The Missing Man

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton had managed a smile, realising that he was coming across as being ungrateful. He had realised, too, upon hearing his achievements listed in such a way, that he had accomplished an awful lot in a short time. But it felt as though he had run a marathon and stopped just a few yards from the finish line.

  ‘Leaving Massachusetts doesn’t mean the search is over,’ Juliette had continued. ‘You might still get a phone call from the article—not everyone reads the paper the day it comes out, you know.’

  Not a single person had yet contacted him about the story in the newspaper. Not one. It was like a giant conspiracy, Morton had thought, recalling the pages and pages of classmates that had attended Barnstable High School with his father. Not one of them, apparently, still resided on Cape Cod or read the local paper.

  ‘Besides which,’ Juliette had added. ‘There must still be some research you can do back home: this can’t be the one and only genealogical case that Morton Farrier abandons without completing.’

  She was right, of course. And he had already begun working on his next steps: to trace each and every one of his father’s classmates. He wouldn’t give up until he had found him, even if he didn’t wish to be found; he had to hear those words from the man himself.

  In the darkness of his mind, his thoughts continued to mull over his research. Had he done everything he could? At least, given that he was on honeymoon, had he done enough?

  ‘Here, I got you a water,’ Juliette said, hauling him back to the present moment. ‘And I found this for you, too.’

  Morton held out his hand and took the water. With his eyes half-shut, he glanced up to her other hand. Nothing. Then, he saw the figure standing beside her.

  It was him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  24th December 1976, Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, USA

  Velda opened her wardrobe door and admired the impressive stack of Christmas presents. Boxes and packages of various sizes. And such beautifully decorative wrapping! They look like something out of the window display in Woolworth’s, she thought, as she bent down to pick them up. It was the same routine each year—they had an evening meal together, then Velda would arrange the presents neatly under the tree in the sitting room where they would sit together and play board games—Monopoly was the usual favourite—until bedtime. She smiled at the recollection of countless past Christmases, all now smudged together into one warm memory. How quickly time has passed, she lamented. Memories of her own childhood Christmases back in San Francisco were sketchy and thin. She could see herself and Beatrice opening presents, laughing, singing and eating. Yet the memory of her mother was inanimate—almost like a hidden part of Velda’s mind was projecting a static mental image of her. Velda could see her now—sitting in her favourite spot, not moving, not joining in the gaiety that surrounded her, not even blinking. Velda had no memories at all to call upon of her dad at Christmas, a sad notion that repeated itself at some point every holiday season.

  She pulled herself back from her memories and continued carefully selecting gifts from the wardrobe. With a small pile in her arms—she didn’t want to crush the delicate bows and ribbons—Velda headed out of the room to the stairs. She paused outside Alice’s bedroom. She could hear low whispers between Jack and her—too quiet even to catch the gist of their conversation. She could take a good guess, though. Jack had gotten into yet another fight with his dad about the past.

  Velda continued down the stairs with her pile of presents, wondering where all this friction was going to end up. The secrets of their past were returning. For the last few months they had been wondering where Jack had been getting his information from—then yesterday Roscoe had taken delivery of the mail and had seen a letter addressed to Jack, postmarked in San Francisco.

  Had they done the right thing? Velda wondered, as she set the presents down in front of the tree. They had talked endlessly about what to do with the letter. It was Velda, in the end, who took the decision to steam it open and read the contents out loud to her bewildered husband. By the end of the letter, Velda’s voice was quivering. It was from George and Lucy—evidently part of ongoing correspondence—and made explicit the details of what had happened to Audrey and her baby. She had stood staring at Roscoe, completely aghast. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes.

  ‘We always knew the day might come,’ Roscoe had finally said.

  ‘Yes,’ Velda had agreed absentmindedly. But, actually, she hadn’t thought that the day would ever come; she thought their meticulous reconstruction of the past had worked. Maybe they had been too defensive in their handling of Jack’s curiosity about the family. In hindsight, it was inevitable that a kid like him would find a way to the truth. Always inquisitive, that boy…

  ‘Now what do we do?’ Velda had stammered.

