The Missing Man

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  His mood was cautiously light as they left the restaurant and made their way further along Commercial Street.

  As the shops, galleries and restaurants grew fewer, so the crowds also diminished.

  ‘There it is,’ Juliette announced after some time, a note of finality to her voice.

  Morton stopped outside the gate of number sixty-two Commercial Street. Cladded in orange cedar wood tiles, the house stood ostentatiously against its white weather-boarded neighbours. A short brick path led to the front door, which was set in the centre of the house, dividing two identical gabled fronts.

  Juliette pushed open the gate and led the way. She pressed the bell, then took a step back.

  It was Jan who answered, and Morton then remembered her from the hut on MacMillan Pier. She smiled warmly. ‘Hi, guys, come on in.’

  Morton stepped into the house and offered his hand. ‘We weren’t properly introduced—I’m Morton; this is my wife, Juliette.’

  ‘Welcome,’ Jan said, shaking their hands vigorously. ‘Come on through.’

  Morton glanced around the hallway—obviously the home of an artist—the white walls were filled with an abundance of nautical-themed art work and sculptures. They walked under a giant tin and copper seahorse to enter the sitting room at the rear of the house.

  ‘Wow,’ Juliette gasped.

  ‘Impressive,’ Morton concurred. The bi-folding doors were open to a large deck. A glass balcony provided a seamless join between house and ocean.

  ‘Come on out,’ Jan said. ‘Alice will be down in a moment.’

  They followed her out to the edge of the deck and looked out over at the sandy beach below them. Small waves hesitantly licked the braid of black seaweed that meandered its way along the shoreline.

  Morton stared at what he considered to be one of the most fantastic sunsets that he had ever seen. A pudgy tangerine sun, with its lower edge dipped in the ocean, gave off an inert medley of every shade of red and yellow imaginable. For the briefest of moments, he forgot all about their reason for being here. Then he remembered. ‘Is Alice okay with all this?’ he whispered to Jan.

  ‘Yeah. She’s a typical artist—likes to be a bit reclusive and mysterious—you know the sort,’ Jan said with a laugh.

  ‘I can see why—I don’t think I’d ever want to leave this house with that view,’ Juliette commented.

  ‘That’s why the place is a haven for artists—it has the most perfect light here all year round. Even in winter, when all the tourists have returned home and most of the shops and restaurants have closed, it’s an amazing place.’

  ‘It seems pretty special,’ Morton agreed, suddenly feeling his heart lurch and a nervous tingle rising inside him, as he sensed someone approaching from behind. He turned around to see her—his bohemian Aunt Alice. She was wearing a lavender-coloured kaftan and her wild hair was swept back behind a headband.

  ‘Hello again,’ Alice greeted.

  ‘Hello,’ Morton said, still unsure of exactly what to say. Jan being the one who had invited them meant that it clearly wasn’t Alice’s idea. Had she been browbeaten into accepting them into her home? What did that mean for their topics of conversation? Could he ask about his father, given how she had treated him?

  Alice seemed to study him for an age. ‘You look a lot like him,’ she said finally. ‘I’m sorry for how I was the other day—you caught me off-guard. I’m Alice.’ She extended her hand, which Morton accepted with a smile.

  ‘Morton—and this is my wife, Juliette.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Alice greeted, shaking Juliette’s hand.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Juliette said.

  ‘Well, you’re family,’ Jan responded. ‘And what do you folks like to drink? Wine? Beer? English tea?’

  ‘Wine would be great for both of us—thank you,’ Morton answered.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Alice said, directing them to a table and chairs on the deck. ‘I guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do…’

  The three of them sat at the table while Jan disappeared inside the house.

  A silence peculiar to their situation settled uncomfortably between them. There was so much to say, yet Morton couldn’t find a way to begin.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Juliette asked, breaking the stalemate.

  Alice tipped her head back, as if it were a difficult question. ‘We settled here twenty-something years ago, now.’

  ‘We live in Rye in East Sussex—I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it?’ Juliette asked, taking a sideways glance at Morton.

