The Missing Man

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton pocketed his mobile and looked up. The lady was back. With empty hands and an apologetic expression on her face.

  ‘There is no birth record for a Roscoe Jacklin born in 1928 in Boston. I shouldn’t do it, but since you’ve come such a long way and all, I checked for several years either side of that date, but there’s still nothing. Are you sure it was Boston and not any of the villages around here? We only cover the city itself.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Morton replied. The information had come from his father’s birth certificate, which had stated Roscoe’s place of birth as Boston.

  ‘Because if it was in the villages around here, you’ll need to head out to our sister office in Dorchester.’

  ‘How far away is that?’

  ‘About a half hour out on the red T-line.’

  Time he didn’t have. ‘Okay, thanks for your help.’

  ‘You’re welcome—good luck.’

  Morton made his way towards the escalators, knowing that it wasn’t luck he needed, just time and access to the right records. That his grandfather hadn’t been born in Boston shouldn’t have come as such a surprise; his entire search for his biological family had been a persistent challenge.

  He glided up the escalator on a wave of thought, considering what his next steps might be.

  Juliette was distinctly dry when they met thirty-five minutes later. He leant in and kissed her. ‘Entering the Charles River?’ he questioned.

  ‘Duck Tour,’ Juliette said by way of explanation.

  ‘And that is…?’

  ‘A tour of Boston in a bright red amphibious landing craft from the Second World War. Very interesting, too; I’m now an expert on the Boston Tea Party and the Civil War. What about you—how did you get on?’

  ‘I’ll tell you over dinner. Hungry?’

  ‘Ravenous.’

  ‘Do you fancy Legal Sea Foods? It comes recommended.’

  ‘As opposed to illegal sea foods?’ Juliette asked.

  Morton laughed. ‘Well, you are on honeymoon after all—I don’t want you having to get your police warrant card out.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s in my bag just in case…’

  He took her hand in his. ‘Come on, it’s only just around the corner from here.’

  They were lucky to get a table; the large restaurant on State Street was crowded when they arrived. A young Hispanic waiter directed them to a table with a view down the Long Wharf opposite and handed them each a menu.

  ‘What can I get you guys to drink? We’ve got some great apple sangria on or our local beer is Sam Adams…or we’ve got a nice Californian red wine.’

  ‘Sam Adams, please,’ Morton ordered.

  ‘The same for me,’ Juliette added, receiving a surprised raised eyebrow from Morton. ‘What? When in Rome…’

  The waiter returned with the drinks and took their food order of clam chowder and lobster bake.

  Juliette raised her beer. ‘Cheers. Happy honeymoon, husband.’

  ‘Happy honeymoon, wife.’

  ‘Right, now I’ve got access to some alcohol, you can tell me about your day,’ Juliette said.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Morton replied, taking a deep breath, before running through his day’s findings, ending with his inability to locate his grandfather’s birth record.

  Juliette listened attentively to his story. Then yawned. Then laughed. ‘Sorry—blame the jetlag. Isn’t there a census or something that would tell you where he was born?’

  ‘Well…I could take another look at the 1930 and 1940 Federal Census,’ he answered.

  Juliette set her beer down. ‘You’ve got until the food arrives to look. I’m sure they’ll have Wi-Fi here.’

  Morton grinned, took out his laptop and began to search the 1930 census for his grandfather. He started with Roscoe’s full name, exact date of birth, and birth state of Massachusetts. Nothing. Then he opened the search up for all states. Nothing. Then he removed the date of birth completely. Nothing. There were no Roscoe Jacklins in the entirety of the United States in 1930. Then he just tried the surname Jacklin in the state of Massachusetts. Five hundred and forty-five results. Each would need checking in turn for possible errors. But not now—the waiter was heading their way with two bowls of clam chowder.

  ‘Time’s up,’ Juliette announced. ‘Anything?’

  Morton shook his head as he shut down his laptop.

  ‘Does all this affect the search for your dad?’ Juliette asked. ‘I mean, your grandfather possibly not being born in Boston isn’t connected, is it?’

  ‘No…I guess not…I just thought that, since we were in his home city, I would try and find out a bit about him.’

  ‘Another mystery.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Morton agreed with a sigh.

