Endless Night

by Maureen A. Miller

  Jake felt a sense of surrealism in this seaside shanty. Threadbare throw rugs lined a path into the middle of the room. A plaid upholstered sofa with concave cushions sat before a television capped with aluminum foil antennas. Piles of newspapers were stacked up against the wall in an apparent protest against recycling. Drawn roller blinds, some warped, concealed the view of the ocean as a brass lamp cast a dull glow over the uneven floorboards. Only the bare bulb dangling from a wire over the kitchen table truly lit up the place.

  The entire sweep of the room lasted less than five seconds. A counter full of dirty dishes, an unmade bed, a heap of clothes thrown into a pile beside the bed, empty bottles on the wood-planked floor—all indications of a man who just didn’t give a damn.

  Morse cleared his throat expectantly, and Jake remembered that he had been asked a question. He volleyed with one of his own. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Hmmph. Harriet.”

  In his periphery, Jake noticed Megan shaking her head.

  “Your uncle, Crow, did he…? Was anything ever…?” It was hard for Jake to even form the questions. He had no idea where to begin. “Did he ever tell you what happened?”

  Morse lifted the mug to his mouth, tasted the coffee, furrowed his nose and dumped the viscous liquid down the drain. He reached for the whisky bottle and poured an ample amount into his mug. After one hearty sip, his disposition seemed to improve and his sneer turned into indifference.

  “I’m not much for conversation,” Morse declared.

  Surprisingly it was Megan who fell prey to impatience. She latched a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “This isn’t exactly a social call.”

  The grin on Morse’s face could have been enough to deter the faint of heart, but Jake saw through the veneer. This swarthy man, who very likely was his own flesh and blood, seemed to brood and menace to estrange people, but there was a keen interest in those eyes when they settled back on Jake.

  Jake pursued a different course. “Did your uncle live here?”

  After a pause to refill his mug, Morse gave the back porch an indifferent glance and then turned around, slouching against the counter. “Yeah—yeah he lived here for a while.” He snorted into his mug. “But he didn’t like to hear my father harping on him.” Shadowed eyes met Jake’s and held. “He didn’t want to answer questions.”

  Outside, the ocean roared against the cliff. The sound was so close Jake instinctively looked at the kitchen floor, expecting the first licks of saltwater to pool there, but the cracked linoleum remained dry.

  “Your father?” Jake guessed the answer before Morse confirmed it.

  “Dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” And he truly was. Suddenly, he felt the pain of losing relatives so young in life. “But surely something was said?”

  Perhaps the whisky was finally kicking in. Morse tipped back a kitchen chair and lowered himself onto the edge of the seat.

  “Everyone knows the tale. You don’t need me.”

  “Look.” Jake’s patience ran out.

  For thirty-five years he had led a decent life, never knowing his background. In less than a week he had accrued enough questions to last a lifetime, and was not going to be put off any longer.

  “Maybe they do.” Jake’s voice was low, lethal enough to draw Morse’s bleary gaze into clarity. “But I don’t. I’ve heard bits, pieces, but not enough. Not enough to understand what happened. Not enough to accept that I’ve gone through my life never knowing what blood pumped in my veins.”

  Morse looked at him sharply now. His hand abandoned the mug. “Does it bother you, then?” he chided, though his heart didn’t seem into the taunt. “Does it bother you to learn that you’re a half-breed?”

  A half-breed?

  Jake had never even considered the term, but looking at Morse, at the bitterness that tightened his lips, he guessed that the man had gone through life with a label.

  And now Jake shared that tag.

  “What bothers me is the ignorance.” Jake hooked back the opposite chair, but decided he was too uptight to sit. “Dammit, if you know something, tell me.”

  Somewhere on the roof, a loose tile flapped in the wind sounding like a finger tapping impatiently.

  “My father told Crow he was a fool.”

  The low tone arrested Jake’s attention. Weary, he lowered himself into the chair. He saw Megan rest her hip against the worn arm of the sofa. She tried for an encouraging smile, but he could tell she was worried about him.

