Left on Paradise (17 page)

During the walk home, Joan and Deidra waded near the beach—pulling fifteen-foot lengths of rope over their shoulders as they trudged through shallow water while Linh and Hilary pulled shorter ropes with which they steered the raft through the surf. It didn’t take the women long to move north when the wind was to their backs, but their pace slowed after they neared the north village and faced crosswinds and crosscurrents alike. By then, their arms ached and tempers flared and Joan and Deidra were arguing about religion.

The quarrel started when Joan damned the load in the name of the gods and Deidra responded that no honest work could be “gods-damned” since there were no gods. Though Deidra initially took the attack to be against her native heritage, she was somewhat mollified when she realized that Joan was cursing every faith equally. Still, as Joan argued that religious blessings and curses implied unscientific presuppositions, Deidra pressed her faith in the reality of her gods and customs of her forefathers. In any event, by the time the women rounded the north shore and reached Turtle Beach, they argued so hard that they had ceased complaining of their load and no longer pulled the boat at all.

“No,” Joan said just after they stopped working to debate religion, “I chose my words carefully. I didn’t say I objected to native religion, only that I didn’t believe its tenets.”

“Almost,” Deidra scowled, “the same thing.”

“Tell me why you chant.”

“To honor the traditions of my people and to enjoy the achievements of my culture.”

“And I respect that,” Joan replied, “just as I enjoy Irish clog dancers and ghetto rap. Diversity must be encouraged. That’s an absolute.”

“That’s not what you said. You implied native American religion is superstition. That it’s untrue. If that’s so, then our dancers are like little children pretending to be cowboys and Indians—our whole culture is make-believe.”

“Those aren’t my words.”

“Close enough,” Deidra said with a grimace. “Native American culture isn’t singing and dancing and whooping in war paint around an open fire. It’s not selling arrowheads at tourist traps or wearing feathers—just as Scotland is more than haggis and plaid kilts. It takes more than bagpipes to make Glasgow. Either the inner logic of the culture is tenable or it’s no more than a charade.”

“I disagree,” Joan protested, “I’m more or less a Marxist and I believe that class consciousness and economic modes of production are the deciding forces of civilization, but I’m no monist. We don’t need to pattern our lives by the trappings of Bolshevist Russia. Within the form of economic determinism, we are allowed the freedom of cultural expression.”

“You’re mixing,” Deidra argued, “both your metaphors and your metaphysics.”

“And you postmodernists,” Joan said, “allow everyone to tell their cultural stories to the degree no one makes any effort to distinguish true from false, myth from history, or the plausible from the absurd. You think that everyone has a valid story and none of it can be disproved.”

“I’m no post-modernist,” Deidra said, “which is exactly my point. To reduce Native American culture to a self-actualizing narrative is to accept it only within the terms of post-Enlightened literary interpretation. According to the cynicism of the heirs of Voltaire and Comte.”

Joan looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“You published books on literary theory,” Deidra said. “What don’t you understand?”

“I understand the theory. It’s you I don’t get.”

“What I’m trying to say is this,” Deidra explained, “the only genuine Native American culture is that which perceives the world with the same eyes as Geronimo and Sitting Bull and Little Turtle. Apaches and Navajos were neither modernists nor materialists. They believed. And only if we believe are we their true sons or daughters. Anything else is a pretense. Just a show.”

Deidra paused to catch breath.

“In fact,” Deidra continued, “it’s cultural treason to accept the white man’s ways. Squanto and Pocahontas were traitors. Can’t you see how they betrayed their own people by accepting the suppositions of European culture? They were even worse than the little whore who led Cortés to Montezuma. You want me to do the same? To commit cultural genocide against my own people? To defile myself in the bed of the white man?”

“Don’t look at me,” Joan laughed. “I’m not the one who married John Smith.”

Deidra turned red.

“But,” Joan continued, “I still want to know exactly what you believe. Are you arguing for a modernist or a post-modernist understanding of Native American religious culture?”

“Neither,” Deidra objected, “I’m arguing within the framework and terms of the religion itself.”

“Which is?”

“Faith.”

“Faith in what?”

“In the power of the gods.”

Joan rolled her eyes.

“But what exactly,” Joan asked, “is represented by this so-called faith? What’s its ideological meaning? I’m trying to see how your cultural theory relates to social organization.”

“What I’m trying to say,” Deidra objected, “is that it doesn’t. It relates to the Earth Mother and the Sky God.”

“Symbolizing?”

