Tangled Roots

by Marcia Talley

  Georgina flushed. I didn’t think it had anything to do with the August heat. ‘It accomplished that all right,’ she said. ‘I’m cross-matched straight back to old Enoch somebody-or-other who was a Minuteman at Lexington and Concord. Scott’s already filled out the paperwork for the DAR and sent it in.’

  ‘Then what’s the big deal, Georgina?’

  ‘Scott won’t admit it, but I think he’s worried about his stupid men’s club. They have a couple of Jewish members, I know, but if you’re black, brown, yellow or red, forget about applying.’

  I knew about the Cosmopolitan Forum, a league of local businessmen so far to the right on the political spectrum that they made the Tea Party look like flaming liberals. The smear ads the forum had sponsored during the previous presidential campaign made me cringe. As a result of this affiliation, family visits could turn ugly in an instant, so I tended to avoid my brother-in-law whenever possible. I hadn’t seen him since last Easter dinner where … well, riffs in the family might be more easily repaired than my vintage Imari earthenware platter. More than once, I wondered why my sister stayed with the pompous jerk, particularly now that the children were older. There had to be more to a marriage than financial security and, as Georgina had once confided, fantastic sex.

  Tears glistened in my sister’s eyes.

  ‘Talk to me, Georgina,’ I urged.

  She drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘He yelled at me, Hannah. He called me a squaw!’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Honestly, do I look like an Indian to you? Do I?’

  It’s a good thing Scott was nowhere in the vicinity or I would have slapped him six ways into Sunday. What century did he think we were living in? Georgina began to sob.

  I gathered my sister into a hug, stroking her back, soothing her like a child. A half-dozen anti-Scott remarks perched on the tip of my tongue, but I knew from past experience that if I let fly, Georgina would bristle and begin making excuses for her husband, so I held back.

  She didn’t disappoint. ‘A lot of Scott’s business is driven by social contacts,’ she whimpered into my shoulder. ‘He can’t afford to lose clients because of me.’

  I took Georgina by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. ‘Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?’

  ‘That’s my point, Hannah! I don’t look like an Indian, so why would I want to be an Indian?’

  I could think of several reasons, although I hadn’t dug into the matter too deeply. Tribal membership might mean a share in casino profits, oil and gas revenues, free health care, college scholarships. As far as tribal membership was concerned, the more Indian blood you have the better, but you’d have to be descended from a federally recognized tribe and be able to prove it. Short of divorce, it seemed certain Georgina had no interest in pursuing the tribal membership route, so I let the subject drop.

  ‘Is Julie here?’ I asked. ‘How about Colin and the twins?’ I quickly added Julie’s siblings to cover for my niece. ‘I haven’t seen them in ages.’

  Using the hem of her T-shirt, Georgina dried her cheeks. ‘Sean and Dylan are at swim club today, keeping an eye on Colin. Julie’s around somewhere.’ She managed a smile. ‘In the meantime, I’d kill for a glass of iced tea. I just brewed a fresh pitcher. Interested?’

  I smiled back. ‘With extra lemon?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Sold.’

  EIGHT

  Georgina and I were perched on stools at her kitchen island discussing their vacation plans – a week at Bethany Beach, Delaware at the end of the month – when Julie breezed in. ‘Aunt Hannah! Gosh, what a surprise!’

  I sent Julie a glance that said: Chill. Don’t overplay your hand, missy.

  Julie opened the fridge, eased a Coke out of the door dispenser and popped the top. She made a beeline for a vacant stool, sipping noisily along the way.

  ‘I’m meeting a friend for lunch,’ I told her. ‘Just popped in.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ Julie said, feigning boredom. ‘How long can you stay?’

  I checked the wall clock, a Route 66 gas pump reproduction that echoed Georgina’s retro 1920s décor. If I manufactured a late lunch, I’d have a better chance of getting Julie alone. ‘We’re meeting at one,’ I said.

