I'll Let You Go (21 page)

She didn't feel like taking a bath and was glad Mrs. Woolery led her straight to bed without a fuss, tucking her in with tender words. It'd been weeks since she slept on a mattress. The lights went off; suddenly Amaryllis was alone and afraid. She shut her eyes and felt heavier than a stone. After falling like that awhile—it was not unpleasant—she suddenly felt the presence of another. A small hot hand touched her wrist, but her eyes wouldn't open. A voice told her not to worry … Crystel's voice. She would stay by her side, she said, until sleep came. The girl didn't have long to wait.

The orphan dreamed of the St. George. Her mother smelled so bad it was time to move, but when she went to the kitchen to collect the babies, they were gone. Then she was running through the dark, with Topsy and the froggy Korean chasing her sister and brother up ahead; Amaryllis lagged behind. “Courage!” he shouted, his big tousled head turning back. “Courage, or you'll never see them again!” As she ran, her chest ached from its wounds and she'd had enough. When she gave up pursuit, the policewoman escorted her to a movie set and the boy who first called himself Toulouse took her hand. They raced through a crowd of adoring faces; she felt warm and giddy as he pulled her along. “You're late!” he said, sternly.

Amaryllis was starring in a movie and she was late.

P
itch-dark night. A night and a place that did not belong to her.

Mrs. Woolery's night …

Breathing sounds. She blinks, accustoming her eyes. Low ceiling above. No: another bed—she's on a bottom bunk. Breathing's louder now, warren-like, communal. Rasp, cough, suspiration. Germy close-quarters smell. Bright mote of moonlight reflected on helmet of sleeping boy. Her chest throbbing, infected nipple. Stomach spasms and at first she does not know why; roiling onslaught of tears, which she stanches. She cannot afford that.
Where is my mother?
she wonders, drawing air
through mouth so as not to make a sound.
What happened to my
—someone stands in door now,
not
Mrs. Woolery, staring. Floats closer. Amaryllis trembles, gathering courage to bolt, shrinks back instead, spine to wall, pillow to chest. A pretty, reed-thin black girl engulfed in a XXXL jersey stands at the bunk and ducks down for a better look with hollow eyes.

“What do you want!” Amaryllis exclaims.

The wraith smiles, then retreats. As she exits, the boy with the helmet shifts and snorts from his futon. A jack-in-the-box head hangs before her upside down, causing Amaryllis to gasp—Crystel, from the upper bunk.

“That's Shanggerla. She always walks around at night. Sometimes she sleeps in the kitchen.”

Amaryllis coughs. Crystel hops off the bed and brings her a Big Gulp. Amaryllis sucks the tepid soda from a fat straw.

“You don't
look
like an Edith.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Ten months.”

“Do you have a social worker?”

“A man, but you won't get him. He never comes. Everyone gets different ones. Do you have meds?”

Amaryllis didn't know what she meant.

“Where were you before?”

“With my mom.”

She pulls Amaryllis from the bed by the wrist. “Come on!”

“Where are we going?”

“You're hungry, aren't you?”

“What if they wake up?”

“Earlymae don't
stay
here—and Jilbo comes in the morning. At night, we
party
!”

The fluorescent kitchen shocks her eyes. An unplugged refrigerator, girdled by thick chain, is studded with Polaroids pinned by animal magnets—feisty former residents. Stucco walls wear a caved-in band just below eye level, courtesy, says Crystel, of the prolific, helmeted skull of Dennis the Phantom Menace; some parts colored by spongy swatches of dried blood. All the cutlery drawers are missing and the cabinets have
no doors, excepting one made of metal bolted to the top of the padlocked fridge.

The girl in the XXXL lists into shiny, stale air, her long, smooth olive arm hovering over the hairline-fractured counter like a dowser. Esurient eyes, emeralds veiled in mucus, periodically widen, twitched by electrical current; when they close, she smiles as if listening to voices. Crystel moistens Shanggerla's lips with a paper towel.

“She's on so many meds! Aren't you, Shangg?”

The eyes widen, twitch, vanish. She smiles inwardly. The spidery arm dowses.

“Shanggerla means paradise—that's what Earlymae says. Shangg's a sniffer. Tell her what gang you're from.”

