When Zachary Beaver Came to Town Read online

  “Paulie will be back. He always comes back.”

  “How do you know?” the sheriff asks.

  “I’m his bread and butter.”

  Sheriff Levi looks at Zachary with pity, and I wonder if he’s thinking about taking him home like one of his adopted dogs. “How is your food supply?”

  “Fine. As you can see, I’m not starving.”

  Sheriff Levi turns to leave. “Well, you fellas stay and get acquainted. Maybe you could invite Zachary to pal around with you.” I try to picture Zachary riding a bike or climbing on top of the Bowl-a-Rama, but the bike tires flatten and the ladder steps to the roof break.

  The sheriff’s hand rests on the doorknob. “Mr. Beaver, you enjoy your stay in Antler. But I hope your friend returns by the end of next week. I truly hope he does. And one more thing, you can expect a visit from the doctor about that foot.”

  The sheriff leaves, and Zachary smirks at the closed door. “Oooh, he’s got me shaking in my boots.”

  I want to tell him how lucky he is that the sheriff hasn’t hauled his butt off to New York City. Instead I hold out the sack of bell peppers and green onions to Zachary. “I brought you some vegetables. They’re from my dad’s garden.”

  “The refrigerator is behind you,” Zachary says. In Antler it’s considered rude to order people around and not even say thank you for a gift, but I remember his parents are dead. If I were an orphan, I probably wouldn’t have any manners.

  I expect an empty refrigerator, but it’s stocked with food. Among the eggs, cheese, and milk is a Bowl-a-Rama barbecue plate and a Chicken Delight casserole covered in plastic wrapping. Ferris must have already visited Zachary, and there is only one person in Antler who makes Chicken Delight casserole—Miss Myrtie Mae Pruitt. Just when I think there isn’t anything I don’t know about boring Antler, something happens and takes me by surprise.

  Zachary sneezes so loud, it sounds like the roof could cave in. “It sure gets dusty here quick,” he says.

  “It’s the wind,” I explain. “It blows all the time.”

  Zachary points to the light fixture. “Could you dust that? I hurt my back picking up the glass.”

  “No sweat,” Cal says since he’s the only one who can reach it. A second later Zachary has me dusting the end table. He’s bossy and grumpy, and if I didn’t give it any thought earlier, I’ve decided I don’t much like Zachary Beaver. But the dusting is the least I can do, considering I broke the window.

  Cal dusts the lower bookshelf while trying to take a peek at the albums. “I can reach that,” Zachary snaps.

  With a shrug, Cal leaves the cloth on the shelf. “Hey, this is neat.” He grabs a book titled Sideshows.

  “That’s Paulie’s,” Zachary growls. “Put it back.”

  Slowly Cal returns the book to the shelf. “Are you in there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who’s in there?”

  “A bunch of old acts. Most of the people are dead or retired. But one day I’ll be in a book.”

  “How’s that?” I ask, thinking about what Cal and I discovered at the library.

  “One day Paulie and I will both be in a book because we’re going to have the biggest sideshow business ever.”

  I force a laugh. “You mean the smallest. You’re only one act.”

  “Not for long,” Zachary says. Maybe Paulie Rankin is really out drumming up more business. Maybe he’s looking for a two-headed person or a turtle man.

  “Who usually does the cleaning for you?” I ask.

  “Paulie. What do you cowboys do around here for fun?”

  “We’re not cowboys,” I snap, wondering why I’m helping this guy who thinks he’s such a big shot.

  “Isn’t this Texas, where the buffalos roam and the deer and the antelope play?”

  I throw down the dust rag. “Not everybody in Texas has a ranch.”

  “What do your parents do, then?”

  Cal flops on the floor. “My dad grows cotton. Toby’s dad is the postmaster, but he also raises worms.”

  My ears burn.

  Zachary laughs. “Worms?”

  “Yeah, worms,” I say. “It’s not like he travels around in a trailer and charges people to look at him or anything.”

  I expect him to snap back, but he rubs his chin. “And what do people do with worms?”

