Short Story - Roses for Sophia Cooper (Part 4)

Roses for Sophia Cooper

 

Part 4

 

Fallen Roses

 

 

The series of back roads Thomas’ uncle directed him to drive made Boston’s tangled web of streets seem logical. They curved and coiled on themselves, twisting into blind corners and plunging into dips that left Thomas’ stomach fluttering near his heart. From the position of the approaching storm front and the way it dominated the sky ahead, Thomas guessed they were heading westward and skirting Kolb’s property. They forded a shallow creek, coming to a stop near a culvert that ran under the road just as the first raindrops spattered on the dusty windshield.

“We don’t have much time,” Thomas’ uncle said, wrestling the passenger door handle.

“Wait a minute; it’s about to storm…”

“You think I can’t see that?” Thomas’ uncle snapped. “Let me out of here, I didn’t ask for a weather report!”

“And I promised my mother I’d take care of you, not stand by while you caught your death of pneumonia.” Thomas pulled the door closed. “Now, tell me where you think the girl is and I’ll look for her.”

“I don’t have time to give you directions.”

“So, you’d rather waste time arguing?”

“Fine, follow the gully about a half mile into the woods and you’ll find a clearing where the old Peterson place used to stand. Be careful, though, that old place is falling apart. Sophia could have wandered inside and gotten hurt.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, retrieving the flashlight he kept in the glove box. “You’ve got to promise me you’ll stay in the car.”

“You don’t have to treat me like a child.”

“Alright,” Thomas said, stepping out into the rain. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Thomas slid down the road’s steep bank, reaching the outlying ranks of trees just as the clouds opened. At first the drops drummed on the canopy, sheltering him from the rain, but soon the green ceiling gave way and torrents poured through. Seemingly sensing a chance to add to his misery the woods closed in, slapping him with wet branches and catching his clothes, but he plowed deeper into the trees. Finally, after clambering over a fallen log, Thomas saw the clearing.

Wild roses owned the meadow, swelling in flower-spangled drifts and forming thorny galleries that choked the space. The only evidence that a house had stood on the site was the ruined chimney that burst from the verdant growth, reaching skyward. Unabated by the forest canopy, the rain poured into the clearing, beating soft pink petals from the blossoms and sending them spiraling to the sodden ground.

“Sophia,” Thomas called picking his way through the outer ranks of thorns, but only thunder answered his call.

He moved deeper into the bramble, surveying the landscape as he went. The roses formed an almost impenetrable barbed obstacle that would have been at home on any of the battlefields Thomas had the displeasure of seeing. They eagerly grabbed at his pant legs and shirt sleeves, threatening to drag him into their barbed embrace. The only route through the field was a narrow path formed by the rotting bones of the old house and if anyone had come to this forsaken place, Thomas figured they would have followed that route. He tore free of the canes, making his way along the path to the chimney and it was in the shadow of the leaning stone spire that he found the first evidence Sophia had come this way.

The straw basket sat on the hearth stone, half filled with fading blossoms. Thomas stooped and inspected the roses; they were limp from the heat of the day. He surveyed the clearing and from his kneeling position he could see the dark pit of an abandoned well gaping under a bank of brambles.

Ignoring the clawing thorns, Thomas pushed under the rose canes and crawled to lip of the hole. The well shaft dropped ten feet before the gloom closed in and he reached for the flashlight to beat back the shadows. The beam of light showed that the walls of the well were lined with rough stones. Years of growth had spoiled the even cladding and in places roots as thick as Thomas’ forearm pushed out into the shaft. Further down a raft of rose canes and brush were caught up against the wall and the pink blooms that remained attached lay against a background of yellow cloth. He’d found Sophia and the sight of her at the bottom of the hole stabbed at Thomas’s heart. He called her name, but she didn’t respond to his voice or the probing flashlight beam. If he was going to get her out, he’d have to climb down.

