Scarecrow (10 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Scarecrow
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As Thanksgiving neared, I had become as much a fixture in South Jersey as the nuclear cooling tower. My cherry red scarf flapping behind me was as familiar as that cloud of vapor hanging over the tower. As I tore around the neighborhood on my bike, people waved and called out, “Hi, Doc.” or “Way to go, Doc!” (Now if I could just get them in the office!) I wondered what would replace my red scarf in the summer months. A red sunbonnet?
I had three invitations for Thanksgiving dinner—from Maggie, from Becca, and, of course, from Dad. But his was only half-hearted. What he was really angling for was an invitation to come to South Jersey and find out what I was up to. I wasn't ready for that.
I couldn't make up my mind which of the other two invitations to accept.
The practice was picking up a little. Locally, I had removed a fishhook, treated a snakebite, and dug a bullet out of a hunter. (He'd shot himself in the foot.) On the motel front, I had treated an acute case of diverticulitis, diagnosed walking pneumonia, and prescribed for the cystitis of half a honeymoon couple. All adults, thank God. On the home front, everything was going smoothly, too. I'd traded the king-size bed in my room for an attractive futon, bought a coffee-grinder and a couple of bright throw rugs.
When (if) my income ever stabilized, I'd buy a rug big enough to cover that whole shit-brown wall-to-wall.
But my office was where I spent most of my time.
Paul, true to his promise, had lent me one of the three cabins in front of the motel to use as an office—rent-free. It was up to me to decorate it, furnish it, and figure out a way to heat it. I chose Cabin 3 because it was in the best condition (which doesn't say much for the other two). When I walked in, the smell of must, mildew, and mouse turds overwhelmed me. There were mouse nests in every corner and spider webs on every windowsill. The walls were bare wood full of knotholes, and there were huge gaps between the floorboards. The toilet had a cracked wooden seat and a chain for flushing—but the last time it had seen water was probably when Noah did. Ditto the sink. I had my work cut out for me. There was electricity, which was good, because it enabled me to work at night. And that's where you could find me most nights, either painting or pounding or paper-hanging. Sometimes I had help from Paul and Jack-the-night-clerk. But more often, it was just advice. One night both of them were there, sitting around joshing me while I worked, until I suggested if they wanted to party, they should try Harry's Bar and Grill. They cast me hurt looks and left. I felt bad afterward. The next night I bought a couple of cases of beer and invited them down. But Maggie got wind of it and said it wouldn't look good for the customers to see the help carousing. And that was the end of it.
Otherwise everything was pretty serene. One of the striking things about this place was the silence, especially as winter approached and the birds headed south. After Manhattan, where horns blew and sirens screamed night and day, this absence of sound was a shock. It was like being tucked inside a box filled with cotton. The racket my bike made was almost a sacrilege. I bought a new muffler and kept the noise to a minimum.
One day I was riding home from a motel call—a woman had burnt her hand on the coffee maker—and the silence was violently shattered. Out of nowhere, the sharp bleat of sirens pierced my ears. I almost ran my bike off the road. What the hell? I stared
around me, looking for the source. My eyes were drawn to a black and yellow cone affixed to a stainless steel pole. Oh my God. A leak at the nuclear power plant?
I tore home and burst into the motel lobby. Everything appeared peaceful. No one was rushing around, herding patrons into the cellar. Paul looked up sleepily from his newspaper. “Forget something?”
“The sirens …”
“Oh, just a practice session. They do it every month. I should have warned you.”
My attempt to look nonchalant was a complete failure. I slumped into a chair to recover.
Paul went back to his newspaper.
 
 
Shortly afterward, the nightmares began. They always began with sirens screaming. One night I rushed out of the motel to find people lying all over the parking lot with radiation burns, moaning. I was the only doctor around and all I had to relieve their suffering were the contents of my little medical kit. As I ran from one to the other, I stumbled over something. A bow and an arrow. I picked them up and started shooting the people who were moaning the loudest. When I woke up, I was trembling. This dream recurred with slight variations—I tripped over a shotgun, the people were lying in a field, I couldn't find my medical kit.
The last time it happened, I sat up in bed, turned on all the lights, and remembered some advice my father had once given me: “If you're afraid of something, face it.” The occasion had been a Madame Dupont, my high school French teacher, who had picked on me constantly. She terrified me. On my father's advice, I went to see her. “Why don't you like me?” I had asked. She was so embarrassed, she treated me with the greatest respect for the rest of the term.
The next day I made an appointment to tour the nuclear power plant.
 
