When Zachary Beaver Came to Town

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  I’d ridden in a plane once when we flew to my grandmother’s funeral. The stewardesses served drinks, handed out peanuts, and asked if we had any garbage. A little kid threw up on one of them. But I decide not to mention any of that.

  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course, to be an international stewardess, I’d have to know another language.” She says international stewardess like it’s as official as a U.S. ambassador job. “Juan was helping me learn Spanish before …” She gazes into the yard.

  I should have listened to Dad and enrolled in Spanish class last year instead of shop. He told me learning a foreign language would come in handy. Just as I start to scooch toward her, Scarlett stands, stretching her arms above her head. “I’ve got to cook dinner. Mom will be home from work any minute. You can come in if you want.”

  If I want? Yes, I want. I follow her into her house, which is dark and smells musty like an attic. Clothes cover shabby furniture and toys litter the floor. Scarlett breezes into the kitchen, dodging the whole mess. I stub my toe on a giant baby doll with batches of hair torn out.

  Scarlett fills a pot with water. “Toby, would you get my radio? It’s in my room.”

  I glance around for a door.

  “Go down the hall. It’s the first door on the right.”

  In the room, two unmade twin beds have matching floral bedspreads, but it’s as if there is an imaginary line drawn down the middle of the floor. One side has a ton of stuffed animals and dolls without arms and heads. I swear Tara is headed for the women’s penitentiary.

  The other side of the room has Bobby Sherman posters taped on every square inch of the wall. I remember signing the Autograph Hound sitting at the head of her bed. It was the last day of school. I should have written something great like Peace or Stay cool. But I signed, See you next year, Toby Wilson.

  I walk over to her dresser and pick up a cologne bottle. Wind Song. My hands shake, but I remove the cap anyway and smell it. The smell is faint, so I spray a little on my hand and take a close sniff.

  “Ummm!” Tara stands in the doorway, the plant pot gone from her head. “Scarlett, Toby’s spraying your perfume!”

  I put down the bottle, grab the radio off her dresser, and head out. My face burns, and I know the scent gives me away.

  Scarlett drops pasta in the water while I wipe my hand on my jeans.

  With hands on her hips, Tara says, “Toby tried your perfume.”

  Shaking my head, I talk fast. “I knocked the bottle over when I grabbed the radio. Then the top fell off and I put it back.”

  “Na-ah!” Tara says. “You sprayed on some perfume!”

  “Oh, Tara,” Scarlett says. “Scram.”

  The phone rings and Scarlett lunges for it, picking up the receiver before it finishes the first ring. There’s no denying it. This girl has answered many phone calls.

  “What do you want?” she says into the phone. “It’s Juan,” she mouths.

  Tara pulls at my shirt. “I want to see him again.”

  Ignoring Tara, I try to hear Scarlett’s every word and not look interested. I watch the pot of water boil.

  Scarlett sighs. “I don’t want to talk to you.” She sounds cold, almost mean, but I’m thinking, Yeah, cool, she doesn’t want to talk to you.

  Tara tugs at my shirt again. “I want to see him!”

  “I have company,” Scarlett tells Juan.

  Yeah, Juan, I think, go lick your wounds. She’s got a new man.

  “Who?” Scarlett glances my way.

  I swallow.

  “Toby Wilson.”

  Why did she have to say that? My stomach dribbles like a basketball. I see Juan towering over me with his number-five iron. I should have sent off for that Atlas Body Building course.

  “Don’t call back.” Scarlett hangs up the phone. She bites her lower lip and tears fill her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, reaching for her arm.

  But Scarlett steps away from my touch, shakes her head, fumbles through a drawer, and grabs a can opener. “Nothing.”

  It doesn’t matter. I already know. It’s the words she’s etched all over her notebooks since fifth grade—Scarlett Stalling loves Juan Garcia.

  Tara stomps her feet. “I WANT TO SEE THE FAT MAN AGAIN!”

  “Tara, stop screaming!” yells Scarlett. She sighs, and her voice softens. “Toby, would you mind?”

  “No,” I lie. “Not at all.” I leave the girl of my dreams in the kitchen, pining over some other guy, while I take her possessed sister to see Zachary Beaver. Loser is my middle name.

