Scarecrow (6 page)

“Then maybe if I could just
borrow
your wagon, then you wouldn’t have to take me and—”

“I don’t loan out what’s mine. And I can’t waste a good day’s work taking you back and forth to town.”

A shiver of quiet panic began to ease through my body. “How long would it take me, then? To walk to Cranston?”

“The road’s that way, about five miles.” He jerked his thumb vaguely over his shoulder. “It turns off to another road…about seven miles, maybe eight…then another road, split north and south, depending on where you’re headed. If you’d rather take the shortcut, you can go off through these woods, past the first ten acres, down a bluff…two, no, three creeks…”

I knew I was staring at him like an imbecile; I turned away, hoping he wouldn’t see how frightened I really was.

“You’ll have to watch out for coyotes, though. And bears. And copperheads that haven’t bedded down yet for the winter.” He paused, studying my face. “You couldn’t make it. You know you couldn’t.”

A strange, cold flood coursed through me, pounded in my head, blurred the autumn panorama into one bloody haze behind my eyes—
Pam, you might as well let me do it, you know you can’t…Brad laughing…will you ever be able to do anything without me…

As my head began to clear again I stared out at the short expanse of scraggly yard, the rope swing dangling from a scarlet maple, the silhouette of Girlie’s scarecrow by the road, the screen of forest that separated that road from the wooded fields and craggy hillsides beyond. And it occurred to me as I looked up through the tangled canopy of trees that hugged the clearing all around, that in the full bloom of summer this house would very likely be invisible, camouflaged beneath leaves, behind weeds, between hills. Even from the air it would be hard to spot this place. Only a fool would attempt to find a way out of here on foot.

Reluctantly I glanced over at Seth, his profile stark and unmoved against the backdrop of morning. He seemed as much a part of the landscape as those wild, sturdy hills.

“Rachel said you’ve lived here a long time,” I mumbled.

He glanced at me without shifting positions. “All my life.”

“You built this house yourself, she said, when you two got married.”

His expression showed plainly that it wasn’t any of my business.

“You must have some wonderful memories,” I said.

He regarded me for several minutes, expressionless. Finally, he said, “We all do what we have to do. There’s not much time for fancy memories up here.”

In spite of myself I smiled, thinking of all the ways Brad and I had commemorated even the simplest occasions—the day we’d first met…our first kiss…the first time we’d said “I love you”…and made love…“Memories mean everything to a woman,” I whispered to myself, and then realized that Seth had overheard.

“Memories don’t mean anything. Like the past doesn’t mean anything ’cause it’s over with. And you can’t keep going back to something that’s not there.”

His cold logic settled gloomily over me.

“But…sometimes…there
is
something still there…and you…you
need
to go back.”

He leaned against a wooden post, his look undisturbed. “The only time somebody
needs
to go back is when there’s something there they wish they could change.” He tilted his head back, regarding me narrowly. “And then it’s too late, isn’t it.”

Too late…
Turning away, I was relieved to see Rachel at the door.

“I was just coming to call you,” she frowned anxiously, steering me into the hall. “Your breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Rachel,” I said tiredly. “Come and sit with me.

She never questioned my quiet depression, just sat silently in the chair across from mine while I ate. The food was wonderful—fresh eggs, homemade sausage, blackberry jam and biscuits—and I was surprised at my appetite. Rachel put on a fresh pot of coffee and began to peel vegetables for the noon meal as we talked.

“Seth’s not a bad man,” she said softly, and I looked up in surprise. She was half smiling, eyes lifted to the kitchen window, and I followed her gaze and saw Seth striding off across the yard. He carried an axe over one shoulder and moved with wolflike grace, as if nothing in the world could ever deter him. “He took care of me and the children…raised Franny like she was his own…and he buried his ma and pa and his sisters in the meantime. He built this place…and he worked it…and there was only me to help him till Micah and Franny were old enough to be any use. It…hasn’t been an easy life.”

“Tell me about Micah,” I urged, “He’s so quiet. I’m afraid I came up on him rather suddenly this morning and scared him.”

“I reckon he just didn’t know you were there,” Rachel turned her attention back to me. “He most likely just didn’t hear you and you gave him a start.”

