by Donna Callea
Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m supposed to love her since she’s my grandmother. It’s just that she thinks she knows what’s best for everyone, including me.
“David,” she says, “it’s very important for you to think about the future. You’re 12 now, aren’t you? Well, it’s never too early to start thinking about a career. There’s nothing wrong with being a teacher or a dentist or a carpenter like your fathers. But these days, young women want husbands who have something special to offer. Like a massage therapist,” she says. “Yes. That would be good. And you should definitely join a male chorus as soon as you can. You can keep a tune, can’t you? Nothing soothes the soul like songs sung in harmony by an all-male chorus. You should join your school’s chorus as soon as possible. Boys who are in the chorus are much less likely to join men’s clubs when they grow up. That’s what studies have shown. And being in a men’s sports club will reduce your chances of being selected as a husband when the time comes. You know that, don’t you David?”
She goes on and on like that. I’m not going to join a chorus or become a massage therapist. And I probably will join a men’s sports club after I graduate. People like Grandma think sports clubs make men more aggressive. The only sports allowed for boys in school are track and swimming. But plenty of unmarried men play basketball and stick ball in their free time. They have teams that compete. I’ve seen them, and it looks like fun.
The rally is in the Town Hall, and it’s pretty crowded. Maybe two-or three-hundred people. But I don’t know what they think Grandma or her opponent are going to be able to do for them. We learn about civics in school. I know basically how the government is supposed to work—pass ordinances, collect taxes, provide services like schools and hospitals, keep things going. But the problem everyone talks about is too few girls being born. And I don’t see how the government is going to fix that.
Grandma keeps saying in her speech that the only thing that will save our civilization is “civic responsibility.” Women’s civic responsibility, according to Grandma, is to marry more and more men, and keep having babies until they get girls. Men’s civic responsibility is to not complain or cause trouble.
Men do complain, though. Even boys at my school complain. There are too many of us. No one gives a shit about boys. It’s girls who are a “blessing,” who grow up to get all the power, who control the future. It’s not fair.
Papa Andy, who teaches science and history to the upper grades, told me that men are actually the ones who determine the sex of babies, although they don’t do it on purpose. In ancient times, before The Great Flood, scientists could figure out how to get one sex or another. People could do all kinds of things they can’t do now.
Mama is pregnant again. It doesn’t show yet, but she told us all a week of two ago. No one seemed too overjoyed. It’ll probably be another boy.
Chapter 5
Susannah
Design Flaws
I’m planning to work right up until I go into labor. What else am I supposed to do? Hang around the house with Seth while the boys are in school? He wouldn’t be glad for the company. Not during the day, when he needs to carve out some quiet time to write.
Seth does more than his share, taking care of the kids and running the house. Of course, we all do our bit cleaning and cooking and so forth. We could hire people to help with that. Some families do. But the last thing I need are a couple more men in the house poking around, lusting after Rebekah.
We’ve recently enrolled her in a small study group at the home an elderly lady, attended by a handful of other girls around Rebekah’s age, just to get her out of the house. But she doesn’t like it very much. It’s boring, she says. The old lady mostly dozes off while the girls gossip. She’s very, very old. And Rebekah says she’s not really learning much.
In a year or so she’ll be ready to undergo career evaluation—lots of testing to help her figure out what kind of work she’s best suited to do. After that, her education will become very intense. She’ll get direct instruction from women in her chosen field, and on-the-job training. If she chooses a particularly challenging career, like medicine, she’ll probably have to be sent to a bigger town to complete her education. It’s not unusual for girls to continue training even after they’re 18 and married.
In the meantime, we all help as much as we can with the basics, focusing on subjects in which we’ve had the most training and experience. The quality of at-home instruction a girl gets depends almost entirely on the level of education her mother and fathers have. Which isn’t fair. But what can you do?
Andy tutors her in the evening in history and science, under the watchful eye of John, who hasn’t trusted Andy since he caught him staring at the girl in an unfatherly-like manner. Not that he would ever act upon it. I’m sure of that. But still. It makes things uncomfortable. Rebekah is not allowed now to wear anything the least bit revealing at home, no matter how hot it is.
I talked about that with Seth the other night in bed.
“Don’t worry, Susannah,” he said as we cuddled after sex. “You worry too much. Before you know it, Rebekah will be all grown up in a home of her own. We’re all good, reasonable people in our family. Everything will be fine.”
That’s Seth, the soother. He’s my oldest husband, though not the first, and almost 50 now. Very undemanding. Very easy to satisfy. Has been all the time we’ve been married. So it’s not just because he’s getting older.
He’s quite a large man, with deep brown skin, great strength, and the most nurturing personality of any of us. I love him very much. It’s hard to believe that the stories he produces come from such a gentle soul.
Seth’s novels aren’t to my taste. Not at all. But the three that have been published so far have been good sellers. They’re adventure stories set before The Great Flood, and based solely on his imagination. Single men really eat up what he writes. It does no harm. Just some escapism. And The Designer knows we all need to escape sometimes, if only in our minds.
