Phase Shift (6 page)

The class is so quiet you can hear a pin
drop. Piltdown is closely tied to notions of human evolution and
Social Darwinism, hotbeds of controversy, even in the new
millennium. Evolution is still taboo amongst so many religions and
the finer points of how Social Darwinism influenced past
evolutionary thought is lost on students who see it as nothing more
than the foundation for most racist ideologies. In today’s day and
age, I’m never sure if a totally silent lecture hall indicates
students in rapt attention, or seething at the blasphemy I
expound.

Momentary darkness engulfs the theatre only
to be re-lit through another sepia-toned slide, this time one
depicting the faces of three men. "It wasn't until 1950 (or
thereabouts) when state-of-the-art dating techniques were applied
to the Piltdown fossil, that it was discovered a hoax," I say, "and
a clever one at that. You see, 'til this day, no one knows who the
mastermind behind the hoax really was."

I change the image on the screen to a man
wearing a tweed suit with knee pants, a bow tie and bushy eyebrows.
He holds a shovel in one hand and the articulated Piltdown skull in
the other. "Charles Dawson," I say. "He's the one who found the
fossil, the one who brought its existence to light in the press,
the one who reaped all the fame and glory as a result. He was
simply an unknown, amateur scientist before the find. Now his is a
household name. At least it was back then."

Again there is a short burst of nervous
laughter from the students, followed by quick and rapt silence. A
door at the back of the lecture hall whooshes open and then
closes.

The slide changes to reveal the face of a
second man glowing on the screen, this one with dark hair, receding
hairline and a moustache. He sits behind a desk with a number of
hominid fossils on it. "Arthur Smith Woodward," I continue. "He was
with Dawson when he found the fossil. It's been proposed his motive
was nothing more than wanting to provide the world with evidence
his particular view of evolution was correct. In retirement he
returned to the Piltdown site to continue excavating, but alas," I
sigh, "found nothing."

Once more the slide changes. This time it is
to a photo of two men, sitting on a pile of dirt. They wear tweed
jackets, white pants and fedoras, and hold shovels. "The gentleman
on the right is Lewis Abbott, the guy who told Dawson and Woodward
about the Piltdown site," I say. "Perhaps he was slighted and
orchestrated the whole event simply to set them up for the
fall."

The road that leads to current evolutionary
thought is paved with feudal warfare and personal attacks.
Scientists who published interpretations of their finds in
scholarly journals frequently had their personal and private lives
assaulted in or by the media. Often, these attacks were over
measurements of a fraction of a millimetre. One scientist might
interpret the arch of a fossil foot to indicate the animal walked
upright, as do modern humans. Given the same set of measurements,
another might claim the arch too shallow or too deep to provide
balance. He might counter the toes are too long and curved for
bipedal locomotion, besides. Given the same set of toe
measurements, the first scientist would counter the toe length is
within modern human parameters and that if the other scientist had
attended a reputable university or been of higher birth status, he
might have noticed this in the first place. And so it goes.

There are a few more slides to show, a bit
more conspiratorial teasing before I’m done with my lecture, turn
on the lights and dismiss the students. As the crowd clears, I
notice Palmer standing midway up the lecture hall, talking to a
smaller, balding man wearing a tan overcoat. The smaller man
glances at me over his shoulder and I recognize him as Stanley
Hume. Palmer does not look happy. He barks something at Stanley
that I can’t make out over the buzz of student-speak as they exit
the hall. Stanley almost cowers in his wake.

Quickly I gather my papers and thrust them
into my bag.

“Professor McBride?” a student calls before
I can make a clean getaway. “Did you get a chance to read the
article I gave you?”

“I did,” I say, half-heartedly.

“You remember who I am, right? Simon? The
article was on—“

“2012,” I tell him. The year 2012 is the
latest Pseudo-scientific thing my students have latched onto. It
deals with the fact that the Mayan calendar ends in the year 2012,
which many take to be a prediction as to the time at which the
world will end. How the world will end—in a ball of fire, through
global warming, or alien invasion—is anyone’s guess. “The article
was on 2012. Of course I remember. Of course I remember you,
Simon,” I tell him.

