“Remember Mrs. Joseph,” says Brenda slowly, “Alma Joseph. She was crazy, remember? She said that fathers shouldn’t…that girls shouldn’t…remember how crazy she was? Mr. Joseph had to marry her because there wasn’t anyone left, but, remember? And she bled out real soon after? Did anyone see her bleed out?”
Everyone starts speaking at once. Girls turn to each other, sharing theories and memories with their friends. Slowly, Janey leaves the altar and sits on the edge of the pulpit, swinging her skinny legs.
Without the promise of an island full of kittens, or snow, or honey, the youngest girls have lost interest again; a few are playing a clapping game in the corner. The staccato of palm against palm clatters like rhythmic raindrops as they chant in time:
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven
Drink a draft and go to heaven
Grandmother can’t, Grandmother won’t
Push that poison down her throat!
There’s a crash, and laughter.
Another girl from the back of the room says, “You’re not supposed to murder people, it’s against the shalt-nots.”
“The wanderers make the shalt-nots,” murmurs Gabby Abraham.
“No, the ancestors did,” corrects Ellen Joseph.
“But the wanderers add to it,” says Fiona. “Maybe you don’t have to follow a rule, if you’re the one who’s making it.”
“But if they did kill Amanda, if they kill women, what if they kill me?” asks Ellen with a note of panic.
“We’re not sure they killed anybody,” says Linda soothingly.
“I was with Amanda,” says Janey, standing up again, and the pale faces turn to her. “I was with her a few days before she died, and she was talking about changing things. Looking for a way out. Trying to get help. And then we heard a noise, and then…there was a man.”
“And he killed her,” breathes Brenda.
“No,” says Janey, annoyed. “He was just there, he listened, he ran away. The things Amanda was saying, they were blasphemous, I guess. They were dangerous. And now she’s dead. Do you understand?”
Another group of little girls is now racing around the church with an occasional shriek. Caitlin hears the brief, keening wail signaling a bumped elbow or skinned knee. A fight breaks out. They’re more restless, more irritable than at the first meeting. It’s strange, these echoes of summer when summer has already died and is lying comatose, waiting for the months to pass until its resurrection. The further it recedes in the past, the harder it is to control the young ones.
Janey looks exasperated. Caitlin suddenly remembers how much older she is than the other girls, those key three or four years between her and even the oldest of them. It means, by rights, that Janey should have shrieking children of her own. Her glimmering, flyaway hair should be pulled back and knotted on top of her head, her dress longer and looser, her movements heavy and sedate. This vision of adult Janey clanks jarring and wrong in Caitlin’s head, and she lets it fall away gratefully. It’s easier to imagine Janey dead than married.
“So you’re saying the wanderers are all murderers,” says Vanessa bitterly.
“I’m saying there is something happening,” replies Janey. “I didn’t say they were all murderers. I don’t know how they work, not like you. It could have been one of them, all of them, I don’t know.”
“And your proof is that Amanda spoke some blasphemy and bled out?”
Caitlin looks at Vanessa, and it suddenly occurs to her that if Janey didn’t exist, Vanessa would be the girl everyone stared at and spoke about. She’s so tall, and beautiful, and she spends hours reading her father’s books about ancient magic. She uses long words and nobody ever knows what they mean.
“Her body was dragged from the water,” says Janey. “What do you think, she happened to be waist-deep in the sea, in summer, and then just bled out then and there?” Vanessa looks away.
“Think of the women who’ve disappeared, the women who were odd or blasphemous, maybe they got shamed and it didn’t change them at all. Think about it. How many men mysteriously disappear? Just drop dead, without anybody seeing them die?”
Caitlin thinks back on the men who have died of injuries, of sickness, of slow wasting diseases. Men don’t die as often as women, since they don’t have to give birth, but they still die. Mr. Aaron the weaver woke up one morning recently and his legs didn’t work, and now the uselessness is spreading up his chest. Mr. Joseph the carpenter fell off a roof and broke his neck. Mr. Solomon the farmer died of swamp lung. But for all these men, there were those eager to tell the story of their suffering and death, those who witnessed the pain and shock of it all. Whereas many women simply bleed out and are buried quietly and swiftly; such a commonplace end that recounting the tale would be mundane.
“Women are being killed,” says Janey slowly and loudly, and suddenly Rhonda Gideon, the wanderer Gideon’s daughter, shrieks, “My father is not a murderer!”
This sets off a hubbub. Gabby says, “They’d kill a pregnant woman with a baby?” “Are you saying Mr. Joseph would kill someone?” asks Gina. “Are you saying that June Abraham was murdered?” says someone else. “What’s wrong with you?” demands Violet, as Leah says, “She’s right, though. Mrs. Joseph. Mrs. Gideon. Mrs. Adam, the one who said men shouldn’t take on other wives. They’re all dead. They’re all dead.”
“I’m going to the beach,” says Janey loudly, over the clamor. “I’m going to the beach, and you can come if you want.”
“For the night?” says Letty.
“Forever. I’m going to the beach. We have to find another way to live. I’m going to the beach, and you can come. It will be like summer, but all the year round. Leave your fathers. Come with me. They might kill us, but at least—at least—” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
In the uproar, Caitlin sees Janey stepping back, and then quietly descending the altar steps. Mary follows her, hands clasped, peering back at the noisy clot of girls in the center of the church.
“Janey,” calls Vanessa peremptorily, but Janey doesn’t stop. “Janey!” Janey leaves the church, not looking back, Mary trailing anxiously behind her.
Nobody follows Janey, but nobody wants to go back home. The promise of the beach hangs heavy in the air like a mist. Girls stand in little clusters, slowly talking over what Janey said, until Caitlin’s feet turn white and everyone’s teeth are chattering. Girls run to the stairway, shivering, and then turn back to the light and company of their friends and foes. The girls who have been playing games double their efforts, throwing their limbs about and screaming in the unexpected freedom of the dark church.
Caitlin huddles with Rosie, Linda, Violet, and Fiona. They are gathered close to one another for warmth, murmuring about Janey’s dark idea. “I can’t say it doesn’t make sense,” says Fiona. “Not everyone who bleeds out, of course, but it just makes sense.”
“They don’t even need to kill me. I’d kill myself right now if it wasn’t for the darkness below,” says Violet, and they look at her with shock.