“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.
CHAPTER 17. When a Child Dies in the Home
Which 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.”)†