I'll Let You Go (43 page)

Brave the docent and bold the plan that led these diamonds-in-the-rough through a hushed exhibit of illuminated manuscripts from the Middle Ages! Above them, robot blinds whirred open and shut, regulating the amount of sunlight to fall upon the rarities. Our children's darting attention was temporarily arrested by a few gory pages of Christ crucified, angels hovering hummingbird-like at nailed feet, precariously holding goblets to catch the spray of his blood; and sundry depictions of sinners' passage through Hell, a very gold flecked, very miniature Hell at that. Mystie's provocative query—“What did they do wrong?”—hung in the air awhile, unanswered by docent or Dézhiree. Virgins and other do-gooders elicited comments more vile than one might wish in those so youthful. Amaryllis found herself standing for quite some time before a “Sorrowful Madonna” in draped hood of indigo blue. The guide said the vines that reached above her were of columbine, which instantly provoked spirited reference to the hapless school where so many had perished. It was patiently explained that a columbine was a flower (here the docent nodded to our diminutive heroine), as was an amaryllis. Kristl was stumped by this new bit of information and glanced bashfully at her friend with a kind of flummoxed respect, as if suddenly glimpsing her true worth.

On the way out, Amaryllis stood at the final display. A woman stared demurely from the manuscript's open leaves.

“That's Hedwig,” said the docent. “She was a noblewoman. She used her money to help the poor.”

The matriculants, flanked by burly Mac staffers, had by now all gathered around.

“How much did she have?” asked Johnathin—twappily, dare it be said.

The docent was nonplussed.

“How much
money
?” said Kaytwon.

“Probably quite a lot, by today's standards.”

“She don't look rich,” sniffed the perp, sizing up the tiny painted figure as he might a “vic”; casing the page, as it were. Kristl eyed him with disdain.

“She's not wearing no fucking shoes!”

“
No language
, Kaytwon,” warned Dézhiree sternly.

A displeased male staffer moved closer to the boy.

“I'm glad you pointed that out,” said the docent, unfazed. “She's not wearing shoes for a reason. That's because she's an
ascetic
.”

“Diabetic?” asked Johnathin, and the group—especially Cindra and the twins—broke into laughter.

“No,” said the smiling docent. “That's not what
ascetic
means—”

“But that's a pretty good word, Johnathin,” said Dézhiree supportively. “ ‘Diabetic' is a
big
word.”

“Then does it means she's … an asshole?” remarked Kaytwon, causing the staffer to place an admonitory thick-fingered hand on his shoulder.

“An ascetic is someone who goes without common comforts, to show devotion to God.”

“That would be me,” whispered Dézhiree, cracking herself up.

“Why couldn't she just pray?” asked Kristl.

“She
was
praying—that was her way.”

“She pray with her feet!” said Kaytwon gleefully, slapping his hands like the fins of a seal. “She put 'em together when she go to sleep!”

There were titters from the group; the staffer's grip tightened, and he shifted behind the boy, letting him feel the heft. Dézhiree was ready to move on, but the docent continued.

“They called her Blessed Hedwig. She was actually a saint.”

“I ain't never heard of Saint Hedwig Day,” said Mystie. “Why she ain't got no holiday?”

“Well, maybe in other parts of the world, she
does
,” said Dézhiree.

Amaryllis leaned in for a closer look at the sad-eyed figure. She was clutching a rosary and what looked like a Bible, but the docent said it wasn't really a Bible at all.

“They called that a Book of Hours,” he said. “Each had prayers written in it for the day—morning prayers, afternoon prayers … the more elaborate the book, the wealthier the owner. Families actually hired artisans—painters and craftsmen—to design them. They were very important, because they would remain in those families, sometimes for hundreds of years.”

“Was she married?”

“Yes. To a man named Henry the Bearded.”

Titters, in light of the docent's scraggly growth.

“Was she married to
you
?”

“Not to me, no,” said their unruffled guide. “I'm not
that
old.”

“Was she a nun?” asked Amaryllis.

“No, but that's a good question. She was a laywoman.”

