June 2009

Initially Thomas had stapled the drawings to the outside of the scarecrow’s clothing — a patchwork of sorts in the medium of paper and ink. When Hunter Bowen became aware of what his son had been doing, it all stopped; the drawings were snatched off and ripped to shreds. So now Thomas stuffed the drawings inside his friend — their clever secret.

The crows never flinched when Thomas jostled the straw man. Never flinched when he would hug him tight, or break out in laughter from a joke they shared. The birds simply looked down from the wide straw shoulders, black eyes blinking, observing, monitoring, approving — teachers watching kids play at recess.

And so today, after his drawing had been stuffed deep inside the straw man’s shirt, the crows sitting regally on their perch, belly’s full from bread — their calls light and content — Thomas Bowen sat near the foot of the pole and looked up at his friend to begin their chat.

Except today he wouldn’t have the chance to say anything; the crows had interrupted him. They screeched angrily, flapping off the scarecrows’ shoulders in a feathery black gust. Thomas Bowen needn’t turn around to see why the birds had fled. He knew — and he felt it before he saw it.

Hunter Bowen slapped the side of his son’s head hard enough to rock him on his side. The boy put up no fight; he just lay there, hoping his submissive posture would signal acquiescence. It did not. Hunter reached down and grabbed hold of his son’s hair, ripping him to his feet. Thomas stifled a cry of pain.

“Goddammit, boy! What good is a damn scarecrow if it don’t scare crows?!” He tightened his grip on Thomas’s scalp, leaned in, and jammed the boy’s face into his own, their eyes all but touching — the boy’s blue, wide, and scared; the man’s black, narrow, and blazing. “Those filthy bastards are hell on my crops, and you’re out here feeding the sons of bitches with food off my table!” He pulled the boy’s face away from his and slapped him. “Ungrateful little pissant…maybe a night with no supper will teach you to respect the food I put in your stomach.”

Hunter Bowen, still gripping his son’s hair, dragged him backwards through the rows of corn towards their home. Eyes blurred with pain, Thomas watched the straw man grow smaller and smaller as the heels of his shoes scuffed the earth and his scalp ached like a hat of tacks. Still, despite this pain he managed a weak wave goodbye to his friend. The crows were gone.

~*~

Thomas sat at the kitchen table, his arms folded on top of one another, his head down. The boy’s father loomed over him.

“I don’t see why you can’t be no normal boy — spendin’ all that worthless time talking to a stupid scarecrow; drawing all those sissy little pictures. Can’t be a normal boy and play some football or baseball, can you?”

Thomas spoke without lifting his head. “Momma liked my drawings.”

Hunter Bowen latched onto the boy’s scalp and jerked his head backward. Thomas gasped from the breath that was squeezed from his throat.

“What did you say, boy?”

Thomas said nothing; he couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“Come on, boy; say what you just said about your momma.”

Hunter let go of his grip and Thomas’s head sprung forward. The boy took several breaths, then for some reason even he himself didn’t understand, he repeated his previous statement.

“Momma liked my drawings.”

Hunter’s eyes crackled; his mouth fell open. The boy’s defiance had apparently rattled him, and violence was his only means to debate an insolence he couldn’t comprehend. He hoisted the boy out of his chair, and threw him into the corner of the kitchen. Thomas landed hard on the dirty linoleum floor. His long blonde hair fell into his eyes, but his mouth was a straight line; he wouldn’t cry.

Hunter removed his filthy cap, wiped his balding head with the forearm of his sleeve, put the cap back on. “Your whore of a momma gets no mention in this house, you hear me?” Hunter turned to leave the kitchen, stopped, then returned to his son. He was grinning. “You know what a whore is, boy?”

Thomas didn’t reply, but it hardly mattered, his father’s question was now rhetoric.

“A whore is a woman that screws men for money. Did ya know that, son? Did ya? But here’s the thing…” He snorted, phlegm bubbling in his throat. “…your momma was worse than a whore. You know why? Because she didn’t take no money — she screwed everyone for free.” He kicked Thomas lightly with his boot until the boy looked up at him. “You hearing me, boy? You hearing what I’m saying?” Hunter looked hard at his son; a sneer curled up on his lip; the disgust in his eyes hinted he may spit bile instead of the phlegm that gargled in his voice. “You look like her, boy. All that ridiculous blonde hair of yours. Those girly blue eyes…” He bent over and gripped the boy’s arm, his thumb and index finger touching. “…weak, spaghetti arms; skin as soft and as white as a baby’s. God Almighty you actually look like her.”

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