He walked briskly with tears in his eyes, now completely certain that his father was out there but did not wish to meet him. Jan’s words rang in his ears as he walked. ‘…Alice has told you all she can…’ She wasn’t allowed to say more.
His quest was all but over.
Chapter Sixteen
3rd April 1954, Barnstable, Massachusetts, USA
Velda was sitting back in the armchair with her eyes closed, listening to the last verse of Doris Day’s Secret Love. She was wearing a pink felt poodle-skirt and had styled her short hair into fashionable curls. She wanted to look her absolute best for him when he got home.
‘…at last my heart’s an open door and my secret love’s no secret anymore,’ she sang along.
The song ended and the arm gently lifted the needle from the record, returning the house to its prior stillness. Velda opened her eyes and looked at the clock with a gasp. There was still so much left to do! What was she thinking?
She hurried into the kitchen and carefully pulled her apron over her hair. The room was large and modern—just like the rest of the house—containing white enamel cabinets, General Electric stove, dishwasher, washing machine and large refrigerator. They had purchased the house for $21,000 last year and it came with the latest in design and technology. It really was the most perfect home for them.
Opening the oven door, she checked on the cake—it looked and smelt amazing. She began to pour some icing sugar into a bowl when the doorbell sounded. Velda glanced at the clock again—no, it couldn’t be him for another hour…unless he’d managed to finish early…and why was he ringing the bell?
She removed the apron and scuttled off to the front door. Just as she reached it, the bell rang again. She opened the door with a scowl.
An unfamiliar man—short, in a long brown mac with a briefcase—stood with a wide grin on his face. He removed his fedora hat. ‘Good afternoon, Velda!’ He took a step forwards, as if he were an old friend.
The visitor seemed surprised when Velda didn’t move to permit him entrance. ‘And who might you be?’ she asked.
The man’s face fell. ‘Your husband didn’t tell you I was coming over? It’s me—Johnny Brucker…’
Velda stared blankly. Neither the face nor the name struck familiarity with her.
‘Jeez, I know it’s his twenty-sixth birthday and all that but, come on…what, he didn’t say he’d asked Johnny Brucker over to talk about some investments he wants to make?’
Velda shook her head. ‘Not a single word, Mr Brucker.’
‘Well, is he home?’ he asked, trying to look over Velda’s shoulder.
‘Not yet, no; he’s at work.’
‘I do apologise, Mrs Jacklin. I must have made an error,’ he said, scratching his chin.
Velda watched as he stooped over and pulled something from his briefcase. A diary. He thumbed through it then stopped.
‘No, no error. Here,’ he said, passing the diary to Velda.
Roscoe Jacklin, 4pm (investments).
Mr Brucker looked at his wristwatch with a grimace. ‘It’s only a quick appointment—signing paperwork, mainly. I mean, I could come back…’
Velda retracted her outward irritation with the interruption, diverting it towards her husband. What was he thinking, making an appointment like this on his birthday? ‘No, come on in. He must be almost home, if he made the appointment with you for four o’clock.’
Mr Brucker followed Velda into the kitchen.
‘Please, take a seat. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Thank you—black, one sugar.’
As Velda made the man’s drink, she was aware of a creeping sense of vulnerability. She turned frequently, not wanting her back to him. She stirred his coffee, standing at a peculiar angle that kept him in her peripheral vision. He was glancing around the room, taking everything in.
‘Real nice place you’ve got here,’ he commented.
‘Thank you,’ Velda said, hurrying the coffee to the table in front of him and wishing that Joseph would hurry up.
‘Congratulations,’ Mr Brucker said, ‘If that’s okay to say so.’
She presumed that he was referring to the house and mumbled her gratitude. Then she noticed that his head was bobbed and his raised eyebrows were pointing in the direction of her stomach. Had he guessed, or had Joseph told him? They had agreed not to tell anyone just yet… ‘Early days,’ Velda muttered. Where was Joseph?
