Where No Gods Came

by Sheila O'Connor

  “That makes us even,” he says, taking my hand. “Now we're connected for life.”

  In the morning, I wake up to the sounds of spring floating in through our window. Rain on the sidewalk, car doors slamming, delivery trucks idling outside in the alley.

  “Cammy?” I call out in a hushed voice. She should be next to me sleeping. I feel around the covers for Per, but she isn't there either.

  “Per,” I say, jumping out of bed to go find her. “Per?”

  “What're you looking for?” Cammy is standing in Lenore's doorway, already dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.

  “Per.” I peek my head into Lenore's room. They're both asleep; Per's rolled up next to Lenore on the satin pillow. “She never sleeps in here until after I leave for school.”

  “Well, today's a new day,” Cammy says, combing her hair with her fingers. “Get used to it.” She looks tired this morning, her eyes pale and puffy, her lids sandy with sleep.

  “What are we going to do about Lenore?” I whisper.

  “We?” Cammy nods her head toward the kitchen. “I've got to get coffee before I can see through the cobwebs.”

  The two of us sit down at the kitchen table. I brush the old toast crumbs into my hand. This afternoon, I'll clean the apartment like I did last summer, and Cammy can make Lenore that baked chicken dinner she loves.

  “I'm taking her in,” Cammy says, slurping her china cup of strong coffee. “She's been like this before, worse maybe. It'll pass.”

  “Taking her where? I want to go with you.”

  “No. She won't want a circus. Her doctor's downtown. Dr. Lang. He'll know what she needs.” I'm worried about Cammy's odd calm, the sleepy slow way she's talking.

  “Have you looked at her this morning? Last night when I went to bed she was breathing funny, gurgling.”

  “She's my mother. I slept with her all night. I know the score, Faina. You're a visitor here. Go to school. When you come home this afternoon, she'll be on her way to getting well.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “She's sleeping. I'll give her a message. Look at the time. You'll be late. Go get dressed. I'm taking her in this morning.”

  I throw on my uniform, my tennis shoes, the gray hooded sweatshirt jacket I brought from San Diego. I splash cold water over my face, squirt a dab of toothpaste in my mouth, skip the teeth. No matter what Cammy says, I'm going to see Lenore before I leave for school. I'm going to say good-bye to her and Per.

  “You ready?” Cammy asks, without looking at me. She's sitting on Lenore's little vanity stool, smoking a cigarette and staring into the mirror. “It's starting to storm. Grab Papa Roy's umbrella.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Faina, keep your mouth shut about this. I'll take care of it myself.”

  I walk quietly over to Lenore's bed, sit down gently on the edge and sandwich her hand between mine. When I touch her, she doesn't even twitch. “Lenore,” I say, hoping she'll open her eyes. “I want you to have this.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cammy says. “Everything isn't a goddamn drama.”

  I thread the silver chain behind her head, fasten the clasp, string the medal down until it rests flat on her chest. “It's St. Christopher,” I whisper. “He'll protect you.”

  “I bet,” Cammy says. “I wouldn't be in such a hurry to give away your voodoo. Maybe you should keep that for yourself.”

  “You're late,” Sister Cyril announces as soon as I walk into the room. “Monsignor needs to meet with you at lunch.”

  Even with Papa Roy's umbrella, I'm drenched from the storm, my tennis shoes soggy, my hair plastered to my head. When I take my seat, the wet wool of my uniform prickles like itchweed. The rain rushes down our classroom window in watery sheets.

  “Open your books to page 218,” Sister Cyril orders. We're almost to the end of our Practical Mathematics book; three chapters to go and we'll be finished. Next year, another seventh-grader at Cathedral will open this book, and see my name, Faina McCoy, written in the index. I want to scratch in a little note, somewhere in the middle. Stormed today. I'm afraid Lenore is dying. F. M. April 18, 1974. I want to write it in ink, so Sister will never be able to erase it.

  When she turns her back to the class to demonstrate the first problem on the blackboard, I tuck my book into my lap, flip back a few pages, and scribble it.

