Authors: Robin Hathaway
Scarecrow (16 page)
Feeling awkward without Maria, I smiled inanely. The woman didn't smile back. She occupied herself with brushing some imaginary lint off her skirt and adjusting her belt until Maria rejoined us.
“Would you tell your mother I'd like to examine her?”
“I already did,” Maria said.
I took my stethoscope from my bag and Maria started to unbutton the front of her mother's dress. The woman pulled away from her daughter and proceeded to finish the unbuttoning herself. I decided in this case it would be best to warm the stethoscope. I took it to the stove and held it for a few seconds over the jet of steam emerging from the kettle. I wiped it dry with a tea towel and approached the woman. Although she didn't draw back, she remained stoically immobile while I listened to her heart. It sounded normal. I took her blood pressure. That, too, was within the normal range. I told Maria that I would like to ask her mother a few questions. Taking a history through an interpreter is not ideal; you always missed certain telling innuendoes. I kept my questions to a minimum, sticking to the woman's present condition. Maria could fill me in on her mother's past history later.
The gist of the interview was that the woman had been feeling tired for a number of weeks. She had no energy and no appetite. Such vague symptoms could signify a serious illness or merely indicate overwork or mild depression. In order to make a diagnosis, I would need tests. A chest X ray, a blood count, and an SMA. For these, she would have to go to the hospital. I told Maria this. Maria told her mother.
The woman shook her head vigorously and began to rebutton her dress.
Maria told me, “You make the appointment. My brothers and sisters and I will see that she gets there.”
I nodded and packed up my things.
The shriek of the teakettle filled the small space. Maria
jumped up to remove it from the burner. It was essential that we have a cup of tea and cookies before we left, Maria said, or her mother would be insulted and they would have an even harder time getting her to the hospital.
jumped up to remove it from the burner. It was essential that we have a cup of tea and cookies before we left, Maria said, or her mother would be insulted and they would have an even harder time getting her to the hospital.
I acquiesced. The tea was very good. And the cookies were delicious. Not store-bought but a lacey, home-baked concoction that melted in my mouth. I smiled at the woman, raised my half-eaten cookie, and smiled again. She understood. When I reached for a second one, she gave me the shadow of a smile.
I shook her hand before I left and said,
“Gracias”
âthe only word I knew, other than
si
, in Spanish.
“Gracias”
âthe only word I knew, other than
si
, in Spanish.
She nodded, but there were no more smiles.
The stray dog was waiting for us outside. He followed us to the entrance, barking all the way.
I took Maria homeâshe lived in a small apartment in Bridgetonâand went back to the motel. After arranging the appointment for her mother and calling to give Maria the date and time, there was nothing more for me to do. I was forced to think about my evening escapade. It was a wild hunchâthat I would find Becca in that house. But I couldn't leave any stone unturned. I couldn't let another child come to harm, I told myself fiercely, without doing everything I could to prevent it. In a moment of weakness, I thought of calling Tom and inviting him to come along. How un-PC. How pre-millennium. Why did I need a man with me? I was young and strong and capable. I even knew how to handle a motorboat. My father and I had often taken one out when we went fishing or crabbing on our seashore vacations, and he had made sure I knew how to operate it as well as he did. No, this was my idea, and I'd carry it out alone. I began to consider what clothes to wear and what equipment to take. The weather was mild for December. I decided on jeans, a sweatshirt, and my parka; a flashlight, my penknife, and bottled water. Maybe I'd better pick up a sandwich at the diner. No telling how long this vigil would last. I couldn't help feeling there was some vast conspiracy going onâin which Becca's disappearance played only a small
part. I had mapped out my route on the river. Using the outboard, it would be about a twenty-minute ride. But if I didn't want to be heard, I'd have to row the last lap, and that would take twice as long. Fortunately, the sky was overcast. No full moon to target me for my enemies. Enemies? How melodramatic. But that was how I felt. I felt as if I were going into battle. I wished I were armed. Well, I was, in a way. I had my penknife. I giggled. Part humor, part hysteria. I glanced at Ichabod, grinning in his corner. Was he laughing with me, or at me?