  My mouth opens, and I repeat all the things Dad has ever bored me with about worms. “Worms are being used in Florida to help break down landfills, and their soil makes some of the richest fertilizer on the earth. Cal’s mom uses it on her roses, and she grows some of the best in Antl—in Texas. And—”

  “Mostly people use them for fishing,” says Cal. I want to bust his lip. I know I’m trying to make my dad sound as important as the United States president.

  “Some French people eat worms,” Zachary says.

  “I know that,” I say, but really I’ve never heard of anything more ridiculous.

  “You like to shoot cans?” Cal asks.

  “Shoot cans? Is that what you do around here for fun?”

  “Well, what do you do for fun, besides watching TV and reading?” I ask him.

  Zachary smirks. “Nothing around here. But I’ve done plenty.”

  “Like what?” I ask, and the way he meets my gaze, he knows I’m challenging him.

  “Like ride the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower and cross the London Bridge and look out from the top of Seattle’s Space Needle.”

  When we leave, Zachary adds, “Oh, don’t forget your bikes. You left them by the Bowl-a-Rama yesterday.”

  Outside the trailer, I ask Cal why Zachary didn’t squeal on us.

  “Maybe he has a few secrets of his own.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, for one thing—Paulie Rankin. I think Zachary knows where he’s at. And we already know he’s probably not the fattest boy in the world. And then there’s that Bible. He said his mom gave it to him when he was baptized.”

  “So?”

  “Iola Beaver, I guess that’s his mom, gave him the Bible. Her name is in there, but the baptism information is blank. If you’re given a Bible when you’re baptized, wouldn’t that be the first blank you filled in? It doesn’t make sense.”

  And for once, Cal does.

  Chapter Eight

  “She didn’t win.” Dad says the words at dinner like he’s asking me to pass the salt.

  Although I feel a twinge of disappointment for Mom because I know how much she wanted to win, I’m relieved. “Then she’ll be coming home tomorrow?”

  Dad stirs his peas into the mashed potatoes on his plate. He’s getting pretty good at cooking vegetables, but his mashed potatoes are lumpy. And of course, there’s no gravy.

  “She’ll be staying on awhile.”

  “What do you mean? If she lost, why is she staying?”

  “She got runner-up, and apparently some hotshot manager in the audience thinks he can get her a record deal.”

  Suddenly nothing on my plate looks good. “How long will that take?”

  Dad finally looks at me. “Those kind of things can take a long time, Toby.”

  “How long?”

  He looks me square in the eyes. “Sometimes they never happen.”

  “Well, Mom wouldn’t stay forever. How long will she stay?” I’m almost yelling.

  “Toby, I’m not the person to answer that question. I’ll give you her phone number and you can ask her yourself.”

  “Yeah. Give me the number. I’ll call her.”

  Dad shakes his head, gets up, and goes into the kitchen. The way he walks with his jaw set and shoulders stiff reminds me of something I had forgotten or blocked out. The fight. Their last fight. It was in this room. At this table. Dad got up and stomped away, angry, while Mom continued to yell at the wall. Shutting my eyes tight, I try to erase that memory, but it plays over and over in my mind. And the strangest thing is I don’t even remember what the argument was about.

  Da
d stands in front of me, a piece of paper in his hand.

  I take it, push my chair away from the table, and run up the stairs. I grab the hall phone with the long extension, take it into my room, and stretch out on my bed. I start to dial the number, then stop. I don’t need to talk to Mom. She won’t stay away long. She wouldn’t. After all, she didn’t take her old guitar and pearl necklace. She would have taken them for sure if she wasn’t coming back.

  And if Mom does get a record deal, she’ll send for me in a heartbeat. We’ll travel around the country in her big bus that says Opalina Wilson and the Delta Boys or whatever her backup group is. I’ll count her money for her. I’ll be her manager. I’ll be the youngest manager in the history of country music. Probably in the history of any kind of music. The Delta Boys will call me Tex. I close my eyes and watch the tail end of that big bus ride down Interstate 40 to towns where people crowd into concert arenas to hear Mom. My breaths even out with each billboard we pass.

