“You know,” he said and pulled on his beard with his right hand, “I never expected to see you again, after that day at the old man’s apartment. Funny how things work out.”
“Funny,” I said and reached for Sarah’s hand.
The paperwork I had to fill out at New Haven First Security Bank was amazingly simple. When Sarah and I came through the front door, they acted like they had been waiting for us. Everyone working there had known Seth Moseley for decades. And apparently, he’d recently told them he’d found me.
“Sorry to hear about Mr. Moseley,” the bank manager said as she led us to the vault where rows and rows of deposit boxes lined the walls. Sarah and I held hands to steady one another. We were both shaking with anticipation. This was it.
I watched while the bank manager inserted her key into the tiny door of deposit box number 313, situated almost in the exact center of the wall of tiny metal doors. Then I inserted mine, the one Sarah had given me. The manager turned both keys and the little door opened. She removed a long, rectangular metal box.
“Follow me,” she said, box in hand.
She led us to a little room off the vault. Placed the box on a table with two metal chairs beside it.
“Let me know if you two need anything else.”
Then she turned and drew the curtain that enclosed us in the little room. Sarah and I stood and stared at one another. I looked down at the box on the table. We both eased into the chairs in front of us.
“Well,” Sarah said and pushed the box in front of me. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Yeah,” I said, “sure I am.”
But I hesitated. The little room was too quiet. I half-expected Seth to pop out from behind the curtain and say something sarcastic. Or give me instructions. Sarah looked at me, read my nervous face, and smiled.
“Let’s open it together,” she said.
Inside the box, a folder contained a series of photographs and their negatives the likes of which this world had never seen. Their stunning black & white images clearly conveyed the same amazing story Seth had told. Fat Harriet Brown caught naked in her tub. Nick and Captain Cook on the Lido Deck of the Athenia with their men. But most of all—Garbo.
Garbo looked every inch the goddess Seth had described. The one Mom and I had worshipped together. The images captured an elemental goddess, before and after her rebirth in the pitch-black waters of the North Atlantic during that fateful sunset of September 3rd, 1939.
Garbo’s body shimmered, bound within the frame of Seth’s lens, captivating but not captive. Seemingly ready to take flight at any moment when the wind was right, like so much glamorous gossamer. Garbo glimmered supernaturally. A ghost caught on film between two worlds.
Along with the photos came the fan letter from Hitler, written on Nazi letterhead. The one where he invited the Great Garbo to be his Aryan Goddess. The letter stained with Ingrid’s blood.
Next was a yellowed clipping from a Long Island local newspaper:
Seaplane wreckage washes up at Jones Beach
By Newsday staff, Thursday, September 7, 1939
A piece of wreckage, which local aviation officials confirmed is a portion of an aircraft, washed up on Jones Beach, Long Island, yesterday. The immediate vicinity was littered with what officials characterized as ‘burnt envelopes’.
Surfcasting fisherman Dennis Bottomly said that he first observed the twisted metal pieces moving back and forth in the surf in the early morning hours of Tuesday, September 5th. “When I find it I say it got to be a part of a plane,” he told this newspaper. He said that he brought what appeared to be a part of a pontoon further onshore and returned on Wednesday morning to bring it further in. Later on Wednesday, he transported it in his 1936 Dodge Fore-Point pickup truck to his home in Massapequa. The piece of material is white on the outside with a little dark portion.
Officials from the Nassau Civil Aviation Authority took custody of the piece yesterday. It was confirmed that it was a portion of an as yet unidentified seaplane. Bottomly gave a statement to police.
“What does it mean?”
I looked up at Sarah’s profile. Her hazel eyes shimmered in the fluorescent light like mica.
“It means,” I said, “Seth was telling the truth the whole time.”
Sarah looked through the remaining photos and letters. She handed me Seth’s graduate degree in rhetoric from Amherst. Then several pictures of his wife Helen holding their son, Theo Moseley, my father. I stared at the solemn young man in the photos, looked for any resemblance to Seth. Looked for any resemblance to me.
Then Sarah stopped, stared at one particular document. Her jaw slackened and her face paled. She seemed like she was about to faint. I brought my chair right up beside hers and took her in my arms. She turned and rested her head on my shoulder.
“Your mom,” she said.
“What?”
I looked down and saw a black and white photograph of my mother, young and in her glory, holding me as an infant. Attached to the photograph was a short letter, written in my mother’s hand and addressed to Theo.
I read the letter over several times to myself. My mother informing my biological father that I had come into the world, my name was James and that he need not concern himself. Ever. Their one night together was to remain just that. She was strong and unequivocal on this point. My mother would take care of everything. And that was that.
