Nobody's Child (23 page)

A
UGUST 27

Heat shimmered in translucent waves where it rose off the baked clay of August corn fields, mature stalks browning for a September harvest. Tired leaves drooped from towering poplars, faint streaks of yellow the first hint of the approaching fall. Dog days wrapped the mountains in their sweltering embrace. Under the relative cool of a shaded porch, Laura Ann rocked into the late afternoon of a summer Friday.

James's eyes stared up at Laura Ann, cradled in her arms. A month old today, the child gripped her finger with his tiny hand while he nursed. Laura Ann's gaze never left the infant, in wonder at this gift of life. She marveled how, each time James latched on to her, she felt a strange tingling, a warm, relaxed feeling she'd never experienced before.

“Your mother was beautiful,” Laura Ann said in a quiet voice. A metal air chime tinkled at the edge of the porch, the wind carrying the hot smell of dry pastures and damp whiffs of the muddy creek bottom. “She loved it here,” Laura Ann continued. “There's so much to tell you.”

James blinked as though perhaps he knew something of his mother, knew of the struggle she endured to bring him into the
world. His hand closed on Laura Ann's finger, the lines of his tiny palm etched into soft pink flesh. Satin black hair drifted weightless when he moved in her arms, seeking a new position as he drank. Her milk artificially induced with drugs and stimulation regimens, induced like the fertile eggs she'd shed months ago, Laura Ann wet-nursed her son. An adoptive single mother, and a bride-to-be.

James's eyes fell closed, pulling at Laura Ann for the last of his fourth feeding that day. A few minutes later, his mouth relaxed and he let go, his lips moist and curled in a slight smile. She watched him, her sole focus, asleep in her arms. Her toes pushed against porch boards to move the rocker in synch with the chirp of cicadas that sang in the sweltering heat.

Granny Apple stepped out of the house, a glass of ice water in hand. “Drink up, child.”

Laura Ann took the glass, resting it on the broad wooden arm of the chair. Granny Apple settled into a rocker next to her. In silence, they watched the farm evaporate into cloudless skies. Oak rockers rumbled back and forth over uneven boards, a gentle percussion accompaniment to the perpetual buzz of insects.

“The state plans to repair the low water crossing ‘round the end of this month. To get ready for hunting season.”

“That's a relief,” Laura Ann said, looking up at the vehicles in the drive. Since June, with no way to leave the farm by automobile, she'd been wading back and forth across the Middle Island Creek, a tiresome chore. Albeit, there were some advantages; drunks didn't choose the forest above the farm for their late-night hangouts.

“You two need to set a date.” Granny Apple threw the comment out like a challenge. “The way people talk, and all.”

“We have,” she said. “It will be soon.” Laura Ann knew they couldn't wait much longer for the wedding, nor did they plan to. No shotgun wedding, and no long engagement. Something in
between. Since Ian's proposal at the top of the ridge, she'd been reminded each day how much he cared for her. His daily trips to see her these past weeks affirmed what she already knew — that he wanted to be with her all the time, not just wading across the Middle Island to spend every evening working the farm while she mothered a new infant.

Granny Apple stood up out of the rocker and approached, her arms extended. “I'll put James down. You can take a walk.”

Laura Ann nodded and raised James into Granny Apple's waiting arms. As the screen door shut behind her adopted grandma, she looked up to see two men and a woman walking down the road toward the farmhouse. A flash of light reflected gold off the chest of one man dressed in khaki, his head topped with a frame cap.

The police?

“Are you Laura Ann McGehee?” Deputy Rodale asked a few minutes later, staring at some folded papers in his hand. Sweat poured off the man where he stood at the foot of the porch, a line of white chalking an arc under his armpits.

“What? You've known me since middle school, Brian.”

He never looked up but studied the papers in front of him, then turned to the man at his right, scanning his face for some clue how to proceed.

“Brian Rodale!” Granny Apple exclaimed through the screen door, moving onto the porch to join Laura Ann. “Who's this with you and what in the dickens are you doing out here on a day like this?” She laughed and extended a hand to the stranger.

