by John Warley
At the other end of the table sat his father, a man I hardly knew at all, and I’m not certain Coleman knew him much better. He was shy, introverted to the point of enigma. Sarah said that stemmed from lack of social confidence, and I guess she should know. I’ve tried to engage him in conversation dozens of time, and the only time I succeeded was after he had a cocktail or two, as alcohol seemed to help him overcome his reticence. Given tonight’s inevitable discussion, I was tempted to fix him a double in hopes he would embrace his fellow man a little more; maybe even throw his arms around the plan soon to be unveiled. It had to be tonight, as we were leaving in the morning. I will never forget the conversation which followed.
By supper’s end, a scotch and water and a glass of wine had steeled Coleman to his task, so that when I cleared my throat, fidgeted in my chair, and urged him forward with eyes darting over the rim of my wine glass, he leveled his eyes at his mother.
“Mom, Dad, Elizabeth and I have decided to buy a gook.”
I exclaimed, “Coleman!” but found myself smiling nonetheless. Anything to vent the pressure.
Sarah looked first at Coleman, then me, before laughing pleasantly. “You’ve decided to buy a what?” As the last to get any joke, she often bought time with repetition while searching for the punch line.
“A gook. That’s a slang word for an Oriental.”
“But I don’t understand. How can you buy an Oriental?”
“Not buy one, exactly. Adopt one.”
“Adopt an Oriental?” Sarah grew quizzical. “Why would you do that?”
Coleman avoided looking at me, then pushed some untouched peach cobbler around on his dessert plate. “We want a girl. We may never have one the old-fashioned way.”
Sarah Carter stared at her husband as she might have sought the aid of an interpreter in a foreign land. “You’re not being serious. Elizabeth, what is he talking about?”
Coleman took a pull on his wine, then looked directly at me. “Yes, Elizabeth, what am I talking about?”
I deliberately placed my dessert fork down beside my plate. I’m sure my face flushed. “We are talking about adopting an international child; a girl. Your son will fill in the details.”
His father spoke, businesslike. “Coleman, have you lost your mind?”
Coleman shrugged. “It makes more sense than you think, because—”
“I hope so, because at this moment it makes none.”
Sarah, shaking her head as if to clear it, said, “Back up, Coleman. Let me understand. You intend to adopt what child?”
“We don’t know, Mother,” he said. “We are going through an agency called Open Arms. They haven’t identified a child yet. But there is no shortage of them in Korea.”
“Korea! Why, I can’t even imagine it.”
His father spoke next. “They tried to kill me in World War II.”
“Dad, be fair. Those were Japanese. Korea was our ally a few years back.”
Coles Carter sniffed his contempt. “The Oriental mind is all the same. They come from a common genetic cesspool. They are vicious and merciless and heathen.” At that moment, he pushed away from the table, the flair in his cheeks like rouge against his pale, sedentary skin. He turned and walked toward the stairs, which he climbed with an aggression audible through the carpet. Coleman looked toward me, staring down at my plate. He turned to his mother.
“I had a feeling this might upset you.”
She lifted her plate and with her head down broke for the kitchen, from which no sound issued for several minutes. Coleman and I sat there. To avoid staring at me, he made circular impressions on the linen tablecloth with his fork while the clock above the sideboard ticked with what sounded like small explosions in the stillness. At length, we heard Sarah leave the kitchen and mount the stairs.
“Like I told you. A piece of cake,” he said.
“They need some time to get used to the idea.”
“Elizabeth, you’re speaking of people who are still trying to reconcile losing the Civil War. I wouldn’t look for any sudden conversions.”
“I know they’re conservative. They reacted about like you predicted.”
Coleman shook his head. “Not really. I’ve never seen my father like that. Never.”
“He’s got to come around. Adopting a child is not something that tears a family apart.”
He propped his chin on his fist to gaze at me directly. “You know that coffee table book written on Mother’s family? The one that traces her people back to the boat? Have you ever looked through it?” I nodded. “How many Orientals did you see? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They’re southern, and family means something here that it doesn’t mean anywhere else.”
“We’re not going to back out.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that. Just be patient with them. They’re getting older, and changes frighten them. Changes like this terrify them.”
“Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“You’ll be firm.”
“I promise,” he said, although I sensed doubt as he said it.
The next day, Coleman arose early to pack the car. His father retrieved the newspaper from the driveway and read it over coffee. He turned the pages with more crispness than usual. The boys slept in, then wolfed down bowls of cereal before dashing off for a final bike ride. In the kitchen, over breakfast dishes, Sarah asked me to accompany her on a walk.
“We won’t be gone fifteen minutes,” she said, doing her best to sound lighthearted. I was not fooled, but saw no exit.
We left the house and walked down Church Street to the Battery. “I brought this heavy sweater but I certainly won’t need it today,” Sarah said as we sought a bench in the sunlight. I just waited.
