Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

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?”

“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?”