Free Scarecrow by Robin Hathaway Page B

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.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œFinal 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.
    â€œWhy don’t you try it out?” She drew a key from the desk drawer.
    â€œThanks.” I reached for it.
    â€œYou have ridden before?” She held on to the key.
    â€œOh, sure. My dad had one when I was growing up. I’ve been riding since I was four.”
    Her eyebrows shot up.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWait!” 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.
    â€œDon’t ever ride without it!” She was back in Mary Poppins mode.
    â€œNo, ma’am!”

CHAPTER 18
    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