Dada: Chapter 3b

   The judge was giving me an exasperated look.  Well, I was the one who had veered us off-topic.
  "As I was trying to say, for some reason, your father tried looking for you again recently.  On Tuesday, the investigator called me saying things had changed and needed to be expedited.  He tried to explain about a car crash, and how a minor needed to be taken care of.  He also said he wouldn't be able to come back to the office.  I got the strong feeling that he was no longer employed and wanted to get back as soon as he could to get paid.  Later on, a social welfare worker called from New York confirming what the investigator said.  And that Samuel would be here on Wednesday."
   "Why did you wait until yesterday evening to reach me?"  It was a good question.
   "It was Election Day, Mr. Burton.  Almost everyone was off.  Fortunately, the investigator had a private number he could reach me at.  We started filing the paperwork as soon as Samuel arrived.  It just took longer than normal to get everything done."
   I was still a little stunned.  Everything was just happening too fast for me to catch up.
  "What happens next?"  Another honest question.
  "Well, that is partially up to you.  First, we will have to get the DNA samples originally asked for, so we can confirm who you are, although I see little doubt that you are.  Next, the court will give you temporary custody.  After that, you are going to have to go to New York for a final custody hearing, as well as taking care of any inheritance and other expenses.  If you choose to, you could deny the custody request, and send Samuel into foster care.  Really, you will need to ask the New York courts for the particulars, especially if it turns out that you are the executor or a beneficiary.  My advice is to get a lawyer, both here and for there."
  At that, there was a knock at the door.
  "I'm ready for the tests, Your Honor."
  "Come in, Martinez," the judge responded.
   The woman in the beige pantsuit came in.  I though she was just the social worker who brought the kid in.
  "We will finish with the documents when you get back."  the judge said as we both stood up.  "Just follow Ms Martinez.  The test samples shouldn't take too long."
   I followed Ms Martinez down the hall, passing the kid as he was sitting in the same chair I had been in.  His head was down, but peeked up as we passed.  His eyes were still a little red.
   "Come along, Mr. Burton.  Right in here.  We normally use this as a break room as well, so try not to be alarmed."  She had opened the door at the end of the hall, and we walked in.
   "I thought you were from New York, but you sound like you know the place."
   " Just sit down.  Yes, I work here.  The caseworker from New York got a call on the flight.  Apparently, his wife went into labor a month early.  When they landed, he had already booked an Uber to drive him to Cincy for the immediate return flight.  Barely said anything else, just handed me Sam and the documents and left.  Really non-professional, but I can't blame him."
   I sat down as she was doing all of this.  She already had  the needles out for the blood test.
  "First, we have to do the cheek swab," she said.
  "Wait, a swab?  Why not just to a blood test?"
  "I know it isn't standard, but it was what that judge was asked for. Now, open wide."
   She carefully swirled the cotton swab on the inside of my cheek.   Not too bad, all considered.
   "Now, for the needle.  If you're squeamish, you might want to look away.  It will only hurt for a second."
    "No.  I'll be fine.  Is all of this really necessary?"  It did seem strange to ask for two tests.
   "It is unusual.  Usually only a blood test is asked for."  She did all of this as she prepared my arm.  Lucky I wore this nerdy, short-sleeved shirt after all.  "Still, I can tell you two are related.  Mostly, it's the eyes."
   "Yep.  Hazel.  Saw it myself earlier.  Not that many people with that exact shade."  She had started draining blood.
   "Also, your hair.   Straight, brown.  Although his is a little darker.  Almost done."
  "I know.  I was all but blonde, like my mother, until I hit seven.  Then it started going dark.  Still have a few highlights though."
   "All done.  Let me put a bandage on."  I could still see the small vial on the table top.  "Sorry about the bandage though.  It is all we got.  The kids love them.  I only drew a little, so you shouldn't feel too bad. There is some juice in the fridge over there if you feel like you need it."
   It was My Little Pony, all bright pink and purple.  So, not that embarrassing at all.
  "No thanks.  Now what?" I had to ask.
  "Back to the judge.  After that, I guess you will have a long time to get to know your brother."
  Before I could ask her, we were already back in the hall, walking back to the office.
  "Wait one sec.  I need to do something first."
   We were standing in front of Samuel.
  "Hello.  My name is Christopher Burton, your brother.  Well, half-brother, I guess.  It looks like I will be taking care of you for awhile." I offered him my hand to shake.
  At this he stood up, I saw that he was taller than I thought.  At least 5' 6", maybe 5' 7".  Only a few inches shorter than me.  Man, he was big.
  "Hi.  I'm Samuel, Sam.  Nice to meet you."  His voice was cracking horribly, ending in a barely audible whisper.  His hand was moist; his grasp weak but steady, as if he was used to it.
   "I guess I will be taking you with me.  Do you need to pick anything up, first?"
   "No, sir.  I didn't have time to get anything,  after the, uh, funeral.  We just flew here before, uh, I could get ..."
  "That's fine.  You don't have to say anything more.  Let me just talk to the judge about a few more things, and then we will be off.  Is that okay, with you?"  I was looking at Martinez when I said the last part.
    "I believe so.  You two will need to get ready for New York, but the judge will have that information for you."
   "Well, then.  Time to get started."  I had a few more questions for the judge.  Important questions.
  