  At this very minute, a madman could be waiting for her back at Wakefield House, but Jake knew that Megan’s fretting hands were solely for him.

  “He was a fool to mess around with a white woman.” Bitterness invaded Morse’s features. “My father did it. He married a white woman, but she was a waitress, and the few years they had together, I’m told he was happy.”

  “What happened?” Jake’s curiosity took a turn, and he was suddenly concerned for this embittered man who was so far the only living blood relative that he knew of…well, except for Estelle.

  Morse reached for the mug again, but never lifted it. “Ask me why I go by my mother’s maiden name.”

  “Why?”

  “The Musgraves were lobstermen. They were hard workers. They were good men.” Bitterness tainted Morse’s assessment.

  “My father married a waitress named Mary,” he continued before tipping the mug back.

  “In Victory Cove there are very few families of influence, the rest are working class. Regardless, they were white and still considered one step above us.”

  A newfound view on racism wormed its way into Jake’s mind. He never considered himself a racist. Raised by honest and kind parents, he had been isolated from racial alienation, and later in life he was just too busy to build up prejudices.

  But now Jake suddenly felt defensive. He felt protective of this newfound ally—and even more so, felt a unique bond.

  “I’ll admit to being too ignorant to dispute that. So, why did you choose your mother’s maiden name?”

  Morse sneered into his drink. “My father drowned in a storm when I was sixteen. Till that day my last name was Musgrave.” With a twist of his wrist, the man swirled the last ounce of liquid, but set the mug back down.

  “There was no obituary. No accolades for a life of hard work, not even a funeral. His body was lost at sea. My father’s death never even registered in this town. I was so angry—” Morse brushed aside the mug with such a strong sweep it nearly toppled off the edge of the table, “—that I disavowed him too.”

  Jake felt the man’s pain like a blanket of cement, something you could never get out from under. He must have revered his father, and when his death was barely considered worth a commentary by the people of Victory Cove, John Morse became so disillusioned, his only defense was to join in their cynicism.

  “Your father,” Jake began quietly, “was he as good a lobsterman as Crow?”

  Morse was silent for a moment, lost in contemplation. His eyes lifted though, and then he snorted. “Hmmph, there was none better than either of them. They were the best.”

  The best.

  A keen aura of pride suffused Jake. “What was his name? Your father’s name?” My uncle’s name.

  “George.” Morse hesitated, and then broad shoulders drew back on a deep intake. “My uncle called him Gray Fox, on account of him going prematurely gray and all, not some mystical Indian folklore.”

  “Gray Fox,” Jake repeated and tried to drum up an image.

  “He died too, you know. Your father.” Morse lacked any decorum.

  Jake flinched at the words. “When?”

  “He left Victory Cove. No one really knows what he did, or where he went, but my father came home one day and told me he was dead.” A moment of sobriety kicked in and Morse mumbled, “Sorry.”

  “So that’s what happened?” Jake had to encapsulate to get past the emotions that were pummeling him. “My parents had an affair. Estelle Wakefield disapprov
ed. And I was shipped away—something not to be mentioned in public?”

  To his surprise, Morse grinned. The man rose, remarkably agile for the state of inebriation he was rapidly approaching. His heavy boots thumped on the cracked tile and a cabinet door screeched as he swung it open. Wide and tan, his hand wrapped around a Mayor McCheese glass and he returned to the table to grab the whisky bottle. He sloshed some of the liquid into the glass and nudged it forward in front of Jake.

  “Yeah, that about sums it up,” he said, and then tossed a nod at Mayor McCheese, quickly adding, “Now are you ready for that drink?”

  Thunder pounded in Jake’s head. Instinctively he turned toward the window, and yes the weather was awful, but the thunder existed solely inside him. He stared at the amber liquid, fascinated by the way the overhead light cast through it to spread a diffused golden halo on the Formica surface.

  He grunted and reached for the glass.

  “Yeah, I’m ready now.”

  “Are you okay?”

