The Crossroads

Gerda Spratling had not seen her roadside memorial since the thunderstorm.

“Dear God in heaven!” She scrabbled up the path into the forest.

“Mr. Willoughby?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Call the police! Call them now!”

“The police, Miss Spratling?”

“Some vandal has chopped down my tree!”

“Is 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?”

“The tree!” Miss Spratling gasped. “What goes on here?”

“Lightning.”

“What?”

“The tree was hit by lightning.”

“Impossible.”

“No, not really. Sure, the odds are like a billion to one, but every now and then the lightning gets lucky.”

“What? How dare you make fun of my memorial!”

Judy realized who the woman had to be and felt terrible.

“Um—are you Gerda Spratling?”

Miss Spratling fell to her knees.

“I am so sorry,” said Judy.

The elderly lady stretched out her trembling arms and tried to wrap them around the stump.

“We just moved in last week and…”

The old woman wailed.

“We found the cross and flower bucket….”

She wailed louder.

“I was going to plant some flowers back here. Make a memorial garden.”

The wailing stopped.

“You were?” Miss Spratling sniffled back a tear.

“Yes.”

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.

“I 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.

“How very kind of you, dear.”

Judy knelt beside the stump and started digging a hole between two huge roots.

“A memorial garden will make Clint’s shrine even more glorious!” said Miss Spratling. “They ran him off the road, you know.”

“Really?” Judy scooped out more dirt.

“Oh, yes. June 21, 1958. I will never forget.” Miss Spratling stood and dusted leaf crumbs off her black dress. “You’re very kind to do this for Clint. What’s your name, dear?”

“Judy. Judy Magruder. Or you can call me Judy Jennings. I’m a newlywed.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am. I just married George Jennings. His father used to be the sheriff up here.”

Judy was too busy planting the flowers to see the old lady’s smile curl down into a frown.

“Really? My, my, my. Judy Jennings? What a lovely, lovely name.”