When we got inside his apartment, I hid in the bathroom, staring into the toilet while the slimy gray lumps slid out between my legs. Clayton opened the door, tossed in an old pair of work pants and a couple of dishtowels. I left them on the floor, wadded at my feet. My jeans were pulled down to my ankles, my legs covered in blood.
“Can you go to the store for me?” I asked.
“Sure, Cammy. Sure. For you I can do anything.”
Outside the bathroom window, the first snow began to fall with a fury. Heavy white flakes piled on the trees. I remembered how, as a kid, I couldn't wait for the first snow. It felt like a promise. Like a new beginning. I tried to feel that again, but I was empty. I just felt cold and alone, crouched on the toilet, shivering, watching Tony's tiny baby slip clean of me.
Faina - Jimmy Cordova
His name is Jimmy Cordova.
Winter nights when Lenore dreams beneath her down quilt, and the streets below our window are finally quiet, I take my diary outside to the fire escape, to write and wait for Jimmy.
Each time he crosses the alley, I pretend I'm there by chance.
“How was work?” I call down to him, my voice surprising in the still night.
“How could it be?” Then he climbs the fire escape, the metal stairs clanging under his leather work boots, to smoke one last cigarette with me before curfew at New Directions.
“How can you hang out here in the cold?” he asks, huddling down into his leather jacket, the fur collar pulled up to his chin.
I love the winter, the sparkle of snow in the streetlights, the hushed streets, the icy blue branches of the trees. I love the stillness, the muffled sound of footsteps.
“It doesn't bother me,” I say, shrugging.
“Cigarette?” he asks, smacking a Camel from his pack and handing it to me. I stuff my mittens into my jacket pocket, press the fresh cigarette between my lips. When Jimmy's not here, I practice smoking, stealing a Salem while Lenore sleeps and sneaking outside for a quick cigarette. I've learned to love the hot smoke in my lungs, the cool mint on my tongue, the calm that crawls through my brain.
Jimmy leans toward me, offering a light off the flickering match he screens with his cupped hands. “Just one,” he says. “Then I got to get trucking.”
“How come I never see stars in this city?” Jimmy asks me. Tonight the sky glows the same pearly gray as the snow.
“It's the streetlights. They're shining so bright down here in the alley, it's hard to see the sky. When I lived in San Diego, the ocean was as dark as the sky, so that when you looked out into the distance, you couldn't tell the difference. It felt like the end of the world. Nothing.”
“I'd like to see that someday,” Jimmy says, flicking his ash over the edge. “Anywhere. I can't wait till I get out of this place.”
“New Directions?”
“The whole scene. This goddamn city. I've done my time. Six months in Red Rock. Now this.” He fiddles with the gold cross hanging from his left ear.
“What's Red Rock?”
“Ah,” he says, spitting down into the snow. “A detention center mostly. Hell on earth. It's lockup. You know, electric fence, a watch tower. The whole works. I could tell you some stories, but I think they'd shock a little Catholic girl like you.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “Tell me.”
“Not tonight,” he reaches over and pinches my nose. “Maybe not ever.”
I throw my cigarette down into the alley, pull my mittens out of my pocket. The hardest part of smoking outside in winter is how cold and stiff my fingers get. “I'm not that Catholic,” I say, puffing warm air into my mittens.
“Cathedral? You got to be kidding. Besides, I know sheltered when I see it.”
He unwraps a stick of Dentyne and sets it on my tongue. “Body of Christ,” he says, laughing. “See I was Catholic once. Be smart. You don't want your old lady smelling it on your breath.”
Winter in Minneapolis, the things I'll never forget. Cinnamon, snow, tobacco, Jimmy Cordova, his pink palms, his skin the color of caramel. “Our house is playing hockey at Dakota Park on Saturday. 1:30. Come on down if you want to see me skate. I used to be pretty good.”
“I'll be there,” I promise, although it will mean convincing Lenore.
“Good-bye, Faina McCoy,” he says, standing. Before he leaves, he gives my stocking cap a little tug. “Go inside now, little one. It's freezing.”
