Commune of Women
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.
Pearl
    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
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