Commune of Women (8 page)

At first, she was torn between her emerging feminist understandings and her allegiance to the men’s cause – even though it seemed too violent and sexist to her. But the men did not want her to participate; a prejudice that spurred her to insist on inclusion.

Finally, she won the right to join them in training. Thank Allah-God that she is strong and could keep up with them. They certainly did not cut her the slack, as the Americans say.

But with the guns, she is hopeless. They say she is too small for the rifles. With the handguns, the explosion so close to her ear is painful. “You keep squeezing your eyes shut and the trigger at the same time,” Hansi jeers. Even with one hand cut off, he is doing better than she is.

She feels like a failure, but she refuses to quit.

The Brothers stop calling her by her name and tease her by calling her “X.” “You are the unknown factor in this operation, so from now on you will be called X.” A further humiliation.

At the bomb making, she is better. Her fingers are small and delicate. Once she understands the principles, she becomes the best at twisting the circuit wires and soldering the parts. She handles the dynamite sticks in their paper skins and the blocks of C-4, as if they were her firstborn child. She feels a certain love for her creations.

On the other hand, she is secretly beginning to loathe some of the Brothers. She admires their love of risk, their skill and their power. She loves what they are able to manifest – this action glorifying Allah-God. But personally, they become loathsome to her – all, except Jamal.

They are everything Women’s Studies teaches – hierarchical, misogynistic, sexually depraved and simply messy. They expect her to clean up after them. They deliberately do not help her. Every day they deliver the message that she is second-class, inferior.

Still, she envies their confidence that they deserve power. They are convinced of their superiority. She personally never has experienced this.

But with the gun in her hand, or the bomb, she begins to feel powerful. It is intoxicating.

At the same time, she is terrified. When she thinks of their plan, she wants to leap up and make it happen
now
. That is because she expects to die. If she is going to die, she wants to complete this ordeal immediately. She does not want to live with the fear of it, which makes her vomit. Her chest is so constricted with fear, she begins to pant, as if she cannot draw breath fully.

But she keeps on because she will not let down the females. If she is going to die, let it be as a martyr. Death is the ultimate way to prove that women can manipulate political power. If she dies for their cause, how then could these men feel superior to her? Dead, she is beyond criticism.

They write a Manifesto:
We are a multi-national and religiously diverse group assembled for the purpose of affirming international brotherhood
(they would not include
sisterhood
, despite her many arguments)
and to wage war on the American military-industrial complex, and to protest that unquestioning obedience to multinational corporate interests is not patriotic, but idiotic. In defense of the downtrodden peoples of the world, and of their resources and their labor that ought to belong to them and not be stolen by corporate greed, and in the name of Allah-God, we call for a universal uprising against the forces of oppression, and give our lives willingly as martyrs to this cause.

They labor over this statement for weeks, nearly warring among themselves.

One night, she goes to the restroom and when she comes back, the men tell her to leave.

“After all this time, you are dismissing me?” She is almost too outraged to speak. Her voice is shrill.

“No, no,” they assure her. “We have someone coming who will only deal with us men. It is secret – and very important. Our mission depends on it. You must trust us.”

So, reluctantly, she goes. But she does not leave. She hides. She sneaks into the next room, puts her ear to the furnace grate, and listens. She hears a man’s voice. He is offering their group money to aid the fight. He is saying that they must negotiate, using hostages, and make the government fly them to the Middle East. There, they will be safe to continue the struggle.

She wants very much to go into the meeting room and see this man, but does not dare. His voice goes on and on, promising so many things – guns, training camps, money, access to top leadership. Where have the Brothers found such a powerful man? Why does one with such power interest himself in them? She sits on the floor and feels even sicker and more anxious.

After that, there is no stopping the Brothers. The rhetoric of violence intensifies. They feel they are indomitable.

This is her weakest moment. She is nearly overwhelmed with temptation to tell them that she cannot join them. That they are correct. She is the weak link. She is the one who will make an otherwise successful operation come to grief.

It is a supreme act of will not to falter. She accomplishes this by saying nothing. She sits like a stone and accepts their dictates. She fears that if she speaks, it will come out as a whimper. This, she cannot tolerate in herself. She chews a hole inside her lower lip, but she manages to stay silent.

