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The Uses of Hands

Julia Hardie

Rachel: The first thing we saw when we got off the plane were the soldiers, rifles pointing forwards. Beyond, in the fields, a plume of smoke, oily and black, was still rising. Jesus, God. He spoke into my ear, too soft for the soldiers. This is trouble. Stick close. Put your money in your shoes, he hissed as we were ushered off the tarmac. At the corner, beside the gate, he paused, casually, and adjusted his shoe. Only I saw the hand slip down from his pocket, the quick reach from the inside of his jacket to the other shoe. He nodded encouragingly, but I was wearing Chinese cloth slippers and no socks. The soldiers surrounded us, and for a moment I lost sight of him.
     On the plane he sat next to me, casually tossed his briefcase under the seat. An American, I knew, with his open necked shirt and cropped curly hair. I wanted to ask him about high school, about baseball games, going out for ice cream, drinking beer in parking lots, but I knew what he'd say. Boring. That's why I'm here. And he'd tell me some story, his hands sketching the frame of things, the reason he kept moving. I checked his hand. No ring. A bit of crease around the eyes, I knew the look from the men who came by the embassy, checking in, picking up mail. They wanted adventure, wore bullet proof vests and smiled the same practiced smile. I didn't know why he had taken such an interest in me on the plane. I have a daughter, he said, I like to think that strangers would watch over her. When I told him I was sixteen, he smiled at me, asked where I went to school.
     Geneva, I said, then turned back to my magazine, read letters from girls agonizing over their boyfriends, over baby-sitting and sex. In the States I would have my driver's license. We'd drive to the mall, try on lip gloss and nail polish. I could go to high school, sneak off campus for pizza. Talk all week about the parties held when parents were out of town.
     My mother laughed at my version of life. "What is this, the fifties," she said, zipping herself into something silk for the reception. Even with long sleeves and a modest hemline, her dress was fetching. She admired herself in the mirror, then turned back to my little problem. "Trust me, honey. Cornfields are boring." She stretched, smoothed away an imaginary wrinkle. "Look at what's around you." Her hands swept the room, gestured past the balcony. "I would have given anything for the world you have."
     Some world. I wanted to say what would it profit me to gain the world, a bit of wisdom picked up during my religious phase, but I didn't bother. Mostly I saw the world in passing. She was always on the move, packing, putting me on a plane, having a driver take me wherever she was too busy to go. Closing the door between the two of us so she and Bradley could make their plans. She's a great one for plans. This trip was one of her best. The General and the Ambassador, a bigtime tank viewing. Not something to miss, not even for a daughter's last day home before returning to school. She studied the map. They could make the ceremony if the driver took me to the airport at Rawalpindi. So what if I sat in that steaming lobby for hours, waiting for a flight at some commuter airport, face studiously bent over a book, keeping my American magazines tucked in my bag until my flight was called. Crummy little airplane. No flight attendants, hardly any air, and half an hour into the trip, the pilot made an announcement.
     The guy beside me shifted to attention, listening to the engine. "What was that?" I asked.
     "Mechanical difficulties," he told me. "We're turning around."
     "Great. I'll miss my connection."
     He looked out the window, then fiddled with his briefcase. "We'll see."
     Soldiers greeted us. Their gun barrels prodded me forward, through the glass doors and into the lobby. I kept walking, careful not to let my flowered tote drag the floor and smudge against the long rusty smear that led to the security exit. Ahead of us the soldiers were stopping the passengers. I looked at my feet. My stepfather had given me directions for traveling. Look down, Bradley said. It's considered modest. I pretended I wasn't listening, but I remembered enough.
     That's right. The guy behind me leaned in, barely audible with his warning. Whatever happens, don't object. Eyes averted. My feet moved forward, eyes on the line in front of me. Four pairs of sandals to go. All locals. No women. That felt weird somehow, even if women have never provided any aid and comfort to me. At school I can't always catch what the girls in my suite say. The idioms fly past. And when they laugh and I don't understand the joke. I'm afraid it's me. I tried to tell my mother that I hated the school, that I wasn't good at French, but she shook her head and told me to apply myself. Don't get distracted by life, she said. Fat chance, mom.
     When it was my turn, I heard the guard say something as he grabbed my bag. The men behind him laughed. I willed myself to keep my eyes down. It was easier, anyway, not to look. I didn't want to see faces. The hands were enough. They started with my blouse, fingers pausing between pats.

