Left on Paradise (23 page)

Heather cleared a space near the door as far from her parents as possible—and unrolled her bedroll as the fall of rain on the nylon muted her bedtime preparations. She crawled into her sleeping bag fully clothed, her bra loosened and her shoes paired at the doorway. Her back turned to her parents, she scooted as close to the side of the tent as she could.

“Lord,” Heather whispered as her eyelids grew heavy and her thoughts wavered between day and night, “please let them be too drunk for anything but sleep.”

A moment later she was fast asleep.

19

The Sewage Backs Up

The rain was still falling when Heather woke: a steady patter of noise showering the tent. The rustle of sheets caused her eyes to open—her parents were making love.

“For heaven’s sake,” Heather shouted as she squeezed her eyes shut, “haven’t you two any shame at all?”

Surprised that Heather was in the tent, Joan shouted her daughter’s name—which caused the latter to bolt upright as she instinctively opened her eyes and turned to her mother’s voice. But this wasn’t what Joan intended and she screamed a second time on seeing her daughter’s wide-eyed face as the virgin stared at her mother’s bed: the older woman’s breasts flattened against the chest of a thick-haired middle-aged man whose legs stirred beneath the sheets.

Now Heather’s face turned white and her voice rose to a frantic pitch. “That’s not dad,” she shouted.

“Get out!” Joan screamed.

Heather jumped to her feet and tugged at the tent’s door—though the zipper moved only a couple inches before snagging. Though she tried to pull the zipper back, it wouldn’t budge.

“Heather, get out!” Joan screamed yet again. “Get out of here!”

“Stop it, Mother! Stop it!”

“Not in front of my daughter,” Joan shouted out loud as she pushed the man away while reaching for a sheet.

“I can’t stop,” the man cried out.

“Get off,” Joan yelled as she pushed harder at the man.

“Almost.”

“Now. Dammit. Now.”

“There,” the man cried out as he rolled away from Joan—who immediately pulled up the sheet to hide her nakedness.

“Lord,” Heather screamed even as she kept her eyes locked on the stuck zipper, “save me from these people.”

Heather yanked at the zipper twice more, but still it remained stuck. When the girl heard the sound of rustling from her mother’s bed and the voice of the strange man offering to help, she clenched her teeth.

“Let me help,” the man said as he stirred from bed.

“Don’t bother,” Heather cried out, turning to speak just as the man stood to his feet without cover of clothes or blanket, plainly exposing to the daughter the nakedness her mother had just known.

Closing her eyes, Heather spun toward the flap, grabbed the zipper with both hands, and yanked as hard as she could. This time, cloth ripped, tent tore, and Heather fell forward—splashing face-first in the mud with yet another scream, more from surprise than pain.

Heather didn’t remain in the mud long. Pushing herself to her knees, she wiped her muddy face with a muddier hand. When Joan emerged from the tent covered with a sheet and calling to her daughter, the girl scampered to her feet—splashing mud as she ran to her own tent, and looking neither left nor right as she left her mother behind. She quickly reached her own tent.

“John, are you up yet?” Heather shouted a few feet from the front flap.

“Yeah.” It was a man’s voice that answered.

“Can I come in?”

“I’m up.”

“Are you dressed?”

“I am,” the voice said.

“Head to toe?”

“I guess I don’t have socks on. Otherwise I’m all covered up.”

“Promise?”

“Come in, Heather,” John said. “What’s wrong?”

Heather entered the tent and looked at John—her face muddied and hair uncombed. Her shoulders were slumped and chin dropped.

“That’s how I feel,” John said as he handed the girl a towel. “Take this.”

Heather caught the towel and wiped the mud as best she could, then explained—without divulging too much detail—how she’d caught her mother in bed with a stranger. Afterwards, she buried her face against John’s shoulder and wept as he consoled her with soft hugs and kind words. Tears washed away the covering of dirt on the young woman’s face as she sobbed until her voice shook and her breath gasped; then she wept another spell. Only after she calmed down did John retrieve breakfast for the girl before packing his bags and leaving Heather to the privacy of her tent.

