“With perverts and thieves?”
“I've signed you up at Cathedral. It isn't cheap, but it's private and it's just past the park down Dakota. I'll make your father cough up the money. I can't enroll you at Jefferson, where I sent Cammy. Too much water under the bridge.”
“Cathedral? What kind of name is that for a school?”
“It's Catholic. And you're lucky they're low on enrollment. Just twenty-eight kids in the seventh grade. You'll be safe.”
“But I'm not Catholic.”
“They won't know the difference. You're from a Kenwood family, that's qualification enough. Besides, Mother was raised Methodist. Methodist. Catholic. It's all the same thing. She took me to church on holidays; I can teach you enough to squeak by.”
Once the decision is made, I'm back in her bed. We abandon Jane Eyre for Lenore's mother's Bible, an elegant ivory book with delicate pages edged in gold. Some of the stories I know already, from the Free Church Bible Camp I went to every summer on the beach. Adam and Eve. Noah's Ark. Moses and the Ten Commandments. The Christmas story. The Crucifixion. I like the drama of the Old Testament best; it reminds me of Greek mythology: floods, famines, battles.
“This you can keep,” Lenore says, handing me her mother's bookmark, a silky red ribbon with the Shepherd Psalm embossed in italic gold letters.”It's practically brand-new. You can see how much time Mother put into religion.”
“The Lord is my shepherd,” I recite, baa-ing on all fours like a sheep. “I shall not want.”
“Don't make a joke out of this,” Lenore says. “Those Catholic sheep herders won't think you're funny.”
“But I'm not a sheep.”
“I've got news for you, kiddo, you will be.”
In the back of the Bible, under the section marked Family Record, I discover the Dahl Family Tree. They're all there on blue branches, their names and birth dates calligraphied in gold ink. Eileen, Papa Roy, Lenore, Cammy. Everyone except my dad and me. When Lenore's asleep, I take out my Bic ballpoint and draw an awkward black branch for me and my dad. Then I add our names, but even in my best handwriting, it's obvious we don't belong.
The day before school starts, my uniform finally arrives by taxi. We've been envisioning this plaid jumper ever since the day Lenore placed the order by phone. “The saleslady said it was a lovely wool blend, gray and blue plaid, very classic. At least we won't have to buy you a closet full of clothes. It comes with two white blouses. Hang them up. Keep them clean.”
But when I take it out of the box and hold it up to me, it's huge. “Try it on,” Lenore says. “It might not be that bad.”
I look like a dwarf in it; the top half, from my shoulders to my waist, droops like a deflated balloon. The thick pleated skirt reaches my calves. “I can't wear this.”
“Let me see the tag. It's a size twelve all right. I just told them to send a jumper a small seventh-grader could wear. Maybe the Catholics run big.” She tugs the top away from my chest. “I can't fix that!” she says, laughing. “But how hard can a hem be?” She balances her cigarette between her lips, folds the fabric up to my knees. “There now,” she mumbles through clenched teeth. “That's better. Go get Mother's sewing basket from the front closet for me.”
I stand on her bed and pass her down straight pins while she tacks up my hem with twitchy hands. “A good ten inches will do the trick.” When she's finished, it's my job to thread the needle and sew. “Just go in and out in a straight line. My hands shake too much for needlework. You better hope you don't inherit my nerves.”
After I've knotted off the last bit of thread, I slip the jumper over my head, stand on her bed and look into the mirror. A bulky band of hem circles the skirt. Every few inches, royal blue thread pokes through the plaid. “I'm not wearing this. I look ridiculous. People will laugh.”
“Don't worry, little girl, “she says, tickling the back of my calf. “You'll fit right in.”
Lenore - Departure
It was Frances who started the school trouble; it was Frances who burned the black hole into my bed.
By August, Faina had grown on me. Days, she stayed next to me, content to linger in my bed and study old family photos, her apple breath brushing against my ear. Asleep or awake, I felt her near me, the warmth of her little body soothing my ragged nerves.
Still I sent her. To save her from the authorities, the same people who threatened to take away Cammy. To save her from what was ahead.
