Left on Paradise (12 page)

“I’d take that risk,” Heather observed, “for a good man. Better one man known well than several strangers in my bed.”

“Right now,” Lisa rejoined the discussion, “you haven’t even got one man—known or not—in the sack, unless there’s some secret you’re not sharing.”

“What’s going on, people?”

It was a woman’s voice not yet heard that now sounded.

“We’re talking about true love,” Lisa answered, “and the abolition of marriage.”

“Hand me that joint,” Ursula said as she sat beside Jason. “You can count Maria’s vote for abolishing marriage.”

“Why’s that?” Jose said as he sat up.

“I’m pretty sure she’s got the hots for Ryan and she’s frustrated by his marriage vows. She’s torn between sexual frustration and self-respect.”

“Don’t you see?” Hilary said jumping to her feet. “This is exactly what I mean. Even now, the letter of the law thwarts love. All I want is to free love from every barrier.”

“Down with the monopoly of marriage,” Jason shouted.

“That sounds,” Sean said with a loud laugh, “like laissez-faire morality.”

Lisa groaned in pretended anguish.

“Besides,” Sean continued, “it’s a moot point. Maria’s got nice hips, but she’d never compete with Kit’s breasts. Or legs.”

Ursula glared at her boyfriend. “What about my legs?” she snapped. “Tell me what they look like.”

“Like feet,” Sean said with a shrug of his shoulders, “in my mouth. They look like well-shaped ankles in my mouth, I should say.”

“You better say that,” Ursula scowled, “or my ankles are all you’ll be seeing for a long, long time.”

Soon, the conversation died as food and drink were distributed and it was decided to take a swim. Hilary and Lisa already wore bikinis beneath their shirts and shorts, so they simply stripped outer garments and plunged into the surf. Heather and Sean changed behind separate bushes while Ursula filled her hands with food and sat down on the wet sand. Lisa and Jason hadn’t brought suits, so they waded into knee-deep water before stripping to their underwear and diving into the deep. Most partiers swam until their buzz burned off and sluggishness sent them home in groups of two or three.

The bonfire burned down as night passed and by the time its hot coals were covered with ash, not a living soul remained at the beach. Children and caregivers were long gone and most couples had made their way back to the village or toward some private place along the shore. A few celebrants laughed and shouted as they stumbled home while others followed more quietly.

By the time the last couple emerged from the sea to douse the warm embers with buckets of seawater, even the birds had retired for the night. Brent and Tiffany walked home hand in hand and crept into their tent, careful not to disturb their two sons tucked under sheets across the tent. With their short goodnight kiss, a great party came to its end.

10

Flesh of Flesh

The twins woke at sunrise, so Tiffany crawled from the tent with them—barefoot and dressed in day-old clothes. She gave Brent a parting kiss before following her sons into camp, having volunteered for a day of childcare. As she stepped into daylight, the boys ran ahead, unwilling to wait for their slow-moving mother.

“Good morning,” Kit said as Tiffany neared the dining tent where the former actress was laying out plates of sliced fruit on an imported picnic table. “You and Brent get in late?”

“The beach,” Tiffany said, “was beautiful last night. This is a wonderful place.”

Kit pointed to Tiffany’s blouse. “It looks,” she whispered, “like you enjoyed a little romance.”

Tiffany looked down and blushed: her blouse was inside out and she wasn’t wearing a bra. “Whoops,” she said, “it was dark and late and ...”

“I’ll watch the boys while you fix yourself.”

Kit called the boys to sit on a trimmed tree trunk and sliced several pieces of flatbread and kiwi—along with a bowl of oatmeal flavored with banana and sugar and a glass of goat milk—while she told stories of filming Sesame Street. It wasn’t long before Tiffany returned.

“Thanks, Kit. And for fixing them breakfast.”

“Do you mind if I take them for a walk?”

“Maybe this afternoon,” Tiffany said, “if that works for you. We have family time planned this morning.”

Kit said it was fine and Tiffany swept her sons into her arms with a suffocating hug and told them how much she’d missed them. The boys returned their mother’s affection before scampering into the wooded park as Tiffany shouted for them to stay within sight and Kit poured coffee.

“They do love you,” Kit said.

“They’re the sweetest boys I know,” Tiffany replied.

“I never saw boys who were kinder to their mom. Most of the ones I knew back home were brats.”

“In New York?”

“Hollywood,” Kit said. “I guess my nieces in New York weren’t so bad, but I was only there for holidays. The kids I worked with were spoiled and mean–spirited little stars and starlets. Almost every one.”

“We teach the boys progressive values,” Tiffany said, “but our methods are a little more traditional. Mind you, we’ve never actually spanked … I mean, hit … the kids, but we do believe there’s something to the idea that children must be forced to be tolerant and kind. Of course, they’re still boys. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what they’re made of.”

