The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  I panic. What if there aren’t any taxis waiting outside? How will we get to our hotel? An image lodges itself in my brain of LuAnn and I spending the night on the sidewalk outside the airport doors.

  Don’t be silly, the cool, rational part of my brain says. Airport security won’t let you stay the night on their sidewalk. They’ll call the police and have you escorted off the premises.

  I wonder if the police will give us a ride.

  “Honey,” I say to my wife, “if this town is small enough to have the airport close at midnight, then they might not have a line of taxis waiting for us when we exit the building. How about using the app on your phone to find us a driver in the area?”

  I take her luggage and drag it along, freeing up both of her hands to search for a ride. The signal is weak, and we are nearly out the front door by the time she connects. She frowns. “The app says there are no drivers in the area. No one is available within twenty miles.”

  Oh no. Our only hope for reaching our hotel tonight rests in finding a taxi outside.

  We walk through the sliding glass doors and see a taxi. Just one. I rush forward, ready to throw elbows to block anyone else who might be thinking of taking it. Another couple follows on my heels. They apparently have the same idea.

  “Are you still accepting fares?” I ask the driver from ten feet away.

  “Yes,” he responds. “The last one of the night.”

  “Excellent,” I tell him. Then I turn to the other couple. They walk past me to the parking garage across the street. I guess they didn’t want a taxi after all.

  “Well, I would have been willing to share,” I mumble to their retreating forms.

  The driver opens the trunk, and I load our luggage. I open the door for LuAnn and then slide into the back seat beside her. Tension ebbs from my body as I slump in the seat. It takes less than a minute for the taxi to exit the airport.

  Darkness reigns in the immediate area. I watch the slouched silhouettes of trees during our drive through the hot, muggy night. Our last visit to Florida was during February and through portions of the state that could apparently afford to pay their electricity bills. The Sunshine State isn’t impressing me this second time around.

  After a few minutes, I spot signs of civilization through the windshield. Lights. Buildings. Buildings with lights. Even a few tall buildings. The driver stops in front of a bright, beautiful beacon of architectural refuge and identifies it as our hotel.

  I pay the driver, grab our bags, and stumble inside. A cheerful smile greets us from the front counter. There’s a face attached to the smile, but the information that rolls out of the woman’s mouth has me too enthralled to care.

  Yes, this is our hotel.

  Yes, they have our reservation and will take us immediately to our room.

  And yes, they know where the car rental place is located and can give us directions in the morning. Hallelujah! We have escaped the murky wilds of Florida and are safe.

  Our room is clean, brightly lit, and decorated by someone who knew what they were doing. Even though it’s only ten o’clock back home, I struggle to keep my eyes open. The soft bed and cool sheets lull me to sleep within minutes.

  Alex lives a little more than forty miles from our hotel in Gainesville. The countryside between towns is green and still bears the scars of Hurricane Irma. Spanish moss hangs from the branches of trees, like seaweed on the undead crew of the Flying Dutchman.

  When we reach the outskirts of town, LuAnn calls Alex for directions. One scenario after another plays out in my mind. Alex and I haven’t had an argument in years, but one careless comment from me could shatter our unspoken alliance and ruin the vacation.

  Keep your mouth shut and smile. I continue to mentally repeat the plan until we reach Alex’s apartment. Trees surround the complex. Trees thick with Spanish moss. If it’s this creepy during the day, I can only imagine what it must be like after dark. I can picture zombies walking through the fog-enshrouded woods.

  Why would anyone want to live here?

  Alex opens the door to her apartment and greets her mother. I smile, say nothing, and follow them inside. Alex has the most beautiful baby girl cradled in her arms. She looks over at me and says, “Hey, Dad. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.”

  Sweeter words have never been spoken than “Hey, Dad.” They represent acceptance. They represent a maturity that is willing to leave the past behind us. But mostly, I just love it when any of my children call me Dad. It doesn’t feel as much like a name as a term of endearment.

