Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [143]
“Oh my God,” Johnny said to Eliza. “Did they do that at the hospital?”
“Jude did it.”
“She had hair before,” Johnny said to the man. To Eliza, he said, “The doorman let me up. But I thought I should knock.”
“Thoughtful,” said Eliza. Over her shoulder, Johnny caught Jude’s eye, then abruptly dropped it. He was not here to return any punches, Jude saw. He had some more formal method of retaliation in mind.
“He might as well hear this, too. Can I come in?”
The visitors did not sit down. Jude stood by the piano, arms crossed, the foliage of Eliza’s hair scattered at his feet.
“Who’s this?” Eliza asked, nodding to the man with the briefcase. Whoever he was, Jude was grateful for his presence, for the excuse not to get into another confrontation with Johnny. He wore a precise mustache, a pair of metal-framed glasses, and too much of an expensive cologne. Where had Jude seen him before? The temple? He recognized some feature, the narrow span of his shoulders, the controlled way he moved his body, as though he hoped he would appear not to be moving at all.
“This is Ravi Milan,” said Johnny. “He’s a lawyer. He’s Teddy’s dad.”
Eliza and Jude didn’t move from where they stood. Ravi did not extend his hand but nodded politely at each of them. “I have great respect for the life you’re carrying,” he said to Eliza.
“That’s his friend Jude,” said Johnny.
“That’s not his dad,” Jude said. “Teddy’s dad’s dead.” But the eyes, the small, fragile hands . . .
“I’m sure you have many questions,” said Ravi. “I’m happy to answer them—”
“But we have business first,” Johnny finished.
Ravi stepped over to the piano bench, set down his briefcase, and opened it. Out of it he produced a handful of printed pages, bound with a black plastic clip, which he handed to Eliza. Over her shoulder, Jude squinted to read the letters: PETITION FOR ADOPTION.
“What is this?” she asked Johnny. “You put on a tie and you think you can adopt my kid?”
“That’s not what it says,” said Johnny.
“Did he tell you we didn’t sleep together?” Eliza asked Ravi. “That we’re husband and wife, but he’s been sleeping with someone else? Should you tell the judge that? Did he tell you he doesn’t have a job, an apartment, a fucking phone—”
“Miss, if you’ll read the form—”
“This is what you’ve wanted the whole time. Why didn’t you just say so from the beginning!”
Ravi, looking over her shoulder while remaining as far from her as possible, pointed to the typewritten entries on the bottom of the first page:
PETITIONER(S): Ravi and Arpita Milan.
RELATIONSHIP TO ADOPTEE: Grandfather, stepgrandmother.
Ravi said, “My wife and I would like to adopt your child.”
Neither Jude nor Eliza heard much after that. Intermediary parties, open adoptions, hearings, consents. Eliza was screaming, a blue vein pulsing under her stitches. Amidst her protests, Neena arrived from the grocery and spilled a plastic bag of canned spinach across the floor. Ravi bent to help pick up the cans. First uncertainly, then like old friends, he and Neena chattered on in a language that no one else understood.
Twenty-Two
Jude took the 1 train to the 7 to the 6, piecing together Manhattan. At home, Les was on the futon, snipping dried leaves into the bucket between his knees. He packed some fresh bud into the bowl of his newest bong, Raquelle. “You look like you could use some of this,” he said.
Jude imagined the smoke rising up to fill his lungs. The sweet taste of ashes.
“No, thanks,” he said. He went to the bathroom. He took off his father’s clothes. He turned on the cold water in the shower and stepped inside. The man with the briefcase was still there in his head, Teddy’s ghost come back to haunt him.
At eight o’clock the next morning, the phone in Ravi’s hotel room rang. He rinsed the shaving cream from his face, patted it dry, and, in his bathrobe, crossed the room to the TV to turn down the morning news. On the fourth ring, he picked up the phone. It was the young man he’d met