  “You can't do that,” Emmy Atwood says, leaning over my shoulder. “They'll make you pay for the book.”

  I hide my hand behind my head and give her the finger.

  “Ooohhh,” she says. “You're so cool.”

  I don't care anymore what they do to me. I don't care about my lunch meeting with Monsignor, or the baptismal certificate, or the sponsor, or the confirmation. I just want to be home, out of these sopping clothes, warm in Lenore's bed with Per between us on the pillow. I want to bring Lenore her medicine, run her bath water, help her to get well.

  “It's quite simple, girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen,” Sister Cyril says, turning to face the class, and tapping one gnarled finger against her temple. “If you use your head, there's a solution to every problem.”

  By the time lunch rolls around, the shocks of lightning have stopped, and the rain has died down to a drizzle. I wonder if Lenore is home from the doctor, safe in her bed, swallowing her first dose of medicine. I want to believe what Cammy told me—“She bounced back before”—but then I remember how cold Lenore's skin was, and the way she didn't even open her eyes, and my stomach sinks to the floor.

  “We're meeting in Sister Barbara's office,” Sister Cyril tells me when I pull my mushy brown lunch bag from my locker. “You'll have to eat later.”

  “Sister Barbara?” I've never been down to the principal's office; Sister Barbara has barely spoken to me, except once or twice out on the playground, when she asked if I was able to keep up with my homework.

  “I'm walking the students down to the lunch room. I'll meet you there in a moment.”

  When Sister Cyril waddles down the hallway, I make up my mind to escape. I'll race down the front staircase, past the principal's office, and home to Lenore and Cammy. But when I reach the bottom step, Monsignor grabs me by the collar. “Slow down, young lady. We don't run in the halls.”

  There's a group of people gathered in Sister Barbara's office for the meeting. When I walk in with Monsignor they all gawk at me. Sister Linette. Sister Barbara. Mrs. Lajoy. Even Mrs. Atwood. The only one missing from this nightmare is Sister Cyril. Monsignor and I take two chairs at the end of the long tan table. Sister Barbara folds her hands. “Shall we begin with a prayer?”

  Together they rattle off the Our Father.

  “Have a seat, Sister.” Sister Barbara says to Sister Cyril, who's just arrived. “Faina,” she continues, bowing her head toward me. “First, this isn't a lynching. We requested your mother's presence, but I'm sorry to say she declined.”

  She declined because she can't breathe, she can't stop coughing, she can't get out of bed. “She has a new job,” I say.

  “So you told me,” Monsignor adds. “Although she's still months behind on tuition.” His bald head glistens.

  “It's my preference to be direct,” Sister Barbara says, glancing down at the yellow notepad on the table in front of her. “I'm an administrator, not a social worker. It's obvious to all of us you have family problems, but there are things we can take care of at Cathedral, and things we can't. We're a private school. We don't have the funds to serve troubled children. The archdiocese does offer social services through Catholic Charities and I'd be happy to make the referral at your, or your mother's, request. But right now, my job is to see that this school runs efficiently.”

  When I glance up at Mrs. Lajoy, she's half-sad and half-smiling, the same way she looked yesterday, when she sang that song into my eyes.

  “Faina,” Sister Barbara continues, “it's no secret we've received complaints about you since the day you arrived. I don't know how much of it is rumor and how much of it is tr
uth. I'm well aware stories have a way of taking on a life of their own. Nevertheless, we've received calls about you smoking, going to R-rated movies, roaming the streets with an older girl, who apparently appears quite questionable. Your sister? Several parishioners in your neighborhood have seen you with a teenage boy from some sort of detention center. Your classmates' parents have heard endless tales from their children, most of them so shocking they're better left unsaid. Still, despite this, the children have reached out to you. Sister Linette went above and beyond the call of duty. She even gave you a solo in the Christmas program, a part that should have been awarded to one of our better students. Everyone's made an effort to welcome you into our community. Beyond the outstanding tuition, this is obviously not a good fit. Do you care to respond?”

  “No.” I glare at Sister Barbara, clench my teeth. I hope she can read the hatred in my hard eyes.

