The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  The wind howled, and I gazed at the water tower bearing our town’s name. Joe was still staring down the track, although the train had long since passed.

  My eyes filled.

  Joe turned, and this time he reached out to me. “You’ve been the best part of this, Rylee. I’m going to miss you so much.”

  I couldn’t talk or move.

  He dropped his arms to his side. “Are you okay?”

  “I am. I promise. Here, I’ll prove it.” I held out my hand. “Shake.”

  He took hold, but shook it gently.

  I pulled it away and then held it out once more. “Again,” I said. “Panhandle women are tougher than they look.”

  He grabbed hold, and this time he gave my hand a nice firm shake.

  My whole body felt numb, and I had a big lump in my throat, but managed to say, “Good job.”

  For the longest time, Joe wouldn’t let go. Before he finally did, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. I wanted to freeze the moment, keep us this way forever, standing somewhere between Juan Garcia’s home place and the Antler railroad crossing. But I knew he was right. He had to return to New York. He had to go back home.

  I didn’t tell him about finding Zachary. That could wait for another day. Instead, we got on our bikes and rode to Gossimer Pit, then rounded the square. Then we decided to cross the highway again. The sun had begun to set in the western sky, a peachy glow resting on the horizon. We pedaled slowly by the tracks like we weren’t in any hurry. But when the last train of the day neared, we increased our speed, riding alongside it with our arms stretched high in the air.

  CHAPTER 40

  A couple of days after Joe told me they were leaving, a FOR SALE sign went up in his yard. Whether they sold the house or not, they would leave before the end of June. It happened so quickly, almost as if Joe being here hadn’t happened at all, like catching a snowflake that melted instantly in your palm. Before it was caught, that flake could have turned into anything, a snowball, an igloo, or just magical frost on a window. But then it was gone.

  * * *

  It would have been enough to keep me moping, but the next day was Dad’s birthday, and I was excited about the surprise phone call from Zachary.

  Dad never liked a fuss made over his birthday. All he claimed he wanted was Mom’s red velvet cake and his three girls and Opa. He had no idea, but this year would be different. Uncle Cal would be there. So would Joe and his mom. Which was a good thing, because I knew Joe didn’t want to miss out on Zachary’s surprise.

  When I told Joe about finding Zachary, he’d said, “Knew it!”

  I asked if he would have tried to search for Zachary on his own if I hadn’t.

  “Probably not. Zachary was really yours to find.”

  “I would never have tried to find him if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Joe shrugged it off, but I believed even if we never saw each other again after he left Antler, searching for and finding Zachary Beaver was something we’d done together.

  Friday night, Mom said she’d make meatloaf, but Opa convinced Mom she had enough to do and Opa told her she’d make a big pot of chili. So at least Dad would have a decent meal for his birthday.

  Joe and his mom had only been at Dad’s birthday party a moment before Mayzee spilled the beans about our upcoming performance at the opry Saturday night.

  “What?” Joe was surprised. “You play the mandolin? How did I not know this?”

  “I’m learning,” I told him. “Opa is teaching me.”

  “And she’s pretty darn good,” Opa said. “It runs in the family. And she’s humble. I don’t know where she gets that from, though.”

  “Is it tomorrow night?” Joe asked.

  I nodded.

  “Cal and I are going for a long ride that day, but we’re starting out early. I promise I’ll be there.”

  Joe must have been talking about riding to the canyon overlook. I was glad he was finally going.

  Dinner started off quiet until Uncle Cal told a corny joke. At least it was clean. Then everyone seemed to chatter at once.

  Dad opened Mom’s gift first, and when he saw the camera, he asked, “Is this what I think it is? Miss Myrtie Mae’s?”

  “Yes,” Mom told him. “When you didn’t buy it, you made my birthday shopping easier.”

  Dad started to laugh. “I was wondering about that charge from the auction house.”

  He kept examining it, turning the camera every which way. “I’d like to donate this to the new library. They could display it in the showcase at the entry.”

