Mammoth Bones and Melanie Boothe

by Ian Healy

Her name was Melanie Boothe.

My world has never been one of dashing and excitement. Being a paleontologist isn't nearly as glamorous as Hollywood would like you to believe. Ten years ago I got my doctorate from the University of Wyoming, and since then I've spent most of my time bent over dusty holes in the ground, scraping dirt off fossils with a toothbrush. My back is always sore, my fingernails are always dirty, and I've been sunburned so many times that my skin looks more like elephant hide than anything else.

There's a running joke in the small paleontologist community about that, since my specialty happens to be the woolly mammoth. My esteemed colleagues have found it especially humorous to nickname me "Mammoth," which amuses them all the more given I'm only two inches over five feet tall. I play along; it's a damn sight more interesting than plain old Marvin Waterton, which is the name on the diploma hanging in my mother's house in Cleveland. I haven't been home in years, but she sends me letters regularly to let me know about which of the neighbors have died and which of my high school friends have gotten married. Like any good mother, she eternally hopes I'll find a nice girl, settle down, and provide her with a brace of grandchildren. But I don't meet many women in a field like mine, and those I do meet I certainly wouldn't want to breed with. I'm short, balding, and overweight. I don't have much to offer a potential mate. And the most interesting thing I can offer up in casual conversation is that the woolly mammoth had a hairy flap of skin covering its anus to keep heat from leaking out through its gastrointestinal tract.

It was just another summer and just another dig. This one happened to be in a fairly remote area of North Dakota. That is to say, it was remote even for North Dakota, which isn't exactly a hotbed of cosmopolitan action. As usual, I had a handful of graduate students in attendance. We were slowly unearthing fossils of three fully-grown mammoths and a remarkably well-preserved juvenile, which had everyone excited. Our days were spent grubbing through the dusty Dakota earth while battling sunburn, dehydration, and mosquitoes the size of pigeons. Evenings were spent either loitering around the campfire or around my mobile satellite television rig so we could catch the Stanley Cup Finals. I watched benevolently over the young twenty-somethings (had I ever been that young? I wondered) like a proud uncle as they sang snippets of songs, often badly, and told long meandering stories and jokes.

And as usual, there was a reasonable share of soap-opera quality drama to fill out the rest of the time. Although I tried to discourage it, every year one or two students insisted upon bringing their It Guy or It Girl along. The guest was usually completely uninterested in paleontology, a whiner, and often as not made the trip miserable for the significant other. There was nothing like a dig to end a relationship on a sour note.

Just like there was nothing like a dig to start an improbable relationship. Many times I'd seen students of the most disparate backgrounds pairing off and disappearing into tents, vehicle backseats, or conveniently close underbrush. Most times I simply ignored the distraction. Dig romances were like shipboard romances; they normally ended when the dig did, and the participants simply returned to their former lives. This particular dig, for the first time I could remember, I was the only one who was alone. Three (three!) of the students had brought their It Partners, and for once they all seemed to be genuinely interested, or at least not hateful about the long hours, dirt, and their partners' inexplicable excitement over metatarsals. The other four students had hooked up with each other in an improbable coincidence. The result of this was that every night half the tents were empty and sounds of lovemaking assailed my ears from several of the others. It was as if they were all somehow delighting in the fact that they could torment me with their late-night activities. There aren't many secrets between group members when you work a dig for two weeks.

The fifth day, I called a break and sent everyone into town for showers, laundry, and some fresh food. Town was a two-hour drive away, first along what could only loosely be called a road, then along a two-lane state highway. I made the journey along with the others, but split away from them once we came upon the outskirts. The youngsters headed off into the small town, looking for soul food and a place to eat, as it were. I turned into the truck stop at the edge, bought a shower, and then had a piece of pie and a cup of coffee.

Even the sparsely-populated diner seemed too crowded for my tastes. I paid my tab, headed back onto the road, and just drove. I wasn't traveling anywhere in particular; nor was I concerned about becoming lost, thanks to the wonder of my GPS system.

I'd driven for nearly an hour and was starting to get myself out of the funk I was in when I saw her.

Melanie Boothe, although I didn't yet know her name, was sitting atop a small hill with an easel. Her car was parked carelessly by the side of the road. I almost passed on by, but I was curious about what she was doing.

I'd spent several summers in terrain just like this, and it really wasn't that interesting. I'm sure someone with a more artistic eye than mine would have found beauty in it, but I couldn't comprehend someone wanting to actually commit the bland landscape to canvas. I parked my truck behind her little car and got out.

"Hello there?" I called up the hill without approaching. It occurred to me that a woman out in the middle of nowhere might feel very threatened by a strange man, even a short balding one like me, stopping to talk with her.

