Baby

In 1989 MORROW asked me to participate in a story contest. No, not to enter, exactly; to judge. The contest was intended for thirteen- or fourteen-year-olds who attended the NEW

YORK IS BOOK COUNTRY fair in the fall. I try to oblige my publishers, so I agreed. This was unpaid labor, but as I remark elsewhere, all non-novels are essentially unpaid labor for me, even when they are paid. In this case I was to write the beginning of a story, and then select the winning conclusion from the half dozen or so finalists. I did this, and that was that.

Somewhere I made a note of the identity of the winner, but I mislaid that note, so I don't remember. I did inform the publisher of the winner, however, and trust that the prize was duly given. One concern of mine is that the first reader of the entries could have overlooked some of the best stories. I've seen that happen elsewhere, and I've seen the prize go to a friend of a sponsor or judge. All I can say is that my part was honest, and I hope the rest was.

One little touch I tried for was to have the birth date of the baby in the story be the same as the date of the Book Fair. But I didn't know that date. So I filled in an approximate one and asked the publisher to correct it to the right one.

So this story is unfinished, deliberately. Let your imagination finish it.

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Acalia was annoyed. "Adoptions?" she demanded. "Hiram, I'm a good free-lance features writer. In fact I'm a good reporter! I want something meaningful."

The editor shrugged. "It's what our readers want. You shouldn't expect to change the world by the stroke of your pen. I'm sure you can make it interesting."

"Just as I've been making fashion shows and debutante parties interesting," she snapped.

"You think that because I'm a woman, all I can do is blah female stuff. I want something with teeth in it!"

"Consider it a challenge," he said.

She really had no choice. This was the only newspaper in town, and she couldn't afford to move elsewhere. Fuming, she took the list of contacts and marched out.

But as she got on her way, she pondered the matter of challenge. An article was what the writer made of it. Was there any way she could make this into an item that shook the world?

It seemed doubtful, but if it could be done, she was going to do it.

Her preliminary research suggested that these were not conventional adoptions. They were gray-market or even black-market, the origins of the babies shady. Were any of them diseased, or stolen, or were the adoptive parents being held up for huge sums? There just might be something volatile here, if she could get a line on it.

She phoned the first name on the list, explained that she was doing a feature on adoptive babies, and asked to visit for an interview. The man was not eager, but she managed to make it seem that the adoption could be in jeopardy if he didn't agree. Soon she was on her way there.

It was an upper-middle-class subdivision, a good environment for children. The couple was white, and their new baby was a beautiful blue-eyed boy, brimming with vitality. Yes, they admitted reluctantly, they had paid a hefty sum to get this baby, but the papers were all signed and they had been guaranteed no interference from the mother.

By means of careful prying, Acalia got information on the weight, length and date of birth of the baby: seven pounds, six ounces; twenty-one inches; October 15, 1989. She tried to get the name and address of the black-market dealer, but evidently the couple had been warned against that. Their lips became tight, and sealed.

Well, it was a start. But her hope to find a diseased or drug-addicted baby had been dashed; there was nothing like that here. She thanked the people and departed.

The next family was in a "changing" neighborhood, not slum but hardly where anyone would live if he had much choice. The adoptive parents were black, and so was the baby.

As before, they were open about the baby statistics and close-mouthed about the actual source. But this was a beautiful and clearly healthy girl, surely worth what they had been able to afford. Still no world-beating story.

The third family was Oriental—and they had a perfect Oriental baby, that matched them so closely there was no casual way to tell he wasn't their natural son. He was healthy and vigorous. Still no story.

Acalia pulled into a fast-food place for a hurried meal in her car. Something was nagging her, and she hoped it was her investigative sixth sense. Was there something about these adoptions that she could make into a real story—one that would put her on the front page instead of the dull features section?

She reviewed her notes on the adoptions. She still had no information on the adoption agency; nobody was talking. But she should be able to ferret that out from court records.

There was absolutely nothing physically wrong with those three babies; she had never seen healthier ones. Not even any blemishes. They were all recent, as was to be expected, and all of normal weight and length. Seven pounds six ounces, twenty-one inches, coincidentally, for all three.

Coincidentally? Her sixth sense sounded an alarm. No investigative reporter believed in coincidence. Feature writers did, maybe, but not the hard-hitting types. How likely was it that three quite different babies had identical birth dates, weights and lengths?

Well, it was possible that the outfit placing them was careless about records, and just listed set figures for any baby, rather than taking the trouble to weigh and measure. Same for the listed date of birth. But now Acalia realized that she had seen a remarkable similarity in those babies. The body types, the facial features—all babies looked somewhat alike of course, but still these were very close. If the white baby were dyed black or yellow, and the eye colors changed, it could have passed for either of the others. Sure, one was a girl, but she fit the same mold. The three were like triplets, differing only superficially.

"I think I'm on to something!" Acalia breathed.

She had a number of other names on her list. If those matched the type...

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