Commune of Women (2 page)

Flying in over L.A., on the other hand, brings a different kind of tears to her eyes. It doesn’t matter that the full name of the city is
La Ciudad de la Madre de Los Angeles
. Somehow Our Lady, Mother of the Angels, has gotten squeezed out of the center of things – or asphyxiated by smog.

Ondine gropes for her seat belt, as the jet angles down steeply over the web of freeways in final approach. She drags her maroon leather hobo bag from beneath the seat and rummages for her cosmetic bag, refreshes her lipstick, flicks pretzel crumbs off her pristine aqua lapel, pushes the usual errant lock of auburn hair back from her face and glances again out the window.

There
is
no center here. No
there
out there, as they say. She’s diving down into an eye-smarting jumble. Into chaos

Sophia had a dream last night, on the eve of her departure for Los Angeles. She dreamed she was flying. No plane around her; just her arms outstretched and the wind rushing over her. She simply rose up from her mountain cabin until she was up high enough to see the Pacific Ocean on her right and the white phalanx of the Sierra crest on her left. Her plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans flapped in the wind and her scuffed Red Wing work boots trailed behind her, weightlessly. Her hair arced out around her like long, gray wings. She just flew and flew. It was exhilarating.

Which is a good thing because in actual fact she hates to fly. It raises her blood pressure until she thinks blood will squirt from her ears. So it wasn’t a bad thing to take a little preliminary trip and discover flying from a different perspective.

She hates Southern California even more than she hates flying. She loves the Earth. She loves all the creations of the Goddess, right down to the humblest nematode. But Southern California’s a wasteland, with all natural life suppressed under asphalt and buildings. If the conference on goddess cultures wasn’t too good to miss, she’d never have come.

She had another dream a few days ago that said it all: in the middle of a brand new road, with a freshly painted bright yellow line running right over the center of her, the figure of a huge woman of mythic proportions was completely paved-over in pristine black asphalt.

That’s
how this civilization treats the
Goddess
.

Sophia does like air terminals, though. She loves seeing the people arriving from foreign flights, especially: the women in saris, the men in turbans, the Africans with deep ritual scarifications on their cheeks, and the little huge-eyed children.

Since her bus for Pasadena doesn’t leave for an hour, she’s decided to come over to the international terminal and get a dose of the exotic that simply never penetrates into the hills where she lives.

She settles her denim derrière in a molded plastic chair and watches what must be a tour from China coming at her – several dozen Chinese, all talking too loudly in that nasally singsong and dragging their suitcases on rollers behind them. They’re perfectly dressed; perfectly coiffed. How do they do that, after hours in the air? Maybe it’s genetic.

And here comes a Muslim couple. He’s in a well-cut business suit. She’s in
chador
, walking three steps behind him. A stair-step covey of brown-eyed children gathers in their wake, dutiful and subdued.

The last time a woman in Sophia’s neck of the woods covered her head, it was raining. What must it be like, walking around in a black tent all your life?

One thing’s for sure – they don’t look like terrorists. But then, what does a terrorist look like? On general principles, everyone’s supposed to be hating these people. But they look like a nice couple to her. Their kids are neat, well fed, and well behaved. He doesn’t look unkind or demented.

Who knows what
she
looks like? Sophia wonders how Homeland Security handles the fact that three people could be hiding under such a copious garment? Do they shoot first
,
and ask questions later? Do they make her lift her skirts and peer underneath with a flashlight?

That poor woman is a walking international incident in the making!

She keeps repeating to herself this mantra
: Violence is
power; power is violence
.

She will not let her mind think any other thing.

Violence is power; power is violence.

Violence is power; power is violence.

The van’s windows are blacked out, and the Brothers have duct taped a curtain between the driver’s seat and the back where they are all sitting. At first, she is able to imagine the turns and stops: the potholes on their narrow, weed-lined street that lacks sidewalks and dead-ends under a freeway overpass, the stop sign at the other end, the right turn onto the wider street, the sounds of increasing traffic.

