Went down to the crossroads, sank down on my knees,
Went down to the crossroads, sank down on my knees,
I asked the Lord above me, won't you save me if you please."
--Robert Johnson, Crossroad Blues, 1936
Robert Johnson, it was said, sold his soul to the devil on a Mississippi highway one midnight in return for the ability to play the blues like no other man. The devil picked up his hands and licked his fingers and put a little bit of hell in his bones, then wandered off into the moonlight leaving Robert standing there shivering with all that he now saw and felt.
If it worked for Robert Johnson, then why wouldn't it work for Lydia Craine? She was good, she could play, and all she needed now was that last bit of icy fire in her bones to go from being great to something almost supernatural—a phenomenon, the next voodoo child—who didn't play just music but something magical, something that came straight from her heart and out through her fingers.
The Illinois crossroads of County J and Harris Farm Road seemed to be as good a place as any. The land was flat, the tops of the nodding corn plants gold in the moonlight, the sounds of the insects almost deafening. Harris Farm Road was a neglected stretch of asphalt from which the dividing lines had faded long ago and County J was little more than a gravel track. The stop signs there were riddled with ancient buckshot and rust, and there was a big, ancient oak standing on one corner as obvious as a gravestone on a golf course. If the devil ever visited Illinois, she knew he'd pass by here.
Her battered Subaru was parked under the tree, her 63 Strat with the scalloped fret board was in its case in the back seat, and Lydia had dressed for the occasion. Figuring the devil liked evil women, she'd worn her outfit from three bands ago, the Slutz—tight purple satin minidress open to show her black demi-cup bra, fishnet hose, makeup, earrings, the works. If the cops came by—of anyone came by—she'd have some explaining to do, but so far there'd been no one.
She climbed in the front seat but left her long leg on the ground as she uncorked her bottle of Southern Comfort and took a pull, just as the full moon was heaving itself over the black ribbon of Harris Farm Road where it snaked over the only hill in the whole landscape, and there she saw a man walking.
She put down the bottle and squinted her eyes, but it was a man alright. A man in a suit, as far as she could tell, strolling towards her in front of the moon as if he had all the time in the world. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 11:48 PM. When she looked up again, the man was gone, and she saw a pair of headlights headed for, driving slowly, the way cops drive,
Shit!
she thought, and she took the bottle and shoved it under the front seat, but now when she looked back there was only one headlight, and it seemed to be on fire, like a flame moving down the highway, maybe a little faster, but with that same leisurely feel or a person who knows that his party will wait for him for as long as it takes.
Now she got nervous. She half stood out of the car for a better look, and the headlights were back, but much closer now, and as she watched a man walked out from them. Not from behind them, not in front of the, but out from them—they became him. A big man, a black man, tall with wide shoulders, wearing a purple suit and green shirt and a yellow tie. His shoes matched his shirt and everything fit him like a glove. He had a wide-brimmed hat on his head and then he didn't and then he did again, and Lydia felt the Southern Comfort turning her stomach into jelly.
"Good evening, Miss," he said. He stopped in the middle of the highway across from her and doffed his hat. His white teeth were dazzling in that black face and his nails seemed polished. He had a handkerchief tucked perfectly into his jacket pocket and it matched his tie.
All the insects around her had gone silent except for one lone cricket far away, still calling to the moon. The leaves on the oak tree above her trembled briefly and then were still. The man still smiled at her, waiting.
"Who are you?" she asked.
His smile broadened and he spread his arms in a courtly gesture. "Now who would I be out here at this forlorn crossroads at the stroke of midnight? And with that full moon rising behind me? Who were you expecting?"
"Are you the devil?"
"I have been called that, yes," he said. "As your bible says, my name is legion."
She stood there staring at him, unable to speak, half in and half out of her car.
He looked at her kindly, as if sympathetic with her disbelief. He pointed to the ground at his feet. "See?" he asked. "No shadow. I can provide you with one if you'd like."
Immediately an inky shadow spread from his feet, and Lydia looked down to see the shadow of a man in a cape with horns holding pitchfork, like a devil in a cartoon. She gasped. The shadow vanished.
The devil laughed. "I hope I didn't frighten you. I can look like anything you want. Would you prefer something more conventional?"
"No, no," she said nervously. "No. In fact, you look just like I imagined."
He gave a slight bow. "Of course."
He put his hat back on his head and straightened his jacket, then folded his hands in front of him and leaned back. "Now just what is it I can do for you, darling?"
For a moment, Lydia couldn't think straight, and then she said. "I want you to teach me to play the guitar better than anyone in the world. I want to make a deal with you. I'll trade my soul to you if you teach me to play the guitar like that. Like Robert Johnson did."
"Robert Johnson?" The devil seemed to think for a moment, then laughed. "Oh yes. Bobby. Yes, I remember. You play?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm good too. Real good. I just want to be the best."
The devil looked at her sadly. "I'm afraid there's some confusion about that story, Lydia," he said, using her name with pleasure. "For one thing, I don't much deal in souls these days. They're really not worth the trouble—cheap, flimsy things no one much cares about, good for blowing your nose in, but not much else. For instance, you don't even believe you have one, do you?"
"I don't know." She shrugged. "That's your business, not mine."
The devil laughed. "Yes! See what I mean?" He shook his head sadly. "If your soul means so little to you, then what am I going to do with it? Decoupage a wastebasket in my study?" He laughed again. "No, the world's full of people nowadays begging me to take their shoddy little souls and give them dark powers so they can impress their friends or shoot their parents or get laid or whatever they think they want at the moment. Why, I could stuff a mattress with the souls of girls who're willing to trade them for shoes alone. No. Souls aren't worth much to me anymore."