  Georgina refreshed our tea from a frosty, ice-filled pitcher, then went on to brag about how the twins would be starting grad school at Johns Hopkins in the fall. ‘The acceptance rate is only ten percent,’ she boasted. ‘Even with three point eight GPAs, it was by no means a sure thing.’ She leaned sideways and lowered her voice, as if sharing a confidence. ‘And they won $10,000 scholarships. Each!’

  ‘Big deal,’ Julie snorted. ‘It still costs the earth. I hope food stamps are still around when we need them.’

  Georgina’s glare would have stopped a charging rhino in its tracks. ‘Don’t you have something you’re supposed to be doing, young lady?’

  Julie slid off her stool, Coke in hand. ‘I’m supposed to be memorizing the Maryland driver’s manual. It’s pretty lame.’

  ‘Are you taking drivers ed this summer?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah. Took it at school last year, but you have to get in sixty practice hours. Dad’s been my coach.’

  I’d rather learn to drive from Jabba the Hutt, but thinking about Julie’s need to clock in some practice hours gave me an idea. ‘Would you like to take me for a drive, Julie?’

  Julie beamed, bouncing on her toes. ‘I’d love to! Mom? It’s OK, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Georgina began.

  ‘Please?’ Julie was channeling Les Miz starving orphan full-on.

  ‘I’m sure Hannah has better things to do, Julie.’

  ‘No, I’d like that.’ I smiled and turned to my niece. ‘I’m not taking my life in my hands, am I?’

  Julie giggled. ‘I’ve had almost sixty hours of driving experience, Aunt Hannah. You can check out my practice log if you don’t believe me. Dad says I might be able to take the driving test next week.’

  ‘Julie is …’ Georgina began, then paused. I suspected she had started to mention something about Julie’s restriction, but thought better of airing the family’s dirty linen. Instead, she flapped a hand. ‘It’s fine, Julie. Just don’t make your aunt late for her lunch.’

  We agreed to take my Volvo. As I settled into the passenger seat and strapped in, Julie took her place behind the wheel. ‘Ahhhh,’ she sighed, running her hand affectionately over the gear shift knob. ‘Automatic transmission. I think I’m in love.’

  After she adjusted the seat and fastened her seatbelt, I handed over the keys.

  ‘Dad’s making me learn to drive stick,’ she said, slotting the key into the ignition. ‘That’s the way he learned, so he expects me to suffer, too.’

  ‘Builds character,’ I suggested. ‘Plus, what’ll you do if there’s an emergency and the only vehicle available is equipped with standard transmission?’

  She looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘That’s exactly what my mom says!’

  ‘That’s because our mom said it to us when we learned to drive stick.’

  Julie released the parking brake and eased the car forward. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to up shift on this stupid hill with a clutch?’

  When we got to the top of Colorado, Julie turned right on Roland Avenue and demonstrated her parallel parking skills in front of Eddie’s Supermarket. ‘Well done!’ I said, genuinely impressed.

  She accepted the compliment with a self-satisfied grin, then turned off the engine.

  I wasted no time. ‘Now, tell me. Why are you under house arrest?’

  ‘I hacked into my mother’s laptop,’ she confessed.

  ‘No wonder you’re in trouble,’ I said.

  ‘It was super easy,’ Julie said, as if that made it OK.

  Before I could comment, she said, ‘I know about the DNA test, Aunt Hannah. About being part American Indian.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Even if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d have to be d
eaf not to. Dad was yelling so loud that they probably heard him on Mars.’ She turned sideways in her seat and looked directly at me. ‘I don’t get him, I really don’t. This is twenty-first-century Maryland, for heaven’s sake, not the wild, wild west.’

  ‘How do you feel about it, Julie?’ I asked, reaching across the center console to squeeze her hand.

  ‘I think it’s awesome, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, but I don’t see how it’s going to make any difference in my day-to-day life. It’s just an interesting fact that I know about myself.’

  ‘But only if you decide that’s how it’s going to be, Aunt Hannah. Being one-eighth Native American may not sound like a lot, but it’s more indigenous blood than most people have in them. I think it means I have a responsibility to my people.’

  Her people? According to Gen-Tree, I was four percent Norwegian, but I wasn’t stocking up on pickled herring, lutefisk and krumkake. Then again, I was a generation older than Julie and far more jaded.

