Marriage Material

What else do I have besides this company? I’ve spent every waking moment since I was in high school trying to build Davis International. I was just some chubby geeky kid with an old computer and I began coding before I even knew what I was doing. I spent years in my room, and then I went to college and spent all my time in my dorms. I’ve missed out on parties and friends because all I wanted to do was be successful. I don’t even let my mind wander to the fact that I’m thirty years old and have never touched a woman.

“Will that work for you, Mr. Davis?” Olivia asks, bringing me out of my downward spiral. I’m thankful. I look over what she and Georgina have and make notes and corrections where I need to. They tell me about an award the company won last week, and I nod, telling them to put it with the others in the boardroom.

That’s another part of my life that I try not to think about. All of my achievements are met with silence because I have no one to share them with. My mom died from a blood clot when I was a baby. My dad raised me all by himself until I was in high school, and then he had a heart attack and died. By that point he was the only person I talked to, so when he was gone, I didn’t have anything. I was sent to live on a farm with a distant aunt and uncle for my last two years of high school. It could have been a chance for me to connect with some of my mom’s distant family, but instead I just used it as an excuse to close myself off even further.

The phone rings again and Georgina hits a button on her headset. I expect her to walk out and take it, but she writes down a few things and then tells them I’ll call them back.

“Mr. Davis, this is the fourth call I’ve gotten this morning. I think you need to take it.”

Georgina hands me a slip of paper and I read it over.

“Hold my calls. I’ll see what this is about,” I say, and she and Olivia leave.

When the doors are closed I pick up my phone while I try to figure out why the Jackson County offices at Domestic Social Services are trying to call me. The phone rings a few times until finally an operator picks up. I give him my name and number, and he sounds like he’s bored out of his mind.

“Transferring,” he says before the phone clicks over to elevator music.

“What the hell?” I ask as I pull the phone away from my ear, bewildered.

“This is Debra.”

“Hi, this is Anderson Davis. I’ve gotten several messages this morning to call you back. I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

“Let me check,” she says, and I hear clicking on a keyboard. “Give me your birthday.”

I rattle it off to her, and to my amazement she proceeds to tell me the last four digits of my social, my driver’s license number and address.

“Wait, how do you know all of this and why?”

“Mr. Davis, do you have a relative named Charlene Frank?”

I think for a moment and then I remember a cousin at the farm I was sent to after my dad died. She was younger than me, but I think that was her name.

“Maybe,” I hedge, waiting to see what this could mean.

“I’m the family liaison coordinator with Jackson County. I’m sorry to tell you, but your cousin Charlene Frank passed away in an automobile accident this week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, not really knowing what else I should offer. I didn’t even remember her until now. “But why are you calling me?”

“You are the last known living relative of Charlene, which makes you the guardian of her one-month-old daughter.”

I sit up in my chair and blink a few times. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“We’re a small town with only one office, so I don’t have a ton of time to explain. But Baby Charlotte has been here with the Jackson Police Department foster family until I could notify you. We’ll send uniformed officers over tomorrow to drop her off and you can sign the paperwork.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Slow down. I can’t have a baby.” I stand up from my chair so quickly it falls over backwards.

“I’m afraid that’s what Charlene’s will stated. That her daughter was to go to her closest living relative, and we exhausted all sources until we found you.”

“What about her parents—Uncle Clyde and Aunt Ruth?” I say, hearing the panic in my voice.

“I’m afraid the elderly couple passed away many years ago.”

“What about the baby’s father?” I run my hand through my hair as my chest tightens again.