Ferris is staring out the window, and it takes him a moment to recognize us. Finally he rubs his eyes with his thumb and finger. “Hey, fellas, if you stare into the sun too long, it’ll blind ya.” He yawns and scratches his day-old whiskers, making a wisk-wisk sound. “How’s your mom, Toby?”
“Great.” I guess.
“Well, the next time she calls, you tell her that her job is waiting for her. After all, where else can folks in Antler get a meal with free entertainment?”
Mom is known as the singing waitress. She makes up songs for the customers, and if they’re a pain, she makes up songs about them. Her voice is high and strong with just the right twang. She may sing songs about honky-tonk angels while serving Bowl-a-Rama specials, but in her mind she’s probably on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry.
In the cafe, next to the picture of the Lord’s Supper, Ferris hung a huge banner above the soda fountain counter—Good Luck, Opalina!
Ferris comes out from behind the counter, limping to the door and turning the Open sign around to face the front. The talk around town is his limp was a self-inflicted wound so he didn’t have to serve in the Korean War. Ferris claims it was a pure coincidence that he was cleaning his gun the day before he was to report for active duty.
Before that happened, Ferris wanted to be a preacher. He even went a semester to a Bible college in Oklahoma. Now he never goes to church, but Mom says he knows the Bible from Genesis to Revelation. It’s almost as hard for me to picture Ferris a preacher as it is believing he’d ever ditch a war.
Cal hops on the counter. “What’s up, Ferris?”
“Oh, nothing much in here. But I’ve been curious about what’s going on across the street.”
“How’s that?” I prop my elbow on the counter and rest my chin on my fist.
“That freak show fella took off in his Thunderbird about an hour ago.”
“Did the fat guy go with him?” Cal asks, hopping off the counter.
“Don’t think so,” Ferris says. “That’s what’s got me to wonderin’. Thought they’d be pulling out by now.”
Cal heads for the door. He glances back and waves his arm in giant sweeps. “Come on.”
Underneath the trailer, a hose and wire stretch across the parking lot to the inside of the Dairy Maid. Paulie Rankin must have worked out something for the electricity and water.
“Help me up,” Cal says. And a minute later, Cal sits on top of my shoulders, peeking through the crack between the drapes in the back window.
I get a weird feeling that maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. My heart pounds like a ticking bomb.
“Cal, they arrest people for looking in windows. The fat kid could be taking a bath or something.”
“Jeez!”
“The sheriff could drive by. He could slap handcuffs on us and haul our butts to the county jail.”
“Mary, and Joseph!” Cal calls out.
My heart leaps into my throat, but I risk it and trade places with Cal to take a look.
It’s the back of Zachary Beaver. Through the grimy streaked window, I watch him eating frosted cornflakes from a mixing bowl huge enough to hold two boxes of cereal. An opened book is on the table next to the bowl.
“Man, he can put it away, can’t he?” Cal says loud enough for Zachary to turn around and yank back the curtain. I wiggle, trying to free Cal’s grasp around my ankles, but instead Cal’s grip tightens and together we fall to the asphalt.
“What are you looking at, perverts?” Zachary yells. And even though the window is closed, his words pierce through the glass and pound our ears. He slides open the window. “If you Peeping Toms don’t get out of here, I’ll call the cops.”
Cal and I race to our bikes, accidentally grabbing each other’s, not bothering to switch until we’re safe at home.
Chapter Five
The day after Zachary Beaver caught Cal and me peeking into his trailer, we head over to the library to find out if he really is the fattest boy in the world. When I was little, Mom would take me there each week for Miss Myrtie Mae’s story time, but I haven’t stepped inside the library in ages. Neither has Cal.
We look through the door window. Miss Myrtie Mae sits behind an oak desk, peering over her wireframed glasses, studying some black-and-white photos. She does a double take when we enter. “Haven’t seen you boys in here in a decade. Anything I can help you with?”
“No, ma’am,” we answer together, heading toward the other side of the room.
Dust particles spin under the overhead lights, and the moldy smell of old books fills the air. Cal and I wander around, our eyes scanning the shelves. Treasure Island, the Hardy Boys Mysteries, and Old Yeller remind me of nights when Mom read to me before bedtime.