  We sat quietly for a moment, watching shoppers pass in and out of the popular grocery, carrying bags laden with Eddie’s signature Gourmet to Go.

  ‘The DNA isn’t able to link you to any particular tribe,’ I reminded her gently.

  ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘That’s why I need your help.’

  Somewhere in the recesses of my brain a brass band was tuning up, ready to launch into ‘Ya Got Trouble (Right Here in River City)’. You’d think I’d heed it. But, no.

  Genuinely curious, I waded right in. ‘In what way?’

  ‘When I hacked Mom’s account, I noticed some DNA matches. Second and third cousins. That’s pretty close, isn’t it?’

  I agreed that it was. But something was puzzling me. ‘Your mom told me she hadn’t signed up for the genetic matching.’

  ‘Then she lied.’

  ‘Julie!’

  ‘Well, maybe that was the truth second test around, but not the first. Dad was printing out data for that DAR form he was filling out when he caught me snooping. It’s all gone now, of course. He deleted the Gen-Tree account.’

  Of course he did. Typical Scott.

  ‘I still can’t believe you hacked your mom’s account,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t it password protected?’

  ‘Of course it was password protected, Aunt Hannah!’ she said as if I were a particularly slow and difficult child. ‘But Mom’s passwords are easy to guess. Besides, she keeps a list of her accounts on her computer saved under the file name “Passwords1”. Yeah, stick a one on the end. That’ll really throw hackers off.’

  I had to laugh.

  Maybe she took my laughter for assent. ‘So, you’ll help me?’

  ‘That depends,’ I said.

  ‘It’s really important to me,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ I said. Then, ‘Maybe,’ I clarified. ‘But you have to promise that you’ll quit hacking your mom’s computer.’

  Julie rolled her eyes, sighed theatrically, then nodded. ‘I promise.’

  ‘So,’ I said after several beats of silence. ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘As long as you haven’t murdered anyone, yes.’

  ‘I sent in my own test kit.’

  I sat back in surprise, wondering where she’d gotten the money to pay for it. Scott and Georgina were fairly well off, but Julie didn’t work a part-time job, and I didn’t think she could afford ninety-nine-dollar DNA test kits on her weekly allowance, even with a twenty-percent-off coupon.

  ‘Aunt Ruth gave me hers,’ Julie explained, as if reading my mind.

  ‘Don’t you have to swear that you’re eighteen years of age or older?’ I asked, having read the fine print on the test kit I sent in.

  ‘So, call the cops,’ she said. After a moment, she reverted to a more reasonable tone. ‘I’m seventeen and ten-twelfths, Aunt Hannah. Close enough, it seems to me. Besides, I’ll turn eighteen by the time the test comes back.’

  Based on my Gen-Tree turnaround experience, that was certainly true.

  ‘So, what do you want me to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Be there for me, serve as a resource, help me out if I need it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Dad’s confiscated my laptop until further notice, so I may not be able to manage this on my own. I can’t count on my parents to help, I just can’t!’

  I thought carefully before answering. ‘Julie, you can always talk to me. I don’t guarantee that you’ll like what I have to say, but we’re family. I’ll always have your back.’

  It was lunchtime. Customers were starting to double park in front of the market, jealously eyeing our parking space. ‘Aunt Hannah?’ Julie said as she fired up the Volvo and pulled out into the street.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Then, a few seconds later, as if the previous discussion hadn’t even taken place, ‘I’ll bet I can guess your password.’

  ‘Go for it,’ I said as she swung wide right and headed down Deepdene Road.

  ‘123456?’ she suggested.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Admin?’

  ‘I’m not that stupid!’

  ‘Letmein?’

  ‘Ha ha, but no.’

  ‘How about Cocodoodle?’

  I swiveled in my seat. ‘Julie! You are a witch!’

  Then it was my niece’s turn to laugh. ‘Not today!’

  ‘Then how did you guess …’ I began.