Black-haired and brown as Sophia, the man ignored her proffered hand, never taking his eye off Laura Ann. He neither smiled nor frowned, the expression of a bored observer ready
to move on to the next activity. Not breaking his gaze at Laura Ann, he reached left and forced the papers into Deputy Rodale's soggy chest. “Get it over with,” he said, clipping his words, his accent nothing like that of a mountain person. He crossed his arms, looked left at the deputy, then back at Laura Ann.

Deputy Rodale shrugged and turned to a thin woman who hid behind his girth.

“Phyllis?” Granny Apple exclaimed. “What's this all about?”

“Child Protective Services sent us out to see you,” Phyllis said. A short greying woman of about fifty, and thin as a willow, she'd easily disappeared behind the officer. She held forth a second folded set of papers, bound in blue. “Brian is here to escort us on some difficult business. May we come in?”

“No.” Laura Ann backed up in front of Granny Apple. “We can talk on the porch.”

“Suit yourself,” the stranger said, his accent a touch Hispanic. “Let's get this over with.” He motioned to the woman.

Phyllis stepped up on the porch and handed forth the package of folded papers. “This is difficult for all of us, so please — let's do this the easy way. May we sit down?”

Laura Ann's pulse quickened, something in Phyllis's tone a reminder of her uncle Jack. “If this is an official visit,” Laura Ann said, “I'd prefer to stand.”

“It's official,” Deputy Rodale replied, holding his set of papers forward like he couldn't wait to get rid of them. Granny Apple's hand snagged the package.

Laura Ann never took her eyes off the officer. “What do you want, Brian?”

The deputy bit his lip, looking left and right for support but finding none. He blurted out his words. “We're here to serve notice about the child.”

Laura Ann clenched her fists, backing up a step, she and Granny guarding the door.

Granny Apple snapped, “Phyllis Macintosh. What do you think you're doing?” She threw the papers back at the grey-haired woman. “You will not take James from this house.”

“What?” Laura Ann exclaimed, her eyes following the ruffled papers to the floor, then to the stranger at Deputy Rodale's right. The Hispanic man stepped forward, headed straight for her.

“Get this over with,” he said. “Where's my son?”

“No!” Laura Ann screamed as the stranger stepped forward. She stuck out her arm.

Deputy Rodale put a hand to the man's shoulder, moving up the steps to restrain him. “Please, Mr. Mendoza. Not here. Not yet.”

“Not ever!” Laura Ann quipped, her heart pounding double-time. She stood side by side with Granny Apple, her chin quivering, palms sweaty.

“Laura Ann,” Phyllis said, stepping up on the porch with her companions. “I'm here representing the state. Mr. Mendoza filed suit for custody of Sophia McQuistion's child on the basis that he is the biological father and has parental rights to the child.”

“No!” Laura Ann shot back. “Sophia named me as his guardian. We probated the will, and I have proof. He's my son. And the adoption papers have been filed.”

“That's partially true. But he's not your son unless you adopt him in accordance with
all
of the laws of the state.” Phyllis looked to the right for support from Deputy Rodale. He offered none. “The problem, Laura Ann, is that when Ms. McQuistion named you as guardian, the state was unaware of a biological father who made claim to the child. Mr. Mendoza has documentation to prove that he is the father.” She moved closer, picking up the papers off the porch. “Her will has been contested.”

“Not possible!” Laura Ann said. “Sophia used a sperm donor.”

“I was the donor,” the stranger replied, a mean smile breaking where boredom showed before. “That kid is mine, and she
came to Cincinnati to thank me for it.” He licked his lips. “She found me right after I got her pregnant.”

“Is this true?” Granny Apple asked Phyllis. Her hand sought Laura Ann's forearm as if to say “let me lead.”

Phyllis nodded, refolding the papers. “He filed these documents in county court, Granny. They're yours while we sort out this mess. He can prove that the clinic Ms. McQuistion visited used his sperm for the in vitro fertilization. She did in fact look him up and thank him for his role in the process. All the evidence shows that he's the biological father. Until we can determine which person has legal rights to raise the child — the biological parent or the named guardian — then the baby becomes a ward of the state of West Virginia.” She paused, her eyes showing the first sign of empathy that day. “That's why I'm here, Laura Ann. James will go to a foster home while we work this through the courts.”