“What did you think of it? The article. What
did you think of the article?”

I glance up at Palmer and Stanley. They
speak in lowered voices, but their body language screams conflict.
“I thought it was very interesting,” I say. And it was, but I don’t
have the time or the head-space to discuss it here and now. “How
about I set aside time in next week’s lecture to discuss it?” I
pick up my satchel and step off the front podium. “I’m sorry,
Simon, but I have to go now. Next week, okay?” I say over my
shoulder as I make my way toward Palmer and Stanley,
double-time.

"I...I...I..." I hear Stanley stammer as I
near, seemingly unable to find the words to finish the answer to
Palmer’s last question. "I...no! God no! I—"

"I'll ask you once more," Palmer says, quite
loudly. He takes a breath and unclenches his fists. “What business
do you have with my wife, Mr. Hume?" he says, much calmer.

"Ms. McBride's been doing research on some
artifacts I found in my yard and—"

"Hey," I interrupt. "I see the two of you
have already met." I smile. It feels pained and forced.

"What's up Stanley? Why are you here?" I
ask. Palmer reaches for my hand and squeezes it, a move seemingly
territorial on his part.

"I just came to tell you..." He looks at
Palmer nervously but then continues facing me, "My toilet flooded
two days ago. It was bad."

"So call a plumber," Palmer says. Palmer was
upset with me for going to Stanley’s house the other day. He says
that Toronto is too dangerous a place for me to be following any
old museum patron home. I think in Stanley’s presence, now that
he’s here, standing right in front of us, Palmer’s decided to take
it out on him.

I squeeze Palmer’s hand hard enough to feel
the bones grind together. Early in our relationship, we worked out
a series of hand signals. It became a way for us to communicate
things in silence that it might be rude to communicate aloud. A
squeeze could mean anything from "I love you," to "Get a load of
that!" In this case, it means, "Enough!"

I tell Stanley to continue.

"I did. Call a plumber. But it flooded the
entire bathroom as well as the hall outside of the bathroom. They
had to remove the floor panels in the hall during the clean up. I
found this when they did." Stanley produces a large, zip-up freezer
bag, seemingly from out of nowhere. It contains a collection of
what appears to be yellowed paper lined with dark blue ink which
has bled somewhat due to age. Or perhaps it's due to water damage
from the flooding of the hall.

"What's this, Stanley?" I ask. He hands the
package to me.

"Mostly scientific notes, I think. Written
by that guy Prescott."

"How can you tell?"

"I tried to read them as they were drying,"
he says, almost apologetically.

I take the package from him and examine the
paper through the plastic.

"Did he sign his name anywhere? Prescott, I
mean," I say.

"No, but I did find some newspapers beneath
the floor boards that had a nineteen forties date. That was about
the time Prescott owned the house, wasn't it?"

"That's not so unusual. We often find old
newspapers beneath wooden floorboards in older houses," Palmer
says. I look at him and he reddens.

"They were probably used for leveling,” I
say, “Or possibly as a cheap means of insulation."

There is a brief moment of silence during
which I glance nervously at Palmer.
What do you think?
I
hope it says. Quite frankly, the fact these papers turned up so
soon after I wrote off Stanley’s backyard excavation sounds a
little fishy to me.

Palmer shakes his head and frowns with
purpose. He looks down at his shoes.
I don't buy it
, his
body language says.

"I don't know, Stanley," I say. Palmer
smiles as if to indicate agreement. I shake my head, hands poised
on my hips, weighing the situation. "It's just that..." I continue,
trying to let him down gently, "Without seeing where the papers
were found..." I let my voice trail off and look to Palmer again,
asking for help.

"What she's trying to say is you can't
simply bring an archaeologist an artifact and talk about its
provenance. In order to know it's authentic she has to see it
in
situ.
" He nearly spits the words.

"
In situ
?" Stanley asks.

"I need to see where you found them in order
to know they're authentic," I say.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Are you free
now? We could go now."

