“In spite of considerable effort,” Mr. Morgan Waterford said, “I must tell you that we have not yet been able to locate your birth certificate. We have not developed any credible information on the identity of your father, although we suspect that he might have been the founder and first owner of the Museum of the Strange, which we understand, in carnival parlance, is commonly called a ‘ten-in-one.’ That person seems to have gone by five different names during the first two years of the enterprise before then selling it to Captain Forest Farnam, and not one of those five individuals has a true history. In other words, they are five false identities. In each case, there was a wife, each with a unique name. As none of those five women has a true history either, we assume they were the same person living under false identities. The possibility exists that this woman might have been your mother, but we have no evidence of that. We do not know who she is or where she is—or if she’s even alive. Finally, Captain Forest Farnam. He earned the rank of captain as an engineer in the US Army. In 1905, he left the Army in order to work for the noted engineer John F. Stevens on the construction of the Panama Canal. He died there of malaria in 1906. No doubt about that. His name began to appear once again in various public records beginning in 1909. We have been unable to discover who your Captain Farnam might have been before he stepped into a dead man’s shoes. I regret to say, young lady, in regard to the investigative aspect of our assignment, we’ve served you and your guardians less well than we had hoped.”
“No, sir,” I said. “You’ve told me more about Captain than I ever learned during all the years I was under his thumb.”
This was followed by more lawyer talk about the laws governing adoption, which were less complicated in those days. I had spent the past three months learning the ways of the family, having adventures with the Clyde Tombaugh Club, and worrying about somehow being made to return to Captain and the Museum of the Strange. As I listenedto Mr. Waterford, I began to realize that during that time, Franklin and Loretta, through their attorneys and otherwise, had used their contacts and influence successfully. The point of this meeting was not to prepare me for bad news, but to educate me so that when I signed the papers swearing I understood what the Fairchilds were offering me and what I was accepting, I would be as informed as the law required. Because I was not an infant, I legally had choices to make as to my future. And because I was not a fool, I made the right choice, accepting the incredible gift that this family had given me. When Mr. Waterford produced from his attaché the sheaf of adoption papers, I signed them with alacrity even though my trembling hand twice dropped the pen.
Included in the adoption was a name change, and not just from Farnam to Fairchild. As long ago as the few days that we had spent at the Beverly Hills Hotel, I had expressed the desire to shed both names Captain had conferred on me so that I would not think of him every time someone addressed me. Having given this considerable thought, my guardians arrived at a name that was enough like Alida for me to adjust to it, but which possessed a different meaning and inspired a different nickname. Adiel, pronouncedadd-e-l.
“Adiel,” said Loretta. “It might lead some to call youAddie, but it seems to us that’s more pleasant than being calledAlley.”
“You’re free to pick another name if ‘Adiel’ doesn’t resonate with you,” said Franklin.
“It resonates,” I assured them. “It sounds just swell. It sounds like who I always should have been.”
I didn’t ask how they arrived at it or why it appealed to them, because at that moment all I cared about was signing those papers before the moment popped like a bubble and I discovered that I’d been dreaming.
Although I had been surprised that the adoption was to be finalized, everyone else at the Bram had known and kept the secret. In celebration,Chef Lattuada had prepared a special meal. Although the food was fit for royalty, the best thing was that everyone, not just the family, sat together at the extended table. Harmony, Anna May, Lynette, the Symingtons, Mr. Reinhardt, and Luigi stayed late, quite late—thirteen for dinner. The number presented no risk of bad luck because we counted Rafael as number fourteen. There was much laughter, and I discovered that even some laughter could make me cry. I had destroyed the reputation that had been my armor. I was no longer the toughest, most hard-boiled freak of all freaks. The best thing about the event wasn’t, as I had first thought, that everyone at the Bram sat down to a celebratory dinner with me. The best thing was that theywanted to.
Twenty-Eight
The rest of December passed as if the four weeks were only one. Christmas trees were set up and decorated in the entrance foyer, the living room, the dining room, and the library. Fireplace mantels were draped with evergreen garlands that would be replaced as they grew dry and discolored. Mr. Stan Laurel with his wife Lois and Mr. Oliver Hardy with his wife Myrtle came to dinner on the fourteenth. In their short films, Laurel had been funnier than Hardy, but at the table, at least on that occasion, Hardy was the funnier of the two. Their wives were more amusing than either of their husbands—which made for a lovely evening but might have been why both marriages ended in divorce.
By Friday the nineteenth, beautifully wrapped gifts began to be arranged under the tree in the living room, and every morning a few more appeared as though by the visitation of elves during the night. On the afternoon of the twenty-first, we children gathered around the breakfast table with Franklin and Loretta to receive a status report on our individual trust funds. I was surprised that a fund had been established for me and amazed by the amount with which it had been opened. I insisted I had no need for my own money. Franklin counseled me that one day I certainly would have a use for it. More would bedeposited in every fund each December. There would also be annual appreciation of the assets. Each of us was required to decide how much to give away this year. A charity was named, and we were expected to be generous though not irresponsible.
Brow furrowed and eyes squinted, Franklin said, “This court is now in order. Three of you rich little snots have been through this ritual in previous years, and Adiel will have a painful education in the process.”
Gertrude objected. “I don’t like being called a ‘rich little snot.’ I demand to be called a ‘rich little booger.’”
“And I,” said Isadora, “demand to be called a ‘rich little hocked up glob of phlegm.’”
“I second their demands,” Harry declared. “Those are perfect names for them.”
“And Harry,” said Gertrude, “should be called a ‘stinky rich little fart boy.’”
“Your father and I,” said Loretta, “will certainly take your demands under advisement later tonight over an illegal beverage. Adiel, do you have something else you’d rather be called than a ‘rich little snot’?”
“I’m content with that, Your Honor.”
Isadora warned, “Don’t be a suck-up, Adiel.”
“Okay. I demand to be called a ‘rich little pus pimple.’”
The ritual, the process, and the expectation of this kangaroo court was this: As each of us children suggested a figure to donate to charity, the two judges would gently and with humor mock us for being Scrooges in the making or for mistaking ourselves as Rockefellers. Because I owned the newest fund, my suggestion of 10 percent was met with approval. As for the other three, each ideal contribution depended on the age and success of the fund—13 percent for Harry, 15 percent for Gertrude, and 17 percent for Isadora. The siblings, well versed in this ritual, howled at the unfairness.
Having money of one’s own was miraculous, and giving it away was more fun than I would have imagined back when I didn’t have any. “It’s not a sin to live well if you’ve earned it,” Loretta told me. “But it’s shameful not to share. The two most dangerous human flaws are greed and envy. Some unfortunate people have both, and therein lies the cause of all wars, most murders, and untold suffering.”
Harry said, “I object. Your Honor is preaching from the bench.”
“Denied.”
“I object,” said Gertrude. “I’m greedy and envious, and I don’t feel unfortunate at all.”
“Denied.”
“I object,” Isadora said, “on the grounds that I’m bored.”
“Me too,” Loretta and Franklin said in unison. “Court closed.”
During the months I’d been free from Captain, I had discovered much about families that confirmed what I learned from novels. One of the best discoveries I made at the Bram was that if everyone in the family loved and respected one another, even the dullest tasks could be fun. Of all that one generation might leave to the next, one of the most important legacies is laughter.
