Just as August turned into September, normal life for the Castaways carried on. Well, a mostly normal life. To an outsider, the newly wedded couples would have seemed quite strange; aside from the changes in living accommodations, none of them acted like typical honeymooners; they carried out their daily chores and routines as usual, and interacted with each other just as they had before. Yet of course, an outsider would also be unaware of the drastic ups and downs behind the scenes.
"MaryAnn? Are you working on the laundry?" Ginger called, shifting her basket of clothes to her other hip as she noticed her friend approaching.
"I haven't started yet, but I'll join you later. Once I gather Gilligan's dirty socks," she added.
Fortunately for Ginger, the Professor kept his things very orderly and she never had to hunt for anything. Unfortunately for the Professor, Ginger was currently annoyed by him and had purposefully not gathered his laundry. He could wash his dirty socks on his own time.
During the first few days of marriage, Ginger had actually been surprised by how much she enjoyed living with the Professor. He was still a far cry from Cary Grant, but he tried so hard to be romantic, just for her sake… Ginger couldn't have asked for anything more.
Besides that, anytime there had ever been a rumor of trouble, the Professor was always the one Ginger had found herself calling for. Now, the fact that he spent his nights right beside her, only a heartbeat away, left Ginger feeling very…safe. She had the distinct feeling that even if cannibals did invade the island during the night, everything would work out fine because her husband would protect her.
Ginger rather loved that thought.
Yet, in spite of all her appreciation for her new husband, he was still the same scientifically-minded person as ever. Which was quite frustrating. Earlier that morning, while she'd been dressing for breakfast, he'd had the nerve to suggest that she should track her cycle more closely.
"From a biological standpoint, there are actually only a few days each month that prove ideal for conception. If we can be sure of which days those are, then we don't have to wear ourselves out with useless attempts the rest of the month." He had actually smiled, looking quite proud of his realization.
Ginger had interpreted the suggestion quite differently. "Oh, so you're basically saying there's no reason why you'd want to be with me beyond those three to four days? That you take no pleasure in 'useless' nights with me."
"I—no! I didn't say that," the Professor had retorted, very quickly.
"But you were thinking it," Ginger had protested. "From a 'biological standpoint.'" She'd tried to mimic his voice, which had only made him more upset. He'd started quoting something or other from Shakespeare at her—which was always proof he was angry—and then she'd stormed off to work on breakfast, not even attempting a reconciliation.
Of course, the plot of the argument was a bit improprietous, and so Ginger hadn't ranted to anyone, even MaryAnn. Instead she fumed in silence, shooting passive-aggressive looks at the Professor whenever they saw each other.
Infuriating scientific man!
"Hi Ginger! How's the laundry going?" asked the Skipper. He was wandering by, appreciating the thought of a new pineapple pie recipe that MaryAnn had mentioned earlier. Coconut pies were great, but the Skipper couldn't recall trying a pineapple one.
Ginger wrinkled her nose for a moment, then smiled charmingly. "The laundry would be better if you'd fetch me another bucket of water." She stepped closer to Skipper, the remnants of a frown dissolving into an expression that was far softer, more seductive.
The Skipper blinked a couple times as she lightly rested a hand on his arm. "Why, Ginger, I…" The Skipper wasn't sure what to say. Part of him was thrilled that she still wanted to flirt with him—he had been sure those days were over. But the other part of Skipper's mind argued that this was a bad situation. At least a highly improper one. Ginger was married! To a man who happened to be one of the Skipper's closest friends. No, this sort of teasing was quite wrong…surely.
"Er, Ginger," tried the Skipper, nervously rubbing his fingers together. "I'll bring you water, but perhaps next time, you ought to ask the Professor. If you're…if you're going to ask like that."
"Like what?" Ginger said, still smiling at the Skipper in a way that scrambled the man's brain.
"Like, er, well…well you!"
"Skipper," Ginger chided. "I think the sun is getting to you. How could I ask in a way that wasn't like me?"
