“Gray may grow some body hair,” I said, “as his dad wasn’t Samoan.” It was funny, really. You’d think your day would be full of conversation about whether you had to be … well, obedient and fruitful, for example. Instead, you talked about body hair. “Nobody’s making you do it,” I went on. “There are no rules. You can do what you like. Men, too. They can shave, or grow beards. Keep the hair on their chests, or trim it, or wax it off. Either way. Any way.”
Which told you why body hair was as subversive a topic as everything else. They mulled that over, and I began to work on the sauce for my meatballs, hoped Gray would like this dinner, too, and spent about two seconds wondering whether it meant something nefarious that I wanted to cook dinner for a man this much.
It couldn’t be. A man who was letting me borrow his cherry-red Mustang? The least I could do was cook him some meatballs and pasta, right? In his kitchen. In his yurt. Which I was living in. With my sisters.
I didn’t think he shaved his chest, actually. It had looked smooth to me this morning, when he’d taken off his shirt, and it had looked smooth when he’d done it before, too. When he’d been climbing through my window for me. Anyway, Gray wasn’t the kind of man who spent much extra time on getting his grooming exactly right. I’d been right about the work boots and the jeans, the working-man strength of him. He had to know he looked that good, but he didn’t seem to care.
While I was mulling over that dangerous line of thought, the girls seemed to be doing the same, because Fruitful pulled aside the dressing gown, looked at her leg, dusted by the fine dark hair bequeathed by our Indian mother, and said, “I choose to take it off, then.”
“Underarms as well?” I asked.
Fruitful considered. “Show me yours.”
I did, pulling down my sleeve, and Fruitful lifted her own arm, checked herself out, made a face, and said, “That too.”
“It’s like cutting the hair on your head,” I said. “You can choose one thing today, and something else next month. You can color your hair. You can shave your head. You can braid your underarm hair. You can do anything you like, and then you can do something else.”
“You don’t have to say all that,” Fruitful said. “I’m sure.”
“Right, then,” I laid my forearms on the benchtop and did some stretching, one hamstring at a time. As usual, I’d run a bit fast this morning. Running away from the bad thoughts, or trying to impress Gray, I wasn’t sure.
Nah, I was sure. I’d been trying to impress Gray. Who’d taken off his shirt for me. I’d washed it already and hung it on the line outside. If I’d had an iron, I’d have ironed it. That was how that gesture had felt to me.
He hadn’t said much at all. He’d just held me, and then he’d let me go. And given me his shirt.
I gave up thinking about that and said, “Next question. Waxing or shaving. Waxing stings like billy-o, especially the first time, but it’s smoother, and it lasts longer.”
“I don’t care if it hurts,” Fruitful said. “I’m used to hurting.”
It lay out there, a bald statement of fact. I didn’t rush to fill the gap. I wanted her to know she’d said it, and that the sky hadn’t fallen. I kept on stirring my sauce, and Obedience asked, as tentatively as if she were picking her way across a minefield, “Did Gilead hurt you?”
“Yes,” Fruitful said.
“Me too,” I said, and had to take a couple of deep breaths. It was more than I’d ever confessed.
Obedience asked, “Like … Dad? Spanking?” Her voice quiet. Hesitant.
Fruitful said, “Yeh. But worse. And sex hurt.”
I said, “Oh, baby,” and stopped stirring. “I’m sorry.” And I was. Sorry for her. Sorry for me. “And I’m proud of you for saying it.”
My head came up, and I said, “Neither do I. And that’s brave of you to say.” It was more than brave. It was independent thought.
“If you’re bigger anyway,” Obedience said, “why do you have to hurt somebody to prove it? They already know you can. Why do you have to actually do it? And why do men want to hurt people anyway?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe you could ask Gray, later tonight. I’m