The restaurant has celebrity pictures on the walls. Elton John, Danny DeVito, Joan Rivers, and the Philadelphia Eagles’ mascot have all apparently dined at Geno’s. I’m still working through the picture monument to Geno’s cheesesteak mastery when our order comes up. They hand us a bag and point to the condiments table. A scowl from the server tells me just what the true fans of the original and best cheesesteak think about tainting the sandwich with ketchup or other vile flavor-altering substances.
We cross the street to Pat’s. The restaurant is an island unto itself, bordered on three sides by streets. Painted red and white, Pat’s King of Steaks claims to be both the inventor and originator of the cheesesteak. I order an original and some cheese fries. Pat’s has an equally massive wall of fame.
As soon as the order comes up, LuAnn and I walk around to the back side of the restaurant and sit at one of the tables. I unwrap the Geno’s cheesesteak, pass half to LuAnn, and then notice someone standing next to me.
A man wearing a Pat’s T-shirt and a frown points to the cheesesteak in front of me. In a stern voice, he says, “Hey, pal. What’s that doing here?”
I mentally scramble for a response and blurt out, “We’re from Arizona.”
What kind of response is that? That makes it sound like people from Arizona are simple country bumpkins who can’t be expected to make intelligent choices in dining. To make matters worse, the frown on the man’s face fades away, and he nods as if he’s come to the same conclusion.
“We heard about this place on television,” I continue, “and wanted to see which restaurant has the best cheesesteaks.”
“I could’ve told you that,” says the man. “We do. Pat’s is the king of steaks.”
“That’s what I heard.” I grab my half of Pat’s cheesesteak and take a bite . . . and mmmmmm.
The man relaxes. It appears the wife and I are out of danger of a cheesesteak beating. He points to the building, “I started working here when I was twelve. That was fifty years ago.”
Clearly, this is a man dedicated to cheesesteaks. For fifteen minutes he tells us how Pat’s is home to the best cheesesteak in the world. Dozens of celebrities can vouch for the supremacy of the food here, he says. And it’s an honor to work at a culinary landmark like Pat’s, he goes on. Then, with one last sneer at the impostor sandwich sitting in front of me, he goes inside to continue his shift.
I grab my half of the Geno’s cheesesteak and bite into it. The sandwich has a savory beef flavor that is missing in the cheesesteaks I’ve tried back home. Caramelized onions accentuate the steak, and the Whiz gives it a tang that adds a welcome level of complexity to the flavor.
Both cheesesteaks do Philly proud. I enjoy the one from Geno’s slightly more but prefer Pat’s cheese fries. LuAnn has exactly the opposite opinion.
We finish our meal and waddle back to our rental car. I check my cell phone and see that I’ve missed a text from Joe. “Did you look up the Jersey Devil?”
I text back, “Not yet. Is it a popular nightclub?”
“LOL,” Joe texts. “No. Look it up. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get you.”
“We are up and moving about in Philly,” I text.
“Hmmmmm . . . cheesesteak. Enjoy. Give me a shout when you are headed this way.”
LuAnn and I decide to take a detour south. According to the map, we can take the I-95 down to Delaware before crossing the river to New Jersey, which will allow us to put another check mark on our fifty-states bingo card. It’s much greener than Arizona, but otherwise, Wilmington reminds me of just about any other city I’ve passed through at sixty-five miles an hour.
We cross the Delaware River, and the landscape turns rural. Large fields occupy the side of the road. Some of the fields are green with growing hay. Others are filled with apple orchards. Still more have square plots with corn or collard greens. Each home seems to have its own combination of produce and flower beds. I can see why they call this the Garden State.
“Where are we going?” LuAnn asks.
“To see my family.”
“Who are we going to see first?”
I hand LuAnn my phone and have her text Joe.
“Should we head to your place or Tammy’s house?”
“It’s up to you. Do you want to go straight to Dad’s?”