"I…well…" The Skipper had no answer. He could only clear his throat and hurry away from Ginger. He would probably have to send the bucket back to her via MaryAnn if the actress kept up her current mood.
The Skipper shook his head. Why was it that the most irresistible girls were always married?
As MaryAnn headed into the supply hut to gather the dishes needed for her new pie experiment, Gilligan interrupted her at the door.
"Hi MaryAnn," he said, grinning. His hands were tucked behind his back, but MaryAnn could guess what he was hiding.
"Hi Gilligan. More flowers?"
"Yep. But these ones are better than the ones I picked yesterday. See, they have red centers. They'll match your dress."
MaryAnn beamed, feeling her heart melt a little. Gilligan was just as clumsy and awkward as ever, but somehow he'd gotten it in his head that it was his duty as a husband to pick her fresh flowers every day. After three weeks, MaryAnn was starting to worry there weren't any flowering bushes left on the whole island! Yet all the same, she was just as touched each time he gave her the sweet gift.
"Thank you, Gilligan." She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss. To his credit, he didn't flinch anymore at her kisses. Either he'd built up an immunity to them, or maybe…maybe he was actually falling in love with her.
MaryAnn grinned a little extra, thinking it would be quite nice to have a husband who truly loved her. Of course, she was incredibly fond of Gilligan, and felt very close to him, and obviously loved him as one of her dearest friends in the whole world… But she still wasn't sure she could've looked her uncle in the eyes and told him that Gilligan was the one who'd stolen her heart.
At least, not yet. Perhaps that confession would come later. And as much as MaryAnn debated her feelings for Gilligan, she was entirely certain that she would love their future children with every ounce of her being. Ooh, she could already picture babies with curly black hair and bright blue eyes! And now that she was married, she could actually wonder thoughts like: 'Hhmm, maybe I'll be pregnant this Christmas,' or 'Hhmm, maybe by next year this time I'll be a mother.'
It was all very exciting to know that children of her own were a real possibility.
"If you need any help with your pie, let me know," Gilligan told her, still smiling.
"All right. I just might need help sampling the filling," MaryAnn said, winking.
"Oh good. I'm perfect for that job!" He waved and then headed over to the table, where the Skipper was talking to the Professor in low whispers. Gilligan didn't know what they were saying, but the Professor seemed unhappy.
"I made her mad this morning, so I'm not too surprised, but…" he trailed off as Gilligan approached.
"There you are, Little Buddy!" said the Skipper. "Where were you all afternoon?"
"Oh, I had to go to the other side of the island. I wanted to find these flowers for MaryAnn, but I had to climb up the hill and I nearly stepped on this caterpillar that looked really fuzzy, so then—"
"That's okay, Gilligan. We don't need to hear the whole report." The Skipper suddenly frowned at Gilligan. "Have you been picking flowers everyday?"
"Yep. For my wife, MaryAnn," said Gilligan, straightening his shoulders. "Skipper. I think I'm in love with her."
"Well, Little Buddy…" The Skipper found himself at a loss for words. He looked at Gilligan again, feeling an odd swell of something like…pride? Happiness? "You really love her?"
"Oh, so much, Skipper. I…I…even think if I owned all the motorcycles in the world, that I'd sell them to make MaryAnn happy."
The Professor, still sitting at the table, shook his head. "Now why can't I ever say things like that?"
Gilligan frowned at the other man. "You like motorcycles too?"
"No, but just…just the general feeling of such a statement."
Gilligan wasn't quite sure what the Professor was talking about, but he figured that was nothing new. The Skipper clapped Gilligan on the shoulder, smiling widely.
"Little Buddy…I'm happy for you. And you keep making MaryAnn happy. She's a deserving girl."
"A deserving girl who serves dessert too," said Gilligan. "Desserving."
"Yes, Gilligan," said the Skipper, his feelings of affection slowly creeping back to annoyance. "Now if you'll excuse us, we're having a serious conversation."
