When Zachary Beaver Came to Town

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  “Aren’t you going to the funeral?”

  Ferris shakes his head. “I’ll pay my respects later. The McKnights will understand. They’re good people.” He looks up at me through his puffy eyes. “You better get a move on, boy. You’ll be late.”

  I turn to leave and Ferris says, “You know what they say is true.”

  “What who says?”

  “What everyone in town says about me going yellow. That’s me, all right.”

  At first I don’t know what the heck he’s talking about, but then I figure he’s referring to what happened to his leg and not serving in the Korean War. Maybe Wayne’s death made Ferris remember. And I guess the Jim Beam helps him forget.

  I creep backward out of the cafe and out of the Bowl-a-Rama, across the street to Zachary’s trailer.

  Zachary is looking out the window, his forehead pressed against the new glass. When I knock, he hollers, “Come in.”

  A foul odor nearly knocks me over as I enter. It smells rotten like a sewer. “What stinks?”

  Zachary’s face turns red. He’s sitting in his love seat, looking at a National Geographic magazine. “This town stinks.”

  The smell is coming from inside the trailer, but I don’t feel like arguing. “Don’t you lock your door?”

  “I kind of got out of the habit. Have a seat.”

  “You ought to lock your doors. Crooks live in small towns too.” I yank off my suit coat, loosen my tie, and flop on the floor.

  “Who died?” Zachary asks.

  “How do you know someone died?”

  “Well, for one thing, you’re wearing a monkey suit. And the whole town’s been quiet for the last four days. I’ve had only two knocks on the door. You and Kate. Neither one of you bothered to stay.”

  I’ve been in such a fog the last few days, I forgot about the sheriff’s plans for Zachary. He should have been long gone by now. Maybe Wayne’s death postponed them.

  Zachary waits for me to answer. “Well? Who died?”

  I try to sound casual. “A guy who was in Vietnam. He w-was—” I swallow. “He was really great.” My eyes sting, and I bite down on my tongue.

  Zachary notices. He turns his head and studies the wall. Outside, the thunder rolls again. “It’s weird here,” he says. “You get lightning and thunder, but no rain.”

  “We get rain. Well, sometimes.”

  “Yeah,” Zachary says, “that war is bad stuff.”

  I nod, swallowing the big lump in my throat. I want to change the subject. Right now I’d even listen to his lies about going to Europe. I don’t know what to say, so I blurt out, “If you talk to the minister, he’ll baptize you.”

  Zachary stares a hole in me. “I’m not getting baptized.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “Why are you so interested in my soul? I never took you as the religious type.”

  I glance up at the bookshelf and see the albums. “Where else have you been?”

  He smiles, and I’m relieved I’ve picked something that he’ll talk about for a while so my mind might escape thoughts of Wayne’s funeral. I can hardly smell the stink anymore. “Holland,” he says. “Have I told you about Holland?”

  “No.” I lean my head against the wall and pretend to listen to him talk about Dutch windmills and tulips, but it’s no use. I can’t stop thinking about Cal and his family. And Wayne.

  Zachary sounds like the book reports we give in geography—naming capitals, agriculture products, and rivers. He has passed Holland and moved on to Switzerland when we hear the bugle. He stops talking while taps plays far off in the cemetery. A shiver runs through my body.

  When it’s finished, Zachary says, “Wow! I’ve only heard that on TV.”

  Later, someone knocks at the trailer door.

  “It’s open!” Zachary hollers, and I realize when he says that, he’s grown sort of comfortable in Antler.

  The door opens and Cal walks in, hands in his pants pockets and tie loose around his neck. A sheen of sweat covers his face, which is redder than his hair. He stares at me like I’ve betrayed him. My chest tightens because I know that’s exactly what I’ve done.

  “Pull up a seat,” Zachary says, holding his hand out to the floor. “I was telling Cowboy about Switzerland.”

  Cal’s hands pop out of his pockets, and dollar bills are crammed in his fists. “Here.”

  He throws the money at me. Coins clank to the floor and join the one-dollar and five-dollar bills. “Here’s your forty-six bucks I owe you. Now we’re even.”