She bends at the waist so that she's nearly parallel to the ground. “The Rollin' Tens!”

“And what is ‘Ten' short for?”

“It mean ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand
blocks
,” said Crystel, translating for Amaryllis. She turns back to Shanggerla. “Tell Edith where the Rollin' Tens are from.”

“Rollin' Tens from Venus. They Crips.”

“Venice isn't big enough for ten thousand blocks, nigger!”

“Venus! They taggers from
Venus
.”

“The planet,” adds Crystel, winking at Amaryllis.

“Venus spin backward,” she giggles. “The Rollin' Tens is from Mar Vista!”

“You mean
Mars
Vista!”

“Vista del Mars!”

“And who are the Tens at war with, Shangg?”

“Crystel, it so
sad
,” says Shanggerla, face unexpectedly contorting in tears.

“Shangg loves Venus Williams.”

“Yes I do. And her sister too.”

“She likes
anything
called Venus. Tell Edith your placements, Shangg.”

That word again …

Her long body hovers as she prepares to respond.

“Well, uh, Vista del Mar … and Mac. And Penny Lane. Pride House and Passageways. CLI—and Sanctuary. Orangewood. Irvine! An' Hudson-Lyndsey!”

“Family Solution?”

“Family Solution!”

“Were you at VisionQuest?”

“
Summit
Quest.”

“Olive View?”

“I was, you know, Olive
Crest
.”

“They should have put you in Venus View and Venus Crest!”

“Penis View.” She laughs out loud.

“
Dennis
was Olive Crest—I think.”

“Dennie was at Family
Solutions
and COPES. And New Alternatives. Dennie the Mennie was maybe at Five Acres—that's where he start bangin' his haid.”

“He almost burned that place down. Now they bring him to Charters whenever he cracks his skull. Dennis calls hospitals ‘vacation.' You gonna get him into the Tens, Shangg?”

“Dennis can't be in the Tens!”

“Why not.”

“His penis too white.” She covers her mouth in silent hilarity.

“He likes Charters,” says Crystel, “ 'cause they give him candy and the nurses give him
hugs
. Isn't that sick?”

“He suck their titties.”

“What's wrong with him?” asks Amaryllis.

“ 'Tension deficit. Obsess compulse. I was at COPES,” she muses. “I think when I was,
two
. I
think
I was at Mac. You couldn't wear your own clothes—the girls wore shirts with little bear stamps. I was at an Olive … I don't know if it was Crest or View. Were you with a family, Shangg?”

“They did try that.”

“Where were
you
?” Crystel asks, turning to Amaryllis.

“Just with my mom.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died.”

“Did he kill her?”

“Who?”

“Your dad.”

Amaryllis shakes her head. “She was lying in the bed.”

“Well, who
did
kill her?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you
have
a dad?”

“I don't know.”

AKA Crissie Fits fishes small, blondish arm into hole in the wall, past meteorites of stucco dangling in chicken wire. Like a Martha Stewart of the damned, arranges Circle K booty on paper plates with garnishings of leaves and petals: Funyun rings, Fritos Racerz, Lunchables, Li'l Angels, POWERade, Skittles, kosher dill spears, Clamato, Twizzlers, Peppermint Patties, and
two
Ben & Jerry's—warm, sopping Chubby Hubby and Chunky Monkey. Among the few nonedibles are a Cherie makeup set and an “instant” geranium windowsill basket. Crystel lays out a green terry-cloth towel and they picnic right there on the floor.

For the first time, Amaryllis focuses on the curious little girl. She is four and a half feet tall, and wears lemon-colored shadow, smudged so opposing question marks curve from eyelid to cheek, each point ending at the downturned corners of a precocious mouth. Black-brown hair bunched into berserk braids tied together with wire hanger and red twine. She is stylish, zany and spirited, and, like Amaryllis, bites her nails to the quick. The latter's eyes flit to the metal cabinet above the fridge.

“Meds,” enlightens Crystel.

“What are they?”

“Dennie pee hisself from the Juice Bar,” laughs Shanggerla from behind closed eyes.