  Chapter Eleven

  The foil is missing from the pan of German chocolate cake and flies swarm around the icing. I hunt around for the foil, thinking maybe it flew off in a gust of wind. Something shimmers on Tara’s wrist—a bracelet made of aluminum foil. She sees me looking and quickly hides her arm behind her back.

  I snap. “You took the foil!”

  “We need to be shiny. Shiners are suppose to be shiny.”

  It’s no use now. I pick up the cake, inspect it for damage, and decide it looks okay. Except for the flies. I swat them away, but not before they land on the sweet icing and rub their legs together, celebrating their good luck.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t eat the cake.”

  Tara frowns and plants her hands on her hips. Her fingernails wear chips of the same red as Scarlett’s toenails. “My momma says it’s not nice to steal!”

  Cal’s bike is parked in front of Zachary’s trailer. I’m wondering why he didn’t tell me he was coming here, then suddenly I remember the letter to Wayne. I feel sick. Before knocking at the door, I turn and tell Tara, “You can’t stay long. Only one minute. No, make that one second.”

  Cal answers the door. “Where have you been? I went by your house, but you weren’t there.” He tugs at one of Tara’s ponytails. “Hey, squirt!”

  Tara doesn’t say a word. She just stands frozen in the doorway, mouth open, eyes wide, staring at Zachary.

  Zachary stares back, then fills his mouth with air, puffing out his cheeks.

  Tara screams, squeezes past me, and rushes out the door. “He’s blowing up! The fat man is blowing up!” She screams all the way across the parking lot, past Wylie Womack’s stand on the square, and we still hear her scream after she disappears around the Bowl-a-Rama toward home. I want to shake Zachary’s hand. Instead I laugh. Cal does too, and now even Zachary smiles.

  Finally we calm down, and we’re quiet for a long moment as the wind howls outside the trailer. Cal stretches out on the floor, his chin resting on his palm.

  Zachary wrinkles his nose. “What’s that I smell?”

  I hold out the pan. “Miss Myrtie Mae’s German chocolate cake. She sent it over for you.”

  “Not that. The perfume.”

  My face burns as I remember my close call to victory.

  “Nothing.”

  “You smell like a French prostitute.”

  “Do you want the cake or not?”

  “Well, slice it, Cowboy,” Zachary says.

  “Yeah, Cowboy,” says Cal, smirking. “Get that chow served.”

  I frown at Cal.

  Zachary tells me where he keeps the knife and the plates. A minute later, I’m serving the cake like some cook on a cattle drive. While I put the cake on the plates, I notice the new window. “Who fixed it?”

  “The sheriff,” Zachary says. “What a goofball. Does his eye always do that?”

  “All the time,” Cal says.

  I look down at Zachary’s foot. The loose gauze covering has been replaced by a tighter fit. I figure the sheriff must have sent the doctor like he said he would.

  Zachary stares at the piece of cake I hand him, his face scrunched up. “What? No forks?” I’m happy using my hands, but I traipse over to the kitchen drawer and dig out a fork for Zachary and Cal. Zachary takes it and says, “The napkins are over the sink.”

  I turn to give Cal a fork and napkin, but he licks his fin
gers and announces, “I’m through.” Sure enough, not a crumb is left on his plate.

  I don’t care for Miss Myrtie Mae’s fancy salads that jiggle, but she can bake better than anybody in Antler. I love the rich icing best, mixed with its tiny pieces of pecans.

  Zachary snarls as I devour my slice, using my fingers. “You guys are pigs.”

  “Yep,” says Cal, then he belches.

  When Zachary asks for another piece, I say, “Get it yourself. I’m not your mom.” Then I remember. I am a loser and a sucker and an insensitive pig.

  “How did your mom die anyway?” Cal asks.

  Zachary ignores him. He grunts, raising himself from his seat, and wobbles to the other side of the trailer. I feel the floor move and pray the trailer won’t tilt.

  Cal waits for Zachary to answer, and when he doesn’t, Cal tells me, “Heard about the fire at the Grand Ole Opry.”

  My stomach feels queasy.

  “A fire at the Grand Ole Opry?” Zachary asks. “I didn’t see anything about it on the news.”

