Sand Queen

by Helen Benedict

  “You better go to the medic and get that stitched. Let me put some disinfectant on it. Does it hurt?”

  I shake my head. I don’t seem to be able to speak.

  He digs into the green Combat Lifesaver bag he carries on his back. A lot of soldiers have those. You take a course for four days or so and they give you a bag to carry with you all the time, with an IV in it, catheters, bandages and so on. In Jimmy’s case, he also carries condoms for soldiers to put on the ends of their rifles or dicks, whichever happens to be required. I almost took that course too, once, but when I heard you had to learn how to put needles in people’s veins, I gave up. Too squeamish.

  “Hold still.” He tilts up my chin with one hand—that gentle touch again—and carefully wipes off the blood and dust with some cotton. He’s bent real close to me now, his forget-me-not eyes only a couple inches from mine. I look right into them, can’t stop myself. And he looks right back.

  “It’s not as deep as I thought,” he says, dabbing my cheek with antibiotic gel. “I’ll put a bandage on it. That’s probably all you need.”

  “You think I’ll have a scar?”

  He smiles. “I doubt it. But even if you do, it’ll only make you look like a sexy pirate. You want me to send someone to spell you so you can go to the medic, just in case?”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “Sure?” He touches my cheek again, below the cut, and lets his fingers linger there a second.

  “Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m sure.”

  We’re still looking in each other’s eyes.

  “I brought you a Coke,” he says after a pause, almost whispering. “You want it?”

  I nod. He breaks our gaze at last, yanks a second can out of his pocket and hands it over. Still shaky, I take a swallow. It’s warm and nasty, but at least it’s wet.

  Jimmy settles down next to me on the platform floor, so close his arm’s touching mine. Then we sit in silence a while, staring at the empty compound. A rare wisp of cloud wanders across the sun, its shadow crawling along the sand like a giant crab. I watch it every inch of the way.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I…” A flush rises over my cheeks.

  “What?” He turns to face me, his eyes warm and kind.

  “I shot at them.”

  “So?”

  “I mean they were throwing stones. Fighting. But… I tried to kill them.”

  “Of course you did. You’re a soldier. That’s what soldiers do.”

  “But they’re unarmed!”

  Jimmy takes both my hands in his. “And if they weren’t, don’t you think they’d kill you in a flash? Look at what they just did! Don’t make yourself feel bad about this, Kate.”

  “But suppose I’d killed one of them?”

  “It’s them or us out here, you know that. You’re just doing your job.”

  “I am?”

  “Of course you are. They asked for it, don’t worry.”

  I look down at his hands holding mine. I want to believe him. But if what he says is true, why do I feel so dirty?

  “WHOA,” SAYS THE nurse when the soldier comes stalking back into her room. “They send you back here already? What you do, insult that poor therapist lady?”

  What’s so poor about Pokerass? “No,” the soldier says aloud. “I just didn’t want to be there.” She throws herself on the bed.

  “You’d feel better if you cooperated a little, honey-pie. They only wanna help you.”

  “Some help. Look, am I allowed to use this phone here?”

  “Sure. Just pick it up and dial nine first. It’s only cell phones they don’t allow.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll leave you to have some privacy. But I’ll be back soon. You can’t get rid of Nurse Bingham that easy.”

  The nurse waddles toward the door while the soldier takes her first really good look at her. The nurse is short and wide and on the cuddly side of fat. Skin a rich, dark brown, like Yvette’s. Face as round as a frying pan. The soldier realizes she hasn’t been taking things in much lately.

  “Nurse?” she says. The nurse turns to listen. “Thanks. Thanks for everything. You’ve been real kind.”

  “Never mind that, honey. Looks like you feeling better now, talkin’ an’ all. That’s good. I’ll be back.”

  After the nurse has gone, the soldier sits upright on the edge of the bed and looks at her hands again. They’re shaking as badly as ever. Then she looks at the phone, trying to make herself move.

