The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  It takes more than a decade to research each branch of my family history as far back as the records will allow me to go. I’ve connected more than five thousand names to the family tree, but John’s father, William “The Immigrant” Lindsey, still eludes me.

  At this point, in 2016, the only way I can connect William to one of the families in Ireland is to take a DNA test. The genetic markers in my DNA will firmly establish which branch of the Lindsay clan is ours. Then, hopefully, I can use that connection to find the information I need to link William to the Lindsays of Ireland.

  I access my Ancestry.com account and open the DNA tab. They offer three different tests: the paternal Y-chromosome DNA, the maternal mitochondrial DNA, and the autosomal DNA. I read through the descriptions of each test and decide on the Y-chromosome test because it follows the male lineage. Then I pay for the test and hit the submit button.

  The kit arrives a week later. I rip open the box and look through the contents. I carefully read the instructions. It seems simple enough. I read the instructions again, not wanting to make a mistake.

  Open tube.

  Spit into tube.

  Seal tube.

  Place tube in the return envelope.

  Mail the envelope.

  I unscrew the cap on the tube. The instructions want me to spit into the tube, but I’m more of a drool-on-command sort of guy. It takes a few minutes to transfer the required amount of spit to the inside of the container. The cap goes back on. Then I put the tube in the envelope and send it off.

  The instructions give an estimated wait time of six to eight weeks before receiving the results, but they don’t mention the anguish I’m already feeling. These tests should include a warning label like pharmaceutical manufacturers do when they list the side effects of taking their medication.

  Still, how bad can it be? The Great Lindsay Quest has already taken twelve years. Another “six to eight weeks” should pass like a fleeting moment in time . . . right?

  Chapter 3

  The DNA Results

  I know better than to expect my test results any sooner than eight weeks, but I check my Ancestry account every day after the six-week mark. Week eight arrives; Ancestry announces an unusually high demand for the service and extends the delivery date by another two weeks.

  Frustration over the slow response time gnaws at the last of my patience. Two can play at this game. I take their added wait time and raise them two more weeks for the typical things-always-take-longer-than-expected adjustment. I vow not to check my account again for another month, two weeks more than necessary—just to show Ancestry, my ancestors, and family history in general who the real boss is in this situation.

  Who’s too cool for school now?

  I almost make it the full month. A few days short of my targeted boycott termination, I slip into my office and sit at the computer. It’s late at night, and the house is silent. The world outside my window is black. I log in to Ancestry.com and find that my DNA test results are back. In the next few moments, I will discover what secrets are contained within my spit.

  A fluttering sensation passes through my stomach. I feel like a kid on Christmas Day, getting ready to open the biggest, most colorfully wrapped present under the tree. Scenes flash through my mind of what it will be like to finish the Great Lindsay Quest. I even picture a Holy Grail kind of ending where I place my foot on a conveniently placed stone and dramatically raise a shiny sword in the air, proclaiming the search to be over at last.

  The DNA section of the website opens to a brightly colored pie chart depicting my ethnic components. A map sits next to the chart, the colors of my ethnic backgrounds marking the portions of Europe where my ancestors originated. Great Britain is the main ingredient in my genetic soup. The drab-yellow shade representing Britannia accounts for 64 percent of my heritage and covers England, Wales, Scotland—I knew I was Scottish—and a small part of Northern Ireland where the Scotch-Irish settled.

  I lean closer to the computer screen and examine the yellow blob on the map. In addition to Britain, yellow covers portions of Belgium, the Netherlands, and France. A larger green blob extends up from Germany and overlaps Great Britain’s sphere of influence on my historic past. No surprises there. My mother’s side of the family is mostly from England and Germany. But based on the family history work I’ve done for both Mom and Dad, I expected a larger percentage of English heritage.

  As I look at Great Britain’s boring yellow hue, I become distracted for a moment. Western Europe is teal. Eastern Europe is represented by a lovely shade of grass green. Ireland and Scotland are light blue, Scandinavia is dark blue, and Finland and Western Russia are purple. That makes sense, I think. Finland is cold; and purple is the color of people’s lips after they’ve taken a dip in a frozen lake. But shouldn’t Ireland be green?

  Ireland is known as the Emerald Island. It’s the land of leprechauns who hide their pots of gold at the end of the rainbow and chase children who try to steal their Lucky Charms . . .

  I realize my mind has wandered off at the same time I’m silently declaring that Ireland should be green, just like people who spend all day in the hot sun should be . . . red.

  And then it hits me that the colors aren’t indicative of a region’s landscape or climate­—they represent what percentage of your heritage comes from each particular region. The higher the percentage, the “hotter” the color. It’s sort of like a grown-up version of the hot-or-cold game.

  “Am I Russian?” I ask.

  “No,” says Ancestry.com. “You’re ice cold.”

  “Am I . . . Irish?”

  “You’re getting warmer,” Ancestry taunts.

  My eyes roam over the map, placing family names on the countries where I know they originated. England . . . Scotland . . . Germany . . . Denmark . . . France . . . Poland.

