ready. No, you’re clearly not ready, said the nasty little voice that lived inside her head. She’d tried to talk Magda out of putting her in charge of this project.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Magda had said, in an authoritative voice that not even morning sickness could diminish. “The Sujosa project is going to look spectacular on your résumé.”
It had been nearly two months since then, and Faye had spent most of that time with Magda, who’d taught her everything worth knowing about designing field surveys of inhabited sites in four easy lessons:
Lesson 1: You can’t afford to dig up the entire site.
Lesson 2: Even if you could afford to dig the entire site down to bedrock, the site’s inhabitants would be most unhappy if you did.
Lesson 3: Because of these constraints, you’re bound to miss something.
Lesson 4: You’d really, really rather not miss a single thing so, in essence, you’re screwed before you start.
Magda had emphasized repeatedly the importance of Phase I work—reviewing existing reports and maps and courthouse documents to glean site knowledge the cheap and easy way.
Making sure her crew was trained to work properly and watching them backfill the unproductive holes they’d dug under Raleigh’s tutelage would keep them busy for a few days, while she located a better site. And she’d have to find time to wear out some shoe leather. There was no substitute for walking a potential site, but the Sujosa settlement was a big place. She’d have to choose carefully where she put her boots. The Lester’s Hill mound would be an interesting place to start.
The sudden thrumming of raindrops on the tin roof over her head told her that she would not be walking anywhere that morning. She resisted the temptation to call Magda. This project was a chance for her to prove her professional worth, and she was going to succeed or fail on her own. Carmen’s death was a blow of the sort she could not have prepared for, but it was her choice whether to give up before she had started, or to carry on. She got out of bed and got dressed.
After breakfast, she pulled the hood of her Army surplus rain gear far over her head to keep the November-cold drizzle off her face and slogged over to the church, where the archaeology crew met each morning to get their day’s assignments. Joe was waiting for her just inside the door, dressed in rain gear, but the three Sujosa men sitting on the back pew barely looked up when she entered. Faye recognized them from the photos in their personnel files. Jorge was an olive-complexioned redhead in his twenties. Fred was stout and middle-aged. Elliott had a narrow face like the head of an axe. Their sullen expressions clearly said that they expected to be given the day off due to inclement weather.
“I’m sure we can find some work to do,” Faye offered, in a tone of voice that suggested she thought her crew was champing at the bit for some productive work. “To start, I want to check over the artifacts you’ve found so far. You probably haven’t had time to make sure they’re clean and properly labeled—”
“They’re clean,” Jorge interrupted. “Cleaner than they need to be. Raleigh made sure of that. Go look in the shed.”
So Raleigh had done a smidgen of crew training. That, at least, was good news. “Well, Jorge—” Faye said, taking care to give the name its proper Spanish pronunciation.
“Not ‘ Hor-hay ,’” Jorge said. “It’s ‘ Zhor-zhay,’ but if that’s too hard for you, why don’t you try just regular old ‘ George.’ You never heard of the name ‘George’? George Washington, George Bush, George W, King George, George Wallace…It’s a name for a man that’s in charge. Presidents and governors and stuff.”
For a half-second, Faye thought an incredulous “George Wallace?” was going to escape her lips. She settled for crisply dismissing Jorge’s rant.
“Well, my name’s not George, but I’m in charge at the moment,” Faye
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Magda had said, in an authoritative voice that not even morning sickness could diminish. “The Sujosa project is going to look spectacular on your résumé.”
It had been nearly two months since then, and Faye had spent most of that time with Magda, who’d taught her everything worth knowing about designing field surveys of inhabited sites in four easy lessons:
Lesson 1: You can’t afford to dig up the entire site.
Lesson 2: Even if you could afford to dig the entire site down to bedrock, the site’s inhabitants would be most unhappy if you did.
Lesson 3: Because of these constraints, you’re bound to miss something.
Lesson 4: You’d really, really rather not miss a single thing so, in essence, you’re screwed before you start.
Magda had emphasized repeatedly the importance of Phase I work—reviewing existing reports and maps and courthouse documents to glean site knowledge the cheap and easy way.
Making sure her crew was trained to work properly and watching them backfill the unproductive holes they’d dug under Raleigh’s tutelage would keep them busy for a few days, while she located a better site. And she’d have to find time to wear out some shoe leather. There was no substitute for walking a potential site, but the Sujosa settlement was a big place. She’d have to choose carefully where she put her boots. The Lester’s Hill mound would be an interesting place to start.
The sudden thrumming of raindrops on the tin roof over her head told her that she would not be walking anywhere that morning. She resisted the temptation to call Magda. This project was a chance for her to prove her professional worth, and she was going to succeed or fail on her own. Carmen’s death was a blow of the sort she could not have prepared for, but it was her choice whether to give up before she had started, or to carry on. She got out of bed and got dressed.
After breakfast, she pulled the hood of her Army surplus rain gear far over her head to keep the November-cold drizzle off her face and slogged over to the church, where the archaeology crew met each morning to get their day’s assignments. Joe was waiting for her just inside the door, dressed in rain gear, but the three Sujosa men sitting on the back pew barely looked up when she entered. Faye recognized them from the photos in their personnel files. Jorge was an olive-complexioned redhead in his twenties. Fred was stout and middle-aged. Elliott had a narrow face like the head of an axe. Their sullen expressions clearly said that they expected to be given the day off due to inclement weather.
“I’m sure we can find some work to do,” Faye offered, in a tone of voice that suggested she thought her crew was champing at the bit for some productive work. “To start, I want to check over the artifacts you’ve found so far. You probably haven’t had time to make sure they’re clean and properly labeled—”
“They’re clean,” Jorge interrupted. “Cleaner than they need to be. Raleigh made sure of that. Go look in the shed.”
So Raleigh had done a smidgen of crew training. That, at least, was good news. “Well, Jorge—” Faye said, taking care to give the name its proper Spanish pronunciation.
“Not ‘ Hor-hay ,’” Jorge said. “It’s ‘ Zhor-zhay,’ but if that’s too hard for you, why don’t you try just regular old ‘ George.’ You never heard of the name ‘George’? George Washington, George Bush, George W, King George, George Wallace…It’s a name for a man that’s in charge. Presidents and governors and stuff.”
For a half-second, Faye thought an incredulous “George Wallace?” was going to escape her lips. She settled for crisply dismissing Jorge’s rant.
“Well, my name’s not George, but I’m in charge at the moment,” Faye
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