“He did look surprised.”

“He’s shy. He’s…” Rachel fumbled for words, looking a little uncomfortable. “He’s…never been quick to learn much in books. Seth says he’s…slow…but I think he’s just turned different. He catches on to everything around the farm—he can build anything—
do
anything.”

“Even with—” I paused, not wanting to offend.

“His hand,” Rachel finished with a smile. “He can do whatever a normal boy can do, for the most part. He’s strong—you can’t believe how strong that hand of his is.”

“I’ve heard of that happening. One limb overcompensates for the loss of another. Was it an accident?”

To my concern, her face began to darken, as if someone were very slowly extinguishing a light. She dropped her eyes. “A trap,” she murmured. “It was…a trap.”

“Rachel?” I asked softly, reaching for her hand.

“Oh, but he’s so sweet.” She seemed to recover herself at my touch, laughing softly. “I’ve never known anybody sweeter than Micah. He’s my angel. My firstborn.”

“He did seem shy,” I agreed, watching her curiously. And yet I found it hard to reconcile shyness or even surprise with the expression of fear he’d had on his face, seeing me. Something had upset him terribly, and I wished I knew what it was.

“We tried to save his hand,” Rachel went on slowly, twirling a spoon idly in her coffee, tapping it gently against the rim of her cup…stirring…tapping…“We tried to, but he suffered so. Course, if Girlie’d been born then, she could’ve saved it. But Micah was only little when it happened.”

I pondered her words, the reference again to Girlie and the child’s special powers. Rachel smiled and began to gather up the dirty dishes.

“It doesn’t bother him though. No, Micah wouldn’t let
that
slow him down…not when he’s got his mind set on something, you can’t stop that boy. He’s like Seth that way, I reckon.”

We did the dishes—one pan for washing, one for scalding—and then I set each place at the table, like Rachel showed me, covering it all with a clean tablecloth. Rachel wouldn’t let me help with any more chores, so I wandered back to the front porch. It was so peaceful—just the muted calls of birds and the wind sighing down the curve of the hills. From off in the distance came the slow, steady chunk of an axe against wood, but though I strained my eyes in the general direction of the sound, everything looked deserted. Frowning, I swept the hills with an uneasy shiver. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get all the nagging questions out of my mind. Why had Micah acted so terrified of me? And why had he said what he did—
“Girlie…no
—
”
when Girlie hadn’t even been there? And there were other things…

I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jumper and started walking, crunching leaves and nests of dead weeds. I was so sure I’d seen something last night, watching my window from the cover of the trees. Sighing, I tried to rationalize again, to tell myself I was just being paranoid. It probably
was
a deer, just like Rachel had said. I couldn’t keep being so suspicious about everything—I’d end up as cynical as Seth.

Glancing up from my thoughts, I froze. This time I was certain I’d seen a movement—I knew my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me now, not here in broad daylight with the sun bold and bright around me. And something
had
moved, not two feet ahead of me—behind that grove of pine trees near the road. As I held my breath, eyes riveted to the spot, a waifish little face slowly materialized from between the boughs, and I exhaled in relief.

“Girlie! What are you doing? Playing hide-and-seek?”

The child regarded me with solemn saucer-eyes, then stepped out in full view, her head cocked at a comical angle as she watched me come closer.

“Yes?” I tried again. “Can I play, too?” And as I knelt down in front of her, she reached out and grasped my hand, raising it to her lips.

Too startled to draw my fingers away, I felt her shallow breath on the back of my hand, heard the tiny wisp of a voice as she held me with a huge, fixed stare.

“Brad misses you,” Girlie said. “And Kerry still wonders where you are.”

And as I stared at her in stunned horror, she shook her head slowly.

“They wish you were dead. Like them.”

A
S THE MEMORIES SWIRLED
through me, all dead leaves, all of them, dead and brittle and bittersweet, I reached out slowly and pulled Girlie to me, feeling her tiny arms slip around my neck, the racing of her little heart against mine.
She can’t know! She can’t possibly know!
Every fiber of my being resisted it, yet I knew it was true, that somehow—
somehow
—she
did
know, and the awful reality shone from her eyes like a strange fire.

