The Dead Don’t Care
Part 4 — “Was it blood? It was, wasn’t it? It was the blood of that poor girl.”
“What’d’y’mean it was me?”
“Look, I was hallucinating; I have no idea what it means, it probably doesn’t mean anything — but I saw it clear as day, and it was you. I mean, she didn’t look like you, but I know it was you.”
“So then what happened; is that it?” I say.
“No, there’s more, but I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“What? Uh, no, you have to tell me! You’ve… implicated me.”
“Well, next thing I know I’m in a dark room. The old woman is with me still and… she’s holding a bowl of… some sort of dark liquid. I kneel down in front of her and — ”
“I thought you said you didn’t have legs.”
“I knew you were going to say that, just let me finish. I can’t explain the legs thing, just…”
“Okay okay, sorry!”
“I knelt down and she used this, um, dabbing tool to — she dipped it into the liquid and drew a line across my face with it, from my right ear, across, over my nose, like this,” he draws the line with his finger across his own face. “…to my left ear.”
“Was it blood, Dugan?”
“I — ” He smiles bashfully.
“Was it blood? It was, wasn’t it? It was the blood of that poor girl.”
I’m floored. Why was he telling me this? I don’t know what any of it means; I get the impression that Dugan is not telling me all that he knows either and I don’t know what to think of this. No, it’s too much, so I tell Dugan I don’t want to hear any more and he nods in agreement.
“Is there more?”
“Hey,” his tone becomes jovial, “it’s been a long day. Let’s talk about something else.”
But we approach my building and by now I feel quite uncomfortable. I try to flip the switch on my mood as he just did and appear grateful; it feels forced. “Thanks for walking me home; this is me,” and I indicate my building entrance.
“Oh, good, I mean — ”
Just as the steady beat of our footsteps fade, so does my clarity of thought. Oh no, he’s positioned himself in front of me now; there’s no getting in there except through him, and he’s got this confident look on his face — he’s reading my thoughts, too, I can feel it… He scoops up my hand into his.
“Thanks for looking out for me,” he says. “It worked out for the best — made a new friend, ate some amazing vegan food, experienced a little… excitement.”
“Excitement?! Well, I don’t think you’d like me so well. I don’t like things nearly so exciting! In fact, if that’s your idea of excitement, then I think you’ll find me quite boring!”
Ohhhh… aren’t I a charmer? The sad thing is, Dugan isn’t affected by my ugly blurtiness, somehow. If by magic I’m drawn back to his face, there’s amusement in his eyes and his mouth, which forms the sweetest little smile, parts to say…
“I’ll wait ’til you get inside,” and hands me back my hand. I’m very tired I tell myself as I scamper up the stairs to the apartment. Very tired indeed.
The night turns out to be sufficiently restful, uninterrupted by the desiccated or “well-preserved” varieties. I’m a bit depressed that it’s only Wednesday, and I was supposed to pick up the dry cleaning the day before, and Sarah chews me out for leaving my cereal bowl in the sink, and I have to choose the day’s garb from a lesser tier of my work wardrobe, but I’m still hopeful for an optimistic day. Anyway, that’s the kind of morning it was.
Dugan shows up at my desk to say hi at the usual time. He looks characteristically like himself all uniformed up and munching on an energy bar.
“Hey Dugan, you look good this morning,” I say.
His eyes light up. “Do I? I got my ears peeled and my eyes open today!”
“Yeah? Hoping to catch a hoodlum dealing free hallucinogens?”
Dugan cocks his head. “You think I’m making that up?” I don’t, really, and form a mischievous smirk.
“I don’t think I appreciate your lip,” he remarks between bites. His eyes are teasing. Oh boy.
Around noon museum employees start filtering out from behind their desks for lunch, but I’m still working on something time-sensitive, so I stay behind thinking Dugan might want to see me to lunch. Did I just say that? And he does come down only he’s in a frenzy and out of breath.
“She’s back!” he announces.
“She is?! Have you got her?”
“Not yet, come on! Help me look!”
On the way down to the exhibit, Dugan tells me how the guard observing the cameras called in a description of the old hag on the radio and specified the direction in which she was heading: straight for the mummy. “Hot dog!” Dugan exclaims. “We’re gonna git ‘er!”
“Not sure what I can do — ”
“You just keep your eyes peeled. I’ll do the arresting.” He gives the cuffs hanging on his belt a friendly little pat.
We head down a hallway, past the medieval exhibit harboring knights in armor displayed alongside their favorite mechanisms for torture, past the display of early Christians and their raiding counterparts, until we come to the Incan exhibit, with its clay pots, woven rugs, beaded tunics, and yes, shrunken heads, and I realize this is literally the hallway of death. On the radio Dugan gets a call signaling him to the cafe where a drunkard appears to be harassing some schoolgirls trying to enjoy their tea and crumpets. He lays a consoling hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll be right back, promise. I’m just gonna go run him outta here real quick,” and he disappears into the stairwell.
But I’m okay. This is my museum and I’m not scared of some ‘ol bag lady. As I reflect on finding myself alone in this corridor of despair, I am struck by the oddness of the empty hallway, even if it is lunchtime. Then I spot her. She meanders slowly and thoughtfully into the room with the mummy. How, oh how did they lose track of this woman? And why do we not require our visitors to check their bulky canvas tote bags? I make a mental note to look into this and make haste for the young girl’s chamber.
