Free Outside Eden by Merry Jones Page B

You’re Dr Jennings? Dr Ben Haim told us you’d be joining us. Sorry. I didn’t realize . . .’ His face splotched red. Embarrassed. ‘Well, nice to meet you. Let me know if you need anything.’ He hurried away.
    For the next several hours, Harper and Lynne removed dirt from their five-meter section, strained it into buckets to make sure nothing of interest was in there, and dug some more.
    And for just about all of those hours, Lynne seemed compelled to talk. She complained about the heat. About how monotonous the work was. About men, marriage. She talked about how she’d met Peter back in college, at Ball State. How they’d had a rough patch when she couldn’t get pregnant, but then they’d turned to Pastor Travis and he’d saved their marriage and put them back in touch with God. She talked about how blessed she was to have the pastor in her life. How he’d inspired her and given her new direction. She asked about Harper’s marriage.
    Harper didn’t want to talk about it but, as the day passed, she opened up, sharing memories of meeting Hank in Iraq, when he had been a civilian consultant, she an army officer. He’d offered her a drink, even though she’d been on duty. He’d been confident, brash. Handsome. Her voice thickened, remembering how he’d been then, his smooth words, his easy gait. God, it had been a long time since she’d thought about how he’d been before his accident. She stopped talking, coughing. Not wanting to go on.
    ‘You okay?’
    ‘It’s just the dust.’ But her voice was unsteady, so she didn’t say more.
    They repeated the digging pattern, working in rhythm: removing earth, straining it, filling buckets, straining again, digging some more. Lynne went on about her pastor and how he’d changed her life. She talked about how much evil there was in the world – crime, poverty, disease, war. How leaders had risen on false pretences, serving not for good, but for their own interests. How, if you really thought about it, the end of the world seemed inevitable. In fact, that realization was what drew her into her church. Made her want to serve God’s purpose in these troubled days.
    Harper tried to tune her out. She didn’t want to engage in conversation about Lynne’s world view or her church. She wanted even less to talk about crime and war, or to theorize about the end of the world. She made no reply, focusing on the joy of being part of a dig. On lifting small bits of ancient earth, sifting them through a screen into a bucket.
    Eventually, Lynne stood and stretched, stepped carefully around the perimeter of their section, pulling over an empty bucket. ‘I don’t get it, Harper. Why would you want to be an archeologist?’ she reached for her trowel.
    Harper looked up, not sure how to answer.
    ‘I mean,’ Lynne laughed, ‘your career’s always going to be in ruins.’
    ‘Very funny.’ Harper smirked, took off her hat, wiped sweat from her forehead. She’d heard the joke before, but chuckled to be polite, relieved that Lynne could talk things other than church.
    ‘But there’s good news. The older your husband gets, the more interesting you’ll find him.’ Lynne grinned wickedly.
    Harper groaned. ‘So, this is how it’s going to be?’
    ‘Sorry. When I told my friends back in Indiana that I was going on a dig, they told me a ton of archeology jokes.’
    ‘I’ve heard them all.’ Harper kept digging.
    ‘So, tell me.’ Lynne lowered her voice. ‘Is it true archeologists like it dirty?’
    Harper rolled her eyes, nodding. ‘And we will date anything, even our own mummies. That’s because we dig mummies.’
    This time, Lynne moaned.
    ‘Also, we cut our hair with Caesars. And, if we don’t eat right on digs, we get irregular trowel movements. Trust me, Lynne. I have millions of them – they get worse. Want me to go on?’ She put her hat back on, picked up her trowel and began digging again.
    ‘No.’ Lynne put her hands up, grinning, warding off more