Where No Gods Came

by Sheila O'Connor

“Yes. At least that was the last we heard.”

  Sister runs her hand down my braid. “Faina, can we talk turkey?”

  I nod my head yes, though I'm not sure what she means.

  “There is some concern about you in the parish. Among your classmates' mothers especially. Something about a boyfriend who's in the Navy? Do you know what I'm saying?”

  I nod again.

  “You're too young to be with boys, Faina. To say nothing of a man who's old enough to serve in the Navy. Is it true he's written you letters? The girls say you've shown them the envelopes from Australia.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

  “You need to cut that off now,” Sister Linette says sternly. “I want you to promise me.”

  “Okay,” I say. That should be easy.

  “And what about this other boy? Monsignor's had a call from a concerned parishioner.”

  “What other boy?” Another boy? I try to remember the other stories I've told. Maybe they've confused me with Cammy.

  “Someone in a halfway house, apparently. You were seen smoking and kissing down at Dakota Park. Last Saturday?”

  “That wasn't me.”

  “You're sure? Remember we agreed to talk turkey. It's time to be honest. We're both going to tell the truth.”

  “I am,” I insist, my face tingling. “I've never kissed a boy.”

  “Is that the boy you snuck off with on Halloween?” Sister Linette keeps her eyes steady on mine to see if I'm lying.

  “Halloween?”

  “Halloween. When you were supposed to be at Emmy Atwood's party. The girls saw you sneak off with a boy. Mrs. Atwood said you didn't bother coming back to the house after trick-or-treating. Then you were absent for two weeks, and there was plenty of talk.”

  “I didn't sneak off with anybody. I was sick with bronchitis. I ran home.”

  “But you have marks on your face, Faina. Bruises and scrapes. We're all trying to make sense of it.”

  “I got hit by a bike that night. It wasn't anything big. The scars are fading.”

  “It isn't the physical scars that worry me. There is far more at stake than your face.” Sister brushes the hair off my forehead with her fingertips. “Now, what about this one in the Navy?” Sister asks, lifting her eyebrows at me. “Didn't you tell the girls you used to French kiss? Minneapolis may seem like a big city, but our parish is a small town. Word gets around. There are very few secrets.”

  I squirm in my chair, pull my jumper down over my knees. “I'm sorry,” I blurt out, burying my face in Sister Linette's shoulder. And I do feel sorry, very sorry. Sorry for my lies and the trouble I've brought on myself.

  “Of course you are,” Sister Linette says, rubbing my back. “Who wouldn't be? Your soul is all you have in the end. Come sing your solo at Midnight Mass, make an effort to turn things around.”

  At the school Christmas show on Friday, the gym is standing-room only. Parents and grandparents shout out names, wave from the crowd. The younger kids get the loudest applause. The audience laughs at their fleecy sheep suits, their tiny ears made of cotton. The third-graders put on the Christmas story with a Chatty Cathy doll wrapped up in a towel, while our class waits in the backstage darkness. We're angels in white bedsheets, with tinseled halos bobby-pinned to our hair.

  “I got a boner,” Tom Payne jokes, sticking his arm straight out of his gown while the boys fall against him choking back laughter. “For Mary.” They pile on each other gasping for breath.

  “Grow up,” Emmy says, whipping her gown around like a cape.

  “Oh baby, baby,” Tom Payne says, rubbing against her with his tented sheet.

  “Get away from me.” Emmy barks. “You're disgusting.”

  “When the angels of the Lord fell upon them,” the narrator reads loudly. On that cue we shuffle onto stage, my class taking their place on the back bleachers, me up front holding the narrator's microphone, waiting for the piano player to signal my solo.

  “Angels we have heard on high,” I sing. Sister Linette is down on the ground, smiling up at me, her arms waving the way. “Sweetly singing o'er the plain.”

  A high-pitched tone squeals from the microphone. The whole auditorium covers their ears.

  Sister runs up and takes the microphone away from me. A new hush falls over the crowd. “You can do without it,” she says. “Just lift your voice to the heavens.”

