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Authors: Kimberly Willis Holt

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BOOK: When Zachary Beaver Came to Town
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I decide to mow the Pruitts' yard early because these days the temperature hits ninety degrees by noon. And I plan to spend the afternoon claiming the left side of Scarlett's swing.
The smell of fresh coffee drifts up to my bedroom. When I make my way downstairs, I'm surprised to see Dad at the kitchen table in his T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. Usually he's dressed for work by now. His hair sticks up and out like a mad scientist, and dark half-moons lurk below his eyes like he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep.
“Morning,” he says, rolling the rubber band off the newspaper.
“Morning,” I say, shuffling into the kitchen.
This is my first day at a real job—a job that has nothing to do with worms. I figure that deserves some sort of initiation. I pour coffee in Mom's Grand Ole Opry
mug. Suddenly I feel numb, and it dawns on me why Dad looks lousy. Dancing with Scarlett clouded my thoughts, and I had forgotten about Mom—until now.
When I sit at the table, a small smile pulls at the corners of Dad's lips. “When did you start drinking coffee?”
I shrug, sort of embarrassed. “I don't know. This morning.”
He picks up the sugar bowl. “Sugar?”
“Nah,” I say.
He watches, waiting for me to sip. When I don't, he looks down at the newspaper. I lift the cup and take a big swallow. It burns.
Glancing at me over the paper, Dad smirks, then clears his throat and frowns, looking back at the paper as if he didn't notice me gagging. A moment later he says, “Do me a favor. Take that bucket of soil on the back porch over to Gloria. And give her that sack of tomatoes on the counter too.”
Dad must feel rotten. Mrs. McKnight is one of the few people he enjoys talking to. She likes hearing about the optimum temperature for worms, and he likes learning about the different types of roses.
 
 
In Cal's backyard, Mrs. McKnight hangs underwear on the clothesline. Mom says Charlie McKnight is too
stingy to fork out enough money for a clothes dryer. Every member of the McKnight family is represented on that line except Wayne. There's Cal's small Fruit of the Loom underwear, Billy's larger ones, and Mr. McKnight's boxers. Next to them hang pink polkadotted and solid blue panties. Mrs. McKnight grabs a red bra from the plastic laundry basket and clips it to the line. I'm wondering if the bra is hers or Kate's when she peeks around the boxers and notices me staring at the bra. My whole body blushes.
Smiling, she says, “Oh, Toby, I didn't see you standing there.”
I try to speak, but the words stick in my throat like cotton balls. All I can say is, “Err … uhh. Uhh—”
She glances down at the bucket. “Did your dad send me some of that terrific soil?” I think it's funny how people who like growing things call dirt “soil.”
“Uhhh, yeah. Yes, ma'am.”
She walks up to me and takes the bucket. “Thanks. I'll return your bucket later.”
I hold out the sack, and she accepts it.
“These too?” She puts down the bucket and looks inside the sack. After taking a long whiff, she smiles. “Aaah. Fresh tomatoes. What a good neighbor. Tell your dad thank you for me.” She takes a few steps,
then stops. “My gracious, I almost forgot. How did your mother do last night?”
I'm not ready to explain because I'd have to confess I don't know when Mom will be back. “The Grand Ole Opry had a fire, and they postponed the contest.”
“Oh, my goodness. Did anyone get hurt?”
“Oh, no, it only burned in the part where they were going to hold the contest.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “Oh. Oh, well, I see.”
“They haven't rescheduled it yet. Mom's hanging around till it's over.”
Mrs. McKnight's smile makes my stomach knot up. “Well, wish her the best of luck for me when you speak to her.”
I take off for the garage and wonder why I lied to Mrs. McKnight. She's the nicest person I've ever known, and I lied to her as easy as I did to my math teacher when I told him I forgot my homework. Only this lie makes me feel worse.
