The Missing Man

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘There is one thing you can do,’ Alice said.

  Jack rolled his eyes. ‘Try talking to them about it?’

  ‘God, no. That obviously wouldn’t work,’ Alice cut in. ‘No, I was going to say you could go to California. Find our grandparents and talk to them directly.’

  For a long time, Jack stared at his sister. She was serious. The thought of visiting his grandparents had occurred to him the very moment that Mr Chipman had told him that they were still alive, but then, in all that had followed, his thoughts had been spun in a multitude of directions and, now that Alice presented the idea, it seemed the only logical thing to do. But of course, the reality of that decision was more easily said than done.

  ‘I’ve got some money I can give you for the flight,’ Alice said, intuiting one strand of his thoughts. ‘You could go from here—get a flight out tomorrow.’

  ‘Ali, be practical; I can’t go tomorrow. I have a job, for one thing. And I can’t just spring myself on them. Look, I’ll write to them and see what happens—keep it simple and take it from there.’

  Alice reluctantly agreed. ‘I just can’t believe it, Jack…’

  ‘Nor would I, but the evidence is right there,’ he said, pointing to the floor. ‘The truth is this: our dad is two men; and we only know one of them.’

  To add to Jack’s list of ailments and injuries were a stiff neck and a painful lower back. He sat up from his awkward position in a sleeping bag on the floor beside Alice’s bed. The thin curtains were doing a feeble job at holding back the streaming daylight. Alice’s bed was empty. There was a note on it, addressed to him. Gone to basketball. Write to our grandparents! Meet you back here for lunch. A xx Underneath it was a notepad and pen.

  Jack stretched, then winced at the stabbing pain from his ribs, still unable to believe that it was his own dad who had inflicted the injuries. He had always been a strict man, but he had never so much as laid a hand on Jack before. Were cracks beginning to appear in the previous, neatly sealed wall that had divided his dad’s two lives? Had Jack caught a glimpse through the cracks to see the man that his dad really was?

  He picked up the pen and paper and began to write. He knew from the first line that he wouldn’t actually post it—not this version, at least. It contained everything—all his questions, all his feelings about his dad, all the details of his life so far. Everything. The finished letter ran to four pages. He signed his name at the bottom, then began to tear it up, peeling it apart, inch by inch. Then he wrote another letter to them, this one simple and short. Dear George and Lucy, this letter might come as as much of a shock to you as the knowledge of your existence came to me. I am the second child of Roscoe (Joseph) and Velda Jacklin. I was born in 1956 in Hyannis Port, MA. It is only recently that I came to learn that I had family on the other side of the country. I am hoping that you will write back and perhaps one day we might meet each other. Sincerely Yours, Harley Jacklin (Jack).

  He read the letter back. It was short and dour, but it said what it needed to say. If they were smart and read between the lines, they would understand that he had been lied to since birth and hopefully they would perceive the myriad of implications that came together with that revelation.

  With the pen still poised in his hand, he decided to write another letter. Dear Margaret, Well, my silent English friend, since my last letter things have gone from bad to worse. Friday I got into a terrible row with dad and we ended up yelling at each other. I blurted out what I knew about his past. He beat me real bad and I ended up in hospital. I’ve got a broken nose and I’m pretty bruised up. Margaret, I wish you would write me back—I could sure use your advice right now. Dad told Mom I got beat up at school, so she’s being nice at the moment—I wonder whose side she would take, though, if she knew the truth… I don’t know what to do next, now that I’ve blown the lid off it—Dad and I aren’t even talking—he only speaks to me when Mom’s around. I don’t know how much more I can take of it. What should I do, Margaret? I wish I could just get on a plane and head back to you in Folkestone. Do you miss me at all? If you get this, Margaret, I sure would appreciate a response. Yours, Jack xx

  Jack looked at the letter and, for the first time, felt slightly foolish. What was he thinking? She clearly didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. In his current frame of mind, he was half-tempted to shred the letter, just like the first one that he had written to his grandparents. But no, he decided that he would send it.

