Page 31 of A Boy Called Lovesong

The boy gave a grin. “Mister, we all arrive at a crossroads sooner or later.”

“But I thought there was atowncalled Clara’s Crossing. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m looking for someone.”

“Who you be looking for, mister?”

“I’m hoping to find a man called Lovesong. Do you know a Lovesong Valentin?”

“Yessir! Everyone knows Lovesong. Lovesong be like the lullaby that rocks you to sleep. He be like the full moon that lights the way. He be like the river that leads you back home. EveryonelovesLovesong.”

“I don’t,” I mumbled through teeth that were grinding harder and harder by the minute. “Surely, he doesn’t live here… at a damn crossing. Surely there’s a town nearby.”

“Course he lives in town. Ain’t nobody lives here at the crossing. Sure, there’s people here, but none of them be living.”

“Enough of the riddles, kid. Can you please just tell me where the town is?”

The boy jumped off the crate and walked over to me. Sliding his spoons in his pocket, he took my hand, led me back to his crate and gestured for me to stand on it. I checked it would take my weight, pressing down on it with one foot, then stepped up on it.

The boy took hold of my hips and turned me around, lining me up to look due south down one of the roads leading away from the crossroads. From atop the crate I could see over the fields of cotton that seemed to stretch on for miles until I spotted something in the distance.

“You see it, mister?”

I saw something, yes. “What is it?”

“That’s the bell tower of Reverend Jim’s church. All’s you gotta do is head south and you’ll find the town you’re looking for. Who knows what else you’ll find.” He gave me a look like he’d just stolen something from the cookie jar and knew he was going to get away with it. Then…

Tappety-ting-ting-clatter-clang-ching.

He danced his way into the middle of the crossroads playing his spoons.

I stepped down off the crate, picked Chet up and put him in the car. “Thanks kid.” I didn’t want to say much more for fear he’d prattle on all day if I gave him the chance.

I slid behind the wheel, shut the door and turned the key in the ignition.

Joan Collins gave a wheeze and a chug, then nothing.

“Aw shit.”

I tried to turn the engine over again.

Again, the car coughed then jolted as it backfired, then the engine quit altogether.

The boy giggled. “Oh mister, you best get that car started, otherwise he be comin’ for you.”

“Who?”

“The damn Flim-Flam Man. This behiscrossroads.”

I was in no mood for more riddles. “No, it’s not. The sign says it’s Clara’s.”

“She be the one who died here,” the boy said, jumping back onto his crate. “But the Flim-Flam Man’s the one who calls it his own. Best you get that car started now. I’ll play the spoons to keep him away as long as I can.”

Despite the nonsense that came out of the dancing, spoon-playing boy’s mouth—despite the irritating sound of the clink of his spoons and the clunk of his shoes against the wooden crate—a feeling of dread crept into my heart.

Sweat dripped into my eyes.

Thunder rolled across the skies.

I glanced into the rear-view mirror, and I didn’t know why.

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