We arrested Adelly Berlinsky. Tom Berlinsky is on a long-haul trucking job, but we have contacted the company and they are cooperating with authorities in locating Tom. A warrant has been issued for his arrest.
On a personal note, I want to admit now that I was angry with Mrs. Berlinsky. I did yell at her, and the children. She resisted arrest and tried to run, then hit me, and we were able to get her on the ground. Her nose did break as she continued to fight with us. Lieutenant Ting did not have to restrain me for more than a minute. Mrs. Berlinsky said that Lieutenant Ting purposefully hit her head when he was putting her into the police car; that claim is untrue. Again, she was struggling, which will account for the bruises on her face.
Lieutenant Ting and Sergeant Pattinser took her to the Justice Center, and Officers Lenton and Cables and I waited until CSD arrived for the boys. The boys asked if we were going to put them in jail. We decided not to answer them at that time.
To: Laurie Gutirrez
From: Dr. Paresh Chakrabarti
Date: December 9, 1983
Re: Grenadine Scotch Wild
Dear Laurie,
I hope that you and your family are doing well. It was good to see you, Miguel, and the kids on the slopes last weekend. I am very sorry for the loss of your grandmother, Mabel.
On another note. Yesterday we admitted a girl named Grenadine Scotch Wild, who is seven years old. She weighs forty pounds and is suffering from acute pneumonia. She is having difficulty breathing and is limp. She has no color in her face. Her temperature was 105 degrees upon arrival, it is now at 103, but it continues to spike up to 104. She has the worst ear infection I have ever seen. One eardrum recently burst.
She is severely dehydrated and the most malnourished person I have ever seen. Her ribs are protruding. Her hair is missing in patches on her head. She has cigarette burn marks on her body, old and new bruises, and three broken ribs. She has burns around her neck from, I believe, a rope. I don’t know if someone dragged her with it, or tried to hang her.
I believe she has been hit with a belt on her back. There are wounds so deep she will have scars for life.
She has lice and scabies. She has dog bites on both arms, one infected, and two of her toes are infected from what looks like an animal bite, perhaps a rat.
Her eyes are lifeless and she is hardly able to speak. All she says is that she wants her lilies, but we are unsure what she is talking about.
She is unable to eat or drink, so we have not been able to take the IV out.
She does not cry. The nurses are with her constantly and claim she does not let go of their hands, though her grasp is weak.
Without medical treatment, it is my opinion she would have been dead within days. Even now she is in critical condition. I cannot guarantee you that she will survive.
Grenadine is a foster child. The foster parents have been arrested. Apparently, this family was trying to adopt her. It is unclear to me how a child in the care of the state could deteriorate to this point. This was a long decline, not overnight. Where was her case worker? Where was the oversight ?
We must act on this, my friend, not only with the police but with the children’s services division and with the government. A review needs to be done about this particular situation and other situations where other foster children might be in grave danger.
As you are the hospital’s attorney, and someone who advocates relentlessly for the children here, I am requesting your personal and legal assistance with this matter.
Thank you.
Dr. Paresh Chakrabarti
16
Being homeless is bringing Alice, My Anxiety, to the forefront. I am vulnerable in many ways. My physical safety is not assured. I am cold. I do not have a bed or a home. I cannot take a shower when I need to. I am peeing out the side of my car. Sleeping in my car makes me feel claustrophobic. I do not like tight spaces. I don’t have enough money.
Nothing is organized as it should be. When things are disorganized I feel scattered and nervous. I need a home environment that is neat and clean with tons of healthy food in the cupboards.
I need pretty around me and bright colors to ward off the darkness so I am not reminded of where I used to be. Any reminder of the chaos of my past, the danger, will set me off. I am now set off.
I need my art, too. There is no “stupid” in art. It can’t make fun of me across the canvas. It can’t force me to stumble over words. It can’t ridicule me. It is mine. I am art. I create and paint, layer, and build. I need my canvases, my paints; my odd, shiny, rough, original, unique, trashy, sparkling collage materials. I need my scissors and my glues.
