George Pelecanos: The Cut

On the subject of adoption, Van suspected he was in the camp of many other men who were not quite sure. Will I truly love a child who did not come from me? Would I be as good a father to an adopted child? Do I want a kid who doesn’t at least look a little like me? He kept these questions to himself for the most part. But they were there.

The one objection a man could legitimately raise was the cost, but Van couldn’t belch about money with a straight face or a clear conscience. He had the dough. A high school friend, Ted Leibovitz, an ambitious renovation man turned builder, had invited Van into his venture when both were right out of college, and they had bought properties in the U Street corridor at fire-sale prices while the Metro was being built, the street was torn up, building windows were boarded, and businesses were failing. The sale of these properties at profit a few years later had funded bigger projects, commercial and residential, in soon-to-be-hot Shaw, Logan, and Columbia Heights. Ted had an eye for seeing the possibilities in run-down areas, while Van’s talent was in sensing when to sell at the top. Van, despite no visible signs of type A drive, was making a small fortune as a relatively young man. He was liquid and he had real estate. He couldn’t cry poor to Eleni.

“What are you going to do with all of our money?” she said. “Buy things? You’re not about that.”

She was right. He was not a clotheshorse or into labels. His work truck, a two-toned Chevy Silverado, was his only vehicle.

Eleni was similarly uninterested in material things. She had inherited a deep reserve of compassion from her parents, who had preached and practiced Christian charity throughout her childhood. Hell, Van had met her at one of those Christmas Day dinner-soup kitchen things, to which he had been dragged by a community activist he had been courting for zoning favors. The moment he saw Eleni, her hair under a scarf, an apron not even close to concealing her figure, he fell in love with her. Looks aside, it was the fact that she was there in that church basement on a cold Christmas morning, trying to reach out to people who had next to nothing, when she could have been sitting comfortably by a fire, sipping tea and opening gifts. Her obvious kindness was what closed the deal for him.

“You could do some good,” she said. “Think about the difference you’d make in some kid’s life.”

“While he’s stealing my silverware.”

“Van, come on.”

He threw up his meaty hands in a gesture she recognized as near-surrender. “I don’t know.”

They were seated at the kitchen table of their bungalow. Irene was in her high chair, aiming Cheerios in the general direction of her mouth. Eleni reached across the table and took one of his hands. He felt the current pass through him.

“You know what your name means?” said Eleni.

“Evangelos? It means ‘big stud.’ ”

“No, but nice try.”

“So tell me.”

“It means ‘evangelist.’ Someone who spreads the gospel. Or, if you want to take it a little further, someone who does good.”

“So you’re sayin what? ”

“Somewhere in your past your ancestors probably adopted kids, too, I bet.”

“When men were men and sheep were nervous.”

“Huh?”

“You’re talking about ancient times. When guys wore metal skirts. The meaning of my name is supposed to make me go out and adopt a kid?”

“Honey, let’s do this,” said Eleni. “We have the money and the opportunity. To, you know, have a reason for being here. Don’t you ever think about why we’re here?”

“Not really,” said Van. “I’m not that deep.”

She came around the table and sat on his lap and kissed him on the lips. His sudden erection was like a crowbar underneath her bottom.

“You’re right,” she said. “You’re not that deep.”

“I’m not doing any of the legwork,” he said. “I got a business to run.”

“I’ll take care of the details.”

“I want a son,” he said, rather petulantly.

Eleni said, “Me, too.”

Through the recommendation of friends in their neighborhood, Eleni made an appointment with an attorney, Bill O’Toole, who specialized in adoptions. Van and Eleni met O’Toole and his assistant, a junior attorney named Donna Monroe, at O’Toole’s downscale office in Silver Spring. O’Toole seemed both distracted and intent on securing them as clients, while Monroe appeared to be more interested in exploring their motivations and needs. Eleni sensed that the lively eyed Monroe was the conscience of the outfit.

After O’Toole had explained the financial aspects of the adoption, in which he pushed for a flat fee rather than itemized billing, they got into the logistics of paperwork, home visits, and matters of timing.

“I’ve heard this process can take years,” said Eleni.

“If you want a baby that looks like you,” said Monroe.

“You mean a white baby,” said Van.

“There is typically a long waiting period for white adoptees,” said O’Toole. “Russia, Eastern Europe. In general you’re talking about children from orphanages who are three, four years old.”

Van didn’t need to be bait-and-switched by O’Toole. He had heard some stories about those kids. He didn’t have the fortitude or the altruism of the people who were willing to take on those kinds of problems. He wanted a family, not a project. He felt that you could mold a baby easier than you could a child who had been socialized, or unsocialized, in his or her formative years.

“No,” said Van. “I’m not interested in that scenario. I wouldn’t want a, you know, handicapped kid, either.”

Van shrugged off Eleni’s reproachful look and shifted his weight in his chair. There was a brief silence as the lawyers digested his remark.

“Would you adopt an African American infant?” said Monroe, looking into Van’s eyes.

Van hesitated. He felt that he was now a customer in the Baby Store, a situation he’d hoped to avoid. And what did you say to the black woman sitting across the table from you? “I’d rather not adopt a black child”?

“You mean, what color baby do I want?” he said. “Is that what you’re asking?”

“This will be easier if we speak freely,” said Monroe.

“We want whoever needs to be adopted,” said Eleni.

Van looked at Eleni. In that moment he knew he would love her forever.

“Right,” said Van.

“Then let’s get started,” said Monroe.

“I’ll have my assistant run the contracts,” said O’Toole, standing excitedly, displaying his tall, birdlike frame. “You do want the flat fee, don’t you?”

Van nodded absently.

That is how it began.

They’d been warned that the adoption process was complicated, but for them it was not. The home visits were perfunctory and quick, and they soon “identified” a baby boy after looking at an array of photographs spread like playing cards on a table. Van said to Eleni, “This is kinda weird. When you choose one, you’re rejecting the others, in a way. You know what I mean? What happens to them? ” Eleni agreed that it was mildly troubling but was steadfast in her belief that they should concentrate on the positive impact they would have on one person’s life rather than bemoaning the fact that they couldn’t help them all. As she was telling him this, her eyes were on the table, and she touched her index finger to the photograph of a black baby who, consciously or not, was staring into the camera, right at them, it seemed, with a startled expression.

“Him,” said Eleni.

Van said, “Okay.”

Van suggested they name the baby Dimitrius, in keeping with his intention of giving their children traditional Greek names. Van was third generation and about as Greek as a Turkish bath, but Eleni did not resist, much.