“Or maybe he’s not.”
“Maybe he was in the Olympics,” Joe said.
“Or maybe he wasn’t.”
“But he could have had a fabulous life. He might regret that they haven’t stayed in touch.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin. He traveled around the country. He was a sideshow act. Long-distance phone calls cost a fortune. Do you really think finding him is only one phone call away?”
“Maybe he’s in Florida like Sheriff Levi mentioned.”
I didn’t say anything.
“What’s the worst that could happen? You find out he’s dead, and you don’t tell your dad. But if he’s alive and doing well, then you might make him happy to have found an old friend. I’d feel that way about Arham.”
“How long have you been friends?”
“Forever.”
I wanted to say, Don’t expect him to remain the same person. He could change.
“Our dads worked together,” Joe said. “It’s been hard for him since it all happened, especially since they’re Muslim.”
“His dad’s a fireman?”
“No,” he said, a little miffed. “He was. By the way, in New York they let Muslims be firemen.”
My right foot rested on a pedal, then I quickly removed it. Then I put it back. Talking to Joe sometimes felt like walking in a minefield. One wrong move could set off an explosion. And I felt guilty whenever he talked about what had happened, what he’d lost. I felt guilty because my dad was here.
“So how about the project?” Joe straddled his bike, waiting for an answer.
I was so relieved that he’d changed the subject that I said, “Okay, let’s find Zachary.”
CHAPTER 27
If someone wanted a copy of Pride and Prejudice or a Zane Grey western or an unreliable computer, they could find it at the Antler Public Library. And that’s what we found Thursday, the day we started our search for Zachary Beaver. Most of the library volunteers only worked one day a month, and today was Miss Earline’s day.
“Service is down,” she said when we asked if we could use the computer.
“That figures,” I said to Joe as we left the library.
“I wish my mom would hurry and get Internet service,” Joe said. “She hasn’t even called anyone about it yet. Don’t you have any friends who have a computer?”
“Juan Leon and Frederica are the only ones who I know, but if the library doesn’t have service today, they won’t either. Welcome to small town technology.”
We needed to go to the big city. Opa said she’d drop Joe and me off at the Amarillo Public Library after our Saturday breakfast.
* * *
That morning I stared out my south window toward Joe’s window. It was before dawn, and a lamp cast an orange glow on his closed curtains. I watched his room for a moment, trying to catch a glimpse of a shadow, but there was no movement. Then a figure on a bicycle rode up to the corner and stopped. Joe straddled his bike, looking out ahead as if he was waiting for something or someone.
I rushed over to my north window and looked out toward Uncle Cal’s place, but there was no sign of him. Back and forth I went, checking from window to window, watching Joe wait for Uncle Cal. A minute or two passed. Then Joe gave up and pedaled home. A few seconds later, I heard the quick short clicks of a bicycle. Then I watched Uncle Cal ride down his driveway and turn east as he did every morning.
* * *
At eight, Opa picked me up in Delta Dawn, and we drove over to Joe’s house. When Mrs. Toscani answered the door, she must have noticed me staring at the stacks of unopened moving boxes. “I had to take a little break from unpacking.”
It looked as if she’d hardly begun. According to Mom, she hadn’t started her job search yet either.
Once outside, Joe noticed Delta Dawn right off. “Cool car!”
Should have known a boy who wore scuffed bowling shoes wouldn’t mind riding in a car the color of Pepto Bismol. I didn’t mention seeing him on his bike earlier that morning.
Opa’s White Diamonds cologne scented the car, and her hair proved opry ready, teased high and sprayed stiff. Somewhere the country music angels were singing hallelujah. “Hello, Joe,” she said. “I’m Opalina Wilson.”
Opa never used her second husband’s name. I liked to think it was because she never stopped loving my grandfather, but she said Opalina Wilson sounded a lot better than Opalina Thornhauser.
Joe gently shook her perfectly manicured hand.
I tried not to cringe. I wanted to tell him, We’re Panhandle women. We can take a firm handshake.
“Hope you like big breakfasts, Joe,” Opa said.
To my surprise, Joe and Opa talked the entire way to Amarillo about old country music stars. Apparently Joe knew everything there was to know about Johnny Cash—how the singer loved Bob Dylan’s music, performed at Folsom Prison, and married June Carter. I couldn’t have gotten a word in if I’d wanted to.
Calico County restaurant smelled of bacon and coffee. After we were seated, Joe said, “Rylee told me you recorded an album.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago—1972; I cut it the year after arriving in Nashville.”
Her album was a lot older than I’d realized. I did the math. Dad would have been about my age when Opa left.
“Were you born in Antler?” Joe asked her.
“Yes, I was, but I got away as soon as I could.” She winked. “I’m glad to be back now. I can watch my granddaughters grow up. And Antler isn’t a bad place to live. If you don’t mind everyone knowing your business.”
