“I don’t know…”
“Oh you were. And rightfully so. You’re beginning to understand that everything is a test. A test of knowledge. A test of resolve. Tests of commitment and faith. A test of your will.”
Kavanaugh stroked his hairless head again.
“But I digress,” he continued. “Show me more of the issue that will be dedicated to my memory.”
McCauley was reviewing his charts. They were anything but exotic, five-star vacation spots. These required the latest in rugged all-weather camping gear: everything from tents to sleeping bags, iridium satphones to walkie-talkies and the basics: backpacks, picks and shovels, bubble wrap, and plastic bags. A lot of plastic bags.
He made notes and then roughed out a draft of an email to his department chair; a formality which he hated.
Dear Dr. Cutler:
Thank you again for your support and the department’s underwriting for this summer’s field research. I would have written sooner, but I’ve been putting the final details together on our research expedition. To that point, I am still deciding between two locations in Montana’s dinosaur alley based on government satellite photographs and my staff’s research. I’ll let you know when I come to a final decision. It appears, although I can’t be certain, both sites have unique strata that could lead to new discoveries, potentially trapped within Mesozoic to Paleozoic Era layers. If so, we might see remarkable research coming from our work. Of course, I’ll file regular reports. Enjoy Nova Scotia. Respectfully, Quinn McCauley, PhD.
McCauley closed his eyes and shook his head. No. Too many mights, maybes, and coulds. Besides, he’ll never read anything I send from Montana. He hit delete.
“I must say, we put out a first-class publication,” Gruber admitted while reviewing another galley page.
“But, my boy, I think you should have more on Soufrière. After all, the volcanic activity is what people come to see when they’re not working on their tans. And considering the Petit and Gros Pitons are the remnants of three hundred thousand year old lava domes, give our readers a little more meat with their gravy. Always remember the senses. I can still smell the sulphur springs. I’ve never taken in a nastier whiff of anything, but it doesn’t stop tourists from going there. Find a literary way to work it in. ‘The anger of the earth,’” he suggested, “‘The heat burns all life at the root and the sickly grey tint rises and then disappears against the blue Caribbean sky, proving once again that beauty wins out.’ Something like that.”
Gruber’s prose impressed Kavanaugh. “Sir, if I live to be twice your age I wouldn’t have half your writing talent.”
Gruber waved off the compliment. “Thank you, but it’s wasted on the tourists. They scan the articles, book their trips and lather up with their lotions. During their fifteen minute bus stops, they run in and take cellphone pictures with that fake clicking sound. Like it’s a film camera. Ridiculous. No art to it. Then it’s back on the bus. That’s travel today. Not like when people really valued the experience.”
The conversation, like so many, turned into another diatribe. However, Kavanaugh believed that some of it blurred the lines between the publication of Voyages and the work of Autem Semita.
“Make sure features contains some subtle theological or historical subtext. Not too much to lose the casual reader; enough to satisfy subscribers interested in a few relevant facts. And why? Because that will keep you on the path. And that is why you are here.”
Gruber looked at the galley page again. “But back to the work at hand. The spread is wonderful,” Gruber said. “Beautiful pictures. The aerial shots are amazing. Step by step, we get closer to God.”
When he was satisfied that Kavanaugh was clear on all the editorial changes, he invited his associate to take one of the two Louis XIV chairs in his office seating area.
“No, not that one,” Gruber stated. “Try mine.”
“Oh, I can’t, sir.”
“It’s important for me to see how comfortable you are in it.”
“But Mr. Gruber.”
“Relax, but you’ll still have to listen to me.”
“I hope for a long time, sir.”
Gruber studied how Kavanaugh sat, how he held himself. He all but peered into his mind. There were more things he had to understand about his heir apparent in the time he had left.
“Time?” Gruber considered the word. “How would you describe time, young man?”
“Time. Time is how we measure our lives. It is the space we inhabit as we figure out the manner in which to fill it. We wear time. We breathe time. We run…” Kavanaugh paused, “we run out of it.”
“Insightful,” Gruber noted. “I prefer to consider Tennessee Williams’s view from The Glass Menagerie. ‘Time is the longest distance between two places.’”
Kavanaugh liked the quote. The longest distance between two places.
“And the job, no the duty you’re inheriting, is to maintain that critical distance between the two places that we guard. Then and now.”
Kavanaugh’s pulse quickened. He stroked his scalp again.
“You look anxious.”
“Do I? I’m sorry.”
“Be patient.” Gruber’s tone changed. “I’m not going to die on you today.”
“Sir, please accept my apologies if I…”
“Accepted. Now tell me what you know that is not between the covers of our next edition.”
“Not in the magazine?”
“What our other research tells us.”
“Thank you,” the younger man answered. “Well, the Soufrière cave was abandoned. A little more oil exploration off Grenada. And no one will be able to get back into the mountain in Barbados. So, nothing of any concern.”
Gruber’s tone abruptly changed. His old eyes bored down on Kavanaugh. “My dear friend,” he said without an ounce of warmth, “there is never nothing of concern. Never. How can we determine what has value if we don’t take everything seriously? We sailed on the Mayflower and survived the gulags. We explored the Antarctic and traveled to the four corners of the globe. Our people have been to the moon, for God’s sake. We’re always concerned. How we act on that concern is the real issue.”
Gruber closed his eyes and lowered his head, a sign that more was coming.
“Satellite telephones. Computers. Even the blasted Internet that we pay hundreds of thousands of pounds to keep secure. Information, Mr. Kavanaugh. I demand information. You must as well. Do I have to live longer in order to train someone else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get a full grasp of it, Mr. Kavanaugh, before it’s too late! Out, now. Out of my chair. You’re dismissed.”
As Kavanaugh left the office, he heard the unmistakable sound of a pill bottle being unscrewed. Martin Gruber was taking more medication. Kavanaugh smiled. The job would be his soon and these egotistical rants would be over.
Six
There was no shortage of boxes, books and piles of paper for McCauley to wade through in his two bedroom apartment. That had to do with the fact that there no reason for McCauley to stay organized. Or more accurately, no one to stay organized for.
After stepping over his work on his way to his lonely bed, he closed his eyes and constructed the summer campsite in his mind. His tent would serve as home and office. Outside there’d be multiple areas to collect, sift, examine, and catalog the inevitable findings. As for sleeping quarters, two per tent: the two women in one, the men in the others. At any rate, it would start out that way. Likewise for the two showers provided by the park. The latrines would be downwind, though that was a bit of a misnomer. The Montana summer would be hot and dry, and with the exception of rolling thunderstorms, relatively windless.