The suggestion to head straight to my father’s house brings immediate clarity to the decision. I don’t want to go there first. Over the last eight months, I’ve shared a lot of texts and phone calls with Joe and a large number of emails with Tammy. I already have a bond with them. I’m comfortable with the idea of meeting them.
My father, though, hasn’t made any effort to communicate with me. I have only Tammy’s opinion on the matter to indicate that he wants me here. Other than knowing what he looks like, he’s still a stranger to me. And a first meeting with a stranger always makes me nervous. Plus, if I head to Joe’s first, it will be a one-on-one meeting rather than a crowd fest.
I have LuAnn text Joe back: “We’ll come to your place first.”
We pass a farm with a red barn. It’s an image I’ve seen only in paintings. Rural Arizona looks much different from the landscape around us. On the other side of the road is a farm with a pair of greenhouses shaped like Quonset huts. The fields we pass are bordered by trees. Skinny trees. Fat trees. Baby trees. Tall trees. All of them green. Real green. Not the brownish, faded green of the trees back home.
It’s not that I don’t find Arizona beautiful. I do. Nothing I’ve seen in New Jersey compares to the palo verde trees back home. And Arizona has a greater diversity in terrain than any place I know. But to be thrown in the middle of all this green thrills me. The roadside stands stocked with apples and signs advertising apple cider donuts add to the thrill.
Joe finally returns our text. “How long until you get here?”
LuAnn texts back, “We just passed the Cowtown Rodeo place.”
Joe responds, “Cool. Not too far.”
When LuAnn reads the texts back to me, my stress level decreases. I’m jittery over the idea of facing the rest of the family in one big mob. But I can handle a one-on-one first meeting with Joe.
The homes where Joe lives are spread out on large, spacious lots. Groves of trees separate the houses. It’s an amazing sight for a boy who grew up in Arizona and is used to the soulless designs and bland stucco that make all the tract homes look alike. The houses here vary in shape, giving each one in the neighborhood its own distinct look and personality.
I watch for the railroad tracks that run along the side of Joe’s house and find them easily enough. I call Joe. “We’re here.”
He responds after a few seconds. “I don’t see you.”
“I don’t see you either,” I tell him. “We’re parked to the side of the railroad tracks.”
Joe chuckles. “We don’t live by the tracks. They changed the addresses a few years back. You need to turn around and head toward the edge of town. There’s a red car in the yard.”
No railroad. No loud, rattling noises to interrupt our visit.
Two minutes later, we pull up to a house with deep-red brick and a steeply sloping black roof. The house is trimmed in white and has a chimney on one side. A wooded area runs along the side of the property, isolating it from the neighbor’s house. Several cars are parked on the lawn out front. Joe’s place has a quaint and cozy quality to it.
I park on the dirt drive with the rest of the cars on the lawn. A last-second doubt flashes in my mind. Did I make a mistake coming to New Jersey? It still feels like the right thing to do, and even if it’s not, it’s too late to back out now.
Joe steps out of the house wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a ball cap. He looks just like his pictures. Scruffy, dark beard. A bit haggard from what I expect has been a hard life. His movements are slow and stiff because of a work accident years before.
Despite the ease I’ve felt talking with Joe over the phone, my palms sweat. I climb out of my car and open the door for LuAnn, giving me a few extra seconds to think of what I’m going to say. Hopefully, something better than “Hello, Joe.”
“Hey,” says Joe in his gruff voice.
“The cheesesteaks were good.” It sounds lame when I say it.
“Hmmm,” grunts Joe. “Cheesesteaks.”
Or maybe the sound is a mmm. I can’t tell for certain.
Joe walks up to me and gives me a hug. All of my first-meeting tension drains away.
Up close, I notice he’s shorter than I am. Back home, I’m the shortest male by about an inch. All of the Lindsay men range from five eleven to six one. Being taller than another male family member is a different experience for me.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Joe motions toward the house and stiffly walks that direction. “Tammy and the rest of the family are waiting over at Dad’s. Whenever you’re ready, you can head over there.”