Dada: Chapter 3a

  "Allow me to explain.  Last week, a private investigator asked me to have the court intervene on a case of his.  He had been looking for a missing person, whose identity had been changed, and he needed me to summon the person in for confirmation.  Usually, family court wouldn't get involved in cases involving adults, but this one was different.  Do you know of a 'Phillip Joshua Burton?' the judge asked.
   "No.  Should I?  Is he a relative of mine?"
   "Actually, he is you." the judge answered, as he grabbed a folder from a drawer.  "The investigator had this folder with him.  Take a  look a this certificate."
   He handed me the top paper from the folder.  It was a birth certificate for this 'Phillip,' yet nothing on it was making sense to me.
   "This can't be mine.  Yes, I was born on August 23 at 11:19 pm, and my height and weight look about right, but nothing else is.  First, I born in Kentucky, not Queens County, New York.  Second, my mother's name is Cynthia McDonald, not this 'Lucinda Marie Burton.'  I don't know my father's name, so it could be 'Jonathon Alexander Burton', but I have no way of knowing.  Why does someone think this is me?"
   "From what the investigator told me, your mother had the divorce papers ready to be filed the day of your birth.  Her attorney had her discharged from the hospital barely an hour before your father arrived to pick the two of you up.  He had no idea your mother wanted a divorce until a lawyer handed him the papers at the hospital.  She had set it up so that she would get sole custody, but no other settlement.  No alimony or child support, and absolutely no paternal rights or visitation. "
   "How could something like that happen?  How could she get away with something like that?" I stammered
   "Probably a favorable judge, possibly some sort of payoff.  It's been too long to know for sure, and nothing was investigated at the time.  The best that could be done was privately.  Your grandfather, Joshua Douglas Burton, hired someone to locate you and your mother.  For over two years, they searched, but couldn't find either of you.  Joshua even tried to bribe you grandmother, Vera Rose Rutlidge Arnett McDonald, with a monthly stipend to help raise you if she told him where you two were, but she never did.  He died just before you would have turned three, without ever even getting to see you."
   "So that's where the money must have come from." Suddenly, things started to fall in place.
  "What do you mean?" the judge asked.
   "A few weeks before I turned twenty-one, my grandmother died.  Her bank then called on me saying that an account in both our names was being audited for failure to pay taxes.  From the time I was born, $500 a month was being put in, with an additional $100 on my birthday and Christmas, with a few smaller amounts around other holidays until I was three.  At ten, the amounts went up to $1,000 a month and $250 for the holidays.  At sixteen, there was a $1,000 deposit, as well as one when a graduated high school.   When I turned eighteen, the monthly deposits stopped, as did the one for Christmas.  All that was left were $5,000 deposits at the start of each semester at college, as well as $1,000 on my birthday.  When she died, the last $6,000 had already been put in
   "Apparently, she never spent any of that money.  She did take out some of the interest, but never more than half of what was paid out per month.  The government said that I had to pay the taxes on that money, ever though I never even knew it had existed.  Fortunately, one of my friends was pre-law and was able to get the judge he was working with to look into my case.  We were able to get the account legally established as an unused trust fund, and I got to keep it all.  My mother had to fork over some of her inheritance to pay some of the back taxes, but mine money was clear by the time the last $5,000 got deposited.  I really could have used that money growing up, but I used it immediately instead.  I bought a house, here in Lexington.  It was it foreclosure, so I got it way below market value, and still had enough to live on for awhile, as long as I invested it and spent it wisely.
   "Then, when I turned twenty-five, I got a surprise.  The bank said a new deposit had been forwarded to the old account for the amount of $250,000!  And this was after fees and taxes had been paid.  I never really looked into where the money came from, I guessed it was just another hidden account my grandma had, or perhaps a duplicate of the original one, which had about the same amount when she died.  I kept it secret from my mother, almost everyone really, but otherwise, I been quite comfortable these last few years.  With the right financial outlook, I have barely made a dent in it.  This still doesn't explain Samuel."

