The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  “Do they have Tastykakes in Arizona?” Joe asks.

  “We have plenty of fine bakers who make all sorts of tasty treats,” I tell him.

  Joe chuckles. “No. That’s the name brand.”

  “Sorry,” I say, trying to force a little disappointment into my voice. “No Tastykakes.”

  Everyone sits in awkward silence.

  Back home, my siblings wouldn’t wait for an invitation to ask questions. Nor would any question be too blunt or shocking for them to ask me. Then again, they’ve known me all their lives. The silence bothers me, as it always does when I’m interacting with others. We’re here. We should be talking.

  “All right,” I say, “there’s been something on my mind since I first found out about all of you. I have the spelling down, but how do you pronounce your last name?”

  They all laugh.

  “It’s a toughie,” says P-Mom. She carefully pronounces Puh-trau-ski for me. “When your father found out he wasn’t really a Petrauschke, the kids considered changing their name to Lodge. It’s a lot easier to spell, but by then they were used to being Petrauschkes. When the kids were young, I had a song to help them learn how to spell their name.

  “P - E - T . . . ”

  I recognize the song right away. It’s the Mickey Mouse song from the old black-and-white television show that the cast sang at the end of every episode. I listen to P-Mom sing it. She leaves out all of the extra lines.

  The song plays through my mind, but I add my version of the non-spelling portions.

  Come along and sing this song ’cause now you’re family

  P - E - T

  T is for terrific.

  R - A - U

  You belong here with us

  S - C - H - K - E

  Petrauschke

  All right, it gets sort of hung up on the last verse, but I wish I would have known about the song sooner. It would have made it so much easier to learn how to spell the name.

  In true Lindsay fashion, I pop out the first real question of the visit and go straight to the heart of the matter. After all, none of my Arizona siblings are here to launch the conversation into the blunt-mode that has been a traditional part of all my family outings. I look over at my father and ask, “Do you remember anything about my mother?”

  The smile fades from his face. He opens his mouth and says, “Well . . . ”

  Father struggles through several false starts and finally stalls. It’s painful for me to watch him put this much effort into answering my questions and then abandon the attempt because the words escape him.

  “Dad doesn’t remember much around the time of the stroke,” says P-Mom. “He used to be better about it, but over the last few years, his memory has gotten worse. His mom had to help him. He couldn’t walk or write. He had to learn that all over again. I can tell you that the only thing he mentioned to me was that I reminded him of a girl he dated in Phoenix.”

  A jolt of excitement shoots through my body. Maybe he does remember my mother. I look at P-Mom and try to imagine how she looked as a young woman. There’s a vague resemblance between her and my mother, but it’s more of a general senior-citizens-look-alike similarity. They are both vertically challenged, though.

  I abandon the thought and move on to my next question. An easy one. I feel guilty for having made my father struggle with his memory. “Were you surprised when Tammy told you about me?”

  Father chuckles. He softly speaks. “Yeah, I was surprised.”

  The warm glint in his eyes tells me the question hasn’t offended him.

  Tammy stands up and says, “I have to go inside and finish dinner.”

  I want to ask P-Mom how she felt when she heard the news that Father had another child, but I don’t want to upset her. She’s been very warm and accepting of me, both here and on social media before the trip. The situation has to be uncomfortable for her.

  Instead, I toss another question to my father, “Why did you leave Arizona?”

  Father’s eyes light up at the mention of home. He raises a hand to gesture. “I . . . lived on the east side of town. I went to . . . high school there. I can’t think of the name of the school.”

  His words are slow. I can tell he’s struggling to locate the bits of language that will allow him to communicate the thoughts that are so clearly in his head. Eventually, he stops and looks to P-Mom.

  “He lived in Arizona with his mother,” says P-Mom. “When she moved back to New Jersey, he came with her. There wasn’t any family in the state once she left. And he’s been here ever since.”

  Bill asks, “What went through your mind when you found out you had a different father than the one you knew?”

  There it is. That’s the sort of question I would expect from my siblings back home. It’s the same question all of my friends have asked me. The fact that it took the Petrauschkes so long to get around to it speaks of a gentler nature than most of the people I associate with in Arizona.

  “At first, I thought Tammy was crazy,” I tell Bill. “There was no way I could have a father in New Jersey. Then I saw pictures of you, Tammy, and Dad, and that convinced me.”

  I said it. I finally said it. I called my father . . . Dad.

  Part of me feels as if I have betrayed the man who raised me by giving them both the same title. Another section of my brain argues that it insults Father to call him by any other name.

  As long as Dad—I mean my Arizona dad—never finds out, I should be all right.

  Tammy pokes her head out of the house and announces that dinner is ready.

  I follow the rest of the family inside. It reminds me of a carnival fun house for short people. My head almost scrapes against the kitchen ceiling, and I have to duck to pass under the support beams that run from one side of the room to the other. The floor slants to the left. Then as I cross over from kitchen to dining room, I notice that this floor slants to the right. The walls are painted the same shade of key-lime green as the fruit used in my favorite pie.

  Despite the blatant architectural flaws, the house feels cozy. It feels like home.

