Left on Paradise

by Kirk Adams

  “People may be different,” Heather said, “but isn’t love the same for everyone?”

  “Is it?” Karla asked. “How can we know?”

  “We talk of it and try to find it together.”

  “Are we all really seeking the same thing?”

  “Why else do men and women come together?”

  “That,” Karla said, “proves my point. Some believe men find love in the pelvis and women find it in the heart.”

  “Are you saying,” someone shouted, “women don’t like sex?”

  “Not at all,” Karla answered. “I’m saying that while men and women alike enjoy a roll in the hay and call it making love, most women ultimately want something different from love than most men do. Same word, different meanings.”

  “If couples,” Heather said as she frowned, “don’t mean the same thing when they hope for love, how can they ever come together? How can they even talk?”

  “Maybe we can’t,” Karla said. “Maybe that’s why they say women are from Venus and men are from ...”

  Several women’s voices rang from the hall.

  ”A black hole.”

  “Pluto.”

  “Brooklyn.”

  “My joke is ruined,” Karla said, “but the point remains: love may not last forever, but arguments about it do. We could debate love for eternity and we’ll never come to agreement. Not only man-to-woman, but woman-to-woman and man-to-man. This young woman may be an old-fashioned romantic, but many of us are not. In any case, our goal is not to define the obscurities of love, but to allow men and women to love. As they themselves see fit.”

  There was more applause.

  “What does it matter to us,” Karla continued, her voice now deeper and louder than before, “how love is defined in the dictionaries? Our concern is to love and to be loved. If you ...”

  A voice from the podium interrupted the speech. “If I may take the floor back,” Maria said, “we need to draw this to a close.”

  Both Karla and Heather sat down as Maria reclaimed the floor.

  “Does anyone disagree,” Maria asked, “that this bill allows couples the freedom to make marriage in whatever fashion they choose? Good. However we may define love, at least we can agree upon the interpretation of this particular law of love. Are there other concerns?”

  Now an older man from the audience spoke—who stood with two big-toothed, blond-haired teenagers at his side: one boy and one girl.

  “Nothing in the law prohibits the marrying of cousins.”

  A few groans were uttered and both teenagers blushed.

  “Not like that,” the man explained with a look of utter disgust furrowed into his face. “These two are brother and sister and their cousins live across the ocean. It’s just that there aren’t any laws to prohibit incest—if that’s the right word to use for cousin marriages. And presumably we’ll be here a long time, with plenty of cousins within a generation.”

  “Why should we stop cousins from marrying?” someone shouted—it was Alan who had objected.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit scandalous?” the father of the big-toothed teenagers said. “I mean, we’re not in Arkansas.”

  A red-haired woman from the south stood to her feet. “As a point of fact,” she declared, “marriage to a first cousin is prohibited in Arkansas.”

  “Well, then,” the father of the big-toothed teenagers said, “I meant to say Kentucky.”

  “Prohibited there too.”

  “Utah?”

  “Criminal offense.”

  “Where is it allowed?”

  “California, Colorado, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Rhode Island ...”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “I did the legal research,” the red-haired woman said, “for a civil liberties group. We were looking for wedge issues to dismantle Christian influence on public policy, but decided that suing redneck—I mean, red—states to allow first cousins to marry might look bad in the press.”

  “Well,” the father of the teenagers said as the red-haired southern woman sat down, “wherever it’s allowed, I still think it’s scandalous.”

  “Gays,” Alan now declared, “were once burned as scandalous.”

  “It’s unnatural.”

  “Natural law,” Alan objected, “is the handmaiden of social conservatism.”

  “Do you mean to say,” the man stammered, his jaw clenched and face crimson, “my son should be free to marry his cousin or—heaven forbid I should even say this—I’m free to sleep with my daughter? Or my son?”

  The big-toothed girl blushed and her brother turned away as he struggled to restrain a smirk.

  The assembly quieted.

  “I’m not saying it’s ideal,” Alan said, “but I don’t intend to burn anyone at the stake. Do you?”

  “No,” the father said, “but we’ve got to uphold some kind of standard, whatever it might be.”

  In an instant, a dozen people sprang to their feet to object to any hint of moral absolutism, pointing out that the creation of standards of sexual propriety would inevitably lead to monogamy: unbending and unbroken. Some even chided Alan for indicating that incest might not be ideal—protesting that his choice of words implied a standard of morally ideal behavior.

  After some discussion, Dr. Scott Law settled the crowd.

  “Dr. Morales,” the sociologist said, “as many of you are aware, currently is on an expedition. He’s been gone for a couple weeks and we’re not sure when he’s coming back—and it’s really too bad he’s away since this is a situation he could address. Still, if you don’t mind, I‘ll depart from my own area of expertise and speak from his scholarship since he’s written extensively upon sexual mores and I’ve studied his work.”

  No one objected.

