Ten minutes later, I cranked the engine in the white minivan. The corner of my rearview mirror told me it was seventyseven degrees, which was not unusual for South Carolina in November. God didn't usually turn on the AC till January. I waved my hand back and forth across the vent. Maybe the soccermom mobile isn't that bad after all.
I drove out of Jake's lot, looked in the rearview mirror, and saw my truck parked in the lot, waiting on the next buyer. I shook my head and spat out the window. No one on the planet will ever love that truck as much as I did.
I fastened my seat belt, adjusted the air vent, and concluded-AC or not-that Honda couldn't hold a candle to either my old '72 C-10 or the '76 Ford I was now leaving behind. But if it would help Maggie and me qualify in the eyes of the adoption committee, I'd drive a horse and buggy.
From Jake's I drove straight to the office of John Caglestock. His secretary, Lorraine, stepped from behind her desk to greet me. "Hi, Dylan. You don't usually just show up without calling. Everything okay?"
"I just wondered if I might have a word with John."
She waved me to a nearby chair. "Let me check." She walked into his office and then out again ten seconds later, followed by John.
"Hey, Dylan, come on in." He shut the door behind me, and we sat at the small conference table across from his desk. I had come to John with my hat in my hand, and he sensed it. He also knew that as the guy who overlooked Bryce McGregor's affairs, I knew exactly how much money John and his firm had made off Bryce. And it was millions. So, while I needed John, John also needed me. I was banking on this.
John also knew I'd never ask him or Bryce for anything that wasn't really important, so if I was here, looking as though I needed a favor, well ... he could read the writing on the wall.
I cut to the chase. `John, Maggie and I are trying to adopt a child."
He nodded, wrapped his glasses behind his ears, and settled them on his nose.
"I need $38,000 as a down payment, $45,000 total, plus I need another $2,000 to pay off the minivan I just bought. I wondered if you could. . ."
John didn't even blink. He touched the phone next to him. "Lorraine, please bring me my checkbook. Personal."
Two seconds later, she appeared in his office and laid the checkbook on the table. Ignoring my protests, he opened the book, scribbled, signed, and then tore out a check, made out to me, for $40,000.
I shook my head. `John, I can't. That's not why I came here. I need a cosigner at the ..."
John punched the button again and said, "Lorraine, get me Richard at American National."
Two minutes later our phone beeped, and Lorraine interrupted. "Sir, I'm putting him through now."
John put him on speakerphone. "Richard, how are you?"
"Good, John. How're things?"
"Listen, Richard, I need a favor."
"Anything."
John looked at me, then at the phone. "A good friend of mine is going to come see you about a loan. He doesn't have much to show, but he's good for it, and I'll guarantee it."
"You want your name on the paper?"
"Yes, and he needs the money pretty quickly."
"As in, how quickly?"
John looked at me, and I shrugged.
"How about an hour? He's trying to adopt a child and needs to show that he's good for it."
This sounded like something John had done before, and it sounded like Richard, whoever he was, was in a position to make it happen.
"I'll have the paperwork ready when he gets here. How much?"
John spoke without blinking. "Extend the line to fifty. He probably won't use it, but I want him to have some room."
Richard murmured, "Uh-huh," and I could hear him scribbling near the phone.
John continued, "Thanks, Richard. If you'll courier me my end, we'll take care of it this afternoon."
"Will do."
John punched the speakerphone button and hung up. He looked at me, and I wanted to kiss him.
I stood up and shook his hand. "Thanks, John."
He extended his personal check a last time. "I'm happy to loan it to you myself."
I patted him on the shoulder and turned toward the door. "Thanks, John. You've done enough already. We're grateful." I took a step back and whispered, "Oh, and, John?"
He raised his chin.
"I need this to be between us."
He nodded and drew a horizontal line through the air with both of his hands like an umpire calling a runner safe at home plate. "Whatever you wish."
