Scarecrow (2 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Scarecrow
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The cabin was empty except for a battered desk with a sign propped on it: PLEASE REGISTER IN REAR.
So the three cabins were a stage set. The real motel, located a hundred feet behind, was a double-decker cinderblock structure—a carbon copy of a million other ugly motels around the country. I was too tired to look for another.
When I came in the elderly desk clerk was talking excitedly on the phone. “In Perkins's field. One of the Potter boys … ?” He glanced up as I approached the desk. “Gotta customer, Mag. I'll call you back.”
As I signed in, the desk clerk looked at me slightly askance. Was it my chic outfit—an Evan Picone suit and sneakers? Or could he possibly disapprove of a young woman traveling alone? Then I remembered; I was in the boondocks. Liberated females were a scarce commodity. Here the women probably still tended the hearth while their mates went out foraging for food.
He glanced at my signature. Jo Banks. “Jo—as in Josephine?”
“No. Jo as in Joe. I was named after my dad.”
This silenced the old codger. His own name, PAUL NELSON, was neatly displayed by a sign on his desk. He handed me my key. “Room twenty-one, second floor.”
“Thanks.”
“If you want to unload your luggage, you can drive your car up to the stairwell in the rear.”
“This
is
my luggage,” I indicated my backpack.
The man nodded. “I know you youngsters like to travel light.” He actually smiled a fatherly smile.
Youngster? I hadn't been called that in years. I smiled back.
He was already reaching for the phone.
 
 
Is there anything more depressing than a two-star motel? I pushed open the heavy glass door and was hit by the smell of stale cigarettes and disinfectant. The carpet was clean but an uninspiring shit brown, marred by stains which had defied the most potent detergents. This color was echoed by the walls in a somewhat lighter shade. As I closed the door to my room, I was surprised to find only one lock. Where I came from motels usually provided three, and a chain to boot. Although the desk clerk looked nothing like Norman Bates, I placed a chair under the doorknob before taking a shower. Afterward, I lay down on the bed, planning to take a short nap before finding something to eat.
 
 
A scream woke me. My luminous watch dial read 2:15.
I stuck my head into the corridor as someone emerged from the room next door. A young man—obviously upset.
“What's wrong?”
“Lady in room nineteen. Has a bad pain. I'm going for a doctor.”
“I'm a doctor.” If I hadn't been fuzzy with sleep, I would have kept my mouth shut.
An incredulous expression crossed his face, the one often worn by American males when confronted by a female doctor.
“Honest,” I said.
Relief took the place of surprise. “Would you take a look at her?”
“Let me get my stuff. By the way, who are you?”
“Jack, the night clerk.”
I turned back to my room and grabbed my medical kit from my backpack. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I stopped cold. No wonder Jack-the-night-clerk had looked incredulous. In my nightgown (a T-shirt, extra-large), I hardly looked like someone you would want to entrust your health to. I threw on my clothes and went next door.
I saw the man before the woman. He was crouched in a green vinyl chair (an exact replica of the one in my room), chewing on his lip, staring at the woman. The woman was curled in a fetal position in the center of the double bed, moaning softly.
Jack, who had gone in ahead of me, spoke to the man. “This lady's a doctor.”
The man looked startled—whether by my sex or by the speed with which I had been produced, I wasn't sure.
The woman didn't look up when I bent over her—all her senses were concentrated on her pain.
“Can you tell me where it hurts?”
She indicated her lower abdomen. As I began to examine her, I noticed a long horizontal scar transecting the two upper quadrants. Gallbladder, probably, and a lousy job, too. No self-respecting American woman would put up with a scar like that. “You've had abdominal surgery. What for?”
She shrugged.
I drew a line across my abdomen with my finger and said again, “What for?”
Another shrug.
Maybe she didn't know the word for gallbladder. I looked at the man. He, too, gave me a blank stare. I let it go. While I took her pulse, she answered my other questions in perfect English with just a trace of an accent that I couldn't place. And why should I? I wasn't exactly a world traveler and languages had never been my
thing. No, she had no diarrhea. Yes, she felt nauseous. No, the pain was no better.
“What did you have for dinner?”
“Crab cakes,” the man answered for her.
“Does crab usually disagree with her?”
