“In what way?” my mother asked.
Ms. Peterson looked frustrated. I knew how she felt. Surely, my mother knew what Ms. Peterson was implying.
Then, I understood. My mother knew exactly what Ms. Peterson was implying. What she was trying to do was to get Ms. Peterson to come out and say it. On tape.
Everything Ms. Peterson had done so far was open to interpretation. Sure, she seemed to indulge a lot of my mother’s objectionable comments, but she could always later claim that she was just being polite to avoid a confrontation. She could make a credible case that she was merely indulging a crazy woman so she could get her out of her office.
She might even be able to defend her exorbitant costs and Park Avenue birth mothers.
But my mother wasn’t as clueless as she seemed. This was her opportunity to get Ms. Peterson to admit to an undeniably illegal act. On tape.
I turned my body to face my mother, aiming my tiepin straight at her. If she could pull this off, she deserved to be captured on video.
Ms. Peterson looked at my mother’s mask of confusion, then at my even blanker expression. You could see her thinking Do I have to spell it out for these idiots? Every day, she met with couples of considerable wealth who came to her knowing her agency’s reputation. They were sophisticated people who knew how to read between the lines. What was wrong with us?
She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. “Ms.
…”Another look at the file. “Heffelbergen. I don’t know how to say it clearer…”
“Well, then, I suppose we’re done,” my mother surprised me by saying. She stood up abruptly. “We’re not stupid, Amy. My Murray is a very rich man. He didn’t get that way because he’s a dummy, did you, darling?”
“Glrff,” I replied.
“See? I am not a cheap woman. But if someone wants to sell me something, I expect them to have the decency to tell me what my money is buying.” She put the second form Ms. Peterson had given us on her desk, jabbing at the “processing and administrative” line with an angry finger.
“Otherwise, I assume they’re ripping me off. Especially if it’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Amy. I think I have the right to know where my quarter million is going.”
She put her hands on Ms. Peterson’s desk and leaned forward, her face inches from the rapidly flushing adoption director’s. “I don’t think you can blame me for expecting a straight answer.”
Ms. Peterson’s face was blazing. I suspected the last time she was that red was after her last chemical peel. Her eyes drew together like a snake’s about to strike.
“The money goes to the state agencies. To the people whose approval we need- you need-to get you your baby. It takes that kind of money to get their stamp of approval with no questions asked.”
“Oh, I see!” My mother smiled and sat back down. Ms. Peterson’s shoulders relaxed. The heat started to drain from her cheeks.
“So,” my mother summarized, “you’re saying I need to make a contribution to the agency. Like to a charity. Why didn’t you say that in the first place? That I understand. I have no problem with that at all. But, why don’t I just make it directly so that it’s tax-deductible?”
My mother smiled serenely and reached into her purse, extracting a checkbook. “Now, should I just make it out to the New York State Adoption Services, or does it go by another name?”
Ms. Peterson’s right eye began to twitch as the left side of her lip slid downward. I wondered if she was about to have a stroke. She once again assumed the scarlet coloring of a freshly steamed lobster.
“No, you… you.” I could see how much she wanted to insult my mother, but the sight of that checkbook, and my mother’s willingness to write a $250,000 check with not a moment’s hesitation, made her hold her tongue. She had to be thinking that if she could string her along a little longer, she could probably make a fortune off this silly, careless spender.
Ms. Peterson drew in a deep breath. “The money doesn’t exactly go to the agency, Ms…” She didn’t bother looking up the name again and just let her voice trail off. “The money goes directly to the official whose signature we need.”
“Well, what’s his name, then?” my mother asked cheerily, pen in hand.
“We don’t give him a check, dear. There can be no trail. It’s all
… off the record.”
“Like a…”
“Yes!” Ms. Peterson said.
“What’s that word?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Murray.” My mother turned to me. “What is she trying to say, dear?”
“Klurm?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“The word doesn’t matter, dear.” Ms. Peterson’s left eye began to twitch in counterpoint with her right, as if they were taking turns winking. “Let’s just focus on the results, shall we?”
“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” my mother said, pretending to be oblivious. “It’s a… oh, dear, this is going to keep me up all night.” My mother bit her lip as if deep in thought. “I give you the two hundred and fifty thousand, and you give it to the person whose signature you need as a… bait? Bail? No, that’s not it. It’s a-”
“It’s a bribe!” Ms. Peterson shouted. I ducked, thinking there was a real possibility her head might explode right then and there. “We pay him to stamp your application as approved and get you your goddamn baby. How else do you think a woman like you would be able to adopt? You, or… mumble-mouth over there.” Rather rudely, she jabbed her finger toward me.
I nodded back, but in a friendly acknowledgment. My obliviousness seemed to upset her even more.
“And in exchange for a quarter million in cold, hard cash,” she continued to rant, her voice getting louder and higher-pitched with each clipped word, “he looks the other way and ignores everything about you that makes you an unsuitable parent. Although, in your case, we might have to double his payment, as he’d not only have to close his eyes but hold his nose and plug his ears, too.” Her entire body shuddered with release, like she was having a particularly strong orgasm.
She was obviously the kind of woman who kept her feelings bottled up. It probably was quite gratifying for her to let loose like this. Maybe this experience would do her some good.
“Well,” my mother said, standing up again. “I think we’re done here. Kevin, let’s get out of here.”
“Kevin?” Ms. Peterson asked. “Who’s Kevin?”
“As for you,” my mother said to the director, “any person who would place a child with a woman as obviously unsuitable as I am, is a real piece of, pardon the expression, shit. You already have the blood of at least one little boy on your hands. Tell me, Ms. Fancypants, with your pretty little office and your pretty little pictures on the walls, how does someone like you live with yourself?”
“I–I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ms. Peterson stuttered, rising to stand. She crossed her arms over her flat chest, straightening up to her full height. She remembered who she was-an accomplished businesswoman of good breeding. Whereas the woman challenging her had the class and style of a low-rent streetwalker. “And who are you to talk to me like that?”
“I’m certainly not Zorah Heffelbergen, you tight-assed, stuck-up baby-seller. Had you done even the slightest bit of due diligence before jumping at the chance to earn a few sheckles by placing an innocent baby into my arms, you’d have discovered Zorah Heffelbergen doesn’t even exist. I’m the woman who’s going to expose you to the world as the disgusting pimp you are.”
Ms. Peterson lost a bit of her rediscovered confidence and took a step backward. My mother moved in for the kill.
“I’m the ghost of Adam Merr. And I’m going to haunt your ass until you’re out of business.”
“Adam Merr,” Ms. Peterson said, her voice shaking, “isn’t dead. Yes, what happened to him was… unfortunate. But it wasn’t my fault. I’m sure he’ll be fine. These things happen. I’ve devoted my life to helping children find their way to the best possible parents they could have: the select few who can afford our services. The children we place will be raised by families of wealth and privilege. They’ll have every advantage in life.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” my mother said, “you’re as stupid as you are greedy. That you actually believe a
