The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  “Another room?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not working. She cries all the time. We still have a bunch of his stuff that she moved with us. She’s hardly started to unpack, but she’s emptied the boxes with his socks and shoes.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “If I’d known those songs would make you sad, I wouldn’t have asked you to go.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  His words made me think of Twig and how she said I apologized too much. Sorry, I would always say. Squim.

  We moved slowly down my street, passing the Bastrops’ house. A light went off in a corner room, and I figured the elderly couple would soon be off to sleep.

  There was a long space of quiet before Joe spoke again. “I’m mad because he isn’t here tonight and won’t be here tomorrow. Somebody at the memorial service told me that whenever we do think of him or remember something about him, in a way he is here. But it’s not the same.”

  “No,” I said. “How could it be?”

  We walked the rest of the way in silence, and even though there was a big dose of sadness attached to the evening, something had changed between us. Maybe it started because of our search for Zachary Beaver. Whatever caused us to tumble into a friendship didn’t matter. Joe had only been here a short time, and he was sharing his feelings with me. Not like Twig.

  The night sky was clear except for the stars scattered high and low, like a big net, protecting us. It was one of the things I loved most about living in the Panhandle, one of the things I would miss if I ever left.

  Joe and I arrived at my house, and he followed me to the door.

  “Well, good night,” he said.

  “Good night.” I slipped my key in the lock, but before I could turn it, Joe covered my hand with his. When I faced him, he circled his arms around my waist.

  Then he cupped my face with his hands and lifted my chin until our lips were even, moving closer until they touched.

  The kiss only lasted a second, but when it was over and Joe had walked away, I was still thinking about it.

  CHAPTER 29

  All I could think about was that kiss. I thought about it every morning that following week when Joe met up with Mayzee and me. I thought about it during history class and at lunch. I could hardly talk to Joe without tripping over my words, so I just stayed quiet.

  I wanted so badly to talk about it with someone. But the someone I wanted to tell wasn’t talking to me. I wondered if Vernon had given Twig kiss number five. I couldn’t wait until Saturday when Joe and I would have the Zachary Beaver Project to focus on and help me get my mind off that kiss.

  Finally Saturday did arrive. We ate at Waffle House before heading to the Amarillo Public Library. The research librarian was away from her desk when Opa dropped us off, but there were two vacant seats in front of the computers.

  Joe started typing.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking my email.”

  I sat there watching as he waited for his email box to appear. When it finally did and I saw Arham’s name on five emails, I stood up. I didn’t want to intrude.

  “You don’t have to go.” Joe touched my wrist.

  It’s funny how a kiss made even a simple touch electrifying.

  “Sit,” he said.

  I sat, but I focused on the reference desk while Joe read and laughed. He typed a quick message back.

  “My mom won’t let me call every night like I used to,” he said. “It’s too expensive. It’s going to be hard to stay in touch until we get service.”

  “You can use the computer at Antler’s library,” I said, even though every time he mentioned Arham, I felt an imaginary tug-of-war—Arham on one side, me on the other, and Joe in the middle.

  While I waited for the librarian to see if any Oklahoma articles had been discovered, Joe went to the computer catalogue to look up some books for his history report. He still hadn’t shared his topic with me.

  “How can I help you?” Then she smiled. “Oh, it’s you—Rylee Wilson, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I have something for you.”

  She searched through a small stack of envelopes and pulled out one with my name on it. “It’s a dollar fifty-three for postage.”

  I gave her the money, and she wrote out a receipt.

  “So this is about a sideshow boy?”

  “Yes.” I was a little embarrassed, hoping she didn’t think I was a gawker, the kind of kid who looked up weird things in the Guinness Book of World Records.

  “Sounds interesting,” the librarian said as she handed over the package and receipt, smiling as if she’d given me a birthday present. Librarians must have to take an I-shall-not-judge oath.

  I found Joe with two books, one about circus history and the other about a sideshow owner.

