The Great Gilly Hopkins (10 page)

“Where you going?” She jumped around at W.E.'s whisper. In the dark hallway his glasses flashed.

“Just out,” she whispered back. Oh, god, make him shut up.

He did shut up and stood silently, looking first at her, then at the suitcase, then back at her.

“Don't go.” His little face squeezed up at her like his tiny voice.

“I got to,” she said through her teeth. Opening the door, pulling it shut behind her, shifting the suitcase and jacket to either hand, and running, running, running, down the hill, the pulse in her forehead pounding as hard as her sneakered feet pounded the sidewalk.

Once around the corner, she slowed down. Someone might notice her if they saw her running. No bus came by. There were hardly any on Sundays. She settled herself at once to walk the mile or so to the bus station, stopping to put on her thin jacket against the November wind. The bus would be heated, she reminded herself, and in California the sun always shines.

It was dusk by the time she got to the bus station. She went straight to the ladies' room and combed her hair and tucked her shirt into her jeans. She tried to tell herself that she looked much older than eleven. She was tall, but totally bustless. Hell. She zipped up her jacket, stood up straight, and went out to the ticket counter.

The man didn't even look up.

“I want a ticket to California, please.” As soon as the words were out, she heard her mistake.

“California where?” He glanced up now, looking at her through half-open lids.

“Uh—San Francisco. San Francisco, California.”

“One-way or round trip.”

Whatever happened to Lady Cool? “One—one way.”

He punched some buttons and a ticket magically emerged. “One thirty-six sixty including tax.”

She had it. She had enough. With trembling hands, she took the wad of bills from her pocket and began to count it out.

The man watched lazily. “Your mother know where you are, kid?”

Come on, Gilly. You can't fall apart now. She pulled herself straight and directed into his sleepy eyes the look she usually reserved for teachers and principals. “I'm going to see my mother. She lives in San Francisco.”

“OK,” he said, taking her money and recounting it before he handed her the ticket. “Bus leaves at eight thirty.”

“Eight thirty?”

“Yeah. Want to check your bag?”

“It's only four-thirty now.”

“That's right.”

“That's four hours from now.”

“Right again.”

“But I want to leave as soon as I can.”

“Look, kid, you came in here and asked me for a ticket. I gave you one on the next bus.” He sighed. “OK,” he said and consulted his book. “You can take the five o'clock into Washington and catch a six twenty-two out of there.” He stuck out his hand. “I'll have to fix you another ticket.”

She gave it back.

“It'll take me a while,” he said. “I gotta check the routing.” He nodded to the seats across the waiting room. “Just sit down over there. I'll call you.”

She hesitated, then reluctantly obeyed. She didn't like the idea of leaving both the money and the ticket there, but she was afraid he'd ask more questions if she protested.

He was a long time at it. He was on the phone a while, talking in a muffled voice. Then he was poring through his books. Once he got up and went back into the baggage room and stayed away for several minutes.

It was almost four forty-five. If he didn't hurry, she might miss the five o'clock bus. She got up and got a drink from the water cooler. The water was warm, and somebody had dropped a piece of gum on the drain. She went back to the red plastic seat still thirsty.

The clock said four forty-eight when the clerk came back and sat down without even looking her way.

“My ticket?”

But just then a man and woman came in, and the clerk got busy with them. It wasn't fair. She'd been there waiting since four thirty. Gilly stood up and started for the counter. She didn't even see the policeman until she felt his hand on her arm.

Gilly snatched her arm back as she looked to see who had touched her.

“Where you headed, little girl?” He spoke quietly as though not to disturb anyone.

“To see my mother,” said Gilly tightly. Oh, god, make him go away.

“All the way to San Francisco by yourself?” She knew then the clerk had called him. Damn!

“Yes.”

“I see,” he said with a quick look at the clerk, who was now staring at them with both eyes well open.

“I haven't done anything wrong.”

