“Oh, not yet, though I’m sure I will eventually. Everywhere I look people are drowning puppies, so I assume they can spare one for us.”
“Would Mrs. Adam like that?”
“I suppose. She had a dog back—back in the wastelands, a yippy little thing.”
“Oh?” says Vanessa carefully.
“No bigger than a loaf of bread, barked at everything.”
“A puppy?”
“No, no, a full-grown dog.”
Vanessa has never seen a dog the size of a loaf of bread. All the dogs on the island are more or less the same size. “What did Mrs. Adam do with it?” she asks.
“Oh, she just carried it around,” he says. “Like a baby. Now she’ll have a real baby.”
“Yes, when is the baby coming?”
“Oh, not long. Two months at the most. She’s terrified of having it, poor thing.”
“Terrified?”
“That something will go wrong.”
“That she’ll bleed out or have a defective?”
“Well, I suppose. No defectives, though.” He snorts. “Not my child. We don’t have that problem.”
“But…there are no defectives in the wastelands?”
“Oh, well, there are, I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“I mean, yes, there are. It’s different, though.”
“What’s different?”
“Well, it’s not…I mean, there aren’t the same kind of rules that you have here.”
“What kind of rules did you have?”
“None, really. I mean, I couldn’t go around killing people or anything like that.”
“What about children?”
“What about them?”
“Do people kill them?”
“Kill them? It’s—” He glances at her. “You know I’m not supposed to be talking to you about this.”
She remains quiet.
“You’re a sneaky little girl, Vanessa,” he says, wagging his finger at her. “Do you know what I do with sneaky little girls?”
She stares at him. “No.” She wasn’t aware that people had procedures for such things. Perhaps they do in the wastelands.
He inhales to say something, then exhales and smiles at her. “You’re very smart. Too smart. But you’re such a lovely girl I think I’ll forgive you.”
She’s not sure what to say, so mumbles a quiet “Thank you.”
Suddenly she realizes she has never been alone with an adult man besides Father in all her life. She glances at Mr. Adam, who somehow seems larger and darker than he was before, like the dim light has obliterated his face, his hands swelled to gargantuan proportions. He appears to be moving closer to her, although his legs and feet are still, like he is expanding and his flesh is advancing on her small frame. She looks away, her breath quickening. Suddenly she is sure that if Mother knew she was alone with Mr. Adam, she would be furious.
“You’re an obedient girl too, aren’t you, Vanessa?”
“I suppose,” says Vanessa carefully. She blinks a few times, but he still seems to be towering above her, wrapped in shadow. He moves closer.
“You do what you’re supposed to.”
“Yes.”
He is quiet for a moment, and then says, “I like that about your island. That children follow the rules.”
She says, “They don’t, in the wastelands?”
“Not like here.” And she knows she could parse the meaning of those three words for days, weeks, the rest of her life.
“Tell me,” she says desperately, “please tell me.”
“Sneaky little girl,” he says again, and she feels an impotent fury well in her chest.
“Mr. Adam, please tell me something,” she says. “Anything.”
He gazes at her for a while, taking her measure, and says, “In the wastelands…” He stops, obviously thinking as hard as he can. “In the wastelands…children can…No. In the wastelands…” He stops. “I’m sorry, Vanessa. I truly am. But I honestly think it’s better for you, for everyone here, to know nothing.”
“At least tell me about the fires.”
“Fires?”
“The fires, the fires of the wastelands. Do they burn up everything?”
His mouth forms a vowel, then flattens. A pause, his eyes searching Vanessa’s pleading stare. “I want you to tell me about the island instead,” he says finally.
Something inside her falls down, down around her gut, the clattering remnant of her hope of knowledge. She feels angry at herself, for thinking she could engineer such a thing, angry at Mr. Adam for being so stupid, angry at Father and Mother and the wanderers and the ancestors and everyone she has ever known. She balls her fists and stamps her foot, and feels Mr. Adam’s hand suddenly on her shoulder, his bulk rearing toward her face, and she takes a deep breath and tells herself not to punch him.
