Authors: Maya Wood
Alexis hung her shawl on a brass wall hook and unbuttoned the side of her navy blue cotton dress. The soft fabric slid down over the slope of her breasts
, gathering at her waist, and she coerced the garment over the fullness of her hips until it was piled around her bare feet. The breeze from the window moved over her exposed skin like cold breath, and the faint glow of the bedside lamp revealed almost imperceptible goose bumps rising along the length of her body, warmed only by a cream silk slip.
Nestling into the womb of her bed, Alexis’ heavy lids closed over her pensiv
e, blue eyes. In her mind she saw a pair of heavy green eyes. She wondered what it would feel like to mold her small figure next to the solid warmth of Philip’s body, to hear his breath in her ear. Her eyes sank back, and the tiny hairs on her body lifted over the flush of pink warmth that rolled along the surface of her skin.
Alex
is imagined him now, his powerful body emanating with heat above her, crushing her deep into the mattress. She could almost feel his large, aching hands moving along the curves of her hips and waist, pressing into her skin. She thought of his strong, muscular legs tangled with hers, moving in a soft, wave-like rhythm. Unconsciously she ground her hips against the firmness of her mattress and squeezed her thighs together. She could feel the hard response of her breasts beneath the silken fabric of her slip, and the urgent heat pulsating from beneath the layers of bedding. She thought of his arms collecting her beneath him, and imagined opening herself to him. She saw his eyes combust beneath the jet black arcs of his lashes, and his mouth open, claiming hers. She could almost hear their breath, short and panting. Rising together. Alexis’ eyes shot open. Running her hands upward along the valley of her stomach and the rise of her chest, she buried her face in a dewy palm. She could feel her swollen lips tingle, her head swaying, her skin clawing with need. From the stinging warmth beneath the covers, she outstretched a damp arm into the chilly air and turned out the light.
Cheeks flushed and hair tousled from the wind, Alexis leaned her black and white Schwinn bicycle against the magnolia tree outside the Boston Society of Natural History. She stood for a moment to gaze at the men and women walking busily along the sidewalks, ducking in and out of shiny, black cars. She eyed a group of handsome men clustered together around a crisp newspaper. They were sharply dressed, their well-pressed suits hugging the masculine lines of their bodies. She watched them argue with good-natured tones and gesticulations. Alexis sighed as she thought with disappointment about her sore lack of companionship. She had met few women who shared her passion, and even fewer men who would allow her into their tight-knit circles.
Wiping the band of
perspiration from her forehead, she straightened her ivy green print dress, which clung flatteringly to her small, curvaceous form. She walked along the path to the main entrance of the brick building, oblivious to the admiring glances of men as they passed her. They watched her longingly, holding doors, murmuring greetings, hoping to catch her attention. A striking man with jet black hair and smooth olive skin stopped dead in his tracks as Alexis approached him. “Good morning, Miss,” he managed. Alexis nodded her head vacantly, even as he let out a low whistle. She was already lost in the world of the museum.
Alexis’ pace quickened as she approached one of the areas she knew was implicitly off limits to her. Through the doorway of the men’s club, she could hear a deep chorus of laughter and banter.
Her eyes glimpsed the rich, sophisticated décor and the self-possessed men with puffing chests as they swapped tales of archeological conquests. Her father cringed with embarrassment whenever Alexis mentioned the club. They both knew the men that congregated there would never withstand the intrusion of a woman. Though many of the men who worked with the Society had come to respect the mind and work of Alexis over the years, they still insisted on preserving, in the words of Harry Bates, at least one sphere free of females.
The
thud of Alexis’ heels against the acoustic belly of the marble floor alerted the men, and she could see a huddle of heads swivel to identify the source. There at the center was Bates himself, and she felt his beady eyes lock her in their gaze. “Woman…no good…ridiculous…” popped in her ears like kernels, followed by an anonymous chorus of agreement. She felt the familiar swelling of her throat, an allergic reaction, she thought, to the chauvinism she so often faced. Charles Woodall sat on the outer ring of the men. His lips were pulled tight across his face. Alexis caught his eye, which was hot with shame.
Alexis stopped
at the end of the long, austere corridor. A simple brass plate was fastened at eye-level.
Curator.
And underneath,
Lawrence Scott.
Alexis tapped at the door, a distinct pattern she knew her father would recognize as hers.
“Come in, Alexis,” a jovial but muffled voice c
alled through solid oak. Alexis swung open the door and an opaque cloud of dense pipe smoke gushed out of the office.
“Good morning, fat
her.”
