The Crossroads

by Chris Grabenstein

  He felt like a burger-craving zombie again.

  A zombie who would do anything this guy asked him to.

  Anything at all.

  “So what do you want to do today, sweetie?”

  On Monday morning, Judy and Zack ate cereal in the breakfast nook. His father had left for the train station and the commute to his law firm in New York City long before either one of them was awake. It was their first morning alone together in the big house. They were sticking to cold breakfast foods. Judy had almost started another fire using aluminum foil in the microwave.

  “Nothing,” Zack said, slurping his cereal. “Probably just, you know, hang out with Davy.”

  “Who’s Davy?”

  “This guy I met.”

  “Really? Does he live around here?”

  “Yep. Right across the highway. On the farm.”

  “Have fun, but be careful, okay?”

  “We will.”

  Judy tried to remember all the things her mother used to say when she went outside to play.

  “Look both ways if you cross the street. Don’t run around with scissors. And…”

  “I won’t take any candy from strangers.”

  “Good. I knew I forgot one.”

  “So Judy’s your stepmother, hunh?” Davy asked while Zack hammered a two-by-four into the tree.

  They had decided to go ahead and build a tree house. Zack had found a few boards piled up in the garage—wood left over from when the house was built.

  “Yeah,” Zack said, “she’s kind of new at it and all. But she’s not wicked or anything. Not like the stepmothers in Disney cartoons.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Davy said. “Where’s your real mom?”

  “Dead.”

  “Sorry, pardner. I didn’t know. I just figured your folks got divorced or what have you.”

  “She had cancer. Smoked too many cigarettes.”

  “Dang coffin nails. Reckon you miss her, hunh?”

  “I guess,” Zack said, but then he realized that maybe he could tell Davy the truth. “Well, actually, I don’t really miss her all that much.”

  “Is that so?”

  Zack shrugged. “My mother never really liked me.”

  “I see.”

  “She used to say I ruined her life.”

  “Dang.”

  “That’s why she always wanted to run away from home. Sometimes she would, too. She’d rent a room in a hotel and disappear for a couple days. And when she was home? She’d stay in bed until three or four in the afternoon. I’d come home from school and she’d still be sleeping. If I woke her up, she’d just tell me to leave her alone and light another cigarette because I was driving her crazy.”

  “Sounds like a dern sad lady.”

  “I guess. I didn’t mean to mess her up like I did.”

  “Zack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I ain’t no Seigfried Freud, but I don’t reckon you’re the one what messed her up.”

  “No?”

  “No, sir. I reckon she got that way long before you came along. You got enough nails there, pardner?”

  “Yep.” Zack stuck a nail in his mouth and held it between his lips, just like he had seen a carpenter do on TV once. He was glad he’d told Davy the truth. It felt good to finally have a friend, somebody he could actually talk with.

  “Ladder’s lookin’ galdern good,” Davy said.

  “Unh-hunh.”

  “I figure we oughta work our way up to that crook there,” Davy said, placing his hands on his hips and studying the tree. “Then we should start laying in some floorboards.”

  “Unh-hunh,” Zack said, concentrating on his hammering. “We’ll need more wood.”

  “My pops said we could take all we need from out behind the barn.”

  “Cool!”

  “Uh-oh,” Davy said. “Cheese it. Looks like we got company.”

  Zack saw a big black Cadillac pull off the highway.

  “It’s her!”

  “Who?”

  “The old lady!” Zack whispered. “The Wicked Witch I told you about.”

  Zipper grumbled softly.

  “Quick!” said Davy. “Over there! We can hide behind them sticker bushes and spy on her! We’ll be like Davy Crockett scoutin’ out the Injuns!”

  “Okay,” Zack said.

  Hanging out with Davy was fun.

  Even when it was sort of scary, it was still fun.

  Gerda Spratling had not seen her roadside memorial since the thunderstorm.

  “Dear God in heaven!” She scrabbled up the path into the forest.