My hands are not used to not doing art. My mind is not used to being present in the real world at all times, nor does it like it. My heart needs art.
I need a home so I can art it out, so to speak.
Which translates loosely into: If I can’t art it out, I will lose my friggin’ mind to Alice, My Anxiety.
I am homeless, and Alice and I do not like car living.
“Gren, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, Chilton.” I leaned a hip against the bar. Chilton Weiner was one of my favorite customers. His last name is pronounced Wee-ner.
He has a weathered face, his hair’s unkempt, and he looks like he has lived life too hard, too fast, for too long. To me, he is pure kindness. He’s polite and always asks how I am, like he truly wants to know, and makes me laugh.
He tears up over love songs, and when he saw a dog get hit by a truck one afternoon, I don’t think he stopped crying into his beer all night. He wrapped the dead dog in his coat, found the owners, dug the grave in the single mother’s backyard, and gave a eulogy with the crying kids.
He’s been friends with Tildy and Grizz for over twenty years. “You knows I’m a trucker, so I’m leavin’ tonight after Tildy makes my burger, and I need someone to stay at my place until I get back in a week. I have pets and they need company.” He leaned across the bar. “I’ll pay you fifty dollars a day for staying at my house.”
I studied those sweet eyes. Tildy told him something was up with me, I knew it. This was his and Tildy’s way of getting me into a home, by making me feel that I was doing Chilton a favor. Saved my pride, saved them from poking my pride. “I’ll do it for free, Chilton.”
“Oh no, young woman, I’m paying you or it’s a no-go.”
“Then it’s a no-go.” I crossed my arms. Although I didn’t have a fever, I was still as weak as a limp dog from the flu, so I’d play into this charade because I could not stand the thought of sleeping in my car. It was snowing and my window wasn’t fixed. But I would not take the money.
He crossed his arms.
I raised my eyebrows in challenge.
He raised his. Then he capitulated and sighed.
“Here’s the address, stubborn lady, stubborn as a lady rooster. Don’t worry about the snakes. They don’t need to be fed, already fed them their mice. They like people around, though. Makes them feel loved and cuddled.”
“Snakes?” I swallowed hard.
“Yep. In cages, all locked up. They can’t make no escape, now, don’t you worry. Sometimes I let ’em out, let the princess and the king out, but they don’t bother me none. I keep my eyes on ’em, and then I say, ‘Wrap and wallop!’ and I gather ’em up and put them back in their homes. Wrap and wallop! They don’t give me no trouble, and they ain’t gonna give you no trouble, either, because they’re locked down.”
“I hope not.” My spine tingled. I don’t know where my fear of snakes came from, but I have it.
He leaned over to me, lowered his voice. “I knows a worried woman when I sees one. You’re a worried woman, and I’m sorry for that. It’s your business, Gren, and I won’t pry, unless you want to share with me your worries one day when you and I have a trust level.” He waved his hands between us.
I was touched.
“My late wife, Donna Joey, may her soul rest in peace and comfort and may she have all the tequi
la she likes without getting drunk up there in heaven, she was a woman who liked her tequila . . .” He wiped his eyes. “Man. Still I cry for my Donna Joey. But she had the same worried eyes when I met her thirty years ago that you do. You be a worried woman, too, Gren. I can tell by them there green eyes, bright green eyes. So you get yourself to my place and you rest that head of yours. Here’s the key.”
“Are you sure?” I figured I could do snakes for a bed and toilet. I didn’t think too much about what his home was like. I didn’t care at this point. Unless I contracted lice and scabies again. That I would not like.
“Yes, I am. The snakes need you!” He stabbed a finger in the air. “I want to help you and Donna Joey. She’s telling me in my head right now to help you, so I am. I do what my woman tells me to do. You go and stay in our home and help me with the snakes. With you around, they won’t get lonely.” He ambled on out of the bar after his burger, singing a tune about Donna Joey bringing warmth to his heart and to his “nether regions.”