And now, here they are. Here
she
is. They, the Brothers, are elsewhere. But they are all here in the Los Angeles International Airport international terminal.

To their credit, they have made a tremendous victory. Bodies lie heaped in the corridors. They have vanquished the enemy.

To their discredit, they have murdered a few hundred unarmed innocents. Bodies lie heaped in the corridors. In what way are they distinguished from the enemy they hope to vanquish?

Well, one good thin bout this here sitchiation is, Pearl ain’t gots ta figger out a place ta sleep. By the looks a thins, ain’t none of em a-goin nowhar.

Pearl never had much use fer other women. That’s why she cain’t go ta the shelter. All them women. They fuss bout this an nag bout that. Worse then a swarm a hornets. She’d rather set down on a anthill then go ta that damn shelter.

So Pearl cain’t quite get the jist a these here gals. Theys a different breed a cat. Theys so nice an proper an polite, one t’other, you’d think they was at a church social. Or a meetin a the Golden Star.

Not that Pearl’s ever been ta either, but she’s seen it often enough – ladies all dolled up, wearin heels an hats, carryin cake plates, sayin,
Oh, Howdy-do? Oh, how pretty you look! Oh mah, ain’t it a lovely day?

But that ain’t even quite rat. These gals ain’t simperin. Theys more lak folks bein real gingerly, tryin ta keep thins in balance, goin over the falls together in a big barrel. Alls it takes is one panickin an the whole she-bang gonna flop over an they’ll all be kilt.

Her Granny use ter say,
Thems cain’t work together, fails together
. From the look a this crowd here, ain’t no one plannin on failin.

Lak, at dinnertime, everone gots a paper plate from the stack on the microwave. Sophia passed a pen an everone put they name on they own. Pearl made a
X
on hers.

Then they parceled out the food. Ever one of em gots ta choose somethin. Pearl chose peanuts. Nothin keeps yer stomach from growling lak peanuts!

But the machine don’t deliver but a little tiny sack an then she gots ta divvy it five ways. Nothin fer the nigger gal. She don’t get nothin but water, says Sophia.

Then Betty, she chooses cookies. Thar warn’t but four a them. She breaks em, so everbody gots roughly they share.

Now the one called Onion or somethin lak that, she looks an looks inta that machine, lak all of a sudden a fried fish is gonna appear in thar, or a cherry tart. She chooses crackers an cheese, after the chef turnt up missin. That split up purdy good.

Sophia come next. She takes some corn chips, rat smart. No waitin around. Pearl laks a gal knows her own mind.

Then Heady. She’s as bad as the Onion. Worse. She whines bout this an sniffs bout that, an Pearl’s bout fed up. It’s almost as bad as the shelter. But then, Heady gots a smile full a whimsy an says, “I know! I’ll buy dessert!” an pops fer a Payday. Sophia saws it up lak a log with her knife an that’s how Pearl gots some of her peanuts back!

By the time theys finished parcelin stuff out, the plate’s almost full. Shoot! Been many a nat Pearl ain’t et this good!

Don’t seem lak time’s passed much, but all of a sudden, it’s going on 11:00. Everbody’s sayin how tared they is.

Ain’t no way fer a body ta get comfortable here. Floor’s hard as a straw boss’s heart. The ladies is beddin down, best they cain. Everbody gots issued a roll a toilet paper fer a piller.

Pearl, she gots her pack. Never lets hersef be parted from it. She gots a blanket an a piller made from a sack stuffed with plastic bags – latweight ta carry, but nice an soft under her head.

Sophia turnt out the lats, hours ago. She was scairt the lat’d go through the bullet holes in the door an out inta the hall an attract the tearists. Ain’t nothin but the lats in the machines, an them kinda purrin ta theirselves, keepin thins cold.

Lots a gruntin an groanin as the gals settle in – especially from that nigger gal. Sophia’s layin next ta her, by the sofa. She reaches up an takes the gal’s hand.

Lord knows what tomorrow’ll bring – ain’t a one a them does, Pearl’s certain. That be the joy a it, she s’poses, from His perspective.

Ain’t none of em gonna take it fer granit, an that’s fer sure!

