Chapter Text
Transfer of Post
~September 1994~
The Northwestern University campus teemed with freshmen, most carrying schedules and maps.
"Excuse me, could you help me?"
Temperance stopped, squinting into the sun. Looking down, she saw a young woman.
"I'm looking for the Life-Science Pavilion, but even with the map--" the woman pointed to her lap "--all these buildings look alike."
"I'm going right past there. Follow me." Temperance cringed at her own commanding tone, but the young woman smiled.
"That sounds great. I'm Heather Clutts. Ironic, huh?" She grinned, offering a hand between pushes against the canted wheels of her chair.
Temperance frowned. "I don't see why."
Heather looked her up and down and grinned. "I like you."
"Temperance Brennan." Their hands barely met before Heather pulled her hand away to give her chair another push forward.
"So, what class do you have?"
"Human Anatomy."
Heather glanced at Temperance, and her thick, blond braid slipped over one shoulder and brushed the top of the low-cut back rest. "Ah, an upperclassman."
"Not really," Temperance said.
"That sounds confusing," Heather laughed.
"Human Anatomy is an upper-level class. But this is my first year; I tested out of a great many introductory classes."
"Way to go." Heather sounded impressed. "I got credit from a couple of Advanced Placement tests, but my high school didn't offer many of those. I'm from Minneapolis," she volunteered. "Well, an outer suburb. I'm hoping for less snow to get my wheels stuck in."
"I don't know that you'll find that to be the case. I've shoveled snow every year since I was almost as tall as the shovel."
Heather laughed again. It was a cheerful, honest sound. "It's been so hot since I got here, I can't even imagine snow."
Temperance stopped. "Here you are. I'm heading to the Technological Institute over there." She pointed northwest. "Have a good class. If you're on the far side of the building and up high enough, you might be able to see the lake. It was beautiful this morning when I was running."
"Hey, you run?"
"Yeah."
Brown eyes sparkling, Heather's ready smile grew wider. "Awesome! Me too."
Temperance frowned, not sure what her response should be.
"What's your favorite distance?" Heather asked.
"I usually prefer four to six miles."
"That's my usual. I haven't had a chance to establish a pattern here, though. Would you like to be running buddies?"
Temperance shuddered. "I haven't run with a partner for a long time."
"All right." Heather looked away.
That's disappointment, Temperance thought. She should know. "It's not that I don't want to..." She shook off memories of running with Claire, told herself this had the potential to be pleasant.
"It's not like I'm going to run over you or anything, you know."
"I didn't think you were. I'm amenable to the idea, but I always run in the early morning. Would that work for you?" She wasn't sure if she was apprehensive or hopeful. The slight increase in heart rate that accompanied both emotions was so similar, it was hard to tell. Anyway, hope so rarely paid off that she always felt uncomfortable with it.
Heather's bright smile returned. "It's my favorite time to work out. Are you in campus email?"
Temperance nodded. "I've got to get to class." She pointed away from the building.
"Awesome. Temperance Brennan, right? B-R-E-N-N-A-N?"
Temperance nodded again.
"Okay. I'll send you email later for address and phone. It was good to meet you." She waved.
Temperance jogged to her class and settled into a front seat just before the professor introduced himself. She began taking notes, but she was distracted for a few minutes. A friend. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do, and she wondered how long it would be before Heather was done with her.
***
~January 1995~
"Hey, you got here before me!" Tracy's voice preceded her into the small room.
Temperance looked up from her textbook and reminded herself to smile. She even waved. Mrs. Dougherty would have been so pleased.
"How was your break?" Tracy asked over her shoulder as she dropped bags, pillows, and a huge stuffed cat on her bed.
"It was fine," Temperance said.
"Mine was awesome. Wait till you see what I got for Christmas! What did you get?" Tracy frowned, looking around the dorm room. "Where did you go over break?"
"Nowhere special." Temperance was not going to tell her North Shore roommate--or maybe anyone--about eating at the Evanston soup kitchen while the cafeteria was closed.
"But you saw your family, right?"
"Not this year."
Tracy gaped. "But, what did you do?"
With Heather in Minnesota for the break, she had run eight miles each morning and at least five every evening. She pointed to her book. "I studied."
"Where do you want this stuff, Trace?" An older man rounded the corner with three large suitcases in tow. "Hi, Temperance. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Mr. Clark. How were your holidays?"
"Fine. Trace, take this," he said, holding out a plastic bag.
"Oh! We went to Mackinac Island and stayed at the Grand Hotel--the one from Somewhere in Time?--it's, like, my mother's favorite movie. She thinks Christopher Reeve is totally hot." Tracy leaned closer and said, more quietly, "Of course, he is. but I'd never admit that to Mom." She started putting her clothes away. "Anyway, it was amazing. We had to dress for dinner and everything. It was extra warm, so we biked all over the island. Cars aren't even allowed. Oh, and we went on a cruise on the lake. And Mom and I had facials and manicures together."
Temperance's cheeks ached, and the longer Tracy talked, the more the ache expanded through her chest and belly. She'd denied all through the Christmas season that it hurt. It was a waste of energy to grieve, and, anyway, it had been three years. The past was done. Over. Grieving was a pointless waste of energy.
None of that had stopped her from calling Officer Zukowski for her now-yearly query about whether there'd been any leads, or if anyone was following up on her parents' case.
He'd explained that a missing persons case this old with no new leads was a dead case. It hadn't been closed, but no one was looking, and nobody would unless new evidence turned up. She'd run twelve miles that night--all the way to the Field Museum and back--and not gotten home till she was nearly locked out of the dorm.
