Sand Queen

by Helen Benedict

  Yesterday, when we were pummeled by yet another dust storm, she betrayed this dream again. Silt covered every inch of the house—the furniture and window ledges, the floors, even under the carpets and all over the walls—as if the desert had picked itself up and moved inside. Mama made me wipe and scrub with her all day long, until every speck of sand and dust was gone, even though these storms come all the time in this summer season. For whom could this effort be, except Zaki and Papa? Granny Maryam has sunk back into her illness and lies all day in her room, her dim eyes darting about in fear, her breath wheezing and labored. Mama and I spend our days scrounging for food and water and fuel. We are long past caring about dust. No, this frantic cleaning is Mama’s way of showing her hope is not defeated.

  I, too, am holding onto hope, tenuous as it may be, trudging to the prison every morning with my three remaining companions. The McDougall soldier whose name made me laugh is still there, but she no longer bothers to talk to us. She only stands with her rifle raised, her red face obscured by her helmet and sunglasses, staring at us without really seeing us, until we grow tired of trying to get her attention and go home. The only change in this routine is when she has a new list of prisoners for me to read out, or that one time she read me the message from Zaki.

  I have begun to wonder about that message, though. At first I was too happy to question it, but now a worm of doubt is eating at my heart. I would never point this out to Mama, but Zaki does not speak enough English to tell the Americans that he has two friends from Basra, let alone that he misses his guitar. And why would the soldiers bother to find an interpreter for an insignificant little boy? Then there is the fact that I myself told the soldier girl Kate that Zaki plays guitar. Could she have written this message herself to trick me into continuing to interpret, or as some sort of perverse joke? These Americans seem capable of anything. And if she is cruel enough to have fabricated the message, how, then, God help me, can I have faith that Zaki is even alive?

  I lie awake for many hours at night, fretting over these questions, but it does me no good, for the only person who can answer them is Kate. And I never see her anymore.

  The morning after Mama’s success at the market, while the widow Fatima, Zahra and I are walking through the village on our usual way to the prison, we are startled to see men in the street for the first time, even though it is not yet dawn. Usually the streets are empty at this early hour, except for the odd wandering goat or hen. The men stare at us as we walk by. They are followers of Muqtada al-Sadr. I know this because they wear black and wrap scarves around their faces to disguise their identities. I consider them cowards and brutes but nonetheless hesitate at the sight of them, for they are frightening like this, dark and faceless, just as they mean to be.

  “Keep walking and don’t look at them,” Fatima whispers. “And stay close to me.”

  I keep my eyes to the ground and hurry beside her, for I am the youngest by far of we three women and thus the clearest target of the men’s reprobation. But it is hard not to stare into their eyes and challenge them. I long to say, “Why must you be so destructive? I, too, want the Americans to leave, but not at the expense of even more hatred and murder among our own people, and not at the hands of fanatics like you.”

  “You walk like a whore alone in the streets!” one hisses at me as I pass. “You offend Allah and you will be punished.” And he spits at my feet.

  I hurry on, shocked and afraid, but Fatima stops and glares at him. “She is not alone!” she cries in her ancient, crackling voice, shaking her fist at him. “She’s with me, her own grandmother! How dare you call my grandchild such names! Have you no respect for your elders?”

  The man scowls and turns away.

  I am grateful for the lie and ashamed of Mama’s and my suspicions of this kind old widow. But for how long I can depend upon her fragile protection, I dare not guess.

  By the time we arrive at the prison some forty minutes later, still shaken by this encounter, we find the usual thirty or so determined but exhausted citizens already there, clustered together in the dust and heat. The McDougall soldier is there, as well, but this time accompanied by a man I have never seen before, a uniformed man, tall and dark. She escorts him up to us and stands beside him, glaring at us and holding her rifle across her chest, her legs straddled wide, as if the desert rocks beneath her like a ship. The man steps forward.

  “Good morning and Allah be with you,” he says, and a murmur of surprise runs through the crowd because he is speaking Arabic. “Forgive me for my imperfect Arabic, but I hope you can understand me.”