“Vanessa!” a sharp voice says, and it’s Mother, standing by the entrance of the library and looking furious. “What are you doing here?”
“Father said I could show Mr. Adam the library.”
“Mr. Adam,” says Mother, courteously but with a chill vibration in her voice, “please come have a cup of tea with us.”
“Of course,” says Mr. Adam. “Thank you, Vanessa, for the tour.”
They sit and sip tea while Father and Mr. Adam talk about dung, of all things, the collection of it and fertilization of the fields. Mother rolls her eyes at Vanessa, who smiles slightly into her teacup. Mr. Adam keeps staring at her, as if he wants to move closer to her again and have her beg him for answers. Finally it is full dark. The candles are lit, and Mr. Adam gets up and moves around clumsily in preparation to leave, although he did not bring anything he needs to retrieve. Vanessa has a headache and wishes he would just go.
“Good-bye, Vanessa,” says Mr. Adam after bidding farewell to Mother and Father. Mother is hovering over the table, pretending to be rearranging the cloth. He lowers his voice. “I hope you’re not angry with me for not answering your questions. I just have to follow the rules like everyone else. I do hope to see more of you.”
“Good-bye,” she says. They shake hands again, and again his hand holds on to hers for an uncomfortably long time. There’s a funny quiet all around the room. Eventually she slips free; his hands are coated with an amalgam of sweat and butter.
Later, when Vanessa is supposed to be asleep, she hears Mother and Father talking in their bedroom. Stepping hesitantly and softly, she crouches by their door and puts her ear to it.
“He’s not very bright, is he?” says Mother. “I mean, he’s…cunning, I suppose. Sneaky.”
“By the ancestors, I hope he doesn’t turn into another Robert Jacob,” says Father. “What luck that would be.”
“I’m sure he won’t be that bad,” replies Mother. “He’s just—”
“Did you see the way he looked at Vanessa? After they’d been in the library? By the ancestors, I’d never have let her go in there with him if—I just wanted to get rid of him for a few blessed moments. But then after, his eyes were…They were before, even, I think. I just didn’t notice, I just thought he was strange.”
“Well, when you invite someone new to the island, I mean, they have to…”
“They have to have some self-control. Perhaps we should stop having these new families come in, just go on on our own.”
“You know we can’t. Think of all the defectives this year.”
“I know, I know. Where are the men like the ancestors? Where are they?”
“Perhaps there are no more men like the ancestors anymore,” says Mother.
“Perhaps,” says Father. He sounds broody and fretful, and it’s a tone Vanessa recognizes. She goes back to bed and lies awake, waiting for him. He’ll want to be held, to be soothed. When she finally falls asleep, she dreams of Amanda Balthazar rising up from the water, holding a defective that’s half fish, half baby.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Janey
Janey carries Amanda
’s kiss on her lips, sweet as a slick of honey, relentless as a disease. She will hear a faint echo of Amanda’s voice, or catch the scent of her skin on the air, and whirl abruptly to see nothing.
Ever since Janey found out about Amanda’s body being pulled from the sea, she hasn’t slept. Her nerves are kindled, each strand blazing at both ends. At night, she paces, everything she knows whirling in shimmering patterns in her brain. The hard sensation of the wooden church pews against her bony rump. The pastor’s rants against disobedience. The morning fog, obscuring the horizon as neatly as a shielding hand. The wanderers, stalking the island like tall, grim predators. Amanda’s face, her look of terror as she heard someone in the house. The vortex of the summer of fruition, sucking in girls and spitting out wives. Muddy children pushing each other over for sugar-sweet morsels. The ferryman, gliding in and out like a slow tide. The wasteland glass, sturdy and crystalline in ever-rotting houses. The church, falling down into the darkness below, forever sinking under its own weight while islanders scramble to build up a series of dark rooms replete with the stale, imposing words of dead holy men.
