“Good morning. Beautiful day!”
Kait mumbled an incoherent reply. How’d morning people manage? She sighed, twisting a strand of dark chestnut hair, the rest falling in a tumble to the small of her back. She’d finished her first cup of coffee and was working on her second, waiting for caffeine to kick in. As Senior Curator of Anthropology and Archaeology at the Willard Museum of Art and Culture, she didn’t work early hours, but getting the day started wasn’t easy.
Making it worse, she worked in the basement. Stuck in the building’s underbelly, she’d painted her walls bright tropical colors to compensate for no window. She vowed at her next job, wherever, whatever, she’d have a whole damn row of windows. On staff for five years, her untidy office was well lived-in. A coffee maker perched on a shelf. Heavy reference tomes lined a battered wooden cabinet. More books sat on the floor next to a plastic tool box, open and overflowing with X-Acto knives, bone scrapers, security screwdrivers and other tools.
She’d hung prints of archaeological sites and examples of vertebrate musculature on her walls. A mounted bat skeleton in cardboard display box leaned against a pencil sharpener. She studied it when phone conversations got annoying. A small kitschy folk art sculpture decorated with rodent skulls, plastic beads and bottle caps stood at the edge of her desk—across the front scrawled the words “Mole People Rule.” The basement dwellers, including Kait, gave themselves that nickname, at least those with a sense of humor. Some had been in the lower level so long they didn’t remember how natural daylight looked or felt—like the subterranean Morlocks in H. G. Well’s The Time Machine.
Monday morning in a suit was the worst. Her skirt kept riding up and the shoes were uncomfortable, and all because of a needless presentation to the planning committee that afternoon. One more distraction, the last thing she needed. She was bored with her morning task despite its necessity. She was drafting a work back schedule and exhibit plans for Dig It!, the museum’s 2012 project exploring archaeology, to ensure budget needs, board expectations and grant funds aligned. In other words, money, money, money. It wasn’t invigorating. Why had she detoured into this career field?
Her phone rang.
She welcomed the interruption—a visitor brought something they’d found in their yard. Could she take a look? They didn’t have an appointment, and the museum wasn’t open yet, but Kait jumped at the chance to procrastinate. She climbed the basement stairs and buzzed through the security door. A man and small boy stood by the admissions desk, child holding a bulging plastic shopping bag. He lifted it.
“Found this in our yard. Dad’s digging a hole for our new pool,” the boy said. “You the expert?”
“Don’t know what it is,” his father said. “Looks scary.”
“If it’s a monster, can we still put in our pool?” The boy eyed Kait.
Why'd she get the oddball and weirdo requests? “Let’s see it.”
The boy handed her the bag. She opened it. A dirty old pig skull with large teeth leered at her.
“Is it a monster?” the boy said. “Looks like a monster.”
“Never seen anything like it,” Dad said.
“Maybe it’s a dinosaur? Should we dig up our yard?”
Dad smiled and patted the boy’s shoulder.
“What kind of monster?”
“Well.” Kait hated to disappoint him but the ‘monster’ was a domestic beast. “Finish your pool. It’s a pig skull. Families in the community once butchered their own livestock to prepare food for winter. Sorry, but it’s not a monster.” The boy looked crestfallen. “But thanks for bringing it.” She returned the skull to the bag. “Would you like it back?”
“Naw.” The boy lost interest as soon as it wasn’t a monster or dinosaur. “You keep it.” He pulled on his father’s fingers and yanked him to the door.
Dad shook her hand. “Thanks. We don’t come here often. Weren’t sure someone would be available.”
The dreadlocked lobby staffer, sporting nose rings and lip piercing, laughed behind the admissions desk. She gave Kait an enthusiastic smile and whispered, “another crisis averted.”
Father and son left. Kait, in crisp business attire and high heels, stood in the lobby with a pig skull in a bag. Not an auspicious beginning to the workweek.
She returned to her office and set the bag on her bookshelf, contemplating uses for it. Her cell rang. She answered and smiled. “Hey, Michael. Good to hear your voice. I was worried.” She eased back in her chair.