The stone lining and relative narrowness of the well were an aid to Thomas’ descent. He stuck the flashlight in the waistband of his pants and wedged his toes into gaps on opposite sides of the shaft and gradually worked his way downward. It took time to make it to the bottom, and the runnels that coursed over the slimy stones didn’t help his grip. Finally he stepped onto the muddy floor, water rising to his ankles and rushing into his shoes. The rain had started filling the well; he’d have to work fast. He flattened against the wall, retrieved his light, and assessed the work that lay ahead. The narrowness of the shaft made it impossible to check Sophia, that would have to wait until he’d gotten her to the surface, but the question remained how best to make the ascent.

Thomas pulled the belt from his pants and slid down into a squatting position. He looped the belt under the girl’s arms and fed the end back through the buckle to form a makeshift harness. He wrapped the tail of the belt around his hand and pulled, testing his idea. As Sophia’s body rose the grisly sight of bones greeted Thomas. Roots grew through the gingham cloth that clung to the skeletal ribcage, pulling the remains down into the clay, and in his heart Thomas knew the pit had also claimed the Gorman girl Dukker spoke of had met her end at the bottom of the abandoned well. Swearing he wouldn’t allow Sophia to meet the same fate, Thomas adjusted his grip on the belt and began the ascent.

It took a half hour to reach the surface and by the time he pulled Sophia from the hole, Thomas’ back and shoulders ached. He put the pain aside, hovering close over the girl to look for signs of life. The first hint came in the gentle, dream-like fluttering of her closed eyes. A wave of relief erased the pains that wracked Thomas’ body and he scooped Sophia up, draping her over his shoulder and heading for the car.

* * * *

“It will weeks before she’s back to normal.” Thomas’ uncle took a drink from the tumbler of wine that sat on the table, savoring the home-brewed liquor and watching the festivities that swirled around the camp for a moment before continuing.

“I don’t know, I don’t trust this gadjo doctor – what is his name?” Lash asked, pulling the cork from the bottle to top off Thomas’ glass in spite of his protests.

“Dr. Mike Jameson,” Thomas’ uncle answered. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I served with Mike in the Army and he’s a good man, he even made arrangements for Hanzi and his father to stay in a rooming house not far from the hospital.”

“While I appreciate that, it still isn’t right for the groom’s family to be so deeply involved before the wedding. I’ll have Sophia’s cousin go up there; she can make sure nothing happens.”

“I’ll call Mike in the morning and tell him to expect more visitors.” Thomas’ uncle swirled the contents of his glass. “Concussions can be tricky, Lash, if I were you I’d postpone the wedding until October at the earliest.”

“If you say so,” Lash replied, nodding and returning the cork to the bottle. “I can’t thank you enough for saving my daughter…and me.”

“You should be thanking Tom. He’s the one who hiked through the woods and found Sophia.”

“I’ll never be able to repay you.” Lash met Thomas’ eyes and then danced off to the celebration. “I lost Sophia’s mother two years ago. I’ve never had to endure pain like that and I don’t think I could have kept going if it weren’t for Sophia. If I lost her…”

“But you didn’t.” Thomas replied.

“No, I didn’t. You and your uncle are always welcome in my camp, I consider both of you family.” Lash drew a deep breath and stood. “Now, eat and drink. We have an engagement to celebrate and that’s something that has to be done right!”

Thanks for following this little jaunt with Thomas Brooks and his uncle Dr. Daniel Webb, if you like what you've read please let me know. I'm considering writing more short adventures for our two intrepid detectives. I'll be airing at least one more short story (whether or not it has anything to do with Tom and Dan remains to be seen) to air on the blog this year.

Short Story - Roses for Sophia Cooper (Part 3)

Roses for Sophia Cooper

 

Part 3

 

John Kolb

 

 

Thomas stood in the upstairs hallway listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock while his uncle searched the contents of his wardrobe for a jacket to replace the robe he wore. The longer he stood there, the more the situation he found himself in began to wear on him. Finally, after pacing the length of the hall and pausing to look at the pictures that hung on the walls, he ventured into his uncle’s room and stood at the foot of the bed while the old man pulled on a brown herringbone jacket.

