COMMUNE OF WOMEN

by SUZAN STILL

  They were all rated with stars, from one to five. The dates went back to before Heddi was born.

  One of his most consistent trysts during the years Heddi was growing up was Anna Molina, a day student two classes ahead of her at Miss Pryor’s School for Girls. Next to Anna’s entries were neat calculations: $500, $250, $350. All the students knew Anna was from a poor family and they’d always wondered how she managed to pay tuition and wear such pretty clothes. Anna had a five-star rating.

  At the beginning of the book were his earliest conquests. For a couple of years around the time of Heddi’s birth, Marcus’s mother, Millie Wilbur, was a frequent entry. She rated three stars.

  In Zurich, Heddi’s analyst made her burn the little black book, saying it was therapeutic to do so.

  Heddi thought she’d dealt with the collapse of her family myth. She started her analytic practice; decades passed.

  By then, she’d married Hal Merriweather. He was a roofing contractor, which was a choice that would have shocked and disgusted her parents. A big time roofing contractor – like roofing the opera house or the university library, that kind of thing. High rise buildings, entire housing developments. He was a wealthy man and a happy, lively soul, but still, from working class origins.

  She’d had her practice for several years and was successful in her own right, in spite of her inheritance. She married Hal because he made her laugh.

  And then the Jon Bennet Ramsey case hit the news.

  When the Ramsey thing first broke, she was instantly galvanized. Her fascination was complete. At first, even Dr. Copeland was mystified by her near-obsession.

  “Does this child remind you of yourself at her age? The careful presentation? The repression of natural spontaneity?” Dr. Copeland stared at her through his thick horn-rimmed glasses, a frown creasing his forehead.

  And Heddi would shrug and do a quick glance out the window, like an animal judging its ability to escape.

  “I would study the photos of that poor, doomed child – she was so perfectly turned out, so poised. So posed. She was a little sexpot in miniature, a tiny Marilyn Monroe – and just as tragic.

  “And I knew – I knew from the first time I saw her picture – that she was being sexually molested. I could feel it exuding from her, even on paper.

  “I started cutting out her photos and putting them on the fridge in the kitchen. When that became too crowded, I started pinning them to the wall.”

  “What’s your thing with this Ramsey kid?” Hal would ask her from time to time.

  Heddi would scan her wall of clippings and mutter, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  Finally, one night, the dream from her childhood returned. The bad guys were chasing her again and she was running down the hallway. But this time, it wasn’t in a ruin, but in her family home. She ran and ran and the bad guys got closer.

  But instead of waking up at the crucial moment, the dream continued. This time, she was caught. Rough hands dragged her down. She was frozen with fear. Her clothes were ripped off. There was hot breath on her cold skin. There was ramming and pain and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

  Then, she woke up.

  “And I mean that in the fullest sense. The full realization of my situation.”

  She knew the sweet aromatic scent of tobacco smoke, the exotic tinctures of expensive aftershave. The rough abrasion of Harris Tweed she knew intimately, as it rubbed and abraded her flesh. She opened her eyes as a five-year old child and looked into those of her father as he breathed his hot, alcoholic breath into her face...

  “The Compleat Cocksman,” her analyst muttered when she told him. Even dear, bland, impassive Dr. Copeland couldn’t subdue his disgust.

  “The Compleat Narcissistic Asshole.”

  “That, too.”

  “I’m still dealing with it...that betrayal. That use of me. That utter disregard for the sanctity of my being. It’s left a ragged hole inside of me. Hal’s leaving hasn’t helped, either. And now...this.

  “Am I going to spend my entire life in the hands of terrorists?

  “I...I...think...

  “That’s all...I can do...for now.”

  Sophia

  As brave as she believes Heddi to be, Sophia can’t help thinking that her story is ill-timed and self-indulgent; ill-timed because these women are frayed, by now, almost past enduring; and self-indulgent because, like it or not, Heddi is a leader.

  She organized the storytelling and the women tell their stories to her, as if she were their therapist – or even their mother. In bad times, the leader has to stay invulnerable for the sake of the others.

  Sophia’s afraid her show of emotion will be interpreted as weakness. Whether they realize it or not, these women will be demoralized by her revelations, not strengthened.

  And besides, which one of them hasn’t been terrorized in their lives, long before being trapped in this little room?

  Ondine

  Ooolala! Heddi’s a mess!

  Never, never, never would Ondine have guessed what she was going to reveal!

  Heddi is so cool, so consummately in charge. She’s every bit of that classic, reserved woman she described her mother as being.

  Ondine wonders if this will change their therapeutic relationship? Will she be able to trust her once she cloaks herself again? Or will Ondine always see this – this mess, weeping and disheveled, in an orange Naugahyde armchair?

  Is that really selfish of her to even think that? About her needs?

  Or does she even believe, anymore, that they’ll be rescued? Maybe it’s best that Heddi had her say like the rest of them – a sort of final confession.

  An unburdening of the soul, so it can fly.

  Betty

  Betty wants to say to Heddi, Now, Honey, don’t cry. Everything’s gonna be all right. But, she doesn’t think she would appreciate it. It feels like, if she put out her hand to comfort her, she might bite it.