With a sudden motion, the woman rose from the bed and ran for the bathroom. We heard sounds of retching. The man made no move to go to her.
I went to the door. “Are you all right?”
Bent double over the toilet bowl, she didn't answer. I grabbed a towel and handed it to her.
While the man (at my suggestion) helped her into a clean nightgown, I waited outside in the hall. Dismal places, motel corridors—with their rows of identical doors and red exit signs blinking at either end. Like exits to hell. They remind me of bad dreams in which I run down endless corridors toward exits, which are always just out of reach. Deciding I had let enough time elapse, I rapped lightly on the semiclosed door.
The husband pulled the door wide and for the first time, I got a good look at him. Small, pudgy, with a pasty complexion. A Pillsbury doughboy, minus the smile.
“I think she is better.” He spoke with the same accent.
We both looked at the woman. She was lying on her back, legs stretched out under the sheet, no longer forced into a circumference by pain. And her color was back.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her.
Her eyes flew open. “Better,” she said, after taking a moment to think it over. She closed her eyes again.
I turned to her husband. (I guess he was her husband.) “I think your wife had acute food poisoning. She should have nothing to eat or drink. Only water until morning. If she has any more pain, be sure to call me. I'm right next door. Room twenty-one.”
He nodded.
No offer of payment. Not even a thanks. Maybe where he came from health care was included in the accommodations. On
my way out I noticed their bags, packed and ready to go, near the door. “It would be best if I see her before you leave in the morning,” I said.
As I closed my door, I fervently hoped the woman's pains would not come back. I hadn't treated a patient since Sophie. I had taken a leave of absence. And I wasn't ready to go back. Not yet. Answering that night call had been a reflex—the result of having been awakened from a deep sleep.
I was still tired. Returning to my own room was like returning to an old friend.
My last thought as I dozed off was of my neighbors' bathroom. When I had looked in, it had been empty of the usual bathroom clutter. No toothpaste, shampoo, or shaver. And the midget bar of soap had lain on the sink, still wrapped. Either my neighbors were unacquainted with personal hygiene, or about to make a hasty departure.
Wait. There had been one personal object—an open box of prunes on the back of the toilet. Did one of them suffer from constipation? That was one of the troubles with being a doctor—your mind never strayed far from the bodily functions.
Pale bars of sunlight striped the acid green blanket. When I had pulled the psychedelic orange bedspread back the night before, I had hoped something more appealing would show up underneath. No such luck. I stretched my legs and for the first time in months did not run into a masculine calf on my left. I wasn't sure if I missed it or was glad of my new freedom. Plenty of time to sort that out later. I jumped up and went into the bathroom. As I brushed my teeth I thought of my next-door neighbors. All was eerily quiet from that direction. No voices, human or TV. What time was it? I checked my watch. Eight o'clock. I wondered if I should make a house call on my new patient. Decided against it. Doctors weren't supposed to pursue their clients (especially when no fee was involved).
I trotted down the corridor toward the smell of coffee like a hound dog after a scent. The mixture I'd made in my room (instant coffee and warm tap water—the recipe that had gotten me through med school) hadn't done the trick. My eyelids were lead-lined. My brain—on hold. The scent was coming from the lobby, the name I generously bestowed on a cramped room furnished with a vinyl sofa, two vinyl chairs, and a card table. This morning the table was covered with a paper cloth, a coffee pot, Styrofoam cups, plastic spoons, and a paper plate piled high with store-bought doughnuts.
A motley group hovered around the table, sipping and munching, eyeing each other awkwardly. My neighbors from the night before were not among them. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup, squirted some coffee into it, cadged a doughnut, and went to pay my bill. My fatherly friend, Mr. Nelson, was back at his post.
“Hi,” I said.
He looked up from his paper. “‘Morning. Sleep well?”
Did I detect a twinkle? “Ah—” I stammered.
“What is your fee?”
I stood dumbly. I had yet to acquire the business acumen of most of my colleagues.
“Would a free night's lodging cover it?”
“Sure.”
“Done,” he said. “And—thank you.”
I couldn't contain my curiosity. “Have they left?”
“The Milacs? Yes. Skipped out before breakfast in a blue Ford Taurus.”
“Without paying?”
He nodded.
