The Crossroads

About an hour later, George fixed Judy a tuna fish sandwich.

“Why does she have to be so mean?” she asked.

“I think it runs in the family. Besides, some of the locals say the Spratling money is almost gone. I guess she’s bitter about that and her dead boyfriend—even though that was fifty years ago and you’d think, you know, she might have worked that one out by now.”

“I don’t want her coming out here every Monday, ripping up our flowers.”

A bassy thumping came thundering from the backyard. An angry man grunted and rhymed.

“What’s that noise?”

“Either the end of the world,” said George, “or rap music.”

Judy was at the window. “It’s Zack.”

“No way. Zack likes rap?”

They saw Zack and Zipper at the edge of the trees. Zack smiled and waved. Zipper wagged his tail. There were three other boys, all about Zack’s age, hanging out around a boom box.

“Who are all those other kids?” Judy asked.

George recognized the boys from the empty lot. “Neighborhood kids. Looks like our shy guy has made some more new friends.”

“Pump up the volume,” Zack said to the boy manning the boom box.

The four boys hiked down the trail toward the stump.

“The music will cover any noise the drill makes. I’ll do the first hole. Then we’ll take turns.”

Zack pulled the cordless drill with the forty-inch auger bit out of his nylon gym bag. The boys would drill to the depth that Davy had specified. Later they would fill the holes with kerosene.

They’d pour in at least two and a half gallons—more if they could scrounge it up from their camp lanterns and their parents’ space heaters. With time, the kerosene would soak down into the wood and seep into the deep roots. If all went according to plan, the stump would be burned out of the ground before next Monday.

Before the old lady came back to hurt Judy’s feelings again.