  Another murmur moves through us, one of assent. His accent is American and his dialect not Iraqi, but his words are clear.

  “I am here to explain the condolence payments the U.S. government is offering citizens who have lost a family member through accident.” Before we can decipher quite what he is talking about, he goes on to say the Americans will give twenty-five hundred dollars to any family whose father or mother or child they have “inadvertently killed”—as long as the victim was innocent, that is. “This is your di’ah,” he says. “Reparation for accidental death.”

  Why is he telling us this? He must have bad news.

  After he has finished talking in this insulting way about money, his voice drops and he begins to fumble with a piece of paper.

  “Speak up!” somebody shouts at him. “We can’t hear you!”

  The interpreter clears his throat. “I have to inform you of an unfortunate incident in the prison that occurred yesterday,” he begins.

  Ice fills my veins.

  “As you know, we treat the prisoners well here. We bring in special food to meet their dietary requirements. We have built for them all the amenities—”

  “Shut up and tell us what you came to say!” an old man beside me calls out. “Are you so cruel you want to burn us on coals?”

  The interpreter looks startled and the McDougall girl steps forward, her rifle swinging in our direction. Her mouth is clenched in pure hatred.

  The interpreter waves her back. “To continue. Yesterday, at twenty-three hundred hours, the detainees in compounds three and four rioted and attacked our soldiers unprovoked. Stones and illegal homemade knives were thrown, wounding several of our guards, and the detainees then began attacking one another. In an attempt to rescue the victims, our soldiers entered the compound and subdued the assailants, but were again attacked. In the conflict, ten detainees were wounded, six later deceased. I will read the names of those we have identified so far.”

  A great moan rises from the crowd.

  The man continues, his tone expressionless. “When I read the names, if any members of the family are present, will they please step up so we can arrange to return the bodies for proper burial.”

  He fumbles with the paper again, while the air around us grows as still as a tomb.

  “Falah Hasun.”

  Silence. Nobody comes forward. Nobody knows him. My hand creeps to my throat.

  “Saadi al-Ramli.”

  “No!” cries the old man beside me, the same one who berated the interpreter. He totters and falls on me. “My son!” And he breaks into such sobs I fear they will tear open his chest. I and two others hold him up, but I cannot look at him. I am looking with fire in my eyes at the interpreter, waiting to hear him read the third name—fire, and the piercing cold of dread.

  [ KATE ]

  “WHY’S IT lIKE this?” I ask Jimmy one day in my tower. “Why’s everything so fucked up?”

  “Which particular everything do you mean?” We’re sitting elbow to elbow on my platform floor and he’s chewing a toothpick, his long legs pulled up to his chest and his beautiful eyes hidden behind the usual shades.

  “You know. Watching the useless hajjis all day like this. Living with pervs like Kormick and Macktruck. At Fort Dix, they told me we’d be building schools and good shit like that. Not sitting here like cats in a litter box.”

  “Yeah, they told me that too.
But the Army doesn’t give a fuck about what they say to us, you know that. Far as they’re concerned, we’re just robots. GI stands for Government Issue, right? Says it all.”

  A prisoner shuffles by the wire just then, head dangling. I scan him and the other prisoners in the corral to see if I can spot Naema’s dad. I haven’t seen him since I ground his face into the sand. Haven’t told Jimmy what I did to him, either. He still thinks Mr. al-Jubur was the jerk-off, and that I was just feeling bad that day for roughing him up.

  We sit in silence a while. Both of us know that sometimes we’re too sick and tired of this hellhole even to speak. The most we can manage is to stare into space and blink. A couple of MPs come into the corral right then to usher the prisoners inside for chow, so once they’re gone there’s nothing to look at anyway.

  An actual cloud shows up a few minutes later, wandering alone across the sky like a lost goose, so I watch it change the color of the ground as it moves. The desert often shift colors like this. Under the clouds, when there are any, it’s dark tan, like a camel. During a sandstorm it’s gray, unless it’s raining at the same time, when it turns muddy brown. At dawn and dusk it’s slate blue to near-black. And under the high sun of the day, which is most of the time, it’s blinding white.

