Black Evening (36 page)

"Death records, please," you ask the clerk, "for nineteen thirty-eight and thirty-nine."

This time, the young man looks somewhat annoyed as he trudges off to find those records. But when he returns and you tensely inspect the ledgers, you find no indication that Mary Duncan died during childbirth.

"Thanks," you tell the clerk as you put away your notes. "You've been very helpful."

The young man, grateful not to bring more ledgers, grins.

"There's just one other thing."

The young man's shoulders sag.

"This birth certificate for Jacob Weinberg." You point toward an open ledger.

"What about it?"

"It lists Esther and Simon Weinberg as his parents. But it may be Jacob was adopted. If so, there'll be an alternate birth certificate that indicates the biological mother's name. I'd like to have a look at — "

"Original birth certificates in the case of adoptions aren't available to the public."

"But I'm an attorney, and — "

"They're not available to attorneys either, and if you're a lawyer, you should know that."

"Well, yes, I do, but — "

"See a judge. Bring a court order. I'll be glad to oblige. Otherwise, man, the rule is strict. Those records are sealed. I'd lose my job."

"Sure." Your voice cracks. "I understand."

The county's Department of Human Services is also in the Cape Verde courthouse. On the third floor, you wait in a lobby until the official in charge of adoptions returns from an appointment. Her name, you learn, is Becky Hughes. She shakes your hand and escorts you into her office. She's in her thirties, blonde, well-dressed, and slightly overweight. Her intelligence and commitment to her work are evident.

"The clerk downstairs did exactly what he should have," Becky says.

Apparently you don't look convinced.

"The sealed-file rule on original birth certificates in the case of adoptions is a good one, counselor."

"And when it's important, so is another rule: nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Important?" Becky taps her fingers on her desk. "In the case of adoptions, nothing's more important than preserving the anonymity of the biological mother." She glances toward a coffee pot on a counter. "You want some?"

You shake your head no. "My nerves are on edge already."

"Decaffeinated."

"All right, then, sure, why not? I take it black."

She pours two cups, sets yours on the desk, and sits across from you. "When a woman gives her baby up, she often feels so guilty about it… Maybe she isn't married and comes from a strict religious background that makes her feel ashamed, or maybe she's seventeen and realizes she doesn't have the resources to take proper care of the child, or maybe she's got too many children already, or… For whatever reason, if a woman chooses to have a child instead of abort it and gives it up for adoption, she usually has such strong emotions that her mental health demands an absolute break from the past. She trains herself to believe that the child is on another planet. She struggles to go on with her life. As far as I'm concerned, it's cruel for a lawyer or a son or a daughter to track her down many years later and remind her of…"

"I understand," you say. "But in
this
case, the mother is probably dead."

Becky's fingers stop tapping. "Keep talking, counselor."

"I don't have a client. Or to put it another way, I do, but the client is…" You point toward your chest.

"You?"

"
I
think I…" You explain about the drunk driver, about the deaths of the man and woman that you lovingly thought of as your parents.

"And you want to know if they
were
your parents?" Becky asks.

"Yes, and if I've got a twin — a brother or a sister that I never knew about — and…" You almost add, if I was born a Jew.

"Counselor, I apologize, but you're a fool."

"That's what my wife and uncle say, not to mention a cop in Redwood Point."

"Redwood Point?"

"A small town forty miles south of here."

"Forty or four thousand miles. What difference does any of this make? Did Esther and Simon love you?"

"They
worshipped
me." Your eyes sting with grief.

"Then they
are
your parents. Counselor, I was adopted. And the man and woman who adopted me
abused
me. That's why I'm in this office — to make sure other adopted children don't go into homes where they suffer what I did. At the same time, I don't want to see a
mother
abused. If a woman's wise enough to know she can't properly raise a child, if she gives it up for adoption, in
my
opinion she deserves a medal. She
deserves
to be protected."