Dada: Chapter Three

    The rest of Wednesday night went on the usual way.  Dinner.  New comics.  Television.  Internet, as well as numerous text messages, email, and voice mail to everyone at work who had to be notified that I would be in late Thursday.  Not that any of it mattered that much.  Most of the people I messaged barely cared what I would be doing.  I didn't mention I was going to the courthouse, just that I would be facing some "unexpected business" that came up.  Whatever.
   Thursday morning was a breeze.  I picked out a short-sleeved dress shirt, even though it looked a little dorky, but I felt that I needed to look official and that meant wearing a tie.  Blue Homestead was officially 'business casual', but Tim usually let us go without ties.  The day was going to be hot, and I wanted to stay cool.  The drive would be short, as I was going almost straight there, but with a backstreet route.  Barely any traffic.
    The new courthouse was built during a period when the judicial system was building new courthouses wherever they could.  Sure, most were probably necessary, but there were a few outcries.  I remember reading about how one county got a new courthouse, even though the current one was barely twenty years old.  They said it didn't meet the needs that it was built for, too small and not up-to-date technologically.  To build the new one, they tore down a century old building, as well as the building housing the law offices of a frequent court candidate.  Hey, it wasn't my county. 
    Parking in the garage was easy, for once;  I was early enough to beat much of the usual rush.  I went to hide my phone in the console.  I didn't want to take it through the metal detector, not to mention I wanted a little connection with the office as possible.  It's a tough decision, but I make it.  At least I get a faster trip through the line.  Less than a minute, and I am in the elevator with a few others.  Ten minutes to spare.
   Judge Stanford's office is part of a whole suite of rooms dedicated to the family court.  They share a waiting area and a receptionist.  The man at the desk is looking bored as I walk up to him.
   "Hello.  I'm Christopher Burton.  I have an appointment with Judge Stanford at 8:30."
   "Yes.  I guess you're the reason we're in early.  Please take a seat over there, and the judge will see you shortly."  the receptionist nonchalantly waved to the chairs at the other side of the room.
   I took a seat a few doors down from the judge's office.  They don't have anything to do.  I should have brought my phone, even if the office could've reached me.  This is dull.  Just waiting.
   After about four minutes, the judge's door opens.  A woman of average build walks out.  She is wearing a beige pantsuit.  With a faint smile she leads a boy out of the office.  His head is down, but he looks like he is about as tall as the woman.  His navy suit is way too small for him.  The pant cuffs end well above his ankles, exposing light grey socks over his brown loafers.  His heels are pressing down on the backs of the shoes.  He isn't wearing a belt; the waist looks like it is about to burst.  His jacket cuffs leave about two inches of his sleeves exposed, but his shirt cuffs aren't even buttoned, barely folded at the wrists.  A badly knotted tie hangs loosely at his neck, showing a thread where his top button used to be, as if it couldn't contain his neck.  The jacket shoulders stretch thinly, threatening to come undone.  At least his dark brown hair is neat. 
   As they walk down the hall, the boy turns back around to face me.  A few red splotches ring his cheeks, the first signs of a pimple forming.  His eyes are red too, as if he had been crying.  His hazel eyes... No.  They are not going to play this on me. 
   "Sir.  You may go in now.  Judge Stanford will see you."  the receptionist directs me as the two people enter another room. I get up to enter the office.
   Behind the desk, Judge Stanford is standing, offering his hand.  Before he even has a chance to respond I rail into him.
  "I don't know what's going on here, but that kid can't be mine.  Sure, he has my eyes, maybe, and perhaps hair, but he isn't mine.  The oldest a kid of mine could be is seven, maybe almost eight.  That boy is at least thirteen, judging by his recent growth spurt.  Besides, I have kept in touch with most of my former partners, and none of them have ever been pregnant."
  "Calm down, and take a seat, Mr. Burton."  He forcefully shakes my hand as I take a seat.
  "You are quite correct.  Samuel there has just turned fourteen a few weeks ago, and he is most definitely not your son," he said.  I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
   "He is your brother.  Your half-brother on your father's side.  You have been asked down here because you are his only capable relative to take care of him.  Mr. Burton, you are being asked to become his guardian."
   "Wait.  My brother? Guardian?  What?!"  I stammer.

