Crossroad

by W. H. Cameron

  Once I’m sure Jeremy hasn’t followed me out, I pause on the front steps of the Barlow Building to inhale the scent of sage carried by the night breeze. Now after ten on a Tuesday night, Town Common is quiet. Barb texted earlier to say she was going home, so I’m on my own. I zip my jacket, then, without thinking, pull out my phone and thumb a familiar name in my Contacts. Tap “Call.” Get voicemail.

  “It’s Melisende. What else is new, right?” I let out a breath. “I’m sorry for calling so late. It’s been a long day. I hope you’re okay.” I tap “End” and exhale.

  Helene never answers, and she never calls back. I look up at the dark sky. The moon is just climbing above the horizon. Only a fraction of the stars seen in the desert are visible. Outside the Whistle Pig, half a block up to my left, a guy steps out to smoke under the neon Pabst sign in the window. Light and chatter stream through the door, propped open to let in the cool night air. I’m only half-tempted to stop in for a nightcap. It’s been forty hours since I slept. I want my bed, but I can’t face the long drive out to Shatter Hill. I’ll settle for the supply room casket at the New Mortuary.

  I drag my feet through the park toward the fountain, an imposing affair with a broad sandstone basin and a central column topped by a statue of Sam Barlow himself. Seven names of locals who died in the Great War are listed on the bronze plaque affixed to the near side of the plinth—similar plaques at the cardinal points list the dead from World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. Among the names is a Bouton—perhaps one of Geoffrey’s ancestors. At that thought, I close my eyes.

  When I open them again, Landry MacElroy is there.

  “You still talking shit about me?”

  He stands in a puddle of light cast by a vintage lamppost illuminating the fountain. His T-shirt—“Barlow Football Battering Rams”—strains to contain his bulk.

  “I said, you in there spreading lies about me again?” He gestures toward the Barlow Building with a balled fist.

  I inhale slowly, conscious of the night chill on my face and neck. “We talked about how distraught your mother must be.”

  “About what?”

  Calling Landry a fish in a barrel would be an insult to fish.

  Two more boys saunter out of the shadows beyond the fountain, both familiar from the crossroad. The team that plays together, preys together. The New Mortuary is three blocks away. With three blockheads in between, it might as well be three miles.

  The larger of the newcomers grunts. “Don’t matter what she says, Lan.” I don’t know his name, but I remember his position from when I looked up the team website after I found out no charges would be filed against Landry. Offensive guard. Seems appropriate.

  The smaller one, a tailback, grins. “She batshit, yo. Dumb slut says she saw the Spirit.”

  “Off the rails, man.”

  “You hear about the baby?”

  That draws a bark of laughter. “Fuck me, bro. Everybody’s heard about the baby.”

  “Who does that?”

  “Even Riblet would know what to do if he found a baby.”

  “Well, Riblet would probably eat it.”

  “At least he’d pick it up.”

  “This is some kinda whack ho.”

  “Bug-ass slag.”

  “How many dead bodies you think she’s fucked?”

  “All of them?”

  “Chicks too? Gross.”

  “Dyke for the dead, brah.”

  Zero to necrophilia in under sixty seconds. Their routine has gathered enough momentum that I half-suspect I could slip away without them noticing. A breeze sweeps through the park, carrying with it the aroma of the Whistle Pig’s deep fryer. I glance that way. The smoker has gone inside. Some remote part of me thinks I should be worried.

  “Can you smell that, Mellie?” Fitz’s voice tickles the back of my head. I answer without thinking. “Smells good.”

  Landry and his crew bust out in sneering laughter. “What in hell you on about?”

  They think I was talking to them.

  “Sweet potato tots.” My head feels like it’s pivoting on a ball joint. “From the Whistle Pig.”

  The three boys stare, bug-eyed, Landry’s mouth agape. “You are crazy.”

  Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut, but staying quiet has never been one of my strengths. Growing up, it didn’t matter. No one was listening anyway. But now, still a newcomer in a small town, I’m on display every waking moment. By tomorrow, everyone will have heard. Saw the Spirit … left the baby … babbled about sweet potato tots in Memorial Park.

