Juniper, Gentian, and Rosemary

by PAMELA DEAN

  “In the meantime,” said Becky, “go and dance with my boyfriend so I can see if he’s any good at it.”

  Alma stood up, but she looked dubious and unreassured. Gentian waited for Becky to cope with this, but Becky seemed at a loss. “You know she’s always been like that,” Gentian said to Alma. “Ever since kindergarten. Don’t you remember, we were so jealous of our little group and didn’t want to add anybody and she was always trying to bring people in because she thought we were so neat she wanted to share us around?”

  Alma laughed until she had to sit down. She snorted so much that Becky patted her on the back and looked reproachfully at Gentian.

  “Oh,” said Alma eventually, sitting up and wiping her eyes. “I forgot. She did use to do that. Oh, Lord, my sides hurt.”

  “So go dance with her boyfriend.”

  “Yes, all right,” said Alma, leaping up again. “I’ll make him show you his paces.”

  “Good grief,” said Becky.

  They watched Alma bound across the room to Steph and Micky and engage in another argument. Steph stopped the music and they argued some more and then started digging through their piles of CDs again.

  Alma finally went upstairs and came down with another handful; Micky selected one and put it into the player.

  “That’s that collection of Hungarian dances her father got when they first bought the CD player and there were hardly any CDs except classical music,” said Becky. “She played it over and over and over.”

  “I think your boyfriend is a folk dancer,” said Gentian, watching Micky demonstrate steps to Steph and Alma.

  “Please don’t call him that. It’s only funny once or twice.”

  “Sorry.”

  Erin had been sitting on the floor by the CD player, following the discussion and demonstrations with a slight sardonic smile. She got up suddenly and came over to Gentian and Becky.

  “Micky says he wants to do a circle dance, he says it hasn’t got partners or gender roles and it doesn’t require any skill, just energy.”

  “How’s that for a romantic invitation?” said Becky to Gentian. “Sure.” She got up.

  “Becky!”

  “Oh,” said Becky. “Just a minute, Erin.”

  Erin went back across the room, and Becky said, “Is this dancing within the meaning of the act?”

  “Maybe not, but what if it’s a slippery slope?”

  “I’ll probably hate it,” said Becky, “but just allow me to observe that this is probably as close to a sport as you’ll ever get me.”

  “Huh. Well. All right. But this is an exception. It is not a precedent.”

  “Strike hands and a bargain,” said Becky, and they smacked their right hands together smartly and went to join the others.

  Micky taught them a series of hand and foot movements and then had them go around in a circle executing them in whatever order he called them out. When one song ended he just went on calling out moves into the next. Three songs in, Becky said, “What are you, the cruise director? Get in here,” and he joined them in the circle, between Becky and Steph.

  Gentian found the steps easy to learn, and having done so, performed them efficiently and watched everybody else. Becky had a much harder time learning and a much harder time staying in rhythm with everybody else, and she turned very pink and got out of breath long before anybody else. But she seemed pleased. Alma danced in a Tiggerlike fashion, with bounces, beaming and turning, all red and brown with an occasional silver flash from her earrings. Steph was also smiling and laughing and whirling around to make her skirt fly out around her. She was precise and delicate in her movements; she reminded Gentian of somebody she had once seen in a kitchen store demonstrating a Japanese tea ceremony. Erin was expressionless, but she seemed to move with no effort at all, as if there were no gravity in her part of the room, like Maria Mitchell running across the tops of all Gentian’s bookcases.

  I wish we had a mirror, she thought, like they have in dance studios. I’d like to see all of us. I hope I’m not spoiling the effect. I know Becky isn’t. Maybe it’s all the bright colors, but she goes with the music.

