Where No Gods Came

by Sheila O'Connor

  “You're a royal pain in the ass,” he said, trying to slap my butt.

  “Keep your mitts off me,” I said, hitting his arm.

  “Don't screw with me, Cammy. Get rid of that cat. Or it's your last shift.”

  In my locker I made a nest for her with my rabbit jacket. Gave her a little cereal saucer of milk. If I was lucky, Al wouldn't hear her meowing. If I wasn't, he could toss me. Serve the sweethearts himself.

  It was a tough night; tips were always low when guys came in with their wives. It made me sick to see the old bags, their hair still showing curler lines, their painted eyebrows, their polyester pantsuits. “Sweetheart Special,” I said, slamming their orders down on their tables. I didn't bother with friendly when there wasn't money involved.

  We closed up earlier than usual; the guys didn't hang around with their wives on their arms. I threw my tips into my macrame purse. I could tell a bad night when I wiped a table.

  “Meow, meow,” I said, walking out past Al, and lifting the kitten's paw in a little wave.

  “Your days are numbered,” Al said. He was settling back in his manager's chair, a big leather swivel thing where he sat to smoke his shift-end cigar. “Your luck is running out.”

  I flipped him the finger and stepped out into the February night. The wind was so bitter my skin felt tight, my fingers stiffened to stone within seconds. I'd never taken the bus home; there was always a warm car out front waiting for me. Sometimes two or three, and then I got to take my pick. I tucked the kitten inside my jacket to keep her cozy. It was too late for cat food; I'd have to send Faina to Kenny's in the morning.

  The bus was dead at midnight, one of the last ones running. The driver was a grandfatherly type, reminded me a little of Papa Roy. I'm sure he was bored skidding down the same icy streets, sipping his thermos of coffee. “Don't bother,” he said, when I tried to drop my dimes through the slot. He even let me hold the kitten on my lap.

  “A girl your age shouldn't be out alone at night,” he said. “It isn't safe in this city.”

  “I usually drive. But our car wouldn't start.”

  “I tell you what, this has got to be the worst winter. There's black ice at every intersection. And the snow. Lord above. Will it ever quit?” The streets were banked with mountains of snow, so thick and deep they'd outlawed parking along Franklin Avenue. The snowplows had been running for days straight, and still there were drifts you could hardly climb. “It's days like this make me hate my job.”

  “Me, too,” I said. I ran my nails under the kitten's chin.

  “Girl pretty as you shouldn't need to work. You got to find a man to take care of you.”

  “My mom's sick,” I said. “I'm supporting my family.”

  “Don't see that much anymore,” he said. “Your mama raised you right.”

  When the bus slid to a stop in front of Kenny's, the driver reached under his seat. “Happy Valentine's Day,” he said, handing me a box of candy.

  “Thanks,” I said. I didn't want to tell him I'd never eat that cheap cream-filled crap.

  “I'm diabetic. Can't eat it anyway. One of the regulars on my route gave it to me this morning.”

  “It's really nice.” He reminded me so much of Papa Roy, I almost cried. I'm sure it was the night, the bad tips, the couples.

  “I hope I see you again,” he said. “I'll give you a free ride any time you need it. You're sure a pretty little thing. Maybe I'll even come in bowling when I get a night off. How would that be?”

  “That'd be great.” I could tell he'd be a big tipper.

  Inside the apartment, everyone was asleep, as usual. My mother could wait until morning. I knew it'd take some talking to get her to go for the kitten. But it was Faina I wanted to surprise.

  “Get up,” I whispered in her ear. “Valentine's Day is still here.”

  She was wiped out, like always. She rubbed her fist over her eyes, sat up in our bed. She was wearing that striped flannel nightgown with the ruffles across the chest, the one my mother had ordered for me years ago from the Sears catalog. Faina had found it in the back of my closet, still wrapped in cellophane.

  “Be my sweetheart,” I meowed in a squeaky little voice, before I set the kitten on our bed.

  “For me? Where'd you get it? Cammy, can we keep it?” It was the happiest I'd seen her.

  “It's your valentine, baby sister. From me.” I pulled my greasy uniform over my head, tossed it into the corner. “Move over, I'm freezing,” I said, crawling down under the covers. I snuggled in next to the two of them, Faina's soft flannel warm against my bare skin.