"Oh, those are by far the most interesting type of conversations!" It wasn't Gilligan who spoke, but Mr. Howell. He and Mrs. Howell sat themselves down at the table by Skipper. "We heard there was a new pie recipe coming soon and had to see if there were any samples available. But now that we're here, we might as well talk seriously! What denomination are we discussing? Thousands? Hundred thousands? Millions?" Mr. Howell rubbed his hands together excitedly.
"Oh, Thurston," Mrs. Howell scolded. "Can't you see the look on the poor Professor's face? They're obviously not discussing money. They're discussing Ginger's pregnancy!"
Everyone at the table, including the Professor, blinked at Mrs. Howell in surprise.
"What?" the Professor finally said. "Ginger's not pregnant."
"Not yet, Professor." Mrs. Howell waved a hand impatiently. "But you do realize that none of us are getting any younger…even including me. It's already been three weeks! So you ought to—" Mrs. Howell trailed off, clamping a hand over her mouth. "Oh dear, I don't believe this is a conversation suitable for mixed company."
"Thank you for just now realizing that," mumbled Mr. Howell. But then he nodded to the Professor and tapped a hand on the table. "She's right though. Don't think about waiting too much longer. Lovey and I have already picked out Christmas gifts for our little grandchildren."
"Mr. Howell, Christmas is less than four months from now," the Professor exclaimed, standing up from the table. "Does anyone here understand science?"
No one responded for a moment, and so the Professor sighed and shook his head. "I need to go anyway. Excuse me."
After he had left the table, Mr. Howell shrugged and folded his arms. "What does Christmas have to do with science anyway? Such newlyweds…"
While everyone else was sampling pineapple pie, the Professor managed to track down Ginger by the lagoon.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked her. He took note of the water bucket she held in her hand. "I heard the Skipper already brought you water. You're not still doing laundry, are you?"
Ginger gave him a cold stare. "I felt guilty for purposefully not washing your clothes. So I started another batch."
"Oh," the Professor raised his eyebrows. "And you couldn't charm anyone into hauling water for you this time?"
Ginger wrinkled her nose. "Do you want me to throw this bucket at you?"
The Professor held up his hands, backtracking a bit before they got into another real fight. "Look, Ginger. I came to apologize. I know what I said this morning, but I didn't mean it like that." The Professor tucked his hands under his arms. Ginger thought he looked hopelessly uncomfortable. "I…I do appreciate getting to have you as my wife. Truly. In…in every way."
Some of Ginger's earlier anger melted away. The Professor was always thinking logically. She'd known that for years! As much as she thought she might want to change him, she honestly wouldn't. Anything less than logic just wasn't the Professor.
"I'm sorry too," she told him. "I overreacted. And then I did flirt with Skipper. I'm sorry for that too. It's just habit, you know."
"I know," said the Professor. He uncrossed his arms and managed to look his wife in the eyes. "How about we make a deal? If you stop teasing the other men, I'll put science aside in favor of more nights spent with you. Just…just because."
Ginger pursed her lips, then stepped closer to the Professor. "Fine. I guess I'll accept that deal."
The Professor extended an arm for a handshake, a slow smile creeping onto his face. "Good. Shall we seal this agreement the customary way?"
Ginger splashed her bucket of water on him.
A tropical Christmas passed on the island, and the Howells' gifts went into storage for the following year. But then, in late January, on a beautiful humid day, MaryAnn made an exciting announcement at dinner.
"Well, everyone," she said as she passed a plate of grilled fish to the Skipper. "You should all know something. I…I started suspecting it last month, but this month, I'm almost positive…" She exchanged a quick glance with Gilligan, who grinned almost smugly. "I..well, I'm expecting a baby!"
As MaryAnn clasped her hands together and beamed, the whole table erupted with shouts of surprise and congratulations.
"Gilligan…" The Skipper blinked at his first mate in shock. "Why, this means you're going to be a father!" The Skipper clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder, then started laughing in mirth.
"Yeah, Skipper. And you can be the baby's fairy godfather," said Gilligan, looking just as excited as MaryAnn.
