Eureka

by William Diehl

  “Promise me, damn it!” Culhane yells above the din of battle.

  Merrill grabs a leatherneck by the arm. “Listen to me,” Merrill bellows, shouting above the sounds of the Hell Hounds screaming, the peal of bayonets clashing, the thunder of guns. “You stay with your sergeant, get it? You stay with him when you get to the field hospital. You stay with him when they operate, and you tell whoever takes care of Culhane that I said if he takes off that leg, I’ll personally take off one of his.”

  “Yes, sir, Major Merrill.”

  “Th’nks,” Culhane stammers, and Merrill races into battle. He doesn’t hear Culhane’s last whisper before he passes out: “Good luck.”

  1920

  The winter rainstorm passed quickly and bright hard sunlight urged buds into blossoms in the winter garden Madeline had loved so much. Eli shifted in his wheelchair and stared at the flowers through the large library window. His mind, as sharp as it ever was, raced back through time and he remembered the first time he saw her. San Francisco. She was wearing a pink dress with an enormously wide-brimmed hat and she was framed by ferns in the corner of the Garden Terrace restaurant. Thirty-two years old and she hadn’t looked a day over twenty, and when she smiled as they were introduced, he was immediately her captive.

  His memory dissolved into another image. A young boy in tatters, with such an arrogant, cocky smile, standing beside Ben the first time Eli ever saw him. He saw that image reflected in the window but he seemed older and taller, no longer a teenager but a man in a uniform. Then he snapped out of his reverie and realized he was staring at a reflection.

  “Hi, Mr. Eli,” the voice behind him said.

  He wheeled his chair around and looked up at Brodie Culhane in Marine dress blues, medals—a Purple Heart, Silver Star, French Croix de Guerre—gleaming on his chest, eyes as bright as new coins, the smile as challenging as ever. He had grown into a handsome man, his face a bit lined by age and harsh experience. And he was leaning on an oak cane.

  “Well, look at you, Thomas,” Eli said affectionately and held out his hand. Brodie clutched it eagerly. Eli’s hair, what little he had left, was white and his body looked ravaged, his legs mere twigs, but his face seemed as smooth and ageless as ever.

  Brodie leaned over and put his arm around the old man.

  “I knew you’d come home,” Eli said, embracing him, patting his back. “Sooner or later, I knew you’d come back to us.”

  Brodie hooked a chair with the crook of his cane, pulled it to him, and sat down as Eli wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, then blew his nose.

  “So, how’s the leg?”

  “Another month and I can throw away the cane.”

  “Look at you! I wish Maddy were here to see you. Not a day went by she didn’t mention you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brodie said. “I know how much you must miss her. I tried to write you from the hospital but, you know me, I never was much for writing.”

  “How long were you laid up?”

  “Eighteen months. They put my leg back together with glue and tape. I had to learn to walk again, but it’s almost good as new.”

  “Did you stop at the bank and see Ben?”

  “Not yet. Mr. Graham was on the train with me. He remembered me. Dropped me off here on his way home.”

  “They have a taxi now, you know. Very sophisticated. My God, Ben will faint with excitement when he sees you.”

  “How’s his pitching arm?”

  “Not what it used to be. He coaches the high school team now.”

  “Got a high school, huh?”

  “It was time for a good school. We have twenty-two families living on the Hill now. There are a few families in Eureka who attend. And the kids from Milltown come over on the bus.”

  “And Eureka has a sidewalk and paved streets. Never thought I’d live to see that day.”

  “Well, Riker had to do something. You hardly see a horse and carriage anymore. All automobiles.”

  “Is Cyclone still alive?” Brodie asked. “Last time I talked to Ben, he said the old boy was still kicking.”

  “And still as handsome as ever, like his owner.”

  “I wonder if he’ll remember me.”

  “Animals have an amazing memory. It may take him a while but I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”

  “He’s twenty-three now. And my godson is almost twenty. I can’t believe it.”

  “Quite a young man. Fair college student but more interested in football and girls.”

