Gather the Daughters

by Jennie Melamed

  Vanessa stays in a daze throughout her cool bath, fresh dress, and Mother rebraiding her hair. She is sitting at the table, still musing, when Father opens the door to greet a man with a deep voice. Starting, Vanessa perks up and walks to the door, where Father is shaking the hand of an enormous man; not fat, but tall and wide. Whatever is going on in the wastelands, Vanessa thinks, there must be food somewhere. She peers around him for his wife, but doesn’t see a new woman anywhere.

  “I’m sorry,” says the man, smiling. “Maureen is feeling ill tonight.”

  “The pains of breeding,” says Father, smiling back. “I do hope she’s doing well overall?”

  “Yes, yes,” says the man jovially.

  “Well,” says Father, “a shame she can’t make it, but we’re pleased to have you.”

  The man looks over Father’s shoulder and sees Vanessa lurking by the wall. He gives a funny little bow at the waist. “This must be your daughter.”

  “Indeed. Vanessa, this is the new Mr. Adam.”

  Staring at Mr. Adam, Vanessa tries to pinpoint the traces of the wastelands in his face. She is not sure exactly what she is looking for: scars, maybe, or features arranged in a pattern foreign and new. She searches his eyes for emptiness or a bleak knowledge. Finally she gives up; Mr. Adam possesses blunt features and a friendly expression that could be found on any island man. The only unusual thing about him is that his eyes are a dark brown, and they are staring at her face as intently as she is examining his.

  Vanessa goes forward and shakes Mr. Adam’s hand, which is large and damp and squeezes too hard. “A lovely girl,” says Mr. Adam, still holding on to her hand. She wonders if he’s going to hold it all night. “Absolutely lovely.”

  Father’s hands settle on her shoulders. “I agree, of course.” He pulls Vanessa slightly backwards against him, breaking Mr. Adam’s grip. “Irene has made a beautiful dinner for us.”

  Father sits at the head of the table with Mother to his right, Vanessa and Ben to each side, and Mr. Adam across from him. Vanessa breathes in the scent of the steaming food appreciatively. There are biscuits and roasted potatoes out already, and chicken cooked with onions. “We have carrots also, and baked apples,” says Mother, drifting into the kitchen. She eyes Mr. Adam warily, like he is a strange new animal too unfamiliar to deem harmless.

  “So, Clyde, how are you settling in?” asks Father as he passes him a plate of biscuits.

  “Well, very well,” says Mr. Adam. “A beautiful place here, very beautiful. Much different from what I’m used to, of course.”

  Ears pricked, Vanessa waits hopefully for him to say what he’s used to, but he stuffs his mouth full of biscuit. She glances at Father, whose lips are tight. Sighing, she accepts a platter of roasted carrots, orange and purple and swimming in butter, and scrapes some onto her plate.

  “It’s a shame you arrived during summer,” says Mother. “You hardly got to see anything, kept inside your house. Now it’s safe to walk around outside.”

  “Safe from mosquitoes or safe from dirty children?” Mr. Adam chuckles. “No, no, a charming summer ritual you have. Let the children out to play. Keeps them obedient the rest of the year.”

  “You must be very excited to have your first child,” says Father. “I hope Maureen isn’t ill often?”

  Mr. Adam shrugs, chewing. “She does like to rest a lot.”

  “Sleeping for two,” says Mother, smiling stiffly. “She had better sleep while she can.” Leaning forward, she wipes butter off Ben’s chin with her thumb.

  “This is a lovely house.” Mr. Adam looks around at the well-maintained walls, arched rocking chairs, and soft, clean rugs. “Who lived in it before you?”

  “My parents. It’s been in our family for generations. We lived briefly in another one right after Irene and I were married, while my parents were still alive. Two Josephs had died, and the house was free.”

  “They both died at the same time?”

  “Of course they died together,” says Mother.

  Mr. Adam frowns. “What, one killed the other?”

  “No,” says Father, coughing a little. “Remember. Here when somebody is no longer of use—no longer contributing, and their children have children—they take the final draft. It, well, I’m sure they must have told you before you came.”