  “Dad,” I said, “maybe everyone who received Mrs. Myrtie Mae’s pictures could loan them for the opening.”

  “Smart thinking, Rylee,” Dad said. “That would be a nice tribute.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was five minutes until 6 P.M. Zachary was due to call at 6:05. So I handed Dad the scrapbook I’d put together. “Here, Dad. Happy birthday!”

  Dad opened it and read the first page. The Zachary Beaver Project. He gave me a perplexed look.

  Uncle Cal leaned in.

  “Turn the page,” Mayzee demanded.

  “So this was what you were doing in the library,” Opa said.

  On the next page was a copy of the first article we found about Zachary coming to Antler. Each page of the journey was revealed—the Oklahoma towns, the Allen Circus train derailing in Kansas City, the Louisiana hurricane. The article in Time magazine about the closing of the Allen Circus. Judging from Dad’s face, he must have thought the following pages were going to be dismal, as if he was expecting to see Zachary’s obituary. Instead, he read off the titles of the articles Zachary wrote.

  I looked at the clock. It was seven after six, and the phone hadn’t rung.

  Two minutes late wasn’t a big deal, but then three more minutes passed, and Zachary was officially late. I glanced over at Mom, but she hunched over Dad’s shoulders reading the article titles aloud.

  “Mom,” I said, “can I see you in the kitchen, please?”

  “In a minute.” She didn’t even glance up.

  Joe twisted up a corner of his mouth and slightly shrugged.

  Mom kept admiring the scrapbook. She wouldn’t even look my way.

  I got up from the table and started toward the stairs to make the call to Zachary myself.

  The doorbell rang when I reached the hall.

  “Rylee,” Mom hollered, “please get the door.”

  “I’ll get it!” Mayzee rushed past and beat me to it.

  In the doorway stood a large man with salt and pepper hair, wearing suspenders and holding a cane.

  “Hello, Zachary Beaver!” yelled Mayzee.

  CHAPTER 41

  Although Zachary Beaver was large, he was a lot smaller than his younger self portrayed in Miss Myrtie Mae’s picture. He told us he’d lost a lot of weight years ago after the train accident and even had to wear a fat suit when he still traveled as a sideshow act.

  “The accident left me with this limp,” Zachary said, “but it’s got its fringe benefits. Even ladies give up their seats for me on the bus.”

  I wouldn’t have recognized him and wondered how Mayzee did. It had been thirty years since that picture was taken. Mayzee confessed she’d heard Mom talking to Zachary on the phone, inviting him to Dad’s birthday party. No one knew she knew that he was flying into Amarillo. It was the biggest secret she’d almost kept.

  For a few moments, Dad was in shock. Even Uncle Cal was speechless for a minute or two.

  “So you’re not going to ask one of your nosy questions like where I go to the bathroom?” Zachary asked Cal. “Speaking of, where is the john?”

  After he returned to the table, the three of them started reminiscing about the good ol’ days when there really was a Wylie Womack and a Dairy Maid instead of a Dairy Queen. They seemed to be talking all at once. Sometimes Joe or Mom would ask questions. I kept quiet, though, looking around the table at the happy faces, listening to the stories and
the laughter, witnessing proof that even old friends could come together again.

  Zachary told us he was writing a memoir about his life as a sideshow boy. He’d stopped writing travel articles for the last couple of years so that he could finish it. The book was due out next month.

  After the party, Joe and I went with Dad, Uncle Cal, and Zachary to Gossimer Pit. No one was riding bikes there, but tire tracks covered the entire area.

  “It’s hard to believe I almost drowned here,” Zachary said.

  “You mean when we baptized you?” Dad asked.

  “Yeah, Toby,” Uncle Cal said. “Don’t you remember when we almost dropped him?”

  Zachary snorted. “Just think, if that had happened, I would never have left Antler. And after the lake dried up, kids would have been cycling over my bones to this day.”

