Scott Sherman - Third You Die

“So,” my mother summarized, “you’re saying I need to make a contribution to the agency. Like to a charity. Why didn’t you say that in the first place? That I understand. I have no problem with that at all. But, why don’t I just make it directly so that it’s tax-deductible?”

My mother smiled serenely and reached into her purse, extracting a checkbook. “Now, should I just make it out to the New York State Adoption Services, or does it go by another name?”

Ms. Peterson’s right eye began to twitch as the left side of her lip slid downward. I wondered if she was about to have a stroke. She once again assumed the scarlet coloring of a freshly steamed lobster.

“No, you… you.” I could see how much she wanted to insult my mother, but the sight of that checkbook, and my mother’s willingness to write a $250,000 check with not a moment’s hesitation, made her hold her tongue. She had to be thinking that if she could string her along a little longer, she could probably make a fortune off this silly, careless spender.

Ms. Peterson drew in a deep breath. “The money doesn’t exactly go to the agency, Ms…” She didn’t bother looking up the name again and just let her voice trail off. “The money goes directly to the official whose signature we need.”

“Well, what’s his name, then?” my mother asked cheerily, pen in hand.

“We don’t give him a check, dear. There can be no trail. It’s all

… off the record.”

“Like a…”

“Yes!” Ms. Peterson said.

“What’s that word?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Murray.” My mother turned to me. “What is she trying to say, dear?”

“Klurm?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“The word doesn’t matter, dear.” Ms. Peterson’s left eye began to twitch in counterpoint with her right, as if they were taking turns winking. “Let’s just focus on the results, shall we?”

“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” my mother said, pretending to be oblivious. “It’s a… oh, dear, this is going to keep me up all night.” My mother bit her lip as if deep in thought. “I give you the two hundred and fifty thousand, and you give it to the person whose signature you need as a… bait? Bail? No, that’s not it. It’s a-”

“It’s a bribe!” Ms. Peterson shouted. I ducked, thinking there was a real possibility her head might explode right then and there. “We pay him to stamp your application as approved and get you your goddamn baby. How else do you think a woman like you would be able to adopt? You, or… mumble-mouth over there.” Rather rudely, she jabbed her finger toward me.

I nodded back, but in a friendly acknowledgment. My obliviousness seemed to upset her even more.

“And in exchange for a quarter million in cold, hard cash,” she continued to rant, her voice getting louder and higher-pitched with each clipped word, “he looks the other way and ignores everything about you that makes you an unsuitable parent. Although, in your case, we might have to double his payment, as he’d not only have to close his eyes but hold his nose and plug his ears, too.” Her entire body shuddered with release, like she was having a particularly strong orgasm.

She was obviously the kind of woman who kept her feelings bottled up. It probably was quite gratifying for her to let loose like this. Maybe this experience would do her some good.

“Well,” my mother said, standing up again. “I think we’re done here. Kevin, let’s get out of here.”

“Kevin?” Ms. Peterson asked. “Who’s Kevin?”

“As for you,” my mother said to the director, “any person who would place a child with a woman as obviously unsuitable as I am, is a real piece of, pardon the expression, shit. You already have the blood of at least one little boy on your hands. Tell me, Ms. Fancypants, with your pretty little office and your pretty little pictures on the walls, how does someone like you live with yourself?”

“I–I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ms. Peterson stuttered, rising to stand. She crossed her arms over her flat chest, straightening up to her full height. She remembered who she was-an accomplished businesswoman of good breeding. Whereas the woman challenging her had the class and style of a low-rent streetwalker. “And who are you to talk to me like that?”

“I’m certainly not Zorah Heffelbergen, you tight-assed, stuck-up baby-seller. Had you done even the slightest bit of due diligence before jumping at the chance to earn a few sheckles by placing an innocent baby into my arms, you’d have discovered Zorah Heffelbergen doesn’t even exist. I’m the woman who’s going to expose you to the world as the disgusting pimp you are.”

Ms. Peterson lost a bit of her rediscovered confidence and took a step backward. My mother moved in for the kill.

“I’m the ghost of Adam Merr. And I’m going to haunt your ass until you’re out of business.”

“Adam Merr,” Ms. Peterson said, her voice shaking, “isn’t dead. Yes, what happened to him was… unfortunate. But it wasn’t my fault. I’m sure he’ll be fine. These things happen. I’ve devoted my life to helping children find their way to the best possible parents they could have: the select few who can afford our services. The children we place will be raised by families of wealth and privilege. They’ll have every advantage in life.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” my mother said, “you’re as stupid as you are greedy. That you actually believe a child needs money more than he needs love. Or proper guidance. Or a safe home. Maybe you really are so shallow that it doesn’t trouble you that even a cursory background check would have revealed the father you placed Adam with had two prior arrests for child endangerment.

“Not to mention that had you done even one of the quarterly post-placement home visits your rate list requires, at fifteen hundred dollars a piece, mind you, you might have noticed that the boy was living in a cage. ”

“Those visits”-Ms. Peterson collapsed into her chair-“can be done by phone.”

Thus giving new definition to the term “home visit.”

“Yeah,” my mother said, “bet you still charge the whole fifteen hundred, though, don’t you? Because that would be the most important thing.”

Ms. Peterson’s eyes glazed over like those of a dying woman watching her life flash before her.

“No,” my mother said, “Adam Merr isn’t dead. But parts of him were killed. His childhood. His innocence. Maybe any chance he’ll ever have to love and be loved, to trust another person, to enjoy a normal life.

“And, you know what, Amy? When I bring what you just admitted to me about bribing state officials to the district attorney’s office, and they start looking into your little operation here, I have a feeling that Adam isn’t the only child they’ll find you’ve put into an house of horrors to suffer a life of abuse and neglect. I think there’s a reason people like the Merrs are willing to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to get a child with ‘no questions asked.’

“When the answers come, I pray to God they’re not as bad as I fear they might be.

“Enjoy this pretty office while you can, Amy. Enjoy your pretty home and your pretty clothing and your pretty little bank account, too.

“Because they all came at a price that I’m not sure a woman like you will ever understand. A price paid by innocent babies. A debt you can never repay.”

Ms. Peterson burst into sobs.

My mother turned her back and walked away.

At the door, she turned for one last jab. “If I thought even one of those tears was for the children,” she said, “I might be feeling a little sorry for you right now. As it is, I’m going to enjoy taking you down.”