  “No trouble at all,” I tell Alex. “You gave us great directions.” Tension that’s been building since we left Gainesville flows out of me in seconds. It looks as if we’re going to have good visit after all.

  A young man with dark hair and a bold mustache walks out from one of the other rooms. Alex puts her arm around him and says, “This is Derick, the baby’s father.”

  I shake Derick’s hand and look him over. He’s well-groomed and neatly dressed, but his mustache makes him look like a train conductor from the 1880s.

  Alex gives us a tour of their home. Walking from one end of the apartment to the other takes less than a minute. Her showing us Derick’s collection of World War II military relics and a closet full of war games takes closer to half an hour. My opinion of her baby daddy jumps several notches. I love military board games. While the others are talking about the neighborhood, I’m thinking of a way to fit one of the lengthy games into our visit.

  LuAnn takes the baby, and the four of us sit around the kitchen table. Derick lingers near Alex as we visit. It’s as if nothing has ever come between Alex and me. We talk. We laugh. We swap nerd stories about superhero movies, collectible action figures, and board games unknown to the general public.

  Alex may not have any of my genetic code, but she is definitely my daughter.

  While Alex and LuAnn talk about the baby’s sleep schedule, I watch my daughter and remember how adorable she was as a child. Images of vacations, movies, and even pulling weeds together on Saturday mornings slowly scroll through my mind. We’ve shared so many good times together. We’ve also shared more than a few unhappy moments.

  When we struggled as a unified family, we grew stronger. When we struggled against one another, we grew apart. I’m happy to take the bad memories with the good as long as it means I can continue to include this amazing young woman as a part of my family. As a part of my life. Every moment I spend talking with my daughter is a treasure I will take back home.

  The ladies glance over at me, noticing that I’m watching them.

  LuAnn winks. After twenty years of marriage, she’s caught me quietly observing her enough times to know the sappy portion of my brain is in overdrive. I wink back at her.

  “What?” Alex asks.

  “Nothing,” I tell her. “I’m just admiring my beautiful granddaughter.”

  “Well, then,” says Alex. “You can hold her while Mom and I make lunch.”

  I watch to see if LuAnn is going to object. Once a grandbaby is placed in her arms, it just about requires the Jaws of Life to pry the child loose. LuAnn nods toward the wooden rocking chair in the front room and then gently transfers the baby to me.

  Beautiful.

  It’s been years since I’ve held a baby in my arms. Only a few seconds pass before I decide Adelaide is my favorite grandchild. All right . . . not my favorite, because grandparents are not allowed to enjoy one of the grandchildren more than the others. But if that sort of grandchild bias were allowed, she’d be my favorite.

  I gently rock her in my arms as she sleeps. I whisper conversations to her I know she won’t understand. Mostly I tell her stories of fantastic creatures in faraway lands. But I sneak in a few questions about her future plans. Is she interested in becoming the first woman president of the United States? I try to talk her out of that
choice. Politics is bad business and not really what our family is all about. Go into the arts . . . if you don’t mind being poor all your life. Or you can be a strong, capable woman like Granny LuAnnie. Become a big shot in the company where you work and boss people around. Just don’t tell Granny I said that, though.

  We eat a late lunch while the baby sleeps. The protective part of me wants to grill Derick and make sure he’s good enough for my daughter, but I’m not willing to risk putting my relationship with Alex in jeopardy. Instead, I settle for asking a few casual questions.

  “Why do you live in Florida?”

  “Why do you work in a bank?”

  “When you play a World War II board game, do you play the Axis or the Allies?”

  The more I talk to Derick, the better I like him. Except for the mustache. He has manners, shows no sign of being a threat to my daughter, and works a respectable job. By the time we finish eating, I find myself hoping their relationship works out.

  Best of all, I’ve managed to interrogate him without starting a new feud with Alex.

  LuAnn and I stay until dinnertime and then prepare to leave so we can find our motel. Alex and Derick escort us to the rental car. In the growing twilight, the moss-covered trees look even more sinister than when we arrived.