  Chapter Two

  10th January 1976, Hyannis, Massachusetts, USA

  Rory’s Store, situated on the corner of Main and Pleasant Streets was deserted. Eleven days of relentless snow, where the temperature had struggled to climb above zero, had rendered the dusky streets particularly quiet. The proprietor, Rory McCoy—a beefy man in his late sixties—was leaning over the counter with both hands needlessly holding his glasses in place on the bridge of his nose. A dishevelled copy of the Cape Cod Times was open on the counter. Above him, an ancient heating system rattled hot, dry air into the store.

  Harley ‘Jack’ Jacklin watched him in the mirror fixed into the corner of the ceiling that Rory had installed to monitor wayward employees and larcenous shoppers. Jack, handsome with a boyish face, was dressed in faded jeans and a loose-fitting white t-shirt with Rory’s emblazoned on the breast pocket. Jack looked at his watch: 5.56. He was tired and he wanted to go home. The tumbling snow outside caught his attention, falling thick and fast. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind for the slow trudge home.

  ‘Hey, Jacklin,’ Rory growled up at the mirror. ‘I want that whole lot of detergent straightening out before you leave.’

  Jack nodded at the mirror, ran his fingers through his short dark hair and obediently turned to the shelves in front of him. Making exaggerated movements for Rory’s benefit, Jack shifted the boxes of Tide detergent, lining them up perfectly against the shelf edge.

  He finished and moved on to the next, not quite believing that five minutes could take so long to pass. His actions were slow and deliberate, and his body was angled so that Rory could definitely see that he was working.

  ‘Okay, home time,’ Rory finally called.

  Jack stifled a smile and strolled toward the counter.

  Rory set his glasses down on the newspaper and ogled him. ‘You think you’re smart, Jacklin?’ he asked.

  Jack was taken aback by the question. What did that even mean? He was smart enough to get accepted to Boston University to study archaeology, but he wasn’t smart enough to stay the course, which was why he was being paid two bucks an hour working for this blockhead. Jack shrugged.

  Rory sniffed and shifted his weight in his chair. ‘Let me tell you—you’re not. You’re working in a grocery store making washing powder look pretty. Do me a favour, would you? Just turn up on time, do what I ask and go home at the end of your shift.’

  Jack nodded.

  Rory fumbled below the counter, picked up Jack’s coat and threw it at him.

  Jack muttered a goodbye and headed for the door.

  Outside, his anger was tempered by the instant bite of the freezing evening. Jack pulled up his collar and strode from the store. The vanilla halos from the streetlamps cast an unnatural glow over the sidewalks, as Jack’s boots crunched down into the untrodden snow. He continued past a run of cars, held captive by the pertinacious weather, the temperature continuing to slide on the underbelly of the night.

  A few minutes later, having not laid eyes on a single other soul, Jack pushed open the door to The Port Diner. Usually when he came here on a Saturday after work it would take a moment to find his two friends, but not today. Except for the waitress behind the counter, Laura Chipman was the on
ly one here, sitting alone in their favourite booth overlooking Main Street.

  ‘Hi,’ Jack called over.

  ‘Hi!’ she beamed.

  Jack slid across the red leather seat opposite her. ‘No Michael?’

  Laura shook her head. ‘He’s not coming—he’s at our uncle’s house and his car won’t start and he can’t be bothered to walk.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a real shame,’ Jack said, crestfallen.

  ‘Yeah, our last time together for a while,’ Laura bemoaned. ‘I tried to persuade him but he’s got packing to do.’

  ‘You folks ready to order?’ the waitress called over.

  Jack nodded and she scuttled over in her red and white outfit, pen and pad poised and ready.

  ‘Two hot chocolates, please,’ Jack ordered.

  ‘Sure. You want whipped cream?’

  The pair nodded.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks—I’ve got dinner waiting for me at home,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Me too,’ Laura added.

  ‘No problem,’ the waitress said, before heading off to the kitchens.

  ‘Dinner and a whole bunch of packing,’ Laura grimaced.

  Jack smiled. Laura was returning to Boston University tomorrow for the new semester. The same as her twin brother, Michael. The same as Jack’s sister, Alice. The same as other old friends from high school. ‘Looking forward to going back?’

  ‘To the assignments, the early-morning lectures and the exams? Yeah, sure,’ she laughed.

