Where No Gods Came

by Sheila O'Connor

  “Faina, it's your own fault,” Emmy Atwood says. “You ask for trouble.” She and Carolyn tilt their heads together, giggle, whisper about me, sneak the boys an occasional shy smile.

  “Emmy, you coming to the game on Friday?” Tom Payne shouts. “We're going to kick Painter Park's ass.”

  Emmy shakes her hair so it cascades down her back like a sunny waterfall. “Maybe.”

  “Don't bring that little sailor slut. She'd be doing the whole team.”

  “Don't worry,” Emmy laughs. She and Carolyn quicken their steps, hurry ahead of me. Then they take off running, their arms locked together at the elbow. I walk alone, wishing I could leave my body, fly free over the black lush canopy of elm trees.

  “Sailor slut,” they shout. “Put out. Put out.”

  “Go to hell,” I shout back, but I can't stop them. They keep it up, a steady chant, until at last we're at Twenty-second Street and they pedal off toward football practice down at Dakota Park.

  At home, Lenore sleeps. When I slip inside her dark bedroom, she opens her eyes, lazily, then returns to her dreams. “Wake me for supper,” she murmurs. “I'm glad to see you're home.” I empty her overflowing ashtray, crumple the empty packs of Salems, pick up her half-eaten serving of cottage cheese and canned peaches, dried into a heap on the china plate. Then I carry it all to the kitchen to wash up the few dishes left from the morning: my cereal bowl with the crust of milk, my crystal goblet of orange juice, Lenore's coffee cup. I wash them in scalding water, leave them to air dry in the wire rack.

  In my bedroom, I step out of my uniform, hang up the jumper and blouse. I trade them in for Cammy's old jeans; they're huge on me, but I love the fringe hem and the Flower Power decal ironed onto the back pocket. I slip her Led Zeppelin T-shirt over my head, inhale the smoky smell of Cammy's clothes, Lenore's smell. For a minute, Cathedral disappears, and it's August again; I'm stretched out in Lenore's bed watching General Hospital or playing Jeopardy.

  Then I remember my homework, and it's September, the trees changing to yellow, a thin layer of white frost splashed on the grass in the morning. I lie down on Cammy's bed, my chin propped on my palm, and puzzle over my religion workbook: Values Clarification and Moral Development. It's full of hypothetical situations we must resolve correctly. Tonight, I'm a parent whose child is dying of pneumonia. I'm too poor to afford the medicine. To save the child's life, I decide to rob the corner pharmacy. No one is killed. Did I act morally? Why or why not? If I argued my case in front of God, what would my justification be?

  Every question paralyzes me. I am cursed with seeing every side, a trait Sister says proves my own moral ambiguity. She has instructed me to narrow it down to black and white. Is it right to rob a store? Is it right to let a child die?

  I know the correct answer hides in the green Teacher's Guide on Sister Cyril's desk, and tomorrow she'll open it, read the response to the class to point out how far wrong I've gone. If I could steal the Teacher's Guide for one weekend, I could memorize the correct answers, and coast through the rest of the year. I'd get the straight A's I deserve, the straight A's I earned in San Diego. But instead, I'm stuck here, with the early darkness creeping over our apartment, wondering whether my child should live or die.

  When Lenore finally wakes, I take my old place next to her in the bed. Although she's lost interest in our reading, she wants to sit, dozy eyes half-closed, and listen to me. “Tell me about your day at school,” she says, closing my hand inside hers. “I'm so lonely here without you.”

  “It's sort of strange,” I say. I don't tell her about Sister Linette and the rock opera, or the bulletin board she wants me to decorate after school. I don't tell her about the sunflower seeds or the stream of saliva stuck to my hair. I don't tell her about Emmy Atwood running away from me. Instead I say, “I don't think the kids like me.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, her voice urgent and high. “Did you do something rude?”

  “No, I didn't do anything.”

  “Then why wouldn't they like you? It's important you fit in.”

  “I fit in,” I lie.

  “Try,” she pleads. “Don't let your coloring set you apart. It's important you do well there. I don't want anyone coming after me.”

  “No one's coming.”

  “You don't know, you don't know, you don't know,” she repeats, her voice quivering. “We have enough trouble already.”

