The Crossroads

There was a big burly man standing six inches from Judy’s door.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, oblivious to the slashing sheets of rain. “Car trouble?” His voice sounded muffled because Judy had kept all the windows rolled up tight. She feigned a smile and waved to signal she was fine, just fine.

“Front left tire,” the man said. “She’s blown.”

The man wore some sort of navy blue uniform—so wet it looked black. Raindrops guttered off the bill of his cap—the kind milkmen and airplane pilots used to wear. There was an embroidered patch on its crown: Greyhound Scenicruiser. A name tag was pinned to his chest: Bud.

“Didn’t mean to spook you,” Bud said. “Do you require roadside assistance?”

Judy lowered her window. A crack.

“My name is Bud.” He pointed to his name tag to prove it.

“I’m Judy. I’ve never had a flat before.”

“Wish I could fix her for you. But I can’t.”

“Oh. Bad back?”

Bud didn’t answer.

“I live just up the road,” Judy said. “I was going to call my husband, but my phone died. Can I borrow yours?”

“My telephone?”

“Right. Can I borrow it?”

“Sorry, ma’am. I don’t have a phone out here. They have one down at the filling station, if I remember correctly.”

The rain pattered on his hat and shoulders.

“I could talk you through the tire change. Do you have a spare?”

“Yes. I think so. In the back.”

Bud waited.

Judy had always considered herself a good judge of character. She hoped she was right because she judged Bud to be kind of spooky but not dangerous. Grabbing her tiny umbrella, she stepped out into the rain.

Bud stayed where he was.

“The jack’s in the back,” she said.

Rain blew sideways and the flimsy umbrella did little to keep Judy from getting drenched as she walked to the rear of the car. Bud followed. When the light from the emergency flashers hit his face, each burst made him appear ghoulish, like someone flicking a flashlight on and off underneath their chin.

Judy opened the hatchback and hoped Bud’s bad back wouldn’t prevent him from rolling the spare tire up to the front of the car.

Apparently, it did.

So she pushed it up the pavement with one hand while balancing her worthless umbrella in the other. Bud followed behind her. The way he dragged his feet, like his shoes were ill-fitting cinder blocks, Judy figured the guy’s back must be killing him.

Bud talked Judy through the tire change. He told her what to do and Judy did it.

“Sorry I couldn’t take care of the job myself,” Bud said when the tire was changed.

“You helped plenty. Thanks!”

“Guess you owe me one.”

“Guess so.”

“Say—do you live around here?”

“Yes. See that tree with the cross? Down there near the intersection? Well, that tree is in our backyard.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yep.”

“Sort of an eyesore, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?”

“The old wooden cross. The rusty bucket of dead flowers. It’s an eyesore, all right.”

“I guess.”

“You folks ought to chop it down.”

“The memorial?”

“The whole tree.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll mention it to my husband.” She climbed into her car.

“We’d appreciate it!” Bud snapped her a crisp two-finger salute.

Judy nodded and eased back onto the highway.

She wanted to reach the crossroads and turn the corner because every time she looked up at her rearview mirror, she saw Bud glimmering in her taillights—swinging his arms like he had an ax and was chopping down a tree.