“No!” Laura Ann yelled. “Not a chance. I've been there for this child every day since before he was born. You don't just waltz up here with some court papers and expect me to send my baby off to live with strangers.”

“Yes, we do,” the Hispanic man said. “Bring the kid out here. Now.”

Deputy Rodale put a hand on the man's shoulder again, holding him back.

Granny Apple put an arm in front of Laura Ann, her voice its most severe. “Phyllis, you waded across a creek and walked a mile to get here. Just how do you intend to take the infant home?”

“She's not taking James —,” Laura Ann said.

“Shhh.
Phyllis? I asked you a question.”

“Same way we walked in, Granny. I guess we'd carry him out.”

“You're going to wade across that creek with a baby?”

“Not right now,” Deputy Rodale said. “We're simply serving papers related to the suit. Laura Ann is responsible for bringing the child in. Unless — “

“Unless?”

“Unless the sheriff deems her to be a flight risk,” Phyllis said, “or I observe some endangerment of the child.”

“Endangerment? Really, Phyllis. Who put you up to this?”

“These are official papers, ma'am, and they've been properly filed in a court of law,” Deputy Rodale said, taking the package from Phyllis's hands. “But we didn't come to see you. So please stand aside.”

“I will not,” Granny said, linking an arm with Laura Ann. “And you know my name, boy.”

The Hispanic man pushed forward toward Laura Ann, swearing aloud as he swept Deputy Rodale's hand from his shoulder. “No more talk.”

Daddy steadied her and faced Laura Ann, his hand on her shoulder. “Put your knee here,” he said, pointing down with his other hand. “Then bring your fist up like this.” He bent over and pulled her clenched fist into his face. “Use all the strength you've got.”

He stood straight up. “If that fails, use those fingers. Claw his eyes out. Whatever it takes, go down fighting. You won't get a second chance.”

Laura Ann watched Daddy a moment in the silence of the kitchen, then asked, “Why would someone want to hurt me?”

Mr. Mendoza threw his hand up, trying to sweep Laura Ann out of the way.

“No!” Phyllis commanded. “Stop him, Brian.” Mendoza broke away from the deputy before Phyllis's words died in her mouth.

Laura Ann stood her ground. When his left arm connected with her, thrown across her as though he expected her to topple like a pile of apples, Laura Ann grabbed him above his left elbow, her squeeze iron-tight from years of milking. She wrenched his arm backward with a sharp twist meant to tear it from his shoulder. Wide-eyed, he bent toward her, and she turned Daddy's lesson into action. Lifting his arm high with the wrenching motion, she jerked her left knee in a powerful upward thrust into his crotch. Mendoza screamed, his arm rent backwards, and any future as a sperm donor put in jeopardy.

He doubled over, a guttural cough erupting from him. As his head came down in reaction to the pain, Laura Ann let go the arm and swung both hands in, her palms cupped. She slammed them about his head, boxing his ears, every intention to rupture both eardrums.

Mendoza screamed a second time, expelling the last of his deflated breath. Hands to his ears, his head below his waist, she laced her fingers in a double fist and slammed it down on his back, just below the base of his neck.

Mendoza sank into a writhing, moaning heap at her feet.

A
UGUST 28

“Admit it when you're wrong.”

She could see Daddy now, standing over her where she sat on the toilet of their only bathroom, whiling away the day, too stubborn to confess her faults.

“Sometimes you do the wrong thing for the right reason,
young lady. We all do at some point in our lives. But if what you do is wrong, even if it's for a cause you can defend, it's still
wrong.”
He said it with that painful emphasis that spilled a foul stench on a perfectly good word. Daddy always drew a strict boundary between right and wrong. Good and evil. His lines of demarcation were strong.

Daddy's words rang in her ears while she watched Ian approach, his lanky form a welcome sight after a sleepless Friday night in the Tyler County jail. No one befriended her in this dreary place, a mother ripped from her home and separated from her infant because of a dubious allegation of assault. The sperm donor charged into her, not the other way around.

She tried to read something in Ian's face, news about James and Granny, some hope she'd leave this place today. Deadpan, he revealed nothing. He followed the sheriff, a man her daddy rarely spoke to: Uncle Jack's younger and meaner brother, Jeremy.