  When I wake up, the clock on my nightstand reads ten minutes past ten, and for a minute I don’t know if it’s the same night or the next day. Outside my window, stars twinkle in a dark sky. I’ve been asleep for three hours. The pants I wore yesterday are slung across my chair, and Cal’s letter from Wayne is poking out of the back pocket. I forgot to return it to Cal today, but he never mentioned losing it. Goofy Cal probably doesn’t even know he dropped it yet.

  I get up, pull out the letter, and read it again and again. Then I tear a piece of paper from last year’s math notebook and write a letter to Wayne. I tell him all the things Cal and I are doing. I tell him about Kate getting her driver’s license, his mom’s roses, and Zachary Beaver coming to town. I tell him that the ladybugs haven’t arrived yet and that we ate Bahama Mama snow cones at Wylie Womack’s stand and thought of him. I tell him all these things and more. And then I sign—Sincerely, your brother, Cal.

  A few minutes pass, and I hear Dad snoring down the hall. Holding my shoes, I walk down the stairs and try to keep the steps from creaking. Outside, I get on my bike and ride to the mailbox in front of the post office before heading to the lake. It’s cool, and the breeze feels good against my face. I open my mouth, wishing I could swallow enough air to lift me like a hot-air balloon and carry me away from this stinking town.

  At the lake I jump off my bike, run up to the water, and lie sprawled flat on the grass, looking up at the millions of stars and the full moon. The moon reminds me of times when I was five or six and couldn’t fall asleep. Mom would slip into my bed next to me and shine the flashlight on the dark ceiling.

  “See the moon,” she’d say, pointing to the perfect round light. “Let’s make it dance.” She’d move the flashlight, causing our moon to trot or waltz back and forth across the ceiling. We’d laugh, and she’d make that moon dance until my eyes got so drowsy, I fell asleep. Of course, that was kid stuff. These days I lull myself to sleep thinking of Scarlett swinging back and forth on her porch swing.

  Music softly plays, and I figure it’s from some house far away, but the sound gets closer. James Taylor is singing “You’ve Got a Friend.”

  “Are you okay?” Scarlett stands above me, holding a transistor radio. I look at her red toenails and wonder if she puts cotton balls between each one before painting them.

  Most guys would jump up, but I lie there like a dork and squeak, “Yeah, I’m fine.” I don’t know what it is about this girl that makes my voice go up two octaves.

  “Are you sure?” From the ground, I have an incredible view of her long legs wearing a pair of short white cutoffs. Now is a good time to get up, but I stay there, stretched out on the ground like some corpse. “Yeah, kind of tired. Rough day at the office.” My ears are on fire. All the words in Webster’s dictionary and I choose those.

  Finally I sit up. “Do you come here often?” I ask. Each second I approach dork eternity. But she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Not that often. Only when I break up with a guy.”

  “You broke up with Juan?” I try not to sound too excited, but my words come out squeaky. If I stay calm, I’ll have this voice thing under control. Though it’s hard to stay calm.

  “Yeah, looks that way.” Her voice quivers, and she chews on a long strand of hair. She’s just inches from me. I want to reach for her, pull her toward me, and tell her it will be all right. I want to smooth her hair, massage her neck, kiss her toes. Instead I wrap my arms around my knees.

  “Why’d you break up?”

  “He stood me up. He said he’d go with me to my great-grandfather’s birthday in Amarillo. We gave him a big fancy party for turning eighty.”

  “Man, that’s old.”

  Scarlett sits next to me. A shiver runs through my body. “For two months Juan kept saying he was going. Then at the last minute, he backed out. He didn’t even give me a good reason.”

  “What a jerk,” I say in a deep voice.

  “Do you have a cold?” she asks.

  I skip a rock across the water, thankful that it’s dark because my face feels red.

  I’m feeling guilty for all the things I’m thinking about, but I know I would be in heaven just holding Scarlett Stalling’s hand.

  We sit there together in silence, listening to the music from her transistor radio.

  “I love this song,” she says, turning up the volume. “Close to You” by the Carpenters plays, and I bob my head to the music, wishing I had enough nerve to ask her to dance. If I only knew how to dance, I probably would.

  “Would you dance with me?” she asks.

  “Sure.” I stand, feet planted firmly on the ground, arms glued to my sides.

