Crooked Crossroads (Child Lost Series Book 1)

by Trinity Crow

  The place finally cleared and as I refilled the display case, moving the last of the items to the back and putting fresh up front. I could feel Mrs. D's anxiety like a physical thing, and it was growing larger by the minute.

  “So,” I started, reluctant to share my business, “I got the apartment. The one posted on the board?”

  “Oh, yes?” Mrs. D was suddenly relaxed and unconcerned, humming even, as I tidied the counter and the free sample trays.

  The swinging door pushed open and Mr. D stuck his head out. “That's great!” he shouted loudly, his baker's cap stuck sideways on his gray head. “You got your first apartment!”

  I did an internal eye roll. Of course, he had been listening at the door.

  Mr. D is always loud. I don't think it's because he's Italian. Mrs. D is Italian and she's anything but noisy. Mr. D had tried really hard in the early days not to be too friendly, to give me my space. I didn't really know him at the time, so I didn't get how hard he was trying. It was almost funny when I remembered what he considered being quiet and reserved.

  “You have furniture?” he boomed, as he leaned further into the store “Mama and me have some things…”

  He always called Mrs. D mama. He wasn't trying to be my dad or anything creepy. I think that part was an Italian thing. For now, he was wilting under Mrs. D's glare. She doesn't really need to be loud because she says it all in a look. I admire that. It's a dying art.

  I guessed they had discussed this and she told him to mind his own business. Tact wasn't his strong point. It was a little claustrophobic, knowing they had discussed me and my life. I moved over to study the bulletin board. The notice for the apartment was still there. The apartment I wouldn't have if not for them, this job and their unspoken recommendation. I pulled the index card down. I was really tired all of a sudden. The D's really deserved a better employee than me.

  I turned and nodded to the pair of them

  “Thanks,” I said, and I tried to make my tone tell them that I really meant it. Which was harder than it seemed, that caring Hallmark crap. “I have some stuff.” Stuff being four boxes of books and two of clothes, a useless sleeping bag, a bike and a dead dog.

  They nodded back, smiling at me. I fiddled uneasily with the scrap of paper, not knowing what else to say. Thankfully, the door opened, filling the shop with hungry customers. With no more time for talking, we all got back to work. Which was the way work should be.

  Chapter 5

  After work, I biked over to the thrift store. I was hoping to find a few kitchen things, and maybe a lamp. Reading in bed at night was not so cozy with overhead light fixture kept beaming me in the eye. LaPierre has three resale stores. One was run by some women’s club and all the money went to local non-profit groups. That was nice and all, but I couldn't afford to support another charity besides myself. The second one was run by this sharp-eyed, squatty lady who never put prices on things, and was always trying to get more than stuff was worth. The few times I had gone in, she acted like I was going to steal or break something. After the second time, I added it to my personal blacklist. I figured those shops could charge more because they had weeded out the junk and sorted everything by size and color, but I was willing to do my own weeding if it meant saving money.

  Play it Again, Sam, the one I shopped at, was a hoarder's paradise. I guess the name was some weird reference or in-joke, but I didn't get it at all. All the stuff was barely separated into categories, so shopping was a bizarre treasure hunt with no map. You could go in for one thing and end up finding something else, which is what happened to me. Everything from lamps to outdated fondue pots littered the tables in the "household" section. I was contemplating lamp choices in ugly seashells versus 1970's avocado when some guy came in and thumped a box down on the table beside me. He was kind of tall and lanky, and his head sprouted crazy, shaggy curls which shook in opposite directions when he moved, and the bandanna he wore did little to hold it back. Then he noticed me looking at him and smiled. So I ignored him and looked at the box instead, thinking how it was weird I hadn't seen him before, with LaPierre being so small.

  “Army blankets.” He threw the words at me, hoping I'd catch my end of the conversation. “A hundred percent wool, but nobody wants the itchy things. Did you know wool has a natural UV protectant to keep sheep from getting sunburned?”

  Ah, homeschooled. Explains why I hadn't seen him in class.