Dada: Chapter 2a

  “We might be able to start something this summer with a demo, especially if the new material will be available for stores.  Until then, I guess you will have to blue book it for awhile.”  He means that I would have to write in a journal about the minor events happening in the lives of the characters.  That was now over two dozen, spread across many game-lines, and that didn’t even cover the ones made by my old friends.

I barely pay attention to what Ray is saying, as I scroll down my messages to something that had just popped up from Pulse.

Notice:  Due to the recent cancellation of one of your titles [My (Almost) Miserable Life], you will no longer have the twenty minimum to qualify for the full 20% customer discount on your pull folder.  As of June 1st, your discount will be 10%.  Thank you for using Pulse.

“Ray, what's this about Miserable Life?  I know it's a few months late, but I didn't think they would cancel it.  It's just to high-quality and popular.” 

“Look, we got the notice on Monday that all current orders on it are cancelled.  And this afternoon, there was a press release saying that the title was officially cancelled.  It might be back; it might not.  It is just too soon to know.  If you're worried about your pull, you can always add a title by the first to keep your discount.”  Ray replied.

  “I am already having trouble finding stuff I like.  I'm not sure I can find anything that I will like that soon.”

  I don't really follow super-hero comics much any more.  I only get a few of the cheaper $3 and $4 ones to help fill out my minimum, so I can get the discount on my $6 and $7 ones.  Miserable Life was one of the best of those.  It was, no is, an American-style manga about a young man, Ted, who finds a young girl without any of her memories.  He was going to take her to the police or a hospital when she had a memory flash while passing a small grocery store.  Literally, her eyes were glowing.  They went inside, but the owner didn't recognize her.   Still, they stayed around a bit to help him out.  Because of their help, he managed to save his store, which was on the verge of going under.  He would have been forced to close and sell the place if it hadn’t been for their help.  Later, after they had left, some letters appeared, carved into some of the wooden walls.  Those letters suggested that the young woman may have had been there once before.

