“Why not?”
“Would you? I mean, it's like the Inquisition. Her sitting here while all of us 'explain' at her. Perdita may be crazy, but she's not stupid.”
“It's hardly the Inquisition,” Mother said. She looked anxiously past me toward the door. “I'm sure Perdita--” She stopped, stood up, and plunged off suddenly through the asparagus.
I turned around, half-expecting Perdita with light-up lips or a full-body tattoo, but I couldn't see through the leaves. I pushed at the branches.
“Is it Perdita?” Viola said, leaning forward.
I peered around the mulberry bush. “Oh, my God,” I said.
It was my mother-in-law, wearing a black abayah and a silk yarmulke. She swept toward us through a pumpkin patch, robes billowing and eyes flashing. Mother hurried in her wake of trampled radishes, looking daggers at me.
I turned them on Viola. “It's your grandmother Karen,” I said accusingly. “You told me you didn't get through to her.”
“I didn't,” she said. “Twidge, sit up straight. And put your slate down.”
There was an ominous rustling in the rose arbor, as of leaves shrinking back in terror, and my mother-in-law arrived.
“Karen!” I said, trying to sound pleased. “What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were in Baghdad.”
“I came back as soon as I got Viola's message,” she said, glaring at everyone in turn. “Who's this?” she demanded, pointing at Bysshe. “Viola's new livein?”
“No!” Bysshe said, looking horrified.
“This is my law clerk, Mother,” I said. “Bysshe Adams-Hardy.”
“Twidge, why aren't you in school?”
“I am,” Twidge said. “I'm remoting.” She held up her slate. “See? Math.”
“I see,” she said, turning to glower at me. “It's a serious enough matter to require my great-grandchild's being pulled out of school and the hiring of legal assistance, and yet you didn't deem it important enough to notify me. Of course, you never tell me anything, Traci.”
She swirled herself into the end chair, sending leaves and sweet pea blossoms flying and decapitating the broccoli centerpiece. “I didn't get Viola's cry for help until yesterday. Viola, you should never leave messages with Hassim. His English is virtually nonexistent. I had to get him to hum me your ring. I recognized your signature, but the phones were out, so I flew home. In the middle of negotiations, I might add.”
“How are negotiations going, Grandma Karen?” Viola asked.
“They were going extremely well. The Israelis have given the Palestinians half of Jerusalem, and they've agreed to time-share the Golan Heights.” She turned to glare momentarily at me. “They know the importance of communication.” She turned back to Viola. “So why are they picking on you, Viola? Don't they like your new livein?”
“I am not her livein,” Bysshe protested.
I have often wondered how on earth my mother-in-law became a mediator and what she does in all those negotiation sessions with Serbs and Catholics and North and South Koreans and Protestants and Croats. She takes sides, jumps to conclusions, misinterprets everything you say, refuses to listen. And yet she talked South Africa into a Mandelan government and would probably get the Palestinians to observe Yom Kippur. Maybe she just bullies everyone into submission. Or maybe they have to band together to protect themselves against her.
Bysshe was still protesting. “I never even met Viola till today. I've only talked to her on the phone a couple of times.”
“You must have done something,” Karen said to Viola. “They're obviously out for your blood.”
“Not mine,” Viola said. “Perdita's. She's joined the Cyclists.”
“The Cyclists? I left the West Bank negotiations because you don't approve of Perdita joining a biking club? How am I supposed to explain this to the president of Iraq? She will not understand, and neither do I. A biking club!” “The Cyclists do not ride bicycles,” Mother said.
“They menstruate,” Twidge said.
There was a dead silence of at least a minute, and I thought, it's finally happened. My mother-in-law and I are actually going to be on the same side of a family argument.
“All this fuss is over Perdita's having her shunt removed?” Karen said finally. “She's of age, isn't she? And this is obviously a case where personal sovereignty applies. You should know that, Traci. After all, you're a judge.”
I should have known it was too good to be true.
“You mean you approve of her setting back the Liberation twenty years?” Mother said.
“I hardly think it's that serious,” Karen said. “There are anti-shunt groups in the Middle East, too, you know, but no one takes them seriously. Not even the Iraqis, and they still wear the veil.”
“Perdita is taking them seriously.”
Karen dismissed Perdita with a wave of her black sleeve. “They're a trend, a fad. Like microskirts. Or those dreadful electronic eyebrows. A few women wear silly fashions like that for a little while, but you don't see women as a whole giving up pants or going back to wearing hats.”
“But Perdita…” Viola said.
“If Perdita wants to have her period, I say let her. Women functioned perfectly well without shunts for thousands of years.”
Mother brought her fist down on the table. “Women also functioned perfectly well with concubinage, cholera and corsets,” she said, emphasizing each word with her fist. “But that is no reason to take them on voluntarily, and I have no intention of allowing Perdita--”
“Speaking of Perdita, where is the poor child?” Karen said.
“She'll be here any minute,” Mother said. “I invited her to lunch so we could discuss this with her.”
“Ha!” Karen said. “So you could browbeat her into changing her mind, you mean. Well, I have no intention of collaborating with you. I intend to listen to the poor thing's point of view with interest and an open mind. Respect, that's the key word, and one you all seem to have forgotten. Respect and common courtesy.”
A barefoot young woman wearing a flowered smock and a red scarf tied around her left arm came up to the table with a sheaf of pink folders.
“It's about time,” Karen said, snatching one of the folders away from her. “Your service here is dreadful. I've been sitting here ten minutes.” She snapped the folder open. “I don't suppose you have Scotch.”
“My name is Evangeline,” the young woman said. “I'm Perdita's docent.” She took the folder away from Karen. “She wasn't able to join you for lunch, but she asked me to come in her place and explain the Cyclist philosophy to you.”
She sat down in the wicker chair next to me.
“The Cyclists are dedicated to freedom,” she said. “Freedom from artificiality, freedom from body-controlling drugs and hormones, freedom from the male patriarchy that attempts to impose them on us. As you probably already know, we do not wear shunts.”
She pointed to the red scarf around her arm. “Instead, we wear this as a badge of our freedom and our femaleness. I'm wearing it today to announce that my time of fertility has come.”