The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  The mayor was having trouble shoveling a scoop of the dry dirt. So Dad assisted him, breaking the ground with the sharp end and handing the shovel back to the mayor, who was still only able to scrape up a tablespoon of dirt.

  It was funny how I’d passed this lot forever and never noticed it. Now, by the end of the year, it would be a place where I’d probably spend a lot of time.

  Our current library was run by volunteers and had short hours with weird closings like CLOSED FOR FAIR DAYS AND PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d seen a CLOSED, GONE FISHING sign. Thanks to Miss Myrtie Mae, there’d be a real librarian working here. Dad said they’d already received a few résumés, some from as far away as Iowa. It was nice to know some people wanted to live in Antler. I wished Joe were one of them.

  After the ceremony, we opened the stand, offering the large size at half price because of the special occasion. The whole town seemed to be in a cheerful mood as they lined up, causing our biggest rush ever. We quickly ran out of Bahama Mama syrup because a lot of people ordered them for nostalgic reasons. For a good hour, the grinding of the ice machine and swooshing of cups being filled couldn’t drown out the chatter and laughter. Syrup splashes spotted my Sunday dress, but I didn’t care.

  Buster had been the first person in line, and after he was finished eating, he returned to the line and waited for another turn.

  “Back for seconds, Buster?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. Um, can I have a job?”

  The line was still long, and I quickly said, “I’m sorry, Buster, this isn’t a good time. Can you come back another day?”

  “Sure, boss. I’ll come back after my birthday.” He walked away, then he turned around and yelled, “Go, Mustangs!”

  When the crowd finally died and we sat on crates to catch our breaths, Dad told us, “I think this is what I’d call a Wylie Womack Day.”

  “Do you want a snow cone, Mr. Wilson,” Mom teased, “for old times’ sake?”

  Dad’s tie was already loose, but he pulled it off then and slung it over his shoulder. “No, Mrs. Wilson, I don’t believe I do.”

  At home, I opened my top bedside drawer and pulled out the manila envelope with Miss Myrtie Mae’s pictures. I hadn’t touched them since that quick look-over the day Opa and I picked them up from the drugstore. I spread them out along the bed, and when it was completely covered, I started placing them around the floor, leaving a path of carpet.

  Many were close-ups of household items—a comb, hairbrush, bottles of prescribed pills, stacks of books, a painting on a wall. Others revealed scenes from outside the first-story window of her bedroom. There were some photos of the massive magnolia tree in her front yard during different seasons—the winter snow covering the emerald leaves, the spring shedding of the yellow ones, the abundant white blooms of summer, and the brown cones with red seeds in the fall.

  A few of the photos showed people walking by. Why hadn’t I examined them closer before? Now I studied the faces—there was Dad, pushing the lawnmower around her yard, Mr. Pham approaching her home with a bouquet, Mom and her friends power walking on the street out front, the mailman with his satchel of mail slung over his shoulder.

  I slowed down, looking at each photo carefully, laughing at discovering one of Twig and me as second graders, riding our bikes. I lifted the picture, bringing it near my face. Our long hair was blowing in the wind, and we had wide grins on our faces. I held that picture a long time, gazing at it, wanting to go back to that very moment. That moment when squim, tob, and drin meant something.

  There were almost three hundred pictures there. I studied the self-portrait of Miss Myrtie Mae again, now realizing it was of her reflection in the dresser mirror. She was sitting in her bed, wearing a quilted bed jacket, holding her camera above her waist. Uncombed hair, so thin some of her scalp was showing. Droopy bags under her sunken eyes. Prominent cheekbones. She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t appear sad either. The photo felt so true, so real, it was beautiful. She was beautiful.

  These were the last photos Miss Myrtie Mae took. Even when she was sick and frail, she never stopped taking pictures. It was something she truly loved. I wondered what it would be like to love doing something that much. As if someone heard my question, the sound of a mandolin danced through my thoughts. And it wasn’t Chris Thile playing or Ricky Skaggs or Marty Stuart or any of the other mandolin players I admired. It was me.