"I understand," you say. "But I don't want to meet my mother. She's probably dead. All I want is… I need to know if… The fact.
Was
I adopted?"

Becky studies you, nods, picks up the phone, and taps three numbers. "Records? Charley? How you doing, kid? Great. Listen, an attorney was down there a while ago, wanted a sealed adoption file. Yeah, you did the right thing. But here's what I want. It won't break the rules if you check to see if there
is
a sealed file." Becky tells him the date, place, and names that you earlier gave her. "I'll hold." Minutes seem like hours. She keeps listening to the phone, then straightens. "Yeah, Charley, what have you got?" She listens again. "Thanks." She sets down the phone. "Counselor, there's no sealed file. Relax. You're not adopted. Go back to your wife."

"Unless," you say.

"Unless?"

"The adoption wasn't arranged through an agency but instead was a private arrangement between the birth mother and the couple who wanted to adopt. The gray market."

"Yes, but even then, local officials have to sanction the adoption. There has to be a legal record of the transfer. In your case, there isn't." Becky looks uncomfortable. "Let me explain. These days, babies available for adoption are scarce. Because of birth control and legalized abortions. But even today, the babies in demand are WASPs. A Black? An Hispanic? An Oriental? Forget it. Very few parents in those groups want to adopt, and even fewer Anglos want children from those groups. Fifty years ago, the situation was worse. There were so many WASPs who got pregnant by mistake and wanted to surrender their babies… Counselor, this might offend you, but I have to say it."

"I don't offend easily."

"Your last name is Weinberg," Becky says. "Jewish. Back in the thirties, the same as now, the majority of parents wanting to adopt were Protestants, and they wanted a child from a Protestant mother. If
you
were put up for adoption, even on the gray market, almost every couple looking to adopt would not have wanted a Jewish baby. The prospects would have been so slim that your mother's final option would have been…"

"The
black
market?" Your cheek muscles twitch.

"Baby selling. It's a violation of the anti-slavery law, paying money for a human being. But it happens, and lawyers and doctors who arrange for it to happen make a fortune from desperate couples who can't get a child any other way."

"But what if my mother was
Scot
?"

Becky blinks. "You're suggesting…"

"Jewish couples." You frown, remembering the last names of parents you read in the ledgers. "Meyer. Begelman. Markowitz. Weinberg. Jews."

"So desperate for a baby that after looking everywhere for a Jewish mother willing to give up her child, they adopted…"

"WASPs. And arranged it so none of their relatives would know."

All speculation, you strain to remind yourself. There's no way to link Mary Duncan with you, except that you were born in the town where she signed the agreement and the agreement is dated a week before your birthday. Tenuous evidence, to say the least. Your legal training warns you that you'd never allow it to be used in court. Even the uniform presence of Jewish names on the birth certificates from Redwood Point that August so long ago has a possible, benign, and logical explanation: the resort might have catered to a Jewish clientele, providing kosher meals for example. Perhaps there'd been a synagogue.

But logic is no match for your deepening unease. You can't account for the chill in the pit of your stomach, but you feel that something's terribly wrong. Back in your hotel room, you pace, struggling to decide what to do next. Go back to Redwood Point and ask Chief Kitrick more questions?
What
questions? He'd react the same as Becky Hughes had. Assumptions, Mr. Weinberg. Inconclusive.

Then it strikes you. The name you found in the records. Dr. Jonathan Adams. The physician who certified not only
your
birth but
all
the births in Redwood Point. Your excitement abruptly falters. So long ago. The doctor would probably be dead by now. At once your pulse quickens. Dead? Not necessarily.

Simon and Esther were still alive until three weeks ago. Grief squeezing your throat, you concentrate. Dr. Adams might have been as young as Simon and Esther. There's a chance he…

But how to find him? The Redwood Point Clinic went out of business in the forties. Dr. Adams might have gone anywhere. You reach for the phone. A year ago, you were hired to litigate a malpractice suit against a drug-addicted ophthalmologist whose carelessness blinded a patient. You spent many hours talking to the American Medical Association. Opening the phone-number booklet that you always keep in your briefcase, you call the AMA's national headquarters in Chicago. Dr. Jonathan Adams? The deep male voice on the end of the line sounds eager to show his efficiency. Even through the static of a long-distance line, you hear fingers tap a computer keyboard.

