The Great Gilly Hopkins

“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.

POW

There 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?”