She ignored the question. ‘Ten o’clock OK?’
I said that it was.
‘Cool,’ she said, and the line went dead.
Using the house key I’d given Georgina in case of emergency, Julie let herself in the front door a little after ten the following morning. ‘Aunt Hannah!’
‘I’m in the kitchen,’ I called.
Julie breezed into the room, slipped a backpack off her shoulder and let it drop to the floor. She made a beeline for the fridge and helped herself to a cold Coke. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked as she ripped off the metal tab.
‘Too late for minding,’ I said with a laugh.
Ignoring the Coke for a moment, Julie took a deep, exaggerated breath. ‘God, it smells good in here!’
‘I’m baking chocolate chip cookies,’ I said, reaching for an oven mitt. ‘This is the last batch.’ I pointed to the cookies already cooling on racks on the counter, then opened the oven door. ‘Help yourself.’
Using her free hand, Julie stacked three cookies on top of one another, then carried them over to the kitchen table. After I’d turned off the oven and racked up the remaining cookies, I poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a warm cookie and joined her.
‘So,’ I said, getting straight to the point. ‘What’s on your mind?’
Julie pressed her hands, palms down, on the tablecloth. ‘I’ve decided to take a gap year.’
This announcement surprised me. Julie had seemed excited about starting her freshman year at Towson University in the fall. She’d even gone to Target with Georgina, shopping for the mini-fridge and microwave oven every college student seemed to require these days, as well as stocking up on cartons of ramen noodles.
‘What about Towson?’ I asked.
‘Everybody’s taking gap years,’ she said. ‘Even Malia Obama.’
Presidential daughters aside, I doubted that everyone was delaying college by a year to go off on some extra-curricular, horizon-expanding adventure, but decided not to challenge her.
‘Towson’s totally cool with it,’ she added.
‘How about your parents?’ I asked, thinking that Scott was rarely totally cool about anything that didn’t fit in exactly with his plans.
‘Even they know I’m not a mental giant like Sean or Dylan,’ she said with a ladylike snort.
‘So instead of hitting the books at Towson, what will you do?’
‘I’m not really sure,’ she admitted. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Before I talk to my parents.’
Swell, I thought.
‘Look,’ she said, leaning closer across the table. ‘I’m in my prime! When else will I have no job, no significant other, no kids to hold me back? The answer is never!’
I simply stared, letting the truth of what she said soak in, but Julie was just warming up. ‘I can travel to new places, make new friends! I want to volunteer somewhere, Aunt Hannah. Make my life count for something!’
‘I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, Julie,’ I said with a smile, ‘but becoming a global citizen might require a bit of money.’
She dismissed my concern with a flick of her hand. ‘I know that! That’s why I’m looking at VISTA. It’s kind of a domestic Peace Corps. They give you a modest living allowance.’ She paused. ‘And health care.’
‘Don’t you have to be a college grad for VISTA?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘According to their website, you have to be at least seventeen.’
I felt Julie’s eyes on my back as I carried my coffee mug over to the sink, rinsed it out and inverted it over a peg in the dishwasher.
‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you, Aunt Hannah?’
I turned to face her. ‘I don’t think you’re crazy at all, Julie. But I know your parents fairly well, and I suggest you do your research very thoroughly before springing this idea on them. Is there a guidance counselor at Poly you can talk to?’ I asked.
Baltimore Polytechnic Institute, located at the corner of Falls Road and Cold Spring Lane, was one of Baltimore’s highly-ranked magnet schools, specializing in STEM: science, technology, engineering and mathematics. Julie’s grades at Poly, while not stellar, had been solid.
‘I emailed for an appointment this morning,’ she said. ‘So stay tuned.’
I assured her that I would.
‘Oh!’ Julie said, suddenly leaping to her feet and retrieving her backpack. After unzipping the front pouch and rummaging inside, she produced what looked like a novelty key chain. She held it in front of me where it tick-tocked like a pendulum: a miniature Yoda from Star Wars. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it over. ‘I almost forgot.’
‘Cute,’ I said, ‘But what is it?’