“What I’m about to say,” Sarah began, “will sound like I’m injecting myself into your personal business; yours and Coleman’s. We’ve always tried to avoid that. I think we’ve been successful there, don’t you?” I nodded, and I meant it. “It’s hard, I don’t mind telling you. It’s hard when you see your children making mistakes you think they could avoid; making mistakes which your experience tells you they’ll regret. Still, you have to respect their right to make them, hard as it is to keep quiet. You’ll see this clearly as your boys grow up.”
At that moment, her voice softened. Her tone turned reverential. “My parents, especially my father, were so strict with me. Why, I couldn’t even choose my clothes or hairstyle until I got to college. I rebelled, I can tell you. I fought hard against restrictions I felt were totally unreasonable, although looking back, I can see I dug in my heels on the minor issues and did what they wanted on the major ones. But they were determined to ‘bring me up southern,’ as my father termed it. For so long, I had no concept of what that meant. I mean, every girl in Darlington grew up southern as far as I could see. It was only after I was married and moved around during the war that I began to understand a bit. By then I was in my late twenties, about your age, actually.
“The people out west and in New England, where we were stationed while Coles was teaching at OCS, were friendly, most of them, and very nice to us. But those people didn’t have the sense of identity I felt with the South. You could tell it right away. Whenever I met someone I liked, I wanted them to come to Darlington, to meet my parents and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins, to have a big Sunday dinner and cut the fool with everyone around the table. I actually invited some of them; they thought I was crazy, I’m sure, driving fifteen hundred miles to meet someone’s relatives. The point is, those people were my identity. I belonged to them and they belonged to me. Are you getting warm? I can’t believe this is December.”
“It is heating up,” I acknowledged. As much as I wanted this conversation behind me, I knew my mother-in-law would have her say and I had resolved to hear her out. More from obligation than desire, I said, “Why don’t we sit under a tree?”
“I was thinking of just that,” Sarah said. We cross
ed the park, stopping at a bench shaded by a mammoth, gnarled oak, surely old enough to have witnessed the firing on Ft. Sumter. Along the promenade railing, a couple passed a set of binoculars between them while nearby a man with a telephoto lens trained his camera on the island fortress in the harbor. Pigeons flapped about, indifferent to tourists.
“I was talking about identity,” Sarah continued. “This child you are considering. I wonder what identity she’ll feel in a strange land surrounded by people who are so obviously different.”
“But what is her alternative?” I resolved to be patient. “The Koreans don’t adopt girls. I would think it would be worse to be in a country where you look the same but are treated like an alien.”
Sarah cocked her head slightly and stared ahead. “Well, I suppose you have a point. But dear, you can’t save the world. What will she do to your family’s sense of identity? You’ve your children to consider.”
“Of course. We wouldn’t do anything that would hurt the boys.”
“Naturally you wouldn’t, which is my point. You don’t think it will hurt. You probably think it will be an interesting experience for them. But in time you will come to see what I have seen; that family is the most important thing on earth, and bringing a stranger into yours will be a disservice to you and to her. You’ll see.”
“Maybe,” I said, turning away.
“Let’s take a stroll around the square,” Sarah suggested. We walked west, to the Ft. Sumter Hotel, then turned north. “You see these grand old homes?” she asked. “Some of the finest families in the world live here. People think they’re snobbish, and I suppose they are. But their clannishness is an effort to protect what so many people in this country seem to want to tear down or dilute. I admire them for it. Coles grew up here, and he can walk into any house on the South Battery and be the equal of anyone inside. That’s a valuable heritage that Coleman enjoys and your sons will too. But this child will never be a part of that world.”
“Which may be a loss for them.”
Sarah shook her head slowly. “I believe that’s wishful thinking. There is another matter you should consider.”
“What is that?”
“My son, your husband. I know this was your idea. He didn’t need to tell me that.”
“Yes, we guessed you’d make that assumption.”
“If Coleman agrees to this, he’s doing it for you. Deep down, he agrees with me. I know because of the way he was brought up. He can’t divorce his heritage, no matter how hard he wants to please you. Perhaps it is unfair to put him in this position?”
“Coleman is a grown man. He can say no if he chooses. I’m not forcing this on him.”
Sarah just smiled at that, a doubtful smile that said she didn’t believe me for a moment. “Good,” she said, reaching over to pat me on the arm. “You two talk it over. Pray over it. The right decision will emerge.”
We returned toward the house, making small talk for the duration of our walk. I had known it would come, eventually but inevitably, to where we left it. I would be the culprit, manipulating Sarah’s blameless son into a scheme he opposed and exposing Sarah’s grandsons to the Red peril, which in Sarah’s view had begun taking over America on the day the Japanese built their first transistor radio. “They’ve taken all those jobs from those poor people in Detroit. I’d rather die than drive a Honda.” At the root of Sarah’s xenophobia were the Communists, those tireless devils whose agent on earth was the Trilateral Commission. And the list went on: Robert E. Lee and Barry Goldwater were defeated but right, a woman’s place was in the home, “separate but equal” was “a sound policy which should never have been abandoned” and mankind took a giant step toward eternal damnation when the Episcopal Church approved the new Book of Common Prayer.