  Poland?

  I don’t have family from Poland. My research goes back to 1800 for most of my lines. All the branches have names that fit the countries where the family originated. There are no Romonovs, Bartollonis, or Kowalskis in my family tree. Not that there is anything wrong with those names or heritages, I just happen to know who is in the family and who isn’t.

  A forbidden romance with a member of a gypsy tribe might account for a tiny amount of Eastern European blood to register on my chart, but I have more ancestry there than in Western Europe, according to this map. That can’t be right. Maybe I have a different idea of which countries belong in Eastern Europe than Ancestry does. I study the grass-green blob on the map.

  Western Poland, Czechia, Austria, and the eastern portion of Germany all fall into the overlap area between my Western Europe and Eastern Europe heritage. It has to be my German ancestry that’s causing the surprise result, but the manner in which the grass-green blob extends all the way to the eastern edge of the Ukraine concerns me. Could some of my family come from areas located more in the center of that blob? The DNA testing seems to have created another mystery rather than solving the one.

  Any new puzzles will have to wait for another day. I want answers, and so I move on to the DNA Matches tab. That is where the real magic will happen. Distant relatives who have succeeded in finding their ancestors in Ireland will have family trees already filled out. With any luck, some of my cousins in Ireland will have contracted the genealogy bug too and searched the church records in Fintona. All I need to do is skip through the forest of names until I find one I recognize. Easy-peasy.

  The first family tree on the list indicates that the DNA donor is a close relative, possibly a first cousin. My heart rate soars. I can hardly wait to find out how this person is related to me. The discovery of relatives who share my enthusiasm for family history is a real game changer. We can share notes about our research, hunt the missing branches of our tree together, and swap exciting stories about our discoveries over a double-cheese-and-pepperoni pizza. I should have t
aken the DNA test years ago.

  I open the family tree and see that my cousin’s name is Petrauschke.

  P - E - T - R - A - U - S - C - H - K - E.

  This isn’t right. I don’t know anyone name Petra . . . Petrauski. I mean . . . Petraushe. However it’s pronounced, I don’t have any relatives with that name. I’m not even sure I have any relatives who could pronounce the name.

  I close the family tree and look at the relationship again. The information hasn’t changed. “Close family—1st cousin,” it claims. My family isn’t that large. I know all of my cousins, and this person isn’t one of them.

  The DNA testing lab must have mixed up the samples, like hospitals switch babies at birth. I’ve waited three months for the results. And the wrong ones were sent to me. I mumble a few derogatory remarks about the DNA lab and stomp out of the office.

  “Going for a walk?” asks my wife as I pass through the living room. She’s busy knitting, or crocheting, or something she does with yarn and a couple of big needles.

  “Can you believe it? They mixed up my DNA results with a person named Pet-something. How can they do that? The two names don’t look anything alike.”

  LuAnn shakes her head and offers me a sympathy tsk. “Those things happen.”

  “I’ll be back in a little bit,” I tell her as I march out the door.

  Walking helps me think. It also gives the neighbors an opportunity to watch the crazy man talk to himself. Twice around the block and I have the beginnings of a carefully worded email rattling around inside my head. LuAnn is already in bed by the time I return. I head straight into my office and contact Ancestry, telling them about their mistake and demanding they remedy the situation.

  That should do it, I tell myself.

  At the back of my mind, my inner voice responds with, Are you kidding? A big company like this is never going to admit they made a mistake.

  I don’t bother to watch for Ancestry’s response. Disappointment weighs too heavily on me. Even if they admit to a mistake, it will be another three or four months before I receive the correct results. And if they deny any error on their part, I can’t afford a second test. In my current mood, this game of electronic hide-and-seek has become a symbol of failure.

  Thanksgiving is just a week away. My frustrations are temporarily pushed aside with dreams about mountains of smoked turkey, buttery mashed-potato craters filled with lakes of gravy, marshmallow-topped sweet-potato casserole, pumpkin pie buried under fluffy whipped-cream clouds, and yummy-yummy deviled eggs.

  Ah, the promised land!

  An email notification tells me that someone—besides Ancestry—has left me a message. Several distant cousins have exchanged family history information with me in the past. The possibility of one contacting me with a new piece of my family history puzzle is enough to lure me back on to the website.

  Turns out it isn’t one of my genealogy buddies.

  The name looks familiar, but I know it’s not one of the surnames from my family tree. Although polite, the stranger basically asks, “Who are you?”

  Frankly, the question irks me. No matter how nicely worded it is, the message still comes across as a bit arrogant. What makes this person so special that he can flounce around the Ancestry site asking people who they are? I half expect him to pull out his electronic credentials identifying him as a member of a secret DNA police agency.

  “Who are you?” I ask as I scowl at the monitor. Two can play at this game.

  John Lodge tells me my DNA profile is showing up in his results but he doesn’t recognize any of the names in my family. The data indicates that we’re second or third cousins, and he’d like to work together to find the connection between our family trees.

