Where No Gods Came

by Sheila O'Connor

  “Shut up,” she says, elbowing me in the rib. “You'll ruin it.”

  At the door, Mrs. Atwood gently glides the coats over the girls' shoulders. My classmates smile up at her, hoping to have their smiles returned. Sometimes she lays her elegant hand over a head, as a sort of blessing. “I'll see you precious goblins soon,” she sings, passing us each a plastic trick-or-treat bag. “Save room for cider and my famous chocolate cake.”

  Then she lifts Emmy's hood over her head, tucking the black wig delicately behind her neck. “Be safe, Emmy,” she says, kissing her quickly on the cheek.

  “Mother,” Emmy groans, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “I'm almost thirteen.”

  “I know that, lovey. But when you grow up, you'll see the best mothers are the ones who protect their children.”

  Outside, under the glow of streetlights, we walk briskly behind Emmy, weaving in and out of trick-or-treaters. Most of the parents say hi to Emmy and Carolyn, while the little kids rush past us. “Have a good time,” they say, waving us on. “Be safe.”

  When the wind steals Papa Roy's cap from my head, I chase after it, into the street, bending to catch it every few steps.

  “Sad costume,” Emmy says. “What a loser.”

  I return to the pack, the girls walking in rows, their arms hooked around each other's waists. “Hey Jude, strip nude,” they sing out, their voices broken in the rush of wind. They bump their hips against each other, shrieking. I try to latch on to the end of one group, but Carolyn twists away from me.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, but they just keep shouting out the song. “Aren't we going trick-or-treating?”

  “Grow up,” Emmy says.

  At the end of Alden, the big houses disappear. “Where are we going?” I ask again, terrified by the darkness.

  “Lakeview Cemetery. Across the street,” Carolyn says. “Now quit asking.”

  “Why are we going there? I don't like cemeteries.” I've never been in one, but I know it's not a place I want to be on Halloween night. “They're creepy.”

  “You're creepy,” Carolyn says to me. “It's a Cathedral tradition. We can't have girl-boy parties until the eighth grade, so the seventh-graders meet for Ghost in the Graveyard. It'll be great. Besides we think Dave Fadden is going to ask Emmy to go with him tonight.” Carolyn loops her arm though Emmy's.

  “Go where?”

  “Go with him, stupid. Go steady.”

  I picture Dave Fadden sitting across from me in class, his desk stuffed with crumpled papers, the shreds of pink eraser littering the floor near his feet, the ink blotches on his fingertips, his spongy hand in mine during morning prayer circle.

  “Dave Fadden? He's a worm.”

  “He's captain of his football team,” Carolyn cries.

  “I might not say yes,” Emmy says. “I went with Jeff Feldman last year and it was so boring. All he did was hide sticks of gum in my desk. Dumb. I'd rather wait and see if an eighth-grader asks me.”

  “I wish someone would ask me,” Carolyn sighs, her voice heavy with envy.

  “Not me. Those boys in our class are jerks.”

  “They're only mean to you, Faina, because you bring it on yourself. You shouldn't brag about that sailor. It makes you seem fast. Everyone says so. Our boys don't like loose girls. They were fine until you came.”

  I shove my stiff hands deeper into the pockets of Cammy's peacoat, balling my fingers so they won't poke through the holes in the ripped lining. “I don't think I'll go,” I say, stopping suddenly.

  “What do you mean?” Emmy hisses, bumping into me.

  “It's too cold. Besides, I thought I was invited to a party.”

  “Duh. This is the party. If you want to go back, go. But you'll go alone.” I scan the circle of girls who have gathered around us; there has to be at least one who wants to turn back with me. “Don't show up at my house, you'll ruin everything.”

  “Faina,” Carolyn says, pulling me by the elbow. “Don't be a baby.”

  I turn to look at the dark streets we've just crossed, the journey through Emmy's neighborhood I'll have to take alone. I remember Lenore's warning: Girls are murdered in this city every day.

  “Okay, I'll come,” I shrug. “But it's a stupid game.”

  “All right,” Emmy says. “Let's get going.”