“Symbolizing,” Deidra groaned, “nothing at all.”

“Then,” Joan pressed her point, “you’re an existentialist? Or maybe a nihilist?”

“The gods,” Deidra snapped with a loud voice and angry tone, “aren’t symbols. They’re gods.”

“You mean real gods?”

“Yes.”

“That exist?”

“Yes.”

“Like Jesus?”

“That,” Joan said as she shook her head, “would make me a Christian, not a Native American. My people are loyal to their own gods, not narrow-minded Jewish carpenters.”

“What do these gods do?”

“Whatever they wish.”

“Where do they live?” Joan asked as she grinned.

“In the spirit world.”

“Can they see us now?”

“Yes.”

“Can we see them?”

“In visions and dreams.”

“So they’re like Jung’s archetypes.”

“You’re being stubborn,” Deidra scowled. “You can’t understand the gods through theory and scholarship. They’re not a philosophy. They’re spirits. Deities. Souls of the earth. As alive and real as you and I.”

“You can’t really believe this.”

“If I don’t, I’m no true Native American. So for the sake of my people and their sacred ways, I will believe it. I do believe it, the gods helping me.”

Joan shook her head as Deidra took up the slack in the rope and pulled the boat. Soon they pulled the barge of bricks and timber through the shallows and it wasn’t long before they saw the western beach—where John and Sean were fishing. After the women pulled the rowboat ashore and secured it to a tree, all four of them collapsed into the grass exhausted. Even Hilary didn’t object when the two men dragged the barge to the trees and unloaded it. The women had done their share and were worn out with blistered hands and sore backs.

All four women arrived home shortly after Charles—who had spent the day with Karla at New Plymouth. After dinner, Charles assembled the village and summarized the council’s actions to a few neighbors while suggesting a Saturday morning session to share further details. The villagers thought it a good idea and agreed to the meeting. Deidra, Hilary, and Linh retired early that night while Joan remained at the campfire talking with her husband: her face sober and voice hushed. Charles and Joan talked long after the fire burned down.

14

Private Choices and Public Talk

As John opened his eyes to the first glimpse of dawn, he reached for his wife—only to touch an empty bedroll. Deidra was awake earlier than usual. Reaching for a shirt and shorts, John quickly dressed and left the tent. Outside, he stretched before walking toward cold fire pits and an empty mess tent—his shirt unbuttoned and boots slung over a shoulder. Though the chill of morning was warming, the camp remained quiet and lifeless, so he arranged several logs into the pit over kindling and struck a match. Soon, a fire blazed and children, accompanied by bleary-eyed parents, rose from their tents as John started toward the beach.

At the edge of the village, a spiderweb stretched across the path, indicating no one had passed west, so John doubled back to the Pishon River. Seeing no one at the bridge, he scoured the woods for signs of life. There, he observed the bright light of a new day burning like a disc through the heavens and thought about the life supported by the burning star: plankton, plants, fish, birds, animals, and people. He remembered myths about divine chariots and sun gods and smiled a little. Still, even if the sun was no more than one of billions of stars, it was part of a cosmos supposedly self-created from nothing at all. John wondered whether there indeed might be a ...

It was at this moment a distant chant echoed from the forest—the singing of a woman. John moved quietly into the old growth forest, his boots still dangling from his shoulders and his bare-footed steps noiseless. The singing grew louder as he drew closer and it wasn’t long before he came to a cluster of ironwood trees where he found a dark-haired woman kneeling in prayer. She bowed before the tallest tree, her hands lifted to the heavens. Then she chanted, worshipping until her forehead pressed mud and her mouth kissed moss.

John stepped into the open. “Deidra,” he called to his wife. “What are you doing here?”

Deidra glanced back only for an instant before returning to her ritual. A moment later, she stood—now chanting louder than before and dancing around the chosen tree: knees lifted high and arms over her head. John remembered how he once teased that dancing Native Americans looked to be playing drunken hopscotch, but now he didn’t find it funny.

“Deidra,” John said, “that’s enough.”

Deidra danced faster as John moved closer. She circled the old tree, shuffling from one leg to the other, moving her hands down her hips and whirling her black hair in a full circle. She paid the white man no heed as her pace quickened—her chanting almost frenzied.

“Heh-heh-heh-heh. Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.”

“For God’s sake,” John said, “get hold of yourself.”

Deidra ignored her husband as she made two passes around the tree. As John watched, she fell to her knees, clasped her hands in prayer, and kissed the earth. Only when she’d completed her ritual did she turn around to face the earthly distraction.