  At last, she forces herself to pick up the receiver. Slowly, she punches in the numbers she’s been chanting in her head for weeks. The phone rings five times, each ring shooting through her nerves like an electric shock.

  She doesn’t even know if he’s back yet. If he’s alive. If he’s whole.

  He finally picks up. Even before he’s said anything, she senses it’s him.

  “Hi,” she whispers.

  No reply.

  “You there?”

  Nothing.

  “You want me to hang up?”

  “No,” he says. “Don’t do that.”

  At the sound of his voice, she closes her eyes. She never knew missing someone could hurt this much. A metal claw gouging at her chest.

  “What do you want, Kate?” He sounds tired.

  She squeezes her eyes shut even harder because his words hurt too. But then she knew they would before she called him. “Just to know that you’re back and safe. If you’re okay.”

  “What do you think?” He’s angry now.

  “I miss you. I miss you real bad.”

  Silence.

  “Are you home?” he says finally.

  “No.”

  “Where the hell are you, then?”

  “Albany VA Center. Inpatient. It’s my back and… you know, stuff.”

  “That’s why you sound so dopey. They put you on those fucking pills, didn’t they?”

  “Come get me, Jimmy. Please? I can’t stand it in here. It’s making it worse.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “No, I mean it. Please.”

  [ KATE ]

  ONCE JIMMY’S GONE back to his post, I stay on my tower floor, still too shaken up to move—after all, it’s not every day that a person gets stoned by a bunch of hysterical hajjis. I feel safer down here than on my chair because I’m less visible, but I wish Jimmy could’ve stayed anyhow. The heat closes in tighter and tighter, tension cramping my neck and shoulders while I wait for the prisoners to come back out. Who knows what they’ll do to me next? It’s real war between us now.

  But the prisoners don’t come back out. They stay inside their tents so long I figure they’re either still on lockdown or they’re having one of their meetings. Each tent of detainees is allowed to elect a leader among their own to hold meetings, take down grievances and keep some kind of order. That’s the theory, anyhow. My guess is all they do is plot how to escape or kill us. They escape all the time at night. Not only through that tunnel DJ told us about, but because any fool can scoop out the soft sand we’re living on, slide under the rusting wire and run. I mean, building a prison on sand—are you kidding? Still, the delay gives me time to push Jimmy out of my mind, move back up to my chair, do a quick clean of my rifle and get myself ready in case they attack again.

  Finally, a few prisoners do appear, shuffling back out into the corral, muttering among themselves. Some are in man-dresses, some in loose shirts and pants, all of them dusty and unshaven and slumped. Out they file, like a herd of scruffy goats. But not one of them looks at me.

  Then I hear a scream. A terrible, desperate scream. I jump to my feet. What the fuck is happening now? A prisoner bursts out of one of the tents, clutching his head and howling like he’s in horrible pain. I stare at his dirty Western clothes, his gray-streaked hair, and I know exactly who it is: the jerk-off. A few prisoners run up to him, but he pushes them away and flings himself onto his knees. Still howling, he throws sand over his
head, grabs his hair and begins tearing it out at the roots. I can see the blood on his scalp, even from here. I can see clumps of his hair scattered in the sand, too.

  Again, the other prisoners try to calm him, and again, he shakes them off. Then he staggers to his feet, and before anyone can react, he runs at the razor wire and hurls himself against it, smack into the jagged blades. Over and over he flings himself at it, ripping his arms and hands and belly to shreds.

  “Stop!” I holler and rush to the edge of my platform. “Stop that right now!” But my voice floats away in the desert air, no louder than a whimper. I’m still standing there shocked when I hear my name called.

  “Kate, come down quick!” It’s Jimmy again. “Now!”

  I scramble down the ladder, rifle over my back, and follow him, although I’ve no idea why. He runs around the corner to the entrance of the compound, where a couple of MPs I only know by sight nod at me and beckon me inside. Next thing I know, I’m running with them across the same sand corral I’ve been staring at for weeks, till we’re right up behind the jerk-off.

