Helen Benedict - Sand Queen

To my children and the children of Iraq,
may you live to see peace.

And for my father, Burton Benedict, 1923-2010.

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

S HAKESPEARE , S ONNET 94

Contents

[ KATE ]

ITS THE BIGGEST frigging spider Ive ever seen in my life. From one hairy leg to the other, the whole things as long as my forearm. So I make sure its dead first. Nudge it with the butt of my rifle till it flips over, limp and sandy. Then I pick it up by a leg, haul it into the tent like a shopping bag and nail it to the pole beside the head of my cot, right under my crucifix. That should keep Macktruck quiet, at least for the time being. Hes terrified of spiders. Asshole.

The whistling is loud outside the tent today; a creepy, skin-prickling sound I can never get used to. The desert whistles all day and night out here. The hissing whistle of the wind cutting past your helmet. The moaning whistle of it winnowing through the razor wire. I stand under the hot canvas a moment, just listening. And then it hits me again, that deep-down ache that makes me want to curl up and cry.

What the fuck are you doing, Brady? Its Will Rick-man, this bony young specialist in my squad with zitty skin and an Adams apple twice the size of his brain.

I wipe my hands on my pants. Nothing.

Rickman steps closer and squints at my spider. Look at that thing. Its disgusting. Its fuckin bleeding black ooze.

Dont talk like that about Fuzzy.

Rickman raises his eyebrows. But all he says is, Lets go, theyre waiting.

I pick up my rifle and follow him, sunglasses over my eyes, scarf over my mouth. Ducking against the wind, the sand whipping my cheeks, I run to the Humvee and cram into the back behind the other guy in my team, DJ, and our squad leader, Staff Sergeant Kormick.

We got better things to do than wait while you powder your nose, Brady, Kormick shouts to me over the wind, shoving the Humvee into gear with a grinding wrench. Dont keep us waiting again. Got it?

Got it, Sarnt.

While we drive along the dirt road to the checkpoint, the guys shooting their usual bull, I gaze out the slit of a back window into the early morning light. Dirty gray sand stretches as far as I can see, blending so exactly with the dust-filled sky it obliterates the horizon. On either side of the road are rows of rectangular olive-drab tents, their roofs droopy and covered in dust. The ones on the left are for us, the ones on the right behind the loops of razor wire are for the prisoners. But other than that, theres nothing out there but an endless gray blur. And a tree.

I like that tree, standing outside the wire all by itself in the middle of the desert. I call it Marvin. I spend so many hours staring at Marvin that I know every twist of his wiry little branches, every pinpoint of his needle leaves. I talk to him sometimes, compare notes on how were doing.

We rattle along for twenty minutes or so, while I sit in a daze, too tired to line up my thoughts in any kind of an order. We work twelve-to-fifteen-hour shifts, and even so I can never sleep. Its too damn hot and Im sharing a tent with thirty-three snoring, farting members of the male sex, not to mention the prisoners only a few meters away, chanting and screaming all night long.

As we near the checkpoint, the deep-down ache starts up again. I hate this.

Sure enough, there they are. Fifty or so civilians waiting outside the wire, baggy clothes flapping in the wind. Theyve been coming every day for weeks now, arriving at dawn to stand in the sun for hours without moving, like shrubs. Most of them are women. Mothers and sisters, wives and daughters looking for their men.

Kormick pulls the Humvee up to the checkpoint and we climb out. Hitching my rifle strap over my shoulder, I head for the wire with my team, sand blowing up my nose and down my throat, making me cough. God, what I would give for a breath of clear air, one that isnt filled with dust and the stink of burning shit and diesel. Air like the air at home: clean, cool, mountain air.

Brady! Kormick yells after me, beckoning me back with a jerk of his head. When you get over there tell the hajjis well mail them a list soon. Then make em fuck off.

Yes, Sarnt.

And Brady? Get a move on this time.

Im not any slower than anybody else, but I do what he says. What list hes talking about, though, I have no idea. There isnt any list. And even if we did have one, how in Christs name am I supposed to tell these people, Well mail you a list of the prisoners when we just bombed all their houses and mailboxes, tooif they even have mailboxes in Iraq?

When we drove through Basra on the way here from Kuwait in March, right after Shock and Awe started the war, it was flattened. Nothing but smoldering rubble. People living in lean-tos made of cardboard and scrap. Garbage piled so high you couldnt see over it, making the worst god-damn stink Ive ever smelled in my life. Corpses lying in the streets, smashed and gory, like those run-down deer on the highways at home, only with human faces. But Kormick always gives me the job of talking to these people. Hes got the idea that the sight of a female soldier will win hearts and minds. Weve just pulverized their towns, locked up their men and killed their kids, and one GI Jane with sand up her ass is supposed to make it okay?

The minute I step in front of the checkpoint wire, the same old havoc begins: civilians shouldering each other to get near me, waving photographs and screeching. A checkpoint is supposed to be secure, but ours is nothing but a plywood shack no bigger than a garden shed, a rickety wooden tower, a razor-wire fence and a handful of badly trained reservists with guns. And sand, of course. Lots and lots of sand.

Imagine being on an empty beach looking out at the ocean, I wrote to Tyler once. Now take away the ocean and replace it with sand all the way to the end of the frigging world. Thats where I am.

I miss Tyler so bad. The soapy smell of his hair, the warmth of his big body up against mine. And his eyeshe has the prettiest eyes you ever saw. Cinnamon eyes. Weve been dating since eleventh grade, which is funny cause when I first met him I didnt like him at all. I was into class clowns those days, show-offy bad boys, not quiet, nerdy types like Tyler McAllister, who mumbled and blushed whenever we talked. But then he invited me to see him play guitar and sing at a place called The Orange Dog, and I was so surprised that a geek like him even played guitar I said yes.

The Orange Dogs in Catskill and the closest thing to a music club we have in our corner of upstate New York, although it doesnt serve alcohol, which is the only reason my parents allowed me to go there at seventeen. I asked my best friend Robin to come with me because we made a good boy-hunting team: Robin tall and dark, with creamy skin and big brown eyes; me small and freckled, with frizzy red hair and eyes so light theyre almost no color at all. She picked me up in her rusty, third-hand Saturn and drove us the forty minutes south it takes to get to Catskill from Willowglen, our hometown. That was a big-deal expedition for us back then.