Darcey Steinke - Jesus Saves

“At first he was shy, acted like he wanted to get off the phone,” the girl said, “but then we started talking about dogs, how we both like big dogs and hate little yappy dogs, like poodles and Chihuahuas. I told him I wanted to live on a farm and have a lot of Labradors and golden retrievers.” The girl spoke fast, as if talking was as fundamental to her survival as breathing. Ginger heard these endless monologues from older women at the church who lived alone — they were so afraid of self-reflection that they chatted endlessly — but never from such a young girl.

“How's your mother?” Ginger asked.

“Oh, she's a mess, turns out the dentist got involved with somebody while at a conference down in Florida. She came by with groceries, left me twenty dollars for lunch money, and said she'd be at his condo until further notice. They have to talk things out and they need, according to my mother, to hold each other at night.” The girl stuck her finger down her throat in a gagging motion and shook her head. “Why anyone would want to kiss that bald-headed monster is beyond me. The guy reeks of fluoride and whenever I see him I hear the whir of the drill and see blood spinning around in that little porcelain sink.”

She pulled Ginger through the doorway into the bathroom, where a beauty altar was set up on a peach towel next to the tub. Spread out evenly on the terry cloth, like instruments for an operation, were the spent tube of hair conditioner, a jar of purifying mud, a pink plastic disposable razor, and a small travel-size can of shaving cream. “I'm going to shave my legs.”

“Don't do it,” Ginger advised. “You'll be a slave to that razor forever.”

“I don't care,” the girl said, looking away, giving her neck a defiant twist. “My mother got me some cotton bra-and-panty sets.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“And I already have my period,” she said, kneeling next to the towel, as if that cemented the inevitability of this ritual. The girl looked over the beauty lotions as if they were wine and wafer.

“Do you want a beauty treatment too? I know a recipe for hair conditioner. You use half a can of beer and two raw eggs.”

Ginger shook her head.

“Then you'll be the beautician?”

It was hard not to get caught up in the girl's goofy web of excitement. And besides, Ginger remembered when she was this age, how she'd heard that in the sixties women burned their bras. She was shocked and appalled. Bras, lipsticks, rouge, compacts, lacy nightgowns, and high-heel shoes, these were objects to wish for and revere. Ginger knelt down beside the towel.

The girl took off her quilted robe and sat up on the edge of the tub, spread her bare legs out in front of Ginger. She wore a tank top smattered with tiny red hearts and matching underwear. When she arched back, ribs striped her chest.

“Do it like the magazine says,” the girl said, pointing at the lotion, “first a layer of this and then the shaving cream.”

Ginger pumped the rose-scented lotion into her hand and spread it thickly over the girl's warm leg.

“Now the foam,” she said, pointing at the can. “Don't you just love that stuff?” the girl said as foam piled up in Ginger's palm and she spread it over the cream, making sure every bit of skin was thoroughly covered. The pink razor pulled easily over the girl's skin. Ginger turned the tub water on and rinsed the blade. Greasy foam mixed with tiny blonde hairs splayed around the silver drain that reflected back a pockmarked picture of Ginger's face.

“Have you ever worn false eyelashes?” the girl asked as Ginger pulled the blade up again, careful around the nuance of ankle bone. ‘'I'm a summer, don't you think?” her fingers stretched the skin over her cheek bones, “a summer with an oval face.”

Ginger rinsed the blade again, glanced at the back of the girl's neck where a stork's bite splattered pink and the chain of her birthstone necklace lay delicately on her neck bone. She flexed her toes so Ginger could slide the razor around the tendon at the back of her foot. The dense foam, the rose-petal lotion, the double blades, and the cool pink skin put them both into a trance. Ginger threw her body forward as if experiencing a tiny electrical shock. The girl gave a puppy yelp and said accusingly, “You nicked me!”

“Shush,” Ginger said, “I heard something.” And there it was again, a passionate thump on the sliding glass doors downstairs.

“I told you this place was haunted,” the girl said flatly as she examined the cut on the back of her foot, then pressed toilet paper over the wound.

It was alarming how much time lapsed between the thuds, enough time to run down a vagrant memory, to take a quick shower, or pour yourself a drink. Then the muffled thump happened again and the girl lifted her foot, blood gently soaking through the blue tissue paper.

“You better go down there and check it out.” She said this so casually that Ginger thought for a moment that the girl had gotten a friend to pound intermittently on the window. She'd seen movies where the hero's mother, father, even sisters and brothers were all secret Satan worshipers, or cyborgs, or unfeeling aliens hatched out of space pods.

Up the hall and down the stairs, she started. The beige carpet had gray spots as if paper plates tipped and greasy hamburgers had flopped onto the synthetic shag. The mammalian scent of middle-class families floated in the hallway — over boiled broccoli, fabric softener, and the accumulated sweat of sleeping children. She stood in the middle of the rec room, a dark subterranean landscape populated with a Lazy Boy, vinyl dry bar, and the smelly couch where family members laid around like dogs in a cardboard box.

She waited, eyeing the framed poster of Monet's lily pads, the insipid colors and pretty flowers no different than Hallmark Easter cards. Nothing was down here, though as she turned, she saw a spot of red, a candy wrapper caught on a branch. Animated by the wind, it rose and sped directly toward her face. Like a shooting star with a mind of its own, like a lie come back to torment. Then the familiar thump and Ginger saw the cardinal, crazy eyed, hair stuck up on its head in tufts like a punk rocker.

The girl came down the stairs limping. Using scotch tape, she adhered a wad of Kleenex to her ankle. A thread of blood trickled over the pink arch of her foot.

“What was it?” She flopped her thin, ever-lengthening limbs onto the smelly couch.

“A bird,” Ginger said.

The girl raised her eyebrows, her features rearranged to look incredulous. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Ginger watched the girl lose interest.

“Let's pluck our eyebrows.” She leaned forward. “I've read how if you use an ice cube to numb them it doesn't even hurt.”

Her father's car was parked in Sandy Patrick's driveway, the light green Chrysler with the tiny Bibles in back, the box of Sunday school supplies, pipe cleaners and construction paper, Elmer's glue and Popsicle sticks. His clergy emergency sign was tucked up under the visor. He used it whenever he parked illegally. Thick gray cloud cover made the sky feel too close and there was a pathetic splattering of rain, drops so cold they reminded Ginger of the tin notes of a music box.

She crouched below the bay window, stood in the wood chips beside a boxwood bush, and spied inside. Her father sat with Mrs. Patrick on the couch. Spread over the coffee table was a jelly glass glazed with Coke mist, an empty yogurt cup, and a Styrofoam take-out tray. Her father looked calm as he arranged the communion implements, and Ginger realized for weeks he'd probably stopped here on Mondays as part of his sick calls and hospital visits. Nearest Ginger's eye on the floor, a box overflowed with baby things, corduroy jumpers and little sweaters, a zip-lock bag of yellow hair and tiny baby teeth.