Read Online The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein - Free Book Online Page A

of the trees.
    No one sees him because he doesn’t wish to be seen.
    Not just yet, anyway.

The plumber had never seen such a mess in a bathroom.
    He uncoiled his motorized snake and worked the long, flexible wire down into the toilet. He flipped the power switch and the steel cable rooted its way farther down the drain. It spun and ground and churned. A minute later, he felt the far end hit something. The clog.
    â€œBingo! Got it!”
    The cable cut through whatever wad of muck was blocking the sewer line, and the toilet bowl sucked itself dry.
    That’s when the plumber smelled something. Not sewer gas. Something oily and minty.
    Like Brylcreem. Billy had tried that goop once. When he was a kid, Mee Maw had slicked down his hair with the stuff on the day he’d posed for his sixth-grade class picture, the same day his name went from Billy O’Claire to Billy O’Greasy Hair.
    He’d never forget that smell—like someone had rubbed his head with a peppermint stick made out of Crisco.
    All of a sudden, Billy had an incredible craving for a big juicy burger. Plus a side of fries. And a chocolate milk shake. Maybe two or three of each.
    Billy dropped his sewer rooter with a
clunk
and a
thud
on the tile floor. He didn’t bother packing up his wrenches. He’d come back later for his tools.
    Right now he
had
to have a hamburger.
    He walked out of the bathroom like a zombie. A very hungry, burger-crazed zombie.
    And then—just as suddenly—the urge passed.
    Good,
he thought.
I’ve always been more of a nachos kind of guy.

“You ought to grind down the stump,” the tree man suggested to Judy.
    It was after dusk, but the big oak was finally chipped and mulched.
    â€œGrinding costs extra, but I’ve got this machine that’ll chew right through it.”
    â€œNo,” Judy said gently.
    â€œAll right. How about we dig it out? We bring in a backhoe and—”
    â€œNo. We should save the stump. It’ll give Miss Spratling someplace to hang her
descanso
.”
    â€œDes-what-so?”
    â€œIt’s a Spanish word. Means ‘memorial.’”
    â€œAll right. Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, give me a call.”
    â€œOkay,” said Judy. “Zack?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œCan you nail everything back up? Hang the cross and flower bucket on the highway side of the stump?”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œNo, honey. It’s dark. Let’s do it tomorrow.”
    â€œYeah,” Mandica said. “You’re right. We should all knock off for the night.” Mandica looked around the backyard. “Anybody seen Pop?”
    A chain saw roared to life out in the woods.
    Â 
    â€œI know, I know. I heard you the first time. I heard all of you!”
    The old man was shouting at the darkness between two birch trees. His thrumming chain saw hung limply alongside his leg. Its sharp teeth rattled and chugged and slid around the tip of the blade.
    â€œIf I finish the job, will you leave me be?”
    No one answered because no one was there.
    The old man goosed the saw’s throttle. The throaty engine rumbled and roared. He pressed its spinning teeth against the jagged wood.
    Sparks flew as if he were trying to slice into a steel I beam.

He drifts back to what is left of his tree.
    The burger will have to wait because he sees what the old man is trying to do. Sees him attacking the stump with a chittering chain saw. Sees red sparks and chunks of wood flying from the snaggletoothed stump.
    He knows he can’t stop the old man.
    But it is dark now, so he can show himself.
    He does.

Sweat pouring down his face, the old man finally cut a smooth edge across the top of the stump.
    â€œPop?”
    He could hear his son off in the distance, near the house, but didn’t answer.
    A young man in blue jeans and a leather jacket appeared in the small clearing near the stump. A man with slicked-back hair. Pasty flesh. Cold and