COMMUNE OF WOMEN

by SUZAN STILL

  “I declare, I don’t know why Granny din’t call it a Marrow Year,” Pearl pronounces, and closes her eyes the way a cat sitting on a sunny windowsill does, a kind of creaturely basking.

  “Maybe that wild dog hits a artery an yer scairt yer gonna bleed ta death. A Blood Year shakes you an draws on yer strength til yer lookin Death straight in the eye.”

  “Is there a point to this?” Heddi is almost hissing. Honestly, if Pearl doesn’t take offense at that tone, she’s missing a good chance.

  Pearl opens her eyes slowly, the tiny pleated wrinkles around them furrowing like a tilled field. She looks straight at Heddi; meets and holds her eye, unflinchingly.

  “I espect they is.” Pearl closes her eyes and the tissue of thin, fine wrinkles relaxes again. Just for a moment, a spasm crosses her face, like a sudden pain. Heddi thinks she’s about to cry. Instead, she keeps on talking, with her eyes closed as if she were drawing up what she has to say out of some deep well of memory.

  “Granny said that Blood Years was the luckiest a all...”

  There’s an explosive guffaw. “Lucky?” Heddi is hooting, the contempt in her voice not even barely concealed. “Well, that’s the biggest pile of rubbish I’ve ever heard! If your Granny had ever actually had a Blood Year, she’d never have said such a thing.”

  Heddi is astonished by what’s coming out of her own mouth. So this is the Shadow, then, released from repression’s cage by exhaustion and ready to devour whom it may! And what form does it take? Heddi, the adored Only Child, can scarcely believe it – sibling rivalry!

  Pearl opens her eyes just a squint and stares at her the way a lizard looks at a fly.

  Ondine, over on the other side of the room, squirms in her lotus posture and silently mouths Ooohlala! to no one in particular. The silence deepens uncomfortably.

  “What’s that you say thar, Heady? Granny musta never had a Blood Year ta say such a thin?

  “Huh! My Granny done fergot more bout Blood Years than ye’ll ever know,” Pearl says softly. The edge of contempt in her voice is subtle. You have to listen for it, but it’s there.

  That’s the thing about Pearl. She has nothing. She’s the Queen of Cardboard – but a queen, nevertheless. She bows to nobody. And that’s what’s pissing Heddi off.

  Pearl goes silent, sucking on her pipe, her eyes closed, as if she has withdrawn into her royal boudoir. Heddi can hear the wall clock above the door ticking and the low pant of the machines keeping their last few drinks cool.

  Finally, Ondine breaks the silence. “Pearl,” she says in a voice like a rivulet of honey, “won’t you tell us the rest, please? I think we all need to know.”

  Pearl’s entire torso begins to bob slightly, like a wild grass stem in a breeze. She holds her pipe just beyond her lips in her right hand, her elbow supported in the cup of her left. Her crepey eyelids veil the moment she deigns to leave her boudoir and enter again into the halls of memory.

  “Anyways...Granny said a Blood Year was the luckiest a all,” she continues, as if there had never been an interruption. None of them moves a muscle or even breathes – Heddi included. “She said it was a gift from God.”

  Self, Heddi thinks, staring down at the floor, if you snort, or so much as crack a snide little grin, I’m going to smack you. But she doesn’t. She feels locked in some inner room of her own; some place where capital punishment can be exacted, where an axe can fall and the hated parasite of memory can be severed forever.

  “The thin with a Blood Year, you see, is it cracks you open. Whatever closed system a thins you done set up, it’s busted. Whatever you think is the way thins is, you find they ain’t. Whatever you thought yer limits was, they wasn’t. Maybe you thought you couldn’t stand no more pain – an then, you find you cain. Or so much of it – an you discover you gots more room in thar fer it then you thought.

  “You gots ta crack the nut ta get at the meat, Granny use ter say. Gots ta break the shell ta get the chick out. An the years that’s hardest, the Blood Years, they cracks yer bones ta get the marrow a yer own meanin out.

  “That lil river a the soul that lies deep in thar feedin yer poor, dried-up sef ain’t a place you cain always get to. Blood Years, you goes down ta the river an drinks.

  “Or falls in an drowns.