Lawrence Scott
sat comfortably in a plush, leather desk chair, pipe in one hand and a stack of rumpled papers in the other. His glasses were suspended at the very tip of his bulbous, pink nose, a sign that she’d found him in the middle of intense study. At the sight of Alexis, he released the notes in hand and brushed a few stray ashes from the belly of his crisp, white dress shirt. “Come, sit down!”
Alexis’ sm
irked and noted that almost every surface in the office was covered with books and files. “That one there, dear.” Lawrence chuckled sheepishly and pointed to the wooden chair closest to the window. “Now, about the trip! I received a telegram from Henry Patterson, you know my old colleague from the London Museum of Natural History. He’ll been laying some of the groundwork for the trip as a personal favor to me. He’s looking for a reputable guide as we speak.”
Crossing her
legs and taking out her brown leather work journal, Alexis bobbed her head perfunctorily. “Yes, father. I’ve met Henry,” she grumbled. They’d been over this a hundred times before.
“
Yes, yes, I know. You know I like to be thorough.” Lawrence inhaled deeply from the pipe, and a pretty silver plume of smoke rose from the base. “Well, what did you come up with, my dear?”
Alexis opened her mouth to speak when she noticed the glossy cover of a magazine on the desk.
It was the September 1937 edition of the Journal of Natural Science and History. A remarkable, sharp looking man faced the camera, hands clasped in front of a neatly tailored suit. In bold black letters ‘America’s Portal to Lost Civilizations’ stretched above his head. Alexis sprung to her feet and let out a shriek of glee. “I can’t believe you didn’t show me this yet!”
Lawrence huffed
, straining half-heartedly to reclaim the magazine. Alexis snapped it back from reach and began thumbing through the journal. She splayed it open and held it up high. “Wow,” she gushed, and clearing her throat, affected the polished inflections of a radio news broadcaster. “Dr. Lawrence Scott, illustrious curator of the Boston Society of Natural History, gives the world an opportunity to see civilizations only dreamed about. After two decades of concentrated research, Dr. Scott embarks on a landmark expedition to New Guinea in hopes of unveiling matriarchal tribes in modern times.”
Alexis twirled around, her eyes wide and sparkling. Lawrence fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. “Alright, alright,” he said, his tone curt. “I already read it
, dear. No need for theatrics.”
“But it’s just so glamorous, f
ather!” Alexis marveled. “Anthropology has never looked so fine. And look at this suit you wore for the photo shoot. I haven’t seen you in that since my first graduation.” Alexis’ eyes scanned the article. “It’s great publicity, anyway.”
Lawrence groaned with skepticism. “I just can’t help thinking it might be bad timing. It’s highly controversial, you know. And donors aren’t usually attracte
d to controversy. Not many want to hear about women giving orders and men in submissive positions.” Lawrence played with his mustache. “Besides, the article makes a promise we might not deliver. I’ve been to New Guinea more times than I can count on my hands, and only in the last two years have we begun to follow a disconnected chain of clues that there might be,
might
be, a matriarchal tribe.”
Alexis cocked he
r head to the side, her eyes widening in mock horror. “Oh my, what would happen to social order if the world were to discover that women governed men with total harmony and pacifism?” She spread the magazine open on the desk, her fingers running over its silky finish. “I’m just so happy, father. You’ve worked so hard, and now you’re really at the threshold of putting this museum on the map as a leader of research and world exploration.”
Lawrence watched his daughter, and he felt a lump swell in his throat. “You mean
we,
of course.”
Alexis lowered her head, her eyes
suddenly blinking furiously. She knew he meant only to share the reward, to congratulate her efforts. But she couldn’t shake the bitterness that her contributions were so strictly limited. She would be free to read the studies, conduct interviews, compile reports. But she would never descend the plank of a boat to any of these places, hear the exotic tongues, or feel her heart thunder as she lived the adventure of discovery.
Now’s not the time
, she thought. It wasn’t the moment to start another argument with a predictable ending.
Pick your battles
, she reminded herself. She glanced at her father, fearful that her eyes would betray her sudden somber mood.
Eager to change the subject, Alexis reclaimed her seat. “Shall I brie
f you on my latest findings?” Examining the notes she knew by heart, she cleared her throat. “As you know, I’ve cross referenced the latest field reports out of New Guinea. According to the most relevant research, Dr. Maples and Dr. Weinstein have produced some promising evidence of matriarchal tribes in the Southern Highlands. I’ve narrowed down the two main sites you’ll have to visit to confirm their existence.” A wavy lock escaped the restraint of her bobby pins, and Alexis reflexively twirled it around her index finger as she commonly did when deep in thought.
