by Kirk Adams
“It does,” Dr. Erikson said, “seem somewhat improper by Western standards. But would it be possible to adapt over time, as we became used to the idea? Remember that bikinis once were considered shocking and leg-covering bathing suits were a scandal a century ago. Not to speak of thongs. In a like manner, I ran around without any shirt at all in the Iowa town where I grew up till I was seven years old. And there was no scandal at all.”
“Maybe we’d get used to it,” Linh replied, “but I’m not sure I’d like to try.”
“You can,” the psychologist advised, “decide this among yourselves since it’s your neighborhood. The only thing that really matters is you come to an agreement that everyone can live with. Remember, it’s not whether someone dresses like a pilgrim or a hippie that counts. It’s by our tolerance and our love we’ll be remembered.”
The crowd stirred and residents smiled.
“A second issue,” Dr. Erikson continued, “many of you mentioned was Jason’s crime. By the way, let me interject that Jason has been sent to the motu. I helped him to settle in and he sends his regrets. Now to the point. I should tell you that few of us were completely happy with the trial. The process was messy and the hearings unruly. By involving the entire assembly in the decision, debates of fact aggravated differences of opinion and the entire community was politicized. Still, it worked. The right result came from the trial: the protection of innocent women and the punishment of a guilty man. The people acted successfully as their own judge and jury and jailer. What else matters but the attainment of the right end?”
Some neighbors nodded, but not everyone.
“There aren’t any complaints,” Dr. Erikson continued to expound, “about work in this village. That’s very good. The northerners are struggling with their use of free time. Several of their people don’t help pull the wagon and others want to throw them off. I’ll return to them tomorrow for more counseling. Dr. Law will go with me to speak on the rights and obligations of welfare capitalism and incentive socialism.”
Ryan now threw two logs on the fire and the flames burned brighter for a time.
“Let’s see,” Dr. Erikson said, “You’ve had one divorce and ...”—she paused to consider her choice of words—“and one couple didn’t renew their vows?”
“There was a technical problem,” Ryan said as he blushed after glancing both at Kit and Maria, “at the time.”
Dr. Erikson nodded and asked whether anyone else had trouble with the new law of marriage.
“It worked,” Deidra said as she stood, “for Sean and I.”
The psychologist looked pleased.
“Those who wanted to remarry did and those who didn’t, didn’t,” Deidra said. “Ryan and Kit just proved that actors really do need agents since they can’t count fingers and toes without the help of an accountant.”
Everyone laughed except Heather and Maria.
“So far,” Dr. Erikson said, “the professional staff has been pleased with its implementation. There have been a few unfortunate incidents, but in general it’s working to uphold freedom and choice. And even the divorces were caused less by the new law than by psychological necessity. It’s not likely that any law can hold a marriage together when choice can’t. If love itself won’t bind two people together, what can?”
“Fear.”
It was Tiffany who had spoken with a deep, declarative voice.
“Fear,” Tiffany continued, “of the pain he’ll suffer if I ever catch him with his neighbor’s wife or daughter or sister or any woman at all. Or her husband. I’m an unbigoted avenger.”
Most neighbors laughed and Dr. Erikson smiled.
“Didn’t,” the psychologist asked, “one of the very apostles of social conservatism say perfect love drives out fear?”
“Exactly,” Tiffany said, “if his love is perfect, he has nothing to fear.”
Everyone laughed and the discussion returned to more mundane matters such as toilet paper substitutes and building code. When it became clear that at least rudimentary supplies would last until resupply and that Jason wasn’t returning to the village after completion of his sentence, the public mood finally relaxed.
The other major complaint was that of singles who believed that an island-wide happy hour needed to be established so they could mingle with peers from other neighborhoods. Dr. Erikson thought it a good idea and promised to do what she could to arrange a dance or to set up a weekend rendezvous site. She also suggested the following day be declared a village holiday to cement the renewed camaraderie now circulating through the neighborhood. When a vote was taken, it was decided to picnic near New Plymouth for a village outing. Dr. Erikson promised to provide a cask of wine from New Plymouth—and the mere mention of wine brought cheers from most inhabitants.
