Midnight Crossroad Read online

  “I lived with Xylda for the past five years,” Manfred said evenly. “I don’t see how much you could miss me now.” His fingers drummed against the computer table. He knew he was too impatient with his mother’s bursts of sentimentality, but this was a conversation they’d had more than once, and he hadn’t enjoyed it the first time.

  “You asked to live with her. You said she needed you!” his mother said. Her own hurt was never far below the surface.

  “She did. More than you. I was weird, she was weird. I figured it would suit you better if I was with her.”

  There was a long silence, and he was very tempted to hang up. But he waited. He loved his mother. He just had a hard time remembering that some days.

  “I understand,” she said. She sounded tired and resigned. “Okay, call me in a week. Just to check in.”

  “I will,” he said, relieved. “Bye, Mom. Stay well.” He hung up and went back to work. He was glad to answer another e-mail, to respond to a woman who was convinced that he was both talented and discerning, a woman who didn’t blame him forever for doing the obvious thing. In his job, he was nearly omnipotent—he was taken seriously, and his word was seldom questioned.

  Real life was so different from his job, and not always in a good way. Manfred tugged absently on his most-pierced ear, the left. It was strange that he seldom got a reading on his mother. And really strange that he’d never realized it before. That was probably significant, and he should devote some time to figuring it out. But not today.

  Today, he had money to make.

  After another hour at his desk, Manfred became aware he was hungry. His mouth started to water when he wondered what was on the restaurant menu this evening. He’d checked the Home Cookin sign, so he knew the place was open on Sundays. Yep, time to eat out. He locked up the house as he left. As he did so, he wondered if he was the only one in Midnight who locked doors.

  Before he could give himself the treat of a dinner he hadn’t cooked, he had to perform his social duty. He looked both ways on Witch Light (nothing coming, as usual) and crossed to Fiji’s house. He’d been eyeing her pink-flowered china plate and her clear plastic pitcher in a guilty way since he’d washed them. He’d enjoyed the cookies and lemonade, and the least he could do was walk across the street to return Fiji’s dishes.

  The previous Thursday evening, he’d taken a break from work to watch the small group of women who came to Fiji’s “self-discovery” evening. Manfred had recognized the type from his own clientele: women dissatisfied with their humdrum lives, women seeking some power, some distinction. There was nothing wrong with such a search—in fact, people searching for something above and beyond the humdrum world were his bread and butter—but he doubted any of them had the talent he’d seen lurking in Fiji when he’d opened the door to find her standing there in jeans and a peasant blouse, a plate in her left hand and a pitcher in her right.

  Fiji was not what he thought of as his “type.” It didn’t bother him at all that she was older than he was; he found that suited him just fine, as a rule. But Fiji was too curvy and fluffy. Manfred tended to like hard, lean women—tough chicks. However, he had to appreciate the home Fiji had made for herself. The closer you got to the stone cottage with its patterned-brick trim, the more charming it was. He admired the flowers that were still burgeoning in the pots and barrels in Fiji’s yard, despite the fact that it was late September. The striped marmalade cat known as Mr. Snuggly displayed himself elegantly under a photinia. Even the irregular paving stones leading to the porch were laid in an attractive pattern.

  He knocked, since Fiji’s place wasn’t open on Sunday.

  “Come in!” she called. “Door’s open.”

  A bell over the door tinkled delicately as he went in, and he saw Fiji’s unruly head suddenly appear over the top of the counter.

  “Hi, neighbor,” he said. “I came to return your stuff. Thanks again for the cookies and the lemonade.” He held out the plate and pitcher, as if he had to provide evidence of his good intentions. He tried not to stare too obviously at the shelves in the shop, which were laden with things he considered absolute junk: books about the supernatural, ghost stories, and guides to tarot readings and dream interpretation. There were hanging sun catchers and dream catchers. There were two mortar-and-pestle sets that were pretty nice, some herb-gardening guides, alleged athames, tarot cards, Ouija boards, and other accoutrements of the New Age occultist.