Mr Brucker took a swig of the coffee, then placed his briefcase on the table, popped open the brass clasps and flipped the lid open. ‘Listen, Mrs Jacklin. I can see you’re real busy. Maybe you could help me fill some of these forms in—it’s nothing financial or personal—just basic stuff.’
‘Well, I guess that would be okay,’ Velda replied uncertainly, eyes flicking to the front door.
Mr Brucker fumbled in his briefcase then withdrew a piece of paper and a pen. ‘So, I take it given all the balloons and decorations, that I have his birthday of April 3rd 1928 correct?’
Velda nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘And where was he born, exactly?’
‘Boston.’
‘Okay,’ Mr Brucker noted. ‘And where and when was he lucky enough to make you his wife?’
‘June sixth last year,’ Velda answered. ‘First Congregational Church, Wellfleet.’
Mr Brucker stroked his chin as he wrote. ‘And you were Miss Velda Henderson—is that correct?’
The previous reassurance that this man clearly knew her husband now began to trouble her. She had absolutely no dealings in her husband’s business and couldn’t understand why knowing her maiden name was a necessity in his investment paperwork.
Finally, a key in the door!
Velda took a deep breath and was able to relax. ‘We’re in here!’ she called quickly.
He strode into the kitchen with a smile.
‘Joseph…I mean, Roscoe Joseph,’ Velda stammered, ‘your friend’s here—about the investments.’ But Velda knew instantly that something wasn’t right. He was looking at the man with the same searching eyes that she herself had laid upon him.
Mr Brucker closed his briefcase, stood up and extended his hand towards Joseph. He wasn’t offering his hand to shake, Velda realised, but handing him a small card of some sort.
Joseph took the card. ‘Johnny Brucker. Private Investigator,’ he read impassively.
A vacuum of silence ensnared the room as the true purpose of the visit crystallised.
‘What does she want?’ Joseph asked.
Mr Brucker smiled. ‘To see you in court.’
Joseph laughed. ‘On what charge, exactly?’
‘Bigamy.’
‘Now listen here, Johnny,’ Joseph began, ‘if you think that—’
‘Don’t bother,’ Mr Brucker interjected. ‘Your good wife here has confirmed everything. You married her last year while still married to Audrey. Court cases don’t get much more open-and-shut than that, Joseph or Roscoe or whatever it is you’re calling yourself now.’
‘Get out of my house!’ Joseph yelled.
Mr Brucker smiled, placed his fedora back on his head and picked up his briefcase. ‘Good day to you folks.’ He paused at the doorway and turned. ‘Audrey said to say happy birthday. She wanted me to sing, but my voice ain’t all that good.’
The slamming of the front door coincided with the smashing of the bowl containing the icing sugar. Velda screamed. ‘That damned woman!’ Velda exploded. ‘When is she ever going to leave us alone?’
‘Maybe never,’ Joseph uttered solemnly. ‘We’ve got a war on our hands, Velda. A real war.’
Chapter Seventeen
2nd October 1976, Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, USA
Jack was sitting at his desk in front of his bedroom window, watching and waiting for the storm to break. Thick clouds as black as coal were suspended no more than a hundred feet above the unbridled sea, as if awaiting a final command to assault the harbour and villages beyond. It was going to be a b
ad one, that much was certain. He was thankful that phase two of his job had ended just days before the first vestiges of winter had skulked in. The cemetery had been cleared and was now in the capable hands of a local maintenance company. All headstones had been cleaned and recorded and a map had been drawn of the cemetery, with each grave meticulously plotted. His work was now to bring life to the bones beneath the stones. On the desk behind him was a stack of books from the local library and an assortment of jumbled paperwork pertaining to the Sturgis headstones on which he was currently working—another notable local family after whom was named the library in Barnstable where Jack did much of his research.
A gust of wind shook the pine tree in the neighbour’s garden, evicting an unhappy cardinal.
The storm was drawing closer.
From downstairs came a light banging sound. Jack raced to his bedroom door and down the stairs, meeting his mom at the bottom. They were both racing towards the wedge of mail protruding from the front door. Jack dived in front of her and snatched it from the mouth of the letterbox.