Following the meeting, several village women approached Tiffany to tease that they found Brent utterly intolerable and absolutely undesirable—though Brent protested he couldn’t be completely unattractive since Tiffany herself had married him twice. Linh claimed Tiffany only picked Brent from charity and Viet called their marriage a misbegotten social experiment, but Brent just brushed off the ribbing with a shrug.
The weather was perfect for a holiday and the westerners rose early for a Wednesday picnic, filling backpacks and loading coolers for the trek toward New Plymouth and crossing Mount Zion on cleared trails to reach familiar ground in little more than an hour. When they reached a wide path maintained by the east village, the west villagers took it straight toward the coast and soon came to a picturesque town of thatched-roof houses and large-framed barns. The settlement even included public baths and private saunas fed from a pristine stream and a public park now under construction. Most notably, a large greenhouse stood near the edge of the village—sheets of clear visqueen stretched tight and stapled to its timbers and rows of vegetables planted within (many of them already bearing fruit). The westerners were awed.
Alan was far more relaxed than before, even pleasant, as he took his former neighbors on a short tour of his new house (a cabin with a fenced yard and a small garden) and Steve showed off the foundation for a tree nursery. In return, the westerners invited Alan and Steve to picnic with them, though their former neighbors declined the offer since work requirements were very strict in their new neighborhood. Nevertheless, Alan and Steve chatted with their old neighbors for nearly an hour, until summoned to construction duties by an east villager with a shaved head and shaved legs—who pressed her fellow villagers that a new bathhouse wouldn’t build itself.
After farewells were exchanged, the westerners hurried to New Plymouth where they collected a promised cask of red wine from the depot and invited the professional staff to their picnic. Most accepted and it wasn’t long before a quarter of the residents of Paradise found themselves sailing, snorkeling, or sunning at the beach. A light lunch of bread and fruit was followed by a heavy dinner of broiled fish and boiled lobsters. Parents with children started home before dusk—along with Ursula and Heather—while those who remained at the party drank wine and played music on a portable stereo. Kit sang in tune with the disc player and Maria proved to be one of the best dancers in the village—and Ryan with her. A few couples slipped into the woods or vacant hospital beds for quick love, only to return refreshed and eager to party longer. Not until the second cask of wine ran dry several hours later did the evening draw to a close.
Most of the westerners returned along the road to east village while using moonlight and torch—though a group consisting of Ryan, Kit, Maria, and Jose decided to take a more scenic route along the beach, moving into the southern district after an hour’s slow walk. Only after they rounded the southern tip of the island did they rest. Maria soaked her feet and Kit enjoyed the reflection of the full moon across the sand. Ryan sat himself upon a weatherworn boulder (thick with salt and crud) while Jose lay down in a patch of grass along the shore. After a time, Maria waded to Ryan’s rock and asked if there was room. Ryan scooted to one side.
&nbs
p; “You’re always so sweet,” Maria said. “Kit’s lucky.”
Kit stood several yards away, looking out to sea as the surf lapped against her knees, and now turned around. “Did I hear my name?” she called out.
“I was saying how lucky you are to find the man you want to marry.”
“Maybe twice.”
“That’s twice as lucky,” Maria said, looking more at Ryan than at Kit—who turned and walked toward her ex-husband and the young woman near him.
When Kit stumbled and slipped in the surf, Ryan jumped up and splashed through the waves to pull his former wife from the water with one hand.
“Are you all right?” Ryan asked.
“Hands off in public,” Kit slurred her words just a little, “Mr. Ryan Godson.”
Ryan grinned. “You’re ...”
“I’m not.”
“How much wine did you drink?”
