by Lea Wait
A commercial for SUVs was blaring as Maggie sat back. What did she have to worry about? So many people in the world had lost so much. She was one of the lucky ones. She had a home, food, two jobs, and people who cared about her.
The newscaster went on to a story about a fire in a Paterson warehouse. Maggie clicked off the television and refilled her glass of Diet Pepsi. Winslow had just settled himself on the floor next to the French doors to watch robins in the backyard when the doorbell rang.
Chapter 6
Farmer and Farmer’s Wife. Pair of prints by Grant Wood (1892–1942), American artist whose work featured stern Midwesterners and stylized landscapes; best known for his painting American Gothic. Only occasionally did Wood illustrate books. These stark, two-dimensional portraits are from Farm on the Hill, 1939. The farmer is sitting on a tree stump, eating a sandwich from his lunch bucket. His wife is peeling apples into a wide wooden bowl. Both portraits are on orange backgrounds. 6.75 x 9.5 inches each. Price: $110 for the pair.
She wasn’t expecting anyone to stop in. Feeling ridiculous for being paranoid, Maggie peeked out a front window. A woman was standing on her front steps. It wasn’t a woman she knew, but, probably irrationally, she felt safer with an unknown woman than an unknown man. She opened the door.
The woman was bent, her hair graying, and Maggie noted that her hands, clasping a large leather-bound volume in front of her, were heavily veined, and their joints were swollen and deformed by arthritis. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her green, patterned dress hung loosely on her slight body.
“You’re Maggie Summer. The print dealer?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Agatha Thurston, from over in Somerville. I’m sorry to bother you without calling, but I was visiting my grandchildren here in Park Glen. One of them, Storm Hayden, took a class with you last semester. He told me how you teach at the college and have a business, too.”
“Yes?” Storm Hayden. A tall, skinny boy with thin, blond hair. “That’s right. I teach and I have an antique-print business.”
“So I thought maybe you’d be interested in buying this,” continued Mrs. Thurston, thrusting the large volume she was holding toward Maggie.
Maggie’s heart sank. She hated unexpected visits like this. “Won’t you come in, Mrs. Thurston?” She directed the elderly woman to her small living room just to the right of the front hall. It wasn’t a room she used often, so it was kept neat and “readied up for company,” as her mother would have said. Maggie had hung five dramatic Seguy lithographs of butterflies on one wall, and the upholstery on two modern couches and a comfortable armchair reflected the blues and pinks of the prints. Other people bought prints to match their furniture. Maggie upholstered to match her prints.
Both Mrs. Thurston and Maggie sat on the couch nearest to the front windows, and Maggie turned on a cut-glass lamp so they could see better. She piled up the copies of Time, Antiques, Smithsonian, Folk Art, and New York on the glass-topped coffee table. Then she took the book out of Mrs. Thurston’s hands and put it on the table so they could both see it.
Her first guess had been right. It was a Bible.
People often brought books and prints to show to Maggie. Sometimes they just wanted to know the value of what they owned or had inherited or bought at a yard sale. Sometimes they were interested in selling. Sometimes Maggie bought. But all too often the cherished possessions they brought her were treasures only to their owners. Just because something was old didn’t mean it was valuable.
“This was my great-grandmother’s Bible,” said Mrs. Thurston. “Her family was from up in New York State. She left it to me.”
Maggie nodded.
“But I haven’t looked at it in years. I have a small Bible I keep next to my bed to read in the morning. This one is just too big. And my children and grandchildren aren’t interested in it. I’m trying to decide whether I’ll sell it or keep it. Could you give me some advice? My grandson said you were a very nice, honest lady.”
“I’d be happy to look at it.” Maggie opened the heavy black book. In the front was a traditional family listing of births, deaths, and marriages framed by an elaborately chromolithographed scrolled decoration.
Mrs. Thurston pointed at one of the listings. “That’s my mother, Emma, and the date she was born,” she said proudly. “The minister read from this Bible when my mother was married, and then when I was married.”
“It has a very special history,” agreed Maggie. She turned the pages carefully. The Bible had been printed in 1878 and contained a dozen lithographs illustrating famous biblical stories such as the Garden of Eden, Noah and the animals, and the birth of Jesus. “And this is a lovely edition.” Maggie noted that some pages were more worn than others; some passages had been underlined. “It’s meant a lot to your family.”
“Yes. It has,” agreed Mrs. Thurston. “But I’m the only one who seems to care now, and I’m getting older. Is it worth any money?”
Maggie hated to disappoint the woman. “I’m afraid not very much. There are so many family Bibles, even lovely ones like yours, and very few people are interested in collecting them. They really should be kept in the original families for as long as possible. It’s sad to see Bibles selling at auctions for thirty-five or fifty dollars when they contain the history of a family.”
“But this one has such pretty pictures in it!” Mrs. Thurston paged through the book and pointed at one of Moses. “That’s why I thought maybe a print dealer like you would be interested in it.”
