Free Happy Family by Tracy Barone Page B

It was only last Tuesday when they were all watching game seven of the World Series on the black-and-white Zenith. Moms with the baby sleeping on her shoulder; Pops pacing, yelling at Ralph Terry to strike the batter out. It was another World Series title for the Yanks, and the Beals were all on their feet, nobody louder than Moms, who caterwauled like an overgrown cheerleader. Pops tackled his sons and they banged into the coffee table, knocking empty bottles of beer into a couple of discarded BB guns on the floor.
    Later, when Moms came around for her good-night hug, she sat on the corner of Billy Beal’s bed and shook her head. “I tried,” she said. “Look at me, son, it’s important that you hear this right.” Billy Beal stared at the ceiling. “We can’t keep the baby any longer, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.” The week before, he’d heard Pops hollering bad at Moms and he’d discovered Pops sleeping on the couch the next morning. So Moms’s news didn’t exactly come as a surprise. Billy had also heard what Moms had to say about orphanages and state services; the baby deserved better. Billy Beal had touched the girl’s pendant, six times front, six times back, and asked the universe for an answer. He asked and asked until he remembered the man who’d come to the clinic.
    “Walter Pembroke, Esquire,” was how he’d introduced himself. He’d come to the clinic right after the Fourth of July and spent a while talking to Syl behind the check-in window. Afterward, he’d walked up to Billy Beal and explained that he was a lawyer who represented good families who were looking to adopt babies. Billy Beal had never seen a man whose briefcase matched his shoes. He had no idea why this person was bothering to talk to him. “You look like a sharp fellow,” Esquire said. “I help people in difficult situations; you understand what I’m saying, son? You call me if you know someone who needs my help. A lady who, for whatever reason, can’t take care of her baby herself. I help. And if you help, there’s something in it for you too.” Just before the lawyer reached the exit, he trotted back to Billy. “Did I mention they should be white? White babies only.” Billy took the man’s card.
    After Moms said good night and left his room, Billy leaned over the baby’s crib. “Don’t worry,” he said, “everything’s going to work out fine, you’ll see.” Walter Pembroke, Esquire, was the answer.
      
    But Moms had caught wind of what was going on with Esquire—Billy was lousy at keeping a secret—and insisted on speaking to the lawyer-man to see if he and his potential clients passed her sniff test. Then and only then would she get in touch with the agency she fostered for and put them in touch with him. Moms further insisted that she personally deliver the baby to the new parents. Pops got in the game and said, “Make it farking sooner than later,” and before Billy Beal knew it, Moms had her coat on and the baby packed and was saying if he didn’t step on it she was leaving without him. Moms had a hinky feeling about meeting in a parking lot and wasn’t about to let the baby go to some kook. So Billy Beal’s standing outside of the station wagon in the HoJo’s lot, chewing a wad of Bazooka, waiting for Moms to come back with some clam rolls and soda. Billy Beal peers into the backseat and wiggles his fingers at the baby. He checks the parking lot for Esquire but the place is dead.
      
    Sol’s palms sweat as he turns the leatherette steering wheel to make an illegal U-turn. Pembroke said to meet at the HoJo’s near his office but Sol must have taken the wrong exit off the Garden State, because he doesn’t see the familiar orange-and-turquoise sign. It must be the next exit up. Does he see a cherry top in his rearview mirror, a few cars behind him? Did a cop see him make the turn? What if the police pull him over? How will he explain riding around with four thousand dollars in cash, enough