  I don’t move one inch.

  Zachary seems flustered, looking from me to Cal. “What’s going on?”

  “You both deserve each other!” Cal yells. His eyes flicker, and tears make rivers down his cheeks. “You’re both big fat liars!”

  He turns toward Zachary. “Switzerland? You’ve never been there. You’ve never been anywhere besides county fairs and one-ring circuses. You’re in a freak show. You are a freak.” He marches over to the curtain and yanks it back. The smell is stronger. “See.”

  Behind the curtain is a toilet—a regular-size toilet with handles attached to the floor to help Zachary pull himself up. A shower stall is in the corner, with no door. A mop with a washcloth tied to it leans next to the shower wall. And between the stall and toilet are books. Lots and lots of books with titles like Switzerland and A Pictorial Guide to Holland and Seattle Sights.

  Zachary studies the floor, reminding me of that night in the back of the truck at the drive-in. He is trying to disappear.

  Cal turns toward me. “And you—everybody knows you’re lying about your mom. She’s not coming back. She’s never, ever coming back. Like Wayne!”

  He heads toward the door, turns, and yells, “IT STINKS IN HERE!” Then he storms out of the trailer. But I don’t follow. I sit there on the floor with forty-six dollars at my feet while my gut tears into a million pieces and sheets of rain pour from the sky.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The day after Wayne’s funeral, Dad barely speaks to me. And although he’s usually quiet, this quiet is different. It’s heavy and thick, and I feel like I’m drowning in it. After breakfast I head outside, looking for a place to escape. But there’s nowhere in Antler to escape. Everyone in town except Ferris and me went to the funeral, and they probably all know that we didn’t. I head over to the Bowl-a-Rama.

  The sky is clear again. Except for a few mud puddles, everything looks fresh and clean from the rain. But it’s also humid and sticky. Across the street at Zachary’s trailer, I see Sheriff Levi’s car and Coy Davis’s pickup. Coy pumps the septic tanks for the folks who live in the country around Antler, and right now his wide hose is attached to the bottom of the trailer.

  Inside the Bowl-a-Rama, Ferris leans over the soda fountain counter in the cafe, rubbing his temples and groaning. “Of all days for Ima Jean to call in sick. Don’t ever start drinking, Toby. Next to money—”

  “It’s the root of all evil.”

  Ferris flinches. “Who told you that?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard it once or twice.” He must have forgotten our entire conversation yesterday.

  “I’m going to have to close today. I can’t cook and clean and wait on tables at the same time.”

  “I’ll help you, Ferris.”

  He studies me a moment, then nods. “You got a job. The pay ain’t great, but the food ain’t too shabby.”

  The Good Luck, Opalina! sign is gone, and I figure Cal is right. Everyone in town knows Mom isn’t coming back. Cal knew all along. But he never said a word, just like he never let on that he knew Zachary had never visited all those places he had claimed.

  While Ferris cooks today’s special—barbecue beef and potato salad—I put napkins and silverware on the tables.

  “What side does the fork go on?” I ask him.

  “It don’t matter. Just so you put it in grabbin’ distance. I ain’t had a customer complain about my table etiquette yet.”

  An hour befo
re the main lunch crowd hits, I set out the ketchup bottles and the salt and pepper shakers. Sheriff Levi comes in, sits at the counter, and orders a glass of iced tea and a hamburger. Ferris slaps a frozen patty on the grill and talks to the sheriff through the kitchen window that looks out onto the counter. “What’s all that carrying on over at the trailer?”

  “Mercy, Ferris! His holding tank needed emptying. Couldn’t you smell it?”

  “Nope,” Ferris says. “I’ve never been much good at smelling anything. That’s why I wasn’t worth a dadblame thing at hunting. My daddy said the best hunters can smell their prey. Any word on that fella coming back for Zachary?”

  I take my time arranging the salt and pepper shakers, making my way closer to the counter.

  “Nope,” the sheriff says, “not a word. I put off dealing with that for far too long. This morning I had to make a call to social services.”

  “That’s a shame,” Ferris says. “Jalapeños?”