  Roscoe had shrugged. ‘It’s over—one way or another.’

  In their haze of shock, they had failed to hear Jack entering the room. He had seen the open envelope beside the kettle, snatched the letter from his mother, then had hastily read it.

  Velda pulled herself back to the present and blinked away the tears in her eyes that ran from the memory of the ensuing argument. Neither Jack nor Roscoe had handled it well—both of them were as fiery and stubborn as the other. Negotiating between the two of them, they had agreed with her to discuss the situation after a normal Christmas. And that’s just what they were going to have.

  ‘What a lovely tree,’ Velda whispered to herself, painting on a false smile, and forcing the recent trouble to the back of her mind. It was a Nova Scotia Balsam, a fine-looking specimen that she had covered with tinsel, baubles and lights. With the presents underneath, it looked just perfect—possibly the best one that she could remember.

  Switching off the main house lights, she selected a Christmas album, placed it on the record player, took a deep breath and closed her eyes to steady her mind.

  Moments later she reopened her eyes and looked at the clock. Six forty-five. Just enough time to squeeze in a few games before bed. ‘Where’s he gone?’ she muttered, shifting the boxes of Christmas chocolates to the end of the table, giving them space to play.

  ‘Roscoe? Hurry up!’ she called, doubting that her voice would have carried down to the basement. She moved to the top of the stairs. The light was still on down there—goodness only knew what he was doing. ‘Roscoe! Would you hurry up—we’re almost ready to play.’

  She sighed as she waited, then she called out again. ‘Roscoe Jacklin—are you down there?’

  Rolling her eyes, she descended into the basement, mumbling her annoyance at her husband. ‘Roscoe, I’ve been—’

  Her words faltered at the sight. Her heart tripped up and her legs weakened. She reached out and grabbed the newel post to stop herself from collapsing. Her mind began to shut down and her breathing became shallow, rasping.

  She wanted to shout his name, call for help, but she barely had enough air to breathe.

  Painfully slowly, she edged her way closer to him, all the while struggling to pull oxygen in and out of her aching body.

  She stopped and looked at him. He was floating in mid-air, his black shoes—impeccably shiny—a good three feet off the ground. A high-backed chair was lying on the floor behind him. His face was an odd shade of purple, like a grape. His eyes looked swollen and bulbous. A pocket of chin fat was squished between his lower jaw and the thick sausage of rope that was wrapped around his neck.

  She took his left hand in hers —crimson and tepid—and a strange calmness filtered through her—as if flowing from her husband’s lifeless body. ‘Oh, Roscoe,’ she sobbed. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? It was Jack’s fault—that much was absolutely certain. He had somehow managed to break through the invisible wall to the past that she and Roscoe had put up twenty-six years ago when they had fled California, leaving their old lives behind. She thought back over the long road that had taken them from California to Massachusetts. It had begun with four months of acute nervousness in a small to
wn in Kansas, where they had barely left their rented accommodation. Then had followed seven months in a godforsaken town in Ohio, where they had begun tentatively to engage in a normal life. But caution had moved them on to a spell in Pennsylvania. There, they had lived an anonymous city life, slipping in and, ten months later, back out unnoticed. It was upon reaching Massachusetts that Joseph had finally relaxed into his new name of Roscoe and the past was no longer discussed nor feared. Even the wedding had proceeded with ignorance of the past; it wasn’t bigamy because they were different people. Audrey’s name was never mentioned again until that damned private investigator had tracked them down. But that had been dealt with and their lives had continued. Until now. Until Jack had taken it upon himself to ruin everything.

  Velda squeezed her husband’s hand and vowed to keep what remained of the truth hidden; she knew what she had to do next.

  Letting his hand drop into a gentle sway, she turned to face the bank of tools fixed to one wall. Crowbars. Hammers. Screw-drivers. Pliers. Every type of washer, nail and screw known to man. Saws. Velda reached up and lifted one of the bright steel blades down from its hooks. Standing on the chair behind him, she sunk the saw’s razor-like teeth into the rope and began to cut.