Maggie shook her head. “I’m sorry. The lithographs are lovely. But there isn’t a big market for biblical engravings or lithographs.” Of all the prints, Maggie thought, the one of Noah and the animals might be salable. But not quickly. She didn’t even have a category of “religious prints” in her business. They just weren’t what people were looking for at antiques shows today. “I’d hate to see this Bible leaving your family. Are you sure none of your grandchildren would be interested in it? Perhaps in a few years, if not now.”
Mrs. Thurston smiled at her. “They aren’t yet, but you’re right, maybe as they get a little older they will be. I’ll keep the Bible. At least now I know it doesn’t have a large dollar value.” She stood and picked up the book.
“It’s a lovely family treasure,” agreed Maggie, also standing. “I hope someone in your family appreciates it someday.”
“And in the meantime it will stay right with me, as it has for the past fifty years. Thank you for taking the time to tell me about it.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news,” said Maggie, as they walked back to the front door.
“But you have, you know. You’ve reminded me that this book means something to me and to my family, even if they don’t realize it just now. Young people today are just so busy with their computers and TVs and such they don’t pay much attention to the past. But one of the jobs of us older folks is to keep the stories of our family alive. I’ve been thinking about writing down the stories of our family. Leaving the stories with the Bible might mean more to some of my grandchildren when they get a little older and have children of their own.”
“That’s a beautiful idea,” said Maggie. “I wish my grandmother had written down the stories of her world, so I’d have them now.”
The ringing telephone interrupted her.
“You go and answer your phone, Ms. Summer. And thank you, again. You’ve given me a new reason to keep going a few more years: to keep the stories alive.”
Mrs. Thurston walked down the front steps decisively.
Maggie watched her for a moment, and then went to answer her telephone.
Chapter 7
Colored illustration by Jessie Willcox Smith for A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1905. Smiling young woman in long pink robe holds three toddlers in her lap while five more surround her. One is putting a rose in her hair; one holds a cat. Smith, who lived in and just outside Philadelphia, is known as an illustrator of childr
en’s books. She and several of her fellow women artists were called The Red Rose Group. 7 x 9.25 inches. Price: $65.
“Maggie? This is Ann Shepard.”
Ann was the other single prospective parent involved in the OWOC show, the one in charge of food for the café and bake sale. Of all the show committees that was the one Maggie worried least about. She knew Ann had been baking muffins and cookies for months.
“I’m going slightly crazy and wondered if you’d like to have dinner tonight? I need to get away from my house and my office, and I thought of you. After all, we’re both prospective single parents.”
“You picked a good night to call. I’d love to get out of my house.”
“Nothing formal,” said Ann. “What about Thompson’s, down on Bridge Street?”
Thompson’s was a family place where you could order a glass of wine but you could also have a cheeseburger and fries.
“Thompson’s sounds fine,” agreed Maggie. She would like to know Ann better, too. She should get to know other people interested in single-parent adoption. It could be the beginning of a support system for them, and then, for their children, after they all had families. If I adopt, added Maggie to herself. “About half an hour?”
“See you there.”
Ann was already sitting in a booth when Maggie walked in. “You got here quickly! I thought I’d be early.” Maggie slid onto the other red plastic seat.
“I cheated a bit,” Ann said. “I was calling from my office at the bank. I went in to clean up a pile of papers and just couldn’t face going home to an empty house.”
Maggie nodded. “I have times like that, too.” Usually she went home anyway. I’ve been acting like an old married woman, she thought. Why not be like Ann and call a single woman friend to have dinner? It was better than having frozen pizza and watching the news alone with a cat. “But you won’t have too many more quiet evenings, will you? I heard a rumor your home study was finished.”
“Yes. I’m approved.” Ann did not seem enthusiastic. She turned to the waitress who had materialized next to their table. “Dewar’s on the rocks, please.”
“A glass of the house chardonnay,” said Maggie.
“I’m having second thoughts. Maybe thirty-second thoughts,” continued Ann.
“Adoption’s a big step. I’m so uncertain I haven’t even applied to have my home study done yet.”
“I really do want a child. And I’m definitely tired of trying to get pregnant.”
Maggie tried not to react. She hadn’t realized Ann had been trying to conceive.
“I’ve been inseminated four times. It hasn’t taken. I don’t want to waste all my savings on sperm and then have nothing left to cover adoption costs.”
Maggie didn’t feel comfortable hearing the details. She knew one couple who were going through fertility treatments while they were trying to adopt. She also knew agencies frowned on the practice. They wanted to work with people who had put any fertility problems in the past and were ready to adopt with a whole heart. An adopted child shouldn’t be expected to replace a child someone had dreamed of giving birth to. That wouldn’t be fair to the child.
Of course, there was always the classic stereotype of the adoptive mother who, like Josie Thomas, adopted and then got pregnant. But applying to adopt was definitely not a way to increase your chances of conceiving. “I didn’t know you wanted a baby. I thought you wanted to adopt a toddler.”