  When I held up the package, he said, “All right!”

  We were excited, making our way to a table in the corner of the reference area.

  Inside the envelope, the pages were paper-clipped together. On top was a small article with the headline “Sideshow Act Visits Surrounding Towns.” The article was short, but mentioned the acts included a teenager billed as the fattest boy in the world. We learned they visited Erick and Elk City, Oklahoma, before heading to the Oklahoma State Fair in Oklahoma City. I guess I’d hoped for more.

  Joe must have read my face because he said, “Well, now we know where he went after Antler.”

  “And where he was in mid-September,” I added.

  The next page was a handwritten note from the librarian.

  Joe read over my shoulder, “Ooh, Ms. Wilson.”

  Dear Ms. Wilson,

  I hope you don’t mind, but I went beyond what you asked me to do because I remembered something from my childhood when a circus stopped in Kansas City with a sideshow boy like Zachary. So I asked my old college roommate who works at the Kansas City Public Library to do a little digging. I’ve attached the article she found. The article was dated March 21, 1973. Two years after his Antler visit. If I remember anything else, I’ll let you know. I hope you find your Zachary Beaver alive and well.

  BEATTY CIRCUS DERAILS NEAR KANSAS CITY

  A train carrying a small circus company derailed outside of Kansas City last night. The Allen Circus Company was on their way to Saint Louis when the accident happened. Trapeze artists, elephants, chimpanzees, clowns, and sideshow acts were on board, including the fattest boy in the world. Two passengers died and seventeen were injured. The owner of the small circus company, H. R. Allen, said, “The show must go on.” No word was given if the circus would make their way to Saint Louis. Names of the deceased and injured are not being released at this time.

  My stomach ached.

  The whole time we were looking for him, even as far back as first seeing him in Miss Myrtie Mae’s photograph, Zachary hadn’t seemed real to me. He had been more mythical and dreamlike than human. Until this minute. Now it was as if I could reach out and almost touch him. But was it too late? Was Zachary Beaver dead?

  Joe pulled away a handwritten note paper-clipped behind the article.

  This note was from a Kansas City librarian.

  I was seven years old when this happened, and I remember seeing the elephants and chimpanzees at the fairground. My mother told me that they were housed there until some of the circus people were released from the hospital. That’s all I remember. I looked in the archives, but couldn’t find anything about the circus employees who were injured or who died. I’m so sorry, but I hope this helps some.

  Lois Maynard,

  Research Librarian

  Kansas City Public Library

  I shook away the thought of what might be the worst outcome and added only the facts in my notebook:

  1973

  1. Zachary was with the Allen Circus.

  2. He was on a train, heading to Saint Louis that derailed outside Kansas City.

  3. He may have been killed or injured.

  Joe
and I kept reading the article and letters over and over. I wanted so much for Zachary Beaver to be alive. Now I was determined to find him as much as Joe. He had had enough death. I was thinking maybe we shouldn’t go on, but just as I was about to suggest we stop our hunt, Joe said, “Zachary’s got to be alive. I have a strong feeling he is. So where to next, Sherlock?”

  I would have to ask the librarian to check the Saint Louis paper before we left, but we had an hour before Opa picked us up. We headed over to the periodical guides for the years 1973–75. They were books of indexes noting articles written on different subjects. I’d used them a lot to look up magazine articles on Bill Monroe.

  “Look,” Joe said, “here’s an article in a Newsweek magazine about the Allen Circus.”

  Lucky for us, the Amarillo Public Library carried all the Newsweek magazines in their archives, and we were able to find the two full-page pictorial spread about the Allen Circus Company posing in front of the tent. There were the trapeze artists, a little man, an elephant, and a woman with some poodles standing on their hind legs. Then there, to the side of her, was a large man, a young man, maybe a teenager. My heart raced as I dragged my finger slowly under each name in the caption until I came to two words—Zachary Beaver.