 
The tour itself was uninspiring. If you've been to an electric generator plant, multiply that a hundred times, add some computers, a few mute employees in green tank suits prowling around, and presto—you'll have a nuclear power plant. The only interesting piece of information provided by our tour guide was: “This plant has the capacity to generate thirty-three million kilowatts of electricity—enough to supply the entire city of New York on an average day.” Wow!
The only
jolt
I got was at the end of the tour, when the security guard opened the door to let me out and I recognized him. Mr. Doughboy.
His eyes shifted when I tried to meet them. But it was hardly the place to confront him about an unpaid motel bill. His supervisor, who had also served as the tour guide, was hovering nearby, and I had no desire to get Doughboy fired. He would be in a better position to make good on his debt if he remained employed. I picked up my bike in the parking lot and sped home.
Paul was not even moderately interested in my discovery and adamantly refused to accompany me the next day to follow up on it.
“If I were you, I'd let sleeping dogs lie,” he warned, and refused to discuss the subject further.
I thought of mentioning it to Maggie. She had more respect for cold cash than her husband. But in the end, I decided to go alone. By this time, I realized it wasn't the unpaid bill I that bothered me; it was the goon himself. There was something creepy about him.
I planned my visit for the same time as the previous day, hoping Doughboy would be on duty again. But when I arrived at the plant, a different security guard opened the door. Instead of my pudgy, pasty “friend,” a slim, attractive woman let me in.
“Where is the guard who was on duty yesterday?” I asked.
She turned to the supervisor who was observing me through his glass booth. “Where is Milac?”
“He quit.”
“When?” I asked sharply.
“Last night.”
“Did he give any reason?”
“Not to me.” He shrugged. “But I think there was some question about his security clearance.”
I thought fast. “I'm a friend of his. Could you give me his phone number? I'd like to get in touch with him.”
If his phone number was the same as Becca's, I'd know my hunch was right.
He looked me over. “D'ya have any references?”
I gave him Paul's name and the motel number.
After making the call, he looked at me quizzically. “Your reference wasn't too happy.”
“Oh?” I tried to look innocent. “What did he say?”
“Something about ‘letting dogs lie.' Who is this Milac—an old boyfriend?” He snickered.
I restrained the desire to punch him. He fumbled through a filing cabinet for a minute. Then he glanced up. “That's funny. His file is missing.”
A small shock ran down my spine that had nothing to do with electricity. “How long has he been working here?”
“Under a month. And yesterday he just walked out. No notice. You're supposed to give at least a week's notice.”
“Well,” I said, “thanks anyway.”
The slim woman let me out.
 
 
When I barreled up the Sheffield driveway, Becca was sketching in the swing. I stashed my bike and joined her. After admiring her drawing—another falling-down barn—I asked, “Where are your houseguests?”
“Who cares?” She shrugged.
“I do.”
Raising her eyes to the field beyond, she said, “There's one of them.”
A figure no bigger than an ant was making its way across the horizon. He was carrying something twice his size, which made him look ungainly—like an ant with an enormous breadcrumb.
“What's he doing?”
“Bringing in a scarecrow. It's time. Winter's hard on them.”
Spoken like a true farmer. As the tiny, top-heavy figure drew closer to the barn, I jumped up.
“Hey! You just got here,” Becca cried.
“Sorry. Gotta go.” I was in no mood for a confrontation right now. (Maybe Paul's apathy was contagious.)
As I roared off, I wondered which Milac suffered from constipation. Or was it a family affliction?
Slowly my office was coming into shape. I had repaired all the holes in the floor, and covered my inept carpentry with two colorful rag rugs from the nearest Wal-Mart (twenty-five miles away). I'd painted the shabby woodwork a glossy white, and I'd even papered the waiting room with tiny sprigs of violets on a creamy background. One thing I firmly believed: a doctor's office should be warm and welcoming, like a country inn, not cold and forbidding, like an operating room. People are feeling bad enough when they go to see a doctor. Why make them feel worse?
Maggie was the one who found most of the furniture. She dragged me to local flea markets and yard sales every Saturday morning. She had a knack for spotting a bargain and we made off with some gems. The trick was to arrive early. Real early. Before the dealers. She snagged the rolltop desk right from under the nose of one of the sharpest Philadelphia dealers. (She'd been to so many of these things, she knew all the dealers by sight.) I grabbed the cherry wood coffee table—perfect for all those out-of-date magazines. I found a couple of halfway decent lamps, two soft chairs, and an oak dining table that—with a little padding—became the perfect examining table. You don't want to make the patients too comfortable. They might linger.
But the big find was Maggie's: a pharmacist's chest with cute
little drawers for storing pills. I sanded it, buffed it, and stained it. It was my one bona fide antique. When I was done, I went to the local printer and ordered a sign with my office hours and tacked it to the front door. The only thing missing were the patients.
“They'll come,” Maggie assured me. “Once the weather changes, they'll come in from their fishing and their hunting and their crabbing and start thinking about their ailments again.”
“I sure hope so.” I sighed.
 
 
It was on one of these furniture jaunts that Maggie confided in me about her son. Except for that day at the auction, when she thought she spied him walking ahead of us, she'd never mentioned Nick. It was the toy train that brought it out.
We were rummaging through a pile of old junk on a table when I heard her catch her breath. I looked up. She was holding a small, black metal steam engine. A wind-up toy. As she turned it over, her eyes filled.
“What is it, Mag?”
“This was Nick's,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
She held it out to me and I saw the initials scratched on the bottom. N. N. “He did that with his penknife when he was ten,” she said.
“How did it get here?”
She frowned. “He must have sold it. He used to do that, sell his toys—even his clothes—when he …” She hesitated. “When he needed money.”
She took the train over to the cashier and paid five dollars for it. The expression on her face made me want to cry. She was silent all the way home. I wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came to me. She didn't speak until we were back at the motel. As she pulled into the parking lot, she said. “He had a drug habit, you know.”
I shook my head.
“I think that's what happened to him. He overdosed somewhere—in the woods, probably—where no one will ever find him.” She jerked the key from the ignition. “You see”—she turned toward me—“if he were alive, he would let us know.” It was a statement, but her eyes held a question.
What could I say? I didn't know Nick. But from what Tom had told me, I couldn't be sure. My nod seemed to satisfy her.
We went inside and told Paul about all our purchases. All but one.

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