  Alice thought for a moment then shook her head. ‘No, can’t say I have. I’ve never been to England. The one time my parents went, they left me behind.’

  Morton had found his way in. ‘But they took your brother,’ he said. His words came out slightly stilted, sounding neither like a question, nor a statement.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Alice answered. ‘Which I guess is when he met your mother?’

  ‘Yes, my biological mother was living next door to the guesthouse in Folkestone where your parents and brother came to stay for the week in January 1974.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Jan chimed, walking over and carefully placing a tray on the table. She poured four glasses of red wine, then distributed them out. ‘Cheers,’ she toasted. ‘To long-lost family.’

  ‘To long-lost family,’ they all echoed.

  Jan took a seat and addressed Morton. ‘I’m real curious about your story—I’ve got so many questions! So, you found out later in life that you were adopted and then set about finding your real parents, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It turns out that my adoptive father’s sister was actually my biological mother.’

  Jan’s eyes rolled heavenwards as she repeated him. ‘Your adoptive father’s sister was your biological mother. Right, okay—I think I’m with you. Golly—tell us everything!’

  And so he did. His Aunt Alice sat impassively, whilst Jan made all the appropriate noises and responses expected from his story. He told them how he had tracked down a visitors’ book that had once belonged to the owners of the guesthouse that his father had visited, which in turn had led to a raft of online documents, including the birth record of both his father and his Aunt Alice. He also told them of some of his discoveries since being in America. He omitted to mention anything of Alice’s father’s first marriage, or the connection to California. How much—if anything—did she know? He ended his long account by handing them copies of the letters his father had written to his mother in 1976.

  ‘I deliberated for so long about what to do with them…’ Morton said, feeling as though he needed to explain himself, as he handed them to Alice.

  Nobody spoke while she read the first letter.

  Morton tried to read her face, but she gave nothing away. She passed the letter over to Jan and opened the second.

  Alice swallowed hard and Morton noticed that her eyes were slightly wet. Saying nothing, she put the letter back in the envelope and handed it to Jan. She read the third letter in the same way—revealing nothing.

  ‘Awful,’ Jan commented, once she had finished the letters. ‘Just awful.’

  Morton looked at Alice and decided that he needed to tackle the problem head-on. ‘Do you know where my father went after the fire?’

  ‘He stayed for a while with friends then left town. He never came back.’

  ‘He stayed with the Chipman family, didn’t he?’ Morton probed.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Alice confirmed.

  ‘I believe that Michael Chipman died in 2007—do you know what happened to Laura, his twin sister?’ Morton asked.

  Alice took a long inhalation before speaking. ‘She moved to Canada.’

  ‘Do you know when, or to which part she went?’ Morton asked.

  Alice thought for a moment. ‘Alberta, I believe. It must have been around 1982.’

  ‘And do you know if she married—so I can try and trace her?’

&n
bsp; ‘She did, but she kept her own name,’ Alice answered.

  ‘That makes things a little easier,’ Morton said, scribbling notes onto his pad. He wrote the word fire then underlined it. How was he going to ask what had actually happened on that Christmas Eve in 1976? Directly, he decided. ‘Do you mind talking about the fire?’

  He heard her quickly draw breath. ‘No, I guess not. I’m not sure how it will help find my brother… What is it you want to know, exactly?’

  ‘Just what happened. Where was Jack when the fire started?’

  She seemed to take an age to organise her thoughts and answer his question. ‘Jack and I were up in my room—chatting as we did most evenings after dinner. As you know, it was Christmas Eve, so we were expecting to be called downstairs to play board games. We left my dad to go and get them in the basement, while my mom was moving presents from her bedroom to the sitting room. We heard her passing my door several times then she just screamed. We ran out into the hall to see smoke billowing up the stairs and fire shooting out of the sitting room. We used Jack’s bedroom window to escape. Us three made it out, but my dad didn’t.’

