Scarecrow

by Robin Hathaway

  “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 rednecks. 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 sal
ad 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.

  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.

  CHAPTER 17

  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 qu
ietly.

  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.”