‘A flash drive,’ Julie said. ‘You pop off his head.’
I wrapped my fingers around the tiny Jedi Master.
‘I thought it might help,’ she said in what turned out to be the understatement of the year.
I looked up. ‘Help with what?’
‘It’s my raw DNA data. I downloaded it at the public library when my test results finally came in.’ She shouldered her backpack and turned toward the door. ‘But don’t tell Dad. He’ll go ballistic.’
I squeezed Yoda a bit tighter.
‘Take good care of it,’ Julie said. ‘Dad’s got this crazy hang-up.’
‘So I gathered,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to upload it this afternoon.’
‘Do or do not,’ Julie quoted. ‘There is no try.’
‘Funny girl,’ I said. ‘Did you keep a copy?’
Julie shot me a dismissive blink that made me feel like an idiot.
I was quick to catch on. ‘Duh, right?’
Julie tapped her forehead with an index finger. ‘But I deleted my Gen-Tree account. Just in case Dad asks me …’ She paused. ‘He can always tell when I’m lying. Best not to take chances.’
TEN
After a hasty lunch – cream of mushroom soup and a peanut butter sandwich – and with Yoda curled in my hot little hand, I traipsed downstairs to our basement office and powered up the computer.
For everything to work properly, I’d need to set up an account separate from my own to hold Julie’s data. And if Scott were as All-Wise-and-All-Knowing as his daughter feared, I’d need to protect her identity. After some thought, I chose her initials and birth year: JLC2000 and linked the account to a Gmail address I sometimes used for Internet purchases. Then I uploaded Julie’s test kit data.
Julie would also need a family tree. I’d already built an extensive one for the Alexander-Smith side of the family. Fortunately, the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints had developed GEDCOM – GENeaological Data COMmunication files – that enabled one to share genealogical data from one software program to another. Creating a family tree for Julie was as simple as downloading the Alexander-Smith GEDCOM from my account and uploading it to hers, then linking Julie’s individual family tree record to her test kit. While Julie’s DNA was out there, I kept her family tree strictly private. If anyone should inquire about possible matches, they’d have to go through me.
It would take a few hours, I knew, for Gen-Tree to verify, process and crunch the new data, so I spent the afternoon reorganizing our bedroom closet, making a pile of gently used clothing I intended to donate to Purple Heart.
My head was deep in the closet, my hand reaching for a pair of prehistoric brown and green plaid trousers when Paul, home early from the Academy, breezed into the bedroom.
‘Don’t you dare throw those away!’ he barked.
I dropped the hanger and pressed a hand to my chest. ‘And don’t you dare sneak up on me like that! You scared me half to death.’
‘Those are my lucky pants,’ he explained.
‘You weren’t even born when these pants were popular,’ I said.
‘Don’t be silly.’ He stooped, picked up the hanger and smoothed the trousers gently over it. ‘I rocked that plaid in the seventies.’
‘I’ll bet they don’t even fit,’ I said
.
Paul checked the label inside the waistband and flashed a sheepish grin. ‘You’re right, but I’d hate to see them go. I shot a hole in one at Oakmont while wearing those pants.’
‘You don’t even play golf anymore, darling.’
‘There is that,’ he admitted.
‘And you gave your golf clubs to Dennis a couple of years ago,’ I reminded him.
‘I wonder if he’s using them?’ Paul mused as if contemplating a quick snatch-back from his sister Connie’s husband.
I gave him the evil eye.
‘OK, you win,’ Paul said, tossing his lucky trousers onto the donation pile. ‘But if the Ravens don’t advance to the Super Bowl this season, it will be all your fault.’
‘I’ll try to live with the shame,’ I said.
Paul sat down on the edge of the bed and unlaced his shoes. ‘So, what did young Julie want?’
I explained about the gap year.
‘Oh, oh,’ he said. ‘That spells trouble.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘While I was strolling down memory lane in the closet just now, it occurred to me that Scott might be strapped for cash. Sean and Dylan are starting graduate school in the fall, and Georgina mentioned that Colin was transferring to Friends. Tuition at Friends is almost twenty-eight thousand. I looked it up.’
