I'll Let You Go

CHAPTER 28. The Book of Hours

After her big day in court, Amaryllis, bereft at the thought that she would never see the babies again, planned to suckle an aerosol can till she died. If Auschwitz gas was good enough for Edith Stein, it was good enough for her — only there wasn’t any Auschwitz gas, so Duster II would have to do. The trip to the Huntington was bumped by an expedition to the Getty, a trade-up neatly arranged through the good offices of the dimpled formerly wimpled woman they called the Flying Nun. Kristl spoke excitedly of the elevated tram one rode to get to the high-up museum and convinced her friend that death, at the very least, should be postponed.

MacLaren’s census was swollen by a glut of psych-hospital refugees (Medi-Cal only paid for so much inpatient care); and while it’s late in the day to introduce new players, a roll call of those visiting the Westside citadel that travertine Tuesday can be briefly sketched. There was Cindra, ensconced in her pipe-and-leather throne, respirator at full-tilt boogie; Johnathin, a gregarious, slur-speeched tween who had badly concussed himself during an “attachment disorder tantrum” (the kids called him Twappy, or Spesh, after “special needs”); Mystie (aka Lemon-AIDS), who contracted HIV after being assaulted at her mother’s wedding reception; nine-year-old twins famous for being brought to court in shackles for failing to testify against their dad in an abuse case involving a sister; and Kaytwon, a ten-year-old who’d been hospitalized for raping boys and girls half his age with foreign objects. Kaytwon had been discharged to Mac after a fleece of lawyers argued it could not be proven that he possessed “the necessary intent to arouse himself or his victims.”

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 …

She continues her locomotion to the redundant oasis of Moorpark Park, but the grown-ups notice when she sits on the bright orange slide for a while — then off again, ashamed and horrified that she left her post and might miss her ride as nightfall comes.

There she is! There! There! There!”

Headlamps light her up. Amaryllis stirs, half asleep in the bushes behind the blue dumpster, on the lip of the hillock that dips down to the river. Kristl is grabbing at her, and suddenly she finds herself in the enormous, slippery backseat of an old El Dorado. There’s even a pillow back there and a chewed-up dog bone on the carpet.

“We kept looking for you. My mom was gonna leave!”

Tina is at the wheel. Her long, squeezed-together face reminds Amaryllis of the Scream masks, but more pretty than scary.

“This is so fucked-up, Kristl Ann! Honey, I am on parole.”

“But she’s my friend—”

“You can never say I picked up this girl, Kristl Ann, never.” She turned back to Amaryllis. “You can never say I did this, OK? Because that’s kidnapping!” To her daughter: “I’ll tell you one thing, she is going back tomorrow.”

“Mom!—”

“And you are, too—”

“You can’t!”

“Well that’s just the way it’s going to be!”

Kristl started to talk, but her mother said, “Shut up!” and they drove in silence along Ventura Boulevard until rattling onto the 101. Once they were on the freeway, Tina got calmer but yelled more.

“Do you even know what they’ll do to your mother if they stop me with the two of you? Throw me in jail, that’s what. That’s right. And jail is not a place I want to be, huh-uh. Been there done that no way.”

“I’m sorry—”

“We can’t even go back to Lawndale. I can’t even put you with your grandma — she’s too sick. Though I may have to … don’t you think I’m the first one they will call? Huh? Don’t you know that? Well, you’re fucking right. Probably called already. I may be in violation just by not checking the messages! And Grandma? Would you really want to do that to your grandma? Would you, Kristl Ann? She’d call the cops on you for sure—you know Grandma don’t put up with no shit. And why should she? That’s why we’re gonna be with Mike in Topanga. We can’t go back home! I can’t believe I’m out here in the dark with you two fugitives on my way to fucking Topanga! I had to break away from business to come get your friend. I’m getting my real estate license, did you know that?”

Kristl shook her mortified head.

“Do you think that’s easy? Do you think anyone can get a real estate license? They just hand them out like candy? Here, Tina! Here’s your license! You are free now to go and sell yourself a mansion! I wish. One mansion and I could buy a house. I was doing business, Kristl; that’s why Mike had to come. You love your friend so much but not enough to say she was with you. Why didn’t you say you were with your friend when you called? Huh? Huh? The only reason I’m here — the only reason, Kristl Ann — is because I know how loyal you are to your friend, because I raised you like that. And that’s a nice quality. But I was doing mother-fucking business, do you understand?” Back to Amaryllis: “Excuse my language. I don’t usually talk that way, but sometimes the situation demands it.” To Kristl: “Do you know what kinda bills I have to pay, Kristl Ann? With your daddy in the penitentiary? He can’t help, I’m telling you. He may want to, but he can’t, OK? So it’s on me. And, honey, you do not want to see your mama back in that jail either, believe me. I know she’s your friend and she’s real cute, but I can’t be an accessory! Do you know what an accessory is? Because what you two have done is committed a crime. MacLaren Hall is an institution, and to leave an institution without permission as minors is a crime. They put their trust in you not to do that. They’re not all bad people. Some of them care; I know they do. ’Cause they weren’t all bad, even in jail. There’s always a few rotten apples, but there’s people who care, too. People that help you. Did you think I could just walk out of Central if I felt like it? It is not a perfect world. Do you think I could walk out of New Beginnings or wherever just because I didn’t like the way the sheets smelled? Or the food? Or because they made me mop the damn floor? No, I couldn’t. Because they gave me a trust and that is a sacred trust. And you know what? As far as the law stands, you may as well have robbed a bank and I’m the getaway.”