  “Ain’t no other way ta get at it.

  “Cept maybe through joy. But that’s a different thin – an it don’t usually last a year. Ain’t no Joy Year in Granny’s calendar.”

  You gots ta crack the nut ta get at the meat, Heddi hears Pearl say, at a great distance. You gots ta break the shell ta get the chick out.

  Is that what all this hammering has been, then... salvation?

  Pearl’s pipe has gone out but she sucks on it anyway, her eyes still closed. Her face glows like the Pythoness’s over the abyss; their own Delphic oracle.

  The resentment Heddi feels towards her is eating her like battery acid.

  Why is she like this?

  She knows from depth psychology that there are Blood Years. They just call them initiation, or the archetype of descent, or the nekyia, or the Night Sea Journey, or the Dark Night of the Soul, or a creative illness. So why is she resisting this woman so?

  For some reason, Heddi wants to weep, just to double over and howl. She knows – feels – the exact place in her body where the wild dogs are gnawing.

  And she doesn’t know whether she’s terrified, or if some secret part of her is rejoicing.

  X

  X has decided she will throw open the door when she sees by the monitor that the Brother is only a few steps from it. She is able to judge this by her latrine can that is clearly visible, sitting right next to Fat Guy in the hall.

  She stands with one hand on the doorknob and her eyes glued to the screen. She is thinking that it will be best if he comes to her. She imagines him knocking at the door, calling her name urgently in a whisper. But she will hesitate, causing him to wonder if she is still alive. She will make him wait – only an instant – but in that time, he will feel the same longing that she has felt.

  And then she will have the dignity of opening to him.

  But when the instant arrives, she is so overcome that she does not wait. She throws open the door and...he is not there!

  He has already moved past and now, with his back to her, is continuing down the hallway. Now it is she who must whisper urgently, “Jamal!” and when he continues on, a louder call, “Jamal!”

  Like a cat, he spins in place and X is looking down the barrel of his gun. She cannot see his eyes within the balaclava and suddenly she is unsure. Is this Jamal or another Brother – or even some stranger?

  She screams involuntarily, “No!” and ducks back into her room. She is trying to slam the door when he pushes through, knocking her aside.

  He seems to fill up the room. His energy is huge and fierce. X stands with her back to the corner, staring at him in terror as he spins, looking for someone to shoot.

  At last, he stops and focuses on X. “What are you doing here?” he demands roughly.

  When she hears his voice, she knows at last that it is Jamal.

  “Jamal! Please! Take off your mask. You are frightening me.”

  He does not respond. He seems to hang suspended between answering her request and something else that occupies him more completely. At last, slowly, he reaches up with his free hand and slips the mask up, revealing his handsome face.

  X moves toward him, her hand raised, wanting to touch his cheek, but he steps back, tossing his head to the side like a wild animal.

  “No!” he shouts.

  X stares at him in horror. “Jamal! What is wrong? What is wrong with you?”

  She is thinking that all the killing has damaged him, made him a little crazy. Again, she moves toward him, wanting to touch him, to soothe him.

  But he is too fast. In an instant, he has lowered his gun and is pushing her away from him with the barrel.

  “Jamal!” X is crying now, not from fear but b
ecause she feels her heart will break. “Oh, Allah-God, Jamal! Why are you like this with me?” Her tears are not an embarrassment now. They are simply the only language she has.

  Jamal is staring at her; his large brown eyes are almost black. She cannot see into them. His face looks as if it is made of iron. It is set, rigid, hard. This cannot be the same man who touches her so gently and murmurs Rumi to her in Farsi.

  They are frozen; he to the stock of his rifle and she at the end of its barrel, staring into one another’s eyes. It seems to last forever.

  “They told me you were dead,” he whispers, finally, his voice hoarse with shock.

  Then, slowly, very slowly, he lowers the barrel of the gun and whispers, “Don’t move.”

  He turns his back and lays the gun on the desk. X hears the high metallic sound of a zipper. Then slowly, he turns back toward her.

  In one instant, she understands. She begins to scream, “No! No! No! Naaaahhhhh!”

  Her knees buckle and she crashes to the floor, circling her head with her arms. She cannot stop the wild shrieks that erupt from her mouth. She has never heard such sounds, except in the camps when someone is killed and the women grieve. She did not know she was capable of making such cries.

