The Digger's Rest Read online

  He loved Jack, very much, for being the strong, caring man he was, for doing all that he had done for him, helping make him what he had become, one of the most respected historical art scholars in the country, and all out of the kindness of his heart, the generosity of his spirit, and the strength of his humanity. He had learned how to be a man from Jack, his sculptor. That’s just the way it was. No Contest. Fini!

  It’s not like that fucking worm, Julian Bramson the third would ever give a shit anyway. He had his own useless icicle children from that iceberg he had married; cool blond brothers he’d never met, or ever cared to. No, when all was said and done and all the dust had settled, the essence of Mitchell Woodward Bramson was to be introspective, thoughtful; an emotional activist like his mother, the late Melanie Woodward, ‘60s folk icon, famous for her ballad Through My Child’s Eyes and her Christmas song, Poor in New York at Christmas and Jack I used to be a ‘real’ Indiana Jones Edgeworth, passionate, fearless and yes, daring…to live and be alive. These were the things that made Mitch and Jack so much alike. For either of them to fear what others thought would be allowing themselves to be controlled, and they would never be controlled, neither of them.

  Fuck convention! Fuck safe, and fuck ordinary. Those were not part of Mitchell Woodward Bramson’s physical or emotional make up, either through genetics or adoption, and he shoved it up the blue-blood’s ass every chance he got, every time he made the newspapers, whether it was for showing off his tattooed muscles by dancing shirtless on the bar at a nightclub in SoHo or opening the Museum’s Gala by shaking hands with the First Lady of the United States. No, he would not be controlled, he would succeed, and he would thank Jack every day of his life for that.

  Father. For you, Father.

  Chapter III

  DIGGERS

  …told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land. Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet. Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day? And head back to the Milky Way? And tell me, did Venus blow your mind? Was it everything you wanted to find? And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

  Drops of Jupiter,

  ………As performed by Train

  “Alida, send young Holly in with some coffee will you please?”

  Jack buzzed out on his intercom. “Chess, Dr. Edgeworth. Right away.”

  “Thank you, Alida.”

  Five minutes later there was a knock.

  “Come in, Simon,” Jack called out through the closed door. Simon appeared, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and cups. Smiling shyly, he put the tray down on the side table next to the computer station. “Help yourself, Mitch. I’ll have mine black,” Jack said, hinting that Mitch should prepare his for him.

  “Simon, gear up the computer for the slide show Lord Cotswold sent over this morning so Dr. Bramson and I can take a look at what he’s found. Would you please?”

  “Yes, Dr. Edgeworth,” Simon said dutifully, but inside he was shaking with the excitement of being included in what was clearly something important going on.

  “Thank you. Simon. Could you excuse us again, please?”

  “Yes, of course, Dr. Edgeworth,” Simon replied, visibly deflated by again being excluded from the mysterious goings on.

  “But don’t go far, Simon. We may need you again shortly. Oh, and one last thing. You have completed your doctoral thesis, haven’t you?” Jack asked the young man.

  “Yes, Dr. Edgeworth,” Simon replied, confused about what his academic status had to do with anything going on in the office that day, but pleased for the attention nevertheless.

  “Thank you then, again, my soon-to-be Dr. Holly,” Jack said, nodding respectfully and smiling at the boy. Both excited and perplexed by Jack’s acknowledgment, Simon awkwardly left the room, accidentally banging his leg brace against the door on his way out, a muffled clanking thud. He turned back…red faced.

  “Sorry, Dr. Edgeworth.”

  “Not at all, my boy. It’s alright,” Jack said, waving it off fondly.

  As soon as they were alone, Jack turned to Mitch and motioned with his finger for him to take the helm at the computer to start the slide show sent from London. The first image was an aerial shot.

  “Lord Neville Cotswold, a retired colleague of mine from my old days at the British Museum, sent these to me overnight. I’m sure you’ve studied his work,” Jack said, looking seriously at Mitch who was bent over in his chair examining the shot intently.

  “Yes, of course. Lord Neville is a giant in the field…like you are, but what is it?”

