Without Absolution. Amy Sterling Casil
staff and the teachers and the Governor’s wife. Monique claps her delicate hands like a doll someone has wound up and set to performing.
The younger children come on stage. They have prepared a mini-Nutcracker for the Governor’s wife.
The Governor’s wife asks, “who’s that darling girl?”
“Little Gyla,” I tell her. Gyla is four, nearly five. She’s dressed as a tiny Snow Queen, though under the costume she is covered with soft, silvery fur. Her face is heart-shaped, with a sharp chin and a rosebud mouth, her head covered with short fur, save two tufts above her temples that mimic a puppy’s ears.
Monique leans near and whispers, “you’ve never told me about her.”
I shake my head. “No, I suppose I haven’t. Gyla is a very happy girl.”
“What is the matter with her?” The Governor’s wife’s eyes are narrow, questioning.
“She’s a lycanthrope. It’s possible she could bite another child. We may have to isolate her, if her…”
“That’s horrible! She’s really very pretty, in an odd way,” Monique says. Her mouth is a tight line. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking, what if Karen had been born like this little girl?
Gyla’s parents were poor Mexican people, Indians, from a state they call Michoacan. Her mother worked in the garment district in Los Angeles, before Gyla was born. After a series of foster placements, she came to Sherman. She speaks with the accent of her foster parents, who were also from Mexico.
“She says she wants to be a ballerina,” I say to the Governor’s wife. I pronounce it as Gyla does, “bayareena.”
Tears stream down the cheeks of the Governor’s wife, marring her perfectly-powdered complexion, as the program draws to a close. I touch her elbow. She stands and claps beside me, as we all do. “What can I do for them,” she says, as she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. Monique is pressing at her arm, muttering how pleased she was to meet her. “What would they like for Christmas? What would they really like?”
My mind whirls. What would the children like? Would the children like band-aids, to put across their weeping wounds? New bodies? New skin? The removal of excess eyes and digits and limbs? Should we get video toys for the blind children, music disks for those who can’t hear? Could the Governor’s wife purchase acceptance for them, a society that wouldn’t stare?
“Socks,” I hear myself say. “The children need warm socks.”
The Governor’s wife asks how many socks are needed.
I tell her there are one hundred and five children, and it would be nice if each child could have two pair, one white, and one colored. Even the children with fins and flippers can use socks.
The socks are promised before Christmas. The Governor’s wife kisses me lightly on the cheek, and her handlers lead her away. As she leaves, I feel a tug at my jacket. I look down, and Jonny is beside me.
“Will you call gramma?” he asks.
I smile down at him. “I’ll call her. She’s giving you socks for Christmas, Jonny,” I say. More lies. So simple. I kiss him atop his sensitive head, which is very warm, and Monique and I leave the auditorium.
* * * *
Monique serves me coffee on our patio, which is furnished in the style of wrought iron favored in New Orleans. The cup is hot, the coffee steaming, its aroma delicious. Monique makes a magnificent cup of coffee.
“Why did you tell her socks?” she asks as she sits beside me. She has her hair in a sleek ponytail. It makes her look like a young girl.
“They need them,” I murmur, as I sip the coffee.
“You need a break. Tell the board you want a week off. Two weeks. Let’s get away. Karen can stay with my sister.” Monique’s expression is serious. She pats my hand. It feels as though she’s touched me with a warm mitten.
I pull my hand away. “I can’t leave now. The staff is continuing class through Christmas. The kids need me. They haven’t got homes or families. Jonny still…”
“Jonny be damned! Aren’t you worth something, Hed? You can’t be his father! I’m sorry for them, but they’ve got to learn to accept what they’ve been given. Don’t pretend to be their father. It’s not helping this Jonny. He needs to know there isn’t anyone there for him, there isn’t…”
“How can you be so vicious!” I slam my coffee cup on the table. Ceramic shards spray across my lap, along with most of the coffee. Monique gasps and backs away. I wipe at the mess with the napkin. The look on her face is terrible. I’ve frightened her.
“You need some time off, Hed. I mean it,” she says, and starts toward the house.
“Wait,” I say. She turns. I remember how it was for me, long Christmases ago, waiting at our apartment window for my father. My mother always said, “maybe he’ll come.” Years and years of it, until at last, I didn’t go to the window. And he still didn’t come. Perhaps that’s why I feel this way about the children. Perhaps this pain is why I can understand their pain. Monique looks at me, questioning.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s because I spent so much time waiting for my own father.”
“You told me what happened,” Monique says. Her pale, shiny eyes narrow. “Your mother was too weak to tell the truth, that your father had another family and he’d stopped caring for you. Don’t make the same mistake with these kids. I may not know very much about the professional parts of your job, but I do know one thing. Lies always hurt more than the truth. Always.” Monique swiftly gathered the ceramic chips and spilled coffee with a napkin before she went back in the house.
“Maybe you’re right,” I called after her. Monique’s unexpected insight disturbed me. Long ago, I had thought that she loved me. But it had been so long since she was there for me, so many little hurts gathered together, that I couldn’t remember the way I had once felt. I rested my chin on my cupped hand as I surveyed our pristine yard.
“Tell the boy the truth, Hed,” she called from the kitchen window. “And ask for that time off. We need it.”
Perhaps I would ask. Jonny’s face appeared in the back of my mind, demanding my attention, like a credit card bill I couldn’t afford.
* * * *
I walk beside Jonny as he wheels to his dorm. I’ve told him that his grandmother won’t be coming for Christmas. Snot streams over his upper lip. His third eye rolls aimlessly, the way it always does when he’s angry or upset. I feed a steady stream of tissues from my pocket into his left hand as he steers the chair with the other hand.
“I can’t believe it, Doctor Arlan,” he snuffles. “Why won’t she come?”
I keep walking, but the chair slows, then stops. Jonny turns. Now comes the hard part. “I don’t know,” I say. This isn’t a lie. I not only don’t know why she won’t come, I don’t know where the grandmother is. All of our letters and notices came back unopened. Her phone was long ago disconnected.
“I remember her,” Jonny says. “She said she loved me. She gave me candy.”
Though Jonny hasn’t seen his grandmother since he was three years old, I believe that he does remember her. Many of Sherman’s children have exceptional memories. “I know she did,” I say. “Maybe she’s sick, Jonny. Maybe something has happened to her, and we can’t get in touch with her, to ask her to come.”
“You didn’t try! You don’t care!” Jonny wheels away, furious. My hand is caught in his wheelchair and a large piece of the skin on the back of my hand leaves with him. I swear softly and put my hand to my mouth, then trot after him. Some of the aides stop and stare. I wave them away as I grab his chair.
“We did try, Jonny. Maybe something has happened to her.