Stirring my hashed browns into my eggs, I thought about Dad and how he must have felt when Opa left. That would have been the same summer that Uncle Cal’s brother, Wayne, died. It had been a tough summer for him.
I studied my grandmother, imagining the lines on her face disappearing, trying to picture her Mom’s age. Mom and I didn’t always get along. I didn’t understand why things like tanning and working out every day meant so much to her. She was a good actress. Aside from her historical monologues, I’d seen her perform in a few church skits. She acted in summer stock one college break, and before I was born, she’d been in a few productions at the Amarillo Little Theatre. Maybe she had big dreams, but she would never leave us to chase them. Until now, I hadn’t thought about my grandmother as someone who cared so much about her dream that she’d left her family behind to follow it.
When the waitress brought over our order, Joe devoured three scrambled eggs, chicken-fried steak, and biscuits and gravy. I wondered where he put it. He was as skinny as a Slim Jim beef stick.
“Are you sure you aren’t from Texas?” Opa teased.
Joe burped. “Excuse me.”
We laughed.
Then he said, “This is the first time I’ve ever had chicken-fried steak. One question, though.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Where’s the chicken?”
* * *
Opa paid the bill and dropped us off at the Amarillo Public Library downtown. It never failed. Every time I walked into this building, a tingle ran up and down my arms. Nothing smelled better than books, old and new. I wanted to bottle the scent. I couldn’t wait until Antler’s new library was finished.
Joe and I headed to the circulation desk to reserve computer time. Unfortunately, since it was Saturday, they were booked until noon, an hour before Opa was due to pick us up.
“Maybe your grandmother will wait,” Joe said.
“She can’t. She’s got a show tonight and has to do sound checks with the band. Plus I have to work my shift.”
“Are you going to ask me to go?”
“Where?”
“The opry,” he said.
After his crack about the opry house on the tour, I’d never intended to invite him.
“The acts aren’t exactly Johnny Cash.” Then I asked, “Do you really want to go?”
He shrugged. “If I don’t have anything better to do.”
&nb
sp; I changed the subject. “We’re going to have to wait on the computer. So might as well see if a reference librarian can help us find that Florida town Sheriff Levi mentioned.”
The reference librarians had helped me a ton when I was doing the Bill Monroe paper for Dad’s class.
While I waited for the librarian to look up the info, Joe made his way to a cushy club chair near the magazines. He plopped down, not bothering to read. A moment later, he’d fallen asleep, and soft snores escaped his mouth. That big Texas-style breakfast had done him in.
The librarian wrote on a piece of notepaper and gave it to me. “Gibsonton, Florida,” she said. “That’s a fascinating place. I got caught up reading about it. The info I found said the town had relaxed codes so people could park trailers in the neighborhoods and elephants on the lawn. You’re not running away to the circus, are you?”
She was smiling, so I knew she wasn’t serious. “By the way, please tell your friend, no sleeping in the library.”
I thanked her and joined Joe in the magazine section.
“Come on.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “We can use a computer now.”
At the keyboard, I typed “Zachary Beaver in Gibsonton, Florida.”
Zero results.
“Bummer!” I muttered.
“Don’t give up,” Joe said. “We’ve learned something.”
“What?”
“Zachary Beaver doesn’t live in Gibsonton. Now look up his name in the White Pages.”
I did what Joe suggested. Results: one hundred and twenty-seven Zachary Beavers. None of them lived in New York. They lived in California and New Hampshire. They lived in Utah and Maine. They lived all over the United States. Unfortunately long distance calling was expensive, and many of the listings didn’t include phone numbers.
“It’s a big world out there,” I told him. Maybe this was a sign that we weren’t supposed to find out what happened to Zachary. Dad’s comment about why he didn’t want to find him kept playing in my mind. I was ready to give up.
“Think like a detective,” Joe said. “He doesn’t live in Gibsonton, but he could live somewhere.”
I scrolled down the list. “He could live anywhere.”
“What else do we know?” Joe was clearly determined.
“He was in Antler the summer of 1971,” I offered.
“Good thinking, Ambassador.”
“We have a half hour left,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs to the microfilm area. Maybe we can find an article about his visit in an Amarillo paper. By the way, what topic are you doing for your history report?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” I wondered if he had plans to ever do it.
Upstairs we passed the children’s section. A little boy was reading in the yellow claw-foot bathtub. I remembered doing that, too. We cut through the video section and made our way to the archives area.
I looked up Zachary Beaver’s name in the 1971 Index for Amarillo Globe-Times and the Amarillo Daily News.
When we didn’t find anything, Joe asked, “How about looking up sideshow?”
I ran my finger down the page and found one mention listed in July 1971 in the Globe-Times. The librarian stood behind the counter, lost in a book. After telling him the date we needed, he guided us to the microfilm machine and brought out a tiny box with a roll that looked like an old filmstrip. He demonstrated how to thread it through the reader and how to move the lever to the right, left, up, and down.