I would have liked to escape today. Work is rarely stressful, but today I had a referral from the court system, and it was a doozy.
A young woman finally managed to contact the authorities after her four husbands collaborated to keep her prisoner and rape her at will.
Yikes.
That’s what can happen when women forgo premarital counseling, or don’t pay attention to warning signs.
Gwyneth, the victim, was referred in the hope that she can recover enough to eventually accept new husbands. To be honest, I doubt it. She and her three little boys are now living with her maternal grandmother and grandfathers. And that’s where she should probably stay.
Gwyneth’s husbands have all been sentenced to the maximum security facility in Buffalo. Seems that one of the husbands is an alpha male in the extreme. He convinced, or maybe coerced, the other three into going along with him. But they’re all to blame, of course.
Gwyneth, meanwhile, has shouldered all the shame.
“I know I never should have agreed to marry Graham,” she says between sobs. “I know I should have insisted on pre-marital counseling. But he comes from a very good family, him and Kyle. Their mother approached me and my family directly. She wanted me to take both of them. She told me what an easy life I’d have. She offered a bride price.”
The last two words are said in a whisper.
“Did you know that’s illegal?” Of course, she knew it was illegal. Everyone knows it’s illegal. But she was only 18 at the time, and where was her mother?
“Your mother went along with it?” I ask as gently as I can.
“My mother’s dead,” she says, and starts crying again. “She died when I was a kid. My fathers were having a hard time. They thought the double wedding would be okay. They were really struggling financially.”
So Gwyneth married Graham—whose personality was obviously unsuited to marriage, or why would his family insist on forgoing premarital counseling—along with his brother Kyle. Then Graham’
s mother brokered two additional matches for the poor girl.
“Graham and Kyle did whatever their mother said. And Kyle and the other two did whatever Graham said,” sniffles Gwyneth. “They decided when I would have sex, and with who. Mostly it was with Graham, but he let the others have turns, too.”
What a mess. Unbelievable. But that’s the kind of thing that can happen when people have the freedom to arrange marriages without going through suitability testing. I’m all for freedom, just not the freedom to put oneself and others in danger. I’m hoping that Parliament will soon pass an ordinance requiring, instead of just recommending, that marriage licenses be contingent upon standardized pre-marital evaluations.
It’s a sad fact that some men are simply not husband material. And some women, like poor Gwyneth’s mother-in-law, should never have children—although things are so bad now, every woman has to have children, no matter what.
“My mother-in-law was determined to get a granddaughter, and she got madder and madder at me, every time I had a boy,” Gwyneth confides. “So she didn’t care how they treated me. I took it as long as I could, and then I finally went for help.”
I schedule counseling sessions with Gwyneth right up until the date the baby is due.
I’m going to take a year off then. The baby will need me, and I can also devote myself to Rebekah. Listening to Gwyneth reminded me how much girls need mothers. Rebekah was without one for most of her life before she came to live with us.
There are things only a mother—or a dedicated mother-substitute—can pass on to a young girl. There are things men just don’t know about, and probably shouldn’t know about.
Tom knows more than most. But even he doesn’t know everything. Men are better off not knowing. And women are in serious jeopardy if they don’t learn how to control their lives as women. It’s just the way it is.
Chapter 6
Susannah
The Easter-Esther Festival
I admit it. I’m uneasy about the festival. It’s supposed to make people feel lighthearted, hopeful, happy. It just makes me feel uncomfortable—too much of a mishmash of religion and revelry.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against the parade, plays, costumes, craft shows, and giant rabbits handing out treats to children. And I’m grateful as the next person that spring has come again, although I kind of figured it would.
It’s just that, in recent years, the other, more adult, parts of the Easter-Esther Festival seem to be getting out of hand. Out of control.
I have trouble understanding why people think excessive drinking, bawdy cross-dressing, and the copulation of married women with single men as an act of charity—topped off by a pious sunrise service and prayers—will please The Designer.
If there is a designer.
Some people, not many, don’t believe there’s a designer at all.
Sam is one of those people. Maybe because he considers himself a man of science. He’s a dentist, after all. But he’s very much in favor of the Easter-Esther Festival. He enjoys it immensely, and participates in just about everything but the sunrise service.
Of all my husbands, Sam is probably the most self-sufficient, the most independent. He takes care of himself, has friends outside the family, keeps busy. If he wants to dress up like a woman once a year and attend some of the more raucous events the Easter-Esther Festival has to offer, he has every right. Lots of men do, though Sam is the only one in our family who celebrates spring this way. And he knows better than to encourage me to participate. The rest of the year he acts responsibly. He’s a good husband and father, not to mention a considerate and very skillful lover.
I’ve asked him what appeals to him about wearing false breasts, a wig, a dress, and getting drunk with other men. He’s not homosexual. Not even bisexual.
“It’s just mindless, outrageous fun, Susannah,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s true, some men do things with each other. Mostly the single ones. They’ll take anything they can get. But most would rather have a woman.”