Did anyone notice them, a dozen people all in black, emerging from the dilapidated stucco apartment building, abandoned long ago to its fate as student housing? Or see them wedge themselves and their gear into a battered Tradesman van and pull the side door shut, without ever speaking a word? In this big city, does anyone really notice anything – or care, if they do? Certainly, no one would notice – or care – that they are all male, except for one young woman, who has had a demotion. The men have taken away her name and call her, simply,
X
.

She has lost all idea, now, of where they are, or how close to their goal. She could be in a rocket ship speeding to the moon, for all she knows.

Jamal is next to her, which is a comfort, even though he will not look at her, or speak.

So far, everything is going as planned. Only her bowels do not seem to understand the necessity of discipline. They, and her heart, which is racing so fast she feels like it will explode.

Violence is power; power is violence.

Violence is power; power is violence.

The van leans into a curve and she hears Ibrahim say softly, “Only two or three minutes, now.”

Jamal cracks her ribs with the stock of his gun. She is careful not to hit him in the chin with the barrel of hers, as she raises it from the floor and tucks the stock into her right armpit.

There is rustling all through the darkness, as the others make similar preparations. She pulls down the rolled balaclava from her forehead and settles its holes over her nose and mouth.

Then they are all thrown forward as the van slams to a stop. Suddenly, the side door is thrown open and Ibraham is standing in the blinding glare, shouting “GO! GO! GO!”

They all scramble out and run.

Violence is power; power is violence.

Violence is power; power is violence.

More good luck! A cleanin lady come inta the bathroom an Pearl thunk,
Oh Hell! I’m busted.

But turns out, she’s José’s cousin or somethin. She cain’t speak even as good as José. She come ta Pearl an says, “You Berl?”

“Yes,” Pearl says, “I am.” Feeling kinda feisty, thinkin she’s gonna get thrown out. Maybe Pearl’s on her turf.

“I Maria,
la prima de José
...his cowsin.”

Well, that perked Pearl rat up! “Howdeedo?” she says. “Glad ta meetcha.”

“José say, go you for rest.”

“Rest? I don’t need no rest.”

“You come.” Maria grabs Pearl’s pack in one hand an her elbow in t’other, an steers her toward the door.

“Wait a minute...”

But theys outside in the big hallway, now. Maria don’t have enough words fer Pearl ta protest with.

She kinda drags Pearl along, through the crowd, ta this door. No sign on it. Jes blonde wood, all kinda smeary an dirty lookin. She opens it with a key from a big ring of em an steers Pearl inside.

“Dis worker room. You rest here.”

She points ta a saggin sofa against the wall an angles Pearl over thar. Pearl’s startin ta feel lak a ol mule you gotta wrestle down the road.

Maria lowers her down, pretty firm, an Pearl kinda topples back onta the sofa. One good swoop an Maria gots these strong, wiry arms under Pearl’s legs, an flops her down flat an props her head with some pillers.

“You rest.”

Ain’t no arguin with that!

Theys some vendin machines against the wall an Maria goes over an puts in some coins. Pearl smells coffee, hot an acidy black, soundin lak it’s peein inta the cup. She feels the saliver start ta work back in her jaws.

“Is for you.” Maria hands her the cup. “I go. You be here. I come.”

Without waitin fer no back talk, she’s gone, slammin the door behind her.

Truth be told, it don’t feel half bad, layin thar.

The coffee tastes lak a cup a heaven. Pearl drinks it down an sets the cup on the floor.

Fore she knows it, her eyes is rollin back in her head.

She ain’t rested her bones on anythin this soft fer a hunert years! Ain’t gonna hurt nothin fer her ta jes snooze fer awhile...

The reception area is ahead, obscured in a mist of moving humanity, so she has no clear sighting of it – at least not yet. She shifts her trajectory to bring her out of the concourse to the left of Customs, near the ladies’ restroom. One well manicured hand smoothes her pencil skirt, as she walks.

What’s that? Popping noises.

Some Chinese kids must have brought firecrackers to welcome Grandma from the Old Country. That’ll make Homeland Security pee their collective pants!

More pops.

Screaming!