  When we reach the iron gate of the cemetery, we squeeze sideways though the narrow opening. On the other side of the wrought-iron fence, the hills of the cemetery dip into darkness. Everywhere there are headstones, and trees with branches that look like skeletons against the night sky.

  “This is crazy,” I whisper. “Let's go home.”

  “We must be early,” Emmy says, searching the graveyard with her small flashlight. “I don't see the boys anywhere. Let's play while we wait. I'll go first. It's my party.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” I ask, shivering. My eyes tear from the bitter wind.

  “I count,” Emmy says. “And you run as far as you can. When I get to one hundred, I'll come looking. If you go over the second hill, you're out of bounds. Just freeze in one place until I find you with my flashlight. If you see me first, you run out and tag me and it'll be your turn. One, two, three,” she says. “Get going.”

  Emmy turns her back to us, and we dash off in every direction. The only sounds are Emmy counting and the crackle of leaves crumbling under the stamp of feet.

  “Don't follow me,” Carolyn hisses, shoving me away. “Everyone finds their own hiding place.”

  I run straight ahead, trying to memorize the hiding places of my classmates. I want to stay close to the gate, close to the sound of Emmy counting. “Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three.” The cold air feels like fire inside my lungs, and a sharp ring of pain tightens around my chest. I drop down behind a marble tree stump, rest my back against a scroll engraved with the dead person's name and date. Between pants, I cough up a thick mucus that catches in my throat. Even in the cold, my skin is hot with a mixture of fever and fear.

  When I can no longer hear the distant comfort of Emmy's counting, I press my knees into my chest and pull Cammy's coat down over my stiff legs. I listen for the sound of Emmy's footsteps and for the first time in my life, I pray for a miracle. I ask God to lift me out of this dark place, and deliver me home to Lenore. I want to be there next to her, tucked in safely, her familiar snore soothing me off to sleep.

  “Please God,” I plead. I'm down on my knees the way I've learned to do at weekday Mass. “Please save me.”

  But when I open my eyes again, I'm still here, surrounded by spirits and a dense forest of dangerous trees. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. I wish I had my shepherd bookmark with me, a lucky charm to keep me safe, the way I used to wear my dad's watch to the dentist.

  “Emmy,” I scream. “I'm leaving.”

  In the distance, the streetlights of Alden shine like moons. If I follow them, I'll find my way back to the gate, then I'll race down the street until I'm back among the lucky families, the happy trick-or-treaters, whose lives are nothing like my own.

  “I'm leaving,” I shout again, confused by the incredible stillness. Any minute someone should run up to me, or Emmy's voice should ring through the night: “All-y, All-y in free.”

  “Not so fast,” a voice growls. I'm strangled backward by the collar of my coat. Rough wool gloves cover my eyes, and another hand whips Papa Roy's cap from my head. “Guess who?” he laughs.

  “Careful, you'll get scabies,” another voice says.

  “Emmy,” I cry out, but my voice is muffled under his hand. I kick back at his shins, thrash wildly against him. But he twists my arm, throws me face down to the ground, crouches on top of me. “Give up?” he says.

  When he rolls me over I stare into Tom Payne's ghostly face, the raw red skin circling his mouth like lipstick.

  “Get lost,” I shout, rearing up my hips to throw him off, but he pushes the weight of his body into my stomach, presses his strong kne
es into my rib cage. He smothers my mouth with a scratchy wool glove that smells like wet dog and smoke.

  “So she's a rag,” Dave Fadden says. “Get off her.” He stands over me, Papa Roy's cap perched on his head. “I'm a deer hunter,” he says, his hand on his hip, his voice shrill like a silly girl's. “Aren't I just the sexiest thing?”

  “She thinks she is,” Tom Payne says. “But let's see.”

  His breath reeks of cigarettes and peppermint, some kind of sweet booze.

  “Forget it,” Dave Fadden says, nudging Tom Payne's back with the toe of his boot. “Let's go find the girls. I want to see Emmy.”

  “You go get Emmy,” Tom Payne says. “Leave this one to me.” He grinds a handful of leaves into my face; I blink back the dry specks of dirt crumbling into my eyes. “I just want to know if she's got anything.”

  “Who cares?” Dave Fadden spits. “She's a sleaze.”

