The Missing Man

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Velda wiped her face on her handkerchief and waited until she heard the tell-tale sounds of movement upstairs before she returned to the kettle. Switching it on to boil, she slid Audrey’s letter out from beneath hers and held it in her hands, wondering as to the contents.

  The thin pirouettes of steam that rose from the kettle spout began to grow more agitated and intense. Velda carefully held the envelope over the frantic surge of hot haze, watching as the gum became tacky. Small hillocks rose as the envelope flap began to separate.

  Switching off the kettle, Velda took a butter knife from the drawer and carefully slid it along the V-shaped seam. The knife slid through the gum line effortlessly.

  With vengeful satisfaction etched on her face, she took the letter out. Like hers, it was short. She read it quickly, but digested every word, then placed it back inside the envelope and pressed down on the top flap.

  The letter was resealed, giving no indication that it had ever been opened.

  With the envelope in her hand, Velda quietly slipped from the house.

  It sure was some place for their first home after marrying. Typical Audrey. She had chosen an expensive place on 25th Avenue with exceptional views over the bay.

  Velda stood at the porch and rang the doorbell, trying to suppress the feelings of disgust and loathing. Trying to suppress her anger.

  The solid oak door opened and there, with her arms folded and lips pouting, stood Audrey. She was wearing a cream satin nightdress and movie-perfect make-up. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Audrey,’ Velda smirked. ‘How are you?’

  Audrey rolled her eyes. ‘Managing.’

  ‘Yes, I saw you back in the summer. You were managing quite well with Dwight Kalinski.’

  Audrey threw her head back in mock laughter. ‘Oh, you really are a funny girl, you know. I can see why Joseph found you an amusing little thing. Such a shame he dumped you.’

  Velda ignored the tingling onset of fury that pricked at her heart and handed over the letter.

  Audrey stared at it like she was being handed a plate of excrement.

  She didn’t even recognise her own husband’s handwriting. ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘What is it?’ she sneered.

  ‘A letter.’

  ‘How witty of you. Is it from you? Some charming little outpouring of your ill feeling towards me?’ Audrey laughed and pushed the door shut.

  ‘It’s from Joseph,’ Velda stated, her voice raised. ‘He’s alive.’

  The door reopened. Audrey drew in a long breath, staring at Velda.

  ‘He wants a divorce,’ Velda said with glee, flicking the letter out of Audrey’s reach.

  Audrey stretched across to grab the letter and, as she did so, her nightdress came open and Velda gasped.

  Audrey pulled the nightdress closed, snatched the letter and slammed the door.

  Velda had a wide grin on her face as she sauntered off the property, certain that she was being watched leave. Audrey was pregnant. Two or three months—four at the most. Joseph had been on the other side of the world for five months.

  As she reached the sidewalk, Velda did a dramatic twirl and laughed back at the house.

  Chapter Eleven

  20th June 1976, Lothrop Hill Cemetery, Barnstable, Massachusetts, USA

  The sky was a bright monotone blue. Cloudless. Hot. Jack’s bare torso glistened with perspiration, as he toiled under the late afternoon sun. The thick black rubber gloves which he was forced to wear only added to his discomfort.

  He dipped his sponge back into the murky bucket, then began to rub small circles to the rear of the headstone upon which he worked. The liquid—a pungent concoction of ammonium hydroxide and water—trickled down the dry grey headstone. Jack took a light brush and gently began to scrub away the effects of decades of grime and neglect. Inch by inch, the life and original colour returned to the stone.

  Jack stood up and looked at the grave. It was for the son of the Reverend John Lothrop, the founder of the town of Barnstable. The words carved into the stone were once again legible. Here lyes buried ye body of Mr John Lothrop who dec’d Sept ye 18th 1727 in the 85th year of his age.

  Slowly scanning around the cemetery, Jack took in the scale of his work. The place looked as if it were newly consecrated. The weeds had been all but completely eradicated and he had now cleaned up around a quarter of the headstones. Just another month or so and he could move onto phase three: the research.

