When Zachary Beaver Came to Town by Kimberly Willis Holt Page B

remember the letter to Wayne. I feel sick. Before knocking at the door, I turn and tell Tara, “You can’t stay long. Only one minute. No, make that one second. ”
    Cal answers the door. “Where have you been? I went by your house, but you weren’t there.” He tugs at one of Tara’s ponytails. “Hey, squirt!”
    Tara doesn’t say a word. She just stands frozen in the doorway, mouth open, eyes wide, staring at Zachary.
    Zachary stares back, then fills his mouth with air, puffing out his cheeks.
    Tara screams, squeezes past me, and rushes out the door. “He’s blowing up! The fat man is blowing up!” She screams all the way across the parking lot, past Wylie Womack’s stand on the square, and we still hear her scream after she disappears around the Bowl-a-Rama toward home. I want to shake Zachary’s hand. Instead I laugh. Cal does too, and now even Zachary smiles.
    Finally we calm down, and we’re quiet for a long
moment as the wind howls outside the trailer. Cal stretches out on the floor, his chin resting on his palm.
    Zachary wrinkles his nose. “What’s that I smell?”
    I hold out the pan. “Miss Myrtie Mae’s German chocolate cake. She sent it over for you.”
    â€œNot that. The perfume.”
    My face burns as I remember my close call to victory.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œYou smell like a French prostitute.”
    â€œDo you want the cake or not?”
    â€œWell, slice it, Cowboy,” Zachary says.
    â€œYeah, Cowboy,” says Cal, smirking. “Get that chow served.”
    I frown at Cal.
    Zachary tells me where he keeps the knife and the plates. A minute later, I’m serving the cake like some cook on a cattle drive. While I put the cake on the plates, I notice the new window. “Who fixed it?”
    â€œThe sheriff,” Zachary says. “What a goofball. Does his eye always do that?”
    â€œAll the time,” Cal says.
    I look down at Zachary’s foot. The loose gauze covering
has been replaced by a tighter fit. I figure the sheriff must have sent the doctor like he said he would.
    Zachary stares at the piece of cake I hand him, his face scrunched up. “What? No forks?” I’m happy using my hands, but I traipse over to the kitchen drawer and dig out a fork for Zachary and Cal. Zachary takes it and says, “The napkins are over the sink.”
    I turn to give Cal a fork and napkin, but he licks his fingers and announces, “I’m through.” Sure enough, not a crumb is left on his plate.
    I don’t care for Miss Myrtie Mae’s fancy salads that jiggle, but she can bake better than anybody in Antler. I love the rich icing best, mixed with its tiny pieces of pecans.
    Zachary snarls as I devour my slice, using my fingers. “You guys are pigs.”
    â€œYep,” says Cal, then he belches.
    When Zachary asks for another piece, I say, “Get it yourself. I’m not your mom.” Then I remember. I am a loser and a sucker and an insensitive pig.
    â€œHow did your mom die anyway?” Cal asks.
    Zachary ignores him. He grunts, raising himself from his seat, and wobbles to the other side of the
trailer. I feel the floor move and pray the trailer won’t tilt.
    Cal waits for Zachary to answer, and when he doesn’t, Cal tells me, “Heard about the fire at the Grand Ole Opry.”
    My stomach feels queasy.
    â€œA fire at the Grand Ole Opry?” Zachary asks. “I didn’t see anything about it on the news.”
    â€œIt was just a small fire,” I say, and this time I almost believe it. But the way Zachary stares at me, with one eyebrow lifted, I think he knows it’s not true.
    Cal wipes crumbs off his mouth. “When do you think your mom will be back?”
    I shrug and say, “I don’t know.”
    Zachary returns to his seat with an enormous piece of cake. I guess he figures, What the heck? We know he didn’t get fat