Read Online Cross Dressing by Bill Fitzhugh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Fitzhugh
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and bail hearing. Dan talked about just leaving her in jail, but Michael finally shamed him into coughing up a check to cover her bond.
A court-appointed psychiatrist testified that Ruth had no control over her actions when she stopped taking her medication. He cited the “hostage incident” and several other examples to support his position. The judge agreed that Ruth wasn’t criminally responsible, but there was nothing the judge could do about the civil suits that had been filed by plaintiffswanting to recover financial damages. At the end of the hearing, criminal charges were dropped and Ruth was released into Michael’s custody.
This was the first time in five years that Michael had seen his mother. He had hoped for a joyful reunion, but Ruth was exhausted and depressed after her night in jail, and no matter what Michael said, his mom wouldn’t speak to him. He didn’t know if she was withdrawn due to a mood swing or if she was still angry with him for going to work in Africa in the first place. Michael knew she had felt abandoned when he left, but he hoped she had gotten over that. All he really wanted was to hear her say, “I love you.” He needed that right now.
Michael stretched the muscles in his neck as he led Ruth out of the police station. He wondered why they were so stiff. “I’m parked around back,” he said. They walked slowly across the parking lot toward Michael’s ancient VW bus, which he had left with a friend while in Africa. “We’re not going back to the nursing home,” he said. “We’re going out to a place in Sylmar where I’m going to work. They’re sending your stuff over later.” He opened the car door for his mother.
Ruth climbed into the VW. Michael leaned across to put on her seat belt. Ruth looked into his eyes. “You look terrible,” she said. “You should see a doctor.”
He was glad just to hear her voice. “Nah, I’m okay. It’s just, we didn’t eat very good in Africa. Probably need vitamins or something.” Michael got into the driver’s seat, cranked it up, and pulled out of the parking lot. He tried engaging Ruth in more conversation, but she wouldn’t respond to anything. She just stared out the window as Michael drove across the Valley toward Sylmar in the northeasternmost border of the L.A. city limits.
Sylmar was a largely Hispanic community on the other side of the tracks that run parallel with San Fernando Road. It sits where the foothills of the Santa Susanna Mountainsmeet the San Gabriels. It’s bordered on three sides by freeways. It’s dirty and dusty, and while there is a lot of plant life, it’s dirty and dusty too. Over the years, the area had evolved into a hodgepodge of low-income homes and light industrial facilities. Old ranchland and citrus and olive orchards had been converted to a ratty suburban purgatory, not really hell but certainly not Pacific Palisades.
Father Michael pulled off the freeway at Polk and turned right at the First Adventist Church. A couple of blocks later, past Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception and then Holy Family Catholic Church, they arrived at the Care Center. It was a large two-story boardinghouse built in the thirties, desert tan with a faded brown roof and trim. It sat at the back of a half acre of crabgrass, gravel, and dirt. There was a tired carport leaning against the east side of the building, tattered blue vinyl tarps stretched across the back doing their best to turn the structure into a garage. Bertha was parked underneath.
Sister Peg came out to meet them. “You must be Father Michael,” she said. “Welcome to the Care Center.”
Father Michael tried not to stare, but he found Sister Peg’s eyes irresistible. They were brown, sweet as angel’s breath, and perfectly framed by her habit. “It’s nice to meet you, Sister,” he said. He was surprised by the effect her eyes had and after a moment realized he was in the middle of an awkward pause. “Oh, uh, this is Ruth, my mother,”
A court-appointed psychiatrist testified that Ruth had no control over her actions when she stopped taking her medication. He cited the “hostage incident” and several other examples to support his position. The judge agreed that Ruth wasn’t criminally responsible, but there was nothing the judge could do about the civil suits that had been filed by plaintiffswanting to recover financial damages. At the end of the hearing, criminal charges were dropped and Ruth was released into Michael’s custody.
This was the first time in five years that Michael had seen his mother. He had hoped for a joyful reunion, but Ruth was exhausted and depressed after her night in jail, and no matter what Michael said, his mom wouldn’t speak to him. He didn’t know if she was withdrawn due to a mood swing or if she was still angry with him for going to work in Africa in the first place. Michael knew she had felt abandoned when he left, but he hoped she had gotten over that. All he really wanted was to hear her say, “I love you.” He needed that right now.
Michael stretched the muscles in his neck as he led Ruth out of the police station. He wondered why they were so stiff. “I’m parked around back,” he said. They walked slowly across the parking lot toward Michael’s ancient VW bus, which he had left with a friend while in Africa. “We’re not going back to the nursing home,” he said. “We’re going out to a place in Sylmar where I’m going to work. They’re sending your stuff over later.” He opened the car door for his mother.
Ruth climbed into the VW. Michael leaned across to put on her seat belt. Ruth looked into his eyes. “You look terrible,” she said. “You should see a doctor.”
He was glad just to hear her voice. “Nah, I’m okay. It’s just, we didn’t eat very good in Africa. Probably need vitamins or something.” Michael got into the driver’s seat, cranked it up, and pulled out of the parking lot. He tried engaging Ruth in more conversation, but she wouldn’t respond to anything. She just stared out the window as Michael drove across the Valley toward Sylmar in the northeasternmost border of the L.A. city limits.
Sylmar was a largely Hispanic community on the other side of the tracks that run parallel with San Fernando Road. It sits where the foothills of the Santa Susanna Mountainsmeet the San Gabriels. It’s bordered on three sides by freeways. It’s dirty and dusty, and while there is a lot of plant life, it’s dirty and dusty too. Over the years, the area had evolved into a hodgepodge of low-income homes and light industrial facilities. Old ranchland and citrus and olive orchards had been converted to a ratty suburban purgatory, not really hell but certainly not Pacific Palisades.
Father Michael pulled off the freeway at Polk and turned right at the First Adventist Church. A couple of blocks later, past Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception and then Holy Family Catholic Church, they arrived at the Care Center. It was a large two-story boardinghouse built in the thirties, desert tan with a faded brown roof and trim. It sat at the back of a half acre of crabgrass, gravel, and dirt. There was a tired carport leaning against the east side of the building, tattered blue vinyl tarps stretched across the back doing their best to turn the structure into a garage. Bertha was parked underneath.
Sister Peg came out to meet them. “You must be Father Michael,” she said. “Welcome to the Care Center.”
Father Michael tried not to stare, but he found Sister Peg’s eyes irresistible. They were brown, sweet as angel’s breath, and perfectly framed by her habit. “It’s nice to meet you, Sister,” he said. He was surprised by the effect her eyes had and after a moment realized he was in the middle of an awkward pause. “Oh, uh, this is Ruth, my mother,”
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