My wife walks into the office. “Have you made a decision about the trip?”
“What trip?” I ask. My mind barely registers her presence as I focus on the computer screen and finishing the last page of the chapter I’ve been working on all day.
“Our anniversary trip.”
“Right.” It takes a moment to realize LuAnn is going to need more of an answer than I’ve given her. “It sounds good.”
“What part of it sounds good?”
I pause. This must be how our youngest son feels when we catch him not paying attention to one of our discussions about his behavior. “All of it.”
“You don’t have any suggestions on what else we can do besides visit Alex?”
“We could see if they still have that paddleboat tour in Miami. The one we went on during our honeymoon.”
She nods and leaves.
I return to my writing and finish the chapter. It’s too late in the day to start another one, so I make the social media rounds. Mother Petrauschke has posted some crafting videos. I don’t like them as much as the ones she posts for creative food ideas. I switch to my email and write to Tammy.
“You mentioned that your dad likes John Wayne. I happen to have a John Wayne story that he and the rest of you might like. Whenever I’m at a party and they play the tell-us-something-most-people-don’t-know-about-you game, I answer that John Wayne fed me lunch. The story behind that answer is that one of my dad’s friends worked on the Red River Ranch that was owned by John Wayne. When I was about ten, the ranch had their annual barbeque and stock auction. Employees and friends of employees were all fed barbeque as part of the event. Of course, the Duke didn’t do any of the cooking or serving. During the auction, John Wayne was out in the feed pen with the cattle. Dad had my mom sitting on his shoulders so she could snap a picture of the Duke. After a few minutes, Dad shouts, ‘Hey, Mr. Wayne. Can you look over this way? My wife is getting heavy.’ John Wayne turned and posed for the picture.
“I love rodeo. Who would-da thunk there were any rodeos in New Jersey?
“My dad’s DNA test resulted in another family member who no one knew anything about. I’m still working out which member of dad’s family is the grandfather. I’m going to have one of the men on my mother’s side of the family take a DNA test so I can do more genealogy work for the Andersons. I’m kind of worried about what we might find. LOL.”
I pause. I need to know more about what my father is thinking, and my mother still refuses to tell me anything. If I’m ever going to find out about my parents and their relationship, it will have to be from my father.
“About your dad. A friend of mine brought up an interesting point. He suggested the possibility that this isn’t a case of your dad not remembering, but rather a situation he prefers to leave in the past. I don’t know, so this isn’t a matter of me accusing him of anything. Is it possible that my mom told your dad she was pregnant and he walked away and is now too embarrassed to admit it? Like I said, I’m not suggesting that is what happened. I’m just curious. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
One way or another, that should get me a better idea of the real situation.
Tammy’s response is waiting for me the following Monday. “My dad liked the John Wayne story. It made him laugh.
“I think my dad just doesn’t remember. Maybe with it being so close to his stroke, he feels it might not be a possibility. I’m not sure. I think if he knew, he would have admitted it by now.
“It’s a process for all of us. You and I have been processing the situation longer than the others have. My mom is fine with everything. She said you are more than welcome in our family—as long as you don’t mind a second mom. I wonder if all this just brings up memories for my dad. He was always told that Petrauschke was his dad. He tried having a relationship with him, but Mr. Petrauschke didn’t want anything to do with him. I’m not really sure how he feels.
“I also wanted you to know that Dad took the DNA test. I will let you know when I hear anything. Although, I’m pretty sure what it will say. Talk to you soon. Your sister, Tammy.”
Your sister. It surprises me that something as small as ending a message with “your sister” can emotionally impact me. But it does. That simple acknowledgment of our blood bond means more than I would have ever expected. She is my sister, and I love her. Now, if I can only gain the same acceptance with my father.
“I’m glad your mom is all right with the situation,” I write to Tammy. “I was a bit worried about that. And I’m glad your dad agreed to the DNA test. I’m already convinced, but it should settle the matter for him. I can see how he might be unsure about the situation.
“Maybe when he finally accepts me as his son, I can come out and visit all of you. I mean, if that’s all right with everyone out there. Please tell the rest of the family hello.”
“Randy,” my wife says, from the office door. She waits a few seconds and repeats my name—louder. “Randy, have you made up your mind about our anniversary trip?”
I turn my chair around to give LuAnn my full attention. It takes a few seconds for my mind to switch from writing-mode to world-aware-mode. “What’s left for me to decide?”
“All of it. Will the dates I picked cause any problems with your schedule? Do you care which airline we take? Are there any places you want to see while we’re out there? It is our anniversary; I want to make sure you enjoy the trip.”
“I thought we were going out to see the grandbaby.”
“Don’t forget Alex. We’re going to see our daughter too,” says LuAnn. “And to celebrate being married for twenty years.”
“Whatever you decide should be fine,” I tell her. The truth is she cares more about traveling than I do and always has better suggestions on how to make the trip fun. But I know I should have some sort of input on the plans so I don’t hurt her feelings. “Let me think about it overnight. Maybe I can come up with something appropriate to do for our honeymoon.”
