Good Kings Bad Kings

by Susan Nussbaum

  The lawyer says, “That may not be something you’d want quoted on the front page of the Tribune, Howard.”

  Howard Anderson says, “Of course not, Ed. Of course not. All I’m saying is the entire situation is absurd. Does anyone—I mean any rational person—really believe our society would be able to function if places like ILLC were suddenly no longer available? Imagine the death rate under those circumstances. It’s exhausting to confront this question over and over again every time there’s a natural or accidental death.”

  Then Tim says, “I think we can pursue a measured, proactive strategy with the press, such as employing the parents as spokespersons. Encouraging them to come forward as volunteers on their own behalf and on behalf of their children.”

  Mrs. Phoebe says, “I can identify some parents who would be good candidates.”

  The PR guy says, “That’s terrific, Phoebe. When can I get that list?”

  “Thank you, Phoebe.” Tim’s talking again. “That’s an important first step. Reporters with kids of their own will sympathize. If we can keep sympathetic parents who have children here or at other facilities writing letters to the editor, contacting their legislators about the need for facilities like ILLC, acting as spokespersons, it could have a profound impact.”

  It is so unbelievably hot in here. I feel like I’m melting.

  Then Mr. Anderson says, “Yes, and get some children too. The wards, the ones with no place to go. They can carry posters too. ILLC IS OUR ONLY HOME or some such thing. WE LOVE OUR HOME. I think it’s obvious someone put that sign in the girl’s hands last week.”

  Mrs. Phoebe says, “One staff member that we know of participated in the protest. But we wanted to consult with all of you before taking action against her.”

  Howard Anderson says, “Well, I say get rid of her.”

  Mrs. Phoebe says, “Well, there might be legal problems if we do. Certainly a possibility of damaging publicity. She is our one disabled employee.”

  Dr. Caviolini says, “Holy shit.”

  I cannot believe Dr. Caviolini. If I’m ever fighting for my life, and the only doctor available in the entire world is Dr. Caviolini, I’ll take my chances with no doctor.

  Tim says, “What was the name of the child who died?”

  I say, “Teddy Dobbs. He was twenty-two.” Pause, pause, pause. “I mean, so he wasn’t exactly a child.”

  Howard Anderson says, “Yes, well. If they live at ILLC, they’re all children. Under the law.”

  “If not physically, then certainly mentally,” Dr. Caviolini says.

  Tim says, “For now, Phoebe, take no action against the employee who participated. Our primary goal is, first, to get some sympathetic publicity that tells our side of the story. Agree with the public. Yes, the death was tragic, but under the circumstances, a reasonable number of deaths is justified.”

  The PR guy says, “How many deaths are reasonable? Is there a number?”

  Mr. Anderson says, “However many of them have died. That’s the number.”

  You know what would be funny? To give a copy of my notes to some reporter. Ho, ho, ho!

  I won’t really do it. It doesn’t matter. I’m so over everything.

  Joanne Madsen

  Ricky pulled the last of the weather stripping from around my kitchen window, jerked the window up from the sill, and let the fresh air blow in.

  I appreciate the luxury of having someone to pull off my weather stripping. And under the heading of “Weather Stripping” I include tightening the pipes under the sink, unjammimg the paper shredder, catching stray spiders and introducing them back into the wild, and the rest of the very large family of tasks I’m unable to do for myself. The thing is, all these things, except the spiders, were getting done before Ricky came into my life. I don’t want to forget how long it took for me to become self-sufficient again after being injured. I always want to be self-sufficient. You never know how long anything might last, relationshipwise.

  I just—I don’t like asking anyone for a favor. I’m on top of the situation.

  He says, “What do you want me to do with this stuff?” holding up the filthy, mangled weather stripping.

  “You can just toss it,” I say.

  “You can use it again next year.”

  “Okay,” I say. I was sitting at my kitchen table, sipping a cold horchata. “It’s really almost summer. Any minute now. Are you going to sit down ever?”

