Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-36393004-20180827215503

Note: This is the follow up to my original Crossroad: Night Rain, it is unfinished at the moment but I would like some feedback on the rough draft of what I have so far.

A star spangled blanket draped over the pine box as Brian stood steady. He had to be strong for his mother, who was currently buried against his borrowed black suit sobbing heavily. He only flinched when the crack of the rifles echoed through the air. Men in uniform, both military and Cincinnati Police gave their respects. Tokens of gratitude coated the coffin and a neatly folded flag was placed in my mother’s hands. She clutched it tightly, as if it were the only thing in the world. Brian rubbed her back and stared down toward a box containing a stranger. He had not had a chance to truly know his father, despite all he had heard from his mother and his father’s friends. Each one had a story about Rick Sawyer, his heroism and bravery, honesty, and loyalty. He was the greatest man many of them had ever known.

That wasn’t the man Brian knew. He knew the person who came home late and rarely spoke. He knew the man that missed most of his son’s baseball games and school functions. He knew a man who spent more time in his study than eating dinner with the family. Brian’s mother always assured him that his father loved him, that he just wasn’t as affectionate since his time in the war. Brian could only hope that was true, he had never heard the words from his father. He had, however, been warned of how evil the world was and how careful he should be.

He left that day, more confused, lost, and angry than ever. After walking his mother to her car he sat on a bench at the edge of the cemetery to think. He brushed back his sandy brown hair, pushing away his perspiration. The long draping hair in style for his age made it unbearable in the summer months. Most guys his age sported a mustache but Brian could only rub at peach fuzz. His mother would always say he looked so much like a younger version of his father. Thinking about that now made tears well up around his green eyes. It was bad enough to bury your father but worse when you knew as little of him as Brian did. Should he even be so saddened by the loss of a stranger? The crowd slowly left the plot, but one remained and it pulled him from his despair. He had not recognized the man from earlier, but he had waited long after to say his respects. Brian couldn’t place him as one of his father’s fellow soldier, officers, or friends, at least not the ones he had ever met. He was tall and thin, dressed fairly well even if slightly out of date. His hair was dark and slicked back, it made him look professional even in this dreary place. Brian watched and the man leaned down and placed something small upon the headstone.

He was curious to see the gift that had been left there. He stood from the bench, brushing off his slacks as the clouds above him turned dark. Droplets tapped on his jacket, this causing him to look upward. He cursed to himself, the day becoming even grimmer than he had first thought it to be. Brian hurried for the headstone, the rain coming quickly. There was no choice but to pull his jacket over his head as the drops began to pelt him. As he looked up from shielding himself from the weather he noticed the man was gone. Once he reached the grave he looked in each direction to find no trace of his father’s last visitor. Then turning his eyes down, there sat upon the granite, was a golden coin. Etched deep in the coin was a star, unlike any Brian had ever seen. It was rough and jagged, with the metal curled up at each point. It was obviously to Brian that it had been done with a rough instrument, not machinery and appeared to be very old. He quickly stuffed the trinket into his pocket before sprinting toward his car for shelter. He looked for the man as he exited but saw no trace of him.

The family home sat empty for about six months before they had a potential buyer, Brian’s mother had put it up for sale claiming the memories were more than she could bare. Brian helped her find a small apartment that better suited their needs. He would be off to college soon but he wanted to make sure he had everything taken care of before-hand. His mother still wasn’t quite ready for him to go and Brian knew this but he also had a life that had been put on pause ever since his father’s death. He wanted to make all of this as easy as possible and even offered to clean out the old house, so his mother wouldn’t have to go back. He selfishly had his own reasons for wanting to go back, though. He had always wanted to see what hid behind the door of his father’s study. It had been a place he had so often been warned clear of. This was his opportunity to learn a little bit about the man he seldom ever saw.

It took a few weeks to get the majority of the house packed away in boxes. Most wouldn’t be making the move to the apartment. It is amazing how many things a family can accumulate over the years. What they needed would come with Brian, some would be sold, and others donated. There was one room left and it had been saved for last intentionally, granting him time to investigate. He rarely saw his mother even enter the study, save for letting his father know when dinner was ready. His had shook slightly as he reached for the shiny bronze knob, remnants of days when the effort could lead to an arguement. He honestly had no idea what he would find. Then steeling his nerves, the knob turned and the door gave way. It was underwhelming at best. A small wooden desk with a lamp, a leather arm chair tucked in the corner, a large book shelf upon one wall, and file cabinets on the other. A window behind the desk illuminated the only mystery of the room, his father’s work. Brian’s hands feathered at the papers, mostly news articles and files that hadn’t been returned to their place. He picked them up and shuffled through them before placing them in a storage box.

