Crossroads End by J. W. Parr

It was late on a mid-July evening when the Devil came down to Georgia.

On that night, the man wasn’t there to set the world on fire, to spread sin and temptation rampant across the Bible Belt, or even to send demons throughout the land. That night, he was there for one reason: Arthur Grimes.

Art was rocking in his old, tan recliner when the clock struck 11:00. He reached over to the arm table for the bottle of whiskey. He didn’t drink much anymore, but tonight was an exception. He grabbed the revolver sitting next to the brown liquor and held it in his lap. His hands moved absentmindedly, spinning the cylinder round and round until he was mesmerized, lost in the nothingness.

Half an hour passed, along with the drink. Arthur began to cut the lights off, but a knock at the door stopped him. A chill slid down his spine, but he didn’t turn to look. Instead, he flipped the lights back on and poured another drink. Art ran a hand over his face, pulling his fingers through the greying beard at the bottom. Knowing that the man at the door wasn’t going to leave, Art made his way across the room. He didn’t peek through the blinds like he normally would, but unhooked the chain and turned the knob.

On the other side of the door was a man that Arthur Grimes had never seen before. The Stranger was wearing a flannel shirt and a worn-out pair of jeans, both complemented by the dust covered boots on his feet. He had dark, shoulder-length curls that were held back by a trucker hat; the lower half of his face was covered by a thick tangle of scruff. He looked like he could be the next-door neighbor, but there was something about him that seemed off. It–whatever it was–wasn’t a physical defect, and no matter how long Art stared, he would never be able to understand what it was. It was just one of those things that left an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

“Evenin’,” the Stranger nodded. His voice sounded like he had just finished gargling with gravel from the driveway.

“Howdy there,” Arthur responded. “I thought you’d decided not to show up.” He hoped that he sounded more sarcastic than pathetic.

The man chuckled. “No such luck I’m afraid. Just runnin’ a bit late tonight, my apologies.”

“Might as well come on in then.”

Arthur made his way back across the room. Despite the many thoughts of taking off toward his truck outside and high-tailing it out of there, he was oddly at ease as he sat back down in the old recliner.

“Care for a drink?” Art motioned to the side table as the Stranger took a seat in the wooden rocker across from him.

“No, thank ya,” he replied. The man eyed the handgun sitting beside the whiskey. “I can’t say that I blame ya, you wouldn’t be the first to try. But just so you know, that won’t stop this.”

Art looked at the man, confused, until he noticed where his gaze had landed. “Oh, no, that’s not for you.” He hesitated, but decided he had nothing to hide. “It was for me. Well…it was gonna be.”

“No kiddin’?” the Stranger raised a brow.

Art nodded.

“What changed your mind?”

“My family,” Art lowered his head. “Couldn’t do that to ’em. Have ’em get home tomorrow and find me like that…maybe I wouldn’t have to live with that for the rest of my life, but they sure as hell would.”

The Stranger sat back in his chair and began to rock back and forth. “I see. Mighty thoughtful of ya, I must say. Honorable too. You’d be surprised how many a man I’ve paid a visit to, only to find that he’d taken the easy way out.”

“Pride. Or control. That’s what I’d credit that to. Some men can’t bear to feel like they aren’t in control of their lives, like it makes ’em less of a man. The thought of allowing someone else take their life away is too much; doing the deed themselves allows ’em the satisfaction of making the choice to do it. Their one last noble act of their own free will.”

The Stranger rubbed at his beard, “Perhaps. Only, it isn’t actually their own free will at all. If it were up to them, they would live as long as possible. Knowing that death is nearly upon them forces their hands. It creates the choice that otherwise wouldn’t be there.”

“I know that,” Art agreed. “And they know that too – or at least the ones that are right enough in the head. But it’s an easy lie to convince yourself of. Lets ’em at least go out believin’ that their pride is intact. That they died still in control.”

The man stopped rocking and leaned forward, as if he was telling a secret. “I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Grimes. If I’ve learned one thing from my existence, it’s this: no one on this earth dies still in control. You can come close, maybe. You can convince yourself six ways to Sunday that you are. But it don’t change the cold hard truth.”

Silence followed, and the two men stared at each other.

“Damn shame,” Arthur admitted.

“Such is how it goes,” the Stranger said, resuming the rocking. He looked over his shoulder at the clock, “So tell me, if I may be so bold as to ask, what is it that brought me here tonight? What kinda deal did ya make? Money? Women?” he scanned the room over, “I’d ask about fame, but there doesn’t seem to be much of that here.”

“You mean, you don’t know?” Art said with amazement.

“I can’t say that I do, to be honest,” the Stranger answered. To Art’s surprise, even he seemed a tad embarrassed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t get involved in the fine details of my…employees’ work.”

“So you’re their pimp, is what you’re saying? You don’t care who they’re screwing as long as you get to collect when it’s all over?”