  A low rumble of a slowing car drew Jack’s attention to the road. It was Mr Chipman’s green Chrysler. Jack looked at his watch: just after five. Time to collect his wages, pack up and go to his American History evening class in West Barnstable. Jack waved as Mr Chipman entered the cemetery.

  ‘Hey—wow—good work, Jack,’ Mr Chipman said, glancing around the place. ‘Looks amazing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack replied, running the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead.

  As Mr Chipman approached, he pulled out a roll of cash from his pocket. ‘Here you go. I’ve taken out the box money already.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jack said, taking the proffered roll of cash.

  Mr Chipman then held aloft a piece of folded paper and grimaced. ‘I’ve got some information.’

  ‘What about?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Your dad—his past.’

  Jack frowned. ‘But I told you that you could stop all that back in March—my mom explained everything to me.’

  ‘I know, I know—I’ll take it away and destroy it if you want,’ Mr Chipman said. ‘I did stop digging—but I neglected to inform an old colleague of mine back in California that the search was off. He found something that I thought you might want to see.’

  Jack shook his head. He didn’t want to reignite the embers of his mistrust. Since his mom had caught him leaving his dad’s study, things had returned to normal at home. She had confronted him that day with a surprising calmness.

  ‘What are you doing, Jack?’ she had asked.

  Momentarily caught in a frozen terror, Jack had said nothing. He had considered lying—perhaps making something up about needing money—but then he had stopped that line of thinking dead; it was a whole patchwork quilt of lies from his mom and dad that he was now trying to unstitch. Truth was the only option. ‘I phoned the bank pretending to be dad,’ he had begun. ‘He gets a bunch of money in every month from San Francisco, which I believe comes from some inheritance or other. I think Dad was born there, not in Boston.’

  His mom’s face had turned a deeper shade of pink, but other than that, she had kept her reaction guarded, reserved. ‘Okay, I think it’s time to explain, Jack,’ she had said quietly. ‘Come and sit down with me.’

  His mom had sat opposite him at the kitchen table, her hands clasped piously together. ‘The truth is, your dad doesn’t know where he’s from. His mother—and I am sorry for speaking ill of the dead—was something of a loose woman and gave your dad up as a young baby. Can you imagine your dad—Vice President of the Cape Cod Chamber of Commerce—admitting to people, his own family, that he knows nothing of his past? He lied—yes—and that was wrong—but it was just easier to say that he was from Boston and that his parents were killed in an automobile accident. Do you see that, Jack?’

  Jack had trusted his mother’s mournful eyes. He nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess so. But where does the money come from, then?’

  His mom had laughed. ‘Investments—your dad isn’t as dumb as he makes out, you know.’

  Jack had smiled and his mom had reached across the table and touched his hand. ‘Listen, Jack, I won’t tell him that you were in there, or about our little discussion, okay?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he had said. The past life, that he had imagined for his dad, suddenly seemed as foolish and absurd as the idiotic ones that he and Alice had dreamed up a couple of years ago.

  ‘Jack?’ Mr Chipman repeated. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ He waved the sheet of paper in front of Jack’s eyes.

  The words were dry in his
mouth: destroy it. They were right there, sitting obstinately on his tongue. Destroy it. But he couldn’t vocalise them; they clashed with an imprecise but forceful intensity within him that kept his mouth clamped shut. Destroy it. It was his mom’s voice, he realised, encouraging him to say it. ‘Does it contradict what my mom told me?’ Jack breathed.

  Mr Chipman nodded. It was a slow, apologetic nod of his head. His eyes fell to the floor. ‘Quite a dilemma for you.’

  ‘What would you do?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I’ll answer that after you do,’ he said.

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘No, but show me anyway. I’d spend my whole life wondering; I need to know.’

  Mr Chipman silently unfolded the sheet of paper and held it out in Jack’s direction. It was a Xerox copy, covered in an old style of handwriting. Jack pushed his face closer to the paper. On the left-hand side was a long list of names. All men. He scanned down until he found a familiar surname. Jas. Jacklin. The next column listed ages. Nineteen. Next, judging by the content, were the men’s occupations. Jas.—James Jacklin—was, like many on the list, a miner. Lastly, was a place name: Pennsylvania.

