It’s Wednesday at four. The invitation must have taken a couple of days to make its way to Amanda. She can’t be too upset, because it takes a lot of courage to go outside at the moment. Andrew is mostly busy from dawn until dusk, since even a tiny chink in the roof means swarms of mosquitoes. Amanda found the netting barely tolerable when she went to find Janey, but the thought of spending yet another day entirely alone with her constantly whirling thoughts makes her want to scream.
Sometimes in the warm days of spring or the crisp days of autumn, the women will organize get-togethers where they move from house to house, never going above the proscribed maximum of three women in one room without a man present. They are enjoyable, breezy, slightly drunken affairs, festivals of quick, pleasant conversations. In the summer, the mosquitoes render these roving gatherings impossible. So far Amanda has ignored the few invitations she’s received; since nobody’s going outside, she doesn’t need to explain her lack of attendance to anyone. Amanda has spent most of the three weeks since she saw Janey brooding and alone. They haven’t spoken since, and Amanda wonders if she should venture outside and try to find her again.
But for now, being left in the house by herself has become so stultifying that even the thought of a gaggle of women touching her belly and gossiping doesn’t deter her. Maybe they’ll understand how she’s feeling, without her having to say anything.
Mrs. Balthazar’s is quite a walk away, and so, sullenly wrapping herself in her layers of netting again, Amanda totters out the door. Sliding her feet one after the other in the mud, she finds a rather peaceful rhythm, warm muck collecting between her toes and falling away with each new motion. Bursting into Mrs. Balthazar’s house, Amanda holds her belly and pants with effort. She spins out of her netting, shaking out her dress and turning around in a frenetic little dance just in case any mosquitoes infiltrated. Amanda heaves a big sigh and looks up to see Mrs. Balthazar smiling at her.
Mrs. Balthazar is quite old—nearing forty—and her granddaughter is only a little younger than Amanda. Because her husband has remained a useful carver, she has been allowed to stay alive along with him. Most elderly people on the island seem to be constantly angry—either at their failing bodies or at their impending death—but Mrs. Balthazar smiles serenely like a woman who has never known fury.
“Thank you so much for inviting everyone, Mrs. Balthazar,” Amanda says as Mrs. Balthazar takes her hands.
“Please call me Betty,” replies Mrs. Balthazar, the skin around her eyes wrinkling. Betty glances over her shoulder and then reaches out a hand to touch Amanda’s belly. “May you have sons,” she murmurs kindly.
The place is packed full of twittering women standing in circles, packed onto furniture, even sitting on the floor. Amanda gazes around for the chaperone and sees Mr. Balthazar seated at a lavishly carved table, looking annoyed at being pressed into service as the required overseer. Chaperones usually act in one of two ways. The first kind circles like a gull, immediately sliding over to bursts of laughter or enthusiasm in the hopes of catching something improper or blasphemous. The other kind can’t stand being surrounded by a flock of women and often dozes off in self-defense. Mr. Balthazar is already blinking heavily.
There are a few children crawling around, those too young to emerge into summer. They cling to random legs and skirts to steady or amuse themselves, and at a sharp cry a pair of motherly arms will reach down and bounce, kiss, or feed one of them until they quiet down.
Amanda sees Pamela Saul, whom she hasn’t encountered since the ritual. Peering at her, Amanda tries to make eye contact across the room, but Mrs. Saul gazes resolutely at a cup of tea in her hand. She looks sad, with deep lines wearing into her face; Amanda wants to go to her, but quails, remembering herself naked and bloody and weeping in the older woman’s arms.
Dejected, Amanda spots Denise Solomon sitting in a chair, nursing her son. Amanda and Denise had their summer of fruition together, which always creates a bond, barring any squabbling over men. They hadn’t spoken much that summer; Denise got pregnant almost immediately and was exhausted and puking the whole time. That baby, born in the depths of winter, was a defective. Amanda can’t remember exactly what was wrong with it, but it was something like no head or no face. The next baby was healthy and sound, and is now busily drinking from his mother’s breast, but Denise isn’t looking at him—she’s gazing at the wall.
Amanda remembers hearing from Andrew that Denise’s younger brother, Steven, died right before summer started, of some sickness—Andrew wasn’t sure of the details. It felled Denise’s father too, and he had to take to his bed right as Steven died, although he survived. Given the mosquitoes and the possibility of infection, Steven’s body was put in the fields quietly and without ceremony.
On an impulse, Amanda kneels next to Denise and takes her free hand. Denise jumps in her seat and then smiles faintly. “Hello, Amanda.”
“Hello, Denise.”
Denise touches Amanda’s belly and murmurs something inaudible. Amanda sees that below Denise’s close-set eyes are swaths of darkened, paperlike skin, like she hasn’t slept in months.
“I’m sorry about Steven,” Amanda says. “I remember him.”
Denise nods, but Amanda isn’t sure if she really heard her. Then she asks, “Amanda, after you left home, did Elias complain of anything to you?”
“Complain of anything?” Elias, mimicking his mother, always viewed her with simmering disdain, and she can’t imagine him seeking her out to say anything.
Denise shakes her head. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
“Why?”
“Father made me swear.”
“But John is the one you have to listen to, now,” Amanda reminds her.
“John would agree if he knew.” Her voice quavers.
“Knew what?”
Denise shrugs. She switches her son to the other breast, leaving her left one open and exposed, hanging there like a white bulbous fruit. Across the room, Mr. Balthazar looks more awake, and stares at Denise’s breast until she folds the cloth up.
“What was going on. Amanda, I’m not sleeping, between the mosquitoes and this little one, I can’t think straight. Fuck, I just…Please don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.”
“I’m sorry.” They both sit silent and glum. “But why did you ask about Elias?”
“I was just wondering.”
“What was Steven complaining about?”
“Impossible things. It doesn’t even make sense. I don’t see how it would…” The baby falls asleep. She puts her other breast back into her dress, hikes him to her shoulder, and starts patting his back. “He died so suddenly, just like that. He wasn’t even sick, just alive one minute and dead the next. I never saw his body. What happens to the sons, when the daughters leave?”
Amanda forces a laugh. “Is that a riddle?”
“A riddle? I think it might be. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Denise gives a small, mirthless chuckle and shifts her baby to her other shoulder. “Tell me how you’re doing.”