I lifted her chin, stared into her muddled eyes. “Papa Roy's dead, Mother. What about the knife? Did you get a prescription for Valium?”
She brushed my hand away. “I told you I'm dying, Cammy. I'm dying, and nobody cares.”
Lenore - The Whirlpool
It was Cammy's fault for leaving me scared. Scared of the papers, the doctors touching my naked body, scared of the cotton robe, the questions, the way they trapped me the last time. I didn't care about the knife; I didn't want to lose her again.
I waited until she crossed the street and disappeared around the first corner. My beautiful baby. My first little girl.
It was dim inside the Whirlpool, dim and smokey. I sat down at the bar under the Grain Belt Beer light, paid the bartender in cash. On TV, they'd stalled out the Watergate hearings for the Patty Hearst story. “Turn it up,” I said. I couldn't get enough of it, the kidnapped college student, the heiress, the hostage who'd joined her captors and changed her name. Tania. The fugitive. The girl with a machine gun robbing a bank. She looked so much like my little Faina, dark hair, dark eyes, that same sort of beret. And now it was Faina who was changing her name.
“How do you keep them safe?” I asked the bartender.
“Never had kids of my own,” he said, emptying my ashtray.
“It's impossible nowadays. Look at Patty, she was home, wearing her bathrobe when they took her away. Her bathrobe. Now they've brainwashed her. Blackmailed her family. It's money they're after; an heiress is never safe. I have the same fears for my own girls. Papa Roy had it with me.”
“I'm sure, “the bartender said. “Either way, it's over for her. Patty Hearst is screwed.”
I lost track of time. An hour, maybe two. When I'd spent the last of my money, I went back to Hennepin County. The lobby was warm; I took my place in a line of people waiting for free chest X-rays. Why not? That was close enough.
It was easy to answer their questions, I gave them Mother's name, my old address in Kenwood. Anyone could change their identity. Let them try to trace a dead woman. I don't know what it was, some kind of lung cancer or TB screening. I just took my seat, wrapped my coat around me. It was an oven in there, but I couldn't stop shivering. Eileen Dahl. I figured I'd wake when they called my name. But it never came to that.
Hi Honey,
Who could believe a little cat. You hassled me for a pet so many years, I thought you'd given up. Persephone? What kind of name is that? She sounds like a beauty, but don't let her take all your love away from Croc. Remember, he came from far away. He needs a home.
Honey, I know when I first left I said one year, but it's going to be a little longer. What can I do, they won't give me a ticket back. Besides, you got to be out of the country a year and a half to skip the income tax, and the company only wants guys who can commit to two. I thought I'd give it a try, see if you were all right. And things are working out great for you. I'm happy. Some ups and downs but isn't that just life? I knew you would survive. I'm the one in hell. Working twelve to midnight all this week. I'm sure Lenore will keep you, but I'm going to tell her later, when I've sent some $. I bet she's pissed I haven't sent much yet. But I'm saving. I'll pay off all the sharks when I get back. Then we'll be free. As far as that legal bullshit goes, there's no dark secret. Forget it. I think it had to do with her old man's money. He didn't want us to touch it. We lived fine without it, so I signed. Anyway that's court stuff. It's got nothing to do with us. Lenore's your mother either way. No paper in the world can change that fact. We live the way we want. Got me? Remember that I love you. Dad
Faina - Protect Us
My book is nearly finished. I've replaced the missing photographs with stories of my baptism and first communion. All of my writing is done in ink, skipping a line in-between like Mrs. Lajoy ordered. I loop thick green yarn through the three holes punched out along the side.
“Just in time. Now all we need is that baptismal certificate,” Mrs. Lajoy says, taking my book from me. “It's your last day with me; confirmation practice starts on Monday.” She pages through my book. “Your cover is especially well-done.”
“Thank you.” I like it, too—the gifts of the Holy Spirit colored in marker; my title, HOLY SACRAMENT, printed in bold, three-dimensional letters I learned how to draw at my old school.