“I really don’t understand, Uncle Daniel.” Thomas straightened his uncle’s collar. “It’s pretty obvious this Lash is angry enough to carry out his threats and whether or not this Kolb did something to his daughter the authorities surely are better equipped to deal with something like this.”

“Tell me what you noticed about those men, Tom?” His uncle stepped to the mirror that stood by the wardrobe, giving himself a quick once-over before turning to face Thomas.

“Well, from the fact they referred to us as gadjos I’d guess they’re gypsies.”

“They prefer the term Roma.”

“But they came to you for advice, how exactly did you come to earn the trust of a bunch of gypsies?”

Thomas’s uncle took a hat from the top shelf of the wardrobe. “You were in the army; did you ever see any of the Nazi prison camps?”

“I did.” Thomas tried hard to push the images down, but the mention of the war stirred the horrors from their slumber and they swept through his brain. It took several moments for him to realize he’d been standing in silence while the images settled and the look on his uncle’s face mirrored the pain that had left him speechless.

“I met Dukker and his sisters at Buchenwald. Being an old man and a doctor I got assigned as private physician for the generals, but I was getting sick of telling them to smoke and drink less so I volunteered to help with the refugees. There were so many of them – Jews, gypsies, just so many people. Until that day I never thought the world could hold so much hate.” The old man shook his head, staring down at the top of his dresser for a moment before recovering. “Let’s get going. Morning will be here quicker than it seems and we’ve got a lot of work to do if we want to keep John Kolb alive.”

“Right.” Thomas did his best to smile and took the old man’s arm as they headed for the hallway.

They left the grand old house behind, passing through the woods to where an expanse of corn broke against the barrier of the forest’s trunks. Dark clouds scurried over the neatly tended rows and the air smelled of rain. The corn stretched to the horizon, verdant and swaying in the growing wind that heralded the storm’s imminent arrival.

“All of this belongs to John Kolb,“ Thomas’ uncle said over the noise of the road.

“He must be rich.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is. He ran for state representative last year and if he had half as much personality as he has money, he might have won.”

“Well, its like mom says, everybody’s got personality, but that doesn’t mean they have a good personality.”

“That’s my little sister,” Thomas’ uncle chuckled. “She always knew how to craft a phrase. Turn here.”

A fence flanked drive separated Kolb’s fields, leading to a modern split-level house that would have looked comfortable in an affluent suburb. Looking at the house, Thomas felt like he understood the reason old southern plantation houses were built with long avenues like this one; the view of opulence and possessions gave anyone approaching time to consider the power of those they were dealing with and to reconsider any uppity ideas they might have. The sight fomented contempt deep inside Thomas’ heart, but it didn’t convince him the man was a murderer or deserved death at the hands of a mob. Before they reached the house they came upon a group of men working alongside the drive. Four of the workers stood waist deep in a ditch, stabbing at the clay with shovels while the fifth sat atop a shiny new tractor watching the proceedings.

“I take it that’s Kolb?” Thomas asked, slowing the car.

“How did you guess? “ Thomas’ uncle smirked. “Pull to the side; let’s see what he has to say about the missing girl.”

Thomas pulled into the grass and by the time he’d shut the Desoto off, the men in the ditch had stopped working and were leaning on their shovel handles watching as his uncle climbed out of the car.

“Evening John.” Thomas’ uncle paused at the edge of the grass. “Might I have a word?”

Kolb slid off the tractor, strolling toward the ditch with the sort of swagger Thomas associated with b-movie cowboys. Everything about the man, from his neatly rolled sleeves to the crispness of his hat and boots, felt false to Thomas. From what he could see, the man was playing at gentleman farmer while nursing other ambitions. Kolb paused at the edge of the ditch, spurring the laborers to resume digging with a sidelong glance before jumping the channel.

“I don’t have a lot of time for chit-chat,” Kolb said, jerking his head toward the excavation. “This drainage has to get cleared before the storm gets here or the north fields will flood. I didn’t plant all this corn just to have it drown before I can make my money.”

