Hunters and Gatherers by Francine Prose Read Free Book Online

objects reminded Martha of films in which gang members agree to surrender their guns, and an entire arsenal materializes out of nowhere.
    Joy put one of her crutches along the edge of the table, and Diana, her redheaded girlfriend, set down what appeared be a terra-cotta hot plate incised with grooves delineating a naked woman’s breasts and belly. The women bowed their heads and put their hands over their bellies, a gesture Martha approximated by folding her hands in her lap. She made herself untwist her fingers lest she seem to be wringing her hands. Some of the women shut their eyes, others stared at the table.
    Some fresh intensity communicated that this silence was meant to go deeper and signify more than the one on the beach. Martha hoped this didn’t mean it would last longer. What was she supposed to be thinking about? Was her mind meant to be empty? It was so unnerving to be peaceful and quiet with strangers.
    This silence should have come more readily than the silence on the shore. It should have been easier to avoid getting restless or anxious, easier to concentrate without the distracting roar of the surf or the shouts of swimmers having fun or drowning. But peace did not descend as planned. Martha stared into a large crystal, where a beam of light twisted like the gooey bubbles in a lava lamp. The air felt damp and close. Martha pawed the rough Bedouin robe, unsticking it from her body.
    She didn’t think she could stand it, being made to keep silent. Who were these women to force her to sit here and waste her time with their fruitcake crystals and silly rites and contraband pre-Columbian art? She could be eating veal paprikás and watching TV with Gretta’s parents! She could just get up and leave and walk out and never see these people again!
    Through her mounting irritation and panic, Martha heard Isis say, “The static is incredible. We are all just buzzed .”
    Martha looked around, intrigued to learn that what she’d thought was a personal problem might be a group event.
    “Let’s try chanting,” Isis suggested. “Nothing too heavy.”
    The women began a nasal, bleating “ma ma ma.” Martha couldn’t make herself do it; luckily, no one noticed. The drone had the eerie Balkan power of wailing Transylvanian women mourning Vlad the Impaler’s death. But the chant kept faltering, and the women seemed tense and inhibited, like partygoers singing “Happy Birthday” without ever quite getting on key.
    Suddenly, the phone rang loud—twice, three times—and kept ringing.
    “I knew it!” said Isis. “We were waiting for something. That was why we were having trouble silencing and centering.” The women made gentle cooing sounds, pleased to find that they’d mistaken their natural ESP for ordinary distraction.
    When the ringing didn’t stop, Starling cried, “Jesus Christ! Goddamn answering machine never comes through when you need it!” She stood, upsetting a bowl of roses. Water spilled onto the table. A spasm of wiping and blotting accompanied her exit.
    No one spoke till Starling returned. “Goddamn travel agent,” she said. “He said he knew he could reach us out here, since it’s Labor Day weekend. Apparently there’s some wrinkle with the four-wheel-drive vehicles for our trip.”
    What trip? Martha wondered. No one paused to explain. They were all going somewhere together, and Martha wasn’t invited. But why would they have asked her along? She’d only just met these women. There was no reason, no reason at all for Martha to feel hurt, nor, for that matter, any reason for Martha to think of herself as so cold and cerebral when she was always getting her feelings hurt by every tiny thing. She was terribly oversensitive, Dennis had often told her, usually just after he’d made some harsh or sadistic remark.
    Starling said, “That pig travel agent—”
    “There are female travel agents,” said Joy. “We could have worked with a woman-owned business. A penis is not required