Free The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein Page B

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.”
    â€œSounds like a dern sad lady.”
    â€œI guess. I didn’t mean to mess her up like I did.”
    â€œZack?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI ain’t no Seigfried Freud, but I don’t reckon you’re the one what messed her up.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNo, sir. I reckon she got that way long before you came along. You got enough nails there, pardner?”
    â€œYep.” 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.
    â€œLadder’s lookin’ galdern good,” Davy said.
    â€œUnh-hunh.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œUnh-hunh,” Zack said, concentrating on his hammering. “We’ll need more wood.”
    â€œMy pops said we could take all we need from out behind the barn.”
    â€œCool!”
    â€œUh-oh,” Davy said. “Cheese it. Looks like we got company.”
    Zack saw a big black Cadillac pull off the highway.
    â€œIt’s her!”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe old lady!” Zack whispered. “The Wicked Witch I told you about.”
    Zipper grumbled softly.
    â€œQuick!” 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!”
    â€œOkay,” 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.
    â€œDear God in heaven!” She scrabbled up the path into the forest.
    â€œMr. Willoughby?”
    â€œYes, ma’am?”
    â€œCall the police! Call them now!”
    â€œThe police, Miss Spratling?”
    â€œSome vandal has chopped down my tree!”
    â€œIs 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?”
    â€œThe tree!” Miss Spratling gasped. “What goes on here?”
    â€œLightning.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe tree was hit by lightning.”
    â€œImpossible.”
    â€œNo, not really. Sure, the odds are like a billion to one, but every now and then the lightning gets lucky.”
    â€œWhat? How dare you make fun of my memorial!”
    Judy realized who the woman had to be and felt terrible.
    â€œUm—are you Gerda Spratling?”
    Miss Spratling fell to her knees.
    â€œI am
so
sorry,” said Judy.
    The elderly lady stretched out her trembling arms and tried to wrap them around the stump.
    â€œWe just moved in last week and…”
    The old woman wailed.
    â€œWe found the cross and flower bucket….”
    She wailed louder.
    â€œI was going to plant some flowers back here. Make a memorial garden.”
    The wailing stopped.
    â€œYou were?” Miss Spratling sniffled back a tear.
    â€œYes.”
    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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHow very kind of you, dear.”
    Judy knelt beside the stump and started digging a hole between two huge roots.
    â€œA memorial garden