More hilarity, especially from Johnathin and the twins, while Kaytwon luridly rubbed his own tits. Dézhiree slapped his hand away and told him she'd “had it.”

“Did she have any children?”

“She was married at twelve.”

Kaytwon whispered to Kristl that he bet she had more pussy hair than the saint. Kristl elbowed his chest, and he stifled a cry.

“And while that's not a
good
thing, it wasn't unusual in those times.”

“I like to marry
me
a twelve-year-old,” said Kaytwon as their procession moved on.

“You wouldn't know what to do with one,” said Kristl.

“Is that right?”

“Stick to the five-year-olds, sicko.”

Amaryllis trailed after the docent in a kind of fever. “But … how could they call her Blessed while she was still alive? They
never
beatify the living … they had Devil's Advocates and a postulator and if the postulator said Hedwig had heroic virtue, the pope would make a declaration saying people could call her Venerable—then she'd beatify if she did two miracles. John Paul says now you only need
one
, unless you're a martyr. So they would canonize but
after
, only
after
she was dead—”

“Well, that's … now that's really exceptional! Where'd you learn so much? Have you been creeping into the research library at night?” The docent winked at Dézhiree and the orphan shrugged. “And you're exactly right—she wasn't made a saint until twenty years after her death. I said they called her Blessed, but they sure didn't while she was still with us; you are
correct
. That portrait would have been done
before
she became a saint. Now, whether she was Venerable at that point, I do not know. But that is a
very
excellent observation!”

Amaryllis cringed, feeling the sin of pride for having showboated. Kaytwon passed close and said, “Smarty-cunt.”

Dézhiree sidled up to her as the tram snaked down to the parking lot. “You OK, honey?” The orphan nodded. “Got off pretty deep into that saint stuff, huh. I mean, that's
good
—you're a
real
smart girl. I just
don't think you should get too crazy with it, know what I'm sayin'?” Amaryllis nodded, staring at her shoes. “And I know it's rough on you being separated from your sister and brother. I know that. But you've got a lot of people on your side pullin' for you. Tryin' to make it happen. Like Lani—now
that's
a good lady. She don't even get paid to do what she's doin', did you know that? But that lady
cares
, know what I'm sayin'? I just don't want you gettin' too deep into devil's advocates and all that! I liked that movie, by the way. Al Pacino in the subway?
Woo
that was cold! And Keanu's my
man
. Sex-y!” She put her hand on the girl's. “But—do you understand where I'm comin' from? Do you, Amaryllis? 'Cause you're a smart, smart girl, know what I'm sayin'? And I want you to start
usin'
some of that brainpower for things that are going to get you
ahead
in this world. That could be computers, that could be bein' a writer,
whatever
—whatever you choose. 'Cause you can do anything you want, Amaryllis, know what I'm sayin'? Anything you want in this world, and that's for real. You have the mind and we can get the tools. If we don't have the tools—at Mac or
wherever
—we'll
find
'em, OK? We'll
find
you the tools, OK, honey? I
guarantee
that, know what I'm sayin'? Dézhiree guarantees that. I put my money where my mouth is, OK? I just don't want you to get caught up in lots of … exter-aneous saints and martyrs and ‘beetications'! I mean, that's all inneresting and has its place, but there's a big world out there too and I'd hate you to miss it. OK, sweetheart?”

Back in the bus, the kids groused about lunch. Then Dézhiree announced the big surprise: they were all invited by the
Scream
man for McDonald's at his production office. That was particularly good news for Kristl, who had planned to run away during the tour but had found the edifice escape-proof.

When they pulled in front of the nondescript Ventura Boulevard building, bushy-tailed film interns—fresh-scrubbed models of compassion—awaited curbside to usher them in. Upstairs, a morbid display of props from his films vied with the Getty's chamber of horrors, but the one that riveted them stood eerily alone in its Plexiglas showcase: a burn-scarred, rubbery hand with long razors at the end of its fingers. The
Scream
man's partner (a gracious, dimpled woman, who looked more like Ava Gardner than she did the Flying Nun), led the children to a conference room, where burgers, Cokes and fries sat in the middle of a huge granite table. They dove in.