  “Now are you happy?” I kissed the back of her head, rubbed my frozen feet along her bony leg.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Cammy.”

  “See, Minneapolis isn't so bad.” I wrapped my arm around her waist. “You think she's too ugly to love?”

  “Not to me.” Faina rolled over and settled the kitten between us. “But how do you know it's a she?”

  “Remind me to teach you the difference someday.”

  “She purrs like a little machine. Listen.” Faina held the kitten up to her ear like a seashell. “Purr. Persephone.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Persephone. You know, the goddess who ate the pomegranate seeds. Get it?”

  “You're a major head case. I don't give a shit what you call her, she's yours. But I'm not learning to pronounce it.”

  She stroked her cheek along the kitten's fur. The name meant something to her. What did I care? I called the cat Per. That was name enough for me.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “There's a box of fancy candy by my purse. It was sitting outside our door when I came home from work. There's no card. Must be a mystery sweetheart. But I bet it's for you. From Jimmy.”

  Hi there Catholic girl,

  Twelve years without religion and now this? Confirmation? If you're looking for a name, try mine. Saint Roberta? How's that sound? I'm sorry I can't be there for the show. Have Lenore take some pictures of you all dressed up, send them to me. I'd give anything to see your face. I can pass them around here, show the office folks the gorgeous broad who writes me all those letters. Sometimes I read them in my bunk at night, the old ones. I go back over them, just to hear your voice. Don't worry about that sponsor business, have some friend of Lenore's stand up for you. What difference does it make? Wiley says he'd be happy to do the honor. Well, I'm throwing this in the mail before we hit the town. It's no picnic keeping up with the young guys, they go all night, end up seeing morning at some stranger's house. The whole group loaded to the gills, playing guitar and singing. Not me, I'm always half asleep. Wish I had your voice. Wish I could be with you. Dad

  Faina - The Message

  Per makes us happy. All of us, even Lenore, who lets Per nap beside her on a satin pillow. Cammy teases Per with a string, a rolled-up ball of newspaper. “Come see this,” we call out to each other; then we gather at the bathroom door to watch Per catch drops of water from the faucet, or lick her pink tongue over her tiny saucer of milk.

  “I don't know what I'd do without her,” Lenore says, stroking her hand over Per's arched back.

  “She's a mangy little stray,” Cammy says, lifting up Per to kiss her nose. “She'll be beautiful someday,” Lenore scolds. It's the same thing she says about me, which makes Per and me family. Per with her tufts of duck-feather orange fur, me with my dark skin and scrawny body.

  “She's mine. Give her to me.”

  “She's yours, all right,” Cammy says, tossing her into my hands. “You can clean her litter box, Dr. Doolittle.”

  For confirmation I've decided to take the name of the patron saint of cats. I know from my studies there is a saint for everything: St. Jude, the patron saint of desperate causes; St. Anthony, the saint of lost things; St. Cecelia, the saint of music. Mrs. Lajoy keeps a shoe box full of plastic-covered saint cards. Each card has a painting of the saint and a prayer to recite. We're allowed to sift through it for i
deas.

  “You'll each get your own for confirmation,” Mrs. Lajoy tells me. I'm staying in again for recess to continue my saint research. “Have you made a decision, Faina?”

  “About my sponsor?”

  “No, about your name?”

  “Actually, I was wondering. Do you know the name of the patron saint of cats?”

  “What about St. Francis of Assisi? He's the one in the box with the birds on his shoulders. It's my understanding he's the patron saint of animals in general. I'm not aware of one who covers cats in particular, but we could probably ask Monsignor.”

  “That's okay. I'll look in the library.”

  “I'm a fan of cats, too,” Mrs. Lajoy says. “I treat my own two like children. They're my only family while my husband's in the Army. But Francis is a fine name.” She rummages through the box looking for the saint card to show me.

  I can't take Francis, not after Cammy's burglary or the way Frances forced Lenore to send me to school.

  “What about Persephone?”

  “Persephone?” Mrs. Lajoy rests on my desk, her delicate fingers curved around the edge for balance. “Where did you hear about Persephone?”