As she paces, she snatches at the floating pieces in her mind, trying to make a structure that stands. The wanderers. The water. Amanda. The wastelands. Mary. The shalt-nots. Every time she tries to create an integral pattern, a clear picture, it shatters and falls into mist. But her will is ever-flowing, unquenched. If she thinks hard enough, she can solve this puzzle. She can solve everything.
At first Mary scolds her affectionately. “Janey, I can’t sleep without you!” she whispers. “And stop walking.”
“You were sleeping,” retorts Janey. “You can do it again.”
Then Mary tries appealing to her. “Janey, I’m cold. Come back to bed, it’s freezing.”
Janey pads over, deftly doubles their quilt into a thicker, narrower one, and ceremoniously drapes it over Mary. Giving it a little pat, she goes back to pacing.
Mary tries arguing with her. “Janey, this is ridiculous. You and Amanda weren’t even that good friends.” She knows this is a lie; Amanda was Janey’s only real friend. During summer, they would wrap their arms around each other and simply sway in a slow dance, holding their bodies close, murmuring into each other’s hair.
Janey bristles. “I loved her,” she says, and then forgets about Mary completely, returning to her pacing. Six steps up, four steps over, six steps down, four steps over. It becomes a poem, a rhythm in her head. Janey becomes brighter and more awake with every passing moment, until something inside her is luminescent, sharp and alien. Mary squints at the light pouring out of her, although the room is dark and Janey is just a shadowy figure.
“Women bleed out and die all the time,” Mary whispers to Janey as she paces the room. This isn’t really true, although it seems to be increasing in frequency. “There’s nothing special about Amanda.”
“If she bled out, why was she in the water?” A pause. “Have you ever seen a woman after she bled out and died?”
“No,” says Mary. “So what? I’ve never seen a woman die while birthing either, but it still happens.”
“Do you remember Jill Abraham?”
“I guess. She died a while ago.”
“I heard she wanted the summer of fruition changed. So the men and women were the same age.”
“Ugh, the boys!”
“No, she wanted to wait until the girls were older.”
“But…what would they do while they waited?”
“I don’t know. Do you know how she died?”
“No.”
“She bled out.”
“Oh.”
“I think there are others.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know.” Janey goes back to pacing, sighing loudly every now and then. Mary yawns, mutters, and falls asleep. The moon is full, limning the room with edges of silver. Sitting on the bed, Janey realizes that she herself is absolutely exhausted, bone-weary, shaking with the effort of days awake. Suddenly she begins weeping silently, tears sheeting down her face and pattering onto her lap. She has a vision of Amanda’s face when they heard the intruder: pale, her eyes wide, her hands frozen in midair. I could have saved her, thinks Janey, instead of walking away. Her lips retracting to bare her teeth, she brings her slender palms to cover her face in shame.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Vanessa
The night after the dinner with Mr. Adam, Vanessa wanders outside. It’s a warm day, and her shoes sink into the mud with a satisfying squelch. No longer foreign, the rough hem of her dress brushes her shins with every step, and her fingers play with the edge of her reddish-brown braid. Summer, the girl in the tree, seem years away.
The Jacobs’ dog Bo comes to greet Vanessa for the first time since summer started. They are old friends, and Vanessa smiles to see her. She scratches Bo’s ears, and the graying hound leans into her hand contentedly until she catches sight of a rat and immediately takes off. In fall and spring, it isn’t even necessary to feed dogs and cats, as they can live off rats. Vanessa has always wanted a dog or cat, but they make Mother itch.
Slipping and sluicing through the mud, she heads toward the new Adam house. It is a popular location lately; Vanessa has seen many people slowly wander by, some blatantly staring through the windows to catch sight of the new Adams. It’s almost dark, and nearly everybody is inside now, so Vanessa can lurk alone. Stepping around back, she sees a figure by the garden too small to be the new Mr. Adam.
“Are you Mrs. Adam?” Vanessa says softly, drawing closer. The woman doesn’t answer, and Vanessa wonders if she’s found another woman sneaking about, hoping for a glimpse of the new arrivals. “Mrs. Adam?” she says more loudly.