Tildy smiled at me when he left. It was late, so she took her gun out and started polishing it. “Take him up on his offer. He is particular about those reptiles, and it makes him nervous when there’s no one there. He actually thinks they’ll be lonely without a human. You’ll be safe. His house is in a neighborhood close by here. Good neighborhood. Here. Take this pumpkin bread for the morning. Made it myself last night. I outdid myself.”
I hate handouts, but I had to take this one. It was sleep in a bed in a warm house or get sicker and end up with pneumonia. All I needed was an uninsured hospital bill and I’d be sunk. “Thank you, Tildy.”
She gave me a quick hug, her white streak settling on my cheek. “Don’t you be thanking me. I’m thanking you. Your antics in the bar are bringing more people in all the time. When you slid four beers straight down the counter tonight and none tipped over, I darn near did a cartwheel. That’s skill. And the guys loved it. Same with you pouring liquor from three feet up and memorizing six drink orders at a time.” She tapped her temple with the barrel of the gun. “You’re smart.”
Hadn’t heard that one often. I pocketed the key. I was wary about the snakes, but excited. A home. I could stay in a home. I swear I could feel my bones cracking at the thought of another night in my car, my breath forming tiny clouds, my toes stiffening, and the fear that someone else would shatter my window and crawl in, waking me up constantly.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Thank you, Tildy. Thank you Chilton. Thank you.
After my shift, about midnight, I drove past the statue of the bucking horse, the faux balconies and boardwalks, and drove to Chilton’s home. It was colder than a cow’s tit in December, but I was so excited for a bed I was giddy. I told myself I would sleep all night and all day until tomorrow at four-thirty.
Tildy had been right. Chilton’s home was in a well-kept, traditional neighborhood. Even though it was dark out, I could see a perfectly mowed lawn, trimmed bushes, the light gray paintwork new and neat.
The tidy exterior picture was an illusion. I stepped into his foyer and was hit with a musty, dusty smell. I thought I heard something skitter, and froze. I reached out a hand and hit a light switch.
I could not take in what I was seeing at first. My mouth dropped, and my breathing, I am positive, stopped.
Snakes.
In fish-bowl-like rectangular tanks. In square tanks. One snake tank was oval. There must have been ten glass “homes” for the snakes. It was a snake house.
“Oh, my shoutin’, spittin’ Lord,” I muttered. In the middle of the family room, or should I call it the snake room, was a battered leather chair and in front of it a huge big-screen TV. I closed my eyes, rocked back on my heels.
If I did not want out of my car as much as I did, if I did not want to sleep in a bed, if I wasn’t sick of being scared out of my mind at night, if I wasn’t sick of being tired, I would have left, hands in the hair, shrieking. I am familiar with many scary things but not snakes.
I closed the door behind me, dropped my duffle bags and the black plastic bag that held my laundry, and started turning on lights. I tried to ignore the snakes and headed to the kitchen. In the kitchen there was a long picnic table. I clutched my throat. Two more snakes in snake aquariums.
I opened up the windows. Almost instantly the air smelled better.
Could I stay there for the night?
Amidst snakes?
I heard the rain battering the windows. It would freeze tonight. There would be ice covering my car in the morning.
Okay, Grenady. Breathe in. You can do it. Roof. Heat. Bed. Plus, I wanted to wash my clothes, and Laundromats are so expensive.
I grabbed my bags and put a load of dark colors—including all my black work clothes—in the washer. Fortunately, there was only one small red snake in a tank on the dryer. It poked its head up at me. I made sure the lid was on tight, my fingers trembling as I pushed it away.
I closed the windows, turned up the heat, and headed for the bathroom. I stopped when I opened the door to the bathroom, my mouth dropping open once again.
The surprises weren’t going to stop tonight, no, they were not. The bathroom was like a miniature Greek bathhouse.
