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The Schuyler Fortune V: Rose Down, Rose Home-3
I looked at the cop and pulled him aside. "It's a long story. We've been looking for two kids to adopt. We're not perverts, here is my card. I own the Schuyler Museum." Rummaging through my wallet, I found ten one hundred-dollar bills, shoved them into an envelope along with another business card and put my number on it.
"If you are looking for a job that pays twice your salary and benefits with better hours, call me. In the meantime, do me a favor and watch these angels for me."
"I'll make it more than worth your while whether or not we get to adopt them."
The volume of court papers, foster home records, medical summaries obtained via shaky ethical means and other paperwork sat in the middle of a conference room table at the Blossom Fund. It was a huge stack. Marcus, Michael, Blossom, and Carol had eaten at the lunchroom and decamped to the conference room to meet with the attorneys, some from in-house, and some hired for their knowledge of New York State adoption laws and procedures, skills that the Blossom Fund didn't particularly stock on the legal department supply shelf.
"I would have to say," said a Social Service worker, "that this is a do-able adoption but as soon as the mother finds out there is money involved and lots of it, she will suck in more attorneys who will generate paperwork and court motions and objections and suddenly she will fold for a certain generous donation to her rehab fund."
"That's the way I've seen it play out before and I'm not sure this case will be an exception," she said.
The attorneys saw no barrier. The kids, Eric and Loren Bertoni, had no visible father now and hadn't since conception. Their mother, one Olive Bertoni, had once been a beautician in Hackensack, had had at least one fling at a party with a guy who didn't stay long after the fireworks. Olive hadn't seen him again, didn't know his name nor his whereabouts. The nurse, at birth, had filled out the twin's birth certificates in New York with Olive's last name and no one objected.
There wasn't any writing on the line that asked for the father's name. The attorneys then lodged their first caveat.
They told us they couldn't guarantee that this jerk wouldn't show up someday and demand a paternity test, but we could, under New York law, make certain he would not prevail in any action he might conceivably bring (at which time they asked pardon for the pun, thinking it might have been construed as such).
"Kids at some ages have an urge to know their biological parents," they explained, "and you might have to negotiate with them, or if you wait long enough, they could grow up and go find him or see him anyway."
Eric and Loren were healthy, had received their shots at a public health clinic from whence the records came. I thought about that for ten seconds and pitied the poor clinician who had to hold them down for those injections. They had no chronic illnesses or deformities as it happened. Other than the police thinking the twins were incorrigible, their mental health was unknowable.
The attorney's launched another salvo. They told us that we would be responsible for all of their medical care until a certain age, their education, feeding, food, and clothes just like real parents. We gaped at them, astonished at this one. We had assumed all of that, but they had to mention it.
An unexpected barrage came next from the social worker herself.
"You will have to be, uh, evaluated by staff before the court rules on the adoption to make certain that you are fit to be parents. The court will want our official evaluation papers before ruling."
This one floored us. The only thing we could think of was the possible lack of a mother in the home, but with Carol and Blossom and the nannies and maids, we thought we had the female presence thing covered too.
"This is a prolonged process during which time the mother will have ample opportunity to change her adopting stance. That's really best for the children."
We couldn't say much to that, so we didn't.
"You will have to prove financial responsibility to the court."
Although we both managed to hold our faces straight, we were both thinking of recuperation at the funny farm by then. Didn't this person know how much money we had?
Marcus asked the outside attorneys if we had to include the Schuyler trust assets on the court form because Michael at this point was the sole beneficiary. They opined not.
The meeting closed. We went home and slept on it. The next day we still had a level of interest, actually higher. By this time, we had pictures of both kids. They wouldn't have known us on the sidewalk had they ran straight past us.
We had our security team shadow them, knowing that this in and of itself was a little risky, sort of creepy on the face of it. We needed to know, however, something about these kids and their behavior.
The team came back ashen, afraid to look us in the eye, nervous and drained. The initial shift refused, on principle, to do that again. We asked ourselves how bad it could be.
Marcus and I found out.
We just happened to drop by the corner store a few days later for ice cream. The peppermint kind. It was still good. We noted two small boys hanging about the front entrance and scented trouble. Just after receiving our cones, a small voice somewhere below and behind plaintively bellowed,
"Mister, my brother and I like ice cream too."
We must have waited a tad too long to respond appropriately. The next thing we heard or felt was the crunch of two pairs of jaws biting into our gastrocnemius muscles from behind, deep, painful and severely irritating. Two pairs of fists untied our shoes very quickly and rubbed dust on them.
We couldn't very well offer them a libation or knock them silly. It was illegal to hit little kids. Temptation struck, temptation was overcome.
"What the hell's the matter with you," yelled Marcus "and how will biting get you ice cream?"
They weren't used to reasoning. I had the feeling these kids weren't exposed to it often. However, they were a very old set of something-year old kids. Like two going on five or something. Perhaps five going on eight. One could just see the wheels turning, see the eyebrows lifting, and a crafty grin appearing, identically, on each face in turn.
They looked at each other and then at us and we all fell in `like'.
