Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

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.

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.”) †

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.