Scarecrow (4 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Scarecrow
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“
Que hora es, Maria?
”
“
Son las siete y veinte
.”
I woke to the sound of girlish voices chattering in Spanish outside my door. I peeked out. Two young women in identical gray uniforms gossiped over a metal cart with wheels. The cart was stacked with snowy towels and sprouted a collection of brightly colored cleaning containers. The first girl was leaning on the cart, the second on a mop. Absorbed in their conversation, they didn't notice me. They kept repeating one word over and over in excited tones. “
Espantapajaros!
” I made a mental note to look it up the next time I was near a Spanish dictionary. I closed the door.
Feeling surprisingly rested, I took a quick shower and put on the last of my clean clothes. Underwear, T-shirt, socks. My jeans had seen better days. The bottoms were muddy from yesterday's excursion to the bay. I rolled them up one turn. My Reeboks were hopeless. I used my nail file to chip off the worst of the dried mud and wiped the rest away with a damp towel. Running a hand through my short-cropped hair completed my toilet. As I left my room, the cart was occupying the same spot as before and the girls were still talking. But this time they smiled at me and one of them said, “Good morning.”
The smell of coffee was as enticing as the previous morning,
but it was after eight o'clock and I was in a hurry. I wanted to get my car. I felt uneasy in a strange place without wheels. I bypassed the lobby and ducked out the side door.
The unpromising dawn had turned into a perfect day. Blue sky, fluffy clouds, temperature in the fifties. I set off at a brisk pace. There was something about the air here. Could it be that it was clean? Of course, there was that nuclear plant. But that didn't give off anything noxious—unless it leaked. Happy thought. Was that why this area was so underpopulated? A shrill whistle interrupted these depressing notions. I glanced up in time to see a mud-spattered pickup truck with three goons in the front seat. Uh-oh, they were pulling off up ahead, waiting to ambush me. Shit. If I crossed the road or turned back, I'd look chicken. Oh, what the hell. A seasoned Manhattanite was a match for three country bumpkins. I lifted my chin, looked straight ahead, and strode forward purposefully.
“Hey, beautiful.” The driver leaned out.
Not only rude, but a liar.
“Want a lift?”
Coolly, I surveyed him, his two passengers, and his truck. The three goons filled the cab completely, and the back was taken up with a sloppy brown dog and something lumpy under a tarpaulin. “Where? On the roof?”
“Hey,” he said, laughing in the direction of his buddies. “She's gotta sense of humor.” He turned back to me. “One of these two will give up his seat.” He winked. “They'd be glad to.”
“No thanks. I need the exercise.” I marched on.
They cruised beside me for a while, hurling catcalls. When I didn't react they grew bored and drove on. As they passed, the one next to the window called out, “Party poop!”
As I entered the gas station, Mike dropped whatever he was doing under someone's hood and came right over.
“Did you find what caused my flat?” I asked.
He gave me a peculiar look and reached into his pocket. In his open palm lay a metal blob.
I stared. “Is this hunting season?”
“Yeah. Deer hunting. But this was a twenty-two caliber bullet. Nobody would try to kill a deer with that.”
“What would they try to kill?”
“Rabbits, squirrels …”
“Me?”
He squinted, sizing up my five-foot-nine self. “Nah.”
“What kind of gun would use this?”
“A twenty-two.” He dropped the metal blob into my hand as casually, as if returning a lost earring.
As he rolled the ruined tire over to my car (Budget-Rent-a-Car would want proof of my adventure), he called over his shoulder, “Where did you get the flat?”
Of course I couldn't tell him. I gave it a try. “Between a field of burnt corn and another field near a dark wood. There was a scarecrow in the second field and a farm house around the bend badly in need of paint …”
“The Sheffield place.”
I was impressed.
“Where did the shot come from?”
I tried to remember. “From behind me, I think.”
“Somebody in the woods, probably.” He stowed the tire in the trunk. “A kid after small game. Nothing to worry about. That'll be twenty-five dollars.”
“For the work. But what about the new tire?”
“The tire's not exactly new. I happened to have one lying around and it has a few miles on it. But it'll get you back to New York. No use giving that rental place a brand-new one.”
I dug two twenties out of my jeans. While he made the change, I said, “You own this place.” It was a statement.
