Dear Cal,
I’m glad to know you and Toby are having a good ol’ time. Man, I miss those Wylie Womack days. Do me a favor, will you? When you’re having fun this summer, don’t be a soldier. I know we used to play war in the backyard all the time. I can remember building those tumbleweed barricades, stealing Miss Myrtie Mae’s apples for bombs, and wearing plastic mixing bowls on our heads for helmets. Remember how we forgot them outside and Mom had a fit because we played with her new Tupperware?
Cal, this war is real, and I can tell you right now there is no way you want to be here. In fact, it doesn’t seem like anyone wants us here. Not even the people we’re protecting. They just want to sell us cigarettes, booze, and anything else we’re willing to put down our money for.
Don’t I sound like I’m having a jolly ol’ time? If I’m scaring the hell out of you, good. That’s exactly what I want to do. I figure I owe it to you. After all, you’re my little brother. Keep your nose clean, kid.
Your brother,
Wayne
The McKnights’ truck is parked at L.W.’s Texaco, waiting for a new battery. So thirty minutes before dusk, we load the crates of ladybugs into the back of the McKnights’ station wagon and stack the rest in the back of Dad’s pickup.
Cal, Zachary, and I sit in the bed with the crates and we caravan to the McKnights’ cotton farm—Dad’s truck in front, followed by the station wagon and Mr. Garcia’s truck with the workers. Even Miss Myrtie Mae comes to record the event. She rides in the station wagon with Kate and Mrs. McKnight.
When we reach the fields, Miss Myrtie Mae springs out of the station wagon and hurries over to the back of Dad’s pickup. I’ve never seen her move that fast. “You boys mind if I take a picture of you?”
This time Zachary says it’s okay. So she snaps the three of us—Cal, Zachary, and me. And when her shutter clicks, I realize this may be the only proof we have that we met Zachary in the summer of 71.
Dad and Mr. McKnight open the crates and hand out the tow sacks. Even Zachary takes a sack. Twenty of us, including Juan, scatter about in the field.
The sun sits on the horizon, a blazing golden ball resting in pink clouds. I pull out my pocketknife and cut across the burlap, then hold the edges together, waiting for the cue.
In front of the station wagon, Miss Myrtie Mae sets up her tripod. She peers through the camera and focuses her lens. She stands tall with her feet apart as if they keep her balanced in the wind.
Kate sits on the hood of the station wagon next to Mrs. McKnight. They both wear shorts, and I can’t help noticing how different Mrs. McKnight looks without her apron. I guess I thought she slept in it. Tomorrow Kate and her mother will leave for a week’s trip to the southeastern states to tromp through old cemeteries in search of lost roses.
“Ready?” Kate hollers.
We wave our arms high and Kate hits the on button of Dad’s tape recorder. The Mozart sonata Dad picked out begins to play. When we hear the first note, we open the sacks and the ladybugs escape through the opening, taking flight. It’s as if someone has dumped rubies from heaven. Soon they will land on the plants in search of bollworm eggs. But right now they are magic—red ribbons flying over our heads, weaving against the pink sky, dancing up there with Mozart.
Mrs. McKnight covers her mouth with her hand, and I wonder if she is just amazed at the beauty of it all or if she is remembering Wayne, standing here in the cotton fields last year, releasing the ladybugs.
One group of ladybugs soars high into the sky, then suddenly dips low like a flock of birds flying in perfect rhythm. Cal jumps up and down, waving his sack. “Wow! Did you see that?”
Everyone in the field has something to say about it, except Zachary. Holding his empty sack, he stands in his ocean of cotton with the sun sinking fast behind him. He’s wearing the same stunned look on his face that he had when he first came out of the water during his baptism.
We empty the last of the sacks, gather the burlap, and head toward the truck. Before hopping in the back, I notice one ladybug resting on a lone sunflower growing at the edge of the cotton field. Instead of following the others, I guess it had its own plan. As soon as I get home, I’m going to mail that letter to Mom.
It’s early Monday morning. Cal and I climb to the roof of the Bowl-a-Rama and lie flat on our stomachs, chins resting on our hands. Watching. Waiting.
The sun barely peeks above the horizon, and the stars have started to fade like dim car lights at dusk. We watch Paulie hitch the trailer to the back end of his Thunderbird and pull away. Away from the Dairy Maid parking lot. Away from Antler. Away from us.
Zachary Beaver’s trailer rides down the road until it looks like a white smudge entering the highway. Even though Zachary said he’d write, I know he won’t. We’d seen the last of him. I can’t tell you why. I just know.
What would Zachary write about anyway? His life is made up of people who stare and ask nosy questions. But now if anyone asks him if he had been baptized, he can tell them he most certainly has. And it’s even written in his Bible to prove it.
Cal stretches like a lazy cat, arching his back. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask him.
“How’d you know about the books and the toilet behind the curtain?”
