Hearts That Survive Part 43

Henry Jones Morris occupation: US Army 8

years, handyman/janitor (cause of death: alcoholic

cirrhosis)

Living son of Henry and Betty Lou Morris:

Alan Freeman Morris

Military Service: Korean Conflict

Education: GI Bill, Journalism

Occupation: Freelance writer, tabloid reporter

Residence: New York suburb

Father: Henry Jones Morris, deceased

Mother: Betty Lou (Holcombe) Morris,

deceased, child Alan witnessed burning house

with father

Joanna sat and cried at the sadness. The t.i.tanic first cla.s.s little boy she'd heard so much about had had such a sad, unsettled life. He had experienced two horrible events, losing his dad and grandmother the night of the t.i.tanic sinking, and then watching his wife and her parents burn in a house fire. The reason for alcoholism seemed obvious.

His little boy had watched a house burn with his mother and grandparents inside. He might have turned to the bottle too, like little Henry. She cried for them all.

Finally she dried her eyes and resumed her work but shook her head looking at the report. Amazing, how a life could be reduced to one page. A brief description, a bit of history, sometimes a comment by a loved one.

Then she read the rest of Beau's letter. There being so many people with the same name was one reason they hadn't tracked him down sooner. But this one seemed likely. Beau was busy on a project, but Joanna could contact Alan Morris.

One of her duties at the museum was to contact anyone related to the sinking. The fiftieth anniversary memorial would be held in less than two years. The plans for that were already under way.

Joanna had been in love with the book and the possibility of a movie. She'd visualized their finding little Henry, now a grown man, and hearing his story. She thought he'd be proud of his dad for writing such a wonderful book. Now she learned he died an alcoholic.

Beau's letter said she shouldn't mention the movie. He likely felt as she did, that he might not be the kind of person with whom he wanted to conduct business. She would just try to find out if Alan Morris's dad was Henry Stanton-Jones, but the thrill of it wasn't there now.

75.

Alan Morris had accomplished one major feat in twenty seven years. He'd become a failure. Although sobriety wasn't doing much for him, at least he hadn't followed in his dad's footsteps. He added yet to that thought.

His dad died of alcoholic cirrhosis that had led to kidney failure. He left nothing of value. Alan couldn't criticize though, because he was nowhere. He'd tried his hand at writing the great American novel and had visited a couple of major publis.h.i.+ng houses in New York. He took editors to lunch and established a short-lived relations.h.i.+p with a first reader, but still got rejected-by the editors and the first reader.

Newspaper reporting for a small town suburb of New York City and an occasional article in a magazine about subjects that didn't interest him weren't exactly his idea of success.

Besides that, the actress he'd met after the first reader also broke his heart when she jilted him.

He had friends he invited over to watch football, or he went to games and vented by yelling at the players and referees. And sometimes at the crowd. The bigger the crowd, the better.

Sometimes his buddies talked about when they were kids and their dads took them to ballgames. His never had. Said he couldn't stand the noise and yelling. Then he'd drink himself silly and fall asleep and later wake up the entire household, yelling "Feeb! Feeb! Feeb!" because of a nightmare and didn't know what it meant.

Afterward, those buddies went home to wives and children. He went home to a lonely apartment, where a typewriter sat on the kitchen table sporting a blank sheet of paper, and a refrigerator stood empty, begging for food.

Today was no different. Same old routine. Report what's going on in the suburbs. Don't think about bigger papers. They have their city reporters, and the suburbs can't compete. The murders aren't as drastic, the fires are not as big, and the high school football games are not as impressive as the pro games. He'd given up looking for the big story. When his dad gave up, he'd turned to the bottle. Alan had hated that. Now he began to understand.

He trudged up four flights of stairs, weary from chasing a false lead for half a day, and threw the mail on the kitchen countertop. While the coffee perked, he tore open the envelopes with his finger. Bills! Junk mail.

