Chapter 7: Blood and Bureaucracy
The county courthouse in Oakhaven smelled like old paper, floor wax, and twenty years of municipal despair. The building was an old brick monolith built back when the timber mills were still booming, its high ceilings echoing with the heavy footsteps of people trying to straighten out lives that had gone crooked.
I sat on a scarred oak bench in the Records Department, my leather vest feeling entirely too loud against the quiet, bureaucratic hum of fluorescent lights and humming box fans. In my breast pocket was a certified copy of Leo’s birth certificate, pulled from the state registry in Idaho three days ago by a county clerk who owed me a favor for rebuilding her transmission.
The name on the line marked Father was blank. Just a dash of black ink where my name ought to have been, written down by a nurse in a county clinic who didn't know who I was and didn't care.
"Jackson Vance?"
I looked up. Arthur Miller—the town magistrate and acting registrar, an old man with thick-rimmed glasses and skin like dry parchment—was standing by the frosted glass door of his inner office, holding a manila folder in his arthritic hands.
"That's me," I said, standing up and buttoning my vest.
"Step on back, Jackson. Let's see what kind of trouble you've managed to walk yourself into this time."
I followed him into his small, cluttered office, where stacks of property deeds and probate files towered over a heavy oak desk. I sat down in the wooden chair opposite him, resting my forearms on my knees.
Arthur opened the folder, pushing his glasses up his nose as he scanned a typewritten form. "Clara called me yesterday. Said you've taken in a woman and a boy from out of state. Said you're claiming the boy is yours."
"He is," I said, my voice level, the tone I used when I wasn't asking for permission.
Arthur looked over the top of his glasses, his pale eyes sharp and measuring. "The birth certificate from Idaho doesn't say that, Jackson. Says mother unknown or unwed, father unverified. Legally speaking, that boy doesn't have a father on paper, and the mother’s health isn't looking like she’ll be able to maintain custody through the winter if social services catches wind of it from the state line clinic."
"She’s sick," I said, feeling the familiar, hot prickle of anger rise in my chest. "She’s not a danger to him. She’s just worn out."
"I know she’s sick," Arthur said softly, closing the folder with a dry slap. "And you know I’ve known you since you were running around this county on a stolen Honda with your hair on fire. I know you left twenty years ago because you thought you were doing everybody a favor by removing yourself from the equation." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "The question isn't whether you love the boy, Jackson. The question is whether you're ready to stop running long enough to prove it to the state of Washington."
I stared at him, the silence stretching between us like a taut winch cable.
"What do I need to do?" I asked.
Arthur pulled a blank form from the bottom drawer of his desk and slid it across the wood, along with a black fountain pen. "You need to file a voluntary acknowledgment of paternity. Sarah has to sign it too, while she's still lucid enough to give consent. Once that’s filed, you petition for joint guardianship or custody in case her health takes a turn. It’ll cost fifty dollars in filing fees and three weeks of background checks by the sheriff's department."
I looked down at the blank lines on the paper. My hands, stained permanently with grease and old motor oil, looked clumsy and out of place against the crisp white surface.
"They going to check my record?" I asked quietly.
"They're going to see twenty-year-old warrants for disturbing the peace and riding without a license that were dropped back when the old sheriff retired," Arthur said dryly. "They're going to see a man who lives in a garage and works for cash. But they're also going to see a man who hasn't had a brush with the law in a decade and just leased a house on Maple Street." He tapped the pen against the desk. "You want to be his father on paper, Jackson? You’ve got to step out of the shadows and let the county look at you."
May you like
I picked up the fountain pen. The metal barrel was cold. I thought about Leo sitting on the porch steps, turning that wooden block over in his small hands, waiting for me to come back from the garage. I thought about Sarah, sleeping under the lavender quilt, her breathing quiet and steady for the first time in months.
I didn't hesitate anymore. I pulled the form toward me, clicked the cap off, and began to write my name on the dotted line, pressing down hard enough to tear the paper just a little bit at the edge.