  “I had an elective in Greek mythology in San Diego. I like the name. A lot.”

  “There is a big difference between myth and religion,” Mrs. Lajoy says. “Monsignor would be appalled if he knew you suggested such a thing.” She lifts my booklet off my desk, flips the pages with her thumb. “If I were you, I'd settle on a name and get going with the rest of your booklet. Monsignor is still waiting for your baptismal certificate. Sometimes I wonder if you look for trouble.”

  “My mother sent for it. She said she expected it to come any day.”

  “I hope so.” Mrs. Lajoy pauses at the blank page labeled “First Communion.” “Don't you have any pictures of this day?”

  “We left so much in storage.”

  “Faina, it isn't my business,” she says. “You're Sister Cyril's responsibility. But if I were you, I'd tread carefully.”

  A hard pounding jolts me out of a deep sleep. When I open my eyes, our room is so dark I think it's still night. “Cammy,” I whisper, jabbing my elbow into her stomach. “Get off me. Somebody's knocking.”

  “Girls?” Lenore screams from the other room. “Girls, what's happening?”

  I slide my hand under Per's belly, set her in the closet behind Cammy's boots and close the door. “Be a good girl,” I beg. “You don't want them to take you away.” I jerk the pillow out from under Cammy's head. “Come on.”

  “Girls?” Lenore screams again.

  “Just a minute, Lenore.” I shout. “We're coming.”

  “What the hell is this?” Cammy says. “I didn't get in until three in the morning.”

  “Put on some clothes and go see.”

  “Stop with the bongo routine,” Cammy moans, nestling deeper into the blankets. “My head is throbbing.”

  “It could be a fire.” I tug at her arm, try to get her to stand.

  “I hope this whole damn place burns to the ground.”

  “Cammy!” Lenore calls. “It's six o'clock in the morning. What is it? What's happening?”

  I stop in Lenore's doorway, flip on her light. “Don't worry, Lenore. I'll go see.”

  “Faina, don't let anybody in. Not anybody. Do you hear me?”

  The door is locked, dead-bolted twice and chained. I stand on my toes to look through the peephole. It's Hank's face, distorted, his lips purple and swollen, his red nose twice its size. “Yes?” I say. “What is it? We were asleep.”

  “It's Lenore I want to talk to, little girl. You get her out here.”

  “She's sick. What do you need?”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “I'll give her a message.” I know things will be worse if I bring Lenore to the door.

  “I want the money. To pay for the damage. Every last cent of it. In cash this time.”

  “Damage?”

  “Vandalism. It's a crime. I'm calling the police.”

  “We didn't vandalize anything.”

  “Maybe not you. But it's your fault we got trouble in this building. I want the money for the dumpster. I'm coming back for it.”

  “Okay, I'll tell her,” I say.

  “I mean it.”

  I wait until I hear the last clunk of Hank on the steps, then the door to Dakota Avenue opening and closing.

  “What is it?” Lenore asks. She's leaning against the kitchen counter, holding her worn bathrobe closed, an empty glass trembling in her hand. “Is it Persephone? Are they taking her away?”

  “No, it was Hank. He said he smelled smoke somewhere in the building. Wondered if we smelled anything.”

  “Hank,” she sighs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “That man ought to be committed.”

  “Go back to sleep. I'll wake you before I leave for school.”

  “Faina,” Lenore says, laying her head on my shoulder. “I don't want any trouble.”

  When I get back to our room, I open the closet door, and Per scampers out to greet me. I nuzzle her against my chest. “Don't worry,” I whisper. It's cold in our room, our windows covered with a layer of ice, and Cammy's wrapped in our blankets like a mummy. “Get up,” I say, shaking her shoulder. I yank a corner of the blanket away from her.

  “Give me a break,” she mumbles.

  “That was Hank. It's something about vandalism or damage. Cammy, what happened last night?” I've given up waiting for her to come home. I don't like seeing her stagger out of strange cars, I don't like smelling the sweet smoke that clings to her clothes.

  She opens one eye. “I saw it when I came home. It's no biggie, but I knew it'd piss Hank off.”

  “Saw what?”

  “Out in the parking lot. Take a look. It hasn't disappeared by morning.”

