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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Scarecrow
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After two more stops, for a heaping dish of strawberry ice cream and a waffle the size of a large frying pan, I was ready to go home. Maggie agreed and we made our way across the field for the fourth time that day. Before I got into the car, I glanced in the backseat. It was empty.
 
 
“But who would want to steal a scarecrow?” I moaned.
“Some kid probably. A prank.”
“Some prank. I'd like to get my hands on …”
“Now, now,” Maggie soothed, pulling into the motel parking lot.
“If only you'd locked your car,” I blurted.
Maggie looked shocked. “But we never lock …”
“I know. I know. Because Bayfield is so safe.” I climbed out. “Well, it isn't safe.” I slammed the door. “And I'm out twenty bucks.”
“That's enough,” Maggie said.
I looked at her and shut up. What was the loss of a scarecrow compared to the loss of a son?
 
 
“Well, well,” Mr. Nelson greeted us. “Did you spend all our retirement money?”
Maggie told him about the scarecrow.
He was genuinely upset. “I can probably find you another one,” he said slowly. “Or we can make one.”
“Make one?”
“Sure. Nothing to it. All you need are some strong poles, some old clothes, plenty of straw and twine.”
“When?”
“How about Sunday morning—around church time?”
Maggie frowned and left abruptly. (I wouldn't find out why until much later.)
“It's a date,” I said. “And I'll provide the clothes.”
I took off for my room, feeling much better. I didn't know what I loved Paul for more—offering to make a scarecrow, or
not
asking me why I'd bid on one.
When the U-Haul was emptied, I realized it was time to return it. I'd spotted a U-Haul lot on the main road. But once returned, I would have no wheels. No wheels meant—no house calls. This revelation came to me with a shock as I sat slumped in the front seat of the U-haul, recovering from single-handedly wrestling my furniture up the narrow, iron staircase to the second floor, down the long corridor, and into my room. Paul had suggested that I wait until evening when Jack-the-night-clerk could help me. But, not one to put things off, I went ahead and did it myself. The only real problem was the easy chair. There was nothing easy about it. It weighed a ton and its ungainly shape refused to bend around corners. The stereo was no lightweight, either. However, the move was done. Now I had to face this new problem. The obvious solution was to rent a car until I could buy a secondhand one, but that would be an expensive proposition. Slowly my eyes focused on something through the smudged windshield—something I had passed many times on my way in and out of the motel office, but had never really registered. Propped against the wall by the door, a hand-lettered FOR SALE sign dangled from its handlebars.
“Paul.”
He looked up from his crossword puzzle.
“How much for that bike outside?”
“Bike?”
“Motorcycle. The one for sale.”
He shook his head. “Not for sale.” And went back to his puzzle.
“What do you mean? There's a sign on it.”
He nodded without looking up. “I forgot to take it off.”
He was a lousy liar.
“Does it run?”
He shrugged.
Maybe he thought I couldn't afford it. “Look, I might have to pay you in installments, but you'd get your money.”
Maggie appeared from somewhere in the back to take over desk duty from her husband. “Did someone mention money?” Her sharp eyes grew sharper.
“I want to buy that bike outside. The one with the FOR SALE sign on it. But your husband says it's not for sale.”
She looked reflectively at the smooth top of her husband's head—still bent over the crossword puzzle. “Come back in an hour,” she said quietly.
Her husband's face reared up wearing a belligerent expression.
I exited quickly.
As I headed for my room, I was hurt. I thought Mr. Nelson—Paul—liked me. Why not sell me his bike?
His
bike? A picture of the elderly gentleman sprinting down the highway flashed through my mind.
Jackass
. His son's bike.
Shit.
I entered my room and kicked the door shut. But I felt better. Paul did like me. He just liked his son more.
I filled the next hour rearranging my room. When I had walked in, it had resembled a used furniture store. But after some judicious jostling and juggling, it gradually took on a more homey atmosphere. I replaced the two ugly vinyl chairs with the easy chair; the bulbous terracotta lamp with a sleek metal one; the orange bedspread and acid green blanket with my plum-colored down comforter; and the greasy clipper ship plowing through an oily sea with crisp Dufy sailboats dancing on a sparkling Mediterranean.