  “Ben says he’s not interested in banking.”

  “He’ll be twenty this year,” Eli said, waving his hand. “He’s got plenty of time to make up his mind. He’s down in Los Angeles with Isabel. They’ll be back tomorrow. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming in today?”

  “I like surprises. Isabel as beautiful as ever?”

  Eli nodded. “Like Maddy, she gets prettier every day. She has a birthday coming up in a few months. Thirty-seven. I think she’d rather forget it.”

  “And Buck?”

  “Slowed down some but he’s fine. Tells everybody he’s sixty. Hell, he’s got to be at least seventy but nobody knows for sure.”

  “Is that why I’m back here?”

  “You’re back here because we miss you. And Ben needs you. We talked about that once, a long time ago.”

  “I remember the conversation.”

  “I’ve worried over that a lot. Was it I who drove you away?”

  “Don’t think that. It was time for me to leave here, see what the rest of the world looked like.”

  “Well, you certainly accomplished that.”

  “Seen London, Paris, New York, Chicago. Been down South.”

  “Everybody needs a home to come back to, Thomas.”

  “My room over the stable still available?”

  “I’ll build you a house.”

  Brodie laughed. “What would I do with a house?”

  “Get married. Have a family.”

  “We’ll talk about that later. I hear Delilah came back to Grand View after the O’Dells were killed.”

  Eli nodded. “She turned the place into a private club. Well, that’s what she calls it. It’s a high-dollar bordello. She has a small casino; excellent restaurant; beautiful, educated young women. Movie stars come up from Los Angeles. Businessmen from San Francisco and points east. They come in private train cars, Stutz Bearcats, yachts. She’s made her own fortune in addition to the one her father left her.”

  “I found out about the O’Dells in the New York Times. They ran a list of all the victims when the Lusitania went down. I was reading down the column and all of a sudden there it was. Shamus and Katherine O’Dell, San Francisco.”

  “I suppose Shamus had his good side, he just never showed it to me. And Kate was a fine lady. Loved him dearly, although I’ll never know why.”

  “Water under the bridge, Mr. Eli.”

  “It’s hard to forget the past when you live with it every day.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Prohibition starts in two weeks. Things are going to be tough around here. Social House is a private club so we’ll be alright. And they’ll never shut down Grand View. I know a couple of senators and at least one governor who’ve visited the place. The good news is, it may put Riker out of business. I’ve tried to buy him out since the night O’Dell left. The town is still as rotten as ever. It attracts rowdy crowds from fifty miles around.”

  “Prohibition won’t hurt Riker. If anything, he’ll make more money. He’ll board over the windows and put up a front door with a peephole, just like they’re gonna do in New York and Chicago. Hell, the Feds’ll be too busy worrying about the big cities, they won’t be snooping around a little place like this.”

  “That’s bad news,” Eli said. There was still anger in his tone after all the years.

  They talked for several hours, about Eureka, about what Brodie’s job would be, about Ben, whose dream for the valley was more elaborate than Eli’s. About
plans to form a county board, get a new prosecutor, clean up Eureka. No decent middle-class families would live there the way it was.

  “You’ll be special deputy under Buck,” Eli said. “When he retires, you will become sheriff of the whole damn shebang.”

  Twenty years and nothing had changed. Eli Gorman had a plan and Brodie Culhane was the last piece to fall into place.

  The conversation finally wore Eli down, and Brodie and the nurse helped him to bed for his afternoon nap. Brodie strolled across the big backyard, past Maddy’s winter garden, and through the trees to the barn. The white horse lounged near the far end of the paddock, chewing on grass. His winter coat was matted and there were snarls in his mane, but he looked as strong as ever.

  Brodie whistled to the horse. The white’s ears went up and he responded immediately, peering across the length of the paddock with curiosity. Brodie whistled again.

  “C’mon, pretty boy,” he said softly. “I got something for you.”

  He had brought two apples from the house.

  Cyclone loped down the length of the paddock, approaching Brodie cautiously at first, sniffing the air, grumbling and snorting, his ears standing straight up. He’d come close and back up, come closer and back up.

