Part 9 (1/2)

”Central Tech,” he lied.

”What kind of information do you need, exactly?”

”Anything on adoption agencies.”

She gave him an odd look, but he held her gaze. ”Well, the Children's Aid Society usually handles adoptions. I don't know if we have anything, but I'll have a look,” she said. She walked over to another desk, and he turned and walked out.

In the phone booth outside, he asked the operator for the number of the Children's Aid Society and dialled.

”Children's Aid. Good afternoon.”

”Do you have children for adoption?” he asked.

”I beg your pardon? Do we-?” the woman asked.

”Have children for adoption. Do you put children up for adoption?”

The woman said, ”This is the Children's Aid Society. To whom would you like to speak?”

Dean hung up and waited ten minutes. He called again and in a deep, ponderous voice, he said, ”May I please speak to the adoption department please?”

”Young man,” the woman said, ”we have work to do here.”

”My name's Clark. My wife and I want to adopt a child.”

The woman hung up.

At school, he decided to talk to George Gerard, whose habit of reading things unnecessarily had given him a head full of facts and an irritating but interesting way of poking holes in what people thought. He'd say, ”See, that's where you're wrong,” and suddenly you would see. They were sitting under the football bleachers, sharing the last of George's cigarettes. Dean blew a sloppy smoke ring and said, ”Hey, you ever meet anyone who was adopted?”

George nodded. ”Cousin in Sudbury.”

”Does he know?”

”That he's adopted? Don't know. Only met him once. We had to share a bed one Christmas when we went up there.”

”He must feel terrible. If he knows.”

George considered this. ”Why? It's not like it's his fault.”

”True,” Dean said. He hadn't thought of that. He lit a match and watched it burn down. ”Only he doesn't actually know who he is, your cousin. What if his mother was a wh.o.r.e or something, and his father was a gangster?”

”Look!” George had produced a perfect smoke ring. ”Top that, Turner.”

”He'd inherit that bad blood,” Dean persisted.

George shook his head. ”That's an old wives' tale. There's nothing in blood. It's just blood. That's how they can do transfusions.”

Dean took the cigarette from him and inhaled. George was right. There was nothing in blood. Good old George. He exhaled a misshapen smoky oval and rubbed out the b.u.t.t in the gra.s.s. ”You wouldn't feel weird if you found out his real dad was serving time for murder? Come on. You'd think twice about sharing a room with him again.”

George laughed. ”I'd think twice, anyway, because the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d p.i.s.sed the bed.” He pa.s.sed Dean the last cigarette.

”But it goes against nature,” Dean said. He was dragging up everything now for George's cross-examination. ”I mean, look at animals, right? It's instinct. No animal just walks away from its young, unless there's something wrong with the kid.”

”Our cat did that once when its kitten was deformed,” George said. ”With people, I think it's more like something's wrong with the parents and the government takes the kid away. For its own good, like.”

Dean watched the smoke twist up from the cigarette and curl around his fingers. Something wrong not with the kid but with the parents. Another idea he hadn't thought of. ”Yeah, but if there's something wrong with the parents, there's probably going to be something wrong with the kid, eh?” Dean pa.s.sed the cigarette to George and waited for him to say, ”See, that's where you're wrong.”

George thought a moment and said, ”You mean they're going to pa.s.s it on, like hair colour. Yeah, I see what you mean.”

”So it is bad blood, then,” Dean said coldly.

George shrugged. ”I guess.” He handed the end of the cigarette to Dean. Dean knocked it away. ”For f.u.c.k sakes, Gerard, I don't want the b.u.t.t.”

”All right. Don't take my head off.”

Dean spat and stood up suddenly. ”Where'd you get these cigarettes, anyway? They taste like the bottom of an old lady's handbag.” He kicked at the cigarette pack, just missing George's hand.

George stared at him. ”Jesus, Turner. What's wrong with you?”

”Nothing,” he said. Everything.

Finally he went to see his English teacher. Brother Nick looked over his silver half-gla.s.ses and told Dean to take a seat. Dean still owed him a descriptive essay on one of the seasons. ”What can I help you with, son?”

Dean said, ”Well, I've got this cousin, see, who has this dilemma about his parents.” He looked up to see how Brother Nick was taking this. Brother Nick was frowning ever so slightly. ”He's actually my second cousin,” Dean added, for that extra whiff of veracity. ”He thinks he might be adopted.”

Brother Nick raised a furry grey eyebrow. ”What makes him think he's adopted?”

It came to him so fast, it was scary. ”Both his parents have blue eyes, see. And my cousin has brown eyes. And he just learned in science that's impossible.”

Brother Nick leaned back and considered this. ”Has he spoken to his parents?”

”Well, that's what I said. Why don't you ask your parents, and he said, oh, I could never do that, and I said, well, is there any other way to find out, and he said-”

Brother Nick broke in. ”All right, Dean, let's stop right there. It sounds like your cousin needs to speak to his parents immediately. Or his priest. This is quite serious. If he doesn't speak to his parents, you have to tell your parents.”

Dean nodded vigorously. ”Exactly! That's what I was thinking I should do. But he said he's going to call some office, the Children's Society or something-”

”The Children's Aid Society? Here in town?”

Dean nodded.

Brother Nick shook his jowly head. ”Oh no, no, no. That's not ... they can't ... they wouldn't be able to tell him.”

”Maybe he meant another office, like a headquarters?”

”The main office is in North Bay, but that's not the point. Even the North Bay office wouldn't tell him anything.”

”Why not?”

”They aren't allowed to. It's the law.”