Kit laughed.

“They’re not perfect,” Tiffany continued. “They fight and whine too much and they don’t listen very well, but we don’t expect them to be flawless. All we want is a little respect and affection. And I think we get that.”

“You do,” Kit said. “They’re sweet boys and if I ever had children, I’d like them to be like yours.”

Tiffany nodded her gratitude and Kit refreshed the coffee. After finishing breakfast, both women cleaned dishes.

Two women announced themselves with a polite greeting before entering the doctor’s tent. They had started for base camp early that morning, but the climb up Mount Zion proved difficult and the descent down the eastern slope even worse—and they didn’t arrive until lunch. Ursula was covered with sweat and felt ill (having stopped to relieve herself several times) while Maria clutched her side. The doctor’s attention remained fixed on his computer screen even after the young women entered his office.

Dr. Graves wasn’t a young man. His hair was streaked with gray and there was a paunch to his belly. His arms were spindly and his legs skinny—and he was dressed in plaid shorts with a button down shirt, along with sagging tube socks and open sandals. Even in Paradise, doctors dressed unfashionably. They also made patients wait. The doctor ignored the two patients as he scanned medical files.

After several minutes, Ursula cleared her throat and asked if the doctor had some time, but the physician dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. Not until he perused two last files did he turn toward the visitors.

Observing their flushed faces and sweaty shirts, Doctor Graves asked if they’d been jogging.

Ursula laughed. “Who needs to?” she asked. “You’re going to end up with a ward of anorexics the way our calorie counts are falling.”

The doctor chuckled. “You’re from which neighborhood?”

“West.”

“Over Mount Zion,” Maria added.

“I just remembered something I have to do,” the doctor interrupted. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Maria and Ursula continued to wait as the doctor again hunched over his computer. This time it took him only a minute to modify and save a file. Meanwhile, Ursula reached into a pouch in her khakis for a packet of saltines—over which she spread peanut butter—while Maria sat down. Ursula offered to share the crackers, but Maria declined her offer, having filled herself with day-old flatbread during the walk over Mt. Zion. Indeed, Ursula had just begun to chew when the doctor again addressed his patients.

“What brings the two of you to New Plymouth?” the doctor asked.

“Medical supplies,” Maria said.

“Is someone ill?”

“Nothing like that,” Maria said. “We need girl stuff.”

The doctor winced. “Which products?”

“I need tampons,” Ursula said, “and she needs the pill.”

“Are you completely out?”

“I am,” Ursula said.

“Almost,” Maria added.

“That’s bad,” the doctor replied with a grimace.

The two women eyed each other.

“What’s wrong?” Ursula asked.

“We lost only one crate when we unloaded,” the doctor said, “but it was filled with women’s supplies.”

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

“What I mean to say,” the doctor said with a loud voice, “is our tampons, sanitary napkins, PMS pills, sponges, and birth control pills are gone. You could say they’re sunk beneath the sea.”

“What does that mean—sunk beneath the sea?” Ursula said, her tone agitated and voice loud.

“I mean sunk beneath the sea,” the doctor said, “literally.”

Neither woman spoke.

“Remember the crate,” the doctor explained, “the Russians dropped that first day? Well, it included all of our female supplies.”

No one spoke for a full minute, while the two women assessed the impact of the loss and the doctor waited for their reaction.

It was Ursula who finally broke the silence. “What are we supposed to do?” she asked, her voice curt.

“I’ve ordered replacements,” Doctor Graves said with a shrug, “for the six-month resupply.”

“But,” Maria now joined the conversation, her voice also noticeably sharp, “what are we supposed to do now?”

“To begin with,” the doctor said, “you can calm down. We have backup plans and homegrown remedies.”

The women let him talk.

“I doubt,” Dr. Graves said, “you’ll find any of the pill to share. Not only are there differing prescriptions, but most women brought only a temporary supply—as we most unfortunately advised.”

“What kind of solution is that?” Maria snapped. “Pope Paul VI’s solution to world depopulation?”

“It’s not the solution,” Dr. Graves said. “The solution is that the men’s supplies are intact. I have thousands of condoms, two boxes of fifty for every man on the island. That gives you and your boyfriend at least a hundred. Just for a few months. Probably more, since some couples won’t use any at all. I suppose your appetite isn’t much stronger than that. Even at your age.”

“My appetite,” Maria said with a scowl, “isn’t for condoms.”

Dr. Graves walked to a cabinet. “Perhaps,” he said, “you can trade them to a friend with the pill. If not, it’ll be unprotected sex, safe sex, or no sex at all. Of course, you can always take your chances with natural family planning.”

