Agency

In Which Berenice is Thanked For Her Patience

that morning, deep in the sociology building

Berenice was in hiding. The door to her tiny office was closed and, despite the gray weather, she'd left the lamp off so that nobody passing would think she was in.

Specifically, she was hiding from Simon.

Outside of the vomit she'd left in his kitchen sink, she had a suspicion that she'd made a huge mistake on Friday night. A marriage-jeopardizing, friendship-ending sort of mistake.

There had been too much wine. Much too much. But she couldn't entirely blame her behaviour on that. There was also her persistent, chronic need for something fresh and new.

Through the wine-fog, there was a memory bothering her. A memory of throwing herself at Simon. Not figuratively, but literally. At some point that evening, she'd emerged from the washroom, fumbled through the dark hallway and back into the living room where Simon was sitting on the floor, pulling records off a lower shelf.

"Oh," she'd slurred happily. "My father in law's also a big... has a big... I mean. Records."

Simon grinned filthily up at her, about to say something outrageous when her foot caught on the corner of the Turkish rug, and she fell heavily on top of him.

She could hazily remember, with great embarrassment, how she'd laid across his lap, her chin grazing the carpet, laughing with surprise.

"Sssimon?" she laughed into the carpet, her bum face up on his lap. "Are you going to..." her giggles shook her uncontrollably. "D'you want to..." More giggling.

"Alright, lady," Simon said, putting his strong hands around her waist and lifting her. "One ought to be careful what one asks for."

At which point, she vaguely remembers now, he might have picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and brought her into the bedroom. Or did she dream that?

It's here that her memory goes blank.

Could she have...? Did she really...? She didn't think so.

In her terribly hungover state the next day, she performed a quick physical inventory. Naked in front of a mirror, she craned her neck to inspect a blooming bruise on her right buttock. She touched it gingerly and wondered.

She didn't feel violated. She was more worried that she might have violated Simon. And for that reason, she really didn't want to see him today.

And so she was hiding in her office.

Cloistered anyway, she'd decided it was time to tackle the instruction Jim had scrawled out for her after his early morning phone call from the coroner's office.

Ministry of Government and Consumer Services — arch survey — must do!?

Berenice tapped the ministry name into google before lifting her desk phone's receiver to her ear. The call was answered by an automated voice, which advised her of large call volumes and thanked her for her patience.

She sat back in her office chair and watched as the second hand swooped around and around the face of her little ceramic owl clock.

5 minutes

10 minutes

She was thanked for her patience several times and, despite having started off with very little, was finding herself with a serious deficit of it now. Just as she considered putting her phone onto speaker so she could free her hands, there came a tentative tapping on her office door.

She froze.

We are experiencing higher than usual call volumes. Please continue to hold, and an agent will be with you shortly. Thank you for your patience.

Another knock.

Then, Simon's gentle, solemn voice from outside the door: "Bee? I thought we should talk after... Well, after."

Berenice slid silently off her chair and crouched to squeeze herself under her desk, phone cord drawn tight.

"Bee? Are you in there?"

She held her breath and wished him away. Not today Simon. Not when my humiliation is still so fresh.

She didn't know when she'd be ready to see him again, but it definitely wasn't today.

Finally, there came the sound of steps heading off down the hall. She released the breath she'd been holding just as the agent she'd been promised picked up the line.

"Ministry of Government and Consumer Services, this is Joan speaking, how may I direct your call?"

From behind Joan, Berenice could hear the hum of an active office. A loud murmur, a sudden laugh, the ringing of a phone in the distance. Joan sighed with impatience at Berenice's delayed response.

"Helllooo? Who do you want?"

"I want..." Berenice near whispered, still worried that Simon might be lurking outside the door. "I want to speak with someone about a bone I found?"

Joan had no time for prank calls.

"Is this a joke? Lady, I have 15 other calls waiting. If you don't know who you want to be connected to, I'm going to have to..."

"No, please don't hang up on me," rushed Berenice. "I'm sorry! Sorry. I'm just not sure who I should be talking to. You see..." and she launched into a full account.

"...and then, you see, my father-in-law was told by the pathologist that we had to call you to arrange some kind of... archeology?"

"Wow," said Joan, unhelpfully. "Hm. Gotta tell ya, this is a new one for me. Let me see..." Berenice could hear her drumming long fingernails against a desk. "Hang on a sec, dear."

There came the muffled thump of a receiver being pressed to a shoulder and the faraway bellow of a low-level government employee consulting with a mid-level government employee about something neither of them had ever heard before.

"Archeology, she says." Berenice could make out Joan's words but couldn't hear what the other person was saying. "No, I know we don't. But the pathologist said... Oh. Oh!"

Joan was back.

"Did the pathologist mention the Funeral, Burial and Cremation Services Act?"

"She might have... I really don't..."

"Yeah," said Joan, more confident now. "I've just googled it... sounds like... yeah. If the bone dated a certain age, it's considered, like, an artifact. And the thing is, now you need to make sure anything else that's buried with it is also found and properly handled."

Berenice nodded. "Yes, okay. So, can you connect me with your archeological department?"

Joan laughed a deep, throaty, lifelong-smoker kind of laugh. "Oh, honey... we don't have archeologists here! This is the government! No, no. You'll have to find yourself a private firm to do it. What do we know about archeology?" Another smoky laugh.

"But then, how do we... do they bill you?"

Joan stopped laughing abruptly.

"Oh, you poor thing. No, honey. You have to pay for it yourself."

"What?"

"Yes, yes. The Act says — here, I'll read it to you — Should found remains be determined to be of anthropological interest, the landowner is required by law to engage a provincially licensed archeologist to perform an archeological survey of the area at the landowner's expense."

There was a pause on the line while both women considered the implications of that.

"And if I don't want to incur that expense?" Berenice ventured.

"Then, the landowner faces a fine of up to $50,000 and two years in jail." Another pause. "Sorry, honey. Do you need help finding a licensed archeologist? I can google it for you."

"I can google it myself," Berenice said quietly into the receiver just before she, with great, explicit force, threw it directly at her owl clock.