The man puckered his lips, like he’d tasted something bad. “I wouldn’t necessarily use them words exactly. But, in a manner of speakin’, yes.”

A smirk crept onto Arthur’s face, then vanished. “Well, I can say that it wasn’t any of that stuff. I’m no fool–or, at least not akin to those folks.”

“Judge not, lest ye be judged. That’s what my old man used to tell me,” the Stranger chuckled. “Every man has his vices. Just because they wear a different wrapper don’t mean they’re any better or worse than the next.”

“Maybe so. But what I sought wasn’t from any addiction, or some type of lust. It was to fix somethin’ that was wrong with me,” Art replied bluntly.

“Do go on,” the Stranger said, his interest piqued.

“As long as I’ve known my wife, she’s always wanted kids. She never kept it a secret, even before we were married. She dreamed of the big farm house with the wraparound porch, the land, and all the children to go along with it. I intended to make sure she got every bit of it. I love that woman more than life itself,” Art paused for a moment. “But as fate would have it, I found out a couple years into our marriage that I was sterile. The doctors told us that our chances of conceiving naturally were next to nothin’.

“We discussed adoption, and even started the process, but there were too many factors and issues that prevented us from going that route.”

“So you did the only thing left you could think of,” the Stranger interjected.

“Molly told me over and over again that it was okay, that she was happy just livin’ life with me, even if it meant no kids. But I could see the pain behind her eyes every single time. I knew that it would break her heart to never experience that joy she’d longed for her whole life. She prayed every single night for months, maybe years. Sometimes she’d pull me down to kneel beside her. But time went on and nothin’ happened. That’s when I decided to make the deal,” Arthur confessed. “I was told that in exchange for fertility, I’d have twenty-five years to live. I figured that would be enough time to give her the kids, as well as everything else she wanted.”

The Stranger’s eyes had grown wide, like this was one of the best stories he’d been told. “And your Missus, she was okay with that?”

“I never told her,” Art said, his voice scratchy. “It was one of the only lies I ever told her. After we got pregnant, she just thought it was a miracle. Same thing with the next two babies; it was by the grace of God.”

“Only, you knew that was the furthest from the truth.”

Art stared.

“Do ya regret it?”

“Not for a second,” Arthur answered without hesitation. “I love my children, and I love my family. The time I’ve had with them has been the greatest joy of my life. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

The rocker stopped again, and the Stranger put his hands on his knees. “Wow, Mr. Grimes. It’s not often that I’m able to hear that. Nor do I usually run across someone so calm, so collected.” He stopped for a moment. “Do you fear death?”

Arthur sat back and thought. “Yes. I do. Just as I suspect most people do when they’re staring death in the face.”

“And yet, you haven’t begged for more time, or tried to kill me or run away.”

“I definitely thought about it,” Art confessed. “And I could’ve tried. But I’ve learned and lived by an idea for most of my life: don’t cry about or make excuses for the decisions you made. You’re here today because of my actions. No one to blame for that than me, so why waste my last minutes crying to you, or begging you, when we can sit here and have a nice chat?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” the Stranger stood up. It was 11:55. “Well, Mr. Grimes, I hate to say it, but our time is almost at an end.”

“So it is,” Art agreed.

“I’ll tell you what,” the Stranger started, “it’s not often that I offer this, but there again, this hasn’t been a usual night. I’ve actually enjoyed our talk and hearin’ your insight, Arthur. So I want to let you decide how you go.”

Art raised an eyebrow, “Like go, go?”

“Yes, like that,” the Stranger gave an unusual chuckle.

Arthur bit his lip and thought about it, knowing he didn’t have much time. Luckily, he already knew the answer. “Peacefully,” he said. “Something quick and painless. Maybe in my sleep.”

“Very well,” the Stranger smiled. “Any questions?”

If he’d had more time to consider, Art could’ve thought of hundreds of questions: Where is he going? What is it like? Will it hurt? But that time had passed. “No,” he said, “I’ll be figurin’ it out soon enough.”

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Grimes,” the Stranger extended his hand.

“Likewise,” Art shook his hand.

Arthur watched as the door shut behind his guest. All of a sudden, a heavy tiredness fell over him. He kicked back in the recliner, raising his feet up. Through weighted eyelids, he saw that there was less than a minute to midnight. He laid his head back on the headrest and felt a wave of nervousness wash over him.

Come on now, he told himself, you knew this was gonna happen, stop being so nervous. But despite the reassurance, he still felt a slight shake in his hands. I guess he was right, no one dies in control, he thought.

—

J. W. Parr lives in the southeast United States with his wife, daughter, and puppy. He has been writing for several years, with some of his stories winning local writing competitions, as well as his poetry being published in an online magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. He is currently looking for a literary agent to represent his first novel. J. W. runs a blog in which he posts in several times a week with writing updates, poetry, short stories, and tips. The blog can be found at https://itsjwparr.wordpress.com/