  Tom Payne kneads his free hand into my chest, and the pain cuts through to my spine. You bring it on yourself. He presses one knee between my legs, tugs open the top of my coat until the button pops off.

  “You're fucking crazy,” Dave Fadden says. He nooses one arm around Tom Payne's neck and chokes him off of me.

  I stand up to run, but Tom Payne trips me. The heel of his work boot slices into my ankle. Then he's over me again, his angry fist beating against my face. Warm liquid trickles down my lip. “Let her go,” Dave Fadden yells, pulling him back again. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Deer hunting,” Tom Payne laughs, and falls backward into the leaves.

  I stumble up, take off running to save my life that seems somehow to be lost already. I choke on the blood and tears that stream down my tight throat.

  “Faina,” Emmy yells, her evil voice carried forward by the wind from her dark hiding place. “Faina, don't you dare tell anybody. It's only a game.”

  Lenore - The Accident

  As usual, I smelled the danger before her. And still, she insisted on that costume parade.

  Weak as I was, I took care of her. I tucked her in next to me, dabbed her bloody lip with wet cotton balls, arranged my frozen washrags on her broken face. When I pressed my body next to hers to stop the shivering, her skin felt like a furnace.

  She wouldn't go to school with bruises on her face. Why should she? She was ruined beyond recognition, her upper lip swollen, a deep gash dividing her eyebrow, her left eye the muddy blue of midnight, her cheek brown and round as a rotten peach. I told the principal she had bronchitis; the last thing we needed was that school snooping around.

  “You'll go on,” I whispered into her ear when she curled into a cold ball of sorrow. The truth was, I didn't know what would become of her face, how long the scars would last, if it would ever recover its original shape.

  “Don't tell your father. He'll never forgive me for letting you go out at night.”

  “I'm sorry about Papa Roy's cap,” she said to me. But that wasn't the only thing I'd lost.

  I hungered for justice. If I had been another mother, I would have called the police, brought her into the emergency room, but it wasn't safe. Stronger, I would have searched those grim streets for the assailant myself, clawed out his eyes with my bare hands. I had dreams of slicing him open with a steak knife. Who was he? Some reckless man on a bike who drove his tire over my daughter's body, jabbed the pedal into her fragile ribs, smashed the handlebar into her sad face. Crushed her under his weight.

  “It was an accident,” she babbled over and over. An accident? Sure. Too fast around the corner, crashing into a little girl. But what kind of man would pick up his bike and disappear? What kind of monster would leave my daughter for dead?

  Sweetheart,

  What the hell kind of news is that? An accident? I couldn't make the pieces of the story fit together. Did they catch this guy on the bike? If I'd been there I would have tracked him down, beat the shit out of him. You know me. I'm starting to get worried. Is Lenore looking out for you? Sounds to me like it's the other way around.

  Forget those kids at school. Forget them all. It's a short stint, remember that. You won't be there forever. Don't let them screw around with you. I think I'd feel better if Cammy was around, she should be looking out for you.

  There was an accident here the other day. One of the roughnecks got hit on the head when some pipe fell from the derrick. Nice guy, Patterson, from Louisiana. Don't know whether or not he'll make it. This is young guys' work, most are in their 20's. I should've done it then, but I was swamped with you. Think raising you took most the fire out of me. Now I'm too damn old.

  I'd come home tomorrow if I could. It's crossed my mind. Get on a plane in Perth. The only thing keeping me here's the money. How much I owe. How much I have to earn. Stay off those streets. Jesus, what kind of place is Minneapolis? I remember it as tame. I love you babe. Dad

  Cammy - First Snow

  By late November, we were killing time waiting until the first snow fell. Life on the streets had gone to hell, it was so cold, even the dogs came in out of the alleys. Every few days a few flakes fell, but nothing steady. Still, we all knew how hard times would be ahead.

  I took a job cutting keys and stocking hardware shelves at Sears. My boss, Clayton, was okay. Slow, but he had a thing for me. Bought me french fries every break at the food counter. I did a good job helping him with the inventory, ordering out-of-stock paints and sorting the tiny bins of nuts and bolts. If customers had big questions, I sent them over to Clayton. Nobody expected a girl like me to know the first thing about hardware.