  I wait again for the pianist to plunk out the opening notes. Then I'm singing, the song squeaking out through the thin space left in my throat. Under my bedsheet my knees are shaking. But when I look at Sister, her eyes bright with pride, I keep going. I'm sure I'll bungle the next word, forget a verse, but somehow it comes out, word for word, the way I practiced it. The chorus is weak, a mumbling of low notes, even the girls are barely singing, but when my turn rolls around again, I sing to the heavens for Sister Linette.

  Finally, there's the thunder of applause, and Sister Linette whispers “good job” as the curtain closes.

  Afterward, I loiter alone at the treat table. Strangers stop by to congratulate me, but I wish Lenore had come to see me sing. “You can perform it for me here,” she said this morning. “I can't battle winter for a song.”

  I choose another Christmas cookie, a buttery red bell from the platters of sweets the mothers have made.

  “Did you see the mitten tree?” It's Mrs. Atwood standing beside me. I recognize her from the party, her high white hair, the pearls, the fur stole resting across her shoulders. She's talking about the huge evergreen in the entry way of Cathedral. For Advent we've decorated it with donated mittens for poor children, and every day when we gather there for our Advent prayers, I think of all the lucky children who will have warm hands this winter because of us.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Well, I remember you weren't wearing any the night you came to Emmy's party. The donations are for poor children. Don't be ashamed to ask for a pair yourself.”

  On Christmas Eve, I count down the hours before I can go outside and say good-bye to Jimmy. Since that day at the skating rink, we've returned to our old ways. Dark nights. A last cigarette before bed check. But now we'll be apart for ten days, and I can't imagine how I'll survive Christmas vacation without him.

  “Why don't you bring Cammy's record player in here?” Lenore says. “It isn't a holiday without listening to Perry Como's Christmas.”

  I set it up in the corner, light the holly and pine candles. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” Lenore sings along with the record. “Let me put your hair up,” she says. “It wouldn't hurt you to look decent for once.”

  I sit on her bed and let her coil my hair up into a high bun. “This rhinestone clip belonged to my mother,” she says, pinning it into my hair. “She wore it every Christmas.” When she's finished with the bun, she rolls the loose hair along the side of my face into ringlets. “Isn't this fun?” she sighs. “It makes it feel more like a holiday.”

  “Hurry,” I say, watching the clock. I'm meeting Jimmy out back at 1:30. “I want to get across the street before Border Drug closes.”

  “I hope you're not shopping for me. The one thing I really want, money can't buy,” she says, her mood suddenly sullen. “You can't imagine Christmas without your child. If Papa Roy were here, he'd move heaven and earth to fix my broken heart.”

  “I wish I could find Cammy,” I say, petting the top of her hand. “She'll come home soon. You'll see.”

  At 1:30, I'm out on the fire escape dressed in a velvet granny gown I found in Cammy's closet. I've come out without my pea coat so Jimmy can see me.

  “What're you doing out here in that outfit?” Jimmy yells up to me. “It's freezing.”

  “Oh, I had to get ready for the company. We're having a big dinner party tonight. My mom made me wear something formal.”

  He runs up the steps two at a time to meet me. “Shh,” I say, when he gets to the top. “I don't want my mom to hear us. She's awake.”

  “Ri
ght,” he whispers.

  Jimmy looks strange, too, dressed in tweed pants, his hair wet and combed in a wave away from his forehead.

  “Self-respect. It's a New Directions regulation. What's with your hairdo?” He takes a step back to examine me. “Oooh, la-la.” I fidget with the too-tight bun prickling my scalp.

  “It's my mom's fault,” I shrug.

  “Well, one thing's for sure. It's not you. You look better with it loose. How come you're always trying to look older?”

  I wish I could tell Jimmy the truth about my life, how I wear the things Cammy's left behind, how Lenore has dreams of making me beautiful. I wish he could see me in San Diego, in cutoffs and jeans running barefoot down the beach. “I'm not.”

  “Anyway, you're too young for me. Hey, remember that asshole at the hockey game? I slammed him up good, had a little help from my teammates. He was hurting bad by the time he left. I thought you'd be happy. Merry Christmas.” Jimmy shakes his head and laughs. Then he reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a small package wrapped in crinkled newspaper.

  “What's that?”

  “What's it look like? It's your Christmas present.”

  “But I didn't get you anything.”