  He reached in and pulled one out. “Be good for a dog blanket.” He turned towards me expectantly. I stood there, ignoring his hopeful smile and thought about that. My sweater had been turned into shreds pretty quickly and I had spent twenty minutes collecting all the strings off the floor. When I didn't answer, he began stacking the blankets on the table, even though the fabric shelves were against the wall.

  “Wouldn’t a dog chew this up?” I asked, slowly. His blue eyes lit up and he stopped working, leaning a hip against the table ready to chat. I narrowed my eyes at him. This was a professional conversation, no matter how much he smiled at me. I took the blanket. It was olive colored, scratchy and heavy.

  The guy shook his head, the curls going nuts. “Nah, wool is kind of nasty in your mouth.”

  I wasn’t gonna asked how he knew.

  “Your dog tearing stuff up?” Curly Head asked me, a little too interested.

  My dog. Weird how that made me feel. My ghost dog. I felt kind of superior, to be honest.

  “Yeah,” I said, all casual. “chewed up a sweater.”

  “You should get him a bone and some toys. He’ll leave your stuff alone if he has stuff of his own.” The guy spoke with easy confidence like he had owned a destructive dog himself.

  I smirked a little. I was pretty sure he didn't have experience with a dog like mine.

  “I'm Asa,” He practiced his smile again. “And you're….”

  The words hung in the air as I turned the blanket over in my hands, wondering if it would be cheaper cause nobody wanted them.

  “Late,” I said. I tucked the blanket under my arm and headed to the cashier. I could tell he was watching me as I walked away. I was annoyed, but not all the way.

  Turned out it was pretty cheap at two bucks. Someone had donated boxes and boxes of them. The lady tried to get me to buy more than one, but I only had one dog. I rolled it up and jammed into my backpack for the trek back to the house. And I was all the way home before I remembered about the lamp.

  ***

  The downstairs door opened to a room flooded with light. Strange that the room was sweltering from all the sunlight, but only pleasantly warm. Maybe it was a side effect of that otherworldly AC. I shook out the blanket and then folded it into to a dog size pad. What to do next? I felt a little stupid calling for a dead dog. What the hell. I cleared my throat and went for it.

  “Here, Corky!” The sound of my squeaky voice was embarrassing and I was glad only the dead could hear it. The sunlight dimmed. I looked down, feeling a nudge against my leg. And there he was.

  I stepped back, instinctively. Suddenly all these creepy thoughts began racing through my head.

  Where was Corky when I couldn’t see him? What else was here, lurking around out of sight? If I called Julia’s name, would she appear?

  I shivered at that one.

  Looking back at the closed door and the empty room, I wondered if all this ghost stuff was somebody putting me on. But who? Mrs. Evers? Weird hobby for an old lady, sneaking around letting dogs in and out. Beside me, Corky sat patiently, tongue out, drooling. I watched as spit fell from his tongue and vanished when it hit the floor. Crap, that was creepy and definitely not an old lady parlour game.

  “Hey,” I said lamely.

  Corky wagged his tail politely. He probably thought I was an idiot.

  “I got you a blankie," I told him. Blankie? I thought, What the hell? What are you, seven? Okay, he’s a ghost dog! Get over it. She wouldn’t rent the place if he attacked people. Right?

  Though really, I had no guarantee of tha
t, and the memory of her tendon flossed teeth floated through my mind. Corky was still eyeing me, wondering what was up. So I walked over and patted the blanket.

  “Here, Corky” I called. “C'mere, boy.”

  This was a dumb idea. Why did I waste money on a dog blanket? A dead dog need comfort, anyway?

  Corky voted yes, judging from his obvious delight. He sniffed it all over, rumpled it up, turned around a few times, and then plopped down on it. Then he grinned at me like a big doggy thank you. Feeling stupidly pleased, I offered him my second present, a rawhide bone. Could a ghost dog chew a bone?

  The verdict was immediate, Corky could and would. He ran towards me with such eagerness that I was startled into stepping backward. Then cocking an ear towards something I could not hear, he slid to a halt and sat patiently in front of me. I held out the bone and his breath was icy on my hand as he took it delicately.

  With a snort, Corky leaped up, tossed the bone in the air, and caught it. He dropped it on the floor and ran circles around it. With a growl, Corky grabbed the bone, tossed, and caught it again.. He pranced back to his blanket, his whole rear wagging with pleasure. I was laughing my head off at this point. Why not? It was just me and him.

