The Missing Man

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Does that mean your grandmother’s still alive?’ Juliette asked.

  ‘It means she was alive four years ago. Maybe she still is, maybe not. She hasn’t been buried with her husband and she’d be eighty-seven, so it’s not unreasonable to assume she’s still alive.’

  Juliette’s eyes narrowed as she met his gaze. ‘Gosh, you might actually get to meet your grandmother. How exciting. Shall we try and visit her after this?’

  Morton nodded and looked out over the bow of the boat. Land was looming. He spotted the two-hundred-and-fifty-feet-tall Pilgrim Monument which towered over their destination, Provincetown and began to feel the pang of anxiety which had gripped him upon arrival. Without looking for it, they had found his aunt’s place of work. Alice’s Art was a small wooden hut on MacMillan Pier—just yards from their point of departure for whale-watching. It had been with some relief that they had found the hut closed. ‘She obviously likes a lie-in,’ Juliette had quipped, looking at the opening times on the door. ‘It’ll be open by the time we return.’

  ‘Great,’ Morton had said half-heartedly. Of course he wanted to see her—he needed to see her, but he genuinely feared the outcome of their meeting.

  As they powered on towards the shore, more and more of the town drew into focus. The long blurred line of beachfront property began to detach into distinct houses, hotels and businesses. Sun revellers and bathers enjoying the hot sands surrounding the town on all sides pulled into sharpness.

  From behind a large grey fisherman’s building appeared Macmillan Pier. Juliette took his hand in hers and gave it a long squeeze. He knew that she had seen it, too: Alice’s Art was open. There was no turning back now—they had to walk past it, like it or not.

  The boat slowed down to a gentle crawl—taking away the welcome breeze that had offset the airless heat of the day—nudging close to the pier moorings. A general agitation rippled around them, as the passengers began to gather their belongings and move towards the exit at the rear of the boat.

  ‘Let’s let everyone else off first,’ Morton said, taking a seat for the first time on the voyage. He sat with a noisy sigh that reminded him of his late adoptive father. Without fail, every time he had sat down—or stood up again, for that matter—he would emit a guttural grunt which, at the time, used to annoy Morton. The memory of it now made him smile. He wondered how he would have broached this transatlantic search for his biological father with him. Their already strained relationship had worsened after Morton had inadvertently revealed his desire to find his father. He had died not long after.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Juliette urged, tugging at his left arm.

  Morton looked around him. Apart from a final few stragglers, the boat had emptied out onto the pier. He stood up and walked together with Juliette off the boat.

  It was hot and swarming with tourists milling in and out of the various huts that adorned the pier, like bees around a run of hives. Alice’s Art was right in the centre of the row.

  Morton gripped Juliette’s hand. His nerves were beginning to rattle inside him, making his breathing and walking more laboured than usual.

  ‘Just breathe deeply,’ Juliette reassured him. ‘I’ll be there with you.’

  They reached the hut. Morton quickly scanned the people standing nearby. Nobody here who looked like Alice’s profile picture on Facebook.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’ Juliette asked.

  ‘I just want to look at these,’ he said, pointing to a display of flora and fauna painted onto what looked like driftwood. ‘Do you like it?’

  Juliette shrugged. ‘It’s okay—as procrastination devices go.’

  ‘I like it,’ Morton said, ignoring her provocation.

  ‘It’s a northern cardinal painted onto snow fence wood,’ a female voice explained.

  Morton froze momentarily.

  ‘We get some pretty fierce winters out here and, when the fences are done, we get given them.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Morton said, turning to face her.

  ‘Yeah, we…’ The look between them snapped the end of whatever she had been about to say.

  He knew that it was her the moment that she had first opened her mouth; her appearance only served as a confirmation. She looked just like her pictures on the internet—unruly curly hair, dark eyes and exotically coloured hessian clothes. ‘It’s forty dollars,’ she said, a dour indignation blighting her face and words. ‘I’ll be inside if you want to make a purchase.’ She whirled around and disappeared inside the hut.

  ‘Why didn’t you introduce yourself?’ Juliette asked.

  ‘I didn’t need to…She knew,’ Morton replied.

  ‘Go in after her, then!’

  He had to. Even though it wasn’t going to go well, he had to try at least. He set down the piece of art and marched inside the hut. It was filled with an assortment of paintings, coasters, mugs and sculptures featuring Cape Cod life and wildlife.

  ‘Can we talk, please?’ Morton asked, touching Alice’s arm.

  She flinched, pulling her arm back sharply, as though he had just prodded her with a hot poker. ‘I’m working.’

  ‘Can we meet, then? I’ve come all the way from England to—’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip,’ she seethed. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  Morton was stunned. Wounded. Where could he go from that?

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ a lady asked from behind him. She wore an apron that might once have been white but was now daubed with the smudges from more hues of paint than Morton knew existed. She was a middle-aged lady with short white hair. She smiled. ‘Is everything okay, Alice?’

  ‘This gentleman is from England—he’s just leaving.’

  ‘Oh…right…I see.’

  Morton turned back to face Alice. ‘Here’s my card,’ he said quietly, setting down one of his business cards, before turning to leave. He found Juliette outside, her face one of sympathy. She took his hand in hers.

