Chapter 3: September 27, 1975

Not yet used to the feel of the crocheted fabric, I try to adjust the kippah. I run my fingers through my hair, freshly cut into the “surfer” look so popular among White Americans in Southern California. I nearly sob every time I touch the short bangs, but my façade protects me.

I watch Mr. Russell talk to Ms. Ruth Friedman. (He wants me to call him "William" or "Dad", but I refuse.) Mr. Russell is practically statue-esque compared to Ms. Ruth’s gestures; the older Black woman speaks with not just her hands, but her entire body. She reminds me a bit of Nya, and I would smile if it didn’t make my heart ache.

The pew creaks as a man suddenly sits beside me. I pull my eyes away from animated Ms. Ruth and turn my head to the left. He’s young, especially compared to Mr. Russell, perhaps in his late-twenties. His skin is a bit lighter than Ms. Friedman’s skin, but still a few shades darker than my own. His salmon, fitted shirt screams conformity, but his tan, wide, bell bottom pants stand out against all the professional trousers this morning. His kippah is barely attached to his full Afro.

I turn back to the front and stare at Ms. Russell, who is quietly speaking to her friends. They look practically identical: Farrah Fawcett’s hair, overused red lipstick, and pencil brows.

They conformed to the social norms, and they expect me to do the same.

“This is your third week here,” the man beside me comments. “Do you like it?”

His voice is deep and warm like the comforting sun after a hard storm.

I shrug.

“Will and Edna certainly enjoyed showing you off to everyone.”

I nod, forcing my eyes not to roll. They’d placed an announcement in the bulletin, and during the first week, they had introduced me to practically the entire congregation–one person at a time–as if I was a prized purebred instead of a traumatized, eleven-year-old kid.

“That haircut was their idea?”

I nod again.

“What’s your name, kid?”

I clear my throat, preparing for the awful reply I’m expected to give now. “Joey Russell.”

He leans forward, interlocking his fingers and resting his elbows on his knees. He turns his head to force eye contact with me, then quietly asks, “What’s your real name?”

I barely smile, but it’s the first smile that’s crossed my face in a month. “Joseph Deere,” I whisper.

“I’m Richard Dawson, but you can call me ‘Rich’. What should I call you?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Russell call me ‘Joey’.”

“Yes, but when it’s just the two of us, what do you want me to call you?”

I glance at Mr. Russell, who is still occupied watching Ms. Ruth’s wild gesticulations, and back to Rich. “Deere,” I whisper.

He smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Deere.” He lightly hits his palms on his knees and gestures with his head. “Let’s take a walk.”

I look at Mr. Russell again, but Rich chortles. “Ms. Ruth and the ladies can clutch people in their grasps forever. You have time.”

He stands, and I follow, not looking back. No one calls after me; I doubt they even notice.

As he pushes the heavy door and leads me into the sunlight, I see his Chelsea boots and nearly smile again. “Beatles fan?” I try.

He looks down at his shoes and back at me. “Still hoping for a reunion I suppose,” he chuckles. “Did the Beatles make it to Canada?”

“We knew about them before you all did.”

“Like the Beatles?” he asks as he unclips the kippah from his hair.

I shrug. “They’re okay.”

“Who do you like more?”

“Buffy Sainte-Marie.”

“Sweet September morning,” he tries to sing, his bell bottoms flaring as he twirls and looks toward the sky.

I roll my eyes, but I’m more amused than irritated. “More like ‘Universal Soldier’,” I say casually.

He stops singing and falls back in stride with me. “A few years ago, a kid a bit older than you introduced me to Ms. Sainte-Marie. I like her a lot… Tell me your story,” he coaxes as we round the corner of the synagogue into a large, manicured lawn and playground.

“What do you want to know?”

“The Russells adopted you twenty-five days ago?”

I look at him, surprised by the specificity, then turn away. “Yes.”

“When were you placed in foster care?”

“Four days before that.”

“Abused?” he asks quietly.

“No,” I spit indignantly.

He looks over and meets my eyes, giving me a tiny nod as if to say ‘I know,’ and I soften my face and tone. “No,” I say again, quieter.

“Neglected?”

“No.”

“Abandoned?” he whispers, now nearly silently.

Tears flood my eyes, but I lean back and stare at the sun, forcing the water to stay in their prisons. Then I swallow to push down the lump in my throat. “Not until twenty-nine days ago.”

In the corner of my eye, I see him hesitate before gently draping his arm over my shoulders. “Your family is safe, treats you well? You’d be safe if you went home?”

I swallow again. “Yes,” I squeak.

With my back to the synagogue, he crouches in front of me. “It’s not your fault, Deere. You know that, don’t you?”

I hesitate. “Yeah.”