“Unbelievable,” Maria said. “Simply unbelievable. This is supposed to be the twenty-first century.”

“Nevertheless, it’s all we have,” Dr. Graves said as he pulled a box of condoms from a cabinet. “One box or two?”

“I just want an emergency supply,” Maria said as she took a few of the prophylactics. “These are enough.”

“I have plenty for now,” Ursula said, “but my period’s due soon and I’ll need tampons.”

“As I said,” Dr. Graves now shook his head, “they were lost. And I don’t have enough to hand out. We have a limited supply for medical emergencies. Can you borrow from friends?”

Ursula flared in anger. “Do you think,” she said loud and irritated, “we filled our backpacks with damned tampons to hike through the jungle? They weren’t on the list of items to bring and they were on your list of products available, so I’d guess that any of us with any sense brought a one-month supply. At most.”

“Oh,” the doctor said as he sat at his desk to type notes into a computer, ignoring the impatient tapping of Ursula’s fingers. Only after a couple minutes passed did he turn toward the young woman.

“I’ve made a note for spares,” Dr. Graves said, “they’ll be here with the replacements.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meanwhile? Drip down my leg?”

The doctor folded his right arm across his lap and propped his left elbow on his right wrist, his chin resting in the palm of his left hand until he arrived at a solution after several seconds.

“In the past,” the doctor eventually whispered, “women used old rags. Literally.”

Ursula’s jaw dropped.

“You’ll,” Dr. Graves explained, “ just have to find clean cloth, cut and fold it, then ... I don’t need to go into details, do I?”

Ursula shook her head in disbelief.

“Just make sure,” the doctor advised, ”you wash the rags between use. Probably ought to be boiled clean.”

“Unbelievable,” Ursula said. “Just unbelievable.”

“I’m really sorry,” the doctor replied, “but there’s nothing more I can do.”

A minute later both women stood outside the medical tent—where they grumbled several minutes before heading for the nurse’s station to lament their plight to Nurse Fallows. While the nurse was far more understanding, even she could do no more than provide Ursula with a roll of gauze and suggest to Maria infertile means of sexual experimentation.

After picking up a bottle of aspirin, the western women took lunch at the base camp, then made their way to the supply center to collect a sewing kit, steel pots, and sets of snorkels and flippers. Ursula grabbed a roll of bleached-white cotton cloth and the women returned home via a scenic route around the coast, stopping near the south village for a midafternoon snack.

They reached their own village as dinner was being served.

Lisa sat alone by a beech tree whose roots dug deep into the soil underneath the Pishon River, upstream of the bridge—though not as far as the waterfall. Here the din of camp life was inaudible as she enjoyed the quiet of her thoughts. Her eyes were closed and she couldn’t see that her freckled cheeks were browned as she reclined against an aged beach tree—whose canopy stretched to the heights of the forest. Lisa closed her eyes and yawned, her back arched and chest thrust into a gentle breeze. She wore no shirt and her red hair waved in the wind such that the split ends brushed the pink of her breasts.

Lisa let the wind blow where it may.

The young woman reclined against the tree and tucked a folded shirt beneath the small of her back before closing her eyes to enjoy the whisper of the woods as birds flitted through the trees—chirping to reveal themselves—and the creak of jungle insects echoed from the leaves. Mostly, Lisa listened to the soft whisper of the breeze across treetops and the noisy trickle of the brook streaming through rocks. Peace stilled her thoughts and nature quieted her soul. Her spirit grew drowsy and her flesh languid; her hair fluttered. She felt the sun caress her eyelids and massage her breasts, its shafts penetrating the membranous clouds of the South Pacific and warming her thighs. She smiled as she hoped for another touch. It came soon and it wasn’t long before her legs felt aglow and her chest afire. Lisa opened her eyes and noticed that her breasts were freckled and legs tanned, even though the canopy of high trees had softened the sun’s hard touch, and wondered whether she could spend the whole day in this place and decided to stay until dusk. Indeed, she so loved the touch of heaven and earth that she swore to remain faithful to nature until the parting of death.

After some time, a bird sang out and Lisa whistled a response, singing her own song for several minutes: giddy from excitement and pleasure. Taking precautions against burning, Lisa squirted herbal sunscreen into the palm of her hands and spread it from chest to thigh, careful to massage the lotion into flesh virgin to the sun’s burning passion. She wiped the excess of the organic lotion into tall grass and then lay on her back. Following several minutes of agitated movement, she rolled to her belly (using the folded shirt as a pillow), stretched her legs, and pressed her forearms against earth. When she was comfortable, she sighed and relaxed. Soon enough, she slept—her breasts pressed to the earth, hips nestled into grass, and thighs hugged close. Her dreams were of love and nature as the sun pressed close until late in the afternoon.