Intersection
by, Melissa R. Mendelson
Red lights flashed up ahead. The diner parking lot was full. Kids hung out by running cars, and cops sat quietly along curbs. Wet streets captured headlights, and tires swam through puddles. A chill lingered in the air, and more rain was to come.
The car came to a pause. The engine rumbled softly. A low hum coursed through metal. Chatter on the radio kept away the silence, and tires waited to peel along concrete. And the light flashed green.
The hour was late, but sleep was on hold. Every night when it was called, it would take a long time to arrive, and by the time my eyes would start to close, I would have to wake up again. And fragments of dreams would cling to me as I began another day.
These long drives at night brought a calm over me. Tension from the earlier hours would fade away. Nobody would be here to argue with me, and my only companion would be the night. And I would just drive.
That’s when I first saw him. He looked to be about ten-years-old with cropped, brown hair. His eyes were large, dark, and a haunting smile touched his lips. He would wait on the corner as the light turned red, and when it turned green, he would only look my way. He would wait for me to pull up beside him and ask if he needed a ride, and then he would merely respond, “No.”
After driving a brief distance, I would see him bolt across the street in front of another car. I would hear its horn blare, but there was no crash. There was nothing, and the boy was simply gone. And every night the same thing occurred, but for some strange reason, he waited for me.
“You need a ride, son?” The boy gave me that smile again. “I can take you home.”
“No.” That was my cue to leave, and he knew it. “No.”
“You can’t keep doing this, son.” The boy stared at me, curious as to why I did not just drive off like before. “Don’t you have some place to go?”
“It’s… Long gone.” So the kid could talk. “There is nowhere else.”
“What about your mother? Your father?” Tears filled the boy’s eyes. “Do you remember them?” His eyes narrowed. “Do you know where they are?”
“They are waiting for me.” The boy didn’t sound so sure. “They’re still looking for me.”
“Then, go to them.” A strange look crossed over his face. “Go to them, and stop coming here.” The rain started to fall. “This isn’t what you want.”
“No. It isn’t, but I can’t leave.”
“Why?” He leaned closer to the car. “Why can’t you leave?”
“Because he is still out there.”
“Who?”
“The man that killed me.” With that, the boy bolted across the street and was struck by another car.
“Damn it!” When I turned around in my seat to look for him, he was already gone. “Why? Why me?”
The hour was growing later. The night was colder, and the rain started to fall hard. The car behind me sped up ahead, wanting to escape their ghostly encounter and fade away into the darkness. And sleep was now calling.
As the ride home neared, something scratched the back of my mind. An alarm was sounding, but what was it? What did I know that my mind could not recall? Did it have something to do with the boy?
As the car pulled into the driveway, it dawned on me. A few months ago, my tenant came home drunk. I watched him stumble out of the car and into the darkness toward the apartment door. I heard the shuffle, crash, and thud as the man stumbled in to his home, and the car was left parked where it should not have been. And that was what made me walk outside in curiosity.
The dark sedan seemed in perfect condition. It was obvious that the man did take good care of the car when he was sober. However, the front of it had a large dent, and there seemed to be something wet, slick across the hood. But it was too dark to see what it was, and there were plenty of deer in the neighborhood.
“But did he hit a deer?” The traffic intersection was close to the house, and it was where I always saw the boy. “Did he hit him?” Those words stung me. “He was drunk. How could he drive drunk?” I rubbed my chin. “The damn fool.” I pocketed the car keys. “That’s why the boy would wait for me because I knew. Deep down, I knew.” I shook my head. “And he’s telling me that.”
Exiting the car, I turned toward the lit window of the basement. He was in there, probably drinking again or already drunk. It didn’t matter if the rent was paid up or if he caused no trouble with the exception of him coming home drunk that night. It didn’t matter because he took a life, and he would have to pay the price.
“The kid needs to go home,” I muttered. “He’s suffered enough.” I moved toward the front door. “It’s not fair.”
Stepping into the house, nobody waited to greet me. Everyone was fast asleep, and sleep was still calling. But I would not answer. Instead, I entered the kitchen and grabbed the telephone.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
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