“Fine legal advisor you are. Christ! Everything’s screwed up.”
“I charge more than a psychiatrist.”
“And empathy is obviously not included.”
“Not unless it solves legal problems.”
“Why would they want everyone in my family dead?”
“You won’t find the answer in the bottom of a bottle.”
“For God’s sake! I don’t even know who I am anymore. I could have been cloned.”
“If the biological sciences were capable of that, I would assume they would have done a better job.”
“I’m beginning to develop an active dislike for you.”
“It won’t affect the billing.” Brian noticed that Clinton had a hole in the sole of his shoe as his feet resumed their position on the desk. “You have several choices. The first has already occurred to you, and you can continue looking for solace in a bottle of rye. Then there’s the possibility of going back to Canada and fighting extradition. With enough money, which you now have, and my help, you’ll probably be successful in that area. Or, if you so choose, you can work with me and find answers.”
“Answers! All I get is more questions.”
“That’s the first step.”
“You don’t seem to understand that every foundation of my life has been obliterated. It didn’t start when I returned to Tallman—my honor, country and all that went years ago. Now, my family and identity are gone. For God’s sake, don’t you understand that I don’t even know who I am?”
For the first time, there was compassion in Clinton’s answer. “I think I understand.”
“My mother, who isn’t my mother, is dead. Lockwood was murdered, the Rubinows have disappeared, and some guy is taking pot shots at me.”
“In my war, we had a saying: Give me your card and I’ll punch it for you.”
“Fuck you! Give me the goddamn check.”
Brian snatched the check from the desk and, cradling the bottle under his arm, slammed from the office. Margaret looked up from her typewriter with wide eyes, as he lurched for the outer door with the bottle raised to his lips.
Catching his reflection in the glass of the outer door—a tallish man in his early thirties with a stubble of beard and bloodshot eyes, clenching a rumpled check in one hand, while the other held a whiskey bottle to his lips—Brian paused, dropped the bottle into a nearby umbrella stand and went back to Clinton’s office.
“What can I do?”
Chapter Eight
The Tallman Town Hall was built of weathered stone so darkened that it resembled an abandoned railroad station. At periodic intervals, referendums had been submitted to the voters for a new structure and, with regularity, the bond issues had been rejected. Frugal Connecticut Yankees would voluntarily raise the mill rate for school and police systems, but public structures containing ordinary offices were considered adequate as long as they withstood the elements.
The Town Clerk’s office was on the bottom floor at the rear of the building. Marci Davis sat at her desk in front of the record vault, running legal documents through a time clock. Her white hair was piled in a strange pyramid on the top of her head that accentuated her pointed face. She looked up as Brian entered, removed her glasses and looked again.
“Is that you, Brian Maston?”
“Hello, Miss Marci.”
“About time you renewed that dog tag.”
“I’m afraid that dog’s been dead for fifteen years.”
“Pity. Time does fly with births, deaths, marriages and property conveyances. My goodness, I guess I’ll be doing the year two thousand before I turn around. What can I do for you?”
“Attorney Robinson would like me to pick up a few items he needs for the probate of mother’s estate. We need a certified copy of her marriage license and my birth certificate.”
“Won’t take but a minute.” She walked into the record vault, where thick ledgers filled cases along the walls. Brian started in after her, but hesitated and stood in the open doorway. “Wasn’t Mary married during the war?”
“That’s right. I think it was 1943, but you had better check all the years around that.”
“And you were born in ’44?”
“Uh huh.”
Humming a toneless tune, she expertly flipped several large volumes onto a center table and began to rapidly turn pages, using the eraser of a pencil to run down lists of names. With strength belying the thinness of her arms, Miss Marci replaced some volumes and flipped other ledgers onto the table where she continued searching. Brian shifted from one foot to another in the doorway as the methodical searching continued. The woman’s glasses slipped to the edge of her nose when she turned to Brian in exasperation.
“They’re not here.”
“I thought not.”
“That doesn’t mean they aren’t registered.”
“How’s that?”
“In Connecticut, the birth of a child is registered in the town where the child is actually born, and again in the town where the parents reside. Often, both are the same, but say a Tallman couple has a child in New London or New Haven, then the birth would be registered there.” She paused and took off her glasses. “But, of course, if they gave their address as Tallman, it should be registered here also. The same goes for marriage licenses.”
“It was during the war, and my mother was away during that period.”
She began shutting volumes with finality. “Well, that explains it. She registered her marriage and your birth where she was living at the time. You mean, you never had a birth certificate before? I can’t understand how Mary got you in school.”
“I only have a photostat.”
“Well, goodness gracious, Brian. You could have saved us a lot of time. Let me see it.”
Brian searched through the inner folds of his wallet to extract a deeply creased photostat, which he spread on a desk. “I’ve always used this.”
Miss Marci bent to examine the document. “This was registered in West Hartford. See, your mother gave an address at 16 Bishop Road.”
“Then I could get a certified copy from there?”