  “To begin with,” Dr. Law declared, “even in Anthropology 101 we learn ethics are based on something more tangible than transcendent ideals and absolute precepts. It’s from the needs of social organization and the development of a cultural ethos that morality rises. The reason we don’t want to marry brothers and sisters is because of the development of progressive mores in a modern economy. That’s anchor enough to avoid any scandal. Surely no one believes we’ve all managed to escape marrying our aunts and uncles from obedience to the laws of Moses or the theology of St. Augustine? Who studies Thomas Aquinas’s defense of natural law? Or feels bound by the ethics of Paul or the precepts of Jesus? Who studies the decrees of Charlemagne and Justinian? To be honest, which of us ever read the legal codes of any of the fifty states against incestuous marriages?”

  No one raised a hand.

  “Now,” Dr. Law continued, “it’s evident that cultural mores govern conduct and are reflected in religion and philosophy and codes of law. That is, it’s the social situation that makes ethical ideals, not vice versa. We don’t need to delve into the structural forces leading to the establishment of cultural mores: primarily class organization and power relationships. That’d require Morales himself to lecture. What matters today is that we recognize the establishment of new laws as superfluous. Not only do they portend a return to puritanical legalism, but they’re redundant and unnecessary. It’s because this man’s household has been organized as an exogamous social unit in a neo-capitalist society requiring sustained economic and social interaction between consumptive household units that his son feels shamed to sleep with a cousin, no matter how attractive she might be. And it’s because the wider society is socially and economically exogamous that many of us are uncomfortable with the thought of him doing so. What could be a deeper drive than the social mores which we imbibe from infancy? Than our entire way of organizing culture? And I won’t even touch on those who root the incest taboo in biological imperative, except to say that their arguments render it even less likely that individuals will sleep with parents, children, brothers and sisters.”

  The speaker paused one moment as he surveyed his audience—which remained hushed and attentive.

  “In fa
ct,” Dr. Law concluded, “I believe we will prove ourselves most liberal and most progressive if we leave such laws unpassed—to show the rest of the world that their prisons and prejudices and whips are far less effective than they imagine. Let our cousins—when we have them—play together without strictures and threats and we’ll prove to the whole world the presuppositions of Paradise.”

  The professor’s speech carried the day as the assembly erupted into spontaneous applause and Maria waited several minutes for their enthusiasm to subside before she continued the session.

  “Well spoken,” Maria said as clapping finally faded. “Well spoken. By voice vote, who sides with the speaker?”

  The assembly thundered its approval.

  “Then I suggest,” Maria continued, “we vote on the marriage laws. We’ve already opened them for discussion and found two points of controversy. The first was the issue of making marriage, which has been resolved by permitting freedom to couples to make their own nuptials. The second regarded the regulation of marital partners and we’ve decided the law permits all consenting adults to marry as they see fit. Ethnic and gender distinctions don’t matter. Nor does age, except that marriage is permitted only to adults. We shouldn’t pass laws explicitly forbidding incest, but mostly because it’s understood such taboos are based in drives stronger than legislation; they’re rooted in the very laws of human nature and social interaction.”

  “Any final comments?” Maria asked as she took a step backwards.

  “This law is so pro-family,” the gray-haired delegate who had helped compose the draft at Executive Council now stood to speak, “it almost could’ve been written by the Family Research Council. But as much as I wish we could live without any regulations or laws, we need some kind of public policy to protect ourselves. For those of you who think like me, it’s important to remember this law maximizes freedom and choice and experimentation. In fact, it codifies alternative lifestyles and provides them a legal underpinning they lack right now. I can well imagine this code being used more often to extend our rights than to restrict them. My fellow delegates to Small Council know I was uncomfortable with this discussion in the beginning, but now I’d like to go on record in favor of the law. It’s modern and individualistic.”

  As the woman sat to mild applause, Maria raised her hand to get the assembly’s attention. “Are we ready to vote?”

  The four men behind her signaled their readiness.

  “Let’s vote,” Maria said, “then we can party.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “By hands,” Maria announced, “cast your votes. Those in favor of the proposal raise your right hand.”

  A sea of hands stretched toward the canvas ceiling as Maria and the other leaders counted seventy-seven votes for the legislation.

  “Those opposed?”

  Not a single hand was raised, though a handful of islanders shrugged shoulders or shook heads.

  “The motion is carried seventy-seven to nothing.”

  Now one of the male moderators stepped forward and took Maria’s place.

  “Remember,” the man said, “those of you already married—whether heterosexual, homosexual, or otherwise—you have fourteen days to renew your vows or present marriages will be dissolved and you’ll become eligible bachelors, straight and gay alike. Understood?”

  The crowd demonstrated its understanding with shouts and cheers.

  “After the final reading of the charter,” the moderator continued, “the beach will be opened for a party. The east camp has brought a mountain of food to celebrate this historic day and New Plymouth has fueled the generator to power a stereo for some dancing.”

  The islanders cheered one final time before the charter was read and the oath of allegiance retaken. After the meeting concluded, the crowd dispersed where it willed.

  An hour later, islanders gathered at the beach. Several swam and most ate. Nearly everyone drank. The party centered on a table of smoked fish, boiled lobster, and baked breadfruit that also was garnished with a spread of sauces and snacks. As islanders ate, Tiffany pushed through the crowd of partiers, dragging Brent by the hand and calling for witnesses. At first she merely talked over the din of conversation, but when that didn’t get everyone’s attention, she shouted so loud that the entire assembly quieted.

