Bill Pronzini: Crazybone

“Adoption. A-d-o-p-t-i-o-n.”

I said, “What?”

Kerry said, “We couldn’t do that.”

“Of course you could. You’ve talked about it, surely?”

“No, we haven’t.”

“Well, you’ve each thought about it, and don’t try telling me different. It’s what the child wants, you know that.”

“Did Emily tell you it’s what she wants?”

“She didn’t have to put it into words. It’s in her eyes and the way she talks about the two of you. She needs a mother and a father. A grandmother, too, for that matter.” Cybil fixed Kerry with a steely eye. “I’ve been denied that privilege so far and I’d like to be one for a little while before I croak.”

“Mom, for heaven’s sake...”

“Hah. You haven’t called me Mom in years. I like hearing it. I’d like hearing Grandma even better.”

I said, “You might as well forget it, Cybil. It’s not going to happen.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“For a lot of reasons. I’m nearly sixty and that’s too old—”

“Nonsense.”

“—to be an adoptive father, even if the courts would allow it. I’m too set in my ways, that’s another thing. So is your daughter.”

“Nonsense, I say.”

“Plus, I have a sometimes dangerous profession, and Kerry and I both work odd hours and there are nights when neither of us gets home until late, if we get home at all.”

“Not an issue. There are private schools, nannies, sitters. And me, in a pinch.”

“We can’t afford private schools or people to come in—”

“Horse apples. Don’t you think I know what the two of you earn in a year, how much you have tucked away?”

“Cybil, listen to me—”

“I will not. You both care about the girl, any fool can see that, and she cares about you. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters.”

“We are not going to become parents. We couldn’t if we wanted to. The child welfare people, the courts—”

“Damn all that,” Cybil said. “If you really want to adopt that little girl, you can find ways and means to do it. And I think deep down you do want to, both of you. You’d better give it some serious consideration. I mean that. Serious consideration.”

All right, so we gave it some serious consideration.

The answer was the same: No.

We talked to Emily about it, tentatively at first, then openly. Kerry’s idea. It was what the kid wanted, all right. No begging, no pleading, just the big soulful eyes and a small hopeful smile.

The answer was still no.

Tamara, naturally, thought it was a splendid idea.

No.

The social worker who came to talk to Emily and to Kerry and me didn’t rule it out.

No.

Cybil kept calling up and lobbying.

No.

Kerry went to see a family lawyer she knew. He thought it could probably be managed, given the unusual circumstances and despite our ages, if all parties were in accord and the judge in the case was the sympathetic type.

No.

Then one evening while I was dozing in my chair. Emily came and sat on the arm and looked at me and then snuggled down and laid her head on my shoulder.

Just say no and keep on saying it.

But dammit, I’m not made of stone...