“This shouldn’t take long,” Thomas uncle replied. “Really I just wanted to ask if you saw a young girl yesterday morning. She’s a slight thing, about sixteen years old with brown hair and eyes who goes by the name of Sophia.”

“One of your gypsy friends?” Kolb asked sourly.

“Does that matter?” Thomas interjected, walking around the car to stand at his uncle’s side.

“It might,” Kolb replied, turning his gaze on Thomas. “Exactly who would you be?”

“This is my nephew, Tom.” Thomas’ uncle took hold of his elbow. “He’s visiting from Boston for a while.”

“Huh.” Kolb’s hard face remained unchanged, his shallow blue eyes boring into Thomas.” Well, I’m not sure how you do things out East, but out here we don’t take to thieving bums. Your uncle may have a soft spot for these con men and their brats, but I imagine he’ll come to his senses once one of them robs him blind. If I were you, I’d just pray nothing worse than robbery happens to him before he comes around.”

“I’ll choose my friends.” Thomas’ uncle’s tone went stony. “Now, did you see Sophia or not?”

“I did,” Kolb answered, turning back to Thomas’ uncle. “I ran her off with the promise I’d dust her butt with rock salt if I ever caught her nosing around my property again.”

“Where did you see her?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was on the old timber road down by the new plot I bought last spring.” Thunder rumbled and Kolb tipped his hat back to look up at the lowering clouds. “Now if you two will excuse me, I don’t have time to discuss vagrants.”

“Just a minute…” Thomas started, but his uncle stemmed the protest, pulling him toward the car.

“Thanks for the help, John, and good luck with the dig.” He pulled on Thomas’ sleeve. “Come on, we don’t’ want to keep Mr. Kolb.”

“Don’t want to keep him?” Thomas let his uncle pull him to the car, leaning in to talk confidentially. “I’d like to knock that self-satisfied smirk off his lousy face!”

“You’ll have to save that for some other time, for Sophia’s sake we need to get going now.”

Thomas’ uncle climbed into the car, leaving him muttering as he walked around and got into the driver’s side. Once he’d started the engine he resumed the protest in earnest.

“Fine, I get that you don’t want to get into a fight with this guy, but we don’t have anything to go on. We don’t know one bit more than when we got here.”

“I have to disagree,” Thomas’ uncle responded. “John admitted seeing Sophia and even told us where.”

“So, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“If he killed her, do you think he’d admit seeing the girl? Especially knowing her background and that the police are likely to believe she ran away and put very little effort into searching for her?”

“Okay, it doesn’t make sense, but we still don’t have any idea where to look.”

“That’s where experience comes into play. What did Lash say his daughter was upset about the morning of her disappearance?”

“Her bridal bouquet.”

“Right, and John said he saw the girl on the old logging road that runs behind his property. Now, that road runs near an old homestead and last summer when I walked that area what struck me was the abundance of wild roses growing there.”

“So it’s likely she went to this old homestead to pick flowers for the wedding.” Thomas started the car.

“Exactly, and if she’s there we might not have much time.” The old man cast his eyes skyward. “Those lowlands flood quickly in a storm, we could lose an important clue or worse.”





The finale is coming! The final part of Roses for Sophia Cooper will air on July 8th, 2013!

Short Story - Roses for Sophia Cooper (Part 2)

Roses for Sophia Cooper
 

Part 2
 

The Story of a Disappearance

 

 

The shotgun wielding stranger approached slowly, adjusting his grip on the gun as he walked. For a moment Thomas considered slamming the car into reverse and gunning the engine, but by the time the though fully germinated a stout, balding man had taken a position blocking the drive.

“Who are you and what are you doing trespassing here?” the moustached man demanded once he’d gotten within a few paces.

“I’m Thomas Brooks,“ Thomas answered, keeping a hand on the gear shift and his right foot ready to stomp the accelerator in case he had to rethink his aversion to running one of the strangers over. “This house belongs to my uncle, so by rights I should be the one asking who you are and why you are trespassing.”

