Where No Gods Came

Faina Sisters

Faina Sisters M 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 ‹nally 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. “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 ‹ngernails 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,” 83 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 crosslegged 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 ›oating 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 Ruf›es 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.” She wants to know everything about San Diego, her father, the man she barely remembers. I tell her about his job at the marina, our cottage on the beach, Wiley, Keith’s Coffee Shop, the stores along Mission Boulevard, Electric Avenue with the black lights and posters, how warm the afternoon sun felt even in winter. I tell her how I got here, the gambling , the debts he couldn’t pay. “We’ll go back there together,” she says, stretching out on the carpet and resting her chin on her ‹st. “We’ll wake up early and collect shells along the beach like they do in movies. Do you think my dad will like me?” “Yes,” I say. “He loves you already.” I tell her about her pictures and...