Scarecrow

by Robin Hathaway

  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.

  CHAPTER 3

  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.

  CHAPTER 4

  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.

  CHAPTER 5

  At the end of a muddy road with more potholes than a Manhattan side street, I slurped to a stop and stepped out into the three inches of mud that hadn’t made it to my windshield. Damn. My brand-new Reeboks! Well, the damage was done.

  The bay was clean and bright, stretching to a pale gray line that I guessed was the state of Delaware. I kept o
n walking to the bay’s edge. There, the mud turned into sand like brown sugar and the water lapped gently over my sneakers. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. Salt. The sun felt warm on my eyelids. I was a kid again—lugging buckets of sand, tearing down the beach, my feet slapping against the wet sand, wading into the water, jumping the waves, being knocked down by a wave, my mouth full of sand. (It didn’t taste like brown sugar.) The squawk of a seagull. I opened my eyes. Perched on a piling, crusty with barnacles, he stared at me. Looking for a handout, no doubt. “Sorry, buster.” I held out my empty hands. He turned his head away, unaware that he had ruined my reverie of innocent childhood.

  Hey, I was no child.

  I was an almost-thirty-year-old woman running away from the flotsam and jetsam of a botched career and a tired love affair. Shit. Where had that popped up from? People didn’t have love affairs anymore. They had relationships. I kicked a beer can. People even managed to desecrate this remote paradise with their dirty droppings. I looked up with a glare, as if hoping to find the culprit. But there was no one in sight.

  A rotting log lay half-in, half-out of the water. I sat on the half-out end. After a few minutes, I pulled off my sneakers and socks and moved to the half-in end. For a while I played in the water with my toes, making tiny amber waves. It was warm for October. Indian summer. The sun felt good on my back. Chin in hand, my eyelids began to droop. I don’t know how long I dozed there, but when I opened my eyes my toes were wrinkled. What’s wrong with you? Beginning a case of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome? I dried my feet with a sock and pulled on my sneakers. Time to start back. Back? To what? That mangy motel? That poor old caretaker would think I’d changed my mind and was taking him up on his offer.

  Motel doctor.

  My guffaw flushed a brown, spindly-legged bird out of the reeds. Catching sight of me, he darted back again. One last look at the bay. I had to shield my eyes against its brassy glare. Hunger pangs told me it must be well past noon. I got in the car and reached for my sunglasses. Wonder if they found that girl? A twinge of guilt. Torn between the girl who wanted to get away and whoever might be worried about her at home. I must be getting old. A few years ago I would have thought of only the girl. I maneuvered the car through a muddy U-turn. My fenders were iced with mud an inch thick. Budget-Rent-a-Car would love me. Feathery reeds caressed the car on either side. Now and then a red-winged blackbird (one of the few birds I knew) darted in front of me. I rounded a bend and slammed on the brakes.

  In the middle of the road stood a man poised with a bow and arrow. The arrow wasn’t aimed at me, but still … I leaned out the window. “Yo, Robin Hood!”

  He put the arrow away and stalked toward me, spewing anger like exhaust from a tailpipe. When he drew near he said, “You just scared off the whole herd. I’ve been waiting all morning.”

  “Sorry.” Although I wasn’t. I liked deer.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Is this a private road?” I swiveled my head. “I don’t see any sign.”

  “There hasn’t been a sign for years, but everybody knows … . Where you from?”

  “New York.”

  His face closed up.

  “New Yorkers aren’t a popular brand around here, huh?”

  “Don’t know any.”

  “And don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want people pokin’ around …”

  “Is there something sacred about that mud puddle I just visited?” Now I was getting hot under the collar.

  He looked at my car for the first time. “I can direct you to a nice car wash.”

  I looked over his shoulder at the field where the herd must have been. It was the color of butter. A bundle of clouds like a pile of freshly mashed potatoes sailed above it. It was as quiet as a church on Monday. My anger melted. “I can see why you want to protect this.” I gestured at the field. “I won’t hand out any travel brochures when I get back to Manhattan.”

  He smiled. It changed him—like that dab of red on a blackbird’s wing in the spring, from something ordinary to something extraordinary. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be unfriendly.”

  “No?” I eyed his bow. “I better be going.”

  He stepped aside.

  I looked back once in the rearview mirror. He was looking after me.

  CHAPTER 6

  South Jersey isn’t overpopulated with fast-food places. I passed a roadside stand piled with pumpkins, apples, jugs of cider, and a few squash. Beggars can’t be choosers. I backed up and stopped. No one in sight. A bunch of plastic bags hung from the roof of the wooden shed and there was ajar with a hand-penciled sign stuck to it: WHEN I’M NOT HERE, GOD IS WATCHING. I thought how that would go over in the stalls on Third Avenue. I bagged three apples, picked up a jug of cider, and toyed with the idea of a pumpkin. But where to put it? In the rear window of the car? A skinny woman in an apron was making her way toward me from the farmhouse.