She smiled down the hill at me. Her hair was chocolate brown and was tied back in a thick French braid that hung between her shoulder blades. She wore a floppy straw hat to keep the sun out of her eyes, khaki shorts, a faded olive t-shirt, and hiking boots. She was pretty; not like a supermodel or a cover girl, but like a real person. She seemed more alive than most people, and that vitality made her beautiful.

"Hi," she replied. "Are you lost?"

"No, I've got a GPS," I said stupidly. Words backed up in my brain like a logjam and suddenly I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"All right, then," she continued, casually reaching a hand into her bag next to her. "What do you want?"

"I was..." I began, trying to find the right words. "I was wondering what you're painting." It sounded so lame as I said it that I'm sure I must have winced visibly, because she broke into a peal of laughter.

"That's wonderful," she gasped. "The last honest man. Do you want to see it?"

I took a couple of steps up the hill, and then stopped. "How do you know I'm not a...a serial killer or something?"

"Are you?"

"No!"

"Then I'm sure I have nothing to worry about, Mister..."

"Waterton. Marvin Waterton. But everybody calls me--" I clamped my teeth down before letting "Mammoth "spill forth from my mouth. I was so used to introducing myself to colleagues that way that it was almost an unconscious act.

"That's a strange thing to be called," she joked. "How do you know when they mean you?"

I tried to work this out and must have looked helpless. I wasn't used to being put on the spot by anyone who wasn't trying to challenge my expertise, so this was a new experience for me.

"I'm kidding, Marvin. I'm Melanie Boothe. I'm not famous or anything, but I have several paintings in both the Holiday Inn and the Super Eight back in town." She said it with such pride that I didn't dare laugh. I suspected she was pulling my leg, but I was trying very hard not to appear a complete fool.

"Um, okay..." I hedged.

"Come on up, Marvin. I don't bite, but I do promise to shoot you if you try anything funny."

"Shoot me?" Suddenly the idea of seeing a painting and talking to the beautiful woman who painted it seemed like a far worse idea than getting back in my car and driving back to the dig.

She showed me the blue steel pistol in her hand before tucking it back into her bag. "A girl can't be too careful out here. There are some real Neanderthals in this part of the country. But there are also some real gentlemen. I'm guessing you fall into the latter category. Now do you want to see this or can I go back to work?"

I opened my mouth to say "no thanks" but nothing came out. One part of my brain was screaming at me to run away before I found out firsthand what it felt like to be a clay pigeon. Another part was hollering not to pass up this opportunity to chat up a pretty girl, even if she was armed and possibly a little crazy. Other parts of me chimed in to agree as well, parts that hadn't had any attention besides my own for a good long time.

"Sure...I mean, yes. I'd like to see it." I forced my legs to start moving and I tried to walk nonchalantly up the hill, wondering if each step would be my last.

Melanie watched me carefully as I approached. I was wary not to make any sudden, threatening moves. I reached the top of the hill and she stood, extending her hand in greeting. She was several inches taller than me. It was bad enough being a short man in a world of tall men, but being confronted by tall women seemed doubly unfair.

"Pleased to meet you, Marvin. Oh, sorry about that..." she trailed off as I looked at the paint stain on my palm. "A little turpentine will take that right off. Sometimes I forget that painting can be a messy occupation."

"No...It's all right, really," I said quickly. "I'm just, I mean...oh Jesus, you're not going to shoot me, are you?"

Melanie threw back her head and laughed. "No, I sincerely don't think so. Not now that I've gotten paint all over you; that would be rude of me."

I blushed, not knowing how to proceed. I was fairly certain that an hour after Melanie and I parted company, I'd have thought of every possible pithy remark and witty comeback that I could have used, but of course, much too late to do anything about it.

"So can I see your painting?"

"Of course!" She led me around to the front side of the easel and I saw a really amazing piece of work. She had indeed painted the landscape; I recognized the swell of the land, the gentle rolling hills, and natural landmarks in the distance. And yet...the landscape was utterly fantastic, filled with lush greenery and a lake that existed only in her imagination. Brightly-colored flowers lined one hill while oddly-shaped fruits hung from a tree in the foreground.

"Wow," was all I could manage.

"Do you like it?" she asked apprehensively. Like any artist, she lived and died by the impressions of her audience.

"Yes I do, very much!" I said with complete honesty. "It's wonderful! How do you do it?"

"It's just paint on canvas, Marvin," she smiled indulgently, blushing at my praise.

"No, how do you take...this," I waved at the sparse horizon in front of me, "and make it into this?" I motioned at the painting.

"Oh. Well, I look at what's there now, and try to imagine how it might have looked once. Or how it might look again in the future."

"But if you're going to paint something that's not really there, why drive out here to the middle of nowhere in the first place?" I couldn't fathom such a thing.

"Are you kidding?" asked Melanie. She stretched out her arms as if trying to encompass the entire horizon. "Look at this! Doesn't it make you want to paint it? Or something? If I stayed at home, all I'd do is watch trashy TV and eat junk food."