Palmer takes a deep breath, as if he’s about
to object profusely.

"That's okay, Stanley," I say. Palmer lets
out his breath and relaxes his posture. "I'll give you the benefit
of the doubt for now. At least until I've read the papers. Are the
newspapers in here too?"

Stanley nods. "Oh, and here," he says. He
hands me a white, plastic grocery bag, "I thought you might like to
take another look at these. You know, in light of the new
find."

I take the bag and look inside—the tin box
of artifacts again. Great. I don’t know how to react to this. It
would be so easy to put the papers into the bag with the artifacts
and hand them back to Stanley and be done with him. But I’m not
sure that’s what I truly want to do.

I hold the bag open so Palmer can look
inside. When he’s done I look up at him through the corner of my
eye.

Palmer shrugs and half-nods. It appears he’s
more than a little intrigued at the situation as well. I close the
bag and smile at him.

"Well okay, then,” I say to Stanley. “I'll
give you a call to let you know what I think when I'm done."

The three of us stand in the middle of the
lecture hall, looking at each other in silence. Palmer’s watch
beeps. "I have to go," he says. "Walk me to my class, Moll?" We say
goodbye to Stanley and walk the distance between the lecture hall
and Palmer’s next class in silence.

Headline of
The National
Interrogator
:

Idaho Man witnesses formation of crop
circle. "Glimpses of future," says expert.

Idaho farmer Burt Warren knows how crop
circles are made. He's witnessed the formation of six of them in
his wheat field. And an expert claims they are souvenirs left
behind by visitors from the future!

While ploughing his field on his tractor,
Burt heard the hum of overhead power lines intensify and then "the
breeze shifted," he said. "I turned my tractor around and there it
was!"

Burt went on to describe a large building
that materialized directly in front of him in his wheat field. "One
moment there was nothing but amber waves of grain and the
next—there it was!"

Burt estimates the building to have been ten
stories high. It stood on six columns of various widths and
heights. The building was visible for no more than a few seconds
and then it was gone. The only evidence of the event is the
impressions of the support posts, six in total, which form a neat
spiral of six crop circles. "The most amazing thing I've ever
seen," Burt said.

World renowned scientist and
parapsychologist Dr. Josef Schliemann says, "What we have here is
an example of the future peeking into our present. In essence, they
are taking a look back at their own past. For years, scientists
have been studying the feasibility of time travel. Who is to say
they will not master it in the future?"

Author of three books on the paranormal,
Schliemann has hypothesized much of the unexplained events we
witness in our lives—from ghosts to UFO sightings—are in fact not
paranormal at all, but glimpses into our future. He contends this
theory is hard to prove because no physical evidence is ever left
behind by the visitations.

"How many of us have ever witnessed the
birth of a crop circle until today? Or spooned ectoplasm into a
jar? How many authenticated sightings of UFOs or little green men
do we have?

"Are my theories correct?" Schliemann asks.
"Only time will tell."

Five-thirty. I walk in the front door, grab a
bottle of water from the fridge, drop my satchel on the chair by
the office entrance and begin poring over Stanley’s documents.

Seven o’clock. Palmer comes home, pizza in
hand. He coerces me to leave it alone long enough to have
dinner.

Seven-thirty. Back in the office, radio
turned down low, entranced by Stanley’s papers.

Twelve o’clock. Palmer pokes his head in to
see if and when I’m coming to bed. I tell him soon.

Three o’clock. I hear a rustle of air and
look up. Palmer’s standing in the doorway in pajama bottoms and a
t-shirt. He leans against the chair with one hand and rubs his
lower back with the other. His sciatica must be acting up again. I
smile a sympathetic grin.

I must look a mess. My eyes feel tired and
swollen. My hair, usually worn in a ponytail high up on my head
hangs loosely down my neck and in my face. Though I must look a
sight, it’s nothing compared to the room. Stanley’s papers drape
over the desk in front of me like an old tablecloth, covering it
from end to end. My desk blotter, a snack plate, and closed laptop
are recognizable only as lumps beneath the weave of paper. Random
sheets carpet the floor around my chair.