Free Hunters and Gatherers by Francine Prose Page A

into cults. But the Goddess women weren’t Moonies or Hare Krishnas. They were Jungian therapists, writers, scientists, academics…
    “Earth to Martha,” said Gretta. “What is with you today?”
    “What are you having?” said Martha.
    “The pasta with pine nuts and sun-dried tomatoes,” said Gretta. “The grilled vegetables. And the green bean salad.”
    “Make that two,” said Martha.
    “Two it is,” Enzio told Gretta.
    “And bring that wine now, please,” said Gretta.
    “Pronto.” Enzio danced away, turning to wink at Gretta.
    “This is something new,” said Gretta. “Some kind of foreign-guy charisma. It must have something to do with Xavier. Something’s rubbing off.”
    “What’s the matter?” Martha said. “You look sort of tense.”
    “Oh, nothing,” Gretta answered. Enzio brought her a glass of wine and grudgingly gave one to Martha.
    Gretta took three large gulps and then told Martha a story about how they’d gone to a party last week, and Xavier had spent the evening flirting with another woman. It was a very long story and contained many details about the party and the woman, and many pauses during which Gretta waited for Martha to say that Xavier really did love her, but he was just being Xavier. Finally Gretta paused and said, “So how are the Wicca women?”
    “Not Wicca women,” Martha said. “Goddess worshippers.”
    “Same difference,” said Gretta.
    “Not really,” said Martha. “They’re not really such flakes. Listen, I stopped at a bookstore, and there was a huge selection of Goddess books.”
    Martha knew she was signaling Gretta that Goddess worship was a happening thing, so Gretta wouldn’t think that it was just Martha and one lone coven of crazies. This was how Martha used to convince her mother that something was all right: lots of people did it, especially popular kids. It was also how Mode decided that a subject had interest and value. The right people were doing it, and doing it right this minute.
    Gretta lunged her empty wine glass at a passing waiter, not theirs. “Goddess books are out of my department, my sub-department, and any sub-subdepartment I could imagine getting into.” Gretta was assistant publicity director at a publishing house. Every Monday—for as long as they didn’t catch her, she said—she took Martha to lunch.
    Martha said, “Isis has five books in print. Bernie’s written a big trade paperback about Jungian archetypes. I even found Freya’s overproduced coffee-table book about the Goddess in art history, culminating in Freya’s work.”
    “Oh, Lord,” said Gretta. “Lord, oh Lord. How can you read that dreck?”
    “Come on,” said Martha. “It’s interesting, sort of. Don’t you wonder what the world would be like if women ran it? The Goddess women say we’d be nicer and more loving. But when you mention Margaret Thatcher or Indira Gandhi, they say: Those are women with male values, and we can’t know what we’ll do until we evolve past that. But what if they’re right? How could things be any more screwed up than they are right now?”
    Why was Martha making the Goddess women sound like a bunch of philosophy graduate students and leaving out the embarrassing rituals, the Talking Stick and so forth, the truly bizarre discussions of whether rapists deserve to be hexed, the charged allusions to some ritual with a pomegranate and a dagger? Martha had plenty of doubts about their corny rites and wacky historical notions. But to listen to Martha defending them to Gretta, anyone would have thought that she was just like Hegwitha, happy to be accepted, without reservations or doubts, and with a total, unwavering faith in a kindly nurturant Goddess.
    “They’re not so bad,” said Martha. “They’re kind of smart. They’re strange. They seem to like me.”
    “That’s pathetic,” said Gretta. “Lots of people like you. I like you.”
    “Name someone else,” said Martha. Was she hoping that Gretta would, despite