  On the other hand, Manfred liked the two squashy flowered armchairs sitting opposite each other in the center of the floor, a magazine or two on the small table between them. Fiji stood up, and he saw she was flushed. It didn’t take a psychic to tell she was really irritated about something.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Oh, this damn spell,” she said, as if she were talking about the weather. “My great-aunt left it to me, but her handwriting was atrocious, and I’ve tried three different ingredients because I can’t figure out what she meant.”

  Manfred had not realized that Fiji openly admitted she was a witch, and for a second he was surprised. But she had the talent, and if she wanted to lay herself open to judgment like that, okay. He’d encountered much weirder shit. He set down the plate and the pitcher on the counter. “Let me see,” he offered.

  “Oh, I don’t mean to trouble you,” she said, obviously flustered. She had on reading glasses, and her brown eyes looked large and innocent behind the lenses.

  “Think of it as a thank-you note for the cookies.” He smiled, and she handed over the paper.

  “Damn,” he said, after a moment’s examination. Her great-aunt’s handwriting looked like a dirty-footed chicken had danced across the page. “Okay, which word?”

  She pointed to the scribble that was third on the list. He looked at it carefully. “Comfrey,” he said. “Is that an herb?”

  Her eyes closed with relief. “Oh, yes, and I have some growing out back,” she said. “Thanks so much!” She beamed at him.

  “No problem.” He smiled back. “I’m going down to Home Cookin for dinner. You want to come?”

  He’d had no intention of asking her, and he hoped he wasn’t sending the wrong message (if a casual dinner invitation could be the wrong message), but there was something vulnerable about Fiji that invited kindness.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’m out of anything remotely interesting to eat. And it’s Sunday, right? That’s fried chicken or meat loaf day.”

  After she locked the shop (now Manfred knew he was not the only one who continued his city ways) and patted the cat on its head, they walked west. Manfred had gotten into the habit of casting a glance down the driveway that ran to the back of the pawnshop. Though his view wasn’t as good from the south side of the street, he did it now.

  Because he was an observant kind of guy, Manfred had noticed soon after he’d moved in that there were usually three vehicles parked behind Midnight Pawn. Bobo Winthrop drove a blue Ford F-150 pickup, probably three years old. The second car was a Corvette. Manfred was no car buff, but he was sure this was a classic car, and he was sure it was worth huge bucks. It was usually covered with a tarp, but Manfred had caught a glimpse of it one night when he was putting out the trash. The Vette was sweet. The third car was relatively anonymous. Maybe a Honda Civic? Something small and four-door and silver. It wasn’t shiny new, and it wasn’t old.

  Manfred hoped the hot chick, Olivia, drove the Vette. But that would be almost too good, like pancakes with real maple syrup and real butter. And who was the second tenant? Manfred thought the smart thing to do would be to wait until someone volunteered the information.

  “How do you get enough traffic through the store?” he asked Fiji, because he’d been silent long enough. “For that matter, how does anyone in Midnight keep a business open? The only busy place is the Gas N Go.”

  “This is Texas,” she said. “People are used to driving
a long way for anything. I’m the only magical-type place for—well, I don’t know how big an area, but big. And people crave something different. I always get a decent crowd on my Thursday nights. They come from forty or fifty miles away, some of ’em. I do some Internet business, too.”

  “You don’t sell love charms or fertility charms out your back door?” he asked, teasing.

  “Great-Aunt Mildred did something like that.” She looked at him with an expression that dared him to make something of it.

  “I’m cool with that,” Manfred said immediately.

  She only nodded, and then they were at the restaurant. He opened the door for her, and she went in ahead of him, her expression somewhat chilly, as far as Manfred could interpret it.

  Home Cookin was almost bursting with activity this evening. Joe and Chuy were sitting at the big round table. There was a husky man with them, someone he hadn’t met, jiggling a fussy baby. Manfred noticed cars far more than he did babies (and shoes and fingernails), but he thought this infant was the same size as the one he’d seen the first time he’d been in Home Cookin. That made the chances good that this was Madonna’s baby; he figured the man was Madonna’s, too.

