“We had that, too,” Mother said, “only we wore it on the back of our skirts.”
I laughed.
The docent glared at me. “Male domination of women's bodies began long before the so-called 'Liberation', with government regulation of abortion and fetal rights, scientific control of fertility, and finally the development of ammenerol, which eliminated the reproductive cycle altogether. This was all part of a carefully-planned takeover of women's bodies, and by extension, their identities, by the male patriarchal regime.”
“What an interesting point of view!” Karen said enthusiastically.
It certainly was. In point of fact, ammenerol hadn't been invented to eliminate menstruation at all. It had been developed for shrinking malignant tumors, and its uterine lining-absorbing properties had only been discovered by accident.
“Are you trying to tell us,” Mother said, “that men forced shunts on women?! We had to fight everyone to get it approved by the FDA!”
It was true. What surrogate mothers and anti-abortionists and the fetal rights issue had failed to do in uniting women, the prospect of not having to menstruate did. Women had organized rallies, petitions, elected senators, passed amendments, been excommunicated, and gone to jail, all in the name of Liberation.
“Men were against it,” Mother said, getting rather red in the face. “And the religious right and the tampon manufacturers, and the Catholic church--”
“They knew they'd have to allow women priests,” Viola said.
“Which they did,” I said.
“The Liberation hasn't freed you,” the docent said loudly. “Except from the natural rhythms of your life, the very wellspring of your femaleness.”
She leaned over and picked a daisy that was growing under the table. “We in the Cyclists celebrate the onset of our menses and rejoice in our bodies,” she said, holding the daisy up. “Whenever a Cyclist comes into blossom, as we call it, she is honored with flowers and poems and songs. Then we join hands and tell what we like best about our menses.”
“Water retention,” I said.
“Or lying in bed with a heating pad for three days a month,” Mother said.
“I think I like the anxiety attacks best,” Viola said. “When I went off the ammenerol, so I could have Twidge, I'd have these days where I was convinced the space station was going to fall on me.”
A middle-aged woman in overalls and a straw hat had come over while Viola was talking and was standing next to Mother's chair. “I had these mood swings,” she said. “One minute I'd feel cheerful and the next like Lizzie Borden.”
“Who's Lizzie Borden?” Twidge asked.
“She killed her parents,” Bysshe said. “With an ax.”
Karen and the docent glared at both of them. “Aren't you supposed to be working on your math, Twidge?”
“I've always wondered if Lizzie Borden had PMS,” Viola said, “and that was why--”
“No,” Mother said. “It was having to live before tampons and ibuprofen. An obvious case of justifiable homicide.”
“I hardly think this sort of levity is helpful,” Karen said, glowering at everyone.
“Are you our waitress?” I asked the straw-hatted woman hastily.
“Yes,” she said, producing a slate from her overalls pocket.
“Do you serve wine?” I asked.
“Yes. Dandelion, cowslip, and primrose.”
“We'll take them all.”
“A bottle of each?”
“For now. Unless you have them in kegs.”
“Our specials today are watermelon salad and choufleur gratine,” she said, smiling at everyone. Karen and the docent did not smile back. «You hand-pick your own cauliflower from the patch up front. The floratarian special is sautйed lily buds with marigold butter.»
There was a temporary truce while everyone ordered. “I'll have the sweet peas,” the docent said, “and a glass of rose water.”
Bysshe leaned over to Viola. “I'm sorry I sounded so horrified when your grandmother asked if I was your livein,” he said.
“That's okay,” Viola said. “Grandma Karen can be pretty scary.”
“I just didn't want you to think I didn't like you. I do. Like you, I mean.”
“Don't they have soyburgers?” Twidge asked.
As soon as the waitress left, the docent began passing out the pink folders she'd brought with her. “These will explain the working philosophy of the Cyclists,” she said, handing me one, “along with practical information on the menstrual cycle.” She handed Twidge one.
“It looks just like those books we used to get in junior high,” Mother said, looking at hers. “'A Special Gift,' they were called, and they had all these pictures of girls with pink ribbons in their hair, playing tennis and smiling. Blatant misrepresentation.”
She was right. There was even the same drawing of the fallopian tubes I remembered from my middle school movie, a drawing that had always reminded me of Alien in the early stages.
“Oh, yuck,” Twidge said. “This is disgusting.”
“Do your math,” Karen said.
Bysshe looked sick. “Did women really do this stuff?”
The wine arrived, and I poured everyone a large glass. The docent pursed her lips disapprovingly and shook her head. “The Cyclists do not use the artificial stimulants or hormones that the male patriarchy has forced on women to render them docile and subservient.”
“How long do you menstruate?” Twidge asked.
“Forever,” Mother said.
“Four to six days,” the docent said. “It's there in the booklet.”
“No, I mean, your whole life or what?”
“A woman has her menarche at twelve years old on the average and ceases menstruating at age fifty-five.”
“I had my first period at eleven,” the waitress said, setting a bouquet down in front of me. “At school.”
“I had my last one on the day the FDA approved ammenerol,” Mother said.
“Three hundred and sixty-five divided by twenty-eight,” Twidge said, writing on her slate. “Times forty-three years.” She looked up. “That's five hundred and fifty-nine periods.”
“That can't be right,” Mother said, taking the slate away from her. “It's at least five thousand.”
“And they all start on the day you leave on a trip,” Viola said.
“Or get married,” the waitress said. Mother began writing on the slate.
I took advantage of the ceasefire to pour everyone some more dandelion wine.
Mother looked up from the slate. “Do you realize with a period of five days, you'd be menstruating for nearly three thousand days? That's over eight solid years.”
“And in between there's PMS,” the waitress said, delivering flowers.
“What's PMS?” Twidge asked.
“Pre-menstrual syndrome was the name the male medical establishment fabricated for the natural variation in hormonal levels that signal the onset of menstruation,” the docent said. “This mild and entirely normal fluctuation was exaggerated by men into a debility.” She looked at Karen for confirmation.
“I used to cut my hair,” Karen said.
The docent looked uneasy.
“Once I chopped off one whole side,” Karen went on. “Bob had to hide the scissors every month. And the car keys. I'd start to cry every time I hit a red light.”
“Did you swell up?” Mother asked, pouring Karen another glass of dandelion wine.