 
Miss Myrtie Mae's house is around the corner from ours on Cottonwood Street, so I don't have to drag the lawn mower very far. The Pruitt home is the biggest house in Antler. It stands green and tall behind two huge willow trees. Their house is the first one Cal and
I hit on our Halloween route. Every year Miss Myrtie Mae dresses like Glinda, the good witch in
The Wizard of Oz,
and gives out candy bars from the front porch. Her wrinkled face is a scary sight under that curly blond wig and rhinestone tiara, but it's worth looking at her and putting up with her Glinda speech in exchange for an Almond Joy.
Today Miss Myrtie Mae greets me at the door and tells me to wait in the living room with the Judge while she gets her list. I'm hoping it's short because of my big plans this afternoon at Scarlett's house.
The Judge sits there, fumbling with his pocket watch. Before Miss Myrtie Mae leaves the room, she says, “Brother, you remember Tobias Wilson, Opalina's boy? I'll be right back, Toby.”
The Judge looks up, and stares at me. His head is cocked sideways and a string of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth.
Everything in the living room is either green or gold. Last year Miss Myrtie Mae hired a decorator from Amarillo to do over the entire house. Miss Myrtie Mae accidentally left the decorator's bill out when Miss Gladys Toodle was visiting. Ten thousand dollars. It was the talk of Antler until Christmas, when Miss Myrtie Mae and Miss Toodle competed with their outdoor decorations. They used so many
outdoor lights, the entire town lost its electricity for a day.
Old black-and-white photos in silver frames crowd a round oak table near the couch. One is of two boys about my age in old-fashioned baseball uniforms. Another is of a pretty girl with a bow in her long dark curls. I figure they must be from the good-looking side of Miss Myrtie Mae's family.
I'm taking a closer look at the photos when the Judge says, “Young man.”
I turn. He squints at me. “This is the last time I want to see you in this courtroom.”
Glancing around, I realize he must be talking to me. “Judge, I think—”
He shakes his finger at me and the string of drool has grown longer, stretching past his chin. “Don't talk, son, when I'm handing down a verdict. I'm tired of this nonsense. Now you're going to have to do some time instead of paying a fine.”
The front door is six feet behind me and I'm tempted to escape this crazy old man, but I've got a girl now, and I'll earn more money today than Dad has ever paid me.
The Judge stands, leaning heavy on his cane. “Young man, do you understand me?”
He inches toward me. I back toward the hall
and duck my head around the corner. “Uh, Miss Myrtie Mae?”
She returns, and it's the first time in my life I have been happy to see Miss Myrtie Mae Pruitt. The sight of the Judge breathing down my face doesn't fluster her at all. She pulls out a wadded tissue from her pocket and wipes his drool.
“Brother, this is Toby. He's our new lawn boy. Remember early this summer we had that nice McKnight boy, William? And I know you remember Wayne before that.” She turns to me. “Brother loved Wayne. That youngest boy, though. He filled in for Billy once last year, and my heavens, you never saw such a mess—patches of tall grass, weeds left in the flower beds.” She clicks her tongue. “We couldn't have that.”
I feel bad for Cal. Maybe he knew the reason Miss Myrtie Mae didn't ask him to mow her yard this summer.
Miss Myrtie Mae hands me the list. Twenty-three tasks are marked on it, and I wonder how I'm ever going to see Scarlett before the sun sets.
“Come on,” Miss Myrtie Mae says with a quick wave of her hand. Her pointed navy blue shoes tap against the wood floor.
I follow her into the backyard. As I scope out the grass carpet spread to eternity, I realize that the Pruitts not only have the largest house in Antler but they also have the biggest lawn. Morning glories spill over the back fence. A stone path winds its way to a white gazebo big enough for a high school band. Two apple trees' branches droop, heavy with apples, and the fruit litters the ground beneath them. I glance at the list.
#
1: Pick up apples off the ground.
Miss Myrtie Mae points out the beds that need weeding. “Now, if you're ever in doubt if it's a weed or not, give me a holler. Better safe than sorry. I'll be in my darkroom.” She leaves me alone in the yard.