  “Then we're done. It's for the best.” Sister flattens her palms against the tabletop. “Our doors are open to any Catholic child who resides within our parish boundaries, but we also have the right to dismiss those who don't toe the line. You'll be released at the end of this year. We can't sacrifice our values to keep you. I have no doubt you'll fare better at the public junior high. By all accounts, you're a good student. I pray you put your brains to better use.”

  “Great,” I shrug, to show how little I care. I hide my hands in my jumper pockets, so the judges can't see them trembling. “Can I go eat lunch?”

  “Faina,” Mrs. Lajoy says, sweetly. “We still want you to make your confirmation with us. I know how much it's meant to you.”

  “But first,” Monsignor stammers, “let's put this business of the baptismal certificate behind us, once and for all. There seems to be some question as to whether or not you're actually a Catholic. We've seen no evidence of church attendance. No offerings given in your family's name, though the envelopes were mailed in September. No record of your baptism. One of the children told me, in confidence, you asked what to say at communion. Without the baptismal certificate, we're back at square one. Unless of course you secure your own, I've asked Dr. and Mrs. Atwood to stand in as your godparents. Dr. Atwood is president of our parish council, and Mrs. Atwood heads up our P.T.A. They have a soft spot in their hearts for children; they've generously agreed, with ample misgivings. Many of which, I admit, I share. But Mrs. Lajoy has interceded on your behalf. We'll gather at the church this Saturday. Two o'clock sharp. Your mother's presence is welcome, and requested, of course. Following your baptism, you'll make your sacraments of first eucharist and penance. Neither of which you should have been participating in this year.”

  “Faina,” Mrs. Lajoy says weakly, raising her eyebrows at me. “I'd like to be your confirmation sponsor. If you'd let me. I think we share a special bond.”

  “I don't care.” I focus on the dull wooden cross behind their heads, the dry palm leaves tucked behind it, the sterile beige walls. “Can I go now? I'm hungry.”

  “Your response confirms my decision,” Sister Barbara says, shaking her head. “I feel confident we're on common ground.”

  Cammy - Running

  The cough was killing her. She blamed me for it; she claimed she'd caught it the day she waited outside Hennepin County while I made my sweet peace with Tony. “I told you not to take me in the first place. I knew the doctors wouldn't help.”

  “You're sick,” I said, as I held her head over the pan. Her hair was greasy with sweat, her skin cold, her vomit pink and foamy. “You could be bleeding internally.”

  That's what the emergency nurse had told me over the phone when I called Hennepin County hospital. She needs to be seen as soon as possible.

  She couldn't catch her breath between coughs.

  “Sit back.” I propped the pillow between her and the wall. “Close your eyes and try to rest.”

  Her room smelled like death, the way I imagined it: open sores, puke, the body getting ready to quit. I hated to touch her; she was so skinny now her clammy skin hung off her bones. Each breath gurgled like she was under water, like she was drowning.

  I closed her bedroom door, went into the living room. I needed to scream until my throat hurt. I got down on my knees, buried my face in the couch cushion and howled. I wanted to cry, but my eyes were dry and gritty. I guess I'd forgotten how.

  It's true, I saw it coming. Even on that Christmas morning, when I stood at the side of her bed, I knew our little house on the prairie was temporary. I knew we were going to crash. But this time I was ready; I had money, tips and wages from Starlight Lanes, the few extra twenties I'd lifted last night from the register to help us escape. I had enough to get us out of this city, halfway to San Diego at least, and I figured we'd hitchhike from there.

  And if everything failed, I had Tony's phone number. Steven Lang. I knew he would take us in.

  When I went back to her room, she was still coughing. I sat at the edge of the bed, held my breath to keep myself from retching. My stomach had been whirling for weeks.

  “I need to call an ambulance for you. You're not strong enough to get there by cab.” I dabbed the spit from her lips with a Kleenex. “Let me get you another cold cloth.”

  She wrapped her weak fingers around my wrist. “Don't send me away, Cammy. If I go, I'll never come home.”

  “Don't be stupid. You'll be well in no time. You're not going to die, Mother. You'll be home before you know it.”

