Human Sacrifice Read online

  A young man approached to take their order. A classic Mayan nose dominated his bronze face and his ready smile disclosed a gold front tooth. When he retreated with their order, the group turned its attention to George as he pulled a small spiral notebook and ink pen from his black hip-pack and adjusted his glasses. He scanned the faculty from under bushy gray eyebrows.

  “As you know, the Dean gave us permission to interview four candidates. When I learned that two of them would be at this conference, I thought we might interview them here. I appreciate your willingness to meet with them early this morning at the hotel, and I would like to discuss their qualifications while they are fresh in our minds.” George looked around for the waiter. “We can interview the remaining two applicants later this summer. It is important that we have someone hired for fall semester to replace Helen.”

  Brad leaned forward. “Why did Helen wait to announce her retirement so late in the year?” He released his hair from its ponytail. Unleashed, it fell into a wavy mass brushing against his shoulders. “She should have announced last year. We could have hired her replacement by now.”

  George frowned, adjusted his glasses again, and gave Madge a slight shake of his head. In response Madge sat back, arms folded, lips pressed together. George cleared his throat as the waiter returned to their table with icy cold Coronas, limes, and four small bowls of spicy nuts, tortilla chips, and salsa. The faculty members seized their bottles greedily as they waited for him to respond.

  George sipped his beer, taking his time. “Helen had personal reasons for retiring early…”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, George,” Madge blurted. “Helen has cancer…again.”

  George glared at Madge, Brad and Jamal looked at each other, and Tanya said, “Again?”

  George shifted his gaze from Brad to Jamal, then Tanya. “It was before we hired you three. You had no reason to know.”

  Claire stared at George, then Madge. “I thought she was in remission.”

  “Unfortunately,” George said, “her cancer returned, and she starts treatments this month. She and her husband decided she should retire early to concentrate on her health.”

  Hurt, Claire clutched her heart-shaped necklace, the last gift she’d received from her husband. “Why didn’t she tell me?” She looked from George to Madge. “I should have been told.”

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” Madge said. “You should have been told, as senior faculty. But we…I…knew how it would affect you.”

  “Were you protecting her or me?” Claire’s eyes stung. “I could have talked to her. I know…”

  George interrupted, “She insisted, Claire. She didn’t want pity or the teary-eyed retirement party. She hopes…plans…to have a healthy retirement when this is over.”

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” Madge repeated, and tapped Claire’s knee under the table.

  Brad said, “I’m sorry I over-reacted.”

  George shrugged, relieved to escape the emotional landmine. “At least the Dean permitted us to search this summer. She could have made us wait until the next hiring cycle.” George took a sip of beer and everyone at the table followed his lead, except Claire. She stared out the window in front of her, willing herself not to cry.

  George glanced at Claire, then continued. “So, to review, the Dean has approved the hiring of an anthropologist who is comparable to Helen in teaching and expertise, preferably with research in either Guatemala or Chiapas, Mexico. Since we couldn’t conduct individual interviews with either candidate, I hope that each of you will find an opportunity to speak with them this weekend. It’s important that the person we hire can fulfill our teaching and culture-area needs.”

  Claire’s eyes stung. She focused her gaze outward through the window, toward the towering pyramid. More sacrificial victims. She knew what Helen and her husband were experiencing. She and Aaron had the same hope, but Aaron did not recover. There was so much she could have said to Helen and her husband. Afraid to look at her colleagues, she let her mind wander, barely listening to George’s monologue.

  Claire’s life with Aaron Carson had started in the Yucatán. In fact, it had started here, at Uxmal. The recollection startled her. It had been on a group trip to Uxmal, during a university internship program nearly thirty-five years ago, when she first talked to the handsome student she had previously observed from a distance. She had been assigned to the university bilingual/bicultural program; he had been a pre-med student assigned to a medical clinic. The intern groups only mingled during program outings to colonial towns or archaeological sites.

  She and Aaron first spoke in the Nunnery Quadrangle. She had been sitting on the steps of the west building, writing in her journal. Aaron was taking photographs of a stela that stood in the courtyard, a carved obelisk that marked the important events of one twenty-year period, or katun. He had asked her to stand next to the stela to demonstrate its height, and she had modeled next to it, tipping her straw hat over one eye and pursing her lips in a kiss. That had been the beginning.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Claire wiped away a tear as George reviewed the hiring process with the newer faculty members. She watched with misty eyes as several men set up a reception area on the lawn outside. An older man, with graying hair combed back from his face, gestured as he directed two young waiters in situating a large sign on a home-made easel near the cloth-covered tables: ‘Bienvenidos! The 10th Annual Meeting of the Society of Mayanist Studies.’ The man nodded his approval as he straightened his crisp white guayabera shirt, pulling it down by the hem, fingering the buttons and the vertical pleats that strained over his extended stomach.

  George’s “ahems” brought Claire back to the conversation. Her colleagues stared at her, their faces marked with worry. George cleared his throat again. “We have Paul Sturgess and Laura Lorenzo to consider.”

  Anxious to move beyond her grief, Claire asked, “May I start with Laura Lorenzo?”