  Zachary Beaver had survived.

  We held our palms up and slapped each other five.

  Then Joe said, “Only twenty-six more years to go.”

  Fueled by what we’d learned, we blew through the rest of the 1970s editions with no luck, and we were disappointed when we didn’t find anything in the 1980 edition either.

  Our time for the day was up. We left the library clinging to a tiny sliver of hope hinged on one fact. Zachary Beaver had been alive in 1975.

  CHAPTER 30

  After we returned to Antler, I went to work at the stand. Usually the midday shift was busy, but that afternoon, Buster was the only customer I had in the first half hour. He proudly high-stepped toward the counter, holding a wilted bouquet of flowers wrapped in tissue paper. No telling how long he’d been carrying them around.

  “It’s my birthday, Rylee!” Then he smelled the flowers.

  “Happy birthday, Buster! You get a snow cone on the house. What flavor?”

  “That’s a silly question.”

  “It is?”

  “It’s my birthday.”

  “I know. Do you want your usual—Coconut and Raspberry?”

  “Buzzz! Wrong answer!” he said, holding up his palm.

  “Oh, do you want Birthday Cake?”

  “One hundred percent correct!”

  “One Birthday Cake snow cone, coming up!” I said.

  “Do I look different?” He held the bouquet up to his face and twisted in place.

  Pretending not to notice the flowers, I leaned back and scanned Buster from head to toe. “Come to think of it, you look a whole year older.”

  He was older than me, but I wasn’t sure of his age. I hoped he didn’t want me to guess.

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  I checked again, rubbing my chin. “Oh! The flowers!”

  “One hundred percent correct! I think the Mustangs gave it to me.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right.”

  But I knew it had probably been Mr. Pham. He loved giving flowers to people when they were sick or celebrating something. He’d delivered bouquets to nursing home residents, to Mom on the night of the school talent show, to Mayzee the first time she sang at the opry. Sometimes he surprised people on their birthdays. He was Antler’s year-round Santa.

  “Do you know what my birthday wish is?” Buster asked.

  “A million dollars?”

  “No. Guess again.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I want a job at Wylie’s Snow Cone Stand.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep. So how about it, boss?”

  “I’m not the boss, Buster. You need to ask my mom or dad.”

  “Can you ask them?”

  “I can, but they’d be impressed if you did it.”

  “Okay. I’ll ask on Memorial Day,” he said.

  “Buster, that’s one of our busiest days.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  When Buster walked away slowly, trying to carefully hold both his extra-large Birthday Cake snow cone and his bouquet of flowers, I realized there was a big possibility Mr. Pham had given flowers to someone moving to Antler, like the ones left on the Toscanis’ doorstep. My head had been so clouded with the idea that the gift had something to do with romance that I had forgotten all about Mr. Pham, the mysterious flower giver.

  Before Joe had to report for work, he dropped by the stand and plopped on the picnic table.

  “I think I figured out who gave your mom the flowers,” I said. “In fact, I’m certain that’s who it was.”

  He jumped off the table like he was ready to fight his mother’s secret admirer.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Pham. I’m sure the bouquet was from him. I forgot how he always gives flowers for every occasion and never attaches a card.”

  “Random acts of kindness?”

  “Maybe,” I said, but I wondered if Mr. Pham may have felt like an outsider in Antler once, and the flowers were his way of making Joe’s family feel welcome from the whole town. If they didn’t know who gave them, they’d have to think it could be from anybody. And in a way that made them from everybody.

  Joe nodded. “Makes sense. Now if only we could solve the Zachary Beaver mystery. I need to get off to work. I don’t want Ferris to fire me.”

  “Ferris has never fired anyone.”

  Joe smiled. “He doesn’t have to. They quit before he talks them to death.”

  As Joe made his way across the square, I remembered something that Ferris told me months ago. He’d said Zachary had a funny middle name. What if he’d started going by his middle name? It was a stretch, but it was still a possibility.