The morning Faina left, the clouds were solid and low. Nothing like other sunny Septembers, nothing like the string of Cammy's “first days.” Her starched cotton dresses always laid out the night before, her lacy anklets tucked into gleaming black shoes. Always a fresh pack of crayons, new paper, a pink eraser and a pencil box. When she was little, I'd pack a special cookie in her lunch with a cut-out heart that read, “Mommy misses Cammy.”
From the start, I was shrewd enough to know they brainwashed children in school, lured them away from their families. In that respect, we might as well be Russia; Americans are snowed by democracy.
“Want anything before I leave?” Faina asked, setting my hot cup of morning coffee on the TV tray next to my bed. “Let me help you to the bathroom.”
“No,” I said. “Go. I have to get used to being alone. Now is as good a time as any. You look nice,” I lied. I abhorred the woolen uniform, the Peter Pan blouse. I wanted her dressed in Cammy's old T-shirts, the long frayed jeans that whooshed when she walked. The pantyhose I'd lent her sagged around her ankles, and that enormous jumper made her skinny legs look like bowed saplings. From somewhere, she had scavenged a pair of blue pumps Cammy bought on a whim her first year at Jefferson. “Those heels give you some height,” I said. “They're a real improvement over your tennis shoes. Wouldn't your father die if he could see you today? You're not even the same little Faina who landed on my doorstep.”
“I need to get going. I don't want to be late.”
The rush to escape wasn't lost on me. By second grade, Cammy forbid me to walk her to the bus stop.
“Faina, let me put on your face,” I begged. “Braid your hair, so you look decent today.”
“Hurry.” Reluctantly, she flopped down on the edge of my bed, dropped her chin into my hand. Even with the morning shakes, I managed to camouflage her dark gypsy skin. I painted lavender over her dusky lids. “This is the first I've seen you look like a real girl. You could be beautiful.”
“I don't want to be beautiful,” she said, straining away from me. “I've got to go; I don't want to be late.” She tripped over the toes of Cammy's shoes.
“Those are too big for you,” I called after her, but she was already gone.
When I heard the door slam, and the rattle of her shoes tripping down the back staircase, my breath left me. I sat up in bed. Ahead, I saw the end of our world. She was gone. Like Cammy. I struggled to cross the room to the window. Only two months past her arrival, and already she was running away, down Dakota Avenue, with Cammy's old denim book bag bouncing against her leg. How would I survive without her small shoulder to support me? What would I do without my little Faina McCoy?
Hi Baby,
Got your letters. You do much besides write me? They were giving me crap at the co. office. Don't know how you find so much to say. Should of read them in order, I had to go back and check the postmarks to follow the whole story. If I got it right, things have finally settled down with Lenore. She can be mad as a rabid dog. It was something I couldn't prepare you for. You'll get used to her. I lasted five, six years, and I'm still alive to tell the story. Too bad about Cammy. The two of them were probably at each other's throats. My guess is she'll show up eventually. Teenage stuff. They all go through it. You will too. Maybe it's just as well she's gone now, gives you and Lenore a chance to get to know each other alone.
However hard you think you got it, I'm telling you I'd trade places tomorrow. The work is hot and dirty, backbreaking, mud spraying in my face all day. We're 13,000 feet down and still nothing.
Heard there was an explosion up at Darwin—another rig. Starting to dawn on me this isn't real safe. I've almost been done in twice. Nearly lost a leg breaking up some pipe. Long story. Now I'm just hoping to make it back alive. I'm an old man in this operation, this is work for someone young. Young and stupid. The stupid I've got covered. They wouldn't have taken me if it wasn't for Wiley having the connections. Don't feel much like thanking him.
Made it into Perth twice. Some races. Harness. Dog. But I'm watching myself. Wiley's losing plenty. I know I need to save enough to dig us out. I will.