  “Mr. Willoughby?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Call the police! Call them now!”

  “The police, Miss Spratling?”

  “Some vandal has chopped down my tree!”

  “Is something wrong?” Judy came into the clearing near the stump. She had been in the backyard gardening when she heard an old lady screaming for the police. “Are you all right?”

  “The tree!” Miss Spratling gasped. “What goes on here?”

  “Lightning.”

  “What?”

  “The tree was hit by lightning.”

  “Impossible.”

  “No, not really. Sure, the odds are like a billion to one, but every now and then the lightning gets lucky.”

  “What? How dare you make fun of my memorial!”

  Judy realized who the woman had to be and felt terrible.

  “Um—are you Gerda Spratling?”

  Miss Spratling fell to her knees.

  “I am so sorry,” said Judy.

  The elderly lady stretched out her trembling arms and tried to wrap them around the stump.

  “We just moved in last week and…”

  The old woman wailed.

  “We found the cross and flower bucket….”

  She wailed louder.

  “I was going to plant some flowers back here. Make a memorial garden.”

  The wailing stopped.

  “You were?” Miss Spratling sniffled back a tear.

  “Yes.”

  Of course Judy was lying, but she had to say something or the old lady kneeling in the dirt might give herself a heart attack, and one heart attack a week was enough for any backyard.

  “I thought a small garden might make up for the terrible loss of your tree.”

  The old lady’s face softened. Her head tilted down toward her shoulder.

  “How very kind of you, dear.”

  Judy knelt beside the stump and started digging a hole between two huge roots.

  “A memorial garden will make Clint’s shrine even more glorious!” said Miss Spratling. “They ran him off the road, you know.”

  “Really?” Judy scooped out more dirt.

  “Oh, yes. June 21, 1958. I will never forget.” Miss Spratling stood and dusted leaf crumbs off her black dress. “You’re very kind to do this for Clint. What’s your name, dear?”

  “Judy. Judy Magruder. Or you can call me Judy Jennings. I’m a newlywed.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I just married George Jennings. His father used to be the sheriff up here.”

  Judy was too busy planting the flowers to see the old lady’s smile curl down into a frown.

  “Really? My, my, my. Judy Jennings? What a lovely, lovely name.”

  Zack, Davy, and Zipper tromped through the cornfield on the far side of the highway.

  The sun had bleached the dead stalks to a watery shade of brown. As they slogged across the muddy field, Zack’s socks squished.

  “How much farther?”

  “Well, pardner, the lumber pile’s clear up yonder. Out behind the barn. Sure is a swell day for a hike, though, ain’t it?”

  The air was thick, bugs were buzzing around his ankles and his eyes, the smell of rotten cornstalks baking in the sun was everywhere, and Zack couldn’t even see a barn.

  Just swell.

  “Don’t this dang meado
w smell sweet?”

  “I guess,” Zack said. He thought Davy had a funny way of talking.

  Must come from growing up on a farm or coming from Kentucky.

  But Zack didn’t mind. He liked Davy, even when he used weird words like “swell” and “keen.” Or when he called him “pardner” or “sport.” Sure beat being “Barbie.”

  “Maybe we ought to skirt up there alongside the road. Stick to the shade under them trees.”

  “Good idea,” said Zack, slapping at some kind of bug burrowing into his ear.

  “I figure if we can lay in the tree house floor this afternoon, we’ll be off to a swell start,” said Davy as they trekked through the trees. “We’ll build us a regular crow’s nest. Just like a pack of pirates!”

  “Yeah! We can make people walk the plank and stuff!”

  “Sure. It’ll be swell!”

  They stepped into a sunny spot.

  A man blocked their path.

  A businessman dressed in a brown suit with a white handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket. He was wearing a hat like Zack had seen in old movies. A fedora, they called it.