Alexis let out a pensive breath. Her eyes shot to the quiet corner next to
her father. Perched on a small recessed shelf, the loving face of Madeline Scott smiled at them. She sat atop a giant boulder, her arms loosely hugging her crossed legs. Behind her roared a giant waterfall, the shimmering mist dampening her long chestnut brown curls. Her face was pulled back into an expression of delight and mischief. It was the last photo ever taken of her mother.
“What is it, Alexis?” h
er father interrupted her thoughts. His short fingers brushed the crown of his head and patted the sparse silver hair combed purposefully in one direction.
Al
exis swallowed hard. She didn’t mean to dampen the celebratory mood, but the words came before she could suppress them. “It’s just that, well, I’m an adult. I think I’ve done alright.” Sucking in a gulp of air, she continued. “What I mean is, I’m well on my way to completing my studies, all of which have centered on the research we’ve done for New Guinea. You keep saying ‘we’ when you talk about our achievements, and yet I can’t be allowed to experience it the way you or so many others have. I don’t even have the advantage of other doctoral students who apply field research to their dissertation.” Here Alexis met her father’s gaze. The twinkle in his eye extinguished, and his mouth cinched into a pained expression. He leaned back into his chair and massaged his temples. The conspicuous silence only punctuated the tension now thick in the room.
Lawrence turned awkwardly in his chair, his eyes fixed on the final image of his late wife. “Alexis
,” he said in a clipped whisper. “You know why.” Alexis’ shoulders sagged in defeat. It was always the same question and response. For Alexis there was no greater discomfort than to cause her father pain. She knew that her petitions to accompany him on his journeys roused a deep-rooted agony.
During their younge
r years, Madeline had joined him on numerous trips. She had never formally studied anthropology, but she had been free-spirited and adventurous for her time. It gave Lawrence enormous pleasure to share his greatest passion with the woman he’d adored since his youth.
They’d been traveling through South America. Between sites, they decided to take a detour to visit the famous and unparalleled Iguazu Falls in Argentina.
A hint of a smile played at his lips as Lawrence remembered the camp they had made there, the thunderous roar of the ethereal falls tumbling around them. He was a handsome man back then, more streamlined and with a shock of dark unruly curls framing his tanned, bespectacled face. He imagined once more the gleam in his wife’s eyes as the fire slowly extinguished and they retired, hand in hand, to the small confines of their canvas tent.
One week later, negotiating the tangled, muddied route to his final research site, Madeline fell ill. She had felt unwell since they left the
falls behind, her body aching and skin burning with an indecisive but aggressive fever. She had been rather stoic about it, and Lawrence believed her to suffer from nothing more than flu. Setting up a camp, Lawrence nursed his wife with their basic rations and water supply.
He remembered waking next to her in the brisk morning air. Her skin which before had been aflame was now chilled and coated with a sickly patina of sweat. Her face was ashen, her eyes too weak to be alarmed when she saw his frightene
d expression. He took her limp, icy hand in his. He told her she would be okay, but he knew his face could not uphold the lies uttered by his trembling lips. Each passing hour, a little more life left Madeline.
In a desperate pa
nic, Lawrence raced through the jungle around their camp in search of help. He knew the maps of the area by heart. He knew there was no one. But by then he was so laden with denial that he could not stop. He could not go back to see her, to admit that it was hopeless. His body wracked with ineffable anguish, Lawrence heaved with inhuman sounds. When he dared to go back to Madeline, he knew it was the last time they would be together. Dropping his ragged frame down low to the ground, he wrapped himself around her, and buried his face into her neck.
He could still feel the softness of her mouth brush against his ear as she said, “It’s time for me to go now.”
He had clenched her viciously in his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if she could shut out the madness of this imminent loss. “No, Maddy,” he had begged as he pulled himself upward, cradling her body in his arms. He rocked her gently and pressed his lips in her hair. “I’m so sorry,” he cried.
“Listen to me.”
She lifted her hand to his face. “I’m not sorry. I don’t have a single regret. You and Alex are the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m leaving you a happy woman.” Madeline gulped at the air, her chest wheezing. The effort of speaking sapped her, and she sagged helplessly against him.
Laurence felt himself implode. He wanted to tell her that life could not count without her by his side. That she made him what he was. That he had ne
ver quite believed his fortune to have earned her love. He opened his lips to speak, but his mouth quivered violently around the words.