"Here!" Tracy bounced over. "We brought you a present." She held out a little bundle with tissue paper wrapped around it and tied with curled ribbon.
"What is it?"
"Open it, silly!" Tracy said eagerly.
Temperance felt it. It was hard, but had a slight give. It was about the size of her palm, with uneven borders. She sniffed, but couldn't detect anything but the chemicals on the paper.
"Oh, you! I can't stand it. It's Mackinac Island fudge. We got you the turtle flavor!" Tracy beamed. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were pink.
When she'd had a family, Russ had insisted on the lights that blinked every year.
Matt and Temperance had always gone through each string to find the burned out bulbs. Once the lights were on the tree, the four of them had decorated together.
Matt had hung mistletoe every year and always acted surprised when he found himself under it with his wife. When he'd kissed Christine, her cheeks turned pink, and when they'd looked back at the kids they were always smiling like they were kids themselves.
That had always been Christine's cue to bring out the box of Fannie Mae turtles and Frango mints, and Matt would make eggnog for them all, waving off Christine's reminder to go easy on the rum.
They'd enjoyed the treats while curled up on the sofa and floor to watch "How the Grinch Stole Christmas."
Temperance remembered the last year she had a family. As the Grinch's heart "grew three sizes," she'd turned to see her mother's head on her father's shoulder. Matt had kissed Christine on the head, and they'd both smiled and blown kisses at her, just because she was their daughter and they loved her.
Christine Brennan's eyes had sparkled with the reflection of Christmas tree lights.
"Are you going to try any?"
A hand waved in front of her eyes.
"Temperance?" Tracy was frowning.
The only Christmas lights this year had been in store windows and the Student Union.
The only mothers had been other people's.
That was how it would always be now, forever.
Loneliness filled her up and flowed over. Her parents were never coming back.
Before she even thought, she was moving down the hallway.
Behind her, Tracy said, "See? I told you she was rude! I can't take much more of this."
She couldn't bring herself to care if Tracy was uncomfortable. Tracy had never been truly uncomfortable in her life, and she didn't even know it.
She only had to deal with Tracy until June. After the winter and spring quarters ended, Temperance would move to a single room. Then she'd be as alone in fact as she felt even when surrounded by people.
Behavior Unbecoming
***
Temperance turned a page in her History of African Civilization textbook.
After five rings, the answering machine beeped.
"Tempe, I know you're there--"
No one had called her Tempe in nearly two and a half years. It wasn't who she was anymore.
She pushed the teal button on the box beside her, cutting off Russ's voice.
Seconds later the phone began to ring again.
There was a shriek next door and more pounding on the wall. Muffled complaints mounted.
The machine beeped.
"I looked you up in the campus dir--"
She pushed the teal button with relish. This time, she was rejecting him. Deliberately. It was satisfying to turn her back on him like he had when he drove away.
The phone rang. The machine picked up.
"I wanna tell you happy birthday--"
She pushed the button. Swallowed. No one else was going to say that to her today. But Russ had made his choice. He’d driven out of her life. He didn’t have the right to barge back in whenever he felt like it, turning her carefully-ordered world upside-down in the process.
~ring~
She turned the page and read about cattle as currency.
~ring~
~beep~
"Tempe, please pick--"
Teal button. She knew she should mute the volume or at least set the machine to pick up on the first ring, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to excise his voice completely. She didn't need him. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she couldn’t let him go, either. Infuriated by her weakness, she glared determinedly at her textbook. When the words blurred she blinked furiously and tried again.
~ring~
"Tempe, I know you--"
Teal button.
~ring~
"Just talk to him already!!!" The scream was accompanied by more banging on the wall.
~ring~
Next page. Images of preparation for the cattle jumping and comparisons to other rites of initiation into manhood. Maybe Russ would have benefited from such a ritual.
~beep~
"Tempe--"
Teal button.
~ring~
More pounding on the wall.
"What is wrong with you, bitch?? At least unplug the goddamned phone!"
~ring~
Page.
~beep~
"Temp, I miss y--"
She stabbed the button. He missed her?? She missed them. All of them. Even him, damn him. She could never trust him, though, so there was no point.
~ring~
Her door flew open. The sound as it hit the wall ricocheted around the tiny room. A scowling girl stood there, hands on hips, and a crowd was gathered behind her, watching.
"I swear to God, if that phone doesn't stop--" The girl jabbed a finger toward Temperance as she shouted
"Get out of my room!!" Temperance heard herself screaming, the way she wanted to scream at Russ.
"You unplug the damned phone!" The girl's hair bounced around her shoulders as she put her fists on her hips. "No one on this floor can get anything done, and I'm sure the next floors up and down are ready to set you on fire!!"
~beep~
Temperance growled and slammed her fist into the button before Russ could say a word. The plastic cracked. Her breath came in bursts.
~ring~
"Make it--"
"Shut up!" Temperance roared, ripping the little machine out of the wall and throwing it at the girl, who swore and ducked. Temperance flung the nearest book after her. "Get out!" She sprang toward the door. "Get out!" She slammed the door against the retreating girls.
She sat back down, still breathing hard, her cheeks burning, her heart pounding. She reached for her textbook.
"In Hamar culture, before boys can complete the cattle-leaping initiation ritual, their sisters must volunteer to be whipped. They bear the pain and scars for their brothers, who owe their sisters a great debt and remember and care for them in difficult times."
