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Authors: Robin Hathaway

Scarecrow (11 page)

BOOK: Scarecrow
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I decided to grace the Nelsons with my presence on Thanksgiving Day. My dad and I had never made a big thing of that holiday, usually spending it at our favorite diner. Becca would have her aunt and her menial servant (definition of “dogsbody”; I looked it up) and the Milacs for company. But the Nelsons, I reasoned, would probably be celebrating alone.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
The Nelsons lived in a small ranch house a few miles from their motel. As I entered, bearing my hostess gift (it had taken some trouble to find a decent wine around Bayfield—veteran beer country), the delicious aroma of a home-cooked turkey dinner with all the trimmings swept over me. Inhaling deeply, I felt a pang for all those Thanksgiving dinners I had missed.
Maggie gave me a big hug and relieved me of my bottle.
Paul's normally gray countenance was suffused with color as he smiled at me from across the room. The living room was tiny but comfortable, furnished with an ample sofa covered in bright plaid, two homely rocking chairs, and an overstuffed chair that matched the sofa. A rag rug covered most of the floor, and the walls were decorated with old-fashioned samplers. In one corner stood a desk piled high with papers that no one had bothered to hide for the occasion. On the desk was a single framed photograph of a
young man with what seemed to me an arrogant expression. Pretending an interest in the sampler above the photo, I moved closer to check him out. I was right. His jaw jutted toward the camera, but his eyes had shifted away from the lense looking to the left. And instead of a smile, his mouth curved in a slight sneer. He didn't resemble either of his parents.
“Work while you work, Play while you play,” I read aloud. “Is this your work, Maggie?”
“No, dear. My grandmother made that when she was twelve. Come sit down.”
As I obeyed, choosing one of the rockers (I loved rocking chairs), a woman resembling Maggie, but twenty pounds lighter, came in bearing a potted mum. After hugs and kisses were exchanged, she was introduced to me as Polly, Maggie's younger sister. A single woman, she taught eighth grade at the local grammar school.
“How do you do?” She clasped my hand warmly. “I've heard so much about you.”
Assuming she had heard about me from the Nelsons, I was surprised when she added, “ … from Becca.”
“Becca?”
“Yes. Becca Borovy. She's a student of mine. A bit unruly right now, but a very talented artist.”
“Yes, I know. I've seen some of her drawings.”
“I'm trying to steer her toward architecture. She comes by it rightly. She's from Prague, you know.”
And two of my most cherished assumptions were wiped out with a single blow. One: Nobody in Bayfield is interested in anything outside of Bayfield. Two: All female children in Bayfield were brought up to cook and sew. Paul handed me a glass of rosy wine, from which I took a large gulp. “I had the same idea,” I told the teacher. “I've even promised to take her to New York.”
Polly's face lit up almost as much as Becca's had. “Could I come, too?” she asked, instantly smashing my third favorite assumption: Everyone in Bayfield hates New York.
“Sure,” I agreed eagerly. “Let's set a date right now. How about—” I was cut off by the doorbell.
“Oh, that must be Tom,” Maggie said, and Paul went to answer it.
“Tom?” I asked no one in particular.
“Tom Canby,” Polly said, as a male voice rose in the hall.
I turned to see Paul usher Robin Hood into the living room.
“You know Maggie's sister, Polly.” Mr. Nelson was doing the honors. “And this is Jo Banks, our new doctor.” His tone of veneration made me want to crawl under the coffee table.
“Dr. Banks and I have met,” Tom said.
“Oh? Where?”
If he said Harry's Bar & Grill I'd slug him.
“On the road. She was a bit confused by our lack of road signs.”
Paul chuckled. “Well, I'm sure you set her straight.”
Throughout this little exchange, I maintained a fixed smile.
“Hello, Tommy. Give me a kiss.” Maggie appeared from the kitchen, hair awry, wearing an apron and holding a bottle of wine. “Time for just one more before dinner.” She began filling each of our glasses to the brim.
General conversation resumed. I didn't have to speak directly to Tom until we were crowding into the little hall that led to the dining room. He was right behind me.
“Are you white meat or dark?” He spoke over my shoulder.
I shrugged.
“I'd take you for dark.”
He was right, of course. “Wrong,” I said.
“I'll be darned. Full of surprises.”
I surprised myself. Why had I lied to him?
The process of squeezing into chairs around the small table absorbed all our attention. The turkey rested in solitary splendor on a platter on the sideboard. Everyone admired its fat legs and glistening brown skin. The other dishes were crowded in the center of the table. Stuffing, sweet potatoes, creamed corn, onions, green beans with almonds, coleslaw, cranberry sauce, applesauce … it went on and on.
“Pay special attention to my oyster stuffing,” Maggie said. “It's made with local oysters. This is the first year we've been allowed to eat them since the blight of 'seventy-nine.”