‘Whatever’s the matter with you?’ his mom snapped.
Jack ignored her and quickly flicked through the stack of letters. ‘I’ve just been waiting on some information for work,’ he answered, pulling out a thin white envelope addressed to him. ‘And here it is.’
She eyed him distrustfully but said nothing, reaching out and taking the rest of the mail.
Upstairs, Jack closed his bedroom door and sliced into the letter. It was post-marked California, the fourth letter from his paternal grandparents. His first letter to them, they had admitted in their initial response, had come as a complete surprise; they had claimed to know nothing at all of Jack and Alice. Even their whereabouts had come as a revelation. His reply had been lengthy. Set against a barrage of questions about them and their family in San Francisco, Jack had shared some information about Alice and him. Their response had come quickly, answering all of his questions in detail. Having bided his time, Jack then broached the thorny subject of his dad’s early life. The reply had been revelatory. It had spoken of his childhood friendship with the girl next door—Velda Henderson—that had turned more serious as they had grown up. They had been uncertain as to the reasons, but Joseph and Velda had then split up and Joseph had gone on to marry Audrey Fuller in 1949 before signing up for service in Korea. He had been injured in the war, returning home in 1950, before one day taking off with Velda and never returning.
Jack pulled the latest letter from the envelope and began to read.
Our dear Jack, It was a great pleasure to receive your last letter. We were delighted to hear all about your summer and how the job at the cemetery is progressing. It sounds stimulating and challenging for you. Thank you, also, for your update on Alice and the drawing—she truly is a magnificent artist with a promising career ahead of her. We have had the picture professionally framed and it now has pride of place on the grand piano. You both are doing so very good. Your grandfather and I are both keeping well. We go to fitness classes once a week and play tennis regularly—not to mention our busy social life! There seems a never-ending stream of friends pouring through the door. To answer your question, Jack, yes, I do understand your need to know the past. While it is our greatest wish not to muddy the waters in any way, we won’t lie to you. You ask about your father’s first wife and details of the divorce. Her name was Audrey Fuller and they married in March 1949, here in San Francisco. I’m afraid to tell you this—there was no divorce. For various reasons, many of which we can only surmise, Audrey would not grant it to your dad. Audrey died in 1954 and the threatened court action against your dad never happened, thankfully. We repeat our open invitation to you and your sister to visit us. We would so dearly like to meet you both. With kind affection, Lucy & George
Jack stared at the letter, his eyes being drawn back to her name. Audrey Fuller. His dad was a bigamist. Regardless of the fact that Audrey had died, it didn’t change the simple fact that his parents’ marriage was illegal. And his mom was irrefutably complicit. It suddenly explained a lot: the reason for the complete dislocation of the past; the refusal to discuss his dad’s family history; and the labyrinth of lies and deceptions that had evolved through the decades.
But what was he going to do with the information? He and Alice had discussed visiting their grandparents—possibly next spring break. But what to tell their parents? They were already sitting on their own set of lies and deceptions…
Jack read the letter once more, then hid it with the others at the back of his work folder and tried to refocus his mind on the task in hand: compiling a biography on the Sturgis family. He sat at his desk and gazed outside. The great slabs of black in the sky had inched to the shoreline. Shards of rain began to slice into the lawn. It was the kind of hard rain that came as a precursor to an absolute deluge. Just a handful of seconds passed before the clouds ruptured and the house sounded as though it was under a machine gun attack.
His gaze dropped from the watery grey diffusion of the window down to his notebook. He read back what he had written about John Sturgis but the words had no impact against that with which his mind was contending: bigamy. The word was lodged, tumour-like, obstinately at the forefront of his thoughts, refusing to budge.
He would have to tell Alice straight away, there was no choice: this situation had made them promise never to keep secrets from one another.
‘Aren’t you hungry, Jack?’ his mom asked across the table.
‘Sorry—it was good but I’m full,’ he replied, setting his knife and fork down beside the half-eaten chicken pie.
