The Great Gilly Hopkins

“You’re one of our most capable foster parents. You’ve been with us for more than twenty years. This won’t affect your record with us. You’re too valuable—”

“I don’t give a spit about no record. You ain’t taking Gilly.”

“We’re trying to think of you—”

“No, you ain’t. If you was thinking of me, you’d never come to me with such a fool notion.”

“This is a troubled child, Maime. She needs special—”

“No! I ain’t giving her up. Never!”

“If you won’t think of yourself, think of William Ernest. He’s come too far in the last year to let—I’ve seen myself how she upsets him.”

“It was William Ernest got her to come home last night.” Trotter’s voice was square and stubborn.

“Because he saw how upset you were. That doesn’t mean she can’t damage him.”

“William Ernest has lived with me for over two years. He’s gonna make it. I know he is. Sometimes, Miz Ellis, you gotta walk on your heel and favor your toe even if it makes your heel a little sore.”

“I don’t understand what you’re driving at.”

“Somebody’s got to favor Gilly for a little while. She’s long overdue.”

“That’s exactly it, Mrs. Trotter. I’m quite aware of Gilly’s needs. I’ve been her caseworker for nearly five years, and whether you believe it or not, I really care about her. But I don’t think it’s her needs we’re talking about right now, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s your needs.” Said very quietly.

A silence and then, “Yes, Lord knows, I need her.” A funny broken sound like a sob came from Trotter. “I like to die when I found her gone.”

“You can’t do that, Mrs. Trotter. You can’t let them tear you to pieces.”

“Don’t try to tell a mother how to feel.”

“You’re a foster mother, Mrs. Trotter.” Miss Ellis’s voice was firm. “You can’t afford to forget that.”

Gilly’s whole body was engulfed in a great aching. She opened and slammed the front door, pretending to have just come in. This time they heard her.

“That you Gilly, honey?”

She went to the doorway of the living room. Both women were on their feet, flushed as though they’d been running a race.

“Well, Gilly,” Miss Ellis began, her voice glittering like a fake Christmas tree.

“Miz Ellis,” Trotter broke in loudly, “was just saying how it’s up to you.” There was a flash of alarm from the social worker which Trotter pretended not to see. “You want to stay on here with William Ernest and me—that’s fine. You want her to find you someplace else—that’s fine, too. You got to be the one to decide.” Her eyes shifted uneasily toward Miss Ellis.

“What about,” Gilly asked, her mouth going dry as a stale soda cracker, “what about my real mother?”

Miss Ellis’s eyebrows jumped. “I wrote her, Gilly, several months ago, when we decided to move you from the Nevinses. She never answered.”

“She wrote me. She wants me to come out there.”

Miss Ellis looked at Trotter. “Yes. I know about the postcard,” the caseworker said.

Those damned cops reading people’s mail and blabbing, passing it around, snickering over it probably.

“Gilly. If—if she had really wanted you with her—”