Papa Rich sees me in the doorway of the kitchen and motions me to enter. “I was just telling Scarecrow that we have a houseguest.”
I don’t want to look at Scarecrow, but his heavy breathing and thumping of his crutch against the planked floor forces me to. His agitated state confuses me.
“This isn’t right, Richard, and you damn well know it. She was promised to me,” Scarecrow says.
Papa Rich calmly leans against the wooden counter we prepare all our meals on. It’s scarred with years of neglect and abuse, but clean and built well. The counter will forever hold his weight. “I never made the promise she would marry you.”
“You did!” Scarecrow snaps.
“I said if I could not find a suitable husband for Ember, I would then allow you to marry her. But as I have just informed you, I have found a suitable man who will take her hand in marriage. You won’t be needed to step in.”
My pulse spikes, but at the same time, relief cascades down my spine. I didn’t realize any such deal had been made between them. The thought of marrying Scarecrow makes me ill. He’s greasy, stinky, and meaner than a trapped and provoked hornet.
“Who?” Scarecrow asks as spittle escapes from his chapped and canker sore-riddled lips. “You know that she’s different. We are different. And she should marry me!” He slams his crutch against the floor again, and our teacups and china plates I have stacked on a shelf to the right of the sink rattle.
I worry they will fall to the ground and shatter, and then we will be without. Papa Rich won’t replace the pretty things. I have one chance to keep the pretty close, or the practical will take over. But I won’t approach Scarecrow to save them from falling either. I see he has something crusty and dark on his flannel shirt. I can’t tell if it is dried blood or fecal matter.
The man is contamination in all ways.
“I will help you find a proper wife,” Papa Rich says. “God will speak to the both of us and let us know who that woman will be.”
“Who do you think you are speaking to?” Scarecrow leans forward, and the movement causes loose straw to fall out of his pant hem that is tied with a mud-stained piece of rope. His hay-stuffed leg sways back and forth with the movement. “I am the preacher in these parts. Don’t you start speaking about the Lord to me. Not to me!”
“I understand you’re disappointed.”
“We had an agreement. A handshake.”
Papa Rich nods but still remains calm regardless of the rage before him. “I have not gone against my word. I said from the beginning that if I didn’t find a proper husband who—”
“Who is this man you consider better than me?” Scarecrow bellows. “Show him to me.”
“In due time.”
“Where is he?”
Papa Rich resettles his weight from one foot to the other but never breaks his steady positioning. “When I feel the time is near, I’ll send word to you. I do ask you, my friend, to preside over the wedding. It would mean the world to me to have your pronouncement forever bind them together.”
Scarecrow crosses his arms against his chest and huffs. “You have some nerve.”
Papa Rich chuckles. “Call it what you will, but I want the best for my daughter.”
Scarecrow shoots angry eyes my way for the first time. “Is this what you want, girl?”
I say nothing. Does he expect me to declare I want Scarecrow as my husband instead of Christopher? Those words will never leave my mouth.
Scarecrow redirects his attention back to Papa Rich and points with a dirty, mangled finger missing a nail. “You better make good on your word and find me a bride, Richard. You better make good.”
Banging from downstairs, followed by the shouts for help from Christopher pull all of our attentions to the stairway.
My heart skips, my fingertips flutter against my lips. I worry for the man below. He’s not listening to Papa Rich. He’s not following the rules.
I also worry for me. If Papa Rich gets angry and takes Christopher to the acid pits, then it means I will have to marry Scarecrow instead.
I would rather throw myself in the pits than even touch the vile man before me.
Scarecrow shakes with laughter. “Is this the groom you speak of? The man hollering for help?” He wipes at the spit escaping his mouth. “I think you’ve lost your damned mind, but I’ll be a good friend regardless.” He looks directly at me. “But if you change your mind and want a Godly man who can provide as a husband of yesteryear once did, then I’ll always welcome my home and bed to you. I give my word on that.”
He could have punched me in the gut, and the same effect would occur. I have to actually focus on not doubling over as the air seems to rush out of me.