I grab the ball. “Want to catch a few, Judge?” IT
A few seconds later we’re tossing the ball back and forth. He throws pretty good, but his reflexes are slow and he misses every one of my pitches. He takes forever walking toward the ball, and I’m hoping his back doesn’t give out as he squats to pick it up each time.
As we toss back and forth, something comes to me. Dad and I used to toss the ball in the backyard. I was only five or six, but he bought a mitt, small enough to fit my hands. At first he stood only a few feet from me, and I told him that he was too close. Of course, as soon as he stepped back, I couldn’t catch the ball. Gradually he sneaked a few steps toward me. He thought I didn’t see, but I did.
The Judge waits for another toss, but this time I step closer. And for once he catches the ball. Then he smiles real big, slips the ball in his pocket, and whistles on the way back to the porch.
Ferris is writing today’s lunch special on the chalkboard: Liver and Onions, Mashed Potatoes and Green Beans.
“Hey, Toby. Won’t need you for the dishes today. Ima Jean got over the flu.”
“I know. I came to ask you a favor.”
He puts down the chalk and brushes the white dust from his fingers onto his pants. “I’m listening.”
“I need you to baptize someone.”
Ferris grips the counter. “Whoa, son! The preacher is down the road at the parsonage.”
“It can’t be Reverend Newton.”
“I’m not a preacher, Toby.”
“But you almost were.”
“Almost and is ain’t the same.”
“Don’t you know how to do it?”
He shakes his head and pulls out the tray of salt and pepper shakers from under the counter. “What is all this about?”
“Zachary. He promised his mom he’d get baptized. Then she died.”
“Why can’t you ask Reverend Newton to do it?”
“Because he’d want to use the baptistery.”
Ferris chuckles. “He’s mighty proud of that tank.”
“If word gets out, Ferris, there will be a crowd like—”
“Like when his momma died?”
“Right.”
He scratches his chin. “Well, how in the world would you baptize that boy without a baptistery?”
“Gossimer Lake.”
“Nope.” Ferris starts putting the salt and pepper shakers on the tables.
“It’s the only way.”
“No one is supposed to be down there doing anything. Sorry excuse for a lake, but I don’t make the laws.”
“We’re going to do it at sundown.”
Ferris shakes his head again. “Nope. No, sir. Count me out.”
“Ferris, we need you. Please be there. Sundown at Gossimer Lake.” I leave, hoping my words will bother his conscience. Because it won’t work without Ferris. It won’t work at all.
Malcolm is easier to persuade. He’s just finished mowing the school grounds when I get there. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the layer of sweat glistening on his red face.
After explaining our plan, I tell him, “You’re the strongest person we know.” I almost gag, but it’s the truth.
“Well, I do work out.” Malcolm locks his hands behind his thick neck, making sure I get a good view of his biceps.
“You can’t tell anyone, Malcolm. Not even your mom.”
“Why would I tell her?”
I stare at him and he blushes. “I won’t tell her.”
Before walking away, I say, “Sundown.”
“Sundown,” he repeats.
At home, I get my Bible and pull out the paper with the verse Miss Myrtie Mae gave me. If Ferris doesn’t show up, it might have to do. I look up baptism in the concordance and find Scriptures about Jesus’ baptism. I read the verses, scouting for something to say if we have to do it alone. But as I read the story, I forget about searching for verses. I read that Jesus goes to John the Baptist and asks to be baptized, but John doesn’t think he’s worthy enough to baptize Jesus. Then Jesus says, “Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness.” So John baptizes him.
I grab the phone and dial the number I’ve known since Mom started working there five years ago.
Ferris answers. “Bowl-a-Rama.”
“Ferris,” I say, “Matthew 3:14-15.”
“Toby, I told you no.”
“Read it, Ferris.” And I hang up before he has a chance to say no again.
Chapter Twenty-one
I’m feeling jumpy. It’s four o’clock, and I should be memorizing Bible verses for tonight in case Ferris doesn’t show, but my mind won’t settle on the words.
