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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Scarecrow
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“You've got a house call!” Paul hailed me as I came in the door to pick up my key.
My mouth did a good imitation of the Grand Canyon.
“It just came.” He handed me a slip of paper with a name and number scrawled on it.
“But—” I sputtered, “my Jersey license hasn't—”
He handed me an envelope from the Board of Medical Examiners.
“But my narcotics—”
He handed me two more envelopes from the narcotics bureaus.
The Grand Canyon snapped shut. Apparently New Jersey's bureaucracy was more efficient than New York's. I looked down at the first piece of paper. Amy Nice, Midway Motor Inn, and the phone number. “Midway between what and what?”
“Salem and Bridgeton,” he said, and he handed me another slip of paper. This one bore a map that he had drawn himself.
Sheepishly, I thanked him. “Any info on the patient?”
“Seven-year-old girl with hives.”
My stomach did a ninety-degree flip. Why couldn't it have been a male octogenarian with a hernia? I considered heading back to the Turnpike. But medical training dies hard. I beat it to the
U-Haul without another word. Hives, if not treated promptly, can spread to the throat and block the air passages.
 
 
On the way to the motel I had time to think. I hadn't planned to jump back into practice with an emergency—especially not one involving a child. That nocturnal emergency in the room next to mine had been an unavoidable episode, a chance occurrence not to be repeated. When I decided to come to Bayfield I had planned to ease myself back into practice little by little, starting with a few bad colds, a bee sting, or a case of poison ivy, gradually working my way up to some more serious respiratory infections, an appendectomy maybe, and eventually—say in a year or two—a heart attack. All my patients would be sixty-five or older, people whose lives had been lived to the fullest and, if shortened, would not have too many regrets.
 
 
The Midway Motor Inn was a carbon copy of the Oakview Motel, minus the 1930s cabins. But the motel operator bore no resemblance to Paul Nelson. He was a she, with heavy makeup and a hard stare. She directed me to Room 32. I had forgotten how casually I was dressed—in parka, T-shirt, jeans and sneakers—until I saw the startled expression of the neatly groomed woman who opened the door. The only clue she had that I was a doctor was the black medical kit in my left hand.
“Dr. Banks.” I offered my right hand. “Excuse the informality of my dress, but I thought I'd better come right away.”
“Come in, Doctor.”
I stepped into the room and caught the first sight of my patient. Big for seven, the child had taken over the entire double bed and made it her own. The sheets were littered with gum wrappers and comic books. Her eyes were glued to the TV screen. Even from this distance I could see the welts on her stomach. She had
pulled up her T-shirt and pulled down her jeans to facilitate easier scratching. Each welt was white and about the size of a quarter.
“Hello, Amy,” I said.
She glanced at me briefly.
“After I wash my hands, I'll take a look at that rash.”
She began to scratch her stomach vigorously with both hands.
“Try not to do that,” I said.
“It itches.” She pouted.
I turned to her mother. “May I use your sink?”
“Go right ahead, Doctor.” The woman gestured to the bathroom.
When I came back to the bed, Amy had pulled down her T-shirt and pulled up her jeans, hiding her rash from me.
“Let's have a look,” I said.
Her lower lip popped out and she shook her head.
I didn't expect much help from the mother. Fragile and feminine-looking, I automatically categorized her as wishy-washy.
“I can't stop the itch unless you let me see what's wrong,” I said in my most reasonable tone.
“Let her see!” barked the mother, scaring me more than the child.
Up came the shirt.
So much for my powers of psychoanalysis. Lucky I'd opted for family medicine and not psychiatry. I carefully examined her stomach. “Do you itch anywhere else?”
She shook her head.
I took a tongue blade from my kit and asked her to open her mouth.
She glanced at her mother who was standing behind me. The mouth opened.
“Wider, please.”
“It doesn't itch there,” she whined, but obeyed.
I pressed her tongue flat with my blade and flashed my light over the back of her throat. Faint white spots were beginning to
show on either side. If untreated, they could swell into hives large enough to cut off her breathing. I withdrew the blade.
“Why's your hand shaking?”
Kids notice everything. “I was up all night.”
“Why?”
I could feel the mother's eyes lasering into my back.
“My cat was sick,” I lied.
“What was wrong with him?”
“Uh—he had a pain.”
Get hold of yourself. She's not Sophie.
Sophie was small and delicate with auburn hair, soft gray eyes, and a sweet smile. This kid was big and blond with dark brown eyes and a sullen expression.
“Is he okay now?”
“I think so.”
“What's his name?”
“Frankie.”
“That's not a good name for a cat.”
“It isn't?”
“Nah.”
“What's a good cat name?”
“Mustard.”
“But my cat's black.”
“Licorice, then. You could call him Lick for short.”
