The Crossroads Read Free

store, laundry and dry cleaning, a hardware store with a post office substation, a bakery, a little gift shop. An old man was sweeping the walk in front of the sundries store. She saw a gray Volkswagen drive in and disappear behind the block of stores. A few minutes later a tall girl came walking around from in back of the stores, walking light and lithe in morning health, sun on her fair hair. She wore a sand-colored sleeveless dress with a small formal aqua collar, and keys sparkled in her hand. She unlocked the door of the gift shop. The name in slanting gold script on the display window was Jeana Louise. The woman in the restaurant saw the girl smile and say something to the old man and go inside.
    She thought, with a certain familiar and comfortable smugness, My eyesight is perfect. But then the realization came again. Like a bitter wind blowing against her heart. Undiminished. What good are my eyes? What good are all the well parts, the perfect parts?
    She tipped extravagantly because the waitress had been pleasant, a plump young girl with an open face, and because money had become a wry thing to think about. She paid her check and walked slowly out to the convertible. As she touched the door handle the pain struck with maliciousness. Remember me? It doubled her slightly, making sweat that was icy in the sunshine. In a few moments she was able to straighten up. She got in and, on an impulse of bravado, put the top down, took a gaykerchief from the glove compartment and tied it around her lifeless hair.
    There was a gap in the medial strip opposite the restaurant. When she paused there, waiting for a cluster of southbound cars to whir by, she looked over and saw the tall girl leaning into her display window, her pretty face serious and intent as she flicked at the window merchandise with a gay feather duster. Live in health, Jeana Louise, she thought gently. Live long and live well, my dear.
    So then she could turn, and she turned south, accelerating. By noon on Saturday she would be home, back to the golden beach of her girlhood.
    The man in the big gas station directly across from the Crossroads Motor Hotel saw her go by. He had stood there on the wide blue-gray expanse of asphalt, squinting in the sun, thumbs tucked in the bellyband of his trousers, watching her up there waiting to make the turn south, feeling the little automatic gut-tingle of excitement that came whenever he looked at a strange and potentially attractive woman. But when she went by he turned away with a little shrug of disgust. Sallow old bitch, trying to look like young stuff. Going around begging for it. Tired merchandise in a fancy package.
    He turned and looked toward his car. It was still up on the rack. Soon as you get south of Washington, they take all day. He walked slowly past the service islands where uniformed attendants were feeding the tourist cars. Big damn operation. Station looks like an airport terminal. Should have come by air this time. Maybe more like some kind of shrine. Place of worship along the highway. Bigger share of consumer dollar every year into service operations. Food, clothing, cleaning, entertainment, automotive. New prop under the economy. Net increase of better than nine thousand damn fools every day. Three and a half million of them a year. All with their mouths open. Baby birds. Memo. Take a look at those baby food companies again.
    He was fifty, a chunky restless domineering man, richer than he had ever hoped to be, walking nimbly alongthe very edge of legality, hungry for more—more of everything, money, food, women, power, now on his way down to make a personal investigation of a syndicate land-fill operation made possible only by the careful bribery of those public officials pledged to prevent further land fills on Florida’s west coast.
    A too-handsome and powerfully built young man was working on his car, a big new Chrysler, arrogantly dirty. Fescher looked at the young man. Husky brute. Too much sideburn.