  “It was just a small fire,” I say, and this time I almost believe it. But the way Zachary stares at me, with one eyebrow lifted, I think he knows it’s not true.

  Cal wipes crumbs off his mouth. “When do you think your mom will be back?”

  I shrug and say, “I don’t know.”

  Zachary returns to his seat with an enormous piece of cake. I guess he figures, What the heck? We know he didn’t get fat eating carrot sticks. “Where is your mom?”

  “Nashville.”

  “Trying out for a singing contest,” Cal adds.

  “What does she sing?” Zachary asks. “Hillbilly music?”

  “Yep,” Cal says.

  I glare at him. “No, she doesn’t. Country music. You know, like Tammy Wynette.”

  Zachary looks like he’s about to laugh. “Is that her name?”

  “No. My mom’s name is Opalina Wilson.”

  Zachary snorts, and I want to cram that giant piece of cake down his throat.

  Cal stretches on the floor again, tucking his hands behind his neck. “Tell us more about Paris.”

  Zachary tells us about visiting the Louvre. “It has 350 rooms.”

  He sounds like an encyclopedia. I yawn, doing my best to act bored. Zachary Beaver is full of it.

  “How did you climb the stairs?” I ask.

  We lock eyes, and he says, “I used the elevator. Ever seen one of those?”

  “Doesn’t it have a weight limit?” I ask.

  “Very funny, Cowboy.” He turns to Cal, who is hanging on every word.

  I’m grouchy and feeling mean. I should be eating spaghetti at Scarlett’s house or at least some meal that Mom cooked. Instead, I’m eating German chocolate cake in a dark, cramped trailer.

  Cal sits up and out of the blue asks, “Did you get baptized in France?”

  Zachary frowns. “Why do you want to know so much about my baptism?”

  “Well,” Cal says, “you never got around to having the minister fill out your baptism information in the Bible.”

  “I didn’t say I got baptized. I said I almost got baptized.”

  Cal and I look at each other. We know what we heard.

  “How does someone almost get baptized?” I ask.

  Zachary stares at me a long moment before saying, “I’m getting tired of answering you country idiots’ dumb questions.”

  Jumping to my feet, I say, “Don’t bother. I’m leaving anyway. See ya!” I slam the door on the way out.

  Cal catches up with me as I reach the Bowl-a-Rama. “Why’d you have to get him mad?”

  “If you want to stick around and let him make fun of you, go ahead.”

  “Ah, he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just lonely.”

  “Oh, wow, Cal. That’s a hard one to figure out. He’s staying by himself in a trailer in the middle of Nowhere, Texas.” Suddenly what Sheriff Levi told me at Miss Myrtie Mae’s house about juvenile hall comes back to me, and I feel a twinge of guilt.

  At home, a letter is lying on my bed. It has a Nashville address and it’s postmarked Tuesday. That means Mom wrote it before the contest. I rip it open.

  Dear Toby,

  The contest is in a couple of days, and I’m as nervous as a mouse in a cat kennel. But when I’m onstage at the Grand Ole Opry and the lights shine down on me, I’ll be fine. Heck, it’ll be all I can do to keep myself from bending down and kissing the stage. Imagine me, Opalina Wilson, standing in the very spot as Tammy Wynette, Loretta Lynn, and Conway Twitty. Mercy! It’ll be like standing on holy ground.

  Critter, what I’m about to write is pretty darn hard for me. And I’m writing it before the contest because I wanted you to know this has nothing to do with whether I win or not. Me and your dad have been having a rough time of it lately. You’ve heard us arguing. Or I guess you’ve heard me hollering and seen your dad stomping off. I guess I need some time to figure everything out.

  And don’t you go blaming yourself. You’re the best son a mother could have. I’m not leaving you, Critter. Your dad has my phone number, and I’m only a dime away. Come to think of it, that would be a good title for a song—“Only a Dime Away from Your Love.” I know this will take some getting used to. Please don’t hate me. It would tear my heart to shreds. I’ll write you soon with my new address.

  Love always,

  Mom

  I rip the letter into confetti, then throw the pieces out the window.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s the second Saturday of the month, and that means worm day—the day I help Dad box up and deliver worms to the bait shops around the lakes. To Dad, it’s another exciting day with worms. To me, it means getting up before dawn.