I creep into our quiet apartment, leave the lights off so I won't wake Lenore. Outside her bedroom door, I pause until I hear her snoring. By 9:30, she's disappeared into a sleep so deep, when I whisper, “Good night, Lenore,” she doesn't even hear me.
Stretched out on my stomach in bed, I stare out across the deserted parking lot to the other side of the alley, where the warm lit windows of New Directions darken one by one. I know in one of those rooms, Jimmy sleeps, snuggled into a bunkbed probably, his shaggy hair fanned out on his pillow, his long eyelashes fluttering. I wish we could build an invention to connect us, a string with a pulley to send notes back and forth, or one of those homemade walkie-talkies with tin cans and wire. I try to send him a psychic message: Jimmy, go to the window and look out at me. Jimmy, go to the window. But he never does.
Finally, I give up, close my eyes and try to sleep. In just a few hours, Lenore will wake from a nightmare and scream my name until I appear at her bedside to calm her. “It's the nights that paralyze me,” she'll say, clutching my hand. “If only I knew Cammy was safe.”
On Saturday, I beg Lenore to let me go to Carolyn Pugh's house to finish our history project on Hiroshima.
“They expect too much of you at that school,” she says. “Your face has hardly healed.” She runs her hand along my cheek. “I hope you don't have permanent scars.”
“It's daylight. Nothing will happen to me, I promise. Besides, I don't have a choice. It's assigned.”
“I hate Saturday TV,” she says, shaking her head. “Sports or old movies. I never should have sent you to school.”
“I agree. But what can we do about it now?”
I stumble down the front stairs, clutching the wrought-iron handrail to keep from tripping in Cammy's high-heeled boots. Even with my jeans tucked into the white vinyl, the boots are so tall on me they jab into the back of my thigh. Outside, the glare of sun on snow is blinding. When I blink my eyes, white splotches glow inside my lids. I practice taking a few steps without wobbling. Through the frosty bakery window, Frances watches me, but when I give her a wave, she busies herself with her customers. Ever since the school threat, the bakery has been forbidden. I still crave the marmalade twists, but the trouble with Frances I can do without.
I teeter down to Dakota Park. I haven't been here since my bookmobile days last summer, and the old world of park benches and kiddie pool has been buried under a blanket of snow. I can't get over the strangeness of the seasons here, how the world looks brand-new with the weather. I trudge through the fields, sinking into snow like quicksand. Just a few months ago boys played baseball here, and I sat reading under the shady umbrella of elms. But everything's changed since then. Everything.
When Jimmy sees me leaning over the white boards, he skates close by and gives me a wink. He's so smooth on the ice, he's almost flying, his body gliding over the ground. Jimmy's speed makes it hard to keep up with the game, but when he scores a goal, he throws his hands over his head in a cheer of victory, and turns to make sure I'm watching. I don't know why, but I feel shy standing there, the only spectator, flinching each time the puck smacks against the boards.
Then suddenly, someone is slamming into Jimmy, pounding his body into the boards. My stomach sinks for Jimmy and for me, because I recognize that boy in the black stocking cap, the army jacket, that boy with the raw chapped circle of red on his face. Tom Payne.
I want to take off through these fields, run home and deadbolt my door. Instead, I pull my scarf up to my eyes, inch down my cap, hide inside my pea coat. If he sees me leave, he might tell Jimmy about
Halloween, call me a slut, tell the sailor story. I don't want Jimmy to know the truth about Cathedral, the truth about me. When Jimmy skates by again, I see he's bleeding, a trail of blood trickling from his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his leather work glove, winks again at me. “That's it,” he says, skating off the ice. “Time for a break.”
I follow Jimmy off the ice to a park bench frosted with snow. “Have a seat,” he says, brushing a spot clean for me.
“That's it?” I ask. “So quick?”
