Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“Swell. That means the galdern thing will melt. It’ll melt real good.”

The old lady crawled back inside her Cadillac and was driven away. The other cars drove away, too.

“Okay,” said Davy, “we’ll be ready in a couple days.”

“Is that enough time? There’s so much to do.”

“Just bore them holes like I shown you. Soak her good with the kerosene. She’ll be ready to go.”

“You’ll help, right, Davy?”

In the distance, the boys once again heard the farm bell tolling.

“Aw, shucks. It’s Pops. Jiminy Christmas, seems he rings that dang bell every time we’re all set for an adventure!”

“Don’t go, Davy.”

“Have to, Zack. Pops would tan my hide if I don’t come when he rings the bell.”

“I can’t do this without you.”

“Sure you can. In fact, you can do it better than anyone. That’s why I chose you.”

“No. Wait. If you knew who I was…”

“You’re Zack Jennings.”

“No…I mean who I really am…what people say about me…what my mother…I screw things up, Davy. I ruin everything for everybody!”

“Zack?” said Davy. “I don’t rightly care what folks say about you. What they say can’t make you who you are—’less, of course, you let ’em.”

The bell clanged louder in the distance. “Wait! Don’t go, Davy. Okay? Stay.”

“Can’t, I reckon. But don’t worry. I’ll be back. I promise.”

Zack needed more. “Cross your heart?”

“Yep! And hope to die!”

About an hour later, George fixed Judy a tuna fish sandwich.

“Why does she have to be so mean?” she asked.

“I think it runs in the family. Besides, some of the locals say the Spratling money is almost gone. I guess she’s bitter about that and her dead boyfriend—even though that was fifty years ago and you’d think, you know, she might have worked that one out by now.”

“I don’t want her coming out here every Monday, ripping up our flowers.”

A bassy thumping came thundering from the backyard. An angry man grunted and rhymed.

“What’s that noise?”

“Either the end of the world,” said George, “or rap music.”

Judy was at the window. “It’s Zack.”

“No way. Zack likes rap?”

They saw Zack and Zipper at the edge of the trees. Zack smiled and waved. Zipper wagged his tail. There were three other boys, all about Zack’s age, hanging out around a boom box.

“Who are all those other kids?” Judy asked.

George recognized the boys from the empty lot. “Neighborhood kids. Looks like our shy guy has made some more new friends.”

“Pump up the volume,” Zack said to the boy manning the boom box.

The four boys hiked down the trail toward the stump.

“The music will cover any noise the drill makes. I’ll do the first hole. Then we’ll take turns.”

Zack pulled the cordless drill with the forty-inch auger bit out of his nylon gym bag. The boys would drill to the depth that Davy had specified. Later they would fill the holes with kerosene.

They’d pour in at least two and a half gallons—more if they could scrounge it up from their camp lanterns and their parents’ space heaters. With time, the kerosene would soak down into the wood and seep into the deep roots. If all went according to plan, the stump would be burned out of the ground before next Monday.

Before the old lady came back to hurt Judy’s feelings again.

A little before four p.m. that same day, Billy O’Claire drove his pickup truck into the Rocky Hill Farms subdivision. He needed money so he could get away from his grandfather’s ghost, maybe head down to Florida. He stroked his hand through his sweaty hair and remembered the house with the gurgling toilet. He had never really finished that job. He should go back, talk to the owner, tell him he needed to do more work on his sewer lines, the main one in the basement, if he seriously wanted to stop the problem from reoccurring.

The owner would cut him a deposit check, might even give him cash. Of course, Billy would never come back to finish the job. He wouldn’t be able to: He’d be in Florida, hiding from Grandpa’s ghost.

“Car!” Zack yelled when he heard somebody pulling into the driveway. “Tarp!”

Two of the boys draped a big blue sheet over the stump to hide the holes. The boy currently manning the drill stuffed it back into the gym bag, then tossed the sack to another boy waiting up in the tree house, who stashed it behind a sliding panel of plywood.

The boys had all seen a lot of prison escape movies and knew how this sort of thing was supposed to be done.

“Howdy, son,” Billy said politely, holding his grungy baseball cap in his hands. “Is your mom or dad home?”

Zack stood with his hands on his hips. Zipper was at his side, ready to pounce.

“Dad?” Zack hollered. “Dad?”

His father came out to the back porch. “What’s up, Zack?”

“This guy’s here. The plumber.”

“Hey, great! I’ve been meaning to call you. I think we should take a look at the main drain—which I think is also our main pain.”

Billy nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s why I swung by. I was thinking the same thing. We might need to snake out the pipe leading to the street.”

“Exactly! Can you come back and do the job?”

“Yes, sir. Early next week.”

“Great.”

“Of course, I’ll need to rent a bunch of special equipment.”

“I could give you a deposit. Say fifty percent now, fifty percent when the job is done. Would that help?”

Billy smiled. “Yes, sir. That would help a whole bunch.”

Billy sat in the kitchen, sipping a cold Coke the man had given him while he ran off to find his checkbook.

Florida, here I come!

He felt a little bad about ripping this guy off, taking money for a job he knew he’d never finish. Heck, he wouldn’t even start it. He’d be on his way to Miami before the sun went down, which made him happy and sad at the same time. Happy that he was protecting his son. Sad that he’d probably never see his boy again.

All of sudden, he thought he could smell some of that minty gunk his ghostly grandpappy slicked through his hair. Then he saw a bowl of foil-wrapped candies sitting on the kitchen counter. Peppermint patties. Man, he had to get out of North Chester. Fast. The whole town was messing with his mind.

He stood up, eager to hit the highway. He was going to call out to the guy hunting down the checkbook until he realized he didn’t even know the man’s name. The general contractor who’d built the house had paid Billy for all his previous work. The job was always called “14 Stonebriar.” Never the “Jones House” or the “Smith House.”

Not knowing what to say, Billy went with the generic.

“Uh, excuse me? Sir? Sir?”

The man came into the kitchen. “Sorry,” he said. “Took me a minute to find the checkbook.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Please, call me George.”

“Okay, George. I’m Billy. Billy O’Claire.” Billy stretched out his arm to shake George’s hand.

“George Jennings.”

Billy blinked.

“Jennings?”