Left on Paradise (22 page)

“Alan, that’s not very nice,” Linh said. “Privacy is a two-way street and ...”

“Freedom in the walls of their own house,” Alan interrupted.

“Within the walls,” Linh said. “Not sounding from the streets. Nylon is a little less soundproof than brick.”

“Then why don’t we just build little farmsteads on the prairie and adopt Midwest decorum?”

“Have you ever thought,” Tiffany said, “how delicate it is to discuss sex with children?”

“Once kids are old enough to know,” Alan said, “they should be told. Before that they don’t understand what they hear.”

“Really?” Tiffany snapped, sarcasm evident in her voice. “I’m glad you’ve got it all worked out. Daddy.”

Alan threw his coffee into the fire; it steamed away, the acrid stench of burnt beans lingering in the damp air.

“Don’t tell me,” the man said, “you’ve never made love in your tent.”

“They’ve never heard us,” Tiffany said. “We find another place if we’re that amorous. Or energetic.”

“If,” Alan replied, “they can’t hear you in the tent, they sure can’t hear anyone else.”

“You woke my family last night,” Tiffany whispered.

Alan turned red.

“So don’t tell me,” Tiffany continued, “how to raise my children. It’ll be awkward enough to tell them about the birds and the bees when they’re old enough. I have no intention of discussing Alan and Steve this soon.”

“Not only are you a bigot,” Alan sneered, “but you’re also against sex education.”

“Sex education uses science books,” Tiffany said. “It’s pornography that uses live models.”

“I think,” Linh said, picking up her dinner bag and standing up, “the idea of a privacy tent would be useful. A sort of couple’s motel.”

“Maybe,” Tiffany said, “but courtesy would also be nice.”

“Let’s pitch that tent,” Alan said, “and let’s set up a children’s hospital on the other side of the camp. A place where mothers can stay with sick children.”

Tiffany said nothing.

“What,” Alan said, “is a few minutes pleasure to a whole night’s misery? Suppose someone did wake your children. Is that any reason for them to whimper and cry till dawn?”

“They’re sick,” Tiffany said, “and they’re small. They can’t help themselves.”

“They’re not that sick and they’re not that small. No one needs to whine all night over a sore throat.”

Tiffany glared at Alan, her expression hard and eyes steeled. “They don’t whine,” she snarled, “half as much as you do.”

“Maybe if I got some sleep, I’d be a little less uptight.”

“You woke them up, not me.”

Alan muttered a few curses before he left and Tiffany and Linh soon changed the subject, talking another hour—mostly about the private wedding that Viet and Linh planned for the coming weekend. Tiffany volunteered to watch their children for the honeymoon until Linh explained she’d made no plans. After they finished talking, each woman returned to her own tent.

Heather was lying alone, a candle lit to supplement the rainy day’s dim light. A yellowed copy of
The Swiss Family Robinson
with a broken spine lay on the tent’s nylon floor and the young woman—now snuggled in her sleeping bag—enjoyed the warmth of the down-filled sleeping roll on such a miserable day. Her lunch plate, mostly eaten, sat on an upturned crate that served as a table and the young woman turned to one side, snuggling with her pillow—breathing out and letting her mind drift. Thoughts of high-school friends and childhood memories came to mind. She wondered if …

A woman’s shout pierced the air.

Heather sat up, cocking her head to the right. The shout was close and it didn’t sound like pain.

A moment later, the woman shouted again and Heather giggled. It was a neighbor making love. The woman moaned several times and the man groaned once. Heather triangulated the distance and figured it was Deidra—maybe she and John were getting along better than before.

When the woman began to moan rhythmically, Heather turned her ear to listen, rolling a little closer to the nylon wall. A few minutes later, the woman shouted again, this time not quite so loud.

“Quiet, for heaven’s sake,” the man said a little too loud, “or she’s going to hear.”

Heather couldn’t make out Deidra’s reply.

“Heather,” the man said even louder.

Then the man stopped talking and love returned. Mostly it was Deidra who made noise and the man only occasionally sounded. Still, as Deidra’s giggling and squealing grew louder and louder—increasingly abandoned and unrestrained—Heather began to feel uncomfortable. She rolled to the far side of her tent and covered her ears with pillows, but the noise grew louder and soon she felt flush. When the man let out a loud cry, Heather went weak at the knees. As silence returned (and with it, embarrassment), the virgin turned on her belly and made herself sleep—though it took a very long time.

Sean scooted into his own tent and sat near the front door, only glancing at Ursula—who remained covered by her bedroll.

“That took a while,” the pregnant woman said.

“I decided to let Deidra cut my hair to spare you the trouble.”

“She didn’t mind?”

“I don’t think so.”

Ursula sat up, her sleeping bag drawn to her shoulders. “I’ve been difficult, Sean,” she said. “I don’t know what comes over me sometimes. I feel like a different person with this baby.”

Sean looked away. “We all have weak moments,” he whispered.

“And you really have been patient.”

“I could do better.”

“Did you hear a woman shout across the camp?”

“Was that a shout?” Sean stuttered. “I thought I heard something.”

“It put ideas in my head. It reminded me of your work.”

Sean didn’t reply.

“Come over here,” Ursula said, dropping the bedroll to reveal her naked body, slender and toned. Even her belly remained flat and smooth.

Sean gasped as Ursula climbed out of the sleeping bag and crawled forward.

“If you won’t come to me,” Ursula said, “I’ll come to you.”

Sean didn’t move.

Only when Ursula had moved within reach of her prey did she stop. At first she smiled as her eyes moved from one side of Sean’s head to the other; then she reached forward, turned his face to the left and to the right.

“Why did she only cut one side of your hair? How could ...” Ursula’s face filled with blood and anger. “Those were her shouts.”