After clearing out the file cabinets and removing the books from all the shelves Brian took to the desk. Each drawer filled their own box and he neatly printed, “Dad’s Study” on each one. Bending down, he reached for the last drawer at the bottom. To door fought back and an audible “CLINK” was heard. “Damn, locked,” Brian huffed. He dug through his pockets for the set of keys his mother had given him. It took a few minutes, shuffling through two dozen keys before finding one that would fit. Brian paused for a moment before opening it. Standing there in a once forbidden room, opening the only thing that was locked was almost adventurous. He could feel a smile play on his lips, like a pirate opening a chest surely full of treasure.

As the drawer opened, Brian’s eyes fell on something less than astonishing. The most notable item, at first glance, was the bottle of scotch and the glass to accompany it. He had never witnessed his father drink and could not recall a time there had been any in the home. He smirked a little at the thought of his dad sneaking a drink those late nights in here alone. He lifted the bottle and glass, sitting on the desk before removing the only other content of the drawer. It was a thick leather-bound folder, a leather binding wrapped around then looped closed upon a coin that had been fastened as a make-shift button. He reached to his pocket and removed the coin he had retrieved from his father’s grave stone and noticed the resemblance.

He placed the folder down next to the bottle of scotch, tapping a finger upon it. The dim remnants of the day began to fade away and soon he found himself flicking on the old desk lamp and leaning over the folder. He wondered why something so simple had been hidden away from the world and why the man had left another at his father’s grave. He wondered if anything inside might give him some insight into why his father was the way he had been and who the man was at the funeral. He let his childhood memories fill his mind as he reached for the bottle, trying to recall if he might have met this person at some point. The cap turned freely and the amber liquid soon half-filled the glass, remembering the last time he was scolded for attempting to enter this room. Brian lifted it and turned it in his hand, the light refracting through the liquor and tinting the desk ahead. He took a quick sip, the burning drawn down his throat before placing the glass down and grabbing for the folder. Unwinding the fastening and laying it open he was greeted by a collection of various things. First was an envelope, then a journal, and a stack of smaller files that included their own stacks of paper. He lifted the envelope and took another sip of scotch before pulling a wrinkly, yellowed letter from within the matching envelope. He instantly recognized the writing, even behind the stains of dirt and grime it was shadows of his father. This thumb caressed the page as he stood up from the desk, shoving the coin down in his pocket for later. The grabbed the glass and downed a quick swig while reading what appeared to be a letter to his mother. He had seen many of these that his mother kept, but not this one. It had never even been mailed and that made it even more interesting.

''August 15, 1944

We have taken the beaches along the Riviera, the locals keep calling it something else I can’t pronounce. My Sergeant said that the Germans where weakened already and that this was going to be an easy fight. He must have been in the shit awhile, since this was his idea of easy. I found moments of fear, I can’t lie, but we are alright now, I think. We lost a few men and Wilkins seems to think that will be the worst of it. He’s been here longer than me, so I have to trust his word on that one. The main reason I am writing is I saw something I wanted to get down on paper. I have heard stories of men losing it out here and seeing things that aren’t there. I don’t know if I really saw him and I haven’t told anyone else about it for that very reason. I just need record of it and hopefully make sense of it when I’m out of here, that is, if I get out of here. We were passing through an area near Cannes and at a half-destroyed café I saw him sitting at a table, sipping coffee, just like any other Tuesday evening. He even seemed to ignore the troops that passed him by, just as much as the troops ignored him. Then he suddenly noticed me, raised his glass as if toasting, and took a sip. He gave me that smile again. There is no reasonable explanation for him being here, half a world away from where I saw him just a month ago but there he was. Scratch was here and I have no idea why.