  “Hey there, fellers!” The businessman leaned into the sunlight. “Off on a scavenger hunt?” There was a boxy sample case sitting on the ground near his shiny shoes. He carried a raincoat tucked under his arm—even though there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

  “I heard you two are building a tree fort!” said the businessman. “Well, boys, I’m the top aluminum-siding salesman in these parts. Clarence W. Billings is my name and—”

  “We don’t need no galdern aluminum siding,” said Davy.

  “We’re just building a tree house,” added Zack.

  “So leave us be, tin man!”

  “Easy, son. Easy. What if I told you fellers you don’t have to hike across the highway all the livelong day to fetch your lumber?”

  “What do you mean?” Davy put his hands on his hips.

  “Well, son, I couldn’t help but notice all the building supplies stacked on the other side of the road at those construction sites.”

  “So?”

  “Well, son, those are what we in the construction trade call scrap piles. Feller can help himself to all the scrap he wants. All the boards and plywood out front of those brand-new bungalows? That’s yours and free for the taking.”

  Davy was intrigued. “Is that so?”

  “Darn tootin’,” said the salesman.

  Zack scratched a fresh mosquito bite behind his knee. “Might save us a lot of marching through the mud, Davy.”

  “You’re right there, pardner.”

  The aluminum-siding salesman rocked gently on his heels, widened his smile.

  Davy nodded at the businessman. “Well, sir, I reckon you ain’t a bad egg after all.”

  “Just trying to lend a hand, son.” The salesman tipped his hat. “Say, now, I wonder if you two fellers might do me a little favor. Make everything square between us?”

  “What kind of favor?” Davy asked.

  Zack’s heart beat faster. This stranger could be one of those men his father warned him about. The ones who wanted you to climb into their cars.

  “Tell me, boys: Have you seen that dag-blasted stump over on the other side of the road?”

  “Sure,” said Davy.

  “Well, we already talked to this one feller about taking it out, but he couldn’t finish the job. Had him a heart attack. But you boys—well, you’re young and strong and I bet you could figure out a way to rip that stump right out of the ground! Yes, sir, I wager—”

  “Run for it, Zack!” Davy yelled.

  Zack, Davy, and Zipper tore through the trees. They ran down the embankment, crossed the highway, and made it to the far side of the road.

  “See you later, alligator!” Davy shouted with a laugh.

  “Boys?” Billings called after them.

  But the boys were gone.

  “Encouraging children to steal, Mr. Billings? Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

  The businessman turned and saw a nun standing next to him. She carried a small traveling valise.

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures, Sister.”

  “Stealing is a sin.”

  “But…”

  “Do not despair. That boy is the chosen one.”

  “You sure about that? He looks kind of puny. Glasses are awful thick, too.”

  “He will do what needs to be done,” the nun said serenely. “Zachary Jennings will not let us down.”

  Zack and Davy sat with their legs dangling over the edge of their tree platform.

  Zack had just nailed down a sheet of plywood they had found in one of the scrap piles up Stonebriar Road. Since the floor of their tree house was only ten feet high, Zack had been able to carry Zipper up with him.

  “We should build Zipper an elevator,” Davy suggested.

  “How?”

  “Rig up a bucket on a rope. Loop it off that branch.”

  “Hey, cool. Great idea.”

  Zipper barked his approval of the plan.

  It was close to six p.m. The first day of work was finished. Zack had never felt so good about anything in his life.

  “This is awesome,” he said, taking in the view.

  “I’ll say. Why, you can see just about everything from up here!”

  “Yep.”

  “Yes, sir,” Davy sighed. “You can even see the stuff you wish you couldn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Davy gestured at Judy’s freshly planted flowers circling the ten-foot-wide stump.

  “‘Ring around the rosies, a pocketful of posies,’” said Davy. “Kind of ruins everything.”

  “Really?”

  “Frilly little flowers? Docked so dadgum close to our pirate ship? Shoot, anybody driving by will think this is some kind of girl’s tree house.”

