They could, however, consider adoption.
Jessica’s emotions were frayed over her inability to get pregnant over the prior twelve months, and her longing to have another child was forged in steel. The timing could not have been planned any better. And planned it was — right down to breaking the news on the day that she should have been ovulating.
Within a month the adoption papers were finalized, and in less than a year the Prescott family was complete, as James and Jessica welcomed their second boy, James Edmond Prescott, Jr. The fact that he’d saved that name for his adopted child would be P.R. gold.
Slowly, in carefully calculated sequence, his bizarre, underground but well-funded operation was introduced to the masses. A multi-faceted and seemingly nebulous ad campaign began pummeling the public from all directions.
In one public service announcement, an imprecisely-named foundation emphasized the number of non-infant orphans in need of homes, while another pointed out that due to our country’s lack of investment in our children, the United States was falling progressively further behind China in math, science, and, perhaps most importantly, ingenuity. James Prescott’s arrestingly magnetic smile was gradually folded into the PSAs, as his name became associated, and eventually synonymous, with the foundations.
Over the next several years, he and his special interest groups peppered congressmen and influential local politicians with tales of orphans trapped in the dead end that was serial foster care without any chance of eventually leading a productive life.
He then turned his rhetoric to what has worked in America. “Why should our most valuable assets be stuck in government-run agencies?” he posed. “What has worked in this country — what has made this country great — is the private sector. Investment. Accountability. Measurable results.”
It was a full-court press political campaign. He smeared his rival — the status quo. He made lofty promises, invoking themes of patriotism, compassion and “change.” The only difference between his and a typical campaign was that he had no opponent. No one was smearing him back during primetime programming because no one was funding the other side.
Things were already going better than planned when the news “leaked” that James Prescott, who had to this point fought to keep his private life extremely private, was himself a parent to an adopted child. Even the most cynical critic couldn’t have perceived this as a publicity stunt. James Prescott, Jr. had been adopted almost a decade earlier.
Finally, with public opinion overwhelmingly on his side, he lobbied for a new division of the securities and exchange commission. His goal had always been to have his idea operational by the time he turned 50.
Now, two weeks shy of his 50th birthday, he was three hours away from realizing a dream; a passion; an obsession. His market opened at 9:30. He directed his driver to lower Manhattan.
“Mr. J.R.!” Ryan beamed, running into the open arms of his guest.
“That’s Doctor J.R. to you, buster,” Jared Ralston laughed, lifting Ryan up off the ground. “You wanna get outta here and get some breakfast?”
“Uh… hmm… let me think about it for a — Yes!” Ryan shouted. “I could use an Egg McMuffin.”
Jared Ralston had been the late Ryan Sr.’s best friend. They had met in medical school, gone through residency together in internal medicine, and were midway through the final year of their cardiology fellowships when the accident had occurred.
Both of Ryan’s parents had been only-children, and he’d only had the opportunity to meet one of his grandparents — his mom’s dad, who had died in his sleep shortly after Ryan had started first grade. The other three were gone well before he was born.
His parents had left behind more college and medical school debt than they had assets, and their life insurance policies had barely covered what they owed. Mere months away from starting what would have been a privileged upbringing, Ryan found himself with nothing and no one. Except J.R.
“So, what did you do at school this week?” J.R. asked with his standard first question. He kept a booster in his back seat and tried his best to make it in to visit Ryan at least once a week.
“Not much,” came the standard reply. It was a stock answer, but it was honest. At the beginning of the school year, like every other first-grader in the country, Ryan had taken the recently instituted Initial Aptitude Test, and he hadn’t missed a question — one of only four students nationwide to do so.
J.R. wasn’t privy to that information specifically, but he knew Ryan was smart — and that he was stuck in a mediocre public school in Cleveland Heights that had absolutely no idea what to do with him.
They drove on in silence, both a little groggy from the early hour. But J.R.’s mind was preoccupied with what he had to tell Ryan. He knew it would have to come from him. And he knew he had to do it today.
They each ordered an Egg McMuffin. Ryan got an orange juice, J.R. a coffee. Then they made their way over to a table for two, as far away as possible from a group of senior citizens in an otherwise empty restaurant. A flat-screen TV, tuned to CNBC at a fairly high volume, assured that nothing they said would be overheard.
“How do you like where you’re living now?” J.R. asked.
“I love it,” Ryan answered sarcastically.
“Look, Ryan, you know I’d get you out of there if I could,” J.R. said. “It’s just that I’m on call every third night, and I’m working everyday.”
“I know.”
“And…” J.R. paused, as a lump developed in his throat. He took a sip of coffee, exhaled slowly through his mouth, took a long look up at the ceiling, and then heartily cleared his throat. “You know how you’re finishing the first grade this week?”
“Yeah.”
“Well I’m going to be finishing up my cardiology fellowship at the Cleveland Clinic. And I’ve taken a position… in Boston.”
“You got it?” Ryan asked, grinning from ear to ear. “Massachusetts General? That’s where my dad wanted to go! That’s awesome!”
“Thanks. But you know, I won’t be able to come by as much when I’m in Boston," J.R. said. “Not nearly as much.”
“I know.” Ryan kept his gaze down toward the table, picking crumbs off the thin arc of bare English muffin that remained on his grease-stained yellow paper wrapper. “That’s awesome for you though.”
They sat in silence for a few moments as the TV blared the end of an all too familiar commerciaclass="underline" Invest in America. Invest in your future. Invest in our children. It takes Avillage.
“You guys gonna watch that today?” one of the seniors shouted over to Ryan and J.R.
“Nope,” they answered, almost simultaneously. Ryan’s second to last day of school was about to start, and J.R. was already running late for work.
“You should watch,” another old man in a foam-mesh VFW hat bellowed, not the least bit uncomfortable with having to yell to the other end of the restaurant. “It’s history.”
The other three seniors looked over, nodding approvingly at their friend’s suggestion.
“We’ll see,” J.R. hollered back. Then he lowered his voice and looked back over to Ryan. “We should get out of here.”
As they returned to the car, J.R. started back into what he had to tell Ryan. It would be easier in the car where he wouldn’t have to look him continuously in the eye.
“I couldn’t leave town without making sure you were taken care of,” he said, concentrating on the road, peering back at Ryan periodically in the rear view mirror. “Ryan, you’re going to be getting out of the orphanage.”