“Of course. And I’ll bet her marriage is registered there, too.” She bent down to look more closely at the photostat. “Your mother’s maiden name wasn’t Callahan.”
“She always told me that was a typographical error she meant to have corrected.”
Miss Marci shook her head. “Some clerks are very sloppy. You’d be amazed at some of the deeds and things I get in here that are so bad I can’t record them.”
“The probate records are filed here also, aren’t they?”
“Yes. When your mother’s estate is closed, we’ll have it on file.”
“Don’t probate records include adoptions?”
“Yes, but those files are sealed. It takes a court order to open them.”
“You can tell me if there’s a certain adoption file here, can’t you?”
“Only the name, without any details.”
“My name. Brian Maston. Would you run that, Miss Marci?”
Gordon’s Mercedes made the drive to West Hartford almost enjoyable. It occurred to Brian that he could now afford such a car, that he could afford a great many things that had been beyond consideration. Years of frugal living would be difficult to overcome. He laughed aloud with the realization that one of the things he had to do was call the rental car people and tell them that their vehicle was twenty feet down in the Tallman Reservoir.
He thought about the photograph that had sat on his mother’s night table as long as he could remember, and wondered if his search would lead him in that direction.
Suddenly, he became aware of the constant presence of the Ford following fifty yards behind. Pulling into the far right lane, he reduced speed and let the other car overtake and pass him. He kept his speed to the minimum until the Ford rounded a distant curve and was lost from sight.
As the Mercedes swept around the curve, Brian saw the other car on the sho
ulder ahead. The black man leaned nonchalantly out the window, the sunglasses reflecting intermittent spears of light. As Brian floored the accelerator and watched the speedometer inch toward the hundred mark, the car parked on the shoulder jumped forward in pursuit. The power of the Mercedes outdistanced the Ford and temporarily lost it from sight on another curve. The car rocked into an exit ramp at a dangerous level of speed. Brian braked, downshifted and fought the wheel for control as the Mercedes plummeted down the ramp.
His heart pounding, he felt the weak aftermath of retreating adrenalin as he brought the car under control on a winding country road. Vaguely, he remembered a network of secondary roads leading to Hartford, and knew there was a bridge across the Connecticut River in Haddam. From there, he could connect with Route 66. With luck, he would avoid the man in the Ford.
The West Hartford Town Clerk’s quarters were considerably larger than Miss Marci’s domain. A clerk finally noticed Brian standing at the counter, and he asked her to run the records for the name of Maston.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s quite important.”
“They’re public records, but we’re not in the business of searching titles. Help yourself.” She gestured toward the large vault filled with the now-familiar racks of bound volumes. “I’ll be glad to tell you where to look, but the looking you have to do yourself.”
Brian stood in the vault entrance with one hand clamped to the door frame. He was unable to step forward into the enclosed room.
“Anything the matter?”
“No.” He stepped rigidly forward. His palms perspired as the dank smell of dreams rose around him. He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve and opened the first volume.
In minutes, he had located the original copy of the birth certificate he had carried most of his life, and also the marriage certificate of Mary Callahan to Brian Maston. He hurried from the vault and leaned against the wall in the clerk’s office, his breath coming in short gasps.
“You all right, mister?” the clerk asked, making copies of the documents for him.
“Yes, thank you.” He walked from the Town Hall to Gordon’s car, where he sat behind the wheel in confusion. Was Mary Callahan Maston of West Hartford also Mary Dwight Maston of Tallman; the birth certificate of Brian Maston, Junior, was it …?
A gas attendant at the corner directed him toward the address on the documents, which was only a few blocks away. Bishop Road was a short, tree-lined street with Dutch colonial homes built in the early thirties. It was a comfortable area, filled with the aura of middle-class permanence. Brian checked the name of the neighbors. Renquist was inscribed on a plaque in front of number 20.
The woman who answered his ring at number 16 reminded him of Mary. She had the same height, build and age, although her hair was whiter. She cocked her head with a tolerant smile. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m from Connecticut Insurance Company, and the Renquists have applied for a policy. Would you mind answering a few questions?”
“Of course not. The Renquists are lovely people and fine neighbors. Do come in.” Her voice had a pleasant, lilting quality. He followed her through the hall into a comfortable living room, where she gestured him toward a large easy chair. “Exactly what is it you would like to know?”
Brian glanced down at the birth certificate in his hand. “The Renquists list you and your husband as references. You are Mary Callahan Maston?”
“Why, yes. But there must be some mistake. My husband has been dead for three years. They may mean my son, Brian junior, who lives at home with me.”
“Do you know anyone in Tallman, Mrs. Maston?” He found it difficult to pronounce the name.
“Tallman? I don’t believe I’ve ever been there. It’s over near the coast, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Your son, Brian. He was born in 1944?” It was more of a statement than a question. He knew what the answer would be.
“Yes, April the second, to be exact. You look to be his age.”
“I assume the photograph on the mantel is of your husband?” The serious man in the conservative business suit who surveyed the room from a very formal pose bore no resemblance to the smiling man of Brian’s photo.