     Tom: I could see her hands tremble when the soldier grabbed her bag. And then there was the effort not to cry out, a straightened back, hand against mouth, when they dumped out its contents. Just a girl's stuff. Fashion magazines. Lipstick, an address book, a couple of paperbacks, a brush. They pretended to examine her passport, passing it among the three of them. A great discussion. I couldn't hear what they were saying. Her wallet was also passed around. Each man took his cut.
     Then they motioned for her to place her hands on her head. So much for Islamic law. They were going to search her. The soldier guarding those of us left moved into my line of vision. Motioned us around. I tried to take a last look at her, to reassure her that everything would be okay, but the butt of the rifle reminded me that I didn't have a lot of choices. I waited my turn.

     Rachel: It's the hands you remember. Melanie told us about her first frisking, the year her father was negotiating in Israel. She was fourteen and wild, creeping out of the hotel where her mother slept through the heat of the day, walking past the soldiers swishing her hips and carrying no I. D. They wouldn't let her back into the hotel without a search. Her voice emphasized each squeeze the soldier gave her breasts, the way his hand cupped the curve of her ass like a lover, she said, then laughed. Melanie liked to laugh off everything. Later, she slept with the one too shy to touch her. When she was my age, my mother must have been like Melanie, or wanted to be Melanie, with her worldliness and casual sophistication. I tried to explain that I didn't fit in, an undersecretary's stepdaughter didn't have enough cachet for a boarding school like that, but she couldn't hear me. Don't be such a baby, she mocked. Bradley is paying good money to see that you have the advantages in life. She was putting on her makeup. I watched the back of her head and what I could see of her face reflected in the mirror. She pouted her lips into a curve generous enough for red. I was already dismissed. The driver would be there in a hour to take them to their meeting and me on to the airport.
     She has always worn her ambition in a new outfit. When I was little I played in the scraps of whatever she was sewing. She planned her effects carefully and I was her confidant, listening as I sat below the table, amusing myself by fingering the scraps of the blue satin blouse, the white knit skirt. The last outfit she sewed was black velvet to impress my father's boss. It must have worked. I was six years old when she moved us into the first apartment. My father never said what it felt like to come home and find us gone. I would have cried for him, but she made sure that I was quiet, tucked away in my room with a toy when her visitor arrived. I know how to be quiet. Around Bradley I was the same, a habit mostly, at first, until he complained that I was sullen. Then it became a challenge to see how little I could answer him, how often I could feign preoccupation, studying him when he thought I was practicing conjugations.
     My mother would have tried to charm the soldiers. If that failed, her indignation would have reigned. But I learned how to be quiet. Even when oily fingers smudged my white blouse, searched out and squeezed my nipples. I almost fell when he started on my legs, patted, then flicked them wide apart. One of them had to brace me against him as the searcher, the one with the fingers, continued up my thigh. I kept my eyes closed. When he reached my panties, fingers hooked around elastic, I opened my eyes in Oh. He looked up at me, smiled, then shoved his fingers in. I didn't cry out, but closed my eyes against the sight of him. I could not close out the thrust of his hand, the ragged clawing nails. Something inside of me seemed to tear away. I clenched my fists against the sudden sear of pain, willed myself not to react, not even to the last jerk as his hand withdrew. My skirt was pulled down. Hands brushed against my skirt. The other one released my back. I didn't fall. I stumbled a bit on my panties, still caught around my ankles. I bent, pulled dirtied panties I didn't want back on, then moved forward, fluffing my skirt as I walked, determined that they would not see me bowed. I would burn these clothes when, if, when I got to Geneva. I pictured the match, the fire, the glorious moment the material caught, smears and filth disappearing in the purifying smoke. Someone spoke to me. I moved forward, walked as far as I could across the lobby, then leaned into the cool blankness of a brown wall.