I perfectly understood my impatience with Sarah. We disagreed on everything from abortion to Vietnam, from cooking vegetables (Sarah cooked broccoli for forty-five minutes, until it was literally beyond recognition) to toilet training. On the other hand, she possessed an elusive quality which drew me to her even as I had not been drawn to my own mother. It went beyond our mutual interest in Coleman, for Sarah loved her son uncritically and without reserve while I had come to a point in my life that I couldn’t say that, although I had said it when we married and thought I meant it. Marriage has taught me how difficult it is to love another person, any person, uncritically, and logic tells me it must be just as hard for anyone to love me that way. I’m convinced Sarah sees Coleman as perfect, rationalizing the imperfections as you might choose not to notice a tiny crack in your favorite mirror. Love for a spouse can’t be that way. You see the flaws, and he sees yours. The trick is to look past them, to the compensating qualities that brought you to him in the first place. I’ve even come to recognize my own flaws, at least some of them. I’m judgmental, for one, with little patience for those who disagree with me, particularly when they can’t back up whatever it is we disagree on. Uncritical love is a rare commodity, reserved for children I suppose. My love for Josh and Steven mirrors Sarah’s love for Coleman, and soon I will bestow that same kind of love on a child that may or may not have been born. Coleman says he isn’t sure he can love an adopted daughter that way. I’m betting he can, and that he will experience that sooner than he thinks. Sarah? Will she love her granddaughter as she loves her grandsons? I wonder.
As we approached the front door, Josh came bounding out of the house. “Mom, Grandma!” he yelled, nearly tripping as he reached us. “You should see Steven! Blood everywhere. His whole head is blood, blood, blood!”
I froze. “Josh, what are you talking about?”
“Steven’s head. He fell down on his bike and he couldn’t see after that because he had blood in his eyes and everywhere.”
My heart raced as I felt my knees and legs weaken. I grabbed Josh by his shoulder. “Where is he?”
“Daddy and granddaddy took him off. In the car.”
“Where were they going?” I demanded.
“Someplace to get the blood out of his eyes. You should have seen him, mom. I got some on my hands.”
I looked down. The sight of the red smears sickened me. “Oh, God. Get in the car, Josh. Sarah, where would they have gone.”
“Well, I’m just not sure,” said Sarah.
“Well, get sure!” I screamed. “Let’s go find them.” I got behind the wheel as Josh and Sarah entered the passenger side. I backed wildly down the driveway, narrowly avoiding a car parked on the street, threw the shift into forward, simultaneously hitting the gas and spinning my tires on the cobblestones. With a death grip on the wheel, I maneuvered through the neighborhood. Sarah held Josh as he explained, yet again, how much blood covered Steven. “Josh, please!” I pleaded.
Sarah, refocused, gave directions to the emergency room as her eyes widened and the speedometer climbed. We jammed on brakes at a traffic light that stayed red for minutes, causing me to first pound the wheel in frustration, then gun the car through the light, still red. I almost collided with a bread truck, avoiding disaster only by a sudden swerve onto a sidewalk. At the hospital, I pulled into the ER lot, parked so as to fill two spaces, and threw open my door. “Wait here,” I called as I slammed the door. Seconds later, I entered the building.
My father-in-law sat in the reception area, his eyes focused on the magazine in his lap.
“What happened?” I demanded.
“Oh, just a little accident,” he said calmly. “Steven fell off his bike.”
“But the blood!”
“He cut his forehead, but a few stitches should do it, according to the doctor. Coleman’s with him.” He nodded toward the double doors.
I found them in a harshly lit cubicle cordoned off by a green curtain. On the table lay Steven, his eyes open and riveted on the white-coated man hovering over him. On the other side of the gurney stood Coleman, who looked up from the intricate work being done on Steven’s forehead.
“Hi, dear,” he said cheerfully. “Looks like we’re goi
ng to get a late start on the trip home.”
Steven started to turn his head toward me but was restrained by the doctor, whose fingers bracketed the child’s forehead as his thumb and forefingers did the work. I knelt beside, holding his hand and whispering words of comfort as the doctor cautioned him against sudden movements.
“You wouldn’t want me to make a mistake and sew your nose shut, would you?” Steven’s eyes widened momentarily until the laughter of the adults, even mine, reassured him.
Ten minutes and four stitches later, the doctor announced he was through, but wanted Steven kept still for a time. I thought it best to drive Sarah and Josh, still waiting in the car, home while Coleman waited for Steven to be released. On my way to the parking lot, I offered a ride to my father-in-law, but he declined.
8
Coleman
While I didn’t look forward to our time in Charleston, knowing the tempest that would ensue when we broke the news, I always enjoyed the trip itself. Holiday traffic in New Hampton receded as we crossed the wide expanse of the James River, cold and foreboding with choppy whitecaps stretching to the Chesapeake Bay. An hour later, as we entered North Carolina, the excitement of the trip gave way to fatigue, and I found myself the only one awake. I count the solitude of a long drive, unmarred by radios or conversation, among life’s simple pleasures.