No fanfare. No big scene. My first contact with Joe feels like a routine visit with one of my siblings back home. I like it. His calm, accepting reception has already put me at ease. I follow him up to the house.
“You like tomatoes?” Joe asks. He stops at the door and bends over one of the plants growing under the front window. Then he hands me a bright-red cherry tomato.
I use my shirt and wipe off the tomato before popping it into my mouth. The small, firm ball bursts into juicy goodness when I bite. It has a rich tomato flavor with a hint of sweetness. “That’s really good.”
“Yeah,” says Joe. “Jersey has the best tomatoes. Come on in and meet Tammy.”
By Tammy, he means his wife—not our sister. This is my chance to ask him a question that’s been on my mind since I found out there were two Tammys in the family. “What does everyone do to make sure they know which Tammy is which?”
“You can just call our sister . . . Old Tammy.” Joe offers a sinister chuckle. In other words, he gives me his usual laugh.
“I think I’d rather come up with my own way of telling them apart,” I tell him. Since she’s married to Joe and now a Petrauschke I can call her Tammy-P.
“Suit yourself.”
Inside, a red-haired woman with a cherubic smile waits for us. As soon as I enter the house, she rushes me and gives me an enthusiastic hug. Then she hugs LuAnn. “I am so happy to finally meet the two of youse.”
Her accent reminds me slightly of the scene in My Cousin Vinny when Joe Pesci talks about the two utes—youths. The sheer joy of Tammy-P’s greeting surprises me. I certainly didn’t expect a sister-in-law to be this excited about my visit.
Tammy-P motions us to a couch in the front room. “Come in. Come in. Have a seat. Everyone else is at Poppi’s house. They can’t wait to see youse guys.”
The words fly out of her mouth in rapid succession. I’m pretty sure she’s exceeding the conversational speed limit, but I relish the sheer joy she exhibits over having us here. Tammy-P strikes me as the polar opposite of Joe. Where he is gruff and takes his time to respond, she is bright, sunny, and animated. Their relationship reminds me of mine and LuAnn’s. Lu is cool, calm, and collected, where I’m bouncing off the walls most of the time.
LuAnn and I sit on the sectional. There are five or six cats in the room. Two on the couch, one on the table, another on the windowsill, and at least one napping on pet furniture.
“Don’t mind the cats,” Tammy-P says. “They’re lovers. We seem to attract strays.”
Joe grunts at the statement.
“Anyways,” Tammy-P continues. “I’m so glad the two of youse came out to visit. Tell me about Florida. What did youse guys do there?”
LuAnn tells them about the Florida trip. She talks about the grandbaby, our daughter, the grandbaby, the boyfriend-in-law, the grandbaby, our unusual motel stay, and the grandbaby. I toss in an occasional comment about the horrible humidity and creepy Spanish moss.
Joe stands in the kitchen while we talk. The house is small enough that a person in the living room is only a few feet away from anyone in the kitchen. He sips a cup of coffee and seems content to let his wife carry on the bulk of the conversation.
When LuAnn runs out of things to say about the grandbaby, I launch into my list of questions for the family.
“Tell me again. What was your reaction when you found out about me?”
“I was shocked,” Joe says. “Dad’s all about doing what’s right. It surprised me he had a past. Then after that, I was glad to have another brother.”
“Anything else?”
“I was worried about Pop,” Joe says. “It hurt him to know he had a son all these years and that he wasn’t there for you. He’s excited about your visit.”
Joe’s answer leaves a lump in my throat.
“Did he say anything about me?”
“Dad doesn’t talk much,” he says.
“How did your mom take the news?”
“She thinks it’s cool,” Joe says.
His low, graveled voice seems better suited for a gritty battle scene in a military movie than for a heartwarming family discussion, but after a few minutes, I find it oddly comforting. He answers my questions without the need to pad his responses with extra words or information.
“You want a pork roll?” Joe asks.
“It’s going to be a couple of hours before Mom has dinner ready,” says Tammy-P. “You might as well snack on something until then.”