  Micky stamped his way into the middle of the circle and executed a series of turns with each Giant Ant; then, just as Gentian was being made very uneasy by this spectacle, he nodded at her and moved back beside Becky. She turned sedately into the middle, since the music had become suddenly much slower, and held out her right hand to Alma. They went around in a smaller circle of their own while still moving in the big one, a double planet orbiting some unseen center; and she managed to put in three of the clapping patterns Micky had taught them and two kicks before the music made her move on to Erin. Erin had watched her with Alma, and imitated the sequence of steps precisely. When she let go of Gentian’s hand at the end, she actually smiled. Steph threw Gentian off her stride momentarily by making a curtsy, but they recovered at once and made a much brisker round, because the music had changed again. This is actually better than most sports, thought Gentian; there’s something about the music. And it’s more collaborative. I wonder if sex is like this.

  Micky was next, which made Gentian feel shy and prickly at once. He did say, “You could have used that double kick,” but she knew already that he would always have some comment or other, and he was good enough to stick to her routine and not interpolate anything.

  She came to Becky last. Becky was completely out of breath, but when Gentian raised an eyebrow at her and tilted her chin at the CD player, Becky shook her head. They made their round within a round, and then Gentian fell back into her place, and while Erin was thinking out what to do, the music ended.

  Becky sat down on the floor immediately, gasping. Alma ran upstairs, two steps at a time, and came down a few minutes later with a tray of ice and soda and fruit juice. By the time everybody had drunk a glass or two or three, Micky and Erin were arguing about the space program. Gentian began to wonder, listening, if this were merely his method of extracting information he didn’t have, without putting him to the bother of actually asking.

  By the time Becky had gone from bright red back to pink, she and Micky were arguing about Edna St. Vincent Millay, with Steph putting in an occasional sentence; and by the time she was her normal pale self, Alma had hauled out a pile of board games, which they played amiably, though not peacefully, until a little before midnight. Micky consistently sat by Becky, but since that left Becky’s other side for Gentian, she did not find this especially unsettling. Becky made just as many asides to her as usual. Near midnight, Alma passed out noisemakers; then she went into the bathroom and opened two bottles of nonalcoholic champagne, emerging triumphant with no spillage at all. Last year Steph had lost most of one bottle down the kitchen sink, and the year before Becky had broken a lamp with an escaping cork. Before that somebody’s parent had usually opened the bottles, or else they had had something less volatile, like lemonade.

  Alma poured champagne for everybody; the old clock on the wall struck midnight, rustily; everybody made a lot of noise and cheering. Then there was an uneasy pause. They usually all hugged one another, but who knew, thought Gentian, whether Micky wanted to hug any of them, even Becky, or whether any of them wanted to hug him? She didn’t, particularly, herself; he was perfectly fine company, but the acquaintance was much too short.

  Becky hugged Gentian and then hugged Micky, which gave the rest of the Giant Ants a chance to hurriedly hug one another. Gentian then asked Micky, more or less at random, what he liked to read, and during the long dissertation on science fiction writers, all male, that followed—he’d enjoy talking to her father, probably—Becky went around and hugged the rest of the Giant Ants.

  Then they had to sit on the floor in a circle and make toasts until the champagne was all drunk up. The origins of this ritual were in an Irish custom that Steph’s sister Caitlin had found out about and introduced them to at one of Steph’s birthday parties, but the Giant Ants had changed it a fair amount in the intervening years. You were supp
osed to toast a dead hero in the first round, a living one in the second, and an unborn one in the third. If anybody had not heard of your dead or living hero, you could give a brief biographical sketch. Becky explained this to Micky in an undertone, and then immediately offered her first toast, so that they would go around the circle widdershins as usual, and Micky’s turn would be last.

  “John Keats,” said Becky. Gentian was quite startled; Becky almost always said Emily Dickinson.

  “John Keats,” said everybody in a ragged chorus, and drank.

  “Maria Mitchell,” said Gentian, as always.

  “Maria Mitchell,” everybody said, and drank.

  Micky looked inquiring.