  As the electronic chime sounded and the door swung shut behind them, Manfred looked to his right. The two tables for two by the front window were occupied, and one of the four booths on the west wall. Reverend Emilio Sheehan (the Rev) sat by himself at his usual table, not the one next to the door but the second one. And his back was to the entrance, a placement that practically screamed “leave me alone.” This evening he had brought a Bible to read. It lay open on the table before him. Two men, not natives of Midnight, were at the table closest to the door. They were preoccupied with their drinks and menus.

  Though Manfred was sure he hadn’t met all the townspeople, he knew the family sitting in the U-shaped booth was also just passing through. The four of them looked too . . . too shiny to be residents. Mama had subtly streaked hair, breast implants, and expensive-casual slacks and sweater. Dad was wearing rich-rancher clothes (gleaming leather boots and a pristine cowboy hat). The kids—a boy about three or four, a girl maybe two years older—were looking around them for something to do.

  “Excuse me!” the mother called to Madonna, who was pouring tea for Chuy. “Do you have some colors or games for the children?”

  Madonna turned to regard her with astonishment. “No,” she said. After she put the tea up on the counter, she vanished into the kitchen.

  The mom gave the dad a significant look, as if to say, I don’t like this, but I’m not going to rile the natives. Manfred deduced it was some planning error on the dad’s part that had led to this unlikely family eating dinner at Home Cookin. He did not think the dad was going to get to forget about it for a couple of days. However, the family cheered up when Madonna brought out their dinner plates on a huge tray. The food looked good and smelled wonderful. Madonna had help tonight: Manfred caught a glimpse of someone moving around in the kitchen when the swinging doors were open. As the family began to eat, the restaurant grew quieter.

  Manfred and Fiji had taken seats at the big round table—he in the same chair he’d had before, facing the front door, and Fiji by the man holding the baby, with an empty chair or two between her and Manfred. Maybe she was more steamed about his selling-spells remark than he’d thought. Joe and Chuy said hello to Manfred, but they could hardly wait to tell Fiji about a woman who’d brought in an old book for Joe to look at. Manfred gathered that the book was an account of witches in Texas in the early part of the twentieth century.

  Madonna’s man was putting a bib on the baby and seemed pretty busy with the process, so Manfred put off introducing himself. While he waited, he evaluated the newcomers by the door. The two strangers at the small table fit in a bit better than the affluent family. They were both wearing worn jeans and T-shirts. Their boots were scuffed. The taller of the two, a dark-haired man, was wearing an open plaid sport shirt over his tee. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. The smaller man had medium brown hair; he was clean-shaven. Manfred set them in their early thirties.

  The opening of the two swinging doors into the kitchen attracted Manfred’s gaze. He only had to turn his head to the right to see the girl who emerged from the kitchen carrying two salads. Manfred’s attention was instantly riveted. His eyes followed her as she crossed the room to the two men by the door. She set the salads in front of them, returned to the counter to get two packages of dressing, and took the packages back to the table along with a basket of crackers. Manfred knew the people at his table were talking, but they might as well have been making paper chains for all he knew.

  Fiji was talking baby talk to the child, so Manfred leaned to his left. “Chuy, excuse me. Who’s that? The girl serving?”

  After a moment, it dawned on Manfred that the conversation at his table had stopped. He looked at Chuy, beside him, then at Fiji, Joe, and the dark man with the baby. They were all regarding him with some amusement.

  “That’s Creek Lovell,” Chuy said, his grin broadening.

  “Her dad owns the Gas N Go on the other corner,” Fiji said. “By the way—Manfred, meet Teacher.” She nodded at the dark man.

  “Good to meet you. How’s the little . . .” And he stopped dead. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember if the baby was a boy or girl. “Grady!” he said triumphantly.

  “Good save, man,” Teacher said. “Till you have ’em, they’re hardly top of your list. Yeah, this is Grady, he’s eight months old, and I do handyman work. So if you need some home repairs, give me a call.”