  She giggles. “It would help if you put your arms around me.”

  A huge lump slides down my throat. I circle her shoulders, wishing I had taken a Fred Astaire class or something. Wherever people learn to dance. Once Mom tried to teach me the two-step in the kitchen, but I was a complete klutz.

  Scarlett pushes my arms lower until they surround her waist. Her hands lock together behind my neck, and she starts to move slowly in a circle. I follow her lead.

  Even standing in bare feet, she’s a few inches taller than me. My forehead tingles from barely touching her chin. Her skin is smooth as powder. I try to breathe in her scent, but I suddenly become aware of my sweat. If I knew I would have ever had a chance at dancing with Scarlett Stalling at Gossimer Lake tonight, I would have worn deodorant. I would have rolled a whole bottle over my entire body. Because just the sight of Scarlett Stalling makes me sweat. And now being this close to her, I’m sweating buckets.

  “This is nice,” she says. The way she says that in her sweet voice makes me remember to breathe. And in this moment I actually enjoy dancing with her to that song. Heck, we are that song. Why do stars fall down from the sky every time you walk by? Just like me, they long to be close to you.

  “Ouch!” She releases me and jumps back.

  “Did I step on your toes?”

  “No.” She slaps her arm. “Mosquitoes! When are they ever going to spray around Antler?”

  Suddenly I feel them biting my ears, my cheeks, every inch of my exposed skin.

  “I better go,” she says. “Thanks for the dance, Toby. You’re great!” She leans over, kisses me on the cheek, picks up her radio, and dashes off.

  I’m great. Me, Toby Wilson. Great. She said it. She even sealed it with a kiss. Or did she say it’s late? No, she said great. I ride back home with Scarlett Stalling’s kiss on my cheek, thinking how Wayne is right. Antler is the best place on the face of the earth.

  Chapter Nine

  I decide to mow the Pruitts’ yard early because these days the temperature hits ninety degrees by noon. And I plan to spend the afternoon claiming the left side of Scarlett’s swing.

  The smell of fresh coffee drifts up to my bedroom. When I make my way downstairs, I’m surprised to see Dad at the kitchen table in his T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. Usually he’s dressed for work by now. His hair sticks up and out li
ke a mad scientist, and dark half-moons lurk below his eyes like he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

  “Morning,” he says, rolling the rubber band off the newspaper.

  “Morning,” I say, shuffling into the kitchen.

  This is my first day at a real job—a job that has nothing to do with worms. I figure that deserves some sort of initiation. I pour coffee in Mom’s Grand Ole Opry mug. Suddenly I feel numb, and it dawns on me why Dad looks lousy. Dancing with Scarlett clouded my thoughts, and I had forgotten about Mom—until now.

  When I sit at the table, a small smile pulls at the corners of Dad’s lips. “When did you start drinking coffee?”

  I shrug, sort of embarrassed. “I don’t know. This morning.”

  He picks up the sugar bowl. “Sugar?”

  “Nah,” I say.

  He watches, waiting for me to sip. When I don’t, he looks down at the newspaper. I lift the cup and take a big swallow. It burns.

  Glancing at me over the paper, Dad smirks, then clears his throat and frowns, looking back at the paper as if he didn’t notice me gagging. A moment later he says, “Do me a favor. Take that bucket of soil on the back porch over to Gloria. And give her that sack of tomatoes on the counter too.”

  Dad must feel rotten. Mrs. McKnight is one of the few people he enjoys talking to. She likes hearing about the optimum temperature for worms, and he likes learning about the different types of roses.

  In Cal’s backyard, Mrs. McKnight hangs underwear on the clothesline. Mom says Charlie McKnight is too stingy to fork out enough money for a clothes dryer. Every member of the McKnight family is represented on that line except Wayne. There’s Cal’s small Fruit of the Loom underwear, Billy’s larger ones, and Mr. McKnight’s boxers. Next to them hang pink polkadotted and solid blue panties. Mrs. McKnight grabs a red bra from the plastic laundry basket and clips it to the line. I’m wondering if the bra is hers or Kate’s when she peeks around the boxers and notices me staring at the bra. My whole body blushes.