“Nobody's charging you with anything.” The policeman pulled his cap straight and said in a very careful, very patient voice, “Who you been staying with here in the area?”

She didn't have to answer him. It was none of his business.

“Look. Somebody's going to be worried about you.”

Like hell.

He cleared his throat. “What about giving me your telephone number? So I can just check things out?”

She glared at him.

He coughed and cleared his throat again and looked up at the clerk. She might have gotten away in that instant—except for the money. Where could she go without the money? “I think,” the policeman was saying, “I'd better take her in for a little talk.”

The clerk nodded. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Here's the money she brought in.” He held up a manila envelope. The policeman took her gently by the arm and walked her to the counter. The clerk handed him the envelope.

“That's my money,” Gilly protested.

“I'll just bet it is, kid,” the clerk said with a fake smile.

If she had known what to do, she would have done it. She tried to make her brain tell her, but it lay frozen in her skull like a woolly mammoth deep in a glacier. All the way to the station she asked it, Shall I jump out of the car at the next light and run? Should I just forget about the damn money? But the woolly mammoth slept on, refusing to stir a limb in her behalf.

In a back room behind the police station's long counter two policemen tried to question her. The new one, a big blond, was asking the first one: “She ain't got no ID?”

“Well, I'm not going to search her, and Judy's gone out to get her supper.”

“What about the suitcase?”

“Yeah, better check through there.”

She wanted to yell at them to leave her stuff alone, but she couldn't break through the ice.

The blond policeman riffled carelessly through her clothes. He found Courtney's picture almost at once. “This your mother, kid?”

“Put that down,” she whispered.

“Oh, now she's talking.”

“She said to put her picture down, Mitchell.”

“OK, OK. Just trying to do my job.” He put the picture down and continued to poke through the suitcase. “Bingo,” he said, picking up the postcard. He read it carefully before handing it to the other officer. “All here, Rhine. Name and current address. And big surprise! She does know somebody in San Francisco.”

The one called Rhine read the postcard and then came and stooped down beside her chair.

“Is this your father's address here?” he asked, pointing at the address on the card.

She sat perfectly still, staring him down.

Rhine shook his head, stood up, and handed the card back to Mitchell. “Check out who lives at that address and give them a call, will you?”

Within a half hour, a red-faced Trotter, holding the hand of a white-faced William Ernest, puffed through the station-house door. Her eye immediately caught Gilly's, still seated in the room on the other side of the counter. She tried to smile, but Gilly jerked away from the gaze. The policewoman was back from her supper and on duty at the counter.

“Maime…Maime Trotter”—Trotter was puffing worse than if she'd run up her steps—“Got a…taxi…waiting…No money…to…pay…him.”

“Just a minute, please.” Judy, the policewoman, came in and spoke quietly to Rhine, and then Rhine got up and they both went out to the counter. The only part of the conversation Gilly could make out was Trotter's breathy replies:

“Foster child…Yes—somewhere…San Francisco, yes, maybe so…County Social Services…Uh—Miz Miriam Ellis…yes…yes…no…no…no…Can someone pay the taxicab? Still waiting out there….” Officer Rhine gave Trotter the yellow envelope. She sighed and nodded, taking out some money which she handed to him. He handed it to Mitchell, who handed it to the policewoman, who frowned but went out anyway to pay the cab driver.

“No, no,” Trotter was saying. “Of course not. She's just a baby…” Trotter was still shaking her head at Rhine as he brought her back around the counter, W.E. clutching at her shabby coat.

Trotter's breath had returned, but her voice shook as she spoke to Gilly from the doorway. “I come to take you home, Gilly, honey. Me and William Ernest come up to get you.”

Rhine came all the way in and stooped down again beside her. “Mrs. Trotter is not going to press charges. She wants you to come back.”

Press charges? Oh, the money. Did the stupid man think that Trotter would have her arrested? But how could she go back? Gilly the Great, who couldn't even run away? Botched the job. She stared at her fingers. The nails were grubby. She hated grubby fingernails.