“It wouldn’t be over here,” I whisper. “This is fiction.”
“Did you say something?” Miss Myrtie Mae asks.
I shake my head. “Oh, no, ma’am. I was talking to Cal.”
She nods and looks down at the pictures.
I glance across the room. Letters cut from construction paper spell Nonfiction above a bookcase. The shelves contain books about rattlesnakes, space, and gemstones. There are also books about the American Revolutionary War and biographies on a few presidents. But there isn’t a copy of the Guinness Book of World Records.
“It’s not here,” Cal says.
“Are you looking for this?” Miss Myrtie Mae asks, holding up a blue hardback book.
Cal steps up to her desk, and I follow. Miss Myrtie Mae holds out the Guinness Book of World Records. “Thanks!” Cal hollers.
“You’re welcome,” she says, returning to her photos. I nudge closer and notice her pictures of Zachary Beaver’s trailer and of people waiting in line to see him.
I look over Cal’s shoulder as he thumbs through the book.
“Pages fifteen and sixteen,” says Miss Myrtie Mae, not even glancing up.
Cal turns to page fifteen and finds the subtitle “Heaviest Man.”
I stare at Miss Myrtie Mae, puzzled. How did she know?
Her gray eyebrows hike above her glasses. “You think you’re the first person who came sniffing around about that boy? I’ve seen more people in this library the last couple of days than I’ve seen all year.”
“Oh,” I say, embarrassed to be lumped in with the same group of nosy people.
“He’s not in there,” she states.
We keep reading, looking at the pictures, searching for anything about Zachary.
Miss Myrtie Mae shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
She’s right. The book lists that the fattest man now living is reported to weigh 739 pounds. It also shows a picture of the heaviest man of all time wearing a pair of gigantic overalls. The book says that at the time his picture was taken, he weighed seven hundred pounds. He died when he was thirty-two years old and was buried in a piano case. I wonder if that’s Zachary Beaver’s destiny.
“He’s a lot bigger than Zachary Beaver,” Cal says.
“Give him time,” I say.
Cal scratches his head. “But if Zachary weighs 643 pounds, he should be near that size. He must be lying.”
Miss Myrtie Mae’s eyes narrow to staples. “What difference should it make? If he wants to call himself the fattest boy in the world, what harm is it doing to you?”
Cal and I don’t answer. We hand back the book, thank her, and leave, ending our once-in-a-decade visit to the Antler Public Library.
For the first time in a year Dad treats me to lunch at the Bowl-a-Rama Cafe. Dad would just as soon eat paper than Ferris’s greasy food. He believes you are what you eat. But he’s in a good mood because “Super Mex” Lee Trevino won the British Open this weekend. When Trevino came on the pro golf circuit a few years ago, he was considered the underdog—a poor Mexican American guy from El Paso. Dad always roots for the underdogs. It doesn’t matter where they’re from. He cheered for the Boston Red Sox long before they won the American League pennant, in 67.
Before we enter the Bo
wl-a-Rama, I glance across the street. The trailer is still parked in the Dairy Maid parking lot and Paulie Rankin’s car is still missing.
“Hey, Toby!” I hear Cal’s voice, but I don’t see him. I look up, shading my eyes from the sun. Cal perched on the roof of the Bowl-a-Rama, our getaway spot.
“Thought you’d be working.”
“Dad gave me the day off because Kate went to take her driving test and Billy had to go to work early.”
“Come join us for lunch, Cal,” Dad says. “I’m treating.”
Never one to turn down a free meal, Cal climbs down the metal ladder hooked on the side of the building.
“Does Ferris know you’re up there?” Dad asks.
“He doesn’t care,” Cal says. “We do it all the time.”
Dad examines me, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
Cal smacks my back.
“Ow!”
“Paulie’s car is still gone.”
“I know, Cal. I’ve got eyes too.”
