Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“No, you weren’t! I never had no son!”

“Yes, you did. You just never met him.”

“You’re lying!”

“No, Clint. Lying is a sin.”

“Really? The nuns teach you that?”

Mary nodded.

“So how come you never told me about this baby?”

“Because you abandoned me, Clint. When you and Mr. Spratling cut your deal!” Mary shook her head. “No wonder my boy went bad. Like father, like son!”

“Shut up, you old hag!”

“No!” It was Billy. The real Billy. Fighting back. He wanted to hear more. Learn about his father. His grandmother could sense that he was struggling to regain control of his body.

She smiled gently. “Are you in there, Billy? If so, remember that I love you. No matter what.”

“Shut up!” Eberhart was back. “No more talking!”

Eberhart’s spirit made Billy’s body rise from the chair. Made him stretch out his arms and moan so fiercely that it shook the windowpanes and knocked a drinking glass off the bedside table.

“Die, old woman!” he roared. “Die like you should’ve died fifty years ago on that bus!”

Then Clint Eberhart allowed his real body to materialize inside the room. He became a mushrooming cloud of red-hot rage hovering over Mary O’Claire. He moved his ghostly hands toward the old woman’s throat as if he would strangle her.

It was enough to scare Mary O’Claire to death.

That week’s front page of the North Chester Telegraph ran a feature story about Mary O’Claire.

“MIRACLE MARY” DIES

NORTH CHESTER—“Miracle Mary” O’Claire, the sole survivor of the Greyhound bus accident of June 21, 1958, died in her sleep at the County Rest Home on Monday night.

She was called Miracle Mary because she walked away from the infamous bus wreck that killed 38 passengers, the driver, and the occupant of the Ford Thunderbird it collided with. She was the only survivor.

Miracle Mary boarded the Greyhound Scenicruiser in Massachusetts. When the bus neared North Chester, it was broadsided by a Ford Thunderbird convertible driven by a Spratling Clockworks employee named Clint Eberhart. Mr. Eberhart had been traveling south on Highway 31. The bus was headed east on Route 13. A state motorcycle trooper was also killed that night, raising the total number of casualties to 41.

The accident, still the worst in county history, led to public safety hearings and the installation of a blinking red light at the crossroads of 13 and 31.

After escaping the bus wreck uninjured, Mary O’Claire disappeared from the public spotlight. Her son, born three months after the accident, later achieved his own notoriety.

In 1983, at the age of 25, Thomas (Tommy) O’Claire and his wife, Alice, were gunned down by Sheriff James Jennings in what was described as the “tragic and fatal conclusion to a bungled blackmail scheme.” The shootings took place outside Spratling Manor.

Miracle Mary is survived by one grandson, William O’Claire, a plumber who still works in the North Chester area. Mr. O’Claire could not be reached for comment.

Zack stood barefoot on top of the rock jutting out over the swimming hole.

“Jump in, sport!” Davy floated in the water below. “There ain’t nothin’ to be scared of!”

“I didn’t see you jump in!” Zack shouted to Davy.

“Don’t worry. Water’s over ten feet deep. You won’t crack open your head bone!”

“But the water’s freezing!”

“Wait for the sun. Here it comes. Clouds are partin’! Jump, Zack! Jump!”

For the first time in his life, Zack did something he knew was extremely foolish. He went running across the slick stone and kept running after he reached its edge.

“Geronimo!” He plunged feetfirst into the frigid pool and sent up a foamy geyser.

It was dark and cold underwater. Zack should have been terrified, but instead he felt exhilarated. His toes touched the slimy creek bottom, so he pushed off and kicked his way back to the surface.

“Whoo-hoo!” he screamed through a rush of bubbles when he sprang up. “Whoo-hoo!”

“By jingo, you did it, Zack! You dove off Dead Man’s Bluff.”

“I want to do it again!”

“All rightie. Have at it!”

Zack swam to the shore and hauled himself out of the water. The pockets of his cargo shorts bloated out into water balloons.

“This time, I’m gonna do a cannonball!”

Zack clambered up the cliff and took off running. He leapt and kicked and climbed into the air. He tucked his knees up to his chest and screamed as he plummeted into the briny depths of the bounding main. He smacked the top of the water with a stinging, thumping whack.

“Whoo-hoo!”

When Zack bobbed back up to the surface, he saw Davy in the woods, pulling on his overalls.

“Hey, where you goin’?” In the distance, Zack could hear a bell softly chiming.

“Pops is ringing the bell. Must need me to do some chores.”

“What? It’s Saturday. Nobody works on Saturdays.”

“Farmers do.”

“Oh. But what about the big plan?”

“You know what we need next.”

“Sure, but…”

“You’ll find it just where I said.”

“But…”

“What’s wrong, Zack? Somethin’s troublin’ you, I can tell.”

“Promise you won’t laugh?” Zack climbed out of the pond and pulled his T-shirt off the branch where he had hung it.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Well, what if…” Zack hesitated.

“What if what?”

“What if Kyle Snertz sees me?”

“That don’t make no nevermind.”

“It doesn’t, hunh?”

“That boy’s all wax and no wick. If he gives you any guff, just give it right back.”

“How?”

“I reckon you could always pants him.”

“ Pants him?”

“Yes, sir. Just pull down his trousers and show everybody his underwear! That usually works.”

“Really?” Zack sounded doubtful.

“Or you could give him a wedgie. Tug real hard and pull his underpants up into his butt crack.”

“I see.”

Zack wished Davy had some better ideas on how to defend himself against Kyle Snertz. Ideas that didn’t involve underwear.

“Pants him or pull a wedgie, hunh?”

“Yes, sir. Either one will do the trick.”

The bell tolled louder in the distance.

“Jiminy Christmas, I best run. See you later, pardner!”

Davy scampered up the hillside and disappeared into the forest. That meant Zack would have to face his demons alone.

Especially the one named Kyle Snertz.

Judy sat on the back porch with the newspaper, a yellow legal pad, and a big jug of sun tea.

George was at his office in New York—even though it was Saturday—making final arrangements for his trip to Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, on Monday night. Zack was off playing with Davy. Judy was ready to start working her puzzle.

On her pad, she had already jotted down some notes from her conversation with Gerda Spratling: June 21, 1958. Clint.

Now she added some items she had circled in the newspaper story about Miracle Mary O’Claire: Greyhound bus accident. June 21, 1958. Thirty-nine dead on bus. Clint Eberhart dead in Thunderbird. Motorcycle cop killed. Intersection of 13 and 31.