“How'd you know?”
“My dad's a sole proprietor. You remind me of him.”
“Not as old, I hope.” He grinned.
I laughed.
“What's he do?”
“He's a printer.”
An impatient customer tooted the horn at the pump. In Jersey it's all full-serve. “Don't take any wooden bullets,” Mike cracked, looking as if he'd said something extremely witty.
I watched him hurry over to the pump to serve a blue Ford Taurus with temporary plates. My gaze flashed to the front seat. A couple. The backs of their heads were vaguely familiar. I was out of the car, pounding toward them. The driver turned. The grim doughboy. As I came puffing up, he started the motor with a jerk. Mrs. Doughboy almost hit the windshield. “Hey!” I reached for the door handle in a futile attempt to hold the car. It slipped from under my hand and bumped over the curb onto the road, leaving the gas hose flopping and leaking on the cement.
“What the hell?” Mike picked up the hose and stood gaping.
No time to explain. I ran back to my car, jumped in, and with a screech of tires I was after them. But they'd had too big a start. After a few miles I gave up and headed back to the motel. On the way I stopped at Mike's and offered to pay for the gas he had been cheated out of.
He refused the money, but demanded, “Friends of yours?”
I told him how we'd met. In the process he learned I was a doctor, but he made no comment.
“I'll keep an eye out for them,” he said. “But I guess they won't be coming back here in a hurry.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“For what? Scaring off two grifters? You did me a favor.” He grinned. “By the way, you won't catch me trying to pull anything on you.”
“No?”
“No way.” He turned back to his business.
I burst into the motel, full of my tale, only to find a stranger at the front desk. A woman.
She looked up. “May I help you?”
“Uh—I was looking for Mr. Nelson.”
“Paul had some errands to do. I'm his wife, Maggie.”
“I have to talk to him.” I was so full of my news I forgot the usual courtesies.
“He should be back soon.” She searched my face. “Excuse me, but … are you the doctor?”
I focused on her for the first time. Short, plump, gray hair, and gray eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles. Everything soft, like a toy animal, except the eyes. They were sharp. I nodded.
She reached over the counter and clasped my hand. “He was so grateful for your help the other night. I do hope you're planning to stay on.”
“Uh …”
“It would be such a comfort to Paul to have someone on hand he could count on. Of course the work would be rewarding for you, too.”
Irresistible. Mrs. Santa's charm with a dash of Mary Poppins' starch. “Uh …” Had I lost my powers of speech?
“I'll have Paul call you as soon as he comes in. What's your room number?”
“Twenty-one.” I was glad to find my vocal chords still worked.
As she wrote down the number, I made a hurried exit.
On the way to my room, my stomach registered empty. No breakfast, and it was way past lunchtime. Ever since I'd arrived in South Jersey I had been in a perpetual state of starvation. But I didn't want to leave the motel and miss Mr. Nelson. Two vending machines at the end of my corridor offered a partial solution. Laden with bags of chips and a Coke, I fumbled for the key to my room. No use. Even with one bag clenched in my teeth, I couldn't execute the maneuver. I set the stuff on the floor and noticed the door on my right was open a crack. Someone peered out. A kid. My God—the baby hitchhiker. As soon as I identified her, the door closed.
“Hey!” I rapped on the door.
No answer.
“Yo, come on out and say hello. We met before, remember?”
Still no response.
“Look. We're neighbors. You're not being very neighborly.”
Silence.
“How 'bout some Coke and chips? There's a machine down the hall. My treat.”
The door reopened—just a crack. She must be hungry.
“Come on in my room.”
“I can't,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“I … I'm waiting for a friend.”
Holy Moses. And I thought New York kids were precocious. “Okay I'll get the stuff and bring it to your room. You'll let me in, right?”
She closed the door and I heard the lock click.
A born optimist, I trotted back to the vending machines and returned laden with enough food, Coke, and ice for ten kids. (Maybe she'd prefer vodka.) As I tried to find a free hand to knock
on the door, I spotted another kid, a gangly youth with too much hair, hovering at the end of the hall. He sidled my way, glancing at every room number. When he reached the door next to mine, he paused briefly, gave me and my paraphernalia a dark look, and kept walking. Probably thought I was about to launch a small wedding reception. Now what? Impasse. Should I take all this stuff into my room and invite them both in? Why not? We'd have a party. A lot better than the kind of party he was planning. I knocked on her door. She must have thought it was her Casanova, because she opened up right away.