The gallery is built like a dark room, with the walls painted black and a partition that blocks stray light from diffusing into the exhibit. The purpose of this “privacy” wall is to protect the “artifact” from photon exposure and, also, serves to prevent any wary visitor from absentmindedly seeing a thing that cannot be unseen. It is a bit like entering a labyrinth of darkness, except for the dim rope-light illuminating the path. Once inside, the visitor finds oneself in a galley, which has a clear entrance separate from the exit, a safety measure, especially for those who will visit without turning on the light. A glowing switch installed at eye-level on the wall has only two functions: on or off, however, when switched to the “on” position, track lights affixed to the ceiling gradually illumine the focal point beyond the four foot wall topped with clear Plexiglass. The gallery is a moderate room housing, at the center, a state-of-the-art freezer chamber with glass openings, which circulates cool air low in oxygen and humidity, providing the ambient conditions necessary for the preservation of a five hundred year old sacrificial victim, which in this case is a Peruvian female, hypothesized to be about fifteen years of age at the time of her unfortunate death. She is the centerpiece of the Incan exhibit and the main attraction at the museum right now. A sense of dread follows me inside as I grasp for the right words to say to the wanted visitor.
“Excuse me, Ma’am…” In the dimness of the galley, she turns to look at me, her face concealed in shadows.
“Hello? I can’t see you well; come closer,” she said, her voice like a heavy smoker’s. I don’t budge.
“I work for the museum, Ma’am, and we’ve been trying to… we want to talk to you.”
Her eyes get squinty and she takes a step toward me. “You want to talk to me about what?”
“Why don’t we go sit in my office, Ma’am.” (I don’t actually have my own office.)
“No, we can talk here. I feel safe here.” She gestures toward the mummy, but I don’t look.
“I understand that; we just want to talk to you.” This is what I’ve heard detectives say on TV, but the rascally lady is not easily convinced.
Her voice softens when she says, “She looks peaceful, doesn’t she?”
My eyes never stray that way. She continues, “You don’t look because you don’t want to see. Why, the dead don’t begrudge us for our transgressions. Quite the contrary, they rejoice, for each bears a gift.” As if she suddenly remembers something, she holds up a crooked finger. “Ah! I want to give you something…” and begins digging through her large canvas bag, looking for something, and I think I know what it is. When is Dugan coming back? I wonder.
The items within the bag clang and jangle, bump and thud, and I’m pretty sure I heard a low growl just before she snapped her digging hand back out. Muttering some phrase in a language I didn’t know, she jammed a hand back in, then pulled out a bundle of tightly wound hairy string and handed it to me. “Hold onto this for a second, will ya?” she said, without looking up. I take it not thinking, just stand there in a daze. She says, “That’s good, strong string yer holding in yer hands, Child. Made from llama guard hair.” She shows me her shoulder and leans in as if to let me in on a little secret, whispers hoarsely, “Comes in handily iffen you’ve got something you need to fasten down,” and winks at me with a dark, cloudy eye, while her digging hand digs. “Here it is!”
Out comes a greasy looking leathern box about the size of a cigar box; she holds it up. “I made these from scratch just this morning, would you like to try one of my chewy icebox cookies?”
I take a step back as I’m confronted with the box full o’ hallucination-inducing confectionary delights, but the old witch is adamant.
“No, thank you…I’m not…”
“Try one! I can’t eat all of these! I made them to be shared. They’re for sharing!”
She comes toward me with the box, and her bulky bag, and her disordered semblance, the wiry hair, the cloudy eye, her clunky feet, backing me into a corner with the force of her presence. “Try one! Try one!” she keeps saying again, and again. The growling I thought I heard coming from her bag is getting louder and nastier, vicious snarling, dry barking, like a sick cough. Against the wall, all I can do now is try to guard my face from her forceful shoving. Then a deafening bang! causes my whole body to jump. The chamber! I turn toward the mummy, but it’s still there, she’s still in there, unmoving.
“What’s in the bag, lady?”
“My bag? Oh, that’s nothing, just an ol’ pet of mine. She’s friendly, most of the time…” The old woman sticks her nose in the bag and utters an incantation, I’m sure of it, as a whine and a shriek escapes. Bang! There in the chamber the mummy’s sallow face, mouth agape and wide-eyed stares at me, her hands pushing against the glass.
“She doesn’t bite, you know,” the old lady’s words come out in languid tones. “You know what does bite, young ‘un?”
Something moving in my hands draws my attention back and as I look down, a thick black snake slithers through my fingers. I gasp and yelp, try to toss the snake away, but she grabs my jaw hard in her yellowed hand, snarling, “Your words.” Blackness creeps in until all I see is black, like the rubbery scales of the reptile in my grasp.
Until I hear a familiar voice calling me back, a soothing chide, and I feel the arms of someone who knows me — they belong to Dugan, who’s come back. “Dugan,” I could sing his name; I think I will, “Duuugaaan, ohhh. Hiiiya!”
“I’m here, I’m here,” he says reassuringly. “What happened?”