  “Teacher can do anything,” Joe said. “Plumbing, electric, carpentry.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Teacher said, with a blinding smile. “Yes, I’m a handy guy to have around. I help Madonna out here, and every now and then I work for Shawn Lovell over at the gas station, when he just has to have a night off. And I fill in for Bobo, too. Call me if you need me.” He fished a card out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Manfred, who pocketed it.

  “I’m not good with anything but the most basic hammer jobs myself, so I’ll be doing that,” Manfred said, and then reverted to a more interesting topic. “So, how old is Creek?” he asked. His attempt to sound casual was a dismal failure; even he knew that.

  Joe laughed. “Not old enough,” he said. “Or, wait, maybe she is. Yeah, she graduated from high school last May. We gave her a gift certificate to Bed Bath and Beyond, so she could get stuff for her dorm room. But apparently she’s not going to college, at least not this semester. You know why, Fiji?”

  Fiji’s forehead wrinkled. “Something was wrong with their loan application, I think,” she said, shaking her head. “Something didn’t come through with the financing. She’s still hoping that’ll get straightened out, even if her dad’s lukewarm about her leaving. I feel bad for Creek; she didn’t go to college, her puppy got killed, and her dad watches every move those kids make. A girl as young and smart as Creek doesn’t need to be hanging around Midnight.”

  “True,” Manfred said. Though height was not a major issue with Manfred, he was pleased to note that Creek was at least two inches shorter than he was. Her black hair was just down past her jawline, all one length, and it swung forward and backward with every step she took. Her skin was apparently poreless and clear, her eyebrows smooth dark strokes, her eyes light blue.

  She was not really thin. She was not really curvy. She was just right.

  “A word to the wise,” Chuy said. “Don’t let Shawn see you looking at his baby girl that way. He takes his job as her dad pretty seriously.” All the men at the table were smiling, and even Fiji looked amused.

  “Of course he does,” Manfred said, breaking himself out of his trance. “And I don’t mean any disrespect,” he added. Was it disrespectful to hope someday he would be naked with Creek Lovell? And was it even more disrespectful to pray that it would be soo
ner rather than later?

  “How old are you?” Joe asked.

  “Twenty-two.” Almost twenty-three, and it felt strange to try to minimize his age, rather than stretch it.

  “Oh.” Joe digested that. “You’re closer to her age than anyone in town.” He met his partner’s eye. Chuy shrugged. “May be a good thing,” he said. “Manfred, keep in the front of your mind the fact that all of us like the girl and none of us want her hurt.”

  “It’s at the top of my list,” Manfred said, which was not completely true. The way she walked, smooth and even, that was at the top of his list of things he noted about Creek Lovell. He reminded himself that she could have attended her senior prom only months ago . . . which went some way to quell the involuntary physical reaction he had when he watched her cross the room. Some way.

  It was not quite full dark outside, and the family of outsiders had finished their meat loaf and fried chicken. The little girl was beginning to pick on her younger sibling, and the mom was casting desperate looks toward the kitchen. Madonna was cooking, to judge from the sounds of pots and pans and the sizzle of frying, and Creek hurried out with the plates for the two men sitting together. She put them down, gave the men an impersonal smile, and scurried over to the booth to take the payment tucked into the black plastic folder the dad was extending.

  Just after the sun set, the bell over the door chimed as Bobo walked in with a man Manfred had never seen. As Manfred had noted before, his landlord was lucky enough to have a pleasing color palette; his hair was golden blond, his eyes were bright blue, his skin was a golden dusky tan. And he was tall, robust. His companion was more like—Bobo bleached and dried and shrunken. Instead of blond, his hair was platinum: the same shade as Manfred’s, but the newcomer’s hair was natural. His eyes were a pale, pale gray. His skin was . . .

  “White as snow,” Manfred whispered, remembering the old fairy tale Xylda had read to him. “His skin was white as snow.”