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Authors: Kimberly Willis Holt

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BOOK: When Zachary Beaver Came to Town
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“Oh.” I look away. Some blurry white moths fly by, their wings fluttering in the breeze. I don't like Zachary Beaver, but I don't much like the thought of him living in some house with strangers either.
Miss Myrtie Mae hands me the fresh glass of ice. “Here you go, Toby.”
Sheriff Levi shovels the salad into his mouth in quick huge bites, then washes it down with iced tea, holding his head back as he empties the glass. Giant gulps move down his throat, then he stands and announces, “Miss Myrtie Mae, I hate to eat and run, but I forgot Duke was waiting for me in the car.” He grabs a couple of lemon drop cookies, tips his hat, and steps off the gazebo before Miss Myrtie Mae can utter a protest.
 
Four hours later I sack up the grass, then cross off task number twenty-three. The flower beds are groomed and free of weeds. I feel proud. I'm different than Cal—I finish projects. I remember when Cal and I were five or six and we turned on the garden hose
and made a mess in the mud. Wayne fetched Cal and cleaned him from head to toe with the hose before taking him into the house. I cleaned myself off. I don't have big brothers watching out for me.
Before paying me, Miss Myrtie Mae inspects the yard. She walks to each corner flower bed. Her eyes comb every grass blade, and when she spots an apple on the ground, she walks over and picks it up. It probably fell a second ago.
She hands me my money and says in a sharp voice, “Not bad, but next time take care in the direction you mow. You shock the grass blades if you don't cut it in an east-to-west pattern. Can I expect you next week?”
My arms ache from pushing the lawn mower, my back throbs from bending over picking up apples, and my hands have blisters on them from pulling weeds. I open my mouth and say, “Yes, ma'am.”
Miss Myrtie Mae asks me to step inside the house for a moment, and I'm relieved that the Judge isn't inside, waiting to haul me off to prison. Smells of something wonderful drift from the kitchen. The TV is on, and the early evening news broadcasts from a jungle in Vietnam. I wonder if Wayne is nearby.
Miss Myrtie Mae shakes her head, looking at the television. “Oh, that mess! I hope you never have to see war, Toby. Our poor Wayne. I include him in my
prayers each and every night.” She looks up at me like she has just thought of another list of chores for me to do. “Toby, almost forgot about your mom. How'd she shake out?”
I don't even hesitate. “The place where they were going to hold the contest had a fire, so they—”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “The Grand Ole Opry burned down?”
“Uh, it was only a small fire, but they postponed the contest. She's waiting around until they reschedule it.” I'm turning into a full-fledged pathological liar.
Miss Myrtie Mae lowers her eyebrows and frowns. I study the rug covering her wood floor. “That a fact?” she asks. “Hold on. I'll be right back.” She walks into the kitchen, and I wonder if she's calling Dad to check if I'm telling the truth. But a moment later she returns with a pan covered with aluminum foil. “Would you mind taking this German chocolate cake over to Mr. Beaver's place? He mentioned a fondness for chocolate.”
I leave with the pan, wondering how I'll manage to get it and the lawn mower home without dropping it. I also wonder how much daylight is left before my plans to see Scarlett sink fast below the horizon. As soon as I clean up, I'm going straight to Scarlett's. Mr. Zachary Beaver will have to wait for his cake.
As I reach the bottom step of the Pruitts' front porch, I hear a creak. “Stop right there, young man.”
I swirl around. The Judge leans forward in a porch rocker, shaking his cane at me. “You remember what I said, you hear?”
Tired to the bone, I arrive home around five o'clock and head for the shower. Mom used to nag me about washing places like my elbows or the back of my neck. Not today. When I step out of the shower, my skin feels raw from scrubbing every inch.
A towel wrapped around me, I lean into the mirror and examine my upper lip. Fuzz. I wonder if whiskers are like pimples and that one morning I'll wake up with a face covered with them. I splash on some of Dad's Royal Copenhagen aftershave. And today I use deodorant.
Before leaving, I stick a note on the refrigerator with a magnet telling Dad I'll be home for dinner. Then I take off for Scarlett's house.
All the homes on Scarlett's street look pretty much alike—tiny with single garages and small yards surrounded by link fences. But one has a wooden porch swing with the left side reserved for me.
At Scarlett's house I hide the German chocolate cake between a bush and the fence. Since Miss Myrtie Mae covered the top with aluminum foil, it should be safe until I take it over to Zachary.
Scarlett is exactly as I pictured her, sitting on the porch, her long legs stretched across the swing. A magazine rests in her lap, and she's so engrossed in it, she doesn't see me.
Before I step through the gate, Tara and three other little kids march past me in a line. Upside-down plastic plant pots perch on top of their heads. Tara, the leader of the pack, has about seven vacation Bible school ribbons pinned to her shirt. Moist wisps of hair cling to her sunburned face.
She walks up to me and says, “We're having a parade, and I'm the mayor. And they're the Shiners.” This kid grows weirder by the minute.
“You mean
Shriners
,” I say.
“That's what I said. Shiners.”
I ignore the brat and slow my pace toward Scarlett. No reason to seem too eager. It spoils the image. Scarlett is thumbing through her magazine, popping her chewing gum, and doesn't notice me until I step onto the porch. She looks up and smiles, her lips shiny with lip gloss. “Hey. How ya doing?
”
Oxygen leaves my body in one big whoosh. “Fine.”
I remember to breathe again, only I suck up too much air and start coughing. I cover my mouth and try to swallow, but it's no use.
“You okay?” she asks. “Do you need a glass of water?”
Holding up my palm, I manage to say, “I'm fine.” I wish I could start all over—opening the gate, repeating my slow cool walk toward the porch, maybe a casual lift of my eyebrows when she says hi.
But Scarlett doesn't seem to mind. Her gaze slides over the magazine page and she sighs. “You know, there's a whole world out there waiting in the back of magazines.”
“Hmm? You mean in the ads?”
“Yeah. Didn't you ever want anything in the back of a magazine?”
“Well, I always wanted to order those sea monkeys in the Superman comics. But my dad said they were a waste of money.”
She laughs. “Sea monkeys?”
I feel my face go red. I decide not to mention the Atlas Body Building course.
“I mean these kind of ads.” She points to an ad
about a modeling school in Dallas right next to one about becoming a stewardess. The wind blows her hair across her face, and a few strands stick to her lip gloss. She swings her feet to the porch floor and scoots over, leaving room for me on the right. It's not the left, where Juan sat, but I guess it really doesn't matter.
Leaving a foot of space between us, I sit next to her and take deep breaths. Her hair smells like flowers.
I want to hold Scarlett's hand, but mine are sweaty. I should have used deodorant on them. Maybe one day I'll invent a hand deodorant and market it to guys like me who want to get rid of their wet palms.
“Is that what you want to be?” I ask. “A model?”
“Maybe, if I can get these fixed.” She taps on her two front teeth.
“What's wrong with your smile?” I know she's talking about the gap, but I love her gap.
She sighs. “Oh, Toby. You have to be perfect to be a model. And I'd look better without it. See?” She smiles, and a piece of chewing gum fills the space.
I shrug.
“Or maybe a stewardess. That would be the next best thing, to fly around the world. How glamorous.”
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.
BOOK: When Zachary Beaver Came to Town
10.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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