  “Right, yes, right, I’m sorry,” says Mr. Adam. “Clean them out when they’ve got no more purpose. Good idea.”

  “What, in the wastelands do people just live until they die?” blurts Vanessa.

  Mr. Adam looks surprised, and Father looks worried. “Vanessa, please don’t interrupt.”

  Mother smiles again, and Vanessa sees tightness around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t seem to like Mr. Adam very much, or perhaps she’s simply frightened of him.

  “It will be so helpful to have another carver on the island,” says Father. “It’s a wonderful skill. We try to reduce our dependence on metal as much as we can.”

  “You seem to have some good wood on this island,” says Mr. Adam. “Good trees. I think I can make some useful tools.”

  “Wonderful,” says Father. “We bring in wood from the wastelands too. We have to be careful and make sure our trees keep up their numbers. There’s a whole area of the island we haven’t cultivated at all. It’s perfectly wild. The children love it in summer.” Mr. Adam nods, and everyone sits and chews for a bit. Vanessa bites into a biscuit and inhales the yeasty steam that emanates from it.

  “Have you seen the church?” Mother asks Mr. Adam politely.

  “Yes, the ever-sinking one. I can’t imagine wasting all that labor on a building that sinks, but John says it’s the way the ancestors wanted it. Have you ever thought about how tall it would be if you drew it back up from the mud? It would tower over everything!”

  “It would fall over,” points out Vanessa.

  Mr. Adam laughs. “True, it would fall over. Anyway, it’s quite beautifully designed, although the thought of it is a bit eerie. All those church rooms, all the way down, all empty and dark. It’s scary, isn’t it?”

  “Why?” asks Vanessa. He winks at her but doesn’t answer.

  “That is Vanessa’s favorite word,” says Mother.

  “A smart girl, are you?” says Mr. Adam.

  “I do believe she’s read almost all of my library,” says Father. “She’s an expert on many matters, although most of them are useless here.”

  “You let her read books from outside?” says Mr. Adam, looking surprised.

  “Some of them,” says Father defensively. “She’s quite intelligent.”

  “That seems dangerous.”

  “No harm so far,” says Father.

  “I’ve seen the school, and I must say, I don’t see the point of any of it,” says Mr. Adam.

  “What do you mean?” asks Mother. She is cutting her food very slowly, as if the task requires intense attention. “It’s a school. For children. The first ancestors built it. The first school, I mean, not the actual building they use now.”

  “Why do the girls need to learn to read? Hell, I’d bet only a quarter of the boys need to read. There’s no point.” Vanessa isn’t sure what “hell” means, but it sounds fun to say it the way Mr. Adam says it. Hell.

  “Reading is a valuable skill,” says Father. “Instructions, records, procedures…Many wives help their husbands with their work.”

  “And how many of those men need to read?” says Mr. Adam.

  “What about Our Book?” offers Mother. “Everyone should be able to read Our Book.”

  “Not to mention that the schools teach skills,” continues Father. “They teach about farming, forging…”

  “I suppose that’s useful, but why must the girls read Our Book? They can memorize passages—that should be enough.”

  “You don’t think girls should read?” says Vanessa in a too-loud voice.

  “No need for it, sweetheart,” says Mr. Adam. Vanessa rolls the word “sweetheart” around in her m
ind. It sounds like he’s going to eat her organs. “You’ll get married, have children, help out your husband if you need to. Why waste the energy learning to read when there’s no use for it? It’s like all these clocks. Why do you need clocks? Why do you need to know what time it is? Why do you need books?”

  There is a long silence around the table. Then Father sighs and says, “I believe in knowledge for its own sake.”

  “Well, I believe that teaching girls things they don’t need, when they could be helping their mothers, is a waste of time,” responds Mr. Adam.

  Father nods curtly. “That’s not a new idea. There are many on this island who agree with you. It’s something the wanderers have discussed for a long time.”

