A Perfect SEAL

The people who live nearby donate huge amounts of clothes to us, dropping them off at the main gate in plastic bags that they fling toward the posts before they leave. We retrieve the bags and bring them to the reclamation shed, then pull out the things that would be useful for us. Bedsheets, towels. Sometimes scarves or table cloths. Mostly, were looking for the large pieces of cloth that we can use to make our garments. And there's not a lot of those in what we are given. Maybe five or six pieces out of every hundred?

When we find those, they are set aside to be laundered and given to the aunties in the sewing shed. Everything else goes back in a bag and one of the Masters will take it to the Salvation Army or the other Christian mission or something back in town. I have never seen the town. I’ve seen other towns in movies, sometimes in pictures in magazines. We get picture books too, and the occasional scrapbook with snapshots from all over the world. These items are not supposed to be kept but if they are donated, sometimes we will indulge. Just for a moment. Then we send them back out.

I bet the people who donated all this have no idea their stuff ends up somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder if they shop at the thrift stores and end up buying some of it back.

The house smells good, like bleach and Pine-Sol. My hands are gritty from being submerged in the soapy water for so long, but I am pleased with what I've done. The floors are clean, and the windowsills are free of dust or cobwebs. I even washed the little window over the kitchen sink that looks out over the tiny, messy garden. The sweet peas need to be picked. I have to do that in the morning.

I hear Mama on the front steps, her boots hard on the wooden slats. She comes in the door with a weary look on her face, the back of her hand already rubbing the space between her eyebrows. I turn away automatically because I want her to catch me in the act of doing housework, not just standing around. Never that.

“Dinner is started,” I let her know, hoping she can smell the pot of stew bubbling on our small gas stove. She nods, smiling weakly. Her job isn’t really that hard. Mostly it's gossiping and plotting with the other aunties, but she acts like she's been digging ditches all day.

“Did you find anything good?”

“Almost nothing,” she sighs as she shuffles toward the kitchen. I see her eyes dart around, taking in the work I've done, but she doesn't say anything about it.

“You'd be shocked what people throw away. Shocked.”

“Well, they're not really throwing it away, are they? They're donating it to us?”

She looks at me back over her shoulder, pushing her braid to the other side. Her eyes narrow slightly as she considers it. I can tell that she was repeating a conversation the aunties must have had several times over the course of the day. It sounded rehearsed. They must have all been shocked at what got thrown away, maybe holding pieces up and laughing, maybe spinning tales about people who previously owned the things we have been given. And I guess I'm the first person today to disagree.

“Go ahead and eat,” I offer.

She pulls a bowl down from the shelf and sits at the table after ladling out a couple spoonfuls of stew. Through the steam, she tips her head and stares at me. I shift from foot to foot, plucking at the long skirts that brush around my ankles.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Oh, not today…” I shrug. “I had some tomatoes out of the garden earlier. Some porridge. Really, I'm stuffed.”

She tips her head forward, folding her hands over the wide metal spoon. Her lips move as she prays for an extraordinarily long time. I know she prayed this morning too. I could hear it when her knees hit the floor. But she just goes on and on. Why does she have so much to tell Him?

I hear people moving around outside and automatically glance over my shoulder. The procession has started. The sun isn't quite down yet, but people are gathering on our little dusty path, forming in small groups, exchanging excited snippets of conversation.

“You're not going out there,” Mama announces.

I cringe. I never should have looked at the procession. I never should have let her see what I wanted to do. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.

“I just thought I'd walk along. Maybe find Tulip or Abbie and see how they were doing with their gardens, you know?”

“Don't you lie to me, girl,” she hisses, slurping back a mouthful of stew and pointing the spoon at me. The room is quickly becoming dark as the sun goes down, and I can't help it but feel like it's all becoming quite urgent.

“I'm not lying… well, I'm not trying to lie. Why would I lie about that? Everyone's allowed to go where they want, aren't we??

??

She smirks triumphantly, as though I've admitted to something. “Yes, Angel, everyone's allowed to go where they will. But because you're not yet a woman, you're required to obey me.”

“I'm almost a woman,” I counter.

She shrugs and resumes eating.

“Almost is not the same as is,” she reminds me. “See, you get chosen for this ceremony, you don't get to insist. Father Daddy will decide when the time is right. It's as simple as that, Angel. You know that.”

I want to stretch. I want to hold my arms up or stomp my feet or something, but I know it won't do any good. It would only make this last longer. Mama has some say-so on when I'm chosen. She could delay the whole thing for another year she wants to, even though I'm older than most of the girls who have been through it.

Come to think of it, she must have asked somebody to leave me this way, to take care of the house and such for her. I’ll bet she told them she was ill or something.

Or maybe they just haven't gotten around to me. Maybe walking around without make up, dressed in what looks like a flour sack when it's hanging on the back of a door… maybe nobody noticed me at all.