Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [121]
“Did you indeed?” Philbrick asks, appraising her closely.
“I spoke with a sister there.”
“Mother Marguerite Pelletier, I suspect,” he says. “Small but formidable?”
“Very.”
“And you survived.”
“Barely.”
“Go on.”
Olympia takes a breath. “The sister would tell me only that my son’s name is Pierre. And that he has been placed out.”
“You did not know the name of the child before?”
“No, I was never told. It was not a subject my father would discuss with me.”
“No, perhaps not.” Rufus Philbrick dabs at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “You want to know where your son is?” he asks.
“Yes, yes, I do. I want to know his whole name. I want to know where he is, with whom he is living. I want to know if he is well.”
“And?”
She folds her hands in her lap. “I could lie to you,” she says, “and tell you that I wish merely to ascertain if the boy is well, but I do not want to be false with you if I am asking for your help. My hope is that one day I may have him to live with me.”
Philbrick seems to take in the whole of her now, as if gauging her moral weight. He folds his fingers under his chin. “This is a very grave undertaking.”
“Yes, I know that,” she says. “But I cannot say truthfully to you that I will not try to win him back. He was taken from me, stolen from me one might say, and I am heartsick at the loss. I have already lived with this for some time now. I believe I have paid a heavy price.”
Philbrick is silent. He adjusts his tie and looks down at his large stomach, as if assessing its comfort. Then he leans forward, emphasizing the seriousness of what he is about to say.
“I have always regarded you, Olympia Biddeford, as a responsible and gifted young woman. I confess I was shocked and saddened at the events which occurred four summers ago. It seemed so unlike you, I hardly knew what to think. I was distressed for your father, of course, who was my friend, and I was very concerned about Mrs. Haskell and the children. I am sorry to bring this up again, but these things must be said.”
“Yes.”
“Actually, I was not as shocked to hear of a child as I might have been. It is, sad to say, a not uncommon occurrence. Hence, the existence of the orphanage.”
“Yes.”
“But let me ask you this, Olympia. Are you prepared to take a young child, barely more than a baby, from his home? From the only mother he has ever known?”
She has thought about this question and has rehearsed her response. “She is not the mother,” Olympia says quickly.
Philbrick shakes his head. “You have wronged one family already. I am sorry to say this harshly to you, but there it is. Are you quite certain that you wish to do this again? Surely you do not expect a foster mother to give up her child so easily?”
“He is not her child,” Olympia repeats.
“I doubt very much the woman in question will see it that way.”
“But what if the woman is not caring for the boy properly?” she asks. “What if she has many other children and thus little to go around? What if she is Franco? Indeed, she almost certainly is Franco to judge from the name of the boy. Do I want a child of mine to be raised in a culture he was not born to?”
“But what if the mother is a loving, caring woman?” Philbrick asks. “Does station or income or culture matter in such a case? Do you not think of what is best for the child?”
“I do,” Olympia cries. “I do. And I think I shall be best for the child. I have some means. I have no other responsibilities. I know that I can take good care of the boy. That I will be a good mother. I sincerely believe this.”
Olympia hears the note of near hysteria in her voice and tries to compose herself. “Mr. Philbrick, I cannot argue my case, for it is an argument written in the blood of my body. It is a debate more heartfelt than reasoned.”
Philbrick stands up then and walks to a window.
“Am I to be eternally punished by not even being allowed to know the whereabouts of my own child?” Olympia asks. “Shall you not