From the Heart

by Eva Shaw

  She flexed her fingers. The room got quiet again as she spoke. “I’m Eddie.” She once more cracked each knuckle, each one bursting in a slow, hypnotic rhythm which made the tattoo of the America flag gracing her forearm tremble as if it were touched by a breeze. “We can get twenty kids, but don’t be surprised if more come.”

  Another shouted, “We’ll have this place jumping for Jesus, bringing all to the Lord. Maybe some men and women, too.” And the child/mama simply hugged my neck.

  I was walking to the SUV on air, making lists, calculating cookies for snack time, when I caught a fleeting glimpse of perfectly coiffed hair. What in Vegas was Monica Wainwright-Dobson going to do at the shelter? Rude of me to think that, but some stuff is just wacky, right? I couldn’t see how the pedigree dog-raising socialite could even find her way to this neighborhood. As nice as Monica seemed to be, her world was at the other end of the solar system from the homeless.

  I blotted my face with the ruffle on my blouse. “Gotta be the heat,” I muttered and cranked up the A/C and headed to the U.S. headquarters of PSA.

  The office had a chandelier, sofas that would fit in a Victorian palace, and what looked like museum-quality masterpieces on the walls, in gold frames. A receptionist sporting a sleek black bob haircut and skinny black clothing that I was certain had Anne Klein along with a size 0 on the labels, whispered for me to fill out a questionnaire about my profession, race, religion, health, and economic level. There were five couples in the cushy waiting room, and we were all on the edge of our seats. The difference between them and me? I wanted information, and I’d stumbled in at just the right time since Delta was hosting an “Everything You Need to Know to Adopt a Child” meeting.

  We were surrounded with live orchids (no silk ones for the PSA), paintings of children playing (no prints for PSA), and upbeat music (classical for the PSA), as the couples and I finished the forms and returned the clipboards to the receptionist.

  Upper crust, white, and well fed would have been how I would have described them if they’d just robbed a bank and I needed to give descriptions. One twosome giggled like high school sweethearts, although they were dressed like Wall Street. Another twosome in Dockers and matching crisp, blue Lands’ End shirts whispered. The third couple both smiled at me in the same instant and nudged each other. Then I heard the whisper, “She’s probably one of those who doesn’t want a husband,” to which the husband pulled Golf magazine up in front of his eyes as his wife, the whisperer, played with the heavy gold cross around her neck. The wife of Couple #5, right next to me, held a Bible and quietly read from the Gospel of Matthew to her husband as he balanced a white cane against his knee. Mrs. Couple #5 finished a passage and turned to me shyly and said, “We’re all a bit nervous, aren’t we?”

  “That’s for certain. Is this your first time at PSA?” I asked.

  In a butter-on-a-hot-scone British accent, Mr. #5 purred, “We heard about the organization from people with whom I work. We have prayed for a child. One must be careful to listen to the Lord in these matters, don’t you agree, madam?”

  Mrs. #5 purred again, “It matters little if he or she is big or a baby. We want to give a foreign child a godly home.” She could have been an announcer on BBC radio, that type of accent. But her touch made his face glow, almost as if he could see her, and my heart skipped.

  What did it feel like to have that kind of love? I popped the last blue M&M in my mouth from the package I kept in my purse for medicinal purposes and smiled back. I believe on the eighth day, God created chocolate, so I savored the last morsels, calming my nerves, and tried to move on from the idea that men and women were made to be couples.

  I focused on my happy place of chocolate’s lingering memory until the receptionist cleared her throat. Then my senses jingled like the bracelets on Delta Cheney’s arm as she parted double walnut doors with a sweep, smiled at the crowd, and winked at me.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” the bespangled one belted as I slipped the empty M&M bag in my purse. “Isn’t it marvelous how God makes special times for us to meet and bond? Now that you all know each other well, you can support one another through this miraculous journey—the adoption of a precious baby so desperately in need of love and a home in your hearts.” Then she focused on me and winked. Again. With the other eye. “Jane. I’ve been thinking of you.”

