A Southern Girl (7 page)

She reached for the frying pan and edged it into the soapy water. “And sometimes they come out like you mean them.”

“Sometimes,” I agreed, feeling her body soften as she exhaled. “Remember when you first suggested it? Steven was what, one?”

“He was walking. One, I suppose.”

“Hard to believe that much time has passed.”

“We weren’t exactly prompt with the paperwork.”

I released my clasp, stepped from behind and turned toward her, leaning against the counter.

“Is the home study the last hurdle?” I asked.

“They have to find a child.”

“You still think Korean is the way to go?”

“The people at Open Arms say it’s still the best source. India will open soon, they tell me, but we’ve waited too long already.” She dried her hands and tossed the dish towel at me. “Thanks for the help with the dishes.”

“Hey, I kept you company. Besides, you know the rules. I cook, you clean.”

A reluctant grin formed on her lips. “But I did both.”

“No wonder the boys complained of stomach pains.”

“Very funny.”

I put my arms around her, drawing her close. Sighing, she turned her head against my shoulder.

“I’ll put the boys to bed,” I said.

“That would be great. They’ve seen enough of me today.”

In the den, I sat down on the middle cushion of the couch between my sons just as John Boy was saying goodnight to everyone on Walton’s Mountain. “Goodnight, Mary Ellen. Goodnight, John Boy. Goodnight, Momma.”

“Time for bed,” I announced. “Who wants a ride?”

With Josh on my back and Steven in my arms, I started up the stairs. The boys knew that somewhere between step one and step eighteen, the upstairs landing, I would stagger uncertainly, as if to put us all at risk for
a Biblical tumble backward. In that instant, each boy would glom to me instinctively. Josh would clutch my neck from behind with such tenacity that my windpipe would close. Steven, in front, contorted himself into a ball of hysterics, doubling his body mass and therefore his weight in blithe disregard of whatever laws of physics were at play on the stairs. Each knew the faux-stumble was coming because it always did, but guessing which step would serve as tonight’s trip wire created the mounting tension I relished. I relished it for its power to make them cling to me, to depend upon me to ensure that the game was only a game, to guarantee their safety while creating the illusion of danger. I could feel their young bodies bracing for it, and with each step I climbed, the suppressed giggles climbed with us. On nights like tonight, when I remained sure-footed as high as step fourteen, the squeals of anticipation could not be muzzled, and the three of us began to laugh with an energy that threatened to destabilize the unit. At fifteen, Steven let out a happy roar that echoed downstairs. At sixteen, they shook and contorted so violently and so collectively that I feared losing my balance. At seventeen, a step from the top, I faltered, pitching forward with my upper body so as the fling the boys onto the soft carpet of the upper landing. In a heap we laughed until Steven reached for his fly, to manually restrain his excitement.

Elizabeth appeared at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips, posed. “What’s going on up there?” she demanded, knowing full well. When no answer came, she shook her head, smiling.

After their baths, I read a story. I often changed the names of characters to “Josh” or “Steven” to bring them fully into the night’s fiction. Warm bath water had calmed them, and the baritone of my voice acted as a sedative in damping down the frenzy of the stairs. They leaned against me, one on either side, their moist hair matted against their foreheads and sleep approaching. I smelled their newness, the aroma of virginal masculinity.

“Goodnight, Josh.”

“Goodnight, Steven.”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

Social Services filled a four-story building in the heart of New Hampton’s inner city and, in the past year, overflowed onto two floors of an annex near City Hall. From 8
A.M.
to 6
P.M.
, it was a labyrinth of pandemonium dominated by young mothers toting infants and trailed by
small children struggling to keep pace. In offices off the main corridor, phones jangled incessantly. I was a few minutes late. By the time I arrived, Elizabeth and Monique Hunter were in conference.

Monique Hunter, a diminutive woman of perhaps twenty-five, had medium black skin and short hair. She sat behind her desk, bare but for one manila file folder, while Elizabeth sat opposite. I introduced myself and took the plain metal chair beside Elizabeth, feeling like I had walked in on a conspiracy.

Monique smiled pleasantly. “I think what you are doing is wonderful. I see from your file you have two biological sons. How do they feel about this?”

