When Zachary Beaver Came to Town Read online

  A couple of miles outside of Antler, more cars appear. Kate drives as slow as a little old lady and people honk or pass us, shaking their fists. A carload of older kids ride by, their window rolled down. Two of the jerks hang out, making obscene gestures and yelling, “Lard butt!” We look like we’re hauling Buddha across Texas. Suddenly I’m kind of wishing that I hadn’t listened to Cal and I hadn’t suggested making the steps.

  Zachary stares at the side of the road. I wonder how he visited all those places he claims he has. How did he fit in the elevator at the Louvre? How did he handle the stares and the insults?

  At the drive-in’s entrance, Kate stops the truck to pay the ticket guy. “Hey, Billy’s sister, right? You can go in free.”

  “You sure that’s okay?” Kate asks.

  “Sure.” He smiles, flashing his braces, and waves her on in. He doesn’t see Zachary at first, but his chin drops as the back of the pickup passes him—it nearly hits the ground.

  Zachary notices and quickly turns away. He presses his arms against his sides and folds his hands in front of him like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

  Only a few other cars have arrived, but Kate parks the truck in the back row. She probably did that so no one would park behind us and bother Zachary. She climbs out and motions to Cal. “Let’s go get some drinks and popcorn.”

  I want to yell, Don’t leave me alone with him. But Cal hops out and follows Kate to the concession stand. It would be rude to follow and leave Zachary alone. But I want to. Man, I want to. Sitting back here in the truck with him, I feel like I am Zachary Beaver. I see the glares and fingers aimed our way. I hear the fat jokes. This must be what it’s like for him when he’s traveling around the world. Then it hits me hard. Zachary hasn’t gone to all those places. From the way he diverts his eyes and draws up in himself, I doubt Zachary ever leaves his trailer.

  To avoid the stares, I study the giant screen. I watch kids swing at the playground in front. I count the speakers in the first row. Around us crickets chirp, car engines cut off, and voices scatter into the night. We listen, but we don’t speak.

  Finally Zachary says, “So this is a drive-in theater?”

  “Yep, this is it, all right. Nothing much.”

  We’re quiet again, and I figure I should say something. “You ever go to the movies?” I feel like punching myself. How could he go to a movie? He couldn’t fit in a seat.

  “Yeah, all the time.”

  Zachary is a big liar. Then I remember. The entire town thinks the Grand Ole Opry burned down. I’m just thankful Dad is a hermit because I’d be grounded for life if he caught word of it. It’s probably only a matter of time.

  Kate and Cal show up just as I think of something to say. Kate climbs into the back with us and hands Zachary a Coke. She points out the speakers and tells him how, when she was younger, their family piled into the station wagon and came to the drive-in. The kids wore their pajamas and took their pillows. And their mom always brought a paper sack full of popcorn.

  “Really? Cool,” Zachary says, nodding. He acts like Kate said she flew to the moon in a rocket that she sewed on her sewing machine. Zachary seems different than usual—nice. And he’s not eating any popcorn. Cal and I stuff the buttered kernels in our mouths. We were so busy trying to finish the steps that we hardly ate any dinner.

  Kate sips her drink through a straw. “I understand your mom died two years ago. That means you were only thirteen, right?” The way she asks doesn’t sound mean or nosy at all.

  “Yeah.”

  “Was she fat too?” Cal asks. I should slug him, but Kate does it instead.

  Zachary looks at Kate when he answers. “She was a big lady. Big heart too. Went to church all the time.”

  Leaning back against the cab, Kate gently asks, “Is it hard having people walk through your home looking at you?”

  “Well,” Zachary says, then pauses. “They’re going to stare anyway. I might as well get paid for it.” He looks deep into Kate’s face. “Pretty soon the money will be even better because Paulie and I are adding some acts to the show. That’s what he’s doing now.”

  “Why didn’t he take you with him?” Kate asks.

  “He had to go far away. It was easier for me to stay here.” He quickly glances at us. “This time.”

