I'll Let You Go (22 page)

Gone are the days when officious CSWs diligently took stock of fridge and pantry or ventured into children's rooms to note the presence of stuffed animals and other surefire indicators of loving care. To the DCFS, Mrs. Woolery is a veteran, well known to have a child's welfare at heart. Still, when last glanced, even
she
felt the kitchen's dishevelment had gone too far; if the plastering could wait, the drawers should at least be retrieved from the trailer and shoved into their sockets—
she'd get Jilbo to “hup” it. Only baking soda and mold graced the inside of that ungodly, humming icebox; per Mrs. Woolery's orders, Jilbo hijacked the groceries so showily brought in last night, rerouting them to another house. Though, to be fair, he
did
leave relish, frankfurter buns and a jumbo bag of M&M's blues.

But we are running out of time: let us take the meds from the locker that sits above the Kenmore and line them up.

In a half-dozen shoe boxes sprawls a town of tubular buildings with dates long expired, some missing their roofs, vacant interiors powdered from a crowd of old tenants now dispossessed—and newer ones too: refills with hard white childproof porkpie hats. What makes up this sad orange forest frontier? Meds: for depression and anxiety, OCD and ADD/ADHD, seizure and mania, insomnia, psychosis … a child's secret garden and cabinet of wonders. Mint-flavored, liquid, Caplet and mist: wishing-Wellbutrin, whole lotta Luvox (FDA-approved for the under-twelve set), peek-a-BuSpar (Shanggerla called it Juice Bar), tireless old standby midnight-rider Dexedrine, one-eyed hypervigilant Cylert (for bed-wetting; though children's-court judges don't like it prescribed anymore because of deleterious side effects), poison puff Adderall, hallucination-buster Haldol, whispering Risperdol, outmoded mellow-yellow Mellaril—and of course the anomalous Thorazine, great god Thor, inveterate vanquishing Viking of yesteryear. Kid, interrupted.

More dusty tenements in crypts that once held Roots clogs: squat round play-organ pipes with faded labels of forgotten names of all the thrashed little girls and boys—fruitless Day-Glo warning stickers and yellow C
AUTIONS
on the fresh-painted promise of Depakote; on man on the flying Trazodone and saber-toothed Tegretol; on tell-me-a-Ritalin; on bleachy Clonidine (to counter insomnia caused by the former); on catacomby Catapres; on a toy streetcar named Desyrel. It should be added that child-strength Motrin, Dimetapp (great for
calming
), Sav-On antihistamines and a hundred antibiotics (everyone is at all times on low levels to manage group head colds) are scattered in the boxes, like sleeping vagrants; over- and under-the-counter syrups and spent FloVent inhalers also trespass within, but, unlike the others, possess no gravitas and are accorded no real status.

Last but not least a sturdy Kenneth Cole contained this multiethnic low-rise ghetto drugscape: Cogentin, Ambien, Tofranil, Elavil, Pamelor, Asendin, Lidiomil, Anafranil, Nardil, Parnate, Tenex, Tractan, Remeron,
Serentil, Loxitane, Moban, Trilafon, Navane, Stelazine, Prolixin, Norpramin, Orap, Dalmane, Symmetrel, Akineton, Effexor, Neurontin, Ativan, Doxepin, Prilosec, Librium, Zoloft (been good to know you), Clozaril, Vistaril, chloral hydrate and phenobarb—the rainbow of a decade of storms, prescribed by a certain eighty-three-year-old medic, a Gahan Wilson vampire as real as anything, who fancies Mrs. Woolery and whom she deftly, flirtily avoids.

The rest of the house never saw visitors and would not know how to greet them. Cold and barren, by now it loves only the children it harbors and the memory of those formerly berthed—loves them more than it could Mrs. Woolery or Jilbo or even the kindly, deaf Jane Scull, who comes weekdays to baby-sit and clean. Two of its bathrooms are used for storage, tubs filled with soiled clothes and broken toys. Jilbo thoughtfully removed the toilet seats; there is no water in the lurid, scummy bowls. A third (master) bath has a laminated précis hammered to its door.

Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder

A mobile home sits in the backyard, jacked-up on boards and stripped of accoutrements—it is the children's domain. The gouged-out Airstream's origin and reasons for abandonment are murky; perhaps Mr. Woolery once soldered slot-car chassis there.

Saturday morning and the pearl-white DeVille now comes. There she is, stepping out. The children (except for Dennis) are stirring. The fuzzy old charcoal Chanel suit pinned with a too-big tree-shaped brooch enters in a cloud of Bvlgari. She carries pills in her purse; she won't need to visit the ancient locker.

Amaryllis wakes up disoriented. Crystel snores beside her—sometime in the night, she dropped down to the lower bunk. Dennis wheezes in his helmet. Hearing Mrs. Woolery's footsteps in the living room, the foundling is seized by dread. Moments later, Shanggerla appears at the door, fresh-faced and juvenile. “Miz Woolery here!”

With that, Crystel Hallohan opens an eye, then another, and catapults from the bed, nearly stepping on Dennis's small arm. Jarred, he opens his eyes for a moment, then shuts them again to dream.

Crystel and Shanggerla greet their benefactress.

“Well, look what the cat drug in,” she says—the sort of scary genial hillbilly thing that is her trademark. Mrs. Woolery is alive with the atoms of the outside world, and the girls are excited at the airy, wicked
newness
she brings to a room. Amaryllis, frightened and hungover from yesterday's epic pilgrimage, creeps to the hall and listens. “How's Newbie?”

“Good,” says Crystel.

“Y'all have breakfast yet?” Crystel shakes her head. “Well that's good, 'cause Jane Scull's bringin' Mickey D.” She screws her nose at Shanggerla and sniffs. “You on your period, Paradise?” The gangly girl nods. “You stink. I would like to see you bathe today.”

Shanggerla casts sleep-encrusted eyes to carpet.

“Yes, ma'm,” she says.

“You bloody too?” asks Mrs. Woolery of Crystel, who solemnly nods. “All you people do here is bleed.” She shouts to the newbie: “Hey! You a bleeder?” Amaryllis doesn't answer. Then, more to herself: “She will be soon.”

“Her tits hurt,” says Crystel.

Mrs. Woolery tightly sets her jaw and grits it around. “You can phrase that another way.”

“In her shirt—she was crying.”

“Well, we'll see.” Mrs. Woolery turns to Shanggerla. “Get the first-aid kit. In the master bath.”

“Come on out now,” calls Mrs. Woolery to the still-unseen newbie. “I ain't gonna bite.” Crystel makes a mini-move toward the hall, but Mrs.
Woolery stops her. “Let her come herself. Won't go nowhere with you clucking over her like a hen.”

Amaryllis slowly emerges, barefoot.

“There she is! C'mere, sweetheart—it's all right.” Amaryllis stands trembling in the doorway. “Suit yourself.”

Mrs. Woolery sits in the fringy chair and sighs. Amaryllis fixates on her hair, frozen on the head like silvery meringue. There's something about her face that is unassimilable—the features are large and over-painted, and though she isn't a tall woman, she strikes Amaryllis as giant, big as Topsy. Voice deep, clacking nails fire-engine-red, eyes ice-floe blue, teeth bright rows of graves.

“What's your
real
name, Newbie? Sure as hell ain't Edith. Might as well say it—they
will
find out.”

“Amaryllis.”

After all her vows, it comes out: just like that. What is the power of this woman?

“
That's
a mouthful. We'll call you Armadillo! Know what an armadillo is, Crissie Fits? Funny-lookin' little armored creatures—usually get runn'd over. Are you roadkill, Dillo?” Amaryllis shakes her head. “Well you surely are not. But you could be, couldn't you, if you don't mind. But you will—
mind
, I mean. You're a minder. She's a minder, isn't she, Shangg?” Shanggerla smiles at the ground while Mrs. Woolery fishes in her purse. “A mind is a terrible thing to waste, ain't it, Shangg?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Mind over matter, mind over matter,” she mutters, to no one in particular. “I don't mind; you don't matter. Crissie, git some water.” She obeys, shouting, “Crystal Geyser! Crystal Geyser!” which elicits a small laugh from Mrs. Woolery, who then turns to Amaryllis. “Dillo-girl, I want you to take these.” She holds three pills in her hand—a yellow Caplet, a pentagon flecked with baby blue and a tiny pink sphere that slides down the lotioned crease of her proffering palm.