  I nodded and followed the group into a room with overstuffed chairs circling a round table. She wasn’t my type, i.e., she was a woman; however, I wasn’t here to discuss gender roles or same-sex dating. I was at PSA for answers on black-market babies and child endangerment.

  In front of each place was a folder. They were embossed PSA’s logo of a baby encircled with the image of a man and a woman and all done in gold.

  Delta was babbling on bonding, lit up with excitement like the candles on my next birthday cake. But since I was deficient in both those categories at that second—cake and excitement—I only thought of Mikel, Petra, and Tom.

  For the next two hours, with only one potty break, we heard about the slums and the scum that preyed on the parentless children in Eastern European countries. We saw the plights of the Polish babies. And then we saw, joy in the morning, praise it all, amen to that, when PSA took charge of the formerly half-naked and underfed waifs with runny noses and unkempt hair as they were safely snapped up to safety. Suddenly Delta’s voice, which was as dour as the conditions that would face these orphans, rose two octaves, and up came films of the Child’s Play Baby Home in Poland. Chunky tykes and babies, fat cheeks, blond hair. Little sailor-style uniforms. Hopscotch and games. Children in circles sang “God Bless America.” Oh, there was more. Like propaganda, there were upper-crust Americans cradling babies as women dressed in old-fashioned nursing uniforms, straight from a movie set during World War I, placed infants in their arms. The people in the video spoke and moved like actors. Everyone spoke at the perfect time, unlike real conversations where everyone tries to butt in while someone else is yammering. Plus? Yeah, there wasn’t a squalling baby in the bunch. Had to be actors. Babies were never that squawkless, always smiling, nor pristine.

  I noticed that with the exception of Couple #5, the group sighed, ohhed, laughed, and clapped at the right times. Mrs. Couple #5 and her hubby, for whom she’d given a whispering play-by-play of the video, raised her hand. “Ms. Cheney, the babies are fine-looking, but Drexel and I want a special needs child. We understand PSA can accommodate this request.”

  Just looking at Delta’s face, I swear she wanted to scream, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

  I wouldn’t have moved from my chair for all the chocolate in Hershey, PA.

  I saw her smile. If the program was legit, that wouldn’t have been such a strange question, would it?

  “What a dear and precious pair you are. All our babies and little ones have special needs.” She straightened the papers in front of her. “Let’s take a few minutes’ break right now.”

  “Wait,” said Mr. #5, with force that was strong for a man who hadn’t seen Delta ready to flee. “Tell us about the guarantee. Where do the children go who cannot be placed?”

  Delta’s face went from cherry blossom pink to pasty orange and then she gulped, “So glad you have brought this up. Shortly we’ll go over our unique program that guarantees that you’ll have the right children in your loving arms. Should you find, after you pray and consider the child, you’d prefer another, or if adoption doesn’t fit your lifestyle, we have created a provision that solves that. Without guilt.”

  Four couples smiled and sighed. Not Couple #5. Delta’s ramble turned to a high-speed, well-practiced speech. “At this time in our lives, why settle for a child you must work to love when you can pick the best one, with God’s approval of course, for you? This is such an exciting opportunity to complete your family, just like you’ve always dreamed.”

  She clicked the remote, and on t
he screen we saw a toddler in the arms of yet another a blond couple, dressed straight from Bloomingdale’s, with the baby in pink ruffles. The three were standing in front of a McMansion, a limo complete with driver in the background. “Here’s a happy family. James, Bernadette, and baby Elizabeth Ann. This can be your family in just four weeks. Or less.”

  The more Delta looked at Couple #5, and their challenging faces and pointed questions, the quicker she sped through the PowerPoint presentation seeming to have forgotten it was break time but suddenly she stopped as the door opened. Then it really was break time, and even with the fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies on the credenza and the steaming coffee in a porcelain pot that the receptionist had brought in, I wasn’t budging until I talked to Couple #5. Bonding was in order.

  “You want a child with disabilities?”

  Mr. #5 replied, “May I be honest?”

  “Weren’t you before? Sure, shoot. See, I’m a novice at this, and it’s overwhelming.”

