The Crossroads (10 page)

That night,
Clint Eberhart sought out the plumber.

The one to do all the things I can't do myself.

Eberhart was slowly adjusting to his new “condition.” By day, he was vapor invisible to all except children with very vivid imaginations. By night, he could freely roam the earth in his former body and car. But in both instances his physical abilities were severely limited.

In fact, he couldn't do anything.

He couldn't eat.

He couldn't fight.

All he could do was materialize, prowl in the shadows, and make noises.

Of course, at night he could scare the pants off just about anybody. Why, he could give an old man with a chain saw a heart attack if he timed his fade-in just so.

But if he wanted to take care of any unfinished business, Clint Eberhart would need a good pair of human hands.

So he picked the plumber.

 

The pickup
truck was parked on the soft shoulder of the highway near the crossroads.

Billy O'Claire sat up front, staring at the blinking red light. Listening to the crickets. Swatting the mosquitoes nibbling at his neck. After a solid smack and a squish, he checked his watch.

It was almost exactly the same time as it had been that night when he'd seen the motorcycle cop standing in the crossroads. Billy took a sip from a two-liter bottle of soda. He wanted to be wide awake when the mystery man reappeared.

He knotted his eyes and stared straight ahead. “I double-dog dare you to show your face again!”

Well, not his face. He hadn't really shown it that first time, since the cop didn't
have
a face. Billy wondered how he kept his sunglasses in place without a nose for them to sit on. He also wondered why he wore sunglasses in the middle of the night.

Somebody pulled in behind Billy.

He turned around, looked out his rear window. He didn't see any headlights, but he could make out the shadowy silhouette of a wide-bodied convertible. None of his friends drove classic convertibles with tail fins.

Goose bumps exploded on his arms. It felt like somebody was outside his truck looking in.

Slowly, barely moving, Billy turned to his left.

A man with slicked-back black hair was staring at him. Grinning.

“Hey there,” the man said, his voice raw and raspy.

“Who are you?” Billy asked.

“Someone just passing through.”

Billy looked into the guy's eyes. Man—they were so blue. Like the plates at the diner.

“So, plumber—what's your name?”

“Billy.”

“Billy what?”

“O'Claire.”

That seemed to startle the man.

“You from around here?” he asked.

“Lived here my whole life.”

“And you say you're an O'Claire?”

“Been one of those my whole life, too.”

“What's your father's name?”

“Tommy O'Claire.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He died a long time ago. Maybe you know my Mee Maw.”

“Your what?”

“My grandmother. Mary O'Claire.”

Now the strange dude looked angry.

“Mary O'Claire? Is her family from up near Spencer?”

“I don't know. I could ask her, I guess.”

“She's alive? She didn't die in 1958?”

Billy laughed. “Well, uh, no—I don't think so. I just saw her the other day and she didn't look dead.”

The man with the plastered-back hair leaned closer to the door.

“You're a wisenheimer, hunh?”

“A what?”

“Where can I find her? Where's young Mary O'Claire hiding?”

“Young?” This guy was cracking Billy up. “I told you, dude—she's my
grandmother
. She lives in the old folks home. Guess what? That means she's
old
.”

The guy made the pupils floating inside his eyes go wider, turned them into hypnotic sinkholes. Billy felt drowsy, like he needed to take a nap.

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.”