  “Stop it!” she screams. “Stop it, right now!”

  “I can’t,” she hears him say hoarsely, “or I would. You know that even better than I. There is not much time.”

  She cannot stop screaming. Above her own loud noise, she hears his; how he turns away with a gritty scrape, the metal of his zipper closing, the soft thud of his gun lifting from the desk.

  “Say something to me!” she screams. “Say something!”

  She does not have to look to know that he is by the door now, looking back at her where she is crumpled on the floor, completely undisciplined, in utter disarray. But X does not care. She is a warrior of another kind now.

  “Say something, Jamal! Please! Please!”

  And he does. “I love you. I always will,” he says in a voice like boots on gravel.

  “Then, don’t go...” she begins, pushing herself up from the floor. But he is gone already, with a soft whoosh of air and a faint click of the door closing.

  And X is left with an image engraved on her heart: Jamal standing before her, his hard eyes gone pleading, asking for understanding; his hands holding open his vest – and his chest covered in explosives.

  Ondine

  “Pearl,” Ondine says, but glaring directly at Heddi, “there’s such wisdom in what your grandmother said. Won’t you continue your story, please?”

  “Yeah,” Betty agrees. “I like communing with your grandma.”

  “We all need to commune with her,” Sophia adds. “She’s become an important part of our commune of women.” She sweeps an inclusive hand around their ragged circle, as if Pearl’s Granny were seated among them.

  Pearl strikes a match, lights her pipe and takes a long drag before she begins again. “I reckon she’d feel rat ta home here. If they was a disaster wrought by the hand a man, Granny’d somehow get sucked inta it, lak a turtle in quicksand. She’d be settin rat here, sayin, Ain’t nothin ta be asceerd of. Everthin’s gonna be alrat.”

  Pearl takes another long, contemplative drag on her pipe, as if concentrating the smokes of memory deep inside her.

  Pearl

  “Well, ta get back ta Abel Johns...that was the beginnin of a season in Hell. We was all in the hands of a madman, no two ways bout it. We done traveled the back roads from county ta county an state ta state. An when we needed money, that unholy bastard’d stop at some seedy roadhouse an go in... ”

  The first time it happened, she was completely caught off guard. After a spell, the door a that bar opened an lat spilled out ta whar her an the kids set waitin in the dirt lot, an three men come out.

  Abel Johns comes an yanks open her door an says, “Come here, bitch,” an grabs her by the arm.

  He pulls her round ta the back a the car an slams her face down against the trunk an holds her by the neck. An in a dream a terror Pearl hears him ax, “Who’s goin first?”

  She feels strange hands grippin her an her skirt pullt up an her panties ripped off. An then the most God-awful pain a some bastard’s big dick rammin her. Ta this day, it don’t seem possible ta her that she endured such a thin. But she knows it’s true. They ain’t no use denyin it.

  It went on an on. The drunken bastard couldn’t come, ferever. An jes when she knows it’s finally over, she hears Abel Johns say, “It’s yer turn, partner. Whar’s yer five bucks?” An the whole natmare begins again.

  That filthy devil, Abel Johns – may he rot in Hell! – kept her an her kids prisoner fer most a year. Spring turnt ta summer an finally the days cooled down an it was autumn. An still, they was travelin, never stayin more then a nat in any one place.

  An ever place they stopped, he found customers willin ta rape a woman fer a price. In fact, the more she’d protest an fat, the better they laked it. She learnt soon enough ta play possum. It din’t hurt as much an they din’t get as excited.

  She found out what he was tellin em that made em so eager. He was sayin, “I got this here wife that I found out is a whore. She done lied ta me an her punishment is ta do it out in front a God an everbody til her cunt falls off.” Ain’t hardly a man on the planet wouldn’t get a hard-on ta punish a wayward woman.

  Somewhar in Arkansas that summer, her oldest, Harold, done run off with a truckload a laborers, goin bout harvestin crops. She never did blame him. She was glad fer him. But her heart still aches cuz she never seen him again. He warn’t but twelve.

  Then, she had her but four young’uns. She did her very best fer em, which warn’t much, she cain tell you. The life they was leadin was pure madness.