The acre of bureau easily accommodated my stereo and VCR
at one end and my microwave and coffee maker at the other. And there was still plenty of room in between for my toilet articles, i.e., two lipsticks (one summer, one winter), a comb, and a bottle of eau de cologne for those extra special occasions. My computer and printer ended up on the desk in the corner. I stuck a Miles Davis CD in the stereo and stretched out on the comforter. As soon as I could afford it, I'd chuck this king-size monster and buy myself a futon that would convert into a couch during the day. And cover the carpet with some colorful throw rugs. Then all evidence of motel decor would be destroyed. As the mellow strains of jazz filled my ears, I surveyed my new home with satisfaction. I was about to doze off when I wearily checked my watch. The hour had flown. I jumped up and narrowly missed breaking my neck on the discarded furniture I had left in the hallway. Making a mental note to call Maintenance (i.e., Jack-the-night-clerk) to cart them away, I sprinted down the stairs to the office.
I don't know what arm-twisting technique Maggie used on her husband but when I came in she said brightly, “Four-fifty. Fifty down, the rest when you have it.”
“That's not enough,” I blurted. It was a '97 Honda. “Eight hundred minimum.” What was I doing—haggling up? But then, everything in South Jersey was upside down.
“Final offer.” Maggie's mouth was a firm line.
There was just so much upward haggling a New Yorker was capable of. “It's a deal.” I shrugged.
“Why don't you try it out?” She drew a key from the desk drawer.
“Thanks.” I reached for it.
“You
have
ridden before?” She held on to the key.
“Oh, sure. My dad had one when I was growing up. I've been riding since I was four.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“I mean—with my dad. But I've ridden by myself off and on since I was sixteen.”
Her eyebrows slipped back into place and she relinquished the key.
I headed for the door.
“Wait!” She held up a white helmet.
I came back and tried it on. A loose fit, but nothing that some cotton batting or a little newspaper wouldn't remedy.
“Don't ever ride without it!” She was back in Mary Poppins mode.
“No, ma'am!”
I pulled off the FOR SALE sign and tossed it in the Dumpster. The seat was a better fit than the helmet and—wonder of wonders—the motor started right up. With a flurry of exhaust and a few backfires I zoomed out of the parking lot onto Route 551. As usual, traffic was light. The only other vehicle was a beatup Chevy pickup doing about forty. I passed it easily and headed for the bay. One trip to Mike's and this baby would be ready for anything. A real crotch rocket!
The temperature had dropped. The wind made my face tingle and my eyes water. Goggles, gloves, and biking boots would head my next list of acquisitions.
The bay was dark. A pale streak of lavender stained the horizon. When I shut off the bike, the motor still throbbed in my ears. I dismounted and walked to the water's edge. The mud had frozen and the hard bumps and ruts bored through the soles of my sneakers. As I stood looking toward Delaware, there was a rustle in the reeds to my left. A great blue bird with a neck like a shepherd's crook rose. Its wings spanned a couple of yards. Without effort, it glided—talons skimming the water—and settled onto a piece of driftwood about a hundred feet away. Drawing its wings closely into its sides, it became as still as the wood it was resting on.
For some reason, the Chrysler building came to mind. This was
the time of night that its lights came on. It was my favorite building and I often paused to look up at it—like the greenest tourist. Nature wasn't everything. Humans had done a few things, too.
The lavender streak was gone. The first stars had broken out. I straddled my bike and, keeping the motor low, trundled home at thirty miles per hour. Home? Since when had a two-star motel become “home”?
Since now.
 
 
Back in my motel room, I began to fret over the hives case I'd seen that morning. My beeper had been silent all afternoon. I checked to make sure it was turned on. It was. Should I call her mother? No way. Unprofessional. She had
my
number. I was available. That's all that was required. What I needed were more patients; then I wouldn't worry about just one. I reached for the TV remote and tried to concentrate on a sitcom. Eventually I dozed off, but it was a fitful sleep. I kept dreaming about hives the size of ostrich eggs. Slowly the night passed with no outburst from my beeper. At 7:00 A.M. I called the Midway Motor Inn. “Mrs. Nice, please.”
“Sorry, she and her little girl just checked out.”
“Thanks.” I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Church bells woke me.
Sunday.
I jumped out of bed. There was so much to do.
Abruptly, I realized my options were limited. In this neck of the woods people probably still observed Sundays religiously, getting all gussied up and piling into churches and meeting houses, then returning home to gorge themselves on huge roast beef or chicken dinners (without a single thought for calories or cholesterol) and dozing the rest of the afternoon away.
Indignation—or jealousy?
Well, at least I could take a ride on my new bike. I had returned the U-Haul the night before. Paul had kindly followed me to the local center and given me a ride back in his pickup.
I drove the bike slowly, taking in the soft autumnal colors—lemon, rust, and rose. Autumn was different here from New England. Instead of blasting you out of your seat, it sort of eased its way into your bloodstream—lowering your blood pressure.