Every green apple I pick up has a hole in it. I can't get away from worms. The vinegar smell of rotting apples on the ground makes me want to puke, and roly-polies invade the fruit like an army climbing over green mountains.
#
2: Mow lawn in an east-west pattern.
The yard seems to go on forever. East to west. West to east. The mower roars and spits grass blades to the side. The smell of freshly cut grass fills the air. Halfway through the job, I decide mowing isn't boring if you make your own designs. I make a circle, a
square, then a triangle. Nothing to it, so I move on to more complicated forms. I zigzag along the fence. I make curlicues. I begin to spell Scarlett. I—see Miss Myrtie Mae peeking out her window, frowning at me. I stop in the middle of my letter S. East to west. West to east.
About the time I finish mowing, Miss Myrtie Mae comes outside, carrying a silver tray with a glass pitcher of iced tea, some lemon drop cookies, and jiggly lime Jell-O stuff. She must think we're going to have a tea party. Sheriff Levi follows her, his head and shoulders drooping, like a kid ordered to go to church. Seeing him makes me think about Zachary, and I wonder what the sheriff will do if Paulie Rankin doesn't return.
“I reckon you deserve a break by now,” Miss Myrtie Mae says. Her bun is loose, and wiry gray strands stick out around her face. “Sheriff Levi happened by at the right time.”
Sheriff Levi wears a pair of plaid shorts, a yellow knit shirt, and his lucky fishing hat decorated with tackle. “Well, actually, Miss Myrtie Mae, I just came by to ask Toby something.” I'm willing to bet he wants worms.
Miss Myrtie Mae acts like she can't hear him and
proceeds down the stone path. “Let's sit in the gazebo, where there is plenty of shade.”
She sits in the white rocker and motions the sheriff and me to the chairs around the wicker table. I collapse in one of them, but Sheriff Levi keeps standing. He glances at his watch, and his eye twitches. “Miss Myrtie Mae, this must be such an inconvenience, me barging in on you and all. I really just want to get some—”
“Nonsense!” Miss Myrtie Mae says. “Now sit!”
“Worms,” he says as his rear end meets the chair.
“It's too hot to eat anything warm, so I made my lime gelatin turkey salad.” She slices a piece of the wiggly stuff onto a china plate and hands it to me. My stomach feels queasy at the sight of turkey chunks floating inside lime Jell-O. I glance at Sheriff Levi, and the way his eye twitches studying the Jell-O, I figure he feels the same way.
I'm sweaty and not sure Miss Myrtie Mae would approve of me using her nice fancy napkin to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I don't know what to do with that napkin, and I watch Sheriff Levi, but he doesn't seem to know either. So I wait for Miss Myrtie Mae's cue. She flings hers open and drops it daintily into her lap. The sheriff and I follow her lead, only when
I fling my napkin, one corner lands in the pitcher of iced tea. I go to rescue it, only to knock my glass of ice over.
“Whoa, whoa, Toby,” she says. “Sit back. I'll get you a clean glass of ice.” I want to tell her don't bother. I'm filthy and sweaty, and dirty ice won't hurt me at this point. In fact, any kind of ice sounds great, but she swiftly removes the glass and disappears into her house.
Sheriff Levi leans over the table and whispers fast, “Toby, can I help myself to some worms? I'm heading out to my secret fishing hole.”
“Sure, Sheriff, help yourself.”
“I'll leave the money in the tin can.”
“No problem.” Dad leaves an empty coffee can on the shelf so the locals can take what they need and leave the money in case we're not there, but Sheriff Levi always hunts us down before taking any.
Miss Myrtie Mae heads our way with my glass of ice, so I quickly ask, “Sheriff, what could happen to Zachary Beaver if Paulie Rankin doesn't come back?”
Sheriff Levi tips back his hat. “I'll have to notify social services in Amarillo.”
“What does that mean?”
He tries to steady his eye by raising his brows. He removes his hat and wipes the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “He'll probably be put in a foster home or some sort of home for juveniles.”
BOOK: When Zachary Beaver Came to Town
8.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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