I drove out of the lot, made one quick stop at the Baby Superstore, and then drove to American National, where Richard, the bank president, met me at the door. I signed several pieces of paper, and within three minutes he handed me a checkbook for my own line of credit. The entire transaction didn't take five minutes.
I thanked him, left the bank, and then drove an hour back to Charleston, where I walked into the adoption agency and handed the receptionist a check for $38,000. She eyed it and quietly disappeared.
When Mr. Sawyer, the male member of the inquisition committee, appeared from his office wearing a rather confused look, he held the check out in front of him as if it were hot.
He was about to say something when I pointed toward the door. "Sir, if you would just follow me."
I led him out the front door and clicked the unlock button on my key fob twice just to make sure he heard the chirp. I opened both side doors, cranked the engine, turned the AC on "snow," and pointed at the brand-spanking-new baby seat buckled in tight and proper in the backseat.
He looked at the check, then the van, and then back to the check. "I will say I am very impressed, Dr. Styles, but. . ." His face turned cold again. "I've got to be honest with you. We were more than a bit concerned about your wife's answers during her individual interview."
I turned off the car and followed him back inside. "Sir?"
He wiped the beading sweat off his head. "Have you ever considered getting Maggie professional help?"
"Sir?"
He looked at me. "A psychologist."
"You sure we're talking about the same woman?"
Once again, my attempt at humor had little effect.
He lowered his voice and eyes. "A stillbirth can be one of the most difficult hurdles a woman ever faces. Your wife might need professional help to deal appropriately with the trauma of the past."
The sound of my breath exiting me was like the sound of a helium balloon that had been untied. "Sir, I just don't understand." Maybe it was the deer-in-the-headlights stare that convinced him I was serious.
He loosened his tie and squinted through the glare of the window. "Dr. Styles ..."
"Dylan, please."
"Dylan, in our experience, the loss of a child isn't something a woman simply `gets over.' It takes awhile. Many think that adopting will fill the empty place that remains." He squinted again and tossed his head slightly. "Our work with several thousand mothers over more than two decades leads us to this conclusion."
I stared at him, trying to make sense out of what he was saying.
He tried to help. "Dylan, mourning"-he let the word roll off his tongue and hang there for emphasis-"is healthy. It is something that needs to take place."
"Sir, I don't mean any disrespect, but I think that's what we've been doing."
He nodded as if I'd just proved his point. "You might let that run its course and then come back and see us."
"Sir, you'll not find a home with more love than ours." I was losing, and I knew it. "Or a mother with more love than Maggie. Sir, I know."
He nodded. "If you wish to withdraw your application, you could return in, say, six months and reapply." He paused. "The committee would look favorably upon this."
"Sir, I just don't think I can walk into my house right now and tell my wife that I've withdrawn our application. In football terms, that's called `piling on."'
He extended his hand. "I understand. We'll be in touch."
I followed him to the
door. "Sir, do you know when that might be?"
He stood in the doorway to his office and grabbed a handful of yellow slips that noted his missed phone calls. He riffled through them, registering a few, then considered me again. "The committee has not completed its evaluation, but when we do, we'll notify you in writing."
Knowing that answer would not satisfy Maggie, I tried to ask respectfully. I took a slight step forward and half whispered, "Is that two weeks or two months?"
He placed a hand on the doorknob and lowered his voice. "Months."
He shut the door, and I walked out past the receptionist. I didn't feel like being friendly, but I said, "Ma'am," anyway.
She looked over her shoulder and whispered, "Sometimes it can take a year or more."
I walked out and, not being too experienced with the key fob, pressed the wrong button, setting off the Honda's alarm. It honked, flashed, and woke up everyone for four square blocks. The only benefit was seeing Mr. Sawyer glance out his window. At least he knew the minivan came well equipped.
I arrived home shortly after lunch. Maggie was sitting on the porch with a bowl of pole beans between her legs. She had tied a bandanna underneath her hair at the base of her neck. Scarlett O'Hara had nothing on my wife.
Maggie saw the van, then me driving it, and jumped off the steps. "Something wrong with the truck?"
I opened the door and left the car running. "Not that I know of."