  “She’s often called the first woman astronomer, though actually Caroline Herschel did a lot of work before her. But Caroline just helped her brother. Maria Mitchell discovered the first telescopic comet and taught astronomy at Vassar for years.” Gentian felt this was pitifully inadequate; she knew Maria Mitchell from her strict Quaker upbringing to her last days in the tiny Lick Observatory in Lynn, Massachusetts, whence she had sent her love to “the whole catalogue” at Vassar College, and remarked, “Well, if this is dying, there is nothing very unpleasant about it.” She had said, “I believe in women even more than I believe in astronomy.” She had defied all the Baptist trustees of Vassar; she had run through the corridors of the dormitory in the middle of the night, rousing her students to come see whatever astronomical sights were going. No nutshell or capsule would hold her.

  Erin was next. “Gus Grissom,” she said. She was working her way through dead astronauts, and usually said she was sorry to have so many left to go. This year she said the name alone.

  “Gus Grissom,” they echoed her.

  Micky did not require to have Gus Grissom explained to him.

  Steph was next. “King Arthur,” she said.

  “King Arthur!”

  Micky looked skeptical. Becky said something in his ear, and he shut his mouth. Gentian smiled to herself. Steph probably knew more about the historical Arthur, and whether there had been one, than Arthur had known himself.

  Alma was next. “Edith Cavell,” she said.

  Micky looked inquiring.

  “She was an English nurse during World War I who helped about two hundred prisoners to escape. The Germans arrested her and had her shot.”

  It was Micky’s turn. “I don’t know if I’ll be PC enough for you guys,” he said.

  Becky put her hand firmly on Gentian’s arm, so Gentian merely simmered while Erin said calmly, “It’s your toast, it’s your hero. I suppose there are people we’d refuse to drink to, but we’ll worry about that if it happens.”

  Micky raised his glass, looking perplexed. “There are so many,” he said.

  “Yes, we know,” said Becky, “but the ones you leave out won’t have their feelings hurt. Just say whoever you’re thinking of at the moment.”

  “Well, all right,” said Micky. “Robert A. Heinlein.”

  “Robert A. Heinlein,” they said.

  They went around again. “Eva Hoffman,” said Becky. She must already have told Micky about Eva Hoffman, for he made no inquiry. “Vera Rubin,” said Gentian. Micky did look puzzled, so she said, “She’s an astronomer too. She discovered that the galaxies aren’t distributed evenly, but tend to clump up, and that a lot of local ones are moving in a particular direction; and she discovered dark matter, by studying the rotation of spiral galaxies.” Micky did not look impressed, but he raised his glass and drank with the others.

  “Jane Goodall,” said Erin.

  “Mother Teresa,” said Steph.

  Over a gathering chorus, Erin said clearly, “No, really, Steph, I just can’t.”

  “She’s as much a hero as any of the rest of them.”

  “She’s done a lot of good, but she’s done a lot of damage.”

  “You aren’t a hero if you haven’t.”

  “What damage did Edith Cavell do?”

  “Ask the Germans.”

  “What damage did Maria Mitchell do, then?” said Gentian.

  “The trustees of Vassar sure didn’t like her.”

  “Oh, right,” said Erin. “A bunch of male egos just begging to be punctured. Mother Teresa has Stone Age ideas about birth control and lots of people to listen to her.”

  “If I could drink to Heinlein, who is completely immoral—”

  “He is not.”

  “You guys,” said Alma. Gentian saw with some satisfaction that Micky’s eyes were enormous.

  “Drink to the good bits, Erin,” said Becky. “Just have a sip.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Erin.

  “Mother Teresa,” they murmured, and drank.

  “Maya Angelou,” said Alma, defiantly.

  “Now look,” said Steph.

  “She is heroic, you can’t deny it.”

  “Just a sip,” said Becky.

  “Maya Angelou,” they said; Gentian watched, and Steph did take a sip.

  “Stephen Jay Gould,” said Micky, warily.

  But they knew who he was because of Erin, and neither Steph nor Alma was a creationist, so that went over all right.

  “Now the unborn heroes,” said Alma, “and let’s just all drink at the end to whichever ones we like, all right?”

