The Crossroads

“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.

“Grinding costs extra, but I’ve got this machine that’ll chew right through it.”

“No,” Judy said gently.

“All right. How about we dig it out? We bring in a backhoe and—”

“No. We should save the stump. It’ll give Miss Spratling someplace to hang her descanso.”

“Des-what-so?”

“It’s a Spanish word. Means ‘memorial.’”

“All right. Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, give me a call.”

“Okay,” said Judy. “Zack?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you nail everything back up? Hang the cross and flower bucket on the highway side of the stump?”

“Now?”

“No, honey. It’s dark. Let’s do it tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” 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.

“I 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.

“If 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.