  Four MPs are holding him now, his arms twisted behind his back. His hands are torn and bleeding all over his dirty white shirt and he’s bent over, limp. But he’s still sobbing and moaning.

  One of the MPs hands me a pair of zip strips, these plastic handcuffs that look like giant versions of garbage bags ties. “Be my guest,” he says.

  Then I get it. This is the revenge Jimmy promised me! I don’t even hesitate. I grab the jerk-off’s shredded hands, cuff them behind his back and pull the cuffs tight, just like I was taught in MP training. Then I kick the back of his knees so he falls, put my foot on his shoulders and shove his pervert face right into the sand. “Eat dirt, fucker!” I yell. I want him to know that a girl is doing this to him, one of those females he thinks is no better than the shit he’s been throwing at me. I want him to know how it feels to be treated like you’re not even human. So I stamp my boot down on the back of his head and grind his face deep into the desert.

  It feels great.

  The MPs are laughing. “You go, girl!” says a big sergeant with the name Flackman on his uniform. “Anything else? The crazy fuck’s all yours.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “One more thing.” And I bend over and pick up the jerk-off’s head by his blood-matted hair so I can look right into his evil eyes and show him who I am.

  I stare at him a moment, seeing his face close-up for the first time: his eyes streaming tears, his nose and mouth filled with snot and blood and sand. He’s struggling for breath, choking, his chest heaving.

  I drop his head and back away. Oh God.

  “Something wrong?” Flackman asks. The prisoner’s still on his stomach, gasping, his face pressed into the sand. Ragged hands leaking blood all over his back.

  “What’s his name?” I say, my voice wobbling.

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “Ask him. I need to know… don’t hurt him.”

  Flackman looks at me like I’ve flipped, but he shoves the man with his foot. “Hey, you! The lady wants to know your fucking name.”

  The man moans.

  Forcing myself to move at last, I push Flackman aside and crouch next to the prisoner’s head. It isn’t the jerk-off at all, I know that now. “Is your name Halim al-Jubur?” I ask shakily. But I know the answer. I know it just as well as I know his name and face from Naema’s photograph.

  Very slightly, he nods.

  Frantically, I start clearing the sand from Mr. al-Jubur’s mouth, his eyes, his bloody cheeks with my bare fingers. I think I’m saying something to him, too, something about Naema, but I don’t know. I brush off his blood-caked hair, his shoulders, and lay his head gently back down on the sand, sideways so he can breathe. Then I try to undo the handcuffs around his flayed wrists. He lies there, eyes closed, his cheek pressed to the ground, breath shuddering. His face is gray.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Flackman says.

  “He’s the wrong man,” I gasp, wrestling with the cuffs. “I thought he was someone else. He’s innocent! We have to get him a medic, get him help.”

  Flackman grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet. “Are you nuts?”

  “No!” I wrench out of his grasp and try to help Naema’s dad up, so that at least he’s sitting and not lying at our feet like a kicked dog. But Flackman stops me.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, that’s the last time I’m letting some bitch in here. Who do you think you are, Mary Poppins? Hawkins, get her out of my sight.”

  One of the other MPs grips my arm and drags me back across the sand. “No!” I yell. “You’ve got to listen! I know who this man is! I know his daughter! You mustn’t hurt him! He’s got heart problems. Listen to me!”

  But nobody’s interested in listening to me. They just curse and march me out the entrance. “Hey Teach!” one of them calls to Jimmy, who’s standing at his post with no idea what’s happening. “Get the bitch out of here. She’s a fucking lunatic.” And he runs back inside.

  Jimmy looks completely bewildered. “What’s going on?”

  I stand in front him, trembling.

  “Kate, what is it?”

  “Oh Jimmy,” I manage to whisper at last, looking up into his face. “What have I done?”

  [ KATE ]

  MAMA’S SPIRITS HAVE grown much lighter since we received the message from Zaki. Today, she even goes down to the village to see what she can swap for the eggs from Granny Maryam’s sickly old hens, the first time in weeks she has ventured out anywhere but Abu Mustafa’s house, plagued as she is by fear and suspicion. It is such a relief to see some of her old courage return at last.

