Fail Dive: Zero points are given to dives if a diver gets help via call-out during the dive, steps off the board after assuming the starting position, takes more than one minute to begin the dive after a warning, performs a dive other than what was announced, or refuses to execute a dive.
MR. MALONE has us line up with our project partners at the county clerk’s office on Monday afternoon. I’m standing with Iris talking about Monarch Night, trying to ignore Les who’s been on his phone texting someone and smiling the whole time. I imagine he’s bragging about the stunt he pulled with the article Saturday night and I have to fight a full-blown urge to throw him up against a wall and shout: What’s your goddamn problem?
But I don’t.
Because I’m Theo Mackey, fulfiller of expectations.
We move forward two steps as one of the groups ahead of us gets their information and leaves.
“You ready?” Iris asks, leaning into me. “We’re almost up.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
I’m eager for anything I can add to the photo Uncle Phil gave me after listening to everyone chatter-bragging for the last hour about the all information they already have.
“Next,” the woman behind the counter calls.
“You guys can go first,” Les tells us. “I’ve already got more than I need for this thing.”
Of course he does.
I look down the line behind me for Chip so he can see how annoyed I am by Les and he gives me the most sarcastic thumbs-up I’ve ever seen. And then we step forward, all three of us in tandem, like we are in fact a throuple.
The clerk gives us a limp smile, examining us over half-moon glasses secured by a beaded chain.
“Parents’ names?” Her eyes are on me.
“Sophia and Mitch Mackey.”
“Maiden name?”
“Rogan.”
The clerk writes that down, then looks at Iris.
“Bert Fiorello and Ioana Dalca.”
“That’s a mouthful,” the clerk says. “Mind writing that on this slip of paper?” She slides a phone memo pad to Iris.
“My mom was off-the-boat Romanian. Fiorello is Italian,” Iris whispers to me.
“Hence the cards,” I say. “We’re Irish. At least on the Mackey side.”
“Hence your obsession with rainbows and leprechauns and pots of gold.”
“More observation than obsession.”
The clerk gives us a slight eye roll and continues typing at warp speed, pausing only long enough to whack the return key as hard as humanly possible. Her wispy eyebrows are knit so tightly they’re almost overlapping.
“I’ve got Mitch Mackey’s birth certificate and, oh.” She looks up. “We have his death certificate, as well. I’ll print that stuff up for you straightaway, but I can’t seem to find anything in our database for a Sophia Mackey or Rogan. Do I have the spelling right?” She states each letter of my mom’s maiden name like I’m hard of hearing.
“That’s correct.” I rub the back of my neck where it’s heating to a low boil.
“Don’t sweat it, Mackey,” Les says, leaning forward. “I’m sure you’ve already got the important stuff. This is just perfunctory. It doesn’t really tell us anything about our families that matters.”
I give him a dismissive nod, even though my hackles shot up with his backhanded jibe.
“Let me try yours,” the clerk says to Iris, sliding her pink memo pad closer to her keyboard. As she types Iris’s mom’s name she repeats it long and slow. “I-o-a-na Dal-ca. Well, there you go. I have a marriage certificate and a…” She stops midsentence and meets Iris’s deep blue eyes. “I’m sorry, dear. Her death certificate is here, as well, but no birth record.”
The clerk looks between us, trying to conceal her horror as it dawns on her that three out of our four parents are dead.
Because it’s weird, like I said.
“Thank you,” Iris says. “My mom wasn’t born in the United States.”
“I can check immigration records as well.”
“That would be great. What about Theo’s mother? Sophia Rogan. Do you think you’ll be able to find something for him, too?”
I’m thankful Iris took over for me, but have a feeling I’m shit outta luck.
“There may be something in physical storage, or on microfiche. Would you like to fill out a form so someone can look into that?” She slides a clipboard across the counter to me. “Just put Rogan-Mackey at the top, and unless the records are sealed, we should be able to find something for you by the end of the week.”
A different clerk, unable to mind his own small-lipped business, creeps up behind the woman that’s helping us and says, “Not to eavesdrop or anything, but someone else came in here early Saturday morning asking about those records.” He studies me with dark beady eyes above a crooked nose underscored by a cop ’stache.
“Tall guy, dark hair?” I ask. Uncle Phil is the only person who would have come here on my behalf.
“No. This was a lady that came asking,” he says. “Southern. Polite. Told her the same thing we tell everyone about sealed records. Excuse me now while I get back to my group.”
I shrug at the clerk assigned to us. I don’t have a clue about who the lady that came asking might be.
“What do you mean by sealed?” Iris asks. But I already know.
I lean closer to the clerk so only she and Iris can hear the little bit of truth I’m about to rip. “My mom was in the foster care system before she was adopted. Could that be the problem?”
The clerk gives me a sad smile, the exact brand of short-lived sympathy I’ve been trying to avoid for years. “Could be. We only carry public records: birth, death, and marriage certificates. The foster care system keeps their own records. But there are other sources of directory information you could try. Addresses, phone numbers, and place of birth can often be obtained from school records. You’d have to prove you’re a relative, of course. They won’t hand the information to just anyone.”
Andover Prep.
They’ll probably have a copy of the photo missing from Coach Porter’s trophy case too.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” she says. “Sometimes family members are the best source of information for these things.”
Sometimes, but not always.
“You have helped,” I tell her. “More than you know.”
“How about you, young man?” she says to Les.
“Karen and Andy Carter. Maiden name: LaFace.”
That’s my cue to leave. Les and Iris have already heard more about my family business than I’m comfortable sharing. Watching Les get his family records handed to him without a hitch is more than I can tolerate today.
Les makes a grab for my arm as I walk away. “Don’t go yet. I need to talk to you before practice.”
I clamp my lips and keep walking. I don’t even wait for Iris. I just take the stuff they had on my dad and leave, before I say or do something I’ll regret.