Crooked Crossroads (Child Lost Series Book 1)

by Trinity Crow

  "But when Aren and I began to talk, and we too saw, or heard these things, she lost it and killed herself.” Sayre shook her head, not wanting my pity.

  “She was weak,” she said in a cold voice, completely unlike herself, “and she abandoned us.” Her mouth twisted. "We were lucky. Our grandfather died of a heart attack when he found her. Somehow the courts found our grandmother and she raised us, raised us right." She looked down, her hands were balled so hard, there were white lines at the joints. "I should have warned you.”

  I hated she was sad, hated it was because of me. I looked over at Corky, hoping for a distraction, but he was quietly regarding me. His big eyes telling me to fix it. My hand lifted like a wooden block. I was so bad at this. Was I actually going to voluntarily touch someone? Huge mental sigh.

  I patted her twice on the shoulder in awkward, most likely, painful blows.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I mean, I’m really stubborn, so it's not all on you. Besides, it turned out okay.”

  Sayre looked up, her eyes wet. “Yeah?” she said, miserably.

  Corky woofed in agreement or at least wanted us to be.

  “He’s happy,” I said, dryly.

  Sayre looked at me, still unsure.

  “And I’m happy he’s here,” I said quickly.

  She smiled. Her face became the irrepressible Sayre I knew.

  “I am sorry you feel we let you down or tricked you,” she said earnestly. “None of us are 'professionals' at this. Aren and I are third generation at least and Rose can go back eight or more, but there are a lot of cultural differences in approaching this stuff. And then, both of us lost the family members who could teach us. I was only seven when my Granny died. We have book knowledge and what we experience. None of us can do what you can do. Chloe might have been a weaker version, but the drugs messed her up pretty bad.” Sayre stared at me, sympathy written plainly across her face. “And the fear, it cripples her talent,” Her eyes were steady and too knowing.

  I stiffened in spite of myself, not wanting to show how her words affected me. I hated being afraid and I hated people knowing. It made me feel weak like Sayre considered her mother like I had thought Chloe. I wouldn't be that way. I couldn't.

  “At least learn protection.” she urged me, her face pleading.

  I nodded slowly. It couldn’t hurt, I thought, and then winced at the stupidity of that thought. Solid against my leg, Corky panted and drooled. My fingers twisted his silky ear gently. Here was my best protection. Corky would not let anything hurt me, human or spirit.

  “Okay,” I told Sayre. “I’ll do it, but Corky comes with me. So where ever we do this, they have to allow dogs.”

  She nodded and then smiled widely “That is a great idea.” she said.

  I sighed when she said that. If Sayre thought it was so great an idea, something was sure to be off.

  Chapter 21

  That afternoon, I lugged home a thirty-pound bag of kibble on my handlebars while Corky ran alongside, easily and unburdened. I was learning first hand when a ghost dog becomes physical, there is a lot more work involved. Food for one and then dog hair, which was immediately transferred to every surface. The short, fine, white hairs seemed to weave themselves into the fabric of my clothes, making it impossible to brush them off. And of course, what goes in must come out. Corky had to go out, all the time. I began to wonder if this was some kind of dog game to annoy people. He was good about using the wooded lot at the back and not watering the bushes near the door. Only, I had grown used to opening or shutting the downstairs door and more or less turning him off, kind of a part-time or 'as needed' pet. Which worked when he was still a corpse-less canine, but now he was a total attention hog.

  When I tried to read, he inserted his big head on my lap and angled it until his eyes and nose peered up at me from my book's edge. When I went to the bathroom, he whined and pawed the door. It was a little much to have zero privacy from a dog. And when I told him no, he drooped and sulked, looking betrayed by the world in general and me in particular. I was fairly immune. My fifth foster mother had been a devout Catholic, and I knew guilt tactics when I saw them.

  Out of some unknown certainty, I kept to my side of the hedge, not wanting Mrs. Evers to see Corky. As the sun slipped lower in the sky, I felt a thread of uneasiness at the thought of the coming night and whatever might be moving around in the dark.