  It’s Saturday. We’ve been a little slow getting started today, so we’ve mostly been sitting around talking about work, or in my case the place where I used to work but got fired. The whole protest thing that Yessie came up with has erupted into an investigation including newspaper articles with pathetic titles like “Squeaky Wheels Get the Grease?” Even I, Joanne E. Madsen, went to a protest against nursing homes downtown. I think my social skills may be improving.

  “The whole thing keeps mushrooming,” I say. “Not a poison mushroom but a good mushroom. Like a truffle.”

  Ricky says, “So are you gonna be a deadweight now that you don’t have a job? Am I gonna have to give you money all the time?”

  “Oh yeah, definitely. I accept traveler’s checks.”

  “No, but really,” he says, sitting down across from me. “You gonna be okay till you find something?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I have money, remember?”

  “I know you got enough for the shrimp burgers and the chauffeur—”

  “He’s not a chauffeur, he’s a driver.”

  “Oh, right, right, your driver—”

  “Maybe if we were French he’d be a chauffeur, but we’re not, so he’s just Leo the guy who drives me around. And I wouldn’t be able to afford a driver unless the CTA was paying me to make up for hitting me. So I consider my driver a form of public transportation.”

  Sometimes Ricky will burst out laughing at me. In disbelief. I don’t mind. I can see his point.

  Meanwhile I still feel burned about getting the ax. First Mrs. Phoebe made a big deal about how they weren’t going to fire me, and then she fired me. I wanted to say, “Why, you can’t fire me! I quit!” like they say in old movies. Apparently even when you hate the place where you work and you have to call your boss something as stupid and treacly as “Mrs. Phoebe,” it never feels too good to get dumped. And some of those kids—I’ve grown attached, and now, like just about everyone else in their lives, I’ve disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  I say, “The prospect of returning to my former state of unemployed limbohood makes me queasy. I can’t even list ILLC on my résumé.”

  Ricky says, “You’ll find a job.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. You know, before this job I figured no one would ever hire me again. Now I can’t imagine not having a job every day. I don’t want to go back to those empty days.”

  “You’re smart. Who wouldn’t want to hire you? What about you could work at Center for Disability Justice?”

  “You have to be a lawyer to work at CDJ.”

  “Come on, they gotta have secretaries, or you could work at Access Now. What about them?”

  “I’m not sure that’s what I want to do. I know I don’t want a job just because it’s a job. Not again.”

  He laughs at me and says, “It’ll work out. Everything’s gonna work out.”

  “I was thinking I might write an article about ILLC and send it to the Plumed Serpent.”

  “You gotta do that.”

  “Well, it’s just a little article. But I want to. I’m a little bit excited about it. I don’t have any idea if it’ll get accepted, but—”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Right. It’s not the point.”

  We just sat there for a minute.

  “You know what else I was thinking?” I say. “You should probably start looking around too.”

  He took a big sigh then and leaned back. He says, “We got any more horchata?”

  “Fridge.”

  Sometimes things just pop out of my mouth, like
a broken jack-in-the-box. Ricky’s not the kind of person you need to say things like that to. But if I apologize he always acts like he has no idea what I’m apologizing for. So then I have to tell him why I apologized and he looks at me as if my eyeballs are twirling in their sockets like pinwheels.

  I say, “Jimmie said that Candy told her that Louie got a new job. He’s working at a group home for boys with psychiatric disabilities.”

  He puts his head between his hands and says, “Fuuuck.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t they do background checks?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “They’re supposed to. Maybe the charges were dropped. Maybe—I have no idea. I checked the name of the place though and it’s definitely not where Pierre is. How’s Pierre doing?”

  “I’m supposed to drive down and see him at the new place his guardian put him. You wanna go?”

  “Yeah. Road trip!”

  “It could be hard finding something,” Ricky finally says. “Finding another job right now. I can’t quit. I’ll look around but for now I’m gonna have to stick. See what happens.”