As soon as we step inside the cafe, I breathe in the spicy smells. Ferris’s chalkboard hangs near the kitchen window behind the counter. Today’s Special: Honey Fried Chicken, Corn Fritters, and Mustard Greens. Beneath the menu is the daily Bible verse. “It is an honor for a man to cease from strife: but every fool will be meddling.” Proverbs 20:3. Mom says some people wear their religion on their sleeves. Ferris posts his on the chalkboard.
Southern gospel music plays from the jukebox, but the sound of bowling balls hitting pins in the next room can still be heard. From the kitchen window, Ima Jean stares at us through her steamed-up cat-eyed glasses. With the back of her hand, she wipes them in a circular motion.
Ferris does a double take when he sees Dad. “How ya doing, Otto? Haven’t seen you in a long time.”
Dad nods toward Ferris. “Doing fine. Yourself?”
Ferris strokes his beard stubble. “Couldn’t be better. Sure do miss your woman, though.”
Dad glances at the Good Luck, Opalina! sign hanging over the counter. His temples pulse, and he averts his eyes to the floor. The ice machine moans, dropping a load of ice. We walk to a corner table, and Ferris limps our way with a menu. His watermelon belly hangs over his belt, and a patch of hairy skin peeks through a gap between two buttons.
Soon the regular lunch crowd begins to pour inside the cafe—the Shriners in their tall hats and decorated vests, the farmers with their sons, and Earline, the only real estate lady in Antler. In fact, that’s what it says on her Volkswagen—Earline Carter, the Real Estate Lady. As if in a town our size, we wouldn’t know who she was. If she mashed down her black beehive hairdo, she would probably only be four feet tall. Today, despite all the hairpins and spray, her beehive is leaning like the Tower of Pisa. “Hello, Otto. How’s Opalina?”
“Fine.”
“I guess this is her shot at the big time, isn’t it? She’s a brave woman, going all the way to Nashville. Alone at that. You’re mighty brave to let her.” She raises her eyebrows, waiting.
A hush falls over the cafe, but Dad doesn’t say anything. The only sound comes from the jukebox, where another record drops in place. Elvis begins singing “The Old Rugged Cross.” Earline squirms and brushes imaginary lint off her sleeve.
Miss Myrtie Mae comes in the cafe with the Judge. He’s been retired for years, but everyone still greets him that way. Like Miss Myrtie Mae, he’s long and skinny, but a good ten years older than her. His thick white hair is combed back with no part and his cheeks sink into his face, forming valleys below his high cheekbones.
Miss Myrtie Mae selects the table in front of us. “Sit here, Brother.” As always she wears her straw hat and pointy shoes.
The Judge settles in the chair and starts tinkering with his gold pocket watch. Miss Myrtie Mae nods at Dad. “Otto,” she says, “Brother and I would sure appreciate it if Toby would mow our yard the rest of the summer. We’d pay him a fair price.”
I wonder why she doesn’t ask me, when I’m sitting right here.
Dad looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Toby?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be happy to mow it.” There are worse things to do than mowing Miss Myrtie Mae’s lawn—like taking care of worms. Besides, I could use the money.
Cal’s face turns red as his hair. He’s tapping a straw against his glass, and his tongue makes a lump in his cheek. It dawns on me that Billy mowed Miss Myrtie Mae’s yard the last two summers and Wayne did it before that. I guess Cal thought he’d be the natural choice.
“Fridays be okay?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Order out!” hollers Ima Jean through the window. Ferris heads over to pick up the plates.
Outside, I see Wylie Womack park his golf cart across the square in the shade of the giant elm, the same place he’s parked every summer day I can remember. His long salt-and-pepper hair swings in front of his face as he struggles to get out of the cart, pop open his wheelchair, and settle in. As if Wylie Womack doesn’t have enough problems with his crooked body, he also has emphysema. But Wylie doesn’t let that slow him down. His motorized chair moves easily along the side of his cart.
I smell fresh coffee and look around, expecting to see Mom pouring some in Earline’s cup. For a little person Mom sure leaves a big hole. If she wins the contest and gets a record deal, I guess Dad and I will have to blow this town and move to Nashville. Dad will rent the longest U-Haul trailer and pack up his worms, and we’ll split down the road. Funny thing is, every time I try to picture Dad and me going to Nashville, Dad comes out like a blur in an overexposed photo.
