"Oh, really?"
He could tell Nick was a little miffed, maybe even hurt. He hurried to explain.
"Yes. I'm holding out for an older couple who've already raised a couple of kids. A young childless couple is definitely out."
"I don't get it."
"How many times have you seen Danny before?"
Bill was keeping a close eye on Danny as he zoomed around the office with his makeshift airplanes. He knew from experience that the boy could dismantle a room in under ten minutes if he wasn't watched.
"At least a dozen, I'd say."
"And how long were you with him each time?"
Mimicking the sound of an explosion, Danny rammed the two chess pieces together in a midair crash, then let them fall. Before they hit the floor he was on his way toward Bill's desk.
"I don't know. A few minutes I guess."
"Most of which time he was either on his way in and out, or sitting on my knee, right?"
Nick nodded slowly. "I guess so."
Bill leaned back in his chair and pointed to Danny.
"Watch."
In a matter of a minute, certainly no more than two, Danny had tipped over and explored the contents of the wastebasket, climbed to a standing position on the chair and inspected everything on the desktop, pounded on the typewriter, tried to work the adding machine, drawn on the blotter, opened every drawer and pulled out whatever was in his way, picked up and inspected anything that piqued his interest, then dropped it on the floor as soon as something else caught his eye, then crawled into the knee hole and began playing with the plugs on the electric cords under the desk.
"Stay away from the electricity, Danny," Bill warned. "You know it's dangerous."
Without a word Danny rolled out from under the desk and looked around for something else. His eyes lit on Nick's overstuffed briefcase and he zeroed in on it.
Nick reached it first and snatched it off the floor and onto his lap.
"Sorry, Danny," he said with a smile and a quick glance at Bill. "This may took like a wastepaper basket, but it's highly organized. Really."
Danny veered off in another direction.
"See what I mean?" Bill said.
"You mean he's like this all day?"
"And most of the night. Nonstop. From the crack of dawn till he collapses from sheer exhaustion."
"No nap?"
"Never."
"Oy vey. Was I ever like that?"
"You had your own unique set of problems, but your hyperac-tivity was exclusively mental."
"I get pooped just watching him."
"Right. So you see why I need a pair of experienced parents for Danny. They have to have the patience of Job and they have to go into this with their eyes completely open."
"No takers?"
Bill shrugged and put a finger to his lips. He didn't like to discuss the children's adoption prospects in front of them—no matter how preoccupied they seemed, their ears were usually wide open.
He clapped his hands once and got to his feet.
"Come on, Danny me-boy. Let's get you under the covers one last time tonight."
Nick rose with him, yawning. "I think I'll be getting on my way too. I've still got to drive out to the Island."
They shook hands.
"Next Saturday?" Bill said.
Nick waved. "Same time, same station."
"Bye, Nick!" Danny said.
"Bye, kid," he said to Danny, then winked at Bill. "And good luck!"
"Thanks," Bill said. "See you next week."
Bill held out "üs hand to Danny who took it and allowed himself to be led down the long hall to the dorm section. But only for a moment. Soon he was skipping ahead and then scampering back to run circles around Bill.
Bill shook his head in wonder. All that energy. He never ceased to be amazed at Danny's endless store of it. Where did it come from? And what could Bill do to govern it? Because until it was brought under control, he doubted Danny would find an adoptive home.
Yes, he was a lovable kid. Prospective^ parents came in, took one look at him—the blond hair, those eyes, that smile—and said that's the boy we've been looking for, that's the child we've always wanted. His hyperactivity would be explained to them but the parents were sure they could handle it—Look at him… it's worth anything to raise that boy. No problem.
But after Danny's first weekend visit they all tended to sing a different tune. Suddenly it was "We have to give this some more thought," or "Maybe we're not ready for this just yet."
Bill didn't hold it against them. Euphemistically speaking, Danny was a trial. That one little boy required as much attention as ten average children. He'd been examined by a panel of pediatric neurologists, put through batteries of tests, all resulting in no hard findings. He had a nonspecific hyperactivity syndrome. Medications were tried but without significant improvement.
So day after day the almost-incessant activity went on. And one after another, Danny simply wore people out.
Which somehow made Bill grow more deeply attached to him. Maybe it was the fact that of all the kids now residing in St. Francis, Danny had been here the longest. Two years. He'd grown from a shy, introverted hyperactive five-year-old survivor of a drug-addict mother who'd accidentally immolated herself while free-basing, into a bright, personable, hyperactive seven-year-old. And it wasn't so hard taking care of him here at St. F.'s. After many hundreds of residents over its century-plus of existence, the building was as childproof as any place could be. Proof even against Danny Gordon.
But the days of the St. Francis Home for Boys were numbered. The Society of Jesus was cutting back—like all the religious orders, the Jesuits were gradually dwindling in membership—and St. F.'s was slated as one of the casualties. The city and other Catholic agencies would fill the void when it finally closed its doors in another two or three years. There were fewer boys in residence now than at any time in the old orphanage's history.
As he tucked Danny into bed and helped him say his prayers, Bill wondered if he might be getting too attached to the child. Hell, why not admit it: He was already too attached. That was a luxury someone in his position couldn't afford. He had to put the child's interests first—always. He couldn't allow any sort of emotional attachment to influence his decisions. He knew it would hurt when Danny left. And although it might take some time to arrange, his adoption was inevitable—yet he could not forestall that pain at Danny's expense.
But he was certainly determined to enjoy Danny while he was here. He had grown attached to some of the other boys in years past—Nicky had been the first—but most of them had started out at St. F.'s a few years older. Bill had been watching Danny grow and develop. It was almost like having a son.
"Good night, Danny," he said from the bedroom door. "And don't give Father Cullen any trouble, okay?"
"'Kay. Where you goin', Father?"
"Going to visit some old folks."
"Those same old folks you see all the time?"
"The same ones."
Bill didn't want to tell him he was making one of his regular trips out to visit his own parents. That would inevitably lead to questions about Danny's parents.
"When you comin' back?"
"Tomorrow night, same as ever."
"'Kay."
With that he rolled over and went to sleep.
Bill returned alone to his own room where a half-packed overnight bag waited. If he stepped on it he could probably make it to his folks' place before one A.M.
As usual, Mom had waited up for him. Bill had told her over and over not to do that but she never listened. Tonight she was swathed in a long flannel robe and had her usual motherly kiss and hug for him.
"David!" she called. "Bill's here!"
"Let him sleep, Ma."
"Don't be silly. We have plenty of time for sleep. Your father would never let me hear the end of it if I didn't wake him when you arrived."