  I scrape at the frost on our window. In the winter, the early mornings look like evening; everything's nickel-blue and shadowy, the snow the green of the ocean. But even in the darkness, I see it immediately, the fluorescent pink spray paint scrawled across the dumpster. SLUT. “Oh, no,” I say, sucking in my breath.

  “So what?” Cammy laughs. “It's not us. No one even knows I live here.”

  “People know,” I say. “What about all those rides home? Those different men that park with you out back for hours. One of them probably wrote it.”

  “How would you know?” Cammy snaps at me. “Maybe it was Jimmy. Ever think about that?”

  “Not Jimmy. Jimmy wouldn't do such a thing.”

  “There's more to Jimmy than you think. Anyway, who the hell cares?” Cammy says, covering her face with her pillow. “I've been called worse.”

  I know Cammy is wrong. This has nothing to do with Jimmy. Still, I don't want him to see that word written on our dumpster. Not about me. Or my sister.

  SLUT. The word follows me to school, through the deep snow, down Dakota Avenue, past the clusters of public-school kids waiting for their bus. It follows me under the thorny bare branches of trees, past the evergreens, up the icy steep steps of Cathedral, and into Sister Cyril's room. I feel like I wear it on my face, the hot-pink paint, SLUT, a word they all see when they look at me.

  When I open the top of my desk there's a present waiting, Papa Roy's hunting cap and “Deer hunting?” scribbled on a scrap of paper. I know Tom Payne and Dave Fadden left the message for me. I lower the top of my desk quickly, before the other kids discover my secret. SLUT.

  “Class, please.” Sister Cyril orders. “Let us rise now for prayer.”

  The students shuffle up to the front of the room, hold out their hands for the circle. “And you?” Sister says, looking over the top of her glasses at me.

  I leave my desk reluctantly, keep my eyes on the speckled tile so I don't have to look at anybody. When Sister drops her chin to her chest, I shake off my classmates' sweaty hands and step outside their circle. “Our Father, who art in heaven,” Sister chants. The words spill out of their mouths like nonsense.
Like nursery rhymes. Hickory dickory dock. Baa baa black sheep. I'm done praying with them. I'm done being one of their sheep.

  “Let's go get your dress,” Cammy says to me. She's sitting cross-legged on our bedroom floor, counting out quarters into perfect stacks of four. “I've got twenty-eight dollars. That ought to cover it.”

  “You don't need to spend your money on me.” When Cammy suggests shopping now, I try to find an excuse to stay home with Lenore. I hate her macrame bag filling up with make-up and jewelry, skimpy lace bras, and gifts for me.

  “Come on,” she says, slapping the back of my head. “I told you that's why I got a job. Get that cat off your lap; let's live a little.” She opens her hands like claws. “Shoo,” she hisses, startling Per from sleep. “Get lost.”

  “Leave her alone.” I try to grab Per, but she slips away from me.

  “Oh, Christ,” Cammy says. “What a baby. Forget the dress.” She whacks a box of Marlboros against her knee. “I'll spend the money on me. Lenore can hem up another costume for you. Like your uniform. That looks real cute.”

  “I'm sorry,” I say quickly. I've learned to give in to Cammy's sudden fury, the eyes of fire she had that day at the Elm Tree Room. “I just don't feel well today.” I lift her hand to my forehead. “A fever maybe.”

  “You feel fine to me. But suit yourself. You don't want the dress, then we'll skip it. It's no skin off my nose what you wear to that ridiculous church.” She scoops the money up off the floor and holds it over the jar, letting it fall between her fingers like rain.

  “No, we'll go. Don't put the money away.”

  “No.” The quarters clang against each other.

  “Cammy, please,” I beg. Lately Cammy is either dazed or angry, foggy or furious. Nothing in-between. I want her to go back to the Cammy who first came home. The Christmas Cammy. “Please. I want to go to Sears. Don't put away your money.”

  “Okay,” she says, standing up suddenly. “I'll tell my mother we're going. But don't give me any more of your shit.”

  At Sears, we take the escalator up to Teens. It's a big department store, but nothing like Daley's downtown. It smells like a circus, hot dogs and popcorn, peanuts and ice cream. Instead of mirrors and chandeliers, there are lawn mowers and refrigerators.