  “Nice day,” she said, coming up. “You’re not from around here.”

  Was I wearing a sign?

  “I noticed your plates.”

  They didn’t miss a trick in this neighborhood. I’d hate to be on the lam like my neighbors from last night. I wouldn’t stand a chance. “I’m looking for a place to eat,” I said.

  She frowned. “Nothing around here. You’d have to get back to the main road.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Wait a minute.” She smoothed the apron over her lean front. “There is Lester’s.” She looked down the road, running a bony hand through her hair. “It’s behind the country store on Snakeskin Road. The boys go there for a bite when they’re done hunting.”

  I could just see the boys lined up at the counter, their red necks glowing, swilling beer and munching venison burgers. “Thanks. I’ll find something.” I took off with a wave.

  By four-thirty, I still hadn’t eaten. My stomach was rumbling like a bowling alley on a Saturday night. And rush hour was starting up. There were at least three other cars on the road besides mine. One driver was in such a hurry to get home, he actually passed me. To my left loomed the cooling tower of the nuclear power plant. It had to be that. A giant chimney, black against the crimson sky, spewing clouds of steam. Flashing lights circled its gaping mouth, warning airplanes to keep away. Suddenly, I felt for those Pompeiians who had lived their short lives in the shadow of Vesuvius. What had Mr. Nelson said? “The biggest landmark … five miles from here.” A glance at the map revealed the sad truth. I had been traveling in a circle. After driving all day, I was only five miles from the Oakview Motor Lodge. I turned down yet another nameless country road (they didn’t believe in road signs in South Jersey) and tried to decide what to do. The crimson sky had turned a deep plum. The headlights of some cars were already glowing. I was sick of driving. Hungry and thirsty. I was contemplating a juicy hamburger and a frosty Budweiser when a noise in my right ear nearly sent me off my seat. I pulled over and bumped to a halt. A blowout. In the middle of nowhere. Just as it was getting dark. Great. I looked around. Of course I had to pick the most deserted spot I’d been in all day. Not a house or a barn in sight. On one side lay a field of charred cornstalks; on the other, an empty field edged by a dark wood. Wait a minute, there’s someone … oh, shit. Not a helpful farmer. Just another scarecrow.

  At least I didn’t have to worry about car-jackers here. And thank God dad had taught me how to change a tire. He might make fun of the feminist movement, but he didn’t want his daughter caught helpless on the road, either. With a sigh, I opened the trunk, took out the spare (one of those useless doughnuts), and fumbled for the jack.

  I had just gotten the tire raised and was tackling the nuts when I was blinded by headlight beams. A car coming. I was well off the road with my blinkers on, so I wasn’t worried. When the car drew near, it slowed, as if the driver was debating whether to stop and offer help. He sped on. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed temporary plates. Didn’t that crook couple have temporary plates? I
went back to the tire.

  Once the tire was changed, I still had the problem of being lost. I poked along cautiously. I had no faith in those doughnuts. My gas gauge was also making me nervous. I turned into the first driveway I came to. Poor choice. Deeply rutted, it was bad for the baby tire. At the end I could make out a farmhouse. Its bare wood glinted silver in the first rays of a full moon. A big, ugly dog barked ferociously. I didn’t dare get out of the car. I’d handled a couple of rabies cases at Bellevue and I wasn’t about to become one. I sat in the car and waited. After a few minutes the screen door banged open and a man emerged, shouting at the dog. I waited until I was sure he had a good grip on the dog’s collar before I got out of the car.

  He shoved the dog inside the screened porch and came toward me.

  “Could you direct me to the Oakview Motor Lodge?” The words surprised me as soon as they were out of my mouth.

  “Stranger?” He was the first person I’d met who didn’t make stranger sound like skunk cabbage.

  “Yes, but I have a map.” I handed him Mr. Nelson’s map, and in the glow of my headlights he traced my route. Just as I thought, the motel was only a couple of miles away. I’d traveled all day to end up where I started. “Thanks,” I said.

  “My pleasure.”

  I looked at him closely. Having taken him for a farmer, I was surprised by his crisp, cultured voice with a touch of a European accent—not the soft country drawl of the natives around there.

  “Juri!” A guttural voice croaked from the dark recesses of the porch. It was impossible to tell its sex. “Who’s there?”

  “A young woman. She’s lost.”

  “Well, send her away.” A window banged shut.

  “Thanks again,” I said, and smiled my most engaging smile. He didn’t respond. I guess he couldn’t see it in the dark.