LuAnn walks off to start dinner. A dinner the children will actually eat as opposed to my experiments in culinary disaster.
I check my email and find a message from Tammy. “I don’t want you to feel that my dad doesn’t accept the situation, because we have talked about some of the similarities between the two of you. I think he just needed to know for sure.
“Oh, by the way. The results from the DNA test came in last night. They confirmed what we already knew. Welcome to the family, brother.”
I read the last part of Tammy’s message again to make sure it says what I think it says. I’m officially part of the Petrauschke family. Which probably means I’ll have to learn how to pronounce the name correctly. I hop out of my chair and run into the kitchen.
“I’m in,” I tell LuAnn. “I’m in.”
My wife smiles at me and says, “That’s nice, dear.”
“No, it’s not nice. It’s awesome. Tammy sent in a DNA test for her dad and it came back positive. Mr. Petrauschke is my father.”
“You already knew that,” she says.
“Yeah, but now he does too. Which means . . . we need to go to New Jersey during our anniversary trip.”
Chapter 11
Stalking the Family
LuAnn and I penned the opening chapter of our lives together with a trip to Florida—a place neither of us had been to separately and which we encountered for the first time as a couple. As such, it seems fitting for the two of us to make a similar trip, twenty years later, to meet my New Jersey family for the first time.
A vision of what it will be like to meet the Petrauschkes plays in my head. First the children—my nieces and nephews—will come running out of a perfectly crafted house, youngest to oldest. They’ll surround me, jumping and shouting with joy. Then Tammy, Joe, and Bill will make their way outside with happy, bouncy steps. Ear-to-ear smiles will adorn their faces. Finally, my father will
stroll out the door, a fashionable pipe clenched in his jaws, and laugh at the sight before him as he offers a pithy remark . . .
The story in my head comes to a screeching halt when I have to come up with a glib, yet still wise, comment to respond.
When writing a novel, I have the luxury of spending hours thinking up those spontaneous quips. It’s not quite as easy when I’m operating in real time.
I realize my first meeting with the new family probably won’t be anything like my dream scenario. Tammy and Joe seem nice enough in their emails and their text messages, but the experience might be very different in person. Long-distance communication could be concealing a veritable encyclopedia of socially unacceptable behaviors.
Meeting anyone for the first time is an awkward event. Meeting my immediate family for the first time only multiplies those uneasy feelings. Will they like me? Will they get my sense of humor? Or will they decide I’m a thorn in the family’s back end? What if we just stare at each other in endless, awkward silence?
Maybe I shouldn’t be in such a hurry to go to New Jersey. The state will still be there next year . . . and the year after.
The only question is whether all of the Petrauschkes will be around in a couple of years.
I decide that putting off the visit will haunt me for the rest of my life if something happens to a member of the New Jersey family before I have a chance to meet them. Besides, all families have unique behaviors that others find odd. My Arizona family certainly has its share of quirks, eccentricities, and outright bad habits. Those peculiar bits of strangeness are often what I love most about them. I’m sure it will be the same with this new batch of characters.
I open my email and respond to Tammy. “I have to admit I was worried about whether it’d be all right for me to come out and visit. I’m really looking forward to meeting everyone. I will let you know when my wife schedules our flight so you know what dates we will be there.”
The daydream still lingers in my mind. I have a mountain of author work that needs to be done over the summer but decide to open Google Maps and take a look at the section of New Jersey where my family lives. Just a quick look—not a full-out distraction. I’ll be back to work in a minute or two.
I find the place where my family lives. The town is tiny. Only six streets going east to west, fewer going north to south. I don’t see any hotels or motels listed and make a note to book a place to stay in one of the larger towns nearby.
Typing in my father’s address fails to take me to the street on which he lives. A marker on the mini-map shows his house is on the next street over. Apparently Street View doesn’t consider the road important enough to photograph. I have to settle for a view from across a lawn. The image is blurred, and all I can really tell is that my father lives in a white, two-story house.
I cruise down a few streets to look at more of the town. It’s definitely rural. The rustic homes and wide spaces between them lend a Mayberry feel to the place. I half expect Sheriff Taylor or Barney Fife to appear in one of the images. There’s even a lake, named after the town, on the outskirts.
A few clicks along the street and I’m back on Main. The images have gone from dim, blurry, and overcast to bright, clear, and sunny in the space of a block. Apparently, it took more than one day to map out this tiny town. I spin the image around and click on the previous street.
Dim and cloudy.
I do another about-face and click.
Sunny and bright.
Cloudy. Sunny. Cloudy. Sunny. It takes a couple of minutes before the novelty of instant weather change wears off. I resume my internet drive through town and notice there’s hardly any traffic. After searching several streets, I determine that three cars on the same section of road constitute a traffic jam.
I type in Joe’s address in the adjacent town. Street View shows me a two-story home with a guesthouse in back. Less than thirty feet away, a railroad track runs along the side of the property. The railway line is bracketed by trees, forming a green tunnel for the trains to pass through. Why would anyone live in a house positioned this close to the train tracks? I hope Street View is wrong and Joe doesn’t actually live here. Otherwise, my visit to his place will be . . . interesting. And not in a good way.
