Scarecrow

It was the kind of day where sadness slid down your shoulder blades; melancholy formed droplets at the top of your brow. Children cried, adults laughed, but the two sounds were indistinguishable.

A scarecrow with a rainbow velour satchel stood at the intersection of Maple and Chestnut; staring first at the row of identical white-trimmed houses, then at the piece of paper in his hand. 17645 Gardenia Lane; Mrs. Evelyn Kistlan. The note was typed on pink paper with a pale rosebud ink; and the scarecrow cursed his secretary before shoving the note back into his bag and walking across the street.

Gardenia Lane was a street where urban folded into rural; where picket fences encased the bristly-headed mignonette from European planes and dolichos from the African jungle; their purple lips slightly parted in a petal sneer. The scarecrow strolled down the sidewalk graffitied with children’s chalk sketches and lined with crabapple.

The house he needed was second to the end; colorful festivities were in full swing. A three-legged picnic table was set in the front yard; bearing the weight of two huge bowls of punch, three pitchers of root beer and four cartons of ice cream. Balloons and candy-bright streamers were strung to almost every stationary object in site. Voices seemed to melt together in midday sun and sluice the whole house with excitement, energy. This August day had all the qualities of being perfect; at least for the residents of this domicile. Happiness seemed almost tangible; quantified in the number of balloons and quality of punch; broken down into an equation of laughs per minute. The wonder of children’s birthdays; a handful of Party City merchandise can turn a miserable summer day into a handful of hours glittering with childhood perfection. This was the kind of day that was remembered, forever.

The scarecrow leapt deftly over a wagon and walked up the steps; left hand buried deep in his satchel. Straw brushed against glass as the scarecrow stroked the the pulsating pieces of mirror like a talisman; the glass that concealed, protected, things manageable and beautiful. The glass that would salvage Mrs. Evelyn Kristlan.

He walked through the door and into the kitchen; where the festivities were in full swing. In the midst of hungry children and burning entrees and worried grandmas, there stood a housewife part disillusioned suburbanite and part Amazon woman. She lifted the tray of brownies out of the oven at just the right moment, handed pink-frosted cookies to the children running by, and offered iced tea to elderly people settling into cushions decorated with pastel paisleys. She wore the polka-dotted party hat on her head as though it were an Egyptian headdress, and the scarecrow, unseen by all, sat down for a moment and took her in.

There was a sadness that clung around her frame like a gossamer veil. He knew that she had been exposed to several other tragedies; this one would not be her last.

Suddenly, everyone was gone. The cake had been lit and carried into the front yard; six striped waxen candles adorned with flickering flame; grandparents flung themselves next to the birthday boy, eagerly snapping pictures. A cloud had covered the sun as a heavy breeze came limping in.

It was just Mrs. Kristlan and her unseen guest.

Evelyn wiped her hands on the towel once, twice. Then unto her apron. Her fingers were clammy. The scarecrow clasped his hands together; waiting.

“What do you want?” even though her voice was a whisper, it resonated like a shriek through the scarecrow’s body.

“Pardon?” The scarecrow was postitive she couldn't see or hear him, but nonetheless the question shocked him into responding.

“Why are you here? Again? On Alex’s birthday?" She scraped her knuckles against the countertop; shivering slightly.

“I- I’m sorry. Have we met?” The scarecrow clung on to the velvet strap on his bag,meeting her eyes evenly and feeling like a teenager caught striding in past curfew.

"Don't apologize, this isn't your fault." The Scarecrow sometimes forgot that his job was to alleviate the pain, not carry it to people.

“Have we met!? Oh, god have we met.” The woman’s eyes circled the room with desperation; she licked her shapely lips. “You were here when my mother died, and the day before New Year’s Eve, when I was nineteen. When I lost my first child, little Jamie." She swallowed before continuing."And a hundred other times…" She closed her eyes and felt her way through the years of torment and misery; remembering the nausea, fear.... and the tinkling of glass shards.