  Kate nods like she understands Zachary’s crazy world. As we wait for the movie to begin, Kate talks to Zachary. Zachary talks to Kate. And it’s as if we’re not sitting in the back of a pickup with the fattest boy in the world. It’s as if we’re alone on a boat in the middle of an ocean—a prairie ocean—eating popcorn and sipping sodas, listening to Zachary tell us more about his real life. I say real life because somehow I can tell the difference with this talk and the stories about France and England and Seattle. And I can’t help wondering if my lie is as obvious to others.

  “Did you go to church with your mom?” Cal asks, and I know where he’s heading. Cal is going to die from curiosity about that baptism.

  Music begins to play, and the movie starts. Zachary never answers.

  Cal’s shoulders slump, and he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Jeez!”

  I’m disappointed too. Then I wonder why I’m now interested in Zachary’s baptism story.

  As soon as the movie ends, Kate turns the ignition key and pulls out before the credits start to roll. I guess she wants to leave before Zachary gathers more attention.

  After we drop Zachary off, Cal whispers, “I have an idea.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I think we should help Zachary get baptized.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two days after the movie, Cal and I are on the roof of the Bowl-a-Rama. It’s seven o’clock in the evening, but the summer sun hasn’t set. It sits in the sky like a bright juicy orange waiting to drop from a branch. These are the longest days of the year.

  “You should know how to get baptized,” Cal says.

  “Why me?”

  “You’re a Baptist.”

  “Well, I’ve never been baptized.”

  “I’m a Catholic,” Cal says. “We get baptized when we’re babies, and Zachary’s a long way from being a baby. You’ll have to find out.”

  It’s true. Mom and I went to church every week, and at least once a month I watched Reverend Newton dunk someone in the baptistery. I’d seen simpleminded Kirby Waddel go under at least a dozen times. He thought he needed to be cleansed every time he cussed or sassed his mother.

  I haven’t been back to church since Mom left. And Dad doesn’t make me because, except for funerals, he never goes.

  Cal looks like he’s waiting for me to say I’ll find out. “What makes you think he wants to be baptized anyway?” I ask.

  “Think about it. His mom gave him a Bible for his baptism. He admits he almost got baptized. And his mom is dead. She probably died before it happened. Maybe it was her last wish.”

  “Jeez, Cal. You’ve got some imagination.” I want to shrug it off, but the weirdest thing happens. Kate pulls the truck in front of the trailer, gets out with a stack of books, and knocks at the door. Zachary peeks out the window and eventually opens the door. A few moments later Kate leaves with a grocery sack.

  “What do you think is in it?” Cal asks.

  “Heck if I know.” But I’m dying of curiosity too. The only sacks I’ve seen pass Zachary’s steps are going in, not coming out.

  Later Cal calls me on the phone. “Want to see what was in the sack? Meet me in my backyard.”

  Out back, Cal stands in front of the clothesline, his arms spread wide. It takes a second to register, but then I see. A gigantic pair of pants, two shirts, and several of the biggest boxer shorts I’ve ever seen wave like flags from the line.

  Friday after mowing the Pruitts’ yard, I ask Miss Myrtie Mae, “How does someone go about being baptized?”

  We’re sitting in the gazebo, eating a salad filled with cherries, mandarin oranges, and marshmallows. She also made tiny crust
less sandwiches spread with a dab of deviled ham. I’m famished, and it’s all I can do to keep from wolfing down the whole meal in one bite.

  Miss Myrtie Mae sets her fork down on her china plate, wipes a pink cloth napkin across her mouth, and says, “Why do you ask, Tobias?”

  It’s funny how a person can go from Toby to Tobias when they are asked certain questions. “No reason, really.”

  She looks at me, eyebrows hiked, and I realize she thinks I’m talking about me. So I tell her, “Oh, not me. A friend.”

  “I see.” Her lips purse, and her voice drops to a deeper serious tone. “Well, one must consider this matter very seriously. It’s not something you, I mean, your friend, should take lightly. The good Lord knows what state our mind is in when we make such a commitment. But it’s a wonderful commitment, Tobias. The Christian life is not an easy life, but it brings such joy. And of course there is the gift of eternal life.”

  “But how does someone go about getting baptized?”

  Her face pinches up. “You mean the procedure? First, you should talk to the preacher. I mean, your friend should talk to the preacher.”

