Curby (7 page)

Waiting for him on the stoop was Jaime, the cat in her lap and a very sad look on her face. “What happened? Did you find him?”

“The cops told me he was with Children’s Services, but when I went down there the lady I talked to wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Thank goodness they found him at least. Why wouldn’t they give him to you?”

“I couldn’t prove he’s mine.” He sat next to her, exhausted.

“Oh, Nick, no.” She put her hand on his shoulder.

“They kept asking me for a birth certificate,” he continued. “Of course there isn’t one, so I couldn’t prove anything.”

“I heard from the people upstairs about what happened…with Olga I mean. Up to now, I thought she was doing really well with Curby.”

“I did, too.” (Sigh)

“Is there anything I can do for you, Nick?”

“Like what?”

“Pose as his mother?”

“Thanks, but you’d be taking a heck of a risk. I’m sure that’s got to be against the law and I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. Besides, what good would it do? They would only ask you for the same thing, a birth certificate.”

“Oh.”

“I appreciate that, anyway.” He folded his hands and looked down. “How the hell am I going to get him back?”

“Have you considered Family Court?”

“No, and I have no idea how that even works. I was planning to look for a lawyer.”

“You raised this boy practically from birth. That has to count for something. As far as we know, the parents never cared and I’m sure a judge would look at that.”

“You think so?”

“You are his father. You’re the one who changed his diapers. You saved him from sure death. How could they not consider that?”

“I’ll go upstairs and call a lawyer right now.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“There’s no way I can go to work tomorrow. I’ll call in sick first thing in the morning. This just might work.”

“If it does, you’ll have legal custody from now on.”

“Jaime, I can only hope.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Bronx

L
ed along by a social worker, Curby stepped inside the lower unit of a duplex across the street from Van Courtlandt Park in the Bronx. The stares from two older boys in the living room unsettled him, so he kept his own on a plaid rug.

“So this is Curby?” Annette Dubois, a stout, middle aged lady asked. She wiped her hands on an apron, stooped down in front of him and held him by the waist. “Go and play inside and I’ll be right in.”

She waited until her young daughter coaxed him into the next room.

“Where did you get this one from?” Annette asked the social worker.

“He was wandering around a Brooklyn Neighborhood.”

“What about the parents, didn’t they show up?”

“Yes, the father did, but without the proper proof we couldn’t release the boy.”

“I see. And how long do I get to keep him?”

“You might finally get your wish, Annette. The boy’s mother passed away recently and we don’t have documents for her either. If this guy doesn’t come up with the proper paper work, the boy will have to stay here until he does.”

“It’s about time. I’ve been waiting for a boy for who knows how long.”

In the middle of the far wall of the large den was a fireplace. A piano took up a corner. In front of another wall, a large screen TV was all that stood in front of it. Curby approached the two older boys who were playing monopoly.

“Stay over there,” one of them said.

“Let him play with us,” the girl said.

The same boy, snapped back. “Hell no! Stay over there for now, kid, until I tell you.”

Curby remained where he was, standing in the middle of the room and unsure of what to do next. In time, he sat on the area rug and watched as the three continued the game on the other side of the room.

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Nick tore off the ad from the newspaper and called the number. His appointment was scheduled for the next day at 11:00 A.M.

Arriving on time, he brought with him pictures of Curby, receipts for doctor visits and cancelled checks for the nanny.

“Sir, you can go in now.”

Nick nodded at the receptionist, took a deep breath and entered the office.

A round faced, congenial fellow with bright eyes, animatedly greeted him. He vigorously shook Nick’s hand. Everything the lawyer said was loud and animated. During the entire interview, he paced back and forth.

“Mr. Santinelli, I’m Martin Briscotti. Please have a seat? I take it you have a custody problem you need help with?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m all ears.”

Nick told him everything in its entirety and as near to the truth as he could make it. When he finished, he sat forward in the stuffed chair, eager to hear something hopeful.

“Wow! That’s some story. Okay…let’s see what we have. So far, no one knows who or where the actual parents are, am I correct?”

“Yes, absolutely!”

“Did anyone, alive and available, see when you picked that baby up from the street?”

“No, not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“I was alone at the time. The street was empty. The only person who saw me bring the baby home was my girlfriend, but like I told you on the phone, she passed away.”

“Yes, and with all due respect that was after the fact.”

Briscotti circled around his desk, leaned on the front of it with his legs crossed and said, “I need to know if there were any witnesses who actually saw you pick up that box?”

“No! Nobody!”

“Bummer! One down!”

