15

Sunday, 21 June

Day Zero

Kate and Sam were greeted at the Gander International Airport by a goddess in flannel and denim holding a sign reading Andre Hjem.

“Kate!” Jorunn called, waving and standing on her toes to make herself even taller, impossibly chipper for six in the morning, Newfoundland time.

Scanning the area, Kate did not see Ben. She was at the same time disappointed and relieved, mostly the latter as she’d been traveling for something like eighteen hours, and it was two in the morning, Colorado time. She hadn’t slept on the shuttle or the three planes, and though she’d brushed her teeth before gathering her checked luggage, there was only so much preening one could do in an airport restroom.

Kate shook Jorunn’s hand. Sam kept back, but Kate encouraged them to greet Jorunn in stride.

“Jorunn, this is Sam, one of my students. They’re going to be a senior this fall.”

“Oh, fantastic!”

“So, um, where’s Ben?”

“At the site. We have been there for two days, setting up.”

“Oh? Should I have come earlier?”

“It is no worry. Next year, you can come early to help.” She grinned. “There are more people I need to taxi to camp. The last plane is due to arrive in an hour.”

Kate’s mood sank. She was exhausted and hungry and wanted to lie down somewhere that wasn’t an airport floor.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to find food.”

A forgettable vending machine sandwich and a bag of ketchup chips later, the last of the incoming field school students arrived, and the party set out for the camp in a large shuttle van packed to the brim with people and luggage. Sam immediately fell asleep despite Jorunn’s chatter.

“So,” Jorunn said, “Esben tells me you two go back years.”

Sitting in the second row of the van, Kate caught Jorunn’s arching pale brow in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah. We met at our first field school in Norway, like, twenty-three years ago.”

“Esben is a good guy. This is a great field school he helped develop. The site is proving big enough to go on for many years. Good teaching site.”

“That’s good to know. Can’t wait to get my hands dirty.” Kate chuckled.

The drive to the inland camp took about two hours, the latter portion bumpy, leaving the highway to drive on a dirt road through boreal forest. Sloping hills ensconced the camp, with forest to the north and a vast meadow to the south. The dirt road ran clear through the camp.

Kate checked the clock: nearly nine in the morning. The sky was a robin’s-egg blue, bright and picturesque over the tent-dotted landscape. Lady Gaga blasted from a small stereo. Around a campfire, people sat in a circle on camping chairs, most of them young, most of them women, none of them Ben. Behind them was the camp’s sole permanent structure, a relatively large single-level white prefabricated house with a wheelchair ramp leading up to the entrance.

Jorunn, with Kate tagging along, ushered the student newcomers to their tent area, a gentle incline north of the dirt road. Some tents were grouped, others solitary. The staff camped south of the road, closer to the house. And someone brought a fancy camping trailer.

When the students were situated, Jorunn led Kate toward the trailer. As they approached, Kate heard faint, frustrated grunts followed by a thunk. They rounded the trailer to find a mountain of a man, face hidden by a floppy, wide-brimmed khaki hat, cursing under his breath in Norwegian. He grimaced as he pressed his hands to his lower back and gently arched his hefty upper body backward.

The man’s tight, sweat-stained, light-blue shirt showed off his burly form, thick like a well-fed ox. Muscles padded by generous fat, rounded shoulders, rounded stomach, rounded biceps—hell, even his fingers and tattooed forearms were thick. Though he wore loose-fitting khakis, it was obvious the man had thighs built like the trunks of great oaks.

Jorunn laughed at him. “You tried to set up the monster by yourself?”

The man grumbled a reply in Norwegian as he glared at a large, unmade tent.

When he looked at Kate, she was taken aback. She could never forget those bright blue eyes and heavy brows. But the man before her was so much thicker than the Ben of her memory, and he boasted a veritable mane with a matching full beard.

Viking Cowboy Ben had gone full Viking—a man who dined on greasy roasted boar, who wrestled bears for fun and then sauntered away guffawing.

He was magnificent.

Ben held her gaze for an increasingly awkward amount of time, eyes wide, brows high, mouth agape.

Kate had, as she was highly aware, gained weight since being dumped, her gym habit not quite offsetting her drinking habit, comfort food eating habit, binge-watching TV habit… She didn’t look bad, per se. She quite liked her curves. Some people—Nikki came to mind—held a quiet disdain for body fat and, by extension, fat people. But Ben didn’t look shocked in a bad way. Rather, he appeared astonished. Before she could think on why, his expression shifted to something akin to sheepishness. Though he was flushed from the sun or exertion, ruddying his tawny skin tone, she could’ve sworn he was blushing.

