Joseph took her hand in his and met her gaze. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
Velda nodded.
‘I’m guessing by that glint in your eyes that you’ve got some ideas of where you want to go?’
‘Massachusetts—eventually.’
‘Massachusetts? Jesus, Velda. Why not somewhere a little closer, like the moon?’
At that moment, Velda no longer needed a proposal. Her fanciful wedding ideas vanished. It was going to be just the two of them alone. A new state. A new start.
Chapter Fourteen
27th June 1976, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
It felt good to finally be able to tell someone everything. Every last detail that he had discovered. Last week he had escaped his parents’ house with blood running from his nose and his ears echoing with his dad’s brutal words. He had driven himself to the local hospital to be told that his nose was broken and there was nothing they could do to fix it. He had left the hospital and driven home, where he had found himself the main character in a fictitious story created by his dad. Jack, so the story went, had been attacked by masked assailants as he had left the school. His mom saw the story as factual and played the doting mother role to perfection. His dad’s concern reached only to the moments when he was in the company of both his wife and son; the remainder of the time his and Jack’s interactions were non-existent.
Today, after work, Jack couldn’t face the prospect of another weekend at home. Having no destination in mind, he had driven across the Sagamore Bridge that linked the Cape to mainland Massachusetts. Route Six had flowed into Route Three. Signs for Boston had appeared and the idea of having someone to talk things over with had taken a hold, guiding him into the city.
‘I just can’t believe this,’ Alice declared when he had finished his story. They had been sitting for some time, side by side, on her bed in her small dormitory. She stood up with her hands on her hips. ‘Why would they fabricate an entire life like this? What are they hiding?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Damned if I know.’
‘But you’re going to find out, right?’ Alice asked. ‘You must—you can’t just leave it like this.’
‘There’s nothing more that can be done, Ali. Mr Chipman’s friend has found all this out,’ Jack said, pointing to the pile of paperwork on the floor in front of them, ‘but he doesn’t seem to think there’s much more he can do.’
‘There is one thing you can do,’ Alice said.
Jack rolled his eyes. ‘Try talking to them about it?’
‘God, no. That obviously wouldn’t work,’ Alice cut in. ‘No, I was going to say you could go to California. Find our grandparents and talk to them directly.’
For a long time, Jack stared at his sister. She was serious. The thought of visiting his grandparents had occurred to him the very moment that Mr Chipman had told him that they were still alive, but then, in all that had followed, his thoughts had been spun in a multitude of directions and, now that Alice presented the idea, it seemed the only logical thing to do. But of course, the reality of that decision was more easily said than done.
‘I’ve got some money I can give you for the flight,’ Alice said, intuiting one strand of his thoughts. ‘You could go from here—get a flight out tomorrow.’
‘Ali, be practical; I can’t go tomorrow. I have a job, for one thing. And I can’t just spring myself on them. Look, I’ll write to them and see what happens—keep it simple and take it from there.’
Alice reluctantly agreed. ‘I just can’t believe it, Jack…’
‘Nor would I, but the evidence is right there,’ he said, pointing to the floor. ‘The truth is this: our dad is two men; and we only know one of them.’
To add to Jack’s list of ailments and injuries were a stiff neck and a painful lower back. He sat up from his awkward position in a sleeping bag on the floor beside Alice’s bed. The thin curtains were doing a feeble job at holding back the streaming daylight. Alice’s bed was empty. There was a note on it, addressed to him. Gone to basketball. Write to our grandparents! Meet you back here for lunch. A xx Underneath it was a notepad and pen.
Jack stretched, then winced at the stabbing pain from his ribs, still unable to believe that it was his own dad who had inflicted the injuries. He had always been a strict man, but he had never so much as laid a hand on Jack before. Were cracks beginning to appear in the previous, neatly sealed wall that had divided his dad’s two lives? Had Jack caught a glimpse through the cracks to see the man that his dad really was?
He picked up the pen and paper and began to write. He knew from the first line that he wouldn’t actually post it—not this version, at least. It contained everything—all his questions, all his feelings about his dad, all the details of his life so far. Everything. The finished letter ran to four pages. He signed his name at the bottom, then began to tear it up, peeling it apart, inch by inch. Then he wrote another letter to them, this one simple and short. Dear George and Lucy, this letter might come as as much of a shock to you as the knowledge of your existence came to me. I am the second child of Roscoe (Joseph) and Velda Jacklin. I was born in 1956 in Hyannis Port, MA. It is only recently that I came to learn that I had family on the other side of