  “That Spanish moss is kind of creepy,” I say.

  Derick shrugs. “You probably want to stay away from it. Chiggers live in the stuff.”

  “Chiggers?” I don’t know much about the pests except they bite.

  “They attach themselves to warm-blooded hosts that pass by the vegetation they inhabit. You should be all right as long as you don’t touch the Spanish moss.”

  I make a mental reminder to park our rental car at least ten feet away from any moss-laden trees or shrubs. An umbrella might even be a good idea. Not that I’m afraid of bugs. We have plenty of the poisonous variety back home. I’m just uncomfortable dealing with hostile life-forms when I don’t know the rules of engagement.

  Scorpions. Centipedes. Tarantulas. Bring ’em on. But chiggers—no, thanks.

  We drive past our motel before we notice it’s there. A quick U-turn and we pull into the tiny parking lot. Just outside the office, a wicker lawn set sits under a canopy, surrounded by potted trees and plants. It’s quaint . . . in an upscale, redneck sort of way.

  The office is filled with curios and knickknacks, making it look more like a museum dedicated to the Antiques Roadshow than a motel front desk. An older woman wearing an airy flower print from the ’70s offers us a cellophane-wrapped mint and then takes us on a tour to pick our room.

  “Each of the rooms is decorated in its own unique style,” she tells us. Then she opens the first door and I see . . . pillows. A mountain of them is piled on the bed, and more sit atop the two chairs in the room. There’s even a pillow on one of the tables. The room’s predominant color is seafoam green. If I were the decorator, I would have forgone the purple trim and highlights, but that’s just me.

  “This will be fine,” I tell her.

  “You haven’t seen the other available rooms yet.” The next room is pink and frilly. A four-poster bed draped with sheer white curtains immediately snags my attention. Life-sized Barbie probably stays here whenever she and Ken pass through on their way to the Florida Keys.

  I make sure our host is looking straight at me when I tell her, “I really liked the first room. If it’s all right with you, we’ll take that one.”

  We return to the office, and LuAnn chats with our host while I unpack the car. I find a spot in one corner of the room and stack the pillows to make room for us to sleep. The room reminds me of the Star Trek episode where Tribbles invade the ship. At least these pillows shouldn’t make any trilling noises at night. If they do, I might have to consider moving to Barbie and Ken’s room.

  I turn on the AC and kick off my shoes. LuAnn joins me in the room. We spend a few minutes chatting about Alex, the baby, Derick, the humidity, chiggers, and the motel manager’s fascination with pillows. Then she goes to sleep. Lucky her. She has a talent for being able to sleep anywhere. Less than a minute after she closes her eyes, she’s out.

  I sit on the bed in front of the AC unit and sweat. A weak flow of marginally cool air flows out of the vent, but the room remains hot and sticky. There’s no use trying to sleep, I know it won’t work. With a heavy sigh, I move over to the antique desk, push aside the army of figurines, and pull out my laptop. I might as well work.

  Half the night passes as I write my main character into one horrible situation after another. This time I’m working on one of my adult novels. The words of my biggest fan echo in my mind. “What horrible thing are you going to do to Robert in this book? Why do you pick on him? He’s a nice guy.”

  The miserable heat has me in the right frame of mind to put Robert into all sorts of terrible trouble. I march him through the middle of Georgia in August. It takes no imagination at all for me to describe how he feels.

  Around three in the morning, the room cools enough for me to sleep. It’s not actually cool, but it’s close enough. I look forward to a nice, long visit in Alex’s air-conditioned apartment the next day. Maybe I can even curl up in a corner and catch a short nap in comfort.

  We spend two more days in Florida. Most of the time, we sit in Alex’s apartment and visit while she feeds the baby, changes the baby, and comforts Adelaide when she cries. LuAnn and I do our part by playing with the baby.

