Sundry Days (25 page)

Chapter 48

Susannah

The Women’s Conference

I don’t know how I got to be this old. I should be dead, like my sweet husbands. I should be gone, like everyone I love.  But here I am in this Women’s House, where, with any luck, I’ll die before too long.

My unfortunate sisters, my doomed daughters, may mourn me a little when I finally stop breathing. But it’s me who mourns them—these females who are neither my sisters nor my daughters, though that’s how I think of them now, poor souls.

We are a rare and dying breed. Better to die sooner than later, I think. Sadly, they’ll linger longer than I will, servicing the men who come to this house, this Women’s House.

It was fated to be, I suppose.

How long could our world have lasted with hardly any girls being born?

“How are you feeling today, Susannah?” asks Maria, as she enters my tiny room, and finds me sitting morose, in the chair by my bed.

“Fine,” I say, which we both know isn’t true.

“It’s the Easter-Esther Festival today,” she informs me. “No men. A holiday. So we’ll have a Women’s Conference. It’ll be fun. Come, Susannah, I’ll help you.”

“Fun,” I grumble. I am a sour old thing. But Maria and the others want me to join them. So I let this middle-aged woman, who was just a child when the slavers captured her, help me to me feet.

Maria hands me my cane, takes my elbow, and with her assistance, I walk the shuffling, halting walk of a frail, ancient crone into the gathering room where there’s a comfortable chair waiting for me.

“Ah, Susannah is here.  Now we can start,” says Melissa, who’s the unofficial head woman of our house. Melissa, may The Designer bless her, is the one who usually takes it upon herself to organize things around here. Because someone’s got to do it. And it’s in her nature, I suppose.

“What are we starting?” I quip. “A revolution?”

The others laugh. They like a good joke. As if our existence alone isn’t a good joke.

Whenever there’s a holiday, two or three times a year, maybe three or four—I forget—we have a Women’s Conference.

It’s good for us. If anything is good for us.

I go along with it because, after all, it was me who started this tradition in this house. When was it?  Long ago. So long ago. It’s only right that I play my part now. The others expect it. It’s the least I can do for them.

“What are the men doing today?” I ask.

“The Easter-Esther Festival,” several respond, all at once.

Ah, yes, the Easter-Esther Festival. Maria told me when she came to get me. I have no memory anymore. Except for things that happened long ago.  Sweet memories, some of them. And others that would be better to forget. If only I could.

There are maybe twenty of us in this house, not counting the babies and one or two little girls.  Boy babies stay with us until they’re five, the girls forever. Poor little girls. They will be required to do the same work as their mothers when they’re old enough.

The little boys go to children’s houses run by nurturing men when they’re five. It’s better that way, we’re told. These days, most nurturing men tend to be homosexuals, bless them. Not all, though. Some heterosexual men just happen to have nurturing natures. Even now, I’m told. Volunteers among the men will be caring for all the weaned babies and little ones from this house today. Because it’s a holiday.

How kind of the men to grant us a holiday.

My Seth was a nurturer. Also a gentle lover. So were all my other husbands, to one degree or another. Nurturers, that is. And good lovers, too.  That’s what men were bred to be back then. But it was usually Seth who took care of our boys when the rest of us went to work. Such a warm and loving man, my Seth. I wonder where he is now.

He would be dead now, wouldn’t he?  He was much older than me. The others, too.

My dementia comes and goes.

I’ll try to stay sharp now.  We’re having a Women’s Conference, after all. The others would like me to be coherent. I’ll try.

“I remember the first Women’s Conference we had in this town. My mother organized it. She was quite the organizer. Like you, Melissa,” I say, getting things started. “Except you’re much nicer, dear.”

“Thank you, Susannah,” she says.

“That first Women’s Conference here was very lovely. It was at the Town Hall. There were flowers on the tables, and we had workshops. Ellen Edelson gave a workshop on what it was like to run a pleasure shop. She could give us some tips now, couldn’t she?”

I laugh to myself remembering Ellen Edelson, She was old then, but she had such lovely skin.  Not a wrinkle on her. We were all so impressed.

“I led a workshop, too, on how to accommodate multiple husbands.”

I’ve told them all this many times. I repeat myself. But these women—my friends, my sisters and daughters in spirit, my fellow prisoners— don’t seem to mind. They like to hear about the old days.  So I go on.

“The Women’s Conference in Chicago wasn’t nearly as nice. Well, maybe it was just me. I was very depressed then. My oldest son, David, had run away with Rebekah. She was my husband John’s daughter, you know, from a previous marriage. Not his biological daughter. Rebekah was sired by Danny, who had red hair, like hers.

“Some people back then thought that red-haired men had a better chance of fathering daughters. Can you imagine? What foolishness.  Anyway, of all my husbands, I loved John the best.  How I wish he was with me still. But he couldn’t be, could he? Not here.”

Then I’m silent, thinking about John. I shouldn’t ramble on like this.

This Women’s Conference, in this house, isn’t really a Women’s Conference, of course.  Or maybe it is. We’re women. We’re conferring.

No men are coming today. It’s a holiday. No servicing men, one after the other. Just sex. No love. No affection.

These inmates of mine, do they know what love is like, love between people who are bonded together sexually?  How could they know, most of them? They’re too young. Even the ones who are not so young anymore.

“Who wants to go next?” asks Melissa, the organizer, breaking the silence.

Women like to talk. We like to tell each other private things, share secrets and fears.  We like to commiserate with each other, bare our souls sometimes. Have a cry together. Have a laugh. It’s part of our nature, I think. Men are different.