  ‘I can’t believe she could be like that—she’s your flesh and blood, for goodness’ sake. I really thought that once we got here and you—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go and get a coffee—large and very caffeinated.’

  Macmillan Pier ran directly to the centre of Provincetown’s Commercial Street. The narrow road was lined with an assortment of galleries, guesthouses, gift shops, cafés and restaurants, all heaving with the great influx of summer holidaymakers that had reawakened the town from its winter slumber.

  They walked silently, taking in the sights around them as they went.

  ‘Do you want to go in here?’ Juliette asked of several shops around which he might ordinarily have enjoyed browsing. But not now; his mind simply wasn’t on anything other than how to find his father in the time that he had left in Massachusetts. Michael Chipman was dead. His Aunt Alice might as well have been. Everything now rested on his eighty-seven-year-old grandmother. Could he really just rock up to her care home and introduce himself? Was that acceptable or appropriate?

  ‘Right, we’re going in here,’ Juliette instructed, dragging him off the pavement and onto the outside area of Joe’s Coffee and Café. ‘You sit down and get your laptop open and I’ll get the drinks. Iced coffee?’

  ‘Coffee coffee,’ he stated, slinking obediently down at a table for two. He removed his laptop from his bag and opened it up, although he wasn’t sure what he was actually going to do now that it was up and running, so he just sat there people-watching until Juliette returned.

  She placed the drinks on the table. ‘One coffee coffee,’ she announced, pulling her chair so that it was beside his. ‘Where are we up to?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What’s the next step? You’re a forensic genealogist—you’ve always got a next step. Obviously we’re going to try and visit your grandmother this afternoon. What else have you got to work on?’

  Morton sighed. ‘I could try and work on my grandfather’s brothers in San Fran
cisco—maybe try and trace their descendants, see if they know what happened to my father.’

  Juliette turned her nose up. ‘Anything closer to home? Pass me your folder.’

  Morton obliged and took a sip of the coffee.

  Juliette began to scrutinise each document in her typical police officer manner. ‘What’s this?’ ‘Have you thought about trying to…’ ‘What does this mean?’ Finally, she set the paperwork down, took a mouthful of her drink then turned to him, like a judge summarising a case in her court. ‘So, your grandfather and grandmother stick to this party line, that he was born and raised in Boston, despite both knowing this to be untrue. They married in Wellfleet in 1953 and then settled in Hyannis Port, where your father and Aunt Alice were born. Your grandfather, though, actually grew up in San Francisco, where he married Audrey…remind me of her surname?’

  ‘Fuller.’

  ‘Audrey Fuller. They married in 1949. His divorce was mentioned in the papers in…?’

  ‘December 1950.’

  ‘I take it there’s no US census for 1950?’

  Morton shook his head. ‘Not available until 2022.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Juliette said, rummaging back in the folder. ‘This,’ she said, wafting his grandfather’s death certificate in front of his face, ‘says that he served in the Korean War. Wasn’t that in the early fifties? Or am I getting my dates mixed up?’

  ‘1950 to 1953,’ Morton confirmed. He realised, as though a switch had been illuminated in his mind, where she was going with this line of thought. ‘How was he around to divorce his wife and fight on a different continent?’

  ‘It’s worth pursuing. Maybe you were right—maybe your father’s disappearance does have connections to this anomaly in your grandfather’s past. Who knows? Other than that—could you put an advert in the local paper? See if anyone else your father went to school with is still around and knows his whereabouts? He can’t have only been friends with the Chipman family, after all.’

  ‘Both are very good ideas,’ he agreed.

  ‘I know,’ she laughed, sitting back and drinking her drink. ‘Us genealogy widows have our uses, you know.’

  Morton smiled as he began to investigate records pertaining to the Korea War. Owing to privacy restrictions, few service records for the period were in the public domain. He started by typing the name Roscoe Jacklin into the search page of Fold3, a genealogy website specialising in military records. Unsurprisingly, the search returned zero results. When he changed the Christian name to Joseph, there was one result. He clicked the entry. It was found in the Medal of Honor Roll.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Morton said. ‘Rank and Organisation: Sergeant First Class, U.S. Army, 2nd Reconnaissance Company, 2nd Infantry Division. Place and date: Near Yongsan, Korea, November 1st 1950. Birth: San Francisco, California. Citation: Jacklin distinguished himself by conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action against the enemy. While participating in an assault to secure a key terrain feature, Jacklin’s squad was pinned down by withering small arms, mortar and machinegun fire. Although already wounded, he left the comparative safety of his position and made a daring charge against the machinegun emplacement. Within ten yards of the goal, he was again wounded by small arms fire but continued on, entered the bunker, killed two hostile soldiers with his rifle, a third with his bayonet, and silenced the machinegun. Inspired by this incredible display of bravery, the men hastily moved up and completed their mission, and more than 100 hostile troops abandoned their weapons and fled in disorganized retreat. Jacklin, exhausted and injured, then became detached from the division for several days. Jacklin’s indomitable courage, extraordinary heroism, and superb leadership reflect the highest credit on himself and are in keeping with the esteemed traditions of the infantry and the U.S. Army.’