  “Didn't have to,” he says, dropping it into my hands. “It's nothing big, so don't let it blow your mind. It's a girl thing I made in O.T. And the way things are in my life right now, you're the only girl I ever see. So open it.”

  Inside the newspaper is a macrame choker made of thick purple twine with clear glass beads tied into it every few inches.

  “Like it?” Jimmy smiles at me.

  “A lot.” I feel that familiar heat spread over my face again. “You made this?”

  “Yeah, this weird artist lady shows up at the house once a week and teaches us all this crafty crap. I made a plant hanger for my parents.” He takes the choker from my hands. “It's not too hard to do, you just got to get the hang of tying. The worst part is keeping the pattern straight. But I picked out these glass beads just for you. They're cool, you can look right through them.” Jimmy lifts one to his right eye like a magnifying glass, squints as if he's inspecting me. “You should see what I see.”

  “What's that?”

  “Nothing.” Jimmy twists the choker around his hand. “So, you want to try it on?”

  “Sure.”

  “Turn around. I'll tie it for you.” I turn my back to Jimmy, hold the choker up against my neck while his frozen fingers fumble with the knot. “Merry Christmas,” he says, stepping back from me. The twine scratches against my skin.

  “I wish I had given you something.”

  “You could,” Jimmy says. He stamps his boots against the fire escape. “How about a Christmas kiss?”

  “Okay,” I say, my heart leaping. I close my eyes and stand still as stone.

  “It's been a long time,” Jimmy says. He steps forward and takes my face in his hands like he did the day at the rink. “Here goes,” he says, laughing. Then suddenly, his lips are moving over mine, his tongue slipping between my teeth. In a few seconds it's finished, but the taste of Jimmy's kiss stays with me. “Pretty good for a kid,” he says, stepping back and staring at me.

  “I'm not a kid.”

  “Maybe not,” he laughs, again. “But I can't find out now. I got to go before the counselors catch me.”

  He flies down the steps the way he came, two at a time, and when he reaches the ice, he glides across the parking lot like a surfer, his hand slamming into the dumpster, his work boots leaving black streaks in the snow.

  “Merry Christmas,” I shout. I touch my fingertips to my lips. And I know as I live it, it's a memory I'll never forget.

  Merry Christmas Sweetheart,

  Don't know for sure when this will get there, after Christmas probably. I could of timed it better but there's no holidays in my world. Wasn't much here in the way of souvenirs, same stuff in every gift shop. The boomerang's an Australia thing, don't know if you've seen one, but thought you might have some fun with it. Show it to the kids at school. This one's handmade by the aboriginals, locals, the people who started it all. I liked the crocodile best, made me remember all those stuffed animals you used to sleep with, how I could hardly find you in your bed. Seemed you outgrew them overnight. Anyway, you're not too old for this croc. He needs some love. Like me. Treat him good. That's all for now. I want to get this in the mail so it makes it before next year. Drink some egg nog for me, honey. Merry Christmas. I love you, Dad

  Lenore - Winter Dream

  It was Papa Roy who brought her home to me, it was Papa who heard my prayers. “Cammy's here,” he whispered.

  He was wearing his Christmas bowtie with the blinking lights. We were back at our old house on Lake of the Isles, a fire burning in the white stone fireplace, the colored light wheel splashing blue and green and pink over Mother's silver tinsel tree. Mother was playing the organ, “Oh, Holy Night,” just as she did every Christmas Eve, while I sang along in French. “She's beautiful,” I said to Papa. “Thank you for bringing her back to me.”

  “Is she who you asked for?” he said, stretching his legs out on the leather ottoman. “I didn't think you liked her. Come here to Papa.”

  I ran over and climbed into his lap, and Papa was big enough to hold me. He was alive, I could smell the cigars on his sweater. “I'm sorry I was asleep when you died,” I said to him. Ever since the morning I'd found him, I'd been waiting to tell him I wish I'd been with him, holding his hand when his heart stopped.

  “I'm alive now. Doesn't Papa Roy know what his little girl dreams?” He pointed toward the pile of presents he'd bought for me. Just like when I was his girl, there were packages nearly stacked to the ceiling, and all gift-wrapped by Daley's department store with the foil paper so popular in the fifties.