“Just two glasses,” Kit said, “and one for the road. I’m not driving ...”
Now Kit took Ryan’s arm to steady herself.
“My head’s spinning,” Kit said. “I need to sit. It’s all this walking.”
“And,” Ryan said, “the fact you haven’t drank this much for months. It always hits you hard.”
Kit giggled as Ryan led her to the large rock where he was sitting. As Maria edged to one side, Kit took a place on the other while looking at Ryan and patting the rock.
“Sit between us,” Kit said.
As Ryan did so, Kit draped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. “This was a nice day. The best in weeks.”
“It’s been something else recently”—Ryan glanced at Maria—“not exactly what I’d planned.”
“No,” Kit said, “not exactly.”
“But,” Maria said, “it’s also been exciting, wouldn’t you say?”
Ryan nodded.
“We’ve learned a lot about each other,” Maria continued, “and freedom and love.”
Ryan looked to the sea as Kit touched his cheek.
“It won’t be long,” Kit said, “till we’re married again.”
“I guess so,” Ryan whispered, taking another glance at Maria—who turned away.
A moment later, Kit stretched and stood, saying that tomorrow was a scheduled workday and they needed to leave. However, when Ryan and Maria stood to join her, Kit sat back down.
“I’m too dizzy,” Kit said, “I’d like to rest here. This is beautiful. It’s so quiet. You go home with Maria and Jose.”
Ryan looked at his ex-wife. “We can’t,” he said, “leave you here.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Have you forgotten Jason?”
“He’s not even on the island.”
“I’m not so sure he’s the only bad seed.”
When Kit said she’d take her chances, Ryan looked at Maria and shrugged, telling her that he’d catch up later.
Maria abruptly rose and started for the west village, quickly followed by Jose. After several seconds of walking, the young woman called for Ryan—who jogged toward her and exchanged a few quiet words. Thereafter, Maria and Jose disappeared into the dark while Ryan returned to Kit.
“What’d she want?” Kit asked.
“Just a timetable. To know when we were expected home.”
Kit wrinkled her nose.
“In case,” Ryan explained, “I need help getting you to bed.”
“You’ve always managed before.”
Ryan laughed a little.
“I’m not sure it’s me,” Kit said, “she wants to tuck into bed.”
Ryan fell silent.
Kit looked at him a long minute before talking.
“She’s very pretty,” Kit observed.
“She has nothing on you,” Ryan said.
“I have fifteen years on her.”
“Only thirteen.”
“Is that my unlucky number?”
“What’s her age matter?” Ryan replied. “You’re not that old. There’s certainly no lack of men looking at you.”
“Then why,” Kit asked with a hollow voice, “did your Hollywood friends leave wives my age for girls no older than her?”
“Perhaps,” Ryan said as he looked away, “they were fools.”
“Are you a fool?” Kit asked. “Am I a middle-age woman whose time to go has come?”
“Maria,” Ryan said as he dropped his eyes, “doesn’t do married men.”
“You’re no married man.”
“I’m tired of bickering with you.”
Kit took Ryan’s hand. “You know what I miss?” she asked after a time.
“What’s that?”
“Holding you on nights like this. Why don’t you want to love me?”
“We’re not married,” Ryan said, “and I’ve wanted to respect your promise.”
“I never promised,” Kit said, “grandmother to be a nun with my own husband. Maybe we need more love. Maybe that’s why we’re not so close these days.”
Kit drew near to Ryan and he didn’t resist. Desire stirred when Kit threw her arms around Ryan’s neck and a few minutes later, they moved to the sands beneath the sway of palms and spray of surf. Only once did Ryan look toward the trail on which Maria had disappeared into darkness. When they were finished, both slept an hour before bathing in the surf and starting for home.
It was past midnight when Ryan and Kit stumbled into camp. After they said goodnight, Ryan walked toward the mess hall and Kit returned to her tent. As Ryan ate a few morsels of unspoiled food and took a drink of fruit juice, Maria soon approached—wearing a long tee shirt that only half-covered her thighs.
