Sundry Days by Donna Callea

primal in some men that makes them long for sons, even now, when daughters are so precious.  But that’s another story.
    Rebekah rolls her eyes at my efforts to mother her, but eventually she loosens up and gives in. We kick off our shoes and put pillows behind our heads as we lie back on the bed.
    “I have things to tell you that are secrets,” I begin. “They’re secrets only women share.  So you have to promise to keep what I tell you to yourself.”
    She nods.
    We start with the basics.
    “You know the sea sponges that you use when you have your period?  Well, there’s another very important role for those practical little gifts of nature.”
    I explain to her how the sponges—which have been menstruation staples for centuries, provide a good living for those who harvest them, and are readily available—can also be used for contraception.
       “We women soak them in a special herbal concoction and then insert them deep enough inside so they can’t be detected during intercourse. They provide a very good barrier.”
    “I thought the whole point of sex now was to have babies, not stop them from being conceived,” says Rebekah.
    “Well, it’s definitely not the whole point. For one thing, it’s very unhealthy for a woman to be pregnant all the time. And in our species, at least, sex is for pleasure as much as it is for procreation.  Men need to be satisfied—that’s why women have to marry so many husbands these days.  And women also need and deserve to receive pleasure from the act.  Each sex act cannot and should not result in pregnancy. Do you understand, Rebekah?”
    She nods.  But, of course, she really doesn’t understand, and won’t until she’s married. Pleasure, though, is something she has the right to expect, and she should know in advance that it’s her due.
    “So you use the sea sponges to prevent pregnancy.  I get it,” she says.
    “That’s not all you need to know.  What I’m going to tell you now is not for the ears of men.   A few men may know, because they’re smart and have figured it out.  Others may guess.  But this is something we must never discuss with them.  Understand?  Girls usually aren’t told until closer to the time they’re married.  Some girls aren’t ever told, and that’s a terrible thing.  But I’m all you have in the way of a mother now, so I want you to know.”
    She looks at me wide-eyed.  I have her full attention.
    “It’s up to women to decide who will father our children, no matter how many husbands we may have, or how often we have sex with each man. We have to do our best to make sure each husband feels that each child is his own.  There are ways to do this.  Sometimes there’s an obvious connection between a father and child, like the red hair you share with your Papa Danny.  But direct paternity should never be evident, if you can help it, or acknowledged in any way.”
    “What you’re saying is, it’s up to the woman to put in the sponge with everyone but the man she likes best, and to never tell anyone that’s what she’s done.”
    “No. That’s not what I’m saying. Men come in all varieties, Rebekah.  In ancient times the men who fathered the most children tended to be the most powerful, aggressive, territorial, competitive, selfish and possessive. Not always, but that was the trend.  As a result, some very unfortunate traits were passed on, generation after generation.  The cycle couldn’t be broken. That’s why there were wars all the time.  It’s why the Earth was plundered and sacrificed to the ambitions of men.  It’s why there was rape.  Why there still is rape.”
    Now Rebekah rolls her eyes.
    “If men are so bad we probably shouldn’t marry any.”
    She’s being facetious.
    “You know we don’t have any choice but to be polyandrous.  Some people believe The Designer caused The Great Flood and skewed the birth rate to teach us a lesson.  If so, we haven’t learned it yet. And time is