Outside my window, Cal and Kate pull into the driveway from finishing their work in the fields. Mr. Garcia’s truck is parked outside their yard, and Juan is in the back waiting with the other workers, a bandanna tied around his neck. Each wears a white T-shirt and long pants, but the workers are different ages—the youngest looks about ten years old. The oldest looks like a grandfather.
Mr. Garcia returns to the truck after Mr. McKnight hands him an envelope with the cash to pay the workers. Last December, Mr. McKnight took all the workers to Clifton’s Dry Goods and bought them shoes. Now that I think about it, that doesn’t seem too stingy.
Juan unties his bandanna and wipes the back of his neck. As the truck pulls out of the driveway, he looks up at my window and greets me with a jerk of his head. I wave back.
At sundown I gather my Bible and Miss Myrtie Mae’s verse. Outside, Kate and Cal are waiting for me in the truck.
“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Kate says as she puts the truck in reverse.
Together we ride to Zachary’s trailer. Antler has rolled up the streets for the night. All the shops are closed, and Earline is pulling out of the real estate office in her old Volkswagen. The muffler roars and spits down the road long after she disappears. Under the elm Wylie Womack closes his giant umbrella above his stand. One by one, he places the syrup bottles in a box.
Cal and I get the steps out of the pickup truck, then the three of us knock on Zachary’s door. It takes him only a minute to answer.
“What’s wrong?” Zachary asks.
Kate steps forward and says, “Zachary Beaver, we’re here to take you to your baptism.”
Zachary backs away from the door. “What?”
“Your baptism,” Kate explains. “It’s what you want, Zachary. You know it is. Let us help you.”
He shakes his head, his eyes wide. “I’m not going to any church.” He backs up until he bumps into the love seat.
“You’re not,” I say. “We’re going to do it.”
“How?” he asks.
“We have it all planned,” Cal says. “Trust us.”
And all of a sudden I feel nervous because I can’t remember one word of the Bible. And I don’t remember where to find the story about John the Baptist.
Zachary looks at Kate, then at Cal and me. “Okay,” he says, and the word comes out so small that I wonder if I imagined he said it. But he lifts the gold box from the shelf and steps toward us, and now I know I heard right. Across the parking lot, Wylie watches us as he finishes packing up the bottles and cups.
Zachary squeezes through the door, following us toward the truck. His breaths come short and fast like he’s climbing a mountain, and he must rest after each step he takes. We get in after him. Kate waits and doesn’t slip behind the steering wheel until she sees Zachary safely seated. Then she gets in and turns the key. Only nothing happens. “Rats!” she snaps, and tries again.
Cal leans around the cab, sticking his head in the window. “Are you sure you have it in park?”
“Of course. Now hush—I’m trying to concentrate.” Again and again she tries, but the engine at most makes a weak starting sound, each time dying, along with our plan.
Wylie rides up in his golf cart. “Need a ride?” he asks in a brittle, raspy whisper, and they’re the f
irst words I’ve heard Wylie Womack say in five years.
“Oh, could you, Wylie?” Kate asks as if Wylie speaking was nothing out of the ordinary. Ten minutes later Wylie crosses the street to the Sunset Motel, his wheelchair humming in the night air.
With his belly pressing against the golf cart’s dashboard, Zachary takes up most of the room, causing Kate’s skinny behind to hang halfway off the seat. Cal and I have no choice. We walk behind the cart, heading toward the lake.
When we pass the Bowl-a-Rama, I notice the cafe light on. I wonder if Ferris is in his room, reading his Bible or drinking a glass of Jim Beam.
Kate turns right toward the lake. The wheels on her side raise off the ground, and Wylie’s syrup bottles rattle in the box. But the tires lower once Kate straightens the steering wheel.
At the lake there is no sign of Ferris, but Malcolm waits, pacing and swinging his arms. “What took you so long?” he asks, his voice quivering.
“We’re here now,” I say. “Don’t get scared.”
“I’m not scared,” he says. “I was just wondering what was taking you so long.”
“What’s next?” Cal asks.