"I…I can't believe it," said Ginger, her voice soft. She looked almost shaken, but she plastered a smile on her face as she stood up and hugged her friend tightly. "I'm so happy for you! How did you and Gilligan manage to keep this a secret?"
"Well, to be fair, I only told him this morning…"
The Professor congratulated MaryAnn as well, looking a little paler than usual. "How are you feeling so far? Any health concerns? You're positive you're pregnant, right?"
MaryAnn just laughed, still beaming in excitement. "I'm sure. By my best guess, I'm between seven and eight weeks." She giggled. "In a few more weeks, Ginger, we'll have to start adjusting my dresses." She turned to the Professor again. "And I feel great. I'm so very happy," she said, wrapping her arms around her flat waist.
"MaryAnn, dear!" Mrs. Howell was on her feet, shoving her way between Ginger and the Professor. "We should have a baby shower!" She waved a hand eagerly in front of MaryAnn's face. "Oh, that would be so much fun, dear. We can have tea and cake and come up with cute little games—"
"Yes, and I'll take bets on whether the baby will be a girl or a boy," said Mr. Howell, looking inspired. "Anyone want to bet one hundred, right now? Two hundred?"
"I think the baby will be a boy," Gilligan said. But then he frowned, looking thoughtful. "Or…maybe it'll be a girl. It'd be swell if the baby looks like MaryAnn, right Skipper?"
The Skipper was grinning again, feeling unexpectedly teary-eyed. "Right, Gilligan." He certainly hadn't planned on getting so emotional. Maybe it was the fact that Gilligan felt almost like family? And if that was the case, then this baby was like his grandchild?
The Skipper frowned abruptly, shaking his head. That made him sound old. And it made Gilligan sound like his son… That was a disturbing thought. The Skipper rubbed his face. Perhaps the baby would be like his little niece or nephew. "Uncle Skipper," he mused to himself. That was much better.
"Here, MaryAnn. You should sit and rest," said Ginger, motioning for her friend to take a seat. "I'll clean up dinner tonight, don't worry."
"Oh, but I feel fine, I can—"
"No, honey, please sit," Ginger insisted. "The Professor will help me clean up, right dear?"
"Er, yes…dear." The Professor frowned, figuring Ginger's tone boded ill. She didn't look upset, but then again, she was an actress. As soon as he grabbed an armful of dirty dishes, Ginger led him away from the table. Sure enough, her smile vanished instantly.
"Are we doing something wrong?" she immediately blurted. "How is it that MaryAnn and Gilligan can have a baby, but not us?" Ginger frowned at the dishes, then began chewing on her lower lip.
The Professor was also trying not to feel inadequate. If fathering a child had been some strange competition, then he'd been outdone by the clumsy first mate. The Professor shook his head a little and glanced back at his wife.
"Logically, we should've expected this. MaryAnn is still in her late twenties, whereas you, my dear, are going on thirty-four."
"But that's not old! You're not blaming me, are you?"
The Professor had to choose his words carefully. "Of course not, Ginger. It's not your fault at all. It's just that…well, biologically, women who are in their twenties do have higher fertility than those in their thirties." He tried to look casual, unconcerned.
"So you are saying my age is the problem!"
"It's not a problem, it's just…just.." The Professor glanced back at the rest of the group, trying to think of the perfect wording. The Skipper was now taking bets with Mr. Howell, who was insistent that the baby would be a boy.
"Ginger, you've played cards with Mr. Howell, right?"
She frowned at the Professor like he'd had a bit too much sun, but then nodded.
"All right. Having a baby is also like a game of chance. As the dealer would have it, the youngest players received the best cards at the start. Now that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Most of the other players still have a chance. It will simply take more time and effort for them to win. But it's certainly not impossible and—"
"I get it," Ginger said, cutting short the analogy. "You don't have to explain it to me like I'm Gilligan." She sighed and shifted her armful of dishes, also glancing back to where the others were standing. Mrs. Howell was still talking about baby shower ideas, while MaryAnn laughed and offered suggestions. "I guess it's just my pride," Ginger admitted. "I like the attention. I like being first." She sighed again. "That's why Hollywood was so much fun."