  ‘James Jacklin?’ Jack queried. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Your great-great-great-grandfather.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jack said. So far, nothing that refuted his mom’s version of events.

  ‘This is the 1850 census. He was your first ancestor to live in California. Notice where he’s living?’

  ‘In a hotel with a bunch of other men from all over the world.’

  ‘Look at the place, at the top.’

  ‘Coloma?’

  Mr Chipman opened his hands out and pulled a face that suggested the place should be familiar to Jack. ‘Come on, Jack! 1850. California.’

  ‘Gold Rush?’ Jack said tentatively.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Jack was perplexed. ‘So my great-great-great-grandfather, James Jacklin was born in Pennsylvania but travelled to California for the Gold Rush?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So…’

  Mr Chipman flipped the page over to reveal a hand-drawn family tree. ‘There’s you at the bottom here.’ His finger traced from Jack up to his dad. ‘And here’s your dad. He was born in San Francisco. Just like his father, George and George’s father and his father and his father.’

  Jack’s mom and dad’s version of events was a lie. His mom’s cover of his dad’s version of events was a lie. The unpalatable truth was documented here. Unassailable history.

  ‘There’s something else, too,’ Mr Chipman added. ‘Take a look at your grandfather on the tree.’

  Jack scrutinised the family tree. ‘George Jacklin. Born 1900. Married Lucy Bradford.’ He looked at Mr Chipman for further direction.

  ‘When did he die?’ Mr Chipman asked.

  ‘It doesn’t say.’

  ‘That’s because he’s still alive, Jack.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He and your grandmother, Lucy and your uncle David—they’re all alive and living in San Francisco.’ He took something—a scrap of paper—from his pocket and handed it to Jack. ‘Here’s their address—quite a wealthy part of town, so I’m told.’

  ‘But I just can’t believe this…’ Jack’s sentence was jerked into the collision of thoughts ricocheting around his mind. His grandparents were still alive. He heard Mr Chipman talking—saying something about the need to discuss things with his parents.

  ‘Oh, and one other thing,’ Mr Chipman said. ‘What you were told about your mom’s parents—that was true. Her father died in 1932 and her mother in 1945.’

  The way that Mr Chipman relayed the news of his maternal grandparents was as though it might have been of some consolation that at least some part of their past had been true. It wasn’t; it just made everything more complex, somehow.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jack heard himself saying. ‘I’d better get packed up and off to school.’

  ‘Ask them to teach you about the Gold Rush,’ Mr Chipman joked.

  Jack smiled absentmindedly and watched as Mr Chipman strolled through the cemetery towards the gates, his mind in freefall.

  ‘I would have looked at the papers, too, by the way!’ Mr Chipman called back down.

  Jack pulled up on the drive and killed the engine. He stared at his parents’ house in a detached way, as if seeing it for the first time. Through the thin bands of the horizontal blinds, he saw his dad reading, silhouetted against the vanilla dining-room lights. The astute businessman from humble Bostonian beginnings, now living in one of the nicest neighbourhoods on Cape Cod. The epitome of the American Dream.

  Jack’s gaze dropped to the passenger seat beside him to the evidence that annihilated everything he knew. A mild rage rose inside him.

  Stuffing the sheet into his class folder, Jack climbed from the car and entered the house. He closed the door, hung up his coat and wandered casually into the dining room. He tried to behave normally, but it didn’t come easily. ‘Hi,’ he said.

  His dad looked up from the newspaper. ‘Hi. How did school go tonight?’

  ‘Good thanks. I learned quite a lot today about the California Gold Rush.’

  ‘Interesting period,’ his dad mumbled, turning back to his newspaper.

  ‘Ever go?’ Jack asked.

  ‘To California? No, too hot.’

  Jack placed his folder on the table and turned to get something to drink.

  ‘What’s this?’ his dad asked. His face was ashen, drained. His jaw was clenched and the hand that was holding the paper on which was drawn the Jacklin family tree trembled.

