Commune of Women (4 page)

Nevertheless, it offers sanctuary for a second. She closes the door and locks it. She rests her hands on the edge of the sink and stares into a tiny mirror that’s duct taped to the wall, slightly out of plumb.

She scarcely recognizes the face that stares back at her. Her pupils are dilated. Her hair’s sticking out from her head in weird tufts. And her face is smeared with blood.

What should she do next?

Everything’s bedlam. People are hammering on the door, but if she opens it, she may let in the shooters.

She doesn’t know who’s out there.

The door seems to bulge with the assaults from outside. The knob doesn’t look very strong. It could give at any moment.

Sophia needs something to barricade the door. But what? The sofa isn’t heavy enough. The only other thing is one of these vending machines.

The pounding and screaming is growing more intense. She leaps to the first machine, inserts her fingers into the gap between it and the next one, and leans with all her might into it. It’s heavy as hell.

She takes a new purchase in the little crack that’s opened up, slides her whole hand in and puts her shoulder to the edge of the machine. She pushes like she had her truck stuck in mud, with night coming on; pushes until her eyes feel like they’re bulging out.

At last, with a shrieking scrape, the machine lurches sideways and almost topples over.

Someone screams, and the fat woman in blue who’s just coming out of what must be a bathroom, sees what’s happening and dashes over to help.

She wraps her arms around the machine, Sumo wrestler style. Sophia pushes, while Fatty stabilizes. Sophia sees that the reason they’re having so much trouble is that the weight of the machine is tearing up the linoleum, instead of sliding over it.

They decide to walk it, instead. They rock it and then swing it forward. Inch by inch, they get it into position and at last, slam it against the doorframe. It would take a bulldozer coming through to push it aside. They stare at each other in shocked relief. And they’re not a moment too soon.

The screaming in the hall outside intensifies. There is a thunder of banging on the door – and then gunshots, right outside.

The glass front of the vending machine blows out.

They’re shooting right through the door!

“
Get down!
” Sophia screams.

They all hit the floor.

There’s a rattle of gunfire and the back wall erupts in little fountains of plaster.

To her left, someone is shrieking hysterically.

Then, the gunfire moves off down the concourse. There is no more screaming and no more banging.

Instead, an unholy silence descends outside.

There’s a deadly quiet outside. It’s both a relief and a horror.

Heddi’s afraid to look up, for fear of what she’ll see.

She hears someone moving to her left and as they do, shattered glass crunching.

She’s still in the chair but doubled over. She looks down at her body – is it all there? She seems to be intact but who knows, really, at a time like this?

When she finally looks around, it’s as if everyone is frozen in space like bugs in amber. Bodies are crouched in odd positions all over the room. The giant is closest to the door, ducked down behind the vending machine she moved.

Moving a vending machine, for God’s sake! Who
is
she?

On an ugly coffee-stain-colored couch to Heddi’s left is a young black woman, covered in blood. Miraculously, between her chair and the couch, Ondine is face down on the floor. At least, it seems to be Ondine, by the long auburn hair and the slight figure. Betty is wedged into the corner to the left of the door, her eyes huge, her polyester suit coat smeared with blood, sobbing uncontrollably.

And then, off to her right, there’s this vision straight from Bruegel; one of those ragged, lice-infested crones you see in the background of his paintings, lugging huge loads of firewood or lurking in the darkened doorway of a hovel. She’s a vision in gray – ashen face, grizzled hair, faded clothing. She wavers, ghostly, staring toward the door where the shot-up vending machine is bleeding its canned and bottled bodily fluids onto the floor.

“Shee-it!” says the Bruegel. “All them drinks goin ta waste!”

No thought, apparently, for what else might be wasted, just on the other side of that door.

Ondine’s afraid to look up.

What in God’s name has happened?

Are they still barricaded, or did the terrorists get into the room?

She lies still and listens, barely daring to breathe.

Then there’s a voice like a parrot’s, rough and raucous, saying something about wasted drinks. No gunfire afterward. They must be safe.

She lifts her head to look around. She’s on the floor, at eye level with the dirty, worn skirt of a shabby couch. The fabric is faded brown, patterned with stylized flowers in beige and teal. The floor beneath her is white linoleum, streaked with gray – and none too clean.

