An Incident at Cross Corners

I suppose Cross Corners got its handle because the only street light in town is situated at the intersection of Main and Spruce streets. Whenever a body wanted to meet, generally they’d meet here seeing there’s an empty lot that used to be a convenience store, ‘til a tornado wiped it off the map. It’s still a wonder how the street light survived that storm.

Old Willie Joe and I were supposed to meet at Cross Corners at noon. I hauled my skinny butt over there in my 1964 Ford pick up and waited for pert near forty-five minutes until it got so hot I could have fried an egg on the hood of the ol’ girl. No sign of Willie Joe. So I say’s to myself, “Don’t that beat all? I could have had a full breakfast plate or at least another cup of coffee. But no, being a stickler for time I high-tailed it over here on the dot.” Throwing the truck into drive I headed for home thinking how a cold glass of buttermilk would hit the spot right about now. I rolled the window down all the way, the sweat trickling down my back creating a wet spot and my shirt sticking to the seat.

Just gettin’ to the end of town all of 4 blocks if I’m counting right, I see old Willie Joe stumbling out of the saloon. Scratching my head, I wonder, "What’s he doing in the saloon this early in the day, specially when we agreed to meet me at Cross Corners?" My John Deere cap sets itself back as I spin the wheel and pull up short in front of Willie Joe, sending a cloud of fine dust all directions.

Willie Joe started coughing and waving his arms around like a lunatic. His bent frame practically doubled over but you can still see he’s muffled by the collection of dust up his nose.

“Sorry, Willie Joe,” I hollered. Don’t think he got it straight who I am. He stared at me as if I were a stranger.

I begged him. “Willie Joe, how come you’re ‘here’ instead of Cross Corners where I’ve been waiting for close to an hour?” Wouldn’t you know the old geezer just turns his back and starts walking across the street towards Nell’s diner? Laughing, I know Nell ain’t gonna serve no drunk at noon.

Buttermilk forgotten, I turn the battered truck around and parked in front of Nell’s. He doesn’t seem like himself, old Willie Joe. I gotta know what’s up.

Willie Joe sat at the counter. Dust lining the creases of his weathered face. He didn’t seem to pay it much mind, never reaching for the red paisley bandana sticking out from his pocket. Nell greeted him with his 'usual' and then nodding to me as the door banged behind me, her usual cheerful face expressed concern. Her eyes flashed back to Willie Joe.

I ambled to the counter choosing the stool next to Willie Joe. Nell brought my standard Joe doctored up with a dollop of fresh cream and two sugar cubes nestled against the cup on the saucer in front of me. Favoring ice tea but I didn’t want to embarrass her, I took a slug, licking my lips in consent.

“Nell, you wouldn’t have a slice of your famous apple pie to accompany this fine coffee,” I asked and winked.

“Johnson, don’t go trying to sweet talk me,” she retorted but headed straight for the pie case.

All this time Willie Joe sat slumped over his coffee and said nothing, not even looking up.

“Willie Joe, coffee’s on me. How ‘bout pie, too?" I inquired. Nell, you got another slice?” I called after her.

Willie Joe cut me off, “Let me alone, Johnson.”

Taken aback, I said nothing. I watched a tear zigzag down his cheek mixing with the layer of dust, reminding me of the sad, painted faces of the clowns at the annual rodeo.

Then, under his breath Willie Joe said to no one in particular, “I was going to give it to her. She didn’t wait and then, it went “off!” He raised his pale shaking hands, cradling his face in remorse.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the winding blue rivers in the back of his hand.

Willie Joe's sobs came furiously now.

Tearing myself away, Nell and I looked at each other and then at Willie Joe. We’d never seen him so shook up.

Nell must have decided something insufferable had happened. She waltzed to the phone and after a minute hung up. Shrugging her shoulders, she nodded towards the window.

I took it to mean the sheriff would be here in a minute or two. I guessed right because Sheriff Winslow hardly ever had reason to use his siren but you could hear it approaching. At the same time, an ambulance roared past the diner heading out of town.

Stunned, we sat silently while Sheriff Winslow directed Willie Joe into the back seat of the cruiser. Willie Joe so docile, the sheriff didn’t even cuff him.

Shortly afterward the TV news crew showed up from Bristol, 50 miles away. They jabbed a microphone in my face. I shook my head. Then, the little gal with a tag pinned to her shirt, WNTV, attacked Nell.

Unsure, Nell stammered, “I don’t know what to make of it,” and fled into the back room on pretense of getting an order.

By six o’clock it was all over the news. An apparent accident, Willie Joe Townsend killed his wife while trying to load the .22. His wife, Mildred, wanted to catch the varmint that rustled her chickens. In a hurry, she didn’t wait for Willie Joe to hand her the gun and grabbing it, it went off.

WNTV Update: Willie Joe Townsend, life long resident of Cross Corners, released on his own recognizance pending further investigation.

Later that evening, another shot rang out over the community.

[WC:996]