WHEN GOD TURNS HIS BACK, I OPEN MY ARMS
Icouldn’t sleep. I’d been lying there for what felt like hours, the sheets tangled around my legs, staring into the dark, my thoughts refusing to settle.
Every time I closed my eyes, something surfaced, voices, faces, unfinished conversations.
My body was still, but my mind was moving too fast, cycling through memories I hadn’t asked to revisit.
I shifted under the sheets, hoping for stillness that didn’t come, and finally rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. If sleep wasn’t going to find me, the past would. And tonight, it brought the girls with it, each one, exactly how they were when I first met them.
It had been a cold night, colder than most, where the chill sinks straight into your bones. I’d been walking down the quiet streets of Butte, my thoughts on the brothel, always planning the next step for The Oily Cat, always looking for a way to make things a little easier, a little safer.
I had nearly passed the alley when I saw her: Maeve.
She was standing by the curb, her back straight despite the chill, the light of a nearby lantern catching the fire in her red hair.
It was her hair that first drew my attention, fiery and wild.
But what caught my eye most was the look on her face when she approached me, one of determination, of someone who had no intention of being controlled.
“Are you Bernadette?” She asked, her voice rich, with a lilt from a faraway place.
I stopped immediately, my heart skipping. There was something about her that felt so familiar, as if I’d known her in another life. “I am,” I replied, caution in my voice.
Something changed in her then. I saw it.
The shift was palpable, as if she was letting go of a pain she had been carrying for far too long.
It was in the way she exhaled, the way her shoulders dropped just slightly.
Like maybe she’d found what she was looking for.
She paused, and the corner of her mouth lifted into a slight smile.
Hours later, she sat across from me in my office, still in that funeral dress, looking like she hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days.
“I ran,” she explained. “From Ireland, from my family. From a life I never wanted . . . I read about you in the papers. You and this brothel of yours. They called you trouble, but to me, it sounded like freedom.”
There was a look in Maeve’s eyes I recognized straight away, not just the desperation of someone running, but the quiet hunger of a woman trying to find herself before the world decided who she was.
She didn’t tell me much, at least not right away, but she didn’t have to.
I’d seen that kind of fire before. It wasn’t weakness that brought her to my door, it was defiance, and I respected that more than most things.
I watched her as she told her story, listened, and said nothing.
But I could feel the story weaving between us.
Different ghosts, same shadows. Maeve entered my life, unapologetic, strong, and full of life and energy.
She became the spark of The Oily Cat. Its heartbeat.
And in turn, I was inspired, proud of the place I had built, proud of the women I had brought together.
Then, there was Elona.
I’d met Elona late on a sunny afternoon, not far from The Oily Cat.
The sun was beginning to set, and as I passed the edge of town, I noticed her.
She sat alone beneath a tree, sketching in a notebook, her long braids falling over her shoulders as she worked.
I’d seen her around before but had never paid her much attention.
She was from a far-off tribe and a quiet presence in town, always keeping to herself.
Over the next several days, I found myself passing that stretch of ground again and again, and she was always there—sketching the landscape or the people who wandered past. She was alone each time, settled beneath the same tree, day after day, her gaze distant but intent on her work.
One afternoon, I decided to approach her. “You have a talent,” I said fondly, watching her eyes lift to meet mine. “Your art is beautiful.”
She nodded, almost as if the compliment was nothing new, but she didn’t offer much else.
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment, weighing whether to say something, but then she went back to her sketching.
I stood there for a while, watching her draw, the silence between us comfortable.
But the more I watched her, the more I realized: Elona was truly alone, and she had no place to go.
The few times I had seen her walking through town, she never seemed to interact with anyone.
“You know,” I began gently, “I think you’d find a good home at The Oily Cat. It’s not just a brothel, it’s a place where women come to find themselves, to heal, to create. You don’t have to be alone.”
She stopped drawing and looked up at me. There was a flash of something in her eyes, something almost hesitant, but there was also curiosity and maybe even a spark of hope.
“I could offer you a place there, if you want,” I continued, my voice steady. “I think you’d be a good fit."
Elona remained silent, but I could tell the offer had planted a seed. She didn’t give me an immediate answer, but she didn’t turn me away either.
Days passed, and I continued to see her sitting in her usual spot.
I wondered if Elona was considering my offer, or if she had simply gotten used to the quiet rhythm of her life there.
Then, one evening, I was walking home from the market when I noticed her again, this time standing near the entrance of The Oily Cat.
She hesitated for a moment as if gathering the courage she needed, then she stepped forward, her eyes lifting to meet mine.
“I think I’ll take you up on your offer,” she said. “I could use a place to stay. My name’s Elona, by the way.”
Relief washed over me, and I smiled warmly at her. “You’re always welcome here, Elona. I’m glad you’ve decided to come.”
She became a part of The Oily Cat as a woman with a story that was still unfolding. I watched her grow within these walls, her art becoming more confident, her presence more vibrant. I knew she had the potential to make a name for herself beyond this town, and I hoped, one day, she would.
And finally, there was Violet.
Violet’s story didn’t begin like the others’.
She came to us on the coldest of nights, nearly swallowed by the dark, nothing but bone wrapped in torn cloth.
I found her crumpled in the alley behind The Oily Cat, barely breathing.
When I knelt beside her, something in me cracked, though I’d long thought my heart too calloused for that kind of breaking.
She was starving, yes, and half frozen, but there was a spark in her eyes, dim but defiant. The kind of fire that clings to life even when the world’s done everything to put it out. “Help me,” she whispered, barely audibly, her voice ragged.
I didn’t ask her who she was or where she’d come from. That could wait. I just took off my coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You’re safe now,” I said. “We’ll get you warm, and then we’ll figure the rest out.”
Violet had been cast aside long before she ended up at my door.
Raised in an orphanage, tossed out the day she turned eighteen like yesterday’s news.
No family, no home, just the cold truth that no one was coming for her.
She tried selling her poetry at the market, little scraps of her soul written in ink, but the world doesn’t stop for beauty when it’s hungry.
No one listened, no one cared. The world had discarded her just like it had so many others.
And yet . . . there was something about her.
Even in her desperation, she carried herself like a girl who saw the world in verses.
Her words had a raw, aching beauty to them, a poet’s soul, bruised but still burning.
She wasn’t just meant to survive, she was meant to matter.
Her poetry, raw, aching, and full of quiet strength, reached deep into the hearts of those who heard it.
Her words carried sorrow and hope in equal measure, becoming a balm for us all.
Now, in the quiet of my room, I lay still and let my eyes fall closed, a soft smile curving at my lips.
The women they had become stirred a fierce and unshakable pride within me that I carried like a second heartbeat.
The restlessness in my mind faded, and I drifted into sleep, knowing that no matter what comes, The Oily Cat, and the women I’d come to love, would always be my greatest triumph.