COMMUNE OF WOMEN

by SUZAN STILL

  When it gets blustery – an it do, sometimes, bout three, four times a year – she goes ta the homeless lounge an cools her heels. But she don’t lak it cuz they won’t let her smoke. An them white bread an cheese samitches they hands out at lunchtime is a scandal. Pop wouldn’t a let such a puny thin cross his counter, she’ll tell you that!

  She sure does miss Pop, since he up an died!

  People worry bout her at the shelter, too. They fuss over her an that jes irritates the hell outta her. Theys afraid – afraid a this an afraid a that. Asceerd she’ll be attacked. Asceerd she’ll catch pneumonia. Asceerd she’ll be raped.

  Hell! If life is so damned sceery, how come she’s lived to be a hunert an twelve?

  She’s exaggeratin, a course. She ratly forgot how old she is – lost count a few years back at 91.

  Not that she don’t get a little stiff, settin on the ceement, all day. But she gots her cushions. It’s the gettin up an down that’s the hard part. The transitions, you mat say. Once she’s up, once she’s down, she’s fine. It’s the limbo in between whar she’s dubious.

  Speaking a Limbo, she’s been settin here thinkin bout her husband, Abel Johns. Now that man was a scandal, an if he’s dead he ain’t in no Limbo, if you catch her drift.

  If thar’s a afterlife, that man jes passed rat through Limbo in a dead drop straight ta Hell.

  In fact, ta kill him, God prawly had ta shove him inta a big ol cosmic mineshaft, plungin rat down ta the Fiery Furnace.

  Lord! That man was a tribulation. She don’t know why he’s on her mind so much these days. Maybe it’s cuz Alma Mae, down at the shelter, was come an brung home by her kin. They jes up an arrived one day an took her away. Built a room over the gee-rage fer her, with its own bathroom an everthin.

  Got Pearl thinkin about Abel Johns an all the lil Johns they done made together. Ever one of em in they grave. Poor thins. Never stood a chance with that heathen fer a father. What drink didn’t plug inta they little bodies in ways a weakness, meanness done took what was left.

  Pearl declares, she don’t know why a soul would even come ta this earth, knowin that was in store fer it. God must blindfold us before He kicks us outta Heaven. Ain’t no way, otherwise, no soul in its rat mind’d come an take up residence in any body related ta the Johns family. She was wishin, after Alma Mae done rode off with her kids – and them no young’uns theirseves by the look a thins – that she still had one child ta come an take her away. Put her in some nice new room smellin a fresh paint, with a flush toilet close by. Maybe a TV.

  It was a moment a bitterness, she gots ta confess. She’s ashamed ta turn her face up ta the Lord fer such ingratitude. An here she gots her health, too, an poor ol Alma Mae so stove in with arthritis she cain’t hardly walk.

  Pearl thinks bout her Granny, round this same age. Tough as boot leather. Couldn’t a kilt her with a shovel. Woes jes done shed off a her lak water off a goose’s rump.

  When the Lord invented her Granny, He musta said, Ye’ll get no quarter from me, Woman. I’ll give you nothin but misery an you give Me nothin but praise an we’ll get along jes fine. The kinda contract some Stillwater lawyer’d make.

  And Granny jes answered back, proud an proper as beets, You bet, Lord. If that’s the way You want it, that’s the way You’ll get it. An she never deviated from their contractual arrangement in all the years she lived – except one time, which Pearl remembers cuz a it being the exception that proved the rule.

  That one slip-up a Granny’s was when she got religion. But it warn’t the Christian one. It was Choctaw; a Choctaw revival.

  It started with the men. Pearl heerd it happen one nat when a bunch of em was out round a bonfire, drinkin applejack an howlin at the moon. Some old geezer started warblin one a them old songs. Somebody found a 5-gallon can an started a beat. Some others – prawly stumblin over theirseves, lak she’d seen em so many times – started dancin.

  They raised a ruckus all nat – a reg’lar war party.