  “Good!” says Mr. Adam, laughing. “I hope they agree it’s a bad idea. The schooling you do here is more tradition than anything else. You need to break with the mainland—the wastelands, for good. I wouldn’t send any daughter of mine to school.”

  “Maybe you’ll have sons,” Vanessa says irritably, and they all turn to look at her.

  Mr. Adam raises his eyebrows, furrowing his forehead. “Different rules around this table than what I’m used to, I see.”

  Her irritation wars with her curiosity. “What are you used to?”

  Father half smiles, but his eyes are hard. “You’ll need to be more careful than that, Clyde.”

  Mr. Adam winces. “Sorry. I know.”

  “People eat at tables in the wastelands?” Vanessa persists. Her ideas of the wastelands don’t include tables. “There are tables, and rules, and people eat there? What do they eat?”

  “It’s a figure of speech,” says Mr. Adam, which she doesn’t understand. “Where I come from, it’s just a thing people say. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But you do come from somewhere,” says Vanessa.

  “Vanessa,” says Father sternly, and then Ben spills his milk all over the table and starts screaming. By the time it’s cleaned up, the talk has moved to farming and the types of crops on the island. Vanessa tries to move the topic back to the wastelands, but every attempt she makes is neatly foiled by Mother or Father.

  “Ben’s done,” she finally says, giving up. “So am I. May we be excused?”

  “Of course,” says Mother, nodding. “We’ll call you when it’s time to clear the plates.”

  Vanessa plays with Ben as he pretends to be a dog, yapping and wagging his little behind. “What a good dog,” she croons, smoothing his tangle of curls. “Shall I give you leftovers from dinner for being so good?” Ben barks. Absently, Vanessa watches him turn in circles. She must get Mr. Adam alone.

  When Mother calls, Vanessa puts Ben back in his chair and begins deftly gathering plates and utensils, putting them in the washtub in the kitchen. She takes a handful of gritty, slimy soap to mix with some water and swishes everything about quietly. Mr. Adam and her parents are talking about water and rainfall.

  She pops her head in. “Excuse me, Mother,” she says, “have you shown Mr. Adam the kitchen? He may want to build one like Father did.”

  She fears being reprimanded for interrupting, but Mother beams. “Yes, let me show you. James built it for me, and it’s just so clever. A lot of houses are imitating the way he set the stones from the cooking fire.”

  Mother, Father, and Mr. Adam enter the room, followed by a curious Ben. As Father is explaining the way he set the stones and how the metal was forged from scraps, Ben becomes bored and fractious. Vanessa leans toward Ben and whispers, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I promise I will give you all my cookies forever.” Then, closing her eyes and wincing, she gives him a sharp pinch on the arm.

  A wail erupts from his small face, his mouth squared in a scream. The adults jump. Ben is pointing an accusing finger at Vanessa, but Mother doesn’t notice. She swoops down and picks Ben up, cooing to him, and then shoots an apologetic glance at Father and Mr. Adam. “Excuse me for a moment. It’s time for Ben to go to bed,” she says, and walks away as Ben starts hiccupping, “Vanessa pinched me!” She knows Mother won’t believe him, as Vanessa is never cruel to Ben. But her insides feel dirty and stained, and she wonders if she can ever think of herself as a good person again.

  Taking a deep breath, she stills her mind and returns to her task. Mr. Adam and Father are chuckling about the trials of motherhood. She hovers around their perimeter, absorbing Father’s story about Elizabeth Saul, whose son was so difficult to soothe that she once tried dunking him into the ocean to see if she could freeze him calm. Mr. Adam says he hopes Maureen’s baby will sleep through the night early, and Father wishes him luck.

  “Father,” says Vanessa, when there is a lull in the conversation, “perhaps I could show Mr. Adam our library?”

  “I don’t think Mr. Adam is particularly interested in books,” replies Father, with a slight bite to his tone.

  “But, please, Father, it would make me feel so”—she casts around for a word likely to affect him—“so knowledgeable.”

  “It’s fine, James,” says Mr. Adam, his eyes now bright and blinking rapidly. “I’m actually curious to see what you’ve got.”

