Left on Paradise (26 page)

“No,” Maria said. “Save me a bite of supper. I have things to do.”

Ryan put a hand on Maria’s shoulder. “You’re a good argument for polygamy,” he said, “and since we’re almost Mormon already, making due without cigarettes and cola ...”

Maria blushed as she looked at her own toes. “And you’re almost justification for doing married men.”

Ryan touched the side of Maria’s face with a finger before returning to the path from which he came and Maria threw her head back while sitting in the falling dark—her weight resting on outstretched arms as she splashed her feet in the water and enjoyed the rush of the stream.

Several minutes later she bolted upright and counted her fingers. Three times she counted them. When she’d finished, she jumped to her feet and smiled. Dark was falling and it was time to go home.

Wednesday brought perfect weather as the sky burned bright and a gentle breeze drove every trace of humidity to sea. It was early when Heather directed villagers toward appointed tasks and by midmorning the work pace slowed as laborers took breaks or refreshed themselves with snacks. After lunch, she pushed even harder, asking several people to work extra hours. Her demanding supervision continued on Thursday and Friday. Only on Friday did she relax—since west villagers had replaced their lost hours and lost supplies alike. Indeed, most villagers already had begun to celebrate their hard-earned weekend, particularly after Ryan announced he and Kit planned to renew their vows Sunday at noon. Only a few villagers continued to work and even they moved at a more leisurely pace—John and Jason fished while Kit helped Linh and Tiffany with laundry.

Now the sun blazed overhead as Heather emerged from the woods barefoot, her boots dangling over her shoulders and empty buckets held in her hands. She headed straight for John and Jason, who worked beside a rack holding dozens of gutted and salted fish—the glassy eyes of dead perch looking everywhere but seeing nothing. John rolled a cleaned fish in a bucket of salt while Jason ran twisted vines through the gills of three others. Both men waved when the teenager approached.

“They need fish guts at the village,” Heather announced.

“I can’t eat another of Linh’s horrible concoctions,” Jason said with a groan. “Don’t send them to her.”

“That’s cruel,” Heather said with a smile. “Her cooking isn’t that bad.”

“I don’t see you lining up for seconds.”

“I’m watching my weight.”

“Watching it plummet from Linh-induced starvation.”

“They’re planting corn in the new field,” Heather said, “and they’ve run low on compost. The New England pilgrims apparently buried dead fish with their corn seeds and Deidra suggested we do the same. An old Indian trick. I mean, a traditional Native American technique.”

“Not a bad idea,” Jason observed.

John said nothing.

“I didn’t think so either,” Heather said as she handed Jason the buckets that she carried. “Can you fill these with some Linh leftovers?”

Jason kneeled to scoop fish guts. “Anyway,” he said, “I was tired of fishing.”

“Well,” John said as he started to kneel beside Jason, “I can’t fish alone.”

“I can help fish,” Heather said, “though I’m not very good.”

“I’ll teach you,” John said.

“I’m about done with my hours for the week,” Jason said. “A couple buckets and I’m at quota.”

“Do what you can and I’ll finish the job,” Heather said as she looked to Jason. “Better yet, take Deidra and Joan two buckets so they can plant, then tell Sean to bring the rest. Between these guts and the sh ...”

“I mean,” Heather paused to rephrase her sentence. “between these guts and the dung in the woods, he can finish his makeup hours.”

“That’s a lot of malice,” Jason said with a frown, “from such a gentle lamb.”

“Beware the wrath of the lamb.”

“Can I take a bucketful to my garden?”

“Do the food fields first,” Heather said, “then feed your weed.”

“Thanks,” Jason said. “I owe you a bag.”

“You know I’ve never touched the stuff,” the teenager said, shaking her finger in front of Jason’s face.

“But it was a genuinely insincere offer,” Jason said as he picked up a dirty towel and started for the west village while Heather and John continued to work their fishing nets—catching nearly a hundred fish during the next two hours. It was a good run and only when the lengthening shadows cooled the water did the nets come up empty. Only then did John dump all remaining buckets of flopping fish into live storage traps for killing and cleaning the next morning.

It was as Heather and John folded nets and stored bait that Sean arrived to fill four empty buckets from fish guts heaped in the grass. As Sean departed carrying a full load of stirred offal (whose stench drifted toward the beach), Heather held her nose and shook her head.

“What he did to you stinks,” Heather said after Sean was gone. “You must hate him.”

“I don’t hate him.”

“I would,” Heather said.

“Deidra’s no innocent,” John said. “She’s more to blame than him. She’s the married one.”

“I hate what he’s done to Ursula.”

“I agree he’s been heartless to her.”

Heather looked at John. “Do you hate her?”

“Deidra?”

Heather nodded.

“I don’t understand her,” John said.

“Some women get desperate over children.”

“She knew a long time ago she’ll never give birth. I’m not the problem and Sean’s not the solution.”

John moved to a palm tree and Heather sat beside him. It was the young woman who broke a long silence.

“Would you take her back?”

“If it’d work,” John said, “I’d try. But it won’t.”

“You seem calm,” Heather said. “I was worse when I found out my parents were having affairs.”

“Only because ...”

John let his words die out and Heather didn’t press the point. There was silence between them—only birds chirped and gulls squawked.

A minute later John spoke.

“This isn’t the first time,” John said. “She cheated our second year of marriage. That was really tough; it killed something that never really came back. Everyone told me to give her another chance. It was a hard time for us from the first. Her family rejected her for marrying a white man and mine were upset I hadn’t married Presbyterian.”

After a long silence, Heather asked how they’d met.