  After my shift, I headed over to the Bowl-a-Rama Café. Twig wasn’t there, but neither was anyone else. Seemed it was a slow day for snow cones and bowling. Ferris had found his audience, though. He sat on one of the benches in the bowling alley, talking to Joe.

  I asked Ferris if he’d remembered Zachary’s middle name.

  He rubbed his whiskers. “Oh, what was that boy’s middle name? It was a singer, a famous singer’s name…”

  I started naming off Hank, Conway, Lester, Waylon, all the country and bluegrass names that came to mind.

  And when I ran out, Joe offered up classic rock ones—Mick, Van, Dylan.

  To each, Ferris said, “No, no, no.”

  “Oh, man,” Joe said, “don’t tell me it’s Elvis.”

  “Elvis?” I repeated.

  “That’s it!” Ferris said. “Elvis. Oh, I’m glad I remembered that. I was getting concerned about my think box. But I guess it’s as sound as a drum.”

  CHAPTER 31

  At the library the next Saturday, we checked the late 1970s editions again, now using Elvis Beaver. A 1977 article listed Elvis Beaver’s name in a Texas travel magazine. We headed to the archives desk, and the librarian fetched the issue with the article about a small circus that had to stay in East Texas for a month because a hurricane had hit Louisiana, their next planned stop. Inside the article was a quote:

  “The good folks of Lindale have been very accommodating, but I’m partial to small Texas towns,” circus spokesperson Elvis Beaver said.

  “Look,” I said, “he’s a spokesperson. And I’ll bet he’s talking about Antler when he says he’s partial to small Texas towns.”

  Searching for Zachary had become a treasure hunt. There were twenty-three more years to cover. We continued on, using the key words “Allen Circus,” “Zachary Beaver,” and “Elvis Beaver.”

  When the rest of the 1980s turned out a wash, I didn’t say what I knew we were both thinking.

  Then Joe called out, “Jackpot!”

  Heads turned in our direction, but we did
n’t care. We were winning the game, with every move forward getting us closer to Zachary.

  Joe found an Allen Circus mention in a 1990 issue of Time magazine. The article told about the closing of several small circuses in the last decade. The one Zachary worked for had performed for the last time. There was a quote from Elvis Beaver. “It’s the end of an era. Now it seems only the biggest circuses are able to survive.”

  The 1991 periodical index had no Zachary or Elvis Beaver mention. Nor did the 1992 or ’93 ones. It was as if Zachary had disappeared, as if he had died. We were so close. Now there was nothing.

  Then Joe looked up from the 1994 edition and threw his fist the air. “Yes! Here’s three mentions with Elvis Beaver.”

  The three articles were all from different state travel magazines, and Elvis Beaver was being credited as the writer. I thought back to the day we got the photograph and what Dad said about how Zachary loved reading travel books. It was like witnessing someone’s dream coming true, Zachary’s dream. He had become a writer.

  Joe hurried to find 1995, and when he did, there were five articles by Elvis Beaver in more travel magazines. We gathered the remaining periodical guidebooks from 1996 to 1998. In every edition, we found references to more articles. He was a prolific writer. In 1998 alone, there were eleven articles, from “The Best Philly Steak Sandwich in Pennsylvania” to “Jazz Clubs on New Orleans’s Westbank.”

  Even though the library didn’t carry the other magazines, we were convinced of two things.

  1. Zachary Elvis Beaver was a writer.

  2. He was alive and well three years ago.

  Then I silently added to the list.

  3. I’ve never seen Joe Toscani happier.

  Before we had to meet Opa, Joe went to the bathroom, and I returned the editions to the shelf where I discovered the 1999, 2000, and 2001 volumes shelved in the late 1960s. Excited, I flipped through the pages of the 1999 edition, looking for Elvis Beaver, expecting to find at least a dozen articles.