The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  Saltwater taffy? No.

  Fat sandwich? No.

  Texas wieners? Why are Texas wieners considered a New Jersey food? Still a—no.

  “Where you going to stay when you come out here?” Joe asks.

  His sudden, unexpected question startles me. “We haven’t decided.”

  To my surprise, the call lasts an hour. During that time, Joe tells me a few things about himself. I listen to the details, and it sounds as if he’s had a rougher life than I have. Apparently, Joe can contribute something to the conversation. I decide it isn’t so much a matter of him not having anything to say as it is me being too impatient to wait. In my opinion, casual conversation should be saved for sitting around the kitchen table.

  Despite the awkward pauses in our conversation, I find myself liking Joe. An hour is much longer than I normally speak with anyone on the phone, and I’m at my limit. I am unable to keep a conversation going on the phone, which seems crazy because I can talk for hours in a face-to-face situation. “I have stuff to do. Good talking with you, Joe.”

  “Yeah, I can’t wait to see you.”

  I disconnect the call. After spending this time talking on the phone with Joe, I find myself looking forward to sitting around a kitchen table with him to have a proper conversation. Or, at least, a proper round of sitting in silence, waiting for conversation.

  It takes the better part of an hour to fully submerge myself in my writing. The story flows from my head, through my fingers, and onto the computer screen. I make good progress and stop when my brain starts to feel like mush. Pounce, the hero of my latest novel, has been tricked into accepting a dangerous quest to a faraway land.

  That’s going to be fun. Poor Pounce. He has no idea what I plan to do to him.

  It’s almost dinnertime. Before I head to the kitchen, I check my emails and find a new message from Susan. “Thank you SO much for helping me. I think I’m very close to finding my grandfather, and you are my final link. Attached is a Word document I put together. I have lots of questions after you have time to review the information.”

  I open the file and scan through Susan’s research. It includes mini-family trees for all of the close matches on Ancestry. I’m surprised she’s done this much work on researching the families in my ancestral tree. That level of effort echoes the excitement I felt in the early stages of the Great Lindsay Quest. Susan and I share the genealogy bug; but in her case, she has the personal motivation to find her grandfather. It’s a bond that connects us, if not by blood, then at least through our common love for the ancestry of the same family.

  I hit the reply button and write, “Susan, I read through your document. Go ahead and ask me whatever questions you like.”

  I figure it will take a week or so for her to read the message and get back to me. Until then, I can mine through the mountain of author work that needs to be done.

  Lucy leans against my office door. “What do you want for dinner?”

  “Lasagna . . . no—stir-fry,” I tell her.

  “I don’t know how to make either of those,” she says.

  “Hamburgers?”

  “We don’t have any hamburger. Unless you want to run to the store and get some.”

  “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” I suggest.

  “Dad!” She rolls her eyes with the expertise and precision only a fourteen-year-old can manage. “I’m going to make tuna salad.”

  “How about tuna salad?” I call after her quickly retreating form.

  It appears to be Lucy’s night to make dinner. I won’t have to stop working after all.

  The top spot on my to-do list is a writing workshop I’m scheduled to teach at one of the local libraries. Back when I struggled with the publishing process for my first novel, several established writers were kind enough to aid me. The workshops are a way to pay their kindness forward.

  Who am I kidding? I may tell everyone I do the workshops to help writers at the beginning of their creative journey (and I do), but I’d be more honest if I’d just admit to thriving on the time I spend with other writers.

  If I come across an exciting article on developing read-on prompts or a brilliant method of adding depth to one of my characters, I can’t rush out to the living room and tell my wife. She’ll only say, “That’s nice, dear.” I hate that phrase because what it really means is, “I don’t care, but I love you too much to tell you.”

  Writers care about storytelling stuff. They smile when I mention the try/fail cycle. The room is filled with oohs and aahs as I talk about methods of plotting a novel. An electric thrill passes through the crowd as we share stories of our favorite examples of successful foreshadowing.

  I put all thoughts of family history aside and sit back down at my desk. There’s another email. Boy, she’s fast. She must be really eager to find her grandfather. Despite all the work I have to do, I open the email. Family always wins out.

  Susan writes, “Wow. After five years, someone to talk to. Here is my first set of questions:

  “Did you note any inaccuracies in the genealogy I sent you?

  “Does a connection with Lloyd Williams seem plausible as my grandfather?

  “Any thoughts about who the mystery account might be? This first cousin can’t be a half-sibling since everyone who fits in that category is dead, right? It would be nieces, nephews?

  “Did Buster Williams have any children?

  “Are Lloyd Williams’s grandchildren still alive?

  “Who do you think would be most open to doing a DNA test?”

  It takes a half hour to look through the files on the Williams branch of the family tree and then answer her questions. “The genealogy you cited was mostly correct, except that Albert Lindsay Jr. is my deceased grandfather—not my great-grandfather.”

  Susan seems focused on Lloyd as the most likely candidate to be her grandfather. However, from the little I know of his brother Buster, that matchup makes more sense. Buster is closer to her grandmother’s age and had a reputation in the family that supports the idea of having a child out of wedlock. Maybe Susan knows something I don’t about the situation.