  The tailback prods Landry with his elbow. “We should take her out to the crossroad or up to the old graveyard.”

  “She’d fit right in with Molly Claire’s Girls,” Landry says, nodding. The way he says it makes me wonder if Molly Claire is another name for the Shatter Hill Spirit—not that I’d ask fucking Landry.

  Out on the street a car goes by. The taillights vanish around a corner. I’m on my own, with nothing going for me but the beer in their bellies. The big guy, the guard, sways like he just took off his training wheels. The tailback isn’t much better, with wayward eyes and head wobbling on his muscled neck. If I hurt Landry fast, I might be able to get away before the others realize what happened. I’m still in my work boots. A steel-toe to his rape tackle could solve no end of problems.

  But before I can act, Paulette Soucie appears from beyond the fountain.

  “Landry, where’d you go?”

  Her voice is kittenish, but there’s strain in her eyes.

  “Paulette—” I can’t hide my disappointment, but Paulette only frowns and shuts me up with a sharp shake of her head. When Landry turns, she shows him her teeth and holds up a beer can. “Come back, sweetie. I’m getting cold.” Tension lingers in her smile.

  Two more girls lurk in the shadows behind her. I’ve interrupted a party.

  “You’re lucky I got better things to do, bitch,” Landry says to me.

  I want to tell Paulette she doesn’t have to be here. That I can teach her what Helene tried to teach me before I met Geoffrey and forgot it all in a heedless rush of sex and booze. But before I can shape the thought into words, a patrol car stops on the street across from the fountain, and Jeremy climbs out.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Whoa.” Landry waves his hands and takes a step back. “We were just hanging—”

  “Underage drinking,” I say. “Menacing. Another rape or two in the works.”

  “Yo, bitch—!”

  Jeremy shuts Landry up with the beam of a Maglite into his bloodshot eyes. “Mel, are you saying he threatened you?”

  “He thinks he did.”

  Grim-faced, Jeremy stares at the three boys. “Fellas, hand over your keys and then go home. Walk, call for a ride—I don’t care. Just get moving. I’ll be around soon to check on you and give your keys to your folks. If you’re not home, the next time I see you I won’t be so friendly.”

  “What about our dates?”

  “You let me worry about them.”

  The boys hesitate, calculation in their eyes. Three on one—them favored sons; Jeremy, an outsider, blind to the layers in Barlow County strata. Landry is the one who says what they’re all thinking. “I don’t think you realize who you’re dealing with, Deputy.”

  To Jeremy’s credit, he doesn’t waver. “Don’t test me, kid.”

  For a minute, Landry seems ready to go off, counting on his backup to help him take down a cop. But not even Landry MacElroy is that stupid. He puts up his hands, then digs for his keys. The others follow suit. But before the boys leave, Landry stares at Paulette and growls, “You got nothing to say to this bitch.”

  “I said move it.” Jeremy spins Landry and gives him a shove. I think we’re all surprised when Landry keeps walking. Jeremy doesn’t relax until the boys cross the street and round the corner. Then he turns to me.

  “You okay?”

  “I thought you were off-duty.”

  “On my wa
y home.”

  “So now you’re standing up to Landry? Where were you two weeks ago?”

  “Can we do this later?” Jeremy steals a glance at Paulette, who refuses to meet his gaze. I just shake my head, annoyed and exhausted.

  “Can I at least give you a ride home, Mel? It’s no trouble. I’ve got room for everyone.”

  “I’m not getting in a car with her,” one of Paulette’s friends says. I give the girl a look, daring her to make a crack about babies, ghosts, or necrophilia. She withers. I’m tempted to take Jeremy up on his offer, just to see the look on her face. But he’ll want to stay if I do. I’d rather sleep in a coffin than deal with his wheedling right now.

  I eye the three girls. Paulette looks resigned, but the other two continue to stare daggers. Over Jeremy’s shoulder, St. Mark’s Hospital looms, the tallest building in the county—a sudden beacon.