  ‘Wow. I’m not sure if he was extraordinarily heroic or extraordinarily stupid, but wow—that’s your grandfather,’ Juliette commented.

  Morton looked again at the entry. ‘So this happened on the first of November 1950. I’m guessing that he was then discharged from the army and repatriated.’

  ‘One month later he files for divorce,’ Juliette added.

  ‘Three years later, he’s three thousand miles away with a new wife, new past and a new name.’

  ‘Is it reading too much between the lines to suggest that the incident in Korea changed him?’ Juliette pondered. ‘You know, he came back a different man, didn’t want Audrey anymore, but his childhood sweetheart from next door—that sort of thing?’

  Morton thought for a moment. The same idea had occurred to him but there was little genealogical fact with which to support it.

  ‘What happened to the daughter from the first marriage? Any trace of her?’

  Morton shook his head. ‘She doesn’t show up in the Social Security Index and I can’t find a marriage for her, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t marry.’

  ‘Another mystery,’ Juliette laughed.

  ‘Hmm,’ Morton agreed. Ordinarily, he loved the challenge of trying to unravel a complex and seemingly unsolvable genealogical mystery—it was something upon which he had built his career—but just for once he wished for a simple, straightforward case.

  He quickly wrote an email to the Cape Cod Times, requesting that they print an appeal for information on his father, then closed his laptop and sat back to enjoy a coffee with his wife in the glorious Provincetown sunshine.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ Morton said, tucking the hire car into a bay in front of the White Oaks care home. He switched off the engine and looked up at the building. Cladded in a juxtaposition of oak panelling and off-white render, it looked modern, purpose-built. It was an amazingly odd feeling to think that his grandmother—a lady on whom he had never clapped his eyes—had a room somewhere inside those walls. Or at least did have up to four years ago.

  ‘Come on, let’s get inside—I need some air-con,’ Juliette said, leading the way to the main entrance. The automatic doors slid open and they found themselves in a reception that was more like a hotel lobby than a care home. It was spacious, open and, best of all, cool. Morton approached the front desk, unsure of exactly how he was going to explain himself.

  ‘Hi. Can I help you?’ a chirpy lady in a white coat said from behind the desk.

  ‘Hello,’ Morton began. ‘I’ve come over from England to see my grandmother—she’s a resident here.’ He figured that a simple get-to-the-point statement was much better than the elaborate alternative.

  The lady smiled. ‘How lovely. And what’s your grandmother’s name?’

  ‘Velda. Velda Jacklin.’

  Another smile. ‘Lovely Velda,’ she said, tapping something into the computer in front of her.

  She was alive, then, surely?

  ‘And what’s your name, please?’

  ‘Morton Farrier.’

  More tapping. Then a frown. ‘I’m afraid you’re not listed here as family. There are no grandchildren listed. Morton, you say?’

  Now the story began to get complicated. ‘She doesn’t know about me, I’m her son’s son.’

  ‘She doesn’t have any sons listed, either.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t let you see her.’

  ‘But I’m her grandson,’ Morton protested.

  ‘But you must understand, sir, we can’t just let anyone in who claims to be related; our residents are very vulnerable with a whole range of healthcare needs.’

  ‘I do understand, but I’ve come a very long way to see her.’

  She sighed. ‘Do you have any documentation that shows you’re related to her?’

  There was a question. ‘No, I don’t.’

  She shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can do, sir, I’m sorry—I really am.’

  ‘Can I speak to a manager, please?’ Morton pressed, becoming more agitated as the chances of him meeting his grandmother were slipping away before his eyes.

  The lady didn’t answer, but picked up t
he phone. ‘Diane, could you come down here, please? I’ve got someone who wants to speak with you. Thank you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Morton murmured, ambling away from the desk.

  Moments later a lady in her early sixties, with a tight black perm and pristine white coat, appeared. She leant over the desk and a brief, hushed conversation took place between the receptionist and her, then she walked over to Morton with her hand extended. ‘Hi there, I’m Diane. I understand your grandmother is a resident here, but you don’t have any documentation to prove that you’re related to her?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Do you have five minutes for me to explain?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Sure, come right this way.’ Diane led Juliette and him around to an office behind the reception desk. ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘Right,’ Morton began. ‘Where to start…’

  It took him ten minutes of uninterrupted explanation to get to a point where he felt he could draw breath and sit back, his case delivered. He interspersed his monologue by showing her some of the documents that related to his search, in the hope that it lent him some degree of credibility.

  For the most part, Diane had remained expressionless. Now that he was finished, she clasped her hands together on the desk and leant in. ‘Okay. I’m sure you appreciate that I can’t just let anyone in to see our residents. Some of our residents have been here for a long time. Some of them have severe dementia and wouldn’t be able to engage in a rational conversation. Okay?’

  Morton understood.

  Diane paused. ‘I can’t allow anyone to walk in off the streets with no clear paperwork…’

  Morton nodded, accepting that his quest was over. ‘Okay,’ he said, standing. ‘Thank you for your time.’