Midnight Crossroad

Looking out her front window, Fiji wonders if she should go over to help, too, but she knows she can’t carry as much as the guys. Also, Mr. Snuggly has an ongoing feud with Rasta; he would be sure to follow her if she crossed the road. After an hour of inner debate, Fiji decides that she will carry over lemonade and cookies; but by the time she gets everything assembled, the men have vanished. She steps out onto the street to see them heading down to the Home Cookin Restaurant. Apparently, they’re taking a lunch break. She sighs and decides to try again about three o’clock.

As the small party walks west on the north side of the road, they pass the pawnshop and cross the intersection. The Davy highway is wider and well paved, the newcomer notices. They pass Gas N Go, waving at the middle-aged man inside. Then there’s an alley and another vacant store, and next they’d reach the Antique Gallery and Nail Salon. But instead, they cross Witch Light Road to get to Home Cookin. The newcomer has been taking in the vacant buildings.

“Are there more people?” the newcomer asks. “Than us?”

“Sure,” Bobo replies. “There are people strung out along Witch Light and a few on the Davy highway, and farther out there are ranches. We see the ranch families and workers now and then. The few other people who live close, the ones who don’t run ranches, work in Davy or Marthasville. The commute is cheaper than moving.”

The new tenant understands that the core group of people in Midnight is very small. But that’s fine with him, too.

When the men (and Rasta) come into the restaurant, Madonna Reed looks up from the infant carrier atop the ancient Formica counter. She’s been playing with the baby, and her face is soft and happy.

“How’s Grady?” Joe asks. He brings the Peke in with him without any discussion, so the new tenant realizes Joe must do this often.

“He’s good,” says Madonna. Her smile switches from genuine to professional in a wink. “I see we’ve got a newbie today.” She nods at the new tenant.

“Yeah, I guess we’ll need menus,” Bobo says.

The newcomer looks politely from Madonna to the other men. “You must come here often,” he says.

“All the time,” Bobo says. “We may only have one place to eat fresh-made food, but Madonna’s a great cook, so I’m not complaining.”

Madonna is a plus-size woman with an intimidating Afro. Perhaps her ancestors were from Somalia, because she is tall, there is a reddish cast to her brown skin, and her nose is thin and high-bridged. She is very pretty.

The newcomer accepts his menu, which is a single-sided typed sheet in a plastic envelope. It’s a bit battered and obviously hasn’t been changed in some time. Today is a Tuesday, and under the heading “Tuesday” he sees he has a choice between fried catfish and baked chicken. “I’ll have the catfish,” he says.

“What sides with that?” Madonna asks. “Pick two out of the three. The catfish comes with hush puppies.” The sides for Tuesday are mashed potatoes with cheese and onions, slaw, and a baked apple with cinnamon. The new guy picks slaw and an apple.

They’re sitting at the largest table in the restaurant, a circular one set in the middle of the small room. It seats eight, and the newcomer wonders why they’re at this particular table. There are four booths against the west wall, and two tables for two against the front window, which looks north over Witch Light Road. After looking around, the new guy doesn’t worry about hogging the big table any longer. There’s no one else in the place.

A short Hispanic man walks in, wearing a crisp striped sport shirt and immaculate khakis with a gleaming brown leather belt and loafers. He’s probably forty. He comes over to the table, kisses Joe Strong on the cheek, and slips into the chair by him. The new customer leans over to give Rasta a scratch on the head before he reaches across the table to shake hands with the new guy. “I’m Chewy Villegas,” he says.

Not Chewy . . . Chuy. “I’m Manfred Bernardo,” the new guy says.

“Did Joe help you get settled?”

“I’d still be moving furniture and boxes if he and Bobo hadn’t shown up. There’s not that much more to go. I can unpack in increments.”

Chuy bends down to pet the dog. “How’s Rasta been?” he asks his partner.

Joe laughs. “Ferocious. Scared Manfred to death with his vicious fangs. At least Mr. Snuggly stayed on his side of the road.”

Though Chuy’s eyes are marked by crow’s feet, his hair does not show a trace of gray. His voice is soft and has a very slight accent, maybe more a careful choice of words, that indicates he was not originally from the United States. He seems to be as muscular as his partner.

A man in his sixties enters, an electronic chime on the door announcing his arrival. Like Chuy, he’s of Hispanic origin, but otherwise the two men are nothing alike. The newcomer is cadaverous, and his skin tone is much darker than Chuy’s caramel. There are deep creases in the older man’s cheeks. He’s maybe five feet five inches in his cowboy boots, and he’s wearing a white shirt and an ancient black suit with a black Stetson. His only adornment is a string tie with a hunk of turquoise acting as a clasp. The older man nods politely at the group and goes to sit by himself at one of the small tables at the front window. He removes his hat, revealing thinning black hair. Manfred opens his mouth to ask him over, but Bobo puts a hand on Manfred’s arm. “The Rev sits alone,” Bobo says in a low voice, and Manfred nods.

Since he’s sitting facing the window, Manfred can see a fairly steady stream of people going in and out of the convenience store. The two gas pumps are out of his range of sight, but he assumes that each person going into the store has a vehicle that is getting filled. “It’s a busy time at the Gas N Go,” he comments.

“Yeah, Shawn and Creek never come in for lunch. Sometimes for supper,” Bobo says. “Creek has a brother, Connor—he’s fourteen? Fifteen? He’s at school in Davy.”

“Davy is north of here?”

“Yes. A ten-minute drive. Davy’s the county seat of Roca Fría County. The town’s named for Davy Crockett, of course. ‘Crockett’ was already taken.”

“So I’m guessing you’re not from around here, either,” says Manfred.

“Nope.” Bobo doesn’t amplify. This is a big clue, to Manfred. He’s thinking it over when Madonna emerges from the kitchen to carry a glass of water over to the Rev and take his order. She’s put glasses full of ice and pitchers of tea and water on the big table already.