My writer brain runs away from me again and I imagine us sitting at Joe’s place as a train rattles past the house. Everyone rushes around the room, grabbing items on the shelves before they have the chance to fall, just like in the movie Mary Poppins.
I check the clock. An hour, rather than a few minutes, has passed while I’ve been playing with Street View. Time I can’t afford to waste with all the writing that needs to be done. I close out the program and open an unfinished chapter in my latest middle-grade book.
My cell phone rings. It’s my brother Joe. A member of my New Jersey family is calling me! I hesitate for the briefest of moments, wondering if I should answer it. Then the excitement over one of the Petrauschkes calling me wins out. I hit the green button on my phone to accept the call. “Hey.”
The chance for me to give Joe an outstanding first impression through the clever use of dialogue goes out the window. I regret not having thought about what I was going to say before I accepted the call. It’s too late now. All I can do is work on not sounding like an idiot.
“It’s your brother . . . Joe.” His voice is deep and gruff. “Tammy says you’re coming out to visit us.”
“That’s the plan,” I tell him. “I mean . . . if that’s all right with everyone out there.”
“Of course it’s okay. You’re part of the family.”
His words stun me. To have any of the Petrauschkes accept me, a stranger, into their family without us ever having met is beyond my comprehension. His reaction feels like a bear hug of approval while simultaneously forcing me to scratch my head in disbelief. How can Joe, or any of the Petrauschkes, bring me into the family that quickly, that easily?
I shrug off my doubts and enjoy the moment. A first phone call moment with my brother. The bliss lasts mere seconds before I realize that neither of us is talking. What do I say to him? I can’t tell him I hate talking on the phone because he might take that as a rejection. I don’t dare ask him anything too personal until we know each other better.
“What went through your mind when Tammy told you about me?” I ask.
Joe humphs. I’m not sure if it’s the I’m-still-thinking-about-it sort of humph or the why-did-he-have-to-ask-me-that-question variety. “I thought it was great.”
The phone is silent. I wait a moment to see if Joe is going to say more and then ask, “Could you expand upon that a little?”
“Another brother means more family, and it’s good to have more family.”
“That’s it?” I ask for some reason. I realize I’m expecting more.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “What about you?”
“More family is good . . . I guess.” I sort through my thoughts, wondering which of them to share with Joe and which of them to keep locked away. For me the situation isn’t as simply defined as it seems to be for him. My approach to relationships is more cautious.
Joe chuckles. It’s a low, raspy affair that should belong to a dastardly villain in an Edgar Allan Poe story. “Our family is close. It surprised us that Dad had another kid running around in Arizona, but you are our brother, and that means we love you. That’s what families do.”
Can it be that simple?
In a perfect world, that’s the way it should work. Families would support one another without question and without hesitation. The Hallmark Channel is loaded with stories that focus on the very same sentiment. Even though I find those movies cheesy, the messages they convey ring true in my heart. Joe’s right. That’s what families do.
Time to move on. I switch to my go-to topic. Food. “Are there any foods LuAnn and I should try while we’re in New Jersey?”
“D
epends on what you like,” says Joe.
“What we would like is to try some foods that are popular in New Jersey and we can’t find at home.” I open up my browser and search for regional foods in New Jersey. Several lists come up, and I select one that includes plenty of pictures.
“Pork rolls,” says Joe.
“Pork rolls?” An image pops into my mind of dinner rolls made out of bacon, or ham, instead of wheat. I know that can’t be what they are, but my imagination often takes me in odd and nonsensical directions. “Is that round gobs of baked meat?”
“No.” Joe chuckles again. It’s definitely a villainous sort of laugh. “It’s like ham. It’s sliced, cooked up, and served on bread with egg and cheese. I have it for breakfast.”
I Google “pork roll,” and a picture of what looks like an Egg McMuffin pops up. Another site shows the “meat” in its packaged form, with a description of the product. In this form it reminds me of salami or bologna. The information page gives a history of the food. Pork roll dates back to 1856 and is a cultural staple in New Jersey, I read.
There’s another silent pause as I wait for Joe to ask me something. He doesn’t. I gulp and search the internet for a list of popular foods in the state. One site shows a picture sloppy joes that don’t look anything like the sandwiches my mother made when I was a child. I move past the obvious moral crime against gastronomy they represent and on to the next item.
“Tomatoes?” Oops. That was meant to be an internal thought. I quickly scramble to recover from the faux pas and ask an actual question. “Are you guys known for your tomatoes?”
“Yeah. We have the best tomatoes in the country.”
I look for something on the list that Joe might talk about for longer than thirty seconds. Jersey-style hot dogs are deep-fried and prepared in seven varieties. Pass. Disco Fries. The name alone causes me to scroll by without reading any further about them. I find it interesting that the Trenton Tomato Pie places the cheese and toppings directly on the crust and saves the tomato sauce for last, but I somehow doubt it will excite Joe enough to shift him into conversational high gear.
The Milkman's Son Page 13
