Backstage again … dazed under full fluorescence, nails bloodily bitten. The women, including the very latest CSW, sagaciously realize that no one has told their client about the FA. Your FA’s in jail, they say, drawing the matriarchal wagons in a circle around her, patting the mane while handing off a zebra. Zebras are a rare commodity; only the very special rate a zebra. They do not tell the child how anxious the police were, Detective Dowling anyway, to find the FA of MI — nor do they reiterate the business about the FA of MI not being a “suspect” at the current time, uneager to open the door to the business of the homicide of the MO of MI, of which the MI still thankfully seems innocent. The MI doesn’t appear aware of much going on around her and rarely speaks, save to compulsively, pathetically mention her sibs (MIs #2 and #3). Nor does the caring coven enumerate how the MO of MI kept photos and letters from the jailed FA of MI in a box not dissimilar to the MI’s Reliquary of Saints and Martyrs, a kind of white wooden drawer with lame little hand-painted seashells that the MO of MI got in Laguna and how the letters, written from prison and never answered, were used to trace the FA of MI, who was and still is serving a term of twenty-to-life for crimes that will remain unreported here, for they are of no relevance. It was further revealed to the MI by said coterie that the FA of MI had been “confined” since the MI was age two and was not, by the way, the FA of MIs #2 and #3 (aka The Babies), whose FA, MGM, MGF, PGM and PGF or any other relatives, abbreviated or not, to this day remain unknown.
As reported by the rumpled man, the barely noticeable FA of MI was noticed by the Court but declined to be present; and the reader may be pleased to learn he will play no further part in our tale.
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?”