With this fortuitous timing, she had an extra year to mature and prepare, much more than girls like Janice Saul, who had started bleeding in May and was still small as a child when she went off to her summer of fruition. It also meant a year of peaceful sleep in her bed, for now Father could not touch her. But she was still terrified, for her body was about to be loosed into a world of men and motherhood and blood. She didn’t dare talk of her fear with any of her friends, worried about seeming weak, or discovering that everyone else she knew was thrilled about the whole thing. She raised her head and pretended a lack of concern, and at night lay awake, her hands wringing and her teeth peeling strips of flesh, delicate as onionskin, from her lips.
It was tradition for a girl’s mother to escort her—or drag her—to the house where the summer of fruition began. Amanda’s mother may have hated her daughter, but she also insisted on upholding appearances. That morning, as Amanda performed her usual ablutions with trembling hands, brushing her hair until it shone and scrubbing her teeth with salt, stopping to empty her bladder every five minutes, Father sobbed in his bedroom. She hated the sounds he was making, childish and raw and intrusive, and had to bite her tongue not to scream at him to shut up.
When she emerged in her church dress, Mother was staring out the window, her arms crossed around herself. Elias was nowhere to be seen. Amanda wondered if Father was going to dry his tears and come give her one last embrace, but the sobs from the bedroom continued. Mother turned to examine Amanda, letting her flinty eyes travel from the neat braids to the clean leather clogs, and sniffed. “Well,” she said. “Let’s go.”
As Amanda began walking silently a few paces behind Mother, she wished for the hundredth time that she had a normal mother, one who might whisper words of encouragement or wisdom. Amanda knew that if nobody was watching, Mother would skip with glee like a summer child to finally be getting rid of her—but then again, maybe not. Amanda’s summer of fruition was Mother’s first step toward death. When Amanda had children, her parents only had until the wanderers deemed Father no longer useful, and then they would drink their final draft and be buried in the fields. It usually didn’t take long, particularly for those who made their living with their bodies. Father never complained, but she saw him limp sometimes and knew which shoulder was his bad one. Sometimes old men, terrified of leaving the world, worked even as they cried and screamed with pain, until a wanderer came to counsel them into a quiet death.
Amanda saw muddy children streaking across the horizon like fish leaping, and closer, two children ran past and then stopped, so suddenly that one bumped into the other. “It’s Amanda,” whispered one of them, and they took hands and stared at her as she slowly passed, as if she were an otherworldly being or exotic beast. They were probably thankful they weren’t her. She would be thankful to be them.
When they neared the Aarons’ house, Mother took her arm tensely as they walked. Amanda half expected Mother to bend her head and begin muttering gibberish, pretending to offer support she had no inclination to give. Unused to the feel of Mother’s skin, Amanda was surprised at its slackness and dryness, and had to fight to keep from pulling her arm away. They stopped near the door.
“Good-bye, Amanda,” said Mother primly.
“Mother?” said Amanda, and Mother turned to face her. Fighting not to let her fear show itself, Amanda felt a tear slide down her cheek and said despairingly, “Do you have anything to tell me?”
Mother’s mouth tightened. “What would I have to tell you?” she asked, her eyes narrow and dismissive.
Amanda shook off Mother’s arm like she might a stinging insect. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and left Mother gratefully behind.
She opened the door slowly, hoping she wouldn’t cry or scream or otherwise embarrass herself while everyone else sipped tea and stared in astonishment. Taking a deep breath, she walked into a group of about fifteen girls her age, some huddled on the floor, some embracing bravely, and one vomiting in the corner.
Looking back, Amanda admires how Renata Aaron handled them. She cleaned them up, calmed them down, and sat them on the floor with cake and milk.
“I want all you girls to know that none of you will be forced to do anything,” said Mrs. Aaron. Some of the girls sighed in relief, but Amanda didn’t quite believe her. “I also want you to know that for the first month there is to be no physical contact whatsoever. I mean it. You will get to know these fine young men through nothing more than conversation.”
“What happens after a month?” asked Ursula Solomon, her mouth ringed with crumbs.
“We will meet again and decide what to do,” said Mrs. Aaron cheerfully.
At their age, twelve and thirteen and fourteen, a month was still a lifetime. The girls shifted and glanced at one another, seeking permission to relax their posture and unclench their teeth.
“Now, remember you can’t marry someone with the same last name as you,” said Mrs. Aaron, “so you might not want to waste time talking to them, although it’s always nice to be friendly. And nobody who is a father, son, uncle, or brother to anyone in your family. That’s the rule. Even if you love them and want to marry them. So don’t love them.”
“What if we can’t help it?” said Jennifer Abraham, and someone else giggled faintly.
“Well,” said Mrs. Aaron sweetly, “I suggest you ignore them. There is no point in fanning a fire which must be put out.”
There was a pause, and she continued. “I want you to know that all the young men who have come of age and are ready for marriage are kind and gentle men. You don’t need to worry about anyone hurting you, or being cruel to you.” Nobody looked at Paula Moses, who had fresh fingerprint bruises around her wrists. “Kind and gentle men,” repeated Mrs. Aaron emphatically.
If they’re all kind and gentle men, then how did Paula Moses’s father get married? thought Amanda, and Mrs. Aaron glared at her as if she had spoken aloud.
“As you know,” said Mrs. Aaron, “you will be spending each night in a different household, moving from house to house during the day. Everyone is thrilled to have you. I am but the first of many women who will help and guide you.
“You will travel as a group, always having each other, and the men will join you at the end of the day when they are finished working. You will spend the whole night together. I want you to be respectful of other people’s homes and not break anything, or try to hurt anyone.”
Amanda wonders who, in the past, has broken things and hurt people.
“Now, are there any questions?” asks Mrs. Aaron.
The girls glance at one another. The idea of raising a hand and asking a question when faced with such a massive, enormous unknown is laughable. Where would they start? But then Ursula pipes up, “What if I don’t like any of the men?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Aaron, “I find that unlikely. Every girl who goes through her summer of fruition finds a husband.”
But they don’t necessarily like them, thinks Amanda.