My father, Theo Moseley, remained an enigma. I would never know whether he knew of my mom’s passing. Never know if he ever thought of her, of me, of anything. All I knew for sure was that he must have had Old Seth’s talent for flirting with much younger women. That and he had never made an attempt to connect with me.
I held Theo’s photograph. Finally put a face with the anger I’d felt toward my father, a ghost, for so long. I had blamed him, sight unseen, for everything that happened to me after Mom died. Now I felt I could put all that to rest. All because of Seth.
“Seth told me.” Sarah whispered. “When you left to go get Tom in the lobby.” She leaned back up to put her arms around me now, drew me to her in a close embrace. “He told me how he tracked you down after reading your mom’s letter. Found out from an ad you’d placed how you were looking for Greta Garbo and what an incredible coincidence it was. Or, then again maybe not. But then he was scared. Scared to tell you who he really was and how he loved you at first sight. Afraid you wouldn’t believe him.”
I put Theo’s photo down and concentrated on holding Sarah. I couldn’t find my voice. I could only hold onto her and feel my heart beating rapidly against hers. Breathe in her lavender scent.
Then I looked over Sarah’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of Garbo, rising naked from the ocean. The most startling image Seth had ever taken. The one he thought he’d missed, run out of film before capturing. Before the light of day had failed completely and he’d kept her image hidden from sight ever since.
I believed everything Seth had said, everything that had taken place those three days in early September 1939. Not because of the photographs, but because the old man had shown me how to put my anger aside and trust again. How to listen for love again. In less than three, short days.
I put everything back in the box and closed the lid. The photos would keep. Then I turned to Sarah. Life finally felt right. That’s the only way I could explain it. I hoped it was love. The kind of love that Seth had for Garbo.
My Goddess turned toward me, and we fell into a long, passionate, take-no-prisoners kiss. Sarah pulled away, surprised. Surprised and then delighted. She reached up a thumb and forefinger and tugged on my chin, like she had the very first time I laid eyes on her.
“Let’s go home, James.”
Not to “your” place, or “my” place. Home. Was I reading too much into it? Definitely, and having a helluva time doing it. I turned toward the door and slipped my arm around her waist.
“Yeah, home.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This work would nev
er have been possible if not for the help and support of a dedicated group of friends, family and fellow scribes who never pulled their punches, even when I wanted them to. Thanks to Wendy Aten, Andrea Cavallaro, Jim Chegia, Sydney Chute, Kevin Cleary, Mary Coleman, Charlotte Robin Cook, Francesca Dinglasan, Lauren Hill, Jon de la Luz, Anne Fox, Margaret Gutowski, Mariah Klein, Ea Ksander, Mary Ann Koory, R. Lee Paulson, Marc Manzo, Chris Matz, Chris Miller, Thomas Charles Miller, April Rouveyrol, Jefferson Randolf, Geraldine Solon, Ruth Schecter, Jacqueline Stagg; Tom, Betzi & Harry Sylvan, Rollo Tomasi, Tom Ward, and especially my agent, Jill Marr at Sandra Dijkstra Literary; and Kristy Makansi, my editor extraordinaire, at Blank Slate Press, and Lisa Miller and Laura Robinson at Amphorae Publishing. Finally, I have to thank Mia Sampaga for her patience and loving support, and legendary Associated Press Reporter and my good friend, Seth H. Moseley, who inspired me to never give up on this story of Greta Garbo, the movie goddess and the black and white cinematic world she rules over to this day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jon James Miller has always been passionate about literature and film and pursued a career in the latter at Ithaca College in upstate New York, earning a degree in cinematography. He moved to Los Angeles and worked as a researcher and segment producer on cable documentaries for A&E, Lifetime Intimate Portraits, and The History Channel.
In 2008, Jon won Grand Prize of the AAA Screenplay Contest sponsored by Creative Screenwriting Magazine for Garbo’s Last Stand. The World War 2 mystery inspired by true events won the 2009 Golden Brad for Drama. But advice Jon received from legendary screenwriter and novelist William Goldman proved most valuable. After reading Jon’s screenplay, Mr. Goldman said, “This is a great story, now go write the novel.” Looking for Garbo is that novel.
In addition to writing novels, non-fiction and screenplays, Jon is a frequent presenter of live webinars on the craft of writing. His presentations can be found at SCRIPT Magazine, The Writers Store, and Writers Digest University online. When he’s not writing or presenting, Jon loves to hike, play tennis and go to movies. He lives, works and plays in Northern California.
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