  “You can sit wherever you want,” P-Mom says. She motions to a small table at the center of the kitchen, then to a pair of longer tables in the dining room. The nieces and nephews have already taken over one of the long tables.

  I make the obvious choice and pick the spot closest to the food. Pork roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn, lettuce salad, fruit salad, and dinner rolls. The same kind of meal that has been a staple for family gatherings all my life.

  A familiar aroma fills the kitchen, beguiling my mouth into a Pavlov’s-dog response. I get up and saunter over to the stove. The smell is coming from a pot of homemade gravy. If the gravy tastes even remotely as good as it smells, I may not be able to walk away from the table at the end of the meal.

  LuAnn sits next to me, and then Tammy, P-Mom, and P-Dad join us. The abundant quantities of food on the table prevent anyone else from squeezing in. Not that it makes a difference; everyone is within a few feet of us as we eat. All I have to do is look to my left or my right and include them in any conversation we have.

  Mmmmmm. The gravy is every bit as good as it smells. I roll my eyes in ecstasy.

  “Do you like it?” asks Mother Petrauschke.

  Since I don’t want to stop eating long enough to answer her, I just nod.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” says Mother Petrauschke, “but what’s the man who raised you all these years like?”

  I stop eating. That isn’t a question I had expected from my New Jersey family. Sure, it points out the elephant in the room, but it also puts me in the awkward position of deciding what to tell my father about my dad. How much of the relationship with the man who raised me do I share with a group of relative strangers? And how is it going to make my father feel if I talk about how much
I love my dad?

  Then it occurs to me that Mother Petrauschke is more than Father’s wife and loving companion. She is also his mouthpiece. She speaks for him when he cannot find the words. I can sense this is a question that’s important to my father. For fifty-seven years, he was unaware of the son he had in Arizona, and he needs to know that someone was there for me. That somebody took care of me. That I didn’t suffer because of his absence.

  Father stops eating and watches me.

  “The man who raised me is a good man,” I tell Father. “He protected me. He taught me to work hard and think for myself. He loved me. All this time I thought he was my biological father because he never treated me any different from the children he had with my mother. You don’t have to worry, because I’ve been in good hands all these years.”

  Father nods. He seems happy to hear my report.

  “My dad . . . I mean, my dad in Arizona,” I quickly correct my statement. “He’s like a real, live John Wayne. Dad operated a mule train in high school to help feed his brothers and sisters. Then he joined the Marines and served his time as an MP. He was even on the boxing team. Not only that, but he kind of looks like John Wayne.”

  Father’s eyes light up at the mention of John Wayne. “I have a hundred and . . . a hundred and . . . I have over a hundred John Wayne movies.”

  “I love John Wayne movies,” I tell him. “Do you have Rio Bravo or True Grit?”

  “Most of the movies are . . .” Father struggles for the words. “When he was young.”

  “Ah, the John Ford trilogy,” I say. “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon and Fort Apache.”

  “Yeah,” says Father. “Like those.”

  “Dad loves Mexican food,” says Tammy.

  “Me too,” I tell them and then look over at Father and wink.

  “Bill, do you remember your favorite place to eat in Arizona?” P-Mom asks.

  Father motions with his hands. The words come out slowly. “It’s been so long.”

  “And it’s probably gone by now,” I tell them.

  I finish off a second helping of potatoes and gravy. Then I bus my dishes over to the sink and rinse them off. By the time I finish, P-Mom has an apple pie on the table and is slicing it into generous pieces. It looks amazing. Sugar and cinnamon sprinkled over a perfectly browned crust.

  Apple ranks midrange in my dessert listing. I love pie, but I usually eat apple only if I can have it à la mode. Mom slides my piece over to me. It smells delicious. I wait until everyone has been served and then take a bite.

  Oh . . . my . . . word! This isn’t apple pie. It’s sweet perfection on a plate. The tartness of the apples offsets the sugar. And the cinnamon adds an extra dimension to the taste that makes this one of the best desserts I’ve ever had. Definitely the best apple pie that has ever crossed my taste buds.

  “What else can you tell me about yourself?” I ask Father.

  “Bill used to draw pictures of space aliens when he was a child,” says Mother Petrauschke. “We still have them somewhere. He was very creative before his stroke.”

  The world freezes in place for me. In the span of a single moment, the answer to my life’s biggest mystery—Why don’t I fit in?—falls into place.

  It turns out I do fit in. I was just comparing myself to the wrong family. As a child, I drew pictures of monsters, dinosaurs, and other oddities. My interest in fantastic creatures was uncommon during the years of my youth. I can only imagine how much more that would have been the case in my father’s time. Both of us shared a fascination with the strange and unusual when it wasn’t popular to do so.

  The discovery excites me. I wonder what other traits I share with this man. “Did you ever have an interest in writing?”

  Tammy answers, “Dad writes Bible articles.”

  “He writes?” This is big. My mind reels with the revelation that the very things that make me stand out from my family in Arizona are the same traits I share with my biological father. Despite the problems Father has communicating, he is writing . . . in his limited way.