  “You betcha. Not too many, though. They tear up my insides.” I pour more tea in the sheriff’s glass, hoping he’ll keep talking about Zachary. “Did some research on the boy,” he says. “His only relative is an uncle, and he’s in jail serving time for armed robbery.”

  Ferris places the buns on the grill. “What happened to his parents?”

  “Couldn’t find out a thing about the father except that he left when Zachary was a baby. But his mother died two years ago—Iola Beaver. Found her in the New York Times obituaries. That’s how I found the name of her minister, too. I called him up. He told me her funeral drew quite a crowd. It was a circus. Media showed up. She was like her son—huge. They even had to make a special casket to fit her. The minister said, when everybody saw Zachary at the funeral, things got way out of hand—people pushing and shoving for a better view, cameras and microphones aimed at Zachary.”

  Ferris snaps his tongue. “People don’t know when to quit.”

  I think of the picture of the man in the Guinness Book of World Records who was buried in a piano case. Now it all makes sense. Zachary probably didn’t get baptized because he didn’t want a crowd gathering like at his mother’s funeral. It’s weird how Zachary didn’t mind people traipsing through the trailer, staring at him, but being outside in the real world was different.

  Ferris pours some potato chips on the plate next to the hamburger, then sets the plate in front of Sheriff Levi. “What about this Paulie Rankin guy? Is he on the up-and-up?”

  “Believe it or not,” says Sheriff Levi, “he’s the legal guardian. Before Zachary’s uncle went to jail, he signed over guardianship to Paulie Rankin. I just wish I knew where the heck he is now.” He takes a big bite of the burger, and a few jalapeño slices slip out.

  “When are they coming to get the boy?”

  “Saturday,” the sheriff says with a mouth full of hamburger. He swallows, then washes it down with tea. “I told the social worker I’d keep an eye on him until then. She needs the time to find out where to put him. He’s a special case. Not anyone will take in a six-hundred-pound teenager.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ferris says. “That boy could eat you out of house and home.” He and the sheriff smirk, but the smiles fall from their faces as quickly as they came. Clearing his throat, Ferris walks over to the register and pushes a key. The cash drawer opens with a ding. He flips up one of the hinges, pulls out an envelope, and hands it to the sheriff. “Here’s that money Rankin sent. Give it to the boy so he has a little something.”

  Sheriff Levi nods and tucks the envelope in his shirt pocket.

  A million solutions tumble together in my head. Why can’t Zachary live with Ferris? Or the sheriff? Or Miss Myrtie Mae? But Ferris lives in a small room in the Bowl-a-Rama. The sheriff seems to prefer living with dogs, and Miss Myrtie Mae has her hands full with the crazy old judge. I’m wishing more and more that any second Paulie Rankin would return to town and whisk Zachary away to his life on the road. That would be better than living with strangers.

  The usual lunch crowd starts trickling in—the Shriners and farmers, Miss Myrtie Mae and the Judge, and Earline. I quickly learn this was the worst place to hide. They all talk about the funeral.

  “It was beautiful and sad,” Earline says, rubbing the side of her nose. Today she’s without her blazer, and her short-sleeved dress shows the fatty backs of her upper arms. And though Earline doesn’t say, I know she knows that I wasn’t there because she mentions Cal several times—how brave he was, not even crying when his entire family did, how he shook everyone’s hand and thanked them for coming to the funeral, how he handed Kate his handkerchief. I feel like the biggest jerk in Texas.

  When the lunch crowd dies down, I fill the sink with sudsy hot water. A second later Ferris says, “Toby, someone is here to see you.”

  Scarlett stands in the doorway wearing a pink sundress and Dr. Scholl’s wooden sandals. Her toenails match her dress. I’m wishing I had on anything but an undershirt and the huge white apron tied around my waist.

  Ferris watches us from the stove, a silly grin on his whiskered face. When he sees me frowning, he clears his throat and turns back around.

  Scarlett steps toward me, holding out a box—the box I used for the pearls. “Toby, thanks for the necklace, but I can’t keep it.”