“Come on to my place. I think your boyfriend's down the hall. Maybe he'd like to join us.”
She cast an anxious look down the hall. He was leaning against the fire extinguisher, watching us. She looked back at me, her face an agony of indecision. I solved her dilemma by giving the boy a wave and a yodel.
“I'm having a little party. Come on in.”
He came forward reluctantly.
By this time I had gotten my key in the door. I picked up the refreshments and pushed the door open the rest of the way with my rump. There was no rush to follow me in. I dropped the stuff on the bureau and flicked on the radio—a rock station. I turned up the volume to the max, praying there were no guests indulging in an afternoon nap. The music, more than the food, drew them inside. I left the door partially open, feeling like the spider with two flies.
While the kids sat on the enormous bed, snatching awkward glances at each other, I played the heavy hostess. I filled plastic tumblers with ice, poured Coke, passed potato chips around, all the time keeping up a steady stream of cheery, inane chatter:
“I'm really glad you two came by. I'm a stranger in these parts and I was beginning to feel a little lonesome. You know how it is when you're from out of town. It gets boring talking to yourself, eating by yourself.” (I almost said, sleeping by yourself.) “Do you live near here? You must, unless you have a car.” (All this blather at
the top of my lungs, competing with rock at about 110 decibels.) “So …” I said and stretched out on what was left of the bed (half a football field), “were you two planning to spend the night?” I had turned the radio down to a level appropriate for someone with only a mild hearing impairment. They couldn't miss my question.
The boy cast a furtive glance at the girl. The girl looked at me and shook her head.
“The afternoon, then?” I asked brightly, crunching on a chip. (God, would I ever get a square meal?) “They have special rates, I hear.”
“Where'd you hear that?” the boy blurted.
“Oh, I get around.” I let them reflect on that while I refilled their glasses. “You know what?” I said suddenly. “This is dumb. It's a beautiful day out there. Instead of sitting around this dreary motel, how 'bout if we go for a picnic? I've got a car. We can drive to the bay.” Without waiting for an answer, I disposed of the trash and gathered up the remains of the food and drink to take with us.
“But I've already paid—” The boy was obviously upset.
There was no mistaking the girl's expression of relief.
“You can get a refund,” I assured him. “Give me the key.” I held out my hand to the girl.
She dropped the sweaty key in my palm.
“My name's Jo,” I told them on the way to the car. “What're yours?”
“Becca,” the girl said.
The boy said nothing, sulking.
“He's Randy,” she offered.
What else
, I thought.
The two babies sat huddled in separate corners of the back, a yard of seat between them, while I drove. “Nice name—Becca,” I said. “I had a friend by that name.”
“Where is she now?” She had picked up on the
had
.
“Oh, she moved away. I lost track of her.” Actually, she had been killed in a car crash, but there was no point getting into that. “I may be staying down here for a while,” I said, surprising myself.
“What'll you do?” The conversation was two-way only. The boy was deep in his sulk.
“I'm a doctor. I might practice around here.”
Silence.
“Do you ever go to the shore?” I glanced in the rearview mirror. She was shaking her head. He was staring out the window.
“You've never seen the ocean?”
More shakes.
“Well, next spring I'll take you. That's a promise.”
Spring? Are you crazy? What's the idea of making promises you can't keep?
We drove without talking for about a mile.
“I want out here,” Randy spoke suddenly.
We were approaching a crossroad with no signs and not a building in sight.
I slowed down. Before I came to a complete stop, he jumped out of the car. As he loped down the empty road to the right, I glanced at Becca in the rearview mirror. Her face was a mask. “He lives near here,” she said shortly.
The picnic was a gloomy affair. The sun had gone under a cloud and our hearts weren't in it. Becca was mourning her boyfriend, and I was exhausted from the effort of wrecking his plans.
“Come on,” I said, picking up the trash and stowing it in the car. “I'll take you home.”
She got in the front seat this time. At first I took this as a sign she had appreciated my afternoon's work. But on second thought, riding in back probably made her carsick.

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