  “Please do.” George turned his palm to her as he reached for a tortilla chip.

  Tanya looked up sharply, then slapped her notes down on the table, folding her hands tightly on top of them.

  Claire looked at Tanya. “I’m sorry, do you want to start?”

  “No, go ahead,” she said, pressing her lips tightly.

  Claire pulled a small spiral notebook and reading glasses from her bag. “Laura completed her undergraduate work and master’s degree in Chicago, the same university where Paul Sturgess studied. She will finish her Ph.D. in linguistic anthropology at Georgetown by September. She’s currently teaching courses in Guatemalan languages and cultures.” She looked at her colleagues, who studied their own notes or concentrated on the drinks in front of them. Tanya sat stone-faced, holding her beer tightly in her hand.

  Claire continued, “Laura conducted her linguistic research in Guatemala. She would complement the cultural areas in our program. With Brad, Jamal, and me all working in the Yucatán, and Tanya’s linguistic and hieroglyphic studies in Chiapas, Guatemala is a logical geographic area to pursue.” She looked up to assess the reaction of the group. “Of course, George and Madge did archaeological work in Guatemala, but Laura’s work is linguistic and cultural.”

  Tanya spoke up, “But we agreed that we were looking for a cultural anthropologist with an economic focus.” She paused and looked pointedly at Claire. “Paul fits that category.” She pulled at her ponytail. “Paul is very ambitious. He has reviewed our publications and knows about our projects and our research sites. Laura didn’t seem as well-prepared.”

  “It seems that perhaps Tanya is feeling a little threatened by another linguist?” Brad said.

  Tanya stiffened, directing her rebuttal to George. “I don’t feel threatened…really.”

  Claire stifled a frustrated sigh. “In addition to her linguistics research, Laura has presented conference papers on cultural topics such as the Guatemalan civil war a
nd migration of Guatemalans into Mexico and the United States. Those are economic topics.”

  “That’s political, not economic,” Tanya persisted. Claire cleared her throat to disagree, but Tanya continued, “No one asked for my report.” She looked at George. “You did assign me to check Laura’s references.”

  “And what did you find out?” George asked, his voice tense.

  “It seems that everyone loves Laura.” Tanya rolled her eyes, pausing to sip her beer. “Her doctoral committee chair gave her accolades about her work, but seemed reluctant to give me details on her dissertation, other than it examined linguistics and economics…doesn’t that seem strange?”

  “They don’t want to pigeonhole her,” Madge reasoned. “If they label her a linguist, it might jeopardize her chances for this job.”

  “As it should,” argued Tanya. “And another thing,” she said, looking at each of her colleagues in turn, “Her committee chair said I was the second person from Keane College to call her regarding Laura’s credentials.” She paused a few moments to make eye contact with George. “I’m wondering if anyone else checked up on her, besides me.”

  Claire bristled at the accusatory tone. “Why would we?”

  “Maybe I’m not taken seriously?” Tanya’s hand shook as she reached for her beer and took a large gulp.

  “That’s ridiculous,” George sputtered. “Did the contact give a name?”

  “No,” Tanya responded shortly. “Just that he was a member of the search committee.”

  “It wasn’t me,” exclaimed Brad.

  “Or me,” Jamal said, glaring at Tanya.

  An uncomfortable pause ensued as they directed their attention to their drinks and snacks.

  Madge finally spoke up. “Can we move on to Paul Sturgess?”

  Jamal, who had been tapping the table nervously, started, “Paul’s research on tourism is important, but he worked in several communities near those where Brad and I worked. As for being prepared, usually job candidates flatter their interviewers. I felt interrogated.”

  Madge removed her hat and smoothed her hair, which sprang back into life, resuming its original state of disarray. “You all remember what it’s like, applying for your first post-doctorate teaching job. Desperation and nervousness can cause you to say things you don’t mean. Paul’s strange, I agree, but I’m not concerned about his comments.” She tapped George’s hand as it hovered over the nuts as she moved the bowl closer to herself. “He is trying to impress.”

  George turned to Brad. “You researched Doctor Sturgess. What did you find out?”

  Brad flipped through a small notebook he had taken from his backpack. “Paul is currently teaching part-time in Chicago, and his department chair seemed very anxious to be rid of him.”

  “You mean the chair gave him an excellent recommendation?” Madge asked, her hazel eyes directed at Brad.

  “Yes, but too much. We’ve discussed his credentials. They seem valid, but I just don’t like him.”

  George furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure either of them fits our needs. Fortunately, we don’t have to decide today. We still have two candidates to interview this summer.”

  Madge pulled the conference program from the folds of her bag and adjusted her glasses on her nose. “Paul is giving a formal paper tomorrow. That will give us another look at him.”

  The heightened activity on the lawn drew Claire’s attention. The Cultural Center staff had put out food trays and connected blenders to an electrical strip leading from the center to the food and bar areas. A mariachi band was setting up nearby. A small group of university-aged guests, wearing conference badges, congregated at the perimeter of the reception area, talking amongst themselves as they waited for the party to begin.

