Tucker’s Grove (22 page)

Scarecrow could feel the fundamental oddness of the piece of metal. Was it a freak of nature? Had it been fashioned from a meteorite fallen from the sky? Had it been dipped in human blood? Or forged by
a blacksmith with murderous thoughts in his heart?

“
It
’
s something that doesn
’
t belong here.”
He caressed its edge with an extra-long finger. “
I wonder if the farmer even knew about it.”

Scarecrow held the tine as he stood up, unfolding and straightening
himself, snapping joints into place until he was reasonably sure his body would hold him upright. Scarecrow felt a kind of affinity for the eerie piece of metal. Something that normal people would never understand. A freak of nature drawn to a freak of n
a
ture. “
I think I
’
ll take it with us.”

The Raven looked into the dusk, at the burned-out ruins of the farmhouse, at the distant field where the traveling circus had set up. “
Shouldn
’
t we…
get back?”

But Scarecrow had no interest in returning, not yet. “
No.”
He nodded toward the barn. “
Let
’
s spend the night right here.”

Inside the ruins of the barn, oil-stained rags had been tossed next to rusty coffee cans filled with equally rusty nails. Three empty bottles of Southern Comfort lay label-up in a corner. The
upper loft held old bales of hay, turned gray with age.

The Raven scrambled up to the rafters and tucked himself into a V-brace, brushing fat spiders out of the way and wrapping one stubby arm around the beam. He stuck his distended face into his armpit a
nd fell fast asleep.

Scarecrow lay down on the hard-packed dirt floor. He tossed and turned, finding little comfort, but he was happy nonetheless just to spend a night away from the circus tents, the freaks
’
trai
l
ers, and the curious towners. He c
lasped the prong-shaped piece of odd metal to his chest, as if it were a treasure, rubbing his many-jointed fingers along the slick surface, like Aladdin ru
b
bing his lamp.

Scarecrow couldn
’
t doze off: his mind crackled with images of the small Midwestern t
owns the circus had pulled through on its summer circuit, the homey villages so pleasant and so peac
e
ful, the elm-lined main streets with white Victorian homes, the tire swings in the front yards, the town square with the hardware store and the drugstore a
nd the independent grocer.

And the churches, from the high-steepled Presbyterian or L
u
theran buildings to the Catholic churches with long purple-prosy names. In Tucker
’
s Grove, as the circus trucks and wagons passed down Main Street, the signboard in front
of the Methodist church had caught Scarecrow
’
s eye. “
Sunday Service
—
All we
l
come,”
advertising the title of that week
’
s sermon as, “
We are all God
’
s children!”

All welcome.
Scarecrow wondered if he could believe it.
We are all God
’
s children!

He knew abou
t the towners who came to gawk at the sid
e
shows, laughing and pointing their fingers, saying the same crude comments. He and the Raven had to look freakish because that was what the towners paid to see. But after diverting themselves with the circus, the n
ormal people could go to their normal homes, play their normal card games, listen to their normal radio programs, go to their normal churches.

He drifted on the surface of sleep, and a bumper crop of vivid images sprouted in his mind, and he saw himself
wi
thout his freakish exterior, clothed instead in a normal body. He could have been a steadfast farmer, tall and blond like many of the Nordic settlers of the area. He would have suntanned skin, dirt under his fingernails, and a huge appetite for a home-coo
k
ed meal after a day
’
s toil out in the fields. He could have been a wholesome, honest worker like these other good folk.

The Raven came into his dreams, too, but without the defe
c
tive body-costume his genes forced him to wear; Raven might have been an eccen
tric but friendly shopkeeper, maybe running the drugstore, a stout, good-humored man who took in strays, fed birds, let kids build a treehouse in the big oak in his front yard….

As dawn brightened the sky, Scarecrow
’
s heart was ready to burst with genuine
longing and envy. He knew that his strange dream had shown him what he and the Raven were
really
like inside, their true worth
—
and he was certain the townspeople would see it, too.

Excited, Scarecrow picked up a rock and hurled it toward the barn
’
s rafters
. It clattered and bounced around the thick beams, and the Raven awoke with a squawk and fell to the ground. Some instinct made him flap his stubby arms, as if he had forgotten that he couldn
’
t fly. He landed with a thud, opening and closing his mouth in
s
ilent gapes like a blind chick. “
Whaaaaat?!”

Scarecrow tucked the wondrous metal tine into his patched pocket as if it were some sort of treasure; he was sure its strange power had something to do with his vision, a funhouse mirror that brought reality int
o a clearer focus.

“
Come on,”
he said. “
It
’
s Sunday. We
’
re going to church.”

***

They entered the town amid stares of horror, fear, and amazement
—
but Scarecrow and the Raven were accustomed to stares. They had spent over an hour walking along the country r
oads, shuffling in the dandelion-choked gravel by the shoulder. A pickup truck roared by, and the driver hurled an empty beer can at them, which banged and clattered on the pavement.

Tucker
’
s Grove Welcomes You!
read the sign at the town limits, adorned
wi
th emblems of the various civic clubs, the Lions, the Rotarians, the Optimists.