  All of a sudden, Betty feels like she can’t stand this anymore – like she’s got to go to that door and push that machine aside and go out, even if it means getting shot.

  What is it that Heddi says she should do at times like this? Put her head down. Close her eyes. Breathe deeply. Count.

  She’s counting. She’s counting.

  But her body is screaming, I WANT OUT!

  Her heart rate must be over a hundred. She feels like she can’t breathe. She can smell her own sweat, that rank smell that comes with fear.

  Just keep counting.

  Pearl

  Well, if that don’t beat all! That Heady gal gots a heart after all.

  Ain’t nothin better’n a good cry, her Granny use ter say. Not them tears that’s self-pityin, mind ya. But the ones that comes from down deep, whar they’s thins thats been fergot. Thems the ones Granny says makes the apples bloom on yer cheeks. Them tears is the waters a health.

  Speakin a health, Pearl’s startin ta get restless. These ol legs has been doggin it fer four days now. She needs ta get out an push her buggy an feel the wind on her face.

  An she’s almost outta tabaccy. That thar is serious.

  Ain’t it a wonder. She done survived so many thins – Abel Johns whorin her around, all her children dyin or gettin lost, livin from hand ta mouth most a the years a her life. An now, do you suppose the Good Lord gots up His sleeve that she’s gonna die rat here in this little mouse hole that’s all shot-up an closed-in, without ever havin another breath a fresh air or seein the sun?

  It makes her ratly ashamed a hersef. The Good Lord done give her them thins ever single day a her life an did she give thanks?

  Well, yes. In truth, she always did give thanks fer ever little thin come along – fer the burgers Pop flipped fer her an the good solid clink a coins goin inta her can.

  But that warn’t enough. It warn’t the same as what she’s thinkin now. It ain’t the same as feelin the simple gift a life down deep in yer marrow bones. It ain’t the same as this pinin fer the ope
n air an the winds a God sweepin round everwhar, pushin the clouds about an fillin her ol lungs with life.

  Pearl done looked the Angel a Death in the face many a time an oft in this long life an thought dyin would be a gift, pure an simple. But the plain fact a the matter is, she don’ want ta die here in this here place. Call her a ingrate fer questionin the ways a the Lord, but she gots ta feel the free air on her face one more time fore she passes.

  This here is why she always hated zoos. Cain’t ratly keep a wild thin in a cage. That wild critter gots ta be free. An so does she.

  X

  Starting sometime late in the night, the monitors began to show activity: people sneaking through the front doors of the terminal, all in black with guns held at their shoulders, very stealthy.

  X is sleepy, so at first she does not comprehend what is happening.

  Then, suddenly, she is very wide-awake!

  They are coming! Finally, they are coming for them!

  But that is not the case. Instead, they begin removing the bodies lying in the concourse. Several men with guns cover the ones who simply take the bodies by the ankles and drag them away, as fast as possible. This goes on for several hours. There are hundreds of bodies and they remove many of them. Then they leave, scooting backwards, their guns still ready to shoot.

  X does not know what it means, but she thinks things will change now. And she is very frightened.

  Thank Allah they did not come this far. But that means they did not take Fat Guy, who is beginning to stink very badly.

  Now someone is moving again on the monitors. He is one of the Brothers and he is moving in places where they have not patrolled for many hours. Why is he alone? Their rule is to patrol in pairs.

  She thinks she must have fallen asleep. It seems to her it was just morning. She cannot remember the last time she looked, but now it is almost five o’clock. She would not know if it were 5:00 AM, except she can tell by the television programming that it is afternoon.

  Now, she is hungry again and her bladder is full. She hates being trapped here with her own bodily needs. It is the opposite of heroic action.

  If heroic action is what this is. Since last night’s news report, her clarity of purpose has been devastated. Fat Guy’s small, cramped room seems to close in around her now, like the jaws of a trap.

  On the television, there is no news, only commercials. The people are all well dressed and all they care for, apparently, is shopping and curing bad breath. She wonders if they even know that Palestine exists?

  The man on the monitor is moving this way! He is moving carefully. X can see by his movements that he expects to find police behind every door and around every corner. From where she sits, of course, she knows that this caution is unnecessary. It is troubling, actually, how little police intrusion there has been.

  When she digs in Fat Guy’s lunch box, she finds a bag of Fritos and a peach. The whole box is starting to exude a fruity smell of decomposition because it is full of wrappers and apple cores and banana peels. There is also a plastic box with something homemade in it – maybe lasagna? She has been saving it, but soon will have to eat it or it will spoil and be wasted. Besides, she is too hungry – which is affecting her eyes and her judgment.

  She can see on the monitors that the Brothers are eating well from the food court and even sharing some with the hostages. They all have access to toilets, too. She has watched now, many times, a hostage raise a hand to be marched off to the bathroom at gunpoint.

  Meanwhile, X has put her latrine can out in the hall because the smell is overpowering. She knows this is dangerous but she cannot help it. She only drags it in when she needs to use it.

