The primary purpose of this trip is to meet Father and establish a relationship with him, but I feel more comfortable around Tammy. It’s P-Mom’s talkative nature that wins the internal debate, though. If I want any questions answered, the information will have to come from her. I sit down on one of the dining room chairs. There will be plenty of time to see Father during the day.
“After everyone left yesterday,” says P-Mom, “I got to thinking about the questions you asked us and had a few ideas on how I could have answered them.”
“Like what?” It occurs to me that the family seems a little more relaxed today. With the first contact jitters out of their system, they might be ready to answer the questions I still have. Mother Petrauschke stops fussing with the food on the stove and turns to face me. She raises her hand to her chin, obviously thinking about her answer. “We talked about a lot of stuff. I’m having a hard time remembering a specific topic.”
“What went through your mind when Tammy told you about me?” I ask.
P-Mom sits across the table from me. She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Tammy came in and said to Dad, ‘I have something I want to tell you. I don’t know exactly what to say. Did you know a girl in Phoenix?’”
I lean forward in my chair, eager to hear the other side of the story. How did they react? What did they think about having a new addition to the family who was fifty-seven years old?
Mother Petrauschke continues. “He said, ‘No.’
“Then Tammy said, ‘Well, we found out you have a son in Arizona.’
“Then Dad said, ‘I do?’
“She told him, ‘Yeah.’”
Not exactly an earth-shaking response.
“Tammy kind of hesitated to tell us,” Mother Petrauschke continues. “I think she knew about you two weeks before she told us. She didn’t know how Dad would take it. She cried a little bit. She didn’t know exactly how to break it to him.”
“What was Dad’s reaction?” I ask.
“He took it well,” says P-Mom. “He took it better than I did. I felt kind of sad. All these years he had a son he didn’t know anything about. We found out you had a family, and Dad has grandchildren he’s never met. There’s all this family we didn’t know about. All the times the two of you could have been together. Gotten to know each other. It was sad.”
“I was really concerned about how you were going to react,” I tell her. “I felt like an intruder. I didn’t want to disrupt the whole family. I especially didn’t want to upset you.”
“For me,” says Mother Petrauschke, “I felt it was something that happened before I knew him. It had nothing to do with me and our relationship.”
“That’s sensible,” I say and then sigh in relief. In my experience, people do not usually act sensibly. I had expected a much more emotional reaction. It amazes me that this woman is so open to having me join her family. Rather than brooding over a forgotten fling, she is worried about including a person who might feel left out and alone.
“Let me tell you about how Dad and I met.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “We worked together, uptown. The men made boxes for sewing machines, and the women put on the covers, hinges, and latches. My sister-in-law worked there. I told her one day, ‘Do you see that guy back there? I’m going to marry him. One of these days, I’m going to marry that guy.’
“I said hello to him one day. Then he had his cousin ask me who I was. Asked me my name. So then he calls me. We went out for three months before we got married.”
“You impulsive lovebirds, you.” I laugh. “Is there more to the story?”
Mother Petrauschke waves her hand. “His proposal was really cute. We were at a movie, and he said, ‘If I asked you to marry me, would you?’ and I said, ‘Yes.’ He didn’t know I already planned to marry him.
“Anyways, I’m happy to have extended family. I’m glad he has the chance to meet you. He didn’t have a chance to meet his dad. He didn’t know about him until he was already gone. He didn’t have a chance to find him while he was still alive. I’m glad you, at least, had a chance to meet and find out a little bit about one another. And meet the family.”
“Yesterday,” I say, “you asked about the man who raised me. Was it a mistake for me to talk about that in front of Dad? Should I not have mentioned that a good man raised me?”
“See, that made Bill happy because he didn’t have that kind of relationship in his life. You know, he didn’t have a daddy. I think that affected how he treated his kids. He was a good dad, but I think he would have been a better dad if he had had a father to teach him. I’m sure he’s happy you had that chance.”
“I get that,” I tell her. “It’s weird how both of us discovered late in life that the men we thought were our dads were not actually our biological fathers. Sort of like the universe was playing a trick on us.”
“Yeah,” she says, “but it’s not that funny of a joke.”
The kitchen door opens, and a young man steps in. He has a little girl in his arms.
“This is my son,” Tammy says. “Shaun.”
“Scrawny Shauny?” I ask.
“That’s me,” he says and then walks over and shakes my hand. He isn’t scrawny anymore. That gives me hope that my own son will fill out some day. Shaun is tall and has an average build. I’ve seen pictures of his father and see a strong resemblance between the two. His manner is calm and gentle. I find myself immediately liking him.
“This is your uncle Randy,” Tammy says, “and his wife, LuAnn.”
“The lost uncle from Arizona?” Shaun asks.
“One and the same,” I tell him.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Tammy tells Shaun. “As soon as everyone arrives, we can eat. Why don’t you go into the living room and let Poppi know?”
Shaun is barely out of the room when Bill, Shelly, and their kids enter through the kitchen door. The children wave to me and then hurry into the living room to join Shaun and Father.
I stand up and hug Bill and his wife.
