When Zachary Beaver Came to Town Read online

  Smiling, she says, “Oh, Toby, I didn’t see you standing there.”

  I try to speak, but the words stick in my throat like cotton balls. All I can say is, “Err … uhh. Uhh—”

  She glances down at the bucket. “Did your dad send me some of that terrific soil?” I think it’s funny how people who like growing things call dirt “soil.”

  “Uhhh, yeah. Yes, ma’am.”

  She walks up to me and takes the bucket. “Thanks. I’ll return your bucket later.”

  I hold out the sack, and she accepts it.

  “These too?” She puts down the bucket and looks inside the sack. After taking a long whiff, she smiles. “Aaah. Fresh tomatoes. What a good neighbor. Tell your dad thank you for me.” She takes a few steps, then stops. “My gracious, I almost forgot. How did your mother do last night?”

  I’m not ready to explain because I’d have to confess I don’t know when Mom will be back. “The Grand Ole Opry had a fire, and they postponed the contest.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Did anyone get hurt?”

  “Oh, no, it only burned in the part where they were going to hold the contest.”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “Oh. Oh, well, I see.”

  “They haven’t rescheduled it yet. Mom’s hanging around till it’s over.”

  Mrs. McKnight’s smile makes my stomach knot up. “Well, wish her the best of luck for me when you speak to her.”

  I take off for the garage and wonder why I lied to Mrs. McKnight. She’s the nicest person I’ve ever known, and I lied to her as easy as I did to my math teacher when I told him I forgot my homework. Only this lie makes me feel worse.

  Miss Myrtie Mae’s house is around the corner from ours on Cottonwood Street, so I don’t have to drag the lawn mower very far. The Pruitt home is the biggest house in Antler. It stands green and tall behind two huge willow trees. Their house is the first one Cal and I hit on our Halloween route. Every year Miss Myrtie Mae dresses like Glinda, the good witch in The Wizard of Oz, and gives out candy bars from the front porch. Her wrinkled face is a scary sight under that curly blond wig and rhinestone tiara, but it’s worth looking at her and putting up with her Glinda speech in exchange for an Almond Joy.

  Today Miss Myrtie Mae greets me at the door and tells me to wait in the living room with the Judge while she gets her list. I’m hoping it’s short because of my big plans this afternoon at Scarlett’s house.

  The Judge sits there, fumbling with his pocket watch. Before Miss Myrtie Mae leaves the room, she says, “Brother, you remember Tobias Wilson, Opalina’s boy? I’ll be right back, Toby.”

  The Judge looks up, and stares at me. His head is cocked sideways and a string of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth.

  Everything in the living room is either green or gold. Last year Miss Myrtie Mae hired a decorator from Amarillo to do over the entire house. Miss Myrtie Mae accidentally left the decorator’s bill out when Miss Gladys Toodle was visiting. Ten thousand dollars. It was the talk of Antler until Christmas, when Miss Myrtie Mae and Miss Toodle competed with their outdoor decorations. They used so many outdoor lights, the entire town lost its electricity for a day.

  Old black-and-white photos in silver frames crowd a round oak table near the couch. One is of two boys about my age in old-fashioned baseball uniforms. Another is of a pretty girl with a bow in her long dark curls. I figure they must be from the good-looking side of Miss Myrtie Mae’s family.

  I’m taking a closer look at the photos when the Judge says, “Young man.”

  I turn. He squints at me. “This is the last time I want to see you in this courtroom.”

  Glancing around, I realize he must be talking to me. “Judge, I think—”

  He shakes his finger at me and the string of drool has grown longer, stretching past his chin. “Don’t talk, son, when I’m handing down a verdict. I’m tired of this nonsense. Now you’re going to have to do some time instead of paying a fine.”

  The front door is six feet behind me and I’m tempted to escape this crazy old man, but I’ve got a girl now, and I’ll earn more money today than Dad has ever paid me.

  The Judge stands, leaning heavy on his cane. “Young man, do you understand me?”

  He inches toward me. I back toward the hall and duck my head around the corner. “Uh, Miss Myrtie Mae?”

  She returns, and it’s the first time in my life I have been happy to see Miss Myrtie Mae Pruitt. The sight of the Judge breathing down my face doesn’t fluster her at all. She pulls out a wadded tissue from her pocket and wipes his drool.