Mrs. Lajoy stares at me. “Has this school year gone by fast for you?” She crosses her legs and rests her hands on her knees. “I mean, it's April already. Maybe it's just me, but I'm already counting down the days until June 7.” Mrs. Lajoy looks like April in her long, cloudy Easter-colored skirt and her muslin shirt. “And you, you made it through your first Minnesota winter. That couldn't have been easy.”
I nod, busy myself snapping the caps back on my markers.
“I think it's been a stretch for all of us. I'm glad I teach third grade; there's something simple about it. You're at a hard age—seventh grade, it's tough. Someday you'll look back and see that. And what you'll see is, you survived it.”
“You think?” I glance at Mrs. Lajoy through the curtain of hair I've let fall across my face.
“Definitely. Life's full of strange things. And I'll tell you something else. This wasn't the place for you, Faina. You'll look back and see that. We're all good people. You, me. The other students here at Cathedral. Sister Linette, who really cared about you. But good people don't always fit together. It doesn't make anybody wrong. Do you follow me?”
“Yep.” I arrange my markers carefully in their box. Dave Fadden, Tom Payne, Emmy Atwood, Sister Cyril, Monsignor. They aren't good people to me. Neither is Sister Linette, who hasn't spoken to me since I skipped Midnight Mass. I try to imagine the someday Mrs. Lajoy means. The someday when I'll feel differently.
“But I'll always remember your gifts,” Mrs. Lajoy says. “We all will, even those who don't want to admit it.”
I nod again. What gifts? I feel like I'm at my funeral. “I don't think they all will.”
“They will,” Mrs. Lajoy says, solidly. “What I'm trying to say is, next year, you'll make a fresh start. I hope, I don't know how to say this, I hope it's a wide place. A place big enough for a girl with your spirit.”
“A wide place?” I'm lost now. Did Lenore tell them I was only here for the year when we registered last September? Or does Mrs. Lajoy somehow know my dad was supposed to come back for me? Next year won't be a fresh start, but I don't know how to explain that to Mrs. Lajoy.
“Whatever's ahead of you. Who knows? But keep in mind, this wasn't the right fit. Don't blame yourself.”
“I won't.” I slip my markers back in my pencil case, zip it closed. Recess is over, and outside Mrs. Lajoy's classroom, the hallway hums with the rush of her kids. “I should go upstairs now. Sister Cyril won't want me to be late.”
“Faina, could you wait?” Mrs. Lajoy says, rising to open the classroom door. “I've got to get the children settled, then we'll finish.”
When the kids dart into the classroom they run up, rope their little arms around my waist. “Hug, hug,” they scream, shoving against each other to get close to me.
“Give her some space,” Mrs. Lajoy laughs. Now that it's spring, the kids smell like sun when they come in from recess. I miss the old smell of snow and sweat, their faces wet with cold. “Everyone, let's gather.”
I stay at my little desk in the corner. I know when the kids are settled, she's going to take me out in the hallway and ask about my sponsor. Since no one knows Lenore is my mother, I've decided to have her stand up behind me when the archbishop sets his hands on my head, and if they ask, I'll say she's my aunt from California. I know she'll agree, for one day she'll get dressed and come to church, because she won't want outsiders snooping into our business.
Mrs. Lajoy takes her guitar out of her case, strums a chord for attention. “What shall we sing today, my little angels? Raise your hands.”
I want to go back to third grade again, to be one of Mrs. Lajoy's angels, to sit in her room with the giant stuffed bear, Pa
ndy, the glass jar of jelly beans, the little clay pots of grass seed lined up along the window ledge. I want to sit at Mrs. Lajoy's feet, my legs crossed, my hand raised, waiting for her to call on me.
“Why don't we let Faina choose today?” Mrs. Lajoy says. “Since it's her last day downstairs with us.”
The kids all turn to look at me, their eyes bright with spring, their bodies squirming. “Boo,” they hiss, their thumbs pointing down toward the floor. “We don't want her to go.”
“I know,” Mrs. Lajoy says, strumming again for silence. “Class, quiet please. Is there a song you'd like us to sing for your last day?”