part. I had mapped out my route on the river. Using the outboard, it would be about a twenty-minute ride. But if I didn't want to be heard, I'd have to row the last lap, and that would take twice as long. Fortunately, the sky was overcast. No full moon to target me for my enemies. Enemies? How melodramatic. But that was how I felt. I felt as if I were going into battle. I wished I were armed. Well, I was, in a way. I had my penknife. I giggled. Part humor, part hysteria. I glanced at Ichabod, grinning in his corner. Was he laughing with me, or at me?
Jack-the-night-clerk was the only one around as I was leaving. He looked up from his latest
Star Wars
paperback. “Hey, where you goin'? Got a big date?”
Star Wars
paperback. “Hey, where you goin'? Got a big date?”
“Yeah.” I winked. “Don't expect me back tonight.”
“Right on.” He gave me a sly smile.
As I rode to the dock, I felt perfectly comfortable in my sweatshirt and windbreaker. The dock was deserted. Surprise, surprise. Who but a crackpot like me would be stupid enough to take a boat out at night in December? I parked my bike behind the Lobster Trap, well out of sight, and locked the ignition.
The boat was waiting by the dock. The motor caught on the second pull and I eased her out. I had studied the river's course carefully on the map and felt fairly confident as I moved away from the bay and headed inland. Either Tom or Paul had said the river was narrow, but deep. In Colonial times the Cohansey had been trafficked by schooners and clipper ships, they had said.
A huge bird emerged from the reeds to my left, thrashing the air with its wings, scaring the hell out of me. A heron, probably. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I could distinguish the shoreline easily. My biggest worry was when to cut the motor and start rowing. I didn't want to get too close to the house with the motor on and alert my quarry. Of course, my whole plan would be
worthless if this was a night when no business was being transacted and Becca was miles away. I might have to make several visits. The prospect didn't appeal to me.
worthless if this was a night when no business was being transacted and Becca was miles away. I might have to make several visits. The prospect didn't appeal to me.
I had brought a flashlight, but was reluctant to use it except in an emergency. It might attract attention.
I passed a farmhouse with a lighted candle in every windowâone of my favorite Bayfield Christmas customs.
A dog barked.
When I had gone about two miles, I shut off the motor. According to my calculations, the Wistar house should be around the next couple of bends. The only sound was the gentle lap of water against the sides of the boat. The stillness was suffocating. Or was it the stench? Because the temperature was above freezing, the smell of decayed fish was strong. I placed the oars in their locks and began to row. I had to stay in the middle of the river to avoid getting stuck in mud. Although the river was deep, its banks consisted of thick, black mudâlike tar.
Splash! Something jumped from the bank into the water. A turtle or an otter? I rested my oars, listening. No wind caused even the smallest rustle among the tall reeds. The silence and solitude settled over me like a damp fog. For the first time in a long time, unwanted thoughts surfaced, catching me unawares. During the day, my busy life kept them buried, and at night, exhaustion usually kept those ugly dreams at bay. But here, by myself, in the darkness and the silence of the river, the old film started upâslowly unfolding, image after image. Sophie in the ER; Sophie in her hospital bed; Sophie's parents â¦
Scenes of Becca intruded. Becca on her bike; Becca romping with Elsa; Becca on the porch swingâsketching. What would Sophie have been like at thirteen? Like Becca? Where was Becca? Was she safe? Or had I failed her, too?
I rowed fiercely around the first bend. One more bend and I should see the house. I had better look for coverâsomething I hadn't given much thought to. I couldn't stay in the middle of the riverâa sitting duck for anyone whose eyes were adjusted to the
dark. But how could I hug the bank without getting stuck in the mud? I had to risk getting stuck and hope I could free myself later by pushing against the bank with an oar.
dark. But how could I hug the bank without getting stuck in the mud? I had to risk getting stuck and hope I could free myself later by pushing against the bank with an oar.