  When he settled down a bit, I pulled out the rubber ball and rolled it gently across the floor to him. Then I sat cross-legged on the floor watching as he played, the floor shaking with his leaps and mock growls. After a bit, he ran over and dropped the ball in my lap. I picked it up, the wet dog spit drying instantly in my hand. Corky lay his head in my lap, whining, with eyes intent on the ball.

  I threw the ball down the length of the room and Corky barreled after it, barking madly. He pounced on his prize and pelted back to me, hurling himself into my lap, nudging at me with his big head. My arms were filled with wiggling, happy dog and it felt really good. Slowly, I raised my hand and petted the top of his smooth head.

  “Good dog.” I said, “Good boy, Corky.” And if my voice was choked up a little, it was really nobody’s business but mine.

  Chapter 6

  Late that afternoon, Mr. D showed up in the Delicata's delivery van with a twin bed, an old loveseat, and a table with chairs. He stood there, looking all guilty, begging me not to rat him out to Mrs. D. Apparently, she had made him swear not to interfere. So, I didn't bother telling him he shouldn't have.

  I thanked him, but all the same, there was an uneasiness inside me. Like how I now owed them more than ever. I also didn't tell him I would never need the three extra chairs with the kitchen table because having company over was not in the cards.

  We pulled the stuff out the van, and all the while I was thinking it was too damn hot for this. Only, it was no good complaining in front of Mr. D. He'd immediately tell you, in Italy, people drop like flies from the heat. Then he would quote outrageous statistics like the great heat wave of 1917 when all the grapes dried up and became raisins…still on the vine. For now, he was more worried about the stairs than the heat. His face was full of dismay as he eyed them.

  “Cristo! What a thing that is!” he said, shaking his head.

  "There is an easier way through here, Mr. D.” I quickly opened the downstairs door, showing him the empty space and the wide wooden stairs before he had a heart attack.

  "Now this…" He said approvingly, looking around the room. "this is more like the thing."

  The sunlight dimmed a warning and I stared wildly around, knowing a cardiac arrest was imminent.

  No dog, no dog, no dog The words repeated themselves mantra-like in my head. I peered carefully around and winced as I saw Corky appear from some afterlife otherwhere. He leaped up and ran to Mr. D, sniffing eagerly at his pants. The hazard of working at a bakery is that you smell irresistible. I held my breath for an explosion in Italian and then it dawned on my idiot self that Mr. D couldn't see or hear the dog. Wicked.

  I hadn't known how Mr. D would take to the spirit world. I mean, he was a pretty devout Catholic. Demons, I knew, they booted back to hell. But what's the doctrine on a canine Caspar?

  Corky followed us outside, doing inspection duty on the new furniture. He lifted a leg to mark a mattress. I opened my mouth to yell, then shut it again realizing there was no way I could explain screaming Bad Dog to Mr. D. It turned out not to matter because the pee vanished a full three inches before it hit the mattress. Corky gave me a smug look, knowing he had been bad and gotten away with it. He was really milking that dead dog angle.

  We got busy lugging the stuff upstairs, pausing so Mr. D could admire the place. The table and chairs went into the kitchen, where Mr. D squinted at the crawfish.

  “Doodlebugs!” he declared decisively, “Dancing doodlebugs.”

  I just nodded, hiding my grin as he mangled the tourist-y term "mudbugs." I'd let somebody else play word police.

  We wrestled the loveseat into the living room. I had pulled down the claustrophilliac drapes and the light was a big improvement. Together, we admired the fish molding above my bookshelves.

  “This place is too empty! You need what? Some rugs and maybe some pictures?” Mr. D sounded hopeful, as we clumped down the stairs to get the last of the stuff.

  “Nope,” I told him, blowing a limp strand of hair out my face.

  “Ah, okay. You say nope. Mama, she say nope. You leave an old man with nothing.” He heaved a big sigh, trying to look pitiful.

  “You can have the rugs,” I told him, smart assed. He laughed. Mr. D is pushy, but he gets me. He's a good boss.