I found myself seated with Polly on my right and Paul's empty chair on my left. Maggie was at the other end of the table, and Tom sat across from me. This was annoying, because every time I looked up I would catch him staring at me. But it was better than having to make conversation with him. I began talking animatedly to Polly about our forthcoming trip to New York.
“We can drive over early in the morning—” I stopped.
“What's wrong?”
“No car. All I have is my bike. And I can't see the three of us making it on that!” I grimaced.
“You can borrow my pickup,” Tom offered with a wry grin.
“Very funny.” A pickup in New York would stand out like a yellow cab in Bayfield.
“Don't worry,” Polly said. “I have a car. But you have to promise to do all the city driving. I'd have a heart attack.”
“Jo.”
I looked up.
Paul was standing by the turkey, waving his carving knife at me. “White or dark?”
“Dark, please.”
As I turned back to Polly, I caught Tom's triumphant grin.
Damn him.
“Then, after we dump the car,” I plowed on, ignoring him, “we can have breakfast at this great deli—”
“Corned beef and rye for breakfast?” Tom looked askance.
“—where they have great omelets,” I finished.
He snorted into his napkin.
When everyone had been presented with a plate containing his or her meat preference, it was time to hand round the other dishes. Quite a production.
“Now don't hang back, folks, there's plenty more of everything in the kitchen,” Maggie urged.
By the time we had finished serving ourselves, my pink china plate was completely covered. About to dig in, I was suddenly conscious of an awkward pause. Everyone was looking expectantly at Paul, who had taken his seat at the head of the table. He was staring at his plate, his expression stony. Maggie waited a moment longer before she rapidly said grace.
Why did I feel this overwhelming sense of relief—as if some dreadful crisis had been averted?
The “amen” acted as a starting bell, and everyone dug in.
Completely immersed in the enjoyment of this incredible dinner, I forgot my stupid blunder about the meat. I even forgot Tom. It certainly was different from the diner, even from Manhattan's most expensive gourmet restaurants. You couldn't buy food like this. It just wasn't available.
During dinner, the story of the twenty-year oyster blight was gone over in minute detail. This led to talk of pollution and the threat of the power plant. “It's destroying the fish and crabs,” Paul said. “They're dying every day because of the hot water pumped from the plant into the streams and creeks.” A discussion of Cohansey Creek and its history followed. “Back in Colonial times, these coves and inlets were full of pirates,” Tom said, looking at me. “And they're supposed to hold buried treasure.”
Maggie mentioned seeing wild turkeys. A flock of them had crossed the road in front of her, and one of them had been an albino! Tom had seen them, too. Apparently, the area had been full of wild turkeys once, until 1982 when they had suddenly disappeared. Now they were back. Wow! Had anyone wired the
Times
?
When the pumpkin pie appeared, with a side dish of real whipped cream, my stomach groaned. But somehow, I managed to stuff in a piece before we finally rose and moved back into the living room.
I had made my plans—stick close to Polly—to avoid any more encounters with Tom.
What the hell is your problem? He's damned attractive. Are you nuts?
My worries were needless. The party split along traditional gender lines—the men in one corner discussing the merits of the hunting season; the women in the other, discussing everything else.
“I overheard you talking about Becca Borovy earlier,” Maggie began, settling down with a bag bulging with knitting. “Aren't her people foreigners?”
“They're from Czechoslovakia,” Polly said, “or rather, the Czech Republic now.”
“They
were
foreigners,” I inserted. “They died when Becca was four.”
“Oh?” Polly turned to me. “I didn't know that. I thought her parents had just sent her over here to get her away from the Communists.”
“It seems her grandfather is still alive, and when her parents died he sent Becca to live with her aunt.”
“Poor child. No wonder she's a bit rebellious. Although her aunt seems decent enough. Have you met her?” Polly asked.
I nodded.
Maggie was rapidly slipping stitches onto a new knitting needle. She interrupted her counting to ask, “Isn't there some man living with them?”
“Yes. Juri.”
“Juri? What a funny name.” Maggie went back to her counting.
“Not really. It's as common as Jack or … Tom … in their country.” I had no idea if this was true, but it riled me when people talked about “foreigners.”
“Did you meet him?” asked Maggie.
I nodded.
“Who is he? What does he do?” Polly, this time. “I've seen him
around the Sheffield place, dressed like a farmhand. He's such a handsome fella.”
I smiled. It always surprised me when people over forty noticed things like that. But then, Juri was probably about Polly's age. “According to Becca, he's a relative and acts as their handyman.”
“What did you think of him?” Maggie again, knitting at a sixty-mile-an-hour clip.
“He seemed okay. A bit nosy. But …”
“Nosy?” Maggie was not beyond nosy herself.