  “You’re right, it is fucked up,” Jimmy says suddenly, like we never stopped talking. “I wish we were doing something out here we could feel good about. Rebuilding towns or something, y’know?”

  “Yeah.” I wince, seeing Mr. al-Jubur’s blood-covered face again. “The only worthwhile thing I’ve done since I got here was getting that message to Naema. It was cool of Ortiz to find an interpreter. I didn’t think he wanted to help.”

  “Yeah, I knew he’d come through. Ortiz is good people.” Jimmy turns to look at me. “There’s another thing I wish, too,” he says then.

  Something flutters in my chest when he says that. Something soft and warm. He edges a little closer.

  “What?” I say shyly.

  “I wish I could spend the whole day with you here, every day.”

  “You do?”

  “Uh-huh. I’d rather be with you more than anybody else in this whole damn desert.”

  The fluttering in my chest grows so loud I’m afraid he’ll hear it. “Same with me and you,” I whisper.

  Jimmy leans toward me and takes off his shades. And then he does something I never expected. He looks around to make sure no other soldiers are in sight—there aren’t, of course. Then he reaches over, lifts off my shades as well and wraps his arms around me, right there on top of the tower. And he holds me for a long time.

  I rest my head against his chest, breathing his smell of sweat and tobacco and dust, the sweetest smell I could ever wish for. And for a wonderful few seconds, the hate and disgust that sit stinking inside of me all the time dissolve into nothing.

  “There’s one more thing I wish too,” Jimmy whispers then, pulling back a little so he can look into my face.

  “Jimmy, I…”

  “No, wait. Listen. I wish I could kiss you. I won’t if you don’t want me to. I know you’ve been through a lot, so I’ll understand. Honest. But… do you want me to?”

  I nod. Because I do. More than anything in the world.

  He pulls me close again, and, very slowly, touches his lips to mine. He feels so tender and welcoming, he feels so kind. I wrap my arms tight around him, and a huge surge of wanting him washes through me. We kiss deeper then, and for the first time in months, I’m thinking maybe I’m not such a terrible person after all.

  But just as I’m getting all swoony, closing my eyes to let go, I feel my foot stamping down on Mr. al-Jubur’s head, see the blood and sand clogging his mouth, feel myself enjoying every second of the man’s pain, and I jerk back with a shock, like somebody hit me.

  “What’s the matter?” Jimmy says, startled.

  I push him away, shaking my head. “I can’t do this. I just can’t.”

  “Why? I’m not going to hurt you, Kate. You know that, don’t you?”

  “No, it’s not that.” I look at him helplessly. “It’d be okay if we were somewhere else, you know? In a different situation? But… I just can’t handle it.”

  Jimmy searches my face. “You sure? Maybe if we give it more time?” He keeps looking at me, his eyes pleading. It hurts so much.

  “Yes,” I make myself say. “I’m sure.”

  His face closes down. “Okay. I understand. Forget it then.” He stands up and walks to the ladder.

  I want to say more, so much more. I want to tell him that it’s not his fault, that he’s the only person in the world I trust now—and that I want him real bad. But nothing comes.

  “Oh,” he says, pausing halfway down the ladder. “I’m playing poker with Ortiz and some guys tonight. Want me to ask if there’s any news of your kid?”

  “Yeah. Please.” I can barely get the words out.

  Then he’s gone.

  When Creeley drives us back from our shifts that evening, I take my usual place in the rear with Mosquito and shut my eyes, pretending to doze. But I’m alert to Jimmy’s every move. Usually, he turns around to talk to me, or manages a friendly signal of some kind, a wink or a touch, something to set us apart, to tell me he cares. But when Creeley drops me off this time, Jimmy doesn’t even look at me or say goodnight.