  “No thanks, I’m fine.”

  Before he can say another word, my third “second wind” of the day carries me out of the park, past a block of dark shops, and through the front door of the hospital to check on the damn baby.

  NINE

  Family Birthing Center

  I usually enter St. Mark’s from the back, so when I step into the lobby, it takes me a moment to get oriented. The hospital is small, three floors divided into two wings. To the right and through a security door is my typical haunt: the morgue. A sign points left to an unfamiliar destination.

  “I heard about the baby.”

  The refrain of the day, with lots of laughs at the apprentice undertaker’s expense from the fine folk of Barlow County.

  I stare at the sign. The baby should be through the pair of double doors I’ve never given a second thought. Why should I? I don’t have a baby—and never will. I put a hand on my belly. The only things that will ever live in my womb are the spiders weaving cobwebs.

  “You just left her there?”

  That I was yelling for help from the moment I realized what I’d found doesn’t matter—not even to Barb.

  “You are a little weird, Mellie.”

  “Shut up, Fitz.”

  He laughs me through the doors to a warm space the size of the New Mortuary’s lobby. On the wall behind the nurses station, backlit letters read “Welcome to the Family Birthing Center.”

  Off in the corner of the waiting area, a man on his cell sits next to the window, wild-eyed and breathless. Nearby, a couple I assume are expectant grandparents speed-talk to a younger woman, whose wide grin looks manufactured by Mattel. Behind a second pair of double doors, past the nurses station, mothers will be squeezing out offspring. Push—scream, push—scream, if Lifetime movies are any guide. Out here, it’s all barely restrained happy time.

  The place smells like a cage made of baby wipes. I’m too goddamn tired to face this, but I can’t back out now. Someone will recognize me. If I flee, the talk tomorrow will double down on the crazy girl afraid of babies.

  In the distance, I can still hear Fitz laughing.

  “May I help you?”

  The voice jolts me out of my thought spiral. A nurse rises from a chair behind the counter. She looks to be in her thirties yet is dressed in pink scrubs printed with teddy bears. Her black hair is bound up in a bun, and her dark eyes are veiled with suspicion.

  “Are you friend or family?”

  “Of who?”

  Her brow furrows. In Barlow County, it’s easy to think everyone is familiar. Odds are, you’ve at least traded nods at Cuppa Jo or Ray’s Thriftway. But she doesn’t recognize me. This part of the hospital is as far from the morgue as you can get without going outdoors. “Are you here to see one of our birthing families?”

  “No.” Jesus. Barb would have a field day with this. I consider turning around and leaving, gossip be damned. But I lift my chin and look her in the eye. Like you’re supposed to. “There was a baby brought in. From the desert. A newborn.”

  She inspects me, eyes lingering at my midsection. “What is your relationship to the child?”

  I force my lips into an uneasy smile. “I’m the one who found her.”

  “Ohh. Of course.” Her expression softens. “She’s not here. They have her in NICU.”

  “What?”

  “Neonatal Intensive Care. It’s a secure unit, staff and immediate family only.”

  “I just …” If I’d kept walking past the hospital, I could be climbing into my coffin by now. “I … wanted to see how she was doing.”

  “I’m sorry. We can’t give out any information. Confidentiality, you know.”

  “Sure.”

  “I can understand why you’d want to check on her.”

  Really? I wish she’d explain it to me.

  “You’re not alone. People have been calling all day. The sheriff, a couple of reporters. Heck, even Lydia Koenig came by.”

  “Lydia Koenig?”

  “From the girls’ school in Crestview.”

  I’ve heard gossip about the isolated facility, a private school for troubled girls supposedly on their last stop before women’s prison. But since no one’s died there—yet—it hasn’t been on my radar.

  “Does she know something about the baby? I heard they ruled out the schools.”

  “I wish it was that easy.” She sadly shakes her head. “Miss Koenig was just concerned, same as all of us.”

  Same as all of us. Right.

  I turn to go.

  “You work at the funeral home, right?”