“Sure,” I say, trying to decide quickly what my request should be. I love all their songs, the way they really do sound like angels when they sing with Mrs. Lajoy. One last time, I'd like to hear Mrs. Lajoy sing her favorite. “What about ‘Tis the Gift to be Simple’?” I like the mystery of this song, the words that don't make any sense, the graceful melody.
Mrs. Lajoy smiles at me. “A girl after my own heart.” She scoots her chair around to face me. “Okay, class, let's sing.”
'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free, 'tis the gift to come down where we ought to be. Mrs. Lajoy sings the first verse solo. She stares straight into my eyes today, as if it's a song she's written for me. “And when we find ourselves in the place just right, we will be in the valley of love and delight.”
Her angels join in at the chorus. “You sing, too,” Mrs. Lajoy calls out to me. “We know you have a beautiful voice.”
When the song is finished, Mrs. Lajoy's class claps. “Faina, you should be proud of your voice,” Mrs. Lajoy says. “It's one of your God-given gifts. Use it.”
“Thanks,” I say. “That was great.” I grab my pencil case and my notebook. As much as I loved their song, I want to get out of here before Mrs. Lajoy returns to the question of my missing sponsor.
“Wait,” Mrs. Lajoy says, setting her guitar down into her case. “There's one more thing. Could you come here, Faina?” She reaches down into her guitar case and pulls out a tiny gift-wrapped box. “We wanted to get you something. To thank you for all your help. Didn't we, class?” The class claps again, bounces up and down on their butts. “Open it,” they scream.
I'm so flustered from it all—their song, the gift, the classroom full of kids staring at me—I can hardly unwrap the present. Under the paper there's a small, black velvet box. When I push against it with my thumb, it pops open.
“It's a St. Christopher medal,” Mrs. Lajoy says. “For protection. I know it's not your saint, but we voted on it as a class; it's the one we wanted you to have.”
St. Christopher Protect Us is written on the silver. “Thank you.” I want to say more, but the words are caught in my throat.
“I'll help you put it on,” Mrs. Lajoy says, taking the box from me.
She stands behind me, guides the silver chain around my neck and fastens it. Then she rests one soft hand on my head. “What do you say, class?”
“Thank you for all your help,” they shout out, as if it's been rehearsed.
“Run along now,” Mrs. Lajoy says. “Don't worry, Sister Cyril knows that you'll be late.”
Today, when I go home, I hardly notice the dumpster. Usually that word is a rock in my chest, but today, it's different. I can't wait to wake Lenore and tell her about the medal and the music. I wish Cammy were home, too, so I could tell her everything, but she's pulling longer shifts at the Starlight, waiting lunch and dinner for extra tips.
Per is asleep in her usual spot on the pillow, her head tucked next to Lenore's cheek. “Hi, girl,” I say, scooping her up for her after-school kiss. I run my hand over the tiny bones poking through the top of her skull. No matter how much we feed her, she's so skinny her ribs still ridge through her fur. “We got to fatten you up, Per.”
“Faina,” Lenore mumbles, opening her eyes. “Why are you home so early?”
“It's my usual time. How are you feeling?”
“My mouth is so dry,” she says, touching her tongue to her lip. “No matter what I drink. Nothing makes a difference.” As soon as she speaks the coughing starts. She beats her fist against her chest. “This damn thing,” she sighs. “Hand me a cigarette.”
“You shouldn't smoke with a cold.”
“I know, I know,” she says, patting my hand. “Damn death sticks. They've got me hooked.”
I pass her the pack of Salems. Ever since her cough started, I've quit smoking. Even with Jimmy. Sometimes I miss the peace it gave me, the cool minty taste on my tongue, but then I think of Lenore hacking and gasping, spitting yellow phlegm into a Kleenex, and the thought of cigarettes makes me gag.
“I want to show you something.” I lift up my medal for her to see. “It's a St. Christopher medal. Mrs. Lajoy gave it to me for helping down in her classroom.”
“Oh, Faina. I'm so proud of you,” Lenore says, her eyes tearing up. “I'm so happy I sent you to that school. It's the best decision I ever made. You've done so well there. It's been a good year here, hasn't it? I mean all and all. You're happy to finally be home?” When the coughing fit hits again, she squeezes my hand.