"Dr. Jonathan Adams? Sorry. There isn't a… Wait, there is a Jonathan Adams
Junior
. An obstetrician. In San Francisco. His office number is…"

You hurriedly write it down and with equal speed press the numbers on your phone. Just as lawyers often want their sons and daughters to be lawyers, so doctors encourage their children to be doctors, and on occasion they give a son their first name. This doctor might not be the son of the man who signed your birth certificate, but you have to find out.
Obstetricians
? Another common denominator. Like father, like… ?

A secretary answers.

"Dr. Adams, please," you say.

"The doctor is with a patient at the moment. May he call you back?"

"By all means. This is my number." You give it. "But I think he'll want to talk to me now. Just tell him it's about his father. Tell him it's about the clinic at Redwood Point."

The secretary sounds confused. "But I can't interrupt when the doctor's with a patient."

"Do it," you say. "I guarantee he'll understand the emergency."

"Well, if you're — "

"Certain? Yes. Absolutely."

"Just a moment, please."

Thirty seconds later, a tense male voice says, "Dr. Adams here. What's this all about?"

"I told your secretary. I assumed she told
you
. It's about your father. It's about nineteen thirty-eight. It's about the Redwood Point Clinic."

"I had nothing to do with… Oh, dear Jesus."

You hear a forceful click, then static. You set down the phone. And nod.

Throughout the stressful afternoon, you investigate your only other lead, trying to discover what happened to June Engle, the nurse whose name appears on the Redwood Point birth certificates. If not dead, she'd certainly have retired by now. Even so, many ex-nurses maintain ties with their former profession, continuing to belong to professional organizations and subscribing to journals devoted to nursing. But no matter how many calls you make to various associations, you can't find a trace of June Engle.

By then, it's evening. Between calls, you've ordered room service, but the poached salmon goes untasted, the bile in your mouth having taken away your appetite. You get the home phone number for Dr. Adams from San Francisco information.

A woman answers, weary. "He's still at… No, just a minute. I think I hear him coming in the door."

Your fingers cramp on the phone.

The now-familiar taut male voice, slightly out of breath, says, "Yes, Dr. Adams speaking."

"It's me again. I called you at your office today. About the Redwood Point Clinic. About nineteen thirty-eight."

"You son of a — "

"Don't hang up this time, doctor. All you have to do is answer my questions, and I'll leave you alone."

"There are laws against harassment."

"Believe me, I know all about the law. I practice it in Chicago."

"Then you're not licensed in California. So you can't intimidate me by — "

"Doctor, why are you so defensive? Why would questions about that clinic make you nervous?"

"I don't have to talk to you."

"But you make it seem you're hiding something if you don't."

You hear the doctor swallow. "Why do you… I had nothing to do with that clinic. My father died ten years ago. Can't you leave the past alone?"

"Not
my
past, I can't," you insist. "Your father signed my birth certificate at Redwood Point in nineteen thirty-eight. There are things I need to know."

The doctor hesitates. "All right. Such as?"

"Black-market adoptions." Hearing the doctor inhale, you continue. "I think your father put the wrong information on my birth certificate. I think he never recorded my biological mother's name and instead put down the names of the couple who adopted me. That's why there isn't a sealed birth certificate listing my actual mother's name. The adoption was never legally sanctioned, so there wasn't any need to amend the erroneous birth certificate on file at the courthouse."

"Jesus," the doctor says.

"Am I right?"

"How the hell would
I
know? I was just a kid when my father closed the clinic and left Redwood Point in the early forties. If you
were
illegally adopted, it wouldn't have anything to do with
me
."