“Nah, that was just a pickup game—you know, a little warm-up before the real thing.” He runs his sleeve over his lip. “Shit, I'm still bleeding.” Then he tucks his gloves between his knees. “Feel this,” he says, pressing my face between his moist hands. “I'm burning.” When he stares at me, his face flushed and wet, his black eyes glistening, I realize it's the first time I've seen Jimmy in the daylight, the first time I've really seen the cracked skin on his knuckles, the tiny emerald in the middle of his earring, his sharp side fangs. I lift my hand to my eye, hoping to cover the hint of scar that divides my eyebrow, the bluish bruise that's been with me since Halloween.
“I like your hair long,” he says, lifting it up and letting it fall back to my shoulders. “Why do you always wear it in a braid?”
“My mom. She hates it in my face.”
“Did you see I scored the winning goal? I'm hot today, even in borrowed skates. If I go back to Edison in the fall, I might go out for varsity.”
“Yeah,” I say, barely listening. “I can't stay. I need to get to the library to write a report.”
“You're always writing,” he says. “In that little diary. Ever write about me?”
“Why would I?” I burrow my hands down in my pockets, keep my eyes on Tom Payne. I want to get out of here before he sees me.
“Don't you think I'm interesting?”
“I got to go,” I say, standing up. “I'll come and see another game.”
“What's your hurry?” Jimmy says, pulling me back down on the bench next to him, so close our legs are touching. “Stay for a smoke at least.”
“Here? We can't smoke here.”
“Why not? The counselors don't care. We just can't smoke in the house.” He pulls the Camels from his jacket, nudges one between my stubborn lips. “I got the Dentyne.”
Maybe it's the blinding sun, or the sweat, or the rush of the game, but today Jimmy seems like a stranger. It was a mistake to meet him here, away from our secret world of the fire escape.
“Don't worry, little girl,” he says, striking the match. “Just one smoke, then I'm going back for the real thing.” He unzips his leather jacket, presses my hand against his drumming chest. “Feel that. My heart's pounding.”
“Yeah,” I say, pulling away. He rests his arm across the back of the park bench.
“Relax,” he says, slumping closer to me. “You'll get to the library soon enough.”
“Great boots, Fauna McCoy,” Tom Payne shouts. “Really sexy.” He's standing at the edge of the rink, hanging over the white board, eyeing me and Jimmy.
“That's the asshole who slammed me,” Jimmy says, sitting up straight.
“You out sleazing?” Tom Payne yells.
“Get screwed,” Jimmy shouts, flipping him the finger.
“Not by that rag. She's screwed everybody,” Tom Payne screams. “Anyway, it looks like she's already busy with you boys from JD.” Then he turns and skates back into the game.
“What the hell was that?” Jimmy asks. “He an old boyfriend or something?”
“No,” I say, trying to hide inside my coat. “I don't even know his name.”
“Well he knows yours,” Jimmy says, lighting a second cigarette. “Sort of.”
“He goes to my school.”
“Well, he's got a thing for you.” I let Jimmy believe what he wants to believe. I'll never tell anyone the truth about Halloween, or the trouble I brought on myself. “I'll kill that asshole,” Jimmy mutters, huffing out a mouthful of smoke. “But he's right about one thing. Those boots make you look like a hooker.”
“My mom's getting me a new pair for Christmas,” I say, ashamed of Cammy's boots, the cracked white vinyl, the matted fur lining that doesn't even keep my feet warm. I wish I could tell Jimmy they're the only boots Cammy left me. “The snow soaks through my tennis shoes,” I explain, but he isn't listening. He's staring off at the hockey rink, watching Tom Payne skate, and rubbing his fists down the front of his jeans.
“Next game, I'm going to beat the shit out of that punk,” he says. “You wait and see.”
“Leave him alone, Jimmy.” I know if Jimmy goes after him, I won't be safe at school Monday.
“I don't walk away from a fight,” Jimmy says, glaring at me. “You stay away from that kid: He's going to bring you trouble.”
“What about Christmas?” I say, anxious to change the subject.
“Christmas? Who the hell brought that up?”
“You said you might get a pass. You know, to go home and see your family.”
“Yeah, I did. Ten days.”
“Ten days?”
He's still distracted, still hunting Tom Payne with his eyes. “Whatever that's worth. Holidays at my house are always a drag. My old lady cooks too much, my old man drinks too much. You know how it is with nine kids. The little ones get the best presents. Some crappy toy they've circled in the catalog. I end up with corduroy pants I wouldn't be buried in.”