PFC Rick Sawyer''

Brian sat back down, still holding the letter, wrinkles forming on his forehead. He had never heard the name Scratch before, maybe it was a nickname of someone his father once knew. He pondered this as he laid the letter down and began to unwrap the leather binding upon the folder. As it fell open, the first page was just words in series. Something like you would do if you were brainstorming an essay. “Scratch, Coin, Robert Johnson, Mississippi,” is how it started and articles had been folded up in the creases of the book. Brian pressed them open to reveal a message that had information about a young black man dying in Greenwood, Mississippi. At the bottom of the page was two drawings, one that resembled the coin that Brian now possessed and the other looked remarkably like the man he had seen at his father’s funeral. “Scratch,” Brian read the words under the image and wondered if it really was the same man. He seemed to have stumbled on his mystery and it was getting interesting. He had finished his glass without realizing and tried to pour nothing but air down his gullet. He shook his head a bit before refilling his glass and taking a bit down. Turning the page he found directions that would lead someone from Cincinnati, Ohio, all the way to Greenwood, Mississippi. He scanned down the page, noting each turn and once it ended he turned the page again. Again, folded between the pages, there was more paper that unfolded into road maps. The highways had markings on them in pen as if someone had been keeping track of their destination. He thought about asking his mother about any road trips down south, but he was afraid it might upset her. The following page had more notes, each line including names and statements. The whole page and the following seemed to be from interviews that his father had conducted once reaching his destination.

''David Pellum, 44 – October 2, 1950 (Greenwood, MS)

According to witness, Robert Johnson was murdered by a man that had caught him sleeping with his wife. Local police reports do not suggest this.

Bobby Wyatt, 39 – October 3, 1950 (Greemwood, MS)

Common rumors say that Robert Johnson made a deal with the devil. His talent was “unnatural”. – “Scratch”?

Regina Moore, 32 – October 3, 1950 (Greenwood, MS)

Rumor has that the deal was made 60 miles north of here, Clarksdale, MS.

Willie Brown, 62 – October 4, 1950  (Greenwood, MS)

Received directions to an intersection, HWY 61 and 49, Clarksdale, MS. “Devil’s Crossroads”''

''Intersection 61/49 – October 5, 1950 (Clarksdale, MS)

Two roads intersecting but nothing of note. No sign of Scratch.

Patrons at Abe’s Bar-B-Q – October 5, 1950 (Clarksdale, MS)

Most people were hesitant to even speak to me and I didn’t get many answers. No one knows more than I learned back in Greenwood and no one has heard of a man named Scratch. Owner suggests I speak to the musicians that perform at the local club.

After speaking musicians who knew or knew of Robert Johnson I am inclined to believe the rumors but have hit a dead end on my leads. No one knows Scratch, but a few of them have noted a man by that description frequenting the club.''

Brian sat amazed at the continuing list of names and statements, unsure of what to make of it. Everything pointed to a completely impossible notion and that was his father had been looking for the Devil, himself, in Mississippi, of all places. The liquor warmed his throat again as he shook his head. He paused and scanned the now empty room for a moment before letting a little chuckle out. This had to be a joke and it was simply left to taunt him, Brian thought. He flipped through the pages, scanning the notes and unfolding newspaper articles that had been left sporadically throughout the journal. All of them seemed to point toward the same fact and the more he read the more he began to worry. Small sketches became regular occurrences at the bottom of his entries. Most of them where symbols that meant nothing to Brian. When he reached the final entry Brian almost spat his newly consumed scotch. It was another letter, but it was directed to Brian.

''“Dear Son,

I know that if you are reading this it may very well be too late, but I would like to start with an apology. I have not been the father you needed or deserved. I have made many mistakes in my life, but know that you are not one of them. Do not ever let my actions or lack-there-of take away from your experience in this life. I wish the best for you, always. If you have taken the time to read these passages and feel like your old man has become crazy, I would understand completely. Trust me in this, there is evil out there and even though you never truly understood when I said so, please listen to me now. Do not go looking for Scratch. There are some things you cannot undo and I would not wish that on you for anything. If he approaches you, for the love of God, do not make him a deal. The price is true great and you will not be able to repay it. Learn from what I have said here in this journal and please stay safe.

I love you, Dad”''

Brian had turned into a drunken, sobbing mess upon finishing the letter. He had so many questions that where unanswered but the one that meant the most had been finalized in his farewell. “My father loved me,” he whispered to the dark, wiping away the years of uncertainty that had drenched his cheeks. He placed the letter, the journal, and the bottle into a box before scribbling the word, “Brian’s” on the lid. 