Commune of Women (34 page)

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 the 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.

And the smell! She’s always had an acute sense of smell, almost like an animal. It’s impossible to describe the compounded stench of that place: diesel, rotting vegetation, ripening fruit, hot asphalt, the sulfurous smell of munitions and of course, blood, sweat and the acrid scent of fear.

That, and above all, the burning shit cans. Every night, they’d light off dozens of 55-gallon drums of shit from the latrines and they’d burn all night long. It’s a sickening reek. Anyone who’s never smelled it can’t imagine it.

She remembers, when she finally made it back home to the mountain, the first time she unzipped her Army duffle. The evil smell that rose from it was so rank that it revolted her. It’s the smell of Death; the smell of Hell.

She was in a hooch with a bunch of Army nurses. In those days, they didn’t let women go into battle. The women had to stay behind and tend to the wounded. There were plenty of those and Sophia got her fill of stitching up wounds.

And a couple of times, when a doctor was too drunk to function, she even performed surgeries, with one of the nurses reading instructions out of a surgical text. Sophia was never afraid. She knew her way around a body, especially under the skin.

She just sort of hunkered down inside and tried to wait out her year so she could go home all in one piece. That’s what she wanted most – just to survive, intact. Every night, there were rocket attacks or warnings broadcast by loudspeaker that there was a sniper inside the wire.

“You never really sleep in a place like that. There’s sand in your sheets and they’re never really dry because of the humidity. And the blood and the suffering gets to you, pretty quickly.

“About six or seven months into it, I was starting to doubt that I’d make it – and that got more intense when one of my nurse friends was shot in broad daylight as she was walking to surgery.

“Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, though, they did. The Army was pushing northward and there were big battles going on up by the DMZ. And one day, the captain came to our hooch and told us to pack up. We were being shipped up north. That’s when things got
really
spooky.”

Even though they’d been dealing with the broken bodies of soldiers every day, and there’d been constant attacks on them, none of the nurses had ever been in a full-out shooting war yet. They were scared.

They were all standing out on the tarmac close to the edge of the compound, waiting for the plane to come and take them up to the DMZ. On the other side of the chain link fence, there was a stand of some kind of fruit trees, very large, very old.

She watched a group of women gathering there, graceful as dancers in their traditional
Áo dài
, with mandarin collars and long, side-slit tunics over loose pants. They always watched the Vietnamese carefully – you never knew when a washerwoman might fold a grenade in with your socks.

But these women weren’t the least bit interested in them. One woman took her baby from the sling across her breast and laid it on the ground on a piece of fabric. Sophia thought they were just going to have a rest in the shade, but then another woman proceeded to wrap the baby up like a mummy and finally – she can still hardly believe she saw this – they tied the little bundle up in the branches of the tree. And then they all began to wail.

Only then did Sophia realize that the baby was dead. And as she stood there amazed, she saw that the big, spreading limbs of those trees were festooned in bundles!

“I’d thought they were bearing huge fruits and instead...”

Sophia’s face crumples with a depth of sorrow that is unfathomable and she does not continue for a very long space. The others wait, silently.

“...and I remembered that old blues song that Billie Holiday used to sing, ‘Strange Fruit’...”

That
was a moment in her life! A dawn of realization. What were they doing there, anyway? Why were they there, killing these gentle people and their babies? She was sickened. Disgusted. She hated the Army, her country, and herself in ascending order.

All she wanted to do was to go home.

But of course, she couldn’t.

So they ended up a few miles from the DMZ and things were really crazy up there. Patrols would go out, day and night, and sometimes people would return and sometimes whole patrols never did. The wounds she and her friends tended there were fresh from the battlefield and they were too terrible to describe. Feet and legs blown off, bullet holes through chests, head injuries – it became an endless assembly line of bloody, shattered parts.

Sophia thought she might lose her mind but she was too exhausted to do it. The drama would have taken too much energy.

And then, right in the middle of that terrible time, a miracle happened. One of the nurses invited her to the NCO Club for a blind date.

“A
date?
You want me to go on a
date?
” Sophia hooted at her. “Sherry, I’m six feet, two inches tall, in case you haven’t noticed. Who would want to date
me?
”

“Someone who’s six foot six?” Sherry said, with a kind of sly smile.

“You know this guy?”

“Yeah. Well, a little. Actually, he approached me in the mess. He asked me about you.”

Sophia was stunned. She’d never had a single tumble from a man in her entire life.

“What’d he want to know? My shoe size?”

“Hey, Sophie, cut it out! You’re a beautiful woman. He wants to meet you. Come on! Get a shower. You got anything that’s not covered in blood, wear it.”