As I steered the boat carefully to the right, the house came into viewâa dark bulk looming above the sloping bank. No lights. From the third-story windows, there must be an excellent view downriverâin the direction from which I had come. A perfect lookout for pirates and smugglers in Colonial days. Or today. I steered into the bank and drew in my oars. The wall of reeds provided some cover. My luminous watch dial read 8:05. I began to prepare for a long vigil. There were two plastic cushions on the floor. (Did boats have floors?) Positioning myself on the bottom of the bow, I tucked one behind my back, the other under my butt. It wouldn't do to get too comfortable; I might fall asleep and miss the whole show. If there was a show. I reached for my water bottle, pulled out the stopper, and took a long swig. Ugh. Lukewarm. I'd save the sandwich for later. I longed for my Walkman. I'd deliberately left it behind; I had to keep my ears open to listen. For what? A car? A truck? Another boat? Voices?
My boat was lying parallel to the bank, pointing upriver. From my place in the bow, I had an excellent view of the house but not of the river behind me. I was counting on my ears to alert me to anything approaching from that direction. Eyes in the back of the head would have been a welcome accessory. Too bad it hadn't been included in the package. Maybe in the next upgrade. I yawned. My biggest problem now, I realized, was not aquiring another pair of eyes, but keeping the pair I hadâopen.
Nine-fifteen. I must have dozed off. What woke me were the deep throbs of a heavy motorâmuch heavier than mine. The throbs were coming from behind me. I turned. A large, shadowy craft was maneuvering the last bend. No lights. Surely an infraction of the coastal laws, but a blessing for me. I lay prone and slithered along the bottom of the boat, humped over the middle seat, and slithered some more until I was able to grab the tarpaulin tucked under the stern seat. The throb of the motor grew louder. I pulled the tarpaulin up until it covered me and lay still, trying not to breathe. Only when I was sure the craft was well past did I lift a corner of the cover and peer out. At the same time my boat was struck by swells from the larger boat and began to rock violently. Some of the waves sloshed over the sides of the boat, wetting me. As the swells died away, so did the throbs of the motor on the big boat. I watched it glide soundlessly along the dock below the house. Either they hadn't noticed my boat, or had thought it was abandoned and not worth bothering with.
A slight stir began on deck, but still no lights. That could mean only one thing: Whatever they were delivering or picking up was illegal. Two figures appeared near the rail, outlined against the faintly lighter sky, and began lowering ropes. One of the two leapt from the deck to the dock, landing as softly as a cat, and began fastening
the rope to something (I wished I knew nautical terms) on the pier. Neither spoke. There was the sound of metal scraping against wood. I raised my head a few inches. Another man had joined the one on deck and they were lowering a gangplank. Once in place, the man on the dock ran up the plank and disappeared inside the boat. After that, it was quiet except for the soft lap of small waves against the sides of my boat.
the rope to something (I wished I knew nautical terms) on the pier. Neither spoke. There was the sound of metal scraping against wood. I raised my head a few inches. Another man had joined the one on deck and they were lowering a gangplank. Once in place, the man on the dock ran up the plank and disappeared inside the boat. After that, it was quiet except for the soft lap of small waves against the sides of my boat.
For the first time I was aware of discomfort. The ridges on the bottom of the boat were pressing into my spine, and the water brought in by the swells had soaked through my jeans. I was lying in a pool of water, and it was cold. What did I expect? It
was
December. I should count my blessings. If it had been July, I would have been devoured by mosquitoes.
was
December. I should count my blessings. If it had been July, I would have been devoured by mosquitoes.