Remember, I've been watching out for you for twelve years. You got the brains to fend for yourself. Be a big girl. I'm just doing the best I can. I guess what I'm trying to say is, have you started to forgive me? That's it. I think about you every minute. Stay out of trouble. I love you. Dad
Faina - Sheep
At recess, the girls follow me to the small strip of blacktop along the backside of the school. All together, there are twelve girls in seventh grade, and they gather on the stone wall that separates Cathedral from the back alley to hear the next chapter of my story. I let them finger the silver bracelet given to me by my sailor, the boy who writes from Australia. I pass around pictures of Cammy, glossy close-ups of a blonde model cut from an old Seventeen magazine. I tell them about the Del Mar Track, my father's family business, the race horses we bred, the days I spent in the stable brushing their knotted manes. In the spring, my chestnut colt, Secretariat, will arrive from California, and I will begin jockey training at a stable outside Minneapolis.
At first, even the popular girls are fascinated by me. I cross my legs, dangle one pump loose from my toe. The nylons I wore the first day have been replaced by proper, white, regulation knit knee-highs. Sometimes Sister Cyril strolls over to our cluster to loiter at the edge and eavesdrop. Whenever I know she's listening, I raise the stakes. I describe the way my sailor kissed me when he left for sea, that last dark night we spent alone on the beach. Sister pulls a hanky from the hollow of her sleeve and pretends to blow her nose, but I know she's taking in every word.
Mornings, our whole class gathers in a circle for prayer. We hold each other's sweaty hands, join the voice on the loudspeaker reciting the Our Father and the Hail Mary, prayers I've memorized from the Daily Mass Book I stole from the church pew on my first day. After the loudspeaker beeps off, it's time for special intentions. I offer petitions for Cammy, my older sister, who's off on modeling assignments in foreign countries. Italy, France, Spain. I tell Sister Cyril we have a map at home, with colored tacks to help us keep track of Cammy's location.
Sister Cyril raises her eyebrows, hesitates. Lord hear our prayer, she says reluctantly. “Fauna, who supervises your sister when she's traveling?” she asks, when we've returned to our assigned seats.
“It's Faina. My father, usually.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really.”
Sister says oh really after every question I answer. I know she's trying to trap me in a lie, but I've developed my talent for telling stories.
After prayers, Sister walks down the rows of desks for inspection. She lifts the girls' faces toward the fluorescent light, examining us for mascara, lip gloss, any artifice that would prove distracting. While she checks the girls, the boys slouch in their desks confidently, their long legs stretched into the aisles, their dirty hands crossed behind their heads. When she comes to me, she yanks my chin upward, studies me with her bloodshot eyes. Then she leans closer, sniffs my skin for powder or perfume. “Our boys don't fall for cheap gimmicks,” she says, while the familiar buzz of snickers hums through the room.
Each time she lifts my chin, my cheeks sting with the memory of my first day at Cathedral when she made me scrub off my war paint in front of the class. The damp brown paper towel she waved like a flag, the fleshy stain of make-up splotched across it. Acclimate yourself, Miss McCoy, if you plan to stay.
We spend all day in the same room, crammed into worn wooden desks. In silence, we copy Sister's paragraphs off the blackboard, fill in the blanks in our workbooks. The textbooks are old, with tattered pages taped at the edges, and the names of previous readers listed inside the front covers. Andy Carver, '65. Carry Martin, '66. My classmates' older brothers and sisters. “Whose do you have?” they ask each other, and I wish there was a book with Cammy's name.
Everywhere in this dusty, yellow-brick building, there is silence. The silence of the sun on the linoleum floors. The silence of the empty hallways. The silence of the statues, the silent eyes of the saints. Sister's silence that stretches over our long days. The silence of the library where we are only allowed to choose books from three shelves.
At recess, I tell the girls about Ocean View Elementary, where the roses bloomed in the courtyard and we walked outside between buildings to switch classes every hour. We had choices about what we studied, electives you could sign up for at the beginning of the year. Last year I chose Greek mythology and pottery. During free periods, we sprawled on the grass in our bathing suit tops, gossiping. We ate corn chips and passed around cold bottles of Mountain Dew. Every class was a fresh mix of faces; with seven hundred kids you couldn't know everybody.
“Seven hundred!” the girls gasp. “Weren't you scared there?”
“No,” I say. “Everyone had their own gang.”
