“Go ahead,” I said. “You won’t shock me.”
She paused, flushed, cleared her throat. “Well. It’s the penises. It’s like a phobia.”
“Penises,” I said thoughtfully. “Them again.” In attempted suicides of young girls, this is often the case. Perhaps we need to change our educational curriculum, I thought: less fear-mongering, fewer centaur-like ravishers and male genitalia bursting into flame. But if we were to put too much emphasis on the theoretical delights of sex, the result would almost certainly be curiosity and experimentation, followed by moral degeneracy and public stonings. “No chance she might be brought to see the item in question as a means to an end? As a prelude to babies?”
“None whatever,” said Aunt Lise firmly. “That has been tried.”
“Submission of women as ordained from the moment of Creation?”
“Everything we could think of.”
“You tried the sleep deprivation and twenty-hour prayer sessions, with relays of supervisors?”
“She is adamant. She also says she has received a calling to higher service, though as we know they often use that excuse. But I was hoping that we…that you…”
I sighed. “There is little point in the destruction of a young female life for no reason,” I said. “Will she be able to learn the reading and writing? Is she intelligent enough?”
“Oh yes. Slightly too intelligent,” said Aunt Lise. “Too much imagination. I believe that’s what happened, concerning the…those things.”
“Yes, the thought-experiment penises can get out of control,” I said. “They take on a life of their own.” I paused; Aunt Lise fidgeted.
“We’ll admit her on probation,” I said finally. “Give her six months and see if she can learn. As you know, we need to replenish our numbers here at Ardua Hall. We of the older generation cannot live forever. But we must proceed carefully. One weak link…” I am familiar with these exceptionally squeamish girls. It’s no use forcing them: they can’t accept bodily reality. Even if the wedding night is accomplished, they will soon be found swinging from a light fixture or in a coma under a rose bush, having swallowed every pill in the house.
“Thank you,” said Aunt Lise. “It would have been such a shame.”
“To lose her, you mean?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Lise. She has a soft heart; that is why she is assigned to the flower-arranging and so forth. In her past life she was a professor of French literature of the eighteenth century, pre-Revolution. Teaching the Rubies Premarital Preparatory students is the closest she will ever come to having a salon.
I try to suit the occupations to the qualifications. It’s better that way, and I am a great proponent of better. In the absence of best.
Which is how we live now.
* * *
—
And so I had to involve myself in the case of the girl Becka. It’s always advisable for me to take a personal interest at the beginning with these suicidal girls who claim they wish to join us.
Aunt Lise brought her to my office: a thin girl, pretty in a delicate way, with large luminous eyes and her left wrist in a bandage. She was still wearing the green outfit of a bride-to-be. “Come in,” I said to her. “I won’t bite.”
She flinched as if she doubted this. “You may take that chair,” I said. “Aunt Lise will be right beside you.” Hesitantly she sat down, knees together modestly, hands folded in her lap. She gazed at me mistrustfully.
“So you want to become an Aunt,” I said. She nodded. “It’s a privilege, not an entitlement. I assume you understand that. And it’s not a reward for your silly attempt to end your own life. That was a mistake, as well as an affront to God. I trust it won’t happen again, supposing we take you in.”
A shake of the head, a single tear, which she did not brush away. Was it a display tear, was she trying to impress me?
I asked Aunt Lise to wait outside. Then I launched into my spiel: Becka was being offered a second chance in life, I said, but both she and we needed to be sure that this was the right way for her, since the life of an Aunt was not for everyone. She must promise to obey the orders of her superiors, she must apply herself to a difficult course of studies as well as to the mundane chores assigned, she must pray for guidance every night and every morning; then, after six months, if this was indeed her true choice and if we ourselves were satisfied with her progress, she would take the Ardua Hall vow and renounce all other possible paths, and even then she would be only a Supplicant Aunt until the successful completion of her Pearl Girls missionary work abroad, which would not happen for many years. Was she willing to do all these things?
Oh yes, said Becka. She was so grateful! She would do anything that was required. We had saved her from, from…She stumbled to a halt, blushing.
“Did something unfortunate happen to you in your earlier life, my child?” I asked. “So
mething involving a man?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. She was paler than ever.
“You’re afraid you’ll be punished?” A nod from her. “You can tell me,” I said. “I have heard many disagreeable stories. I do understand some of what you may have been through.” But she was still reluctant, so I did not push it. “The mills of the gods grind slowly,” I said, “but they grind exceeding small.”