  A quick run downstairs and I had Corky's blanket to put beside my bed. Next, the hall door was shut firmly with a kitchen chair shoved under the handle for good measure. Not that spooks needed to open a door to come in. It just made me feel better. The gaping door was too much of a reminder.

  When we settled down to sleep, Corky, at first, fussed about not being allowed in bed, but soon caved and was snoring. No doubt he was worn out from his first day alive in two centuries. As a live dog, he was noisy, messy and way more trouble, but also warm, comforting and unquestionably loyal. It worried me how attached I had become, a hundred times more since he had saved me since he had become real. I smiled to myself, listening to him sleep. A crazy variety of grunts, snores, and wheezes came from the shadow beside my bed, but these were happy sounds that meant I could sleep without fear.

  Sometime in the night, I woke to his considerable weight pinning my legs. I shoved and wiggled till we each had a rough half of the bed. Corky didn't bother to wake up, letting me do all the work of heaving his bulk around. I lay there for a bit, thinking. Tomorrow I had to work, and health codes would not allow a dog in even if the D’s would. He was just gonna have to be without me. Other dog owners worked. I was more worried about someone trying to steal him. This supernatural community, Sayre mentioned, who felt what happened? How long till the word spread about my magical dog? I tossed and turned, worrying someone would take the dog I never wanted until I fell asleep lulled by the sound of Corky's all too human snores.

  In the cool, before the sun came up, Corky and I headed outside and down the stairs to handle his business. I was grateful that squirrels were not nocturnal creatures and Corky could do his doggy stuff without interference. Afterwards, I settled him in the house with a bowl of water and a bone. As a precaution, I moved his blanket to the kitchen and shut my bedroom door. He eyed me reproachfully.

  "Sorry, pal," I said, not sorry at all. It was too late for dog hairs, but I saw no need to add dirt and slobber to the mix. He sat up and cocked his head to the side, giving me his best doggie smile.

  "Not happening," I told him and he huffed his displeasure before turning his attention to the bone. I was uneasy as I locked the door behind me. Today was my half day. I'd only be gone five hours. On a regular day, I'd be away for eight. It seemed a long time for him to be alone and to, well, hold it. Then I realized I could bike home on my lunch hour, and that would give me a half an hour to let him out. I felt better immediately and hopped on my bike, not wanting to be late. I had two mouths to feed now.

  Saturdays at the bakery were like a wartime tour of duty. Only, I wasn't allowed a weapon. Saturday was soft pretzel day. I wouldn't say pretzels brought out the worst in people. No, for that I'd blame the toppings. Correction, choice of toppings. People, in general, are messy and greedy. When you offer them all the free sprinkles they can spoon on to a pretzel, it's like feeding time at the zoo. So even though it was only half a day, soft pretzel mania made it seemed twice as long.

  Mr. D loved it. For one, it was the only day we let him out to help with customers. Then there was the fact that he always saw the good in people. It was like his woo talent was the ability to block out the rudeness and selfishness of caramel crazed customers.

  I hated soft pretzel day. I mean, I had nothing against pretzels or toppings on their own. It was the chomping hordes of chewy dough fanatics that I resented. I tried as much as possible to stay in the background, dealing with the innocent, helpless ingredients destined for the front lines. This meant I did the twisting and baking. I also loaded the proofing rack next to Mr. D's station with the ba
ked pretzels. And worst of all, wiped up spilled toppings and refilled them. That last part put me in the front line of fire and I was no hero. In fact, I was of the firm belief that we should do away with self serve, but I never actually said that out loud. As the hired help, it wasn't my place, and there was this weird happiness Mr. D found watching people think they were bakers.

  It was ridiculous. We mixed the dough, I twisted and baked the damn things, Mr. D put them on paper plates. All the customers did was add toppings before it was popped in the toaster oven for melting. But people got really serious about it. About a year after I started, we had to switch brands of chocolate sauce because of a supplier going out of business and the fallout made the local paper. No kidding. We even had a few loonies who brought baggies with their own custom blends. I wasn't sure that was health department kosher. But seeing as Mr. Guthrie, the local inspector, showed up with the wife and kids every Saturday, I figured we wouldn't be shut down anytime soon.

