I stared at the coffee grounds that made a ring in the bottom of the white mug. Back in Pittman I’d heard of a fairly well-to-do woman who made her fortune reading tea leaves and chicken bones, which she kept in a bag and would scatter across her kitchen floor like jacks. On the basis of leaves and bones, she would advise people on what to do with their lives. No wonder she was rich. It seems like almost anything is better than having only yourself to blame when you screw things up.
“Taylor, honey, if you don’t mind my saying so I think you’re asking the wrong question.”
“How do you mean?”
“You’re asking yourself, Can I give this child the best possible upbringing and keep her out of harm’s way her whole life long? The answer is no, you can’t. But nobody else can either. Not a state home, that’s for sure. For heaven’s sake, the best they can do is turn their heads while the kids learn to pick locks and snort hootch, and then try to keep them out of jail. Nobody can protect a child from the world. That’s why it’s the wrong thing to ask, if you’re really trying to make a decision.”
“So what’s the right thing to ask?”
“Do I want to try? Do I think it would be interesting, maybe even enjoyable in the long run, to share my life with this kid and give her my best effort and maybe, when all’s said and done, end up with a good friend.”
“I don’t think the state of Arizona’s looking at it that way.”
“I guarantee you they’re not.”
It occurred to me to wonder whether Mattie had ever raised kids of her own, but I was afraid to ask. Lately whenever I’d scratched somebody’s surface I’d turned up a ghost story. I made up my mind not to bring it up.
I called for an appointment to meet with Cynthia alone, without Turtle. In past appointments she had talked about legal claim and state homes and so forth in Turtle’s presence. Granted Turtle had been occupied with the new selection of toys offered by the Department of Economic Security, but in my experience she usually got the drift of what was going on, whether or not she appeared to be paying attention. If either I or the state of Arizona was going to instill in this child a sense of security, discussing her future and ownership as though she were an item of commerce wasn’t the way to do it. The more I thought about this, the madder I got. But that wasn’t what I intended to discuss with Cynthia.
The appointment was on a Friday afternoon. I started to lose my nerve again when I saw her in her office, her eyes made up with pale green shadows and her hair pulled back in a gold barrette. I don’t believe Cynthia was much older than I was, but you put somebody in high-heeled pumps and sit her behind a big desk and age is no longer an issue-she is more important than you are, period.
“Proof of abandonment is very, very difficult,” she was explaining to me. “In this case, probably impossible. But you’re right, there are legal alternatives. The cornerstone of an adoption of this type would have to be the written consent of the child’s natural parents. And you would need to be named in the document.”
“What if there are no natural parents? If they were to be dead, for instance.”
“Then it would have to come from the nearest living relative, the person who would normally have custody, and a death certificate would have to be presented as well. But the most important thing, as I said, is that the document would name you, specifically, as the new guardian.”
“What kind of document exactly?”
“The law varies. In some states the mother would have to acknowledge her consent before a judge or a representative of the Department of Economic Security. In others, a simple written statement, notarized and signed before witnesses, is sufficient.”
“What about on an Indian reservation? Do you know that sometimes on Indian reservations they don’t give birth or death certificates?”
Cynthia wasn’t the type that liked to be told anything. “I’m aware of that,” she said. “In certain cases, exceptions are made.”
Cynthia’s office was tiny, really, and her desk wasn’t actually all that big. She didn’t even have a window in there.
“Don’t you miss knowing what the weather’s like?” I asked her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t have a window. I just wondered if you ever kind of lost touch with what was going on outside, being cooped up in here all day with the air conditioning and the fluorescent lighting.” It was the first time in my life I’d ever said anything like “fluorescent lighting” out loud.
“As you recall, I came to your house on the evening that your, that April was assaulted.” Cynthia always called Turtle by her more conventional name. “I do my share of field work,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Have I answered your questions, Taylor?”
“Mostly. Not completely. I’d like to know how a person would go about finding the information you mentioned. About the laws in different states. Like Oklahoma, for instance.”
“I can look that up and get back to you. If you like, I can get you the name of someone in Oklahoma City who could help you formalize the papers.”
This took me by
