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 CAUTIONS 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
1) Frequently fidgets or squirms in seat
2) Has difficulty remaining seated when required
3) Is easily distracted
4) Has trouble waiting to take his or her turn
5) Shouts out answers to incomplete questions
6) Has problems following instructions
7) Has difficulty staying “focused”
8) Frequently fails to complete tasks
9) Talks excessively, often interrupts others
10) Doesn’t seem to listen carefully
11) Engages in physically dangerous activities without considering the consequences
12) Often loses or misplaces things
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.”