“N-no,” Sean started to say until Ursula cut him short.

“Get out!” Ursula screamed. “Get out!”

“But I ...”

Ursula hurled herself at Sean, her elbows tucked against her sides and her arms upright—fists pounding at Sean’s shoulders. The stance was ineffective and Sean parried the blows, grabbing the young woman by the wrists and holding fast. Even when Ursula twisted to drive a knee into his groin, he turned his hip and blocked the blow with a thigh before pushing her across the tent, snatching a dirty sweatshirt, and jumping through the half-zipped entrance of the tent.

Ursula followed him into the rain. “Adulterer! Cheater! Bastard!” she screamed, following as Sean hurried toward the mess tent. Only after she took a dozen steps did Ursula realize she was naked and return weeping to her tent.

It was dusk when John returned from base camp. He had met with staff professionals during the day and used both online and book libraries for his research. As soon as he came home, he went to the fire to find both dinner and his wife. Deidra was carving her tiki and talking with Sean under the tarp while Jose and Lisa maintained an uncomfortable silence just a few feet away and Heather roasted breadfruit over an open flame. All four children played cards with their parents under the light of an oil lantern and cover of a canvas tarp.

When John broke a piece of bread and sat between Deidra and Sean, everyone fell quiet—with several villagers retiring through the light rain to their tents.

“You find anything?” Deidra spoke with a matter-of-fact tone to her voice.

“Medicine still can’t make any promises.”

“There’s your science for you,” Deidra said as she raised a glass of whiskey in a mock toast. “It means less than faith.”

John watched as his wife downed a swig of whiskey and handed the bottle to Sean (who screwed the cap on the flat-sided bottle and left), then eyed Deidra’s whittled block of wood. Already it took the square-shouldered appearance of a god.

“Faith in a totem pole?” John asked.

“No,” Deidra snarled, “as a point of fact, totem poles are not native to this region and I need to honor the gods of this island. The tiki. This will be the goddess of fertility for my house.”

“It’s not,” John spoke through clenched teeth, "staying in my house.”

“I never said it would.”

“I’ll throw the damned thing in the fire.”

“You’re an ethnocentric bigot.”

John glanced at the other neighbors. “These people,” he whispered, “don’t need to know all about our problems.”

“I’m sure they’re not naïve. Or deaf.”

Deidra burst into laughter, laughing so hard tears streamed down her cheeks and she held her stomach from pain. Most villagers turned away.

John appeared perplexed as he asked for an explanation from his wife—though she broke into laughter every time she tried to talk. When he finally threw his hands in despair and started home, Heather rose to follow him, braving the rain without an umbrella. She quickly caught John from behind and tapped his shoulder. Even in the dark and the rain, the tears in her eyes were evident.

“John, you have a minute?” Heather asked.

“What’s wrong, Heather?”

“Not here. Follow me.”

Heather led John not to her tent, but Kit’s—where they found Kit dressed in sweats and reading a book by lamp light. She explained Ryan was playing poker with the singles.

John asked what was wrong.

“We’ve terrible news,” Heather said, “but I didn’t think I should tell you. Since I’m not married.”

“Is this about Deidra?”

Kit said that it was.

“Is she cheating?”

Kit nodded.

“Who?”

“Sean.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” Kit said, “they were together today. Ask Heather. She heard. The whole neighborhood heard.”

John’s shoulders dropped. “I’m not surprised,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” Kit said.

“I should’ve stayed,” John said as his lip quivered. “I’ve tried to be there for her and I even went to camp to see if any new approaches were available.”

“The sad part,” Kit said with a quiet voice as she tapped John’s shoulder with a single finger, “is that you’re a good man. Not like Sean.”

“It’s been hard from the start,” John said. “Did you know she dual-majored in Native American Culture and Forestry? That’s how she ended up as a park ranger at the Grand Canyon. But she always wanted a son. She used to say she’d name him Geronimo to spite my dead ancestors. It was a joke at first. Not later.”

“Can’t doctors do anything?” Heather asked.

“No, and we shouldn’t go into details. It’s not a public matter.”

“I’m sorry,” Heather said.

“It’s not your fault.”

Both Kit and Heather nodded without speaking.

“I thought,” John continued, “taking her away from her family would remove the pressure to bear a son. I failed and now she’s whittling a totem. Her answer to medical failure is superstition. And adultery, I guess.”

Heather dropped her eyes and Kit looked away.

“You said everyone heard?” John asked.

Both women blushed.

“Please,” John said. “She’s my wife.”

“She moaned and hollered,” Heather said.

“Loud enough for the whole camp to hear,” Kit whispered.

John said nothing for a long while and the two women also remained silent.

“I can’t go home,” John finally said, “so I guess I need to find a place until I can make other arrangements.”

“Use my tent tonight,” Heather said.

“That wouldn’t look right,” John replied. “I guess I’ll stay in the storage tent.”

“Take my tent,” Heather insisted. “I’ll stay with my parents.”

John consented with a nod, then returned to the campfire to speak a few quiet words to Deidra—who dropped her head and didn’t reply. Afterwards, he returned to his tent and packed his bags before proceeding to Heather’s tent for a sleepless night even as Sean moved his clothes into John’s empty place. Both men packed light and it didn’t take them long to move.

Even as the men changed tents, Heather packed her sleeping roll and a few toiletries before she walked through drizzling rain until she found herself at a dark and noiseless tent. When she called out, no one answered, so she unzipped the fly and looked in, grimacing as the sound of light snoring filled her ears. She squeezed through a partially opened door with her sleeping bag and looked into the darkness at the dark form of her father—who was cloaked in shadows at the far end of the tent, his head upon her mother’s breast and covered with a single sheet. The tent reeked of sweat and gin.