  It was decent money. Time-and-a-half on Sundays. When I got my check on Fridays, Tony cashed it for me at Chicago Lake Liquors, bought the two of us a bottle of Lambrusco to celebrate. We passed the icy nights with warm wine bubbling in our stomachs, splitting a frozen pizza, watching Mannix reruns on his black-and-white TV. Once or twice, I got the urge to call my mother, to let her know I was living a good life without her. To tell her I had a real home, I wasn't running. I wanted to know if she was still there, that skinny mutt, that girl whose name we'd almost forgotten.

  When Tony would stop in on my shift, he'd case the place a bit. Get an idea of some things he'd like me to lift, check out the register, if I was ever left alone with the drawer.

  “He can't come around,” Clayton told me. “Mr. Durand says no.”

  Durand's rule was the start of the trouble. I was too many hours out of the house, too many hours leaving Tony to run loose and play his bad games.

  The day the bleeding nearly killed me, Clayton found me doubled over in the stockroom. He brought me some wet paper towels to clean up the mess, soggy wads that shredded in my hands.

  Weeks before, I'd gone down to the Sunshine Free Clinic; I wanted them to check out the boulder bulging in my abdomen. I filled out their two-page questionnaire, gave them my number of partners, sexual practices. I laid, legs spread open on their metal table, while they prodded my insides. The nurse ran tests for syphilis, gonorrhea, maybe a couple of other diseases, but came up empty. Instead of curing me, they put me in a dark room and ran a film strip through a projector. It was a stupid thing about teen pregnancy. How to prevent it.

  “Go home, Cammy,” Clayton said to me. He was a dumb guy, never married, and he was too skittish to see a female bleed. “I'll call Mr. Durand.”

  I could feel the blood seeping down the inside of my jeans. I kept my legs close together, leaned hard on Clayton's arm.

  “Don't worry about the inventory,” Clayton said. “I'll take you home.” I knew he'd cover for me, tag and shelve the outlet covers before Durand had a chance to catch on.

  Clayton's Mustang was souped up, roaring muffler and fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror. It was clean as a plate inside, leather seats, the smell of cherry. The air from the heater blasted into my face.

  “Turn it down,” I snapped. “I can't breathe.”

  “Let me take you down to Abbott Hospital. It's a couple of blocks.”

  “No,�
� I said. “I'll be okay.” I was afraid of the law, the record checking. I didn't want to replay that day I'd taken my mother down to Abbott. The day that started it all. The day that sent me running. “Just take me to my place.”

  I didn't think ahead to Tony; the pain shooting through my brain made me stupid. But he should have heard us coming. When I flipped on the basement light switch, Tony was straddling her, his hairy chest greasy with sweat.

  “Who the hell is that guy?” he shouted at me.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I screamed.

  “What are you doing sneaking home in the middle of the day? Hoping to catch me at something?”

  “Cammy, let's go,” Clayton said. His hand was on my shoulder.

  I struggled free from Clayton and lunged toward the bed. The whore screamed, “Tony, Tony.” But he couldn't save her, I beat her head into the mattress, her hair knotted in my solid fist.

  “Jesus, Cammy,” Tony shouted, over and over, dancing around me, naked. “Don't be crazy.”

  I forgot about the blood, the brick that throbbed inside of me. I had my old fight back. I scraped my fingernails over the whore's face, leaving her a deep scar for a memory.

  “Give me back my money,” I yelled at Tony. I knew there wasn't any left, but it was the principle of the thing. The months I'd been supporting his sorry ass while he screwed around on me. “Give it back to me.”

  “You're crazy,” he said. He throttled my throat with his hands.

  Maybe I was crazy. Clayton must have agreed, because he threw me over his shoulder, kicking and fighting, and carried me out into the cold. Who knows if Tony would have fought for me? But he was too smart to run stark naked into the street.

  It wasn't until we were back in the car, engine revving, Clayton's arm pinning me into my seat, that I felt the wet clots oozing out of me.

  “I'm taking you to my place,” Clayton huffed. “My mother will understand.” I didn't argue. I was too beaten to show up at Sears; I needed clothes, a place to sleep. I had no home. No mother to take care of me.