“What are they?”

“Them's
good
things. Doctor things—don't you worry too much about it. Curiosity killed the 'dillo.”

Crystel hands the glass of tap water to her friend. “Why did you say you were Edith?” she asks.

“
Uh
-oh—good Lord!” laughs Mrs. Woolery. “Betrayed! Look out!
You watch her live up to her name, Dillo! Lookit! She gonna have a Crissie fit!”

Crystel darkens as Dillo the Newbie works up the courage to take her pills. “Are you Earlymae because you were born in May?” she asks ingratiatingly.

“No,
December
,” says Mrs. Woolery, mouth buckling in disgust. “Well
uh course
I was born in May! What do you think, stupid?” She laughs and so does Crystel; Amaryllis tries to smile. “May
third
to be exact. I'm a Taurus and that ain't no bull. Now swallow 'em, Dillo—swallow 'em up.
Hup
it!”

Jane Scull appears at the screen door with bags of McDonald's, and Crystel eagerly lets her in. (Shanggerla makes her own entrance, carrying a tackle box filled with bandages, disinfectant and bug spray.) A sweet, heavy girl with wet, whitish acne and double hearing aids. “You smell worse than Shangg,” says Mrs. Woolery while Crystel greedily takes the bags and Shanggerla sets the table with Golden Arches paper and plastic.

Mrs. Woolery tells Amaryllis to come over. She says it again and the girl obeys. “What's this about your upper part?”

She shyly retreats, but Mrs. Woolery insists. Lifts her blouse.

“Lord, what happened
here
?” The others stand around goggling, and each time Amaryllis tries to lower her shirt, Mrs. Woolery stops her. “Better call someone about that 'fore they say
I
did it. Good Lord, that is ugly.” Shoos the girls back to the table, insisting Amaryllis eat because she's going to give her a Percocet for pain. “I'm gonna have to put something
on
that mess and don't want you cryin'.”

A living room feast: Mrs. Woolery allows them to have their repast on the Lemon Pledge–polished Ethan Allen table. What a pretty picture for clients'-rights managers the nation over! Sweet-faced sucklings tucking into Egg McMuffins on a sleepy Saturday morn … but soon Amaryllis was feeling odd. Tongue dried up and heart began to race. Stopped eating—just plumb stopped in her tracks—and was dimly aware of others commenting on that, laughing about it too. Then she was on the couch, woozy, heavy-lidded, cotton-mouthed, Mrs. Woolery daubing her chest with alcohol-soaked tissues while Jane, Crystel and Shanggerla looked on. Pain stabbed at her as the nipple was roughly disinfected, but foremost there was nausea; as the poor soul ran to throw up, Shanggerla
comically chased after, holding slender caramel catch-basin hands under Amaryllis's chin—the newbie chose not a sink but one of the dead toilet bowls (which infuriated Mrs. Woolery). The salty innkeeper trudged in not long after, reaching behind the porcelain tank to turn the water on so the McBarf could be flushed. Assuming the lion's share of meds came up with the food, she decided to give the girl another round. By this time, Dennis the Phantom Menace was lurking, on best behavior. Then he whined and cried because the food was gone and Jane Scull gave him fries and the rest of her McMuffin.

Amaryllis was lifted to bed. She panicked because with the second wave, she didn't know what to do with her arms; it was as if they belonged to someone else. She thought of Edith Stein and other Blesseds throughout the ages—Hildegard and Theresa, and the virgin martyr Cecilia and the hardships
they
endured, and of course thought of her babies too. Unexpectedly, Boulder Langon popped into her head in time to say some harsh, untranslatable thing before Amaryllis fell asleep to the giddy horseplay screams of roommates beyond.