  “He picks a topic from the Bible,” says Mother Petrauschke, “then he researches the topic and writes about what he finds. Tammy calls them articles, but I think a study, or a devotional, is a better description. It’s not the same kind of writing that you do.”

  “But it is,” I say. “At least it’s in the same ballpark. I pick an idea to write about. Then I research the facts I’ll need to make the story authentic. And my books may be longer than Dad’s, but it’s still the same process. We are still doing the same thing. I find it amazing that we have the same interest. The same passion.”

  For nearly a year, I’ve resented the DNA discovery that changed my life. I would have rather continued my life in blissful ignorance than know the truth. But this revelation changes everything for me. I no longer need to feel like an outsider because I’m different from my siblings in Arizona. I’m not different because I’m weird or defective. I’m different because I inherited a different set of genes than the others.

  Just knowing why I’m different from the rest of the Lindsays calms my inner doubts. The comfort this brings outweighs the agitation and confusion caused by the discovery of an additional family. For the first time since this rollercoaster ride began, I’m glad I took the DNA test.

  We spend another hour around the kitchen table, sharing family stories. We talk until I can barely keep my eyes open. Then LuAnn and I say our good nights and leave.

  “What do you think?” I ask LuAnn as we drive to our hotel.

  “I think you’re lucky,” she says. “They’re a lovely family. I like them.”

  “Yep, I agree.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. I play the events of the day through my head. Partially, to make sure I didn’t misjudge the importance of anything they said. Partially, to enjoy the experience a second time.

  I can’t wait to see what mind-blowing discoveries another day with the Petrauschkes will bring.

  Chapter 16

  Not Enough Time

  Will my life ever be normal again?

  I survived the first contact with my new family, but if this unexpected turn in my life has taught me anything, it is that things can change in an instant. The Petrauschkes have met me and had all night to decide whether they like what they saw. I wonder if the meet-and-bond experience will be different on day two.

  Strike that. I know it will be different. I’m just not sure how.

  LuAnn and I wake up and then quickly work our way through the morning routine. I want to spend as much of my limited time in New Jersey with the family as possible. With that goal in mind, we pass by a tempting continental breakfast in the lobby in order to head straight to Joe’s. The plan is to arrive early enough for another round of pork roll sandwiches.

  The drive takes less than ten minutes, and we skip the detour to the house by the railroad tracks. Joe answers the door. “About time you sleepyheads made it over here.”

  Tammy-P rushes out of the kitchen and hugs us. “Well? What did youse guys think about the family? Did you have fun?”

  “It was great,” LuAnn says.

  “It was a lot to process,” I tell Tammy-P. “Everyone was super nice to me. I really felt welcomed . . . and loved.”

  “That’s the way they are,” she says. “They’re a very loving family.”

  I walk over to the kitchen and take a seat at the table. The bent-eared kitty strolls over and plops himself down in front of me. I scratch his back.

  “Yeah,” Joe offers in an especially low and gravelly voice. “Dad was excited to see you.”

  “Excited? Are you sure? He hardly said anything.”

  “Dad doesn’t talk a lot,” says Joe. “What you saw yesterday was a good day for him.”

  “Okay,” I tell Joe and file the information away for further use. “What are the
chances of LuAnn and I scoring another pork roll sandwich before we head over to Dad’s?”

  Joe chuckles. “I told you they’re good. Now you’re hooked.”

  “Did you get to meet everyone?” Tammy-P asks.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “No one has given me a list of all the nieces, nephews, and significant others, so I’m not sure which of them might have been missing yesterday. I know that Old Tammy’s husband wasn’t there.”

  “He never attends the family dinners,” says Tammy-P. “And the only reason Bill and Shelly are here is because you came out. They live in Delaware, and that’s a long drive for them.”

  “I thought Bill was only an hour away from here,” I say.

  “He is,” she says. “That’s a long way. He’s in an entirely different state.”

  That’s one way of looking at it. In Arizona, the trip out to see my sister takes nearly an hour, and she only lives on the other side of town. A trip to any of the neighboring states takes almost three hours just to reach the border. An hour’s drive time would be no barrier to me if the payoff was dinner with the fam.

  The second pork roll sandwich is even better than the first. Since Joe made both of them the same way, the only explanation I can come up with is that I’m expecting deliciousness to ooze from my new favorite breakfast offering. And the sandwich doesn’t fail to deliver.

  LuAnn and I take our time eating and visiting. We tell Joe and Tammy-P about Arizona, and they tell us about New Jersey. Two hours are gone before I know it. The limited amount of time we have here is passing too quickly. With the day already halfway over, we drive to Father’s place.

  Children are playing in the yard and come over to greet us before running off again. LuAnn and I let ourselves inside the house. A tantalizing aroma embraces us as soon as we walk through the door. It smells spicy. It smells meaty. “I hope we’re not too early.”

  Tammy and Mother Petrauschke are busy in the kitchen. P-Mom turns from the stove and smiles. “Come on in and have a seat. Food should be ready in a few minutes. Dad’s in the living room if you want to go in and see him before we eat.”