His mouth forms a vowel, then flattens. A pause, his eyes searching Vanessa’s pleading stare. “I want you to tell me about the island instead,” he says finally.
Something inside her falls down, down around her gut, the clattering remnant of her hope of knowledge. She feels angry at herself, for thinking she could engineer such a thing, angry at Mr. Adam for being so stupid, angry at Father and Mother and the wanderers and the ancestors and everyone she has ever known. She balls her fists and stamps her foot, and feels Mr. Adam’s hand suddenly on her shoulder, his bulk rearing toward her face, and she takes a deep breath and tells herself not to punch him.
“Vanessa!” a sharp voice says, and it’s Mother, standing by the entrance of the library and looking furious. “What are you doing here?”
“Father said I could show Mr. Adam the library.”
“Mr. Adam,” says Mother, courteously but with a chill vibration in her voice, “please come have a cup of tea with us.”
“Of course,” says Mr. Adam. “Thank you, Vanessa, for the tour.”
They sit and sip tea while Father and Mr. Adam talk about dung, of all things, the collection of it and fertilization of the fields. Mother rolls her eyes at Vanessa, who smiles slightly into her teacup. Mr. Adam keeps staring at her, as if he wants to move closer to her again and have her beg him for answers. Finally it is full dark. The candles are lit, and Mr. Adam gets up and moves around clumsily in preparation to leave, although he did not bring anything he needs to retrieve. Vanessa has a headache and wishes he would just go.
“Good-bye, Vanessa,” says Mr. Adam after bidding farewell to Mother and Father. Mother is hovering over the table, pretending to be rearranging the cloth. He lowers his voice. “I hope you’re not angry with me for not answering your questions. I just have to follow the rules like everyone else. I do hope to see more of you.”
“Good-bye,” she says. They shake hands again, and again his hand holds on to hers for an uncomfortably long time. There’s a funny quiet all around the room. Eventually she slips free; his hands are coated with an amalgam of sweat and butter.
Later, when Vanessa is supposed to be asleep, she hears Mother and Father talking in their bedroom. Stepping hesitantly and softly, she crouches by their door and puts her ear to it.
“He’s not very bright, is he?” says Mother. “I mean, he’s…cunning, I suppose. Sneaky.”
“By the ancestors, I hope he doesn’t turn into another Robert Jacob,” says Father. “What luck that would be.”
“I’m sure he won’t be that bad,” replies Mother. “He’s just—”
“Did you see the way he looked at Vanessa? After they’d been in the library? By the ancestors, I’d never have let her go in there with him if—I just wanted to get rid of him for a few blessed moments. But then after, his eyes were…They were before, even, I think. I just didn’t notice, I just thought he was strange.”
“Well, when you invite someone new to the island, I mean, they have to…”
“They have to have some self-control. Perhaps we should stop having these new families come in, just go on on our own.”
“You know we can’t. Think of all the defectives this year.”
“I know, I know. Where are the men like the ancestors? Where are they?”
“Perhaps there are no more men like the ancestors anymore,” says Mother.
“Perhaps,” says Father. He sounds broody and fretful, and it’s a tone Vanessa recognizes. She goes back to bed and lies awake, waiting for him. He’ll want to be held, to be soothed. When she finally falls asleep, she dreams of Amanda Balthazar rising up from the water, holding a defective that’s half fish, half baby.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Janey
Janey carries Amanda’s kiss on her lips, sweet as a slick of honey, relentless as a disease. She will hear a faint echo of Amanda’s voice, or catch the scent of her skin on the air, and whirl abruptly to see nothing.
Ever since Janey found out about Amanda’s body being pulled from the sea, she hasn’t slept. Her nerves are kindled, each strand blazing at both ends. At night, she paces, everything she knows whirling in shimmering patterns in her brain. The hard sensation of the wooden church pews against her bony rump. The pastor’s rants against disobedience. The morning fog, obscuring the horizon as neatly as a shielding hand. The wanderers, stalking the island like tall, grim predators. Amanda’s face, her look of terror as she heard someone in the house. The vortex of the summer of fruition, sucking in girls and spitting out wives. Muddy children pushing each other over for sugar-sweet morsels. The ferryman, gliding in and out like a slow tide. The wasteland glass, sturdy and crystalline in ever-rotting houses. The church, falling down into the darkness below, forever sinking under its own weight while islanders scramble to build up a series of dark rooms replete with the stale, imposing words of dead holy men.
As she paces, she snatches at the floating pieces in her mind, trying to make a structure that stands. The wanderers. The water. Amanda. The wastelands. Mary. The shalt-nots. Every time she tries to create an integral pattern, a clear picture, it shatters and falls into mist. But her will is ever-flowing, unquenched. If she thinks hard enough, she can solve this puzzle. She can solve everything.
At first Mary scolds her affectionately. “Janey, I can’t sleep without you!” she whispers. “And stop walking.”
“You were sleeping,” retorts Janey. “You can do it again.”
Then Mary tries appealing to her. “Janey, I’m cold. Come back to bed, it’s freezing.”
Janey pads over, deftly doubles their quilt into a thicker, narrower one, and ceremoniously drapes it over Mary. Giving it a little pat, she goes back to pacing.
Mary tries arguing with her. “Janey, this is ridiculous. You and Amanda weren’t even that good friends.” She knows this is a lie; Amanda was Janey’s only real friend. During summer, they would wrap their arms around each other and simply sway in a slow dance, holding their bodies close, murmuring into each other’s hair.
Janey bristles. “I loved her,” she says, and then forgets about Mary completely, returning to her pacing. Six steps up, four steps over, six steps down, four steps over. It becomes a poem, a rhythm in her head. Janey becomes brighter and more awake with every passing moment, until something inside her is luminescent, sharp and alien. Mary squints at the light pouring out of her, although the room is dark and Janey is just a shadowy figure.
“Women bleed out and die all the time,” Mary whispers to Janey as she paces the room. This isn’t really true, although it seems to be increasing in frequency. “There’s nothing special about Amanda.”
“If she bled out, why was she in the water?” A pause. “Have you ever seen a woman after she bled out and died?”
“No,” says Mary. “So what? I’ve never seen a woman die while birthing either, but it still happens.”
“Do you remember Jill Abraham?”
“I guess. She died a while ago.”
“I heard she wanted the summer of fruition changed. So the men and women were the same age.”