  Jack took the compliment in hand and continued. “Well, he says it’s the ruins of a medieval castle that, up until a few months ago, had been part of a private estate held by an old, aristocratic family for the last five hundred years. Apparently, when the last of the family line died recently, the property was divided for easy sale. It seems that a fish cannery or some such nonsense bought this portion and when they went in to level the area to build a canning plant, they came across it. Neville got wind of it from an old friend in the local historical society and sent some of his men out from the museum to take some photos. He seems to think, from what he’s seen that the ruins, in his opinion, date from around the eleventh century and were probably built as a local stronghold for one of William’s noblemen to monitor control over the area. Oh, I forgot to say, it’s in the West Country—Devonshire to be exact—not far outside of Exeter, which you know is one of the oldest cities in England.” While he was listening to Jack speak, Mitch got back up out of the chair, went over to the image and leaned in closer.

  “Do we have any clearer shots?” he asked, fascinated.

  “Hit the button and you tell me. I’m an old man. I don’t know anything about these machines,” Jack said, laughing to himself. Mitch tapped the mouse and the image changed to what was clearly a telephoto lens close up of a portion of the ruin area, then tapped the mouse again, another view, then another, and another.

  “Lord Neville must be slipping,” Mitch said confidently. “This thing predates William by at least two hundred years, maybe more. Look at the foundation. It was built over later, of course, but the foundation is the key; may even have Roman origins. I can’t really tell without seeing it in person, but what’s left of the block work and the overall scheme of the structure is older than William. No doubt in my mind.”

  “Well, Lord Neville may be slipping, but I’m not. I agree with you, so I bought it,” Jack said proudly.

  “You bought it?” Mitch asked, his eyebrows rising with the pitch of his voice at the offhandedness of Jack’s statement.

  “Actually, I bought it on behalf of the Museum,” Jack said, smiling to himself.

  “But why?”

  “Well, the tuna company was going to bulldoze it and Neville couldn’t afford to buy it himself. That’s why he called me; so I could have a shot at it before the National Trust could get involved. We all agree that it’s over a thousand years old, and from the look of it probably more than half buried. There’s no telling what treasures and knowledge may be under that lovely greenery. Now think about it. The timeframe, the location…” Jack said, his eyes gleaming with the kind of excitement Mitch hadn’t seen in years.

  “The location?” Mitch asked, still stumped.

  “Think about it, my boy. Clear your head from last night and think. Tintagel, Glastonbury? The time, the place…it all fits, or could fit at any rate.”

  “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!” Mitch said, throwing his head back incredulously. Jack shook his head seriously. He was not kidding.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re sending me to England in the hope of finding proof of King Arthur? Jesus Christ, Jack. I’ll be the laughing stock of our world.”

  “Or the next Howard Carter,” Jack said in a tone that left no room for equivocation. He was not in the least kidding. “If we can date the original underlying structure to anywhere near the 5th century and if it
’s in any way provable that this place was even remotely connected to Arthur—a coin, a scroll, a carving, anything to prove the existence of Arthur—then whatever else lies underneath that turf becomes historically and artistically priceless, not only in ticket dollars around the world, but in prestige for the Museum and lasting academic fame and security for you. It’s a gamble, but no one has to know what we’re looking for but us. It would be my legacy to both of you.”

  “Come on, Jack, you’re talking like you’re gonna fucking die, again. Don’t scare me like that,” Mitch said with a deep sigh as he flopped back down in his chair, winded.

  “I am going to die someday, my boy. Please do this for me, Mitchell. Do it for us, and everything we’ve worked toward all our lives,” Jack said, looking deep into Mitch’s dark green eyes, the outside corners turned slightly upward giving them an oddly feline shape. His mother’s eyes.

  “You are un-fucking-believable,” Mitch answered, shaking his head and throwing up his hands in surrender.

  “Yes, I am,” Jack said, smiling like the cat that just ate the canary, thinking to himself, And so will you be, my boy, as they sat in silence for a few moments to consider the possibilities.

