The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  LuAnn and I hug each member of the family goodbye. A single thought burns in my mind as we climb into our rental car and drive away. When will I be able to return?

  Chapter 17

  Post-Family Depression

  The sun hangs low in the late-afternoon sky. Based on the way its rays are hitting my shoulders, I can tell it’s late summer. The rays aren’t miserably hot, like the broiler setting of an oven; they’re more on the scale of an uncomfortable, stuffed-inside-Satan’s-closet sort of hot.

  I’m standing in the parking lot of the local grade school. Dad is next to me, wearing his roping outfit: boots, jeans, cowboy shirt, a Stetson, and a rope coiled in his hand. I don’t know where we’re going, but we’re going together.

  We stroll through the shadows between the buildings. A gust of wind combines with the cool of the shade to produce a temperature that’s as close to pleasant as I dare hope for during this time of year.

  A door stands in the central courtyard where the children eat lunch. There’s no building attached to it, just a steel door that looks like all the rest at school. A free-standing door that shouldn’t be there.

  Dad marches over to the portal, turns the handle, and then steps through. I follow him.

  The door slams shut and disappears. We’re standing in the middle of an apple orchard. A chilly wind blows through the rows of trees. The sun is in the same spot in the sky as it was a moment ago, but it no longer burns my exposed skin. Instead, goosebumps prickle my arm.

  Dad reaches up and grabs his face. Fake skin stretches as he pulls off a mask. The face of my biological father stares at me. He smiles at me for a moment and then shuffles through the orchard until we leave the apple trees far behind us. The forests and fields of New Jersey extend for as far as I can see. Green grass, green shrubs, and green trees contrast with the brown landscape I left behind moments ago.

  We cross a small country road and enter a field of collard greens. Another door stands in the middle of the ready-to-harvest produce. Again, no building. Just a door.

  Father shuffles over to the portal, turns the handle, and then steps through. I follow.

  Desert surrounds us. A weird, unnatural desert. A saguaro stands next to me. The cactus is flat, and its color faded. It takes me a moment to notice that the saguaro doesn’t have any needles and is bolted to a sand-covered wood floor. We’re standing in the middle of a movie set. Bright lights shine down on me, burning my exposed skin.

  Father Petrauschke reaches up and grabs his face. Fake skin stretches as he pulls off a mask. The face of John Wayne stares down at me. He smiles and says, “Hello, son.”

  I wake up. What’s John Wayne doing in my dream?

  LuAnn is already packing. In fifteen minutes we are ready to leave for the airport. The details of my dream keep replaying in my head. I’m used to bizarre, nonsensical events taking place in my subconscious realm, but this dream feels like it might be a psychological reaction to my family situation.

  I decide to worry about it later.

  The darkness of very early morning cloaks the streets. With everyone else in New Jersey enjoying the cozy comfort of their beds, we have the roads to ourselves. At least until we reach Philly. Even then the traffic isn’t more than a trickle of cars along the freeway.

  We return the rental car, take a shuttle to the terminal, and work our way through the security checkpoints. All before the sun rises.

  I wait until the last moment to board. That puts us at the back of the plane, where we end up having the three seats on our side of the aisle all to ourselves.

  “Aisle or window seat?” asks LuAnn.

  “Aisle,” I tell her.

  She settles in next to the window and is asleep within minutes.

  The plane cruises down the runway and then launches itself into the sky. Most of the passengers close their window shades and follow my wife’s example. The flight attendants work their way to the front of the cabin, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  How am I going to blend two families together?

  I’ve met the Petrauschkes, and I like them. But it’s hard enough for me to keep up with my family in Arizona. What am I supposed to do with a second family located all the way across the country? How am I supposed to split my time and attention between two completely separate families? The only thing both families have in common is . . . me.

  That’s at least twice as many birthdays to remember.

  At least twice as many Christmas gifts to purchase.

  At least twice as many possibilities for vacation destinations. All right, that one falls into the benefit category. I guess it’s all about how you look at the situation. Now there are twice as many people to wish me a happy birthday and twice as many opportunities to receive packages during the holidays.

  The situation still complicates my life, though . . .

  “Would you like anything from the refreshment cart?” A flight attendant interrupts my thoughts.

  I order a Diet Coke and place it on the tray table in front of me.

  My emotions struggle to find a way to structure my life. I now belong to two worlds. Each of those worlds is centered around a man who is my dad/father. It feels as if I have to make a choice between the two, even though I know that isn’t the case.

  Where do I belong?

  Am I allowed to love one of my dads more than the other?

  It seems unfair to ask me to even try. One is my blood. The other is my lifelong mentor. One I have a duty to love because of our genetic connection. The other has earned my love through his years of selfless dedication to my welfare. I know it’s possible to love both men, but can I ever love them in the same manner? With the same intensity?

  The dream returns to my thoughts.

  In the movies, characters are often given a chance to see how their lives would have been affected if they’d made a different choice. My dream feels like one of those films, except it’s the choice of my parents that determines the outcome of my life.