“Oh, God,” I whispered and buried my face against her neck, breathing in the soft little-girl smell of her, dried flowers and apples and straw, and then I held her at arms length and searched those strange, knowing eyes. “Girlie…why did you say that?” I fought to keep my voice steady, to believe I’d misunderstood, that the words hadn’t really been spoken or meant anything at all, yet my grip tightened on her shoulders and I said again, “Why did you say that, Girlie?
Why?”

The child’s voice was thin and haunting, like the soft, tinny voice box of a talking doll, and her eyes never wavered from my own. “I heard them,” she murmured, “and they woke me up.”

“Woke you up?
When
did they wake you up?”

“This morning. They made me cry, ’cause they were so sad. They said I had to tell you.”

I lowered my head, inhaled deeply. “Did…Seth or Rachel or anyone else ever tell you about them? Did you ever hear anybody talk about Brad or Kerry?”

A firm shake of her head. I tried again.

“Did…maybe…Seth find my purse in my car and look through it—or maybe
you
looked through it and saw a picture of Brad or Kerry? I mean, it was
okay
if you did, I don’t
care
if you did, I just want you to tell me.”

That same level stare. “You didn’t have anything with you when you came here. You were asleep.”

“Then maybe I said something when I was…asleep…called out…or cried…or…” As fast as my words were falling out, Girlie was shaking her head, and in desperation, I gave her a shake. “You couldn’t know that! How could you know that!” My voice had risen to the edge of hysteria; I felt Girlie’s hands prying at my fingers.

“I like you, Pam! Please don’t hurt me!”

I stared at her, dismayed.

Horrified at what I’d done, I grabbed her to me once more, rocking her, stroking her flyaway hair, apologizing over and over again. It seemed forever that we stayed there like that. I only knew that at long last she reached up with one dirty hand and patted my cheek that was still dry from impossible tears.

“I like you,” Girlie said again, softly.

Her tiny hand patted my other cheek, and I smiled. “I like you, too, Girlie.”

“I liked you all the time. Even before you were real.”

My eyebrows lifted at her funny words. “Real? But I’ve always been real—what do you mean by that?”

Girlie tugged on my arm and backed up. “There. See—you’re over there.”

Puzzled, I looked in the direction she was pulling me, but all I could see was the end of the yard and the start of the woods and the road with the scarecrow beside it. Suddenly everything seemed so dull…so empty…so dead…

“I don’t see anything, Girlie, I guess you’ll have to show me,” I said apologetically and followed where she led me. It’s a game, I reminded myself firmly—just a game. Kerry played make-believe lots of times, and I always played along…
but this isn’t a game.
I started, as if some invisible voice had spoken the words aloud, and a slow chill crept up my spine.

We reached the outer edge of the yard and stepped out into the road, Girlie’s tiny, quick feet kicking up clouds of dust and dry leaves. The stooped trees writhed in a burst of sharp wind, as if tormented, and instinctively I pulled back, not wanting them to touch me. Girlie gave a final tug on my wrist, and we stopped in front of the scarecrow.

I don’t know what I expected to see. Something horrifying, perhaps—or grotesque, or prophetic…

Surely not the simple stick figure that was staring back at me.

“See?” Girlie said. “It’s you.”

And then I knew it was a game, it had to be a game, because this was just a crude little stick doll made by a child, and it really had nothing at all to do with me. And my relief was so overwhelming that I actually had to stifle a laugh.

“Why, it’s lovely, Girlie! It really is. Did you make this all by yourself?” I could play along now, it was safe, and though lots of things still weren’t right, this scarecrow, at least, was sensible and harmless.

“You’re a lot prettier real,” Girlie said thoughtfully, going close to the scarecrow, and she stood on tiptoe to straighten its sleeves while I looked on, amused by her seriousness. The scarecrow wore a long dress that swept the ground, and what looked like an old tablecloth had been draped over its pillowcase head and fanned out across its shoulders like a veil. Tucked beneath each cuff of its sleeves was a glove, and bunches of flowers, long since dead, were still clutched, or tied into, each hand. Girlie cocked her head, then answered belatedly, “Yes, mostly. Micah helped me.”

“She’s really very beautiful,” I smiled. “Not like me.”