He took off his floppy hat, and when he tied back his shoulder-length mane, his upper arms strained against the fabric of the shirt sleeves. After wiping his palms on his khakis, he reached out with his massive hand.

“Kate,” he said softly before popping a smile. “Glad you made it.”

Her hand joined his in a slow, bobbing shake. For someone with such a powerful presence, Ben was so gentle, restrained. That had never changed.

“Yes. H-hi,” she stammered, and he released her hand. “I, um. I’m sorry, I’m exhausted. Yes. I’m here. And Sam is…” She looked around for them. “I’ll introduce you later.”

“We will have a get-to-know-you party tonight,” Jorunn said. She turned to Ben. “Come, we need to get this up.” She bent down and grabbed the poles. “You should not be bending!”

—

As Esben had feared, Kate had seemed shocked, as if she hadn’t recognized him. He almost regretted not turning on his camera during the conference calls, but he didn’t want her seeing him through the low-quality lens of his webcam at what always ended up an unflattering angle.

Kate looked good. Healthy. Lovely. He hadn’t expected otherwise. Almost nothing had changed about her aside from age. Though, when they last met, at the conference, she had been dressed far more professionally than well-worn jeans and a But First, Coffee t-shirt.

“Why did you get this?” Jorunn asked him as they fit the tent poles together.

“Mistake at the rental store.” To Kate, he asked, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Her ponytail spilled over her shoulder when she looked up at him from where she was crouching, holding a tent stake. “Mind what?”

“Mind using a family tent,” he repeated.

“Me? This is for me?”

He nodded.

Her face scrunched. “You thought I’d need this much space?”

“No. What? They ran out of single-person tents and rented it for the price of a smaller one.”

“Oh.” Comprehension neutralized her expression. “It’s fine. Though you could’ve given it to a couple of student friends.”

“No,” he said. “You are staff. There are perks to this.”

“If you say so, boss.”

He hid his smile.

When Kate’s tent was ready for her to settle in and take a nap, Esben retreated to the trailer to wash and change, and he caught his reflection in the narrow mirror above the toilet in the minuscule bathroom. He peered down his body, noting the V of sweat trailing from his chest over his belly. He should have worn a white shirt, one that hid the dampness. He felt disgusting, and it wasn’t even hot today. His beard suddenly appeared excessively bushy, and his hair needed a trim. He should have taken care of this before leaving Stavanger. Last Kate had seen him in person, his hair had been cut and styled by a professional, and his beard had been a trim goatee. A lot of him had been trimmer, then.

He studied the faint line of greys flanking each side of his chin and the blip of grey at its center, just below the lip. His beard looked like his father’s from decades ago. Greys were minimal on his head, thankfully. He was also thankful for having hair on his head to worry about. That was the last thing he needed: to be bald on top of old, fat, single, and disconsolate.

“Forty-two is not old,” he reminded himself, willfully ignoring the fact that he was nearly forty-three.

Kate entered the prefab house for a buffet dinner of grilled sausages, burgers, something made of soy, summer squash, a veggie platter, and as much baked beans and bread as anyone could ever need.

The house’s main room doubled as a meal and lecture hall, workroom, and lounge, with two ragged sofas, a recliner, and enough table space to fit nearly fifty people. Next to the main room was the kitchen, with a large fridge, freezer chest, two stove-oven combos, and two large sinks. Behind the kitchen was the bathroom, reserved for people who found it difficult to use the outdoor shower stall and port-a-potties.

After dinner, everyone gathered around the campfire. The crowd of thirty-five people grew rowdy, and though Kate had napped in her tent, she hadn’t slept, and was now teetering on the edge of delirium. She failed to follow conversations. Light was too blinky, sound too clangy. Her heart pounded. She had a headache, and she was cranky.

7:33 pm, Newfoundland time, glowed from her cheap yet hardy digital field watch. Calculating how long she’d been awake wasn’t possible right now. Beer didn’t exactly help her cognitions, but it was good, a microbrew from somewhere local-ish, as Erik had attempted to explain to her.

While everyone continued to chat and drink, Ben turned down Grateful Dead to a rockin’ whisper. The crowd quieted once he took off his floppy hat and held up a hand.

“Okay, everyone,” he said. “Good evening, and welcome to Andre Hjem.”

Ben’s accent flared when pronouncing the site name. Annndre Hjem. Second Home. His accent was different from Jorunn’s, his Rs sounding roughly French rather than rolled.

“Some of you know me, most of you don’t. My name is Esben Veholt, but you may call me Ben.” He spoke with his hands buried deep in his khaki pockets. “I am a project archaeologist with the Stavanger Archaeological Research Institute in Norway, and I specialize in Viking ceramics. I created this field school five years ago with Professor Erik Varga.

