Form 2 of 5 Forms

Form 2 of 5 Forms

This was a new situation for me.  Most of my interviews are eventless – I check boxes on the QF-905, write some observations in the Notes section, turn in the form to my Supervisor, and never think about the situation again.  I had come across some heart-breaking stories, and I learned not to dwell on these or to re-visit candidates on my own time. 

The first and only time I did return to an interview address on my own time was when I came across a single mother of three, all under 6 years of age, with three different last names and racial compositions.  She lived in on the top floor of a 5-story walk-up.  I imagined her toting tots and stroller up and down for a grocery run. Inside the apartment things looked poor.

My neighbor’s toddler had become potty-trained, and so they had no use for the three cases of Pampers in their basement.  After work one day, unannounced, I brought them to the Mom, thinking she could use them.   The donation was not welcome.  “Just do your job, and leave the charity to the church” she said when I offered the Pampers.  She slammed the door.  Good rule - do not personalize the interviews.

The Crushan-Clebach property sloped down gently to the banks of the Hudson River.  I knew the marina Patrick spoke of because there is a nice river-view deck there where I have had a cold beer on a hot afternoon.  The asking price for an acre of Hudson waterfront land?  The rent that could be charged the marina?  The development potential of a sub-division? 

I took deep breaths of the clean Hudson Valley air - in through the nose, out through the mouth -trying to clear them, my watery eyes and my foggy head.  Many aspects of the Crushan-Clebach application were still unclear, unusual and unavoidable, so my only course of action was to deal with them and then clear out before the smoke permeated my clothing and skin, or one of the subjects died while I watched.

I stepped inside to find bacon frying on the stove.  “BLTs for dinner” said Fidelma, “You wh – ant one?”  She was tending to the frying pan while sitting on the same chair.  “On Whh - onder bread.”

“No thank yo…Let me ask about the more unusual aspects of your application. 

“You prefer the candidate child to be 16 or 17 years old – that I think I understand, given your life expectancy, as we’ve discussed already.  The other conditions make it hard to find an acceptable candidate.”

“We have our reasons.  We have one chance to do this.”

“You require the child be of 100% Irish descent, be clearly, visibly, identifiably Irish, that is with red hair, blue eyes, freckles, be a virgin – certified so, by a doctor -- at the time of the adoption, and have had no previous religious instruction of any kind.  Further, you specify, that the candidate be one of two sisters, with no brothers.  Further, you specify –“

“Let me stop you, young man.  I can tell from your tone of voice that you do not understand.  (Pause to catch her breath.) Did you notice, perhaps, a well on this property?”

“No ma’am, I did not.  It’s not unusual for there to be wells here, though.  You are outside of town limits.  There’s no municipal water supply.”

PC: Stop it, Fi.  There’s no reason he should know.  No one ‘round here knows.  There’s not many on earth who know – or care.  It’s jus’ us hhh -- (inhale) -- angin’ on.

FC: You’re right, Pat.  Go on with your questions, young man.

“Further, you specify that the substantial funds to be inherited by this candidate be used partially to establish an Irish Catholic church somewhere on this property, near the well, though neither of you is a practicing Catholic, and the candidate child is not to have any religious background.

“Well son, when you put it that way, it sounds mi -- hhty -- crazy.  But we got good reason for every stipulation…”

The smoke and mystery was challenging my patience.  My schedule called for four more interviews that day.  “Let’s end the mystery, Mr. Crushan, what’s going on here?  What are you asking me to endorse?  What am I to be a part of – and tell me quick before I choke on the foul air in this house!”

“Pat – let me tell him.  Sit close to me, young man, so I don’t have to shout across the table.”      I moved to the seat next to her while the bacon simmered behind us.  In a low voice meant not to stress her lungs, vocal cords or stamina, so told me this story.   I relay it, deleting the pauses for the deep, continuous, soul-ripping coughing.