  He looked at the clock: he still had a couple of hours before Alice would return. Placing the two letters on the bed, he climbed out of the sleeping bag and dressed. He used the bathroom, picked up the letters and left the dorm.

  Having posted both the letters off, Jack crossed the city on the T line to Boston University Central, then strode across the open courtyard of Marsh Plaza, a nostalgic familiarity from his brief spell studying here guiding him to the correct building on the campus.

  He bound up several flights of stairs until he reached Laura’s bedroom. He knocked on the door and waited, unsure of exactly what he would say when—if—she answered.

  Following a rattle of metal behind the door, it opened.

  ‘Oh my God! What are you doing here?’ Laura asked, throwing her arms around him.

  He held her tightly, not expecting such a warm welcome. She felt strangely good in his arms. ‘Passing by, thought I’d call in, make sure you’re working hard.’

  Laura broke their embrace and frowned at him suspiciously. ‘Wait. What happened to your nose?’

  ‘Long story. Got time for a hot chocolate?’

  ‘Absolutely. Wait there and I’ll go get my purse.’

  Laura led them to a new coffee shop that had sprung up on Commonwealth Avenue. They carried their drinks to a small table close to the window.

  Jack watched her as she wound the spoon slowly around her mug. She had changed in some subtle way since she had left the Cape six months ago. It wasn’t her appearance—she was wearing a pair of bell-bottomed jeans and a light-yellow top—both of which he had seen before. Something in her face was different. Maturity? A sparkle of confidence, perhaps?

  She caught him staring and smiled. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jack said, flushing with inexplicable embarrassment.

  ‘Come on then, let’s hear this long story. As long as it’s finished before classes start again on Monday, that is.’

  Jack took a sip of his drink then began to relay the whole story. Given Laura’s reactions, akin to Alice’s, her father had evidently told her nothing of his and his colleagues’ discoveries. He told her about the letter that he had just posted to his grandparents in San Francisco, feeling a peculiar sense of guilt at not mentioning the letter that he had also sent to Margaret.

  ‘And how’s the job going? Is my dad a better employer than Rory McCoy?’ Laura asked with a grin.

  ‘You know what, he’s been good to me,’ Jack answered. ‘Really good. You’re lucky to have him as your dad.’

  ‘I know. When I was younger I used to get embarrassed by him—he wasn’t like my friends’ dads.’ She sipped her drink and smiled at him. ‘I used to look at your dad and wish mine were more like him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. A normal job, a normal car, a normal house. Just, normal, you know? But now I love my dad’s eccentricities.’

  ‘Funny,’ Jack began, ‘I would have called my dad normal too, but he’s anything but that…I just don’t know him, Laura. Who is this local businessman war-hero that raised me? Is he even a good man?’

  Laura leant over and placed her hand on his. ‘You’ll find out—I know you will.’

  Jack curled his fingers into hers, enjoying the warmth of her grasp. ‘Anyway, let’s talk about something else. How are you getting on here? When are you coming back? The semester ended ages ago and you’re still attending classes?’ Jack sat back and listened to Laura. The husk of shyness had gone and she now spoke with a soft self-assurance.

 
An hour later, it was time for Jack to leave. He walked Laura back to her room.

  ‘Well, thanks for dropping in, Jack—it was so lovely to see you.’

  ‘You too,’ he said. ‘Let me know as soon as you return to the Cape.’

  ‘I will. Take care with all your investigations, won’t you?’ she said, gently caressing his upper arms. She leant up and pecked him on the lips.

  The kiss lingered and he felt a stirring inside that he had not felt since his visit to England two years ago. He saw Margaret’s sweet face in the darkness of his closed eyes and pulled away. ‘Bye,’ he blurted, turning on his heels and heading back down the stairs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  24th August 2016, Chatham, Massachusetts, USA

  ‘Can we just stay here forever? Would anyone really notice if we didn’t go home?’ Juliette asked with a yawn. She was lying in her bikini on Chatham Lighthouse Beach, a large floppy straw hat covering her face. The beach was packed with holidaymakers enjoying the cloudless sky.