  I had loved playing the mandolin. From the first moment I heard a bluegrass song, I’d been under the spell of its soulful sound. And when Opa gave me my great-grandfather’s mandolin and taught me to play “You Are My Sunshine,” I’d felt a part of something. I hadn’t been great at it, but I hadn’t been awful either.

  I’d practiced the song over and over until I thought I was good enough to show Twig. When I did, it was a night she’d slept over. The whole time we ate dinner, I kept playing the song in my head so much my fingertips moved, pressing and strumming imaginary strings underneath the table.

  Later when we were washing dishes, Dad kissed the back of Mom’s neck. It wasn’t the first time. Although that night I was embarrassed by the way they were carrying on. Twig stared at their backs, frowning.

  “Let’s go to my room,” I’d said. “I want to show you something.”

  I took out the mandolin and looked over to my Nickel Creek poster. It was as if the trio were cheering, “You can do it, Rylee Wilson!”

  When I began to play, Twig fell back on the bed and cracked up.

  She pinched her nose and sang, “Twang, twang, twang!”

  My whole body felt like it had cracked in half. I stopped and put the mandolin away. “Want to go outside?” I asked.

  Once there, she cartwheeled across the entire backyard. After she finished, she said, “Your turn.”

  I’d tried a million times, but had never been able to do a cartwheel. She’d known that.

  Now, looking at Miss Myrtie Mae’s pictures covering my bed and floor, I realized I’d stopped doing something I loved because Twig hadn’t approved. I quickly gathered the photos and returned them to their envelope, opened the closet door, and pulled out my mandolin case.

  CHAPTER 22

  I guess Opa had never given up hope that I’d return to it, because she’d never asked for her dad’s mandolin back. The day after I decided to pick up the mandolin again, I walked into the opry, carrying my case.

  Opa was standing at the concession counter, writing the program for the next show. She looked up, smiled, and let go of her pencil. “Do you want to start with the bar chords or do you want to warm up with something sweet and simple?”

  My great-grandfather, Tater Benson, had been in a traveling band called the Prairie Pickers, and he’d taught Opa to play practically every string instrument. One of her opry night songs always showcased that talent, when she’d move from band member to band member and they’d hand over their instruments to her. By the end of the song, she’d played the guitar, banjo, mandolin, and fiddle. The audience members went wild for it, sometimes even getting on their feet and clapping along.

  Returning to the mandolin changed the way I listened to music. I slept with my iPod and earbuds under my pillow. As usual, I awoke before anyone else, but now Nickel Creek kept me company. I loved every song on the album, but I hit replay whenever “Sweet Afton” came on, listening to the old Scottish tune a dozen times before I went to sleep.

  After school, I practiced the mandolin in my closet, softly strumming and barely picking the strings. Except for Opa, I wasn’t ready to let my family know I was playing again. They’d been disappointed when I put it down—even Mayzee was. When they heard me again, I wanted to be great, maybe perfect.

  All week after school, Joe waited with me for Mayzee. I liked how people saw us together. Especially when Twig and Vernon passed us on Wednesday and I caught Twig’s sneaky sideways glance.

  Joe saw too. “Man, you two really know how to hold a grudge.”

>   “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “You don’t even look at each other straight on.”

  “Have you heard from your Brooklyn friend?” I hated myself for hoping he would say no.

  “His name is Arham. Yeah, we’ve talked almost every day. We’ll email once our computer gets connected to the Internet.”

  My cheeks felt prickly like a pincushion. “Must be nice.”

  “When it’s connected, you can use it anytime you want.” He thought I was talking about the computer.

  “Hey,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about Zachary.”

  “Zachary Beaver?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you find out where he is? Surprise your dad. That way they might reunite.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Dad thinks it’s best not to find out.”

  “I don’t get that. You said they were friends. Seems like he’d want to know the guy’s okay, especially after all these years.”

