‘Just old family stuff—my dad’s old war junk,’ Velda said, barely flicking her eyes in his direction. ‘Stuff that belongs in the past.’
He removed the last item from the box—a First World War Colt M1909 handgun—and held it in his hands, slowly rotating it around and examining it in detail. As he looked down the scarred barrel, his mind began to slip into the imagined history of his grandfather’s war holding this very weapon. It fell to the fantasy of his mind to recreate the scene, for his mom and dad had always refused to be drawn on their family’s past. He didn’t even know in which theatre of war his grandfather had served. ‘Mom, what do you know about your dad’s time in the war?’ he tried again.
‘Oh, goodness, not more questions about the past. He died in the winter of the Great Depression, Jack, when I was three. What he did in the war is anyone’s guess.’
‘Did your mom never speak of it?’ Jack pushed.
‘No.’
‘Don’t you want to know more about your ancestors?’
‘No, I really don’t,’ Velda said firmly. ‘The past is in the past—let’s leave it there, shall we.’
Jack continued to examine the artefacts, as his mom busied herself with the mountain of washing up that had risen from her baking efforts this morning.
The doorbell rang. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘It’ll be Betty calling to collect me for church.’
As his mom trundled to the front door, muttering something about Betty’s being far too early, Jack rushed over to the box containing the private papers. He quickly opened it and flicked through to the piece of paper that he had either imagined that he had seen, or that didn’t correlate at all with his known narrative of his family’s past. He found the certificate but had no time to read it: his mom’s voice at the door, brief and surprised, revealed that she was heading back inside.
‘Jack—it’s Laura,’ she called.
Jack pocketed the certificate, set the lid down in place and strolled casually into the hallway, where he passed his mom. ‘Laura. What are you doing here?’
‘Well that sure is a nice greeting,’ she teased.
Jack reached the front door, perplexed to see her. Whatever the reason for her visit, it was fleeting, for her red Plymouth Barracuda was parked up outside, the engine still running. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘It’s a flying visit. My dad wants to see you.’
‘Your dad? Why? What have I done?’ Jack asked.
‘He’s got a job offer for you,’ she revealed in a hushed voice.
‘Oh. Doing what?’
‘You’ll have to wait and see. He’s expecting you today. Bye,’ she said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.
Jack, slightly dumbstruck, watched her jog back down the steps, then give a little wave as she climbed into her car and drove off. He looked out over Hyannis Harbor, wondering what on earth sort of job her father could be going to offer him. As far as Jack was aware, he had been retired for several years. ‘Mom, I’m going out. See you later.’
Once clear of the house, Jack pulled the document from his pocket. It was a marriage certificate.
He read it meticulously several times, but each reading added nothing to his understanding.
Chapter Three
15th August 2016, Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, USA
Morton killed the engine of the hire car, silencing the whir of the air conditioning. He stepped out into a strange stillness that pervaded Iyanough Avenue, observing the run of exclusive detached homes that lined the water front. Each was distinctly different from the next, but all were cladded in white or grey weatherboarding and each came with an unobstructed view of Hyannis Harbor—now bustling with small private yachts. He had parked the car on a grass verge close to the driveway of 2239—the house in which his father had resided until his disappearance in 1976.
Morton took out his mobile phone and took a series of photographs of the house and the street, then ducked his head back inside the car. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck,’ Juliette said.
Morton strolled up towards the house as casually as he could, but inside he was trying to work out exactly what he was going to say. He hadn’t figured it out by the time he had pressed the doorbell.
The door was opened quickly by a middle-aged man in a shirt, jeans and bare feet. ‘Hi,’ he greeted.
‘Hi, sorry to disturb you,’ Morton began, hurriedly removing his sunglasses. ‘I’m looking for—’
‘The Kennedy Compound?’ the man interjected. ‘It’s just at the end of this street, but unless you’re a very good friend of theirs, you’re not even going to get a glimpse of the place. Your best bet—’
It was Morton’s turn to interrupt. ‘No, I’m not looking for the Kennedys—I’m looking for my father—he lived here in 1976—the year it burnt down…’
‘Oh, I see—forgive me—I thought you were another Kennedy tourist. People see the Kennedy house marked on Google maps and think that they can just drive right up to it and knock on the door. Sorry. So your dad lived here, you say huh?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I was just wondering if you had any information about the fire, what happened, or…?’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Morton realised how silly they sounded. ‘I know it’s a long shot,’ he added.
The man shook his head. ‘We moved here back in 1994. I mean the place was completely rebuilt before we even got here.’ He stepped to one side. ‘You’re welcome to come take a look around, but there’s literally nothing of the original house left. From what I can gather it was razed to the ground.’
‘No, it’s okay—thank you. I knew it wasn’t very likely, but thought it was worth a try.’