  All the worrying and plotting I did, wondering how to get those pearls back, and she solves my problem so easy. But still, I’m disappointed. “Why?” I ask.

  “It’s too nice a gift, and my mom said I have to return it to you. And …” She blushes.

  “And what?”

  “Toby … I just don’t like you that way.”

  Now I blush. I look at Ferris’s back, but if he heard, he doesn’t act like it. He keeps scrubbing the grill.

  Scarlett glances over her shoulder at Ferris and lowers her voice. “I mean, I like you. I really like you. Just not that way.”

  She starts to leave.

  I want to block the door, but my feet won’t budge. “Scarlett?”

  When she turns around, I try to imagine a wart on her perfect nose or a deep crooked scar mapping across her smooth cheek. But I can’t. I feel helpless, desperate. “You can still keep the pearls. It could be a friendship gift.”

  “I wouldn’t wear them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well … pearls kind of remind me of something an old lady would wear. I’m sorry.”

  I smile. “That’s okay. My mom never wore them either.”

  Scarlett tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and tilts her head in a way that makes me melt. “Toby Wilson, you are the nicest boy in Antler.” She walks out of the kitchen and out of the cafe, her sandals slapping the linoleum floor.

  Ferris turns around, holding a sponge. “There goes one little heartbreaker. You okay, buddy?”

  I can only nod.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ima Jean is still sick, so I work another day for Ferris. After finishing the dishes and wiping down the counters, Ferris hands me a plate piled high with today’s special—spaghetti and meatballs. “Take this over to Zachary on your way home.”

  I don’t feel like seeing him, and I doubt he feels like seeing me much either. I leave the plate on the steps, dashing off after I knock on his door.

  When I’ve almost reached home, I see Juan Garcia waiting on my front steps. He leans back, propped on his elbows, chewing a piece of Johnson grass. My breath quickens and my legs wobble with each step.

  As I get closer, I notice a cardboard box next to him—the kind used for moving or maybe for burying short eighth graders that give other guys’ girlfriends pearl necklaces. I stop a few yards away from him, wipe my clammy palms on my jeans, and say, “Hey.”

  Juan frowns and wrinkles his forehead. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”

  “Fine,” I manage to say. I glance around, trying to plan an escape route. Juan is blocking my entrance to the front door.

  “Too bad about Wayne,” Juan says, standing and walking up to me.

  �
�Yeah. He was a great guy.” I look up at Juan.

  “Nice house,” he says.

  “Thanks. It’s old.” I try to downplay our home because I know Juan lives on the Mexican side of town, where the shabbiest houses are.

  “We even get mice sometimes,” I add.

  He nods, but I get the feeling he isn’t thinking about my house. “I need to ask you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Scarlett … she says you’re the nicest guy.”

  “Me? I got her fooled.” My voice squeaks, and I hope it doesn’t sound as scared as I’m feeling.

  He frowns and I quickly say, “We’re just friends.” And the truth of those words sting.

  “She says I should be more like you.” He studies me, his jaw tilted and eyes narrowed.

  “She does?”

  “Yeah.” Juan squares his shoulders. “What does that mean?”

  “Heck, I don’t know. I’m just nice to her.” Then I remember what Scarlett told me at Gossimer Lake. “I mean, I guess I wouldn’t stand her up or anything.” As soon I say it, I regret it.

  He grimaces. “Is that what this is all about, her grandpa’s party?”

  “I guess it was really important to her.”

  Juan looks away, his head bobbing. Big sweaty circles under his arms mark his T-shirt. He shakes his head. “Man!”

  “She said you didn’t even give her a reason.” I hope I haven’t said too much, but his eye stays focused on the street and his head keeps bobbing.

  “I had something to do,” he says. “I try to talk to her, but she hangs up when I call and when I go over there, she slams the door in my face.”

  “I know she likes you.” I swallow.

  “Yeah?”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  Juan smiles, shaking his head. “Women!”

  I shake my head too. “Yeah, women!”

  “And how do you handle the little sister?”

  “Tara?”

  “Yeah, Scarlett says you’re really nice to her.”

  “Can’t help you there,” I say.