“There is typically a long waiting period for white adoptees,” said O’Toole. “Russia, Eastern Europe. In general you’re talking about children from orphanages who are three, four years old.”
Van didn’t need to be bait-and-switched by O’Toole. He had heard some stories about those kids. He didn’t have the fortitude or the altruism of the people who were willing to take on those kinds of problems. He wanted a family, not a project. He felt that you could mold a baby easier than you could a child who had been socialized, or unsocialized, in his or her formative years.
“No,” said Van. “I’m not interested in that scenario. I wouldn’t want a, you know, handicapped kid, either.”
Van shrugged off Eleni’s reproachful look and shifted his weight in his chair. There was a brief silence as the lawyers digested his remark.
“Would you adopt an African American infant?” said Monroe, looking into Van’s eyes.
Van hesitated. He felt that he was now a customer in the Baby Store, a situation he’d hoped to avoid. And what did you say to the black woman sitting across the table from you? “I’d rather not adopt a black child”?
“You mean, what color baby do I want?” he said. “Is that what you’re asking?”
“This will be easier if we speak freely,” said Monroe.
“We want whoever needs to be adopted,” said Eleni.
Van looked at Eleni. In that moment he knew he would love her forever.
“Right,” said Van.
“Then let’s get started,” said Monroe.
“I’ll have my assistant run the contracts,” said O’Toole, standing excitedly, displaying his tall, birdlike frame. “You do want the flat fee, don’t you?”
Van nodded absently.
That is how it began.
They’d been warned that the adoption process was complicated, but for them it was not. The home visits were perfunctory and quick, and they soon “identified” a baby boy after looking at an array of photographs spread like playing cards on a table. Van said to Eleni, “This is kinda weird. When you choose one, you’re rejecting the others, in a way. You know what I mean? What happens to them? ” Eleni agreed that it was mildly troubling but was steadfast in her belief that they should concentrate on the positive impact they would have on one person’s life rather than bemoaning the fact that they couldn’t help them all. As she was telling him this, her eyes were on the table, and she touched her index finger to the photograph of a black baby who, consciously or not, was staring into the camera, right at them, it seemed, with a startled expression.
“Him,” said Eleni.
Van said, “Okay.”
Van suggested they name the baby Dimitrius, in keeping with his intention of giving their children traditional Greek names. Van was third generation and about as Greek as a Turkish bath, but Eleni did not resist, much.
“Dimitrius is not a traditional African American name.”
“Okay, we’ll call him Le Dimitrius.”
“Stop it. I just think we ought to consider what it will mean for him to carry a name like that.”
“It’ll toughen him up. Y’know, the bullies used to call me Chevy Van.” Van balled his fists and held them up. “Until I introduced them to Thunder and Lightning.”
“You were never a fighter.”
“I know it. But that’s the story I’m gonna tell Dimitrius.”
Soon after this conversation, Dimitrius came to them. He was a quiet, pleasant baby, and his sister, Irene, took to him right away. She insisted on pushing his stroller and always sat beside him on the family room couch, where his parents frequently propped him up with pillows. He was her breathing doll. He was loved.
A couple of years passed. They were comfortable as a family and Van was still making significant money. They adopted Shilo, a large dog of indeterminate breed, from the Humane Society at Georgia Avenue and Geranium. The house seemed to grow smaller, louder, and hairier.
When Irene was about to enter kindergarten and Dimitrius was in his last year of preschool, Eleni Lucas got a call from Donna Monroe, now a partner in the O’Toole firm, telling her that another baby had become available. He was a black infant who had been due to be adopted by a white couple who changed their minds at the last minute.
Because they were happy, because they were now convinced that this adoption thing worked, Eleni and Van had already talked about bringing another child into the family. And there was another reason, unspoken to Eleni, which made Van ready to pull the next trigger: Dimitrius was not quite the boy he had imagined he would one day have. He was not particularly coordinated or athletic, and he shied away from any roughhousing or physical contact with his dad. Van loved him, but Van wanted a boy -boy for a son.
And so, a few hours after Donna Monroe’s phone call, Van and Eleni studied the photograph of the boy Van had decided would be called Leonidas.
“He’s beautiful,” said Eleni.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with him?” said Van. “What I mean is, why did the first couple reject him?”
“Too dark,” said Monroe, who now operated without O’Toole in the room and was free to say whatever she pleased. “They initially saw the photos of him when he came into the world, and he was lighter skinned then. They do get darker after the first few weeks. I’m guessing these folks wanted a more Caucasian-looking black baby.”
“Their loss,” said Eleni, something she would say to herself many times over the years as she looked at her boy with deep love and wonder.
“I’m just curious,” said Van. “I know there’s a school of thought with some social workers that says that black babies should go to black parents.”
“I’m a graduate of that school,” said Monroe. “All things equal, I’ll try to place a black baby with a black couple first, every time.”
“So why’d you call us?” said Van.
“You’ve been in here with your kids a few times,” said Monroe. “I see that it’s working, and you’re not trying too hard. You don’t do that over-earnest thing, trying to be all multicultural. I get those types, you know, ‘Look at me, I adopted a black kid.’ You all just act like a family. You’re not dressing your boy in kente cloth or anything ridiculous like that.”
“We don’t celebrate Kwanza, either,” said Van.
“Neither do I,” said Monroe. “That’s a holiday for Hallmark, not for me. Truth is, in this case, I feel like it would be a good fit. Your son Dimitrius should have a black sibling. It would be good for both of them to have a brother to lean on if they get to where they’re having identity issues. What would you name this baby, by the way?”
“Leonidas,” said Van. “It means ‘lion.’ ”
“Hmph,” said Monroe.
“My husband is trying to keep it Greek,” said Eleni.
“So are you ready?” said Monroe.
“Is this the part where Bill O’Toole bursts in with the contracts?”
“He saw y’all pull into the parking lot,” said Monroe with a small smile, “and he saw his next Mercedes.”
“Let’s do it,” said Eleni.
Leonidas Lucas, wrapped in a blue fleece blanket, wearing a tiny wife beater, was put in Van’s arms a few days later in the offices of O’Toole and Monroe. The boy was five weeks old, cooing, looking up into Van’s eyes, and Van’s thought at that moment was as it would always be when he saw Leonidas: This is my son.
“May I?” said Eleni, who had yet to hold the child.
“Looks like you’re gonna have to pry him out of your man’s arms,” said Monroe.
Van handed him to Eleni.
“He’s a keeper,” said Van, rocking back on his heels, his face flushed.
“Y’all better get home,” said Monroe. “The snow is coming down hard.”
They looked out the office window. Indeed, the flurries that had been swirling all morning had turned to heavy flakes.
“He’s going to be cold,” said Eleni.
