There are times when I have to remind myself that The Gentleman from Indiana is a writer's blog. I enjoy posting tidbits about Indiana, magazine clippings, funny ads, information about the phases of the moon, and the like, but the purpose of this blog is to share my writing with you and keep you updated on where my stories can be found. The more I thought about this fact, the more I came to the conclusion it would be an interesting experiment to create a few stories that are intended specifically for my blog and thus Thomas Brooks and his uncle, Dr. Daniel Webb were born.
Over the next few months I will be sharing a multi-part short story of the exploits of Brooks and Webb. I'll be publishing a chapter each month and I hope you enjoy reading about the detectives as much as I've enjoyed writing about them.
Roses for Sophia Cooper
Part 1
Part 1
A Troubled Arrival
If Thomas unfocused
his gaze, letting the midday sun and its mirages have their way, he could have imagined
he was standing on the dunes at Eel Point. He could see the white sails off the
shoulder of Tuckernuck Island filling with wind and the surf breaking on the
beach, offsetting the glinting green of the ocean. He could smell the salt and
hear the keening of gulls overhead. The illusion felt perfect enough to stroll
into, but it failed the moment he began to take the first step. The ocean receded
from him, leaving the dust blowing through the gas station lot, the unending cornfields,
and the darkening clouds on the western horizon in its wake. The cramps in his
muscles attested to miles between himself and the home he’d known all his life.
Stretching in a fruitless attempt to work the stiffness out his back, Thomas
rummaged through his pockets in search of a coin for the humming Orange Crush machine
that sat beside the service station’s shanty.
“I tell you if you
hadn’t told me yourself, I never would have figured you for old Doc’s nephew,” the
stubby attendant said, emerging from the tiny building. He recounted Thomas’
change, giving him a squinty inspection before dropping the money in his hand.
“The two of you don’t look a bit alike.”
“I guess I take
after my dad’s side.” Thomas sorted through the coins, separating a nickel and dropping
it into the machine. “So, do you think you could give me directions to Uncle
Daniel’s place?”
“I’d have figured
you’d know the way, being family and all.”
“The directions I
got before leaving Boston were a little on the vague side. Besides, the last
time I saw my uncle I was five. About all I remember is he had a donkey that
bit like hell if you gave it a chance.”
“Do you mean you
came all the way out here to look after an uncle you barely know and ain’t seen
since you was a kid?”
“Someone needed to.
I promised my mother I’d look after him, so here I am.”
“Well, I guess I
got to admire you for your commitment.” The attendant shook his head. “Most
fellows your age would be more interested in making some money and starting a
family, not holing up out here in East Nowhere with only an old man for
company.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ve got a thing about
promises.” Thomas popped the cap from his bottle of soda and took a drink before
continuing. “So, how about those directions?”
“Well, let me see.”
The man took a few steps toward where Thomas’ Desoto sat parked. “You’re going
to keep going south on this road for about fifteen miles. You come to the
bridge over the Yellow River and just on the other side of that you’ll see a side
road. Follow that road, your uncle’s place sits opposite the old Bruceville
Cemetery.”
“Thanks,” Thomas
said, climbing into his Desoto and settling in for the last leg of his trip.
He’d just stepped on the starter when the attendant knelt to augment the
directions he’d given with advice.
“You’re going to
want to be careful on that side road. We had some pretty good storms this
spring and the river overflowed its banks, I imagine that road will be pretty rough.
If you don’t pay attention you might leave your transmission lying on the
ground.”
“Doesn’t sound
like the way I want to spend an afternoon.” Thomas gave a nod of appreciation
and pulled away.
The gas station
disappeared from the rear view mirror and soon even its bleached star-shaped
sign was lost to the gently rolling landscape. The monotony of the road
returned, leaving Thomas to contemplate whether his decision to leave
Massachusetts had been a mistake. As he told the station attendant, he promised
his mother he’d look after Uncle Daniel, but he’d put that promise on like a
parachute and used it to bail out of a life that had threatened to nose into
the ground at any minute. He draped his arm out over the car door, turning away
from the past to survey the neat rows of corn that rushed by. The road stood on
the crest of a sort of causeway between fields and from its elevation the scattered
farmhouses stood like craggy islands, each separated from its neighbors by inlets
of rolling green. He drove for twenty
minutes with only the corn for company until the angular shape of the bridge announced
he’d reached the waypoint of Yellow River.
Thomas slowed the
car, rumbling to a stop once he’d crossed the river’s shallow waters. Through
the passenger side window he could see a narrow track cut through the weeds,
but calling it a road would have been overly generous. It consisted of little
more than a pair of graveled ruts that hugged the river’s winding course. On
the opposite side a broad meadow separated the road from a thick pine forest
that stood a distance from the waterway in what Thomas supposed was a testament
to the Yellow River’s propensity to overrun its low banks. He paused, pushing
his hat back and leaning across the seat to stare out the window at what lay
ahead. The drop-off from the paved road didn’t seem as treacherous as what the
gas station’s attendant suggested, but plunging in without thinking definitely could
lead to a very bad day. He drew a deep breath and cranked the steering wheel,
gently urging the Desoto forward until her front wheels lumbered over the edge
of the concrete. Gravel crunched under the tires and the car’s suspension
groaned as he inched forward, but the transition passed without grinding the undercarriage
on the ground.
Bolstered by the
initial success, Thomas increased his speed, but the side road didn’t welcome
trespassers and it repaid his intrusion with treachery. He’d barely gone a
hundred yards when he found the first hidden pothole. The Desoto bucked
violently and Thomas’ head met the roof, mashing his hat down over his eyebrows
and forcing an unceremonious break to reassess. Once he’d rearranged his hat
and walked around the car to make sure no damage had been done, he resumed the journey
at a cautious fifteen miles per hour.
After a few punishing
miles, the side road abandoned the river bank. It crossed the meadow in a broad
arc, finally entering the deep shade of the pine forest. The cool air felt good
on Thomas’ sun-scalded face and the needle scented wind that blew in through
his window revived memories. On one of his childhood visits to his uncle’s
house he thought he remembered playing in these woods. There had been a game of
hide and seek and other children, but whether they’d been relatives, neighbors
of his uncle, or creations of his childhood imagination had been lost to the
tides of time. He gave up the attempt to recover details when he spotted the
gates of the Bruceville Cemetery. He turned into his uncle’s drive and within
minutes he caught sight of the house.
It rose from the
pines gradually, almost as if, abiding by some old fashioned rule of decorum
that forbade startling the newcomer. First came the roof with its quilted brown
and gray-green slates, widow’s walks, and turrets. They filled the gaps between
the pine boughs, floating among the trees like a fairy tale castle and tempting
Thomas to stare longer than was prudent while driving. Soon painted fish scale
siding and garish gingerbread appointments showed in bright glimpses, catching
the summer sunlight like the plumage of some strutting bird. The road made a
final bend and Thomas leaned out the window to better see the house’s next act,
but as he cleared the last of the pines he had to stomp on the brakes and turn
the wheel hard to avoid colliding with the wagons, horses, and people that
crowded the lawn.
The sudden
emergence of a car spooked the horses; they champed and tossed their heads,
fighting their harnesses and jostling the wagons to which they were hitched.
Two sturdy men raced to calm the animals, calling out in a dialect Thomas
didn’t understand as they struggled to gain control of the situation. As they held
fast to the harnesses a third man emerged from behind one of the wagons. He had
a white brush of a moustache and wore a chewed fedora with a feather protruding
from its band. The hat and moustache, along with questions about the identities
of the men, passed through Thomas’ mind quickly. What remained was the more
urgent concern posed by the shotgun the man carried.
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