She started giggling.
Then she was laughing. Then the absurdity bubbled up from her belly until she was consumed. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks, until she needed to go to the bathroom.
Until the knock at the door.
Two officers stood on the other side. One, African American and male, was from the campus police. The other, female and noticeably shorter than Temperance, wore Evanston Police Department patches.
Temperance answered their questions, but even her deep breathing was unable to keep her from chuckling occasionally.
Forty-five minutes later, she'd sobered from what she now recognized as hysteria. She'd come close to being driven to the hospital.
"Next week is exams," she'd protested.
"Well, Ms. Brennan, your safety and the safety of the others in this dorm takes precedence." She couldn't remember which cop had said that. Both had expressed the same sentiment at least five times.
She had apologized to the brown-haired girl, had been escorted to the R.A., an upper-classman named Crystal, and had been given orders to visit campus health services. In return for allowing her to remain in the dorm, she was to check in twice a week with Crystal, who would refer Temperance to help if she felt it was warranted.
"I hope you'll consider anger management, Ms. Brennan," the female cop had said on her way out.
"I don't want to have to come out here again," the man had added.
"That won't be necessary," she had said to them both.
It wouldn't unnecessary for them to return. She'd broken the phone. Anyway, Russ wouldn't call again until her next birthday.
Someone touched her arm.
"What?" she snapped, spinning around.
Crystal did not startle or back away. "I don't know what your deal is, and I don't care. But you'd better keep it together. I just went out on a limb for you. Don't make me regret it." She stalked away and slammed her door behind her.
Temperance stared at the cheerful door decorations and dry-erase board with perky cartoons, quivering with fury. Finally she turned and stalked out of the building. It was two hours and ten miles later when she returned to her room and her reading.
***
~August 1995~
"Congressman Mel Reynolds has been convicted of multiple counts of sexual assault. Illinois congressmen have joined other members of Congress in asking for his resignation..."
Temperance stood and moved closer to the cafeteria television. Walter Jacobson had moved on to the next story. She reached up and changed the channel to WGN just as Congressman Reynolds' photo appeared. This report said nothing new, but it did confirm the first one.
"Can I drive you to the train, Temperance? Or maybe home?"
A shudder went through her, and she remembered his hands holding hers.
She hadn't read it wrong. He had been propositioning her.
The newscasters were shaking their heads about "another one" and listing off other politicians' names.
Temperance shuddered again, then returned to her table. She sat so her back was to the TV and ate her salad. The crunch of the vegetables seemed to chant, "Almost. Almost."
Her footsteps on the way to the lecture hall beat out the same chant.
After three hours of Dr. Howell's polysci lecture on governments, the need for oversight, and how things can get out of control in the absence of checks and balances, Temperance stood, stretched, and marched to the Rec Building. She looked through the schedule for a few minutes, then signed up for beginning karate.
Hand to Hand
***
Dr. Stires set her paper down and whistled softly then shook his head. "Miss Brennan, this is the most impressive piece of academic research I have ever seen from someone not already in a tenure-track position."
"Thank you." She sat straight, shoulders back, chin up. These were what Frau Becker had demanded and, she had observed, were the mannerisms of the most assertive and confident of students and faculty. Her final paper in kinesiology, comparing the effects of this posture's impact on an individual's perceived authority to the history of perceived authority gained by standing at military attention was in final review for publication.
He leaned back and smiled. "May I ask what your academic goals are?"
"I'll be working in Rwanda over my Thanksgiving break and some of the following week as part of my Master's project, and I plan to look more fully into assessing the force with which a machete was swung based on marks left on the bone." She folded her hands on his desk. "Beginning in January I plan to pursue my doctorate in forensic anthropology. I would like to ask you to serve on my dissertation committee. I believe our shared interest in recovery and identification of individuals buried in mass graves makes you well-suited to review my proposed projects in recovery and reconstruction."
"You make a good argument, as always, Miss Brennan. I accept."
"Thank you, Dr. Stires."
"So, Rwanda?"
"Genocide trials begin at the end of the year or early next year." She shrugged. "They need skilled scientists to present evidence. I've been given to understand that many people fear going into an area with such unrest."
"And you don't?"
"This work is intellectually exhilarating and, more importantly, has significant repercussions on Rwanda itself as well as on international justice systems. Turning down such an opportunity would be foolhardy."
Dr. Stires leaned his chin on his fist. "How did you get invited to participate in victim recovery in such a publicized region?"
She sat even straighter and smiled. "I was recommended for the project by the leader of the group I accompanied to Waco this spring. We studied the burned remains of the Branch Davidian Complex. I'm highly detail-oriented and particularly skilled at separating remains that have been collectively interred."
Dr. Stires smiled. "I like that. You're forthright. Unfazeable." He stood and extended his hand. "I will speak to the chair about being on your committee. You're going to be a powerhouse in the field, Temperance."
She stood as well and took his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Stires. I'm looking forward to working with you as well." A little quiver vibrated through her, and if he held her hand for a moment too long, she found she didn't mind.
***
She braced herself and the remains she was studying. Gunfire sounded nearby. So did explosions. She was never sure if it was training, tests, or reemerging unrest. Certainly there was an undercurrent of tension throughout the country. With only months until the genocide trials, guilt and anger merged into a resurgence of bitterness. That, in turn, became animosity directed toward those like her, who were laying open shame to the world.
Her heart rate slowed, but the rush of the explosion left her clear-headed and confident. She found she worked more steadily with external reminders of the urgency of her findings.