So I was right. “They ripped us both off.”
“Yep.”
“Did you get their license number?”
“They had temporary plates.”
“Did you call the police?”
“They'll be out of the county by now, and they're too small potatoes for the state police.” He folded his paper and laid it aside. “Do you do much of this?”
My mind was still on the Milacs. “Doctoring?”
“At motels, I mean?”
“It's not my normal beat.” I laughed.
“Which is?”
“Group practice. Hospital based.”
“And you like that?”
I shrugged.
“From time to time we have emergencies like the one last night. It's hard to get a doctor … .”
I thought I was pretty quick, but he'd lost me.
“Oh, I know you couldn't make a living from one motel,” he said. “But most motel owners like to have a doctor to call on in emergencies.” He was warming to his theme. “And there are quite a few motels in this area. If you served them all together, plus some local patients …”
He
had
to be kidding.
“It's a nice place to live—South Jersey,” he rambled on. “Pretty. And quiet. Where are you from?”
I found my voice. “Manhattan.”
“Ah—I guess you would find us a little dull.” He sounded genuinely disappointed.
Motel doctor? What a hare-brained idea. “Well, thanks for the bed and breakfast.” I returned the key. “Oh.” I turned back. “Could you direct me to the nearest seashore?”
“There's no ‘sea' around here. Just the bay.”
“The bayshore, then.”
He pulled a map from his desk drawer and with an arthritis swollen finger traced the nearest route to the Delaware Bay. It looked almost as big as the ocean. “Here, take it.” He handed me the map. “It's easy to get lost around here. The biggest landmark is the cooling tower of the nuclear power plant, about five miles from here. You can't miss it. Better take an extra doughnut just in case.”
He really was a nice old codger. I grabbed the doughnut and shot him a farewell grin.
I was thoughtful as I drove out of the parking lot. I'd never treated a pair of crooks before. At least, not that I knew of. When I was an intern at Bellevue, I'd treated everything that came in the door, but I wasn't instructed to inquire into their professions.
The Oakview Motor Lodge was the first in a long line of seedy commercial establishments—gas stations, trailer parks, used-car lots, and bars. I was eager to get back to the beautiful scenery of yesterday, but it was a two-lane highway and the pickup truck in front of me full of rednecks in hunting attire was in no hurry. I was crawling along at forty-five when I spotted the girl. A child, really. Skinny, in tight jeans with barely formed breasts under her T-shirt. She had a backpack like mine. The idiot was trying to hitch a ride. The pickup slowed down. So did I. It'd be better if she took one from me than from that bunch. I was convinced deer wasn't the only thing on their list of fair game.
“Hop in.” Close-up the girl looked about thirteen. Frizzy red hair and so many freckles they blurred into a tan smudge over the bridge of her nose. “Where you headed?”
“New York.”
“New York?” I repeated, as if I'd never heard of the place.
She didn't say anything.
“Well, you're headed in the wrong direction,” I said. “I just came from there.”
“Oh.” Her hand found the door handle.
“Don't,” I spoke sharply, pulling onto the shoulder. I placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Aren't you a bit young to be taking off for New York alone?”
She shrugged off my hand and pressed the door handle down.
“Wait …” She was already out and loping down the road toward New York. I could have made a U-turn; there wasn't another car in sight. But what was the point? She would never get into my car again voluntarily, and if I forced her I could be accused of kidnapping. Instead, I drove into the first gas station. I parked to one side and approached the attendant. “What's the number of the state police?”
“Trouble?”
“A kid down the road—trying to hitch a ride. Could be a runaway.”
He shrugged. “Kids hitch rides around here all the time. It's perfectly safe. You a stranger here?”
I ignored the question. “She told me she was headed for New York.”
He scratched his head. “That's different. Use my office phone.” He gave me the number.
“By the way—” I turned back. “—what's this place called?”
“Polecat Corner.”
I blinked, but he seemed to see nothing peculiar in the name.
I went to make my call. After I'd hung up, I felt like a stool pigeon. What if she was running away from something worse than what she was running toward? Child abuse wasn't confined to urban areas.
Back on the road, I thought about the people I'd met during my first twenty-four hours in the boondocks. A pair of larcenists and a runaway. Quite a record—even for a jaded New Yorker.

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