by Donna Callea
“I wish we didn’t have to keep getting pregnant. I wish we had sponges,” she says.
They all know about sponges, though only a few of us here are old enough to have actually used them. Before The Upheaval.
“Aren’t there any substitutes for sponges?” someone asks. “Couldn’t we make something? Out of rags, maybe?”
There’s some mumbling. Then silence.
“Let’s have some refreshments,” says Melissa, the organizer.
We’re sitting in a large, informal circle in the gathering room, which is where the men usually wait their turn for their appointments. There’s a low table in the middle, which has been decorated for the occasion. Small sandwiches are brought in from the kitchen, and other treats are laid out. Someone brings me a filled plate and something to drink. She sets it on the end table by my chair, so I don’t have to get up.
They are all very kind to me here. I’m the oldest. The most ancient. A few others might be approaching my age, which is… Well, how can I remember? What difference does it make, anyway? It’s not good to be old. But in our world, I suppose, it’s at least better than being young.
No one can think of any good substitutes for sponges. So we talk about other things.
“This year, I think we should plant flowers in the garden, in addition to vegetables,” says Pamela.
“Where would we get seeds for flowers?” someone asks, as if to say, what a stupid idea.
But it’s not really a stupid idea. Flowers would be nice. We’re only allowed to go out of doors in the garden. I’d like to see flowers again.
“I have a question,” says a very young woman whose name I can’t remember.
“Go ahead, Joan,” says Melissa.
Joan. That’s her name.
“What would happen if we just all decided that we’re not going to do this anymore? Every day, every night, men come to the door. The proctor on duty lets them in. He checks to make sure they haven’t used up their quota of visits for the month. He gives them appointments or tells them how long they’ll have to wait. And then we service them. One after another, with our legs open and our minds shut.
“What if we refused?” says Joan. “I’ve done this all my life. Ever since I was fifteen. I don’t want to do it anymore.”
We all know what would happen. Joan knows what would happen.
Poor thing. She was born to this life. What a curse to be born a girl. Not a blessing at all. Every woman here with a big belly prays to The Designer that she will birth a boy. Even though she’ll have to give him up.
Joan’s mother is sitting next to her. At least, I think she’s Joan’s mother. She embraces her daughter, and they have a little cry. We all have a little cry.
We’re all Joan’s mother here. All daughters. All sisters. All doomed.
“Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” suggests Melissa, the organizer. It doesn’t do to dwell too much on things that can’t be changed.
“Tell us about the Easter-Esther Festival, Susannah. Tell us how it was when you were young. Tell us about the parades, and how the children wore costumes.”
I’m sure I’ve already told everyone here everything I can remember about Easter-Esther Festivals during previous Women’s Conferences. The Designer only knows what the men do now to celebrate the event. But these women like to hear about what life was like long ago. As if those were good times. Which maybe they were. We just didn’t know it.
“Did I ever tell you about the Easter-Esther Festival when young Rebekah cut off all her long, beautiful red hair?” I begin. “I think she was fourteen or fifteen at the time, and very rebellious. Females then could go out in public, but only covered head to toe in a long hooded robe. Rebekah didn’t want to do that. So she decided that from then on, she’d have short hair like a boy, dress like a boy, act like a boy.
“John, her father, was all for it. He thought she’d be safer, I suppose. Except Rebekah wasn’t a boy. She was very much a girl. She had set her sights on my son David, you know. Well, maybe that’s not fair. David loved her. And she loved him. They made a pact never to love anyone else. Which was absurd, and unheard of, of course. Not to mention against the law.
“A few years later they ran off together. I worried that David would be caught and castrated. That was the punishment back then. I was beside myself with worry. I wonder whatever happened to David. And to Rebekah. Oh, wait. I do remember something. We had letters from them once. From Winnipeg. They were going off to live on a monogamist settlement.”
The idea of a monogamist settlement is so foreign to everyone here, I have to explain what it is. As if I know. I only hope that my David has survived. And Rebekah, too. He loved her.
I have other sons. We all have other sons, I suppose. I hope they’re safe. We’ll never know. Men are not allowed to visit Women’s Houses where they have relatives—mothers, sisters, former wives. It wouldn’t be right. It occurs to me that since no one knows who fathers children anymore, men may have daughters in the Women’s Houses they frequent. Unlikely, but possible. Better not to think about it.
My boys, Simon, Ethan, baby Aaron. How I loved them. Mothers love their children. The mothers here cry when their boys are taken from them. We have a ceremony then. A very sad ceremony. Oh well. Best not to think about it.
The world is what it is. What we’ve made it.
“What was it like to have husbands, Susannah?” someone asks.
I’m sure I’ve told them all before, but they like to hear about the times before The Upheaval. Soon, when I’m gone, when all the old women are gone, there will be no more stories about husbands, about love between men and women.
“We got to choose them, you know. Only the very best, the most suitable men, became husbands long ago. I had five of them, and then a sixth. We all got along. We were a family.”
These women want to hear more. So I oblige. Their names. What were all their names?