  With each forward motion of the saw, Roscoe’s limp body swayed—an unnatural and gruesome ethereal dance.

  Velda persisted without pause until Roscoe wilted to the floor like a released marionette puppet.

  She unwrapped the rope from around his neck and tossed it to one side. She kissed his cool cheek, then headed for the stairs. Taking one final glance back, she switched off the light, pulled the door closed and made her way back upstairs. As she crossed to the kitchen, she was greeted by the opening bars of Bing Crosby singing Silent Night.

  Velda opened one of the cupboards, her eyes scanning among the bowls and saucepans in front of her. There! She found what she was looking for—a large jug, which she proceeded to fill under the tap.

  Water lapped at the edges of the jug as she walked, tiny puddles on the floor demarking her path into the sitting room.

  The clock in the hallway struck seven.

  ‘…Sleep in heavenly peace…’ Velda found herself singing along, as she began to liberally douse the baseboard of the Christmas tree until the electrics began to fizz. ‘…Sleep in heavenly peace…’

  Something clicked at the bottom of the tree, followed by a hissing that sounded like a Catherine wheel firework in full spin, making Velda jump back.

  Then, flames. Small, smokeless and inquisitive, they reached up and nibbled at the edge of one of the Christmas presents. A camera for Roscoe, if Velda remembered correctly. The flames became more daring and wrapped themselves around the gift, licking up to the one sitting above it.

  Velda felt an increasing warmth at her feet, as the flames touched the base of the tree, momentarily shrivelling the needles into black spikes before reducing them to nothing.

  The heat pushed Velda a few paces back. The whole tree was now alight and smoke began to curl across the ceiling. All the presents were burning. The flames were now just inches from the thick curtains.

  Humming along to the final bars of Silent Night, Velda turned and left the living room, closing the door behind her, then made her way up to her bedroom. As she passed Alice’s room, she could hear them still talking—more loudly this time. Their voices were energised, happy.

  Sitting on her bed, she waited.

  It took four minutes before the record player gave up playing Christmas songs.

  Another five minutes until the sounds of the fire tearing through the ground floor reached her ears. Snapping, breaking and devouring. The stench of smoke began to get stronger and more acrid.

  It was time.

  Velda stood up and entered the hallway. The fire had reached the front door and was stretching long red fingers through the banister rails.

  She screamed loudly. ‘Alice! Jack!’ Another scream and Alice’s bedroom door flew open.

  ‘What?’ Alice began, before the raging inferno at the bottom of the stairs caught her attention.

  ‘We’ve got to get out—quick!’ Velda shouted.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Alice screamed.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Velda cried. ‘I need to call the fire department,’ she said, running into her bedroom.

  ‘Mom, there’s no time!’ Jack shouted, reaching out and grabbing her wrist. ‘We’ve got to get out.’

  ‘Jack’s window!’ Alice blurted. ‘We can climb out onto the porch roof.’

  At that moment, the house’s wiring went, taking away the light. In a muddle of darkness, they ran into Jack’s bedroom. He pulled up the window, bringing a gust of wintry wind into the room.

  ‘Come on, Mom!’ he directed, guiding her towards the opening.

  Velda pulled herself up onto the ledge and crawled out onto the snow-covered shingles above the porch. On hands and knees, she slowly dragged herself along the edge.

  ‘Go to the end, then hang down,’ Jack ordered from behind her. ‘Then go next door and get help.’

  Velda reached the end and turned to lower herself down. She looked back at the window. Jack was out, but Alice had vanished. Before she could speak, her freezing fingers slipped from the roof, sending her falling backwards into a bush below. ‘Where’s Alice?’ she screamed, managing to stand up. ‘Where’s Alice?’

  ‘Gone back in to get Dad,’ Jack yelled. ‘Hurry and get help!’

