Left on Paradise (32 page)

“Even more,” the psychologist said, “we’ve yet to endure a single racial incident or even the mere accusation of ethnic prejudice or sexual discrimination. Not even one slur. We’ve proven the prejudices of the past can be exorcized. That they’ve been exorcized. We’ve also shown direct democracy actually works. This whole people has come together to rule ourselves. There are no kings among us, nor prime ministers, nor presidents. Each one of us is equal to the other.”

Dr. Erikson paused and the audience didn’t stir.

“Yes, there’ve been problems,” Dr. Erikson continued. “Some complain of monotonous food and others are in despair over Jason’s crime. Still others are tired from all the toil. But we mustn’t grow weary in our good works. The Pilgrims submitted to a winter of death for their dead Christ and Jamestown endured a year of hunger for its living king. Will we do less for mankind? If liberalism can’t triumph here—with its own chosen people and the fruits of paradise—can it triumph anywhere? If we can’t make a true community in this Eden, how can we expect our political kinsmen to do so in America? If we can’t harvest the bounties of a tropical island, what have we to say to Russians and Chinese and Ethiopians and Indonesians?”

Neighbors sat up straighter and a few placed arms around friends or took the hand of a loved one.

“Now,” Dr. Erikson concluded, “in a positive and productive manner, let’s deal with issues and set this community back to order. Each one of you was given a sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil. I want you to write upon it three things that you need and three things that you need to do. Take ten minutes while I pass out refreshments. Fold the paper and pass it forward when you’ve finished.”

The staff psychologist handed out chocolate bars brought from the camp reserves, along with other sweets. Kit hurried through the assignment, then helped serve drinks. Both women popped corn over hot coals and filled serving dishes while villagers worked through their answers. Once the surveys filtered in, Dr. Erikson returned to her duties while Heather helped Kit with refreshments. Completed forms were returned to the staff psychologist—who transferred the answers to a separate notebook. Once she had finished her review, snacks were set aside and the meeting returned to order.

“There are several common themes,” Dr. Erikson began as she pointed at the tallied stack of answers. “First, many of you are worried about supplies of perishable goods: especially razors, clothes, and wine. Is that fair to say?”

Heads nodded and voices assented.

“What choices do we have?” Dr. Erikson asked.

“To be more frugal,” Heather suggested.

“What else?”

“To import additional supplies at the next shipment,” Kit added.

“That can be done in a few months. What can we do now?”

“Manufacture our own,” a man shouted.

“Very good. We’ll come back to that. What else?”

“Do without,” Lisa said.

“Free ourselves from consumerism,” Dr. Erikson said. “Live more simply. Can you give us an example?”

Lisa pointed to the long hairs on her legs.

“I’m not shaving anymore,” Lisa explained. “Why should I nick my legs with dull razors just to defer to the Western canon of beauty?”

“Live more naturally,” Dr. Erikson said. “Excellent. Any other ideas?”

“Clothes are a real issue,” Lisa continued. “This is my last untorn shirt. Other than one dress blouse I’m saving for special occasions.”

“And how can we resolve this problem?”

“Open a boutique,” a woman’s voice said from the rear of the room.

Everyone laughed.

“Very funny,” Dr. Erikson said. “But seriously. What can we do?”

“A couple of us,” Kit said, “sewed a grass skirt. It didn’t take too long and it seems durable enough.”

“Perfect. Use the resources of this island.”

“We can also do without,” Lisa repeated. “It’s not really necessary to wear clothing on a warm day. Native peoples in the South Pacific go topless, why couldn’t we conserve our clothing the same way?”

The speaker panned her audience. “What,” the psychologist asked, “do you think of that suggestion?”

A few men grinned and most women groaned.

“I’m not sure I like the idea at all,” Linh said. “I’ve been married several years and I’m accustomed to my privacy. It just wouldn’t seem right. I definitely don’t want my daughters leered at after puberty. Or before.”

“It does,” Dr. Erikson said, “seem somewhat improper by Western standards. But would it be possible to adapt over time, as we became used to the idea? Remember that bikinis once were considered shocking and leg-covering bathing suits were a scandal a century ago. Not to speak of thongs. In a like manner, I ran around without any shirt at all in the Iowa town where I grew up till I was seven years old. And there was no scandal at all.”

“Maybe we’d get used to it,” Linh replied, “but I’m not sure I’d like to try.”

“You can,” the psychologist advised, “decide this among yourselves since it’s your neighborhood. The only thing that really matters is you come to an agreement that everyone can live with. Remember, it’s not whether someone dresses like a pilgrim or a hippie that counts. It’s by our tolerance and our love we’ll be remembered.”

The crowd stirred and residents smiled.

“A second issue,” Dr. Erikson continued, “many of you mentioned was Jason’s crime. By the way, let me interject that Jason has been sent to the motu. I helped him to settle in and he sends his regrets. Now to the point. I should tell you that few of us were completely happy with the trial. The process was messy and the hearings unruly. By involving the entire assembly in the decision, debates of fact aggravated differences of opinion and the entire community was politicized. Still, it worked. The right result came from the trial: the protection of innocent women and the punishment of a guilty man. The people acted successfully as their own judge and jury and jailer. What else matters but the attainment of the right end?”

Some neighbors nodded, but not everyone.

“There aren’t any complaints,” Dr. Erikson continued to expound, “about work in this village. That’s very good. The northerners are struggling with their use of free time. Several of their people don’t help pull the wagon and others want to throw them off. I’ll return to them tomorrow for more counseling. Dr. Law will go with me to speak on the rights and obligations of welfare capitalism and incentive socialism.”

Ryan now threw two logs on the fire and the flames burned brighter for a time.

“Let’s see,” Dr. Erikson said, “You’ve had one divorce and ...”—she paused to consider her choice of words—“and one couple didn’t renew their vows?”