He came to one from an unfamiliar address. A museum? Nova Scotia? He laughed and ripped open the envelope. "Want a donation, huh? I could use what you spent on that stamp." The aroma of the coffee livened his senses, so he poured a cup. After an ample gulp, he unfolded the letter and read.

Dear Mr. Morris: Due to previously undisclosed information about the sunken t.i.tanic, and after intensive investigations, we have reason to believe you may be a descendant of a victim of the disaster.

We have important material that should interest you. Please contact us at your earliest convenience.

Plans are currently under way for the Fiftieth Anniversary Memorial of the sinking of the t.i.tanic. Relatives of victims and survivors will be recognized in special ceremonies. We would appreciate knowing of your intentions so we might prepare properly.

Sincerely yours, Joanna Bettencourt a.s.sistant to the Director If he'd had a mouthful of coffee, he surely would have spewed it across the room. What kind of farce was this? Organizations offered to include your name for a price. Was this something like that? Besides, so what if he was a descendant of a t.i.tanic victim?

Turning toward the trash can with the letter, he laughed aloud. Now, if whomever had left him a bundle of money . . .

Whoa!

A lot of rich people died when the t.i.tanic sank. He took another look at the letter. Information. Investigation.

There had to be a catch here somewhere. But, looking toward the blank paper in the typewriter, he reminded himself he was supposed to be a reporter. Maybe he could get some kind of story out of this. A lot of people brought up the t.i.tanic almost as often as they did World War II, their surgeries, and the weather.

He studied the letterhead. Halifax Museum, Nova Scotia. Couldn't afford to go there.

Tomorrow, he'd call and check it out. Maybe.

When tomorrow came, however, he was reminded that it never really came. It was today again, and he was still in the same rut. Some of the old stirrings started. Like someday that big story would fall from the sky. But only the rain kept falling.

He might get some mileage out of this.

He'd put a little mileage on that rattletrap of his and see what awaited him at the museum.

So this is what it had come to. If you can't write the great American novel, go to a place that commemorates times and people long gone.

They could put him on display.

That would be fine, as long as they fed him.

76.

Joanna was sitting at the desk in the entry of the museum when the door swung open. In her peripheral vision she glimpsed casual pants and a knit s.h.i.+rt. She lifted her index finger to indicate she would be right with him. "Yes," she said into the phone, "I will send official confirmation. Thank you. Goodbye."

Just as her left hand meant to hang up and her right hand meant to come down out of the air, she looked up. The receiver banged to the desk, the finger pointed at him, and her mouth opened to say, "May I help . . . ?"

But her eyes stuck. Her words stuck. Her entire being shouted, "Help me!"

Oh, this should not happen.

He should not be in her dream this way. He should be with his wife in that country garden. She obviously had read the book too many times, had obsessed about that movie too much.

Go away.

But the phone was urnt-urnt-urnt-urnt-urnt-urnt-urnturnt-urnting until he picked it up and casually placed it on its base and it stopped and she wondered if he had a magic formula to stop it in her heart.

He'd walked off the back of the book and stood there now, right in front of her, embodying the description she'd heard many times. Tall, dark, extremely good-looking.

"Joanna Bettencourt," rolled off his silver tongue, and she almost rolled off her chair when he said, "I believe you summoned me."

That proved it was a dream. Or worse, an apparition.

"I-I didn't summon anything-anybody."

"There's another Joanna here?"

The apparition gestured to her shoulder. She threw her hand up, and it landed on her name tag.

"Alan Morris," he said.

He didn't offer his hand. Maybe he knew a woman should be the first to offer-or did he know she'd not just lose her cool but would completely melt?

And he wasn't the picture on the book cover.

He wasn't in black and white.

This one showed up in living color.

"I believe you wrote that we might have a little business to conduct." A jaunty grin displayed his dimples. A touch of silver gleamed in his deep blue eyes. "I'm all yours."