There. I had done it. By the grace of God, as all the sisters liked to say. From then on, I would just have to show up and look like I was trying to be saved in order to meet my requirement. I know me and the other girls must have looked a mess sitting in the back of that church, dressed like we were going to the club. Tarnishing rings on every finger, because we were the type of chicks who always had to be ready for a fight. Earrings hanging down to our shoulders. Feet stuffed into cheap, open-toed shoes. Dresses low-cut, tight, and so short we had to sit down with our hands pressed against the back. Nails long, bright, and fake with fairy-tale designs on them. Hair curled, finger-waved, and braided in styles so high and wide the ushers probably sat us in the back so everybody else could see the preacher. None of us were really looking to become holy and sanctified; we knew too many who hadn’t gotten anywhere living that life. We were there for two reasons only: a dollar in the collection plate was cheaper than rent, and the shelter had staff to watch the babies while their mamas were off being saved. It was mandatory and it was a break. That was it. There were times though, when the music swelled and the minister was sweating and the members started getting happy. The tambourines would sing like a thousand doorbells ringing at once and the organist would be playing so hard he had to stand up and thump his feet. Then, we would all jump up—clapping and dancing and laughing like we were at a club in a city we never ever thought we’d get to.

IT ONLY TOOK me a couple of weeks to discover the wounds of all the girls who stayed in the house, and even those of the women who ran it. Not one of six or seven girls ever dared speak a word as we sat around a first-floor conference room, in front of a chalkboard, while a different sister gave us a GED lesson each morning. Information was shared at the edges of mealtimes—when the first few girls were arriving or the last few were finishing up. Over bountiful breakfasts of eggs and pork, and desserts incomplete unless they were à la mode, runaways itching for some neutral conversation for a change were content to talk to me about others. No evil was intended, only the maintenance of harmony, as most assumed me knowing the gossip would keep me from creating it. The stories were leaked to me piece by piece, with the essential details left out because no one knew them of course.

“Sister Maureen ain’t that damn holy shit she used to hoe.”

“Well don’t tell her I told you, but Shirley learned how to cook in the joint.”