  I grew up with the family in Arizona. But one single choice, one single action, could have dramatically altered the life I experienced. If my mother had attended a different social event or used a different bank to cash her paychecks, she might have met my dad first. Then he would have been my biological father and my life would have stayed the way it had been before I took the DNA test. Or would it? Would I even exist?

  A different series of events might have kept Father Petrauschke in my life. Perhaps he wouldn’t have returned to New Jersey. I would have grown up with him in Arizona, making trips back East every once in a while to visit the extended family. And my name would have been . . . Petrauschke.

  I replay the dream in my head and wonder if any set of choices or actions could have led to John Wayne being my actual biological father. Probably not.

  The life I have now includes a man who embodies the spirit of John Wayne films. Dad taught me honor, loyalty, and the value of hard work. I’ve always wondered if his tougher outlook on life helped balance my overly sensitive nature, allowing me to function better in the world. Without his influence, my emotional sensitivity might have roamed free from one drama-induced disaster to another.

  I sit and stare at my drink, watching the beads of sweat trickle down the sides of the plastic tumbler. Our natures set Dad and me apart. We have a fair number of differences in our basic personalities. It seems like that’s given me the opportunity to add extra dimensions to my life. I can look at our differences as growth opportunities rather than oddities that distance me from him.

  On the other hand, if Father Petrauschke had been a permanent fixture in my life, his calmer nature may have set a different example for me, an example that might have led to me making fewer catastrophic mistakes in my life because I would have thought through before acting on a situation. It might have also meant that I would have relied more on my mother
for guidance than I actually did.

  There’s no doubt that my life would have looked completely different from the one I know. How I act. What I do. Who I know. Where I live. All of it . . . different. I don’t know if any of those changes would have made my life better or worse. Or maybe it just would have been different.

  I wonder if Father’s love for Arizona is a sign that he subconsciously knew I existed. Is that sort of thing even possible? Or does that happen only in movies?

  The plane shudders. None of the flight attendants run screaming down the aisles, so I decide not to panic. I watch them for any signs that the few bumps we’re experiencing are more than mild turbulence. One of the attendants notices me watching and returns to the back of the plane. “Did you need something?”

  “Um . . . sure,” I croak in an unsteady voice. “How about another Diet Coke?”

  She smiles and returns in a few minutes with my drink.

  “Thanks,” I tell her and then take a sip.

  There’s definitely a nature versus nurture thing going on here. Part of who I am was determined by my genes, as is evident from the fact that I share so many traits with a man I didn’t know existed until nine months ago. But there are other traits that are a result of the environment in which I grew up. My politics, my habits, and my view on life.

  Here I am. A strange mixture of both.

  But where does my love of Mexican food fit in?

  Dad loves it. Father loves it. I love it. Is it a result of my nature or the manner in which I was nurtured? This kind of thinking is going to drive me nuts if I keep it up.

  The pilot announces the landing. I stow away my tray table and hand the attendant my empty cup. In a few minutes, my life will be back to normal.

  Chapter 18

  Family Feud

  I soar into the holiday season on the wings of bliss, still high from the tremendous display of affection I’ve received from my New Jersey family. This should be the best, most joyous, spirit-filled Thanksgiving/Christmas combo since my youth. Even though it’s only mid-October, my nose senses the phantom smell of turkey-yet-to-come.

  The final pages of my latest fantasy novel flow from my mind, through my fingers, and onto the computer screen. For the moment, it seems as if everything is going my way, but how long can that possibly last?

  Life resembles a war. I fight battles to keep everyone in the family happy. I fight battles to push my career front forward. And I battle to obtain territory in the land of happiness. Seldom do all of those fronts operate on an acceptable level.

  My latest book is darker than any of the previous ones, contrasting starkly with my current mood. While the themes and violence of the story might rate only a PG-13 if the book were a movie, I don’t want my fans to pick it up thinking it is the lighter, more innocent fare I usually write. I need a pen name.

  Petrauschke?

  No! Absolutely not! I like the idea of honoring my biological father by using his name, but Petrauschke is a mouthful. And it isn’t even the name of his real father. I switch over to Ancestry, locate Tammy’s account, and search the family tree.

  Lodge. That’s the name of P-Dad’s biological father. It’s short and easy to pronounce. I like the sound of it as well. Now I just have to find a surname that can reasonably pass for a given name.

  Not Gaskill.

  Not Supplee.

  Definitely not Devinney.

  Moriarty has possibilities, but I don’t want everyone thinking I write detective stories.

  Bennet. Bennet Lodge. The name has a nice sound to it. I grab my clipboard and write it a couple of times to see how the name looks on paper. That’s the one. I return to my manuscript and change the name on the title page to Bennet Lodge.

  I return to the spot in the manuscript where I left off and read the last sentence I wrote.