All day, the women’s voices are like the hum of bees. Sometimes, Erika hears it. Sometimes, she drowses and dreams she’s in a meadow full of flowers with the bees buzzing through them.

Then, the pain shoots through her and she wakes herself, moaning.

This big woman, Sophia, is always there when she opens her eyes. She’s got a nice way with her, firm but gentle.

She keeps getting Erika to take tiny sips of water. She’s swallowed she doesn’t know how many pills. Each time they take effect, the voices of the women fade and she’s in that meadow again. It’s not bad, really.

Sophia says she was shot by terrorists. That would make Erika laugh, if it didn’t hurt too much. That’s what they say about women over 40: that they have a better chance of being shot by terrorists than of finding a husband – and her, only 34!

That’s our little Erika – always exceeding the norm. Ever the over-achiever.

If they survive – and Sophia thinks they will – she’ll enjoy telling that one over lunch.

With the lights out, everything’s quiet – except for someone’s snoring over by the vending machines.

In a few hours, she would have been in Berlin in that Bauhaus hotel with the impossible name. All those clean lines and minimal furniture. Hot, hot shower. Duvet a foot deep in goose down. Dining room, featuring an impossible number of ways to cook
schnitzel
. Nothing like a steamed vegetable or garden salad within the national borders of Germany.

She would have been tired, hungry, and bitchy at having to eat such heavy food.

Albert was right. Everything’s relative.

Instead, she’s opted for a life-threatening wound and a steady diet of water and assorted meds, while lying in deep pain in a hacked-up thousand-dollar Donna Karan suit on a blood-crusted couch. Apparently, one half of an eight hundred dollar pair of heels is lying out in the hall under a pile of dead people.

Another stellar career move brought to you by
Black Girl Makes Good Productions
.

An army has been steadily amassing all around the perimeter of LAX’s international terminal. X watches it all with growing alarm on the television news.

“From the first frantic police responders in the morning to the black vans of SWAT teams rolling in from surrounding areas all afternoon,” the blonde reporter intones, “to the early evening arrival of a convoy of Elands and Bradley Fighting Vehicles, armored personnel carriers from the local National Guard Armory, an exotic Armada of high-tech and imperviously armored gadgetry is being assembled.”

The television shows the view from the helicopters that continually circle the building, their searchlights strobing through the darkness. “The surrounding area is a sea of flashing red lights, a conglomeration of Police, Sheriff, FBI, FEMA, Red Cross, and OES vehicles, fire trucks and ambulances, all throbbing in the perennial starless dusk that is an L.A. night.”

The reporter announces that the LAPD relinquished control before noon to the highest-ranking FEMA official in the L.A. area. He is shown conferring with a man from the Office of Emergency Services. Until late into the evening, it is reported, they are giving orders and organizing the fleet of vans arriving with everything from sensitive snooping devices – their antennae and broad dishes giving them a vaguely insect-like creepiness – to catered sandwiches. A second wave consisting of more and more media trucks and vans is fulminating at a distance.

Finally, close to midnight, a black helicopter beats swiftly across the parking area and descends, all TV cameras trained on it. A tall man emerges from it, wearing black jeans and sneakers and a black jacket with
FBI
emblazoned across the shoulders in white. He is followed by a shorter man who looks like a box freezer in his chunky jacket of the same white on black design.

Handshakes go around the small group assembled to greet the two men just arriving from Washington D.C. The tall man is introduced to the public as the incident’s Director of Operations, the number one spot, and the shorter one is number two, the On-Site Commander.

By now, the commanders from FEMA and OES look exhausted and irritable, as if they are trying to disguise that they are out of their league. With evident relief, they relinquish control to the FBI command staff who immediately duck into a nearby tent to confer with various agency commanders and captains. X wonders sleepily how these new arrivals will affect her fate.

Despite her exhaustion, she is impressed by the efficiency of these men. FBI technicians have strung up phone lines, erected radio repeaters and gotten encryption devices on line. The Tactical Operations Center has seen to it that there is a free flow of information to the command, while Special Agents in Charge storm around the various operations looking resolute and making sure that everyone can now talk to everyone else. She learns all this from the newswoman who, at the end of this long day, is also looking exhausted and disheveled.