  Becky said, “Whoever writes the first really American epic poem.”

  Gentian said, “Whoever detects the first signal from extraterrestrial life.”

  Erin said, “Whoever puts gender in its proper place.”

  Steph said, “Whoever makes abstinence fashionable.”

  Alma said, very quickly, “Whoever makes tolerance fashionable.”

  Micky said, “The first man who sets foot on Mars. And everybody who worked to make it happen.”

  They all drank. Gentian’s father was coming in fifteen minutes to take everybody home, so they started to stand up. Gentian felt awkward, and could see that nobody was very comfortable. Erin cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Steph,” she said. “I know everybody is good and evil mixed. I just—”

  Steph flew at her and hugged her, saying something incoherent. Gentian felt better, but she didn’t think it had been the most inspired round of toasts they had ever had. As with their Halloween costumes, they were running out of standard responses and had not yet figured out new ones. She wondered what Micky thought. She wondered if his phrasing of his unborn-hero toast had been deliberate or just clueless. She knew Becky would have noticed: Becky always noticed words.

  After they had delivered everybody safely home, and were driving the six blocks from Alma’s house, Gentian’s father said, “Junie and her date are in the living room, so try to restrain your sisterly scorn.”

  “Who is it? The one from the chat echo?”

  “Yes,” said her father, in a slightly odd voice, “but I think you may recognize him.”

  “Somebody from school?”

  “No,” said her father, pulling the van into the driveway.

  They went in through the back door. Gentian’s mother was sitting in the kitchen eating garlic toast.

  “Well, I’d better tell her it’s time he went home,” said her father. Gentian trailed him into the living room, consumed with curiosity. Juniper and her date were standing in front of the fireplace, looking into the deep orange bed of coals.

  She had gone out for New Year’s Eve with Dominic. Dominic, then, was the Light Prince. As he had retained Gentian’s interest while being a racist and a sexist and a very indifferent conversationalist, so he had retained Junie’s while being those things and insulting her intellect into the bargain. He did not look notably triumphant. Gentian wondered if anybody had ever said No to him.

  “Merry meet again,” said Dominic to Gentian.

  “Happy New Year,” said Gentian.

  “We made a resolution,” said Juniper, who did look triumphant, “that we’d start work on Dominic’s science project tomorrow afternoon. He says he tends to be dilatory, so we must be d
iligent.”

  “Sisters three,” said Dominic.

  Gentian stood looking at him. I could say No to him, she thought. But she was tired; she would not properly appreciate the reaction. It would have more effect if she said it later; she could choose her time; and anyway, she was curious about just how he proposed to build a time machine. And this was not Junie’s forte: she was neither mechanically inclined nor methodical nor patient nor persevering. It might be that Juniper would say No and later on Gentian would say it too. Or not.

  “I’ll be there,” said Gentian.

  Then she said good night to her father and went upstairs, where she sat until 5: 00 a. m. with Maria Mitchell on her lap, looking at the Pleiades and considering the structure of open clusters.

  Chapter 19

  When Gentian woke up at one in the afternoon, with Maria Mitchell sitting on her chest and suggesting that she might want to get up now and throw this damp catnip mouse around the room, or possibly move her feet under the covers to be chased, or maybe just get up and let the cat out to find her own entertainment, she could hear voices and thumpings in the front part of the attic.

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes. She could feel her hair sticking straight up all over her head. She wondered how long she would have to grow it before it would stop doing that. She reached to pet Maria Mitchell, but Murr jumped off the bed and made for the door, complaining. Gentian went to let her out, and encountered Rosemary, in paint-stained jeans and T-shirt, toiling up the last few steps with a huge box in her arms.

  “What’s in there?” said Gentian.

  “Rocks,” said Rosemary, puffing, and let the box fall to the hallway floor with a resounding crash.

  “Very funny.”

  “It is rocks. It’s fossils. Dominic says we have to get the oldest things we can find and start with those, and then we have to have something from any historical period we want to visit, so the time machine will have something to resonate with.”