The loose mist of bodies is starting to aggregate and move in her direction, like a gathering storm cloud. It looks like a stampede coming at her! Everyone’s screaming!

What’s happening? What’s happening?

She feels her entire body jerked sideways so violently that she almost falls. She staggers, tethered by her left arm, through a doorway.

Betty’s trailing along behind Heddi, as they thread their way through the crowd to where they’re meeting Heddi’s friend. She’s never been to the international terminal before. She was only here at LAX once and that was at the domestic terminal to pick up Larry’s cousin, Patty, when she visited one summer from Tucson. She didn’t want to do it, but Larry had to work.

She thought she’d have a heart attack. Coming in off the freeway, the exit immediately branched:
Arrivals
or
Departures
. And she’s thinking,
Am I the Arrival, or is Patty? Or is Patty Departing the airport? Don’t we both Arrive, and then both Depart?

Then there’s the
Long Term Parking
one, the
Short Term Parking
one, the
Rental Car
one, and a couple more she can’t remember. In the meantime, she’s in traffic going a gazillion miles an hour, with everyone cutting lanes to get to the exit they need.

She had to go around three times before she got the right exit. When she finally got to her, Patty asked if Betty had Parkinson’s, she was shaking so bad.

This time isn’t so traumatic because Heddi knows exactly which lane to be in and where to park. She’s been here a hundred times. She goes to Zurich to the Jung Institute every summer. Plus who knows where on her vacations? Betty thinks that she...

What’s that? She hears something! Sounds like gunshots!

People are starting to scream somewhere up ahead!

The crowd’s stopped their forward surge. They’re milling.

Now they’re turning around! They’ve got the same look on their faces as the people running out of 9-11 as the buildings were coming down.

My God! What’s happening?

Heddi’s just up ahead, still moving forward. She doesn’t seem to know anything’s wrong, yet.

Betty takes two big strides, leans forward and catches Heddi by the upper arm. There’s a door to her left. She grabs the knob and –
thank you, God!
– it opens!

She gives a huge heave and basically slings Heddi through the door, crack-the-whip style. She lets her go and turns to slam the door behind them. She can hear people out in the hall, screaming louder now. And over that, she thinks she hears more gunshots.

When she turns into the room, she almost trips over Heddi, who’s sprawled on the floor.

Oh, my God! She’s shot!

Betty looms over her, a dark cloud of royal blue polyester trimmed in red streak lightning.

“Are you okay?”

Heddi stares up at her from the floor.

Is
she okay? She has no idea.

“What the Hell was that all about?” She means it to sound bitchy, but it comes out quavery; squeaky. She’s never heard herself sound like that before.

“I don’t know!” Betty is sounding squeaky, too. “I think those were gunshots!”

Erika’s sprinting down the concourse, her designer heels clattering, toward Gate 28. Most of the foot traffic is heading the other way, so she’s making good time. If Security isn’t too crowded, she should just be able to make her flight. Mentally, she’s ticking off the things she told Amelia yesterday, at the office...

Something’s happening up ahead.

There’s some kind of disturbance in the traffic flow. People are milling.

No! People are running! Running this way! What’s going on?

My God! It sounds like gunfire!

Something spins her around to the left and knocks her right off her feet. A tremendous tearing pain in her left shoulder takes her breath away. She wants to scream but no sound will come.

Ondine is so glad Heddi’s picking her up. Technically, the flight from Paris is only eleven hours, but once you add having to get to the airport early for security clearance it’s been 15 hours since she set out from her hotel on Rue de Sévigné.

Even flying first class on Air France, which is a very luxurious experience, that’s a long time. She’s exhausted. Her legs are actually wobbly.

She’s instantly aware of the change in air, too. It’s hot and dry and tinged with that metallic taste of smog. She feels her lungs constrict, and her long auburn hair, always a kind of sensor, feels dry and flyaway.

She learned a long time ago not to check baggage. She always just takes a little rolling carry-on and stuffs anything left over into her hobo bag. So she breezes right through Customs. The reception area is jam-packed and she starts scanning the crowd for Heddi, who said she’d be to the left, in the seating nearest the restrooms.