  I try to picture Zachary walking through town to the church. Impossible. “What if he can’t go see him? Does Reverend Newton make house calls?”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged. Yes, I’m sure that would be no problem whatsoever for Reverend Newton.” Miss Myrtie Mae loads the dishes onto the tray, humming “Just As I Am.”

  Today I dig up Miss Myrtie Mae’s irises and separate the bulbs because she says they’re too crowded to bloom. I also clear away the dried-up honeysuckle vine, whose sweet scent still lingers. So far, I’ve been lucky. No sign of the Judge anywhere. I wanted to ask Miss Myrtie Mae where he was, but I was afraid she’d call him outside.

  Mowing east to west, I watch bees make lazy trails from flower to flower in the beds. I like mowing because it gives me time to think and plan. Not so much about Zachary, but about Scarlett. One thing I haven’t tried yet is giving her a special gift. Heck, Dad won Mom over with a jelly jar of sunflowers. But what would Scarlett want? I don’t have enough money to fix her gap. As I gather up the bags of grass clippings, I think about what to give her. I try to remember her room for ideas. She probably has every Bobby Sherman album. Maybe another bottle of Wind Song. Or another stuffed Autograph Hound. This time I’d write something really cool on it.

  On the way to the garbage Dumpster, something hard hits my back. I swing around, dropping the bag. The Judge squats under the apple tree, plucking apples from a low branch and throwing them at me. Pitching them at me. “Think you can out-bat old Speedy, do ya, T.J.? Well, we didn’t win first place last year for nothing.”

  I try to pick up the apples from a safe distance, but the old guy is pretty good. I’m amazed at how far the Judge can throw. He must have really been something on the pitcher’s mound. Again and again he throws apples at me and I dodge them while trying to pick them up. We keep this going until Miss Myrtie Mae comes into the yard. When he sees her, the Judge hides an apple behind his back like a little kid caught stealing a cookie.

  “Yoo-hoo!” she calls. “Here you are, Brother. Your Life magazine arrived.”

  Before I leave, Miss Myrtie Mae hands me a piece of paper. “Here, this is for your friend.”

  I look down at the paper. John 3:16: For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

  At home I check the mailbox before going inside. Among the bills is another letter from Mom. My chest tightens. This letter has a new address. I throw it on the dresser, on top of the other unopened one I received a few days ago.

  Trying to find something for Scarlett, I wander inside my parents’ room. Mom’s perfume still lingers, and I almost expect her to prance out of her bathroom, saying, “Hey, Critter!” As always, her old guitar leans against the wall by her end table. Almost every night she sat on the bed in her pajamas, barefooted, strumming the guitar. She’d look at the ceiling as if words floated around up there, waiting to be plucked. Then she’d stop and scribble them in a notebook. I wonder why she didn’t take the guitar with her if she knew she wasn’t coming back.

  I open the jewelry box on her dresser. The pearls are there, wrapped in a tissue. They feel cool to the touch, and I try to picture them on Scarlett. She’d probably wear them to school next year with her fuzzy blue sweater. I’d sit in back of her in class and watch her twirl the strand around her finger. Other girls would want to borrow them, but she wouldn’t let them because I gave them to her.

  After finding a box and wrapping the pearls with leftover Christmas paper, I sign my name on a card and head over to Scarlett’s. Crossing the town square, I imagine her opening the gift and being speechless because she’s never received anything as nice from Juan. She’ll look at me with those baby blues and wonder why she overlooked my obvious good qualities.

  But no one is home at Scarlett’s house. Time is running out, and if I don’t act quick, Scarlett will be back together with Juan. Before heading home, I leave the gift between the front and screen doors.

  The minute I set foot in our house, I see Mom’s velvet painting of Hank Williams hanging over the sofa and the framed form letter from Tammy Wynette. Guilt fills up in me from head to toe.

  It was a stupid idea. Maybe if I race over to Scarlett’s on my bike right now, I might be able to get the necklace before she returns. But on the way out the front door, I bump into Dad and Reverend Newton. A Bible is tucked under his arm.