“Tom?” The voice hailed from the vicinity of the house and when Thomas diverted his attention from his inquisitor he could see an elderly man braced against the porch railing.

“That’s right.” Thomas shut the car engine off, stepping out. The man on the porch could have stood in for any of the bell ringers who populated every street corner in Boston during the holidays. He had a neatly trimmed white beard, round glasses, and a paunch. Thomas recognized the face from the framed photos his mother kept on the mantel back home. “I’m your nephew. Mother wrote to tell you I’d be coming.”

“Why come in my boy!” The elderly man smiled broadly, making his way along the banister toward the steps to greet his visitor.

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy?” Thomas asked, making his way passed the crowd and wagons and climbing the steps to where his uncle stood balanced on a cane. “If I knew you were well enough to throw parties I might have reconsidered making the long trip.”

“It is a bit of a circus at the moment.” He clapped Thomas on the shoulder. “But look at you! You were barely a tadpole the last time I saw you and now you’ve turned into a man!”

“Time will do that, Uncle Daniel.” Thomas shook his uncle’s hand and stepped onto the porch.

“Time, don’t talk to an old man about time.” His uncle shook his head, smiling. “Next I know you’ll be telling me all there is to know about arthritis and pensions.”

“Maybe.” Thomas surveyed the collection of wagons and animals on his uncle’s lawn. “So, what’s going on?”

“Help me back inside, I want to introduce you to some acquaintances.”

Thomas took his uncle’s arm and they left the cacophony behind for the staid confines of the parlor just off the house’s foyer. A pair of men and a teen waited in the small room and all three stood as Thomas escorted his uncle into the room.

“Dukker, Lash this is my nephew Tom. He’s been good enough to come all the way out here to look in on his feeble old uncle…”

“Uncle Daniel,” Thomas protested, but his uncle had already moved on.”

“The young fellow is Dukker’s son, Hanzi, whose about to leap into marriage,” Thomas’ uncle continued.

Thomas looked the boy over. His doughy features and fawn-ish attempt at a moustache only succeeded in making it hard to believe anyone so young could get married. He gave Hanzi a nod and managed a stunted congratulation before his uncle came to the rescue.

“Lash was relaying some troubling news. It seems that, the bride, his daughter has disappeared.”

“It’s Kolb, it has to be,” Lash proclaimed vehemently, the anger in his face showing off a deep scar that ran from his left jaw to the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why we’re wasting time with this gadjo when we should be out there saving Sophia!”

“Watch your tongue, Lash,” the second man growled. “Dr. Daniel has always been a friend to my family. I brought you here to hear his council, not to insult him in his own house!”

“Insult him? I’m the one who should be insulted. Look at you sitting here defending your friend while my daughter, the girl who would be your daughter-in-law is missing.” Lash’s tone grew sinister. “It’s almost as if you don’t want her to be found…”

“What are you saying about my father?” Hanzi took a step toward Lash, his chest pushed out and his hands balled into fists.

“Gentlemen!” Thomas’ uncle raised his voice, banging his cane on the floor to draw attention. “I know I’m an outsider here, but I promise I’ll do anything I can to help. Lash, I know your daughter. I remember when she was just a little girl chasing butterflies in my back meadow. She’s a sweet girl and I want nothing more than to see her returned home safely. Just give me the chance.”

“He’s a good man,” Dukker repeated, pushing his son back. “If he says he’ll help you, it’s the truth.”

“I don’t know why I should trust you,” Lash turned his attention to Thomas’ uncle, “Or you, but I’ll give you your chance.”

 “Good,” Thomas’ uncle said, gesturing to be taken to the chair near the fireplace. Once he’d settled, the he began his questions. “Tell me, when did you last see Sophia?”

“It was yesterday, her cousins were helping get ready for the wedding. She didn’t like the flowers that had been gathered for her. Her cousins left her alone while they tried to find me so that I could drive them to a flower shop in Whitley, but when we returned she was gone.”

“She’s hard headed,” Hanzi said. “If she didn’t like her cousins’ ideas she would have taken things into her own hands.”