"Well, perhaps it's a good thing you're not the first this time," the Professor said, feeling more anxious with each glance in MaryAnn's direction. "Seeing what MaryAnn goes through in the next seven to eight months will give us both an idea of what to expect."
"I suppose you're right," said Ginger. She nodded to the dishes. "These are getting heavy. Let's finish up."
"Yes, right," the Professor murmured. He glanced toward MaryAnn again, suddenly trying very hard not to think about everything that could possibly go wrong. This was why he'd argued against the whole repopulation scheme! With one complication, and no trained professionals…
They could lose MaryAnn forever.
If MaryAnn was affected by anyone else's nervousness, she certainly didn't show it. As the months wore on and her dress sizes increased, she became more and more excited. And the glee was catching. The Skipper didn't think he'd ever been in higher spirits. Gilligan was frequently spotted singing, and the Howells had already started putting together expensive—albeit impractical—baby toys.
"Look at this, MaryAnn," Mrs. Howell said, one sunny July afternoon. It had almost been one full year without the radio. One full year since the end of civilization.
"I found some loose diamonds on one of my necklaces, and so I told Thurston that I had the most marvelous idea! He got out one of my empty perfume jars, and I put the diamonds inside. It's now the perfect baby rattle!" Mrs. Howell shook the odd shaped glass a few times as an example. "Few people know the melodious sound of twenty carats, rattling in unison." She shook the jar again. "Have no worries, MaryAnn. We'll train your daughter from a very young age to hear which diamonds sound the best."
"My daughter? You're betting against your husband?"
"Well of course, dear. That way the money stays in the family." Mrs. Howell handed MaryAnn the rattle. "Please don't let Gilligan play with this. He might break it and cut himself on the glass."
"Oh, uh, yes." MaryAnn tried to adopt a serious expression. "It's for babies only."
"Good, good. And how do you feel about the dress I made from my silk scarf? It would've been very fashionable among the European toddlers, I'm sure." Mrs. Howell looked a bit sad for a moment, but then as Mr. Howell walked over, she seemed to regather her enthusiasm. "It's just as stylish as anything I wear—so that says a lot."
"Are you still going on about that ridiculous dress?" Mr. Howell shook his head at his wife's apparent foolishness. "It's going to be a boy, I say! He's not going to care for pink silks."
"Rose silks, dear," Mrs. Howell corrected. "Hungarian rose."
MaryAnn could only shake her head, watching as they bickered. She felt that it was going to be a boy. Gilligan disagreed. He said he hoped it would be a girl, just as sweet as her. In reality, MaryAnn didn't care at all whether the baby was a boy or a girl or black-haired or bald or cute or ugly… She was just ready to hold the baby in her arms.
Of course, there was one obstacle in the way of that day—one obstacle called childbirth, which seemed to have the Professor terrified. But MaryAnn didn't see why he was so concerned. She'd lived on a farm and seen plenty of animals give birth.
If a cow could do it, so could she. Simple.
"No, Lovey, a salmon is not the same color as a codfish," Mr. Howell was arguing. MaryAnn tried to refocus on the conversation, but she was afraid she'd missed something in all her daydreaming.
"I don't care what color a codfish is, Thurston! It sounds slimy and vulgar."
"Darling, how can a color be vulgar?" Mr. Howell then suddenly held up a hand, grimacing. "I retract that argument. Remember when that cousin of yours painted our New York penthouse that moldy-brown color? That was pure vulgarity, if I've ever seen it."
"Yes, dear, but Alfred was your cousin, not mine."
MaryAnn laughed and shook the baby rattle a little, trying to hear the diamonds inside. Sure enough, they made for a very nice noise-maker.
Nine more weeks, she counted in her head. Nine more weeks and then the Howells' generous gifts could finally be put to use.