A week after, the late-evening phone call came — too late for it to mean anything good. Alex was on the La-Z-Boy clicking through channels, and Maya was making a soup to last their lunches the rest of the week. Wooden spoon fishing for cabbage leaves, she called out to Alex, but he had fallen asleep. She hustled over to the cordless and jammed the receiver under her ear. Her stomach lurched. Mishkin wouldn’t call so late unless there was terrible news, unless it could not wait till the following morning, unless it was all off.
“Mrs. Rubin,” he said. “You sitting down?” For a moment, Maya wondered if Mishkin was going to make her sit down at nine thirty P.M. just so he could tell her: The adoption was off. Or: The ancestral Mishkins had grown plums.
“So, look, Mrs. Rubin,” Mishkin said. “Adoptions are volatile. Emotions are high. It doesn’t mean — a person’s unstable. It drives people to act. . in ways they wouldn’t otherwise act. In yourself — I think you’ve seen that.”
“Excuse me?” Maya said. The choppy way in which Mishkin spoke made Maya suspicious, as if he was titrating information whose badness, should it come in a torrent, would become obvious.
“Never mind that,” Mishkin said. “My point is, Laurel’s a firecracker. She’s eighteen, but she comes on with a force twice of that. A hole in my ear every time that we talk. You two are made for each other. You ought to meet.”
“We can’t,” Maya reminded him.
“Well, that’s just it,” Mishkin said.
“What, Mishkin, what!” Maya demanded. In her condition, she had forgotten to filter his name through the sieve of diplomacy and referred to him by the shorthand used by the Rubins. But Mishkin was silent, a hesitation unbecoming the cataract of Gabriel Mishkin. Whereas a moment before Maya was angry, now she was frightened.
“Now don’t you go cuckoo on me about this, all right?” the adoption supervisor finally said. “I’ve been in this business getting on twenty years and I’ve never seen it myself. But it’s high emotion, like I said. Makes people do funny things. The mother is a wild one. Not that — not that — please don’t think she’s irresponsible. You can tell these are responsible, well-thinking young people because they’ve chosen you to adopt their boy. That’s how you know.”
“Please explain right now,” Maya said, stifling a wave of murderous anger.
“Laurel and Tim,” Mishkin said. “They want to deliver the child.”
“What do you mean ‘deliver’?” Maya said.
“You know — like takeout.” Mishkin giggled.
Maya wanted to tell Mishkin that he could be far more pious toward the vocation he had selected, but she didn’t dare. She felt she depended on this man’s goodwill, even as she detested both him and that fact. She didn’t say anything, for if she spoke, she would speak an insult.
“They want to bring the child, Mrs. Rubin. Hand him over to you. And I know it doesn’t sound like it, but this is a positive development. It saves you from — if you’d gone to pick up the child, you’d have to sit in a Montana hotel room for three weeks while the states talked to each other. Otherwise, it’s kidnapping. But if the parents bring him to you?” Mishkin produced a whistling noise meant to indicate problem solved.
Maya remained silent.
“Mrs. Rubin, the child is a blessing,” Mishkin said. “Healthy and beautiful. The only thing holding you back now is all of a sudden you’re wondering what you got yourself into. I know the feeling. But you’re not like your husband — I say this with all due respect. You have the drive. Leap forward, Mrs. Rubin. I know this is unconventional. But if you get past the wrapping, it’s actually a very good thing. I know you always think I am trying to push you. I have nothing to sell here except the fulfillment of what you told me you wanted. This is what I’ll never understand about you folks, no matter how much time you spend in the country. You fight like no one fights for the things that you want. And then they arrive, and you push against them like children. Why is this, Mrs. Rubin? I guess it has to wait until the next generation. Well, I am giving you the next generation. Please take it.”
Maya was speechless. She was within rights to censure him, but he knew that before he spoke, and since he had, anyway, she would not. A long silence ruled the telephone.
“But we are not supposed to know each other,” Maya said, enforcing a rule she hadn’t made.
“Yes, it’s not standard,” he said. “But there’s a lot of leeway built in. You know their first names already — you won’t know their last. You’ll see what they look like, of course, but they live two thousand miles away, you don’t know what town. Unless you go looking for them, I doubt it makes a difference in practice.”
“They’re not the only ones I am thinking about,” Maya said, defensive of her husband. “They will know where we live. What about that? The point of a closed adoption is it’s closed. This way, they can drop down on us whenever they wish! That’s not right. My husband will disagree. No, Mr. Mishkin, this won’t work.”
“Mrs. Rubin, you can say no. Tell me no, and we will go back to the original plan. Don’t worry about it.”
“Will the mother become upset because I said no?” Maya said. “Can she change her mind?”
“I have no idea, Mrs. Rubin. I have a hard time with Laurel even when I’m not guessing what’s in her mind. But the papers have been signed — that makes it a lot more difficult for her to change it. Mrs. Rubin — this girl is intent on finding her boy a new home. They’re eighteen — they can’t raise a child. They’re Christian, they don’t do abortions. They’re giving him up. They’re too young. You wanted to find out about the parents; you did, I know, even if your husband and your parents-in-law didn’t. So here they are. Here’s your chance.”
“She told you that?” Maya said hungrily. “She told you that was the reason? Too young?”
“No,” Mishkin said. “They do not have to explain.”
“Why,” Maya said helplessly. “Why. That is the most important thing. The very most important thing. It is the only thing they have to explain.”
“I don’t want to stray into psychological territory, but in life we must occasionally make peace with the fact that we simply won’t know. That is their right, not to say. However, if you allow them to come to you, you can ask them.”
Maya did not answer. On the other end, Mishkin took a deep breath. The conversation had become intimate. She hated him less.
“You can have this child tomorrow, Mrs. Rubin.” Mishkin said. “That is it at its plainest. Do you want to have this child tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Maya said.
“You’re wondering why I’m phoning so late in the night,” Mishkin dared. “For which I’m sorry, by the way.” His tone was grave, and on hearing it, Maya discovered, with petrification, that she preferred the old, unserious Mishkin. “They’re harvesting right now, or something: I don’t really get it. They’ve only got the weekend, they need to get back. .”
“What is it?” Maya yelled, waking up Alex, who looked up reproachfully from the La-Z-Boy.
“They’re halfway to you already,” Mishkin said. “Now, don’t get upset, Mrs. Rubin, I just found out myself. I told you she’s impulsive. I tried to explain they had to get your okay, and, look, they’re not going to show up on your driveway, they don’t even know what town in New Jersey yet. But if you can live with this, Mrs. Rubin—”