  Morton was sitting on his towel beside her with his shirt off, scooping up handfuls of hot sand and watching as it poured through the cracks between his fingers. He actually gave serious consideration to her question, imagining a new life in America. They would have to start all over again. He would have to establish himself here as a forensic genealogist. Back at home he had gained a reputation as someone who tackled complicated cases, which often brought him into contact with people on the wrong side of the law. Living here would certainly give him the one thing that he really needed right now: time. They had just three days left until they were due to fly from Boston to New York for the remainder of their honeymoon—the distinctly non-genealogical aspect. Then it was back to England. Back to a new genealogy case. ‘Maybe,’ he answered finally, with a large exhale.

  ‘Maybe what?’ Juliette muttered.

  ‘Maybe we could up sticks and move here.’

  ‘I was joking. Of course we can’t move here.’

  He picked up today’s edition of the Cape Cod Times. His request—embellished and dramatised—had been published on page four under the melodramatic headline The Missing Man. The byline gave the writer’s name as Hal Adelman, who had taken it upon himself to rummage in the newspaper’s archives to include details of the original story that they had run back in December 1976. Hal had even included a photograph of the house on fire. Well, it would certainly get noticed more than the discreet couple of lines that he had been expecting to find. For the fourth or fifth time, Morton checked that the contact number in the story was correct. He pulled out his mobile phone to make sure that it was still switched on and not in silent mode, then he opened his bag and pulled out all the paperwork that he had generated during this trip so far. Once again, he went through the notes that he had made at his Aunt Alice’s house. Laura Chipman’s name was underlined.

  He had spent a good deal of time trying to track down her whereabouts in Alberta, but still had no positive leads. He had tried various forms of social media and had sent several messages and emails to potential matches. But, as yet, nothing.

  Turning to the next piece of research, he re-read the account of his grandfather’s act of heroism in Korea. He was thinking it increasingly likely that the war had indeed provided him with a moment of epiphany—some awakening inside of a desire to be with Velda Henderson and not his wife and child. But it just didn’t feel quite right. People abandoned their kids all the time, but Morton just couldn’t imagine it of the man that he had seen in the photo album at Alice’s house. He seemed so doting and caring of his two children. Maybe Morton struggled to imagine him abandoning his first child because he saw something of himself in his grandfather and it was an act completely unconscionable to him.

  He scrutinised the date of the report of his grandfather’s wartime deeds: November 1st, 1950. Then, one month later he had filed for divorce. The baby, Florence, had been born in 1951. But when, exactly? Morton couldn’t find the answer amongst his paperwork. Logging into Ancestry on his mobile phone, he accessed the California Birth Index 1905-1995 and found the entry.

  Name: Florence Jacklin

  Birth Date: June 7, 1951

  Gender: Female

  Mother’s Maiden Name: Fuller

  Birth County: San Francisco

  Morton remembered what Alice had said about her father—that he had been one of the first volunteers to enlist to fight in Korea. When did the conflict begin, exactly? He ran a quick Google search: 25th June 1950. Meaning that Joseph Jacklin was out of the country from June until November of that year. An online calculator estimated Florence Jacklin’s conception to have been around the 14th September 1950.

  ‘Joseph wasn’t the father,’ Morton said.

  ‘What?’ Juliette asked.

  ‘The first baby—Florence—that might have been the reason he divorced Audrey. He returned home to find her pregnant and knew that there was no way the baby could be his. That would make your theory that he just upped and left his first wife and child behind much more plausible.’

  ‘Highly likely, if you ask me,’ Juliette commented from beneath her hat.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ Morton said, jumping up. ‘Are you okay here, if I disappear off for a couple of hours?’