‘For a fifth-grader?’ Paul whistled. ‘And we thought putting Emily through Bryn Mawr College was a financial stretch.’
‘I don’t think Scott would want to deny Julie a college education,’ I said, ‘but Towson runs about twenty-two thousand. Scholarships and loans go only so far. He might welcome a year’s respite.’
Paul stretched out on the bed, propped his hands behind his head and eyed me speculatively. ‘Interesting that he seems to have no trouble shelling out for the boys.’
‘Don’t get me started!’ I said, and quickly changed the subject before I could launch into a fruitless, anti-Scott rant. ‘Julie brought me another surprise.’
‘Oh?’
I told him about Yoda and Julie’s test kit. ‘I’m waiting for her kit to process now.’
‘What do you hope to learn from Julie’s test results that you don’t already know from your own?’ he asked.
I flashed him a toothy grin. ‘That Scott is mostly Hispanic or Asian? That would be positively delicious.’
Paul laughed out loud. ‘You have an evil mind, Hannah Ives.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
As it turned out, Scott was in no danger of being blackballed from his snooty club. Based on the DNA he’d handed down to his daughter, Scott’s pedigree was as Italian as his name, Cardinale, would suggest. And Julie’s Native American ancestry was also confirmed.
I texted Julie with the news:
Italy 30%
England/Wales 28%
Native American 13%
Ireland 10%
Greece 10%
Sicily 7%
Norway 2%
A few minutes later my niece got back to me with a thumb’s-up icon, followed immediately by a smiley with its mouth zipped shut.
I replied with a heart and the ‘speak-no-evil’ monkey, then returned to my research.
I logged on to my family tree, rather than Julie’s, reasoning that I was one generation closer to my grandparents than she. Because I’d linked both of our data to the DNA matching service, I was ridiculously relieved to see that the first thing that popped up when I clicked on ‘DNA Matches’ was that Julie and I were ‘Close Family’.
I had no first cousins that I knew of. My mother had been an only child and my father’s only brother had died childless. But the list of possible second, third and fourth cousins that followed Julie’s listing made me gasp. I scrolled through the list, looking for familiar names, but most people, like Julie, were identified by cryptic screen names.
Concentrate, Hannah. Think.
Charlotte Drew Smith was my grandmother. In order to share Charlotte with me, a person would have to match at the first cousin level. But no first cousins were listed. That didn’t mean that no first cousins existed, just that they weren’t part of the Gen-Tree database.
A second cousin, then, with a shared great-grandparent.
I began a methodical search down the list of possible second cousins, clicking on each entry and examining our relationship. If the person were linked to a family tree, Gen-Tree’s ‘Shared Match’ function made the task simple. I eliminated several Alexander and Collinson cousins on my father’s side that way.
If no family tree had been linked to a person’s DNA results – maddeningly often – or if that person’s family tree was set to ‘private’, the only option was email.
So I emailed potential matches, keeping it short and simple.
Hello, cousin! My name is Hannah Ives. According to Gen-Tree, we share a common ancestor. Would you be willing to give me access to your family tree so I can learn how we are related? I’d be happy to share my tree with you, too.
Around four-thirty, Paul came downstairs to check on me, carrying two glasses of chilled Pinot Grigio. ‘How are you doing?’
I accepted the glass, clinked his in a toast and took a grateful sip. ‘Relatives are multiplying like guinea pigs left to their own devices with unlimited access to sugar.’ I took another sip and gestured at the monitor with my wine glass. ‘When a three-times great-grandmother has ten children, the cousins that accumulate at the bottom of the family tree can number in the thousands.’
‘What’s that?’ Paul asked suddenly, leaning in so close I could tell he’d eaten an Italian sub for lunch.
‘What’s what?’ I asked.
‘That.’ He tapped the monitor where a miniature pennant was flapping over the box labeled Paul Everett Ives.
‘It’s a hint for you,’ I explained, moving the mouse until an arrow hovered over the pennant. ‘I thought I’d checked out all the hints yesterday, but it looks like we’ve got a few new ones.’
