by Kirk Adams
“It’s been a long week,” Ryan whispered.
“We’ll make it up,” Kit replied. “Maybe we can camp by ourselves on the beach. Somewhere secluded.”
Ryan moved an arm around Kit’s waist as the boys remained engrossed with their growing menagerie of insects and annelids. Most of the bugs were dead, although some worms still thrashed and wriggled about as they tried to burrow underground.
“You know, Ryan. Sometimes ...” Kit cut herself short.
“Sometimes what?”
“You’ll think it silly.”
“I never would.”
“It’s just sometimes I wish I could have a baby.”
Ryan turned red. “We talked about it beforehand, Kit. We both agreed. It wasn’t only my choice.”
“No, Ryan, I’m not saying it was. Or even that we made a mistake. I guess the world really is overpopulated and children do require more than we’re able to give. I’m just saying once in a while I wish ... I mean, I envy Tiffany. They’re so sweet and they really do love her.”
“Maybe they do,” Ryan replied, “but remember all the troubles and tribulations.”
“Not in Paradise.”
Ryan looked to the clouds for a few seconds before turning back to his wife. After looking at her for a long while, he spoke.
“Maybe,” Ryan whispered, “it’d be nice, but we made our choice.”
“Some choices can be reversed.”
“Not here. Not now.”
“Maybe down the road we ...”
“I understand your regrets,” Ryan said, “but you’re almost thirty-seven. It’s getting a little late for changes.”
“I just wonder sometimes,” Kit said as she dug her toes into the dirt. “That’s all.”
“Think of it this way,” Ryan explained, “you’re their mother now. From each according to her ability and to each according to her needs.”
Kit forced another smile and turned to the children as Ryan stroked the back of her neck. She didn’t stir when he stood to leave.
“I’ll catch you tonight, Kit. You stay with the boys.”
“It’s all right?”
“Yeah, but you belong to me tonight. Agreed?”
Kit kissed her husband on the cheek before he left, then spent the rest of the afternoon making mud pies while Ryan changed to swimming trunks and started for the beach.
The sun had risen to its zenith as four hikers waded through the Pishon River. Vines that once thwarted passage through the stream had been cut away and the teenaged girl leading the way brushed aside the few that remained—the other hikers following at her heels as she sloshed upstream.
It was Heather who led, with her parents and Dr. Morales following close behind. Soon after the party reached a bend, they came to a small waterfall. Though it was only ten feet tall and a yard wide, its water dropped vertical into a shallow pool that overflowed into rock-strewn rapids. Brush grew thick on either side of the stream.
“We’re there,” Heather said, a little short of breath. The last twenty yards to the falls were steeper than before.
“About time,” her mother said, “You’re killing me and I haven’t written my will. The state would get everything.”
Heather rolled her eyes.
“Mother,” the young woman said, “you’ve already given me paradise. What more can there be?”
“The will won’t be for you, but for your father. How would he ever function without a wife?”
Mother and daughter alike laughed out loud as the two men smiled.
Dr. Morales hurried to catch up with Heather—who now pointed at the cliff over which the small stream cascaded.
“To the right of the water,” the teenaged girl said, “do you see them?”
The anthropologist walked toward scratches in the rock. They weren’t much, just simple etchings. Most marks were straight lines—several ran parallel to one another and others crossed at right angles—while a few carvings were perfectly formed circles. The scratches were easily identified as human cuts into the weather-worn stone. It was clear that men (or women) had carved their marks into the rock, perhaps hundreds of years ago.
Dr. Morales grew excited. “What a discovery,” he shouted. “How did you find these etchings?”
Heather blushed.
“To tell the truth,” she whispered, glancing at her parents, “I come here to shower. It’s a little more private and ... You won’t tell anyone will you? Good. I wash my clothes while I bathe. It’s like a cold shower. Anyway, I dropped my dress near this wall of rock and showered. Afterwards, I noticed these indentations. At first I thought that someone had vandalized the island—till I realized the marks looked old.”