  I stand there like an idiot anyway, watching the Humvee drive away, then turn and drag myself into the tent, almost bumping into DJ, who’s right inside the entrance, beaming like he’s Santa Claus. “Mail’s come!” he announces soon as he sees me, and sweeps his arm grandly at the boxes and letters piled around him. “Two for you, lucky Freckles.” He hands me a box and an envelope. DJ’s taken to being super kind to me ever since he beat Boner’s ass for punching me in the boob.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, and take them over to my cot. Letters and care packages are a real treat around here, something all of us pathetic sand fleas normally get hyperexcited about. But I don’t even feel like opening mine. Don’t feel like doing anything except sitting here, numb.

  Eventually, I make myself cut the box open. It’s full of stuff I asked my parents to send months ago. Gum, sunscreen, ChapStick, bug repellent, deodorant, skin lotion… along with a couple of printed prayers I didn’t ask for from Mom. A drawing by April is in the box too, red marker on a big piece of pink paper: a little stick girl holding the hand of a big stick girl, the two of them standing inside a heart. I shove it and Mom’s prayers to the bottom of my duffle bag, along with all the other letters from home. I can’t handle that stuff right now. It’d be easier if they stopped writing to me altogether.

  The envelope is from Tyler. I take a deep breath and open it.

  Hi Katie-love,

  Boy, do I have news for you! The MOST amazing thing happened. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me my whole life! Besides you, of course.

  I was playing Moondog—you know, that bar in Albany? And it was packed! Maybe 150 people squeezed in just to hear yours truly. And at the end of my set, this guy comes up to me and says he runs this indie label called Lizard and he wants to sign me! And he wasn’t just talking, either, because…

  I stop reading, fold up the letter and stuff it into my duffle bag too. Good for you, Tyler. But right now, right here, I don’t give a shit.

  After that, I lie on my rack, pick up Pride and Prejudice again and try to read what I can before it gets too dark. Macktruck’s back from his shift too, unfortunately, lying on my left, reading a porn magazine and picking his nose. Yvette’s still away on her convoy. But Third Eye’s here on my right, stretched out on her cot with her usual dead-woman stare. I can sense her lying beside me, still as a log, and it bothers me so much I can’t concentrate. So I put down my book and look at her.

  “Hey,” I say quietly. “You okay?”

  She doesn’t answer, but I expected that. Shrugging, I go back to snooty old Darcy. A couple minutes later, though, she surprises me and actually speaks.

 
“Your hajji girlfriend freaked out today. Went berserk, screaming at us that we’re murderers and shit. We almost arrested her.”

  I sit up. “What do you mean? Why?”

  “Fuck if I know.” Third Eye puts her arms behind her head and stares at the tent ceiling. “All I can tell you is that this interpreter showed up this morning and told the locals about those prisoners who got themselves shot. Your girlfriend and the rest of them went nuts. If you ask me, we shouldn’t be telling them any of that shit. It only makes our fuckin’ jobs harder.”

  “But it wasn’t her dad or brother who got shot, was it? He didn’t read out the names Zaki Jassim or Halim al-Jubur, did he?” My voice is wavering. I can’t help it.

  “Jesus, Brady. Calm the fuck down. No, I didn’t hear either of those names. She’s just a loudmouth. Trying to be some kind of hero or something. And she’s been even worse since I passed her that message. Annoying bitch.”

  “Way too many of those around here,” Mack comments without looking up from his porn.

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Nope. We chased her away. Now shut up and let me get some frickin’ sleep.” And without another word, Third Eye puts a pillow over her head.

  “Hey, Tits, take a look at this,” Mack says then. He leans over and sticks his magazine under my nose, forcing me to see a woman with her legs spread and her finger in her ass. “You ever try that?”

  I shove the magazine away in disgust and turn my back on him. Then I dig out a notepad and pen from my duffle bag and sit on the edge of my cot to write.

  Dear Tyler,

  I’m so glad to hear about your success. It’s what you’ve always deserved. It’s nice that you’re making people happy. Wish that was true of me.

  I know this is going to hurt, and I’m sorry because you’ve been so great to me. But I think we should call it quits. So please don’t write anymore.

  Kate