When I clicked the mouse a single suggestion appeared. ‘This looks interesting,’ I said, clicking again. A page from a high school yearbook materialized on the screen. Several dozen fresh-scrubbed youths, dressed in band uniforms, sat in a semicircle holding their instruments. I adjusted my reading glasses and squinted at the screen until I could read the list of names underneath the picture. ‘I didn’t know you played the trumpet in high school!’ I said.
‘Very badly,’ Paul said with a grin.
‘I’m saving this record for posterity,’ I said as I added the entry to my husband’s Gen-Tree profile.
A second flapping pennant caught my eye, this time for my grandfather, Stephen Axford Smith. Holding my breath, I clicked. According to the state of Vermont, a Congregationalist minister in Randolph had joined Stephen Smith and Charlotte Drew in holy matrimony on October 15, 1932. I added the record to my grandfather’s profile, linked it to my grandmother’s, then flopped back in the chair. ‘Whoa!’ I muttered, as the significance of the date sank in.
‘When was your mother born?’ Paul asked, although I suspected the question was rhetorical. Paul knew very well when my mother was born.
‘May 25, 1933,’ I reminded him.
I didn’t need to count on my fingers to figure that out.
When her great-granddaughter Chloe was born, tipping the scales at ten pounds, my mother, citing herself, had quipped that hefty babies ran in our family. If these genealogical records were correct, Lois Mary Smith, my mother, had been a nine-pound-fourteen ounce, seven-month preemie.
ELEVEN
Behind my eyelids it was summertime. The honk of a car horn, the slap of a screen door and Grandma Smith – all flowered aprons, broad smiles and damp, cinnamon-ginger hugs – waiting for me on the stoop. Now it seemed disrespectful to be counting backwards on my fingertips, trying to determine exactly when my mother had been conceived. A full-term pregnancy was, what, approximately forty weeks? Back in high school biology class, persnickety, prune-faced Mrs Garfield had glossed over human ges
tation periods.
According to Professor Google, the average length of human gestation is two-hundred-and-eighty days from the first day of the woman’s last menstrual period. I sagged in my chair; like I’d know when that was for Charlotte.
Somebody should invent a reverse conception calculator, I thought as I typed in the terms on the Google search bar. To my surprise, a website named babyMed had, saving me from having to count backwards on my fingers. When I plugged my mother’s birth date into their online calculator, it estimated that she had been conceived on September 1, 1932 and that Grandmother’s last period had begun on the eighteenth of August. Only four percent of babies are born on their estimated delivery day, the website cautioned, but for my purposes, early September was close enough.
Where had Charlotte Drew, just turned twenty, been living in September of 1932? In Vermont, I presumed. When she married Stephen Smith there the following month, she would have missed only one period. Had she even known she was pregnant?
There had been Indian tribes in New England for centuries before the colonists came. By the 1600s most had moved west, into Canada, or had been assimilated. Every school child knew that. According to Wikipedia, though, remnants of the Abenaki, Mohican and Pennacook tribes were scattered throughout the state of Vermont to this day, but none of these groups were federally recognized. Was a young man from one of those tribes our Native American connection?
With renewed determination, I launched the Gen-Tree website and pulled up my grandmother’s record. No pennants were waving to attract my attention to a new fact. I stared at Charlotte’s image for a long time, as if willing her to explain everything to me. I’d uploaded several family pictures to her gallery, but for her icon, I’d chosen the photo from her wedding day. The bright blue eyes, the plump lips, the rosy glow – had Charlotte been the quintessential radiant bride, or simply a pregnant one?
I slapped my own cheek. Behave yourself, Hannah! The two were not mutually exclusive.
Since Gen-Tree had no suggestions for me, I decided to do a deep dive into early twentieth-century US census records. Using the Advanced Search option, I selected Charlotte’s father, my great-grandfather Josiah Drew, and requested the 1920 census for Vermont. I found the Drews almost immediately living in South Royalton on Chelsea Street. Josiah, head of family with Jane, his wife, and Charlotte, age eight. A son, Adam, was also listed, age five.
Tangled Roots Page 5