  ‘And you were injured?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Alice answered, glancing down at her left arm. ‘I tried to find Dad…but he was in the basement and I just couldn’t reach him.’

  ‘So what caused the fire?’

  ‘Some electrical fault with the Christmas tree lights.’

  ‘But why, then, in the final letter from your brother, did he say your mum blamed him for it?’ Morton asked, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘I don’t know—things had been really tense between Jack and Mom and Dad for a few months. I think things came to a head that night and they got into a bit of a fight—just before the fire.’

  It still didn’t make sense to Morton. He was certain that Alice was withholding information. ‘Do you know what they were fighting about?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘No—probably normal teenager stuff. After that, he just took off.’

  ‘Did you never wonder what happened to him?’ Juliette quizzed, the policewoman in her making an appearance.

  ‘Sure I did, but it was his choice. After what happened I understand that he wants to be left alone.’

  The cutting nuance of her voice was palpable. Morton shot a look at Juliette, then caught Jan’s uncomfortable shifting in her chair.

  ‘Why don’t you show Morton the bits that survived the fire?’ Jan suggested to Alice, then turned to face him. ‘There were a few pieces that survived—God only knows how.’

  ‘Come to the front room,’ Alice said.

  ‘You two go,’ Jan said to Morton with a sweeping swoosh of her hand. ‘Juliette and I are going to stay here and enjoy the last of the sunset for a bit longer.’

  Juliette smiled, sat back in her chair and drank more of her wine.

  Morton heard Jan beginning to ask her questions about what she did for a living, as he trailed Alice back inside the house to a room at the front. Two of the walls had custom-made, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crafted around the door and the front-facing window. The other two walls were covered in various works of art. Alice headed to one of the shelves, withdrew a book of some kind and handed it to Morton. ‘One of my most treasured possessions,’ she said almost inaudibly.

  It was a photo album, light in his hands. That it had suffered in a fire was indisputable. The original tan leather was only visible in one small circular patch; the rest was tarnished with a charcoal residue that felt slightly greasy to the touch. Morton lifted it to his nose. He was able to detect the faintest whiff of acrid smoke. Having once lost a house in an explosion, it was a smell that he knew only too well. He placed the album down on an old-fashioned wooden school desk in front of the window and turned the first page.

  ‘That’s us,’ Alice explained without emotion.

  It was an informal photo that made Morton smile. He recognised the location—it was taken in the front garden of 2239 Iyanough Avenue. The house—pre-fire—was completely different to that which now stood in its place. Standing on the lawn was a man in a yellow shirt and brown trousers, whom he recognised as being his grandfather. In one arm, with her face towards the camera, was Alice. Morton estimated her to have been around the age of five. Beside them, looking at the two- or three-year-old Jack in her arms, was his grandmother, Velda.

  ‘That was around 1959 or 1960,’ Alice remarked. ‘The earliest photo I have of anyone in the family. I guess that sounds crazy to a genealogist, right?’

  ‘Frustrating more than crazy,’ Morton responded. ‘Do you mind if I take photos of the pictures?’

  ‘Sure—go ahead.’

  Having taken a photograph, he turned to the next double page. They contained an assortment of photos all taken at the beach. There was a close-up of his father, Jack, wearing swimming trunks and holding a beach ball. Another of Velda and the two kids paddling in the sea. Another—presumably taken by one of the children—of his grandparents with the tops of their heads missing.

  ‘Hyannis, summer 1962,’ Alice commented.

  The next page contained more snapshots of visits to parks, zoos and beaches. As Morton took photos, Alice outlined the locations and dates.

  ‘How are you folks getting on, then?’ Jan asked, peering around the door.

  ‘Lovely album,’ Morton said. ‘Thank goodness it survived.’

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ Jan said, entering the room and looking over his shoulder. ‘Oh, I just love that picture of my little Ali! How old were you, there?’

  ‘About ten, I guess.’

  Morton turned the page to see several photographs of his father posing outside the front of the house.

  ‘His first day at Barnstable High School,’ Alice said. ‘He was so excited about it—he loved school—loved learning.’

