“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.