  He smiled, keeping his voice lower until I leaned in to hear. “Contrary to what the videos show and what the organization says, most PSA children are handicapped and placed with unsuspecting couples. Did you know? Ms. Cheney is avoiding my questions. We’ll have to make a private appointment.”

  What did they know? Were they in cahoots with Petra? I said, “Special children have been on my heart, too,” just as Delta returned with a stack of forms for us to take home and fill out. In minutes we were dismissed and the rest filed out. Three of us didn’t budge.

  I spoke first, “Delta, what about disabled babies and children? How does PSA place those?”

  “I thought we’d covered this.” She shoved two dozen silver bracelets up her arm and check the time on her watch again.

  The wife of Couple #5 looked at me as her husband’s brow wrinkled. She said, “Some friends of ours adopted through PSA. When the child arrived, she had club feet. They’re good Christians and knew they had the right child. Now, after surgeries, she’s running and playing. My husband and I have fallen in love with the child.”

  “Highly unusual for a child of ours. I’ll check into this.” She fussed with papers, restacking and making sure the corners matched. “We do not accept any children with disabilities into our program at the Child’s Play Baby Home. Perhaps it was the other PSA, the Polish Social Association, who you’re talking about.”

  Delta’s eyes squinted. She looked like a caged animal as I asked, “Special needs children aren’t available, Delta?” I tried to sound curious and perky.

  “Oh, how like you, Pastor Jane. Would you, and you—” She indicated Couple #5 with a sweep of a bangled arm. “—like me to make some inquiries? Of course. What a generous group of Christians you are. Highly unusual, you realize, but perhaps we can find some babies who need extra loving care.”

  “Actually,” Mr. #5 whom the wife referred to as Drexel, said, tapping the edge of the table with his white cane as he stood. “We’ve known two couples here in this area and a few more in California who have adopted through PSA, and they’ve all been blessed with special needs children.” He looked toward where Delta had been, but she’d moved to stand by the big doors, hoping, it seemed, that we’d vamoose. “Can’t you help us, since there seem to be so many?”

  Delta’s uncomfortable giggle was surprisingly deep. “What a misunderstanding. I hope you’ll be able to give me the names of these people. Didn’t they just adore their little ones?”

  “Yes, they did,” said Greta. Nodding to her husband, she said, “Drexel and I want our family to include children who are disabled.”

  Delta began waving her hands, indicating we should vacate pronto, but Couple #5 didn’t budge.

  “We’ll stay and fill out the forms now,” said Drexel. “Greta and I want to start the process today. We’ve heard that all we need to get the adoption going is to finish these forms and give you cash.” He nodded at Greta and, from her canvas bag, she pulled out wads of bills, the size of a toaster oven.

  “There must be a misunderstanding, sir.” Delta dashed to the front door, swinging it open. “If you’re looking for children with handicaps, go to the county adoption service. All of our children are perfect, darling bundles of joy. I wish our regular counselors or even one of our special ones, a man of God, our dear Pastor Bob Normal, were here for you. You see, I don’t normally do the orientations, but with all the colds going around . . . ” Her excuses faded faster than my resolves to stay on a diet.

  Pastor Bob was on the PSA payroll. Oh, Lordy, the plot was thick. I got up. “I’ll fill out the forms, Delta, and have them back to you tomorrow,” I said, shaking her clammy hand.

  “Yes, we will be in touch. You can be sure of that,” said Greta. She slipped a hand in the crook of her husband’s arm, guiding him carefully through the maze of cars that was the parking lot.

  I’d been given the bum’s rush too, even without a final wink from Delta, but I was glad it had happened, because my bladder was getting all my attention. However, I stopped so quickly at the sight in the parking lot, bathroom and bladder were forgotten.

  Out in the parking lot, I spied a miracle of Biblical proportions. My eyes bugged like a goldfish as Drexel walked quickly to a Honda, folded up the white cane, and slid behind the wheel of the car. Greta crawled in on the passenger side.

  “He was blind and now he can see,” I shouted, waving my hands like a Pentecostal who’d just received a directive from on high and hallelujah.