  I continue. “The DNA match is with my dad. Lloyd is the right age and in the right area, but since we’re looking for a second cousin, I don’t think it can be Lloyd or Buster.”

  Item by item, I go through the rest of the questions on her list. It takes me more time than I can afford right now to spend on anything that isn’t writing related. As soon as I hit the send button, my phone notifies me that I have a text message.

  Joe writes, “Have you ever had a cheesesteak or a sub?”

  I tell him yes.

  Then I wait. Experience has taught me to not even try to write while my mind is expecting an interruption. A minute passes. Five minutes pass. Everyone has quirks. I accept the random, drive-by texting as part of Joe’s offbeat personality. After ten minutes, I give up on waiting for a response from Joe and I give up on writing for the night.

  With any luck, the rest of the week will be free of interruptions and I will make some serious progress on my novel.

  The summer drags on. It’s hard to concentrate on what the characters in my story should do next when my children are reenacting the Battle of Gettysburg in the next room. Plus, it’s 115 degrees outside—who can concentrate in this heat? I keep the office door shut, but that doesn’t stop the phone from pinging whenever Joe texts me. Nor does it stop the computer from posting a message bubble as each of Susan’s emails arrives. I usually ignore the vast majority of the notifications I receive . . . but these two are from family. A pesky voice inside my head offers snide comments about how I can’t ignore family.

  Despite the distractions, I manage to force my protagonist through a series of grueling challenges and even leave him near death on the forest floor. Poor Pounce. I almost feel sorry for the heroes in my stories. My go
al is to make them suffer. And I do that well. Of course, the good news is that they make it through the story alive . . . most of the time.

  The weeks pass, and life reminds me there is more to the world than just my writing. LuAnn marches into the office with the schedule for our trip. Her suggested itinerary has us in Florida for most of the anniversary celebration and then arriving in New Jersey on Saturday and leaving for home the following day.

  “That’s not going to work,” I tell her. “You need to schedule more time in New Jersey. I have a family I’ve never seen, and spending one afternoon with them is not enough. This may be the only chance I have to spend time with my father.”

  “Okay.” She smiles. “You seemed a little nervous about meeting them. I wasn’t sure how long you wanted to stay there. Should I book the flights for convenience or to save money?”

  Later in the month, Joe texts me. “Hey, big brother. What two days are you going to be here? I want to make sure I don’t have anything planned on those days.”

  I text, “We arrive on the 29th and go home the morning of the 1st.”

  “What time do you arrive in Jersey?” he asks.

  “Friday, about 1:00 a.m.”

  “Awesome. I can’t wait to see you, bro.”

  Joe’s excitement warms me emotionally. I find myself looking forward to seeing him. Tammy too. Anxiety still nibbles at my chest when I think about meeting the rest of the family. Even though Joe and Tammy have both said my father has accepted me, I need to experience that for myself before I can believe it.

  I’m close enough to finishing the book to spare some time to respond to Susan. I email her, “Lloyd is my dad’s uncle. If Lloyd were your mom’s father, then her and my dad would be first cousins. That would be three degrees of separation from each other. One degree to go from my dad to his mother, one degree to go from my grandmother to Lloyd, and then a final degree of separation to go from Lloyd to your mother.

  “The chart on Ancestry shows second cousins as moving up the family tree three times, giving my dad and your mother five degrees of separation. As I mentioned before, that rules out Lloyd as your grandfather.”

  An hour later, Susan responds, “If I’m not mistaken, there will be an extra stage of DNA separation when half-siblings are involved. Siblings will appear as first cousins, first cousins will appear to be second cousins, and so forth.”

  I slap my forehead. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? It’s the same reason my brother Bill had shown up as a close relative rather than a sibling. Only half of the regular amount of DNA was being connected to the Lindsay family. The other half belonged to Susan’s family. I go to Ancestry and check the family relations chart, keeping in mind that any relation I see should be one stage closer than is listed.

  Only two individuals could possibly be Susan’s grandfather. Lloyd and Buster Williams. Adjusting for the extra step puts both of them in line with the chart. She has more work to do before she’ll know which of the men is her grandfather, but at least Susan can positively identify her great-grandparents.

  I write, “Congrats. That means Lewis and Cora are your great-grandparents. All you have to do now is convince one of Lloyd’s grandchildren to take a DNA test, and you should be able to determine which one of the brothers is your grandfather. Here’s the email address for Lloyd’s grandson Terry.”

  Susan’s quest is nearly at an end. A grin spreads across my face as I think about how Dad’s DNA has helped her find the lost portion of her family. Maybe his DNA will be the key for others to connect with the Lindsays and the Williams in the future. The fact that I played a part in putting some of the missing pieces together gives me a sense that I have filled a hole in Susan’s soul.

  A spirit of peace settles in my chest. My portion of this quest is done. DNA testing has helped a woman find a grandfather she didn’t know. Even though a victory dance is in order, I decide to walk through my neighborhood and reflect on this journey. In other words, I take a moment to enjoy this victory.