  I repeated what Dad told me, about how making friends with Zachary was the best part of a bad summer and how he wanted to remember him like that.

  “How bad?” Joe asked. “Because I had a really bad summer.”

  “I don’t know what he meant. He didn’t tell me and I guess I thought it was better not to ask. Zachary might not be around anymore.” I avoided the word dead with Joe like Dad avoided the word fat when he talked about Zachary.

  “Well, I don’t see how it could hurt for you to find out about him,” Joe said. “If it’s bad news, you don’t have to tell him.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I wondered if Twig ever thought about when things were good between us.

  * * *

  Friday, as we waited for Mayzee, Joe told me, “Your Uncle Cal has a crush on my mom.”

  “What?”

  “He asked her out. Can you believe it?” Joe didn’t sound happy.

  “What did she say?”

  He looked at me like I’d asked a stupid question. “She turned him down, of course.”

  “He might not know about your dad.” Maybe Dad should have told him.

  “Well, he needs to back off. He left flowers for her on the doorstep this morning.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him.” Uncle Cal was cheap. Mom and Dad teased him about it all the time.

  “Well, he didn’t leave a card, but I know they must have been from him.”

  Mayzee appeared out of the school and took her sweet time, talking to a friend. I hollered her name.

  Joe slung his backpack over a shoulder. “Have you thought any more about Zachary?”

  I wondered why Joe was so obsessed with finding him. I yelled for Mayzee to hurry. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be found,” I said.

  Mayzee finally started toward us.

  “Maybe he does,” Joe said. “Maybe Zachary wants to know his friendship mattered.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Uncle Cal made an announcement that evening at our Lasagna Night.

  “Well, you should all be happy for me. I think I have a new girl.”

  “Who’s the lucky lady?” Mom sounded bored. It wasn’t like we hadn’t been through this before. His last wife left him broke and depressed. He was at our house every night for months. Then when he did start dating again, he fell hard for every one of the ladies.

  “Our new neighbor is sweet on me,” Uncle Cal said, “but a little shy about it.”

  “Joe’s mom?” My voice squeaked the words.

  “Yep, I do believe she left me some flowers, trying to make up for turning me down earlier when I asked her out for a steak dinner.”

  “Are you sure?” I was ready to set him straight, but now I was confused.

  Uncle Cal peeked at the lasagna in the oven. “I asked her to dinner. She politely said, no, thank you. When I got home from work, I found a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the doorstep.”

  “Did you give her flowers?” I asked, trying to solve the mystery.

  “Heck, no!” Uncle Cal said, insulted.

  Everyone cracked up except Mayzee, who wanted to know what was so funny.

  Mom explained. “Mayzee, Uncle Cal has never given any woman flowers. He’s too cheap.”

  “Why should I,” Uncle Cal asked, “if they give them to me?”

  Dad shook his head. “Cal, Maria probably didn’t give you those flowers. Besides, her husband just died. Tragically. Remember what I told you?”

  “I remember,” Uncle Cal said, “but maybe she’s ready to move on. Maybe she wants to be happy again.”

  Mom chimed in. “You might want to hold back a little this time.”

  “Call me optimistic,” Uncle Cal said, “and apparently irresistible.”

  I couldn’t wait to tell Joe that there was an anonymous admirer leaving flowers on doorsteps. Maybe Antler had their very own Cupid.

  Joe laughed when I told him Uncle Cal wasn’t the person who left his mom the flowers and he’d received a bouquet too. He was hanging out with me while I worked my shift.

  “It’s weird! There must be some secret admirer in town,” I said. “Or maybe two.”

  He cracked up again.

  “What’s so funny? Am I missing something?”

  Joe recovered. “I left the flowers on Cal’s steps.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you do that?”

  “They were the ones on our porch that I thought Cal had left for my mom. So I returned them to send a message.”

  “Oh, he got a message all right. He thinks your mom left them for him because she turned him down for dinner.”

  Joe snapped his fingers. “Man, I messed that whole thing up. How can I fix this?”