“Yeah, pork rolls,” Joe says.
“Sounds good to me,” I tell them. Then I stand up and stroll over to the kitchen. Four tall black chairs are situated around a matching table. LuAnn joins me. We sit and watch the birth of a pork roll sandwich.
Joe pulls out what looks like a roll of bologna and slices off enough meat for the sandwiches. Then he grills the pork roll. The kitchen fills with a smell that isn’t exactly ham or bacon. As much as Joe talks about these sandwiches, they must be good.
The slices of pork are set on a Kaiser roll. Fried eggs go on top of the meat, and then Joe seasons it with salt and pepper. A thick slice of American cheese finishes the sandwich. It certainly looks good. I wait a moment for condiments and eventually ask, “What about mayo?”
Joe whisks the plates away from me and LuAnn. “You don’t put mayo on pork rolls.”
“Mustard?” I ask.
He growls at the suggestion. “No. This is the way you eat them. I’m not going to let you ruin the best sandwich in the world with any of that garbage.”
“Just try it this way,” says Tammy-P. “You’ll like it.”
Joe and Tammy-P both watch us as we take our first bite of a pork roll sandwich. The combination of pork, egg, and cheese is breakfast nirvana. Fatty pork and gooey cheese dance on my tongue and then skip cheerfully down my throat. Joe’s right. This is a great sandwich.
“Did you research the Jersey Devil?” Joe asks as we eat.
“What’s with you and this devil?” I ask.
“It’s a thing, man.”
“Hopefully, it’s not like a romantic thing,” I tease him. It surprises me that our relationship has so quickly reached the stage where I feel comfortable joking with him. We are interacting just like I do with my siblings back home, and it seems totally natural.
“No. A scary thing,” says Joe. “It has wings and hooves and a goat head. You have to be careful when you’re walking around in the woods or else the Jersey Devil will get you.”
“We have something like that back home,” I say. “Old Mogy. The Mogollon Monster. He lives on the Mogollon Rim and is supposed to be like bigfoot or a mutated grizzly bear . . . or something. I’m pretty sure he could take your New Jersey Devil without working up a sweat.”
Joe snorts.
I lean back in my chair and enjoy the moment. This is definitely the way to have
a conversation—sitting around the kitchen table, snacking on the house specialty, and swapping stories with people you like. The only thing missing is a lifelong set of shared experiences to form a pool of casual topics for us to discuss.
Those shared experiences have to be built, one kitchen-discussion at a time. As much as sitting here with Joe and Tammy-P reminds me of the family holidays that have been an important part of my life in Arizona, I can already tell they will be different. Different foods. Different jokes. And a different set of stories . . . ones that begin with this trip.
I turn to Tammy-P and ask, “What went through your mind when you found out Joe had another brother?”
“I am really happy you have a chance to meet your family.” Tammy-P looks over at Joe. “They are a wonderful family. I just love them so much. They’ve been such a blessing to me. And they are going to be wonderful to you as well. It hasn’t always been this way for me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I have a DNA story too.”
Chapter 14
Tammy’s Story
It seems like everyone has a DNA story. If not the individual I’m talking with, then certainly a parent, cousin, or friend has taken a test and found some sort of surprise waiting for them. Apparently, I’m far from alone in discovering I have a wonky family dynamic.
“I took a DNA test to find my biological family, and it didn’t turn out the way I hoped,” Tammy-P tells me.
“Are you adopted?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “My mother raised me, but it turned out that my father . . . wasn’t really my father. I was thirteen before I found out the truth. That’s enough about me, though. Tell me more about everyone back home. After all, they’re family now.”
She has to be kidding me. Another person who discovered the man she thought was her dad wasn’t actually her dad. Does that make her the milkman’s daughter? This whole misplaced-father routine appears to be more common than I thought. For months, I’ve been telling people the shocking news of my discovery. This is my chance to find out how someone else feels about the situation.
The Milkman's Son Page 16
