The Missing Man

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Jack looked curiously at him. ‘What’s the job, exactly?’

  Mr Chipman pointed into the cemetery. ‘History. People.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Good answer.’

  ‘The snow’s doing a great service to this place—right now it looks quite picturesque. But let me tell you, underneath that beautiful white blanket are a whole bunch of graves in bad shape. Overgrown, dirty and illegible. Those whose names we can read, we know little or nothing about.’ He looked earnestly at Jack, his eyes animated and alive. ‘These are the people who shaped this town, this county, this state, this country—they deserve better, frankly. Me and some other local history nuts have formed a preservation group and we need someone to help clear and catalogue the cemetery. Someone with a passion for history. And people. Someone willing to go back to school part-time to develop their history knowledge.’ He gently tugged his beard. ‘Interested?’

  Jack smiled. ‘Yes. Yes, I am. It sounds perfect—thank you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Mr Chipman said, offering his hand to shake. ‘You start on Monday. Come on, let’s go defrost ourselves and talk over the finer details with a coffee.’

  Jack followed Mr Chipman back out towards the car.

  ‘So what was it you wanted to know about your own family, Jack?’ Mr Chipman asked.

  ‘Anything at all,’ Jack answered. ‘My mom and dad are real cagey about their family. I know that they were both born in Boston, but beyond that is all a bit of a mystery to me. My dad’s mom and dad died in an automobile accident in 1946. Dad’s two brothers, David and John, were killed in the Second World War. On my mom’s side I know that her dad died in the Great Depression and her mom died in 1945. That’s it.’

  Mr Chipman frowned. ‘All a bit tragic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s how it sounds,’ Jack began, fishing in his back pocket, ‘Except, that this morning I found this.’ He handed over the certificate. ‘I think it’s for my dad’s marriage—but not to my mom. There are a couple of things wrong with it, including his name, but I think it’s him.’

  Mr Chipman scanned the certificate as they walked, then stopped in his tracks and gazed at Jack. ‘Ah. The witnesses.’

  ‘Exactly. The marriage took place in 1949 and was witnessed by a David Jacklin and George Jacklin. And it all took place in California. How could that be?’

  Mr Chipman thought for a long while. ‘Let me say this to you: does it not strike you as a little unusual that all of your mom and dad’s family died before…what…1950?’

  ‘Yes—it’s always bothered me, but if that’s what you’re told…’

  ‘Take a step back and view it objectively, Jack. You’ve been told all this information about your family. But, from one historian to another, I would pose this question: where is the evidence to support what you’ve been told?’

  ‘I don’t have any,’ Jack admitted.

  ‘All you have so far is that,’ he said, pointing to the marriage certificate. He continued to walk back towards the old Saratoga, stepping into the crunchy furrows of their own footprints. ‘Now, there may be some explanation—maybe this George and David Jacklin are cousins or other relatives…if not, then it’s clear evidence which contradicts the version of events that you’ve been told. Maybe—and it is just a maybe—the rest of what you know is also untrue.’

  Jack’s mind was a fog of confusion. Questions rose and fell, vying for him to provide an immediate, sensible answer. His entire understanding of his family’s past looked to be completely wrong. He might have uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents still alive. But why had they lied to him? ‘What now?’

  Mr Chipman tugged on his beard and answered in a low, thoughtful voice, ‘Well, I can look into it for you, if you like? I’ve got friends who practically live in libraries and Town Halls—both here in Massachusetts and in California—they might be able to turn something up.’

  ‘Yes—yes, please,’ Jack replied. Whatever it was, he had resolved to know the truth.

  ‘Okay,’ Mr Chipman said, unlocking the car. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Come on, I’m freezing—let’s get out of here.’

  They only went to the Dragon Lite Restaurant on special occasions. Tonight’s special occasion, the sale of the boxes of junk and war memorabilia, had left Jack with a sharp burning sense of unease. They were sitting close to the window overlooking Main Street, Hyannis, waiting for the food to arrive. Jack decided to make use of his parents’ joviality. ‘So,’ he began, switching his focus between the two of them, ‘it’s your twenty-third wedding anniversary next month—are you planning on anything special?’

  ‘Is it really?’ his dad asked.

  ‘I expect I’ll cook your dad’s favourite meal, or maybe we’ll go out,’ his mom said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wondered is all. Where did you guys meet, exactly?’

  His dad cleared his throat and Jack caught the quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes over to his mom. ‘Such a long time ago!’ he laughed. ‘We were just friends when we were young and…’

  ‘Fell in love,’ Velda added with a giggle, reaching over and touching her husband’s hand.

  ‘But I mean, where were you living?’ Jack questioned.

  ‘Boston,’ his mom answered.

  ‘And what did your parents think about you getting married?’

  Another strange look passed from his dad’s eyes.

  ‘They were…’ he began.

  ‘Dead before we married,’ his mom answered, finishing the sentence.

  ‘Oh yeah, the automobile accident,’ Jack said, trying not to sound disingenuous. ‘How did that happen, exactly?’

  His mom set down her knife and fork and glanced around the restaurant. She leant closer to Jack and lowered her voice. ‘Look, what is all this?’