The rain fell harder as the morning passed. As villagers drank coffee and made small talk beneath the shelter of a tarp and near the warmth of a fire, Alan and Kit worked through the morning’s chores. As he mixed bread, Alan talked to Steve while Kit stood beneath the shelter of a canvas tarp. After a time, Alan pointed at the fire—which had burned down to its last log.

“Kit,” Alan said, “we need firewood. Can you get it? I’m still kneading this bread. It’s been slow to rise.”

Kit didn’t reply.

“You might as well move the whole stack,” Alan said. “We’re burning the stuff like it grows on trees.”

Kit looked at the covered stack of cord twenty yards away. It’d be a wet walk to move so much wood. She looked back at Alan standing beneath a dry tarp. Slowly shaking her head, she stepped into the rain. The ground was soaked and mud filled her canvas shoes while the rain chilled her like a cold shower. By the time she reached the woodpile, Kit’s hair hung limp over her shoulders and goose bumps pimpled her arms. She picked out an armful of wood and returned, stacking the logs neatly beneath the overhead tarp that protected the campfire. Then she went for a second load.

Four times Kit made the trip, each effort more labored than the previous try. Twice she took breaks to catch her breath, warm her hands, and nurse scratches across her wrists. Twenty minutes later only a single piece of wood remained: a misshapen stump dug from the earth that appeared to weigh twenty or thirty pounds. Kit rubbed her sore arms and took a long look at the mess tent before she called to Alan—who still was kneading dough.

“There’s one piece left,” Kit asked, irritation evident in her voice. “Can you get it?”

“You’re almost done.”

“It’s too heavy.”

“We’ll get it later,” Alan said. “This bread’s giving me trouble. Working dough in this humidity is tough.”

“So is hauling wood,” Kit said as she glared at Alan. “It’s a man’s job.”

“I’ll get it later.”

“We need to get it under cover.”

“I’ll get it as soon as I can.”

Kit scowled as she looked again at the goose pimples on her arms and the mud on her legs. Her hair was drenched and she’d torn her shirt at the collar.

“Now,” Kit snapped, her tone far more insistent than before. “Don’t be so selfish.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You get wet and I’ll bake bread for a while.”

“Sorry you’re wet,” Alan said, “but I’m busy right now. We’ll get the wood when we can. You’ve already brought plenty. What’s the hurry?”

“The hurry,” Kit said, her voice sharp and lips curled, “is to keep the wood dry and prove you’re a gentleman.”

Steve joined the conversation while Kit waited in the rain and Alan turned back to his dough.

“C’mon Kit,” Steve said, “you’re not the type to slur. We don’t discriminate on the basis of gender roles here and Alan has as much right to bake bread as you. Go warm yourself at the fire and I’ll get the log in a minute.”

Kit kicked her foot into the mud and stomped the few steps back to the stump before Steve could wipe dough from his hands. She bent down to grab the log, turning deep red and groaning from the strain. Struggling to pull the stump to one hip, she stumbled two or three steps forward before slipping in the mud. As the log landed on her ankle, she let out a sharp scream: her shout of pain unmistakable.

Several neighbors immediately sprang to assist—with Steve arriving first, Ryan at his heels, and Brent a few seconds later. The men helped her to her own tent: where Ryan removed her shoe and Brent rotated the swollen ankle as he prodded at a dark bruise.

Kit fought back her tears.

“How does it feel when I wiggle it?” Brent asked.

Kit answered with a groan.

“At least you’re not screaming,” Brent said, “so I doubt it’s broke.”

“Should we send for the doctor?” Ryan asked.

Kit shook her head.

“Well, it’s off to your tent for a day of rest,” Brent said. “Maybe two or three.”

Kit wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand as she explained that the next meal was hers to prepare.

“You’ve put in your day’s work,” Brent said before retrieving aspirin for the injured woman. “Alan can cook by himself.”

After Kit was left in her tent to recover, Brent moved the stump before joining Ryan and Jose for a round of euchre in Maria’s tent. Alan and Steve were left alone in the mess tent, waiting for bread to rise.

“They’re no different here,” Alan said. “Just more homophobes. I’m beginning to think it’s a genetic flaw of heterosexuals to see us as different than themselves. Only if we don’t tell will they not ask.”

“She didn’t mean anything,” Steve replied. “She was cold and wet.”

