Glad to have closed my laptop for the day, I notice the gale-force winds outside are mirroring my anxiety. With Soter at my side, I leave a note for Remy on the kitchen table:
Went to see Galax. Be home by 6:30. XOS
Walking around the back of the house to the car, I notice a light on in his studio, hemmed in by our ancient and now naked orchard that’s witnessed the changing of the guard. Their unyielding nature triggers a harsh troubling thought. I’ve either become reluctant or unable to communicate my incomprehension of Remy’s behavior for reasons I know I’m afraid to think about. But Zephyrus is not fooling around today, and his gnawing, tempestuous currents cast my fleeting worries aside as if my very life were at stake. Rushing to the car door on instinct, once Soter and I are safely interred, my entire being relaxes as the heated seat warms my core. Sitting upright in the passenger seat, my co-pilot takes his job very seriously, bringing a much-needed smile to my face.
Twilight underway surprisingly uncovers small signs of contumacious fall in the dusky light; reeded grasses, bent in half by the weight of the last storm accentuate the cottonwood leaves clinging desperately to their kin. But the rhythm of the S curves on Highway 14, soothe me into autopilot, wondering what Galax’s urgent message is all about. I know this can’t be good.
Galax is such a conundrum. While I can see she has successfully adapted into this small, artsy town, there’s something undeniably divergent about her. At times she’s formidable and autonomous, but within the same breath, she also conveys an almost childlike vulnerability. Remy told me that while they were captive at the park, Galax was the fire tender and sort of homemaker of the group. His first impression, easily overlooked her as helpless and subservient, but that was not the case. Like Hestia, she was a sleeper. He emphasized, she should not be underestimated.
Parking on the street across from her house in the narrow valley, Soter and I slosh through the gooey earth thawed by the now-dimming New Mexico sun. After three knocks, the door opens slowly to her familiar crystal-clear brown eyes, the whites eerily glowing against the dim background behind her.
Already unnerved, I ask, “Hey, are you okay?”
“Stephanie.” She looks at Soter questionably before commanding, “Come in quickly.” Ushering me past the same unpacked boxes and eschewed furniture from my last visit, the house actually, looks more disorganized. We settle into the kitchen again, and she offers me a drink, “I have a little whiskey.” She attempts cordiality but it’s hard pressed as she searches among the wreckage of boxes, dishes, and small appliances covering every square inch of the counter.
This really can’t be good. “Sure. I’ll have a whiskey.”
The old overhead light mounted to the ceiling casts a neutral, subway-bathroom hue. Her energy is completely untethered, like her surroundings as she pours five full fingers in to each glass. Handing me one, she then leans against a huge, pastel-pink refrigerator left over from the ‘50s, deliberately keeping her distance from Soter. “How much has Danielle shared with you about the park?” she questions me, her eyes intent as she swallows a gulp.
Taken aback, I answer slowly trying to estimate where this is going, “Not much. We don’t talk about it. Why?” I ask, taking a sip of what seems like golden nectar, the liquid reflecting the warm light from the fireplace in her living room.
I note calculated hesitance as she continues, “Has she ever mentioned how we were treated by the men in our group?” her drawl dramatically emphasizes each word.
“No. But Remy told me,” I reply quietly, “that you were all mistreated physically and emotionally.”
With a snigger, she takes a long draught emptying her glass, igniting anger in her eyes. “Yeah, that would be true.” Murmuring to herself, she shakes her head violently as if trying to escape a thought. “Listen, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just goin’ to say it.”
Bracing myself, I nod.
“Everyone on the island was having sex.”
That was unexpected. Wait. What? “Everyone?”
“Everyone.” She refills her glass, “Most of it was forced and unwarranted by the men and women vying for control, but there were also . . . couplings,” her drawl weighted by memories, slows her speech as she pauses in thought then vaguely smiles. “You know, there’s pleasure in the pathless woods.”
Her wanton look, behind the words of Byron, is a confession. I was only interned in that ghastly place for a day, and it seemed to have lasted two lifetimes, but Galax endured months of tyranny I cannot even imagine. With a feeling of dread, I drain my glass and ask the only question I can, “Why are you telling me this?”