  My next adventure awaits me in Florida and New Jersey.

  Chapter 12

  Florida

  The nights before a big event are long, miserable affairs. My mind is so focused on ensuring all of the details of the Florida trip have been properly planned that I can’t sleep. No matter how firmly I tell my mind to shut down and sail off to dreamland—it doesn’t listen. I roll around the bed for a couple of hours, trying to find a comfortable position to rest. Eventually I give up, trudge into my office, and jiggle the mouse to wake up the computer.

  Twenty minutes of solitaire fails to silence the demons of doubt. I give up on the game and launch Google Street View. I check the addresses of Joe and my father so I can recognize their homes when we reach New Jersey.

  I spend ten minutes studying each house and the surrounding neighborhood. Then I do a search for restaurants in the towns we plan to visit. The browser search gives me results that feel more like paid advertisements than honest testimonials for landmark restaurants. I switch over to the website for Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. The kids and I watch the show often and have vowed to visit a recommended restaurant if we are ever in the area. Now I have that chance.

  Most of the Florida restaurants are in Miami and Orlando. None of them are close to where our daughter lives. I search for New Jersey eateries and only find a diner in Clifton that offers burgers and world-famous disco fries. There are plenty of words that don’t belong on a menu, and disco is pretty high on that list for me. I move my search to Philadelphia. None of the results grabs my attention.

  A memory bubbles up from the edible-goodness section of my brain. One of the other food shows I regularly watch featured a pair of restaurants, across the street from one another, that served cheesesteaks. I’m not going to find a more authentic slice of the Philadelphia food scene than cheesesteaks. This is exactly the sort of culinary pit stop I want to make. I enter the address for one of the restaurants in my cell phone and then shut down the computer.

  The flight doesn’t leave until late-morning and has a layover in Dallas. My oldest son drops us off at the airport, and we go through the usual security procedures. Then we wait. LuAnn plays solitaire on her phone. I sit next to her as a parade of thoughts keeps me occupied.

  Our oldest daughter, Alex, and I haven’t always maintained a calm and stress-free relationship. She has her opinions, and I have mine. Her teenaged years marked a period of drama-induced turmoil in our household.

  Technically, Alex is my stepdaughter, but I don’t think of her that way. I’ve been a part of her life since she was two, and most of the troubles in our relationship have arisen because she takes after me. The moments, good and bad, I’ve shared with her have made us family—not our bloodline, not any shared DNA. Knowing one another, as only family can know one of its members, is what has forged our bond.

  This trip will be a test of our fragile, distance-induced truce. I feel I’ve matured enough to turn this verbal ceasefire into a permanent peace and hope she will give me the chance to mend our precious daddy-daughter relationship.

  While the emotional forecast on Florida is still foggy, the situation in New Jersey has taken a decidedly sunny turn. I still have the first-meeting jitters, but I feel a real connection to my new family. The ease with which they’ve accepted me has settled a couple of concerns in my mind. I plan to hug them and not just shake hands. I plan to call Mr. Petrauschke Dad instead of Father. In other words, I will treat them the same way I do my Arizona family.

  We board the plane. LuAnn takes the middle seat, allowing me to sit on the aisle. She pulls out her cell phone and says, “Smile for the camera. I’m going to post the start of our trip on Facebook.”

  LuAnn takes the picture and then works on sending it out to family and friends. The journey has officially begun.

  The plane arrives late in Dallas, giving us five minutes to reach the other side o
f the airport. We don’t make it. The plane is still docked, but the door is closed.

  “It’s not our fault the other flight was late,” I tell the attendant. “What’s it going to hurt to open the door and let us in?”

  “Once the door is shut,” she says, without looking up from her computer terminal, “no one is allowed onboard.”

  “No one?” I ask. “So if the head of the FBI walks up and tells you it’s a matter of national security for him to enter that plane . . . you would stop him?”

  LuAnn leans over and says, “You’re not helping matters any.”

  The attendant prints out a new boarding pass and hands it to my wife. “The next flight to your destination is in three hours. That should give you plenty of time to reach the correct boarding gate.”

  It looks as if our luggage will reach Florida before we do.

  LuAnn and I find a restaurant and order some food. I’m tired, hungry, and upset about the delay. As usual, my wife is unfazed by our travel hiccup. She slides over next to me, matches my sour expression, and snaps a picture of us with her phone. Then she posts the image on social media with the caption “Missed our connection; now spending three hours eating dinner.”

  Her unsinkable spirit disperses my dark mood. We share a meal and some conversation. The time passes quickly. Then again, any time I spend with this woman feels like a fleeting moment. I suspect she has a secret superpower that gives her control over the passage of time. Before I know it, I find myself boarding another plane.

  The flight into Florida lands us at a small airport just before midnight. We barely exit the plane when a tired voice announces over the intercom that the airport will close in ten minutes.

  Close?

  LuAnn and I glance at one another. The airport back home never closes. Whenever the television news reports the cancellation of flights due to weather, they show crowds of people sleeping overnight in chairs and on the floor. The same thing happens in movies and television shows. Airports are not supposed to close.