  Velda was numb. The blanket over her shoulders, now heavy from the falling snow, did nothing to stop the acute quivering that rattled through her body. The police tape barricade, vibrating in the icy wind against her hands, had confined her to the street. The swelling congregation behind her—a motley mixture of prying and anxious neighbours and the whole gamut of emergency service personnel—were rendered faceless by the darkness of the night.

  Velda’s eyes followed the thick snakes of white hose that crossed her lawn from the hydrant, into the hands of the firefighters, who were battling the great rasping flames that projected from every window of the house. Her house.

  One of the firefighters—the chief, she assumed—approached her. He was sweating and his face was marked with black blotches. ‘Ma’am—are you sure your husband and daughter are still inside?’

  ‘Yes,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘They couldn’t have slipped out to get something from the grocery store or…?’

  ‘No,’ Velda sobbed. ‘They’re inside. Please find them.’

  The fire chief nodded and turned back towards the house.

  A moment later, without fanfare or warning, the house collapsed. The shocked gasps of her neighbours and the stricken cries of the firefighters on the lawn were lost to the appalling cacophony of metal, brick, wood and glass crumbling together, crescendo-ing into the night sky. A funnel of dense black smoke, peppered with flecks of bright red and orange, clashed in mid-air with the flurrying of falling snow.

  Then, an odd stillness.

  That her house—her home—could be reduced to this pile of indescribable burning debris in front of her shocked her anew.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

  The hermetic seal that had neatly separated past and present had just ruptured spectacularly.

  And now it was all over.

  Somebody touched her shoulder and said something. She turned. It was her son, Jack. Either Velda’s ears were still ringing with the sound of the house disintegrating, or Jack was speaking soundlessly. There was an urgency to his voice.

  Velda tried to reply but a sagging sensation in her heart emanated out under her skin and down into her quivering limbs. Her legs buckled from beneath her and she crumpled helplessly into the snow.

  She could hear her name being called. She was cold—so terribly cold—and couldn’t move. She opened her eyes and saw Jack. Then she remembered that she had seen him before everything went black. The awfulness of the evening struck her memory with a force that made her gasp
and sit up for breath.

  ‘Alice,’ Velda managed to say. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘They’ve just taken her to the hospital,’ Jack answered, pointing to an ambulance departing with lights flashing and sirens blaring. ‘She’ll be okay…but…they haven’t found Dad yet.’

  She turned towards the house—or what was left of it. It was still blazing. ‘Look what you’ve done…’ she breathed.

  ‘Pardon me?’ Jack said. ‘What did I do?’

  Her grey eyes were cutting as she spoke. ‘It’s all your fault, Jack.’

  ‘You know who probably did this?’ Jack seethed quietly, pushing his face just inches from hers. ‘Dad—that’s who. Just like he did with his first wife and kid… Yeah, you think I’m stupid or something? Dad suddenly looks set for jail for bigamy, then they get killed in a fire with mysterious circumstances.’

  Velda held his gaze the whole time he spoke. She had never seen him so angry.

  ‘I know everything, Mom.’

  Velda spoke softly. ‘You’ve ruined everything, Jack. Why couldn’t you just leave things alone?’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re being serious. After all the lies you’ve told us… it’s you and Dad who’re to blame, Mom.’

  ‘Just go, Jack. Just go. Leave.’

  ‘Fine. But I’m never coming back.’

  Chapter Twenty

  30th December 1976, Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, USA

  Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed, a notepad resting on his knees. A pen was poised in his hand but he was struggling to put all that had happened into words. So far, he had written the date—the only thing that he was certain of right now. Should he tell Margaret all that had occurred in the last few days? About all the family secrets? About the fire? Should he tell her about his growing relationship with Laura? It felt wrong, somehow, to maintain a connection to Margaret since he and Laura were now officially dating. Despite her not answering his letters, he still felt something for Margaret—like he owed her one more letter, an explanation of sorts. This would be the last one, he decided. A final goodbye. It fitted with the rest of his life and the closing down of the past. Only he, unlike his father, would not pretend that the past had never existed.