  “Brent has something to say. Don’t you, honey?”

  Brent laughed. “Tiffany wants ...”

  Tiffany elbowed her husband.

  “I want,” Brent corrected himself, “to affirm Tiffany and I’d like to marry.”

  Tiffany elbowed him a second time and Brent rubbed his ribs.

  “Right now, I mean,” Brent said.

  Those who watched laughed.

  “Is this a marriage freely made?” someone shouted.

  “With all the freedom of an already married man,” another voice cried out.

  Brent sucked in his stomach, pulled back his shoulders, and covered his ribs with an arm.

  “Yes,” Brent announced. “She’s the mother of my children and the love of my life and I want to marry her again. I give my consent. Now.”

  Joan stepped forward.

  “Then,” Joan declared, “I now pronounce you man and wife—again. Your wedding banquet awaits on the beaches of Paradise.”

  “And I’ll take the kids for your honeymoon,” Kit offered.

  Tiffany wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck as he leaned to kiss her and several women threw broken bits of coconut and unripened grains of wild rice at the newlyweds—though one girl lamented that she was unable to toss real birdseed in accord with modern custom.

  The party was boisterous as husbands and wives teased about remarriage—many pretending to negotiate for better terms. Husbands called themselves freedmen and so did their wives; single girls danced close to married men and unmarried men flirted with women who wore diamond rings. Bowls smoking with marijuana and bottles filled with California wine, Jamaican rum, or Scotch whiskey circulated as dancing continued past midnight. When the night finally burned itself out, easterners and southerners staggered home while westerners and northerners bedded down at the beach—using blankets and bedrolls pulled from storage.

  Most rose late and started the hike home before breakfast. A few who tried to eat breakfast threw up, still feeling the effects of the night before.

  Morning was slow to warm.

  17

  Nothing New Under the Sun

  Kit woke at dawn. When she saw the empty bedroll beside her, she remembered that she’d walked home with Heather since Ryan was too drunk to stumble through the dark. She picked out a fresh set of clothes and emerged from her tent into a nearly empty camp where John and Heather talked over coffee.

  “Anyone making breakfast?” Kit asked.

  “I will,” John said.

  “Thanks. It’s Jason’s turn, but ...”

  Heather cleared her throat. “Most of the neighborhood,” she interrupted, “is still at base camp.”

  “How about Ryan?” Kit asked.

  “Sean came back a few minutes ago and said everyone else was still there.”

  “Maria?”

  Heather forced a nervous smile as Kit shook her head and sighed.

  “We can start work after lunch,” Kit said after a time. “Does that work for you?”

  “Easy,” Heather replied. “I’d like to clean up this morning.”

  “I’m planting crops after breakfast,” John said.

  “I’ll help,” Kit said.

  John said there was no need and then asked whether Linh might help with child-care duties since Small Council wasn’t meeting for several days. Kit hadn’t yet answered when both she and John stopped talking and looked toward the tents—where Ursula now emerged. The pregnant woman’s hair hadn’t been combed in a week, her face was drawn pale, and her step uncertain—but she was out of bed and now inched toward a stool near the campfire.

  “I feel like shit.”

  Kit put a finger to
her lips.

  “Not,” Kit whispered, “in front of the children.”

  “Sorry,” Ursula said as she looked around. “I didn’t see them.”

  “I mean yours.”

  “Most likely,” Ursula said as she smiled a little, “she’ll have a potty mouth like her mother.”

  John called from the mess tent, asking Ursula what she wanted for breakfast. After the pregnant woman requested crackers and fruit, he served a plate of sliced fruit and hard bread before returning to the fire to stir oatmeal and warm coffee. As the three women talked, a breeze swept the aroma of cooking food toward the tents and it wasn’t long before all four children lined up to beg food—with their parents soon in line behind them. The food tasted good and even Ursula decided to chance a second helping, this time trying a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with sugar and diced pineapple.

  Following breakfast, John gathered an armload of tools and bags of seeds and went to the fields—where Viet joined him while Heather and Kit washed dishes and Linh walked the children to Turtle Beach. After dishes were done, Heather and Kit collected their toiletries and escorted Ursula to the waterfall. By midmorning, not a living soul remained in the camp except Sean—who remained in bed with a hangover.

  Ursula gathered strength as the sun rose. Color returned to her cheeks as the morning warmed and her step grew steadier as she followed Kit and Heather to bathe. She spoke louder and even joked about her misery. All three women removed their clothes after arriving at the waterfall.

  Kit unfastened her bra and tossed it atop a small bush with a theatrical fling while the others laughed.

  “It’s my last decent bra,” Kit said. “I made the mistake of swimming in the other and the salt water destroyed it. The elastic is ruined.”

  “That’s what you get for filling it so full,” Heather said after a glance at Kit’s chest. “I’d offer you my spare but it wouldn’t snap shut. I’m not sure it’d cover one side.”

  “Thanks,” Kit said with a smile, “for such generosity.”

  “I just realized,” Ursula groaned, “my bras won’t fit if my chest grows.”