  Mom always fixed pancakes on the day we made deliveries. She’d say, “You need a breakfast that will stick to your ribs.” As if boxing up worms and driving from bait shop to bait shop was hard manual labor. I’d give anything to have a stack of those golden cakes with maple syrup dripping over them. Since Mom left, I’ve woken up starving because Dad’s suppers are heavy on vegetables and light on meat. They slide right through, leaving me hungry ten minutes later.

  Downstairs the house is dark, except for the yellow glow from the hood light over the stove, where Dad stands, frying spatula in hand. A lopsided stack of pancakes sits on the table.

  Dad looks up, kind of grinning. “I’m starting to get the hang of this. Don’t worry about eating the ones on the table. These are going to be better.”

  I head toward the pantry. “I just want cereal.” I don’t even have to look to know he’s disappointed, and for some reason I feel satisfied knowing that I’ve hurt him.

  Later at the table, Dad reads the paper while I try to hike my eyelids enough to see the spoon to my mouth. I focus on the Elvis plate hanging on the wall. Mom bought that two summers ago, when we went to Memphis on vacation. It hangs between the North Carolina plate and the Florida one. I don’t know what Elvis has in common with Florida and North Carolina, but Mom says he balances out the wall.

  Outside the sky is pitch-black, and the air feels unstirred because the wind hasn’t picked up yet. From a distance I hear the moan of the train passing through town. Light slips underneath the shelter’s door because Dad keeps it on over the worms at all times. If he doesn’t and it starts storming, the worms will split, heading for the hills or wherever worms escape.

  The boxes line the shelf with labels that tell us the dates we last changed the soil. Some have Separated marked on them, meaning we’ve sorted them by age. Dad thinks it’s amazing that in three months a white threadlike worm develops into a four-inch worm with a pale ring around it. I think Dad needs to get out in the real world more.

  Dad hands me a tower of round cartons. “We’ll need about a hundred boxes this morning.”

  I know the procedure. Fill boxes with peat moss. Dig for a worm. Worm in box. Repeat twelve times. Lid on. Next box. Dad always gives a baker’s dozen—thirteen to a box.


  I guess to most people it would feel creepy to fumble through warm dirt, feeling hundreds of worms wiggling against their skin. And it’s not my favorite thing to do, but I’ve gotten used to it. After all, I’m Toby Wilson, son of worm man.

  Dad flicks on the cassette player he keeps on the top shelf. Classical music bounces off the tin walls. Mom wrote a song about Dad digging for worms while listening to Beethoven. It’s called “Wolfgang Wiggle.”

  The packing takes us an hour, and we let the piano sonatas fill the quiet. Maybe Mom would have stayed if Dad did something more interesting than raise worms and work at the post office. But it probably wouldn’t matter anyway. She wanted to be a singer ever since I remember. I wonder if she wanted to be one when she was my age, like Scarlett wanting to be a model or a stewardess. Maybe living in a place like Antler makes people latch on to big dreams instead of drying up and blowing away.

  Finally we pile the cartons into the truck and head east to the bait shop on Lake Kiezer. At Claude, we turn off the highway and onto the road that winds through Palo Duro Canyon. The canyon breaks begin about a mile out of Claude. They seem to rise out of nowhere and then suddenly the land flattens again.

  We cross at the Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River, only it’s nothing but red mud today. Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know how the ranchers and farmers are making it this year, dry as it’s been.”

  “Cal said Mr. Boggis lost his cotton crop.”

  “Makes a man glad he’s raising worms.”

  I wonder if he’s being funny, because it sounds funny, but Dad isn’t the type to joke. I check out his face. He’s serious. “You know, Charlie McKnight may be tight with his money, but it’s probably what’s saved his farm over the lean years.”

  “Why did you leave Dallas?” I ask. Dad’s never given me a straight answer when I’ve asked before. In Dallas, my uncle and aunt are lawyers in my grandfather’s firm. They drive nice cars and live in big fancy houses.

  The creases dig deeper into Dad’s face, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the road. “There’s nothing in Dallas worth staying for.”