“What,” John growled, “in the name of heaven are you doing?”

“I’m praying,” Deidra said as she stood upright and unembarrassed, “to the gods of this place.”

“You’re praying to a tree.”

“It’s the supreme god of this forest. Look how it towers above the others. It’s older than you and I.”

“So are the sea turtles.”

“Wise aged creatures.”

“Good soup, too.”

“Don’t mock the gods.”

John shook his head. “Don’t tell me you actually believe in your grandpa’s mumbo jumbo?”

“Grandfather,” Deidra scowled, “was a wise man.”

“He was a witch doctor.”

“Who had the power to heal.”

“He couldn’t cure cancer.”

“The gods didn’t will it.”

“So they let their last true believer waste away?”

“I’m not going to debate theology with you.”

“For goodness sake, Deidra,” John said, “you have a Master’s Degree from Arizona State. You know this superstition is a fraud.”

“You follow the ways of your ancestors,” Deidra replied, “so why shouldn’t I?”

“My ancestors were miners and cavalry officers.”

“And mine heeded the gods.”

“A lot of good it did them.”

“No wonder,” Deidra replied with a scowl, “grandfather cursed me for marrying a white man.”

“Now I’m a bad luck charm?”

“He cursed you too in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Deidra,” John said, “I’ve been damned in God’s name by plenty of men and I’m still here.”

“In any case,” Deidra replied, “I intend to worship my ancestors and their gods and you’ll just have to accept my beliefs.”

“You used to poke fun at native religions more than I ever thought to.”

“I was younger.”

“And wiser.”

“Wisdom is the blessing of the gods. They give it for ...”

“For what?”

“For lineage.”

“I figured as much,” John now said as he shook his head. “No dance around this tree is going to put a baby in your belly.”

“Can you really say that? Don’t your people claim God performs miracles?”

“My people don’t snort mescaline and pray to the spirits of dead coyotes.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Deidra said.

“You know how I’ve always stood beside you,” John said. “I’ve done everything a man can do. I came to this damned island just to please you. But I swear I don’t know what to do about this kind of craziness.”

“You haven’t prayed to the gods of my people.”

“It’s nonsense.”

“Was it nonsense that grandfather made me barren for marrying you?”

“I don’t remember,” John growled, “the tests registering positive for curses.”

Deidra showed no embarrassment. “Science,” she declared, “doesn’t see everything.”

“Well,” John said, “science certainly can’t see the non-existent, so it won’t see me praying to wood—and neither will you or anyone else.”

“If you scorn the gods,” Deidra growled, “they won’t bless your seed. Or any woman who sleeps with you.”

“I won’t participate in this nonsense.”

“Then you’re no husband of mine”—Deidra stomped her foot once—“if you won’t pray to the gods of my house.”

“I’ll burn your damned gods if you bring them into my tent.”

“Just like a Presbyterian,” Deidra retorted as she walked away.

John watched her leave before he himself returned to the village—where he picked at his breakfast as he sat beneath a palm at the edge of camp. After eating, he found his work partner and started on his assigned duties, saying nothing of what troubled him.

It wasn’t long after John lit a breakfast fire that the village stirred—many of the neighbors awakened by the aroma of burning wood. Breakfast was served after a time, children eating before adults. Sean was the last one to arrive at the mess tent and collected breakfast for himself and Ursula as everyone else finished. Filling two mugs with coffee and two bowls with lukewarm oatmeal, he took the food home to serve Ursula breakfast in bed to make amends for yesterday’s bad behavior. He propped the bowls filled with oatmeal against his ribs and held the cups of coffee in his fingers to unzip his tent fly—though he wasn’t welcomed as he had hoped.

As soon as Ursula smelled the food, she clutched her stomach. “Uggghh,” she screamed. “Get out! Now!”

Sean’s eyes opened wide as he jumped backwards. He set the food on the ground outside the tent before sticking his head back inside. “You okay?”

“Of course not,” Ursula groaned, “you jackass.”

“What’s wrong? You have the flu or something?”

Ursula turned from her stomach to her side and propped herself up with one arm. Her eyes were red and puffy, almost swollen shut, and her lower lip quivered when she talked.

“Explain how,” Ursula growled, “someone gets the flu on a tropical island where there’s no contact with the outside world?”

“Oh yeah. Then what do you have?”

“What I have,” the young woman said, “is the firstborn child of the village idiot.”

Sean froze where he stood. Only after a long pause did he step into the tent and sit, asking if she was sure.