Over the next ten minutes, the rest of the family streams through the door. Tammy’s oldest daughter, along with one of the children who greeted me yesterday. Joe and Tammy-P. And a young woman who no one introduces. In a flurry of activity, they greet me and LuAnn and then help with the final dinner preparations.
“Time to eat,” Mother Petrauschke calls out.
Everyone gathers in the kitchen. They look over at LuAnn and I and . . . wait. It takes me a moment to figure out they are expecting us to step up to the front of the chow line. I grab a bowl, a plate, and some silverware and then load up. The meaty smell I noticed earlier is a pot of chili. I want to sample a bit of everything, but the chili temps me beyond my ability to resist, causing me to fill my bowl with meaty goodness.
A square of cornbread goes on my plate, along with a sensible salad. I don’t need the family thinking I’m some sort of barbarian who shuns vegetables and other healthy foods.
Father takes a seat at the table next to me. LuAnn, Tammy, and Mother Petrauschke join us. Everyone else situates themselves at the other two tables. A steady buzz of conversation fills the room.
“Save room for dessert,” Joe says. “Mom made strawberry shortcake.”
“Good,” I tell him, “I like strawberry shortcake.”
“Mom makes it different from anyone else I’ve ever met,” Joe says.
“If it’s anything like her apple pie,” I say, “it should be amazing.”
I take a bite of the chili. The brightness of the tomatoes in the sauce cuts through the beefiness of the meat, and there is just enough chili seasoning for flavor.
Shaun comes over and stands next to the table. He has a bowl in his hands. “Is the chili spicy enough for you?”
“Do you consider this spicy?” I ask.
“Well . . . a little,” he says. “Probably not a
s spicy as the Mexican food you eat in Arizona.”
“What do you know about Mexican food?” I ask. “This is New Jersey.”
“We have restaurants that serve authentic Mexican food,” Shaun says.
My experience has been that the farther from the border I travel, the more the quality of the Mexican food suffers. Too many meals with friends who grew up in Mexico, or who had mothers who grew up in Mexico, have made me a culinary snob for food from that region. I look up at Shaun and say, “Tell you what. Next time I’m out here, you can take me to this authentic restaurant and we’ll find out.”
Shaun nods. He finishes chewing the food in his mouth and then says, “Poppi likes Mexican food. He eats jalapeños by themselves. He tells everyone he likes it hot, but I don’t believe him.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because,” says Shaun, “the whole time he’s eating the stuff his face is red and he’s covered with sweat. Then he tells us how good it is, but it’s obvious that he’s in pain. How can anyone enjoy that? How can that be flavorful? I mean, you can’t even taste the food when it’s that hot.”
I shake my head. Shaun isn’t the first person I’ve met who doesn’t get it. My body might react to the heat of the jalapeños, but my tongue is telling me to keep stoking the fires. “If you’re not sweating—then it isn’t good. You need something hotter.”
“That’s just crazy,” Shaun says. “You’re as bad as Poppi if you believe that.”
Hearing that I share the same fondness for Mexican food as Father creates a heat in my chest that has nothing to do with the chili. I find myself surprisingly happy to have something else in common with him. I feel another connection.
How strange that I share this love of spicy foods, especially Mexican food, with both my dad and my father. Does that mean anything? I’m sure it does, but I can’t figure out what. I file the thought away for later consideration and return to the conversation.
“What do you think about having an extra uncle?” I ask him.
“I think it’s cool,” Shaun says. His expression is calm. He finishes another bite of chili and then looks at me. “When I was growing up, I used to tease Poppi by asking if he had any kids running around in Arizona.”
“It turns out he did.” I laugh. “Who knows? Maybe there’s more.”
All of a sudden, it isn’t funny. I remember Mother Petrauschke telling me yesterday that Father said she reminded him of another woman. If that wasn’t my mother, then there really is a possibility that another lost sibling is running around in Arizona. No matter how sobering the revelation might be, I can’t afford to dwell on it right now. I have fewer than six hours left to visit with my New Jersey family, and I want to make the most of the time that’s left to me.
“Yeah, maybe,” says Shaun.
The more I talk to Shaun, the more he reminds me of my biological sons. They all have the same calm, easygoing nature. Traits that seem to have mysteriously appeared in my offspring without any indication of where they came from. While I am more sensitive than my Arizona siblings, I am not a calm person. For years, I’ve wondered why my sons act so differently from me, from their mother, and from our parents. Now I know. They take after my father’s side of the family.
I excuse myself to use the restroom and climb the stairs to the second story. The stairway is narrow, barely wide enough for my shoulders. Shallow steps slant to the left. Linoleum covers the bathroom floor. Inside, the room is furnished with a wood cabinet, a wood hutch, a wood bench, and a clothes hamper made out of wood. I check to see if the tub itself is made of wood and am disappointed to find it is not.
A glance at my watch reveals that another two hours have passed. I close my eyes and groan. Where has all the time gone? I want everything to slow down so I can savor this experience, but instead, the hours seem to race past me.
By the time I return to the kitchen, Mother Petrauschke has brought out the strawberry shortcake. This version of the dessert is a sweet biscuit topped with strawberries and a white syrup—like a dessert gravy—instead of whipped cream. She offers me a plate.