Her days were filled with assembling disarticulated remains. She laid them out with gentle care, reciting bone names as she did. She photographed cuts and gashes in bone and made careful measurements and notes. Her evenings were filled with compiling data and writing reports.
Before her flight home she submitted her report on the cause of death of the seventeen individuals whose remains she had reassembled. Her findings would be entered into evidence in the trials. Upon her return, she would submit her detailed dissertation proposal to the department and the paper she'd written about her findings to the Journal of Physical Anthropology. Before even completing undergraduate work, she'd begun to plan for a career by choosing her research topics with an eye toward publication, and her article about standing at attention needed only two small clarifications before it went to press.
On the plane her shoulders and neck and forearms cramped, and her feet throbbed from the week of standing on concrete. She'd never had such an exhausting school break, nor such a rewarding one.
Her belated Thanksgiving dinner was airline food. Russ would have made a joke about the flight from the movie Airplane, because she ate the fish.
But Russ wasn't there, and her parents weren't there. Someday perhaps someone would find her parents' remains, identify them, and tell her what had happened to them, like she had done for the families of seventeen Rwandans.
***
~December 1996~
"Wait, you're almost done with your Masters??" Heather was still breathing hard from their run. "I haven't even finished my Bachelors."
Temperance cocked her head.
"All right, so I did change majors twice, but they were both in science!" Heather laughed. "But that certainly explains why we've never had classes together. I mean, I knew you were advanced, but...wow."
"I've got to get going. I'm teaching the karate class in the Rec Building."
"And I'd better work on my paper."
"You're welcome to come to the class with me." Temperance was never sure if Heather declined her invitations because of actual disinterest or because of a belief or sense that she would be unable to participate. If it was the latter, Temperance had to acknowledge that it might not work since Heather couldn't do any of the kicks. Still...she could punch and probably, if she wanted to stick with it, work with nunchuks or a bo-staff. "I find contact sparring provides an excellent catharsis, especially so near exam time."
To her consternation, Temperance found herself suddenly pulled downward. Arms were wrapped around her, over a shoulder and around her back. A giggle sounded near her ear. The arms squeezed and she was thrown entirely off-balance. She didn't know where to put her own arms.
"Temp, you're so awesome," Heather said. "You just never see anything but what I can do."
Temperance barely managed to avoid falling into Heather's lap. She scrambled back, trying to regain her footing. "I don't know what that means. What else would I look at?"
Heather grinned. "Thanks for the invitation, but I've got organic chemistry to study for. It's totally kicking my ass. You go kick and punch things for both of us, 'kay? Maybe I'll give it a try in the winter quarter."
Temperance tried to smile back, gave a quick wave, and ran. Those weren't tears in her eyes, she told herself. It was just windy, and her chest ached from the cold winter air. That was all. She wasn't thinking about her mother's arms around her, or the sloppy kisses and pudgy little arms of children who loved her for a few months.
She was fine alone; human contact just distracted from her studies.
At class, her demonstration was so quick and powerful it knocked the heavy bag off its hook.
"Don't mess with her," she heard one of the guys whisper.
She smiled, rehung the bag, and kicked it again. It was a good reputation to have.
Honor Code
***
Temperance's belongings were all in a self-storage unit, save for what was in the backpack-duffel at her feet. Her hair was pulled back under her boonie hat, and she wore light cotton khakis and hiking boots. Sweat dripped down her face and back.
Air pressed against her, as hot and humid as it had been in the Maxwell's trunk and on the sunniest runs in the Chicago August. Guatemalan summer had already set in, and waves of heat rose off the pavement. The slight breeze moved dust through the hot air so that when she scratched her arm, grit smeared with sweat into a streak of mud.
The other eight graduate students milled around, chatting and drinking bottled water, laughing. Several stood in pairs, demonstrating proximity that signaled sexual availability and interest.
Dr. Stires was talking to a man near a brightly-painted bus, then the professor nodded and headed towards the grad students. "All right, everyone," he called. "Bring your things over here. Valdez is going to stow them on top of the bus. Jeff, Maria, Daniel, get the equipment boxes. Stephanie, Deelu, Shin, get the team gear. The rest of you, hand things up to Valdez."
Temperance hefted her duffel. Valdez was already on top of the bus and hauled it up. Soon he was tying all the gear down with lengths of rope looping around the rack and crisscrossing the boxes and bags. The resulting multi-colored heap, atop the red, yellow, and green bus, looked almost like a modern sculpture.
On the drive to Chichicastenango, Valdez kept up a running commentary while pointing to various parts of the countryside. About every ten minutes, he pointed to the pictures of his children affixed to the sun visor and told a story about them. Temperance's crash course in Spanish was only equal to getting the gist of his comments and the occasional detail, but his pride in his country were evident.
The drive stretched longer than the expected four hours as Valdez picked up additional passengers. The laborers nodded politely to the Northwestern group as they boarded with their rattling metal lunch buckets. In the seat across the aisle, two chickens in a cage clucked in time to the rocking of the bus as it climbed the perilous mountainside roads. The smell of dust, feathers, and perspiration filled the air.
At the next stop Temperance motioned to a woman wearing a baby wrapped in a brightly-colored rebozo, indicating the woman should take the seat beside her. The woman gave her a grateful smile as she sank onto the worn vinyl, and Temperance waved at the baby, intrigued by the tiny hands that flailed ineffectually against the stuffy atmosphere.
As the sun set, mists trailed along the tree line, and the lush green was suffused with color.