  “I know. And the kids love you.”

  “I love them.”

  I drank the end of my horchata and blew in the empty bottle to hear the noise. I shouldn’t push him. I’m the one who didn’t have a job for all those years. Maybe he doesn’t feel pushed, but this type of thing can have a cumulative effect. One day I’ll find a note on the fridge: “You’re too pushy.” He’ll have moved on. Not that I can’t handle it, but it’s not optimal.

  He says, “Another thing is, I was thinking maybe—go back to school. Get a degree in something. Maybe something working with kids but not like what I’m doing now. Maybe work at Juvie.”

  “Juvie? Are you kidding me? That’s—Juvie? I’m sorry. I’m overreacting.”

  “No, but really. What’m I gonna do? Get a job at Disneyland where everybody’s happy?”

  I sigh. “Well, even Juvie is less depressing than Disneyland, I guess.”

  “Don’t you think I could, you know, get a job at Juvie?”

  “I think you could absolutely get a job at Juvie.”

  “But you think it’s a bad idea.”

  “No,” I say. “I think you’ll see a lot of sad stuff, but nothing you haven’t already seen a lot in your life.”

  “You think I could help people?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think you could help some people.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” He looked out the window. “You know, it looks nice out there.”

  “You know what would be great?” I say. “Let’s go out and walk around and stop for lunch or dinner or whatever meal we’re on. We can just wander until we end up somewhere.”

  “Let’s go,” he says. “How is Disneyland more depressing than Juvie?”

  “Well, it’s scarier,” I say, putting my keys and my credit card in my pocket. “Have you ever been to Disneyland?”

  “No. Have you ever been to Juvie?”

  “Disneyland is scarier than Juvie any day of the week.”

  I love the warm weather. Of course, I’m seriously hoping for rain tomorrow. Ricky’s family is having a picnic. There’s no way I can get out of it. I’ve been feverishly checking the weather forecasts. I Google Earthed the dopplar radar for the area. So far, there is a chance of rain.

  His family is large, and they are religious. I mean, they are Religious. Apparently, Ricky is the only non–Pentecostal Jehovian Catholic Witness among them. I’m just worried they’ll think I’m an “invalid,” or poor childbearing material, or the worst imaginable choice for their son, brother, et cetera. I am trying to compartmentalize and enjoying some success.

  And even though Ricky and I don’t know what might happen in the future, for now we’re good.

  Jimmie Kendrick

  You wouldn’t believe what’s happening at ILLC. It is crazy. And it’s all because of little Yessie.

  They hired two new houseparents, for one thing. So that’s a start. The grapevine is that Mrs. Phoebe might get fired or “retire” but that could be wishful thinking. They have a new psychologist and she seems very cool. First thing she did was get the wheelchair guy over to ILLC to measure Mia for a brand-new power chair. Her own power chair. Mia is—you would not believe her face. I mean, the chair’s going to tilt like Joanne’s and everything. And Joanne was so happy. First thing she asked was what color did Mia pick, and when I told her pink, she sighed really deep and said, “Perfect.”

  Now none of this would’ve happened without Access Now. They told Mrs. Phoebe that it’s against the law to deny power chairs to people who need them in nursing homes. So she didn’t have a choice. They had a couple lawyers out here and everything. So I guess there are a lot of people who want to see ILLC changed or maybe even closed. But if they close it, that’s a big deal. For the kids, you know?

  There’s just a lot going on and it’s got me thinking about something.

  I mean, the downside of closing ILLC is the kids know it might happen, even though the lawyers haven’t said a thing about it. But the kids know it’s a possibility and they’re scared. I don’t blame them. And of course ILLC and Whitney-Palm are stirring the pot by sending letters to the parents saying that, you know, “What’s going to happen to your child?” Telling them the Center for Disability Justice is trying to throw their kids out on the street. The CDJ lawyers say if it ever happens that ILLC gets closed, the kids who are old enough will get the help they need to live in the community, if that’s what they want. The younger kids, the minors, will go to places that are smaller, you know, better than ILLC.