“Gilly, honey…”

“Don't you want to go home?” Rhine was asking.

Want to go home? Don't I want to go home? Where in the hell do you think I was headed?

When she didn't answer him, Rhine stood up. “Maybe we should keep her tonight and call Social Services in the morning.”

“You mean to lock the child up?”

“She'd be safe. It would just be overnight.”

“You don't think for one minute I'm going to let you lock a child of mine up in jail?”

“Maybe it would be best,” Rhine said quietly.

“Best? What do you mean? What are you trying to say?”

“She really doesn't seem to want to go with you, Mrs. Trotter. Now, I don't know…”

“O, my dear Lord, you don't—O, my dear Lord—”

It was the closest to cursing Gilly had ever heard Trotter come to. She looked up into the fat, stricken face.

“O, my dear Lord. What can I do?”

“Gilly! Gilly!” William Ernest streaked across the room and began to beat his fists on her knees. “Come home, Gilly. Please come home! Please, please!” The blood vessels stood out blue and strained on his white neck.

The ice in her frozen brain rumbled and cracked. She stood up and took his hand.

“Thank you, precious Jesus,” Trotter said.

Rhine cleared his throat. “You don't have to go unless you want to. You know that, don't you?”

Gilly nodded. Trotter in the doorway lifted her arms, the brown purse dangling from one of them; the faulty clasp flew open as she did so. She dropped her arms, embarrassed, and forced the purse shut. “I need another taxi, officer.”

“I'll get Mitchell to drive you,” he said.

T
here was a fight between Trotter and Miss Ellis. Gilly heard the sounds of battle in the living room when she came in from school the next afternoon. “Never, never, never!” Trotter was bellowing like an old cow deprived of its calf.

Gilly stopped still in the hallway, closing the door without a sound.

“Mrs. Trotter, nobody at the agency looks at it as any indication of failure on your part—”

“You think I care what the agency thinks?”

“You're one of our most capable foster parents. You've been with us for more than twenty years. This won't affect your record with us. You're too valuable—”

“I don't give a spit about no record. You ain't taking Gilly.”

“We're trying to think of you—”

“No, you ain't. If you was thinking of me, you'd never come to me with such a fool notion.”

“This is a troubled child, Maime. She needs special—”

“No! I ain't giving her up. Never!”

“If you won't think of yourself, think of William Ernest. He's come too far in the last year to let—I've seen myself how she upsets him.”

“It was William Ernest got her to come home last night.” Trotter's voice was square and stubborn.

“Because he saw how upset
you
were. That doesn't mean she can't damage him.”

“William Ernest has lived with me for over two years. He's gonna make it. I know he is. Sometimes, Miz Ellis, you gotta walk on your heel and favor your toe even if it makes your heel a little sore.”

“I don't understand what you're driving at.”

“Somebody's got to favor Gilly for a little while. She's long overdue.”

“That's exactly it, Mrs. Trotter. I'm quite aware of Gilly's needs. I've been her caseworker for nearly five years, and whether you believe it or not, I really care about her. But I don't think it's her needs we're talking about right now, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“It's
your
needs.” Said very quietly.

A silence and then, “Yes, Lord knows, I need her.” A funny broken sound like a sob came from Trotter. “I like to die when I found her gone.”

“You can't do that, Mrs. Trotter. You can't let them tear you to pieces.”

“Don't try to tell a mother how to feel.”

“You're a foster mother, Mrs. Trotter.” Miss Ellis's voice was firm. “You can't afford to forget that.”

Gilly's whole body was engulfed in a great aching. She opened and slammed the front door, pretending to have just come in. This time they heard her.

“That you Gilly, honey?”

She went to the doorway of the living room. Both women were on their feet, flushed as though they'd been running a race.

“Well, Gilly,” Miss Ellis began, her voice glittering like a fake Christmas tree.