Temperance leaned against the hard seat. Her shoulders drooped as the journey began to wear on her. According to her watch, they'd been traveling for nearly seventeen hours. Beside her, the baby slept against his mother's chest. Temperance's attempts to rest were thwarted by the bumping and jerking of the bus.
Then it was dark, and she realized she must have slept because the woman with her baby and the man with the chickens were gone, and the bus had stopped. There was a flurry of activity as they stretched, shook off fatigue, and unloaded. Temperance pitched her tent in a haze of exhaustion and settled in for the night.
For the next four weeks, the six who were there to assist on the dig worked ten-hour days in the heat and sun while the others conducted interviews. Even with the draining days, the group spent evenings together, and Stephanie and Jeff had bunked down in the same tent by the second night.
Temperance continued to avoid group activities, instead spending the hour after dinner reviewing and organizing her notes. Her ideas for a paper were coming together nicely before they were far into their second week at the site.
The others whispered of the genocide that had led to this mass grave's existence. Jasmina compared it to the recent massacre in Srebrenica, where her parents had grown up. Deelu talked about interviewing the villagers and her progress in analyzing the influence of Spanish on modern Maya-Quiche dialects. Shin shared what he'd seen in terms of medical facilities and how many Indian villagers he'd seen with health problems from old injuries from the time of the massacres. Eric shrugged, said the international community wasn't going to be interested if the villagers didn't clamor for action, and that the likelihood of any legal action being effective was hampered by so many Guatemalan government and law enforcement officials having been party to or directly involved in the massacres.
Temperance reflected on those political realities as she ate the expertly spiced black beans with rice, typical fare for the region, nourishing yet simple. The socio-political realities were anything but simple. She'd seen similar levels of corruption and caution in Rwanda last fall. She was still processing the sociological and anthropological implications of such pervasive and justified mistrust of authority.
"I wonder if there are studies of the differing responses of a people to the failure of the protective elements of their world," she said. "It could be approached from the standpoint of cultural anthropology, through the lens of cultural mores regarding independence or expectations of and attitudes toward authority, for example. Or the reaction of a people could be examined from a standpoint of culturally coded response to change, with attention to the stability of the culture and government prior to the protective failure. Had the government and/or law enforcement officials been trusted or effective prior to the failure? Were they already mistrusted or untrustworthy? Other factors that could contribute to people's responses and their sense of betrayal could include age, gender, family status..." She ticked off factors for which a study could attempt to control. "Studies could be done in various countries and cultures, and then the results could be compared to see if any factors predispose a community to a more positive outcome or even a greater rate of survival after a significant protective failure." She looked at the others. They were frozen in place, drinks half raised to their mouths, which were hanging open. "What?"
"Temperance," Maria began slowly, "weren't you the one who found the thoracic and lumbar vertebrae with machete marks on the ventral surfaces today?"
She glanced at her beer. "Yes. My preliminary findings indicate those vertebrae come from a single individual."
"And that doesn't bother you?" Daniel asked, setting his glass hard on the table.
She tilted her head. "I'm a scientist. I'm here to do a job. I can't do that job if I fail to analyze how our observations can help in the future as well as how my expertise can contribute to my field."
"Wait," Jeff said. "Are you saying we're not scientists?"
"Or that we lack expertise or objectivity?" Daniel added.
She shrugged. "That wasn't my primary intent, but my words could be interpreted with that meaning. I do believe that anyone unwilling to set aside their personal responses is showing an unprofessional lack of objectivity that compromises the expedition, its results, and its integrity."
"Now you're saying we don't have integrity?" Jeff demanded, scooting his chair back.
"Conway," Eric said. "Let it go. She's a bitch." He stood and put a hand on Jeff's shoulder. "Come on, man. Let's go."
Jeff clutched his glass and stared at Temperance.
She raised her eyebrows and put on her best indifferent expression as she returned his stare.
Jeff tossed back the rest of his drink, slammed down the glass, and stalked away. The others followed suit. Stephanie shook her head and rolled her eyes before turning to go.
Temperance took a drink, and the hops tasted more bitter than usual. She withdrew her notebook from her bag and turned to her notes from that day.
"You sure know how to win friends and influence people."
She turned. Dr. Stires eyed her over a half-empty beer bottle. "I'm quite sure I didn't 'win friends' just now," she said.
He smiled broadly then moved to sit across from her.
She folded her hands and rested them on her notebook, returning his gaze.
"One of the necessities of academia is the ability to gain support from one's peers," he said.
"Support comes naturally for accurate and meticulous research and factual analyses."
Dr. Stires laughed out loud.
She frowned.
When he stopped laughing, he stared at her and frowned. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Of course. It's the merit of our work and knowledge that speaks for itself." A tingle flickered uncomfortably through the backs of her arms.
Dr. Stires took another drink, then waved his bottle at the server. "Temperance, there's something you need to understand." He opened the bottle the server brought and sucked off the foam. "Academia is back-biting and vicious. Far too many very, very smart people are vying for too few tenure-track positions, for publication opportunities, and for grant money. The view you just expressed is, well, naïve at best, foolish at worst. You have to earn respect both personally and professionally. And insulting your colleagues is just not the way to do it."
She frowned. "But...I didn't insult them."
"Um, yeah, you did. I don't think you meant to, but you've got to listen to your words and take the possible interpretations into consideration."
"That's ridiculous. What I say is just what I say. Interpretation is for literature and data."
"Ah, but there's the rub." He looked at her.
She looked back.