The two companions passed along streets of quiet houses, then up Main, where the shops were all closed for Sunday mor
n
ing. Above their heads, squirrels chattered in the trees.
The center of town drew Scarecrow like a magnet. The curved metal piece in his pocket pulled him along.

Finally, they stood on the sidewalk of the whitewashed church. Longingly, Scarecrow imagined monthly church get-togethers, families spending a Saturday
afternoon mowing the church lawn, trimming the parsonage bushes. A true sense of community and home, the way he
should
have felt among the other sideshow people at Collier & Black
’
s circus.

For reassurance, he touched the curved tine in his patched pocket.
It felt slippery and cold even through the fabric, but strange, unusual, wonderful…
. Maybe he would offer the artifact as an unexpected gift to the kind pastor, set it in the middle of the offering plate. Scarecrow and the Raven could settle down and bec
o
me part of Tucker
’
s Grove, fit in like real members of the community.

The early service had already begun. The congregation sang an opening hymn in a group voice that blurred the melody and the words. Scarecrow opened the door just as the congregation fell
silent for the opening prayer. Most of the people did not turn around, thinking that perhaps some member had overslept, but children squirmed to look at the freaks, their eyes widening to the size of plates. The rest of the congregation did not notice un
t
il the pastor himself raised his head from the beginnings of a pra
y
er. His jaw dropped and he stopped in the middle of a word.

Scarecrow unfolded his long arm and then unfolded his index finger, indicating the outside. “
All welcome,”
he said. His voice cra
cked.

This startled the pastor, and his expression changed, as if he found himself trapped by his duty. He was a gray-haired man, clean-shaven, with wire-rimmed glasses that looked sharp on his face. Deep lines around his mouth made him appear to be pursin
g his lips like a chimpanzee.

“
Please find a seat,”
one of the ushers whispered. Scarecrow felt no warmth or welcome in the words. Scarecrow and the R
a
ven went to the empty back pew closest to the door. Tentatively, one usher handed Scarecrow a mimeograph
ed bulletin that listed the order of hymns and prayers, a program for the sermon and offertory and benediction.

The pastor raised his hands to the rest of the congregation. “
Shall we continue our prayer?”

The people in the pews mumbled the words of a prepr
inted prayer in their bulletins as Scarecrow and the Raven took their seats. Moments later, the pastor announced the next hymn and called on everyone to stand. Scarecrow sighed and went through the process of unfolding himself again to stand up. His many
j
oints ached after having spent the night on the hard floor of the barn.

Using his long fingers to shuffle through the pages of the hymnal from the pew pocket in front of him, Scarecrow located the proper hymn before the end of the first verse. Beside him,
the Raven jostled and fidgeted, making harsh singing noises without paying much attention to the words.

The congregation members surreptitiously found excuses to turn around and glance at the two. A fat little boy picked his nose and flicked a booger towar
d the Raven, who lunged forward to catch it in his distended mouth. In the pew in front of them, a prim family shuffled toward the aisle, moving one row up and squeezing in with the already crowded people there. The pew ahead of Scarecrow and the Raven st
o
od empty, like a barrier between them and the others.

Scarecrow felt a stab of disappointment. They had both joined the circus because the normal world would not accept them, but the small towns had seemed so different, so welcoming, like a place from a fa
iry tale. An illusion.

The pastor began to read a passage from the Old Testament. It had something to do with demons and the devil walking among men, but Scarecrow found himself staring dreamily at the walls adorned with paper butterflies that had been cut
out and fi
n
ger-painted by Sunday School children. A bright poster said J
E
SUS LOVES ME!

The pastor began his rambling sermon, but Scarecrow couldn
’
t follow his point. He stuttered and lost his place several times, frequently glancing toward the two newcome
rs in the back. A sheen of sweat stood out on the man
’
s forehead. Scar
e
crow felt a heavy ache in his stomach. No matter what the sign said, apparently not everyone was welcome after all.

Raven fidgeted against the hard wooden pew that was not conformed to
his lumpy back. As he squirmed, he made cheeping noises that sounded too loud in the sanctuary.

The sermon ended, and the ushers marched up the aisles to take two offering plates from the pastor
’
s extended hands.

Scarecrow fidgeted, realizing that neither
of them had any money
—
but he took out the wondrous, otherworldly tine from his pocket. It would be a strange offering, but it would be mag
i
cal. Something these people had never seen before. Maybe that would make everything better.

As soon as the Raven real
ized what the offering plates were for, he hopped to his feet, jerking his elbows up in the air. “
Whaaat? They want us to pay?”
He looked down at Scarecrow with his black-lacquer eyes. “
It ain
’
t even much of a show!”
His voice was raucous and loud enough
f
or everyone to hear. “
Cheat! Cheat!”

A man stood up three rows in front of them. His suit had gone out of style a decade before, and his face was livid below his greased hair. “
I
’
ve had just about enough of this…
this sacrilege!”
He seemed pleased to have a
n opportunity to use the portentous word. Several others muttered in agreement.