So they went and she met John. It wasn’t just that he actually towered over her or that he was handsome or even that he seemed to be a really decent guy, in spite of that crazy war. What really turned Sophia on about John, at the start, was that he was so clearly, and deeply, interested in
her!

She really didn’t believe in love at first sight, but pretty quickly she came to think that when two people are meant for one another, they know it, right from the get-go.

For Sophia, it was like she’d been out in a black rain on a cold night, and a stranger opened his warm overcoat and took her inside it. She couldn’t maintain her shell with John. He just covered her, shattered as she was, with solid, loving energy.

Meeting John changed her whole experience of the war. She’d been sinking into a morass of depression. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for a new day to dawn.

They found a hundred ways to run into one another. It’s amazing, the magnetism of love. It just drew them to one another, without even any thought.

She’d be covered in blood and he’d be smeared in mud from head to toe from having just gotten off patrol. It didn’t matter. They were beautiful in each other’s eyes. It didn’t matter that they were defying Army regulations. It didn’t matter that they were in the middle of a war zone. All that mattered was seeing one another one more time. And then another. And another.

They were both short. Sophia had two more months and John had two and a half. They knew what they’d do when they got home. They’d get married. They talked about how many kids they wanted and what kind of house and where. And in their imaginations, they lived forward into the future and the rich and happy life they’d make together.

She never would have believed it but when her time came to leave Vietnam, she was reluctant. Who could believe such a switch? She even tried to extend for two weeks so they could leave at the same time but her request was denied.

So home she went, and she waited. It was only two weeks but it seemed like an eternity. Finally, two weeks passed but there was no call from John. Sophia was worried but she thought there must be some excuse. Another week crawled by. And then three more days.

And then! Miracle! A letter arrived bearing the Army postal stamp and clearly having been through the brutalities of a tropical posting. She was so excited she couldn’t breathe. She ripped the letter open and her eyes leapt to the page...but the letter wasn’t from John. It was from his buddy, Rick.

In it, he related how they’d gone out on patrol, just two days before they were scheduled to come home, and gotten pinned down in a firefight. Everything was chaos, he said. For a while, he could hear John shouting, trying to rally everyone. But then Rick lost track of him. They were pinned down for hours before gunships could come to their rescue. And when they did, no one could find John. He’d just disappeared. They went back a day later and scoured the area.

But he was gone – just gone...

“That was almost forty years ago and it still...

“...was he...

“Did he get blown to smithereens?

“Did he fall in the river and just float away?

“Or was he taken prisoner? That’s my worst nightmare. My John, a POW. Even now, it’s more than my heart...

“I have dreams, still. I go out looking for him. The jungle’s dark even though the trees are on fire. Danger’s lurking everywhere, but I charge through the under-growth, calling for him. Bombs go off and the ground heaves and everything lights up a lurid red. But I keep looking and looking and looking...until I get so desperate, I wake up...”

After that, she stayed on the mountain. When her folks passed on, she inherited the home place. She turned her back on everything that had to do with the war and became a vegetarian so she’d never have to deal with another hunk of bloody meat again. She rejected God and Country and became a Goddess worshipper. She hated everything patriarchal and honored everything feminine.

As the decades passed, she came to see how the way she was living wasn’t just a reaction against something, but it was really a reflection of who she is; living close to the earth, and honoring all creatures, the higher powers, the stars. It was a return to all she’d already known, as a child.

She looks to her happiness after she passes from this world, now. Nothing here can claim her, if John can’t.

“So...that’s how I got so proficient at stitchery, Heddi. I hope that answers your question.”

They ain’t nothin gonna break this gloom lessen Pearl does. Sophia’s story near sunk the barrel, fer sure. Theys tears in ever eye an the fat one, Betty thar, looks lak she’s gonna wail lak a ambulance any minute.

Even that Heady gal ain’t got a word ta say. She looks lak a drown rat, all kinda slicked down with water and red-eyed since she come outta the john.

What is she gonna tell em ta keep em from fallin apart?

Well, Pearl knows what Sophia means, bout doctorin. It ain’t never easy, an she gots a tale from when she was jes a little slip of a thin ta prove it.

Sometimes, settin here, her mind slips an she falls back inta the past. She’s five or six again, wanderin amongst the log decks at the mill. Her daddy worked thar buckin logs with his partner, usin a 5-foot double buckin saw with teeth two inches long an a handle at each end. Back and forth, back and forth – all day long.

Pearl’s job was ta fetch him his lunch at noon. She’d carry the pail high in her rat hand, lak a lady holdin up her skirts. In winter, she’d sink in mud over her ankles that’d suck at her red rubber boots, pullin em rat off her heels, skinnin off her little thin cotton socks, rat with em. Many’s the day she’d limp home with her boots full a muck an her feet freezin.