  * * *

  If someone had told me a few weeks ago that I’d be playing my mandolin in front of Zachary Beaver, I wouldn’t have believed them. By the time the opry house doors opened the next day, Zachary and Dad had eaten lunch at the Bowl-a-Rama Café (entertained by Ferris’s stories) and covered all of Antler’s stomping grounds.

  Twenty minutes before Opa went onstage, the band was warming up and Mayzee and I were sitting in the greenroom waiting for our cue to go on. We heard a knock on the door and Zachary’s voice: “Are you decent?”

  “Yes, sir,” I called out.

  Zachary slowly opened the door. He was wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots.

  “Rylee, I just wanted to tell you to break a leg or whatever they say in cow town.”

  Mayzee sprang to her feet. “How about me?”

  “Of course, you little prairie dog. You go ahead and break a leg, too. Break two legs, if you like.”

  He turned his attention back to me. His hands rested on his cane, and he cleared his voice. “I wanted to thank you for finding me, Rylee. Your mom told me all the trouble you and Joe went through. I’ve thought of your dad and Cal a lot over the years. Figured they’d forgotten me. I guess that’s why I never reached out. But true friendship never fades, no matter what happens. So thanks for teaching me that.”

  I thought of Twig, but said, “I’m glad you’ve met up again. Thanks for making Dad’s birthday really special.”

  Zachary tipped his hat as he backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  A few seconds later, Opa entered with a bouquet. She smiled, handing it to me. “It looks like you have a fan.”

  I could tell right off that the flowers weren’t from Mr. Pham. These weren’t any florist or grocery-store-type flowers. These were Engelmann daisies. I pulled out the card that was tucked between the stems and read,

  Sorry about the weeds, but I wanted you to have something for your special night.

  Break a leg!

  Joe

  Mayzee and I were the second act to perform. I was grateful for that because my fingers felt jittery knowing that Zachary and Joe were out there in the audience.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked Mayzee, right before we walked out on stage.

  She looked genuinely puzzled. “No, are you?”

  I shook my head, lying. I didn’t want her to catch a case of my bundle of nerves.

  But after we stepped out onstage and started “You Are My Sunshine,” the feeling quickly changed. Mayzee’s big voice ignited my energy, and I played my three-chord song like I’d never played it before. And Opa was right. The audience always knew when the performer was having a good time.

  At the end of the evening, Opa invited all the performers back onstage, and we took requests. Some audience members had written theirs down earlier and dropped the notecards in her drummer’s cowboy hat. Mayzee drew the first one, and Opa read it aloud: “I’m not sure I know this song. It says squim. S-Q-U-I-M. Anyone know that tune?”

  Everyone laughed like it was a joke, but I knew what it meant. Somewhere out there in the audience was Twig, and she was saying she was sorry again.

  CHAPTER 42

  Zachary Beaver went back to Florida the day after the opry show, but the buzz of his return still hadn’t died down. Even Joe and I talked about him a lot. Which was a great distraction from what would be happening soon.

  Joe was leaving in two days. We’d only been off for the summer a couple of weeks, but Mrs. Toscani wanted to get back to Brooklyn so that Joe would have a summer in the old neighborhood. They’d been excited to find a home down the street from their former one.

  I was able to have some more time off because my parents had hired a new employee. He just needed to curb his enthusiasm about the Mustangs. Not every customer is a fan. Buster was starting out filling the cups of ice, but I had faith that he’d soon graduate to the syrups.

  I hadn’t planned how Joe and I would spend our last days together, but I started by riding over to see him and checking out the new paint job. When he came outside, he had a little friend at his heels.

  I gave him a puzzled look.

  “I know, I know, I said I didn’t want a dog, but I couldn’t stop thinking of him. I told Mom, and she thought he was just what I needed. Now I’ll be taking a piece of Antler with me.”

  Mrs. Toscani opened the front door and waved at me. Then she called out, “Johnny Cash, time to eat!”

  Johnny Cash raced back to the house.

  “Looks like he’s not just your dog.”

  We laughed and then we were quiet.

