Chapter 4
I knew Tom Morton and could’ve just given him a call and gotten what I needed. I didn’t bother though; I didn’t feel like owing him a favor. Instead, the next morning I met with a middle-aged paralegal at the office of Geary, Morton and Fuller.
Mary’s adoption file sat in front of the paralegal, but she wouldn’t let me see it. She insisted she could only release it to Mary or the Williamses. I tried joking with her. Hell, I would’ve had better luck charming a block of ice.
She let me use her phone so I could call Mary. We arranged to meet at the law office at four thirty. When I got up to leave, the paralegal twisted her chair sideways and picked up some paperwork from her desk, making sure I knew how much my existence meant to her.
Of course I could’ve grabbed the folder from her. It would’ve been easy and there wouldn’t have been much she could’ve done to stop me. By the time she tried, I would’ve had what I needed. And I would’ve enjoyed seeing the expression on her face.
I didn’t, though. Thinking back on it, I must’ve been looking for an excuse to see Mary again.
* * * * *
When I got back to my office I left a message for Jimmy Tobbler that Debra Singer had been found, and then chipped away at the work piling up on my desk. After a while I took out Mary’s picture and stared at it. It was a studio portrait taken after her high-school graduation. While most studio shots make the subject look like a stuffed animal, this one was different. You could see the light dancing in her eyes and the playfulness brightening her smile. Looking at it brought a lump to my throat. When I glanced at my watch, I was surprised to see it was already a quarter past four.
Mary was waiting in front of the Statler building, all anxious and eager. When she saw me, she ran quickly to me and grabbed my arm.
“They know who my birth parents are?” she asked.
“They have your adoption records,” I said. There was a faint, pleasant smell of magnolia from her. Her hand felt nice on my arm. For a moment I was overwhelmed with the need to-well, forget it, it’s not even worth mentioning. Besides, I fought it back. I told her we’d better go inside.
Mrs. Helen Wilson, the paralegal, extended a hand to Mary, and then as a matter of courtesy offered me the same cold, damp claw. She released her grip on contact.
“As I told Mr. Lane earlier, I’d be willing to release your file to you or your parents,” she said to Mary. Maybe because her lips barely moved when she talked, or maybe because her skin looked like it had been varnished, she reminded me of a cheap mannequin. She licked her lips and added, “I would first like to talk with you. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks.” Mary sat stiffly in her chair, her expression attentive, serious. “What would you like to talk about?”
“About what you’re trying to do. We handle quite a few adoptions through our office and we get many young people searching for their birth parents. Usually they’re disappointed with what they find.”
“I see-”
“Please.” Helen Wilson held up a hand, her wooden expression intact. “I know you’ve made up your mind. I’ve seen the same look dozens of times. I would just like you to keep in mind that people who give up their babies for adoption move on in life. They have new families, new situations. Being confronted by their past can be extremely-”
“I’ll keep all that in mind,” Mary interrupted, her fingers drumming the desk. “I would like my file.”
The paralegal regarded her briefly, then handed Mary a folder. “I hope things work out for you,” she said.
Mary was too busy searching through the papers to hear her. She went through them once and then again, and then turned to me in disbelief and told me there was nothing in them. I took the folder from her and went through it myself. She wasn’t quite right. While it didn’t identify her birth parents, it did list the name of Arthur Minnefield, a lawyer from Oklahoma City, who had obtained the baby for adoption.
“It doesn’t say who my parents are,” Mary murmured again.
“The adoption forms usually don’t,” the paralegal stated. “They usually only list the source of the adoption.”
That wasn’t a hundred percent right. More often than not they also include the names of the birth parents. Thinking about the hoops Wilson had put me through simply to get the name of another lawyer made my foot start to itch. I would’ve liked nothing more than to have booted her out the window. I considered whether it was worth owing Tom Morton a favor and at least having her booted out of the firm, but after taking a deep breath, decided to let it pass. I copied down the name of the Oklahoma City attorney and then dropped the folder onto her desk.
Mary was visibly upset. I guess she had convinced herself that she was finally going to find out who her parents were. Sort of like a kid waiting for her Christmas present only to open an empty box. It was cruel, but you see, life just ain’t easy. Even when it should be. Even when you’re doing okay and have a successful business and have people clapping you on the back and asking for your autograph. Even with all that, you still end up having your nose rubbed in it day in, day out. I guess Mary was just too young to understand.
To cheer her up I offered to take her out for dinner. We ended up at a barbecue joint I know in North Denver. Mary brooded, chewing halfheartedly at a baby back rib. I watched her for a while and then remarked how we at least knew where she was from.
“We know the lawyer who arranged for my adoption is from Oklahoma City,” she corrected me.
“Odds are, so are you. I’ll make some calls. If I don’t get anywhere, I’ll head out there myself. Probably tomorrow afternoon.”
“Do you think you’ll find anything?”
“No doubt about it.” I licked some barbecue sauce off my fingers and drank down half a pint of beer. “I’m sure Minnefield’s records show who your birth parents are. I have a good feeling about this, Mary.”
She took another nibble from her rib and then put it down. “I’m too nervous to eat.”
“Don’t be. I could be in Oklahoma for a few days. I would hate to think of you starving to death before I got back.”
Her face had gotten very pale. “You really think you’re going to find out who my parents are?”
The way she was looking at me did something to me. It was so touching, so innocent, her soft brown eyes so large and trusting. It gave me a warm feeling in my chest. I told her it was almost certain I would come back from Oklahoma City with the names of both her parents. I couldn’t see any way that I wouldn’t be able to find them. It was simply a matter of tracking down the lawyer.
After dinner I dropped Mary off a couple of blocks from the Statler Building where she had parked her car. I went back to my office and checked for messages. There was one from Max Roth saying that he had made some progress and expected to have the job finished by the end of the week and he wouldn’t be needing any help from me. The other messages were from prospective clients. I copied down their details and then flipped though my pile of open case reports.
There was a knock on my door. Mary came in, hesitated, and then took a step towards me.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” she started, her words kind of rushing together. “I just want to thank you for everything you’re doing for me. I can’t tell you how important this is to me.”
As she talked her eyes changed subtly. There was an aching in them, a determination. They made my knees turn to water. I started to say something but just couldn’t think. I could hear my heart pounding. I’m pretty sure I could hear hers also. I took a step towards her and then things got kind of crazy. Her body was up against mine, pushing itself hard into me and at the same time twisting itself away. Her hands holding me tight but also punching and struggling. Everything had become dizzy, light, all I could sense and feel and smell was her. The room seemed to flip over. Then we were on the floor, squeezed between my desk and the wall, my lips brushing against hers, tasting them, feeling their warmth. Her body under mine, shivering, struggling fiercely yet keeping me from getting up. Her hands penetrating my clothing, her nails running over my skin . . . .