  The bed took three trips, mattress, box-spring and frame, and I was close to cursing by the time we were done. We were both sweaty as we went down the stairs the last time and went out to the van. I thanked whatever deity was on duty for not letting any old people die from hauling crap upstairs today. I was irritable from the heat and just wanted to say thanks and take a cold shower. But Mr. D was walking towards the passenger door.

  C'mon! What now?

  As he passed by, he motioned to the hedge. “Good to have neighbors. You know, for the emergencies.”

  “Yeah?" I said, “I don't have emergencies.”

  Mr. D smiled at my tone. “Oh well, maybe she has the emergency. Old ladies, they love to tell you about their crickety hips and the bad joints." He put a hand on his hip, doing a really bad imitation of a crickety old lady. I rolled my eyes and he laughed again.

  "Just this for you," he said, and dived into the van, reappearing with a box. I could see one of Mrs. D's quilts sticking out from the top. Oh my God, he was killing me. It would be almost as painful to speak up as it would be to swallow my irritation. Mr. D stopped, maybe sensing I had been pushed enough.

  "I just give you this and I'm a goner."

  I had to bite my lip at how close to the truth he was. He shoved the box into my arms and hurried around the driver's side. The door opened and he rustled around, fiddling with something. Seat belt, I guessed. Then he slammed the door and I could just see the wave of his arm from the window

  “See you on the Monday!” he called, pulling away.

  I nodded and watched him go. I knew he would confess the whole thing to Mrs. D and I knew she would forgive him because she would feel better knowing about my new place and knowing I wasn't sleeping on the floor. I turned to go and saw what the delay had been, stacked in the drive was a small pile of boxes and a lamp. I looked down at the quilt, wanting to be angry. Anger keeps you safe. The blue of old bakery shirts stared back at me from the pieced design, the careful stitches mocking my need to be angry because someone cared about me.

  I sighed and lugged the box to the house, desperate to get out of the sun. I felt guilty because I wasn't grateful and resentful that I felt guilty and more guilty because of feeling resentful over that guilt. A series of devout Catholic foster parents were to blame for those kinds of head games. The DiMaggio's caring was like a weight across me, but I couldn't escape it without leaving behind the bakery and LaPierre.

  ***

  There was no denying that Mr. D had been real
ly generous and had nothing but the best intentions. For some reason, his good-heartedness made me even more cranky as I struggled up the steps with the last load. I was going to have thighs that thundered if I kept this up. Still, it was nice to have stuff. The lamp found a place of honor by my bed and an unfamiliar cheerfulness spread through me at the thought of curling up to read tonight. The place didn't seem so echo-y, even if Mr. D thought it hideously bare. I found myself humming a Furry Lewis song as I worked to get things squared away.

  I had a bad moment in the kitchen when I discovered two of the boxes left by Mr. D were full of kitchen stuff, groceries, including baking supplies, some dishes, pots, pans, and bakeware. Standing there with a rolling pin in my hand, I looked around at my new kitchen. To know I could bake here and then sit at the table, and eat what I baked, in perfect peace was overwhelming. Sometimes when you've wanted something for so long and wanted it so badly that you never even admitted it to yourself just how much, the reality of it happening becomes too much to bear. The happiness of the moment is soured by the pain it took to get to there. Looking around at my unreachable dream made real, the room felt suddenly too small and the air unbreathable. I shoved the rest of the groceries and things into the closest cupboard and left the room.

  I worked for a while in the living room, unpacking my books and arranging them on the shelves. I sorted them into piles by genre and then alphabetized them by author. I am a pretty eclectic reader, but steer clear of romance, way too bright-eyed and unrealistic for me. As I slid My Side of the Mountain on to the shelf, the book caught at something and refused to go flush. Pulling the book back out, I looked to see what the problem was. A yellowish envelope was caught in the gap where the shelf met the wall. It was addressed to an Andrew Duchaine, and the postmark was 1995. Curious, I opened the envelope and stared blankly at an acceptance letter from Delgado Community College. That was weird. Unless she had rented to more than one guy named Andy who went to Delgado, this place had been empty a lot longer than a week. Maybe she was not as mentally together as I thought, or maybe she was a good liar.