Earlier this week we received a strange message on our answering machine. An old man's warbly voice came on the line, "This is a message for David Olivier.* I might be your father. Please call me." He didn't leave a number.
Later the phone rang. Sarah answered.
"Hello, I'm trying to reach David Olivier."
"Sorry, he's not here right now."
"Okay. Well, I'm trying to reach him because I think I may be his father."
"Uh, this is his wife, and... well... um... you're not his father."
"Oh, okay. Thank you."
A short while later the phone rang again. It was a nurse from the man's nursing home in northern Louisiana. She explained that he had not seen his son for decades after a nasty split with his wife but for the past week had been trying to contact him. He was concerned that the mother might not have told his son the true story, and he still believed that I might be him. The last he had heard, his son had been working at Arnaud's restaurant in the French Quarter.
Sarah explained that I had never worked at Arnaud's and that my parentage was pretty unambiguous. She also suggested contacting Arnaud's directly for more information. The nurse thanked her, and that was the last we heard of it.
* That's my name in case you're wondering.