  Jack grinned but knew that she was just being kind. She loved it at college, thrived on it. She had an amazing future in front of her. Unlike him. His future looked barren, stagnant. A slow death in a small-town grocery store.

  ‘How was work?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Awesome,’ Jack began enthusiastically. ‘I filled shelves all day. It was just the best. Cans of meat. Cans of fish. Soap powder. I even got to fill up the sale bin. Toilet tissue, sixty-nine cents. Mayonnaise, fifty-nine cents. Trash bags, eighty-nine cents.’

  Laura rolled her eyes.

  ‘I know—I’ve only got myself to blame,’ Jack lamented, intuiting her gentle condemnation. ‘I should have stayed on at school.’

  ‘Was it really so bad?’ Laura asked.

  Jack shrugged. ‘I love archaeology and history but it just wasn’t enough about the people for me—you know? Too much on artefacts rather than who used them.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t give it long enough?’ she ventured. ‘You barely made one semester, after all.’

  Jack thought about her question. She might have been right and he had quitted too soon. He guessed he would never know; now his passion for history and people and his high grades at school were being used to ensure boxes of detergent were correctly aligned.

  ‘Here you go,’ the waitress said, setting the tray down on the table between them. ‘Two hot chocolates with extra cream. Enjoy.’

  They both thanked her and she returned to her position behind the counter, staring out at the deserted street.

  Jack removed his jacket, warm blood finally creeping back to his extremities. He cupped his hot chocolate with both hands and he met Laura’s dark eyes. She was pretty—he’d always thought it and people were always telling her so—but she was too demure, too self-effacing to accept it.

  ‘What?’ Laura questioned.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jack answered. ‘Just thinking I’ll miss you when you’re gone—and Michael, of course.’

  ‘We’ll be back in no time—you’ll see.’

  He nodded, but her words curdled with his belief about their future. She and Michael would become ever more fulfilled by their time at Boston University and his time with them—these simple hot chocolates, or milkshakes in the summer—would come to mean ever less until they had nothing left in common but the drinks on the table in front of them.

  ‘Come on, Jack—stop being so miserable—it’s my last night on the Cape,’ Laura chided.

  ‘Sorry…’ Jack mumbled.

  ‘What have you got planned for the next couple of days?’ she asked.

  Tomorrow was Sunday. He would be helping his dad with household chores. Then it was back to the store on Monday. Repeat. Day after day. ‘Nothing special.’

  He raised his mug of hot chocolate, downed it in one go, then stood up and pulled on his coat. Fumbling in his pocket, he placed a dollar bill and a fifteen-cent tip down on the table. ‘I have to go—Mom will be wondering where I am. Take care getting off the Cape tomorrow.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Laura called after him. ‘Wait—at least give me a hug goodbye.’

  Jack paused and turned to face her; the self-directed biliousness that he had inadvertently vented at his friend dissolved. Jack was certain that their friendship was on the precipice of permanent change, but he wasn’t going to be the one to end it. Not here. Not today. He walked over to Laura with an apologetic smile and pulled her into a tight embrace, his fingers touching the soft strands of her mousey hair. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Okay, you’re suffocating me now!’ Laura exclaimed.

  Jack released her and took her left hand in his. ‘Take care, okay? And write me.’

  Laura leant over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Bye, Jack.’

  ‘Bye,’ he replied. He paced to the door without looking back.

  Jack finally reached his street. The usual forty-five-minute walk to Iyanough Avenue had already taken him more than an hour. In places, the snow had risen above his knees and walking had felt like wading through a lake of maple syrup. Here, however, just yards from Hyannis Harbor, the fresh falling snow had failed to battle against the coarse saline winds that rose from the North Atlantic, endowing the sidewalks with just a thin translucent glaze.

  He looked out at the harbour, usually peppered with the tiny lights of expensive moored yachts. Tonight, there was nothing out there but snowflakes frenetically dancing in the grey.

  Jack neared his parents’ house. The soft ochre lights from inside demarked it, pulling the white timber-clad structure from the monochrome background. He stepped onto the veranda and unlocked the door. A breath of appreciatively warm air, laced with the smells of his mom’s cooking, brushed over him as he stepped inside.