“Hey K, hope your day’s better than mine.” He sounded tired, a weary hitch in his voice. “Sorry I didn’t get home last night. Ugly crime upstate. Returned late. Had research to do. Took the path of least resistance and fell asleep at my desk.”
“Sorry. Heard it on the news. Another child.”
“Yeah.”
“Come home tonight, okay? Someone gave me a pig skull this morning.”
He laughed. Made her feel better. She worried when cases got to him and this one was weighing heavy. At least she could distract him with old animal bones.
“Sweet—a pig skull. What’s the story behind it?”
“Doing my professional community service. See you after work. Skull’s yours if you want it.”
“Best proposition I've heard all day. Sorry, gotta go. Einar's signaling.” The phone clicked off.
She hung up and glanced at the small silver lizard figurine on her desk. It looked up with big eyes, cajoling her to lighten her mood. She laughed every time she saw it, remembering what it meant.
The Willard Museum bordered tough neighborhoods. Four years ago, Seward City’s Narcotics Division had been using its back parking lot to rendezvous for drug raids in the surrounding streets. Several mornings each month, flak-jacketed cops gathered near unmarked cars. They wore vests emblazoned with POLICE in big white block letters, armed with an arsenal of weapons, coordinating morning police actions as buses pulled in with elementary school groups. Teachers, parents and board members expressed concern when kids returned from field trips saying the highlight of their museum visit was cops and guns.
The administration, most of whom had since left or been fired in the Willard Museum’s revolving door turnover, called an upper level staff meeting and asked narcotics division representatives to speak with senior staff to coordinate balancing police needs with school tours.
Michael had been among the officers. After the meeting, staffers finished questions, filtered out of the conference room and returned to their offices. Most cops left, but he wandered into the galleries.
Ten minutes later, Kait walked by the traveling exhibit Let’s Like Lizards, a project the Education Director had booked despite no connection to the museum’s mission, arguing that ‘kids love lizards,’ especially when live reptiles came with the package.
Kait was surprised to hear singing—an appealing full voice, perhaps baritone. It wasn’t a museum staffer.
She stepped into the gallery. A small slender narcotics cop in police gear crouched on the floor in front of the kids, gazing into the eyes of the iguana perched on his outstretched arm, singing an old English children’s song about a green-eyed dragon:
Beware, take care, of the Green-eyed dragon with the thirteen tails,
He’ll feed. With greed,
On little boys, puppy dogs and
Big fat SNAILS....
On the word ‘snails,’ he dropped his voice to a low growl and stretched it out, the iguana eying him. The kids laughed, in hysterics over man and lizard. When he finished, he mimicked the iguana’s facial expressions, bulging his eyes and sticking his tongue out. More laughter. The education assistant leading the group saw Kait enter. She got up and joined her.
“Hope it’s okay,” the staffer said. “Cop came in and the kids saw him. That little boy in the front row, the hyperactive one with the crew cut, dared him to pick up Greenie, who I was showing. The cop resisted, but the kid persisted, begged him, and almost jiggled out of his seat. The cop gave in an
d came up front. Let Greenie crawl right up his arm.” Greenie, a big common iguana, was the exhibit’s ‘hands-on’ lizard.
Kait watched the cop and the kids, enchanted. “Doesn’t bother me he volunteered. Makes the police less scary.”
The staffer leaned close and whispered in Kait’s ear. “That cop's a hottie.”
Kait smiled. Vanessa, in punk blond buzz cut and inappropriate low-cut attire, thought every man under forty was a hottie. But in this case, she was right—the cop had honest, deep set green eyes and a sense of humor. Not many people sang to iguanas. She hung around when the kids left and walked up to him. He handed Greenie to Vanessa, scratching the lizard on the head.
“Interesting police skill.” Kait smiled.
He blushed. “I like animals. Used to have lizards. The boy dared me. A challenge. Ego, you know? Besides, sometimes I still feel like a twelve-year old.” He paused. “Don’t get a chance to sing at work.” He thanked Vanessa, and then turned back to Kait. “Community relations. They laughed. Creates a positive connection—better than kids going home telling parents about guns.”