  The man on the monitor is getting close! Could it be Jamal, finally coming for her? It is impossible to tell because he is in full battle dress, with his balaclava over his face. His weapon is held up in front of him, ready to drop and fire in an instant.

  On television, they are advertising a medicine for stomach problems, and California cheese. She likes the happy cows. They make her laugh.

  The man is very close now. She can’t wait any longer. She believes, without any proof, that this man is Jamal. Maybe it is the way he moves, or his height. Or maybe she just needs so badly for it to be him.

  When the monitor shows him a little closer, she is going to open the door.

  Heddi

  Heddi is so damned mad at herself she can’t stand it! She thought she could tell the whole thing and then she broke down and didn’t finish.

  “Please excuse me, all of you. I don’t mean to make a scene.”

  “Maybe making a scene is the best way to heal your wounds. After all, isn’t it exactly what your parents – your whole class – would have despised? Isn’t it a true strike against them and their abuses of you to act as you truly are and not as you should be?” Ondine is so earnest that it touches Heddi’s battered heart.

  “Yeah,” Betty agrees. “Didn’t you tell me that becoming authentic is the work of mid-life? Getting rid of all those shoulds and oughts and discovering who you really are underneath? What’s so bad about tears? People have been crying them forever. Why should you be left out?”

  Heddi drops her head and nods tearfully. But she’s not mollified. She wanted to say it all. The late-night tippling, the coldness she brings to the marriage bed, the unexpected panic attacks...

  “Hamm boff tubaba. Bada bam...Gaba...Ahhhh... Uhnnnn...Haba nuf...nuf...Muhhhhh...Ahhhhh...” Erika suddenly erupts, thrashing. Sophia dashes to keep her from rolling herself off the couch.

  “Pearl! How many pills do we have left there?”

  “Only five.”

  “Oh, Goddess!”

  Heddi’s such a damn mess, she’s ashamed for herself. She’s got to do something to get these women focused again. It’s all her fault. She can feel them unraveling, even through her snivels.

  “Sophia...Sophia. Help me out. No, I mean help us all out. While I’m collecting myself, why don’t you tell us how you came to be so proficient at medicine?

  “I understand that you don’t want to talk about it, but just consider what each of the rest of us has been revealing...”

  Sophia looks at Heddi hard, and then nods almost imperceptibly.

  “You will? Oh, thank you. If you’ll excuse me then, I’m going to slip into the powder room. Don’t stop on my account. I’ll just tiptoe back, in a minute.”

  Sophia

  “Okay. Well...” She sighs, and shrugs her massive plaid shoulders, as if trying to throw off a burden.

  “I grew up around guns and shooting and blood. My father used to hunt deer with a pack of dogs every fall. I can still hear them, baying down in the canyons, driving the deer uphill. We didn’t have much money when I was growing up and hunting was just a part of our lives, a way to fill the larder.”

  Their neighbor, Pat Clark, the ditch-tender, would sit on the road in front of the house, right at the crest of the ridge, with his rifle across his knees, drinking coffee laced with whiskey and waiting for the first deer to break from the brush. Two or three other men were there, too, spaced out every couple of hundred yards, each with his khaki-and-red plaid Thermos of coffee, his red plaid hunting shirt and his thick, lace-up work boots.

  They’d pick off two or three deer that way in one day, field dress and hang the carcasses, and then later they’d get together and butcher and share out the meat after it’d hung for a day or two.

  Sophia, the tomboy, was always buzzing around the hunters and their kill like a gnat. Her father taught her to shoot when she was just five and the rifle was taller than she was. She was never one of those kids, though, who went around shooting birds and squirrels. Her father taught her to respect life, to take it only out of necessity. But she could knock a can off a fence post at a hundred yards with her little .22.

  Sophia was interested in Indians as a girl and she used to take the deer hides and tan them, using an old oak stump that was half rotted-out for her soaker. Tannic acid in t
he oak wood, maybe they know, is what cures the hide.

  Probably she never would have left the mountain. She liked the way things were going, but her folks worried about her.

  “You gotta get an education, Sophie,” her father used to say. But of course, there was no money for a college education and in those days, school loans weren’t so common.

  So finally she decided to join the Peace Corps – but to her surprise, they wanted nothing of her, because all her skills were the same ones that people in Third World countries already had. What the Peace Corps wanted was someone who could teach English or engineer a water system.

  So she licked her wounds for a while and then went down to see the local Army recruiter. She’d heard the Army would give you an education, if you signed up.

  “Oh yes,” they said. Anything she wanted to study, as long as it was a field they needed.

  Well, all those years of butchering had given her a fair understanding of anatomy – of deer, at least – and so she thought she’d do well as a medic. The recruiters weren’t too keen on agreeing to that. Maybe they weren’t as clear on the connection between butchering and being a medic as Sophia was, but she refused to sign up unless they gave her a contract. So in the end, she went off to boot camp and after that to train as a medic.

  She guesses they can imagine what happened next. The Vietnam War was heating up and before she quite knew what was happening, she was serving in a field hospital outside of Saigon.

  Sophia would never forget that first step onto the tarmac as they deplaned, in-country. The asphalt was actually sticky under her boot soles. The temperature must have been over a hundred with humidity to match.