  “I won't. There's no trouble.” Lately, Lenore tells me the same things over and over, as if she's forgotten she said them the moment before.

  “Be a good girl, Faina. For me. I just want you to be safe and happy. I was never happy. Never happy.”

  “I'm happy, Lenore. Don't worry.”

  When I have calmed her with a cigarette and fresh drink, it's time for me to help her with her bath. In the summer, I used to wait outside the bathroom door while she took care of her privacy. Later, she would call for me, and I would help her stumble back into bed. But these days, she can't go far without me. The loneliness is too long for her. I fill the deep tub with hot water, sprinkle in Dreft, hang her silky robe on the brass hook. When she's ready, she lifts her brittle arms like a baby, and I raise her nightgown gently over her head. Together, we fold her naked body into the tub, the warm water splashing over the edge. I try not to look at her bare skeleton, the skin sucking in below her ribs, the sparse patches of strawberry hair. Before Minneapolis, I'd never been in the same room as a naked woman, and her body horrifies me.

  I skim my shy hand quickly over the scabby sores, the scattering of raw wounds covering her back and butt. I try to keep my eyes on the pink and black hexagon tiles, the old grout brown and crumbling.

  “I'm sorry,” Lenore says. I know she detects my repulsion, my eyes that are always looking away. “I wouldn't ask you to help me if it wasn't necessary. I can't go without soaking these bedsores. I wish there was a way to get rid of them.”

  When she's finished, I loop my arms around her slippery waist to lift her from the tub. Then I set her down on the toilet seat, wrap the heavy terry towel around her shivering body. I will never have a baby, I promise myself. I'm filled with disgust for small and vulnerable things. My own tiny body. I hand her the robe, wait until she's closed it around her, and then I lead her back to bed.

  In a few minutes, I will put her behind me, shut off her light and leave her to dream in the darkness. But still she follows me, the stench of her bedsores, the Dreft detergent, the smoke, the brittle bones.

  Once she's asleep, I huddle inside Cammy's old peacoat, take my place outside on the fire escape. I like the darkness of the alley, the cool night air of autumn, the neon palm tree of the Paradise Club flashing, the smell of greasy burgers from Rusty's Tavern. Every night I come here, open my diary, write it all down.

  But tonight, I have company—the dark-haired boy I've seen bagging groceries at Kenny's. He's down below, in the alley, hands hidden in the pockets of his loose leather jacket, staring straight up at me. “You got a smoke?”

  “What?” I wrap my fingers around the cold metal rail, peer over the edge of the fire escape. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yeah. You got a smoke I can bum?”

  “I got one inside. Hold on.” I tiptoe back into Lenore's room, sneak out a Salem cigarette she'll never miss. Then I hurry back to the fire escape to get there before he disappears.

  When I step outside, he's still there, grinning. “Any luck?” he asks. “I'm hard up.”

  I throw it down, and he catches it gracefully, one-handed in midair. “Menthols,” he says, drawing in a deep drag. “It's like smoking a box of mints. But it's better than nothing. I think I've delivered groceries to your place. You live here?” He nods behind me toward the building.

  I slip my diary into my jacket pocket. “Sort of. Temporarily. How about you? You live in the neighborhood?”

  “I'm temporary, too. New Directions. Halfway house across the alley. That's why I've got to smoke before I get home. What's your nam
e anyway?”

  “Faina,” I say.

  “Strange,” he laughs. “Strange name. Anyway, thanks for the cigarette. I guess we'll see you around.”

  Hi Baby,

  So she put you with the Catholics. I had to laugh. I can still hear Lenore's old man calling me a fish eater. Not that I cared about the name, he called me plenty worse. But I wish he was alive today to see his golden girl, Lenore, kneeling next to you in the pew down at Cathedral. Dropping his cash into the basket. Amazing the way it all shakes out.

  I did the God gig as a kid, guess that's why I never dragged you into it. Whatever you decide, I'm right there with you. There were things I took from it, all right. Some I find myself falling back on now that I've landed here in hell. Some you'll use. But let me set you straight. Whatever you missed along the way in terms of church was my mistake. Your soul, sweetheart, is A-O.K. You've been in someone else's hands since you sucked in your first breath. How else could we have made it this far down the road?