“Out of the mouth speaks the heart.”

Steve said nothing.

“She’s a feminist,” Alan said, “for equal rights and equal work. Right? No chivalry, no patriarchal daintiness. And the men have no right to judge me. I was doing my assigned work. It was her turn for firewood. Why should I get soaked for her? Would she come into the rain to help me? She’s not in Hollywood now. None of us are.”

Steve shook his head and Alan muttered a few obscenities.

“I was going to help,” Alan said, “as soon as I finished cooking. There was plenty of wood and the bread couldn’t wait. Just like my mother—had to have it done right when she said. No patience at all. Women make me crazy.”

Steve shrugged.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” Alan continued, “they’re no different here than over there. Only here you can’t ...”

Crash! A large bowl filled with slow-rising bread dough fell from the table. Alan spun and looked down to see the entire day’s work covered with dust and mud and a few dead bugs. Theodore and Tyrone stood an arm’s length away, one pushing and the other pulling at his twin.

Alan lunged for the boys—who jumped away just in the nick of time—then watched as the twins sprinted to opposite sides of the tent.

“Not that trick again,” Alan said as a grim smile crossed his face and he vaulted over the table, blocking the sole exit just as the boys circled to reach it. The twins ran straight into his arms and he subdued them, dragging each one by the wrist toward the dough.

“Pick it up,” Alan ordered.

The boys didn’t move.

“Pick it up,” the man growled louder.

Still the boys didn’t move.

“I’m telling you boys to pick it up or I’m going to beat you a ...”

“Alan,” Steve interrupted, “patience.”

Alan shoved a morsel of dirty dough into Tyrone’s mouth. “Here’s your dinner,” he barked. “You helped make it, so you get the first bite.”

Tyrone gagged, spit the dough out, and bawled as Alan turned toward his twin and asked whether that boy also wished to eat a mud pie, but Theodore didn’t want a mud pie and kicked Alan hard in the leg to prove it.

Alan grabbed the defiant boy, forced his mouth open with one hand as he stuffed a bit of dough into his mouth with the other.

Theodore spit the dough into Alan’s face, wiggled free, and ran home with his brother following in his footsteps—both boys running straight to their mother to tattle on their older neighbor.

It already was afternoon when Linh walked barefoot beyond the perimeter, dressed in a torn sweatshirt and grungy shorts. The cold rain streamed down her legs as she inched forward, her flip-flops sinking deep into puddles which filled every hole in the earth. Mud oozed over her toes, only partially washed by rain.

“At least,” Linh told herself with a smile, “the toilet will be clean.”

Now the woman frowned—a shallow pond had flooded the trail. Splashing through the water, she soon came to a canvas wall that separated private necessities from public exposure. The mud between her toes seemed grittier than before and the puddle looked off-color ...

Linh gasped.

A large strand of toilet paper was stuck to her foot. Shaking it off with a yelp, she looked toward the drainage ditch—from which the overflow backed up. Something solid drifted into her foot. With a groan, Linh shook off the shit now stuck between her toes, but her kick was so sharp that the sewage disintegrated into small bits that sprinkled across her calves. She shook her legs until the biggest chunks fell away, then maneuvered to dry land, trying not to splash as she waded through open sewage. Reaching solid ground, she first jogged and then sprinted for help. Breathless and winded, she sounded the alarm as soon as she reached the village.

Her cries didn’t go unheeded. The risk to public health was immediately recognized and everyone who could work—which exempted only Ursula, Kit, and the children—dressed in their worst clothes. Boots were left in tents and torn shirts donned. Ten minutes later the camp was assembled, axes and saws collected, and hazardous waste bags drawn from emergency stores. Villagers marched to the recycling area to begin cleanup. One work party felled trees to dam the rising water while a second detail placed sandbags in an improvised levy to contain the overflow. A third group waded directly into the sewage—shovels in hand—to clear fouled drainage ditches. While the first two parties built a foot-high berm to block the rising tide of sewage, the diggers spent two hours working through the clogged drainage trenches. When they finally snaked through the final plug, water swirled around their feet and drained into the woods, taking with it whatever waste could be carried away. A few minutes later, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and the woods warmed.