  “Look what I got,” Brodie said, and held up one of the apples.

  Cyclone moved closer. Brodie held the apple between his hands and twisted it in two. The horse watched, his nose checking the air. Brodie rested half the apple in the palm of his hand and held it toward the horse. Cyclone snorted, bobbing his head up and down. He walked sideways, away from the apple, and leaned his long neck out, checking it. Brodie leaned through the fence and held it.

  “C’mon, boy,” he said softly. “Pretty boy, come and get it.”

  Finally he came close enough to roll back his lips and snatch the apple-half with his teeth. He munched it noisily and stepped closer, sniffing for more.

  “Do you remember, pretty boy? Is it coming back?” He took the makings from his pocket and awkwardly began to roll a cigarette. A piece of shrapnel had injured his left hand and it was difficult. He finally prepared the paper and then the wind blew the tobacco off. “Damn,” he said, and started over. When he finished, the butt looked like a small pretzel but he got it lit and took a deep drag, all the while talking softly to Cyclone. He gave the other apple-half to him, and this time Cyclone came closer, let him pet his muzzle.

  Brodie went into the barn, found a brush, and entered the paddock. The horse backed up, his eyes cautious and uncertain. Brodie broke the other apple in half, and this time Cyclone came over and got it. Brodie very slowly began to brush his side. The horse was still skittish, but he stood still as Brodie brushed his sides and then his mane and then finally stood close to him and petted his long nose.

  “Wanna go for a ride?” Brodie asked gently. “You’ll have to wear a saddle. I got a bum leg, I don’t think I can handle you bareback.”

  Cyclone grumbled but held fast. Brodie returned to the stable and came back with a blanket, bridle, and saddle. Every move was slow and easy. He put the blanket on Cyclone’s back first. The horse jumped a bit but Brodie soft-talked him, then eased the saddle over the horse’s back, reached under his belly and buckled the straps. So far so good. He put the bit in his mouth and laid the reins over Cyclone’s back, and the horse bolted. He trotted a dozen yards away and stopped, his ears twisting, his nose testing. Brodie held the last half of the apple in his palm. The horse slowly returned, this time bumping against him before taking it.

  “Let’s give it a try, pal,” Brodie whispered. He leaned on the cane and got his right foot in the stirrup. The horse grumbled but stood fast. Brodie swung his injured leg carefully over the saddle and sat down.

  Cyclone backed up, started to bolt again, and Brodie leaned over his neck. “Easy, pretty boy. It’s just you and me.” He kept talking, and walked Cyclone around the paddock a few times, then eased him into a trot. They circled the paddock a few times and Brodie steered him to the gate, reached down, and unlatched it. Cyclone walked slowly out of the paddock.

  “Okay, son, let’s go for a ride.”

  He rode around the barn, then down the path toward the ocean walk. The sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, its reflection shimmering on the waves far out toward the entrance of the bay. The path was overgrown and unused, and Brodie walked the horse down it. Through the trees he saw the Hoffman house, and a moment later the greenhouse. He stopped and stared at it through the trees.

  Even with memories of the war fresh in his mind, it had been the worst night of his life.

  He went on, riding down to the wall around Grand View and then heading along it toward the road. From inside the house he heard music, strident military music, yet with a different kind of beat. He stopped and listened to the faint tune. There was something familiar about it. He rode down to the road and turned in front of the house.

  Tall iron gates protected the house from intruders. A small guardhouse was situated on the far side of the gate but it appeared to be unmanned. Rows of tall hedges bracketed the road that led to the white-columned mansion a hundred yards away. Behind it, beyond and below the sheer cliffs, the ocean was serene. A Japanese gardener was meticulously snipping the grass around the gate. He saw Brodie and, smiling, he stood up and saluted.

  “Speak English?” Brodie asked.

  “Yes, suh, very good.”

  “Miss Delilah is an old friend. I’m going to ride down to the house and say hello.”

