I finally connect the Lindsays to a royal line and it happens to be one that includes an infamous villain in popular fiction. Does that mean the next time I watch a Robin Hood movie I need to root for the bad guy? That isn’t any fun. I already know he’s going to lose. And it will make me look like an idiot if I sit there during the movie and chant, “King John. King John. Go-o-o-o-o Lackland.”
Wait until the rest of the family hears about this. They may not be excited about being related to King John specifically, but they should still enjoy the royal connection. I close out of all of the genealogy programs, websites, and documents.
What about the Petrauschkes? Do they have a royal branch in their family tree? I consider checking Tammy’s research on Ancestry to see if she has been able to track any of her lines that far back but decide against it. I can only imagine what sort of tarnished historic figure might be connected to me through that line.
On Monday, like clockwork, I receive another email from Tammy.
“The description of your dad made me chuckle. My dad has been collecting John Wayne movies and memorabilia for years now. He has quite a collection. You probably didn’t know this, but the Cowtown Rodeo is fairly close to us. It’s been around since 1929.”
Not much of an email. I hope it’s only a matter of Tammy being extra busy and unable to spend too much time exchanging messages with me. The alternative is that, along with her dad’s reluctance to accept me as his son, the Petrauschkes have taken our relationship as far as they intend to take it.
It takes several tries to compose my response. “For the most part my kids are like yours; they haven’t said much about the situation. Although Merlin asked me today, ‘Does this mean our name really isn’t Lindsay?’ I told him this situation wasn’t going to change any of that.
“I look forward to establishing contact with Bill. I hope you won’t mind me speaking my mind. The shock of this revelation has worn off, the event itself has settled in my brain, and I want to embrace all of you as family . . . at least to the extent any of you may want to do that. Obviously, it’s not my fault I was born. Nor is it my fault I didn’t know about you. Or your fault that you didn’t know about me. You, Bill, and Joe are just as much family as the siblings I grew up with here in Arizona. The only difference is that we have not been given the chance to celebrate, or curse, our relationship with one another. I hope the three of you feel the same way. Or will feel that way eventually.
“I hope taking the paternity test will help your dad. I don’t want to push myself on him, but I can’t help thinking that if I were in his position, I would want to know that I had another child and at least have one chance to meet that child during my life. I am concerned for his position in this situation. I know it has to be tough on him. Even though I’m okay with having a new batch of siblings, I’m still kind of jittery about having a second father.”
Am I making a mistake opening myself up to Tammy? Once I hit the send button, it will be too late to change my mind. I go back and forth between thinking it’s time to move forward with our relationship and worrying that the Petrauschkes will reject me. Friendly email chats are one thing, but deciding to embrace them with the email equivalent of a family hug is something else altogether.
The decision boils down to the fact that I want to know these people better. They are my family, and families are supposed to love one another. I can’t let the fear of them possibly rejecting me prevent me from reaching out to them. The potential emotional rewards are too great to let my insecurities stand in the way.
I send the message.
Then, since I’m feeling brave, I call Dad and arrange for my visit next week.
Midway through the week, Joe sends me a text. “Hey, bro, how are you? Haven’t been on the PC, so I figured I’d just say hi.”
It’s just an ordinary message, I tell myself. The kind siblings send to one another all the time. But what makes this so special is that it comes from a brother I’ve never met. A brother I’ve never shaken hands with. A brother I’ve never hugged. A brother who barely knows me. And Joe makes it sound as if we’ve known one another all our lives and he simply wanted to drop me a quick reminder that he’s thinking about me.
Not only that, but I’ve been “bro” from the beginning. How can he accept me so quickly? Maybe he’s just as conflicted about this situation as I am, but he doesn’t show it. All I know is the message chokes me up more than I think it should. I feel even closer to this family I’ve never met.
I respond, “Doing well. I’ve been planning to call you. How are you?”
“I’m alive,” texts Joe.
“I should hope so, or else I’d be texting a ghost.”
“True,” says Joe.
I watch for five minutes, but no more texts come through.
The DNA test kit arrives on Saturday.
On Monday, I send all the children off to school and call Dad to let him know I’m driving out to see him. He’s disappointed I’m not bringing the grandkids but happy I’m coming over. The long drive gives me plenty of time to think of a good argument to convince him to take the test.
When I arrive, I knock on the glass back door and let myself in. They have a new dog, an Australian shepherd, who barks at me as he hides behind Dad’s easy chair.
“Quiet, Billy,” Dad growls. He struggles out of his chair and gives me a hug.
“You named the dog after your brother?” I ask.
“Yep. I thought they kind of looked alike.”
Dad sits back down and turns off the television. “Where are the kids?”
“School,” I tell him. “The state gets upset if I don’t send them on a regular basis. Besides, I can only put up with so much of their fighting before it drives me insane”
Dad grunts and nods like he’s been there a time or two in his lifetime.