“Is she okay?”
“A little tipsy,” Ryan said. “She needs a rest.”
Maria stepped toward Ryan. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“There was nothing I could do.”
“I suppose not,” Maria said as she moved close to Ryan. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close. When their faces fell apart after a long kiss, Maria looked into Ryan’s eyes.
“I miss you when you’re gone,” Maria whispered.
“Me too.”
Maria took his hand.
“Where’re we going?” Ryan asked.
“You can stay with me tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Kit.”
“You’re a free man.”
“Not right in front of her. It’d kill her.”
“And it kills me to see you treat her like a wife. When she’s not.”
“Give me one more week.”
“No,” Maria said, “resolve it now. You’ve told me you’re not going to marry her again. So tell her. It’s only common decency.”
“I will. Just give me some time.”
“No,” Maria snapped. “I’m not going to be strung along as if you’re a married man. That’s why I’ve avoided affairs.”
“I understand, but this is a sticky situation.”
“Till the end of the week,” Maria said with a flat tone, “or I’ll tell her myself. I swear it.”
“I guess the end of the week it is,” Ryan said.
Maria nestled herself against Ryan, her hips pressed to his. “Come to bed,” she cooed. “My engine’s been revved for hours.”
“No,” Ryan protested. “I can’t. Not tonight.”
“I’ve given you time to tell her, but I’m not playing the saint while I wait”—Maria now pulled the tee shirt over her head and threw it into the hot coals where the shirt burst into flames and burned to ashes—“either you come to my tent or every strip of my clothes will burn in this fire and I’ll stand here naked till dawn. She may be yours in public, but in private you belong to me and I’ll not be denied what you promised.”
Ryan dropped his head and followed Maria to her tent, returning to his own bed after they were done.
26
Used Supplies and New Demands
The early morning sun remained eclipsed
by treetops as a trim, bare-chested Euro-Islander with red hair and dark freckles sat on the bridge: her legs stretched into the flowing stream and a razor in hand. She wore nothing but jogging shorts and a matching headband. A dark-haired woman wrapped in a towel sat beside her, rinsing shampoo from her hair as suds streamed down her olive-skinned back. Both women upheld an invisible partition of privacy and only when the fair-skinned woman jumped a little did they talk.
“Ouch,” Lisa cried out when the worn edge of a dull razor caught soft flesh beneath her arm. “I’ve gouged myself again. This razor’s too dull and my hair’s too thick. You have a spare razor?”
“I pluck hairs out, with tweezers,” Deidra said. “It was the custom of my people long before we traded the Ohio Valley for a few straight razors. Before all you white women came along.”
“I’ve never been to Ohio.”
“Maybe your grandparents robbed a different tribe. Ever been to Oklahoma? Or Montana?”
“I don’t consider myself,” Lisa said with a smile, “to be Custer’s long-lost granddaughter.”
“The way your legs are looking,” Deidra quipped, “you might consider yourself his long-lost grandson.”
Lisa looked at her thighs. “I suppose,” she said, “I am sporting a more European flair. As fashionable as the French, or maybe the Italians and Greeks.”
“All of them white women. Hairy white women.”
“Better that than plucking five thousand hairs.”
“I thought you gave up shaving.”
“I tried,” Lisa said, “but they’re starting to itch. And feel fuzzy. You sure you don’t have a spare?”
“I heard,” Deidra replied with a grin, “the south camp has spares. There’s a guy with an old-fashioned straight razor, so they’ve pooled their disposables for trade.”
“What’s the price?”
“Mostly, booze and drugs. I hear it’s a bag of pot for one razor. Or a bottle of booze.”
“I’m down to one bottle of rum,” Lisa said, “and the village dope burned with Jason’s tent. Whatever else is true about him, he was generous with the weed. I smoked my stash a week after we arrived.”