Scarecrow Gods Read Free Page A

he’d missed a spot before school.
    Danny closed the door carefully and entered his own room where he flopped onto his twin bed. Bouncing twice on the blue and black plaid spread, he reached over and grabbed a book from a stack on the night table. He opened it to the middle and began to read, his eyes moist and sparkling.
    * * *
    Ooltewah, Tennessee
    Night had fallen. The time had come for Maxom to make his thrice-weekly trek to work. Before he left, however, he had his special therapy to perform. Something he spent his entire day dreading. Something he could do without.
    His kitchen was sparse. A few open shelves were bolted to one wall holding cans of green beans, black-eyed peas, BBQ’d beans, peaches, etc. A wicker basket sat filled with potatoes. Ball jars containing pickled amberjack, okra, corn, stewed tomatoes and assorted relishes took up an entire shelf. An old refrigerator, an older stove and a large stainless steel sink sat against the grimy walls. Other than the archway, two doors exited the room. One led to the backyard and hadn’t been opened in years. The other led to a large walk-in pantry that now held the most terrifying thing in his life.
    With the steel hook of his left arm, Maxom grasped the metal back of a kitchen chair and pulled it toward him, the sound of the legs grating against the floor ominous. He sat heavily facing the closed door. Closing his eyes, he steeled himself for the moment. As the old Mung had taught him, Maxom worked on his breathing, slowing it, concentrating on his heart and the pumping of the blood through his veins. Once it reached forty beats per minute, he opened his eyes and licked his lips.
    With a slightly trembling hand, Maxom reached out and grasped the doorknob. He counted to three and jerked it open. He knew this was something that had to be done. Something that, if left undone, would eventually undo him. Maxom stared pointedly at the floor, feeling his chest tighten and his heart rate increase. Slowly, using all his will, he lifted his eyes and beheld the shadowy outlines of the crucifix hung high upon the back wall. He could make out the arms and legs of a black plastic Jesus tacked to the cross and he remembered.
    The shivers began in his legs, mingling with the acidic fear now boiling within his stomach. Memories flooded him, threatening to overwhelm, bringing back all the pain and evil he’d endured. He wanted to flee. He wanted to run away on his manufactured limbs. He wanted to scream. His hand began to shake violently and it took effort to control it enough to slam the door shut.
    His glance at the crucifix had only lasted five seconds, but it was five more than he’d made before he started the therapy. Still trembling, he stood and headed for the door. Maybe his therapist was right. Maybe it was helping. At this rate, he calculated, he could stare at one of the damned things for an hour if he did this every day for another twenty years. For the thousandth time Maxom wondered what the purpose was in even trying.
    Like the Carol King music, however, it was his therapist’s idea. Face your fears , she’d said. Maxom grinned wryly. The woman really had no idea. She’d never been forced to watch a friend die nailed to a cross. She’d never been nailed to one herself.
    Maxom stared at the puckered, star-shaped scar tissue on his one remaining hand. The pain never really went away. Day after day after day in that hellhole of Vietnam, whenever he’d shifted or the soldiers had rattled his cross, the pain arched anew. Sometimes, like the itching of his phantom legs and arm, he’d wake in the middle of the day, his hand aching as if it had a memory of its own.
    Maxom dropped his hand in disgust. Like everything else on his body, it was just another scar. Just another bad memory.
    * * *
    Coronado Canyon, Southern Arizona
    Brother Dominic squatted on the gray stone, enthralled by the brilliance of the Sonoran Desert sunset. He wasn’t sure if it was the tremendous