The Crossroads

Zack, Davy, and Zipper tromped through the cornfield on the far side of the highway.

The sun had bleached the dead stalks to a watery shade of brown. As they slogged across the muddy field, Zack’s socks squished.

“How much farther?”

“Well, pardner, the lumber pile’s clear up yonder. Out behind the barn. Sure is a swell day for a hike, though, ain’t it?”

The air was thick, bugs were buzzing around his ankles and his eyes, the smell of rotten cornstalks baking in the sun was everywhere, and Zack couldn’t even see a barn.

Just swell.

“Don’t this dang meadow smell sweet?”

“I guess,” Zack said. He thought Davy had a funny way of talking.

Must come from growing up on a farm or coming from Kentucky.

But Zack didn’t mind. He liked Davy, even when he used weird words like “swell” and “keen.” Or when he called him “pardner” or “sport.” Sure beat being “Barbie.”

“Maybe we ought to skirt up there alongside the road. Stick to the shade under them trees.”

“Good idea,” said Zack, slapping at some kind of bug burrowing into his ear.

“I figure if we can lay in the tree house floor this afternoon, we’ll be off to a swell start,” said Davy as they trekked through the trees. “We’ll build us a regular crow’s nest. Just like a pack of pirates!”

“Yeah! We can make people walk the plank and stuff!”

“Sure. It’ll be swell!”

They stepped into a sunny spot.

A man blocked their path.

A businessman dressed in a brown suit with a white handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket. He was wearing a hat like Zack had seen in old movies. A fedora, they called it.

“Hey there, fellers!” The businessman leaned into the sunlight. “Off on a scavenger hunt?” There was a boxy sample case sitting on the ground near his shiny shoes. He carried a raincoat tucked under his arm—even though there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

“I heard you two are building a tree fort!” said the businessman. “Well, boys, I’m the top aluminum-siding salesman in these parts. Clarence W. Billings is my name and—”

“We don’t need no galdern aluminum siding,” said Davy.

“We’re just building a tree house,” added Zack.

“So leave us be, tin man!”

“Easy, son. Easy. What if I told you fellers you don’t have to hike across the highway all the livelong day to fetch your lumber?”

“What do you mean?” Davy put his hands on his hips.

“Well, son, I couldn’t help but notice all the building supplies stacked on the other side of the road at those construction sites.”

“So?”

“Well, son, those are what we in the construction trade call scrap piles. Feller can help himself to all the scrap he wants. All the boards and plywood out front of those brand-new bungalows? That’s yours and free for the taking.”

Davy was intrigued. “Is that so?”

“Darn tootin’,” said the salesman.

Zack scratched a fresh mosquito bite behind his knee. “Might save us a lot of marching through the mud, Davy.”

“You’re right there, pardner.”

The aluminum-siding salesman rocked gently on his heels, widened his smile.

Davy nodded at the businessman. “Well, sir, I reckon you ain’t a bad egg after all.”

“Just trying to lend a hand, son.” The salesman tipped his hat. “Say, now, I wonder if you two fellers might do me a little favor. Make everything square between us?”

“What kind of favor?” Davy asked.

Zack’s heart beat faster. This stranger could be one of those men his father warned him about. The ones who wanted you to climb into their cars.

“Tell me, boys: Have you seen that dag-blasted stump over on the other side of the road?”

“Sure,” said Davy.

“Well, we already talked to this one feller about taking it out, but he couldn’t finish the job. Had him a heart attack. But you boys—well, you’re young and strong and I bet you could figure out a way to rip that stump right out of the ground! Yes, sir, I wager—”

“Run for it, Zack!” Davy yelled.

Zack, Davy, and Zipper tore through the trees. They ran down the embankment, crossed the highway, and made it to the far side of the road.

“See you later, alligator!” Davy shouted with a laugh.

“Boys?” Billings called after them.

But the boys were gone.

“Encouraging children to steal, Mr. Billings? Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

The businessman turned and saw a nun standing next to him. She carried a small traveling valise.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Sister.”

“Stealing is a sin.”

“But…”

“Do not despair. That boy is the chosen one.”

“You sure about that? He looks kind of puny. Glasses are awful thick, too.”

“He will do what needs to be done,” the nun said serenely. “Zachary Jennings will not let us down.”