  “Brother, this is Toby. He’s our new lawn boy. Remember early this summer we had that nice McKnight boy, William? And I know you remember Wayne before that.” She turns to me. “Brother loved Wayne. That youngest boy, though. He filled in for Billy once last year, and my heavens, you never saw such a mess—patches of tall grass, weeds left in the flower beds.” She clicks her tongue. “We couldn’t have that.”

  I feel bad for Cal. Maybe he knew the reason Miss Myrtie Mae didn’t ask him to mow her yard this summer.

  Miss Myrtie Mae hands me the list. Twenty-three tasks are marked on it, and I wonder how I’m ever going to see Scarlett before the sun sets.

  “Come on,” Miss Myrtie Mae says with a quick wave of her hand. Her pointed navy blue shoes tap against the wood floor.

  I follow her into the backyard. As I scope out the grass carpet spread to eternity, I realize that the Pruitts not only have the largest house in Antler but they also have the biggest lawn. Morning glories spill over the back fence. A stone path winds its way to a white gazebo big enough for a high school band. Two apple trees’ branches droop, heavy with apples, and the fruit litters the ground beneath them. I glance at the list.

  #1: Pick up apples off the ground.

  Miss Myrtie Mae points out the beds that need weeding. “Now, if you’re ever in doubt if it’s a weed or not, give me a holler. Better safe than sorry. I’ll be in my darkroom.” She leaves me alone in the yard.

  Every green apple I pick up has a hole in it. I can’t get away from worms. The vinegar smell of rotting apples on the ground makes me want to puke, and roly-polies invade the fruit like an army climbing over green mountains.

  #2: Mow lawn in an east-west pattern.

  The yard seems to go on forever. East to west. West to east. The mower roars and spits grass blades to the side. The smell of freshly cut grass fills the air. Halfway through the job, I decide mowing isn’t boring if you make your own designs. I make a circle, a square, then a triangle. Nothing to it, so I move on to more complicated forms. I zigzag along the fence. I make curlicues. I begin to spell Scarlett. I—see Miss Myrtie Mae peeking out her window, frowning at me. I stop in the middle of my letter S. East to west. West to east.

  About the time I finish mowing, Miss Myrtie Mae comes outside, carrying a silver tray with a glass pitcher of iced tea, some lemon drop cookies, and jiggly lime Jell-O stuff. She must think we’re going to have a tea party. Sheriff Levi follows her, his head and shoulders drooping, like a kid ordered to go to church. Seeing him makes me think about Zachary, and I wonder what the sheriff will do if Paulie Rankin doesn’t return.

  “I reckon you deserve a break by now,” Miss Myrtie Mae says. Her bun is loose, and wiry gray strands stick out around her face. “Sheriff Levi happened by at the right time.”

  Sheriff Levi wears a pair of plaid shorts, a yellow knit shirt, and his lucky fishing hat decorated with tackle. “Well, actually, Miss Myrtie Mae, I just came by to ask Toby something.” I’m willing to bet he wants worms.

  Miss Myrtie Mae acts like she can’t hear him and proceeds down the stone path. “Let’s sit in the gazebo, where there is plenty of shade.”

  She sits in the white rocker and motions the sheriff and me to the chairs around the wicker table. I collapse in one of them, but Sheriff Levi keeps standing. He glances at his watch, and his eye twitches. “Miss Myrtie Mae, this must be such an inconvenience, me barging in on you and all. I really
just want to get some—”

  “Nonsense!” Miss Myrtie Mae says. “Now sit!”

  “Worms,” he says as his rear end meets the chair.

  “It’s too hot to eat anything warm, so I made my lime gelatin turkey salad.” She slices a piece of the wiggly stuff onto a china plate and hands it to me. My stomach feels queasy at the sight of turkey chunks floating inside lime Jell-O. I glance at Sheriff Levi, and the way his eye twitches studying the Jell-O, I figure he feels the same way.

  I’m sweaty and not sure Miss Myrtie Mae would approve of me using her nice fancy napkin to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I don’t know what to do with that napkin, and I watch Sheriff Levi, but he doesn’t seem to know either. So I wait for Miss Myrtie Mae’s cue. She flings hers open and drops it daintily into her lap. The sheriff and I follow her lead, only when I fling my napkin, one corner lands in the pitcher of iced tea. I go to rescue it, only to knock my glass of ice over.