  Jack shrugged innocently. ‘I’m just curious about my family, is all. I mean, you guys never talk about it—’ he faced his dad ‘—I’ve never even seen a picture of your mom and dad.’

  ‘They’re dead,’ his mom snapped. ‘Now leave it alone.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, Velda,’ his dad said. ‘He has a right to know about what happened. They were out for the evening—I forget where, movie theatre, I think—and there was a real freezing fog hanging over Boston.’ He paused to take a breath. He shrugged his shoulders, then continued, ‘My mom was driving and she drove right into the back of a truck. The driver—an old veteran—had apparently fallen asleep at the wheel, right in the middle of street and she didn’t see him in time. They had no chance. Their car just crumpled up into the back of the truck.’

  Jack nodded, unable to look either of them in the eye. It was a damned good story. It might have happened to someone at some point, but not to his grandparents in Boston in 1946. He had absolutely no doubt in his mind that they were still alive at the time of his dad’s first wedding in 1949.

  As far as his mom and dad were concerned, the story had done the trick and had dissolved his curiosity. Their expressions showed that they were poised for further questions. When none came, his dad struck up a conversation about the upcoming election. ‘A poll in the paper points to Carter taking the White House.’

  And that was that, the discussion switched from a sinking sand of lies to more solid ground, as it always had, he realised.

  Jack’s expression said that he was listening. In truth, his thoughts were turned firmly to what he had just heard. The words that had been spoken were not in themselves revelatory—indeed, his mom and dad had simply reiterated, with some convincing embellishment, the same narrative that Jack had always known; it was the looks, the body language and the manner of their speech—like they were amateur actors, struggling to recall an exact script from long ago.

  The truth was out there, somewhere, and he was going to find it.

  Chapter Six

  16th August 2016, Barnstable, Massachusetts, USA

  Juliette was getting annoyed; Morton could tell that she was biting her tongue and chewing over her choi
ce of words. They were standing in the queue of the Nirvana Coffee Shop on Barnstable Main Street, waiting to order. She drew a long breath—one of her exasperated ones. ‘All I’m saying is that you’re spending a lot of time inspecting the minutiae of your extended family: getting newspaper reports into your grandfather’s death, looking at the census for your great-grandparents—’

  ‘But I really think that Jack’s story is bound up with theirs,’ Morton pleaded.

  She sighed. ‘Look…why are we here?’

  Morton glanced around him. ‘Coffee.’

  ‘You know full well what I meant—in America—why are we here?’

  He thought for a moment, wondering if this was a trick question. ‘Honeymoon,’ he answered.

  ‘And?’

  ‘To find my father.’

  ‘Precisely!’ Juliette asserted. ‘To find your father—the one thing that you could be doing to help with that, you’re avoiding doing.’

  She was referring to his Aunt Alice. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  Another long breath in. ‘It never is with you, is it?’

  ‘What can I get you folks?’ the man behind the counter asked.

  ‘Take-out latte for me, please,’ Morton ordered, before turning to Juliette. ‘Decaf,’ he added swiftly for her benefit, despite feeling a desperate need for caffeine right now.

  ‘Same for me,’ Juliette said, shaking her head with mock displeasure. ‘Look, what is it that you’re scared of? That you don’t find him, or that you do?’

  It did, in typical Juliette style, cut straight to the heart of the issue. It was, however, only partly true. He was certain that his father’s story was somehow connected with his grandfather’s, but yes, there was a hesitant part of him, content to live forever in ignorance of his father’s whereabouts. Right now, his father could be alive and delighted at the prospect of meeting his long-lost son. Equally, the opposite could be true; discovering that knowledge was irreversible.

  Juliette paid the server and took the two drinks. ‘Right,’ she said, handing him his latte. ‘Today you do whatever it is you’re doing. Tomorrow we’re exploring Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, then the next day we’re going whale-watching from Provincetown, after which, you’re going to find your Aunt Alice. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘See you later,’ she said, kissing him on the lips.

  ‘Bye,’ he mumbled.

  Outside, they headed in opposite directions. He walked briskly, sipping his latte as he went, analysing and regretting their frosty parting. He could tell that at the heart of her contention was the word that she had swallowed down but that had loomed large in the background of their conversation: honeymoon. They were three days into it and had yet to do anything meaningful together. He had spent the entirety of last night researching his family on the internet. His discoveries had taken him well into the early hours of this morning. And now he was feeling it and the decaf wasn’t helping matters.

  Having found his grandfather’s first marriage to Audrey Fuller in 1949, he had discovered the birth of a child, Florence, in 1951. The 1940 census had been revealing. The Jacklin family, all having been born in San Francisco, had an expensive house and a good income from the family hardware business. The next inevitable step had been for him to search for Joseph and Audrey’s divorce, which he had found listed in a local newspaper among several other cases to have reached the courts. Joseph Jacklin had filed for divorce in December 1950, citing adultery against his wife, Audrey. The particulars for divorce cases for this period were unfortunately not in the public domain.

