‘Billy, it’s time for bed,’ Lester Johnson said to his grandson in an authoritative tone.
‘But grandpa…’ the boy protested weakly.
‘I said it’s time for bed. Go to your room and don’t make a fuss.’
His voice made it clear he would accept no compromise. The boy switched off the TV and walked sulkily past them, and without saying goodnight to anyone disappeared around the corner. A few moments later they heard the sound of his bare feet on the stairs grow weaker until it faded completely.
‘My son and sister-in-law are out for the evening. And I’m a bit more lenient with the boy than his parents.’
After that brief insight into his family life, he indicated the couch and the armchairs. ‘Take a seat.’
Vivien and Caldwell sat down on the couch and Lester Johnson on the armchair facing it. Russell chose the one that was further away.
Vivien decided to get straight to the point. ‘Mr Johnson, are you related to a man named Wendell Johnson?’
‘He was my brother.’
‘Why do you say was?’
Lester Johnson gave a vague shrug. ‘Because early in 1971 he left for Vietnam and that’s the last we heard of him. He was never declared either dead or missing in action. Which must mean he got out alive, but never got in touch with us. Well, that’s his business. He stopped being my brother a long time ago.’
Hearing a relationship between brothers dismissed like that, Vivien instinctively turned to look at Russell. His eyes had hardened for a moment, but immediately afterwards he resumed the stance he had decided to adopt, one of attentive silence.
‘Before he left for Vietnam, did Wendell work in the construction industry?’
‘No.’
That monosyllable rang in Vivien’s ears like a bad omen. She sought refuge in illusion. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Miss, I’m old enough to be a little soft in the head. But not so soft that I can’t remember what my brother did when he was still here. He wanted to be a musician. He played the guitar. He would never have done any job where he risked damaging his hands.’
From the inside pocket of her jacket, she took the photographs that had brought her to Hornell. She held them out to Lester Johnson. ‘Is this Wendell?’
Lester did not take them from her, but leaned forward to look at them. After what seemed an eternity, he said, ‘No. I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.’ He leaned back in his chair.
Russell, who had been silent until now, surprised everyone by speaking at this point. ‘Mr Johnson, if that isn’t your brother, it might be someone he knew in the army. Usually, guys who went to Vietnam sent home photographs of themselves in uniform. Sometimes alone, but often with a group of friends. Did he happen to do the same?’
Lester Johnson looked at him sharply, as if the question had put paid to any hope he might have had that these intruders would leave his house soon. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He got up from the couch and left the room. When he returned, he was holding a cardboard box. He handed it to Vivien and sat down again.
‘These are all the pictures I still have of Wendell. There should be some from Vietnam among them.’
Vivien opened the box. It was full of photographs, some in colour, some in black and white. She looked through them quickly. The subject was always the same: a pleasant-looking, fair-haired boy, alone or with friends. At the wheel of a car, as a child on a pony, with his brother, with his parents, with long hair held in a band while he hugged a guitar. She had already gone through most of them when she found it. It was in black and white and showed two soldiers in front of a tank. One was the smiling boy she had seen many times in the previous photographs; the other was the young man who had been holding up a three-legged cat in the photographs they had in their possession.
Vivien turned it over and saw on the back in faded letters
The King and Little Boss
written in irregular handwriting that had one major characteristic: it was completely different from the handwriting in the letter that had started this whole madness.
She handed the photograph to Russell, so that he could see the result of his intuition. When she got it back, she passed it to Lester Johnson. ‘What do these words on the back mean?’
The man took the photograph and looked first at the front and then at the back. ‘The King was what Wendell called himself as a joke. I assume Little Boss was the other boy’s nickname.’
He handed the rectangle back to Vivien.
‘I’m sorry if I told you I’d never seen him. I don’t think I’ve looked at these photos for thirty years.’
He leaned back in the armchair again and Vivien was surprised to see tears welling in his eyes. Maybe his cynical attitude was only a kind of self-defence – maybe the fact that he’d never heard from his brother again had hurt him more than he wanted to admit. Her arrival must have reopened an old wound.
‘And you really have no idea who that person with Wendell could be?’
The man shook his head, without saying anything. His silence was worth more than a thousand words. It meant that tonight he had lost his brother for a second time. It also meant that they had lost the one real lead they had.
‘Can we keep this photograph? I promise you’ll get it back.’
‘All right.’
Vivien had stood up. The others realized that they had no reason to stay here any longer. All the energy seemed to have drained out of Lester Johnson. He walked them to the door in silence, maybe thinking to himself how little it takes to dredge up old memories and how much they hurt.
As Vivien was about to leave, he held her back. ‘Can I ask you a question, Miss?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why are you looking for him?’
‘I can’t tell you that. But there’s one thing I can say for certain.’ She paused, as if to isolate what she was about to say. ‘The reason your brother never got in touch with you isn’t because he didn’t want to. Your brother died in Vietnam, just like so many others.’
She saw the man take a deep breath. ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’
‘Thank you, Mr Johnson. Say goodnight to Billy for us. He’s a great kid.’
When the door closed behind them, she was pleased that she had resolved his uncertainties. For them, on the other hand, she thought as they walked to the car, certainty was still a distant target. She had arrived in Hornell convinced she had reached the finishing post, instead of which she had come up against a new and very uncertain point of departure.