  “Whoa, whoa, Toby,” she says. “Sit back. I’ll get you a clean glass of ice.” I want to tell her don’t bother. I’m filthy and sweaty, and dirty ice won’t hurt me at this point. In fact, any kind of ice sounds great, but she swiftly removes the glass and disappears into her house.

  Sheriff Levi leans over the table and whispers fast, “Toby, can I help myself to some worms? I’m heading out to my secret fishing hole.”

  “Sure, Sheriff, help yourself.”

  “I’ll leave the money in the tin can.”

  “No problem.” Dad leaves an empty coffee can on the shelf so the locals can take what they need and leave the money in case we’re not there, but Sheriff Levi always hunts us down before taking any.

  Miss Myrtie Mae heads our way with my glass of ice, so I quickly ask, “Sheriff, what could happen to Zachary Beaver if Paulie Rankin doesn’t come back?”

  Sheriff Levi tips back his hat. “I’ll have to notify social services in Amarillo.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He tries to steady his eye by raising his brows. He removes his hat and wipes the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “He’ll probably be put in a foster home or some sort of home for juveniles.”

  “Oh.” I look away. Some blurry white moths fly by, their wings fluttering in the breeze. I don’t like Zachary Beaver, but I don’t much like the thought of him living in some house with strangers either.

  Miss Myrtie Mae hands me the fresh glass of ice. “Here you go, Toby.”

  Sheriff Levi shovels the salad into his mouth in quick huge bites, then washes it down with iced tea, holding his head back as he empties the glass. Giant gulps move down his throat, then he stands and announces, “Miss Myrtie Mae, I hate to eat and run, but I forgot Duke was waiting for me in the car.” He grabs a couple of lemon drop cookies, tips his hat, and steps off the gazebo before Miss Myrtie Mae can utter a protest.

  Four hours later I sack up the grass, then cross off task number twenty-three. The flower beds are groomed and free of weeds. I feel proud. I’m different than Cal—I finish projects. I remember when Cal and I were five or six and we turned on the garden hose and made a mess in the mud. Wayne fetched Cal and cleaned him from head to toe with the hose before taking him into the house. I cleaned myself off. I don’t have big brothers watching out for me.

  Before paying me, Miss Myrtie Mae inspects the yard. She walks to each corner flower bed. Her eyes comb every grass blade, and when she spots an apple on the ground, she walks over and picks it up. It probably fell a second ago.

  She hands me my money and says in a sharp voice, “Not bad, but next time take care in the direction you mow. You shock the grass blades if you don’t cut it in an east-to-west pattern. Can I expect you next week?”

  My arms ache from pushing the lawn mower, my back throbs from bending over picking up apples, and my hands have blisters on them from pulling weeds. I open my mouth and say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Myrtie Mae asks me to step inside the house for a moment, and I’m relieved that the Judge isn’t inside, waiting to haul me off to prison. Smells of something wonderful drift from the kitchen. The TV is on, and the early evening news broadcasts from a jungle in Vietnam. I wonder if Wayne is nearby.

  Miss Myrtie Mae shakes her head, looking at the television. “Oh, that mess! I hope you never have to see war, Toby. Our poor Wayne. I include him in my prayers each and every night.” She looks up at me like she has just thought of another list of chores for me to do. “Toby, almost forgot about your mom. How’d she shake out?”

  I don’t even hesitate. “The place where they were going to hold the contest had a fire, so they—”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “The Grand Ole Opry burned down?”

  “Uh, it was only a small fire, but they postponed the contest. She’s waiting around until they reschedule it.” I’m turning into a full-fledged pathological liar.

  Miss Myrtie Mae lowers her eyebrows and frowns. I study the rug covering her wood floor. “That a fact?” she asks. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.” She walks into the kitchen, and I wonder if she’s calling Dad to check if I’m telling the truth. But a moment later she returns with a pan covered with aluminum foil. “Would you mind taking this German chocolate cake over to Mr. Beaver’s place? He mentioned a fondness for chocolate.”

  I leave with the pan, wondering how I’ll manage to get it and the lawn mower home without dropping it. I also wonder how much daylight is left before my plans to see Scarlett sink fast below the horizon. As soon as I clean up, I’m going straight to Scarlett’s. Mr. Zachary Beaver will have to wait for his cake.

