Quaint Old Verona

Part 2

When I arrived home, father was sitting in the parlor, flipping through some of his business papers and obsessively smoothing his handlebar mustache. We gave each other a hard time, but deep down, I respected the man. He always had an air of business around him. If a problem failed to threaten his company, then he paid it no mind. He made no decision in his life without thinking about the well-being of his corporate endeavors. In 1858, Mother started to believe that France's Napoleon III had fallen madly in love with her. She believed in her delusions so much that she would faint from thinking about what Father might do to her dear Napoleon had he ever caught them together. It was obvious that Mother's mind was going, so Father had a decision to make. It was either hire someone to bring my mother down from her histrionics or send her to an asylum. After three days of deliberating, Father sent poor Mother to a sanitorium in upstate New York. His reason was that he did not want to chance Mother relapsing in front of any potential business associates. Father showed no remorse for taking my mother out of our home. I'm sure he loved Mother and me, but he certainly loved his career more.

Our initial greetings were short and to the point. I was tired from a long day on the train, and Father had work to finish. We agreed to eat dinner together later that night to catch up. He wanted to know about my time in the 28th Regiment, and I wanted to tell him about the work opportunities out west.

Later that evening, we both sat down to a fine meal that Father's maid prepared for us. After the wine began to flow, our dinner's painful silence turned into light conversation. When I told Father about my wasted adventure in Elmira, he seemed pleased.

"Now that you have some life experience under your belt, you can come and work for me," said father. "Being my son, you will have a job directly under me so you can learn the tricks of the trade for when I can't run the company anymore."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Father," I said. "There is work out west, and I plan to inquire about the job tomorrow."

My father's face turned blood red. He slammed his fists on the table, and his slender frame erupted from his chair. He fumed as he looked all around. Perhaps he had to restrain himself from strangling me because then he'd certainly be out of an heir.

"No kin of mine is going out to that Hell-hole," Father angrily whispered.

"With all due respect Father, I am a man and do not take orders from you. I want to live my life with some purpose before I settle down," I said, defending myself.

My statement only infuriated him more. He slammed his fist on the table again and then brushed a few plates into the wall.

"You will reconsider this stupid dream of yours, Ezekiel Townsend."

"No, Father. I am going," I said again. I crossed my arms to signal that I was not budging on this issue.

In an instant, Father's original color returned. He smoothed his silver hair out, brushed off his dark-colored suit, and sat back in his seat.

"Fine," he said, intensely looking me in the eye, "go have your adventure. You will ruin your life just as you have ruined your employment opportunity with my corporation. Good night Zeke, I wish you good fortune." Father then stood up and almost bowed to me as he left for his room. I soon finished the rest of my food and left the dining room as well.

The following morning, I dressed in my finest suit, combed my hair, and shaved my face. I wanted to look my best in case I had any competition. While enjoying my morning coffee, I took a closer look at the poster I pulled from the rail station. On the bottom of the page, the advert read, if interested, visit the Weston Office on Twentieth across from the City Gas Works. I finally had the destination necessary to start my new quest.

The unpleasant exchange with my father the night before ruined my chipper attitude towards the day but did not deter me from my aspirations. We only lived a few blocks from the City Gas Works, so I walked to clear my head of Father's harsh words. The only building across from the Gas Works was a dilapidated wooden shack. The door was hanging from a rope hinge, the windows were busted out, and debris was strung around the edifice. A crudely painted sign hung loosely over the door that said Weston Office.

When I entered the shabby establishment, an old man sat behind the clerk's desk. He was so buried in his work that he failed to notice when I entered the room, so I rang the bell on his counter. The ancient-looking fellow jumped a mile out of his shoes.

"Can I help you?" his voice creaked as if he hadn't used it in thirty years.

"Yes, I am here about this," I handed him the flier from the train station.

His shaky hand clutched the poster centimeters from his face as he perused the words.

"Ah, yes, of course," he said as he eyed me from behind the paper. "Are you up for an adventure, sir?"

I perked up with the man's question, "Sir, I have been looking for an adventure my entire life. Can you tell me about this job? What exactly will I be doing?"

"There is this little settlement in the Arizona Territory called Verona. I have never been there myself, but I hear it is nice enough for a community of consumptives. They are in need of a sheriff. There is very little crime in the town, as far as I know, but they want someone to help them feel safe," the old man explained.

"Didn't they have a sheriff before?" I asked.

The man shuffled to a nearby shelf, the only other piece of furniture in the room beside his desk and the chairs we sat on. He plunked a massive business ledger on the table and dragged his finger up and down the pages.

"The Settlement of Verona has had two different sheriffs. One was a consumptive they elected from among themselves, so he likely died. The second lawman disappeared without a trace," the old man read as he slammed the book closed. "So, do you want the job?"

I mulled over the strange feeling I received from the second sheriff's disappearance. Perhaps he got tired of looking after a bunch of sick people and left. Maybe he displeased some local natives, and they did away with him. Whatever the reason, I finally deduced that a colony of people waiting to die from tuberculosis could not be that dangerous.

"I accept the position, sir," I said as I reached out to shake the man's hand. He stared down his nose at my outstretched paw and shewed it from his workstation. He then spread a few sheets of paper across his desk. He scribbled on them for a minute, had me sign two copies of each, and sent me on my way. I now possessed a train voucher to Arizona, a certificate stating my new authority, and a badge as a symbol of my new office. Sheriff of Verona, read the polished symbol of my newfound adventure.