“I couldn't stand that,” Emmy Atwood says. She towers over me, the fierce, blonde-haired leader of the girls' group, the one who interrupts my stories, the girl who orders my audience away when she's tired of listening.
“Why not? Think of all the friends you meet.”
“I'd rather be with people like me. At Cathedral we can be sure of the kind of kids we're getting.”
“Yeah,” Carolyn Pugh agrees. She is Emmy's pasty reflection, Emmy's homely parrot, the girl who copies Emmy's every move. “Emmy and I have lived next door to each other since we were babies. We wouldn't want to be friends with just anybody.”
“That's true,” Emmy says. “I mean, I've known every, well, almost every, kid in this school since first grade. When my mom and I go to church every morning, Monsignor always gives us a special smile. We're an old family. My parents went here. We never, well, almost never, have to worry about strangers.”
“Strangers aren't always a bad thing.”
“That depends,” Emmy says. “On whether or not they know how to take communion. Or if they're just pretending to fit in.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I know she's talking about Mass on my first day of school. “What are they saying?” I asked her, when Monsignor set the host on my classmates' tongues. One question, and she'll never let me forget it.
“It means what it means,” Emmy says. “Let's go watch the boys play football.” The herd of girls follows her to the wire-mesh fence that separates the two playgrounds.
“Sheep,” I say. “Baa.” But no one hears me.
Once a week, we line up single file and walk downstairs to music class. Sister Linette hands out mimeographed sheets with the lyrics from Jesus Christ Superstar printed in watery purple letters. We are not expected to sing along; our true work is to recognize the genius of the lyricist. Through rock and roll, we are coming to understand the drama of Christ's suffering.
When we've finished listening to one side of the record, Sister Linette takes out her guitar and turns into Mary Magdalene, strumming “Everything's Alright.” The girls chime in, but the boys let their lyric sheets drift to the floor.
After class, Sister Linette puts her hand on my shoulder, pulls me out of the column of seventh-graders heading back to Sister Cyril's room.
“Faina, you know all the words?” she says, smiling.
“I do.” Cammy owns the album; I've memorized it at night as part of my training.
“What does this story mean to you?”
I'm not sure what she's asking. I look down at her thin sandaled feet, which embarrass me, because compared to Sister Cyril in her full black habit, Sister Linette looks n
aked in this modern outfit.
“Faina, I see it in your face. You understand Christ's anguish. How tempted He was to second-guess God.”
“It's a sad story.”
“But He didn't, did He? He followed Our Father's plan. It's amazing how the raw pain of it can still strike you as new.”
Sister settles her dewy brown eyes on me, and for the first time since I've come to Cathedral, I think I'm looking into the face of a friend. She lays her hand on the top of my head. “You seem to be a bright girl. I can see it in your eyes. I'm looking for an assistant to straighten the music room after school while I give piano lessons. You can decorate the bulletin board, fold the chairs. How would that be?”
I want to accept, but I know Lenore will expect me at home.
“It'll keep you out of trouble,” Sister says. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yes.” I know we don't, but I can't bring myself to disappoint her. “If my mother will let me.”
“I'll be happy to talk with her,” she says. “Would a home visit help?”
“No,” I say. “I'm sure she'll let me.”
“Good. Faina, you know I was just fourteen when I made the decision to join the order. Sometimes in hardship, God shows us our destiny.”
After school, I try to join Emmy and Carolyn walking home down Dakota. I follow them into Murphy's, an old corner card shop with a full rack of candy. We spend our quarters on red-hot jaw breakers with bubble-gum middles and long ropes of red licorice we wrap around our necks. The boys from our class are there, spending dollar bills they earned on their paper routes, and they shove past us to the counter where they unload handfuls of candy. Outside, they balance on their ten-speed bikes, their yellow paper sacks flung behind their backs, their pockets fat with treats.
They trail us on their bikes, back-pedal to keep pace with our slow strides. They spit sunflower seeds at my feet, their saliva speckling the sidewalk. Sometimes a gob of spit lands on my shoe or drips down my hair. “Get lost,” I scream, flipping them the finger. “You're disgusting.”
Where No Gods Came Page 5
