Blood on the Scarecrow
by Andrew J. Stone
Hell, I don’t know if anyone gives a damn, but on Wednesday morning, July 27, 2005, I cried.
At 11:00 AM my parents and I walked to a park in Holly Glen. We had Subway (eat fresh) on a cement park bench down the street from Opa and Oma’s place. Halfway through our lunch, my parents received a phone call from my uncle. The voice on the other end of the phone told them that cousin Jordan got hit by a car, his right leg shattered, nothing but muscle, flesh, and bone fragments remained. He fractured his skull. His brain was swollen. He was rushed to ICU. I didn’t cry.
After our sandwiches, my parents figured that they couldn’t put it off any longer. They told me why we were having lunch. They didn’t hesitate. “Jared’s dead.”
My face was blank. My eyes were open. My insides were slowly disintegrating. I cried. My parents held their twelve-year-old son tight. They never said everything will get better soon.
Jared Daniel Wilson woke up early Wednesday morning, died before 7:00 AM. His death was quick, painless they say. His grandpa saw it all while I was sleeping.
Jared was turning thirteen that summer. All the Wilson boys before him celebrated their thirteenth on their grandparent’s ranch in Texas, a coming of age ritual. The first two men came home nice and clean. Real American boys.
Jared woke up around 6:00 AM, two days before he was scheduled to fly home. He sat on the back of a tractor built for one, while his grandpa mowed the field. Jared sat on the butt, wrapped his arms tightly around his grandfather. The tractor didn’t run into any potholes or divots and the field’s surface was flatter than a ping-pong table. Only the scarecrow knows why the boy fell, why he never fell before.
It was 6:00 AM. The boy must have been exhausted. How tired do you have to be to die?
His grandfather felt the boy’s hands slip, cut the engine, threw his arm behind him, but the old man wasn’t fast enough. The boy fell on his head. The tractor and its giant blade trailing slowly, rolled to a halt. I wish I could say that the tractor stopped inches before reaching the boy, but this isn’t a fairytale. The elephant-sized blade stopped too late.
He didn’t have an open casket funeral. Jared’s grieving father told me that he lost his feet and half his head, that the blade splattered his brain and feet all over the field.
Two men died that day, many maimed. Blood on the scarecrow, blood on the plow.
My walk home was more crooked than a drunk driver. Big boys don’t cry? I cried. The sound of the screen door squawking on its hinges, could not compete with the screeching blade.
By the time the blurry clock read 2:13, I couldn’t figure out that eleven to two-thirteen was three hours and thirteen minutes. Three hours and thirteen minutes.
When my cell rings, Kurtis invites me to his house. What the hell, crying is better in company, right? Sure. My parents offered me a ride to his house. I refused.
I remember the doorbell ringing, being led inside, hearing The Phantom of the Operaecho in the background. We enter his room and flop into silence onto his dark blue comforter. Small talk doesn’t aid grief.
Later, when it’s time to break the silence, we joke about how Jared would feel if either of us died. How he wants us to feel about his… we try to convince ourselves he’s still here. Neither of us have ever been good liars. Kurtis and I joke but our laughter is forced. The damn tears blur my vision. Crying with a friend is better than crying alone.
I stay with Kurtis until the sun fades to moon. In the dark I am as silent as the scarecrow beside Jared’s grave. Standing outside of my Opa and Oma’s house, a thought rushes into my head. RUN! Jared’s waiting for you. Meet up with him.
Andrew J. Stone recently graduated from a private Southern California high school, and his poetry has been recognized nationally by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards as well by Phantom Kangaroo. “Blood on the Scarecrow” was written in honor of a joyful boy and a great friend, Jared Daniel Wilson. Contact Andrew.