After that, Ted found a place for her in his apartment building and started calling her Mae.  Each issue, Mae would have a memory flash about something, and then they would investigate.  Each time, now one knew her, but they wound up helping them out and something minor would change in the environment, although only the readers would notice.  That changed with issue 13, published this past February, two months late and the third delay of over a month in the past five issues.  Ted was at work, and Mae was supposed to stay in the apartment.  While looking out the window, she had a memory flash about this man who appeared to be trying to pickpocket a woman on the street.  She went out and asked if she could help him.  When Ted came home, he found her on the street with the con man, and telling Ted that she had been helping the pickpocket commit crimes all day.  Ted took her away, causing the criminal to run afoul of a troublesome mark and get chased onto the street, where he got hit by a car.  He was in bad shape, but it looked like he would survive.  Meanwhile, back at his hideout, a photo booth sheet of pictures appeared, of him and Mae together with a note saying “To my love and partner in crime.”  Finally, a thought bubble popped up saying “She is here.  She shouldn't be here.” You couldn't tell where it came from, maybe from one of the bystanders or someone else nearby. and now I might never find out.

I say goodbye to Ray and walk up to the new comics display, which had thinned out of browsers by this time.  I take a quick glance through some of the titles.  Just because I don't read most of them doesn't mean I don't try to stay informed. Who knows?  Maybe someone will ask of my opinions about a title or story line.  I don’t want to look like a fool and have to admit that I don’t really know what is going on.  I then go to the counter to pick up my folder.  Another new employee was there.  

“Hi.  I'm Meagan.  How may I help you?”

“I would like my folder, please.  Name's Christopher Burton.”

I hate it that there are some many new people here.  I used to know the names of every employee.  I guess that a place like this has a lot of turnover.  Must be plenty of college students needing work.  I get my books and then leave.  It doesn't take as long to get back to my car, as it did getting in, as traffic had slowed down a lot.  I place my comics on the front seat and go to the convenience store for a few things.  They were out of chocolate bells, though.  I really needed some tonight.  So what if they are just chocolate-covered upside-down cupcakes?  I like them.  I had to get some healthier alternatives instead, such as fruit.  Yeah.

By this time, my car had gotten hot in the sun.  At work, I usually manage to park in the shade.  I had to turn on the A/C, but I had forgotten about the glitch.  Lately, not only does the power cut off if I turn on the radio and it too soon, but the A/C could also cycle off and on if I set the fan speed too high.  As soon as I switch it on, it cuts off.  Looks like I was going to have to drive home hot.  At least it is a faster drive this late in the day.  I just finished paying the car off, too.  Just my luck that I had to get the one car in a thousand that keeps messing up.  Haven’t heard of any other troubles with the model.  

The drive home is uneventful.  Traffic had slowed on most of the side streets, even with the main arteries still slightly congested.  That’s the key the driving around Lexington.  Stay off the largest roads as much as you can.  Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I still live just a few blocks away from the UK campus.  This time of year, almost nothing is happening.  That sweet break that lies between spring graduation and the summer session.  Just make the correct turns and boom, I’m on my street with hardly any trouble.  Can’t get much better than that.

As I pull into the driveway, I notice a car parked on the other side of the street.  Definitely not one of the regulars.  I might not be too close with many of my neighbors, but I am usually good at recognizing their cars.  This cream-colored rust bucket looks even older than mine.  Suddenly, a hefty, sweaty man gets out and hobbles up to me as soon as I get out of the car.  I don’t even have time to pick up my groceries and books.

“Are you Christopher Arnett Burton?”  he gasps as he rushes up to me.

“Yes, I am.  And you are?”

“Never mind,” he says as he shoves some papers into my hand.  “I have been waiting here an hour to hand you these.  You are to appear at Judge Stanford's office at 8:30 tomorrow morning.  Don't ask me what for.  All I know is that you aren't going to be arrested and you aren't in any trouble.  Probably. Good day.” 

I hear him mumble under his breath that he doesn't get paid enough to do this, as he trudges back to his car and pulls away.  I look down at the papers he gave me, a summons I guess.  There wasn't much on them.  Basically, it said I had to appear at this Judge Harvey Stanford's office, family court.  Wait.  Why do I have to go to family court?  There wasn't an explanation.  Shouldn’t there be more?   I grab my bags from the car and lock it up.  I slowly walk to the front door, dazed, and  wondering just what was going on.