She held out her hand. “Kait Jenret, Senior Curator, Archaeology and Anthropology.” She handed him a business card. “If anything comes up as a result of the morning meeting, let me know. I’m the contact point for senior staff.” The next words out of her mouth surprised her. “Whenever you want to sing, give me a call. I could use a good dragon song.” Where’d that come from? She hated flirting, had avoided a date in the last two years, tired of the meat market.
“Michael Lewis.” He shook her hand. “Narcotics Division officer, lizard whisperer, singer of dragon songs.” His eyes lit up as he took her card. “I’d be happy to sing to you.” He grinned. “In the interests of full disclosure, I may have to invent anthropology issues to discuss. I’ve got a thing for old bones.”
A week later, he took her to a bug fair at the local botanical garden. An inspired choice, especially when they got to the please touch section. Amid screaming kids and squeamish parents, she’d won the contest when, after matching each other bug for bug, he wimped out and wouldn’t let a Madagascar hissing cockroach crawl up his arm.
On their second date they went to see the Cohoes mastodon at the New York State Museum. Then they wandered through the wildlife dioramas discussing how the animals could eat the people and escape. These were not like her last round of dates, for which she was grateful. The nadir had been the guy who related how he’d pissed in the woods in a poison ivy patch, thus rendering him itchy, uncomfortable and unable to have sex for a while. Then he tried to get her into bed.
She’d given up after that fiasco.
She decided it was love four months later on their seventh date, when Michael invited her over on a Friday night for a horror movie trifecta of 1950s ‘giant insect’ classics, Them, The Deadly Mantis, and Monster From Green Hell. She said yes, of course.
She met him at his apartment, greeted by a huge black dog that bounded to her with tail wagging. “Loki,” he said, grinning. “I moved on from lizards to Belgian sheepdogs when I grew up.” He offered her a choice of an IPA or Belgian strong ale. That made him more appealing—the last four guys she’d dated before her self-imposed hiatus would’ve handed her something insipid like Miller Lite. They opened the beers, toasted monster movies and sank into his couch to watch hours of giant radiated insects ravage human populations. She enjoyed his animated silent commentary and shared his dark sense of humor. She remembered the night vividly, realizing he was a keeper.
The first movie was the best. They cracked up at giant ants in the desert, fought off with flamethrowers—he admitted, embarrassed, that as a kid he’d seen Them and been terrified of ants for a year. During the second movie, they laughed at cheesy insect annihilation and he did a mean impression of the Deadly Mantis. By the time they were halfway through the third movie, she’d fallen asleep twice with her head on his shoulder. It felt like home.
The next morning, she woke on the couch, two large pillows behind her head, flannel sheet and warm wool blanket over her. He came in and sat down on the end table opposite her with a large cup of coffee. “Good morning.” He smiled. “Didn’t want to wake you after you fell asleep before the last scene in Green Hell, although you missed the giant radiated wasps being killed by dynamite and the exploding volcano.” He pantomimed the eruption and wasp creatures frying, bugging his eyes out to mimic their death throes.
She laughed, impressed he’d not pawed her when she fell asleep. The second to last two guys had done that, which removed them from the dating pool.
“You were safe regardless.” He pointed beyond her feet. “The Norse god of the underworld guarded you. He likes you.” She looked up. Loki stretched out on the other side of the couch, front paws draped over her feet under the blanket. The dog peered at her, then rolled over for a belly rub. She laughed, sipped the coffee and set the cup down.
“Come here,” she motioned, arms outstretched. “I’m awake now, officer. The Norse god’s fine and all, but he’s not quite up to the task. Save me from the insects.” She intertwined her fingers with his and pulled him down, kissed him hard. He laughed and returned the favor.
“What if I’m a giant bug?” He pressed into her. “Might not be as safe as you think.”
“Bite me,” she murmured. “I’m tired of safe.”
He kissed her again. “Danger it is.”
She pulled off his shirt. He peeled away hers. Raced to see who could get their pants off first.