  Yessie’s only sixteen. She doesn’t have, like, a parent to cover her. I told her, you know, don’t believe ILLC, ’cause all they want to do is scare the parents. And even if it does happen it’ll be a long minute till the lawyers fight it all out and she might be eighteen by then and be her own guardian. But you know, that’s too many “mights” or “maybes” for her and for me too. I mean she’s been bounced from one place to another since her tía died. What I want to do is see can Yessie stay with me. As my foster daughter. If she’s up for it, of course.

  We click. It’s like, I get where she’s coming from and she gets where I’m coming from. And that’s what’s up, you know? That’s what’s up.

  She may feel like—like she’s not ready, she might not ever be ready to have anybody step in and say, “Hey, I want to be your foster parent.” I don’t want her to think my plan is “I’m gonna replace your tía Nene, I’m your mother now” or whatever because that is not where I’m coming from. I’m more, “This is a piece of paper, okay? Paper you fill out so Family Services will let you live with me and not in an institution. That paper has nothing to do with who we are together. That’s—that’s something we decide.” You know? Whether we’re mother and daughter or just friends or in between that, that’s cool. I’ll be there. She doesn’t need to call me anything different than always. I’m still just Jimmie. That’s what I’ll say. And if she’s not into it, that’s not going to mess us up either. I’m still just Jimmie, either way.

  I’m taking a day off next week and I thought I could work it out so I can pick her up after school and surprise her when she’s coming out of Hoover and take her out for a little dinner. She’s been talking about how she misses eating the food she grew up with, pulled pork and all that. There’s this place that has Cuban sandwiches, the food is great and you can eat outside and I know she’ll like that and—that’s the plan. I’m going to bring it up to her then. I’ll see. You know? I’ll see.

  I haven’t told any of this to a soul, not even Joanne.

  I admit some of it is selfish. I just love Yessie and I think I could finish raising her. I think I might be pretty good at it. But hey, if that’s not comfortable for her, if that’s not what she wants—I just want her to know she has options. I don’t care if ILLC closes or not. If she wants out of this place, she’s got a home with me.

  Michelle Volkm
ann

  I’m on my second day of having a really bad hangover, and right now all I want is to sit at my kitchen table with my tea and lemon. I can’t think about food. Not like I have any.

  On Friday after I quit my job at Whitney-Palm I went barhopping with my friend Farrah who I met when I used to work retail at Trilogy on Oak Street. Please, God, don’t ever make me work retail again. My whole life practically all I ever wanted to do was work somewhere on Oak Street because in my mind that was The Place and let me say for the record I’d rather eat worms than work anywhere on that street ever again. The only thing that’s worse than management is the customers. I could not believe what a snob your average shopper can be. They don’t even look at your face. I mean, I’m happy for you that you’re rich but were you raised in a barn?

  The first bar Farrah and I went to was called Jericho’s on Lincoln near Webster and we both had a beer and a shot and then this guy Octavio bought us another round. Then Octavio, Farrah, and I took a cab to Jelly’s and on the way we each had a couple more shots because Octavio had a pint bottle of Southern Comfort.

  Farrah is a total wild woman. You’d think her parents were fans of Charlie’s Angels but she actually comes from a really strict Iraqi family, or maybe she’s Iranian, so I bet that’s why she’s kind of rebellious and risk-taking. In the cab she took off her top and leaned out the back window and yelled, “One hundred percent American!”

  I think we lost track of Octavio at Jelly’s and Farrah and I took another cab to Humboldt’s and I don’t remember much after that.

  I just started to feel weird about my job. I was all ready to ask Tim for a raise and then I never did. It was right around when I went to Aurora and stayed at that crappy Days Inn and visited Riverwood. After that I stopped thinking about getting a raise. And I stopped liking recruitment and my numbers went down. Natalie from Eli Lilly said I might have a vitamin deficiency which really could be it when I think about it.