She put her hands on her hips. The wrinkle appeared between her eyes, and her lips tightened. She went from restful to ballistic in less than a second. She almost shouted, "You traded your truck!?"
I backed up. This was not what I'd expected. "Yeah, honey. We need to show an appropriate vehicle to the adoption agency, and-"
Her eyes narrowed. "Forget them. You loved that truck."
"You're right, I did, but-"
"Don't `but' me. We can't let those people run our lives. They don't know us. They can't even begin to understand what we've got."
The wind had picked up the ends of her scarf and was blow ing them around the sides of her face, tickling her cheeks. Her face was flushed and sweaty.
I shrugged. "Maggs, there will always be other trucks." Deep down, I knew this was not true.
She looked inside the Honda, sat on the seat, ran her fingers through the ice-cold AC, smiled, raised her eyebrows, saw the baby seat buckled in the back, and said, "And to think I was just starting to like that orange ... thing."
We drove around for an hour, letting her get used to the steering with no play, the quiet accelerator, the lumbar support, the seat heater, the surround sound, the side mirrors with turnsignal flashers, and the leather seats. By the time we turned back into the drive, I think she'd all but forgotten my truck.
THAT NIGHT, AMOS SAW THE WHITE VAN AND DROVE IN TO check on us. He rolled down his window and took off his sunglasses. "Got visitors?"
Maggie clutched her stomach and doubled over, laughing.
He looked at me. "What'd I say?"
I shook my head. "No visitors." I kicked at the dirt and lowered my voice. "It's ... ummm ... Maggie's new car."
Amos looked around. "Where's your-?" Then it hit him. He smiled, covered his mouth, and then burst out laughing.
"It's not funny," I said.
As he pulled out of the drive, he was still laughing.
The following week I started getting itchy to hear from the agency. I watched the mail. Then I thought about the possibility of that letter not saying what I hoped. I'd never been very good at getting the mail on a regular basis, but starting that night, I made a point of getting to the mailbox before Maggs. Every day.
I COULDN'T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN TWELVE THE DAY I came home from school with my hands stuffed in my pockets and tried to tell Papa why the underside of my eye was black and puffy. No, I had not thrown the first punch, but that didn't mean I wasn't guilty. The shiner proved that. I sat on the front porch and struggled with my story while Papa cleaned his fingernails.
He knelt down and stuck his face about two inches from mine. "`Almost true' ain't true," he said.
"Well..
He held up a finger and led me around back to his workshop in the barn, where he picked up a six-foot bricklayer's level and held it up for me to see the bubble. He leveled it, centering the bubble, then lifted one end just slightly, sending the bubble off plumb. He raised his eyebrows. "It either is, or it isn't."
EVER SINCE WE'D FINISHED UP WITH THE ADOPTION COMmittee, I'd been trying to tell Maggie more about my four and a half months alone. But every time I tried, I got tongue-tied and twisted, adding more confusion than resolution. So one cold January day-nearly a year to the day that I'd brought her home-Maggs finally just put her finger to my lips and said, "Shhh." She took me by the hand, led me to the linen closet, and opened the door.
There I found three empty shelves-the bottom of which was desk-high-a rickety chair not any wider than my butt, ten yellow pads, and a coffee cup filled with No. 2 pencils.
She sat me in the chair and said, "Just write it."
I looked at the blank page. "But I don't even know where to start."
She shrugged. "Start with us."
I scratched my head, and she shut the door behind me. I sat there for a long time trying to find an entry. Just how do you tell a story like that? I mean, seriously, where should I start? Despite her tough exterior, Maggie's insides were eggshell fragile. Should I tell her everything? Let her know the depth of my thinking? Every event? The extent of my loneliness? How far back down into that pit should I lead her? Should I tell her there were times when I looked up and saw no light at all?