     Tom: The usual search. Patted down. Orifices opened and probed. Stood and tried to look dignified and harmless as unclean hands did their business. With me they were quick, pants up and down. Documents looked over, the money left in my wallet confiscated. Shoes glanced at without bothering to checking the lining. Waved me to join the others. Whatever they were looking for evidently wasn't among the passengers, now sitting in the few chairs, or resting on their haunches or leaning against the wall. The girl stood in the corner, her face bowed and covered by a veil of her brown hair. Usually I like airports. Even if dingy or worn, with no seats and fresh air, an airport is a place of honest human emotion. Women clutch their babies and bravely wave goodbye to husbands. Other children run to greet their fathers, squealing their reunion excitement. Old people shuffle off last, relieved finally to be back on the earth they understand. My fellow travelers looked wary, too keyed up to fall asleep, even though exhausted. Whatever had happened, no one wanted to ask questions. Past the window, more soldiers examined the plane we had disembarked from. The crew was nowhere in sight.
     After they searched us, the soldiers didn't seem to know what to do. They stood across the entrance, talking a bit, relaxing their rifles, watching us with decreasing attention. With the watch they hadn't taken, I counted off the minutes, the hours we waited. I moved around a bit, feigning restlessness and trying to keep my muscles loose. I memorized the layout of the lobby. The ticket counter was between us, still emptied of crew. Beyond the observation window, soldiers still moved on the runway. In the gloom, their bodies began to disappear. Opposite the check-in counter was the entrance. The corner of the half wall past our waiting area had the icons for bathrooms. Another one for phone. The lobby door opened and I heard the sound of a command I couldn't catch. Keys were handed in. Three soldiers went out the lobby door. We heard it slam behind them. A few minutes later the other two crossed towards us, rifles down, then opened the boarding gate with their keys and locked it behind them.
     I watched the other travelers, but they had the look of people who had already surrendered to whatever would befall them. I picked up my briefcase and walked towards the wall that divided the lobby from the bathrooms. No one tried to stop me. The men's room was hot, but the water worked. I splashed my face, then left it on as I eased open the window over the toilet. No noise, no guns, nothing but the far side of the building, and no soldiers. I closed the window and opened my briefcase, found my book. When I opened the door, no one was there. The phone was unoccupied and when I picked up the receiver, I got a dial tone. More luck. I pulled out coins, grateful that the soldiers hadn't bothered with the small stuff, and dialed Jack Stringer. He wasn't home. I called his office. "I'm on deadline," he answered. "This better be important."
     "Tom," I said. "I'm back at the airport. Detained. What's going on?"
     "Zia's dead. His C-130 crashed. A few minutes after takeoff. Exploded mid-air, they say."
     A reliable plane, one not given to mechanical problems. "How bad are things?"
     "Calm, considering."
     "Look, there's an American girl here."
     "Oh, Christ," he said. A deliberate pause. "Need a lift?" His tone was casual.
     Good old Jack. "How?"
     He shuffled paper. I listened for soldiers or passengers. Quiet all around.
     "There's a park about a mile east of the airport. A gated entrance on the south side. Three hours."
     "Yeah. Let's do it."
     I hung up the phone, tucked my book in my pocket, stowed my briefcase next to the toilet, then dunked my head under the still running water. A long wash-up, they might think, but such were the American peculiarities about cleanliness. No one seemed to have moved in the minutes I was gone. I sat and waited. Observed the girl, sunk into whatever misery they had inflicted on her. The soldiers still paced the runway. They had lost interest in us, at least for a time. Time. "Come on, honey," I said, loud enough to be audible. "Let me help you clean up." She was passive against me. I picked up her flowered tote, guided her past the passengers. No one looked up.
     In the bathroom I washed her face, left the water running. "Drink." She nodded her obedience, bent to the faucet. Her lips trembled, but she drank, then straightened. Listen," I said. "I'm not sure if it's safe here. Understand?"
     She nodded.
     I showed her the window. Put my finger against her mouth. Climbed up. Opened and listened. "Now," I said, stooping to her ear. "Bend your knees as you land." Hopped down and she climbed up, I gave her a boost and she was over. Grabbed my briefcase, slung it out and followed.
     Ground. I held her mouth and listened. Nothing. The lights had been turned on across the runway, but the side of the terminal stayed dark. Standing in the lights, the soldiers were less likely to see us. My eyes were adjusting. Across the field was a line of trees. I pointed. She nodded and I took her hand, ducked my head, and fled across the field.
     There's exhilaration, bursting into movement. You feel your feet hit earth, uncertain if the next move will send you to your knees, or if you've been spotted. A part of you waits for the rip of a bullet, but the other part soars on, in rhythm that you can't stop. Feet and breath. Feet and breath. When we reached the tree line, I let her rest while I scanned behind us. So far undetected. I felt good, but couldn't let the adrenaline rush blind me. We still had to find the park. Eastward ho, I whispered and took her hand. Still breathing hard, she nodded, perfectly docile. She limped a bit as we circled the stand. I pretended not to notice, just in case she didn't realize she was hurt. She would when we stopped. I got my bearings and led us towards what I hoped was the park.