  To break the silence, I almost told him how much better Miss Myrtie Mae’s house looked painted blue. Then I stopped myself. Instead I said, “Your home makes me think of the Panhandle sky after a storm, kind of a purplish-blue.”

  Joe grinned. “So it’s finally my home? Now that I’m leaving in a couple of days.”

  “Well, the only reason I’ve been call—”

  He softly tapped my shoulder with his fist. “I’m just kidding. The painter called it periwinkle, but it looks like purple to me.”

  A banner across the FOR SALE sign read TOO LATE, IT’S SOLD! Miss Earline was becoming an edgy marketer in her old age.

  Mr. Pham, the new owner, had chosen the paint color. Mrs. Toscani was nice enough to let him start on his personal touches even though he hadn’t officially closed yet. He was buying the house for his future fusion restaurant serving Vietnamese and American fare. Ferris said he reckoned the Bowl-a-Rama Café had been fusion and hadn’t even known it. Mr. Pham’s new restaurant was going to be fancy, though—white tablecloths and a dress code. The women could wear anything, but the men would have to wear a tie or cowboy boots.

  Summer break had only just begun, but the sun beat down like it was July.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Joe said.

  I kicked at my bike pedal causing it to spin.

  “Don’t you have a friend in New York?” he asked.

  “Kate,” I said. “Kate McKnight.”

  “Maybe you can visit her. Or maybe you can just come see us.”

  I liked the sound of that, our friendship continuing even though more than a thousand miles stretched between us. Long-distance friendships could happen. Dad, Uncle Cal, and Zachary were proof of it.

  We were staring at the house when it seemed out of nowhere Twig rode up on her bike. Her hair blew about, having grown long enough to brush her shoulders.

  “Hi,” she said shyly. Then her tone took on its usual confidence. “The periwinkle shade with chalk colored trim is sharp. And so are the hot pink geraniums in the window boxes.”

  Together, Joe and I said, “Mr. Pham!”

  He loved his flowers.

  Twig wasn’t done yet. “Those bronze gutters are classy. Why have plain gutters when you can have bronze?” Twig sure knew how to soak up every detail.

  A second later, she asked, “Mr. Pham’s idea?”

  We nodded.

  I took a closer look, trying to see something she may have missed.

  Joe and I were quiet, so Twig spoke again. “I thought I might go see how the new library is c
oming along and then stop at Allsup’s for a Dr Pepper. You two want to come?”

  Joe and I exchanged glances, but we didn’t say anything. Since this was one of our last days together, I’d hoped we were going to spend it alone. Maybe even check out Mrs. McKnight’s rose tunnel.

  Twig stared down at her sandals and fixed one foot on a pedal. She looked up with a plastered-on smile, and I knew she was hurt. “Well, see you around.”

  She pushed off.

  Joe and I watched her ride away. I felt torn in half about what had happened to us since September. But she’d said she was sorry twice.

  The wind stirred a tall patch of grass, and a tumbleweed rolled across the road, not stopping until it smacked into Joe’s fence. Instead of collapsing, as expected, it stayed intact.

  That’s what we’d been since September—tumbleweeds—Joe, Twig, and me. Thinking we were so strong and independent, but we’d learned that we were fragile, too. Maybe we weren’t made of sticks and debris, powered by the wind, but like tumbleweeds, we couldn’t make it alone. We needed each other.

  Twig was moving at a leisurely pace. She hadn’t even made it halfway down the street.

  Joe looked over at me, and it was as if we could read each other’s thoughts. He hurried toward his porch and went after his bike while I hopped on mine. We pedaled fast, trying to catch up.

  Twig didn’t seem to know we were behind her, until I yelled, “Wait up!”

  She slowed to a stop and glanced over her shoulder. The forced smile from a moment before was missing. In its place was the big one I knew by heart. Everything we’d done together since we were in second grade was wrapped up in it, trick-or-treating, Easter egg hunts, riding the back roads, and hanging at Allsup’s. I wasn’t sure where Twig and I would be next year or even five years from now, but today we needed to find out if anyone from Maine was making their way through Antler.