Orfyn

 

 

Two days after Take This Cup and Rosa disappeared, I’m summoned to Sister Mo’s office.

It’s more crowded than I’ve ever seen it. The Bishop—the Bishop!—has commandeered her well-organized desk. I’ve endured more than one lengthy lecture from where he’s seated. Father Burke, looking quite shoved aside, hovers behind him. Taking up the chairs against the wall are two men wearing stern expressions and even sterner suits. Not going-to-church suits. Power suits. One is in a charcoal hue, and the other is the color of cold, blue slate, like gathering storm clouds. The man in charcoal ruffles through his briefcase, and the other scrutinizes me as I stand in the doorway.

Sister Mo is in a chair normally reserved for us kids. The mismatched chair next to her waits expectantly.

A nun and an orphan in a room packed with men in suits and clerical collars. My heart starts racing.

Sister Mo stands as I enter, and when she does, the others jump to their feet. Even the Bishop. I know it’s her way of exercising control. Get your respect, you, she always says.

“Please, make yourself comfortable, Kevin.” The Bishop waves majestically toward the empty chair. It’s startling to hear him say my name, and it’s probably not a good thing that he knows it.

Only after Sister Mo lowers her imposing, six-foot-tall frame do I sit as directed, but I am far from feeling comfortable.

The Bishop clears his throat. “As I was saying, Sister, this is good news. A blessed success.”

“We have procedures, Your Excellency.” Sister Mo’s tone is respectful, but it’s clear she’s not about to do whatever it is he wants her to do. Unwavering. “There is not even an application.”

Application?

“We’re approaching this particular case more pragmatically,” the Bishop says.

“There are laws to protect a child. Don’t you agree?” Her eyes shoot to Father Burke.

He becomes fascinated by a picture hanging on the wall. I painted it for Sister Mo when I was eight. He’s seen that amateurish depiction of a Jamaican beach a hundred times, but it’s as if he’s stumbled into the Sistine Chapel, and no way and no how can he take his eyes off the ceiling.

The Bishop gestures to the man in charcoal. “Our attorney assures us this is legal, ethical, and without exposure.”

The lawyer clears his throat and holds up a document. “Yes, Sister. Everything has been followed to the letter of the law.”

The man in the gray-blue suit—the color of dusk and danger—says nothing. Does nothing. He’s the only person I don’t think anyone has looked at or spoken to. One thing for sure, he’s no social worker.

What’s going on?

Father Burke clears his throat. “The church encourages every adoption.”

The Bishop nods sagely, as if Father Burke’s words were scripture. “This is a gift from God.” And then his eyes land on me.

Someone wants to adopt me? I’d given up on that hope years ago. All of us here at St. Catherine’s have. We’re the ones who failed to interest potential parents when we still had a chance as sweet-smelling babies.

Sister Mo rises and confronts the man in the gray-blue suit. “Finding the right home is essential.” Her eyes bore into him. “I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

My head is spinning. Parents? A house? Maybe even a dog?

“You need to gain his trust.” Sister Mo’s eyes grab hold of him. “And that takes time.”

They remind me of two street dogs sparring to see which looks away first.

“Is he going to be my parent?” I ask.

“Oh, no, Kevin,” the Bishop explains. “This gentleman only represents the adopting party.”

Why is the Bishop even here? I can’t believe he has the time to get involved in every adoption. Something is off—like, a painting-being-sandblasted-from-an-alley-wall off. Blues and yellows and reds wash over me. Confusing and exciting and scary, as if I’m about to meet the ghost of Rubens or something.

The Bishop steeples his fingers. “Sister, this boy has a chance for a real future. You’re certainly not going to stand in his way.” It isn’t a question.

“We appreciate your diligence, Sister,” the man in gray-blue adds. “But this meeting is merely a courtesy. The adoption has already been finalized.” As easy as breathing, he reaches into his jacket, slides out an envelope from an inside pocket, and hands it to Sister Mo.

She makes no motion to accept it. “What is this?” All certainty has faded from her voice.

“A court order.”

“I’ve reviewed the document. It’s all in order,” the church’s lawyer states.

“Who will be the mother? Who will be the father?” Sister Mo asks as her eyes challenge each one of them.

The lawyer leans forward. “I don’t think that’s the correct way to look at—”

“I don’t see the harm,” the man in gray-blue says. “The boy has been adopted,” he extends his right palm, “by the Darwin Corporation.”

“A corporation! That is … that is … inhuman!” Sister Mo sputters.

The man in gray-blue calmly answers, “The Darwin Corporation can provide Kevin with a wonderful home and amazing opportunities he would not otherwise have.” His eyes hold less sincerity than someone selling sunglasses on the street—less sincerity than the word corporation.

Sister Mo’s face fills with hurt. A revulsion to the thousands of wrongs done every day by men wearing suits and robes. This is not a typical adoption.

“Why me?” I ask.

“The Darwin Corporation’s mission is to further young people’s talents,” answers the man in gray-blue. “You will be part of a very special mentoring program for the Arts.”

I suddenly get the feeling he knows a lot more about my life than he should.

Father Burke adds, “Did we mention there will be a very generous honorarium, much of which will go to support St. Catherine’s?”

Sister Mo’s face takes on an ashen hue. “We do not sell our children.”

The Bishop’s eyes narrow. “You misunderstand, Sister. The Darwin Corporation is simply making a donation. It would be wise not to read anything more into it.”

The lawyer speaks up. “Sister, it is important for you to understand that the Diocese and all its associates are bound by a Non-Disclosure Agreement. If you speak of this adoption to anyone, there will be serious repercussions for you and for the orphanage.”

“Has anyone asked Kevin what he wants?” Sister Mo asks, finally looking in my direction.

Okay, I won’t get parents, or a dog, but they’re offering me a mentoring program. I’m being given the chance to evolve into a true artist, one whose work will last longer than a mayfly. I never dreamed that someone like me could ever have my paintings hanging in a gallery. But it could happen for real if I were mentored.

I want this chance.

And if the man in gray-blue had anything to do with erasing Take This Cup, then maybe he did it to save me from facing the consequences of my own stupidity. It really could be a coincidence that Rosa and her mom moved out that very same morning.

I study Sister Mo’s eyes. The eyes always ready for battle. The eyes that make every one of us feel loved. The eyes that look more tired than I’ve ever seen them.

I put my hand on her arm. “It’s all right, Sister. I want to do this.”

“You will regret this.” She glowers at the man in the gray-blue suit, but I have no doubt who she’s really talking to.

The man in gray-blue stands and buttons his jacket. “Not likely, Sister.”