The Hales of Hallem, Long Island, considered themselves the true American family: they could trace their name back to the 17th century and document every link in the chain. So you can imagine their astonishment on Thanksgiving 2006, when the whole Hale clan was gathered at Uncle David's house, and, without even a knock, a man they had never seen before pushed open the front door. "I'm your long-lost kinsman," he said. He didn't give his name. Perhaps he thought he was beyond names: he also claimed to be more than three hundred years old.
The Hales did not welcome him. In fact, the moment their shock subsided they threw him out—or rather Uncle David threw him out; David Hale was the family's unofficial patriarch, because he was the wealthiest and the loudest. He immediately recognized this person as a threat, although, when pressed, he couldn't say what kind. A trickster, out to make fools of them? A con artist, trying to steal the family fortune? Or just a crazy old man? It didn't matter, Uncle David said: the Hales must close ranks, and so they did. Alerted the police and the banks, obtained the restraining order. Uncle David's lawyer contacted "Uncle M" (this was the name, along with a phone number, on a scrap of paper the man had left on their doorstep), informed him that he was not a Hale, and would be prosecuted if he attempted any further communication with them.
"To the contrary"—Uncle M actually said this to Uncle David's lawyer, then repeated it in a letter written in antique script, possibly with a quill pen—"I am one of you, an ancient forbear, surely, but alive enough to tell you so." In a series of "begats" he gave them back their ancestors, all accurate except for the inclusion of himself, born in 1684 to a forgotten mistress of Matthew Austere Hale, a minister known for his sinner-dangling-over-the-inferno sermons.
This time Uncle David and the other family elders responded quickly. It was information anyone could have obtained, they said through the lawyer. Where were the records that proved the existence of this mistress and child?
"I will submit to a DNA test," Uncle M replied.
Consternation. The lawyer prepared another letter, but Uncle David lost patience. "I speak for every Hale when I say that your request is outrageous," he bellowed into Uncle M's answering machine, "and we will not waste any more of our time indulging you." He slammed down the phone and that was that. Except it wasn't: because Uncle David didn't speak for his youngest daughter. She had been estranged from him since she was eighteen, but abruptly she reappeared, providing blood and spit and hair.
The results came back. Within 99.999% probability, Uncle M was a Hale.
And then Uncle David surprised everyone: he agreed to meet with Uncle M himself. He went prepared to offer the charlatan money to go away. He returned from the meeting rather sheepish; not only did Uncle M refuse to sign anything that denied his connection with the Hales, he also assured Uncle David that he didn't want any money or further contact. "I have my satisfaction. You now know there is a bond of blood between me and thee," Uncle M had said. "Why does he talk that way?" Uncle David said to the rest of them. "Trying to convince me he's from another century?" A month later he dropped dead on a jogging path. Heart attack—probably the stress of the whole matter. And that seemed to bring the matter to an end.
Uncle M sent a letter of condolence to Uncle David's youngest daughter, thanking her for participating in the DNA test. His antique script included an e-mail address, and the girl immediately text-messaged that she was glad the MF was dead and she had only gotten involved to spite him. An electronic conversation of sorts began, long wordy letters from Uncle M, and abbreviation-speak from the girl. He invited her to spend Thanksgiving 2007 with him. LOL, was her response. He replied that it would also be his three-hundred-twenty-third birthday. She asked for the address.