“It’s a broken system dictated by racism, ignorance, and misunderstanding. It doesn’t have anything to do with you specifically. You didn’t do anything wrong; you’re a victim of an idolized Western culture, understand?”

I nod again, but I know that I don’t understand things, see things, the same way that he does.

“Will and Edna are good people, Deere. They think they’re doing the right thing. They think they’re saving you from an unendurable life. They simply don’t understand what’s actually happening.”

“Why do you understand?” I mumble.

He stands and wraps his arm back around my shoulders before leading me to the swings. After we sit down, he thinks for a long moment, then looks at me. “If I tell you something, you can’t tell anyone else yet, okay?”

I nod. I can’t really explain it, but I know, without any doubt, that I trust him, and I’ll keep his secrets.

“The kid who introduced me to Buffy Sainte-Marie? He was a Cree kid from Canada. I was living in my hometown then; my life was very different, but I don’t think I’ve changed much.”

He pushes the balls of feet into the dirt and leans back onto his heels, swaying the swing. I mimic his movements, but my body’s still, my full attention on the story that I hope has a happy ending.

“His adoptive parents were good people, just like the Russells. None of us knew better until I started talking to Pilip, and I learned his story.” He sighs, then shakes his head.

My soft, almost inaudible voice conveys my optimism for a miracle. “What happened to him?”

He smiles, but it’s a tight smile, and, even at my age, I know this guy holds a deep life under the surface. He inhales slowly; he’s choosing his words carefully.

“I convinced Pilip to tell his adoptive parents the truth, and when they learned what was happening, we all worked to return Pilip to his family.” He searches my eyes. “What we did was illegal. As far as anyone else knows, Pilip lived in the States until he was eighteen, and then he made his own decision. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Deere, I can’t make you any promises other than this one: I’ll do everything I can to reunite you with your family. I’m not sure how long that’ll take, and I can’t guarantee the Russells will listen or understand. I need you to be patient with me, okay?”

“Okay.”

His thumb wipes away a tear I hadn’t felt fall. Then he sings softly, almost under his breath, “He's the one who must decide who's to live and who's to die, and he never sees the writing on the wall.”

“My mom says I’m too young to know those lyrics,” I whisper.

He brushes my ugly bangs away from my forehead. “I’m afraid you’ve grown up a bit too much in the last twenty-nine days.” He places his reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Let’s see if we can return you to your childhood, okay?”

“Okay.”

He squeezes my shoulder. When I look away from him, I see a young woman, likely his age, and twin preschool girls approaching the swings. The woman’s hair reminds me of Teresa Graves–healthy and natural. Her brows are full, she’s not wearing any makeup, and she looks comfortable in her flowing dress. She presents as if she knows herself well, and likes herself as she is. I hope that my sister grows up to be that confident.

There’s a sharp pain in my heart. I hope she’s okay–wherever she is.

“Trust me, Deere,” he whispers as he squeezes my shoulder again before strolling toward his family.

He pecks his wife on the lips, then places a hand on one of the shoulders of each of his kids. “Girls, do you remember Joey?”

The twins nod. “He came a few weeks ago.”

He keeps eye contact with me. “These are two of my daughters: Eva and Naomi.”

Eva smiles at me and casually adds, “We have an older sister too, but she’s not with us right now.”

I see sadness flash in Rich’s eyes, but he simply kisses Eva on the crown of her head. “Girls, do you want to see what everyone brought for our Saturday meal?”

“Okay!” both girls squeal as they run toward the synagogue.

He whispers something to his wife, winks at me, then runs after his girls.

I step down from the swing as his wife walks toward me. When she’s close, she crouches, seemingly apathetic to the potential dirt or grass stains.

“My name is Simone. Rich tells me that you prefer the name ‘Deere’. Is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiles. “‘Simone’ is fine. Rich is a good man with a kind heart. You can trust him, both of us, okay?”

I nod.

She opens her purse, removes a memo pad and pen, and carefully writes something. Then she tears the paper from the pad and hands it to me.

“That’s our home number. You need anything, you can call us. Day or night. Understand?”

I quickly fold the paper and push it into the front left pocket of my trousers. “Yes. Thank you.”

Like her husband, she tries to push the hideous bangs away from my forehead. “We’ll try to make sure you’re able to live the life you deserve.”

I want to hug her–both of them–but I don’t. Instead I smile at her, and place my hand in my pocket, confirming the number is still there.

She places her hand on my shoulder as she stands and begins walking. “You can do this,” she reassures without looking at me.

Rich is still chasing after his laughing girls. He looks back at us, and he and Simone share a knowing nod before refocusing his attention on the girls.

Simone pats my shoulder. “I hear Ms. Ruth made her famous kugel. Let’s return before anyone misses us.”

Misses us.

Does my real family miss me as much as I miss them?

I don’t dare ask the question.

Neither answer would anesthetize this agony.