Her eyes suddenly found him, sitting on the loveseat under the open window, gusts of air rattling through him.

“What are you? A demon-herald or a guardian angel?”

The scarecrow sighed. These things happened once in a while; people who lived through so many tragedies, all unfair and untimely, that they were able to perceive his presence; slight tremors in the ground before an earthquake. They had cultivated another sense.

If it were up to him, the sympathetic scarecrow, there would be no bad hands in this game; no individuals who had to take hit after hit after hit and still be on their toes, ready for whatever catastrophe the winds decided to carry in their direction.

But scarecrow wasn’t assigned that job; he had more attractive cousins who got to decide those matters. He was simply the one who made these things a little easier.

“Mrs. Kristlan; in a few minutes a hospital is going to call you from New York. They are going to tell you that they identified your husband’s body as one of the survivors of the plane crash. The plane’s left engine failed as it was descending; not too far from the landing strip but far enough. Your husband is not dead, but Mrs. Kristlan? He’s in a coma. A coma that he will never awaken from.”

Silence. And then, as tears slipped down her face, Evelyn whispered, “Thank you god, oh thank you. Not Alex. Not my baby Alex.” She pulled the party hat off her head and clutched it to her chest.

Scarecrow turned from her tears; unwilling to learn every mother's unspoken prayer: that her husband die, her family move away, her flesh be fillet from her bones before contemplating the death of her child.

The scarecrow pulled the piece of glass out of his bag and flung it into the air. There it expanded, shining a thousand different colors; and stretched until it stood, a glittering wall beating out the rainbow like moth’s wings, between Mrs. Kristlan and the telephone. Evelyn barely noticed it was there; she was whispering words to herself, as if trying to summon the lyrics of the long-forgotten song that belonged to a happier time, when she was complete.

The scarecrow turned to leave; but she stopped him dead with her words.

“Will I ever have to see you again?”

The scarecrow turned, and looked into her watery eyes, saw them dulled with years of pain. He shuffled his feet; cleared his throat, and clawed his way back into the rainbow bag.

“Here.” He held out five pieces of glass in his brittle stick-fingers. When she wouldn’t take them, he set them on the counter in front of her with a mournful tinkle. “I’m sorry. You'll need them.”

“No. No I won't, damn you." Evelyn looked straight into his eyes. "Take them, take them back! You gave it to us, so undo it! Take away this curse!" She picked up the pieces and flung them against the wall, shuddering. But they did not break.

"I wish I could, Mrs. Kristlan. I really do. But I don't decide these matters."

She turned her head away from the pulsating pieces of silver, focused her eyes on the tacky furniture. Tears slid down the sides of her nose; pooled at the bottom of her chin. Her mouth formed one word, barely uttered. "Monster."

But the scarecrow just shook his head. He wanted to look into her eyes and tell her it would be fine; it was worth the struggle, in the end. But he did not speak the language of fate and sorrow and he could not lie.

The phone rang just as the scarecrow walked out the door. He didn’t want to be here for the rest; announcing to the relatives, explaining to Alex why Daddy was not going to walk Alex to the park or read him stories anymore. Besides, he had work to do.

He felt the pieces of glass in his pocket. Glass was so wonderful, so versatile. Put a wall of glass between you and a tiger and suddenly they're beautiful, princely creatures. Put a wall of glass between you and some war footage and its not frightening, not real, just a bunch of Hollywood magic. Put a wall of glass between you and your half-dead husband… not quite the same effect. But it helps soften the blow of the hit; helps compensate for the terrible hand that fate dealt you.

The scarecrow with the rainbow velour bag squinted down at the writing. Butter-yellow ink on pale daffodil paper. 19934 Carrot Drive, West Virginia. Or was it Carrow Drive, 10084, North Carolina? The scarecrow sighed and shoved the note back into his satchel. Another place, another tragedy. Sometimes he felt like he needed a glass wall to protect him from all this misery.