  She noticed one couple already seated at one of the white cloth-covered tables. Laura Lorenzo, the linguistics candidate, and Eduardo Ramirez, the art collector who was making the donation to Keane College, sat deep in conversation, unaware of the head waiter hovering over them. Claire had only met Eduardo once before, but recognized him, primarily because of his striking good looks and the fact that he seemed out of place in his western suit and tie.

  Laura appeared enchanted. She smiled as he spoke, making eye contact. She fingered the neckline of her peach-colored sundress in response to Eduardo’s careful, mannered movements—lightly touching her arm and tipping his head toward her as she spoke. When he pulled out a cigarette case, the waiter reacted, pressing his hands over his guayabera and pulling it down again over his stomach. He approached the distinguished-looking guest, making apologetic gestures. Eduardo smiled graciously and placed the cigarette case back in his suit pocket.

  Madge, following Claire’s gaze, said, “Well, what is this?” Everyone turned to the scene outside the window.

  Jamal said, “Do you think they know each other?”

  Tanya said, “How would she know him?”

  Brad lowered his voice. “Perhaps she has connections that could work for us in our museum collections.”

  Tanya turned sharply to Brad. “Look at her. She’s almost in his lap.”

  Brad narrowed his eyes but said nothing, his attention diverted. “Well, look who’s also waiting for the party to begin.” He nodded toward two men in their late twenties, one with black curly hair and horn-rimmed glasses, the other with reddish blond hair, neatly trimmed. They skirted the edge of the reception area. “It’s Paul Sturgess and his boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” Jamal said. “How do you know?”

  “I’m an anthropologist. I observe,” Brad smiled.

  The two men sat on a cement bench just outside the reception area. Paul dominated the conversation. His friend, whose pale, freckled skin was reddened from the sun, listened, his hands clasped in his lap, his lips often opening as if to speak, but closing again, silenced.

  Inside, the anthropologists were enthralled by the two scenarios. Claire, however, felt like a voyeur. She turned her attention back to her notebook, flipping through the pages.

  Tanya persisted, asking Brad, “Did Paul tell you it was his partner?”

  “No. Why would he tell me? Besides, I didn’t talk to him privately.”

  Tanya furrowed her brow. “You did. I saw you…Jamal and I saw you…at the Governor’s Palace. I recognized Paul’s university T-shirt.”

  Brad looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “You’re right. I forgot. He came up to me, but he didn’t say much—just thanked me for the interview. I think that was when I suspected he was gay. His friend stood nearby, watching him.”

  “We can’t discuss this,” Madge said.

  An uncomfortable stillness settled on the group. George squirmed in his chair and cleared his throat once again. “Does anyone have anything pertinent to add to the discussion?”

  Getting no response, George raised his hand to call for the check. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I hope you all understand that the conversation we had today remains within this group.”

  The waiter brought the check to George and, at that moment, the mariachi band began to play. The lively music, performed with trumpet, guitar, and tinny drum permeated the glass, muting the conversations in the restaurant. Outside, the anthropologists and graduate students, their clothes wilted from the heat, flooded into the reception area, forming lines along the food and drink tables.

  “Well,” George said loudly to be heard above the din, “I guess that does it.” As his colleagues rose to join the party, he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll get the check.”

  Preoccupied, the professors merely nodded and walked away. Rolling his eyes, George took the check to the cashier. Madge strolled ahead of the group, snapping her fingers above her head, twirling so that her tie-dye skirt flared out around her thick legs. Restaurant patrons smiled at the eccentric lady and clapped along with her.

  “Ol�
�!” Madge said as she danced out of the restaurant, patrons laughing and encouraging her on. The other scholars, trying to maintain a modicum of decorum, trailed behind her, like children following the pied piper. Claire, smiling at her friend’s performance, waited for George. Meeting adjourned.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sunday Afternoon

  Outside, the heat had intensified into a seething inferno. Perspiration settled on the waiters’ foreheads as they stood at the bar or buffet table unprotected from the sun while the guests filled their plates, chose their beverages, and retreated to the relative cool of the umbrella-covered tables. Claire took a margarita from the bar and stirred the golden liquid with a plastic stick depicting an unidentifiable Mayan god.

  She watched as a three-generation Mexican family herded their children and grandchildren down the path toward the pyramids, the adults glancing at the foreigners, their children oblivious. The family reminded Claire of her research years in Yaxpec.

  She remembered one day when an ancient widow, with a deeply creased face and sparse gray hair escaping from a loose-tied bun, invited her into her oval, stick-and-daub house. Strips of plastic sheeting covered the gaps where the cement filler had fallen away from the tree branches that formed the shape of the house. She had invited Claire to sit in a wobbly wooden chair and disappeared out the back door, returning with a large naval orange, sliced in two. She had offered both halves to Claire with hands gnarled by arthritis before balancing herself on the edge of a hammock strung from one side of the room to the other. Her smile had displayed a nearly toothless mouth, and she spoke softly in a part-Spanish, part-Mayan style characteristic of her generation, telling Claire her story, one of thousands she had heard during her stay. Now thirty years later, a full professor, Claire remembered those days as among the most fulfilling of her life.