Table of Contents
Title Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ALSO BY ROBIN HATHAWAY
Copyright Page
To my brother, Jack—with love
PROLOGUE
It was one of those freakish October days when the mercury shoots up to the nineties, catching everyone off guard. It caught the Potter boys off guard. They’d taken the day off from their jobs at the tomato cannery to go hunting—all togged out in their bright orange down vests. They look like three pumpkins, thought their mother fondly, as she watched them heading down the road.
But by ten o’clock, they were stripped to the waist and spending more time sweating than shooting.
“Aw, let’s get some beer,” Jake said.
“I ain’t fired a shot yet!” whined Willard.
“Take some shots at them crows,” Oscar suggested.
Willard obliged. Bam!
Plop. The bird landed at his feet. Grinning, he stepped delicately over it.
“Let’s shake up Farmer Perkins’s scarecrow.” Jake was not about to be outdone by his younger brother. Taking aim, he fired. Bam! Its hat flew off.
“Holy moley!” Oscar cried.
“Perkins’ll have your hide for that,” Willard mumbled.
Sure enough, a man was heading into the field, brandishing something.
Jake ran as fast as his beer belly would let him, to the base of the scarecrow. He bent to retrieve the hat. But to his brothers’ astonishment, he didn’t pick it up. He just stayed there, bent over. The brothers looked at each other. Farmer Perkins was gaining ground. And now they could see what he was carrying. A horse whip.
The boys ran to their brother’s aid.
“What the hell?” Willard puffed, as he came up.
Oscar fixed Jake with his you asshole! stare.
Wordlessly, Jake pointed to the scarecrow’s left pant leg.
A bare foot protruded from it.
CHAPTER 1
When I hit the Jersey Turnpike, I went into autopilot and the windshield fogged up with scenes I’d just as well forget.
The door to my office opened without a warning knock. I glanced up from the JAMA article I was reading. “What is it, Sue?”
My secretary hesitated, then blurted, “Sophie Miller … that little red-haired girl …”
“Yes?”
“She’s … gone.”
“What?” I sat upright.
“That viral infection … it was spinal meningitis.”
My heart contracted and my mouth went dry as my body registered the news.
“The nurse just called. They want you to come over to the hospital and talk to the parents.”
OhmygodOhmygodOhmygod.
“Can I do anything?” Sue stayed in the doorway.
I shook my head.
The door closed.
I placed my face in my hands.
I swerved, narrowly missing the red sports car that dove in front of me. I concentrated on the stream of trucks and cars ahead.
“So that’s why you’re leaving … .” Ken’s lower lip protruded from his beard, a sure sign he was beginning one of his famous sulks.
I continued throwing things in my backpack.
“It wasn’t your fault!” he shouted.
“I should have been sharper,” I said in a dull tone.
“You can’t win ’em all.”
“You didn’t see those parents.”
“It was your first time,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”
I looked at him.
He lowered his eyes.
Turning, I went back to my packing.
“Hey, I know it was tough.” He came up behind me and tried to give me a hug.
I shrugged him off.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said in an injured tone.
I zipped toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant into an outside pocket.
The door closed.
“When you get back,” I muttered to the empty room, “I’ll be outta here.”
The deep nasal blast of a horn caused me to glance in the rearview mirror. A tractor trailer—huge, bloodthirsty beast—was bearing down on me. In fact, the road behind me was jam-packed with bloodthirsty beasts—wild boars, rhinos, wolves, jackals—all riding my tail. All out to get me. I pressed the accelerator of my Budget Rent-a-Car.
“I’ll only be gone a few days.” I pulled on the phone wire, watching it stretch and recurl.
“You and Ken have a blowup?”
“None of your business.”
Silence.
“Sorry, Dad. I’m on edge. I’ll call you when I get there.”
“And where, may I ask, is ‘there’?”
He only spoke formally when he was angry—or hurt.
Suddenly I realized I had planned everything except my destination. “I’ll let you know when I get there. Bye, Dad.”
The gang behind me had thinned out. I automatically reached in the side pocket for a CD. Empty. Damn. In my rush to get out of the apartment, I’d left my CDs behind.