  “I’ll never fergit it,” Pearl says, taking in her audience in one squint-eyed glance. “Wakin up in mah bed, asceerd, an Granny comin in an sayin, Hush, Child. Ain’t nothing ta be asceerd of.

  “What is it? I axed, all fearful. Wuves? I’d never seen a wuff, but ever child knows that wuves cain be the cause a what frights em.

  “No, Granny says, somethin far more dangerous then wuves. It’s a bunch a Choctaw men raisin Hell. No danger ta us, though. Jes ta theirseves. You go ta sleep now.”

  But a course she couldn’t go ta sleep. She laid thar inta the dawn listenin ta them wild yelps, the wailin an the chantin an the big bass beat a the drum. An she confesses, she warn’t scairt by mornin. Her whole sef was alive lak fresh, fallin water – all frothy inside. Somethin in her jes perked rat up.

  She reckons it was the same fer Granny cuz soon after that, her an some a her friends started ta join the men’s circle that was a regular thin now, ever night.

  They took Pearl out thar cuz they warn’t nothin else ta do with kids.

  It was pure magic – that bonfire shakin flamey lat across they faces, an makin the bunch grass look lak it got up with its own shadow an danced, too.

  The best was the beat a them drums, cuz now they’d found more thins ta beat on – old kettles, a 55-gallon oil drum. A couple a them old farts had they grandpappy’s real drums, skin ones, an Pearl could always hear the voice a them drums risin above all the others lak a clear voice singin, certain an true.

  An the men was chantin AY-AH-YA-YA AY-AH-YAYA, an givin little yips lak a whole den a cay-otes. An the women was movin out in the shadders at the edge a the lat, shoulder ta shoulder in a ring, sidestepping, they feet raisin little dust storms as they stomped.

  You’d think them kids woulda been runnin round lak crazy people, screamin an chantin an wagglin they arms. But no. They was quiet as mice. They set back thar in the shadders under the black prairie sky in a little cluster an stared with eyes as big as the moon.

  Oh, it was strange an unsettlin. Sometimes, she din’t know who she was, or whar, or when. It felt lak she’d fell down a well in time an them Choctaws was a livin river a memory an voice an rhythm that come outta ferever an went off inta ferever.

  Some a the little kids’d doze off, all wrapped in blankets, but not Pearl. If somebody axed her, she could hop up off this floor an dance them dances yet, this very day, yellin, AY-AH-YA-YA AY-AH-YA-YA, lak she’d been thar yesterday; lak she jes seen it happen.

  She reckons in some deep part a her it jes did happen – or maybe it always is happenin. Maybe them dance circles never rest, but keep on spinnin lak them galaxies they talk about – only somewhar in the deep space inside a her; somewhar that all the white man’s bullshit never shat on.

  That deep.

  She thinks it could be so. She knows thar be springs that rise up outta the earth even in the driest years. Pearl thinks it mat be lak that with her. All parched an wrinkled on the outside, but somewhar deep inside, risin up, still dancin.

  X

  “On this second night of the terrorist stand-off at Los Angeles International Airport, in the floodlit night, the assembled army of agencies, with their warriors and experts and their multiple technologies, waits. No one seems quite sure what they are waiting for.”

  X watches with heavy eyes as the eleven o’clock news begins. The incident’s Public Information Officer steps up now, speaking various platitudes before the cameras for the benefit of the television audience. These only manage to annoy, not inform, her.

  “Terrorism is violence perpetrated by a sub-state entity upon innocent citizens,” he says, in response to a reporter’s question. X considers this, repeating it to herself until the meaning of the words is clear to her. It is, she grudgingly admits, an accurate, if skeletal, definition. But it does not say the things she so deeply knows; the level of disenfranchisement one must reach before terrorism becomes on option.

  According to the blonde reporter – with whom X now feels a certain scant si
sterly regard, also grudging, as they both endure the grinding hours – various technologies are gradually assembling a picture of the problem. Infrared sensors have detected the locations of living bodies entombed within the luckless building. Listening devices are picking up snatches of conversation, some of it in foreign languages that then need translation. Drones and robotic scouts have been sent into the corridors, only to be foiled by heaped bodies, closed doors or deliberate blockades. One negotiator has been sent in who has failed to return, and that option is thus considered to be officially closed.