Somewhere on the larger boat a door creaked. There was a sound of scuffling. A dark object was poised at the top of the gangplankâwaiting to be pushed or carried down. A barrel or a case? No, it was long and thin. It looked like a tube or pipe. Two men ran down the gangplank and waited at the bottom. Two men on the boat began rolling the pipe (if that's what it was) toward them. It made no noise. It couldn't be a pipe. It must be something soft. Like a rug? A rolled-up rug. Were they in the carpet business? What could be illegal about that? Orientals, stolen from Turkey or Pakistan? Another rug quickly followed. Then another. And another. Or was there something hidden inside those carpets? Drugs? Or some other contraband?
A commotion began above on the sloping bank. A man emerged from the back of the house. He was pushing something. As he drew near the river, I made out a hand cart. The kind of device used for bearing luggage at airports and train stations. When he reached the dock the other men began loading the carpets onto the cart. It took four men to lift one carpet. And even then, they did not do it easily. The cart could accommodate no more than two carpets at a time. The ends hung over the sides and it took three men to push it up the bank. Even then the process was frustratingly slow. Sometimes a wheel would catch on a root or a stone.
Then they would have to back up and maneuver around it. When they reached the house, they disappeared. There was no light in the house. I could only guess that they deposited their burdens inside. The return trip was much faster. They fairly hurtled down the slope, careless of the empty, rattling cart careening in front of them.
Then they would have to back up and maneuver around it. When they reached the house, they disappeared. There was no light in the house. I could only guess that they deposited their burdens inside. The return trip was much faster. They fairly hurtled down the slope, careless of the empty, rattling cart careening in front of them.
I watched them load the hand cart five times. Ten carpets. When they were done it was 11:45. The operation had taken over two hours. They shoved the gangplank back and the heavy motor began to throb. The catlike man unfastened the ropes (moorings?). He climbed up the side of the boatâwithout help, it seemed. There must have been a ladder. He was barely over the rail when the craft began to move forward and execute its turn. I ducked under the tarpaulin as the boat slid past and headed back the way it had come.
I decided to give them half an hour before I left. With its powerful motor, the boat should be well into the bay by then. My back was killing me. Shivers racked me at regular intervals. I was chilled through. Could I last the half hour? While I had been watching the men, my mind had been occupied and I had forgotten my discomfort. Now I craved action. Anything to get my blood going again. Pushing my boat out of the mud should provide all the action I needed. I felt a sneeze coming on. By sheer will power I forced it back. I tried not to look at my watch. I told myself stories from childhood: “The Ugly Duckling” and “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.” That was my father's favorite. He did the three goats' voices very well.
The tarpaulin jerked off.
In the dark above me appeared a pasty face with the luminosity of the moon. Doughboyâer, Milac.
“Get out.”
The harsh order startled a bird. It flew straight up from the reeds and downriver toward the bay. I fervently wished I were himâor her.
Another man came up behind Milac. Great. Plenty of help to
push me out of the mud. “I'm afraid I'm stuck. Could you help push me out?” I asked plaintively.
push me out of the mud. “I'm afraid I'm stuck. Could you help push me out?” I asked plaintively.
Neither looked helpful.
“Get out,” Milac repeated.
“It's too muddy,” I whined. “Why don't you just give me a shove and I'll be out of your way.”
He glanced at his buddy. The buddy gave a brief nod. Together they moved toward the boat. I grabbed an oar and shoved it against the bank. It sank deep into mud. I grabbed the other oar and tried to push against the river bottom. That sank, too. Milac was climbing over the bow. Should I jump and swim for it? Swim for what?
The cheerful notes of “Yankee Doodle” rang out. My cell phone. It was stowed in my backpack under the bow seat along with my medical kitâtwo items I'm never without. Milac paused, listening. Another Yankee Doodle refrain. Locating the source, he dragged my backpack from under the seat. Rummaging inside, he pulled out the phone. For one wild moment I thought he was going to hand it to me.
With a smile, he tossed it over the side of the boat.
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