It’s not as if we don’t talk to each other every day, here in this house.  Confide in each other. We do. But coming together like this as a group, when we know no men will bother us the whole day, is different. Special somehow.

No sex-seeking men have bothered me for quite a long time now, thank The Designer.

I was brought here after The Upheaval. Don’t ask me how long ago that was. Men, greedy men, came to power. A new social structure was proposed. New ordinances were passed. Husbands were separated from wives for the common good. And we women were penned up to make us more accessible, to better provide for the equal rights of men.

I was put to use here until I was past seventy. And then they let me be. Men are desperate for women, yes. But not that desperate.

The girl Tricia, with the straight black hair, sorrowful eyes and big belly, is talking now.  I should listen. She’s saying something about maternity breaks. She wants to be left alone for a longer time after giving birth. Well, who doesn’t?

“I wish we didn’t have to keep getting pregnant. I wish we had sponges,” she says.

They all know about sponges, though only a few of us here are old enough to have actually used them. Before The Upheaval.

“Aren’t there any substitutes for sponges?” someone asks. “Couldn’t we make something? Out of rags, maybe?”

There’s some mumbling. Then silence.

“Let’s have some refreshments,” says Melissa, the organizer.

We’re sitting in a large, informal circle in the gathering room, which is where the men usually wait their turn for their appointments. There’s a low table in the middle, which has been decorated for the occasion. Small sandwiches are brought in from the kitchen, and other treats are laid out.  Someone brings me a filled plate and something to drink. She sets it on the end table by my chair, so I don’t have to get up.

They are all very kind to me here. I’m the oldest. The most ancient. A few others might be approaching my age, which is… Well, how can I remember? What difference does it make, anyway? It’s not good to be old. But in our world, I suppose, it’s at least better than being young.

No one can think of any good substitutes for sponges. So we talk about other things.

“This year, I think we should plant flowers in the garden, in addition to vegetables,” says Pamela.

“Where would we get seeds for flowers?” someone asks, as if to say, what a stupid idea.

But it’s not really a stupid idea. Flowers would be nice. We’re only allowed to go out of doors in the garden. I’d like to see flowers again.

“I have a question,” says a very young woman whose name I can’t remember.

“Go ahead, Joan,” says Melissa.

Joan. That’s her name.

“What would happen if we just all decided that we’re not going to do this anymore? Every day, every night, men come to the door. The proctor on duty lets them in. He checks to make sure they haven’t used up their quota of visits for the month. He gives them appointments or tells them how long they’ll have to wait. And then we service them. One after another, with our legs open and our minds shut.

“What if we refused?” says Joan. “I’ve done this all my life. Ever since I was fifteen. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

We all know what would happen. Joan knows what would happen.

Poor thing.  She was born to this life.  What a curse to be born a girl. Not a blessing at all. Every woman here with a big belly prays to The Designer that she will birth a boy. Even though she’ll have to give him up.

Joan’s mother is sitting next to her. At least, I think she’s Joan’s mother. She embraces her daughter, and they have a little cry.  We all have a little cry.

We’re all Joan’s mother here. All daughters. All sisters. All doomed.

“Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” suggests Melissa, the organizer. It doesn’t do to dwell too much on things that can’t be changed.

“Tell us about the Easter-Esther Festival, Susannah. Tell us how it was when you were young. Tell us about the parades, and how the children wore costumes.”

I’m sure I’ve already told everyone here everything I can remember about Easter-Esther Festivals during previous Women’s Conferences. The Designer only knows what the men do now to celebrate the event. But these women like to hear about what life was like long ago. As if those were good times.  Which maybe they were. We just didn’t know it.

“Did I ever tell you about the Easter-Esther Festival when young Rebekah cut off all her long, beautiful red hair?” I begin. “I think she was fourteen or fifteen at the time, and very rebellious.  Females then could go out in public, but only covered head to toe in a long hooded robe. Rebekah didn’t want to do that. So she decided that from then on, she’d have short hair like a boy, dress like a boy, act like a boy.

“John, her father, was all for it. He thought she’d be safer, I suppose. Except Rebekah wasn’t a boy. She was very much a girl. She had set her sights on my son David, you know. Well, maybe that’s not fair. David loved her. And she loved him. They made a pact never to love anyone else. Which was absurd, and unheard of, of course. Not to mention against the law.

“A few years later they ran off together. I worried that David would be caught and castrated. That was the punishment back then. I was beside myself with worry. I wonder whatever happened to David. And to Rebekah. Oh, wait. I do remember something. We had letters from them once. From Winnipeg. They were going off to live on a monogamist settlement.”

The idea of a monogamist settlement is so foreign to everyone here, I have to explain what it is. As if I know. I only hope that my David has survived. And Rebekah, too. He loved her.

I have other sons. We all have other sons, I suppose. I hope they’re safe. We’ll never know. Men are not allowed to visit Women’s Houses where they have relatives—mothers, sisters, former wives. It wouldn’t be right.  It occurs to me that since no one knows who fathers children anymore, men may have daughters in the Women’s Houses they frequent.  Unlikely, but possible. Better not to think about it.

My boys, Simon, Ethan, baby Aaron. How I loved them.  Mothers love their children.  The mothers here cry when their boys are taken from them. We have a ceremony then. A very sad ceremony. Oh well. Best not to think about it.

The world is what it is. What we’ve made it.

“What was it like to have husbands, Susannah?” someone asks.

I’m sure I’ve told them all before, but they like to hear about the times before The Upheaval. Soon, when I’m gone, when all the old women are gone, there will be no more stories about husbands, about love between men and women.

“We got to choose them, you know. Only the very best, the most suitable men, became husbands long ago. I had five of them, and then a sixth. We all got along. We were a family.”