He shook his head. "I mean that data is, like you said, interpreted. Your interpretations, no matter how well thought out, how brilliant, how thoroughly researched, are still interpretations, and they can be in error. And you can be in error. When that happens, you need to have colleagues who will collaborate with you rather than celebrating a chance to take you down a peg."
"Why would they do that?"
"Ego."
She sniffed. "That is entirely unprofessional."
"Doesn't matter. They'll want to prove you less important."
She stared at him and opened her mouth.
He held up a hand. "Or, worse, they'll try to discredit you."
She sat up straighter. "My work stands on its own. They'll have to have evidence if they want to discredit me."
"Don't listen, then." Dr. Stires stood up. "Go it on your own, do it your way, and see how it turns out. Good night, Temperance."
She walked back to her tent, wondering why the cool mountain air wasn't more refreshing.
Crimes against Humanity
***
"Jeff?"
He squinted up at her. "What do you want to do now? Tear down my field in addition to me?"
"No." She paused, thought. Then she continued. "Your work shows you to be an excellent archaeology student. Could I ask your opinion on something I've found?"
"Is this some kind of trick?"
She frowned. "Why would it be a trick?"
"Because of what you said... Never mind. What do you want?"
"Like I said, I'd like to ask your opinion on something."
He dusted his hands off and followed her.
A few minutes later they'd gathered two other grad students, along with Dr. Stires, and Dr. Cordova, the site manager.
Each person climbed down, brushed at the glint, examined it with a magnifying glass, and went silent, then let the next person examine it.
"Should I remove the remains?" Temperance asked.
Dr. Cordova nodded. "We want to keep this as quiet as possible. This is potentially quite damning, and we can't be sure even our guards are uninvolved in the massacres. Make sure you document everything."
The rest of the day Temperance felt her erector spinae and splenius capitis tensing, and she reminded herself to inhale deeply and exhale completely, as if she were running or practicing karate. The entire site was more quiet than usual, and Temperance was surprised the silence wasn't more conducive to steady work.
As the sun began to set Dr. Cordova made sure they locked all remains and artifacts up safely, and warned them to be particularly careful of being alone, and not to tell anyone about the details of their work.
Temperance thought that was an odd request since they'd all signed non-disclosure agreements, but she said nothing. The walk back to camp was uncharacteristically silent.
Jeff and Stephanie held hands, and Maria and Jasmina walked so close their shoulders touched. The others clumped together.
Temperance walked alone, then she ate dinner alone. In her tent, she reviewed her findings and made notes for the paper she planned to write before falling into a fitful sleep.
The somber mood continued into the next day. The sky was gray for the first time since their arrival, and the trail smelled of damp earth and foliage. In addition to the ubiquitous humidity, a mist fell.
By the time they got to the dig the precipitation had stopped, so they were able to uncover the site.
"This isn't a dig anymore," Stephanie said.
"It's a mass grave," Temperance said.
The others nodded then went to work.
They hadn't broken for lunch yet, but the sun had emerged around ten and was already at its midday height. At this latitude, and just days from the summer solstice, it was almost directly overhead, and the bright shadowlessness seemed unnatural.
"Stop!"
One by one, the students stood, looking for the source of the sound.
"Was that Dr. Cordova?" Maria asked. She looked from person to person, but they were all frowning and still, and no one was speaking.
There was a thump, then a crack and a crash accompanied by a sharp cry. Footsteps approached. Metal rattled. Strange male voices called to each other in Spanish. The footsteps came nearer.
Daniel and Jasmina started to climb out of the hole.
Boots appeared. Legs in camouflage. Military jackets and hats. Each soldier carried a rifle. At least one had a machine gun. All of them wore sidearms.
Before anyone managed to move, the soldiers circled them. So many of them. Maybe twelve. Their rifles were at rest, but their fingers were near the triggers.
The one Temperance faced looked her up and down. He stroked the barrel of his gun slowly.
Temperance felt suddenly cold. Her heart slowed. Then it began to pound so all she could hear was blood rushing in her ears.
The soldiers all looked the same: backlit and faceless. The sun against their caps cast a shadow and obscured any glimpse of their true appearances.
Temperance trembled. She forced herself to turn. Jeff and Stephanie hadn't made it past their knees, but the rest were standing.
One man stepped forward. He wore gold insignia, and his hat was not the basic camouflage but a black and red beret. The leader.
He walked casually. His rifle was slung over his back, and his hands were behind him too. He stepped to the edge of the hole and brought his hands forward. One held the pelvis they'd unearthed the day before. He fingered the bone and tipped it back and forth so one spot glinted in the sun. The light reflected off the jacketed bullet embedded in the bone, so it flickered just like it had the previous day.
"This is not something that should be found," he said in Spanish. He strolled around the top of the grave they were all in. He tapped the bone against his palm. "This is shameful for all of Guatemala. It is something from a time that is best forgotten." He leaned forward. "You." He pointed at Maria. "Do you speak Spanish?"
Maria nodded.
"Do you speak English?"
She nodded again.
"Tell them what I say. I want there to be no confusion."
Maria's voice was wet with tears and barely audible.
Temperance breathed shallowly. Nausea roiled through her.
She'd spent the past two weeks cataloguing the damage to these remains, the vicious attacks that had cut into and left marks on nearly every type of bone they'd recovered. This could happen to them just as easily, to all of them. Just like Jean Donovan and those nuns in El Salvador, they could suffer the same fate as the people they were there to help.
They could be killed and mutilated, left in the mass grave they were excavating.