They rolled together in a tumble of blankets and discarded clothing. Made love, started on the couch, fell to the floor, exploring, ardent, laughing. Loki tried to get into the act, grabbing a blanket in his teeth until Michael swatted him away. She laughed harder.
Afterwards, lying on the floor, sheets wrapped around them, he traced along the small of her back and saw the long scar running from her shoulder to her hip.
“What happened?” His finger followed the jagged edge. His touch was gentle.
“Car accident. Needed the Jaws of Life to get me out.” She cringed. It’d been a deal-breaker for several guys she’d dated. Assholes.
“Must have been bad.”
“I lived but spent months in the hospital. Two people died. Drunk driver hit our car. I’d just finished grad school.” She hesitated. “Took a long time to recover. Derailed my original career plans. Field work would have been difficult in a back brace.”
“That’s awful, Kait. I’m sorry. What happened to the drunk driver?” He brushed hair away from her face.
“She spent time in prison . . . but now she’s out, living her life. I struggled with it for years.”
“But you healed . . .”
“Yes.” She held her breath.
He traced the scar to her shoulder and kissed it.
“It’s ugly, I know.” Why did she say that? Get it out in the open. Her last boyfriend tried to convince her to get plastic surgery before she dumped him. She’d removed a lot of men from her dating pool.
“Ugly? Why say that? Means you’re a survivor,” Michael said. “Life. Perseverance.” He wrapped his arms around her. His warmth was reassuring. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s a reminder of your strength.”
She sighed and leaned into him. “Are you for real? Not many men have been that philosophical.”
“Guess it depends on life experience.”
“Where have you been?” She turned around and looked him in the eye. “You can’t believe the crap I’ve heard about it. Thank you.” She kissed him on the lips, full, hard. “Hell, I’d given up on dating roulette.”
He laughed. “Funny. I hadn’t been out in three years. Figured on me and the dog for the long haul. Then I sing to a lizard and wham. I’ll have to send Greenie thank you bugs.”
“Not right away, you won’t.”
“Why not?” He gave a sly smile.
“I hear there's an invasion. Save me. Again.”
“Yes
ma'am, at your request.” He wrapped a hand around the back of her head, kissed her. Then dove under the sheet.
She smiled, remembering. He was good and funny.
A ringing phone jarred her to the present. Shit—her boss, Crazy Eyes. Not good. He wanted her to join a meeting about the upcoming gala, obsessing about tablecloths and flowers. Why did she need to be involved?
I’m an anthropologist, not a florist.
She dreaded the rest of the day.
Kait headed home after six and stopped at Shortstop’s Liquor Rama. They’d both need an attitude adjustment. She’d uncorked a bottle and poured two large glasses of cabernet sauvignon when Michael walked through the door. Loki bounded up to him, a blur of fur and canine energy, paws clicking on the hardwood floor. He hugged the dog and scratched his ears, then kissed Kait and took her in his arms.
“I missed you last night, K. Guess I was preoccupied with the case.”
She leaned into him. “Make up for it tonight.”
“I like the sound of that.”
Kait reached over to the side table, handed him a glass and lifted the other.
“Humanity and pig skulls,” she said. “A toast.”
He kissed her again, clinked his glass and drank. “I want the weird story. A pig skull?”
“When am I not the staffer for weird requests?” She laughed. Whether it involved removing a crazy guy from the galleries for flipping lit matches at wooden objects or escorting a trip at midnight, holding a leashed pot bellied pig at Niagara Falls, the weird ones fell to her. She was sure an undecipherable radar of the bizarre had embedded its homing beacon in her head.
He laughed. “You have a point. But you set yourself up. Everyone knows you’ll talk to the person, regardless of issue. Diplomacy is your downfall. Aim for anti-social, uncommunicative. That’ll solve it.” He set down his glass and dumped his coat, pulled his heavy sweater over his head, making his hair an unruly mess.
She ran her fingers through it and smoothed it. “I should dumb down my diplomacy skills?”
He pulled her close. “Don’t dumb down anything.”
She kissed him. “Father and son brought it. Didn’t know what it was. Boy hoped it was a monster or dinosaur. I shattered his fantasy. Told him it was a long leftover dinner.”