“Mama—”

“That’s an accessory, OK? I can’t be that for you, do you understand, Kristl Ann? Do you ever want to come home?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I said yes.”

“That didn’t sound like someone who wants to come home. That sounded like someone who doesn’t give a shit about their mom, who’s risking her freedom to pick up her daughter and her daughter’s friend, who the mother doesn’t even know—”

“Mom, I do want to come home—”

“Well then, act like it! And don’t violate a sacred trust! We have a sacred trust — mother and daughter. Do you remember when you and Dakin were with me on a trial basis? And we had the dispo and they said you could stay with me? How happy you were? I worked my ass off for that! Do you think it was fun for me to go to school at night and hear some fucking fool who’s probably molesting his kids tell me how to parent? Well it wasn’t! But did I walk out? No I didn’t. I maintained a stable home, Kristl Ann! I peed in a bottle for those people, OK? I did that for you. Would you and your friend pee in a bottle for me? Do you think that’s fun?”

Kristl laughed and Amaryllis smiled and so did Tina, but then she got mad again.

“When someone says OK you can keep your kids, but first you have to go pee in a bottle and take these classes at night … when you’re already tired because you have to work during the day — then they turn around and say, Hey, we’re takin’ your kids away anyhow! Because your daddy paid a visit and he wasn’t supposed to! I didn’t ask him over. I ain’t no fucking p.o.! I ain’t no police, either. What’d they expect me to do, handcuff him? Citizen’s arrest? The man like to kill me. Hell, I’m afraid of that man. And he shows up and what am I supposed to do? I told the judge that, I told the lawyer that, I told the social worker, hell I stood on a street corner and shouted it. Do you think anyone gives a shit? Your father stayed on the porch, do you remember? For thirty minutes! You were there. It was totally supervised, do you remember? Thirty uninvited totally supervised minutes on the porch and that’s enough to take my kids away? And the Court of Appeals agreed with me, did you know that? I never got any damn reunification services, I got family maintenance. The law says there’s a difference between maintenance and reunification, a big difference! They say I already had my eighteen months, and that’s a crock. But you are not going to blow this for me, Kristl Ann! Everything I worked for to put this family back together! I am not going to let it happen! I have business, Kristl Ann, I have business at home and now I can’t even go back — and all because you got it in your head to shit on a mother and daughter’s sacred trust. You can’t just waltz in and make me an accessory! They will not give a real estate license to an accessory! I’m doing you and your little friend a major fucking favor here and I want points for that, do you understand? Kristl you answer me—”

“Yes yes yes, I understand! All right? OK? Take your fucking points, all right? Goddamnit! You can have your points! Fucking take them take them take them!”

It was dark by the time they reached Topanga — another canyon. Kristl convinced her friend it wasn’t anywhere near “Tunga,” but only after Tina and her boyfriend concurred.

Amaryllis lay in a moldy sleeping bag on the open-air tabernacle of the deck. There were tons of insects, and the sound of animals was all around. The sky was a puddle of black ink and the discrete brilliance of galaxies confounded her. An old mangy dog, no bloodhound indeed, sniffed at them but couldn’t be bothered.

Mike had his little girl with him. She was about four and slept outside with the runaways. She had a talking doll called Amazing Amy. Mike said the doll had a computer chip, so it always knew the time. At eight o’clock each morning, Amazing Amy said she wanted breakfast and if you tried to give her a little plastic pizza slice that came with the set she’d say, “Not pizza for breakfast!” Mike said there were sensors embedded in the pizza slices and in Amazing Amy’s mouth, too. Sometimes she got a temperature and asked for aspirin. If you gave her pizza instead, she got mad. Mike said she cost $90.

The girls got up early and whispered awhile. Amaryllis asked if her mom was really going to call MacLaren, and Kristl said probably not, but if she did, it wouldn’t be before noon. She never got it together before noon. Kristl said that maybe they should split. Then she said maybe her mom wouldn’t snitch if she had “business”—if her mom was busy with business, she might not have time to deal with anything else and it would probably be easier to just let them stay in the Canyon and help with chores instead of hassling with driving them all the way back to El Monte. But Mike would have to agree, because it was his house — Kristl said Mike was on parole too, so that probably wouldn’t happen, because he would get in trouble if anyone found out two underage AWOLs were staying at his house. He’d be an accessory, big-time. Amaryllis asked what parole was, and Kristl said it was when you got out of jail but still had to live by jail rules.

They went to the kitchen to look for food and, Amazing Amy aside, did have pizza for breakfast. They cackled and whispered and Tina shushed them from the bedroom. The little girl came in the front door with her doll and the mangy dog. The latter, casting a rheumy eye on garbage and grotty dishes, turned around and sauntered out to the deck.

For some reason, watching him go struck the girls’ funny bones, and they laughed some more, then Kristl broke a glass; they winced and grew still. Her mother sprang from the bedroom. Amaryllis stared — her bush was the center of a giant spiderweb tattoo that spread across thighs and stretch-marked stomach. Tina fastened on to Kristl’s arm and shoved her into the bedroom. She started screaming and Kristl screamed back and Amaryllis heard Mike tell them both to shut the fuck up. The doll said it wanted breakfast.

Amaryllis saw money and a pack of cigarettes on the floor next to a beanbag chair. She grabbed them, crept through the front door and bolted down the long gravel drive.

Shutting its sticky eyes in sleep, the old dog listened to her steps recede.