"You will not speak against this regime. Remember you are guests in our country."
Maria repeated his words.
Temperance turned to Dr Stires. She couldn't control the quaver in her voice as she asked, "What do we do?"
Dr. Stires met her gaze and held it, then he stood up straighter. "We tell the truth. We do not flinch." He looked at each of the others, one by one, before turning back to the head of the soldiers.
There was a long moment where they watched each other. Temperance's heart pounded.
The leader nodded. "We want you to be safe during your visit, so we will take this," the leader said, still tapping the bone against his palm. "My officers will stay and provide security. Bad things could happen if...certain people heard of your discoveries." He turned and walked away. All but two of his men followed.
They disappeared into the fog that swirled back up from the valley and clouds blew in again.
Three days later the entire group was back on the chicken bus. Despite the heat both Jeff and Stephanie and Jasmina and Maria sat next to each other. It was over a week earlier than they had planned to leave, and even Valdez didn't speak. The silence on the bus reflected the silence regarding the genocide. Now they were all party to that silence.
Temperance's notes were tucked into an inner pocket of her duffel along with a copy of the picture she had taken of the fully-jacketed U.S. bullet that had been lodged in the young man's pelvis. She would show her documents to Dr. Stires when they were back in Chicago, and would write a paper revealing what the soldiers had hoped to suppress.
Temperance vowed to return, to restore identity to more of the dead they had begun to recover, to return them to their families and give them back their history.
***
***
As Far As I Can Run
***
"Temperance, could you stay behind?"
"Yes, Dr. Stires." Temperance gathered her things.
The other students filed out, including Maria and Jasmina, who were still together, much to Temperance's surprise. According to what she'd understood, relationships begun under high-stress situations rarely survived, and humans were not geared toward monogamy. Still, it hadn't been even a year, so perhaps this was a comfortable dalliance.
Temperance had spoken to Jasmina about digs in Srebrenica, and Jasmina had shared the program she was applying to. They needed trained participants, so it was possible Temperance would join Jasmina for two months in the former Yugoslavia this summer. That would test the staying power of the women's relationship.
Temperance was beginning to consider pursuing a sexual relationship. It would not be long before her lack of experience would work against her in acquiring a partner even for casual sexual fulfillment.
She approached Dr. Stires.
"I have a surprise for you," he said.
"What is it?"
"A surprise. Let's go back to my office." He raised his eyebrows then turned.
She smiled as she followed him. Dr. Stires was her leading choice for a partner. She found his face symmetrical and pleasing. He was intelligent, steadfast, a good leader. Her genitals warmed when she watched him lecture. He challenged her and demanded that she take risks rather than play it safe. He was somewhat older and therefore probably experienced, a good choice to guide her in a first sexual encounter. He was also easy to talk to, so she had no doubt she would be comfortable sharing the sexual preferences she had discovered in her masturbatory experimentation.
Yes, she thought. Dr. Stires was a good choice.
His office had books piled on every surface. He held up The Journal of Forensic Sciences. "It's our article on the Guatemala dig," he announced.
She grabbed the journal. "You got your author's copy already?"
He nodded.
She flipped to it. Her third publication. Her first co-written article. She beamed as she read, seeing her comments and Dr. Stires' intertwined, remembering how he'd competed with her and challenged her to greater achievement. Yes, this was an excellent collaboration to maintain.
"Congratulations, Temperance." He was still smiling. His face was pleasant when he smiled.
"Congratulations to you, too." She stepped closer to him. "I would like to pursue more than an academic relationship with you."
He stepped back. "Temperance, I can't do that. The university would view it as an abuse of power." He frowned, keeping her at arm's length with an outstretched hand.
Temperance frowned. "But...this is my idea, and you said yourself we're intellectual peers."
He kept shaking his head, but she could see his eyes had dilated slightly. She aroused him. "Yes, but I'm on your thesis committee."
She shrugged, stepping toward him. "You're not my primary faculty advisor, though. And if it bothers you, I'll ask for a replacement. I certainly know my own mind, and anthropology shows us that society's edicts, while important considerations, are flawed if adhered to with too great of rigidity."
He looked to the side, then back at her, then from her eyes to her lips and back at her lips. Finally he took a deep breath and said, "Violating societal norms is an act for those who are defying societal structures. We both value that structure."
She smiled and took another step closer. "But we're able to make independent determinations about where that structure may be too restrictive for individuals. And while many people are protected by these rules, we need no such protection if we enter into an adult relationship with established boundaries and expectations." She stepped closer, and he licked his lips. She smiled. "Of course, if you're concerned about the appearance of disregard for societal norms, we could avoid mixing our personal and professional lives and have a relationship that is kept separate of our academic interactions."
"That proposal sounds well-reasoned, Temperance." This time his eyes didn't leave her lips.
"In fact, we could clarify the separate roles by naming protocols." He smelled musky, and she dropped her voice a register. "I could call you Michael in private interaction." Her stomach tensed, but she pressed on. "And you can call me Tempe."
He smiled. "You drive a hard bargain. Should we try dinner tonight?"
***
~November 1998~
Temperance pinned up her hair and checked the back in the small mirror in the bathroom of her tiny studio apartment. Her one pantsuit was crisply ironed and fit perfectly; she'd spent quite a bit of her carefully-saved assistantship funds on it. She put on her mother's earrings, the same ones she'd worn to all three of the job interviews she'd had thus far. She applied the little bit of makeup Heather had taught her to use, picked up the leather satchel that had been a "finished with dissertation" gift from Michael, and declared herself ready.