I glanced downward to see an open bag of Cheetos peeking out from her bag, then looked back at her and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh." She grinned weakly. "Well, I'd watch trashy TV. What do you do, Marvin?"

"I'm a paleontologist."

"Like Indiana Jones?"

"No. He was an archaeologist. They study ancient civilizations. Paleontologists are interested in much older things, fossils and such."

"Like dinosaurs? I put dinosaurs in my paintings sometimes."

"Actually, my specialty is mammoths. In fact, I'm on a dig a couple hours east of here."

"Oh, wow!" Melanie drew in a deep breath. "That's so cool. So real!" She started fussing with her paints. "What do mammoths look like? Elephants, right?"

"Sort of," I said. She began painting one. "They're smaller, with smaller ears."

"Like this?"

"Smaller, and more triangular." I leaned over and traced the shape with a finger, careful not to touch the wet paint. As I did I caught whiff of some floral fragrance from her hair. It made me smile.

Working from my description and suggestions, Melanie painted first one mammoth into the picture, then several more including a baby. We talked and joked and laughed as she worked, and we learned about each other. She told me about her three cats and her psychotic Korean landlord. I told her my nickname and about some of the odd people who'd been on digs with me. And we talked. And she painted. And we talked more.

Finally she leaned back from her canvas and stretched her arms up and back, which did amazing things to her chest. She sighed and smiled up at me from under her floppy hat. And she kept smiling.

"What is that?" I asked stupidly.

She snaked an arm around the back of my neck and drew me down to her. I couldn't have been more surprised at the kiss, but there it was. We were already at the top of the hill, so it wasn't any great distance for us to roll until we were completely out of sight of the road; not that there had been any traffic at all in the hours we'd been together.

It had been a very long time for me, and it took me a little while to get up to speed. I was also feeling bewildered by the turn of events, but I wasn't going to let myself forgo the opportunity to get laid. I'd worry about consequences later, since my brain was temporarily operating on standby.

Tall as she was, making love to Melanie was like scaling a mountain. Her legs seemed to go on forever and I took my time ascending them until I reached her center. Her breasts, not overly large, were firm with nipples that stuck out like perky fingertips. Her lips tasted of an improbable combination of honey and mint. We spent a long time together on the side of that hill. When my stamina, all too brief, failed me, Melanie was there with lips and tongue to bring me back around. And when I was spent and she wanted more, I returned the favor to her. It was the most amazing sex I'd ever had.

There isn't a good term to describe what we did. Making love seemed inappropriate for someone I'd just met. Screwing was too caustic. Fucking was closer, but seemed too impersonal. Whatever it was, it became the singular most memorable experience of my life.

When we were finally both satiated, we lay back on the dry grass, naked, watching the sun go down behind the rolling hills. We didn't speak, avoiding the "pillow talk" so many lovers make after the fact. Instead we just held one another, drowsily enjoying the stars as they came out one by one.

Eventually a breeze sprang up that was chill enough to make us reach for our clothes, and the moment finally came to an end.

"I've got to go," Melanie said at long last.

"So do I," I admitted. I fervently hoped the grad students hadn't destroyed the camp or the fossils in my absence.

Melanie carefully rolled up her canvas and slid it into a long plastic tube that was tied to one leg of her easel. With deft fingers, she untied the knots and handed the tube to me.

"Here, I want you to have this," she said.

"Your painting? Oh, I couldn't!"

"I insist, Mammoth man. It's the best one I ever did. I couldn't have done it without you." She thrust the tube at me until I had no choice but to take it.

"Thank you. This means a lot to me."

She finished gathering up her paints and swept them into her bag. Then she folded up her easel and we walked down to our cars.

"Can I call you?" I asked her.

"I don't have a phone," she admitted.

"Write you, then?"

She lowered her head. "I don't really have a permanent address either. I just go wherever my muse takes me."

"I understand," I said, feeling my heart sink. "Will I ever see you again?"

She lifted my chin so I could look up into her eyes, sparkling in starlight. "Count on it," she smiled at me. She kissed me once more, tenderly, then climbed into her car and drove away, leaving me standing alone at the side of a North Dakota county road.

I returned to the dig, her painting riding carefully in its tube next to me. The painting was promptly framed and hung in my trailer the next day, and I spent most of my time looking at it when I didn't have my head in the hole.

And every year after that, it seemed that wherever I went on a dig, I'd see her off in the distance; a silhouette of a woman painting atop a hill. And she always smiled when she saw me.

Her name was Melanie Boothe.

The Author

Ian Healy is a warehouse manager by day and a writer by night. He is actively seeking agent representation for his first novel and has several others in various stages of completion. He is also the author of the daily webcomic The Adventures of the S-Team at http://ianthealy.comicgen.com and maintains a blog at http://ianthealy.blogspot.com.