  And then every year, the bakery participated in Children's Day where grubby little larvae were encouraged to twist their own pretzels. For that, we set up in the parking lot. What a freak show that was. I'd seriously rather go to the dentist or take standardized tests every day for a month, the kind where you wait a half hour to get to page one because the teacher reads at the speed of snail.

  I had to give it to Mr. D. He could have eight to ten pretzels crisping at once, and remember who had what, and in what order. It helped he knew everyone by name. I only knew the troublemakers.

  Like Dari Melliot and her four kids. She was a single mom with multiple kids (and fathers of kids) who worked at the high school cafeteria and always looked worn out. Her kids were the worst brats and she never made an effort to clamp down on their crap. It's possible she was afraid of the biggest one.

  Every week, she bought two pretzels and divided them among herself and the four kids. From a business standpoint, we lost money on the four extra paper plates. From a pure annoyance factor, we were forced to listen to the whining of four ungrateful midgets who were too self-centered to notice their mother could barely afford the two, let alone four, pretzels they threw a fit for. Our pretzels were two dollars a pop and they were pretty big, almost the size of the paper plate. There was no way they could have eaten a whole one by themselves. I know this because Nathan tried once and vomited on Nikki's shoes. And if Nathan the pit couldn't do it…

  Today, the Melliot brats' whining hit a fever pitch. They fought and griped and took turns tormenting their mother as they waited their turn in line. I kept my eyes down and filled the toppings at top speed, hoping to escape the chaos.

  “I got new shoes.” One of two identical anemic girls bragged to me, ignoring me ignoring her. They had really bad rhyming names like Candee and Andee or Sheena and Treena. In my head, I called them Thing One and Thing Two. I was not as bitter about my own name when I thought of what I could have been stuck with. LaPierre runs kind of high to white trash perky.

  “Bully,” I said.

  “Not bully,” she told me, all impatient like I was the one bothering her. “Shoes!” She waved a foot covered in dollar store plastic in the air near the toppings containers.

  “Mmmm,” I said with star level customer service. I kept wiping.

  “Mama, I want my own!” This from the oldest, a wormy looking kid around eleven named Gordy.

  “Naw, Baby. You can share with me.” Dari's limp black hair had been pulled into a ponytail, but still looked a mess. She looked like she could be their grandma.

  “Mama! I'm older now. I want my own.” He didn't so much tell her as order.

  “Gordy, now you hush or you ain't gonna get none.” She shifted from one leg to another as if her feet hurt to much to stand still. I felt a rare flash of sympathy.

  “It's not fair. I hate you.” he muttered, and then quieter, “Stupid.”

  Even in the crush of pretzel madness, people were noticing and nudging each other. Nothing makes assholes feel better than dumping on other people.

  “I want my own, too!” one of the twins piped up.

  “Y'all hush,” Dari said wearily with no real heat.

  I snatched up some plates and a pretzel, cutting it precisely in three pieces. I handed one to each kid and glared at them. They took them quietly. I noticed the littlest boy reached for his with an arm sporting something that looked a lot like ringworm. Great.

  “Nice,” I said, curbing my disgust. It definitely wasn't the kid's fault. “Now go get your toppings and the kid who is neatest and quietest will get a chocolate milk."

  Three pairs of eyes got big.

  “I'll be neatest!” Thing One said. “I'm older.”

  “Well, you won't win quietest,” I told her bluntly.

  She shut up and moved over to the toppings. Now for Gordo.

  I cut the second pretzel in two and waved him over. Dari was counting change onto the counter from the saddest coin purse I had ever seen.

  “I want a milk too!” He told me, his chin set on stubborn. “It's not fair.”

  “Life isn't fair,” I told him, my voice was low, but mean. “Look at your mom having to put up with you.”

  His mouth fell open. I was guessing he wasn't used to taking it, just dishing it out.

  “There is no way in hell I am buying you a milk unless you learn to behave yourself.”