  They was but one time that the Lord turnt His baleful eye upon that heathen husband a hers. They was some-whar in Alabama, she reckons, an Abel Johns was drummin up business at a roadhouse. But what he din’t know was, the folks he was runnin his number to was all Baptists, sneakin a beer after choir practice.

  They all come out in a herd, bout a dozen of em, an looked at Pearl an the kids waitin out thar in that old jalopy, lookin purdy tired an wan, she reckons.

  “This woman the mother a these children?” one feller axed.

  An Abel Johns nods an says, “Yes, sir, she is.”

  And then that feller does somethin completely unespected. He looks Pearl’s daughter, Annabelle, rat in the eye an he axed, “You love yer mama?”

  An poor Annabelle, scared spitless, stares at him with eyes lak a trapped rabbit an jes nods.

  But the feller ain’t done with her yet. “Is she a good mama ta you? Is she kind ta you?”

  An Annabelle manages ta whisper, “Oh, yes sir. She is.”

  Now, Pearl’s thinkin this guy’s bout ta demand Anna-belle in place a her, an she’s plottin really fast how she’s gonna kill em, if he lays so much as his lil finger on that poor child. She’s searchin round the ground with her eyes fer a rock – anythin.

  But then, the miracle happens. “Boys,” says the feller ta his friends, “I think we need ta confer with Mr. Johns out by the outhouse. What’d ya say?”

  And thar’s a murmur among em an they kinda move round Abel Johns an take him by the elbows an shuffle him off round the back a the roadhouse.

  Pearl’s thinkin, Good Lord! Theys bargainin fer a group rate!

  She gets outta that car – a thin she is forbidden ta do – an she creeps inta the shadders, follerin along behind.

  Sure enough, when they get ta the outhouse, they stop an she cain hear em talkin. An she hears Abel Johns’ voice startin ta rise above the others. And purdy soon, she hears him screamin an she’s thinkin, What the thunder...?

  One a them fellers comes flyin past her so fast he din’t even see her hunkerin down thar in the shadders. He jumps inta his car an revs it up an comes tearin round the side a the buildin an stops with his headlats full on the scene. An then he jumps out, leavin the
lats on, an joins the crowd again.

  Now, Pearl cain see theys got Abel Johns rat in front a the loo, with the door open. Theys pushin him in an he gots both arms an legs on the doorframe, resistin with all his mat. But thar’s no way one man cain fat off a dozen, an fore Pearl quite knows what’s happenin, theys pushed him in an slammed the door shut.

  Pearl cain’t quite make out what these fellers is up to, but soon it becomes clear as well water. One of em’s got a hammer an nails an he nails the door shut. Some others, they gots a can a gas from the back of they truck an they douse that lil house down with it real good.

  And then, lak a kinda ceremony, everone gets real quiet an the first feller steps up an takes a book a matches outta his pocket. Very slow an deliberate, he folds back the cover. An pulls off a match. An closes the cover.

  By the lat a them headlats, Pearl cain see a glitter down in the deeps a the crescent moon cut in the out-house door, an she reckons it’s Abel Johns’s eye, watchin and gettin as big as full-on terror cain make it.

  A great caterwauling commences. He’s poundin on the door an screamin lak a panther with his toes in a trap. The whole buildin’s rockin lak it’s about ta explode cuz he’s slammin hissef inta the walls tryin ta break through or ta capsize the whole she-bang altogether.

  Then that first feller strikes the match an holds it up so’s everone cain see the flame an thar’s a murmur amongst the men. And then, lak he’s the Archangel Michael stokin the fires a Hell, he bends down an puts that match ta the side a the loo.

  Well, a building lak that, it’s dry as tinder anyways. Hell, a cigarette’d ignite it, if the wind was rat. But soaked in gasoline...?

  It goes up lak a torch an Pearl cain hear Abel Johns screamin an beggin an poundin inside.

  Now, any decent person’d try ta stop such a thin. They’d rush rat in thar an demand the release a the prisoner. So, it’s a commentary on how depraved she had become, livin with that devil, that she did nothin. In fact, she stood thar amazed, hopin against hope that that monster was breathin his last.