“Of course not!” Geoff interrupted. “What’s to prevent a scatter-brained teenager who put him in a box in the first place from deciding, on a whim, that she wants him back? You’ve never dealt with DSS, Reverend Clare. You have no idea what those people are like. They act as if genetics were sacred destiny. If they get their hands on the birth mother, they’ll do everything in their power to persuade her to hang onto the baby. It doesn’t matter to them if she’s underaged, if she lives in a dump, if she’s going to be a welfare breeder all her life. In their book, providing the egg and sperm for a child is more important than providing him with a good life. I’m sick of it.”
Clare sat back, blinking.
“Geoff is so right,” Karen said. “We’ve been up one side and down another with them.” She opened her arms, encompassing herself and her husband. “Just as a logical starting point, wouldn’t you say we were better parent prospects than a girl who would leave a baby out in the cold on the back steps to the church kitchen?”
Clare nodded. “As a logical starting point. Yes.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Why do you think DSS hasn’t given you Cody to foster at this time?”
“Because we’ve put up a stink before,” Geoff said. “When they returned that baby girl we told you about to her abusive mother, we went to the press, we took them to court—”
“It was a nightmare,” Karen said.
“If you kowtow to DSS, they might throw you a bone now and again, but if you stand up to their fascist bureaucracy and let others know what they’re doing wrong, you get on their enemies’ list.”
“We knew a couple, the Baldaccis, who ran a home for pregnant teens, a wonderful, caring place. They’d help these girls adopt out or find help for them if they wanted to keep their babies. A few years ago, they fostered a very troubled girl who kept her baby after it was born. She got into trouble later, DSS took the child away, and then, after one of their so-called parental re-education courses, they reunited mother and child. The Baldaccis wrote the caseworker and called her, they sent letters to everyone they knew in DSS warning them that the girl was unstable and the baby would be in danger. Six weeks after what DSS deemed a successful reunification, she murdered the baby.”
“Oh, my God. How horrible!”
“Yes, but that’s not the end of it. The Baldaccis were so outraged at this utterly needless death, they went public with the whole story. Despite the fact that they were the only home for pregnant teens in Washington county, DSS yanked their license and shut them down.”
“That’s outrageous,” Clare said.
“So you can see why we’re not eager for them to get their hands on the birth mother,” Geoff said.
“We’ve already filed suit requesting temporary custody of Cody,” Karen said, “but we talked it over, and we think it might be helpful to have members of the congregation write letters in our favor to DSS.”
“Especially if anyone knows someone personally they can write to, or call. A state senator, or a member of the governor’s staff, or someone on the board of governors for Social Services.” Geoff braced his elbows on his knees and cracked his knuckles. “You know, Reverend, when we first started trying to have a baby, I swore we’d do it ourselves, with no help from anybody, doctor or adoption agency. But now?” He scowled. “What the hell. Let’s get everyone involved. Maybe someone in the congregation has a friend of a friend who knows Senator Schumer. Whatever it takes to get the baby into our home as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” Clare said. “At the end of my sermon tomorrow, I’ll ask the congregation for help. We’ll need some sort of directory, something that gives addresses that people can write to.” She reached for one of the croissants Karen had laid out on the flattened bag. “We can just squeak it into the December newsletter if you can get the information to Lois by Monday.” She bit off a chunk of croissant, showering her lap with buttery flakes. Her eyes widened at the taste.
“Wonderful,” Karen said. For a moment, Clare didn’t know if she was talking about the bread or the plan. “I have a good feeling about this. I think having the backing of the whole congregation will make this time different.”
Clare devoured the rest of the croissant and brushed the flakes off her lap. “I’d like to talk about the other half of this matter. The part that Chief Van Alstyne brought up with you. Have you thought about what happens when Cody’s mother shows up? From what I understand, the mothers in this sort of abandonment case are almost always caught, or turn themselves in.”
“That’s why we need custody now,” Geoff said. “We’ll need to be able to argue that the baby has bonded with us, that she is an unfit mother, and that the child’s best interests will be served by remaining with us.”
“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”
“Reverend, finding a healthy white infant in this country is a harsh business. It’s not for the squeamish, or for people who aren’t willing to play hardball.”
“And besides, maybe the mother won’t turn up.” Geoff and Clare both looked at Karen.
“That’s an unrealistic attitude to take, Kar. We have to position ourselves strategically to win against her, not cross our fingers and hope she’s disappeared for good.”
There was one more croissant left, and Clare snagged it, wondering what it said about her personality.
“Of course. You’re right. It’s just I believe that Cody is the one. I just know he’s meant to be ours.” Karen beamed. Clare hoped that all their focus and intensity wouldn’t end in disappointment. Who could say? If passion and commitment made for good parents, the Burnses would be the best thing that could happen to Cody.
“Then we’d better be prepared to do what we have to to ensure that he stays ours,” Geoff said.
Russ resignedly contemplated the old glass-fronted vending machine in the hallway between the coroner’s office and the mortuary, where he was reluctantly spending his Saturday afternoon. EAT-A-TERIA it proclaimed in vintage fifties lettering. HOT—COLD—TASTY—CONVENIENT! For a buck in change, you could get one of several sandwiches alleged to be turkey, ham, or cheese, and for fifty cents more you could make your meal complete with chicken soup, which poured out of a spout to the right of the sandwiches.
Everything tasted as if it had been made sometime last summer and had been left in the machine since then. The idea of a limp mystery-meat sandwich and soup with more salt than chicken in it was pretty damned unappealing, but it was closing in on one o’clock, and if he didn’t get some food in him he was going to collapse. He was thinking longingly of lunch at his mom’s place when Dr. Dvorak came through the heavy wooden doors of the mortuary.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually going to consume some of that swill,” the M.E. said.
Russ snorted. “It’s your machine.”
Dvorak shrugged off his lab coat and slung it over his arm. “It’s the county’s machine, my friend, probably put there to ensure a steady supply of customers to the hospital.” He headed up the short hallway to his office. Russ fell into step alongside him. “I tell you, Chief, in seven years I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anyone refill that thing.” Dvorak opened his door, solid wood and frosted glass, just like the one to Russ’s office. “You didn’t need to come here, you know. Right now all I have is my preliminary report. We’ll have to wait on the state lab for toxicology.”
Dvorak sat down at a desk considerably neater than Russ’s. The preliminary report, already color-coded, went on top of a thin stack of similar files, squared to the edge of the desk. A large desktop calendar was filled with precisely lettered notes and reminders, its edges held down with a pencil cup of identically sharpened pencils and a marble-based pen set from the New York State Association of Medical Examiners. The leather cup matched the framed photo of Dvorak, the heavyset, bearded man who was his partner, and their two border collies.