Where No Gods Came

Cammy Missing

Cammy Missing M That summer, Tony was driving it up from a farm in Wisconsin. We could make a hundred bucks easy, just selling it to punks on the street. We were living high. Happy. I didn’t think of going back. Tony gave me a home in his basement place off Park Avenue. It wasn’t much, but it kept back the heat. Days we slept stoned for free. At night, we hung out on the streets. “I’d have to be dead broke to sell my skin for cash,” I told Tony when we walked past the hookers. “Won’t be long now,” he laughed, pulling me close against his hard stomach. Sometimes we’d dream about what I’d bring in, how rich we could be, but it never came to that. I could have had the customers. Cars slowed when they saw me, but I just swung my hips, kept moving. Cops crawled along Lake Street like ants in honey, taking it all in, but it was rare you’d see them bust somebody . They were friendly with the regular girls, drinking bad coffee at the Lake Street Lounge. I learned early that a loose smile could get them to look the other way. I made up my mind I wasn’t going back to my mother, wasn’t working as her steady nurse, pouring her drinks and rubbing the chipped polish off her yellow nails. Wasn’t going back to the same stories she’d fed me for supper. Wasn’t trying to save her again, just to have the cops nipping at my ass. She could drink herself to death without me. I wasn’t her little girl. The street was my family. I breathed the exhaust fumes, sour piss in empty alleys, and felt my blood rush. Tony lit my cigarettes and tangled my hair between his ‹ngers. People were afraid of him, his temper and his rep. They stayed away from me. It was months before he slapped me, his hand burning a mark on my cheek. He’d been drinking heavy, dope never made him so crazy. He 26 threw me against the wall of the Salvation Army; the jagged bricks scratched the skin off my back. Bums scattered, but no one stopped him. We all knew enough to mind our own business. “Come on,” I said, leading him into the Poodle Lounge. “Let’s get you something to eat.” When he was up at the bar, I snuck out the back door. I ran between houses, dogs barking and people drinking on their front steps. For a few miles I was sure I heard him behind me, but I never slowed down until I got to her building. The downstairs door was locked. I guessed right away she did it against me. I threw a rock through the basement window , climbed through a tunnel of sharp glass to safety. Then I passed the night huddled up in the corner, hoping for some sleep. I couldn’t decide if I was desperate enough to go back to her, how low I’d have to sink before I came home. In the morning I ripped off a box of Ritz crackers and a Coke from Kenny’s Grocery. It was a smooth routine I’d polished through the years. Then I sat on the bus bench, letting the salt and soda explode in my stomach. I was still deciding. Tony or home? I suppose I was half hoping my mother would look out and see me, rush down the stairs and beg me back in. But then I pictured her, passed out in bed, too hung over to lift her head off the pillow. This is the truth: I hated that girl when I saw her. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, dressed in my Led Zeppelin T-shirt and jeans, it took me a minute to believe it. Faina? The girl from the picture, the girl who had stolen my father. That stray dog, my mother’s lost daughter, my missing sister. Faina. She had come to take my place. 27 N Where No Gods Came ...