I turned on the radio. Talk show on capital punishment. Should we or shouldn’t we? Flick. Sinatra crooning fifties love songs. Flick. Fire and brimstone from a Bible Belt preacher. Flick. “Ninety degree temperatures break record for October”—followed by a heated discussion on global warming. Flick. Back to capital punishment. The emcee—against it. His caller—for it: “The obvious answer to prison overcrowding.”
We interrupt this program to bring you an important news bulletin: An unidentified body was found this morning in Bayfield, New Jersey. At ten-thirty A.M., Jake Potter was walking with his brothers in a cornfield when he stumbled on the body. Disguised as a scarecrow, it was hanging from a crossbeam in the middle of the field. Jake would have walked right by if he hadn’t stooped to pick up something and caught sight of a bare foot dangling from the pant leg. “Scared the bejeesus outta me,” Jake said—
I punched OFF and concentrated on the road. It took more than a single dead body to hold the attention of a Manhattanite. The rhythm of the traffic combined with the monotony of the
scenery had a soporific effect. Twice I caught myself about to doze off. Coffee time. I looked for the next service plaza.
With some caffeine inside me and some more in a cup next to me, I felt better. Sharper. Able to tackle anything. Well, at least to decide where I was going to spend the night.
A sign warned of an approaching toll: LAST EXIT BEFORE BRIDGE. What bridge? DELAWARE MEMORIAL BRIDGE, snapped the next sign.
I didn’t want to go to Delaware. I wanted to go to the shore. To the sea. The happiest times of my life had been spent at the seashore. My dad had always rented a cottage for the two of us on our summer vacations. Of course, October wasn’t the best time for the shore. Or was it? No swimming, but no crowds either. I swerved onto the exit ramp in the nick of time.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He dropped the change into my hand and smiled.
Ma’am? Where had he been? Or, rather, where the hell was I?
The soap-opera scenes of my life petered out along with the Turnpike. When I tried to resurrect them, they flickered and died like an old film. The windshield was clear and what I saw through it made me sit up and take notice. Golden fields topped by a band of indigo sky. The serene line of the horizon broken only by an occasional lone tree or scarecrow.
Scarecrow?
I slowed down. What a beautiful specimen! The first one I’d ever seen outside of the Wizard of Oz. And my rearview mirror was empty. That pack of jungle beasts must have opted for Delaware. In fact, I was the only car on the road. As I drove, the sky blushed crimson, turning the fields blood red. Fields and sky. Sky and fields. I don’t know how long I drove. When the sky cooled to lavender and the fields to deep purple, I turned on my headlights. The beams picked out signs of civilization. (If that’s what you call it.) A used-car lot, Harry’s Bar and Grill, and a motel with an orange neon sign—OAKVIEW MOTOR LODGE. And below it: LO R TES. It was the customer’s job to fill in the blanks. If I hadn’t been exhausted, I would have driven on to look for more upscale lodgings. (None of my colleagues would have been caught dead in this fleabag.) But not long ago I had been a lowly intern, up to my ears in debt, and I had often stayed in such places—when I could afford to travel at all. Besides, it gave me a kick to stay where my pretentious colleagues wouldn’t be caught dead. I turned into the parking lot and was faced with the movie set for It Happened One Night. Three wooden cabins all in a row, each with two windows and a door with a number fixed to its center: 1, 2, and 3. I looked around expectantly for Clark Gable. No such luck. It Happened One Night and Casablanca had been my two mainstays when I was a medical student. I couldn’t afford much recreation, but I did have a VCR and a few videos. I played those movies over and over. If anyone deserved credit for getting me through medical school (besides Dad) it was Gable and Bogie. And it was a toss-up which one I owed the most.
Cabin number “one” had a light over the door and a small orange neon sign below. OFFICE, it read. For some reason, that little cabin with its warm glowing sign was a comfort—like a bowl of hot broth when you had a bad cold.
I turned off the ignition and went in to register.
CHAPTER 2
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.
Scarecrow Page 1