  “Need to call first,” the gardener said, pointing to the guardhouse.

  Brodie eased Cyclone through the gate. “It’s a surprise,” he said. The gardener stood motionless as Brodie trotted down the paved road to the house. The music got louder as he reached the house and tied the horse to a fence post. He got his cane from the saddle pocket and went to the door. He could hear the music more distinctly now and realized it was a recording of “Memphis Blues” he had heard in Paris years ago. He rang the doorbell.

  A minute passed, then the door opened and Noah stood there. He was wearing a blue jacket, tan cord pants, and immaculate knee-high leather boots. He stared curiously at Brodie for a long moment.

  “What’s the matter, Noah, don’t you recognize an old friend?”

  Curiosity melted into a smile.

  “Mistah Brodie?” Hints of the Caribbean still haunted his accent. “Mon, look at you. Ain’t you the fancy one.”

  “You’re not looking too bad yourself. May I come in?”

  “Yes, suh. I’ll tell Miss Delilah you’re here. Mon, she is goin’ t’be some surprised.”

  Brodie entered a wide, two-story foyer. A winding staircase faced him on the other side of the large room and led to a balcony on the second floor, with four hallways leading away from it. It was a pleasant room, with handsome stuffed chairs, antique tables, Tiffany lamps, vases of flowers, and two large davenports. In a stained-glass window over the doorway, a knight was challenging a dragon with his lance while a lovely damsel cowered nearby. High above the vaulted room, a crystal chandelier shed a comforting blanket of light down on the room. There were several closed doors leading away from the foyer. Brodie heard the laughter of young women behind one.

  “Now aren’t you the dashing one,” a dusky voice said from above. Delilah stared down from the balcony, decked out in a dark green, floor-length dress and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with white roses. Her red hair was braided in a ponytail draped over her shoulder.

  Brodie smiled up at her.

  “Going to the opera?” he asked.

  She looked at the cane.

  “Can you make it up the stairs?”

  “I’m a little lame, I’m not crippled,” he answered, and managed the broad stairway with little problem. She led him into her apartment and turned around.

  “Does a girl get a kiss after twenty years?”

  He started to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned her face to his, leaned hard against him, and kissed him fully on the
lips, holding the kiss for half a minute before stepping back.

  “I think you’re blushing,” she said. “Marines aren’t supposed to blush.”

  “I haven’t been kissed like that for a long, long time.”

  “How’re you doing, Brodie?”

  “The leg’s almost healed. The rest of me’s whole.”

  “Thank God for that.” She laughed.

  “I wasn’t sure you were here,” he said, and pointed to a Victrola in the corner. The needle was scratching endlessly at the end of the record. “Actually, I was attracted by the music. Is that record by James Reese Europe and the Hell Fighters Band?”

  “You’ve heard them?” she said, lifting the needle off the record.

  “I saw them. In Paris. The French loved the band. Called it ‘Le Jazz Hot.’ Almost made me want to dance and I don’t know a step.”

  “Well, you’ll have to come by. I’ve got all twenty-four of his records. We’ll play music and I’ll teach you the Charleston.”

  “I’ll take you up on that.”

  “Have you seen Ben?”

  “Not yet. I spent a couple of hours with Eli.”

  “The stroke almost did him in but he’s handling it well.”

  “How about you? I hear you’re the richest lady in California.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “Just California?”

  Brodie laughed and sat down on a settee. “You live here?”

  “I run a tight ship here. Have to make sure my high-class clientele is happy. Three rooms are all I need. What are you drinking?”

  “A little bourbon and some ice.”

  “So you haven’t seen Ben or your young Eli or Isabel yet?”

  He shook his head.

  “Or Buck?”

  “Nope.”

  “Stick around. He comes every night at six to have a cup of coffee and look at the young girls.”

  “How is he?”

  “Not as quick as he used to be but tough as ever.”

  “You know what they say, myths never die,” Brodie said.

  She chuckled. “Nice to think so. Back to stay?” she asked.

  “Why not?” Brodie answered ruefully.