`Love' was a strong word for the circumstance, but we all understood each other and were on the same page. They wanted ice cream. They knew we had paid attention. They knew we wanted to give them what they wanted at the moment. They both understood at age whatever that there might be a right and a wrong way to go about getting what they wanted.
We hadn't hit them. We had responded, however, like real people and got angry and said `hell'. In retrospect, I guess they had probably heard worse. I still like to think that all this went through their minds in about ten milliseconds.
It took that long for Marcus and me to fall for these kids. Not a wise move, yet perhaps necessary prior to adopting them, for heaven's sake, and of which they knew nothing.
I thought about the challenges facing these kids. They hadn't met Blossom yet.
Little did they know of the world and standards and behavior...not yet.
The kids stood licking their cones. They didn't say thank you. They just stared up at Marcus, dark-skinned with a nice suit and shoes on with wide eyes, then at me, switching over their gaze in near perfect unison, staring at my blonde hair, switching back to Marcus's light brown curly hair and back again.
They lost interest in that process as not being fun and went over to kick a lady in both legs. One twin kicked each leg. Now that was kind of fun, they thought. Like a neat soccer kind of maneuver, but the lady didn't appreciate it and took a swipe at them with her umbrella.
We took that as our cue to slip out the door. No gangrene developed from the bites.
The next step was to have our attorneys arrange a visit with Olive at the Museum. The whole thing was fraught with danger of a bunch of different types, but it actually went well. It, in retrospect, was safe to say that art did not impress Olive Bertoni. It wasn't that she didn't like it or have any opinion of it at all. She just didn't relate to old paintings on the wall.
What she related to was the general grandeur of the place, the suite where her kids might live someday with guaranteed meals, some supervision, security, and some general idea seemed to be forming in her mind that her sons would have a boosted future here.
We had been afraid of some idea about a conniving mother who wanted big bucks to sell her children to the rich guys. It wasn't even close to that.
It turned out that Olive Bertoni had a rough start in life, followed by a rough life. She had failed AAA a number of times, couldn't afford rehab and the Court system had nearly reached their limit with her.
She had been threatened with removal of her children more than once and I think, or I like to think, that she saw an opportunity for her children that took an enormous burden off her shoulders.
A quiet spoken woman, medium height, long brown hair, moderately clean but old clothes with the slightly protuberant belly of liver disease and a reddish nose that might have been early rosacea, her main drawback that we could tell was her tendency to think she was OK, but everyone else, the system, the cops, was dog meat.
She had the alcoholic personality, not the I'm going to lie in the gutter' type, just the I'm OK, but everyone else...' type.
And so, we waited. Hoping the system would work. Carol and Blossom approved of the concept of bringing these kids into the family instantly but held back. They didn't want us to get a sudden downer out of nowhere.
Barbara had heard and sent a note wishing us luck. We didn't hear from Jack but weren't sure he knew yet. Jack, Jr. sent a picture he drew of the family with two other kids smiling in line. Hannah just sent a heart postcard with no words on it. We had months to wait as it happened.
In the meantime, Marcus and I read every book on twins and perused every blog about them and talked about them like the expert that every new parent is (on any given subject in at least in theory.
We only stopped when we got feedback from the family that enough was enough until the muffins were in the oven.
The muffins we kept track of and don't think we didn't. A security guy was detailed to it every day. They probably knew his name after a while. I'm sure he knew theirs. I told him. Several times each time I saw him.
Marcus wanted the children to be raised Adventist. I couldn't have cared less and didn't really know what that meant but knew that he and John had turned out pretty well, so agreed to that.
I told him I wanted them to be well educated, polite (he nearly choked on that one), refined (again that response), healthy, socially aware and globally savvy. I should have seen it coming but didn't this time.
"Oh," said Marcus, "so you want them to take after my side of the family."
There wasn't any response to that. So, I didn't respond.
I just picked up my dignity off the floor, tucked it under my arm and left the room with head held high.
As her tea took effect one morning, Carol's thoughts soared to the shaky heights of Washington, D.C. She was a little tired of visiting the White House. It was old and not as comfortable as a newer house.
On the other hand, precious people lived there, and she couldn't and wouldn't stay away permanently.
Jack and Barbara had lived there for three years since the election and Barbara was still President, running for a second term.
Michael, Marcus and friends donated the funds for the campaign, the trust had bankrolled the travel and the campaign war room and the social media campaign specialists.
The election wasn't even close.
She smiled, thinking of Jack's story of last week about the Committee from the Natural Museum of American History who had visited Jack at the White House after the inauguration, asking for his outfit for display with the Inaugural gowns of over two dozen former First Ladies.
The Smithsonian Institution had given some thought to how this might work when the previous First Gentleman's wife was elected. This was different, however.
Jack didn't think he gave a rat's patootie about displaying his tuxedo until Barbara reminded him that most visitors would expect to see it and be disappointed not to find it displayed.
Jack grumbled some, and then looked at Barbara's face which had colored a little and whose eyes were looking at his lips as if expecting something.
"Ok, I'll do it for you. By the way, would you have a few minutes for a `conference call'? The code for a private moment had worked nicely for them in the hyperkinetic pressure-cooker atmosphere of the White House, but they weren't sure it fooled anyone.