  A smart woman would have taken down the license number and made some quiet inquiries. A smarter woman would have called a certain teddy bear police officer and asked him to check on the couple. And the smartest woman of all would have minded her own darned business and left the mystery to professionals. If they recast Dumb and Dumber X count me in for an audition. I did the only really normal-for-me thing and sprinted across the parking lot.

  If you’re squeamish, then now’s the time to look away or skip the next part. Why? It probably wasn’t pretty when I heaved my less-than-petite body straight on top of the hood of their car. Yes, and trust me, they stopped the car. I hadn’t worked out what might happen if they didn’t.

  Greta and Drexel’s car lunged as the formerly blind man hit the brakes. The jolt tossed yours truly backwards where I ended buttski down, facing the ever-present sizzling sun of Vegas. And baby, what a ride. I certainly got this couple’s attention, yes, sir.

  My guardian angel, I’m certain, is swapping stories around the angelic water cooler with the others definitely thanking their stars Jane Angieski wasn’t under their angelic care.

  How I ended up without a concussion can only be attributed to the above-mentioned GA because after the flip, I flopped on a parking strip that had grass the softness of down. I shook my head, and nothing rattled. While my cold pills had stopped my nose from running while I was inside the PSA office, the crash switched it like a faucet at full blast.

  Among plenty of screaming, including my own, Drexel hopped from the car and Greta leaped to my rescue. Greta screamed and screamed at me and at him. Then she shouted to Drexel, “What is the number for 911?”

  • • •

  Greta grabbed the car door, nearly swooned, and dropped her cell before her finger could find any numbers. I wasn’t road kill, I quickly realized, so I checked for blood, of which I found none, and questioned my sanity. Okay, I didn’t do the third thing, nor did I move my backside from the grass. What I did was say, “Listen, you two, see here, since you actually can see, Drexel, tell me what you really know about PSA and their handicapped kids. What’s the skinny?”

  He was in my face and spittle flung as he yelled, “Why in the hell did you throw yourself on my car, madam?” Even yelling, Drexel’s voice sounded like a news announcer.

  “You tell me first and then I’ll explain.” Okay, it was a bluff because I had just been nearly killed by
a moving car driven, I might add, by a man who had been blind.

  “You are a lunatic. You could have been killed. And it is none of your business why we’re at PSA. We will do whatever is necessary to get answers.” Drexel ground out the words.

  “So you’d murder Delta Cheney to stop this?” Now where did that come from, I wondered? “If you’d do anything, why not just drive over me?” A girl doesn’t get to ask that kind of question often, especially when this same girl was the one to accost the car.

  “Yes, I would.” He kicked the curb. “No. I don’t know.”

  Greta, seemingly fully recovered, yanked at the sleeve of his shirt. “Tell her, Drexel. Tell the woman why we’re here in Las Vegas.”

  I looked at Drexel. He squinted, giving me the feeling that he trusted me about as far as he could throw me with his moving vehicle. So I jumped in where words failed him. “You’re here to stop the PSA from their black-market baby agreements, their return policies, or their sex-slave pregnancy homes?”

  “See, Drexel, she knows.” Greta was crying, pulling her jacket around her chest, tighter and tighter. “Everyone knows. We are the fools. How can we find out any more?”

  “Oh, my dear Greta,” he said. He plunked on the grass next to me and sat there, as if he were too tired to move. Finally he said, “We need to find out what happened to my nephew. What is your name?”

  “I know we introduced ourselves, but you were blind then so maybe you didn’t hear? It’s Jane, Jane Angieski.”

  He grabbed me and suddenly all the extra air that I’d managed to recapture after my tumbling act was squished out of my lungs. “Another Pole? You are an answer from heaven.”

  Drexel kissed me on both cheeks as Greta, on her knees, brushed grass from my hair, grabbed my body, and rocked me like a baby. Me? In a rather icky way, it was nice. Then reality set in. “Wait a minute, you two.” I pushed them aside and got to my feet, feeling that my ankles, knees and thighs were still where they previously had been. “You aren’t Feds?”