Fallen leaves and blades of wet grass clung to Harley’s boots as she trekked across the barnyard, passing Uncle Tater’s two-story white farmhouse, a house that had sheltered their family since their arrival in Notchey Creek a hundred years prior. The creek babbled beside her, but she could not see it for the veil of mist blanketing the water and most of its bank. Finding her trusted seat, she sat down, flinching as her back rested against slats of cold wrought iron.
Cradling the coffee mug in both hands, she blew on the surface, her breaths indecipherable from the rising steam. As she took small sips, she enjoyed the nature around her, the twittering of birds, the scampering of squirrels. The undisturbed forest behind Uncle Tater’s house was an ideal habitat for God’s creatures, the quiet only scattered by the occasional passing of a car.
She drew her gaze up the trunk of a neighboring tree. Shrouded in morning dew, the intricate handiwork of the orb weaver was revealed, the craftsman long awake and at work, having consumed yesterday’s web and started anew. Harley studied the spider, amazed its black and yellow body contained six different kinds of precious silk, used to craft some of nature’s most amazing artwork. Though often associated with ugliness and fear, few other creatures did greater for humankind than the spider.
Not everything has to be beautiful for us, she thought, not if we can appreciate the function it provides to the world, not if we can appreciate beauty of a different quality. And in a season associated with death and decay, the orb weaver seemed to teem with life.
Harley’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket, and she drew it to her ear. “Morning, Tina. Everything okay?”
As usual, it wasn’t, and Tina began their conversation as she often did, frantic and breathless. “Oh, my gosh, Harley, you won’t believe it.”
She probably wouldn’t. Nonetheless, she said, “Okay, slow down. Now, tell me what’s happened.”
“I was drivin’ into work this morning ’n at.”
Tina, a native of Pittsburgh, had moved with her family to Notchey Creek in the fifth grade after her father had taken a job with the Tennessee Valley Authority. Despite spending the last sixteen years in East Tennessee, Tina had retained her Pittsburgh accent, which became more pronounced when she was stressed.
“And I decided to take a shortcut, you know, drivin’ up past Briarwood Park ’n at. And that’s when I seen him.”
“Saw who?”
Tina groaned in duress. “Oh, I knew I shoulda went a different way.”
“Saw who?”
“Steven Tyler. He was sittin’ up in bed there lookin’ at me.”
“Who?”
“You know, from Aerosmith.”
When the name didn’t register with Harley, Tina said, “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Will you please get cable? Read an entertainment magazine every once in a while? Aerosmith is a legendary rock band. Their lead singer is Steven Tyler.”
“And you’re saying he was sitting in a bed on the side of the road in Notchey Creek looking at you?”
“No, silly, of course it wasn’t him. It was one of those stupid scarecrows. But I’ll tell you, Harley, they really did dress it up like him. Big black wavy wig, leopard print pajamas, pink feather boa.”
Each year as part of the fall celebrations, the Notchey Creek Chamber of Commerce invited the local businesses to stage scarecrows in front of their respective properties. The rules, lax at best, carried only one stipulation, that said scarecrows had to represent the business in some way. Given Tina’s description of the pajamas and the bed, Harley wagered a strong guess.
“Beds-to-Go?”
“Yeah, Beds-to-Go. Oh, gosh, I hate that place. Anyhow, that’s not why I’m callin’ you. You see when I saw Steven Tyler … I mean the scarecrow, it freaked me out so bad, I crashed my van in the creek.” A groan oozed down the line. “I think the radiator’s busted, and there’s steam comin’ from her hood. And I don’t know what I’m gonna do ’cause—”
“I’ll come by there now, and we can call a tow truck. We can use my truck for your deliveries.”
Another groan, this time of relief. “Oh, thank goodness … but that’s only part of the reason I’m calling. You see, the other reason is that there’s a man here … in the ditch.”
Harley sat forward in her seat. “What?”
“Yeah, and I think—well, I think he might be dead.”