  She recognizes me after all, the mad undertaker who ran away from the baby.

  This is the moment when people do one of two things: shrink away in horror or smile uncomfortably and pretend like it ain’t no thing. But the nurse surprises me.

  “I think you know my sister, Danae. She usually works Med-Surg, but she floats to the morgue when necessary.”

  “Oh”—I steal a quick glance at her ID badge: Danica Wood, RN. Danae and Danica. I bet they’ve got a brother named Dane—“yes, Danae.”

  “She tells me you’re very professional.”

  “I try to be.” I usually save my undertaker gag shirts for off-hours or cover them with a jacket or button-down work shirt when I have to interact with the living. After a long pause, I realize the nurse is waiting for more. I manage a weary smile. “Danae is good. She always has her shit together.” I don’t know if it’s true. My contact with the morgue attendant has been limited, but she does have one thing on me. To my knowledge, she’s never lost a body.

  Danica glances around the waiting area, then leans forward. “Listen, I haven’t heard the latest status, and this is nothing official.” Her voice is low and conspiratorial. “While I can’t offer specifics, the baby is doing well. Honestly, she wouldn’t be here otherwise. Our NICU is hardly worthy of the name. We’re neither equipped nor staffed to handle serious cases. We’d airlift your little girl to Bend or Portland if she had any major issues.”

  I have to swallow a bitter laugh. My little girl. Still, relief overtakes me. “Thanks,” I murmur. “I should get going. I’m running on fumes.”

  She smiles and leans back. “Go get some rest. I’ll tell Danae you said hi.”

  I seem to have made a friend.

  TEN

  Spent Cartridges

  “You can’t call yourself a mortician till you’ve slept in a casket.”

  Aunt Elodie shared that folksy wisdom one morning last November after a late-night removal when I stayed over at the New Mortuary rather than drive home through freezing rain. My nap casket is a display model with a cutaway at the head to show the construction layers. It’s been in our storage room for years.

  Since my arrival, no one else has used it. Elodie is a fearless driver in all conditions, and Wanda lives six blocks away. Carrie says she’d sooner sleep on the embalming table. But cold stainless steel isn’t my idea of a proper resting place, not while I’m drawing breath. Not that the casket is much better. The padding is more for appearance than comfort—the dearly departed have yet to complain.
Even without the lid, it’s claustrophobic, and if you turn wrong you can crack an elbow hard enough to draw tears.

  No surprise, I awaken too early Wednesday morning, stiff and grimy. The staff bathroom has a shower, but a long, hot soak in a deep tub is what I really want. That means going to the Old Mortuary. Carrie is still out, and Aunt Elodie isn’t due back from Bend with Uncle Rémy till late Thursday or maybe Friday. I’m free—at least until the next demise. I leave a note for Wanda, pocket my cell—and make damn sure to lock up on my way out.

  The sun has cleared College Ridge, pushing before it a crisp breeze. By eight o’clock I’m in the Stiff. As I drive through Town Common, my eyes linger on Memorial Park, but all I see are a few empty beer cans near the fountain. Outside Cuppa Jo I slow but don’t stop. The whole county will have heard about the missing bodies. The baby was bad enough—now, I’m a ghoul too. Even a much-needed caffeine fix isn’t worth the grief.

  A minute later, I turn onto Route 55 under a cornflower sky. It’ll be hot later, but for now I lean into the gas pedal and let the cool morning air pour through the open window. The desert smells fresh and clean, and the drone of the tires on pavement is soothing, almost hypnotic. As distance grows between Samuelton and me, tension bleeds out of me. At the Old Mortuary, a claw-foot tub the size of a twin bed awaits. I can doze while I soak. If I’m lucky, my phone won’t ring for a week.

  “Who’s that?”

  A quarter mile ahead, there’s a car at the crossroad, parked next to the fire ring. I jerk my foot off the gas. I recognize Kendrick Pride’s blue hybrid just as his lanky form rises from behind the car. He’s moving back and forth, pausing to snap pictures of the ground with his phone.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “How the hell should I know?”