Despite Joe’s claim about the originality of the shortcake, I find this very similar my mom’s version of the dish. I take a bite, and I’m sent back to the past. Warm spring days in our kitchen. Sunlight pouring through the westward-facing windows. My grandmother and her sister sit at the table with my mother and us kids.
“What’d I tell you,” says Joe. “No one else makes strawberry shortcake like this.”
“It’s great,” I tell him and then take another bite.
We share a few more stories as the family enjoys the sweet finish to the meal. Mother Petrauschke tells me about Tammy, Bill, and Joe when they were younger. I tell the family about how LuAnn and I started dating at the beginning of summer break and then surprised my oldest son with our wedding announcement when he returned from visiting his mother.
I check my watch. It’s already past four. Through the kitchen window, I can see the sun inching toward the horizon. The time is passing too quickly. There’s so much more to talk about. There’s so much more to learn about my family.
“Why don’t we move into the living room,” P-Mom suggests.
Father places his hands flat on the table and pushes himself to a standing position. He slowly makes his way to the other room. The rest of the family follows him.
I take a pair of short stairs to the living room. The floor doesn’t appear to slant, but where the ceiling meets the wall, the seam meanders up and down like a lazy river. Eventually, I make it over to a sofa and sit down.
The room reminds me of Dad’s place back in Arizona. Both rooms are in post-prime condition. Both have the furniture laid out in exactly the same pattern. Two easy-chairs sitting side by side, a visitor’s couch at a ninety-degree angle to the parent perches, and a television set along the opposite wall from Father’s chair.
Even the decorations are similar. The New Jersey living room is decorated in tans and browns that remind me of the desert back home. A Native American pot sits on a table by the window. A framed collection of arrowheads, a desert landscape, and an image of a Native American brave adorn the walls.
Father hobbles over to a bookcase and returns with a book. He hands it to me. It is a biography on John Wayne’s life. Father points at me, smiles, and nods.
Even without him speaking, I can tell Father is excited to have me here. The book is mostly pictures. I read through a few sections that discuss John Wayne’s dedication to his sons and how they joined him on the set for several of his movies. If time wasn’t an issue, I’d read the whole book, but every minute I spend with the Duke is time lost with my father.
“You certainly are a fan,” I tell Father as I hold up the book. “How many John Wayne movies did you say you had?”
“One hundred and . . .” Father pauses. His hand goes to the side of his head. “One hundred . . . I have Fort Apache, The Searchers, The Alamo, and . . .”
Frustration builds in his face as he tries to recall all the movies on his list. It hurts me to watch him struggle to access the information that is so obviously stored inside his head but resists the summons to his accessible memory.
“What about football?” I ask. Maybe he’ll have more luck talking about sports. “Are you an Eagles fan?”
“No,” says Joe. “He roots for the Cardinals.”
“And ASU,” says Shaun.
“The Arizona Cardinals?” I ask. “They weren’t even a team when he lived out there.”
“Bill enjoyed his time in Arizona,” says Mother Petrauschke. “He enjoyed his trips back there. He loved the heat. He loved the food. He loved the scenery. That’s where he lived when he went to high school. It was an important part of his life before the stroke.”
“Arizona is yellow and brown and filled with cactus,” I say. “How can anyone who lives in a beautifully gre
en state like New Jersey miss all of that?”
P-Mom shrugs. “Well . . . he does.”
Another link with my father. While I love the green grass, fields, and forests of New Jersey I don’t want to move here. Nor anyplace else. The desert has a beauty of its own. I love Arizona and don’t plan to leave it for an extended length of time.
Father ambles out of the room. He returns after a few minutes, carrying a large picture in a white, wooden frame. He hands it to me. “I played football.”
I take the black-and-white picture and find Father’s image. He is standing along the back row of the football team, wearing the familiar PUHS on his uniform. The same designation I wore on my wrestling uniform in high school.
“For you,” says Father.
“No, I didn’t play football,” I tell him.
“He wants you to take the picture home,” says Mother Petrauschke. “He’s giving the picture to you.”
Why would he do that?
“Thank you,” I tell him.
What am I going to do with his high school football picture? It seems like an odd gesture. Then it hits me. Father is sharing something with me that was important to him. Something that connects us. He is giving me a trophy of his time in Arizona.
I know it’s impossible, but I wonder if secretly . . . or even magically, he loved Arizona because I was there. Could a part of him have sensed my existence?
No! Don’t be ridiculous.
The longer I gaze at the picture, the more it means to me. In my mind, it represents the short window in time when Father and I were together in Arizona. It serves as a place marker for the impossibly small moment when the two of us were together as a family. Me in the womb, and him in the real world.
“Honey,” says LuAnn, “we have to go.”
I check my watch. It’s half an hour past the time LuAnn and I had planned to leave. My heart sinks. I don’t want to go. I’ve been here only two days. I want more time with my family. I want a chance to really get to know these amazing people. It isn’t fair that we’ve had so little time together.
The Milkman's Son Page 19