“Quite perceptive, Heather. These petroglyphs are older than you are. They must be at least fifty and maybe hundreds of years old. There’s not much thawing and freezing in the tropics, but there is plenty of rain, so any markings eventually fade. These aren’t fresh, but they’re not too weather-worn either.”
“Unlike,” Heather said with a smile, “my cotton clothes.”
Dr. Morales paid no heed to the teenaged girl’s fashion concerns, but turned to his academic peers.
“Look at these marks,” the anthropologist said as he rubbed the stone. “Aboriginal scratching of one sort or another. This island was once inhabited—or at least visited.”
Heather’s parents stepped forward to examine their daughter’s discovery, rubbing the marks and asking pertinent questions of the anthropologist while Heather listened in silence. Only when it appeared their discussion was concluding did the girl speak.
“What does it mean, professor?” Heather asked. “Are other people close?”
“That,” Dr. Morales said, “is precisely the issue. And it’s a question I intend to answer. When you told me of this place, I expected to find cracked rocks or vandalism. Or maybe something from the Russians who inhabited the island for a few months. I didn’t expect to find marks showing an ancient human presence. But now that we’ve found petroglyphs, we have to search for their makers. Or at least more marks. I’ll put together an expedition to search beyond the horizon for other islands.”
“That’d be cool,” Heather said. “I’d love to see other places. If I ever return to civilization, I hope to study anthropology.”
“I didn’t know,” the anthropologist replied. “Is that a serious plan?”
“Oh yes,” Charles said, “she’s studied different cultures since she was in elementary school. We’ve always tried to teach her about cultural diversity and social relativism—as well as about indigenous peoples and social mores.”
“Really?” Dr. Morales said as he turned to Heather. “It looks like I have an intern. If you want the job.”
“I’d love it.”
“What’s the work schedule for your neighborhood?”
“We operate on a fifty-hour week,” Joan said. “We select free time ourselves.”
“That’s good,” the anthropologist said. “Maybe we can get together for study and exploration.”
“I’d really love that,” Heather replied. “It’d be so much fun. And good for my education too.”
“If that doesn’t get her into a good anthropology program,” Charles said, “I don’t know what will.”
“Coming here,” Joan said, “is working out even better than we had hoped.”
Heather reached into her backpack for a loaf of bread, which she broke into equal shares for a quick meal. After they returned to the neighborhood, Heather went to the beach while her parents took an afternoon nap, anticipating a late night party.
As for Dr. Morales, the anthropologist declined an invitation to stay for the beach party since he wanted to return to New Plymouth to consider the petroglyphs and begin preparations for a voyage of discovery. He drafted his proposal while the westerners soaked up the last rays of the day.
A bonfire burned on the beach, its flames consuming thick logs and its smoke rising heavenward—where it was di
spersed by a gentle breeze into the nothingness of the dark. The green palm wood hissed, crackled, and exploded as it burned. No sooner would the fire fall than someone threw another log into the flames so the inferno again blazed. Red-hot coals filled the shallow pit and were insulated by glowing ash.
Several yards away, an improvised tarp was drawn tight across a crude wooden frame and secured to the sand with two-foot stakes. A table was set beneath the stretched canvas and spread with baked fish and boiled shellfish, as well as bread, crackers, and fruits. Three bottles of wine and a liter of Russian vodka sat on the table: the wine wrapped in wet rags and the vodka nearly gone. Cracked coconut husks and piles of fish bones were scattered near the table, along with a dozen dirty forks and a pile of personal effects. A biodegradable garbage bag overflowed with waste.
Villagers had separated into several groups. The largest party was located at the north edge of the beach and consisted of those villagers still in their twenties. Nearby, two women talked at the water’s edge, their feet lapped by the surging tide. Further away, Tiffany and Brent lounged in lawn chairs while their boys played down the beach under Alan’s supervision. Viet and Linh played cards with their daughters and were joined by Steve after a time. Other couples talked over drinks, sat quiet on the beach, or strolled back to camp.
