a girl here called Sorrow?’
She looked the policeman in the eye. ‘No.’
She waited until he inserted himself back behind the steering wheel and took his slow, methodical time in turning the car, reversing and forwarding around on the gravel. She watched until he rolled away. And she told no one. But the cars continued to come.
The summer had been fraught and frictional from all that had happened in spring. Women squabbled and fell out over petty matters, moving unattended pans off burners so that jam wouldn’t set, or neglecting to change or nurse a child who wasn’t strictly their own. Children watched, sucking their fingers, as mothers sniped and snapped.
With Zachariah gone, there was nothing to tether them to each other but hard work. They didn’t have the inclination to pray, to spin, or to worship. There was simply too much work in the summer, some wives might have said, too much preparation for the hard winter to come. But the truth was that the women needed him for spinning. With no axis in place, they might have spun off in every direction and never come back.
Other wives worried, every year, that he might never come back, and then what would they do? Every summer seemed to last longer than the one before; some years he didn’t return until almost fall. It was Amaranth’s role as first wife to hold them together, this collection of abandoned women, these hippies and spinsters, reformed junkies and winos, embittered divorcées and single mothers. They had nothing in common but their husband and a longing for utopia. She realized she had lost track of them, of what they wanted, since Hope had left.
After a supper that was filled with shouting, upset pitchers of goat’s milk, and spoiled squash, Amaranth called the women at last to the temple. It surprised the newer wives, who had never seen her do it and who wondered aloud to each other whether she could, while it reminded older wives of the last time she did it and the state of their community at the time. They had worked to heal much since then.
Amaranth drew them into a circle and told them to close the door. When she told them that the police and then a social worker had come, the women hissed and clicked their tongues. None of them had any love for the police. All had suffered at their hands in some way – from their whims, their laws, their searches, or their discriminations – even Amaranth. ‘They’ve heard things about us,’ she announced to them. ‘They’re looking for someone who will talk.’
Sorrow listened from the altar, chewing her fingernails into ragged stumps. She stared at the closed temple door.
‘We don’t know what they know or what they’ve been told. They’ll be fishing for information on our backgrounds and our practices. Do not tell them anything unless you’re prepared to follow through.’
‘Through with what?’ a wife called.
‘Our marriages are eternal,’ Amaranth proclaimed. She felt herself spread her arms as her husband did. ‘Our bonds are indissoluble. And yet wives have left us. It can be done. You’ve seen it done.’
Women buzzed and chattered. What was she suggesting?
‘If you’re thinking of leaving, be careful,’ she called above the noise. ‘That’s all I’m saying. You can try to go, but you will be watched, do you understand? Do you want to leave? Because now is the time to do it. Does any of you want to leave?’
The temple door flung open and Zachariah entered, white hair pulled back and his traveling suit rumpled. He looked tired and worn, but he clapped his hands to silence the women. ‘Who calls you to pray?’
The wives of the room pointed at Amaranth. She turned to Sorrow. He greeted his wives and kissed them all, then sent them away. He bent to Sorrow, so that she might whisper into his ear. Amaranth watched her, stony-faced, until her husband sent her away, too, and they were alone.
‘You talked to the police?’ he hissed.
Amaranth backed toward the altar, hands
She looked the policeman in the eye. ‘No.’
She waited until he inserted himself back behind the steering wheel and took his slow, methodical time in turning the car, reversing and forwarding around on the gravel. She watched until he rolled away. And she told no one. But the cars continued to come.
The summer had been fraught and frictional from all that had happened in spring. Women squabbled and fell out over petty matters, moving unattended pans off burners so that jam wouldn’t set, or neglecting to change or nurse a child who wasn’t strictly their own. Children watched, sucking their fingers, as mothers sniped and snapped.
With Zachariah gone, there was nothing to tether them to each other but hard work. They didn’t have the inclination to pray, to spin, or to worship. There was simply too much work in the summer, some wives might have said, too much preparation for the hard winter to come. But the truth was that the women needed him for spinning. With no axis in place, they might have spun off in every direction and never come back.
Other wives worried, every year, that he might never come back, and then what would they do? Every summer seemed to last longer than the one before; some years he didn’t return until almost fall. It was Amaranth’s role as first wife to hold them together, this collection of abandoned women, these hippies and spinsters, reformed junkies and winos, embittered divorcées and single mothers. They had nothing in common but their husband and a longing for utopia. She realized she had lost track of them, of what they wanted, since Hope had left.
After a supper that was filled with shouting, upset pitchers of goat’s milk, and spoiled squash, Amaranth called the women at last to the temple. It surprised the newer wives, who had never seen her do it and who wondered aloud to each other whether she could, while it reminded older wives of the last time she did it and the state of their community at the time. They had worked to heal much since then.
Amaranth drew them into a circle and told them to close the door. When she told them that the police and then a social worker had come, the women hissed and clicked their tongues. None of them had any love for the police. All had suffered at their hands in some way – from their whims, their laws, their searches, or their discriminations – even Amaranth. ‘They’ve heard things about us,’ she announced to them. ‘They’re looking for someone who will talk.’
Sorrow listened from the altar, chewing her fingernails into ragged stumps. She stared at the closed temple door.
‘We don’t know what they know or what they’ve been told. They’ll be fishing for information on our backgrounds and our practices. Do not tell them anything unless you’re prepared to follow through.’
‘Through with what?’ a wife called.
‘Our marriages are eternal,’ Amaranth proclaimed. She felt herself spread her arms as her husband did. ‘Our bonds are indissoluble. And yet wives have left us. It can be done. You’ve seen it done.’
Women buzzed and chattered. What was she suggesting?
‘If you’re thinking of leaving, be careful,’ she called above the noise. ‘That’s all I’m saying. You can try to go, but you will be watched, do you understand? Do you want to leave? Because now is the time to do it. Does any of you want to leave?’
The temple door flung open and Zachariah entered, white hair pulled back and his traveling suit rumpled. He looked tired and worn, but he clapped his hands to silence the women. ‘Who calls you to pray?’
The wives of the room pointed at Amaranth. She turned to Sorrow. He greeted his wives and kissed them all, then sent them away. He bent to Sorrow, so that she might whisper into his ear. Amaranth watched her, stony-faced, until her husband sent her away, too, and they were alone.
‘You talked to the police?’ he hissed.
Amaranth backed toward the altar, hands
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