‘Did you use an entire chicken?’ his dad asked, turning and winking at Jack. He too placed his cutlery down with a sigh that said that the dinner had beaten him.
‘Oh, stop it,’ Velda said with a chuckle. ‘I don’t suppose you boys have any space for dessert, then?’
‘Well, I expect we could squeeze a little in. Don’t you think so, Jack?’
Jack nodded, his mask—replete with broad, beaming smile—safely in place. Every meal time, or other occasion that necessitated that the three of them be in the same room at the same time was identical: a bizarre and nightmarish game where, by tacit agreement, they played versions of themselves without pasts.
Velda grinned as she collected the dinner plates from the table.
A crash of thunder from close by coincided almost perfectly with the peal of the doorbell, causing the three of them to pause and consider if they had heard correctly.
‘I’ll go,’ Jack volunteered, leaping up, grateful for an excuse to leave the table. As he headed to the door, he heard his dad commenting that it was probably one of the neighbours needing something because of the storm. But it wasn’t, it was Laura. She was standing under the cover of the porch, her saturated hair stuck to the side of face and water dripping from her coat. ‘Hey. You sure picked a good time to come here.’ Jack stepped to one side. ‘Come on in.’
‘Didn’t I just,’ she replied, stepping inside the house.
He kissed her lingeringly on the lips. It was still new and slightly awkward; they had grown closer and crossed the line of friendship into a new territory, unfamiliar to him. Nobody but the two of them and Michael knew about it and it had yet to receive any official designation. Dating. The word was exotic-sounding to him and came with such expectations.
‘Are your mom and dad in?’ she mouthed silently, to which Jack nodded. She rolled her eyes.
‘Who is it, Jack?’ his dad called.
‘Just Laura—we’re going up to my room.’
‘Oh, but don’t you want any dessert?’ his mom called from the kitchen. ‘There’s enough for Laura, too.’
Jack raised his eyebrows questioningly to Laura. She shook her head. ‘No, we’re okay, thanks.’
In his bedroom, Jack closed the door, grateful to have been saved from the charade downstairs.
‘Just Laura?’ she chided, backing him playfully into the door. ‘Just Laura?’
>
‘Yeah, just Laura,’ he joked. Jack smiled and pulled her close. He kissed her again, but this time the awkwardness had vanished and passion had taken hold.
Chapter Eighteen
27th August 2016, Boston Logan International Airport, Massachusetts, USA
Morton’s head was killing him and he was struggling to keep up. Juliette was marching a few paces ahead of him, dragging her suitcase behind her. Every tiny sound in the busy airport car park was amplified, smashing against his eardrum. The migraine’s arrival this morning—probably his worst ever and the first since leaving England—was no coincidence, for today was the day that they were leaving Massachusetts, thereby ending the active search for his father.
‘Oh, air con—thank God,’ Morton mumbled, as they entered the terminal building. ‘Can we stop for a second?’
Juliette paused and turned. ‘Tablets not kicking in yet?’
‘No,’ he breathed, gently wiping sweat from his brow. After a long, slow inhalation he said, ‘Come on, then, lead the way to check-in.’
‘Listen, we’ve got bags of time—let’s get a water and have a sit down first,’ Juliette said.
‘Or a coffee?’ he suggested through squinted eyes.
‘No, a water. Go and sit over there—’ she directed him to a cluster of plastic seats, ‘—and I’ll get us a drink.’
He sat down, only too willing to accept Juliette’s orders, and held his head in his hands. He looked and felt pitiful. On the journey here Juliette had tried to console him and frame the failure to find his father in a different way. ‘Look at all that you have discovered,’ she had said with great enthusiasm. ‘You’ve found your dad’s high school year book, which included his photo; you found the report into your grandfather’s death, which included his photo; you’ve been to their house; you’ve met your grandmother; you’ve met your aunt and, best of all, you’ve had a glorious two weeks of honeymoon with me—with another week in New York still to come. I’d say that was pretty good going.’
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