  And then I saw her, yipping among the gifts, my little toy poodle, Yvette, with the red ribbons Papa had in her ears that Christmas morning. “Bring her over to Lenore,” he said to Mother. “What are you waiting for?”

  Yvette was so tiny, Mother carried her in a wicker basket. “I've knit her a little sweater to keep her warm in the winter,” Mother said, holding the basket out to me. “You're a big girl now, Lenore. Remember to take care of her.”

  “I will, I will,” I promised, snatching the basket. “Give her to me.” I bent over to kiss her nose, the little black nose I'd loved for so many years. She was dressed in the coral sweater, the one with the zipper down the back, the one Mother knitted for Cammy. But when I picked her up to tuck her under my chin, she wasn't a dog, she was a baby no bigger than a doll. Only she was crying.

  “This isn't what I asked for,” I screamed at Mother. “Where's Yvette? I want the puppy Papa Roy promised me.”

  “She's here,” Papa said, shutting off the lights of his Christmas bowtie. “Merry Christmas, angel.”

  When I opened my eyes, it was still night, and he was right. She was there at my side, shaking me awake. “Mom,” she whispered. “Wake up. It's me, Cammy.”

  Faina - Sisters

  I have a sister. At night we sleep together in our narrow twin bed, Cammy's body clammy with sweat, her bare leg looped over my hip. “Don't go,” she says, when I offer to sleep in the living room. “We're finally family.” She nuzzles her nose into the back of my neck, closes her arm around my chest, and I lie there, falling asleep to the rhythm of her new warm breath.

  “She's back,” I write to my dad on Christmas night. “And you're right, she's beautiful.”

  “Let me see that,” Cammy says, snatching it out of my hand. “Give me that pen. I want to add a word or two.”

  Hey what about you? Dropping my little sister off in another state? Nice going.

  I want to know this girl, my sister with the black bikini underwear, the jeans so tight they stick to her skin. The thin slip of bare stomach at the bottom of every ribbed shirt, her ankle-high moccasins wet with snow, her suede fringed purse, the fake rabbit-fur jacket with the black vinyl collar and cuffs.<
br />
  “What did I tell you?” Lenore says, lifting a handful of Cammy's blonde hair to her lips to kiss it. “My beautiful baby girl.”

  Now there are three of us lounging in Lenore's bed. Cammy's head resting in Lenore's lap. Lenore tickling her fingernails over Cammy's perfect white skin. “Do it again,” Cammy yawns. “Draw something on my back.”

  Lenore never tires of Cammy's company, never closes the door on Cammy's conversation. “Give us some privacy,” Lenore says to me. “Someday you'll understand.”

  When this happens, I wait in our bedroom, thinking of the questions I'll ask Cammy when it's our turn to be alone. I listen for the creak of the doorknob, the sound of Cammy's voice. “You get some sleep now,” she orders, taking over my old job of pulling Lenore's covers up to her chin. Before she steps out, she snaps the shade closed, kisses Lenore on the lips. “You need your rest. Besides, I can't sit in here all day.”

  Then, I follow Cammy into the living room where we sit cross-legged on the stubbly lavender carpet, our backs against the ancient sofa. Surrounded by the scent of holly candles and the glow of blinking colored lights, we hardly notice the slow arrival of night.

  “Smoke?” Cammy passes a Salem to me. “I thought she'd never go to sleep. You should tell her you smoke; she won't care. I've been smoking with her since sixth grade.”

  “I know. I'm going to tell her pretty soon.”

  I'm not ready to leave behind the girl I am in Lenore's eyes: a good girl, a smart girl, a girl with a bright future ahead of her.

  “Papa Roy loved this room. He used to sit, late at night, smoking cigars in his leather recliner, his feet up, staring at nothing but the smoke floating out of his mouth. When I'd wake from a nightmare, I'd sneak around the corner to sleep in the little cave behind his chair. Later, he'd carry me to bed.” When Cammy talks about Papa Roy she shares Lenore's sad voice. “He was the only one who could keep us happy. When he died, everything went down the drain.”

  Between cigarettes, we split a bowl of Ruffles potato chips, drink icy Pepsi, so cold it burns my throat. Sometimes, we sit like this for hours. “We're catching up,” Cammy says. “It's been a long time living apart.”