  They sat in silence before the Regal Diner, its huge plate-glass window misted with the exception of a smiley face drawn by a diminutive silhouette squirming inside. The street was empty, the blacktop just starting to mat with a fresh spray of flurries. The flakes were fine, in that transient state between rain and snow, only perceptible when contact was made with the pavement. Just after they left Morse’s shack, Jake pulled over in town to use a payphone, complaining that his cell signal was useless in this mecca of oblivion. He returned to the car, wet and solemn, reporting that his sister was not home, and then he fell back into discouraged silence.

  Megan held her tongue and waited for him to open up, but concern ultimately overpowered decorum.

  “Jake, talk to me.”

  He flinched. She could hear the soft rustle of his suede jacket, and then the deep inflection of his voice.

  “I’m fine, Meg.”

  Not from what she could see. His hands gripped the steering wheel so fiercely she thought the leather would disintegrate. Normally golden eyes now reflected the gray sky, and the wavy ends of his black hair glistened under the streetlight from his recent jog across the street through the mist. A shift in his jaw was a sure indication he was grinding his teeth.

  “Liar,” she chided.

  Jake deflated. He tipped his head back against the headrest. His hands fell from the steering wheel onto his lap and his neck angled to face her. Megan was surprised to find the corner of his mouth inching up into a crooked smile.

  “You’re a pain in the ass.”

  “You’re the pain in the ass. You wouldn’t go away. Now you’re here. You have accepted my situation.” Her brow furrowed. “Sort of. So I’m entitled to this concern.”

  “True,” Jake conceded. “But your issues are so much more interesting than mine.”

  Megan knew he was teasing her, and it felt good, remarkably good. She rolled her eyes, for one moment trying to spin humor on the despair of her life.

  “I could do without the intrigue in my life, thank you very much.”

  Impulsively, she touched his hand and felt her stomach take a plunge as he flipped his palm up and linked his fingers with hers.

  “So.” Megan cleared her throat, but her voice still came out husky. “My original question. Are you okay?” Boldly she looked into his eyes. “You deserved to tap some of that bottle. I could have driven.”

  Jake chuckled quietly, his gaze dropping to their entwined hands. “Yeah, me and my cuz—just a couple good ole boys hanging out, downing a fifth of scotch.”

  His laugh never fully materialized. In fact, any hint of joviality left Jake’s expression, and now the dark shadows of the encroaching night besieged him. “I’m sad, Megan. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “I want to hear what hurts right here.” Without considering the move, she splayed her palm against his heart. Beneath her hand its beat seemed to accelerate.

  Before she could retract her touch, Jake reached up and ensnared her wrist in his grip. His gaze was riddled with angst, but something deeper smoldered there, an emotion she couldn’t quite identify.

  “Meg.” He clutched her hand tighter against his chest. Solid muscles cushioned her palm, and instinctively her fingers flexed into his sweater. “There’s a lot going on right there,” he said.

  “It’s not all pain you know.”

  She swallowed. She couldn’t find her voice.

  Jake continued, “But the pain—well, it’s hard to comprehend it all. I will find my answers. What John doesn’t know—what Coop isn’t aware of, I’ll still find my answers.”

  “But Estelle—”

  “I know. She may not understand me, and I certainly don’t want to jeopardize her health—so true, she’s not going to be too helpful. But dammit, Meg, I don’t just want to know about my parents’ heartache. I want to know about the happiness. It had to have been there.” He nearly pleaded, “I need to know that. Tell me if it sounds ridiculous.”

  Tears inched behind Megan’s eyes. “Of course that’s not ridiculous. You were conceived in love. That is the common link between everyone’s stories. You have to believe in that.”

  Jake gave her a smile that made her heart labor.

  “Thanks.” He hesitated. “You know—”

  “Oh my God!” With a yelp of shock, Megan’s head dove down and her chin crashed into Jake’s lap.

  “Whoa.” Jake stared down at the shiny crown of hair and couldn’t resist touching it. “If you wanted to take my mind off things—well—” He coughed. “This’ll sure do it.”

  In his lap, Megan groaned and writhed in fear, her head turning so that her cheek rested on his thigh and she peeked up at him with one wild eye.