“You've got nine kids in your family?” This Christmas, Lenore and I will be alone, surrounded by decorations I've discovered in the hall closet: the Santa light with the burnt-out bulb, the miniature plastic tree I've set up in the living room, the porcelain manger set arranged at the side of Lenore's bed.
“The two oldest are off serving. And my sister Gwen's living with some loser who knocked her up, so my dad won't let her come home. My mom will spend the whole day lighting candles and crying for the ones who aren't there. It's always the ones who are missing that matter.”
I think about Cammy's red stocking hung on Lenore's doorknob, her name printed with glue and gold glitter.
“Get some new boots,” Jimmy says, standing suddenly. He zips his jacket, yanks his gloves back over his hands. “I got a game to play.”
“You work tonight?” I ask, hoping we can go back to our fire-escape friendship, before I wore these ridiculous boots, before Tom Payne changed me in Jimmy's eyes.
“Nah, it's Saturday. I'll catch up with you some other time.”
“Angels we have heard on high.” Sister Linette mouths the words to me, her hands clapping out the beat. We're practicing my solo for Friday's Christmas program. “Those who sing,” she says to the class, “speak directly to God.”
When we reach the chorus of Gloria, the whole class is supposed to chime in but, as usual, it's only the girls singing. And even then, they hardly raise their voices at all. Sister stops the song. “Cut,” she shouts like a movie director. “I don't hear a single alto in the room.” She tugs on her ear. “And the sopranos sound like a dentist drill. We'll sit here all day if we have to. In two days, your parents are coming to the Christmas program to see you perform, not to watch you take up space on the stage. Faina, you may rest while the rest of the class practices.”
I take my place in the metal folding chair next to the piano and wait, wishing I didn't have to face my classmates while Sister Linette struggles to coax music out of the boys. They slouch down in their seats, their hands in their pants pockets, their eyes rolled toward the ceiling. The girls point at me, poke each other in the ribs and giggle. It's because of me they refuse to sing.
“Again,” Sister Linette orders, throwing her arms out in front of her. “Or you can all come back at lunch and practice.”
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I ask.
“You may go to the lavatory,” she says. “Quickly.”
When I return to the music room, the rest of my class has left. The brown folding chairs are scattered around
the room, and the floor is littered with paper.
“Faina, I'd like to talk to you,” Sister Linette says, ushering me toward her. “Come in and shut the door.”
“I've got a math test.”
“It can wait. I'll send Sister Cyril a note. Have a seat, please.”
I smooth my uniform under my bare legs so my skin won't stick to the cold metal chair.
“I'm sorry your mother didn't give you permission to be my assistant,” Sister Linette says, gently setting the cover down over the piano keys. “But I'd like you to sing your solo as part of the children's choir at Midnight Mass. You have a fine voice.”
“Midnight Mass? What's that?” After Halloween, I'm afraid to walk by myself in the dark.
“Midnight Mass? It's on Christmas Eve, of course. Haven't you ever gone?”
“No, we go to bed early.”
“Well, you're old enough now. It's quite awe-inspiring. I'd be happy to ask your mother when she comes to the program on Friday.”
“No. I can't. Our house is always full of company on Christmas Eve.”
“Even here?” Sister Linette asks. “I thought your family was new to the city?”
“We are, so it's possible we're going back to San Diego for the holidays.”
“Faina, if transportation is a problem, I can make arrangements with another family. I'm sure your room mother, Mrs. Atwood, would be happy to give you a ride.”
“No. Please.” I blink to keep my eyes from filling with tears. I don't know why Sister Linette can't see it's my fault the kids won't sing.
Sister Linette sets her warm hand on my knee. “There are people here who are willing to help you. Are you having problems at home?”
“No,” I insist, but the tears start falling. “I miss my sister, that's all. We don't know if she'll be home for Christmas.”
“Where is she?” Sister Linette asks.
“In Spain modeling.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Sister Linette says. “Spain?”
Where No Gods Came Page 8