“If I can’t get pregnant,” Ann agreed. “My first choice would be to adopt an infant, but that’s hard to do if you’re not married. And now the agency is hassling me about wanting to adopt a child as young as a toddler.”
“But they must be ready to work with you. Your home study’s been approved.”
“To get it approved I had to agree I’d adopt a child up to the age of six. And I couldn’t specify a white child. Or a girl.” Ann took a good drink of her Scotch. “I’m not sure I’m ready to adopt a child of another race. And I really want a little girl. A little blonde girl with pigtails and big blue eyes.”
“That’s pretty specific.”
“Oh, I know enough not to tell that to my social worker! I might be able to cope with adopting a boy; and at first I thought I might be able to adopt a child of another race. I know lots of people do, and some of the kids are really cute. But the more I think about the future, and about what it would mean to bring up a child of another race or color, the more I’m not sure it’s something I’m ready for.”
“OWOC only makes placements across racial lines when a family is sure,” said Maggie. But they expect you to be honest about your feelings, she added to herself.
“I told them I didn’t think my parents would accept a grandchild who wasn’t white. But they said there were very few Caucasian children available for adoption, except older children who’d have emotional problems of some sort, or children who were physically disabled. And that when young, healthy white children were available, couples were preferred over single parents. Carole told me, gently but firmly, that I’d have a much better chance of getting a placement if I’d accept a child from Latin America or Asia.”
Maggie nodded. “They can place infants and toddlers from China with single women.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s fair. I don’t think I should be emotionally coerced into adopting a child from abroad because it’s my only option. Adoption applications from single parents should be treated the same as applications from couples. I could give a child as good—or better!—a home than a couple. I wouldn’t have to divide my attention between my husband and my child. I could devote myself totally to my child.” Ann took another drink. “It isn’t fair that the Hansons would get a healthy baby before I would, even though they already had a son.”
The Hansons? The couple who’d died when their home had burned down last winter. Their son, Hal, escaped because his bedroom was on the first floor. She hadn’t remembered until now, but, yes, she’d heard they’d been applying to adopt another child. She focused back on Ann. “A single parent can absolutely be the right parent for a child,” Maggie agreed. “But if there’s a qualified couple waiting, too, it’s not as simple. I think if I were the agency, I’d place the child with a couple. After all, two great parents would be better than one.”
“But they’re discriminating against us, just because we’re not married!” said Ann.
Maggie hesitated. “I don’t think it’s discrimination. I think the agency really wants to find the best family for each child. If there were a three-parent family, I suspect they would be considered the best.”
Ann gave her a dark look. “What’s so good about having more than one parent? Lots of couples get divorced. Mine did. At least a single parent will always be there.”
Unless there’s a death, Maggie thought. A child with only one parent could be orphaned again more easily than a child with two parents. That’s why single prospective parents had to name someone else to back them up in case of illness or death. That requirement was an issue for Maggie. Her parents were dead, and she hadn’t been in touch with her older brother in years. She had no obvious family or extended family backup. She sipped her wine. Ann was still talking.
“Even supposedly perfect parents, like Holly and Rob Sloane, aren’t perfect couples.”
“They’re pretty impressive. Adopting eleven hard-to-place kids, in addition to the three biological ones they started with.” Maggie was much less comfortable now than when she’d walked into the restaurant.
“But I’ve heard their marriage is rocky. That they spend so much time with their kids they have no time for each other. And if they’re such great parents, then why did one of their kids shoot Holly?” Ann sputtered.
“We don’t know that’s what happened,” Maggie said quietly.
“But it seems obvious. Otherwise Jackson would be at home, or at least in touch with the rest of his family. At last year’s agency Christmas party I overheard one of Holly’s kids say her mom spent more time tal
king about adoption with other parents than she spent with her own children. I don’t want my daughter ever to say that about me.”
“No,” Maggie agreed. “But children always complain about their parents. Most of Holly’s and Rob’s children seem to be doing well. And they all started with the odds against them. Let’s just hope Holly heals quickly and can get home.” Maggie picked up her menu. “Have you decided what you want?”
Ann chose poached chicken breast in white wine sauce with rice; Maggie ordered a rare hamburger with sautéed mushrooms and onions. They were both quiet for a few minutes before Ann began again.
“Have you thought about what adoption will mean to your social life? About what kind of a man would be interested in dating a woman who adopted a child of a different race?” Ann said. “I’d like to get married someday and I think I’d have more of a chance of finding the right guy if my child were white.”
Maggie swallowed deeply. “I’d like to think any man who loved me would love my children, whatever they looked like. After all, some men like children, and some don’t. So, yes, some men will be turned off by our adopting. But they won’t be the men we’re looking for.” Will didn’t want children. Of any color. Other than that, he might be the man Maggie had been waiting for. She took a breath. This conversation was moving uncomfortably close to some of her own private concerns. “We can’t plan our lives around what some man someday might expect of us.”