And a few lucky single men, ages 18 and up, do get one, for the night, at least.
Wearing their feminine finery, they’re given the opportunity to compete in “beauty contests,” judged by married women dressed as men. The judges, I’m told, are simply wives and mothers caught up in the spirit of the season. And since they’re in costume and wear masks, supposedly no one knows who they are. Each generous judge selects a “winner” who gets to copulate with her.
“You know, it’s traditional to masquerade during the Easter-Esther Festival,” Sam points out.
Yes, I know. Tom, who doesn’t participate in any of the bawdy events, has told us all about the historical, religious and cultural underpinnings of the festival.
Tom knows because he’s Jewish. His family name was Fine before we got married. And Mama Fine made sure all her children were well versed in the lore associated with their ancient bloodline. After two Great Floods—the biblical one featuring Noah and his ark 5,000 years ago, and the one that involved melting ice caps 600 years ago—there are still Jews. Not because they are The Designer’s “chosen,” but because they choose to remember where they came from, according to Tom.
His maternal family doesn’t really practice Judaism as a religion, per se. I doubt that anyone does. It’s more about passing on the heritage, and embracing some of the customs.
Tom and his brothers, for example, all have been circumcised.
He was my first husband, so it wasn’t as if I could make comparisons. But one of the first things he said to me on our wedding night was, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t, if you don’t,” I told him. And there’s never been anything to mind, as far as I’m concerned. All of my husbands are different. I make it a point not to compare them. I consider Tom a very companionable lover.
We have a good time. And although some people think the snipping he underwent as an infant must be a detriment to enjoyment—on the man’s part anyway—I’ve never found him lacking in any way. I love Tom. All of him.
Anyway, he’s passed on the story of Purim, the story of Queen Esther, to our family. At least, the version of it he’s been told. In the old days, Purim was a spring holiday noted for its merry-making right in the synagogue, which made it a bit unusual in the Jewish lexicon of solemn holidays. God is not even mentioned in the original Bible story, Tom likes to point out, although the story of Esther is included in sacred texts.
It takes place in Persia, maybe 3,000 or so years ago. The king of Persia, who’s been drinking heavily with his pals, orders his queen, Vashti, to come make an appearance dressed only in her crown. Vashti, being a strong-willed woman, refuses this outlandish request. The next thing she knows, she’s being told to turn in her crown, and the king goes looking for a new queen. A beauty contest of sorts is held throughout the land. And the winner is a Jewish girl named Esther.
It seems that young Queen Esther’s kinsman—a very upstanding man among the Jews—inadvertently gets on the wrong side of the king’s top advisor, a really nasty man named Haman. In retaliation, Haman convinces the king that all the Jews in the land ought to be annihilated. The king says okay, that sounds like a good idea. But then Queen Esther’s kinsman fills her in, and tells her she’s her people’s only hope. So Esther bravely approaches the king, tells him that she herself is Jewish, and gets him to turn the tables on Haman. Instead of the Jews, Haman and all his friends, relatives and supporters are killed. So the story ends happily, with lots of bloodshed.
The point, as I understand it, is that God, The Creator, The Designer—whatever name you want to use—works in mysterious ways, and people need a spring festival.
Speaking of which, Easter is not really similar to Purim, except that it, too, is about cheating death and happens to have been traditionally celebrated in spring. I don’t know who got the brilliant idea several centuries ago of combining the two holidays. But the idea has really taken off throughout the Great
Lakes Coalition. I suppose if anyone needs a fertility festival, it’s us.
We humans, I think, have always feared annihilation of one sort or another, and look upon spring as a time of renewal, rebirth and fertility.
Easter, of course, has Christian roots, which were grafted upon its pagan roots. The name comes from the pagan goddess of fertility, after all, which is probably where the name Esther comes from, too. And like Judaism, Christianity has sort of survived. But there’s been a blurring of defined beliefs. From what I can tell, the only thing that sets Christians apart from other monotheistic believers is that they prefer to think of The Designer as someone who has a backstory, a gender and a name: Jesus.
Mostly though, The Designer is just referred to as The Designer. The title is logically conceived. If the Earth and everything on it was created by intelligent design rather than cosmic chance, there must be a designer.
Unfortunately, The Designer’s most intricate and confounding design is not very intelligent. In fact, we’ve been so stupid we’ve made a big mess of the planet.
What I think is, The Designer has had to take a closer look at our species and do some rethinking and tweaking. That’s why girls are now so rare. It’s not a punishment so much as a correction.
Acting ridiculous during the Easter-Esther Festival only makes us look more stupid, not less.
I suppose that’s why it makes me feel uneasy.
Or maybe it’s just the fact that I’m pregnant again, and I’m pretty sure it will be another boy.
And then there’s Rebekah.
“Oh my,” I say, when she emerges from her room with all of her beautiful red hair crudely cut off short, like a boy.
“Why did you do that?”
“I’m going to the festival parade dressed as a boy. There was nothing else I could do with all that hair.”