Waking the Moon

gradually learned his way around the museum. For hours he’d wander through the Anthropology Wing by himself, poking into odd corners and storage bins, occasionally coming back by my office to show me something he’d found—a first edition of The Origin of Species shoved beneath the leg of an ancient rolltop desk; a cardboard folder holding original photo gravures of Edward Steichen’s most famous works, the Flatiron Building and Central Park in the snow and half a dozen other images, all printed on tiny narrow bits of paper frail and lovely as dried violets; even one of Maggie’s hissing cockroaches that had made its home near a collection of Malaysian spirit puppets in the Indonesian corner.

“Keep looking,” I told him after he presented a German helmet from World War I to a bemused ornithologist. “Jimmy Hoffa’s in there somewhere, and the guy who wrote The Little Prince.”

Dylan grinned. “And Elvis?”

“Elvis is over in American History.”

One week flowed into the next. I put off calling Baby Joe, just like I put off everything else. The heat wave showed no signs of abating. Perhaps as a result of that, the threatened Post article didn’t appear. I was just starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I might get away with it. That maybe this was what it was all for—all those lost years, my exile from the Divine and the only people I had ever let myself love. That I had finally found a safe place; that I had finally found one of the Beautiful Ones. And he loved me.

Then Laurie Driscoll dropped by one morning with the latest issue of Archaeology.

“Here,” she said. She opened the magazine and tossed it onto my desk. “This just came in. Check it out.”

“What is it?”

“Just read.”

Two brief articles crowded a page otherwise filled with ads for personalized cartouches and a bonded marble replica of Queen Hatshepsut’s head. The first article noted that a prestigious Manhattan art dealer had agreed to return a collection of Middle Kingdom Minoan gold seal rings, ivory, necklaces, and faience sculptures, including two images of the so-called Cretan Snake Goddess, to the Greek National Museum in Athens. The collection was valued at over $2 million on the booming antiquities market, but before it could be transferred to Athens, the National Museum itself was slapped with a lawsuit by a feminist spiritualist group named Potnia, after the ancient Cretan mistress of the beasts.

“Oh, great,” I said under my breath. I glanced up at Laurie. “I guess you’re not interested in talking about this nice ad for Mayaland Resorts, huh?” I asked wistfully.

“Read it.”

I read that Potnia’s attorney and spokeswoman, Rosanne Minerva, claimed that the collection should neither be in private hands nor in a museum. It was “the ancient spiritual legacy of women everywhere and, as such, should be given into the keeping of a sacred trust that will administer these objects, and others like them, for all womankind.” In lieu of an expensive lawsuit, the Greek National Museum and the Manhattan art dealer agreed to donate the collection to Potnia, under Ms. Minerva’s watchful eyes. It was presumed that both museum and gallery would reap substantial tax benefits from the transfer.

This article segued quite neatly into the second, which detailed how the well-known American businessman Michael Haring had agreed to donate his private collection of Neolithic artifacts, including a Celtic Bronze Age mummy, to Potnia. This was a timely decision on Haring’s part, as there now seemed to be some question as to how he had come by many of these artifacts in the first place. Several governments, including those of Cyprus, Denmark, and Turkey, had threatened him with legal action, but the redoubtable Ms. Minerva seemed to wield a great deal of clout—more than I could easily fathom.

Until I got to the article’s last sentence, which read,

Potnia’s actions toward retrieving “sacred womanist icons” is in large part underwritten by Dr. Angelica Furiano, the noted archaeologist and author who has achieved fame through her best-selling works on women’s spirituality.

“Ouch.” I closed the magazine and pushed it away, pressed my fingers against my throbbing forehead. “Michael Haring, why is that name familiar?”

I looked up to see Laurie staring at me pointedly, her arms crossed.

“‘Angelica Furiano, now why is that familiar?’” she said, mimicking me.

I opened my mouth, shut it again, turned to stare at my computer. “Am I missing something, Laurie? I’m serious. Who’s Haring? I mean, besides being some capitalist tool?”

Laurie sighed and reached for the magazine. “Well, he’s a regent of the National Museum of Natural History, for one thing.”

My eyes widened. “No kidding?”

“No kidding.”

“So you think this is what Robert’s been dealing with? Some radical feminist group demanding he return their artifacts? No wonder he seems so depressed.”

Laurie leaned against my desk, slipping her feet out of her espadrilles. “Are you telling me this is news to you, Katherine?”

“Well, yes,” I said slowly. “I am. This is the first I’ve heard of it. I mean—well, Laurie, give me a break, okay?” I finally exploded. “I haven’t been paying much attention lately, I’ll admit it! But this stuff—”

I waved disparagingly at the magazine. “It’s not my field, you know? And it sounds like all these cases are being settled out of court, so…”

Laurie stared at me as though I had suggested stomping a little bunny to death with her bare feet. “Pete Suthard said he heard they might have to shut down seven galleries!”

“Seven! That’s ridiculous! There can’t be one gallery’s worth of goddess stuff here—”

“I’m just telling you what I heard. He said these Potnia people have apparently joined up with an alliance of Native Americans’ civil rights groups, some African-American groups, the Celtic Gay and Lesbian National Congress—”

She sighed and slid back into her shoes. “Well, anyway, I just thought you might have some inside track on this. Because of—well, because of Dylan.”

“Dylan.” I slumped farther down in my ergonomic chair. “Dylan?”

Laurie snorted. “What, you think nobody here’s noticed you’re shacking up with an intern?”

I rubbed my nose, then replied a little defensively, “Well, yes.”

“Oh, please. Not that I care. I just thought, well, because of his mother—I thought you might know something about this other stuff.”

“I don’t.”

“I believe you. It’s just that whatever is going on seems to have Robert more worked up than I’ve ever seen him.” Laurie looked uncomfortable, even somewhat pissed. “You know, if they bring the ombudsman in to check out whatever it is these Potnia people want, it’s going to be a royal pain in the tush. At the least.”

“They won’t bring the ombudsman in,” I said, and tried to sound like I meant it. With Robert Dvorkin so preoccupied and the rest of the curators on vacation, I was just about the senior staff member. I had enough of a conscience to feel a vague sense of responsibility to the department, at least enough to make a cursory effort at reassuring our secretary that she wouldn’t be out of a job anytime soon. “Relax, okay, Laurie?”

“I am relaxed. I’m going to Hatteras in a few weeks,” she said smugly, and headed for the door. “I just thought you should know. Since with Robert so tied up, you’ll pretty much be in charge of everything.”

“Gee, thanks.” I watched her go. For a moment I thought of chasing her down, to retrieve that magazine.

Then I decided I just wasn’t going to think about it. For one thing, it wasn’t any of my business. I didn’t want it to be any of my business. I had invested almost my entire adult life into being a