“I see.” Thomas’ uncle stared thoughtfully at the youth for a moment. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but is there any chance she had misgivings about getting married?”

“What are you trying to say?” Hanzi said, his voice nearly breaking under the excitement the question elicited.

“You’re both very young. Maybe as the day got closer she began to have doubts?”

“No,” Lash answered. “Over the last month she’s practically never stopped talking about her love for young Hanzi and the life they would build together. She didn’t run away, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Very well, we can eliminate that possibility.” Thomas’ uncle thought for another moment. “Tell me, why do you suspect John Kolb has something to do with this?”

“Lash’s camp is less than a mile from Kolb’s property and that man hates our people,” Dukker answered.

“Who is this Kolb, anyway?” Thomas asked.

“A power-hungry gadjo who thinks he owns the world,” Lash responded. “He’s the devil’s own kin and he wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of us if it suited him!”

“That’s a big accusation,” Thomas’ uncle protested.

“You don’t understand what it’s like being one of us, my friend,” Dukker replied. “Just last summer Kolb shot at one of my brothers for picking blackberries near a fence line he claimed to be on his property. Five years ago a young gypsy girl from the Gorman clan disappeared from a campsite near where Lash is camped now. Stefan Gorman even reported the disappearance to the police, but all he got were insults and suggestions that she’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock and ran away to hide her shame. Two days later the authorities ran his family out of the county and his girl never was seen again.”

“We’ve wasted enough time.” Lash stood, addressing Dukker and his son. “My daughter is betrothed to your boy and that means your family is equally responsible for her protection. I’ve given you an opportunity to live up to this commitment, now you have to decide whether you’re going to honor our traditions or turn gadjo.”

Lash stormed out of the room, slamming the screen door as he left the house. Thomas heard the man ranting as he rejoined his kin on the lawn and he didn’t need a translator to catch the gist of what was being said.

“He’ll kill Kolb,” Dukker said, slowly rising from his seat and collecting his hat.

“And what will you do?” Thomas’ uncle asked.

“Help him if it comes to it. As he said, Sophia and Hanzi are betrothed, that means the fates of our families are joined.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Thomas asked. “You’re not really telling me you’d take part in a murder based on nothing more than the suspicion he might have something to do with the girl’s disappearance.”

“I don’t expect you to understand our ways.” Dukker said something in his native language and his son left. “I’ve told you what will happen.”

“Dukker, do you think you can hold Lash off for a while?” Thomas’ uncle asked.

“It won’t be easy.”

“I only need a day. Just let me see if I can find Sophia before you turn to violence.”

“You’ve never steered me wrong, Dr. Daniel. I’ll talk to him.” Dukker turned his dark eyes on Thomas. “I’m glad you’ve come to look after the doctor. He’s the only good gadjo I’ve ever met; it’d be a shame to lose him.”

Thomas helped his uncle from the chair, holding his arm as they followed Dukker out to the porch. They watched as the wagons departed and when the sound of harnesses and hooves died away Thomas reached into his pocket to retrieve his keys.

“Where’s the nearest police station?” he asked.

“In Rochester, about an hour’s drive,” his uncle answered.

“Hopefully they can get someone out here before it’s too late.” Thomas took a step toward the house. “Let me get you settled, then I’ll get going.”

“We’re not going to the police yet.”

“You’re not actually thinking of letting those men kill this Kolb fellow, are you?”

“Dukker will keep Lash in check for twenty four hours. That’s plenty of time for us to try to sort things out without involving the law.” Thomas’ uncle freed himself, and began hobbling toward the front door. “Now, help me get my hat and we’ll get going.”

“This has got to be a joke.”

“Murder’s never a joke, Tom. Neither is a missing child.” Thomas’ uncle gave a slight smile. “Now where’s that big city hurry of yours when it’s needed?”


 

Stay tuned for part 3, coming July 1, 2013!

Short Story - Roses for Sophia Cooper (Part 1)

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 

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.

 

The next installment will be available June 24th, 2013 - stay tuned!