  “She can’t show you the ones that are locked away,” he says, “but perhaps you don’t want to see them anyway.”

  “What do you mean, locked away?”

  “They’re not for everyone,” he says. “Not for anyone, really, who has never been to the wastelands.”

  Mr. Adam looks stunned. “Why would you keep those?” he asks. “The risk! I’m surprised they let you have them.”

  “And what they would be forbidding me?” Father inquires irritably.

  “Why, the other wanderers, I suppose. What’s the point of having them?”

  “Go, Vanessa,” Father says, waving his arm. “I’ll be here, enjoying some peace.” He aims a dark look at Mr. Adam.

  Her heart skipping with glee, Vanessa says politely, “This way, Mr. Adam,” and leads him through the passage to the library.

  It’s almost dusk, and the irregular window Father placed in the ceiling emits a gray, dull light. Vanessa steps in and feels hushed by the quiet, dim air and the stately lines of books on their shelves. “Here it is,” she whispers, “the library.”

  “Huh.” Mr. Adam looks around halfheartedly, then gazes at her. “You’ve read all of these?”

  “No,” says Vanessa, “some of them are boring.” Mr. Adam snorts.

  Cubist Picasso catches her eye, and she pulls it out carefully. “This is a book of pictures,” she says. “We don’t have many with pictures.”

  “I see,” says Mr. Adam as she opens the book to show a calm, satisfied-looking woman whose eyes are on the same side of her face, one resting on her nose while the other marches across her cheekbone.

  “The pictures are strange,” she says. “But see how smooth the paper is.” She runs her fingers over it. “I don’t know how he made the pictures that way.”

  “Those are pictures of pictures,” says Mr. Adam. “Not the picture itself.”

  “Like the picture of the first Mr. Adam,” she says. “Capturing time on paper.”

  Mr. Adam looks confused. “No, just a picture,” he says.

  “Did you know him?” asks Vanessa. “Cubist Picasso?”

  “I think he’s dead,” says Mr. Adam.

  “Did he make this book?”

  “I doubt it. I guess he was a famous artist, so people took pictures of his paintings and put them in a book.”

  Vanessa considers this. There are artists on the island—Mr. Moses the brewer carves lifelike birds and people, and Mr. Gideon the shoemaker draws with charcoal on paper, making portraits almost akin to the miraculous photographs. Vanessa imagines using a magical contraption to catch Mr. Gideon’s images and making a book out of them. The idea is so ridiculous she suddenly laughs out loud. Mr. Adam laughs too, even though he can’t read her thoughts.

  “I think it’s…I don’t think he’s very good,” says Mr. Adam.

  “I don’t either,” says Van
essa. “Nobody looks like this, but at the same time it’s interesting.”

  “I suppose,” says Mr. Adam. “Which is your favorite book in here?”

  “Oh,” says Vanessa, overwhelmed at the difficulty of this question. “Oh, I don’t know. I think…well, I love The Call of the Wild.”

  “That’s about a dog, right?”

  “A dog, yes, in a place called Alaska, and they pull people around on sleds for gold. Some of the men are very mean. The only gold I’ve seen is on Mr. Solomon the wanderer’s plate that he collected from the wastelands. It has flowers on it too.” Vanessa isn’t sure why people would fight and kill and freeze for something shiny and yellow, but at the same time, it is so brilliant and beautiful that she can almost understand it. “I can’t imagine a place where you eat off something so precious.”

  “See, this is why it’s a mistake to let everyone read things like this,” says Mr. Adam. “You shouldn’t know what Alaska is, or gold, or anything like that.”

  “But I just said that there’s gold on the plate,” replies Vanessa. “And I don’t know anything about Alaska except it’s cold and there’s gold there. And there are big dogs, huge strong dogs, stronger than the dogs here, and you can make them do things.”

  “There are certainly a lot of dogs on the island,” Mr. Adam says slowly. “Cats too, although not so many as the dogs. But I suppose you need cats to keep the rats in check. And dogs make for good company.”

  “Do you have a dog now?” asks Vanessa.