A field of empty cornstalks to my right, a woods to my left, and I knew the Sheffield farm would be coming up around the next bend. Maybe Becca would like to see my bike (if she wasn't in Sunday school). As I bumped up the driveway, I spied her on the
porch. She was sitting on the swing, her bright head bent over something in her lap. She was so absorbed, she didn't hear me.
“Want a ride?”
She looked up. Tossing her sketchbook aside, she was off the porch in two bounds. “When did you get it?”
“Yesterday.” I handed her my helmet. “Put it on and hop on the back.”
When she was settled, I said, “Now, put your arms around my waist and hold on tight.”
I felt her thin arms pressing against my ribs.
“Okay?”
“Uh-huh,” she mumbled into my back.
A swath of birds, like black cloth, rose from a field on our left and settled in a field on our right.
The empty windows of an abandoned barn framed the empty sky beyond.
It was the sky here that really got me. Instead of snatching glimpses of it between tall buildings, it spread out all around you, wrapping you up in it.
I pulled off the road and stopped. Becca slid off and rolled in the brown grass like a puppy.
“Well?” I said.
“Fabulous. Is that how you're going to make your house calls?”
“Yep.”
“Cool.”
I dismounted and sat on the grass beside her. “So what are you going to be when you grow up?” I bit my tongue. I'd always hated people who asked me that when I was thirteen.
“Rich.”
“You're kidding?”
“Nope.” She yawned.
I remembered how she had ordered Juri around. Her aunt was really irresponsible, not demanding more of her. “You'd be surprised how boring rich can be.”
“How would you know?”
Fresh. “I've seen it in the movies,” I said.
“That's fiction. In real life rich people are happy. The poor are a drag.”
I was about to ask,
How many poor do you know?
but held my tongue. Instead I asked, “How come Juri does all the work at your house?”
“Juri?” She said his name as if she had to think who he was.
“Yes. Is he sort of a house man, or … ?”
“Handyman. He's a relative who lives off us. That's how he pays for his keep, a kind of—dogsbody.” She seemed delighted at having found just the right word.
My dad would have smacked her. “I see. Your aunt's brother?”
“No. A cousin. Her brothers were all killed in the uprising.”
“Uprising?”
“The Prague Spring,” she said casually. “My aunt's Czech.” She rolled away from me, as if the conversation bored her.
I had only the dimmest recollection of the Prague Spring. One of those endless failed uprisings against the Communists in Central Europe. I'd probably skimmed over it in some history survey course, while concentrating on the really important stuff—biology and organic chemistry. “Dubcek!” The name sprang out of my subconscious. “Wasn't he the hero of the Prague Spring?”
She nodded.
“Where is he now?”
“He died.”
“Oh.”
“In a car accident.”
Becca was sitting up now, chewing on a stalk of dry grass. Her hair was a russet halo in the noon sun.
“Have you ever been to Czechoslovakia?” I asked.
“The Czech Republic,” she corrected. “I was born in Prague, but when my parents died my grandfather sent me over here to live with my aunt.”
“How old were you?”
“Four.”
“Do you want to go back?”
She shook her head vehemently.
I was surprised. I'd heard that Prague was one of the most beautiful cities in the world. And now that it was free … “Not even to visit?”
For answer, she hopped onto my bike seat and felt for the ignition key. Fortunately I'd had the foresight to remove it. “When you're sixteen, you can try it,” I said.
“Sixteen?” she repeated, as if she would never live to such a ripe old age. But she got off the seat and arranged herself on the back as before.
When I dropped her off at her house, I accompanied her onto the porch. I wanted to take a look at that sketchbook. It lay where she had left it, facedown on the swing. When I sat down, the swing creaked. I turned the book over.
The page was filled with sketches of the barn across the driveway. Becca had drawn parts of the building from different angles. They were surprisingly accurate.
“Hey, these are good.” I half expected her to snatch the book away from me. Instead, she slid down beside me and examined the sketches critically. “Do you really think so?”
I nodded. “Your perspective is right on target. And you have a good eye for detail.” I pointed to her rendering of some hardware on the barn door.
Flipping through the rest of the book, I found it full of equally good drawings of local farmhouses, outbuildings, and more barns. On the last page was a sketch of the cooling tower of the nuclear power plant, casting its bulky shadow across a field. What surprised me was the sameness of the subject matter. No people, no animals, no trees. “You only draw buildings?”
“That's what I like.” She grabbed the book and shut it in a single motion.
“But there aren't many around here,” I said, “and they're all pretty much the same.”
“That's why I wanted to go to New York.”
I looked at her. “You mean that's why you were hitching that day?”
She nodded.
So she hadn't been running away. She'd been running toward.
“I'll take you to New York,” I said.
Her sullen expression vanished. Her face lit up from inside—like a jack-o'-lantern. “You will?”