“Let me see. First there was Tom. He and I worked together, as family counselors. And Seth. I’ve told you about Seth, haven’t I? There was Andy, of course, and Sam. Sam always looked forward to the Easter-Esther Festivals. Can’t imagine why. And Ryan, he was a carpenter.
“Ryan and John were brothers, you know. I loved John the best. I don’t know why. It was a different kind of love. That wasn’t right. Not the right thing to do. But how can you help who you love?”
“Why did you love him best?” someone asks.
“What do you mean, a different kind of love?”
There’s no explaining. Not to these women who know nothing of love between men and women. Not to myself. Why was I drawn to John above all the others? It wasn’t just sex, was it? No it wasn’t just sex. It was something else. But what?
Where are they now, my sweet husbands? Dead no doubt. John, too.
Thoughts of my young self, and the special man I loved more than any other fill my head. I smile to myself. I think I drift off.
No. It wasn’t just sex. But, ah, we used to have such a lovely time in bed, John and I.
Chapter 49
David
Go Forth and Multiply
Sometimes I think kids are the Holy One’s way of reminding us that we have no control whatsoever over anything. We have them, and we think they’re a blessing. Brand new human beings who are some sort of guarantee that a part of us will live on forever. Generation after generation.
Plus they’re very cute when they’re small. At least most of them, most of the time.
Then, they grow up and discover new ways, at every juncture, to drive us crazy, to make us worry, to make us wonder why we had them in the first place. How peaceful life would be if it were only Rebekah and me.
Even now. When we’ve got grandchildren. How did that happen? More little ones to make us smile and then, eventually, drive us crazy. It never stops.
Rebekah can’t stop thinking about Michael. I can see it on her face. In the way her body is always a little tense. Michael the wanderer
. Michael the adventurer. Michael the dreamer, who’s not content to stay in one place. Michael, our firstborn, who we’ll probably never see again, but will worry about for the rest of our lives.
It hurts me, too, that he’s gone.
But Rebekah can’t think about anything else.
“He’ll be fine, you know. He’s very resilient. He’s got Gayla with him. She’ll keep him from getting into too much trouble. And little Abe, who’s certainly not little. We’ve got to stop thinking of him as little Abe. And Abe’s wife. And all the other idiots who can’t stay put. He’s not alone.”
“I know,” Rebekah says. “I’m just going to miss him, that’s all. And little Abe. And Gayla. And Liza.”
Abe and Liza have only been married a few months. She’ll probably get pregnant before too long, if she isn’t already. Rebekah and I will have a great-grandchild whose name we won’t ever know. I don’t say this aloud. But Rebekah is probably thinking it too.
How simple life would be if it were only Rebekah and me.
She doesn’t feel like having sex now. She wouldn’t admit it, of course. She would try to enjoy herself. But that’s not what I want. I want it to be like when we were young.
“Hey,” I say. “Let’s go for a walk. Let’s walk to the pond. Let’s go for a swim. It’s a nice night.”
“You just want to have sex in the water, don’t you David?” She smiles at me. A real Rebekah smile. She knows me. She knows that going swimming means getting naked. She shakes her head at me, as if to say, what am I going to do with you, you single-minded, sex-always-on-the-brain male.
But she doesn’t say no.
It’s the kind of summer evening that can lull a person into thinking summer will last forever. There’s a timelessness about it. A little too warm, a little too still, a little too quiet except for occasional croaks and chirps. And, as if the Holy One has decided to grant us yet another small favor, there’s no one at the pond right now except for us.
Even if there were, it wouldn’t stop us. Wouldn’t stop me. I’d just go find us a more secluded spot.
We strip.
“How come you’re so beautiful?” I say, not to flatter Rebekah, but because it’s true. “After all these years, you’re still the most beautiful creature the Holy One ever created.”
“In your eyes, maybe, which evidently aren’t seeing too well anymore.”
“You’re wrong. I see better than ever. Just not close up. And not far away.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Rebekah says, as I reach for her bare behind. We embrace, then wade into the water holding hands.
I’m not hard yet. I used to get hard just thinking about her. Now it takes a little longer. But I’ll get there.
Rebekah’s hair is streaked with grey. The silver strands, threaded through the fading red, catch the light and seem to sparkle as the sun sets. She keeps it long—has kept it long ever since she stopped pretending to be a boy.
It seems like that was a lifetime ago, or maybe just yesterday.
The water’s cool compared to the air. We splash and then swim a little. Not much. Just enough to wash away lingering worries that have no place in this pond. Rebekah’s hair swirls around her. Her eyelashes are wet and spikey. She wraps her arms and legs around me, and I carry her around, weightless in the water.
Her breasts, belly and hips are fuller and rounder than when she was young. But somehow just the same.
We don’t make love in the pond. I’m not up to it, really. Too much of an acrobatic feat at this point in our lives. We’d probably drown each other. But we’ve brought towels and a blanket, so we leave the water and get comfortable on the shore, still blessedly naked.
I kiss Rebekah from lips to lips, slowly making my way down. And she responds, as she always has when she wants me.
When I enter her it’s like the first time. No. Not like the first time. Like the thousandth time or the hundred-thousandth time. Which is different, and much better in its own way.