“Yes, it is. What does this have to do with the Renquists?” Her voice had taken on a twinge of alarm.
“Just verification of references, Mrs. Maston. Thank you for your time.”
“Don’t you want to know …?” Her voice was lost as he hurried from the house toward the car. Turning the ignition key, he glanced up to see her standing in the doorway with a puzzled look.
The Mystic Congregational Church was located not far from the Connecticut Turnpike, and was typical of New England architecture. Its tall white steeple had often signaled to his mother as they drove by. “There’s the church where your father and I were married,” she had repeated a dozen times.
He entered the church’s cool interior to walk midway down the center aisle. Tall side windows cast slanting light across highly polished pews, while a stained-glass window at the rear of the transept bathed the pulpit in a yellowish hue. A door to the left led to the rear of the building.
The minister’s open study door revealed a boyish man in his late twenties, who wore jeans and a “God is only pretending to be dead” T-shirt. Chewing on the end of a pencil, he smiled up at Brian.
“Hi. What can I do you for?”
“I’d like to look at your marriage register.”
“Sure. I suppose we’ve got one somewhere. I’m new here myself. Hey, how does this sound to you?” He read exuberantly from his notes. “‘Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.’ Now, I ask you—what would the meek do with this mess? I suggest to you that with a different translation, meek can be interchanged with debonair. Blessed are the debonair for they shall inherit the earth.” He looked at Brian for approbation. “What do you think?”
“Terrific. Do I get to hear the other twenty-nine minutes?”
“I’m Harvey Passant.” The young minister laughed, and his hand gripped Brian’s. “I need a wife to suffer through this sort of thing. I’m at the point where I even try sermons out on bushes.”
“They grow faster?”
“They wilt.” The hearty and ingenuous laugh filled the small study. “The marriage register, you say.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re doing a genealogical study.”
“Something like that.”
“What period did you have in mind? Seventeen or eighteen hundreds?”
“How about 1940 through 1950.”
“Dullsville. Now, let’s figure out where in hell they are.”
Brian followed the minister into the bowels of the church basement. There was much opening and shutting of closets until they finally located the registers in the far reaches of the cellar.
“Want to use my study?”
“No, thanks. It won’t take long.” It didn’t. The Mystic Congregational Church may have been old and venerable, but the congregation had dwindled over the years. During the decade of the forties, fewer than one hundred marriages had been performed. Brian ran his finger down the names, looking for variations or any clue that might link his mother to the smiling man. There wasn’t any combination that even closely resembled Mary Dwight or Brian Maston. He closed the register and stuck it back in the closet. “Thanks.”
“No luck, huh?”
“No luck,” Brian responded and slowly walked back to the car.
Clinton Robinson wasn’t in his office, but Margaret gave Brian directions to his house, along with an invitation to dinner. Dusk sun brimmed the horizon as he pulled into the long winding drive that led up a small promontory overlooking the river. The rustic house, more like a large cabin, had a high redwood porch along the rear, overlooking the water. Clinton beckoned to him from the edge of the porch.
They sat in high-backed wicker chairs surrounded by books. “Negative,” Brian said. “There’s a Brian Maston birth cert
ificate and marriage license on file, all right. In fact, there is another Brian Maston.”
“Not you.”
“Right.”
“Similarity in age and first name. It’s a common way to obtain a false birth certificate.”
“Check the newspapers for birth announcements and write for a copy of the certificate.” Brian stood by the rail and looked out over the lake. “Which means I don’t even have a name.”
“I’ve called every probate district in the state. There are no adoption files we can trace to you. The Veterans’ Administration informed us that no death benefits were ever paid to Mary.”
“I couldn’t find any marriage record at the church in Mystic.”
“It could have been another church.”
“She must have mentioned the Congregational Church in Mystic two dozen times.”
“Ginger ale?”
“How about something stronger?”
“Would you like your booze in a glass, or do you prefer to drink directly from the bottle and save time?”
“I think I’d like ginger ale.”
As the heavy attorney lumbered into the house, Brian looked out across the lake, where a Sunfish, with brightly speckled sail, scudded before the wind. The sun slanted below the surrounding hills. A cold glass was put in his hand.
“Well have the launching in a few minutes, and then we eat.”
“Launching?”
“A ship model I’ve been working on.”
“Hello. Anyone home?” Jan clattered up the porch steps. “You could have called me when you weren’t going to show up, Maston. I’ve been slightly worried.”
Brian kissed her. “It’s a long story.”
They rolled up their pants legs to help Clinton carry the yard-long, sheet-shrouded model from a cellar workroom. Jan and Brian sloshed back ashore as Clinton whipped off the covering with a flamboyant gesture.
“My god,” Brian said. “It’s beautiful.” A fully detailed scale model of the U.S.S. Constitution, complete with rigging and sail, bobbed in the lake. Small cannon on the gun decks pointed stubby snouts through inch square ports.
The Laughing Man Page 9