I lift the warm glass of water to her lips. “Swallow.” The thin trickle of water gurgles down her throat. “Lenore, I think you should see somebody. A doctor.”
She crinkles her nose, shakes her head. “I know this year won't make up for everything. But we've been so happy. Together. Will you remember me as a good mother?”
“Sure,” I say. She's never called herself my mother. I brush her matted hair away from her forehead. I think of last summer, all the hours I spent backcombing her hair, helping her fix her face, the classics we read together. I try to remember when it all changed, when the cough came to stay, but I can't.
“Faina,” Lenore says, closing her eyes. “I love you more than you'll know.”
When she's asleep, I lift Per from her bed and go out to the hall to call Cammy. In a fat, torn 1967 phone book, I look up Starlight Lanes.
“Starlight Lanes,” a man hollers over loud music. “What'll it be?”
“Cammy McCoy.” I say. “She's working. No personal calls on my time clock.”
“It's an emergency.”
“Sure, sure. They all are. Cammy,” he yells. “You got two minutes.”
“What?” Cammy growls.
“It's me. Faina.”
“What do you need? I got three tables waiting.”
“It's Lenore. She seems really sick. Worse than usual.”
“Right,” Cammy says. “There's nothing I can do about it now.”
“What about an ambulance?”
“No ambulance. Stay out of it,” Cammy says. “I mean it. You don't know shit. I'll handle it in the morning.”
“I'm running across the street to Kenny's,” I whisper to Lenore, but she doesn't answer me. I feel guilty leaving her, but I've sat in her bed for hours waiting for her to wake up. Besides, I need to get outside, breathe the spring air, see Jimmy.
When I get to the fire escape, he's already waiting there, perched on the top step, staring up at the stars, smoking.
“I wish you'd quit,” I say, taking my place beside him. “Haven't you ever read the warning on the side of the package?”
“That's bullshit,” he laughs. “My old man's been smoking since he was ten and he's healthy as a horse. It just gives the government something to do. Like the war on VD. Besides, I've kicked everything else. I'm so clean I squeak.”
I rest my cheek against the cold metal railing, let the warm chill of the night wind brush across my face.
“I thought April would never get here,” Jimmy says. “I can't believe how fast this year's gone. When I first got to New Directions, the end seemed a lifetime away.”
As happy as I am to be out here with Jimmy, to fill my lungs with the spring air, to know the dark wall of winter's behind me, I can't quit thinking about Lenore's cough and what Cammy plans to do in the morning.
“What
's with you?” Jimmy says, shaking my shoulder. “We'll see each other again.”
“What do you mean?”
“After New Directions, you know. Maybe I'll come to San Diego like we planned. I want to see that ocean you're so crazy about. What do you think?”
“Great,” I say.
“Will your sister be going back with you?”
“I don't know.” This is the first time Jimmy has mentioned Cammy since the day I told him she was home. I wonder if he's discovered the beautiful girl I've hidden from him. “Why?”
“Just wondering. I've seen her around. Coming and going from your building. In that pink waitress uniform. That's her, right?”
“Yeah.”
“She's hot, but she doesn't look anything like you. Doesn't act like you either. You sure you got the same old man?”
“Jimmy, I've got to go now. I still have homework to finish.” I don't feel like talking anymore; I want to crawl into my bed and hold Per against my chest. I want Cammy to come home from the Starlight.
“Hey, you stay on the straight and narrow,” Jimmy says, tugging my braid. “Don't let that sister of yours screw you up.”
“Screw me up?”
“See that?” Jimmy asks, nodding toward the dumpster where the fluorescent slut glows in the streetlight. “That's for your sister. It's written all over her. Have I ever steered you wrong?” Before I can answer, Jimmy bends down and kisses me on the lips. It happens so fast, I miss my chance to kiss him back. “I've been wanting to do that since Christmas. There's four years between us. Maybe three and a half? So what? That won't seem like much when you're older. We'll wait for each other. You saved my life this year.”
“You've saved mine,” I stutter. It isn't exactly what I mean, but it's all that comes to me. As soon as I say it, I wish it were true. I wish he could save me.
Where No Gods Came Page 17
