Free Scarecrow by Robin Hathaway Page A

bucks.”
    â€œThat’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?
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    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œMake one?”
    â€œSure. Nothing to it. All you need are some strong poles, some old clothes, plenty of straw and twine.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œHow about Sunday morning—around church time?”
    Maggie frowned and left abruptly. (I wouldn’t find out why until much later.)

    â€œIt’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.
    â€œPaul.”
    He looked up from his crossword puzzle.
    â€œHow much for that bike outside?”

    â€œBike?”
    â€œMotorcycle. The one for sale.”
    He shook his head. “Not for sale.” And went back to his puzzle.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œDoes 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.
    â€œI 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