"In here or upstairs?"
Jack had never forgotten his experiment with their male roommates at the Evergreen Project, the sensuality of the shower, the sight and smell of male skin, Barbara's open encouragement to explore another part of him, his cock's reaction to his buddies, the sheer pleasure of relaxing, coming to orgasm as men together...accepting that as a part of his sexuality. He also loved his wife and valued his kids but worked at feeling like a father. It didn't always seem natural to him.
Barbara's time at the Evergreen Project had won admiration from a nation tired of `Let's be Great Again' and similar slogans. America was and had been just fine, loaded with diversity, faced with challenges it usually worked out and deeply flawed suggesting there were still problems to tackle.
The planet was not at war for a change. The soldiers were home except for those at military bases around the globe, those in submarines, at embassies, those involved in the training process, and the Pentagon along with strategic commands everywhere.
Barbara had worked tirelessly for the last three years hand in hand with Congress to bring jobs back home to the U.S.
Carol laughed when she thought about the First Gentleman. He hadn't been the first one in the White House, but his duties, especially at night, included keeping the President happy in more ways than one.
Barbara had met Jack Darnell in high school, brought him to New York, jumped his bones, and been happy ever since with that part of him.
A bit scattered otherwise in some ways, Jack had sired all three of Carol's grandchildren, Hannah, Jack Jr. and Hailey.
Carol shook her head.
She wasn't sure how the White House Head Usher or, for that matter, the White House antiques were faring with the energy directed their way. Carol had suggested that they install bulletproof glass around the White House china collection.
The children were just full of beans from seven a.m. to eight p.m., constantly on the go. And bright too. Hannah and Jack, Jr. knew their colors and age-appropriate numbers, were verbal (an understatement), yet had learned that in some White House situations, children did not speak until spoken to.
The lesson was not learned overnight and many world leaders and their spouses were quite at home visiting a real family with real-life kid crises and situations.
Jack loved giving speeches. He thought it a great way to get out of Dodge and get paid for it. From graduations to conventions, television appearances, it was all good. He was funny and empathetic. He was intuitive and could be dynamic.
He could yell for the right audience and sip tea with his little finger crooked, if need be, for other audiences. He was polite and respectful, faithful, honest and loved his wife and children a lot.
The Secret Service called him Rose, partly because they thought he, being a guy impersonating a First Lady, should not depart from the tradition of a certain type of radio call name for the President's spouse.
In any event, when the call for `Rose' sounded on the Secret Service network, all of the agents thought of Jack Darnell with actual good humor and general good feeling.
The other part was that Jack loved roses and asked for them to be brought in from the White House rose garden frequently for State Dinners and other formal events.
As the First Gentleman, Jack was required to approve the menu for all State dinners, invitation lists for White House social gatherings, annual Christmas tree style and might have been the go-to guy for all things decorative, except that this part of him hadn't developed much, apparently.
Fortunately, actual placing of pictures and furniture and even rugs were out of his hands. His limited authority to make real changes at the building governed the pace of change at the White House. Official White House agencies were in charge of what hung on the walls.
In the residence, the family could hang up a Rembrandt if they were so fortunate as to have one. Barbara and Jack owned one. It wasn't kept in the White House, but in the Manhattan Repository.
They did own a pair of Victor Eugene Delacroix oils and those were placed in the Residence in the hall.
Downstairs, a glacial process determined whether Gilbert Stuart's portrait of George Washington was placed right where it was or an inch to the left. No matter that so august a personage as Stuart himself denied painting the portrait.
The White House had another problem. They were beginning to think about walls. The supply of walls for portraits of past Presidents was not inexhaustible. Jack was actually happy to leave that to someone else. He had staff, an office and a schedule already full.
On occasion, he would drop in on a White House tour. Sometimes he was recognized; often he was not.
Tour group leaders behaved with deference and usually introduced him to the crowd. Sometimes there was applause, sometimes the group just stared at him while he welcomed them, but any child on the tour loved Jack on sight and kind of automatically joined a group of kids around him.
He crouched down then and shook their hands and sometimes returned their hugs and told them he was really happy they came to the Nation's house today to visit.
Sometimes he would pass out White House pencils and paper in a bag, but `it had to stay tied in a knot' until they left the tour of the big White House'.
He told them there was a lot to see and they would find a favorite thing if they just listened to the tour guide. He made them promise to be careful in the china room and asked them if they had wiped their shoes before coming in the House.
He would ask if they had been to the House before and encouraged them to come back for another tour soon.
Then he would ask, all grown up and straight-faced, if they had come by themselves. They would roll their eyes, grin and tell him Noooo' and stamp their feet a little, pointing to their teachers or parents or aunts or uncles or grandparents, giving Jack a chance to say hello' to them as well.
Jack never tired of this routine. It was magical for the kids and the change in their mood from what's this place' to wow what a place!' was a transition accomplished in a few words from him.
He saw himself as a changer of kid's thinking and had no idea where that came from. He didn't dwell much on his motives for trying to be a good dad to the nation since that made him vaguely uncomfortable, but he sure liked the job.