"Then I guess I'll have to do this the hard way." You stand. "The county courthouse. Thanks for your help."
"I don't think I helped at all. But Mr. Weinberg…"
"Yes?" You pause at the gate.
"Sometimes it's best to leave the past alone."
"How I wish I could."
Cape Verde turns out to be a pleasant attractive town of twenty-thousand people, its architecture predominantly Spanish: red-tiled roofs, arched doorways, and adobe-colored walls. After the blight of Redwood Point, you feel less depressed, but only until you hear a baby crying in the hotel room next to yours. After a half-sleepless night during which you phone Rebecca to assure her that you're all right but ignore her pleas for you to come home, you ask directions from the desk clerk and drive to the courthouse, which looks like a Spanish mission, arriving there shortly after nine o'clock.
The office of the county recorder is on the second floor at the rear, and the red-haired young man behind the counter doesn't think twice about your request. "Birth records? Nineteen thirty-eight? Sure." After all, those records are open to the public. You don't need to give a reason.
Ten minutes later, the clerk returns with a large dusty ledger. There isn't a desk, so you need to stand at the end of the counter. While the young man goes back to work, you flip the ledger's pages to August and study them.
The records are grouped according to districts in the county. When you get to the section for Redwood Point, you read carefully. What you're looking for is not just a record of your birth but a reference to Mary Duncan. Twenty children were born that August. For a moment that strikes you as unusual – so many for so small a community. But then you remember that in August the resort would have been at its busiest, and maybe other expecting parents had gone there to escape the summer's heat, to allow the mother a comfortable delivery, just as your own parents had, according to your uncle.
You note the names of various mothers and fathers. Miriam and David Meyer. Ruth and Henry Begelman. Gail and Jeffrey Markowitz. With a shock of recognition, you come upon your own birth record – parents, Esther and Simon Weinberg. But that proves nothing, you remind yourself. You glance toward the bottom of the form. Medical facility: Redwood Point Clinic. Certifier: Jonathan Adams, M.D. Attendant: June Engle, R.N. Adams was presumably the doctor who took care of your mother, you conclude. A quick glance through the other Redwood Point certificates shows that Adams and Engle signed every document.
But nowhere do you find a reference to Mary Duncan. You search ahead to September in case Mary Duncan was late giving birth. No mention of her. Still, you think, maybe she signed the adoption consent forms early in her pregnancy, so you check the records for the remaining months of 1938. Nothing.
You ask the clerk for the 1939 birth certificates. Again he complies. But after you reach the April records and go so far as to check those in May and still find no mention of Mary Duncan, you frown. Even if she impossibly knew during her first month that she was pregnant and even if her pregnancy lasted ten months instead of nine, she still ought to be in these records. What happened? Did she change her mind and leave town to hide somewhere and deliver the two children she'd promised to let others adopt? Might be, you think, and a competent lawyer could have told her that her consent form, no matter how official and complex it looked, wasn't legally binding. Or did she -
"Death records, please," you ask the clerk, "for nineteen thirty-eight and thirty-nine."
This time, the young man looks somewhat annoyed as he trudges off to find those records. But when he returns and you tensely inspect the ledgers, you find no indication that Mary Duncan died during childbirth.
"Thanks," you tell the clerk as you put away your notes. "You've been very helpful."
The young man, grateful not to bring more ledgers, grins.
"There's just one other thing."
The young man's shoulders sag.
"This birth certificate for Jacob Weinberg." You point toward an open ledger.
"What about it?"
"It lists Esther and Simon Weinberg as his parents. But it may be Jacob was adopted. If so, there'll be an alternate birth certificate that indicates the biological mother's name. I'd like to have a look at – "
"Original birth certificates in the case of adoptions aren't available to the public."
"But I'm an attorney, and – "
"They're not available to attorneys either, and if you're a lawyer, you should know that."
"Well, yes, I do, but – "
"See a judge. Bring a court order. I'll be glad to oblige. Otherwise, man, the rule is strict. Those records are sealed. I'd lose my job."
"Sure." Your voice cracks. "I understand."
The county's Department of Human Services is also in the Cape Verde courthouse. On the third floor, you wait in a lobby until the official in charge of adoptions returns from an appointment. Her name, you learn, is Becky Hughes. She shakes your hand and escorts you into her office. She's in her thirties, blonde, well-dressed, and slightly overweight. Her intelligence and commitment to her work are evident.
"The clerk downstairs did exactly what he should have," Becky says.
Apparently you don't look convinced.
"The sealed-file rule on original birth certificates in the case of adoptions is a good one, counselor."
"And when it's important, so is another rule: nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"Important?" Becky taps her fingers on her desk. "In the case of adoptions, nothing's more important than preserving the anonymity of the biological mother." She glances toward a coffee pot on a counter. "You want some?"
You shake your head no. "My nerves are on edge already."
"Decaffeinated."
"All right, then, sure, why not? I take it black."
She pours two cups, sets yours on the desk, and sits across from you. "When a woman gives her baby up, she often feels so guilty about it… Maybe she isn't married and comes from a strict religious background that makes her feel ashamed, or maybe she's seventeen and realizes she doesn't have the resources to take proper care of the child, or maybe she's got too many children already, or… For whatever reason, if a woman chooses to have a child instead of abort it and gives it up for adoption, she usually has such strong emotions that her mental health demands an absolute break from the past. She trains herself to believe that the child is on another planet. She struggles to go on with her life. As far as I'm concerned, it's cruel for a lawyer or a son or a daughter to track her down many years later and remind her of…"
"I understand," you say. "But in this case, the mother is probably dead."
Becky's fingers stop tapping. "Keep talking, counselor."
"I don't have a client. Or to put it another way, I do, but the client is…" You point toward your chest.
"You?"
"I think I…" You explain about the drunk driver, about the deaths of the man and woman that you lovingly thought of as your parents.
"And you want to know if they were your parents?" Becky asks.
"Yes, and if I've got a twin – a brother or a sister that I never knew about – and…" You almost add, if I was born a Jew.
"Counselor, I apologize, but you're a fool."
"That's what my wife and uncle say, not to mention a cop in Redwood Point."
"Redwood Point?"
"A small town forty miles south of here."
"Forty or four thousand miles. What difference does any of this make? Did Esther and Simon love you?"
"They worshipped me." Your eyes sting with grief.
"Then they are your parents. Counselor, I was adopted. And the man and woman who adopted me abused me. That's why I'm in this office – to make sure other adopted children don't go into homes where they suffer what I did. At the same time, I don't want to see a mother abused. If a woman's wise enough to know she can't properly raise a child, if she gives it up for adoption, in my opinion she deserves a medal. She deserves to be protected."