Elizabeth smiled. “I’d like to believe they’re wildly excited, but in fact I don’t think they understand much about it.”

“Seven and five is a little young to grasp this,” agreed Monique. “Perhaps as the big day gets closer …”

“Exactly. We’ve been talking about this baby sister for so long they probably think it’s some kind of family joke. Sometimes I feel that way myself.”

“This is my first experience with an international adoption. How do you go about selecting a child?”

“Our agency, Open Arms, will send us a dossier on a child who meets the profile we gave them.”

“And what was that?”

“As young as possible—”

“For bonding.”

“Yes. A girl, full Korean. That’s it.”

Monique opened her file. “Today, I’ll ask a series of questions about your backgrounds, your families, your children. Routine stuff that will let me write a report that will assure your agency they’re not sending this child into a den of Satan worshipers.” She laughed lightly at a joke I felt had been rehearsed. “Then I’ll need to visit your home, which I’m sure is lovely but I have to see it. It would be best if your two boys were there when I came. Shall we get started?”

From the folder she withdrew a packet of papers stapled at the corner. “I’ll begin with family histories. You first, Mr. Carter.” I shrugged agreeably.

“Your parents full names?”

“Coleman Edwin Carter and Sarah Robbins Carter.”

“Both living?”

“Yes. In Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Dates and places of birth?”

“My father was born June 15, 1908 in Charleston. Mother was born August 12, 1910 in Darlington. That’s also in South Carolina.”

Monique Hunter pushed her ballpoint in a flowing script, tilting her head as she wrote. When finished, she looked up at me. “The plantations along the James River are full of Carters. No connection, I guess.”

“A direct one, actually. I grew up in the southern branch of the family.”

Monique Hunter’s eyebrows arched faintly as she made a note. “Parents’ health?”

“Mother is healthy. Father is not. Some recent heart problems.”

Monique Hunter inquired about siblings: “None.” When she had filled in her blanks, she turned to Elizabeth, who crossed her legs and fingered the fringe of her jacket.

“And your parents, Mrs. Carter?”

“Victor Hetzel and Ruth Altenhofen Hetzel.”

“Your mother is … ?”

“German.”

“And can you spell ‘Altenhofen’ for me.”

“A-l-t-e-n-h-o … I can never remember if it’s one ‘f’ or two … one, I think … e-n.”

“And their places and dates of birth?”

Elizabeth studied her lap, where she had worked a thread loose in the hem of her jacket. “Both born in Cincinnati. I don’t know my dad’s date of birth. Mom’s is March something. She’s fifty-eight, so that would make the year 1920 or ’21. Around in there.”

Monique continued writing. In the hall, a passing child stopped in the doorway and stared into the room. Monique rose and closed the door.

“I suppose I should know this stuff,” Elizabeth said.

Monique looked up, her pen poised above the paper. “Don’t worry. Many people don’t know these things. We can nail it down later. Siblings?”

“Two brothers, both living, both married.”

“Catholic?”

“Lutheran.”

The interview continued. Monique Hunter proved thorough and professional. After she finished the backgrounds, she moved on to habits, interests, hobbies, church affiliation, and professional endeavors. She devoted time to our philosophy of parenting, relationship to our sons, and preferred methods of discipline.

“We’re almost done,” Monique announced, shaking the cramped fingers of her writing hand and glancing up at the clock mounted above the door. 5:00. “Each of you take a minute to tell me how you feel about this adoption. Mrs. Carter, you go first.”

Elizabeth inhaled, clasped her hands together in her lap, and said, “We have been blessed with two healthy, beautiful boys. They have a loving, stable home. I want to give that same chance to a child who has little hope of ever having a family as we know it. I think this child, whoever she turns out to be, will be a wonderful addition to our home and give us a chance to share our good fortune.”

Monique nodded. “As I told you earlier, I think it’s super of you to take this on. Not everyone would. How about you, Mr. Carter? What are your thoughts?”

“The same as Elizabeth’s.”

My wife was not pleased with this dodge. “Don’t gush so much.”

“So what’s left to say?” I demanded. “It’s great. I’m all for it.”

“That’s not what you said last night. Be honest about it.”

I did not look at her, instead holding the expectant gaze which Monique Hunter focused on me. “I simply expressed some reservations as to whether we had thought through all the angles.”