  As I reach the bottom step of the Pruitts’ front porch, I hear a creak. “Stop right there, young man.”

  I swirl around. The Judge leans forward in a porch rocker, shaking his cane at me. “You remember what I said, you hear?”

  Chapter Ten

  Tired to the bone, I arrive home around five o’clock and head for the shower. Mom used to nag me about washing places like my elbows or the back of my neck. Not today. When I step out of the shower, my skin feels raw from scrubbing every inch.

  A towel wrapped around me, I lean into the mirror and examine my upper lip. Fuzz. I wonder if whiskers are like pimples and that one morning I’ll wake up with a face covered with them. I splash on some of Dad’s Royal Copenhagen aftershave. And today I use deodorant.

  Before leaving, I stick a note on the refrigerator with a magnet telling Dad I’ll be home for dinner. Then I take off for Scarlett’s house.

  All the homes on Scarlett’s street look pretty much alike—tiny with single garages and small yards surrounded by link fences. But one has a wooden porch swing with the left side reserved for me.

  At Scarlett’s house I hide the German chocolate cake between a bush and the fence. Since Miss Myrtie Mae covered the top with aluminum foil, it should be safe until I take it over to Zachary.

  Scarlett is exactly as I pictured her, sitting on the porch, her long legs stretched across the swing. A magazine rests in her lap, and she’s so engrossed in it, she doesn’t see me.

  Before I step through the gate, Tara and three other little kids march past me in a line. Upside-down plastic plant pots perch on top of their heads. Tara, the leader of the pack, has about seven vacation Bible school ribbons pinned to her shirt. Moist wisps of hair cling to her sunburned face.

  She walks up to me and says, “We’re having a parade, and I’m the mayor. And they’re the Shiners.” This kid grows weirder by the minute.

  “You mean Shriners,” I say.

  “That’s what I said. Shiners.”

  I ignore the brat and slow my pace toward Scarlett. No reason to seem too eager. It spoils the image. Scarlett is thumbing through her magazine, popping her chewing gum, and doesn’t notice me until I step onto the porch. She looks up and smiles, her lips shiny with lip gloss. “Hey. How ya doing?”

  Oxygen leaves my body in one big whoosh. “Fine.”

  I remember to breathe again, only I suck up too much air and start coug
hing. I cover my mouth and try to swallow, but it’s no use.

  “You okay?” she asks. “Do you need a glass of water?”

  Holding up my palm, I manage to say, “I’m fine.” I wish I could start all over—opening the gate, repeating my slow cool walk toward the porch, maybe a casual lift of my eyebrows when she says hi.

  But Scarlett doesn’t seem to mind. Her gaze slides over the magazine page and she sighs. “You know, there’s a whole world out there waiting in the back of magazines.”

  “Hmm? You mean in the ads?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t you ever want anything in the back of a magazine?”

  “Well, I always wanted to order those sea monkeys in the Superman comics. But my dad said they were a waste of money.”

  She laughs. “Sea monkeys?”

  I feel my face go red. I decide not to mention the Atlas Body Building course.

  “I mean these kind of ads.” She points to an ad about a modeling school in Dallas right next to one about becoming a stewardess. The wind blows her hair across her face, and a few strands stick to her lip gloss. She swings her feet to the porch floor and scoots over, leaving room for me on the right. It’s not the left, where Juan sat, but I guess it really doesn’t matter.

  Leaving a foot of space between us, I sit next to her and take deep breaths. Her hair smells like flowers.

  I want to hold Scarlett’s hand, but mine are sweaty. I should have used deodorant on them. Maybe one day I’ll invent a hand deodorant and market it to guys like me who want to get rid of their wet palms.

  “Is that what you want to be?” I ask. “A model?”

  “Maybe, if I can get these fixed.” She taps on her two front teeth.

  “What’s wrong with your smile?” I know she’s talking about the gap, but I love her gap.

  She sighs. “Oh, Toby. You have to be perfect to be a model. And I’d look better without it. See?” She smiles, and a piece of chewing gum fills the space.

  I shrug.

  “Or maybe a stewardess. That would be the next best thing, to fly around the world. How glamorous.”