Scarecrow

Chapter 3

Donnelly is only just entering his property when a huge black crow lands on the hood of his truck. The bird startles him so much that he almost steers off the road, and regains enough control of the truck to keep it on the gravely shoulder. Then he sits in silence, hands white as bone on the wheel, his breath coming out in short, ragged bursts. Never, in all his years of farming, has a bird been so openly aggressive. Sure, they steal the occasional ear of corn and take fat white craps on the weathervane, but these are inconveniences he can live with. But a crow dive-bombing his car brings back horrid visions of that old Hitchcock film, The Birds, where all of avian kind rebels against humanity in a bloody show of violence that both fascinated and terrified his ten-year-old-brain. The movie had almost acted as a life lesson, in a way, for as his father flicked off the black-and-white screen as the credits began to role, he said, 'And that, Jimmy, is why Mr. Straw has lived in our fields since your great-grandpa bought this land. He keeps the birds away from our crops so we don't have to.'

Mr. Straw, of course, is the Donnelly family's old scarecrow.

The creation had stood in the very center of the cornfield as long as his father tilled the land, and it was only when Jim took over the farm did it leave its place. As a child, the scarecrow had scared him as tales of the boogeyman might frighten other children. The Donnelly's scarecrow was not at all like the mindless but loveable adaption from L. Frank Baum's classic novel, looking more to Donnelly like a skeleton with burlap skin than anything else. He can still remember the day his father outfitted Mr. Straw with a pair of his own blue suspenders. Donnelly had begged his dad not to do it, had even wept as James Donnelly, Sr. fastened the second strap. His father, a bit confused at his son's tears, joked that no scarecrow of his would be walking around without any clothes on.

The funny thing was, Donnelly's father never once used the scarecrow as a fear tactic. Really, it seemed he used any other scary story but that to keep Jim in bed long after lights out. Perhaps a part of his father felt his son's fear, but just couldn't understand it.
The answer to the source of his son's fear, in fact, was simple. From that day forward, Donnelly would look out at the cornfields and see not only the scarecrow, but also his own, loving father, twisted and warped into something that did not breath, could not see, and yet was watching him every second of the day. Even after growing up and running the farm himself, Donnelly seemed unable to shake the psychological impact the straw man had left on him. It was why he could not bring himself to go to his own father's funeral 10 years back, why instead he took down Mr. Straw and, with tears stinging his eyes, crammed it into the far reccesses of the unlit storage barn. Donnelly had been afraid that when he saw his father, diagnosed a few months prior to his death with crippling liver cancer, the body in the coffin would resemble the scarecrow in every way. That, perhaps, was the most terrifying thought of all.

Nowadays, Donnelly can still come across the hole in the ground where the scarecrow's support stake used to go if he looks hard enough. But nothing– nothing– can bring him to put it back in that place, to look up and see an imitated husk of his father peering down at him with not a scrap of his love and humor left in the folds of emotionless burlap. Pulling back onto the road and out of the cloud of dark reminiscence he momentarily delved into, Donnelly decides that he would rather beat off every single damn bird in the fields by hand rather than have Mr. Straw, and his father's ghost, back on his land.
In truth, the renegade crow is probably Penny and Eddie's one saving grace. Donnelly phones ahead to his wife to tell her about the incident as he drives, giving them the time they need to dress and eliminate any signs of suspicious activity. Penny straightens the pillows and sheets while Eddie lugs his bags up to the attic, nursing a nasty case of blue-balls all the way. When Donnelly is pulling up to the farmhouse, Penny is struggling with strapping on her bra fast enough. When he hops down from the driver's seat and unloads the truck bed, Eddie is quietly closing the back screen door and sprinting towards the cow barn. And when he pushes open the front door...

"Hi, honey. How was the market?"

Donnelly smiles and sets the remaining crops and Rexall bag on the ground, then joins his wife at the kitchen table. "Good. Didn't sell too much, but I caught up with Walt."

"Well, it's still early enough in the summer harvest. How is he doing?"

"Just swell. We were trying to schedule dinner, though, remember?"

Penny slaps a hand to her forehead, but quickly lowers it as her right bra strap comes undone and hangs under her armpit. "I completely forgot to call them! Was he mad?"

"Not at all. Would Wednesday be enough time to make a good dinner for them?"

She quickly calculates the workload and nods. "Should be."

"I'll let him know." Then, a sly little smile creeps onto Donnelly's face. "Mind if I say hello to the little one?"

It takes Penny a moment to realize who he's talking about; a large part of her mind is still tangled in the bedsheets with Eddie. When she finally does, however, she smiles and lifts up her nightgown to show her protruding belly. Donnelly kneels down and presses his ear against it, hoping for the telltale kick, but nothing comes. Ah, well. It's still early enough in the pregnancy that he shouldn't be worried. He kisses her stomach gently and whispers, "Hey, you. Comfortable?"

Penny laughs despite herself. "Jim, stop it, that tickles!"

He draws back only when his phone buzzes in his pocket, laughing too now. He opens it to Walt's number.

"Yeah? Alright, I'll let her know. No, it's no trouble at all. Thanks, pal. That was Walt," he says, returning back to his wife. "Apparently Lewis is coming over too, after all."

The smile leaves her face as quickly as it appears. "Lewis? His deputy, Lewis? That guy gives me the creeps. I swear, I always get the feeling he's watching me out of the corner of his eye whenever I go into town..."

"I can call him back."

"No, don't bother. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"We could pay Eddie a bit extra as a bodyguard, how about that, eh?" Donnelly treats himself to a laugh, never noticing that Penny does not join in. "Speaking of Eddie, where is the kid?"

"He said he wanted to check up on the animals," she lies, "and said that he'd be back by sundown. His bags are upstairs."

"Sundown! He must've really missed Bess..."

"Yes," Penny looks out the window, where an early autumn leaf is pressed to the glass, silently knocking to be let in. "Bess."

Donnelly finally notices that something is up. "What's got your goat? You're not still hung up about Lewis, are you?"

She catches herself just in time. Guilt and secrets have been eating at Penny Donnelly since the tryst started, and she sometimes finds it difficult to cover them up.

"Just the baby. Little guy makes me feel a bit under the weather sometimes, is all."

"Tell you what." Donnelly reaches over and takes his wife's slim hand in his own rough ones, tanned from years of working the fields. "You go and take a rest, and I'll head out to help Eddie. If you're not feeling better by tomorrow, I will make the Wednesday meal."

Penny pretends to gag, but she is smiling. "I'll await it with anticipation, chef Jimmy."

"Is that a French name?" Donnelly stands, then guides his wife to the couch. Her hand never once leaves her belly.

"It could be. I wouldn't know, I've never been to France."

"We'll go there, one day." Donnelly eases Penny down slowly, careful not to put any pressure on her back and stomach. "I want our child to see the world."

"We could go to Europe..." her voice begins to fade with fatigue the second he lays her down. How sitting around the house could make her tired, he doesn't know. Maybe it really is the baby.

"I love you," he says quietly, as an afterthought, but she has already fallen asleep.