Monique Hunter opened her mouth to speak. Elizabeth cut her off.

“Tell her about your theory. The trauma an Asian child will experience in an American family.”

“Won’t she?” asked Monique.

Elizabeth’s tone softened. “Of course. But benefits outweigh liabilities.”

“Why don’t we hear your husband’s thoughts on it.”

“He’s going to say he’s thinking of her; that he doesn’t want her to be the victim of the kind of prejudice that exists in this town.”

Monique dropped her eyes toward the desk and smiled faintly. “Well, that’s a subject I know something about, but why don’t we hear it from him.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”

I glanced at Elizabeth before turning back to Monique. “I’m trying to be realistic. I worry about her acceptance. Our sons can go anywhere. No limits. But I think she’ll encounter some and those will hurt her and hurt us for her.”

Monique nodded. “Have you told your families; parents, brothers, sisters?”

Elizabeth said, “I’ve told mine. Well, some of them.”

I felt both women staring me down. “I wanted to wait until we finalized things.”

“How do you think they will react?”

“My parents will have … reservations.”

“About adoption or the international part?”

“Both. They’re old school.”

We scheduled the home visit for the following Thursday. Monique Hunter walked us to the reception area. “Just imagine,” she said as we exchanged good-byes, “on the other side of the world, there may be a child with your name attached to her.” Elizabeth clasped Monique’s hand, buoyed by the thought. I checked my watch.

“I’m playing golf,” I said to Elizabeth as Monique returned to her office. “Tee-off was at 5:15 and I’m late. See you at home.” In the parking lot we left in separate cars.

I inched my late-model BMW into traffic, always heavy at this hour. The New Hampton Shipyard, the largest private employer in the state with a workforce exceeding twenty-five thousand, ended its first shift at 5:00. Within minutes thereafter, weary, muscled men emerged from the colossal enterprise, trudging down the broken sidewalks leading from the yard and dodging cars, vans, and pick-ups with the mechanical indifference of arcade targets. They shuffled across Tyler Avenue with their heads down, their lunch pails emptied, and the stubble of their beards scented with the acrid sweat of a full day’s work in the hull of some submarine.

Behind these men until the next morning lay the shipyard, a riverside sprawl of machine shops, gangways, dry docks, piers, and warehouses spread out before the watchful eyes of big-boomed cranes, which stood like mammoth egrets facing into the wind. The yard boasted a long
tradition of building large ships, “large” being a relative term expanding with the decades, so that Hull No. 1, an ocean-going tug called
Dorchester
commissioned in 1896, matched in scale and displacement the lifeboats on modern liners now being built for the Miami cruise trade.

Dominating the north yard were two drydocks, so cavernous that their simultaneous flooding appeared to lower the water table on the river bank. Into these floated tankers and warships scheduled for overhaul while newly commissioned aircraft carriers and submarines glided out of their watery incubators with the ease of an expert skier over fresh powder. Giant cranes of enormous strength straddled the drydocks, moving up and back on rails laid on either side of the pits. On certain afternoons, crowds of hard-hatted men, some with welding goggles hung about their necks and steel-toed shoes on their feet, would tilt a collective head skyward to witness the cranes hoist an assembled conning tower from the staging area, swing it high over the heads of the men who made it, and place it precisely onto the deck of a nuclear powered city. From a distance, silhouetted against a western sky, the cranes resembled some enlarged gym apparatus, like vaulting horses built for giants.

For as long as New Hampton had been a city, the ear-splitting shrill of the 7
A.M.
whistle had been its alarm clock. Mounted on the top of the steel fabrication building, it summoned the first shift to work as the rest of New Hampton opened one eye. From the parking lots, cafes, diners, and newsstands along Tyler Avenue the workers hustled to punch the clock before the late whistle cost them pay. During fall and winter, a morning fog off the river sometimes veiled the yard, amplifying sound and dampening spirits. Those days must have dragged interminably inside the gates. 5:00 seemed unreachable. When the shift change whistle finally sounded, the craggy old jailer unbolted its gates and paroled its occupants, who dispersed onto the streets with thoughts of warm whiskey or a seat near the heater for the ride home.