The startling thing—at least to Amaryllis—was how without much ado she suddenly found herself in the shimmery, baking sunshine of the Valley sprinting by storefronts, doglegging around Vendome and Blockbuster and Nail Time and Pick Up Stix, in this store and out the other—Pier 1, Bookstar, Strouds, Kinko's, Koo Koo Roo—zigzagging Kristl covering their trail as they forded streets wider and busier than any Amaryllis had ever known: through drugstores bright as the blinding midday sun, past delicatessens and savings & loans and marinating trash bins and ticketing policemen and old folks on their last legs, and heatstroked beggars on bus benches, until they walked miles and miles, the damp white-yellow knob of Amaryllis's wrist bone stinging from her indomitable friend's iron grip.

Finally, Kristl made a pleading call that did not look to be going well, at least not until she read the address off the pay phone to whoever was on the other end. She hung up and said her mom was coming and that was good, because the police would soon be “siccing dogs” on them. She said bloodhounds used their long ears to stir up the soil for the scent of whatever they were tracking.

The girls went to Rite Aid and busied themselves for what seemed like hours. They stole cough syrup and looked at all the makeup and perfume and laughed uncontrollably when they found an aisle that sold diapers for grown-ups. Then Kristl said they should leave, because a clerk was looking at them funny and probably thought they were going to shoplift, which of course they already had. So they went back into the deaf-and-dumb heat, walking in circles with their bad b.o.

A tattooed man roared up on a motorcycle and the girls backed off until Kristl recognized him—it was Mike. She screamed and threw her arms around him. She asked where her mom was and Mike said she had to stay in Lawndale, but he was going to take her to Topanga and Tina would come later. He handed Kristl a helmet and told her to get on. She said she wouldn't without her friend, and Mike said they would have to come back for Amaryllis in a regular car. Kristl said she wouldn't go without her friend, but Mike said she better if she didn't want him to drive her ass back to MacLaren right now. Kristl made Mike promise they'd come back in a car, and she told Amaryllis to meet them at the dumpster behind Vons and that she should hide until they came. She put on her helmet and they roared off, practically splitting the orphan's eardrums.

Feeling sorry for herself and queasy about her betrayal of Dézhiree, Amaryllis begins to cry but stops quickly enough, not wishing to draw attention. Her progress now becomes hurly-burly, scattershot, vaudevillian: in any given broiling locale, she stands weirdly stock-still, flustered; then, realizing she is making a spectacle of herself, moves on with a jerk as if given the Hook. Nowhere to go … so she sticks to the impossibly long alley with dumpsters all around—blue for merchants, green for residences, brown for construction debris (these, big as trucks), gray for storage, yellow for recycling—dodging them as they close in on her like the living boulders she saw on an archaic
Star Trek
. Each path of escape seems the one that will end in Carceration—in the Valley, just like her father …

Amaryllis wheels pell-mell through humid air, her orbit in decay, instinctively gravitating toward places where children gather, but children are the worst bloodhounds of all, and they point and whisper at the sweaty loser until she gets the Hook again, and tears across the street like a lost panicked dog, through entries of stores perceived to have rear exits; as she passes through each garishly lit refuge the air-conditioning cools her body, though is not a comfort. Plunged again into the bustle of tarry parking lots, parking lots like cities, parking lots with whole populations, rhythms, moods and laws. She slows until standing stock-still, dazed and vacant in the warpy heat, staving off tears, no longer thinking of the babies or her mother (diseased) or her father (carcerated) or Topsy or Kristl or Dézhiree or
anything
—starving, yet without a single thought of food, and shamefully peeing in the brush behind Vons, where the bluest dumpster is, at a break in the bushes that leads to a slow-moving river in a concrete bed upon whose ceasing current she would most certainly not be borne back to the past. She squats and does her business, old breast wound aching again, tears like blisters on her cheeks, thinking of Pixies as she hikes up her pants—they'd be having dinner now and talking about her (though maybe not). The lonely Box of Saints tucked in a drawer, waiting …