  “Wow. I never thought about it that way.”

  “Me neither. Not till we climbed on up. But it just sort of hits you right between the peepers when you’re perched here, don’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Zack said. “I guess so.”

  “And that white wooden cross? That makes it look like we’re back here playing Bible camp! Jiminy Christmas, I wish we could just tear it down, pull up the flowers, and rip that dadgum stump clear out of the ground. The whole thing razzes my berries.”

  “Yeah,” Zack said. “Razzes my berries, too.”

  “That Mr. Billings feller was right. We need to get rid of it.”

  “Yeah,” Zack agreed. “But how?”

  Billy O’Claire sat in a booth choking down his third double cheeseburger.

  The burgers were juicy and the first two had been okay, especially with a large side of fries. The third, however, tasted like what it was: about a half pound of cooked cow.

  Billy belched. “Oh, man.”

  His stomach hurt. He’d also inhaled three chocolate shakes in less than fifteen minutes.

  “Finish my burger!” said a nagging voice inside his head. “I haven’t had one in fifty years!”

  Billy took another weary bite. Tried to mash the meat and bread around in his mouth. It was becoming more of a chore with every chew.

  He had never been much of a burger guy before. He was more into pizza. Nachos. Buffalo wings.

  But it had been nothing but cheeseburgers, fries, and milk shakes since he had met the guy with the slicked-back hair.

  Billy still didn’t know why the guy kept showing up. He just knew he’d be back soon because tonight was the night he wanted to meet Billy’s grandmother: Mary O’Claire.

  Zack’s father didn’t come home until nine p.m. on Monday, his first day commuting to his office in the city.

  Judy propped open the lid on a cardboard pizza box.

  “Sorry it’s cold.”

  “I’m sorry I had to work so late. It’s this meeting next week in Malaysia.”

  “Well,” said Judy, “if you’re traveling halfway around the world, it’s probably smart to do
your homework before you leave home.”

  “Guess how long I’ll be on airplanes?”

  “As long as you’ll be in Malaysia?”

  “Close. The meeting lasts two days. The flight takes nineteen hours—each way.”

  “Ouch. Better pack a good book.”

  “I think I’d better pack the whole library.”

  Zack sat on his stool, hoping his father and Judy wouldn’t start yelling at each other like his father and his real mother always used to do whenever his father worked late. Those arguments would start over long hours at the office and eventually lead back to Zack.

  “You’re the one who wanted children!” his mother would scream. In fact, his mother had managed to work that particular line into any argument, no matter what it was about: “You don’t like how I spend money? Fine! You’re the one who wanted children!”

  Zack worried that Judy might start feeling the same way. She might end up hating Zack because she was the one stuck in Connecticut taking care of him and he wasn’t even her real kid!

  He had to do something. Fast. He had to change the subject before the newlyweds tumbled into their first argument and figured out who the real problem was: Him!

  “We started building a tree house today!” he blurted out. “Me and Davy.”

  Judy and his father stared at him.

  “Who’s Davy?” his father asked.

  “A neat guy who lives on a farm across the highway.”

  “Can’t wait to meet him,” his father said, balancing a limp piece of soggy pizza.

  “Me too,” Judy added.

  Zipper crawled out from under the table, sat back on his haunches, and raised his front paws.

  “Hmmm,” said Zack’s father, “looks like somebody else around here likes cold pizza. You know, in law school, we used to eat cold pizza for breakfast and—”

  “What was that?” said Judy. “Did you see that?”

  “What?” Zack climbed off his stool.

  “I saw a light. It went swinging by the window.”

  “Could be a car,” George said, his mouth full of chewy cheese. “Down on the highway with its headlights aimed wrong.” He peeled off a pepperoni and presented it to Zipper, who wasn’t interested anymore. The dog scampered over to the window.

  “There it is!” Judy said. “See? In the trees? Looks like a flashlight. Come on—let’s go investigate.”