  “I'll tell,” he said, his tone threatening.

  I snorted. “Tell what? That you're such a creep the bakery girl doesn't like you enough to buy you a milk?” I stared at him until he looked down. “I'd be embarrassed if I were you.”

  I had sliced the pretzel unevenly, and when he saw, he opened his mouth to protest. And I glared at him, with my 'strip skin from a snake' eye that I had learned from a foster sib named Tammy. She was as mean as a snake, but never to the rest of us kids.

  “That's not…” he started.

  “Nope,” I said, “it's not. Do you think it's fair your mom works her butt off and you never even say thank you?”

  He looked at me as if I was stupid. “She's supposed to.”

  “You little creep,” I hissed “Look at your shoes and look at hers.”

  He looked down at his new sneakers and then at his mother's which were dirty and worn out with one heel flapping as she walked.

  “Well . . .”

  “Well, it's not fair!” I mimicked his earlier whiny comment, “You get new shoes and she gets you being a jerk. What do you think?”

  His lip wobbled. “I could give her the big piece,” he said, slowly. Thinking of others was clearly a new idea for him, and a painful one.

  “And I could buy you a milk,” I said, “because I'm starting to like you.”

  He looked pleased, so I tried not to let the lie show.

  “Here, Mama,” he said, handing her the plate.

  “We're ready,” the girls interrupted.

  “Who wins?” Thing two demanded.

  “We'll have to bake 'em and see,” I said, figuring it would keep them quiet a little longer.

  “Wins?” Dari was holding her pretzel, looking worried.

  I knew Gordy was itching because she hadn't even noticed she had the big piece. I shook my head at him and looked down at his shoe pointedly. He nodded and bit his lip.

  “I'm gonna buy your kids a chocolate milk if that's okay?” I said.

  She looked confused.

  “What's this?” the lady behind her said, “Why's her kids get a free milk?”

  Really? I stared at the customer. What is wrong with people?

  “They aren't free,” I said, making up a “mind your own damn business” look up on the spot. “I am paying for them because they're my neighbors.”

  Now, Dari looked really confused. “Well, I don't…”

  “Come on, Mama, let's go get our toppings,” Gordy quickly distracted his mother, apparently no stranger to lies and deception.

  I made my way to Mrs. D who was working the counter. She took care of the sensibl
e customers who wanted something besides a pretzel. It was a good day for moving fresh rolls and desserts. Sunday dinner still being a pretty big deal in the South. I asked her to put five chocolate milks on a tab for me. She said nothing, just nodded and boxed up a pecan pie for the Constantines.

  The kids were clamoring to know who won.

  “You know what? I am too busy to judge,” I said, passing out milk. “So today everybody wins. Next week only one winner and I'm judging on manners.”

  “Mannas?” Davy, the little one, asked, scratching at his arm.

  “Yep." I tried not to shudder, "Ask your Mama to help you.”

  They all nodded happily, clutching their milk cartons and pretzels. Dari led them out the door to the benches in front of the bakery, and I fled back to the safety of the kitchen.

  It took twisting and baking another fifty pretzels to collect myself. Not only had I broken a rule and got involved, the whole mess cost me almost five bucks. Five bucks I could have spent on food for the bottomless dog in my life. I sighed. My life was clearly out of control.

  Chapter 22

  I cycled home after work, nervous about what Corky had gotten up to. We had been too busy for me to come home for lunch and I wondered if I was going to get my first lesson in removing pet stains and odors. A quick look through the hedge showed Mrs. Evers' little car was gone and I raced to let him out before she returned.

  He met me at the door, barking and wagging his tail. I managed to push my backpack inside and then moved out the way so he could race down the stairs. My pace, as I followed was much slower, not having four feet and canine agility. I ducked under the trees and headed around the side of the house for more privacy. Corky had had the same thought or else smelled something. I could hear his crashing sounds and winced at the thought of those briars on his very solid flesh. I reached the clearing first, after all, and settled on a branch to wait for him. After the chaos of the bakery, it was quiet and peaceful.