  His dad had taken the bait.

  ‘What have you done, Jack?’ The tremor that Jack had glimpsed in his dad’s hand was progressively engulfing him. It squeezed his voice box, pinched his eyes and crushed his breath.

  In that instance, Jack knew that he had gone too far. He had opened a hidden window onto the past, a window that offered a view of the ugly chasm between his dad’s two lives. A window that could never again be closed.

  His dad pushed back his chair, rushed over to Jack and, with an animalistic roar, shoved Jack backwards, pinning him against the wall by his throat.

  ‘Please!’ Jack begged.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ his dad seethed.

  ‘That’s just what I want to know,’ Jack tried to argue, but the pressure on his throat was increasing and he was struggling to breathe. He had no choice and drove his right knee up into his dad’s stomach.

  It worked. His dad let him go but, giving him no chance to blink, he heaved his fist into Jack’s face. There was the sound akin to a stick being snapped, as his knuckles met with Jack’s nose.

  Jack fell to the floor in agony and curled himself up in the foetal position. ‘Please! I just want to understand…’ he began to say, but the sharp jolt of his dad’s foot into his stomach thrust the breath from his lungs and tore the words apart.

  Chapter Twelve

  20th August 2016, Wellfleet, Massachusetts, USA

  ‘It’s kind of how I imagined it,’ Morton said. He was standing beside Juliette in the car park adjacent to the First Congregational Church in Wellfleet: the place of his grandparents’ 1953 marriage. It was a large colonial-style building cladded in the typical New England white boarding. He slowly walked around to the front of the church, up the three red-brick steps to the double doors and tried the handle. Locked. With his back to the doors and his hands slung in his pockets, he pictured his grandfather standing on this very spot, looking down a street that had changed little in the intervening sixty years. Old, white homes interspersed with thick trees; just as it had always been.

  The raft of unanswered questions began to resurface in his thoughts. Questions that he might just get some answers to today. They were on their way back up the Cape towards Provincetown, to go to his Aunt Alice’s house. Yesterday, whilst he and Juliette were enjoying a very pleasant bicycle ride along the Cape Cod Rail
Trail—a twenty-two-mile former railroad track—his mobile had rung with an American number. ‘Hi there, is that Morton?’ a female voice had asked.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Oh, hi. This is Jan—I saw you briefly yesterday at Alice’s Art.’

  ‘Okay,’ he had said, not having the first clue with whom he was speaking.

  ‘Alice—she’s my wife. I’m really sorry for her bluntness. She’s very mistrusting,’ Jan had said with a laugh. ‘Listen, do you guys want to come over to our house tomorrow night?’

  ‘Yes, we’d love to,’ Morton had answered. ‘Is Alice okay with that?’

  The line had gone silent for several seconds. ‘Let’s just say I’m working on it, but I’m getting there. We live at sixty-two Commercial Street. Come by around eight o’clock and we’ll have a wine or beer together.’

  ‘Ready?’ Juliette asked. ‘If we don’t get a move on, we won’t have time to eat before going to see your aunt.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s go,’ he replied, leading away from the church and back to the hire car. ‘But what if Jan hasn’t managed to convince Alice that seeing us is a good idea?’ He faced Juliette as he started the car.

  ‘I’m guessing Jan would have called you back and cancelled.’

  ‘Call me sceptical, but I just can’t see her welcoming me with open arms.’

  ‘Well, we’ll find out in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Great.’

  They had eaten out in the front of Bubala’s by the Bay—a sprawling restaurant that, just like Commercial Street that ran beside it, was bustling with young revellers enjoying the last of the warm Provincetown evening sunshine. Their table had been cleared and the bill had been paid.

  Morton looked at his watch. ‘Quarter to eight—I guess we’d better be leaving.’ He sank the final swig of his red wine, the effects of which had temporarily doused the sparks of niggling worries and the questioning of the wisdom of their decision. But really, what choice did he have? Other than to pursue online the higher echelons of his family tree in San Francisco, he had no further leads to track down his father.