  Maybe he doesn’t belong to some subversive genetics cult after all. I let him know the only two possibilities: “Someone in his family had an affair that no one has admitted to, or there’s been a mistake in the DNA testing. My money is on the latter.”

  Wait a minute . . . An affair?

  The idea comes out of nowhere as I type my response. That would change everything. I send off the message and open my DNA results.

  A quick look at several of these Petrauschke ancestors reveals they’ve planted roots in New Jersey. And based on the information I see, it seems none of them has ever strayed far from the area. No one from my family lines has lived in that part of the country—ever, I think. A DNA testing error seems even more likely, but I continue. One of the biggest things I’ve learned about family history research is that you have to follow any and all leads all the way through.

  My six closest “matches” all include the same person in their family tree. If there’s a connection between our two families, it has to be through her.

  Born in New Jersey. Died in New Jersey.

  It doesn’t look good for Ancestry.

  Married in Arizona.

  There’s a connection after all.

  I check the dates. She lived in Phoenix when my both of my parents’ families moved here. An affair resulting in a first-cousin match for me has to mean one of my grandparents was involved. I eliminate the grandmothers. There would have been no way for them to conceal a pregnancy from the rest of the family. My maternal grandfather died before I was born and never stepped foot inside Arizona. That leaves Grandad.

  If the DNA test results are correct . . . Dad has a brother no one knows about.

  Several reactions clash with one another inside me. Concern rises and takes center stage as I worry about how this will affect my dad and whether I should tell him. Curiosity ignores Concern and jumps around like an excited puppy, eager to meet the new members of the family. The Spirit of Adventure dons his investigator hat, ready to seek out the truth about who these people are and how the events unfolded that led us here. And in one tiny corner of my mind, a dark specter giggles at the thought of scandal within the family.

  I rush out to the living room to tell my wife. She’s working on making baby toys out of yarn. “Dad has a secret brother no one knows about.”

  “Isn’t that exciting,” she says with as much enthusiasm as she uses to announce that Sunday dinner is ready. It’s taken years of marriage for me to get used to her calm demeanor. Most of the time, it isn’t a matter of my wife not caring about what I tell her. She just doesn’t feel the need to jump around, scream and shout, or exhibit any of the other unnecessary emotional outbursts.

  “Right?” I say as I point at her and nod. Then I retreat back to my office.

  Even though I’m busting at the seams to call Dad and tell him about my suspicions, I wait until Thanksgiving so I can talk to him in person. There doesn’t seem to be a right approach to breaking this kind of news to someone you love. I can’t just walk up and say, “Dad, you have a brother you never knew about.”

  I try several lines out loud, hoping one of them will sound supportive.

  “Hi, Dad. Do remember what a rascal Grandad was?”

  Nope.

  “Dad, how were your parents getting along when they moved to Phoenix?”

  Not any better.

  “Dad, how do you feel about surprises?”

  My lines are getting worse. I decide to wing it. Maybe something in our conversation will give me a good starting point for the delicate discussion.

  Dad arrives early. My stepmom gives me a hug and then continues into the kitchen to talk with my wife, my mom, and the rest of the ladies there. The football game is about to start, but I mute the sound to make sure I have Dad’s attention.

  “I took a DNA test. The results came back with matches to a family I don’t know. Do the last names of Bennet, Collins, or Petrauschke sound familiar to you?”

  “Nope.” Dad’s attention drifts back to the television screen. The beer commercial that’s on depicts a room full of impossibly perfect people sitting around a poker table, toasting one
another.

  Ten seconds and I’m already in danger of losing him. “The results show I’m connected to these families through a first cousin. Which means one of my grandparents had a child the rest of us don’t know about.”

  “Uh-huh.” Even without the sound, the television is winning the battle to keep Dad’s interest. I move in front of him and block his view. He looks up at me.

  “Grandad is the most obvious candidate for having another child. I think you might have another brother. One you’ve never met.” I watch to see how reacts.

  Dad laughs. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  It isn’t the reaction I expected. The news hasn’t shattered his world. If anything, it feels as if Dad is accepting this as one of the grand jokes life plays on each of us from time to time.

  “Dad was a character, all right.” He nods and smiles. “There might even be more.”

  I sit on the couch, unsure what to say. All that worry about hurting Dad’s feelings and instead he gives me, “Wouldn’t surprise me.” His lack of emotion leaves me too mind-numbed to speak.

  Dad saves me the trouble. He points to the television. “The game’s started. Can you turn up the sound and find out when dinner will be ready?”

  A week after Thanksgiving, Ancestry notifies me of another message. I waste no time retrieving it. Dad may not be interested in finding out more about his secret brother, or sister, but I’m eager to get as many details about what happened as I can. In his last message, John promised to contact me if he discovered anything new during his research.

  This new message isn’t from John.

  Another researcher from John’s family asks me, “Who are you?”

  I roll my eyes. Not another one of these guys. He introduces himself as John’s brother. I resist the urge to go through the whole “Who are you?” routine again. I tell him the theory about my grandfather having an affair.