Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

“You’re stoned ,” said Lucy.

“Well what say, Eddikins?” ventured Tull, in a terrible rendition of some upper-crust character. “Shall we ask her in? Are you a man or are you a Mauck?”

“I say,” said the cousin, hand poised thoughtfully to chin brace, “that we haul her unwashed homeless butt aboard.”

Boulder beseeched the unsavory visitor be kept at the door with her back to them, like at the Belgian beach.

The sight of her crushed him. Why had he set all this in motion? Tull felt like one of those World War II GIs on the History Channel giving candy to children amid the rubble of cities — only he was about to lure the little one to a death by embarrassment at the hands of his rarefied friends. He hung back in the passenger seat, afraid she’d run.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Toulouse.”

He never called himself that.

“Tull,” he corrected. “Tull Trotter.” He felt ridiculous. “What’s your name?”

The girl said nothing.

“Do you want — would you like some lunch?”

He hated himself. She just kept staring. Then:

“Amaryllis.”

“What?”

An eternal pause, in which he thought she’d bolt.

“My name is Amaryllis.”

“Like the place in Texas?” Another massively dumb thing. Again her ancient stare, like the bas-relief of a child’s tomb. “My friends — my friends want to meet you.” Epic dumbness. Silence. She twitched. He’d blown it. “We have tons of food. If — if you’re hungry.”

Nothing to do now but retreat. She came closer, like Edith Stein to concentration camp gas. Lucy effusively threw an absurd, corn-fed “Howdy!” at the girl. Tull gave her a look and his cousin demurred. Then he went inside and strode to Mr. Hookstratten’s pleated seat, tearing the cellophane off the absentee tutor’s tray, wanting to feed her right away. After a minute or so, Amaryllis poked her head under the gull wing, trembling. Tull beckoned and she clambered in. She stood before them, a muted cable news anchor laughing beside her head.

“You must be so hungry ,” said Lucy, coaxing. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Amaryllis,” said Tull.

“Can’t she talk?” said Lucy.

Boulder rolled her eyes, shook her head and picked up Teen People .

“Your name is Amaryllis? That is so pretty!”

“Would you like some chocolates before lunch?”

The orphan turned to see where the voice had emanated from, then focused on the seated apparition ladling soup into its mouth behind a gossamer yellow hood. Astonished, she moved backward, falling. Tull rushed to her aid while the others tittered like munchkins.

“Don’t mind Edward. He’s, uh, disabled.”

The beautiful girl who had played for the camera had spoken. She was lying on a quilted bed, languidly flitting through an old Weekly Variety . Her beauty — her luminescence — had a strangely comforting, nearly soporific effect upon the visitor.

“Disabled but still able to dis ,” said Edward.

“Oh, just come and sit,” said Boulder to the girl imperiously. “Don’t make us beg. It’s not attractive.”

Amaryllis obeyed. She moved toward her seat and promptly stepped on the dozing Pullman. She shrieked. Barely stirring, the animal broke wind. Amaryllis smiled as everyone laughed, then grew self-conscious and sat grimly, as if reprimanded. Tull was amazed by what that smile did to him.

He took her greasy backpack and hung it from a peg. With his artful encouragements, she began to eat while Lucy and Edward peppered her with questions. Where did she live? (Nearby.) Where did she go to school? (Not far.) Why wasn’t she in school? (Getting medicine for her mother.) And what did her mother do? (Worked. Sick today.)

Amaryllis had hardly taken her eyes off Boulder; finally, the stare became fixed.

“Are you an actress?”

“Sometimes.”

“She doesn’t know who you are!” said Lucy, delighted. Perversely, Boulder made as if she liked that. Lucy turned back to their guest. “She’s a very famous actress.”

Edward watched Tull hover. “God, Tull, cut her food, why don’t you.”

“When you work for Disney, you don’t act— I mean, not really. You’re sort of … animated. You need to look cute .”

“Which you always do,” said Lucy.

“When oh when, please can someone let me do an indie?”

“Do you go to school?” asked Amaryllis.

“Oh my God, I’m being interviewed! Mostly on the set. I have a teacher.”

“But when she doesn’t,” said Lucy, “she deigns to attend Four Winds with the pleh- bee -enz.”

“Four Winds?”

“It’s a school,” said Tull. “In Santa Monica.”

“We all go there.”

Amaryllis turned to Edward and asked, “What happened to you?”

The cousin chortled. “Oh, I like that! Let’s put that on a T-shirt! What happened to you? We’d sell millions! I love it!”

“He’s got Apert’s,” said Lucy.

“Big Head Disease,” said Boulder. “That’s all you need to know.”

“He’s the smartest boy on earth,” said Tull.

“He’s a saint,” said Lucy.

“They streamlined the process,” blurted Amaryllis with enthusiasm, immediately wishing she hadn’t. She was rusty. She hadn’t spoken with other children for so long — with anyone really, except for Topsy and the babies — and these were like no children she’d ever met … but now, she had better go on or they’d think her crazy. “They streamlined the process for becoming a saint. John Paul made it easier. Everyone’s on a fast track.”

Lucy and Boulder exchanged secret looks and Tull winced, wishing to protect the girl from the half-assed cruelties of the world. He was having major feelings, all of which his braided tormentor noticed with customary alacrity.

“Amaryllis is such a pretty name,” offered Lucy again, somewhat poisonously.

Tull detected the hint of an English accent and hoped nothing lurid was coming.

“I hate it when you start doing Anna Paquin,” said Boulder.

“Does it mean anything?” posed the unflappable inquisitrix. “I mean, the name?”

“It’s a flower,” said Amaryllis. “From South Africa.”

“Is that where you’re from?” asked Lucy, brightening. “I mean — Africa?”

Tull bridled and Amaryllis meekly shook her head.

Edward stood from his chair. “Amaryllis, do you like orchids?”

“What are they?” she asked. Boulder rolled her eyes at Lucy again.

“This,” said Tull, plucking a flower from a slim celadon vase, “is an orchid.” She held the stem in her hand and stared.

“A hybrid ,” said the cousin.

A large white petal stood up like a bishop’s miter; beneath it, a pouch in the shape of the chin of a cartoon Mountie — or the chin of the boy called Edward.

Bisecting both was a leafy mustache, speckled with polka dots.

The invalid proffered a discrete flower, with movie-star-red lips. “This one is from South Africa — like your name,” he said. “It grows on waterfalls.”

“You know,” said Lucy, “you should really come to Four Winds and visit.” She turned to the others. “Don’t you think?”

“It’d be great!” said Boulder, rather affectlessly.

“We’re doing a homeless project,” she continued while Tull glared. “We’re building sidewalk shelters — I mean, that’s not why you should visit. It’s just that if you’ve ever had that experience or know someone who has … We’re using really strong, light materials — space-age. And laptops to design them.”

“ We were homeless once,” said Boulder.