     Rachel: I didn't want to go back to boarding school, any more than I wanted to stay with them. "I want to be a regular teenager," I told them, over and over, wishing back the year I spent in Omaha, the new child in my father's house, lingered on the details of my bedroom, the lawn, the movies on TV. I was nine and miserable, new at school, and not up on the ways of suburban children. I reminded them of none of that. "I want to be an American teenager," I said. I wanted to eat french fries and pizza. In the apartment, I wore the clothes that my father's wife sent me. "Here's what they're wearing at home," Stephanie's letters said. She sent me piles of magazines. "Provincial pablum," Bradley would sniff, so I made sure that a magazine was always in my hand or that I left it on a table, open to pages of American girls frolicking in bikinis, certain to scandalize the servants.
     I dreamed of a world made of wide straight lawns, flat streets filled with fast new cars, places where boys ached to try their moves on me, the exotic one for once. Instead I lived in worlds I wasn't quite good enough for. Spent summers pacing in an apartment crowded with servants who tried to anticipate my every move. I couldn't even get myself a glass of water, leave a top on the floor long enough to sprinkle myself with powder. If I tried to go outside, the servants rushed towards me, insisting on the escort I hated. The school year was no better. The nomads, comparing tax havens and hotel life, and the criers, missing mama and the food of their cooks, found their likes easily. The rest of us took no solace in each other. Like them, I stayed silent when I could. Always I was surrounded by languages not my own. Only Stephanie's letters seemed understandable, with her chatty news and my father's penciled-in marginal comments. They offered me a world small and manageable, with streets I could navigate by myself, and classes I could sit through without the strain of constant attention.
     When we finally stopped, my legs buckled. He took my arm and helped me down. Even the ground hurt. The bark scratched against my back and my right ankle throbbed. I closed my eyes and felt my body pull me into sleep. I must have dozed a bit. When I opened my eyes, he was beside me. I could see his arm against the glow of his watch as he checked the time, then darkness again. Another hour, he whispered. Here. I moved forward and he draped his jacket across my shoulders, left his arm there. Just rest, he said, and I leaned my head against his shoulder. In the dark, there was only the sound of breathing, and the pungent animal smell of our sweat and fear.
     I closed my eyes, pretending I was on a date, living adolescence the way my mother had. You're lucky, she said. Boarding school, learning real French. Not like my teen years, stuck in a hick town, praying to get out. I could finish her sentences. I know what she doesn't say. Dad. Me. Trapped again. She thinks I don't remember how it was those years. The scheming and forward marching, the steady climb up the social caste of her men. And Bradley, one good enough to marry. All her work and where did she end up -- a third world country where she struggled to fit in with the embassy crowd. "What do I care what people say," she always said. "I have what I want. And you," she added. "Be grateful for your stepfather's job. So what if this year you need to be in boarding school." We'll be together at Christmas, they promised. Another year, they told me, another year and we'll be settled somewhere better. Later my mother hissed that Bradley was expecting a better posting. She put her finger to her lip. "Not a word now," she said. "Let's not jinx anything."
     His hand stroked the fabric of my blouse. Hush, he said, though I wasn't saying anything. I have learned my lesson well. His hand on my breast was gentle, almost contemplative. Soft strokes. He sat forward, turned me to face him. I opened my eyes, and the shape of our bodies slowly grew visible in accustomed darkness. His hands touched my skirt, lingered on the crease between my legs. Hush, he murmured, I'll keep you safe. His hands slid up, under the skirt and came away, smeared with what I knew without looking was my blood. My god, he whispered, they hurt you, didn't they. It's not like that, he said. He stroked my face, pressed me against him. His mouth found my cheek, my ear. Let me show you, let me show you how it can be. Stubble grazed my face as he folded his jacket into a pillow for my head, cradling me under him as he helped me down. His hands stroked my breasts, pulled up my blouse. I closed my eyes, pretended I was somewhere else. My boyfriend's car. The windows steamed with passion. We'll be the talk of homeroom on Monday. Typical teenagers. His lips and fingers touched me, stroked again, moved to my thighs, and back again.