“That's perfect. He does a lot of licking with that rough tongue of his.”
“Why is it rough?”
“To remove loose hair when he's shedding …”
We both turned at the interruption.
“ … and other forms of dirt,” the mother added.
I glanced around for a wastebasket in which to throw the tongue blade. The mother brought one quickly. I tossed the blade and noted with relief that my hand was steady again. I rummaged in my medical kit. The child watched me carefully. When I drew out a syringe in a see-through wrapper, she squealed and drew back against the headboard.
I laid the syringe on the bedside table. “Amy, I can't tell you this won't hurt. It will—a little.”
Her eyes filled and she began to sniffle.
“But I need your help in a little scientific experiment.” I picked up the syringe. “I'm going to tell you exactly what this shot will feel like, and afterwards I want you to tell me if I'm right or wrong. You have to concentrate very hard so you can describe how it felt afterwards. Then I can add it to the data I'm collecting for a very important scientific paper. Are you ready?”
She bent her elbow and held her arm tight against her chest.
“Amy!” Her mother's voice was like a pistol shot.
The child stretched out her arm.
As I swabbed her skin with alcohol, I said, “First you're going to feel a pinprick. No more than the prick of a thorn.” I tossed the cotton and tore the wrapper off the syringe. “This will be followed by a sting, which will last three seconds.” I positioned the needle. “Now, here's the important part.” I forced her to look at me. “I want you to count those seconds—one chimpanzee, two chimpanzee, three chimpanzee …” I slid the needle in.
With her eyes squeezed shut, she counted, “One chimpanzee, two chimpanzee, three chimpanzee, four chimpanzee.” Her eyelids flew open and she looked at me accusingly. “It was
four
seconds.”
“Good for you.” I smiled, easing the needle out. “You've just made a great contribution to modern science.” I took out a pad and pen. At the top I wrote,
Sting lasts 4 seconds
. “Will you sign this, please?” I handed her my ballpoint pen.
She signed.
As I placed a Band-Aid over the puncture, I said, “Thanks to you, the next time I give this shot, I'll have to tell the patient the sting will last four, not three, seconds.”
She smiled with satisfaction.
I scrawled a prescription for hydrocortisone cream and handed it to her mother. “This should take care of the itching. And that shot of adrenaline I gave her should prevent the hives from swelling or spreading.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” She placed the prescription carefully on the bureau. “What do I owe you?”
After a quick calculation, I came up with, “Thirty-five.”
She didn't whistle, but looked as if she'd like to.
I thought of explaining that I'd traveled ten miles and the adrenaline had cost ten dollars, but caught myself. No apologies. No excuses. A house call is a house call is a house call. This wasn't the horse-and-buggy days when a loaf of bread cost ten cents, and a cup of coffee, a nickel.
She took a wad of bills from her purse and wordlessly peeled off three tens and a five.
“Are you going to be here long?” I placed the bills in my pocket and wrote out a receipt.
“We'd planned to leave tomorrow.”
“If Amy complains of any difficulty breathing or swallowing during the night, be sure to call me—
no matter how late it is.
”
A look of alarm crossed her face.
“It's very unlikely,” I reassured her. I turned to Amy. “So long. You have the makings of a great scientist.”
She barely nodded, her eyes glued once more to the TV screen.
I climbed into the U-Haul, still packed with my belongings. Before turning the key, I sat a minute, breathing deeply. I had scaled one hurdle. I had treated a child. I turned the key. Now—if only those hives don't swell!
“Come with me to the Craft Fair.” Maggie waylaid me as I came in the door.
“Oh, I don't think …” I had been up since six, driven the U-Haul from New York, and was still recovering from my first house (motel) call. Even though it was barely noon, I was exhausted. And I still had to unload the U-Haul.
“Come on, Jo. It's a beautiful day, and this is a good way to meet people … .”
It
was
a beautiful day. Crisp and cool—a perfect finale to October, before bleak November set in.
“You might pick up a few patients.” She gave my arm an extra psychological twist.
“Do they have food?” My stomach was in its usual cavernous state.
“Are you kidding?” Her eyes brightened. “There's the Baptist bake sale, Betsy Hawkin's homemade ice cream, Charlie Meek's old-fashioned waffles …”
“I'm coming, I'm coming.” I followed her out to the parking lot.
 
 
The Craft Fair was a surprise. Instead of a few ramshackle booths manned by a couple of local yokels, there was an extensive network
of vendors from all over the eastern seaboard. Basket weavers from Connecticut, cabinetmakers from Maine, a silversmith from the Smokies, a quilter from Lancaster. The grassy aisles between the booths were packed with people from as far away as Philadelphia, New York, and Baltimore. How did I know? Their cars were parked nose to tail along both sides of the main street, and I read their license plates.