  “SWAT teams and the FBI Hostage Rescue Team lean into the restraints their orders impose on them like tethered warhorses that, smelling blood, are eager for the fight. In full battle gear, they lie on the floor of makeshift shelters trying to rest, or pace their confines, coffee in hand, muttering to one another about the irritating delays. Among them the feeling is universal that immediate action would prove more fruitful than careful deliberation. The smell of adrenaline-generated sweat hangs about their quarters.”

  Despite this poetic description, X can see that the woman’s enthusiasm is feigned. She is tired, just as X is tired. Along with the rest of the world, X asks herself wearily, What are the Brothers waiting for? What do they want?

  The camera pans as the newswoman, in a hoarse voice, speaks her closing words for the night. “The second day of the terrorist stand-off closes with the accumulated glare of red emergency lights, halogens, media spots and helicopter beams throbbing like a fulminating sore on the civic body of The City of the Mother of the Angels.”

  Day Three

  Heddi

  After the night’s sleep Heddi just had, it almost seems preferable to have been killed by the terrorists.

  There’s just no way to get comfortable, sleeping on the floor. If one side of her relaxes, the other goes numb. If she’s got her head cradled on her arm, her elbow aches. And the bruises are more painful today, not less. It’s impossible.

  And when she did sleep, she had terrible dreams – chaotic, violent and bloody. It doesn’t take a Jungian analyst to figure out how badly their psyches are traumatized.

  Last night, Heddi could scarcely believe her ears when the Bruegel – Pearl, she’s got to start calling her Pearl; she deserves that much, at least – when Pearl told her story. Under mangled syntax and an accent that must be part Choctaw, part Oklahoman with a tinge of Middle English, and part street slang, there’s a surprising intelligence at work, even a poetic sensibility. Heddi was amazed.

  Dr. Copeland always says she’s a snob; that she judges people harshly because she’s projecting her own insecurities onto them. Jung said the object of a projection has a psychological “hook” that makes a perfect place to hang the entire projection. Pearl has so many hooks she’s positively barbed.

  Heddi just can’t bear the wizened old con artist. She doesn’t like to sit next to her because she expects her to stink – which she doesn’t. She looks filthy, like dirt has been ground into her pores that no amount of scrubbing will get out – even though she’s not.

  Her whole body is like some old rag of a dress you’d find at a thrift shop – wrinkled, faded, snagged, both shrunk-up and stretched out, and turned in by its last owner grimy and spotted with past meals.

  Heddi just can’t get beyond her revulsion for her. Dr. Copeland would say she’s obsessed. He’d want to know what she’s projecting onto Pearl.

  And Heddi would give him the obvious answer – fear of old age; fear she’ll get as lumpy and basically repugnant as Pearl is, some day.

  But that’s not really it. After so many years of analysis, it’s impossible for Heddi not to wonder what’s really going on here. The other women seem to like Pearl well enough, and she and Sophia have actually become thick as thieves. So what’s Heddi’s problem with her?

  The answer snuck up on her in the night and she felt it eating in the pit of her stomach. But before she could go there and see the little mousie of emotion with her own eyes, she did this quick little thing in her brain and switched over to hating Pearl, just visualizing her and imagining she smells like pee – she doesn’t – and remembering the same little annoyances, over and over and over. And the little mousie just ate its fill and departed, with Heddi none the wiser.

  Dr. Copeland would want to know: “Why the avoidance?” Then Heddi would get snippy with him. Maybe get up and walk out ten minutes early. Then she’d obsess all day, thinking of that scene and blaming her analyst.

  God!

  Maybe she’s just obsessing over Pearl to avoid thinking about the reality of their situation.

  Heddi’s been optimistic until last night. On every side, she heard groans, muffled swearing and tears in the darkness. Everyone is starting to come undone – except Pearl, of course, whose peaceful snores would be enviable if they weren’t so dreadful.