There’s a pause, and then the woman turns. “Hello, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not used to that name yet.”
They stare at each other. “What was it before?” says Vanessa.
“Oh, never mind, nothing,” she says. “There’s just so much to get used to here.” Mrs. Adam is thin, with poor posture, her long arms hanging down and crossing across her belly. Vanessa remembers Inga’s mention of what happens to pregnant women in the wastelands, and she feels sorry for Mrs. Adam. She is about to reassure her that nobody here cuts open pregnant women when Mrs. Adam says suddenly, “What’s your name?”
“Vanessa Adam. What’s yours?”
“Maureen Adam, of course,” she says, and they both laugh.
“What’s different here?” says Vanessa. “From what you’re used to, I mean. That you have to get used to. Or want to.”
“Well.” Mrs. Adam waves her hand vaguely around her. “The trees, so many of them! The people, the customs. You know.”
“No.”
“Well, of course you don’t. I was told I wasn’t supposed to say anything about—about—back there, you know. I mean, the wanderers know, of course. But nobody else does.”
“Why can’t you say anything?”
“They said it would poison everything,” she says. “That’s the word they used. Why, do the wanderers talk about back home? I mean, back there?”
“No. And the Jacobs, their daughter doesn’t even remember anything.”
“I see. Well, we’re not supposed to either.”
There’s a silence. “What are you planting?” asks Vanessa.
“Nothing, just trying to take care of what was already here. I don’t know much. So many women have offered to teach me.”
“When will you have your baby?”
“Oh, a couple of months.”
To Vanessa’s eye, Mrs. Adam looks too big for seven months. Perhaps she will have twins. It’s hard to make out her long face in the dim air, but she looks awfully old for her first pregnancy.
“My father has books,” says Vanessa. “Wasteland books. He’s a wanderer. He’ll lend you books, if you want.”
“Oh, I don’t read well,” Mrs. Adam says. “I don’t garden well.” She gives a little laugh. “I don’t know what I’m good at!”
“Maybe you’ll be a good mother.”
“I hope so.” She pats her belly. “I hear I can only have two.”
“How many do people have in the wastelands?”
“The waste—now, you know I can’t tell you anything.”
“It can be a secret.”
“I’ve been strictly told.”
“What did you eat there?”
“Vanessa.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just so rare to get someone from the wastelands. I mean, the wanderers, but not someone who lived there.”
“If it wasn’t for your wanderers, we wouldn’t be here. I must be thankful to them.”
“And the ancestors.”
Mrs. Adam sighs. “Yes, I suppose. My ancestors too now, although not by blood.”
“They take care of everyone on the island. They’re always watching us.”
“Isn’t that a little scary?” Mrs. Adam tugs on her ill-fitting dress and laughs nervously. “So tell me, Vanessa, what advice would you give to someone who’s just moved here?”
Vanessa stares at her and tries to think of something Mrs. Adam might not have been told. Something every woman knows, but doesn’t usually say. “Have sons?”
Mrs. Adam nods as though this isn’t a surprising suggestion. “That’s it, with daughters…” She pauses. “Clyde was very excited to come here. Not for that, for…” She shrugs. “You know. The new start. Nature, community…” She pauses, thinking. “What you’ve done here is impressive. The wanderers really explained how the whole society here…I had to know about it, or it would be too late. They don’t want anyone leaving. And it’s necessary. I mean, you know men. You have to keep the population down. And I guess there’s drinks you can give, medicine, if they can’t control themselves? Clyde wants to be here so badly, and he’s my husband. There’s nowhere I’d survive, anyway, on my own, I’m not good at being on my own. And if everyone does it, it can’t be too bad, right?”
She stares pleadingly at Vanessa, leaning toward her eagerly as if Vanessa is about to pardon a crime. Vanessa has no idea what the jumble of words tumbling from Mrs. Adam means. All she can think of to say is “Right.”
Gather the Daughters Page 14