  Outside, the soon-to-be new Dr. Simon Holly couldn’t stand the suspense of being shut out any longer and scrambled for a reason to get back in there. He decided the helpful approach would be best and knocked on the office door.

  “Yes, come in,” Jack called out. Simon opened the door slightly and stuck his head in. “Is the slide show working alright, Dr. Edgeworth? More coffee maybe?” he asked innocently.

  “No, we’re fine, Simon, but come in anyway. I’d like to talk to you,” Jack said, waving him in. Simon went in slowly, self-consciously trying to keep his braced leg from coming into contact with anything hard to prevent another…mishap. Jack looked back at Mitch. “I expect you’d like to take our Simon with you to document the project?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Mitch and Simon were almost inseparable, like an intel-lectual Batman and Robin ever since Mitch had discovered Simon seven years earlier as a high school senior. Wherever Mitchell Bramson was, one could be completely confident that Simon Holly wouldn’t be too far away.

  Mitch just nodded, still not quite having absorbed all that he was agreeing to. Simon’s eyes went wide with wonder; the implication of the question was more than he could have conceived before knocking on the door.

  Jack looked at Simon. “I’m sending Dr. Bramson on an important excavation project, so it looks like you’ll be going along to help and to keep an eye on him,” Jack said, looking slyly from one to the other to ensure that the gist of his comment wasn’t lost on either of them. “Ever been to England?” Jack asked the young doctor, already knowing the answer.

  “N…n…no, sir,” the young man stuttered, his mind reeling, the hair on his arms standing up with the thrill of it.

  “Well you’re going now, so we’d better get down to brass tacks. Time is of the essence. Go and get whatever notebook or laptop…blackberry, blueberry, gooseberry, palm parachute you need; whatever you young people use to write things down on these days and come back ASAP. We’ve got plenty to do to get the two of you ready for what needs to be done.”

  Simon was out the door at a pace faster than he’d ever moved before, the brace on his leg feeling light as a feather for the first time in his life, thinking, An excavation project and an important one, and with Dr. Bramson, in England. Ohhhhhh, God! It can’t possibly get any better than this! His head swam with it all so that he had to struggle not to faint and make a fool out of himself.

  “God, I’ve become such a dinosaur. Might as well send me out to pasture now,” Jack said, laughing to himself and hitting the button on his intercom. “Alida, could you come in for a moment, please?” he said into the box on the desk. A moment later Jack’s newest executive assistant came in, a very shapely, dark-haired, dark-eyed Latin woman of about fifty, smartly dressed in bright colors. She stood by Jack’s side with an old fashioned steno pad in her hand, then put the pad down on his desk saying, with a light Spanish accent, “Jour tie is crook’d, Dr. Edgeworth,” as she reached her hands naturally to his neck to straighten it. Mitch smiled at him slyly, thinking, You old seadog!

  “Thank you, Alida, I don’t know what I’d ever do without you,” Jack said, a slight blush coming into his cheeks as he caught Mitch’s expression.

  When Simon returned with his notebook, he hesitated for a few seconds before pulling out a small black plastic box, clicking a switch with his finger and sitting it down on the corner of Jack’s desk. “A tape recorder,” he said shyly as if expecting a frown from Jack. “…I don’t want to miss a thing,” he said, shrugging and blushing slightly.

  “Good boy!” Jack said with a wink. Simon took a deep breath and let it out with a silent Whew!

  The remainder of the meeting went on, with planning for payment of their house bills by the Museum in their absence, considering they might be gone as long as three months or longer. It was also agreed that Mitch would take Simon out and buy him some real man’s work clothes suitable for digging and sifting, mud and rain. Alida took careful notes regarding the financial arrangements since she knew it would fall on her to follow them through.

  As the meeting closed, they all agreed to meet back in Jack’s office in three days to iron out the remaining details, travel arrangements, and coordination with Lord Cotswold for the initial research to be done at the British Museum into the background of the area. Alida left first, then Simon, leaving Mitch alone with Jack. Mitch got up to leave and was almost to the door when Jack took a deep breath and spoke, stopping him.