“Oh, he asked a whole lot of questions about my medical education, my practice in New York, where and how I was going to practice here … I guess I was supersensitive. This was a few days after I'd decided to stay, and I didn't have all the answers myself.” I was suddenly aware of silence on the male side of the room. Paul was smoking his pipe with a contemplative expression, but Tom was blatantly listening to me. He got up quickly and came over.
“How is the practice going?” he asked, very politely.
“Fine, thank you.” Equally polite.
“I see you now and then. Your red scarf is like a bright flag. It's nice to see a spot of color this time of year.”
“There's always the winter wheat,” I retorted.
“True.” His smile vanished. He turned to Maggie, “That was some feast you laid on us, lady.” He bent and kissed her. “I'm going to try and walk it off now. Many thanks.”
I was sure he had planned to ask me to join him on his walk, and was turned off by my rudeness. I was torn between relief and regret. To my dismay, I realized regret had taken the lead.
After Tom left, the party began to sag. Polly yawned. Paul openly dozed in his chair. Maggie began to collect the dirty wine glasses. I offered to help with the dishes but was quickly rebuffed.
“Not on your life. That's what dishwashers are for. I'm not going to touch those things 'til tomorrow.”
“Oh, Mag, you have to at least rinse them,” her sister said. “And what about the pots? Let us help.”
“No.” She stared us both down with her most severe, admitting-no-nonsense Mary Poppins glare. We subsided and Maggie disappeared into the kitchen.
“I'm so glad we met,” I said to Polly. “Maybe you could give me your phone number in case I come up with some new ideas for our trip.”
“Of course.” She reached in her bag for paper and pen. “We never did set a date,” she reminded me, handing me the number.
We both took out our date books and settled on December 14.
“I'll take care of contacting Becca,” I said. Turning to say good-bye to Paul, I found him still sound asleep. As I started off to find Maggie, I glanced at the picture on the desk once more. Polly caught my glance.
“That's Nick,” she spoke in a low tone, and came nearer.
“He doesn't look like either of them,” I said.
“He was adopted.”
“Oh.”
“He …”
Thinking she was going to tell me about his disappearance, I said, “I know he's … gone.”
She nodded, looking grave. “This is the first Thanksgiving they've celebrated since …” She paused. “I think you had something to do with that. They were afraid you wouldn't have any place to go.”
So I
had
picked the right invitation.
“Did you notice that Paul wouldn't say grace today?” Polly continued. “Maggie had to say it. Paul made a bargain with God, you know?”
I shook my head.
“If God brought his son back, he would go to church every Sunday.”
“And?”
“And—if He didn't, Paul would never set foot inside a church again.” Polly, apparently a church person, frowned. “That was three years ago. And he never has.”
Not having been in a church for much longer than that, I didn't know what to say. Fortunately Paul woke up and Maggie came in from the kitchen. I said my thanks and good-byes to everyone and left.
It was twilight when I emerged from the snug house. The vast expanse of ever-changing sky never failed to surprise me. Encumbered by a skirt, pantyhose, and heels, I boarded my bike more awkwardly than usual. And once settled, I drove more slowly, taking in the sky. It was a creamy yellow—the color of the corn we'd had for dinner. It spread around me like a giant comforter, threatening to defrost that frozen lump inside my chest that passed for a heart.
Whoa! Too much wine? Or too much turkey?
A flock of geese stitched their way across the sky in swift, straight lines and disappeared. By the time I reached the motel, it had turned deep lavender and a few stars had broken out.
Jack-the-night-clerk was on duty.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said.
He looked up from his tattered paperback,
Return of the Jedi,
and gave me a brief smile.
“I didn't know there were so many
Star Wars
books,” I said.
“There aren't. I reread them.”
With a twinge of guilt I wondered where he had had his Thanksgiving dinner. Or
if
he'd had one. I resolved to take more interest in Jack.
 
 
As I trudged up the stairs to my room, I felt weighed down by more than the heavy meal I'd just eaten. Instead of being buoyed up by the party, I was let down. Why was that? Later, while I undressed and got ready for bed, I tried to analyze my feelings. After all, I was a doctor—and I
had
taken a few psychiatry courses.
First, there was the photo of Nick on the desk. As I'd studied his cold, arrogant expression, I'd felt a chill in that warm living room. Then there was the awkward pause before dinner, when Paul had refused to say grace—even though it was a day especially set
aside for giving thanks and his wife's eyes were fixed on him beseechingly. Then there was my own weird behavior with Tom. For some reason I couldn't relax and enjoy him—even though he had gone way out of his way to be friendly. Why? It was as if I was punishing myself. For what? Slowly it came to me, oozing up from my soul like sour mud from the river bottom. Sophie. I can never be happy until I forgive myself for her death. Stunned by my insight, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at my feet, not seeing them. I sighed. Well, Freud would be proud of me.
BOOK: Scarecrow
6.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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