“Sure.”
“When?”
“At Christmas,” I promised impulsively, unaware that this was one promise I would not be able to keep.
I stood up. Becca didn't move, but sat silently smiling into space.
“Time for breakfast.” Her aunt came out on the porch. When she saw me she smiled and said, “Won't you join us?” She was wearing a colorful silk kimono, sandals, and her makeup looked as if it had taken hours to apply. She wasn't smoking, but looked as if she should be—an exotic, foreign brand in an elegant ivory holder.
“I shouldn't …”
“Jo …” Becca came out of her trance to plead.
I looked from one to the other. It would be a way to check on those houseguests. “Okay.” I nodded.
 
 
Again the table was set with a linen cloth, linen napkins, real silverware, and china. But with only two places this time. The aunt hastily added a third place for me. This time Juri was nowhere in sight and the food was not gourmet quality. Cereal, orange juice, coffee, and bagels made up the simple fare. As the aunt served the food, it was hard not to stare at her hands. Pale, tapered fingers with meticulously manicured nails that moved with a sure grace. Only the right-hand index finger was marred at the knuckle—by a black
smudge. As before, she made polite conversation. “How do you like Bayfield by now?”
“I love it,” I said, surprising myself. “It has a serenity you don't find in New York. I never tire of the sky. In Manhattan you can only see bits and pieces, but here it spreads out all around you, and … good grief, I didn't mean to go all poetic.” I blushed.
“Not at all. I feel the same way.” The aunt sipped her coffee, seeming in no hurry to eat.
I doubted that she spent much time looking at the sky. She didn't seem the outdoor type. How had such a hothouse plant ended up with a farmer in South Jersey? There had to be a story here. “Becca is a very talented artist,” I said.
“Do you feel that, too?”
Becca squirmed.
“She just showed me some of her sketches. Have you ever thought of giving her art lessons?”
“You mean send her to art school?”
“Well, no. I meant now. I imagine her talent is far beyond her eighth-grade art teacher. There must be some bona fide artists in South Jersey who would be willing to give her lessons.”
Becca was listening intently.
“I hadn't thought of that. After school, you mean? Or on Saturdays?”
I nodded eagerly. Not only would it help Becca's artistic talent, it would keep her occupied and off the motel circuit.
“Hmm. Would you like that, Becca?”
“Yes.” The one word, spoken emphatically, conveyed the enthusiasm of a thousand.
“I'll look into it.” She finally broke off a piece of bagel and began to nibble.
The conversation turned to other topics, but I felt the aunt was sincere in her concern for her niece and would follow up my suggestion. She lived in another world, and every now and then she needed somebody to push her into this one.
 
 
When I left, Becca came out with me. Not being one to beat around the bush, I asked, “Where are your houseguests?”
“Around.”
Since no more information was forthcoming, I switched to another topic. “How did your aunt meet your uncle?”
“She and my mother came on a tour to the States when they were girls—way before I was born. My aunt met my uncle at a country fair.” Becca straddled my bike, gripped the handlebars, and made obnoxious motor noises. “Brrr, brrr.”
“What were your mother and aunt doing in the boondocks?”
“Their tour guide thought they should see an American farm as part of their education.” She imitated a haughty tour guide.
I had a fleeting vision of the two elegant Czech women tiptoeing among the cow turds.
“Uncle Richard was demonstrating his milking machine at the fair—we still had cows then—and it was love at first sight. Brrr, brrr.”
“Your aunt
is
beautiful,” I said.
“Is she?” Becca looked up, honestly amazed.
“Oh, yes.”
She shrugged. “So, my mother went back to Prague by herself and my aunt stayed here and married my uncle.”
“What does your aunt do with herself here, day after day?”
“Oh, she writes poetry and sends it to little magazines.” Becca wrinkled her nose.
That explained the black smudge. A true romantic, she probably used India ink and a quill.
“Has she published?” God, I was nosy. My excuse? I was looking after Becca's welfare.
“Once. When the Communists left Czechoslovakia, she wrote a poem and it was published in the Prague newspaper.”
I made a mental note to ask to see it sometime.
Becca made a ninety-degree turn on the bike seat and gazed backward over the field.
“Was your mother beautiful, too?”
She reached into her jean's pocket and pulled out a worn black-and-white snapshot. Despite the spidery cracks, I could see she was even more beautiful than her sister. “Was her hair red like yours?”
Becca nodded. Grabbing the photo, she took off running across the field. Either she had decided to chase a butterfly, or … the conversation had become too personal.
As I drove away, Juri emerged from the barn. I waved. He didn't wave back. Maybe he didn't recognize me on my new wheels.
BOOK: Scarecrow
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