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe you could tell him my mom didn’t leave them,” Joe said.

  “I’m staying out of it.” Uncle Cal had been so excited thinking Mrs. Toscani had given them. Maybe there was a small chance for a romance there.

  Joe nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. It will work itself out. But I wonder who’s sending flowers to her?”

  “Your mom is pretty,” I said. “She must have a lot of admirers.”

  “She’s a mom. Looks like a mom. Acts like a mom.”

  “She’s not everyone’s mom,” I told him.

  CHAPTER 24

  Joe had worked at the Bowl-a-Rama Café as a pinsetter for two weeks now. Every weekend after work, he dropped by for a snow cone. Last Saturday his lips were Grateful Dead Grape. Today they were Dreamsicle Orange. He hadn’t ordered Blueberry once.

  He was sitting atop the picnic table, his legs dangling off the side while he told me how Ferris’s jukebox played ancient twangy music. He said he’d almost learned the hard way to quickly raise his legs behind the pins when a fast ball started rolling down the lane. I listened to him explain all about ninepin bowling, how it started in Germany and how there were only a few places in Texas where it was available. I knew all of this, of course. He’d probably forgotten what Ferris said about my being in a bowling club. But it was good to hear Joe talk with enthusiasm about something in Antler.

  After a carload of college students from West Texas A&M left the stand, Joe dug in his jeans pocket and pulled out an index card. “I found this used bike for sale posted on Ferris’s bulletin board. Do you know where this is?”

  Right off I saw the name Levi Fetterman by the address. “Yeah, that’s Sheriff Levi.”

  “He’s the sheriff?”

  “He was. Now he runs a dog shelter a mile out of town across the railroad tracks. If you want, I’ll take you there after I’m off work.”

  * * *

  On the way to Sheriff Levi’s, Joe told me he’d finally gotten as fast as Vernon setting pins. Ferris told Joe privately that he was good for business because he’d never seen Vernon move so quick until he hired Joe.

  A dirt road ran along the other side of the railroad tracks. We hadn’t been walking on it long when we passed a little blue house with a marker that read CHILDHOOD HOME OF JUAN GARCIA, CHAMPION PGA GOLF
ER.

  “Really? He grew up here?”

  “Yeah, he’s Juan Leon and Frederica’s uncle. Have you seen him play on the sports channel?”

  “I don’t watch golf. I know who Tiger Woods is, though. Where does Juan Garcia live now?”

  “Florida.”

  Joe nodded knowingly. “Guess he couldn’t wait to get out of this town.”

  I’d hoped things were changing for Joe, that maybe he’d started to see himself being happy here, but it was probably too soon.

  The wildflowers had started to emerge, poking their heads above the tall grass in the fields near the tracks. The Engelmann daisies with their yellow petals waved at us as we passed. By summer they would have grown to almost knee-high.

  “Look at all the weeds,” Joe said. “In Brooklyn, you get fined if you don’t keep your grass mowed.”

  “I think they’re pretty,” I said. “I love wildflowers.”

  Halfway to Sheriff Levi’s, we heard dogs barking in the distance.

  “How many dogs does he have?”

  “It depends. Most of them are dogs that people have dumped along the highway. Fair warning—he’ll try to get you to take one home.”

  Sheriff Levi’s house was an old gray ranch with a line of cedars planted at the edge of his property for a windbreak. An oversize peach tree grew too close to the front door with branches crisscrossing over the roof. As we neared his place, we saw dogs lying around the property in a fenced-in area. All shapes and sizes, from a teacup poodle to a German shepherd mix, came up to the front of the fence and barked, barked, barked.

  A small terrier type with an underbite had somehow escaped. He came over to Joe and sniffed his sneakers.

  Joe reached down and scratched his head. “Hey, fella. You sure are ugly.”

  “That’s not nice,” I said, but he was right. The dog was so ugly he was cute.

  The little dog rolled over. Joe squatted and rubbed his belly.

  The others dogs continued barking.