Nick frowned.

The lawyer stood up straight and resumed pacing around the room.

“Did you ever publically seek out the parents of the child?”

“How do you mean?”

Martin approached the wall to wall window, scratched the top of his partially bald head and looked out at the traffic below. He quickly turned back. “Like a newspaper, a want ad. Did you ever place an ad stating the nature of the incident with the specific intent of making known the date, time, whereabouts and description of the child and that he was found abandoned in a cardboard box.”

Shaking his head, Nick said, “No, of course not.”

“Strike two! Fine, then that’s the first thing we need to do. That will show the court we at least tried our very best to find the biological parents.”

“An ad?”

“Yes, an ad.”

“But, I don’t think,…I mean…by now, I doubt if anyone…”

“Yes, that’s the whole point. Nobody is going to make that claim. It was a criminal thing to do, to leave this child out there in the gutter like that. They could face serious charges and do jail time. But, it will look good for you anyway to show that in court.”

“I see.”

“Hey, chances are, a Family Court judge will appoint an attorney for the child. Without a need for a formal hearing, he’ll listen to both parties. That’s them against us. I’m sure the court will order a report from social services on the condition of the child, etc.

“Your mental health will be evaluated, by a professional, naturally, as well as your economic situation and living standards and for all of the above, you, sir, I’m sure will get an A.

“He will then assess the events that led up to the boy wandering around the streets and that will fall on the nanny’s shoulders, not yours.

“This all boils down to whether or not we can prove that; a, the biological parents flew the coop and could care less about what happened to their baby boy; b, that you have been and will continue to be, a caring, loving father who wants dearly and wholeheartedly to guide this child toward a well-educated and successful adulthood. Don’t worry about that last part. I can lay on the mushy stuff when I have to.”

“So, you think I have a chance?”

“I don’t take a case unless I believe in it. I will say this much. I will do my absolute very best. On the other hand, think about getting religious and say a lot of prayers.”

Most days, Jaime got home around 9:15, right after the store closed. Nick waited on the stoop and at 9:35 P.M. saw her approaching from down the street. She carried in her arms a small bag of groceries that she put down on the step next to him.

“Whew! What a day.”

“Busy?”

“Busy? And how! I thought I’d never get home.”

“You work hard for your money.”

“Yes, I do. How was your day?”

“Excellent! I talked to a lawyer.”

“Oh, good! What did he say? Do you have a chance?”

“Well…I’m not sure. He’s supposed to call me in a few days. You know, for an update. He wants me to put an ad in the paper for the rightful parents.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

“That’s what I said, but he wants me to do it anyway. It will at least prove that we made the effort.”

“Do you want me to write one out for you? I’m fairly good at writing?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ll make the call to a newspaper in the morning.”

“In the meantime…” she said, as she pulled out a bottle of Merlot, “…we have this and I’m famished. I picked up a couple of sandwiches. Ya hungry?”

Nick grinned. “A little.”

“Good! Can you come over to my place? I have to feed my cat.”

Inside, she nudged an impatient Scruffy away from the apartment door, put the bag on the table and busily went about setting up the cat’s food. She then spread the drapes to the front windows to the sides; red velvet drapes that hung from ceiling to floor.

She opened the window to a cooling breeze. “There, that’s better.”

A strawberry candle, half used in its tulip shaped jar, was placed in the middle of the table. Lighting it, she put an old CD
into a player; “Mare calmo della sera Sanremo”, turned it down low and returned to the table with a slight smile.

“Are you going to have a seat, Mr. Santinelli?”

“I heard that CD before. You play it often, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. It relaxes me.”

Looking down at her, He stood before the table, scrunched his lips together and nodded. “This is cozy.”

“Well? Are you going to sit?”

“Oh, sorry.”

Quiet while they ate, Jaime finally said, “Will you be all right?”

The sad look on Nick returned. Sighing, he said, “I can’t help but worry. I guess I’ll know more in a few days. In the meantime the wait is eating at me from the inside out.”

“Let’s sit by the window. I love the maple tree. It gives such good shade, doesn’t it?”

Nick looked. “Yeah...I guess so.”

“Here,” she said, handing him red Merlot in a stem-less wine glass.

“Nice.” He took a sip. “The lawyer thinks he’ll be able to get me visiting rights while the case is pending.”

“That’s great news. Where is he now?”

“Curby? I don’t know.”

“When you go, I want to go with you.”

“He’ll like that.”

She lifted her glass. “To Curby!”

“To Curby!”

(Clink!)