  ‘Dinner’s ready, Jack,’ his mom called out from the kitchen.

  Jack hung up his coat, removed his boots and followed the scented trail into the kitchen where he found his mom, dad and sister sitting at the table. Their dinners were untouched and their silent eyes were fixed upon him as he walked towards them.

  Jack took his usual place opposite his sister, Alice.

  ‘Lord, bless this food and family,’ his dad said quietly. He smiled and picked up his knife and fork.

  ‘Did something keep you from making it home on time?’ his mom asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jack murmured. ‘The snow was real deep in places, it was—’

  ‘I expect you found time to meet your friends, though,’ his dad interrupted.

  ‘Only for five minutes.’

  His dad nodded, emitting a noise of satisfaction.

  From the corner of his eye, Jack studied his dad. In his late forties, he was losing the fight to middle-age; his combed-over hair was greying and thin and the lines around his eyes and forehead were now permanently shadowed gullies. He was punctiliously dissecting the slab of pork on his plate, mixing it with a small quantity of carrot and boiled potato. There was a rhythmical cadence to his eating. Every meal was the same.

  A sharp pain struck Jack’s shin bone. He stifled a yelp and scowled at Alice. A quick flick of her head, and an agitated gesture of her eyes towards his plate, made him realise that he had completely stopped eating and was gaping at his dad like a stunned goldfish. He lowered his gaze to his own plate and quickly took a slice of pork.

  ‘So, honey—just like I said I would, I found someone to take away those old boxes from the basement for you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ his mom chirped, clearly delighted.
>
  ‘Yeah, a guy who runs the antique store up in Dennis.’

  ‘What boxes?’ Jack enquired.

  His mom rolled her eyes. ‘Old boxes of junk that have been taking up far too much space for far too long.’

  ‘He’s going to swing by tomorrow and take a look. He says he’ll give a fair price.’

  ‘Well, that sure is great,’ Velda concurred. ‘I think we could open up an antiques store with all we’ve accumulated over the years.’

  ‘What about you, Alice?’ Roscoe asked. ‘Are you all fired up and ready to go back to college tomorrow? Get behind the easel again?’

  ‘Yes—I can’t wait. This semester is print-making and ceramics.’

  ‘That sure sounds exciting,’ Roscoe replied. ‘We’ll leave after breakfast—hopefully give the sun and the snow-ploughs a chance to clear the roads so we can get off the Cape.’

  After dessert, Jack headed upstairs to his room, closing the door behind him. He sank down onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what he could do to breach this wall of stagnation that had imperceptibly risen around him, preventing access to any alternative life to that which he was now living. Reaching across to the top drawer of his bedside table, he removed a photograph and held it above him. He thought for a moment then realised that the picture had been taken almost exactly two years ago. It was of him and his one and only girlfriend, Margaret Farrier. They were standing outside her house on Canterbury Road, Folkestone in England, their fingers timidly entwined and shy grins etched on their faces.

  Jack lowered the picture, bringing Margaret just inches from his face. Why did you stop writing to me? he wondered. His letters—almost one a month since the visit to England—had gone unanswered. All except for one reply. She had been, and still was, his only relationship, so he had had little with which he could compare it, but it had felt to him as though they had had something special together. He had been naïve, he realised now, to think that their relationship could have survived the three-thousand-mile gulf between them. Stupid. He reached over and pulled out the single letter that he had received from her. 18th January 1974. Dear Jack, Thank you so much for your letter. Glad the flight home was good. I’m missing you, too! I think it was one of the best weeks of my life. Yes, I suppose I am your girlfriend now! I’ve already told my dad that I want to get a job so I can start saving to come and see you, but I don’t have a clue how much it costs to fly to America! I didn’t tell him how close we have become, but he wasn’t happy that I was ‘frequenting’ with you at all. I’m not sure what upset him most—that you’re American or that you’re FOUR years older than me! I’m sure if my mum had been alive, she would have been more understanding. She must have been in love with my dad at some point… He held the letter close to his nose. For a while—the first few days—the letter had carried a faint echo of her scent: the sweet citrusy fragrance of her perfume, laced over the dry tobacco smell from her father’s pipes that he recalled had pervaded their home. The peculiar aroma had slowly faded, and now it smelt of nothing at all.