A Justified Bitch. H.G. McKinnis
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pointed at Helen. “She’s fucking nuts.”
The teenage prostitute sashayed to the gate, her adolescent hips swinging in a parody of sexuality. “Don’t worry about me.” She blew Helen a pouty kiss. “Been doing this for a long time.”
Dolce&Gabbana tried to follow her out the door. “You can’t leave me here.”
Officer Maria sent her stumbling back inside with a well-placed hip bump.
Bobby watched the teenager strut down the hallway. She won’t make it to twenty-one.
Officer Maria returned minutes later for Dolce&Gabbana, a Mrs. Brownswell. “It’s about time,” the woman snapped, then stumbled into the officer. “Get your hand off me, you fucking bitch!” Her shrill voice echoed down the hall, but when the door opened, her voice suddenly softened. “Carlton, darling, I only had one drink. That officer stopped me for no reason. I only flunked his stupid test because I was wearing a new pair of Pradas. There’s something wrong with the heels.” The door slammed shut, the silence deafening in its suddenness, broken only by the soft sniffing of the crier.
Helen longed for a good pair of earplugs, the kind that covered the entire ear—retailing for thirty-five dollars at a sporting goods store—but she would have settled for the cheap, fifty-cent foam style.
Having no Kleenex to soak up her snot, the crier wrapped a big wad of toilet paper around one hand before folding it into a pad and blowing her nose. Between her feet, a large mountain of discarded tissue had solidified into a crusty sculpture of soggy papier-mâché.
Officer Maria reappeared, escorting a strikingly beautiful woman dressed in a gray Armani suit that would go for at least a thousand dollars retail and cheap plastic pumps with three-inch heels that sold for twenty dollars at Payless. The suit stepped to the bars, her eyes moving back and forth between Helen and the crier. “Marjory Johnson?”
The crier sniffed and nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Urbane. I was called by Social Services. We need to talk.” She looked at Officer Maria. “Is there some place a little more private?”
“Yes, ma’am, we have an interview room, but we thought you might want to talk to this woman as well.” She hooked her chin toward Helen.
With eyes as clear and brilliant as Colombian emeralds, the doctor gave Helen a thorough scan, then turned back to the officer. “You have her jacket?”
Officer Maria handed over a folder and the doctor quickly scanned through the papers. “A doctorate in educational psychology? Now that’s interesting.” She looked at Helen. “Are you on the streets?”
Bobby peered with nearsighted intensity at the woman’s eyebrows. Check those out, they look like they’ve been painted on. Doesn’t she remind you of that thirties actress?
“No, she doesn’t,” Helen snapped, unable to suppress a bit of jealousy. She turned to the suit. “Do you do your own plucking?”
The woman paused, then framed another question. “Do you have a mailing address? Somewhere we can reach you?”
Helen had no idea what the suit was driving at, or why she wanted to send mail. “My address is 5573 Tsunami.”
“How many people live with you?”
The crier, clearly annoyed that attention was being diverted, gave a whiny spin to her convulsive sobs. Helen now understood why the benches were bolted to the floor—to discourage people from clubbing their mucus-y cellmates. “What?” she asked, having lost track of the discussion.
“How . . . many . . . people . . . live . . . with . . . you?”
Bobby grinned. Does . . . she . . . think . . . you’re . . . deaf . . . or
. . . stupid?
“Of course not,” Helen whispered. “She doesn’t even know me.” She turned back to the woman, enunciating just as carefully. “I . . . live . . . with . . . my . . . husband.”
And twenty-four cats, Bobby added. Don’t they count?
“I don’t count the ones that live outside,” she whispered back. “Do you want her to think I’m crazy?”
The woman swiped across her i-Pad—sold only to those willing to sign up for a monthly plan—and used a stylus to record the information. “So you live with your husband. Would you like me to call him?”
Helen motioned to Bobby. “He’s right here.”
“Oh . . . I see.” But she didn’t bother saying hello, apparently having no real interest in anyone else. “How much is your rent?”
Helen watched, fascinated by the woman’s tapping. “I don’t pay rent. I own my house.”
“Well, okay, your mortgage then. What’s that payment?”
Pushy broad, Bobby growled, clearly miffed that the woman continued to ignore him.
“I paid off the house when my husband died.”
Bobby flashed a smug smile. Glad I could help.
“Maybe we can do something for you. Do you have health insurance?”
“Uh . . . no.”
The woman’s perfect eyebrows contracted. “Oh, that is too bad. Maybe we could do some kind of abbreviated treatment.”
Bobby scowled. That doesn’t sound good.
“Treatment?” Helen asked.
“I can’t say at this point, but the trouble you have dealing with the death of your husband could be a sign of clinical depression. My clinic has had a great deal of success dealing with exactly this problem.”
Helen stepped back. If there was a hell on earth, she knew it could be found in a modern sanitarium. “You want to put me away?”
“Oh, no,” the suit laughed. “We want to improve your quality of life. We could have you adjusted and functioning normally in a matter of months.”
Adjusted? Bobby stared at the woman as if she had suddenly sprouted horns.
Helen drew herself up, mimicking the suit’s sophisticated manner. “Thank you so very much for your consideration, but I manage just fine on my own.”
The woman stared straight back. “When was the last time you took a bath?”
“I beg your pardon?” This uppity middle-class bureaucrat had crossed the line! Only the neighborhood kids dared to comment on her ablutions, or lack thereof.
“You’re displaying symptoms of psychotic depression, Helen, also a lack of attention to appearance and personal hygiene.”
Helen pointed a finger at the woman. “I have never been subjected to such—” She stopped, staring at her hand. Her nails, encrusted with dirt, blended into her skin, black lines crisscrossing across the palms. She spread her fingers, noticing them for the first time in years. When had they gotten so wrinkled and rough looking?
“Why don’t I leave my number?” The doctor held out a business card. “When you feel like talking, call my office and we’ll set up an appointment.”
Feeling like she would rather touch a scorpion, Helen jammed the card into her pocket, hoping the woman would immediately forget their conversation.
The crier took advantage of the momentary silence to grab the suit’s attention. “Where’s my little girl? Where’s my Susie? What’s going to happen to me?”
Officer Maria opened the gate, ushering both the doctor and the crier down the hall.
“I don’t know how she got hurt,” the woman wailed. “When I came home, she was like that. All pale and still. When can I see her? Why is this happening to me? I’m the one who called 9-1-1. I’m the one who took