  It brings back memories of when my own children were little. I’m glad I don’t have to go through all of that again. The grandparent gig is where it’s at. I can hold the baby when she’s happy and then hand her back to my daughter when her diaper is full. And best of all, I’m not staying up all night while the baby adjusts to a daytime schedule.

  No wonder young people have babies. It’s exhausting.

  The hours and then the minutes slip away. Before I know it, our time in Florida is over. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with my daughter and granddaughter. I’ve missed too many precious moments with Alex because of our disagreements. The longer I stay in Florida, the closer I come to making up for some of those lost opportunities.

  But I’m also pulled to New Jersey. A whole new family awaits me there, including my biological father. Even if we could make last minute changes to our itinerary, this is something I have to go through with. It’s something my inner voice pesters me to do. If only I could be in two places at once. Eventually, I comfort myself with the thought that there will be plenty of visits with these two amazing girls, but the time for meeting my new family is now.

  Chapter 13

  Hello, Joe

  It’s close to midnight when we arrive in Philadelphia. People crowd around us as we walk through the airport corridors to the luggage claim. Every few minutes, the overhead speakers announce a new departure or arrival. Outside, a fleet of taxis lines the street, waiting to take us to our hotel. In fact, there are enough taxis to transport the entire 8th Army if that becomes necessary.

  The hotel has air conditioning that actually works, but the room smells like an old closet filled with dirty sweatshirts and grimy gym socks. I test the bed. It’s harder than my couch back home. That gives me an idea. I sit on the couch and find it much more comfortable.

  As usual, LuAnn has no problem falling asleep.

  I’m too tired to work on my current novel and I have difficulty sleeping away from home, so I spend half the night watching an Iron Chef marathon. This is why I don’t like to travel. At least the room is cool and the sofa is somewhat comfy. I eventually manage to snooze for a few hours. LuAnn lets me sleep in, but a rumbling in my stomach forces me out of bed much earlier than I’m used to waking. Besides, we’re in New Jersey and my family is waiting.

  “They serve a continental breakfast from seven to nine,” says LuAnn.

  I glance over at her. We both shake our heads. I ca
n tell she’s thinking the same thing that’s going through my mind. If a place smells this bad, it’s probably safer to eat elsewhere. My stomach growls again. I decide to pass through the dining area on the way out. They have prepackaged yogurt cups. That seems safe enough. I take one for LuAnn and another for myself. Those will have to tide us over until after we pick up our rental car and reach our first stop. Cheesesteaks. We’re going to decide for ourselves whether Pat’s or Geno’s has the best cheesesteaks in Philadelphia.

  The drive through Philly plunges us into a world vastly different from our own. In Phoenix, most homes are single-story affairs on individual lots and spread out over a good portion of the available ground. They represent the wide-open spaces of the American West.

  Philadelphia is the complete opposite. LuAnn and I pass through a neighborhood that is one long, continuous building. The individual units are tall, narrow, and packed in like sardines. Five giant steps could take me from one side of the home to the other.

  Even the roads are cramped. Many of the streets barely have enough room for two cars to drive. In each direction, there is a narrow lane for parking and another for driving. Mere inches separate our car from the traffic moving in the other direction. I flinch with each tiny gap I have to thread.

  We find our destination after a couple of wrong turns. Geno’s and Pat’s sit diagonally across the street from one another. Geno’s is an A-shaped building, painted orange and white. It’s only midmorning and already there’s an impressive line to order food.

  While LuAnn and I gawk at the menu, customers line up behind us. I wave them forward in line. Since LuAnn and I plan to compare the cheesesteaks here with the ones across the street, we want to make sure we order the real, original one. In other words, the cheesesteak.

  Ordering the classic cheesesteak turns out easier than I thought. “Cheesesteak” is listed at the top of the menu. It has Whiz, American, and provolone. I hope Whiz refers to cheese. We buy a single cheesesteak and some cheese fries to split. Then we look the place over as we wait for our food.