Ondine rolls to her left to pull herself up by the front of the couch. Slipping her hand onto the seat cushion, she feels something sticky and wet, just as the smell hits her – that briny, metallic smell of blood. She remembers it from the morgue, still fresh on Jackie’s body.

She pulls herself up and discovers its source, a beautiful young black woman, with blood seeping – no, more like pouring – from her left shoulder.

Ondine lets out a shriek. “My God! I’ve never seen anyone bleed like this! Someone...
help!
”

A calm, firm voice comes from behind her. She realizes through the fog of shock that it’s giving her instructions.

“Find something you can use to apply pressure,” it’s saying. “You, with the long hair. Yes, you. Use your jacket.”

Ondine turns uncomprehending eyes toward the door. The voice is issuing from a huge woman who, nevertheless, has a voice like melted butter, fluid and sweet. Ondine shakes her head at her. She has no idea what she wants.

The big woman rises from a crouched position next to the vending machine barricade and hunches towards Ondine, keeping her head down. Ondine feels instant relief. Somehow, this woman exudes confidence, even in this madhouse.

“Who’s got something cotton?” the giant asks, her eyes sweeping the room. “You there, in the blue suit. Give me that scarf... Yes, that one. Quick!”

A fat woman in an atrocious, shiny polyester suit comes wobbling out of the corner, untying her neck scarf and hiccupping as she comes. Her face is smeared with blood that’s already drying and that doesn’t seem to have issued from her own person, as far as Ondine can tell.

The giant woman grabs the scarf from the fat woman in one quick, definitive pluck and turns without hesitation to the woman on the couch. “Help me get her coat off,” she says to Ondine, not gruffly, just very authoritatively. Ondine kneels down in front of the couch and struggles feebly with buttons on the black woman’s suit jacket. The injured woman groans, as if the smallest touch pains her even in unconsciousness.

“Here, let me,” says the big woman. She reaches into her jeans and comes out with a pocketknife. She flicks open a blade and, in one deft slice, cuts the sleeve of the black woman’s jacket from wrist to shoulder. Then, she works the blade through the neckline, cuts outward through the thickness of fabric at the shoulder and peels the jacket off, as if it were a banana skin.

There’s a thin white blouse beneath, saturated in blood. Ondine can only tell it’s white by the very top of the shoulder that has somehow remained pristine. The big woman wields her knife like an expert. In one quick movement, she cuts through the blouse and bra strap, too, leaving the wound fully exposed.

It’s a nasty, ragged round hole from which blood pours as if it were overflowing from a drainpipe. Then, in an instant, it disappears, as the big woman slaps the wadded scarf onto it and says in a commanding voice, “Here. Hold pressure right here.” Ondine moves to do so, as if in a dream. Everything has a floating, unmoored quality to it.

As soon as she’s got the scarf in hand and has pressed down sufficiently, the big woman slides a hand behind the black woman’s shoulder and flips her forward, putting additional pressure onto the wound and making Ondine feel more efficient.

The big woman is peeling clothes from the injured woman’s back now, and probing around. “Thank the Goddess,” she breathes. “There’s an exit wound, too. No bullet to dig out,” she says by way of explanation, meeting Ondine’s eyes. “If we can find some materials, we can stitch her up and stop some of this bleeding.”

She turns to the room in general. “Who has a needle?” And then, “Someone look around...under the sink there, or in the bathroom. There might be a first aid kit in here, somewhere.”

She pushes up from the couch and goes to look for herself because everyone is still moving like their bodies are suspended in water. Ondine is left holding pressure. It comes as a real surprise to her to find that she is crying in silent, wrenching sobs.

She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns to find Heddi bending toward her from a chair.

“Ondine? Oh, thank God! It
is
you. You’re crying. Is it too much? Too much like...”

She doesn’t dare say “...Jackie?” Ondine realizes. This is hardly the quiet, therapeutic confines of her office where such a question could be broached after half a session of gentle lead-up. Here, Ondine is raw, shocked and vulnerable. Heddi must be in a quandary.

“It’s okay, Heddi,” Ondine gulps. “I can do this. I’m okay.”