“There was a technical problem,” Ryan said as he blushed after glancing both at Kit and Maria, “at the time.”

Dr. Erikson nodded and asked whether anyone else had trouble with the new law of marriage.

“It worked,” Deidra said as she stood, “for Sean and I.”

The psychologist looked pleased.

“Those who wanted to remarry did and those who didn’t, didn’t,” Deidra said. “Ryan and Kit just proved that actors really do need agents since they can’t count fingers and toes without the help of an accountant.”

Everyone laughed except Heather and Maria.

“So far,” Dr. Erikson said, “the professional staff has been pleased with its implementation. There have been a few unfortunate incidents, but in general it’s working to uphold freedom and choice. And even the divorces were caused less by the new law than by psychological necessity. It’s not likely that any law can hold a marriage together when choice can’t. If love itself won’t bind two people together, what can?”

“Fear.”

It was Tiffany who had spoken with a deep, declarative voice.

“Fear,” Tiffany continued, “of the pain he’ll suffer if I ever catch him with his neighbor’s wife or daughter or sister or any woman at all. Or her husband. I’m an unbigoted avenger.”

Most neighbors laughed and Dr. Erikson smiled.

“Didn’t,” the psychologist asked, “one of the very apostles of social conservatism say perfect love drives out fear?”

“Exactly,” Tiffany said, “if his love is perfect, he has nothing to fear.”

Everyone laughed and the discussion returned to more mundane matters such as toilet paper substitutes and building code. When it became clear that at least rudimentary supplies would last until resupply and that Jason wasn’t returning to the village after completion of his sentence, the public mood finally relaxed.

The other major complaint was that of singles who believed that an island-wide happy hour needed to be established so they could mingle with peers from other neighborhoods. Dr. Erikson thought it a good idea and promised to do what she could to arrange a dance or to set up a weekend rendezvous site. She also suggested the following day be declared a village holiday to cement the renewed camaraderie now circulating through the neighborhood. When a vote was taken, it was decided to picnic near New Plymouth for a village outing. Dr. Erikson promised to provide a cask of wine from New Plymouth—and the mere mention of wine brought cheers from most inhabitants.

Following the meeting, several village women approached Tiffany to tease that they found Brent utterly intolerable and absolutely undesirable—though Brent protested he couldn’t be completely unattractive since Tiffany herself had married him twice. Linh claimed Tiffany only picked Brent from charity and Viet called their marriage a misbegotten social experiment, but Brent just brushed off the ribbing with a shrug.

The weather was perfect for a holiday and the westerners rose early for a Wednesday picnic, filling backpacks and loading coolers for the trek toward New Plymouth and crossing Mount Zion on cleared trails to reach familiar ground in little more than an hour. When they reached a wide path maintained by the east village, the west villagers took it straight toward the coast and soon came to a picturesque town of thatched-roof houses and large-framed barns. The settlement even included public baths and private saunas fed from a pristine stream and a public park now under construction. Most notably, a large greenhouse stood near the edge of the village—sheets of clear visqueen stretched tight and stapled to its timbers and rows of vegetables planted within (many of them already bearing fruit). The westerners were awed.

Alan was far more relaxed than before, even pleasant, as he took his former neighbors on a short tour of his new house (a cabin with a fenced yard and a small garden) and Steve showed off the foundation for a tree nursery. In return, the westerners invited Alan and Steve to picnic with them, though their former neighbors declined the offer since work requirements were very strict in their new neighborhood. Nevertheless, Alan and Steve chatted with their old neighbors for nearly an hour, until summoned to construction duties by an east villager with a shaved head and shaved legs—who pressed her fellow villagers that a new bathhouse wouldn’t build itself.

After farewells were exchanged, the westerners hurried to New Plymouth where they collected a promised cask of red wine from the depot and invited the professional staff to their picnic. Most accepted and it wasn’t long before a quarter of the residents of Paradise found themselves sailing, snorkeling, or sunning at the beach. A light lunch of bread and fruit was followed by a heavy dinner of broiled fish and boiled lobsters. Parents with children started home before dusk—along with Ursula and Heather—while those who remained at the party drank wine and played music on a portable stereo. Kit sang in tune with the disc player and Maria proved to be one of the best dancers in the village—and Ryan with her. A few couples slipped into the woods or vacant hospital beds for quick love, only to return refreshed and eager to party longer. Not until the second cask of wine ran dry several hours later did the evening draw to a close.

Most of the westerners returned along the road to east village while using moonlight and torch—though a group consisting of Ryan, Kit, Maria, and Jose decided to take a more scenic route along the beach, moving into the southern district after an hour’s slow walk. Only after they rounded the southern tip of the island did they rest. Maria soaked her feet and Kit enjoyed the reflection of the full moon across the sand. Ryan sat himself upon a weatherworn boulder (thick with salt and crud) while Jose lay down in a patch of grass along the shore. After a time, Maria waded to Ryan’s rock and asked if there was room. Ryan scooted to one side.

“You’re always so sweet,” Maria said. “Kit’s lucky.”

Kit stood several yards away, looking out to sea as the surf lapped against her knees, and now turned around. “Did I hear my name?” she called out.

“I was saying how lucky you are to find the man you want to marry.”

“Maybe twice.”

“That’s twice as lucky,” Maria said, looking more at Ryan than at Kit—who turned and walked toward her ex-husband and the young woman near him.

When Kit stumbled and slipped in the surf, Ryan jumped up and splashed through the waves to pull his former wife from the water with one hand.

“Are you all right?” Ryan asked.

“Hands off in public,” Kit slurred her words just a little, “Mr. Ryan Godson.”

Ryan grinned. “You’re ...”

“I’m not.”

“How much wine did you drink?”