  Morton went to increase his step, to reach his destination more quickly, when he realised that he had arrived. Sturgis Library, the sign announced. Includes the house built about 1645 by John Lothrop minister of the Barnstable Church from 1639 to 1653. From the front, the library looked deceptively like a very old house with yellow painted weather-boarding and black-framed windows. The rear of the building, however, incorporated a large extension, to which Morton strode.

  Dropping his unfinished drink into a bin outside, he entered the library and walked to the help desk.

  ‘Hi, I’m looking for—’

  ‘The genealogy section?’ the young librarian guessed.

  ‘Er, yes, that’s right. How did you know?’ Morton asked.

  ‘You look like the type,’ she said with a smile. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He didn’t know whether looking like a genealogist was a good thing or not.

  She led him into a room packed with shelves which were brimming with documents. Hundreds, if not thousands of bound volumes containing Massachusetts vital records. ‘What is it you’re looking for, exactly?’

  Morton grimaced when he paid attention to the dates of the tomes around him: almost all pertained to records ending in the nineteenth century. ‘Actually, a bit more recent than this,’ he said, before explaining his reasons for coming.

  The woman nodded. ‘Okay, so through here, then, we have more modern records that might help you.’ She took him to the front of the building, in the old house. ‘This is the Lothrop Room—built in 1644 for the Reverend John Lothrop, the founder of Barnstable. Lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, amazing,’ Morton agreed, casting his eye around the old room.

  ‘We’re the oldest library in the United States and as this very room was used for public worship, so it is also the oldest structure in America where religious services were held.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘And it’s in here that you’ll find voters’ lists for the period you’re looking for,’ she said, pointing to one of the shelves. ‘Over here.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Did you say that your dad went to school in this area?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘So, over there we have a collection of the Barnacle—the year book from the local high school. When was your dad born?’

  ‘1956,’ he answered, watching as the woman’s head bobbed around whilst she did a quick mental calculation.

  ‘So, you’ll want the 1973 edition,’ she said. ‘Call me if you need any help with anything.’

  ‘Great—thank you very much,’ Morton said, making a beeline for the school year books. Why had he never thought about these before? Perhaps because it was not something usually done in English schools. He selected the one for 1973—a thin silver hardback—and rushed over to the large wooden table in the centre of the room. The first pages were dominated by slightly unflattering photographs of the faculty staff. Next came the section headed Seniors.

  He paused, holding the page between his fingers. If luck was on his side, he would find a picture of his father in the ensuing pages.

  He turned the page and saw the first five students, arranged in alphabetical order. Alongside a headshot photo was a quote from the student, a shortlist of their hobbies and their future goals. Despite wanting to skip through the pages, he took his time. These were his father’s classmates—his friends. He looked at the final entry on the page open before him. Jeanne Elizabeth Hooper. His father would be on the next page.

  With a slow, deliberate movement of his hand, he turned it over. And there he was. His Aunty Margaret had been right. When he had asked her what his father had looked like, her reply had been along the lines of ‘…take a look at a photo of yourself aged eighteen...’ The resemblance was uncanny and irrefutable. Morton knew for certain in that moment, that if he had randomly happened upon this photograph he would have known categorically that it was his father. Only his hair—styled in an elaborate wave—set him in the seventies. He looked at the picture for a long time.

  Finally, he allowed his eyes to move from the photo to the caption below it. His classmates’ quotes had been poetic, inspirational, motivating. ‘Yesterday’s hurt is today’s understanding rewoven into tomorrow’s love.’ ‘If at first you don’t succeed, don’t worry about it, you’ll get another chance.’ ‘He who gives love, gets love.’
r />   Morton grinned as he read his father’s entry. He clearly had a sense of humour. Keep smiling. It makes people wonder what you’ve been up to. Then he read his father’s hobbies and future plans. Enjoys music, history, milkshakes…plans travel and college. Evidently being blamed for his father’s death in a house fire three years later, then disappearing from the face of the earth hadn’t figured into his plans in 1973. Neither had having a child just a year later.

  Morton couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph and mini-biography. Solid genealogical evidence that this man existed. His father. He was getting closer to finding him.

  Having taken a series of photographs of the page, Morton pushed on through the book. He found his father in another photo—a group shot of the student council. It was more formal and official in appearance—taken on the school stage by the look of it, with around twenty students facing the camera with their hands together in front of them.

  His father turned up again, twice more. Once standing fully kitted up with three other members of the hockey club and once in a list of Perfect Barnstable High School Boy and Girl, winning best smile.

  The yearbook painted a happy picture for his father’s time at school.

  Despite feeling like he needed to get on, Morton returned to the front of the book and photographed every single page. Besides his father’s birth certificate, it was the only tangible thing that Morton had that made his father a real person, and not simply a name plucked from history.

  Having photographed the year book, Morton carried it back to the shelf. He held it in his hands for a moment longer, before placing it back. Then, he turned to the rows of voters’ lists, pulling 1976 from the shelf and placing it on the table. Town of Barnstable. List of persons seventeen years of age or over. Listed as residents thereof by the Registrars of Voters on January 1, 1976.

  The streets were listed in alphabetical order. Morton flipped straight to Ocean Avenue and ran his finger down the page until he reached number 256.