  “Tears rolled down his cheeks as he checked for signs of—”

  I hear a knock at the front door. The kids are all at school so it’s probably a door-to-door salesperson wanting me to buy a solar-energy package guaranteed to save me thousands of dollars over the life of the product. Why can’t it ever be Publisher’s Clearinghouse with an oversized check that will allow me to live out the rest of my years in material comfort?

  It takes a few moments to stretch my legs, weave a path from my office to the living room, and open the door. Whoever knocked is gone. A plain brown package sits on the porch at my feet. I pick up the box and take it into the kitchen.

  Joe and Tammy-P’s names are on the mailing label. I don’t remember leaving any of my personal possessions behind in New Jersey. The visit itself went well, so I rule out the possibility of them shipping me a bomb. After a few more minutes of trying to guess what’s inside the box, I decide to open the package.

  Tastykakes.

  At least a dozen six-serving packages fill the box. Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes. Butterscotch Krimpets. And Tasty Klair Pies. Joe’s sent enough of the treats for everyone in my house to try one of each and still have leftovers. A taste of New Jersey to share with my family.

  Joe wasn’t kidding when he mentioned he like Tastykakes. He’s like the bird who is “cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.” Then it hits me that this is his way of showing how crazy he is for his family. He’s sharing food he loves with the people he loves. His emotional generosity stuns me.

  Once again, it amazes me how a group of people can take in a stranger and love him with such intensity. I know we’re family, but we still barely know one another. Their ability to weave me into the threads of their lives . . . humbles me.

  I struggle with the impulse to tear open a box and start sampling the bounty of sugary love Joe has sent us. Instead, I return to my office and open Facebook. It’s my turn to express my feelings for them. I look for the picture I snapped of P-Mom’s delicious dessert and post it with the caption, “Based solely on the taste of this awesome pie, I am considering a move to New Jersey. Yum!”

  Then I check through my social media feeds and find them crowded with posts from the New Jersey clan. The first one I find is from Joe. There’s a picture of me with P-Dad and my new set of siblings. Joe posts, “I met my older brother for the first time. What a wonderful gift. What a wonderful man. A great sister-in-law to boot. I love you guys.”

  Bill responds with, “They were great. I hope we can get together some despite the distance.”

  Tammy posts, “It was an awesome visit, but way too short.”

  And one of the family friends posts, “Wait . . . older brother?”

  Joe answers the friend with, “They hand them out now at the five-and-ten.”

  P-Mom answers with, “Yes, a surprise to all of us, but a wonderful surprise.”

  I slump in my seat and sigh. There are another dozen separate Facebook posts. All of them express similar sentiments. My focus over the last two weeks has been on finishing the latest book rather than keeping in contact with my new family. While writing is important to me personally, maintaining a strong relationship with my family should be higher on my priority list. I should have been exchanging social media posts with the family members in New Jersey every day since I returned.

  That’s easy enough to fix. All I have to do is post a few substantial messages now, and everything will be all right. I sort the pictures LuAnn took during the trip and find one of me and Father.

  I post it with a message, “Apologies to my New Jersey family. I’m not good about posting on social media and even worse when it comes to posting about family. I returned to Phoenix amid a love-storm of well-wishes and declarations of affection and have not returned them as I should. I’m sorry. I love you guys.”

  That should do it.

  I close the internet screen and return to the writing software. My fingers hover over the keyboard, waiting for instructions from my brain. But my brain is busy brawling with a sense of guilt. I remind mys
elf that I responded to them.

  Guilt says, “Two lousy messages? Do you really think that’s enough?”

  “Maybe,” I respond to my conscience. “I’m sure they are busy people who have other things to do besides posting on social media all day.”

  “Come on,” says Guilt. “You don’t believe that. I expect a better answer from you.”

  “If I post a truly meaningful message, will you leave me alone?” I ask.

  “For a while,” Guilt says. “But you’re bound to do something stupid later in the day.”

  I dismiss my inner voice and return to Facebook. A picture of me and Father seems like the best choice for a post that will satisfy my conscience. I write, “Here is the picture many of you have been waiting for—me and my biological father, Bill Petrauschke. This was taken just minutes after meeting him for the first time in my life.

  “Stating that as soon as we met, he gave me a hug wouldn’t do justice to the event. This man wrapped his arms around me and truly embraced me. I could literally feel the love he has for me flowing through those arms and into my heart. Even though he had never seen me before, I knew right away that he loved me. I had to work hard to keep myself from crying, right there in front of all my new family members.”

  I wait a few seconds for any lingering doubts to prevent me from going back to work but find my mind silent of incriminations. Confident that I have restored the level of family happiness to where it should be, I marshal my talents to push the boundaries on my career front.

  Mark calls.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I ask.

  “How was your trip?” he asks.

  “It was great. I look forward to telling everyone about it at Christmas. You know, all the juicy details. The short version is it felt wonderful to finally fit in someplace. Not that I felt unloved before, but it’s different to be with people who look like me and act like me. It made feel as if I’m not a freak. It felt good.”