Maggs was walking a narrow ridge as it was-it wouldn't take much to push her off either side. Her emotional ups and downs had been difficult to anticipate or gauge. Dr. Frank said this was "to be expected," and I should just act as if nothing were out of line. I told him it was kind of like riding Space Mountain at Disney World-a roller coaster that ran along a track at breakneck speed in pitch-black darkness. Not even the driver knew when the turns or flips were coming. Maggie couldn't quite seem to get her emotions in check, and when she did express them, she couldn't control them. She'd cry at the drop of a hat and laugh when things weren't funny, and once she started crying, it took her awhile to stop.
If I told her the whole truth about the four months she spent asleep in that hospital bed, I ran the very real risk of making her feel responsible. And with all the pregnancy and adoption stuff running through her head, no amount of explaining would change that. So I looked at the blank page in my new "office" and wondered if it wouldn't be better for selected scenes in the director's cut to end up on the editing room floor. So I closed the door behind me and began writing half the truth, excusing it by saying I loved her.
I hadn't done much writing since grad school, so it took me awhile to remember how. As a teacher, I had always told my students that when you face a blank page, the hardest part is getting started. So to help yourself out, write the word The and you're on your way.
I took my own advice, and once I did, things I'd forgotten returned. Some things are so simple. I think that's partly the reason Maggie sent me in there. Yes, she wanted the story, but she knew me well enough to hold off in the hearing of it until she was certain that I'd emptied myself of it-proving that therapy comes in many forms. Maggie still knows a lot that I don't.
Every morning I wrote for an hour. Memories surfaced and flashed before my mind's eye-the hospital, tear stained nights, never-ending days, loneliness so deep I thought I would drown-and maybe sometimes I wanted to. I flung open the doors of my mind, dug them out of their holes where I'd hidden them from Maggie, and pretty soon ten pads turned into twenty, and all the beauty and wonder-and yes, even ugliness-of my life stared back at me. The mirror told no lies.
Spring arrived, I turned in my grades, and I could tell she was getting antsy about the amount of time I'd been spending in the closet. When she saw me installing a lock on the closet door, s
he looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. She put her hands on her hips and said, "Dylan Styles! What are you doing?"
"Making sure you're not tempted."
"Tempted to do what?"
"Read my book."
"But you're writing it for me."
"Right, but I know you. And the thought of those pages just sitting in there waiting to be read is more than your sneaky little fingers can stand." I waved the brass key in my hand, then hung it around my neck and smiled.
She huffed and shook her head. "I can't believe you'd accuse me of trying to read something before you gave it to me."
I smiled and slipped on my John Deere baseball cap. "Believe it."
"Couldn't I just read a chapter or something?"
I pulled the cap down to shade my eyes. "Nope."
She threw a couch pillow at me. "I don't like you anymore."
I walked out, laughing, and let the screen door slam behind me.
She bounced another pillow off the doorjamb and yelled, "You're on the couch!"
"Maybe," I said over my shoulder, "but I'm taking my book with me."
Later that night, I came home and found her trying to pick the lock. "Hi there," I said, waving the key.
She jumped and dropped the screwdriver. "Dang you, Dylan Styles!"
Remember that Waltons episode about the house fire, in which John Boy had to choose between rescuing his family and rescuing his notebooks? I remember watching him stand helplessly as the flames climbed out of his attic window, and how much emotional strength it took him to rewrite his novel in the following months. The fear of his fiery loss made an imprint on me. I didn't want a house fire to wreck several months' worth of effort. So I double-checked the lockbox, making sure it was watertight, and the "safe" in my house was just that.
IT HAD BEEN ELEVEN HOURS SINCE I LEFT MAGGIE THE counterfeit. Sitting on that tractor for the better part of a day while she stowed away in the house, reading, gave me plenty of time to regret my decision. I pulled the tractor out of gear and rolled to a stop. I pulled off my hat, wiped my brow, and studied the storm clouds as they thundered in the distance.
In my mind's eye, I imagined giving both copies to my grandfather. Palms up, he walked into the kitchen where the light was brighter and hefted each like Lady Justice-balancing the scales. Feeling the difference, he squinted an eye and asked me why I had not centered the bubble.