Heddi gives Ondine her famous long look, but it’s not really the same because her eyes are dilated, her face is set in a harrowed startle and her short-cropped blonde hair is standing on end. She looks like someone who was in the bathtub when the hair dryer fell in.

“Really, Heddi,” Ondine says again, “I’m fine. I can do this.” With that, Heddi settles back in her chair and closes her eyes, as if she’s fallen into an exhausted sleep.

Well, Pearl’s seen a lotta damn thins in this life, but this here beats all! Looks lak she done fell inta one a them Civil War stories her Granpap use ter tell, all bout folks shootin one t’other, an cannonades an fusillades, an arms blown off, an legs sawed off, an who knows what else kinda wickedness thunk up by the mind a man.

Good Lord!

They be blood an glass an tarnation everwhar. Theys women cryin an women settin lak theys plum dazed, an women bleedin. An theys this one great tall woman, lak a tree, doin all the work.

Pearl’s seen it a hunert times in this long life – everone settin on they tush an but one woman doin it all. Most times, that one was Pearl.

So Pearl up an says ta her, “
I
gots a needle.” An she starts diggin round in her bosom, cuz that’s whar she keeps the thins she needs most – money, needle an thread, her pipe an tobaccy. The thread she has is good an strong, too. She uses it fer everthin – her dress, her shoes. Even flosses her teeth with it. Picks it up down at the discount store, five spools fer a dollar.

By now, the giant’s rootin round under the sink. Out come a sponge, all curlt up. A open package a more sponges. A box a cleanser. Rubber gloves; some used, some new. A squirt bottle a window cleaner.

“No first aid kit.” She comes outta thar, lookin darkly.

Without another word, she whips inta the bathroom an starts the same thin in thar. Rolls a toilet paper. More cleanser. A plastic bag a clean rags. Not much more.

Pearl’s kinda follerin along behind, jes ta be companionable. She’s backin outta that cabinet when Pearl axes her, “Is this here what yer lookin fer?” An she grabs a red box with a big white cross down from the wall.

“Where’d that come from?” the giant asks, amazed.

“Rat thar,” says Pearl, pointin. “Rat in front a our noses.” Pearl laughs an the giant gots the good grace ta laugh, too.

She reaches out an Pearl thinks it’s fer the box, so she hands it ta her. She takes it, puts it t’other hand an holds out her hand again. Then Pearl sees she means ta shake hands.

“Sophia,” says the giant, smilin.

Well, Pearl cain’t remember if’n anybody
ever
done shook her hand. Maybe the preacher did, back when she done married Abel Johns. But that was a long time ago an she espects he done it in a spirit a irony.

So Pearl’s a bit slow, but when she gets round ta it, she puts her whole strength inta it.

“Pearl,” she says. “Name’s Pearl Johns. Pleased ta meetcha.”

Everything’s hazy. There seems to be a big commotion, but Erika can’t make out what it is. She hears screaming from someone near her, then it goes quiet. She hears that noise again, like fireworks, off in the distance.

She’s floating in a space that’s not unpleasant, but her mind keeps trying to kick start itself, to rev up some semblance of alarm over something. But she resists it.

Then, there are people bending over her, pulling at her. They’re hurting her! She tries to tell them to fuck off, but all that comes out is a groan. She can’t find her tongue. It’s sort of stuck somewhere in her mouth, lying useless.

God! Fucking cows!

They’re pulling her clothes off!

They’re flopping her around like a rag doll. Like one of those two black babies, a boy and a girl, her Gramma sewed for her, with the long, lank legs and arms. Jerry Huff tried to pull one away from her in third grade, calling it a
nigger doll
, and the legs were so long he seemed to be a yard away when the leg finally tore off.

Erika cried, then. She might be crying now. She can’t tell.

They’re talking and it’s too loud, and she still can’t make out a word – just the note of urgency. A weight like a pile driver descends on her shoulder and she distinctly hears the word
pressure.

Something silver flashes near her face.

My God! They’re knifing her!

Her clothes rip.

She wants to run, but she can’t move.

She’s twelve again and it’s her father with his big KBar in hand, hissing, “You kick me again, you little bitch, and I’ll cut your nose off!”