“We were seniors,” John answered, “at a National Park Service internship. We lived together a few months to make sure, then married after grad school”—John wiped his face with outstretched hands as Heather put a hand on his shoulder—“but trouble came soon enough.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Heather whispered.

“You’re a nice girl, Heather. Maybe we should’ve adopted someone like you.”

“There are times when I’d like to be adopted. Can you divorce parents in Paradise?”

“You can’t escape your own flesh and blood.”

“Sometimes I wish I’d never been ...”

John cut her off mid-sentence. “None of us have been conceived in ideal circumstances or perfect families.”

“But I hate that ...”

John put a finger to Heather’s lips. “Hush,” he whispered, “or you’ll wilt before you bloom.”

Heather said no more as she watched John stow nets—his thick neck and thinning hair showing that a number of years had passed since he was a young man. She looked to her young breasts and narrow hips and blushed. She wasn’t old enough for him, good as he might be. When John told her to return to the village and keep peace with her parents, Heather did as she was told.

Kit dropped a bundle of grass sheaves and picked up what was left of her Saturday morning breakfast—a half-filled cup of coffee and a misshapen fruit pastry—as she watched Linh scoop hot coals into an antique iron. Linh blew away some ashes and latched the lid before putting the iron on a towel-covered oak plank sitting atop two stumps.

“I found it at an antique shop.”

“Very Amish,” Kit said.

“The Amish use cutting edge technology compared to us.”

“It is clever.”

“And it works well. I prefer permanent press but this’ll do for a wedding.”

“Just don’t burn a hole in the skirt,” Kit said with a laugh. “It’s my only one.”

Linh ironed out the wrinkles in a white skirt, then traded it to Kit for a blue blouse—which she ironed while Kit folded the white skirt over an improvised hangar made of a whittled stick and corded vine.

“Now for the honeymoon,” Linh said, setting the iron to the ground.

“Two expense-paid days,” Kit said, “on Big Motu Island. Only two hundred yards from Paradise.”

Both women searched through the bundle of loose grass.

“Find the thickest strips,” Linh said, “at least an inch wide.”

Kit and Linh each selected strips of grass and folded them over a cord of twisted green vines, each woman working from an opposite end. The grass was tied to the cord of vines and cut so that it stretched no more than the length of a forearm. Both women worked without talk until the final strips of grass had been joined.

When Linh asked Kit to try it on, the latter slipped behind a tree and soon returned wearing both the grass skirt and a sheepish grin—her left thigh was exposed. The skirt sat low on Kit’s hips, slipping below her belly button and dangling down her thighs.

“We need to add a few more strips,” Kit said.

“Turn around,” Linh replied.

Kit turned.

“It covers your hips completely,” Linh observed.

Kit faced Linh.

“Look,” Kit said, “at the opening on my left side. I’m able to tie the belt, but the grass falls a little short.”

“It looks like a slit dress,” Linh said. “I like it.”

“I don’t,” Kit said as she looked at the grass skirt. “I wore gowns to the Academy Awards that showed more skin than this, but it seems indecent here. In front of our neighbors and their children instead of strangers and cameras.”

“You’ve changed.”

“Or the style has. I’ve always been a slave to fashion.”

“Swing your hips.”

Kit rolled her hips and the grass swished around her thighs. Linh adjusted some of the grass strips before giving further instructions.

“Raise,” Linh said, “your arms over your head. Now do it again.”

This time Kit moved more rhythmically and let the skirt dance around her hips before asking how it looked.

“If Ryan jumps the altar,” Linh declared, “I might marry you myself.”

“Stop it, Linh!” Kit screamed a little. “Don’t say that!”

“Don’t worry,” Linh laughed. “I like men. Especially Viet.”

“I should hope so. He’s given you two children.”

“But it does look good. You look good. I wish I had your shape. Viet wishes I had your shape.”

“He ought to be pleased with who he has. Your hips haven’t an inch on mine—and you’ve given birth. Twice.”

“Still,” Linh said, “even nursing I’ve only half the bust you do.”

Kit turned red.

“The blushing bride,” Linh teased. “That ought to tempt Ryan long enough for a renewal of vows.”

Kit looked away.

“What’s wrong?” Linh asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Linh said. “Lies don’t suit you.”

”Ryan’s eyes,” Kit whispered as she crossed her arms across her breasts, “aren’t on me.”

“Viet’s are,” Linh said. “I guess they all look around too much.”

“Does Viet flirt?”

“Not if he wants to live to see our girls grow an inch taller.”

“There’s yet another reason to have children.”

Now Linh put her arm around Kit and asked what was wrong—though the former actress spoke only after a long while.

“It’s as if,” Kit said, “I’m not beautiful enough for him out here.”

“You’re the most beautiful of all,” Linh said, “even if every one of us could use a long day at the spa. Every woman on the island is poorly dressed and in desperate need of a perm. And a few need a shave.”

“Not me. I’ve got razors left.”

“For goodness sake, give one to Lisa. She has more hair under her arms than my husband.”

“Maria doesn’t.”

Linh said nothing.

“Ryan flirts with her too much,” Kit said.

“Have you talked to him?”

“He said,” Kit replied with a nod, “he’d tone it down, but he doesn’t really see the problem.”

When Linh asked what really was the matter, Kit observed her friend was more perceptive than Ryan—and Linh replied that mothers learn to prod for information while husbands strive not to notice anything amiss.

“I wouldn’t know,” Kit said with a shrug, “anything about mothers.”

“You’re still bickering with Ryan over a family, aren’t you?”

“He just won’t admit,” Kit said as her eyes tightened, “I’ve a right to my own children. I was as much to blame for what we did, but I wish he could see how much it hurts.”