  “He worships the ground you walk on, you know,” Jack said sentimentally.

  “As I always have you, Jack,” Mitch replied quietly, his hair falling in front of his face as he turned to go, feeling like an only child being sent off to school for the first time alone as he shut the door behind him.

  Chapter IV

  JACK

  One day Papa called me to his dyin' bed Put his hands on my shoulders And in his tears he said, He said, Patches I'm dependin' on you, son To pull the family through My son, it's all left up to you. . .

  Patches,

  ……..As performed by Clarence Carter

  Alone again, himself feeling very much like a single father sending his only son off to school for the first time alone, Jack turned in his chair to look out of his office window at the drizzling, gray sky; a wave of memories washing over him. He thought back to the first time he met Mitchell Bramson, a shaggy, long-haired freshman in Jack’s “Introduction to Ancient Cultures” class.

  He wasn’t even supposed to be teaching first years. He’d long been way beyond that, only teaching upper level undergraduate and graduates classes. But when the dean came to him telling him that one of the younger professors had gotten herself pregnant and was getting married and moving to California, and asked him to take just the one class to help out, Jack decided to do it. He’d lost touch with really green students and thought it might be fun. It wouldn’t be like he’d have to do a great deal of preparation. In fact, he could practically do it with his eyes closed, so why not?

  Mitch stood out like a sore thumb on that first day. It was the early eighties and the youth of the city had gone Disco with slick clothes and way too much mousse. But not Mitch, with his long, untamed, chestnut-colored hair, strings of hippy beads, tie-dyed tee shirt and ripped, faded jeans; it was like he’d fallen out of the sixties. The reason for it Jack wouldn’t come to understand until much later.

  Looking back it seemed that he knew Mitch was different from the first time he opened his mouth. He knew Jack’s work almost as well as Jack did himself, asked pointed, intelligent questions and not only never seemed bored, but seemed to go out of his way to liven the class up for the others, succeeding most of the time, almost like a translator between the generations.

  He knew he’d hit pay dirt with young Bramson when he
read his final paper; insightful, critical and analytical, professional well beyond his eighteen years. But by then Jack had already been unofficially mentoring the boy, having coffee to discuss the fine points of Sumerian and Assyrian art, Jack’s favorites, and going to museum specials all over the city.

  They went on like that, stimulating each other intellectually, for the next two years. Mitch gave Jack’s life new interest, someone he could talk to who actually cared about the same things, and Jack fed Mitch’s unquenchable thirst for knowledge. He even arranged for Mitch to spend the summer between his junior and senior years studying medieval art and architecture, Mitch’s favorite, in the South of France with a former field colleague.

  As he sat watching the drizzle outside his office window turn to pounding rain, Jack remembered how eagerly he’d waited for the first class of his upper level course on the Egyptian Valley of the Kings that September, just so he could see how Mitch had made out in France. Of course he’d had many postcards from Mitch, but Jack wanted to see the excitement in Mitch’s eyes and the growth in his knowledge. But he never came. Jack was sorely disappointed and waited anxiously for him at the next class meeting later that week.

  When Mitch didn’t attend that one either, Jack got worried and went to the admissions office to ask about him. The woman who ran the office, Janice Simpson, took him aside. She’d had a call from Mitch a few weeks before telling her that his mother was seriously ill and he wouldn’t be coming to classes for a while. He called her again two days later to tell her that his mother had died and he would need some more time off and would make up his classes later, when he could.

  Jack was floored, struck by guilt. Not once in those years of talking of art and history had they ever discussed Mitch’s family except in the vaguest terms. Seeing the depth of sadness in Jack’s expression, Janice Simpson took him into her office and pulled a newspaper from the side of her desk, showing him the turned-back open page. There was a small article and a large photograph of a young woman with long dark hair, dressed in hippy clothes, sitting on a park bench with a guitar. The caption read: “Sixties Folk Icon, Melanie Woodward, dies at age 43 of Bone Cancer.”