(crumbs?) from a seagull.
“Stop!” I yelled, and stomped, charging at the bird, happy to blame something but myself. The gull wryly flapped away, and I grabbed hold of Paula, not sure if I’d rather stroke or shake her.
“I thought,” she said. “I thought . . . I wanted to feed him.”
Her voice brimmed with fear and disillusion: why would any creature she’d been helping turn against her? I felt for her, for any child who sees its faith dethroned.
“Stupid, mean old bird,” I said. “Let’s go feed the ducks. They’re nicer, ’kay? Not scary. I promise.”
“Ducks?” she said, grasping at a lifeline.
“When I was little, my sisters and I would each choose ducks,” I told her. “A contest: whose could catch the most crumbs.”
Together, on our knees, we gathered up her bait, inching our way over to the railing. And there we sat, tossing fried batter to stubby birds (whose yips sounded much the same as Paula’s), when Debora came bursting through the door.
“What are you two doing? You think I can’t see?”
Quickly I cleared my fists, and stripped Paula’s too, as if empty hands would acquit us. “Sorry,” I said. “Don’t worry, we’ll wash up.”
Debora ignored me. “I see,” she said. “I see! You are trolling .” Now her voice was jovial. A smile snuck up her cheeks. “Well, not exactly—a fishing line, you need. But didn’t I say? I said you wouldn’t have to.”
“Trolling?” I said. “But I thought . . . now, wait. You know that word?”
Debora knelt and hugged her beaming daughter from behind. She took a piece of batter from the handful I had dropped, and flung it to a happy, wagging duck.
“Look, Mãinha—look!” Paula cheered. “It says thank you.”
“Yes, minha filha . Like I say thanks for you.” Then to me, playfully: “You think I’m dumb? My English? But Pat, you use the Internet. I can use it too. Dictionary.com —I looked it up.”
I chuckled, basking in a coursing, clean relief. I was humming with Debora’s words— Internetchy, tchoo —the weird, rousing cadence of her accent, thinking of a lucky child within her womb, who’d hear it. Life would seem a splendid lilt. A song.
eight
A doctor poked at Debora, her blood was drawn and tested, she suffered a psychologist’s questions. A private investigator snooped through old records for signs of a criminal background.
Fine, everyone said. Full speed ahead.
Stu was also tested, his sperm count and motility. Nothing off the charts, but good enough.
Through it all, we took to phoning Debora every night, giddily gleaning knowledge of her life. She loathed milk but loved milk shakes; sunlight made her sneezy; Cinderella ’s ending always left her partly sad (“Why nobody talks about the mice and rats and lizards, who have to be again the things they were?”). We spoke with Danny, too, when he was the one who answered, and sometimes he indulged our little quizzes: What’s the thing you’re proudest of ? “Never raised a hand to anyone.” Most ashamed of ? “How often I still want to.”
By the time we convened to endorse the legal papers, our friendship, we assured ourselves, didn’t feel like business—which made it both less and more awkward when the lawyer reviewed each clause about what, precisely, Stu and I would pay for. Above the twenty thousand bucks for Debora’s basic fee, we would foot for life insurance, medical visits, maternity clothes, maid service if she were put on bed rest. For pregnancy-related trips Debora made in her own car: forty-three and a half cents per mile. Lost wages for Danny if he missed work for the birth. If Debora’s tubes got damaged? Five thousand.
Down the list the lawyer went—this, that, the other—adding to the sum we’d keep in escrow. The word sounded enough like escargot that I saw snails: nautili with endless extra chambers.
The lawyer wore a suit that sat queerly on her frame; her neck puffed soufflé-like from her collar. I sensed
“Stop!” I yelled, and stomped, charging at the bird, happy to blame something but myself. The gull wryly flapped away, and I grabbed hold of Paula, not sure if I’d rather stroke or shake her.
“I thought,” she said. “I thought . . . I wanted to feed him.”
Her voice brimmed with fear and disillusion: why would any creature she’d been helping turn against her? I felt for her, for any child who sees its faith dethroned.
“Stupid, mean old bird,” I said. “Let’s go feed the ducks. They’re nicer, ’kay? Not scary. I promise.”
“Ducks?” she said, grasping at a lifeline.
“When I was little, my sisters and I would each choose ducks,” I told her. “A contest: whose could catch the most crumbs.”
Together, on our knees, we gathered up her bait, inching our way over to the railing. And there we sat, tossing fried batter to stubby birds (whose yips sounded much the same as Paula’s), when Debora came bursting through the door.
“What are you two doing? You think I can’t see?”
Quickly I cleared my fists, and stripped Paula’s too, as if empty hands would acquit us. “Sorry,” I said. “Don’t worry, we’ll wash up.”
Debora ignored me. “I see,” she said. “I see! You are trolling .” Now her voice was jovial. A smile snuck up her cheeks. “Well, not exactly—a fishing line, you need. But didn’t I say? I said you wouldn’t have to.”
“Trolling?” I said. “But I thought . . . now, wait. You know that word?”
Debora knelt and hugged her beaming daughter from behind. She took a piece of batter from the handful I had dropped, and flung it to a happy, wagging duck.
“Look, Mãinha—look!” Paula cheered. “It says thank you.”
“Yes, minha filha . Like I say thanks for you.” Then to me, playfully: “You think I’m dumb? My English? But Pat, you use the Internet. I can use it too. Dictionary.com —I looked it up.”
I chuckled, basking in a coursing, clean relief. I was humming with Debora’s words— Internetchy, tchoo —the weird, rousing cadence of her accent, thinking of a lucky child within her womb, who’d hear it. Life would seem a splendid lilt. A song.
eight
A doctor poked at Debora, her blood was drawn and tested, she suffered a psychologist’s questions. A private investigator snooped through old records for signs of a criminal background.
Fine, everyone said. Full speed ahead.
Stu was also tested, his sperm count and motility. Nothing off the charts, but good enough.
Through it all, we took to phoning Debora every night, giddily gleaning knowledge of her life. She loathed milk but loved milk shakes; sunlight made her sneezy; Cinderella ’s ending always left her partly sad (“Why nobody talks about the mice and rats and lizards, who have to be again the things they were?”). We spoke with Danny, too, when he was the one who answered, and sometimes he indulged our little quizzes: What’s the thing you’re proudest of ? “Never raised a hand to anyone.” Most ashamed of ? “How often I still want to.”
By the time we convened to endorse the legal papers, our friendship, we assured ourselves, didn’t feel like business—which made it both less and more awkward when the lawyer reviewed each clause about what, precisely, Stu and I would pay for. Above the twenty thousand bucks for Debora’s basic fee, we would foot for life insurance, medical visits, maternity clothes, maid service if she were put on bed rest. For pregnancy-related trips Debora made in her own car: forty-three and a half cents per mile. Lost wages for Danny if he missed work for the birth. If Debora’s tubes got damaged? Five thousand.
Down the list the lawyer went—this, that, the other—adding to the sum we’d keep in escrow. The word sounded enough like escargot that I saw snails: nautili with endless extra chambers.
The lawyer wore a suit that sat queerly on her frame; her neck puffed soufflé-like from her collar. I sensed
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