An hour after supper was finished, Alan marched the twins to their parents. “Here they are.”
A quizzical look crossed Brent’s face as Tiffany explained that she didn’t understand.
Alan answered her with a deliberate tone to his voice and raised eyebrows. “My duty time is up,” he said.
“Ours too—it’s your weekend for domestic duties.”
“That’s dishes and cooking. Not babysitting.”
“I’m afraid,” Tiffany said, staring straight into Alan’s eyes, “you’re quite mistaken. Domestic duty involves the whole household.”
Alan kicked the sand.
“You’re the one mistaken,” Alan said. “I’ve watched your kids all week and suffered for it every day. Now it’s my night off and I’m planning to take a walk with my partner as you did with yours. And these boys aren’t coming with us.”
Turning toward the two girls playing cards with Steve and their parents, Alan spoke out loud.
“Viet and Linh,” Alan declared, “are with their daughters; they apparently enjoy their children.”
“So do we,” Tiffany snapped as she stood to her feet and brushed sand from her hips, “but we haven’t had a night out for weeks and we aren’t likely to get another one for months. This is our night. Tend your chores, please.”
Alan told the boys to sit fast and started to walk away, but Tiffany cut him off—shouting to Lisa as she did so. As Alan also called out for help, Lisa staggered from the circle of singles to the place where Tiffany and Alan were quarreling. Though the chief neighbor’s eyes were red and her smile unceasing, neither of them heeded her condition.
“Lisa,” Tiffany asked, “what are the childcare rules for the weekend?”
“Domestic duty. Parents are off till bedtime. Why?”
“Alan doesn’t want to finish his shift.”
“You,” Lisa turned toward Alan, “don’t have a choice. No one enslaved by parenthood. Remember? But don’t worry, when you’ve got kids it’ll help you too. It’s for everyone.”
Lisa giggled and wandered in the direction of her friends, balancing herself with outstretched arms and wiggling her fingers as she tiptoed across the sand while Alan and Tiffany disputed several minutes more. She had reached her own circle of friends long before Alan finally returned the boys to the village as Viet and Linh taught Steve to play three-handed euchre.
Two women sat with toes in the tide. One was a slender Latino wearing white shorts and an unbuttoned shirt (a white bikini underneath) and the other was a thin African-American woman sporting a yellow tube top and gray jogging sweats. Maria and Ursula talked quietly—far from the bonfire down the beach.
“There weren’t any tampons in the medical tent,” Ursula said, “and I’m almost out.”
“I need more for next month,” Maria said, “I’ve only got a couple left.”
“My period’s due soon,” Ursula groaned. “Hence the pants.”
“Afraid to swim?”
“I can’t waste tampons and I’m not risking an accident.”
“I’m low too. We need to pick up a box or two at New Plymouth.”
“You want to walk for supplies tomorrow?”
“Sounds good,” Maria said. “I need the pill too. I left a pack on the ship and I’m down to my last week.”
“I’ve got a box of condoms,” Ursula said. “Want a few?”
“Not for me.”
“Why not?”
“Paradise hasn’t exactly been filled with romance.”
“Just in case?”
“That’s why I’m on the pill. Besides, I don’t like them.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s not really a man.”
“Maybe not,” Ursula said, “but the pill makes me bloat.”
“Dieting,” Maria replied, “takes care of that.”
“So does carrying logs.”
Maria looked toward her toes. “Tell me about it,” she said. “I was on tree duty all week. With Ryan.”
“He’s got that Hollywood look,” Ursula said. “The best catch on the island.”
“You do remember Sean, your boyfriend?”
Ursula scooted from the tide, which now lapped her ankles. “I remember we’re not married.”
“Ryan is.”
“But he’s so hot.”