  While she is gone, I look in on Granny, who sleeps nearly all the time now, then take from Mama’s drawer the packet of Papa’s letters. I feel ashamed, as if I am spying, and am apprehensive about the sorrow and pain they will reveal, but Mama wants me to read them so badly that I try to overcome my reluctance and comply. I sit at the table, covered at the moment in an old and yellowing embroidered cloth, draw out a letter at random and, with trepidation, unfold it.

  Last night in my uneasy sleep, dearest Zaynab, I dreamt of Naema and Zaki when they were babies, a sweet dream that allowed me to awake with a smile on my lips. My dreams, like my memories, protect me from this hideous place.

  Zaynab, do you remember what Naema said when you first brought Zaki home from the hospital? She was eight years old and so proud of being a big sister, remember? That is until she saw his little red face and squirming body, his tiny hands squeezed into fists. She took one look into the bundle in your arms and blurted, “But it’s so ugly!”

  I think she expected a baby like a plastic doll, pink with batting blue eyes and red lips. But instead of being angry, you laughed. “He will not be ugly long, little one,” you said. “The more love you show him, the faster his beauty will come.”

  You are such a wise mother, Zaynab. Allah has been great in giving you to me.

  I have no doubt that Naema is doing what she can for you and Zaki now. She has a spirit I admire, our daughter, fierce and loyal and, at sixteen, wise beyond her years. I only hope she remembers to also look after herself. Please kiss her for me, and little Zaki, too. Oh, Zaynab, my heart aches for them so!

  I put the letter down and close my eyes. I am so afraid for Papa. Wasn’t it enough that he had to endure such misery under Saddam? Why has it been his destiny to suffer like this yet again? But after a moment I pull out another of his letters, for his words draw me too strongly to resist.

  It is hard, my dearest, to keep up one’s spirits here. I try—for you, for the children, for my own survival. But I am plagued by my helplessness. I am a father, yes, but at times even that thought is bitter to me, for what sort of a father can I be locked up in here? I cannot teach my chil

  dren, I cannot protect them. I cannot be a husband to you.

  I cannot even bring you a loaf of bread or an embrace.

  These brutes have made me weak, Zayn
ab, and I was never a man who imagined being weak.

  All I have to offer you are my poems, these invisible letters and my love. All are abstract, all are silent. And yet they keep me alive, for you.

  Enough. I cannot bear this. Hurriedly, I return the letters to Mama’s drawer. I know Papa must be feeling that same despair now, only worse, for this time his son is imprisoned with him, so close and yet out of reach. To know your child might be suffering and to be unable to do anything about it—that must be the worst punishment of all.

  It is the business of war to be unjust and cruel, I realize this. To imprison and kill the innocent. To crush hearts and families, cities and lives. And yet we humans seem no more able to stop waging war than we are able to stop breathing. Why?

  Mama returns not long after I have put away the letters to find me preparing tea for Granny. “Look!” she exclaims as she comes through the door, her basket heavy, and she pulls aside its cloth to reveal astonishing bounty: three fresh cucumbers and a large pot of goat yogurt, even some onions and cheese—much more than I have ever found in my forays for food. She also brings back a jerrican of kerosene, with which we have to cook and light our homes now that the electricity trickster is being so ungenerous. Kerosene is foul-smelling and dangerous. Families are dying because it so easily explodes. But it has become our lifeline.

  “Mama, where did you find all this?”

  She shakes her head, smiling. “I put my trust in Allah, my love.”

  I know, however, that what has really given Mama this new courage is her effort to believe that Papa and Zaki will return any day. Even as she cooks, she pretends she is cooking for them. I can tell, for this is the only time she seems happy. Sometimes she even hums as she busies herself at the stove, her graying hair knotted in a bun at her neck, her thin body wrapped in one of her makeshift aprons. She hums because, for a few precious moments, she has forgotten that her husband and son are not in the next room, waiting for supper.