“I’ve been working on family history again,” I say. “It turns out that one of the Lindsay branches leads to King John of England.”
Dad arches an eyebrow. “Really?”
A grin spreads across my face in anticipation of Dad being on the other end of a genetic bombshell. “They call him King John of Lackland. He’s the worst king England ever had. When you watch the Robin Hood movies, he’s the bad guy.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” says Dad. “Your grandfather always claimed we were descended from horse thieves. This fits right in with what he told me.”
“Whoa there, cowboy,” I tell Dad. “The way I see it, the advantage of having two dads is I can pick and choose which family dynamics apply to me. You are my dad, but King John isn’t related to me—just you. And, of course, Mark and Jana, when I tell them the good news.”
Dad laughs. It’s the same laugh he used when he heard the news about me being the milkman’s son. The same laugh that lets me know Dad never takes himself too seriously.
“Can’t argue with that,” he says.
“Since we’re on the topic of family history,” I say. “I need you to take a DNA test.”
“What the hell for?” Dad growls. “It doesn’t matter if I’m your biological father; you’re still my son. I love you, and that’s all there is to the matter.”
“I love you too, Dad. But this isn’t about proving whether we are related by blood. I need your DNA so I can continue with my genealogy research. I’m at a dead end with finding out where the original Lindsay immigrant is from. All you have to do is spit into a little tube, and I can match your DNA to other Lindsay families and gain a better idea of where to look for more records.”
“Oh.” Dad nods. “Why didn’t you say so?”
The instructions on the kit state to avoid eating or drinking anything for thirty minutes before the test. Dad turns the television back on and watches an old western. He takes a swig from his insulated cup, and we have to start the timer over.
“Dad, no eating or
drinking for thirty minutes.”
“That’s a stupid rule.” He sets the cup as far away as he can reach. Then he gives me a disapproving look. “Why do you even do family history?”
“Because you asked me to,” I remind him.
He grunts and returns to watching television. I stop him—twice—from putting anything in his mouth that will spoil the test results. Thirty minutes pass, and I hand him the tube. He fills it to the halfway mark and then says, “It’d be easier to spit if I had something to drink.”
“But then the lab would be testing your drink and not your spit,” I tell him. “Unless you want me to find the ancestors for your drink, I suggest you keep at it. Just imagine how good that beer is going to taste when you finish.”
It takes another five minutes, but he manages to reach the this-is-enough-spit line on the tube. I seal the tube, pack it away, and hand Dad his drink. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”
I give him a hug and then drive home. The kids are in the house, playing video games when I arrive. I don’t see any blood or severed limbs, so I figure they were all right while I was gone. We exchange a shortened version of our usual ritual greeting as I pass through the living room. Then I fill out the return envelope, drop the tube inside, and take it out to the mailbox.
The kit says to expect results in six to eight weeks.
Previous experience tells me otherwise. I really hope there aren’t any more surprises.
Tammy responds on the following Monday. “I was surprised at all the emotions I felt when I first found out I had another brother. Now that it has sunk in, it’s exciting to get to know you and your family. Although a sister would have been nice. (LOL) I have been blessed with wonderful sisters-in-law. And I’m not the oldest anymore.
“I think it might be sinking in for my dad. He really had no idea he had another child. He didn’t recognize the picture of your mom. That would have been only about five or six months after his stroke. I don’t know if that would have anything to do with him not remembering. I haven’t really talked much about it with him.
“When we found out who my dad’s dad was, Bill was going to change his last name. But after that long, it didn’t make sense to do it, and he forgot about the idea. Good luck with your dad’s DNA test. Hope nothing too shocking shows up.”
If I had Petrauschke for my family name, I’d want to change it too. I’m still not sure how to pronounce it. The situation is different for me, though. From what Tammy has written, her dad basically grew up without a father. He didn’t have an emotional connection with the man whose name he was given. But in my situation, I love my dad, and I like our family name. Before this moment, I hadn’t even considered changing my name. It’d be a slap in the face for my Arizona family.
Even if I decide to change my name to match my actual bloodline, it won’t be Petrauschke. It’d be Lodge. My New Jersey family and I would still not have the same last name. I mouth a silent “Thank you” to Bill. His decision to abandon the name change makes the matter a nonissue for me.
“One last thing—Mom found this song and thought it was funny. At least we are not this bad.” Tammy included a link to YouTube.
The link takes me to a video of “I’m My Own Grandpa” by Ray Stevens, complete with an illustration of the family tree described in the song. I laugh as I listen to the lyrics about the ridiculous family in the song. And while the situation in the song is vastly different from my own, it feels somewhat relatable.
It amazes me that my new stepmother knows about this song and suggested Tammy send me a link to it. Of all the people in my New Jersey family, she’s the one who has the most reason to resent the situation. Instead, she has the uncommon presence of mind to approach our relationship with humor. What an astounding woman. Her action reminds me of the teasing my brother and sisters give me on a regular basis. The fact that she can laugh at all of this makes her feel like family. It makes me feel closer to all of the New Jersey crew.