Everyone looks at me. My stomach rumbles like it does when I have to read the Bible aloud in Sunday school. And now I’m even more nervous because I don’t want to mess this up. Flipping through the Bible, I search for the verses. Were they in Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John?
A thick figure limps toward us, the moon casting a glow behind him. It only takes a second to realize the figure dressed in a dark suit and clip-on tie with a Bible in his hand is Ferris. As he nears, I notice he’s clean shaven and his hair is slicked back with some kind of smelly tonic. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
I smile and punch his shoulder. “You’re not late, Ferris. You’re right on time.”
Kate slips off her sandals and helps Zachary take his shoes off. Then she holds his hand and guides him into the lake until she’s waist deep. The water fills Zachary’s tent-shirt like a balloon. The rest of us shuck off our shoes and follow them. Cal and I move to one side of Zachary; Kate and Malcolm are on the other. Ferris leaves the Bible on the ground and wades into the water until he’s directly in front of Zachary.
When we’re in our positions, Ferris asks Zachary if he wants the long version or the short.
“Will it work just as well with the short?” Zachary asks.
“Yes, sir,” Ferris says. “It’s a personal preference.”
“Short is fine,” Zachary says. “I’m getting cold standing out here.”
“What’s your middle name?” Ferris asks.
Zachary frowns. “Why do you need to know that?”
“To make it official and all.”
Zachary pauses a long time before uttering a sound. When he does, it comes out so soft, I wonder if anyone heard it.
“Alvin?” Ferris asks.
“No, Elvis,” Zachary says.
“Elvis?” Cal snickers.
Kate gives Cal the eye.
“Well,” says Cal, “I guess other people are named Elvis.”
“That’s a fine name,” Ferris says, then clears his throat. He sighs and closes his eyes. I wonder if he’s praying. Then he opens them. “Do you, Zachary Elvis Beaver, take the Lord Jesus Christ as your Savior?”
“Yes,” Zachary whispers.
“I can’t hear ya,” Ferris says.
“Yes!” shouts Zachary.
“That’s the way,” Ferris says. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Whosoever shall believeth in him shall not perish but shall have everlasting life. Amen.” Ferris gets behind Zachary, and we hold on to his sides.
Zachary suddenly grabs Kate’s arm.
“Don’t be afraid,” Kate whispers. “We won’t drop you.”
Zachary takes a deep breath, pinches his nose, and shuts his eyes. As we lower him into the water, I can’t help thinking how with five people Zachary doesn’t seem that heavy at all, but then we have to lift him up and I quickly change my mind. I grit my teeth and pull. Every vein in my face feels like it could burst, and my arms feel like they’re going to snap.
Across from me, Kate bites down on her lip as she tries to lift him. Cal keeps muttering, “Come on, come on, come on.”
Even Ferris has a look of panic on his face. Malcolm is the only calm one, concentrating with his eyebrows low and his chin touching his neck. I’m hoping Zachary knows how to hold his breath a long time, and for a second a newspaper headline flashes in my head: FATTEST BOY IN THE WORLD DROWNS DURING BAPTISM.
Just when it looks like we won’t be able to lift him, Malcolm lets out a groan I’ve heard only in wrestling matches. But it works. We gain a second wave of strength, and together we pull Zachary out of the water. Zachary’s shirt clings to his body, and water drips down his face. He gasps for air, then looks confused like someone who got off an elevator at the wrong floor.
“That was a snap,” Malcolm says, cracking his knuckles.
Ferris says a prayer so long that I know he has missed his true calling. He would make a great preacher. He ends with an amen, then says, “God bless you, Zachary.”
Zachary smiles, and I wonder if he’s feeling different. Because standing out here waist deep in Gossimer Lake, next to my best friend, I’m feeling different—light and good and maybe even holy.
After Ferris signs Zachary’s Bible, Kate drives Zachary back to the trailer. The rest of us follow on foot. Except Malcolm, who rushes home to his mom before she notices he’s missing. The moment is kind of bittersweet because even though Zachary got baptized, we know the social worker will be here tomorrow. Walking through town, Ferris leads us in “Amazing Grace.” We all know the words, even Zachary. I’ve sung the song a million times, but tonight it’s different. Tonight the words give me goose bumps from my head to my toes. We are on the fourth stanza when we reach the trailer, but we don’t finish the words because we see Sheriff Levi’s car parked next to the McKnights’ truck.
