Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“No thanks, ma’am. We need to head on back. Pops just wanted to meet my new buddy, Zack.”

“Yep.”

“Well, it was very nice to meet you both,” said Judy.

“It was swell meeting you, too, Mrs. J. Zack sure is lucky to have such a nice new mom. Pretty as a galdern picture postcard, too.”

“Well, aren’t you the little charmer?”

“No, ma’am. I just call ’em like I see ’em. See you tomorrow, Zack!”

The old farmer nodded and touched his straw hat to say “So long.” He and Davy disappeared into the shadows.

“Nice boy,” Zack’s father said.

“Sure is,” said Zack.

“Do all the kids up here talk that way?”

“Nope. Just Davy. He’s a farmer. And he was born in Kentucky.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I’m glad I met him,” Judy said, draping an arm across Zack’s shoulder. “He seems like a great guy.”

“He is. Oh—guess what? He told me he loves cherry Kool-Aid.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“I was a grape man myself,” Zack’s dad said as he rested his hand on Zack’s other shoulder. “Used to pour the powder on my tongue straight from the pouch!”

“Well,” said Judy, “I haven’t had any kind of galdern Kool-Aid in ages, but maybe I could pick some up at the galdern store.”

“That would be swell,” said Zack. “Just swell.”

“Oh, Daddy! The son has come home!”

Gerda Spratling tottered around her bed in the mansion’s library.

Mondays were always difficult. This, however, was the worst Monday ever. Today she had learned that the loathsome sheriff’s son had come home to haunt her.

Miss Spratling’s life had ended when her fiancé, Clint Eberhart, was killed in the crossroads. It ended again twenty-five years later when her father committed suicide. Death surrounded Gerda Spratling. Her whole life was nothing now but a long, slow crawl toward the grave, where she prayed she would be reunited with the two men she had lost.

Memories and anger. That was all she had left, all that dragged her out of bed every morning.

But George Jennings? He must be so happy. Married to that pretty young thing with the flowers. Moving into a handsome new home.

She stared up at the highest bookshelf, at the rolling ladder, up to where her father had hanged himself.

“Sheriff Jennings made you do it, Daddy! I know he did!” She lurched across the room toward the ladder and wrapped one bony hand around a rung to hoist herself up.

“Daddy? Can you hear me? Daddy?”

Her foot slipped. She banged her chin against the sharp edge of a step. Warm blood trickled where she had bitten into her lip.

“Miss Spratling?”

Sharon rushed into the room and saw Miss Spratling sprawled out on the floor. “Let’s get you up from there, ma’am.”

“Get your hands off me, girl! Bring me my book!”

Sharon found the antique Bible on the bedside table and handed it to Miss Spratling. The old woman pried open the cracked leather cover and quickly located her most cherished passage.

Exodus. Chapter thirty-four. Verse seven.

The only words in the whole Bible that gave her any comfort:

“He does not leave the guilty unpunished; He punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation.”

To the third and fourth generation.

That meant God would punish the son for what his father, the sheriff, had done. God would also punish the son’s son, the little brat with the filthy dog.

Miss Spratling only prayed that God would let her help.

Billy pulled his pickup truck into the parking lot of the old folks’ home a little before midnight.

The guy with the slicked-back hair wasn’t with him. He didn’t cruise along behind Billy’s truck in the phantom Thunderbird. He didn’t even show himself.

He didn’t have to do any of that anymore.

He and Billy had become one. Some kind of transference had taken place, and Clint Eberhart’s soul was able to slide into Billy’s body to take full control of everything the plumber said or did.

Billy stepped out of his truck and made his way to the bushes outside his grandmother’s bedroom window.

“Mee Maw?” Billy rapped his knuckles against the window. He could see her bed on the far side of the room, as far from the window as possible.

“Mee Maw?” Billy tapped louder. His thumb ring pinged sharply against the glass. “Open the window.”

He sensed movement underneath the blankets. Saw her small white head turn on the pillow. She was only half-awake but staring straight at him. He held up a box of oatmeal pies.

“I brung you Little Debbies, Mee Maw,” he said. “A whole dozen!”

His grandmother beamed. “Billy? Is that you?”

“Yes, ma’am, Mee Maw!” His smile looked more like a leer.

“Such a dear, sweet boy.”

Mee Maw slowly crawled out of bed, found her slippers, and shuffled to the window.

“Well done, Billy boy,” said the voice inside Billy’s head. “Well done.”

Mary O’Claire sat perched on her bed, nibbling a spongy oatmeal pie.

She smelled the familiar scent.

Brylcreem.

“Who are you?” she muttered to her grandson.

“Me? Why, I’m your grandson. Billy O’Claire.” The young man, who didn’t sound at all like Billy tonight, sat in an orange vinyl chair next to her bed.

“You’re not my grandson!”

“Yes, I am. I’m Billy! Your grown-up grandbaby.”

“No. You may look like Billy, but that’s not who you really are!”

“Is that so?” The evil spirit inside Billy’s body made his wicked grin grow wider. “Well, then, who do you think I am?”

Mary trembled. “You’re him .”

“Him who ?”

Mary put one hand to her chest. She felt her ribs tighten and squeeze most of the air out of her lungs. She knew who was sitting in the room with her.

“You’re my husband,” she gasped. “Clint Eberhart. I can see his evil in your eyes.”

“Well, well, well. You’re pretty sharp for a dried-up old biddy,” said Billy, speaking the words the dark spirit of Clint Eberhart dictated. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. And don’t call me your husband. I dumped you a long time ago. Remember?”

“We weren’t divorced….”

“Oh? Then why’d you change your name back to O’Claire?”

“After what you did, I couldn’t stand being called Mary Eberhart !”

“Cut the gas, doll. I don’t need to hear your noise.”

“You’re evil, Clint. Pure evil!”

“Yeah? Well, I could’ve been evil and rich, but you had to butt in and ruin everything!”

“I told Sheriff Jennings the truth!” Mary whispered. “There were children on that bus, Clint. Children!”

“So? You ask me, you’re the one who killed ’em all! If you hadn’t called Mr. Spratling, nobody would’ve died!”

Mary could hear her heart pounding. It sounded like it had moved up to her skull. It sounded like it might explode.

“Sheriff Jennings knew everything, Clint. I finally told him—after he shot my son.”

“Son? Wait—let me guess. You married some other sap?”

“I never remarried, Clint. My son was your son.”

“That’s impossible!”

“The night you died, I was six months pregnant.”