  ‘Really?’ Morton said, getting his first snippet of his father’s personality. ‘What were his favourite subjects?’

  ‘Art, history, math, literature—most things.’ Alice smiled warmly—the first genuine smile of the evening, Morton believed.

  ‘And what was he like at home? What were his hobbies, pastimes?’

  ‘Like most boys, he liked his sports. Going out on his bike. Sailing. Sea fishing with our dad. Reading. As he got older, he was interested in archaeology, history—that kind of thing. He managed a couple of semesters at Boston, then dropped out.’

  ‘To do what?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Shop work for a while—a grocery store on Main Street called Rory’s. He quit that and then started working for Mr Chipman.’

  ‘Really? Doing what?’

  ‘Something up at Lothrop Hill Cemetery—maintaining the grounds—recording who was buried where—I don’t know, exactly—it was all just before the fire.’

  ‘Sounds like something I would do,’ Morton remarked.

  ‘Like father, like son,’ Jan laughed.

  ‘England,’ Alice said when Morton turned the page. ‘The last photos in the album are of their holiday to England in 1974.’

  Morton scanned the images quickly, hoping to see one of his biological mother and father together, but there was none. The pictures were mainly of a day trip to London—Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the River Thames and one of the royal parks. Others had been taken at landmarks that Morton recognised—Canterbury Cathedral, Dover Castle—there was even one taken on Mermaid Street in Rye—almost directly opposite Morton’s house. It was a peculiar feeling to know that his father had once trodden the cobbles outside his home. ‘I was hoping to see them together—my biological mother and father,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe one day you will,’ Alice replied. ‘You seem pretty tenacious in your investigations, I must say.’

  ‘He’s my father. I won’t stop until I find him—dead or alive.’ He faced Alice. ‘Do you think you would have heard, if he had died?’

  ‘I guess so…’

  ‘I’m sure he’s alive,’ Jan added. ‘Just keep looking. What else survived the
fire, Ali?’

  ‘Some ornaments, kitchen bits…’ Alice listed. ‘Nothing family-related.’

  Morton turned back to the front of the album and studied the first image again. ‘So, no photos of your parents before 1959?’ he said, shoving a not-very-subtle crowbar into the conversation.

  ‘Nope—not one,’ Alice replied.

  ‘What do you know about your mother and father before their marriage?’ he questioned.

  ‘Well, just before that he was fighting in Korea. He did some heroic thing or other and got sent home. He used to tell us that he was one of the first men to volunteer to fight.’ Alice’s face lightened at the memory. ‘He used to place great emphasis on the volunteered part—and not being drafted. He and Mom married in 1953, then Jack and I came along.’

  ‘What about before Korea?’ Morton probed.

  Alice folded her arms and met his gaze. ‘You’re asking about San Francisco, aren’t you? And the first wife?’

  Morton nodded. So she knew.

  ‘It was Jack who found out—that’s what he was talking about in the letters. Growing up, we had no idea. Mom and Dad had us believe they were from Boston. It drove Jack crazy and he needed to find the truth. And that’s what he did—he found it. You’re a lot like him.’

  Morton smiled and she reached out and touched his arm.

  ‘Come on, let’s go back outside,’ Jan said. ‘Poor Juliette will think we’ve deserted her. She just told me you’re on your honeymoon, Morton! Congratulations. Come and tell us all about how you two met.’

  It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Morton and Juliette left. By the end of the evening, three pages of his notepad were filled with snapshots of his father’s life: his favourite movie (The Godfather), favourite food (pizza), favourite colour (green), favourite music (The Beatles)—all of it frozen in time in 1976. But of his whereabouts, Morton had learned absolutely nothing more. He and Juliette hugged Alice and Jan and left the house with smiles and promises to keep in touch.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot—we’ve got you a gift to take back to England,’ Jan called, as they began down the path. She scuttled inside and returned with the snow fence painting of a northern cardinal that Morton had picked up on MacMillan Pier.