“Not to mention that the schools teach skills,” continues Father. “They teach about farming, forging…”
“I suppose that’s useful, but why must the girls read Our Book? They can memorize passages—that should be enough.”
“You don’t think girls should read?” says Vanessa in a too-loud voice.
“No need for it, sweetheart,” says Mr. Adam. Vanessa rolls the word “sweetheart” around in her mind. It sounds like he’s going to eat her organs. “You’ll get married, have children, help out your husband if you need to. Why waste the energy learning to read when there’s no use for it? It’s like all these clocks. Why do you need clocks? Why do you need to know what time it is? Why do you need books?”
There is a long silence around the table. Then Father sighs and says, “I believe in knowledge for its own sake.”
“Well, I believe that teaching girls things they don’t need, when they could be helping their mothers, is a waste of time,” responds Mr. Adam.
Father nods curtly. “That’s not a new idea. There are many on this island who agree with you. It’s something the wanderers have discussed for a long time.”
“Good!” says Mr. Adam, laughing. “I hope they agree it’s a bad idea. The schooling you do here is more tradition than anything else. You need to break with the mainland—the wastelands, for good. I wouldn’t send any daughter of mine to school.”
“Maybe you’ll have sons,” Vanessa says irritably, and they all turn to look at her.
Mr. Adam raises his eyebrows, furrowing his forehead. “Different rules around this table than what I’m used to, I see.”
Her irritation wars with her curiosity. “What are you used to?”
Father half smiles, but his eyes are hard. “You’ll need to be more careful than that, Clyde.”
Mr. Adam winces. “Sorry. I know.”
“People eat at tables in the wastelands?” Vanessa persists. Her ideas of the wastelands don’t include tables. “There are tables, and rules, and people eat there? What do they eat?”
“It’s a figure of speech,” says Mr. Adam, which she doesn’t understand. “Where I come from, it’s just a thing people say. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“But you do come from somewhere,” says Vanessa.
“Vanessa,” says Father sternly, and then Ben spills his milk all over the table and starts screaming. By the time it’s cleaned up, the talk has moved to farming and the types of crops on the island. Vanessa tries to move the topic back to the wastelands, but every attempt she makes is neatly foiled by Mother or Father.
“Ben’s done,” she finally says, giving up. “So am I. May we be excused?”
“Of course,” says Mother, nodding. “We’ll call you when it’s time to clear the plates.”
Vanessa plays with Ben as he pretends to be a dog, yapping and wagging his little behind. “What a good dog,” she croons, smoothing his tangle of curls. “Shall I give you leftovers from dinner for being so good?” Ben barks. Absently, Vanessa watches him turn in circles. She must get Mr. Adam alone.
When Mother calls, Vanessa puts Ben back in his chair and begins deftly gathering plates and utensils, putting them in the washtub in the kitchen. She takes a handful of gritty, slimy soap to mix with some water and swishes everything about quietly. Mr. Adam and her parents are talking about water and rainfall.
She pops her head in. “Excuse me, Mother,” she says, “have you shown Mr. Adam the kitchen? He may want to build one like Father did.”
She fears being reprimanded for interrupting, but Mother beams. “Yes, let me show you. James built it for me, and it’s just so clever. A lot of houses are imitating the way he set the stones from the cooking fire.”
Mother, Father, and Mr. Adam enter the room, followed by a curious Ben. As Father is explaining the way he set the stones and how the metal was forged from scraps, Ben becomes bored and fractious. Vanessa leans toward Ben and whispers, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I promise I will give you all my cookies forever.” Then, closing her eyes and wincing, she gives him a sharp pinch on the arm.
A wail erupts from his small face, his mouth squared in a scream. The adults jump. Ben is pointing an accusing finger at Vanessa, but Mother doesn’t notice. She swoops down and picks Ben up, cooing to him, and then shoots an apologetic glance at Father and Mr. Adam. “Excuse me for a moment. It’s time for Ben to go to bed,” she says, and walks away as Ben starts hiccupping, “Vanessa pinched me!” She knows Mother won’t believe him, as Vanessa is never cruel to Ben. But her insides feel dirty and stained, and she wonders if she can ever think of herself as a good person again.
Taking a deep breath, she stills her mind and returns to her task. Mr. Adam and Father are chuckling about the trials of motherhood. She hovers around their perimeter, absorbing Father’s story about Elizabeth Saul, whose son was so difficult to soothe that she once tried dunking him into the ocean to see if she could freeze him calm. Mr. Adam says he hopes Maureen’s baby will sleep through the night early, and Father wishes him luck.
“Father,” says Vanessa, when there is a lull in the conversation, “perhaps I could show Mr. Adam our library?”
“I don’t think Mr. Adam is particularly interested in books,” replies Father, with a slight bite to his tone.
“But, please, Father, it would make me feel so”—she casts around for a word likely to affect him—“so knowledgeable.”
“It’s fine, James,” says Mr. Adam, his eyes now bright and blinking rapidly. “I’m actually curious to see what you’ve got.”
“She can’t show you the ones that are locked away,” he says, “but perhaps you don’t want to see them anyway.”
“What do you mean, locked away?”
“They’re not for everyone,” he says. “Not for anyone, really, who has never been to the wastelands.”
Mr. Adam looks stunned. “Why would you keep those?” he asks. “The risk! I’m surprised they let you have them.”
“And what they would be forbidding me?” Father inquires irritably.
“Why, the other wanderers, I suppose. What’s the point of having them?”
“Go, Vanessa,” Father says, waving his arm. “I’ll be here, enjoying some peace.” He aims a dark look at Mr. Adam.
Her heart skipping with glee, Vanessa says politely, “This way, Mr. Adam,” and leads him through the passage to the library.
It’s almost dusk, and the irregular window Father placed in the ceiling emits a gray, dull light. Vanessa steps in and feels hushed by the quiet, dim air and the stately lines of books on their shelves. “Here it is,” she whispers, “the library.”
“Huh.” Mr. Adam looks around halfheartedly, then gazes at her. “You’ve read all of these?”
“No,” says Vanessa, “some of them are boring.” Mr. Adam snorts.
Cubist Picasso catches her eye, and she pulls it out carefully. “This is a book of pictures,” she says. “We don’t have many with pictures.”