyramids without asking who suffered to get it done. Runs roughshod over people, uses and abuses them.” Carla looked to Scott. “Help me out, man. Tell us some horror stories from your days as his lackey.”

“Nope.” He fiddled with his beer bottle, giving it all his
focus. “I don’t live in the past. It was tough, it’s over now. That’s it.”

“You’re an archaeologist; of course you live in the past.”

“Not me. It’s over, I don’t worry about it now.”

Carla snorted with disgust.

I got the bidding started and watched Jay get more and more excited. His bet—and potential raise—would tell me whether I could get away with what I planned. I mentally crossed my fingers.

Carla said, “So did everyone see Emma’s new car? Quite the sporty little number. Jetta.”

“How do you like it, Em?” Chris asked.

“I like it a lot, so far. Peppy,” I said, feigning concentration.

“Yeah, and it’s just the car for her too,” Carla said. “Heaps plenty of abuse on her, just the way Emma likes it. Little Miss Control Freak.”

“Oh?” I said. This was a well-worn path we were traveling.

“Yeah. You’re so uptight that when the ABS light comes on, you think it’s time to go to the gym and work on your gut.”

“Very funny, Carla,” I said, feeling unreasonably nettled.

Lissa was caught drinking, and ended up gargling some of her beer, not quite a nostril purge. “Yeah, and when she sees the airbag logo, she thinks the car is telling her she’s talking too much!” She almost choked again, laughing at her own joke.

“You’re all a riot,” I said, shuffling my cards around one more time. I couldn’t understand why these retread jokes, as much a tradition as the game itself, should bother me so. “Don’t we ever talk about archaeology anymore?”

“Jeez, Em, all we do here is talk about archaeology. This is for fun, this is us hanging out. Talking about your uptightitude, Jay’s familiarity with every croupier in every casino on the planet, Lissa’s sex life—”

“Well, if we’re not talking shop, let’s go back to discussing Lissa’s sex life. And leave me and my foibles out of it.”

“Fine with me,” she said, wiping the last of the beer off her chin. “Did I tell you—?”

We heard a strangled noise come from across the table. “Emma! Play the frigging game!”

We all turned to Jay, who had turned bright red. His heel was no longer wagging, but he was spastically tapping his cards on the table. His OvenStuffer timer had popped and he was done to a turn, I thought, as I admired my handiwork. If he’d been a turkey instead of a pigeon, that is.

“Gotta pay to find out, I guess, huh, Jay? So what are you so excited about?”

Jay shrugged. “You’ll see.”

I threw in a couple more bills to call, then dramatically raised Jay’s raise. Everyone looked at me in surprise. “I don’t know,” I said, “I guess I’ve had too much beer.”

“Ha!” Lissa announced. “That’ll be the day. Too rich for me.”

“Me, too,” said Carla, throwing in her cards.

“Horseshit!” Jay frowned. “You’re bluffing.”

I smiled and batted my eyes. “Pay up and find out.”

He saw me and raised again. “Take that.” By the way he was wagging his heel under his chair, he had a whopper of a hand. Moby Dick, Jaws, Behemoth.

“Okay, then you take
that
.” I saw him. The pot was very plump now, thanks to our table rules on betting.

“You can’t scare me, Fielding.”

“Then let’s see ’em, Whitaker.”

“I’m sorry, Em,” he said, grinning hugely as he put his cards down. “Flush.”

“Wow,” I responded. “Oh, man, Jay, you kill me! How often do you see a hand like that? Just look at that, a flush. Damn.”

“Yankees just can’t play cards,” he said smugly. He reached over to high-five Lissa, who ignored his hand and gave him a stony look.

“Who are
you
calling a Yankee?” she said caustically. Lissa’s family had got to North Carolina just after Virginia Dare. “Like Maryland is the South, anyway.”

Jay took the rebuff in good stride. “It’s all relative, babe; maybe it’s just chicks who can’t play cards, then. You guys are fun, but I usually hang out with
serious
players.” He stuck out his tongue at Lissa, who seemed to study it for possibilities, and then he rubbed his hands together and reached over to scoop the kitty toward his pile.

“Hang on there a second, friend.” I put down a queen-high straight flush. “Sorry Jay. Just call me the queen of spades.”

A phone rang, and while everyone else checked their cell phones, I took the opportunity to scoop all the cash over to my side of the table. It was my phone that kept ringing. Even after a couple of years, I’m still surprised when it happens. I left the table, where Jay was still staring at the cards dumbly, jaw dropped to his chest. Carla reached over to feel his pulse and got her hand slapped away for her trouble.

I cleared my throat. “Hey, Brian!”

Everyone around the table dutifully called out “Hello, Brian.” I stuck my finger in my free ear.

“How’d the presentation go?” he said.

“Good. I’m glad it’s done.”

“I just wanted to make sure that you got in from the site before the storm caught you.”

“It’s not here yet, and yes, we’re all fine.”

“I’m about to head to Kam’s. Marty’s off to her parents’ with the baby and I told him I’d keep him company.” Kamil Shah was Brian’s friend and his boss at United Pharmaceuticals, and Marty—Mariam—had been my undergraduate roommate, and a spectacularly perceptive bit of matchmaking on my part had got them married. Their daughter Sophia is my goddaughter, and I feel particularly responsible for her, as she is perfect.

“You be careful out there. And don’t forget to check the furnace, okay?”

“I will. And already done.”

“And did you put down the cat feeder and extra water?”

“Just did that.”

“And did you get a chance to—?”

“Come on, Emma. In the first place, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy and I don’t want to come home to a couple of frozen and starved cats or a burned-out shell of a house any more than you would.”

I looked out the window at the flying snow and wished I was home. “Aren’t you the one who was following me around, asking me if I packed clean socks and my toothbrush and my paper and slides? I know, I know you’ve got a handle on the small things.”

“Exactly. I was just being helpful. And speaking of which, I also had to deal with that sink full of ladylike unmentionables you left for me.”

“What ladylike unmentionables?” I could practically feel heads swiveling behind me. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. Your moon pies, your jockstrap.”

“It’s not a jockstrap,” I said. “It’s a female groin protector. There’s a big difference. And you should just call them breast shields. Sorry about that—and thanks. I meant to get to it, but I just didn’t get a chance.” By the curious glances of my colleagues, it was more than time to change subjects. “What are you two up to while Marty’s in New York?”

“Movies. Lots of explosions, gunplay, and semi-naked women. Meat, cheese, beer. We’ve been planning for two weeks now. Kam’s desperate for male company, someone over the age of two. He’s had enough of play dates for Sophia, this one’s for him.”

“Well, you can help there. Okay, have fun. Careful out driving.”

“Yep, you too. Good luck with your paper. And did you have a chance to take care of you-know-who yet?”

I turned away from the table. “Yep. Just did.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want to ruin a tradition.”

We said our I-love-yous and goodbyes and I returned to the table.

“Trouble in paradise?” said Brad.