  “Jake.” The insistent whisper was enough to unnerve him. “Look at the man who just came out of the diner.”

  Without the benefit of the wipers, the windshield was nearly blotted by a fine sheen of sleet and snow. Still, there were enough grooves in the milky veil to notice the exceptionally tall man in a black trench coat walking briskly toward them. His head was down, tucked into an upturned collar, as dirty blond tendrils of hair whipped in a cyclone atop his skull. He moved with an awkward gait, or it could simply be the nature of maneuvering on the ice with ungainly limbs.

  “He’s coming right at us.” Instinctively, he covered Megan’s head with his wide hand and tensed as the figure loomed on the curb. “Who is he?”

  It was impossible to see the face clearly with the streetlight behind him, but it definitely wasn’t Gordon Fortran. This man was young, with bulbous cheeks and a nose that was flat and spanned a good portion of his face. There was no denying the height factor as even stooped forward, the man towered over six feet.

  “It’s the ‘Jones’ boy,” Megan hissed into his lap. “Remember the father-son duo I walked in on in Gordon’s office?” When she heard no response, Megan added in a frantic whisper, “I have no doubt that Gordon rigged a scholarship for this kid.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Jake whispered through tight lips. “Shhh, he’s right here.”

  Despite the warning, Megan struggled beneath his hand. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

  “Easy, he’s not looking at us. He’s looking at his watch. Now at the street. Now at the watch.” Jake searched down the vacant thoroughfare of Victory Cove. Only a few empty cars were parked diagonally against the curb before the diner. He sat back, edgy. “He’s looking at his cell phone.”

  “Oh my God,” came the wrenched moan from his lap.

  The stranger shoved the phone back in his pocket and corrected his posture and Jake calculated that the man capped seven feet. In a town that looked like it should flank a train set under a Christmas tree, this man stuck out like a giraffe at a ferret farm. His hands were deep in his pockets, drawing the overcoat tight as he tipped his head back again to look up at the snow. Jake could clearly see his features now. The hooded eyes intimated an Eastern European appearance—as they might say in O’Flanagan’s, “Miste
r, you ain’t from these parts, are ya?”

  “He’s young and looks awkward.” Jake reached for the door handle.

  Megan nearly surged up, but his insistent hand kept her concealed. “Are you crazy?” she cried.

  Jones started to walk away, toward the intersection where Victory Cove’s solitary traffic light pulsed a needless yellow signal.

  “Are you crazy?” Jake spoke to the one eye that was staring up at him. “I’m not one who’s big on irony either. If this is one of the men you saw in Gordon’s office, I doubt he’s here vacationing.” Jake’s hand curled up into a light fist in her hair, an impulsive gesture of frustration and protection for this woman.

  “We have to call the police. Megan, this can’t go on. The police have to get involved. This guy is here for a reason.” Rage welled up inside Jake. “And it kills me to know it’s for you.”

  “I can’t do it, Jake,” Megan cried into his lap. “The police will not stop Gordon. I have to.” Her head was shaking back and forth. “I know it.” In a solemn whisper, she pleaded, “Please take me home. It’s the only place where I know how to be safe.”

  “Dammit.” Fear for her ate at him. He kept trying to convince himself this was too extraordinary to be true, but now there was a seven-foot validation walking around the streets of Victory Cove.

  “How can you ask me to do that?” he demanded. “This is insane. You are not a victim. You are not a criminal. You witnessed something you should have never seen, but it should have not been your death sentence. The law is on your side, Meg.”

  Megan pushed up against his hand, and this time Jake sat back and let her rise. The Jones guy was long gone.

  “I have to handle this,” she challenged. “I have to finish what started that night. I have to do it my way so that I can get my life back in the hope that maybe someday I can share it with someone.”

  The words rang somber in the confines of the Jeep. Jake stared at the street corner around which Jones disappeared. He waited for a pair of headlights to emerge, but there was nothing except the mist of churning snow, like a ghost just before it shaped into something tangible.