“It was easy. Remember the night we picked him up for the drive-in? Zachary was busy looking at Kate. It only took a second to peek. When are you going to visit your mom?”
“Next week. Dad made the reservations yesterday.”
A moment later Ferris drives up, gets out of his car, and hollers, “What are you two doing up there?”
“Watching the comings and goings of Antler,” I say.
“Mostly the goings,” Cal adds.
“Come on down and I’ll fix you a Bowl-a-Rama breakfast special.”
We jump to our feet. “Can I borrow some money?” Cal asks me.
“It’s on the house!” hollers Ferris.
“Now you’re talking,” I say, realizing how much that sounds like Cal.
Cal punches my shoulder. “Hey, runt. You’re all right.”
We climb down from the roof as the streetlights turn off and the Dairy Maid lights come on. Right away I notice something different in the cafe. Black-and-white framed photographs hang on the wall.
“Miss Myrtie Mae’s work,” Ferris says. “She’s pretty good with that camera.”
Cal and I step toward the center photo, but Ferris stops us, pointing toward the picture on the left. “Start on this end, at the beginning. It means more.”
The first photograph is Zachary’s trailer. It must have been taken the day he arrived because Paulie Rankin stands in front, wearing his tuxedo.
Next to it are pictures of the people waiting in line. I even see Cal and me. And Tara. And there’s a picture of a Wag-a-Bag grocery sack. At first it seems out of place. But then when I look closer, I can tell it’s one of our sacks that we left on Zachary’s steps. There’s the picture Miss Myrtie Mae took of the three of us in the back of the pickup—Cal and me smiling over Zachary’s shoulders.
“Man, does my tooth look that bad?” Cal asks.
I don’t answer him because I’m too busy studying the last picture. It’s of Zachary, standing in the middle of the cotton field, his sack held high and his head turned toward heaven. Above him, the ladybugs look like a dark squiggle soaring in the sky. And now looking at that picture, I think Zachary is right. The cotton fields do look like an ocean.
Ferris stands back, admiring the wall. “I call it The Ballad of Zachary Beaver.”
“He really was here, wasn’t he?” I say, not to anyone in particular.
“Yep,” says Cal, “he sure was.”
And I wonder if Zachary will tell this adventure to anyone or if he’ll ever mention the baptism at Gossimer Lake or talk about his time in Antler and the summer he met Cal and me.
Sheriff Levi parks out front and joins the old men for coffee at the counter.
“You boys ready for ano
ther hot one?” he asks us.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I think it’s gonna be a Wylie Womack d—.” I catch myself, but it’s too late. Cal hears me. But he doesn’t look sad. He’s grinning, ear to ear.
“Yes, sir,” Cal says, his chin quivering. “This afternoon, we’ll be eating Bahama Mamas, licking the juice off our fingers.”
And at two o’clock that’s exactly what we do.
Also by
Kimberly Willis Holt
Novels
My Louisiana Sky
Keeper of the Night
Part of Me: Stories of a Louisiana Family
The Water Seeker
The Piper Reed Series
with Christine Davenier
Piper Reed, Navy Brat
Piper Reed, Clubhouse Queen
Piper Reed, Party Planner
Piper Reed, Campfire Girl
Piper Reed, Rodeo Star
Picture Books
Waiting for Gregory
with Gabi Swiatkowska
Skinny Brown Dog
with Donald Saaf
The Adventures of Granny Clearwater & Little Critter
with Laura Huliska-Beith
I would like to thank the following people:
Tina Lee, Bill Nuttal, James Butter, Norbert Schlegel, Tom Allen, and Jack Sisemore for answering never-ending questions;
The Scribblers—Chery Webster, Ivon Cecil, and Pat Willis;
Also Charlotte Goebel, Jennifer Archer, Alicia Cheney, and
Henry Mitchell for their valued feedback;
The librarians of the Amarillo Public Library and
Rapides Parish Library for their continued support;
And Jerry and Shannon—who deserve the most—
Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When Kimberly Willis Holt was thirteen she saw the Fattest Boy in the World at the Louisiana State Fair. “I’m afraid I was like Cal, asking a million nosy questions,” the author says of her experience. This strong memory gave her the idea for When Zachary Beaver Came to Town.
Ms. Holt is the author of many award-winning novels, including My Louisiana Sky, Keeper of the Night, Part of Me, The Water Seeker, and the Piper Reed series.
Having lived all over the world, Ms. Holt now resides in Texas with her family.
GOFISH
QUESTIONS FOR THE AUTHOR
KIMBERLY WILLIS HOLT
What did you want to be when you grew up?
A writer
When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?
In seventh grade, three teachers encouraged my writing. That was when I first thought the dream could come true. Before that, I didn’t think I could be a writer because I wasn’t a great student and I read slowly.
What’s your first childhood memory?