We know every inch of each other by touch and taste and smell. Every fold, every valley, every hill, every extra bit of flesh that wasn’t there when we first started out.
Our lovemaking is maybe less intense now, but no less passionate, no less loving, no less satisfying.
“I love you more than life, David,” she says when we come apart.
“And you thought I just wanted to have sex in the water.”
“Well, you did. Admit it. We would have if you could.”
“Who says I couldn’t?”
She gives me a look, and we both start laughing. Laughing like neither of us are grown up people—grown up people with a son who must be twice as old as we are.
No. Let’s not think about Michael. There’ll be plenty of time to think about him when were not lying under the stars, naked on a blanket.
But back in our bed, in our house that’s been home ever since we came here, Rebekah wants to talk. She always wants to talk in bed.
“Miriam says we should be proud of him, that he’s brave to go with his family and the others. Even though his family only consists of Gayla, and little Abe, and now Liza. If Michael and Gayla had had more children after Abe, maybe he wouldn’t have gone. It makes it easier for him, I think, that he’s only leaving you and me behind.”
“Yeah,” I say. Then I think about what she’s said.
“He’s also got his sisters here. And nieces and nephews. And everyone he’s known all his life, the little shit.”
“Don’t call him that,” she says.
I’m not really pissed off at Michael. How can I be?
“I guess it’s not such a big deal leaving behind parents and siblings,” I say. “That’s what I did. What you did, too, if you count your half sister in Rochester.”
“I only met her once. It’s not the same. Do you think about your brothers, David? I remember Simon was kind of a pest. But Ethan was a sweet baby.”
“The Holy One only knows what it’s like now, back there for them. My fathers are probably all dead. My mother, too.”
When Michael was born, we named him Michael because Rebekah and I both liked the name. He’s not named for anyone. But with our girls it was different.
I remembered Papa Tom telling us about the old Jewish custom of naming babies after loved ones who’ve died. It seemed like a good idea. So we decided to make it a family tradition when Rebekah got pregnant again. But, at the time, anyway, we couldn’t imagine that anyone we loved or cared about in Seneca Falls was old enough to have died.
Not our parents. Surely not our parents. And my grandmother Anna, who without a doubt was going to make sure she was the last person standing in Winnipeg, didn’t count.
So we named our second child Keira, after the Keira in Kitchener who was so good to us. Without her, we never would have met Elizabeth, who saved Rebekah’s life, and Captain Blinn, who brought us here. Keira was very old when we knew her, and we figured she must have been long gone by the time the baby was born.
If our little Keira had been a boy, we would have named her Harry. We were pretty sure that Harry and Todd—without whom we never would have made it as far as Kitchener—were probably gone, too, by that time.
But not our parents. Surely not our parents.
Keira is eight years younger than Michael. She’s been quite a handful over the years. For the longest time, she had herself convinced that she’d never find love. She thought she was a misfit. She wanted to live in another settlement where she didn’t know anyone. Then she couldn’t decide on work that suited her. Finally, she settled down.
She’s married to a man who’s fifteen years older than she is, whose first wife died leaving him with two little ones. Oscar is a good man, we like him. And we’re grateful that Keira loves him and he loves her. They have six children so far. All little demons.
Their first child together is named Zora.
Rebekah and I thought we’d only have two children. Just Michael and Keira.
Bu
t then she got pregnant again, when she was almost too old to get pregnant. Go figure.
Our Susannah has been relatively easy compared to the other two. She twenty-four now, and pregnant for the third time.
We named her Susannah because it didn’t seem to matter at that point whether Mama was still around or not. We just wanted to honor her memory by naming the baby Susannah. Her middle name is Dora. We never went back to Winnipeg, so who knows what became of Rebekah’s mother. But in her own way, she was a good woman.
Susannah Dora. A strange combination of names.
“What are you thinking about?” Rebekah asks me.
I guess my mind has been wandering.
“I’m thinking I want to go to the pond again tomorrow for a swim,” I tell her.
“In your dreams,” she says.
“That could work, too.”
“Really. What have you been thinking about?”
“How lucky I am.”
“Yeah. Okay. Good answer.”
“Listen. Michael will be fine. Abe, too. And Gayla, and Liza and all the others. I know you can’t help worrying. Me either. But they’re doing what they want to do. It’s important to them. And who knows, maybe they’ll come back for a visit after they’ve repopulated the rest of the world.”
“Very funny.”
“He says he just wants to know what’s out there.”
“Yeah.”
It’s not like when Rebekah and I left Seneca Falls because we had to—because we couldn’t be together the way we wanted to be, staying put.
When Michael and the others proposed their expedition, there was a lot of discussion among the people here.
Some thought they were crazy.
Others just shrugged and chalked it up to human nature. Since the beginning, our species—or at least some members of our species—have felt compelled to go forth, from wherever it was they were. To explore. To discover what’s out there.
We know now that Winnipeg is all but deserted. There was an expedition there a few years ago.
But what about east—far to the east, to Thunder Bay?
Michael says he wants to see The Great Lakes, to sail across The Great Lakes. To see what’s left. To see who’s there, if anyone is still there.