  And there’s another concern. Sophia’s prediction is apparently coming to pass. There’s a distinct odor now, more than just their unwashed bodies and clothing; a kind of sickly sweet smell.

  At first, Heddi thought it might be Erika’s wound, because Sophia confided in her that infection has set in and Erika needs antibiotics soon. But now, she’s thinking the smell is exactly what Sophia predicted – decomposing bodies on the other side of the door.

  Where the Hell are the police? She thought they’d be out of this room a day ago. They can go to the Moon, but they can’t disarm a few terrorists? She’s not sure who “they” are – but she’s mad at them, just the same.

  She feels as if the entire world has stopped. Died. That they’re the only ones left – and they just don’t know it yet.

  Sophia

  One good thing about exhaustion – it numbs the fear. These gals are going to be too tired to move today, let alone quake.

  But someone’s going to have to muster the energy to help Sophia do the unthinkable. Today’s the day. There’s no putting it off now. They have to unblock that door and move those bodies. She’d know that smell anywhere – and, like a toothache, it never gets better, only worse.

  Still, she hesitates, thinking...maybe...maybe they could hold off one more day. It’s not too bad yet. No sense in going out there, if they’re about to be rescued.

  She hasn’t heard any movement in the hall at all. It doesn’t make sense. If the terrorists are still in control, you’d think she’d hear them patrolling. If they’re not in control, then where the hell are the police? The only thing she can think is, the terrorists have control of both ends of the concourse, so they don’t need to patrol it.

  That means if they’re lucky, they can open the door, dash out and drag the bodies – where? Somewhere far enough away, so that the stink isn’t overwhelming – and then get back in and block the door again, without their spotting them.

  And if they do spot them? Oh Goddess! She doesn’t even want to think about it.

  Talk about being between the Devil and the deep blue sea!

  Betty

  Heddi told Betty once that there’s a kind of behavioral therapy where they make you go and face your fears. Like, if you’re afraid of flying, you fly and fly until you lose your fear. Or something like that. She said she didn’t recommend it.

  Anyway, being locked in this room, threatened with death, half-starved, sleeping on the floor, may be God’s form of that therapy. Betty can’t imagine ever being bored or depressed again! If she ever gets out of this mess, she’ll fall down and kiss her wall-to-wall carpet. She’ll say Grace before every meal, every snack, every breath mint.

  She’ll make time to assist in Sam’s homeroom. She’ll help Serena start a hamster farm. She’ll write Larry a letter of apology – she’d do it now, if she had paper and a pen.

  What was that little song they learned in French class in high school? Au Clair de la Lune? Betty begins to hum under her breath:

  Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot,

  Prêtez-moi ta plume, pour écire un mot;

  Ma chandelle est morte. Je n’
ai plus de feu.

  Ouvres-moi ta porte, pour l’amour de Dieu.

  Some poor guy begging a pen, wanting his friend’s door opened so he can have light and warmth to write by.

  This experience sure gives that new meaning! Betty wants the door opened, too. And she wants a friend, not a foe, to do it. And she wants a pen and paper, so she can write her family – just in case it doesn’t happen that way.

  What would she say to them? How can she even begin to express what she’s feeling?

  She feels like she’s made the most colossal mess of her life! How could she just let her family walk out like that? How could she just let Larry go? The love of her life? And Sam? And Serena? Has she been completely crazy?

  This is reality therapy and, if she survives it, she’ll never be the same again – which is a good thing.

  Ondine

  By some miracle, Ondine slept an hour or two last night. Sheer exhaustion, probably. And with sleep, came dreams...

  She’s on the beach below Tante Collette’s house. The sea is unusually pacific and gulls are soaring in a cerulean sky. Down the beach, she spots Tante Collette coming toward her, moving with that stately grace so uniquely hers. She is all wrapped in some kind of aqua and celadon silks that breathe and flutter in the wind.

  Ondine’s heart just leaps with joy! She starts running towards her.

  Tante Collette stops, holds out her arms. Ondine runs into them and reaches up to receive her aunt’s kisses – only to see a Death’s Head grinning back at her!