Buying an orange Dreamsicle from the ice-cream man. I was two years old.
What’s your most embarrassing childhood memory?
In fourth grade, I tried to impress the popular girls that I wanted to be friends with by doing somersaults in front of them. (I never learned to do cartwheels.) They called me a showoff, so I guess it didn’t work. If only I’d known how to do a cartwheel.
What was your worst subject in school?
Algebra
What was your first job?
I was in the movies. I popped popcorn at the Westside Cinemas.
How did you celebrate publishing your first book?
I’m sure my family went out to dinner. We always celebrate by eating.
Where do you write your books?
I write several places—a soft, big chair in my bedroom, at a table on my screened-in porch, or at coffee shops.
Where do you find inspiration for your writing?
Most of the inspiration for my writing comes from moments in my childhood.
Which of your characters is most like you?
I’m a bit like most of them. However, I fashioned Tori in the Piper Reed books after me. But Tori is bossier than I was and she certainly makes better grades than I did.
When you finish a book, who reads it first?
My daughter listens to me read my first draft.
Are you a morning person or a night owl?
I’m a morning person.
What’s your idea of the best meal ever?
That’s a toss-up. My grandmother’s chicken and dumplings, and sushi.
Which do you like better: cats or dogs?
I’m a dog person. I have a poodle named Bronte who is the model for Bruna in the Piper Reed series.
What do you value most in your friends?
Loyalty and honesty
Where do you go for peace and quiet?
Home
Who is your favorite fictional character?
Leroy in Mister and Me because he is forgiving. And that’s a trait many of us don’t have.
What are you most afraid of?
Anything harming my daughter
What time of the year do you like best?
Fall
What is your favorite TV show?
CBS Sunday Morning
If you were stranded on a desert island, who would you want for company?
My husband and daughter
What’s the best advice you have ever received about writing?
A writer once told me, “Readers either see what they read or hear what they read. Writers have to learn to write for both.” When I started following that advice, my writing improved.
What do you want readers to remember about your books?
The characters. I want them to seem like real people. I want them to miss them and wonder what happened to them.
What would you do if you ever stopped writing?
I plan on dying with a pen in my hand.
What do you like best about yourself?
I’m honest.
What is your worst habit?
I eat too much.
What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment?
I gave birth to a wonderful human being.
What do you wish you could do better?
I wish I could do a cartwheel.
What would your readers be most surprised to learn about you?
I send gift cards with positive messages to myself when I order something for me.
After her mother’s death, Isabel’s left to
pickup the pieces of her shattered family.
Her father sleeps on the floor where Mama died,
her sister wets the bed, and her brother
carves his anger into his bedroom wall.
It’s up to Isabel to heal her family, but who will heal her?
Find out in
Keeper of the Night
BY KIMBERLY WILLIS HOLT
A Dutiful Daughter
My mother died praying on her knees. Her rosary beads were still in her hands when we found her. She left no note, said no good-byes, gave no last hugs or kisses. Only the empty bottle of sleeping pills that had rolled under her bed proved that she’d meant to leave.
I found her first. But I didn’t know she was dead. I thought she was praying.
That morning, I eased her door shut, tied on her apron, and made breakfast for my little brother and sister. I felt proud to scramble their eggs and butter their toast.
Later I tied blue ribbons in Olivia’s hair and dipped the comb into a glass of water before parting Frank’s. I had no idea it was the first of many mornings I’d be doing that.
Tamuning
After my mother died, my father couldn’t bear to look at the front door of our home. I overheard Tata tell my mother’s older sister, Auntie Bernadette, that he saw my mother’s ghost standing by the door. That’s why we’re staying with Tata’s sister, Auntie Minerva, in Tamuning.
“Just for a little while, Isabel,” Tata told me the day we moved here, but it’s been five long months. I asked Tata why we couldn’t stay with Auntie Bernadette in Malesso. She lives a fe
w houses away from us. But Tata said, “Bernadette is … was your mother’s sister. Not mine.”
Tamuning is north of Malesso. Stores and restaurants line the streets. All night long, I lie in bed and smell spicy scents from the Thai restaurant across the road. I hear cars pass on the highway Sometimes a siren whines, reminding me of the morning the ambulance carried my mother away.
We’re stupid staying in Tamuning while our lives take place in Malesso. Everyone we know lives there—Auntie Bernadette and Uncle Fernando, my friends, our dogs. Our store is there, Frank’s school, and my father’s boat. We’re like clubs trying to be hearts in a stack of cards.
Rides to St. Cletus
Each weekday morning, before the sun rises, Tata slips out of Auntie Minerva’s house and heads to Malesso to feed our dogs and spend the day fishing. Later, Auntie Bernadette drives from Malesso to pick us up for school because Auntie Minerva claims she’s too busy with the church. Before taking Frank to the public school, Auntie Bernadette drops us off at St. Cletus in Talofofo.
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