  You're smart, you'll pick the program up. The whole nine yards. Kneeling. Letting the wafer melt to pieces on your tongue. Genuflecting. Don't forget to dip your fingers in the holy water dish. If I was home I could have run the routine past you. It's not something you forget. God knows Lenore's out of her league.

  Just be happy you're not here. I'm still kicking myself for coming. Worst mistake I ever made. And I can't get off the rig. Not if I want a ticket home.

  You're not missing anything. Some wallabies on Barrow Island. Sharks swimming around the rig. Perth's an O.K. break, but we're hanging in the slums. The ocean's ocean. I've had enough to last a lifetime. Don't even want to go back to the marina. Think we'll start over in Alaska. The cold looks good to me right now.

  Now that school's on, you don't need to write so much. I don't want your fingers falling off. Besides, I can't keep up. There isn't time to write a word, let alone a letter. I've given it my best shot. This is more than I've written in a lifetime. I love you. Behave yourself. And while you're at it, light a candle and rattle off a Hail Mary for your old man. I could use the help. Now and at the hour of my death. Amen. Dad

  Faina - Ghost in the Graveyard

  This Halloween, Emmy Atwood has decided the seventh-grade girls are too old to go trick-or-treating. Instead, she'll host a costume party with pizza, door prizes, and a seance to bring back John F. Kennedy.

  “I invited all the girls,” she told me. “Even you. It's a school rule. With so few of us, the mothers have agreed not to leave anyone out.”

  “Stay home,” Lenore begs me. “This isn't a night to be out. I remember one year a black cat was stabbed on Halloween. On the news, they're warning parents to check the candy. Last year some lunatic tainted caramels with LSD.”

  I adjust Papa Roy's hunting cap on my head, button his orange vest. It isn't much of a costume, but it's the best I can do. I want to celebrate Halloween, see Emmy's house, call back John F. Kennedy with the rest of the kids. “It's a school rule,” I lie. “Sister Cyril makes all the seventh-graders work the Halloween party for the younger kids. She's put me in charge of the costume parade. I'll be safe. Emmy Atwood's mom is picking me up at the bus stop out front. She'll drop me off by ten o'clock.”

  “I wish you had told me earlier. I would have given Sister Cyril a piece of my mind. A girl your age doesn't belong out at night. Just last year a runaway was murdered down at Minnehaha Creek.”

  “Lenore. I have to do it. I'm judging the costume parade. I don't want to start any trouble.”

  “I don't like it,” she says, swallowing the last of her drink. “Be careful with Papa Roy's hunting cap. I have so little left of him. And pour me a fresh one, please. I'm going to need it to calm my nerves.”

  Outside, it's so cold I can see my breath. I love the woody smell of fall nights in Minneapolis, the musky leaves, the smoke rising from the chimneys. I pass New Directions, the halfway house where the delivery boy from Kenny's lives. I've been watching for him since the night we met in the alley.

  Packs of trick-or-treaters run past me, their plastic orange pumpkins clattering with candy. I tell myself I'm safe out here, with parents everywhere pushing baby strollers or following their kids door to door. But then I remember the runaway murdered at Minnehaha Creek and I hurry toward Emmy Atwood's house. Maybe after the party her mom really will drive me home.

  I think about Halloween in San Diego, my Batman costume I never outgrew, our neighbors sitting on their front steps passing out candy, offering my dad a shot of whiskey or a cold beer. “Now who might this masked man be?” they always asked, but they knew me. I think about the end of our night at Keith's Coffee Shop, the glass of milk he served me to wash down the chocolate, my candy spread out on the counter, my dad claiming the Almond Joys.

  When I reach Alden Avenue, I leave behind the rush and hum of Dakota for Emmy's peaceful, dark side street, a part of the city I've never seen, the fancy world where Lenoe must have lived with Papa Roy. All the huge houses are decorated for the holiday. Glowing pumpkins, scarecrows on hay bales, witches on brooms hanging from trees.

