Things kind of got out of hand. I still have to wear long sleeves in polite company.
But there’s no point dwelling on any of the witless, reckless ways I nearly sliced myself up, OD’d, or got beaten toothless in semen-stinking back rooms. You could call my lifestyle an ongoing suicide attempt; but it didn’t work, did it?
Didn’t prove anything.
Didn’t solve the problem.
Faye Smallwood, who once thought she was too strong to be damaged by the world. A glossy girl who suddenly hated shine.
I survived those years mostly because of Sallysweet River itself — tough mining town, yes, but not nearly as rotted-up with focused violence as your average city. We had brawls and drunkards, not gang wars and cold-kill hoodlums.
And I had my protectors: other petty delinquents and rebels, kids like me who’d seen too many corpses. My own bad crowd, eight of us, all convinced that the overabundance of death disproved something about the universe, and the only decent response was to mistrust the whole polite world. To defy. To mutiny against complacent niceness because it had unforgivably let us down.
Idealistic buggers that we were. At age nineteen, we got married — all eight of us.
Quick background data: the humans on Demoth originally hailed from Come-By-Chance, a planet that got settled in the twenty-second century by a small religious sect called the MaryMarch Covenant. The early MaryMarchers believed in a particular type of group marriage — forming your own clan, a commune, a kibbutz, a "life team"…
A family. And at age nineteen, with nothing but ice between Mother and me, some part of my soul longed for any kind of connection.
MaryMarch marriages had fallen out of fashion over the past two hundred years, worn down by contact with more conventional attitudes from mainstream Technocracy society; but they were still legal, here on Demoth as well as our old home on Come-By-Chance. So why shouldn’t a bunch of eight kids from Sallysweet River tie the knot? Such a sweet old-fashioned notion… marrying the boys and girls next door.
Me and Lynn: we were the instigators. Things always worked that way. Lynn had long been in flaming staunch-hearted love with me — the only smudge of lunacy in her character because otherwise she had brains and cool and common sense. (God, if I could be as serene as Lynn for a single day! I envied everything about her… except her dotage on a flake like me. Of course, she envied me back: "For being insane," she said, "for letting yourself be insane… and for those gorgeous Amazonian shoulders that I just want to sink my teeth into. Meow.")
I made up a list of the family I envisioned, and Lynn made it happen. Our typical working arrangement, "Lynn, I want this."
"Then, dear one, that’s what you shall have."
My chosen spouses (besides Lynn):
Angie Tobin, because she was mouthwatering gorgeous and sexually congenial. The sort who giggled comfortably in bed. With Angie baiting our marital hook, Lynn and I could reel in blessed near any man in town. And half the women.
Barrett Arsenault, because he was just as gorgeous as Angie, and wild as squidge-weed. Never turned down a dare, no matter how crazed… and on nothing-to-do Saturday nights, Barrett always came up with something to make the weekend memorable.
Peter Kaluit, because he was funny. By Christ and all the saints, he was funny. Wicked but not snake-mean. He played keyboards too, and wrote songs that would have you laughing yourself wet. To my teenage mind, it didn’t hurt either that he was hung like a bear.
Winston Mooney, because he knew how to get things done. He knew the angles. More than once, when I’d got myself in trouble with the law or harsh company, Winston would squeak me free from the jaws of disaster. He was mad-jack in love with me too, and it would be a slap in his face if I didn’t invite him into the scrum.
Darlene Carew, because she was timid and lonely. Not whiny or pathetic, but sad. A bony-thin girl as pretty as porcelain, but who never got asked out; who never dreamed of doing the asking herself; who wrote poetry and listened with shiny eyes whenever I recounted my latest slap-and-tickle adventures. I figured Darlene could be my personal project — cut her in on a piece of Barrett, Peter, and the rest, give her some new experiences to put in her poems.
Finally, Egerton Crosbie (Sharr’s brother), because he was good-natured and built like a streetcar. Without him, I’d be the brawniest one in the household… and I sure as hell didn’t want to get stuck with the heavy lifting my whole life.
There: my husbands and wives. Cajoled, enticed, teased, negotiated into a grand old MaryMarch union.
The idea shocked the people we wanted to shock — my mother, for example. She wasn’t even of Covenant descent (Dads met her at medical college on New Earth), so our announcement struck her as flat-out perverse. Longtime MaryMarchers had a milder reaction, but still considered the marriage in bad taste: using a respected-if-not-respectable religious institution just to annoy our elders. Which was bang-on-the-head true.
Still, we had the aroma of legitimacy on our side: like someone who fasts on Fridays or wears a crown of real thorns to the Atonement service. People moan, "We don’t do that anymore!" but they won’t go so far as to stop you. Deep down, there’s always a knot of guilt that they’ve abandoned the old ways. That they’ve settled their butts in a padded pew and made themselves comfortable.
So the eight of us married. Started our own family compound: eight small domes ringed around a bigger central one. For a while, of course, it was sex, sex, sex — what do you expect from nineteen-year-olds? We had no other ideas about what marriage was. I took all seven of the others into my bed, individually, or in threesomes, foursomes, more-somes…
Faye being bad. Playing musical beds, not for any healthy reason like love or pure wet lust, but mostly just to be wicked. To get revenge on my mother for all the things she’d once imagined about me. To shock the rest of the community. To trivialize myself.
But the free-for-all burned itself out after a few months. Egerton and Darlene began pairing off together almost every night. Then Angie and Barrett. The other four of us stayed more loose and lubricious, occasionally showing up at each other’s door on nights we wanted comfort, but sleeping more and more on our own as time went on.
When Lynn got pregnant, both Peter and Winston claimed to be the father. Not fighting over it; just both of them volunteering, eager to be dads. Which put Lynn, Peter, and Winston together, didn’t it, even if Lynn occasionally planted me a fierce kiss as she padded past — the three of them cheerful parents-to-be, then overjoyed parents of Matthew and Eva. Naturally, the story went that Peter fathered one of the twins, while Winston fathered the other… but no one really knew who begat whom, and of course, they refused gene-testing to find out the truth. That would only spoil the solidarity.
So Darlene/Egerton, Angie/Barrett, Lynn/Peter/Winston — all of them sorted out. I was happy for them, truly. And I wasn’t so cruelly cut off on my own. As the months and years trickled by, from time to time any one of the seven might show up at my dome near bedtime, saying, "Faye, you looked so lonely at dinner…"
Sometimes we talked, then I sent them away. Sometimes they stayed the warm-flesh night. My husbands, my wives, my lovers, my friends, my teammates, my safety lines to the world.
It wasn’t so bad being the odd woman out. You can learn to live with anything when you’ve developed the notion you don’t deserve more.
Meanwhile in those years after the plague, Demoth was going through a merry old flap-up of reshuffling. With only a sliver of its former population, the planet didn’t have nearly the same mineral needs as before. All but one of the mines around Sallysweet River closed, but that was no hardship — so many Ooloms had died, there was work to be found all over Great St. Caspian. The government spent prodigious amounts on retraining; my spouses all got good educations, then good jobs.