Reanimated, Crystel shouts that they have to go see if Dennis peed the bed or Earlymae will kick their ass. Shanggerla stays cross-legged on the floor, meditations—and medications—unknown. Crystel grabs Amaryllis's wrist again and races down the hall.

“Look, look!” she squeals, flipping on a light. “He shit, he shit, he shit!”

The boy lies in the position last seen. A hastily fastened diaper could not absorb the coiled, watery discharge; it has spilled onto the futon, which was, fortunately, wrapped in lawn and leaf–size Glad bags. She asks if Amaryllis wants to see his head, ignoring the orphan's pleas not to remove the helmet.

“Thorazine makes him shit,” says Crystel, setting upon the strap and delicately lifting off the hard shell. Though bristled hair has spottily grown, the crown resembles a moon pelted through millennia by all manner of celestial debris.

Amaryllis backs into the bunk—aftertaste of beggar's banquet, nauseating closeness of room, stench of unconscious boy and sight of perky wolfish girl looming over has done her no real good. Crystel, ever attuned, iterates that Dennis is sleeping and no harm has been done.

Then, as if to make amends—to the boy and to her new friend, whom Crystel already loves and is determined to advise and protect—she sets to cleaning up the mess.

W
hich is more onerous, politics or sentimentality? It is difficult to choose. To suggest that the perils of Amaryllis Kornfeld might have been relieved by courageous legislation is naïve; likewise, the easy fetish of emotion makes for cheap martyrdom. Let neither road be taken—pray that makes all the difference.

On Friday, they went to court, as required by law; the details of their visit will later be aired. For now, we are ready to tour the communal home of Earlymae Woolery. Dawn light is conducive to exploration, and the children are asleep. The white Sedan DeVille of the matron of the house won't pull into the driveway until ten (and then, only because of the new immigrant). Usually, each morning from seven till noon, Jilbo alone is entrusted with the brood.

Mrs. Woolery lives with her spouse under a different roof on a cul-de-sac of ranch houses in La Cañada Flintridge. Her neighborhood is lush and quiet, fluffed and fine-tuned by a discreet cadre of private gardeners and city workers. Her own children are grown; her affable hobbyist husband is nearly deaf; that is probably enough personal history, for this woman will not stay long in our lives. A realtor and professional foster parent, she has over the years acquired four other homes, including the one on Chimney Smoke Road, each with six beds. The government pays a monthly stipend per child, in Mrs. Woolery's case higher than the norm because of her willingness to process children in extremis, at all hours. She feeds, clothes and enrolls her charges in school, and if needed (it is always needed) arranges for a Special Education Plan, the child's right by law. Sometimes, if necessary (it is always necessary), Mrs. Woolery
has psychotropics prescribed by phone; she has a warm and lucrative relationship with a retired psychiatrist, who will even make a house call for a personal interview with the newcomer if indicated (it is never indicated). If, in short order, it is determined that the child is too disruptive for the public school environment (it is always determined), Mrs. Woolery is thereby so ordered to tutor the ward at home, a task for which she is, conveniently, licensed. When such is the case (such is always the case for the wards of Mrs. Woolery), the government grudgingly pays a multiple of its original fee; for Mrs. Woolery, this translates to around $30K per residence. It is harder than it might seem to maintain four foster homes on $120,000 a month, but it's doable.

The house on Chimney Smoke Road wears a sweeping, pleasant façade upon a smile of manicured grass. The living room is furnished by the stodgily inviting Ethan Allen; many a social worker—many a clients'-rights manager—has been plied with cookies and coffee on its deep-dish couches and frill-fringed chairs. There is even a small magazine rack such as found in Christian Science Reading Rooms, stocked with parenting magazines and carefully folded schedules from a two-year-old Doubletree Hotel (formerly Red Lion Inn) WE ARE LIFE CHANGERS training conference featuring such topical seminars as
Microwave Cooking—Quick and Easy Meals Kids Like, Hair and Skin Care for Multi-Ethnic Children
, and the modern classic
When a Child Dies in the Home
(“A panel of three persons who have each experienced the death of a child in their home will talk about the worst of this situation. They will discuss what to expect from the bureaucracy, coroner, licensing and investigation, and of course answer any questions.”)
^†