She arrived early at the conference room and sat in the single chair reserved for her, hands folded in her lap. She'd seen other students preparing for the defense portions of their degrees, and they'd always looked so stressed as to seem nearly panicked. She didn't understand how they could be both competent in the field and that afraid of doing poorly. Temperance's supervisor had commented extensively on her work, like everyone's supervisor. She had added sections, revised, clarified, and proofread equally extensively. The defense, at this point, seemed like a formality.
Even so, she'd scheduled her defense for November in case they found typos or wanted minor corrections. That way her degree would be conferred in December.
Dr. Sternberg arrived first, her ubiquitous cane in hand, looking typically stern. Students frequently chuckled over the confluence of her appearance and name, but Temperance pointed out that it merely meant "star mountain" in German. Dr. Blackwood arrived with Dr. Anigbogu. Michael was the last to arrive, smiling with the expression he'd told her last night was his "knock 'em dead" look.
"Why would I wish to knock my defense committee dead?" she'd asked. "That would prevent them from acknowledging my success."
Michael had laughed and kissed her forehead. "It just means that you're so powerful you could knock them down. And I'm looking forward to watching you do it."
It was still a ridiculous phrase, but the faith Michael had in her was oddly reassuring. She knew she'd done well, and it was strange to value someone else's opinion of her so highly.
The defense went exactly as she expected. Every question the professors posed was one she'd anticipated. She quoted her dissertation, her published work, and the references she'd cited. Dr. Blackwood commented on Temperance's recall. Dr. Sternberg said that, in thirty years, she had never heard a defense so thoroughly sourced and detailed. Dr. Anigbogu asked to keep his notes. Michael just smiled.
The group unanimously decided to accept the dissertation without corrections or revisions, and even applauded her.
On the way out of the building to the dinner he'd promised, Michael said in her ear, "I've never seen such positive feedback. You sure knocked 'em dead, Tempe."
***
Temperance handed in her final copies of her dissertation to the graduate office the next morning. The prior two weeks had involved very little sleep, as she'd ridden the adrenaline high of achievement. Last night's celebrations had included highly satisfying sex, but she'd still been in bed by nine and had slept twelve straight hours.
She expected to feel elation or excitement as she left the office. Accomplishment warmed her as she skipped down five flights of stairs and out into the crisp smell of winter air blowing onto campus from Lake Michigan, but she felt like she was forgetting something. Something important wasn't done.
She biked back to her apartment. Even the adrenaline surge of having to swerve away from being hit by a car didn't push away the nagging sense that something wasn't quite set.
She locked her bike and unlocked the front door of her building. Her building. She didn't know where she was going to live now, or what she was going to do. Despite her scholarships, fellowships, and savings, she had well over ten thousand dollars of student loans and no job. She contemplated going back out and riding up and down the lakefront as she turned the key in the little metal door of her mailbox.
Instead of the usual collection of junk mail, inside was a single, off-white envelope.
The return address on the envelope read "Jeffersonian Institution, Washington, DC."
Temperance held it carefully. The same numb chill she'd felt when she'd held her acceptance letter from Northwestern went down her arms and through her belly.
While the envelope was sealed, it was like Schrödinger's cat: the letter held both acceptance and rejection.
There were countless other candidates in a variety of specializations. She knew the Jeffersonian was considering a variety of specialties for the Medico-Legal position, and while the Jeffersonian could hire from a large pool of candidates, she was sure they'd hire a forensic anthropologist. That would make the first museum on the east coast with such an expert on staff.
Michael had applied and interviewed for this job. She was the better writer, but he had more field and teaching experience.
No matter the outcome, she and Michael would be living in different cities before the end of the year. She'd miss him, but she'd known it was only for a while when she'd initiated their relationship.
She turned the envelope over in her hand. It smelled like dust and chemicals and history, just like the lab, even after its time in transit.
When the Jeffersonian had flown her to D.C. to interview, she'd been impressed by the history of the city, the ease of the public transport system, and the facilities of the Medico-Legal Lab. The position offered excellent opportunities for travel and independent research, and Temperance felt that she could fit into that environment.
She could taste her desire for the job.
She climbed the stairs to her third floor apartment and locked the door behind her. She was in private now. It was time. Acceptance or rejection.
She slit open the envelope flap. Her stomach fluttered. A quick scan and her breath caught as relief and excitement flowed through her.
November 25, 1998
Dear Dr. Brennan:
We are pleased to offer you a position as the Medico-Legal Lab's forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian Institute, to begin as soon in December as you can arrive. We hope that you will find a scientific and professional home with us in a relationship that will be mutually beneficial.
I look forward to your positive response.
Sincerely,
Dr. Daniel Goodman
Director, Medico-Legal Lab
Jeffersonian Institute
The letter was offering her what she had been missing for the past seven years: a home. This would be a professional home, on she had worked to build and for which she was uniquely prepared. She would make a difference there. What she did would matter.
She opened the bottom drawer of her battered filing cabinet and removed the gift-wrapped boxes she'd carried for nearly six years. Maybe it was time to open them or discard them, to leave behind the last piece of that home. She noticed her thumb stroking the bright paper and her breath hitched in her throat. She set the presents in a pilfered liquor box and tucked her mother's red scarf carefully around them. She filled the rest of the box, taped it closed, and set it beside the door.
She surveyed the apartment then began to pack the pieces and things she would take with her to her new life.
***
~end~
***