“Don’t I look sure?” Ursula replied.

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“Bastard,” Ursula whispered, “maybe I should call for a medevac to fly me to base camp? Or maybe I should just jog there?”

“Oh yeah. You can’t really hike, can you?”

“Like I said, the village idiot.”

“How do you know?”

“Anyone who has met you knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That you’re the village fool.”

“I meant the baby,” Sean said. “How do you know you’re pregnant?”

“The test was positive.”

“When did you take it?”

“Two days ago.”

“Take another to be sure.”

Ursula looked at Sean with disgust. “You don’t get,” she said, “any more pregnant, you ass.”

“I just thought,” Sean said as he shook his head, “there might have been a mistake. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I thought,” Ursula growled through clenched teeth, “you’d be real excited.”

Sean ran his hand through his hair as he asked how it happened.

“That first night on the ship,” Ursula said. “I don’t remember disposing of a condom. Or using spermicide.”

“Aww shit,” Sean said out loud, slapping his hand into his leg, “you’re right.”

Ursula reached for a nearby cracker sitting on a box and began to nibble.

“What will you do?” Sean asked.

“It’s my choice,” Ursula said. “My choice. Understand?”

“I know.”

“I don’t want a baby and I don’t want to be pregnant ...”

“I agree,” Sean interrupted.

“And,” Ursula continued, “I was going to say I don’t want to bleed to death on this island.”

Sean looked confused.

“The morning after pill,” Ursula said, “isn’t a finished product. Everyone knows it. They just hurried the thing through before the Republicans got control of the FDA. And I think it’s all we have here.”

“Oh.”

“I’m either leaving this island or having this baby.”

“You could come back later,” Sean said.

“Bastard,” Ursula muttered. “I’m not leaving the island—daddy.”

“Are you ... are we ready for a baby?”

“No,” Ursula said, “as a matter of fact, we’re not, especially you. But we have nine months to get ready. I’ve always known I’d be a mom. Just not this soon. But I’ve decided now’s as good a time as any to begin. Linh and Tiff are here to help me—and you.”

“I’m here for you. Just give me a little time to sort this out.”

“You have about nine months.”

Sean turned away.

“In the United States,” Ursula said, “you’d be gone in a heartbeat. But from here, you’re not going anywhere. Too much ocean and too few boats.”

Ursula fell back into bed and Sean took a long walk. Neither one worked full hours that day.

Kit loosened her bandana and ran fingers through her blond hair, then brushed her forelocks back and tied the scarf tight. A bird called from a bush and she whistled to it as she adjusted her bra—her last untorn one—to tighten its stretched straps before fastening a shirt button and tugging the cotton blouse away from her chest. She looked back to insure she wasn’t being watched as she unbuttoned her shorts to tuck the shirt and afterwards retrieved a box of food and walked to the beach along the main trail.

Originally planned for a single hiker, the trail already was double-wide from heavy traffic and Kit wondered whether Lisa might try to narrow the path to its authorized size. Little permanent damage was done thus far—only the trampling of a little grass and the breaking of a few boughs, but Lisa was a stickler for sticks. Still, the widening had taken place naturally enough, without forethought or plan. Now Kit kept to the center of the path, looking into the forest’s canopy and listening to the rush of wind through trees. It didn’t take long to reach a narrow trail that veered from the main path and snaked through a glade of fruit trees near the lagoon. Just as she turned down the narrow trail, she heard the sound of play: the high-pitched scream of a young woman.

Kit wondered who it was and picked up her pace. Within seconds, she emerged from the trees and saw a man and woman swimming. Squinting, she saw Maria splashing a wet-headed man whose back was to the shore—recognizing the young woman by her bunched hair and olive skin.

As Maria looked at Kit, Ryan turned and waved, addressing his wife with a tone almost too pleasing.

“There you are. I was looking for you,” Ryan said as he forced a smile to Kit. “You interested in a swim?”

“There’s your lunch,” Kit said as she dropped the lunch box to the ground. When the box broke open, flatbread flipped into the grass and breadfruit rolled toward the lagoon.

Ryan looked at Kit’s face rather than his spilled lunch and said nothing. Instead, he swam for shore as Maria followed in his wake. Though Kit paid little attention as Ryan emerged from the lagoon with shorts soaked and feet bare, her jaw dropped when she saw Maria emerge from the water in a wet lace bra and beige jockey shorts—both garments nearly transparent. Kit threw the girl’s dry clothes to her and spoke in a tone that wasn’t gentle.