“On our first night at camp, we like to introduce ourselves to the group. There will be no strangers here, hm? Say as much or as little as you like. No pressure. Your name, where you are from, and anything you would like everyone to know about you, important, interesting, or both.”

Hi, my name is Kate. My girlfriend ghosted me, and I used to fantasize about marrying your crew chief.

She squeezed her beer bottle violently and imagined it shattering.

“I’m Ben. I am from Stavanger, in western Norway. I have been a field archaeologist most of my life and have my Master’s degree in this. I love to drink tea. And I am allergic to strawberries.” He gave a shy grin. “Okay. We will go around this way.” He pointed to his left.

Erik, sitting at Kate’s side, leaned close, his beer-battered breath wafting as he whispered, “He says the same thing every year.”

Ben sat in his chair and sipped his beer. He caught Kate’s gaze, then hid his face by leaning against his fist and turning to listen to the group.

Of the thirty students, only nine were young men. Kate was pleased to see such a gender shift in the profession. For the longest time, men dominated archaeology. They still did, for the most part, in the upper ranks. One day, she hoped, these young women would be the boss of their own dig.

“Bonsoir,” said a thin young woman with dark skin and black braid-out hair. “My name is Zoe Owusu. I live near Montreal, and I study under Professor Ouellet.” She gestured to Alex. Her accent was very Québécois. “My thesis is to do with migration and experimental ethnoarchaeology. This is my second season here. And, besides archaeology, I love to play guitar.” She gestured to a guitar case leaning against the house wall. “I brought mine, acoustic. Do not be afraid to tell me to stop playing if it becomes excessive.”

Zoe clasped her hands and smiled as everyone chuckled. The group then turned their attention to Sam.

“Hi, I’m Sam. Sam Ly. I’m, uh, Professor Roth’s student.” Sam gestured at Kate. “This is my first time out in the field. I study historical American archaeology right now, but Viking stuff is cool. Um.” Sam bit their lower lip then rapidly added, “I use they/them pronouns and I’m trying to learn French. That’s all.”

Sam looked at their knees with a small smile, then at Kate. Kate smiled back.

Alex spoke after Sam. Other than his profession, he added that he felt guilty for leaving his husband and their toddler at home for the summer.

As the circle carried on, Kate tried her best to pay attention, but her second wind was waning, and the campfire was warm, the chair was cozy, and the beer was beer. But at the name Jorunn, she perked.

“I am a coworker of Esben’s in Stavanger,” the beauty in flannel said. “I study paleoclimatology and paleoecology, but my focus is archaeozoology—faunal remains. I also love to hike, and I will lead a hike for us all tomorrow.”

Kate tensed at the word hike.

“The lands around the site are some of the most beautiful in the world. You will see.” At that, Jorunn was done.

Erik, however, over-shared. He was a professor here in Newfoundland. He and his wife had five dogs—all beagles, which he named as he ticked five fingers. He wrote poetry. He recently took up watercolors. He ran every day. He must have spoken for five minutes.

“And that’s why I love archaeology,” he continued. “It allows us to understand human behavior and human societies by examining the past. What could be cooler than that?”

And thus, Erik’s monologue ended, and the short, beefy man turned to Kate.

She gave a stiff wave to the circle. “Hi, I’m Kate.”

Don’t talk about Nikki.

“I teach archaeology and biological anthropology in Boulder, Colorado. I love the mountains, but I have not and will never ski.”

Laughter.

“And…I…” Favorite food? Favorite movie?… Viking Cowboy Ben? “And I did my first field school with our fearless leader, Ben, back in the Paleolithic era in Norway.”

Across the campfire, Ben smiled his bashful smile and hid his face behind his beer.

Distant laughter rolled down the hill to the field where Esben lay reading in the trailer. The windows were open, letting in the fresh evening breeze. He enjoyed the shiver.

One of the bedside windows faced west, where they had pitched Kate’s tent. He hadn’t planned this, at least not consciously.

He flattened his open book against his torso, then pulled back the curtain to look outside. The world was dark aside from the sporadic soft glow of illuminated tents.

From her diffused silhouette, he saw that Kate was lying down. Reading, working on her laptop, or trying to get a signal on her phone. He hoped she had told everyone that she would be unreachable while at camp.

As he gazed at her tent, he wondered if inviting Kate here was, indeed, the worst possible thing he could have done for himself. There she was, not ten steps away, and yet she remained an untouchable shadow.

He had gotten what he wanted: to see Kate again. And, again, he would work at her side. Or rather, she his.

He recalled how much she had loved excavating burials at their field school, and the anticipation of seeing her reaction when he showed her the site brightened his mood.

The light inside Kate’s tent went out, and Esben wished her a good night.