The bathroom was the size of a bedroom. There was a sunken tub for at least six and a tiled shower with two showerheads. The counters were granite, the faucets were gold, and a bidet waited to clean someone’s privates. I laughed out loud. As Chilton did not strike me as a man who liked to clean up, it was a funny dichotomy to see this.
Funny or not, I was going to enjoy a toilet and a hot bath. I brought my duffle bag in with my shampoos and soap, then scrubbed out the bath with cleaner I found under the sink. When it was shiny clean and rinsed, I filled that tub with luscious hot water and settled in, my tight muscles relaxing. The tub was so huge, I could paddle around. I washed my hair, let the cream rinse sit, shaved, and lay like a dead human snake for over an hour.
I didn’t want to sleep in Chilton’s bed, so after my bath I headed for the room across the hall. There was a queen bed that seemed new. I stripped off the sheets and put my dark clothes in the dryer and the sheets in the washer on hot with extra soap. I sat down and ate my dinner, spaghetti and meatballs, salad and garlic bread, in front of the TV in his leather chair, which was supercomfortable, I had to admit. I ignored the slithering, sneaky snakes all around me.
The beep of the dryer woke me up. I took out my clean work clothes, transferred the sheets to the dryer, and put a load of whites in the washer. When the sheets were done, it was super-late and I’d fallen asleep again. I put my whites in the dryer and my towels in the washer. I made the bed and crawled in with one of my own pillows. It was feathery soft, and I piled on the blankets and went to sleep.
Two hours later my own scream, raw with terror, woke me up. I had a quick vision of a snake wrapped around a knife, fog around the whole thing, then it disappeared. I screamed again when I felt someone on top of me, moving.
Someone skinny.
I kept screaming, pushed him away with all I had, and leaped out of bed, my legs tangling in the sheets and blankets. I pitched to the floor on all fours, kicked free, then sprinted into the hallway, thinking at any second a man’s hands would wring my breath from my neck. I screamed again, stumbled to the front door in the dark, fumbled with the lock and yanked it open. I leaped out the door to the driveway, the rain pouring down, then stopped. I did not hear anyone pounding after me.
I panted, my heart rate sky high. Had I had a nightmare? Was there no one there? Was I feverish again? There was no one behind me. When my heart slowed, I crept back in, rain dripping off my nose. I peeked in the door and heard . . . nothing. I reached for my purse by the door, picked up my cell phone, hit 9 1 . . . and crept back to the bedroom. I would hit the last number 1 if I saw anyone or heard a peep.
My knees almost knocking, I touched the light switch and peeked into the bedroom. There was no one on the bed. No one in the room.
The sheets and bl
ankets were in a pile on the floor. I tried to breathe, my heart thundering. It was a nightmare, clearly brought on by the snakes in the house.
Of course. That was it.
Then the comforter at the bottom of the bed moved. I smothered another scream. It was not a person, it wasn’t big enough . . . something stuck out the other end. Something black . . . oh no, oh no. I grabbed my stomach. It wasn’t.
Oh no. It was.
Snake.
A huge, black snake. It kept coming and coming out of that comforter, then it slid to the floor, foot after foot after foot.
Go, Grenadine!
Move, move, move!
It was them. Their voices. Insistent.
But I couldn’t move. I was so scared I thought my skin would be stripped from my bones, maybe fall off in layers. The snake kept slinking out, then its head, its head turned toward me.
Move now! Get out of the house!
That was it. I did what they told me to do.
I hopped, I jumped, I screamed, and I darted out of that room, slamming the door behind me. I rushed to the dryer, panting, and took my dry white clothes out, stuffing them into a duffle bag. I took my wet towels out and stuffed them in a black plastic bag. I ran both bags out to my car, the rain drizzling down my petrified face. I grabbed my other duffle bags, my folded clean laundry, and my stuff out of the bathroom.
I stumbled out of that snake house while keeping an eye out for the snake—it was way too big to squeeze underneath the door, but could it open the door with its face? Could it wrap itself around the handle and pull?