     When we heard the sound of a motor, I must have been startled from sleep. He put his hand over my mouth. Sit tight, I'll check. A bird cried, was answered in kind. He reappeared through the trees, pulled me to my feet, brushed my skirt, and gave me the directions. He led the run to the car, pulled the back door open and shoved me in. Down on the floor, he whispered, then piled on top of me. I heard the door slam, then the car shot forward. My ribs curved into the shape of the floorboards, the hump sharp enough to dull the other hurts. He nudged me into one side of the floor, pulled a blanket over me and took the other side. I curled up, my head against the hump. The only sound was the motor.
     When he pulled the blanket off me, it was almost daylight. He pulled me up into the seat beside him, smoothed my skirt, and brushed the hair from my face. We were in a parking garage, the motor idling, the driver still facing forward, pretending to no curiosity. I could see brown eyes in the rear view mirror, then they looked away.
     "This is where I leave you," he said. "The driver will take you to the embassy." He bent to kiss my cheek, hand turning my face toward him. He took my chin in his hand, ran his finger across the curve of my nose. Listen, he said. He pulled out his wallet. What happened, he said, if you need me or anything, I'll help. He reached down, opened my fist, and placed his business card in my palm. Here's where you can find me. He closed his hand around mine, crushing the card I held. The door closed, then he motioned the driver to begin. I didn't turn around to watch him, to know if he waited until my car was out of sight, waving or watching me, as I watched his face disappear, then reappear in the turns of the garage. He may have waved, or he may have vanished that moment, one of those men you meet on your way to some place you didn't dream of being.

     The driver keeps going. I put his card in my wallet, then arrange my skirt, covering over the smear of blood with a cleaner fold. I cannot hide the filth of my blouse, but rub the spots, hoping to smudge away any trace of fingerprints. I could sit in this car forever, a teenager driving towards ordinary life. Like the girls in my magazines, I could be heading anywhere, wishing for excitement, dreaming of the secrets I'll find. My lips move in silent chant. I practice saying the sounds. I am a teenager. I go to malls. My life is so BORING.

Copyright © 2010 by San Diego State University.

Authors of individual works retain copyright, with the restriction that subsequent publication of any text be accompanied by notice of prior publication in Fiction International.