“I thought Bayfield was a secret,” I whined to Maggie. “How come half the East Coast is here?”
“Advertising.” She slapped a brochure into my hand.
On the front was a picture of a spinning wheel, and on the back, a detailed map showing how to get here from north, south, east, and west.
“Come on, Jo. You're dragging. We don't want to miss the auction.”
“Auction? I've never been to an auction,” I wailed. “What do I do?”
“Just sit on your hands and keep your mouth shut,” Maggie advised. She had spied two empty seats and was burrowing past a row of bulky knees to claim them.
“Aren't we lucky?” She settled into one seat and pulled me down into the other.
The auction was already in progress. The auctioneer was taking bids on a hideous purple vase.
“Eight dollars. Do I hear nine? Nine dollars. Do I hear ten?”
I didn't feel it necessary to sit on my hands for this one. I wasn't even tempted. I scanned the audience. Mostly middle-aged white. Come to think of it, African, Asian, and Hispanic faces were a rarity here. The most common people of color were
red
necks. I felt a pang of homesickness.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have here an oil painting that rivals the
Mona Lisa.
The frame alone is worth a hundred. Look at that gilding.”
He stressed the frame because the picture was not likely to attract this audience. Scarlet-coated huntsmen jumping a fence
were not about to appeal to the honest yeoman farmers of Bayfield. The painting
with
frame went for $25.
I yawned and glanced over at Maggie. To my surprise she was sitting forward, her eyes fixed on the auctioneer. The auction catalog lay open on her lap with a number of items circled in red.
“Now, folks …” Having disposed of the elegant painting, he could afford to be more informal. “ … we have here a special prize.” He turned his back for a moment to receive the next item from one of his helpers. Awkward and bulky, they dragged it to the front of the platform and began tearing off its wrappings. “What have we here?” the auctioneer asked, as if ignorant of the contents. As the last wrappings fell to the ground, there was a general intake of breath. With floppy hat, painted smile, arms and legs akimbo, it was an exact replica of that endearing figure from
The Wizard of Oz
—the Scarecrow.
“What am I bid for this fine fellow?”
The audience laughed.
“Look how strong he is.” The auctioneer slapped his chest. “Do I hear fifty dollars?”
The audience roared.
“Oh, come now. This is no ordinary fellow.” He snapped the strap of his denim overall.
More laughter, but no bids.
“Spring's around the corner, folks.” He adopted a more serious tone. “And with spring come the crows!”
Silence.
“Crows that'll gobble up your freshly sowed seeds!”
“Five.” A farmer in the front row raised his hand.
“I have five dollars. An insult to this handsome fellow. Do I hear ten?”
“Ten.”
“I have ten. Do I hear twenty?”
“Twenty.” Maggie nearly jumped out of her seat when I spoke up.
“Twenty-five?” asked the auctioneer.
Silence.
“Going … going … gone.”
Bang
went the mallet. “To the lady in the third row.”
Everyone turned to see who would be crazy enough to pay twenty dollars for a scarecrow.
Maggie ducked her head, embarrassed to be sitting next to me. “What did you do that for?” she whispered fiercely.
I shrugged and stared straight ahead. How could I explain to this practical, down-to-earth woman that
The Wizard of Oz
was my favorite book in the whole world, and the Scarecrow my favorite fictional character of all time? My dad had read it to me every night until I was able to read. Then I had read it until the book was as tattered and torn as—well, a scarecrow.
The auctioneer had gone on to something else, a set of silver spoons that Maggie was interested in. She bid seventy-five dollars, but lost them to a dealer for eighty. Seventy-five was her limit, she whispered. And when she set limits, she stuck to them. Old-fashioned, our Maggie. Later she landed a set of pink English china she'd had her heart set on, for fifty dollars. She was thrilled. “Now I'll have something decent to serve Thanksgiving dinner on.” She glowed. “Let's go.”
I followed her out of the row and down to an area behind the auctioneer's platform, where we paid cash for our purchases to a tired-looking woman behind a rickety card table. She checked off our items on a long list and stamped them PAID with a rubber stamp.
Because the cartons of dishes were heavy, Maggie borrowed a handcart and pushed them across the bumpy field. I trailed behind, lugging my scarecrow. Some people snickered as we passed, but I didn't care. He was a fine fellow and just what I needed to fill that bare corner in my bed/sitting room. If he got lonely, I'd play my Black Crows CD for him. Yuk, yuk.
About halfway to the car, Maggie stopped short, her eyes riveted to the back of a young man, chunky and dark, in jeans and a black leather jacket, who was crossing the field a few yards ahead of
us. Maggie dropped the cart and took off after him. Luckily, I was right behind her; I caught the cart and saved the dishes. At the sound of her footsteps, the young man turned quickly. Maggie fell back, as if he had struck her. There was an awkward pause before the man turned and walked on. Maggie stumbled back to me.