“I’m glad to hear you’re excited about having an older brother,” I write. “When you get around to talking to your dad about the situation, I’d be interested in hearing about it.
“Thanks for the song. It makes me feel better knowing the situation could have been even stranger than it is. Besides, I was talking to my brother, Mark, and he mentioned how awesome all of this is. He looks at it as a bigger family and lots of fun getting to know one another. Now that I’ve communicated with you, I’m glad to have another sister. I expect the same will hold true for Bill and Joe being my brothers. Have a great week. Chat with you more soon.”
Months pass as I wait for the results of Dad’s DNA test. Tammy and I continue to exchange emails, sharing more and more details about our families. The folks in New Jersey are no longer just a list of names pinned to a location on a map. They have lives and personalities.
I find out that Tammy’s mom is called Babe by most of the people who know her. Tammy doesn’t tell me why, but I imagine it has to do with her mom’s petite size. I can’t picture myself walking up to her someday and saying, “Hey, Babe.” It just sounds creepy when it applies to anyone besides my wife. I already have two women I call Mom—my mother and my mother-in-law—why not three?
The decision about what to call Mrs. Petrauschke is much easier to arrive at than the one I’m still struggling with. The one about what to call my father. In time, that one should work itself out as well.
Babe . . . I mean Mom, posts cooking tips on Facebook. They don’t inspire me to cook them for my family, but they look delicious. She posts a recipe for Crock-Pot beef vegetable stew that catches my attention. I’m making a mental list of how many ways I could unintentionally massacre the simple instructions in the recipe when a notice pops up. There’s a message from Ancestry in my email. Dad’s test results! The way my alert system works—or doesn’t work—it’s likely that the message has probably been there for at least a day.
I switch to my Ancestry account and spend a few minutes figuring out how to pull up Dad’s test results instead of mine. As expected, his DNA summary looks entirely different from my own. He has fewer ancestors in Great Britain than I do and none in Eastern Europe. Of course, this isn’t about comparing our heritage for differences, it’s about finding where the Lindsays lived in Ireland.
The section on DNA matches should be the key to unlocking that mystery. But as I move the cursor to access the matches, I notice a message waiting for me. The message is from a person named Susan. A person I don’t know. With the hope that it contains a piece of evidence that will take me closer to solving the Great Lindsay Quest, I open the message.
It says, “Greetings, cousin!”
Oh no. Here we go again.
Chapter 10
The Joke’s on Me
How many DNA surprises can one person have? Logic dictates an individual should be limited to just one. A family member takes the test, a few weeks later the results arrive, and BOOM. It turns out someone in the family isn’t related to the others. Or that they’re related, but not in the way everyone thought.
I’m the milkman’s son. Surprise! I get it. Let’s move on. There’s no need to drag any more of my family members into the cruel joke. When is this going to stop? I mean, how many stinking skeletons can be in my family closet?
The argument of whether I should read the rest of the message or just delete it rages inside my head. I’ve had enough surprises for one year, thank you very much. The cosmic agency in charge of unexpected events and situations is certainly welcome to spread its drama-inducing works to other families and leave me alone.
Curiosity wins out and, even though I should know better, I read the rest of the message.
“I am writing in regards to our DNA match,” writes Susan. “For several years, I have been searching for members of my mother’s family, most importantly her father. DNA will be my best chance, and I think finding you is a real br
eakthrough.
“My mother was born in Lawrence County, Arkansas. As far as I can tell from DNA testing, she and her brother did not have the same father. I was wondering if you might help us find out who my grandfather may have been?
“The closest match to my mother is your account. Will you help us with our search?”
It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, this seems to be my chance to help someone connect with their family. I guess DNA testing has a few positive uses after all.
In this case, the DNA match is for dad. Several of his ancestral lines pass through Arkansas. Since I submitted my dad’s DNA for testing, the results are tied to my account, so any queries people have about the Lindsay DNA are sent to me.
I open the file Susan included and look at the family names. None of them are familiar, but I do recognize several of the locations where they lived. The most important information is about her mother. Looking at where she was born will tell me the general area where Susan’s grandmother was likely to have connected with the mysterious grandfather.
A search on Ancestry shows that Susan’s mother was living in Craighead County, Arkansas, during the 1940 census, along with her mother, Anna. I remember that being the same neck of the woods where my paternal grandmother’s side of the family lived. I open Google Maps and find that Craighead is the county just south of where my dad was born. Susan’s family and several branches of my dad’s family lived within thirty miles of one another. Definitely close enough for a guy to meet a girl and produce a baby.
At least the skeleton is in someone else’s family closet this time. Tracking down Susan’s grandfather sounds like fun. This won’t be like the search for William “The Immigrant.” I have records for these people. I know who they are and where they lived. All I have to do is sort through the data and find a match.
The Milkman's Son Page 11