  “Toby,” Reverend Newton says, “I understand we need to have a little talk.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dad invites Reverend Newton into the living room. They start down the hall, but my feet stay glued to the floor. “Tobias,” Dad says, glancing back. “You have company.”

  I shuffle to the living room, wondering how long Miss Myrtie Mae waited before calling the preacher. She probably picked up the phone as soon as I stepped off her porch.

  Reverend Newton settles into Mom’s plump chair, plopping the Bible onto his lap. I choose the straight chair on the far side of the room.

  Dad remains standing. “Reverend Newton, would you like a cup of coffee?”

  The reverend pushes at his bifocals. His heavy cheeks sag down to his jowls, giving him a bulldog look. “Is it already made?”

  “No, but I’ll be happy to make a fresh pot.”

  “Well, if it would be no trouble?”

  “No trouble at all.” Dad starts out, and Reverend Newton adds, “Two spoons of sugar and a tiny bit of milk.” He holds up his fingers to show the amount.

  “How about some cookies to go along with it?” Dad asks.

  Reverend Newton rubs his round stomach. “Oooh, temptation. But I haven’t eaten much all day. I might take one or two. If it’s no trouble?”

  “No trouble,” Dad repeats, walking toward the kitchen. He looks relieved to have a reason to go.

  I should warn the reverend that Dad’s cookies aren’t the sugar kind. In fact, he doesn’t use sugar at all. They’re bland as soda crackers, and once you take a bite, you’re chewing for eternity.

  Reverend Newton leans back. His elbows rest on the arms of the chair, and his chubby fingers lock together, forming a bridge. He studies me, and I study my shoes. “Toby, Toby, Toby. I must confess, I’m not here on a howdy-do visit. I’m here on a mission from the Lord.” He sighs and his fingers tap his knuckles. “Is there anything you want to tell me, son?”

  I shake my head. “No, sir.”

  He smiles. “Well, maybe I can make this a bit easier for you. I heard from the grapevine that you’ve been asking questions about the baptism. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  Reverend Newton holds up a hand, stopping my words. “No need to be ashamed. Every Christian goes through this time of turmoil.” He leans forward. “The Lord is knocking on your heart, Toby. And, son, you better answer him.”
r />   “But—”

  He raises his palm again. “It might help if I tell you about my own testimony. You see, I wasn’t always walking the walk.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “No, no, indeed. I was a tax collector for the IRS. Looking back now, I kind of fancied myself as a modern day Zacchaeus. I enjoyed the misery I placed on others. I loved that power. I was greedy for power.” He shivers like he is trying to shake off his past and continues rattling on and on.

  I sink low into the chair. Reverend Newton is giving me my own personal sermon. I’m relieved when Dad appears with a mug of coffee and a plate of his cookies.

  Reverend Newton takes a sip, closes his eyes, and smiles. “Ahh! Good coffee, Otto. By the way, heard from Opalina?”

  Dad picks up the plate. “Have a cookie.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He leans forward, peers over his bifocals, and examines every cookie before he selects the biggest one. “Heard about that fire. It’s a shame. Grand Ole Opry and all. Will they build a new one?” He waves the cookie with each word like a band conductor waving his baton.

  I feel my body heating up.

  “Fire?” Dad asks.

  “Yes, what a shame. We must add the good folks of Nashville to our prayer list. And we sure do miss Opalina’s solos. That voice is a gift from God.”

  Dad studies me and I squirm, wishing I could vanish.

  “Getting back to your baptism. Your mother is going to be proud of you, Toby.” Reverend Newton takes a bite of the cookie and frowns. He chews and chews and chews. Finally he swallows and chases it down with a swig of coffee. He winks at Dad. “These aren’t Opalina’s, are they, Otto? Good thing the Lord put women on this earth.” He sets down the cookie and turns his focus to me. I feel his eyes reach into mine. He is digging. Digging for my soul. “Would you like to come down this week when I give the altar call?”

  I can’t stand it anymore. “Reverend Newton, my friend wants to be baptized. Not me.”

  Reverend Newton is quiet. He looks at me a long minute, then turns to Dad, who’s leaning back in the recliner, feet up, hands clasped behind his neck.