Shocked by her pallor, I was afraid she was going to faint. I took her arm. “What was that all about?”
She took a deep breath. “He looked like Nick.”
I put my arm around her and held her close. After a moment, she drew away and we continued on to the car.
Carefully, I laid the scarecrow on the backseat and went to help Maggie load her dishes into the trunk. As we left, I noticed she didn't bother locking the car. Having grown up in New York, this was one Bayfield habit I would never get used to.
“I'll take the cart back,” I offered.
“Thanks. I'll meet you at the Baptist bake sale booth in fifteen minutes.” Her color had returned and, deciding she might want a few minutes to herself, I let her go. As I trundled the cart at a more leisurely pace, I thought about Nick. He had been missing for three years, Tom said. Poor Maggie. She would never give up hope, I was afraid, until she saw his body lowered into the ground.
Two rednecks passed me, heading in the opposite direction. They didn't even glance my way. Strange. That type usually stared at anything female, if only to make her feel uncomfortable.
After I returned the cart I pushed my way through the crowd of country folk, suburbanites, kids, and dogs. There were even a few sheep wandering around loose, left over from the wool-shearing demonstration. I moseyed along, pausing to examine a finely crafted rocking chair, an intricately woven shawl, and a handmade salad bowl. In an open space, a man was demonstrating a bow and arrow. His back to me, he drew the string taut and let go.
Zing!
The arrow zipped through the air and landed very near the bull's-eye a hundred feet away.
“Nice,” I spoke involuntarily.
The archer turned.
“Robin Hood!” I blurted.
“Dorothy!” he retorted.
I felt my face flush. He'd forgotten my name! And what was worse, he had mistaken me for someone else.
“What are you going to bid on next? A lion or a tin woodsman?” He smiled, laying his bow aside.
Finally getting the joke, I said, “How did you know …?”
“Everybody's talking about it. How the doctor's going to practice her appendectomies on a scarecrow.”
I had to laugh. “I see you're giving the deer a rest today.”
“Yes. I was asked to show off my great skills, and as you can see, the audience is overwhelming.”
“What's all this?” I wandered into his booth and stood looking at some tools spread out on a workbench.
“That's where I make my bows and arrows.”
“You make your own?”
He nodded. “Like the Lenapes.”
“Lenapes?”
“The Lenni Lenapes—the Indians who settled in these parts.”
“Native Americans.”
“Pardon.”
“Never mind.” Trying to convert Bayfielders to political correctness was a lost cause. “Show me how you do it.”
He glanced at me, not sure he had heard right. Convinced I was in earnest, he picked up a stone from the workbench and handed it to me. It was about four by five inches, hard and black.
“That's obsidian. When freshly flaked it can be four hundred times sharper than surgical steel.” He sat down on a wooden stool and pulled a thick leather pad across his knees. Placing the stone on the pad, he studied it as a sculptor might. Then he took a small mallet from the workbench and tapped the stone. A piece of the stone fell away. He tapped the stone at another spot. Another piece fell away. The stone began to take on a sharp, triangular shape.
I watched, fascinated in spite of myself. “How did you do that?”
“You study the grain of the stone and locate its flaws before you tap it. Then the pieces will usually fall away where you want them to. Its called knapping.”
“As in kid?”
“No. K-n-a-p … and the people who do it are called knap-pers.”
“And that's the way the Indians made their arrowheads?”
“It's one way.”
“And you make your bows, too?”
He handed me the one he had just used. A beautiful instrument. Smooth, flexible, honey-colored. I gave it back. He demonstrated how it would bend without breaking.
“Can I try?” a tow-headed boy spoke up. He had been watching from a distance.
“Sure.” Tom gave it to him. The bow was about two feet taller than the boy. “Here.” He led him nearer to the target and set his hands in the right positions on the bow. “Now look straight at the bull's-eye …”
He had a nice way with the kid.
Suddenly, I remembered Maggie. “Gotta go,” I said.
I smelled the Baptist bake table before I saw it, and began to salivate. Maggie was scanning the crowd for me. “I thought you'd gone home,” she said.
“Sorry, I got involved with the archer.”
“Oh, Tom Canby. We call him the Bowman around here. Now what will you have, Jo?” She indicated the array of succulent baked goods spread out on the table. “Chocolate cake, cherry pie, lemon squares … ?”
“Lemon squares,” I said quickly. There was a bakery in Queens that had sold them. I used to pick them up after school when I was flush with a new allowance.
Maggie turned to one of the Baptists behind the table. “A dozen lemon squares, please. Take one, Jo, before she wraps them up,” she urged.
She didn't have to urge me twice. It was sublime. Just the right
consistency. A perfect blend of sweet and tart, the pastry melted on my tongue.

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