As Kate stops the golf cart, the trailer door swings open and Sheriff Levi rushes out. Duke is behind him.
“I was about to call for a search.” Sheriff Levi’s voice is nervous, and I don’t even have to look to know his eye is twitching. “What on earth? Have you been swimming?”
“Something like that,” Cal says.
“I’ll be danged,” says the sheriff, scratching his head. “Well, I know you wouldn’t have been at Gossimer Lake because I’d have to fine you.”
Ferris clears his throat. “Well, actually, Levi—”
Sheriff Levi lifts his hand. “Now, hold on, Ferris. Don’t you go shooting off your mouth when I got important business to take care of. Zachary, the reason I came by is to tell you that your friend Paulie Rankin called me tonight. Said he’d be back for you in a couple of days.”
“See,” Zachary says, “I told you he’d be back.”
“He said he’d been plumb over in Paris getting a new act. Something about a bearded woman.”
“Paris, Texas?” Cal asks.
“No, Paris, France,” Zachary says. Then he adds softly, “That’s why I didn’t go.”
Sheriff Levi clears his throat. “Now, that don’t excuse him for going off and leaving you like he did. And I’ll certainly have to have a long talk with him about that. But I guess everyone deserves a break now and then.”
Ferris steps forward. “Levi, I think I should tell you that we’ve been at Gossimer Lake. In the lake.”
The sheriff winces. “Aww, Ferris, why’d you go and tell me that? Now I’m going to have to fine you.”
“Then fine me.”
“There’s only one problem,” Sheriff Levi says. “I ain’t thought of a fine, seeing as no one ever broke that ordinance. I guess you can pick up around the lake for a week or two.”
“I’ll help,” I tell Ferris.
“Me too,” says Cal.
“Count me in,” Kate says.
We look at Zachary, and he finally says, “I w
ould if I was going to be here.”
“Zachary,” the sheriff says, “it appears you made some friends while you were in Antler.”
Zachary looks at us. Each of us—Ferris, Kate, Cal, and me—and smiles.
“We made a good friend too.” And it’s me who says those words.
At home, I take the stack of unopened letters from Mom and put them in order by date. I open and read each one. She writes how she sure traveled a long way only to wait on tables again. She tells me how sorry she is about Wayne and how she knows he meant a lot to me. She hopes I’ll forgive her for leaving, and she wants me to visit her in Nashville before summer ends.
I rip a piece of paper from my notebook and start the first letter I’ve written since the one I wrote to Wayne.
Chapter Twenty-two
The day after Zachary’s baptism, I head over to Cal’s house. In their driveway Billy sits in Wayne’s orange Mustang with the windows rolled up except for a crack. He’s behind the steering wheel, looking straight ahead, sweating buckets.
I pass the car. “Hey, Billy, aren’t you burning up?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks straight ahead.
When Cal comes outside, I ask him, “What’s with Billy? He acts like he’s in another world.”
Cal glances toward his brother. “He’s reading a new letter from Wayne.”
“What? How?”
“They came with his stuff—a letter for each of us. I guess Wayne didn’t have a chance to mail them.”
“I know.”
“Mom and Dad thought we should wait before they gave them to us.”
“Did you read yours?”
“I was waiting to read it with you.”
A few minutes later we’re on the roof of the Bowl-a-Rama. Cal carefully opens the envelope like someone trying to remove the wrapping paper off a Christmas package without tearing it. As if they would use it again. Trembling, he slips a dirty fingernail at one corner and runs it along the edge of the seal. It isn’t a clean tear, but the letter comes out without a scratch. Cal unfolds the paper and I can’t help but shudder, thinking how Wayne held that very same letter in his hands, maybe hours before he died.
When Zachary Beaver Came to Town Page 13