  She brought the car to a jerky halt at the corner of Summit and Colorado, leaned forward and looked both ways before easing the car into the intersection and turning left. ‘Last time I visited, you had it written on a Post-it stuck to your monitor.’

  With the engine still running, Julie set the parking brake and climbed out of the car. I walked around and took her place in the driver’s seat. As my niece stood on the sidewalk, smiling and waving goodbye, I made a mental note to change my password the minute I got home. Family or not, I wasn’t sure the little minx could be one hundred percent trusted.

  NINE

  Following sage advice I read on the Internet, I created a new system password that earned a ‘highly secure’ rating from Doctor Google. ‘Make up a phrase you can easily remember,’ Google advised, ‘like “Christopher Columbus discovered America in 1492”, then use the first letter of each word plus the number as your password.’

  Now that I seemed to be closely related to Native American people, I decided to give old Christopher Columbus, a latecomer to the New World if there ever was one, a pass. After considerable thought, I decided on: Sacajawea guided Lewis and Clark across the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific Ocean in 1805.

  Sglacatrmttpoi1805, I typed a few minutes later, testing it out.

  While I was at it, still feeling cyber-vulnerable, I reset the security questions on my bank and credit card accounts.

  Credit card companies seem to have a thing for pets and grandmas. ‘Mother’s maiden name’ and ‘city of your birth’ were popular, too, information readily available in public records such as the ones I’d been scrolling through recently on Gen-Tree. ‘High school attended’ and ‘name of favorite movie’ were equally risky, easily figured out by any hacker – like my renegade niece – with access to my Facebook friends or Twitter feeds.

  Where were you on New Year’s 2000? my bank, BB&T wanted to know. The question got points for being un-guessable, but it gave me the heebie-jeebies. On December 31, 1999 I’d been racing around Annapolis during gala First Night celebrations, trying to stop a maniac from shooting my daughter. I didn’t think that was any of BB&T’s business and scrolled on.

  Who was your least favorite boss? That was easy. Fran, I started to type, then paused. What if there were a massive data breach like what happened at Yahoo? Would it help Fran to learn that she was universally despised? I tried again.

  Where do you want to retire? BB&T asked. Maybe it would be safer to lie. On Mars, I wrote, smiling, hoping I’d remember if ever called upon to provide the correct answer.

  BB&T’s security
questions were less quotidian than most, but I was thinking that if companies were truly serious about protecting their clients, how about asking What Monopoly game piece is your older sister’s favorite? or Who did your maternal grandfather vote for in the 1964 presidential election?

  Better yet, what could be more private than our sex lives? What was the make, model and year of the car in which you first lost your virginity? for example.

  I’ll never tell.

  Several weeks later, I decided to tackle the online accounts I had with Amazon, eBay, Home Depot, Best Buy and numerous department store chains. I was giggling to myself and filling in the usual ‘boyfriend’ and ‘first grade teacher’ – Ron and Mrs Grieg, respectively – for Macy’s when Julie telephoned, two days after she turned eighteen. Scott and Georgina had celebrated this milestone in their daughter’s life by taking the immediate family not to Bethany Beach as planned, but on a week-long holiday to Disney World in Orlando, Florida. Julie suspected the trip was more about ten-year-old Colin than her but confessed to having a good time anyway.

  ‘I passed my driver’s test,’ she announced breezily.

  ‘I had every confidence you would,’ I said. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Now I can drive down to see you.’ She paused for a moment. ‘If they let me have the keys to the Subaru.’

  Was Julie speaking figuratively, I wondered, or fishing for an invitation?

  ‘I thought you were under house arrest,’ I said.

  Julie laughed. ‘I babysat Colin the whole week. Went with him on all the rides that made Mom barf, so Dad sawed off the leg irons.’

  I chuckled at the image. ‘You can come visit me any time, Julie, but call first to make sure I’ll be home.’

  ‘How about tomorrow?’ she asked before I could draw breath.

  ‘I’d like that,’ I said. ‘Want me to arrange a spa day?’

  ‘That would be awesome, Aunt Hannah, but I don’t think I’ll have time for that.’ She paused. ‘There’s something serious I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Can you give me a clue?’