  “Will you come with me?” She kept her eyes closed when she talked to me, as if she were off in a faraway land.

  “I can't. You know that. I'll wait at home for Faina. When she gets home from school, we'll take the bus down to visit.”

  “I don't want to go alone.” A tear trickled down her temple, dropped to her pillow.

  “You'll be all right. You can come home in a few days. I'm going to call now, and then I'm going to wait downstairs until the ambulance comes. I'll leave the door unlocked for them. But I can't be here. Don't mention my name.”

  I had to take off before the cops showed up to ask the tenants questions, check out our place. Once they ran our address through their system, they'd know our story.

  “Watch over her,” I said to Per, setting her down on the pillow. I don't know what I thought a cat could contribute, but it gave me some relief to know she wouldn't be alone.

  “Sleep,” I said, pulling the sheet up to her chin and kissing her cheek.

  “Cammy, I've always loved you most of all.”

  “I know,” I said. “The same goes for me.”

  And then I made the call.

  “Out like a lamb.” That's what came to me the minute I stepped out into the alley. It'd been raining all morning, but the clouds had suddenly cleared, and that minute, April felt more like June. Almost overnight, the snow was gone from the sidewalks, brown grass covered the neighbors' yards, cars drove by with their windows open, music blasting.

  I didn't wait for the sirens; I just threw Faina's duffel bag over my shoulder and started running. I had to get her from school, make tracks, before the cops came looking for us.

  In my mind, I saw the whole circus. Hank stomping up from the plumbing shop. He was bastard enough to want to be there when my mother went down. Frances rushing out of the bakery, blabbering about the robbery, the marmalade twists, how that's all that woman would eat. I knew they'd fill the cops full of stories. About me, always in trouble. And the good little girl from California. Some sort of shirttail relation. But what kind of parents would let their daughter live with people like that?

  I heard it all, their voices slamming together in my mind as I ran the eight blocks to Cathedral. Dogs snarled and barked from their back yards, a few old folks glanced out from their kitchen windows. If luck was with us, it would take at least an hour for the details to stack up. I felt the same hot terror I'd felt the last time I ran, the last time the hospital called in the county, the last time I tried to save her, the last time I nearly lost her.

  I had an excuse to free Fai
na from school, Papa Roy's funeral, it had worked for me through the years. But a block from Cathedral I saw her, crossing Twenty-second Street, already headed toward home. Faina, the good girl, the genius who never cut class.

  “What are you doing? Skipping? I thought you were such a stickler for school?”

  “Cammy,” she whimpered, like she already guessed my mother was lost to the county. “What did the doctor say?” Her face was streaked with tears. She was always too quick to cry. When she noticed the duffel bag, the fear I'd predicted flashed in her eyes. “Cammy, what's happening?”

  I grabbed her arm, snapping it so fast I heard it crack. “We got to get moving. I'll tell you on the way.”

  “But Lenore,” she said. “I want to know if she's okay.”

  As soon as we'd made it to an alley off Dakota, she planted her feet on the ground, refused to keep moving. She was panting. “Where are we going? I want to see Lenore.”

  “Lenore's gone,” I said. “The ambulance came for her. Took her downtown. It had to be done. I don't even know if she'll make it.”

  “But I want to be with her.” She looked so pathetic standing there in that uniform, that stupid thick hem, that rumpled gray sweatshirt, that pink plastic baby still pinned to her chest.

  “Faina. Listen to me. I know the system. They'll take us, lock us up in JD. Do you want to end up like Jimmy?” If she didn't start moving, I'd slap her across the face.

  “Jimmy?”

  I knew I'd tripped up on my story, but I was too wired to care. “Forget about Jimmy, for once. I've got money to buy us bus tickets back to San Diego. We'll go down to the Greyhound depot now, stash our bag in a locker, get something to eat. I'm starving.” I hadn't eaten since last night, a salami sandwich on dry rye bread, and little specks of light floated past my eyes. “We'll hang out in San Diego until my dad comes back. It's just a couple more months. We can stay with the coffee-shop guy. The one you like so much. I'll work for our rent.”