“He’s more than that,” Maria said as she dropped her voice. “He’s sweet and has a great sense of humor. And he listens when I talk. He’s the prize.”
“Yeah,” Ursula said as her teasing suddenly ceased and she looked straight at her friend, “and Kit won him.”
Maria nodded.
“She’s very nice,” Ursula said as she continued to look at Maria. “She’d never hurt a flea.”
Maria said nothing.
“You ever sleep with a married man?” Ursula asked.
“It’s not right,” Maria said as she shook her head. “I’d never do it.”
“Me neither. I don’t know about the rightness of it, but it brings too many complications: like babies and carriages as little girls sing. And more often than not, baby carriages without marriages.”
Both women laughed as they stood. Maria flicked wet sand from her toes and Ursula tugged at her tube top.
“I’m going to the party,” Ursula said. “How about you?”
“I’d rather get some sleep. It’s been a long week.”
“Suit yourself.”
While Ursula walked toward her friends, Maria picked up her shoes and started home. On the way she passed several of the couples sitting in the sand. When she came to Ryan and Kit holding hands and talking in whispers, she kept her face forward and hastened her step until she passed into shadows.
“What is marriage?”
It was Hilary who spoke. She sat cross-legged amidst a ragged line of the younger neighbors. Jason handed her a joint and she drew deep before passing it to Lisa—who took a hit before handing it to Jose and Sean. Only Heather (sitting on folded legs at the end of the line) refused the joint.
“Slavery,” Lisa giggled.
“Sex,” Jason said.
“I’m serious,” Hilary said. “It’s more than sex and slavery, even if it includes them. What is marriage?”
“The love of a man and woman for each other,” Jose replied. “That’s what I think.”
“Boo,” Lisa cried out. “Homophobe.”
“Yeah,” Jason noted, pointing to several shadows silhouetted in the sand down the shoreline, “think of Steve and Alan. What do they lack that Tiff and Brent have?”
Jose pulled the joint from his lips. “Children,” he declared, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head as he spoke.
&
nbsp; “Ooooo, point scored,” Sean said as he reclined to his back, knees up and head lying on the sand.
Hilary shook her head. “That’s pure catechism,” she said. “Almost papal.”
“Maybe,” Jose said with a shrug, “the Popes had it right.”
“Not in a thousand years,” Hilary said. “They’re mere men—and males at that. Do you actually believe traditional religion can get anything right?”
“I was born Catholic,” Jose said, “so I suppose I have doubts about the doctrine of complete Papal fallibility. Even Popes have to be right every century or two.”
Hilary groaned.
Sean now asked a serious question. “What about Deidra and John? They don’t have kids.”
“Yeah,” Jason smirked, “tell us how Deidra and John differ from Alan and Steve?”
“Deidra has bigger breasts?” Jose said with a shrug.
“But what if Deidra was a 32A?” Hilary asked.
“Are you blind?”
“What if?” Hilary pressed the point.
“It’s not what you see,” Jose said, “but what can’t be seen.”
“Like what?”
“Milk-making mammary glands.”
“She’s dry as any man,” Hilary quipped.
“There are other differences,” Jose replied.
“Such as?”
“Didn’t your parents tell you about the facts of life: complementary equipment and all that?”
Everyone laughed.
“Don’t be crass,” Hilary scowled. “The real issue is whether or not marriage should even exist on this island.”
“To be, or not to be ... married,” Sean shouted as he jumped to his feet and waved his arms, “is that the question?”
Everyone laughed and another joint was lit. Again, everyone but Heather took a hit and Jason took two.
“I think people should marry,” Heather said after she sipped from a glass of red wine, “if they want to. Why not? As long as they choose freely. Freedom of choice. Isn’t that our motto?”
“And exactly why marriage must be abolished,” Hilary said. “It forbids choice. Even getting beyond Jose’s homophobia.”
“I don’t think it forbids anything,” Jose said, “as long as it’s between consenting adults.”