Even though I know the menu by heart, I read the words over and over, trying not to think about Zachary Beaver over at the trailer or where Paulie Rankin went.
Ferris returns to take our order, and Cal asks, “Hey, any word on that freak show guy?”
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
“Strangest fella,” Earline says, overhearing our conversation.
“Where do you think he went?” I ask.
“Tobias,” Dad says, his mind-your-own-business tone attached. He’s studying the menu and doesn’t even look up when he says my name.
“Don’t know,” Ferris says. “It’s got the best of me.”
Earline looks up. “Whatever it is, it must be no good.” She scoots her chair away from the table, causing it to screech. “I suspect the sheriff will be looking into it.”
Miss Myrtie Mae sets down a saltine cracker and scowls at Earline. “A stranger can’t spend five minutes in Antler without everybody suspecting he’s a serial killer. Can they, Brother?”
The Judge doesn’t answer. He stares in my direction; his dark beady eyes burn a hole right through me.
“Well,” Earline says, walking out the door, “decent people don’t leave a child unattended for days on end.” She turns and looks at Miss Myrtie Mae. “Do they?”
Ignoring Earline, Miss Myrtie Mae picks up her cracker and takes a bite. Her mouth chews in exaggerated circles.
Ferris chuckles. “If Opalina had been here, she would make up a song about it. Probably something like ‘The Ballad of Zachary Beaver.’”
Everyone laughs but Dad. He glances up from his menu. “I’ll take a bowl of tomato soup.”
Before going home, we buy a snow cone from Wylie. Wylie hasn’t spoken in years, I guess on account of the emphysema. His cart is built low so that he can reach the ice machine and syrup bottles. Every Thursday the ice man delivers ice to the Bowl-a-Rama Cafe. Ferris lets Wylie keep the ice in his huge freezer since Wylie rents a room at the Sunset Motel and doesn’t have a place to store it.
The colored bottles glisten in the sun. Grape, lemon, orange, watermelon, strawberry, bubble gum. They all look tempting, but as always, Cal and I order Bahama Mamas. While we suck the sweet red juice through our straws, I can’t help thinking about Wayne. Cal must be too because before taking his first bite, he says, “Got a letter from Wayne today.”
“How is your brother, Cal?” Dad
asks.
“Fine. He sure misses home.”
“I’ll bet he does. Be good to have him back.” A few years ago, Wayne helped Dad build the shelter for his worms in our backyard. Dad told him more than anyone would ever care to know about Tennessee brown nose fishing worms. I’m sure Wayne would have preferred talking about baseball or girls or anything besides worms. But Wayne would smile, nod, and ask Dad questions like he was really interested.
While Dad stops into the insurance office across the square, Cal and I eat our snow cones.
“Hey, watch this,” Cal says, taking off for the trailer.
“Get back here!” My heart pounds in my ears. Wylie watches us, a blank expression on his face. I glance toward the insurance company. Dad’s back side is to the trailer door.
Cal races up to the trailer, sets his half-eaten snow cone on the top step, knocks on the door, and runs back toward me.
“Cal, are you crazy?”
“Maybe he’s thirsty.”
We watch. Nothing happens. Even the wind is calm, as if it too is waiting. The cup sits on the top step, the red straw poking out of the snow cone.
Dad returns. “Ready, boys?”
We get into the truck and head home. But as we drive away, Wylie points in the direction of the trailer. We look and see a pale hand extend out the trailer door and grab the cup. Cal and I exchange glances but don’t say a word.
It only takes a minute to reach home. Next door, Kate sits in the driver’s seat of the station wagon, parked in front of their mailbox. She rolls down the window and holds up a small square piece of paper. “I got it! I got it!”
Dad thrusts his fist in the air. “That’s great!”
I send her the thumbs-up sign, and even Cal calls out, “All right! Let’s go for a ride.”
Smiling, she waves, rolls up the window, and puts the car in reverse. And she’s still smiling and waving as she hits the mailbox and it crashes on the asphalt.
When Zachary Beaver Came to Town Page 3