  My feet ache from the cold soaking through my tennis shoes, and my hands are frozen into stiff fists. Shivering, I stop in front of Emmy's house. 2632 Alden. It looks just like I imagined it; a fairy-tale palace with pillars, balconies, a princess tower rising out from the roof. Bright jacko'-lanterns line the winding brick walkway. I picture the circular staircase leading up to Emmy's room, and her canopy bed done in white lace. When I press the doorbell, chimes ring.

  “Yes,” Emmy's mother says, opening the door and smiling down at me. “Do you want to say trick-or-treat?” She hesitates before reaching into a bowl and handing me a giant Hershey bar. I can see Emmy in her: in the icy white hair wound into a hive on her head, the thin string of pearls on her pale neck, the sharp white teeth. “Trick or treat?” she reminds me.

  “I'm here for the party,” I croak out, before she closes the door.

  “The party?”

  “Is this Emmy Atwood's house?”

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Faina McCoy.”

  “Ah, yes. The new girl with the odd name. We haven't seen you at Sunday Mass.”

  Inside the entryway, I shudder from the sudden rush of warm air, the sweet smell of baked apples, Mrs. Atwood's heavy perfume.

  “Is that a costume?” she asks me.

  “Sort of. I came as a deer hunter. It's my grandfather's.”

  “How kind of him to lend it to you.”

  “He's dead.”

  “Is that right?” she smiles. “Well, I'm sorry.”

  “Is Emmy here?”

  “Of course she is. It's her party. You're just a little late arriving. The girls are already feasting on pizza down in the rec room. Please leave your shoes on the mat, we don't want to scuff the floor.”

  The wooden floor mirrors the crystal chandelier, golden and glassy. I imagine Saturday evenings with Emmy playing piano, and Mr. and Mrs. Atwood waltzing over the polished sea.

  “May I take your coat?” she asks, reaching out toward me.

  “That's okay,” I say. “I'm still pretty cold.”

  “I'm sure it's quite a change from. . . . Is it San Francisco?”

  “San Diego.”

  “Yes, well, California.”

  I kneel down to untie my shoelaces, but my fingers are so cold they won't move.

  “Your hands are blue. No mittens in this weather? Well, at least you had the good sense to wear something on your head.”

  At home, standing in front of the mirror, listening to Lenore praise Papa Roy's shooting skills, his cap had filled me with pride. But now I'm ashamed of it.

  “I'm so glad you girls have decided to go out trick-or-treating. You should stay children as long as you can. Emmy's our baby, youngest of five, so of course we don't want to see her grow up.”

  I follow Mrs. Atwood through the shining rooms of the mansion, past the enormous leather furniture, the polished table
s, the hand-painted china cabinet, the grandfather clock donging loudly in the long hallway where the wall is a gallery of Emmy's family.

  “I suppose it shows—we can't get enough of our children,” Mrs. Atwood laughs. “And Emmy's our delight. Our last little girl. Well, this is it,” she says, opening a door to a paneled staircase.

  In the rec room, a few girls from my class flock around silver platters of chips and dip, large glass bowls of candy corn and chocolate kisses. Along the bar, tiny orange pumpkin lights flicker on the half-eaten pizza slices abandoned on paper plates. The familiar burn of hunger returns to my stomach.

  “What took you?” Emmy says. “We've been waiting.” Tonight, with her lips painted blood red, and a black wig on her head, she's a witch in a long black satin dress. “Didn't you come in costume?”

  “Not really.” If I keep my coat on, she'll never see me in Papa Roy's orange hunting vest. “I didn't have time to put one together. We just got back from going out to dinner.”

  “Then what's that?” she asks, pointing at Papa Roy's cap.

  “Oh, it's part of my grandfather's deer-hunting outfit. I brought it along for fun. It's not a costume really.”

  “I guess not. Deer hunting? Well, let's get going. We've been waiting long enough.” Emmy swoops one arm over the girls and they rise together.

  “Your mom said we were going trick-or-treating?”

  “Don't believe everything you hear,” Emmy says. “From my mom, especially.”

  I don't want to go back into the cold; my fingers and toes haven't thawed from my long walk. I want to stay with the greasy cardboard pizza boxes, the half-moons of crust, the cold cans of pop. Bring back John F. Kennedy. But instead, I scramble up the stairs behind the rest of Emmy's herd.

  “Do you know where we're going?” I whisper to Carolyn.