  Juliette removed the hat from her face and frowned at him. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To pay another visit to my Aunt Alice—she’s literally my only hope now. We leave in three days—and we know she knows more than she’s letting on.’

  Juliette nodded her agreement. ‘Good idea—I’ll be fine here until sunset. No rush. Good luck.’

  He kissed her on the lips and strode across the beach towards the car.

  MacMillan Pier was once again heaving. One of the whale-watching fleet had evidently just returned, its passengers jostling along the wooden jetty. Morton felt like a helpless fish trying to swim against the current, as he pushed through the crowds to get to Alice’s Art.

  The hut itself was swarming with prospective shoppers. Inside, he saw Jan looking flustered, taking money from one customer whilst answering a question from another. Now really wasn’t going to be the best time to start pestering her. There was no sign of Alice.

  He decided to wait until the crowds had abated. He walked over to the side of the pier and sat down, his legs dangling a few feet above the water. Below him, a shoal of small fish pinged about in seemingly random directions.

  As he stared into the water, he felt for the first time since he had started searching that he might never get to meet his father. He thought of how his grandfather had so easily abandoned his first family and the idea was gaining traction in his mind that perhaps Alice was trying to spare his feelings, that his father simply didn’t want to meet the child that he had unknowingly fathered more than forty years ago. It was a possibility to which he had previously given little thought. He had only really given consideration to two options: that his father was dead or alive. And, if the latter were true, that he would certainly want to meet Morton. This third option—that his father was alive but didn’t want to know him—began to seep more deeply into his thoughts.

  He turned to face the hut. The crowds had thinned somewhat—probably as much as they were going to do on a hot day in the middle of the high season. If Alice and Jan were trying to be kind to him, perhaps it was best to just walk away, so as not to upset things further.

  He stood up and stared at the hut. Time passed as his thoughts lurched around in pendulum-like indecision. It would be so easy to walk away and just be grateful for what he had already learned on this trip. But he knew that the curiosity about his father’s whereabouts would plague him to the grave; he couldn’t leave without having tried everything, it just wasn’t in him.

  Morton crossed to the hut and found Jan handing a wrapped gift to a young woman.

  ‘Well, hello again!’ she beamed. ‘What’s this—one last tour of the Cape? Where’s that lovely wife of yours?’ she asked, craning her neck to look behind Morton
.

  ‘I’ve left her on a beach in Chatham,’ he replied, trying to force a smile over his distinct lack of joviality.

  ‘Oh, dear! Hope she didn’t mind. And I’m afraid you’ve missed Ali—she’s taken herself off to our shack up in the sand-dunes to paint.’

  ‘Do you know when she’s due back?’ Morton asked, glancing at this watch. ‘I was hoping to catch her before we left for New York.’

  ‘Good question!’ Jan answered, throwing her hands up in dismay. ‘Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. One time she went out there and stayed a whole month.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I can pay her a visit out there, can I?’

  ‘That wouldn’t go down too well.’

  Morton exhaled sharply. This was his one final chance. ‘Look, Jan, is there anything else you can tell me? I had the impression the other night that perhaps there was something that wasn’t being said. I’m desperate to find him—anything at all you can give me to go on would be a help—even if, when I find him he just tells me to go away...’

  Jan grimaced. ‘Listen—I really want you to find your daddy, I really do, but I’m not the one that can help you. Alice has told you all she can—you’ve got her email so ask her any further questions you have. It’s really not my place, Morton—I’m so sorry.’

  He knew that he was putting her on the spot. She was uncomfortable. He wanted to say, ‘Why do you have a photo of my dad in your house?’ and ‘Who is the woman with him?’ but he just couldn’t do it. It would be like someone asking him to divulge something that Juliette had expressly asked him not to. ‘Okay,’ he found himself saying. He smiled and pulled her into a hug. ‘It was so lovely to meet you.’

  ‘And you too.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘We’ll stay in touch—I promise.’

  ‘That would be great. Bye,’ Morton said, leaving the hut and joining the throng of people pushing their way towards Commercial Street.