“Can I drive?” Joe asked. I stood, letting him take my seat. He moved the lever at such a quick speed, the articles turned into a black blur. When he reached July, he slowed the projector. Then we saw the tiny article.
BIG VISITOR IN ANTLER
Sideshow boy billed as the Fattest Boy in the World made a stop in Antler, Texas. Paulie Rankin, the sideshow operator, said Antler was one of many destinations they will visit this summer. When asked how long they would stay in the bedroom community, Rankin said, “Long enough, but not long enough to wear out a pair of shoes.”
That was it. No mention of Zachary’s name.
“That stinks,” Joe muttered, hitting the reverse lever.
We sat there silently watching the microfilm rewind and listening to its loud hum turn into a sputter as it reached the end of the strip.
“Well,” I said, “now we know two things—he doesn’t live in Gibsonton, Florida, and he was billed as the Fattest Boy in the World.”
“I think we might be practicing deductive reasoning,” Joe said.
I smiled. “Juan Leon would be proud.”
“Where to now, Sherlock?” Joe asked.
I hadn’t wanted to search for Zachary, and only agreed to make Joe happy. To me, it seemed like a lost cause, but Joe was enthusiastic. Finding Zachary seemed to mean a great deal to him. And it was nice having something to focus on together. I visualized a giant map of the United States with a trail dotted across every state. The possibilities were endless. Zachary Beaver could have gone anywhere. He could have gone everywhere.
“Let’s retrace his steps after he left Antler,” I said. “We could start by checking city newspapers from a nearby state. Maybe begin with Oklahoma.”
We went downstairs to talk to the reference librarian.
* * *
When I got home, I heard our rickety washing machine clunking. Mom was making her way through a pile of towels, leisurely folding as she watched that old movie An Officer and a Gentleman on TV. She must have seen it a dozen times.
I picked up a towel and joined her on the couch. “Mom, do you ever wish you’d gone to Hollywood?”
She broke her trance and looked at me like I’d asked if she’d ever thought about flying to Jupiter. Then she bent over and started to laugh. “What? Where did that come from?”
“Well,” I said, “you were a theater major, and…”
She recovered, shook her head and stared back at the television. “No, but sometimes I wish I were Debra Winger. Boy, she can make me cry.”
The movie came to the scene where Richard Gere marched into the factory and swept Debra Winger off her feet, carrying her out in his arms.
Mom sighed. “I just love this movie.”
CHAPTER 28
At home I practiced the mandolin in my closet. If I squeezed in the back behind my clothes, and stacked bed and throw pillows against the door, the closet could be transformed into a tiny soundproof room.
Even though we hadn’t found Zachary, it had been a great day. Joe hadn’t seemed sad or angry. He’d almost seemed happy. We now had to wait until the next Saturday to see if the reference librarian had heard back from either the Oklahoma City or Tulsa library on what they may have found in their local newspaper archives from the 1970s. We’d only have to pay for copying and mailing charges. The librarian said it wouldn’t cost more than a few dollars.
While I tried to play “Sweet Afton” by ear, I thought about Joe and the opry. He liked Opa and Johnny Cash.
I left my soundproof room and called him.
“If you don’t have anything better to do, it’s cowboy boots night.”
“What?”
“If you wear your cowboy boots, you get in half price at the opry.”
“I’d like to go, but I don’t have any cowboy boots.”
“Then you can go as my guest. That won’t cost you a dime.”
Mom and Mayzee were already at Opa’s when Joe arrived at my house. We’d planned to walk to the opry together.
Dad looked at his watch. “You two go ahead without me. I’m waiting for Cal, as usual.”
It was a slow night with only half the seats filled. I glanced around and saw Mrs. Wagner a few rows back, sitting with two friends. Twig hadn’t attended since last summer. I wondered what she did now on Saturday nights. Dad and Uncle Cal made it to their seats right before the curtains rose.
Mayzee was the opening act. She sang “Candy Kisses” wearing a gigantic peppermint-striped bow in her hair. During an
instrumental part of the song, she turned to the band and hollered, “Take it away, fellas!”
“Your sister cracks me up,” Joe said.
“Thanks, I think.”
“No, I mean it. She’s good. At first I thought maybe your mom was a stage mom, but you can tell Mayzee wants to be up there.”
He was right and wrong. Mayzee did love the stage, but Mom was a stage mom—just not the horrible kind you saw in movies. Sometimes I caught her on the sidelines mouthing the words.
Joe clapped loud for both of Mayzee’s songs. Then when the headlining band came onstage, he seemed like a different person. He sulked low in his seat and didn’t join in on the applause.
After the show, Dad and Uncle Cal invited us to join them at the Dairy Queen, but Joe wanted to go home.
People passed us by, heading either to their houses or cars. I couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Well, you said you wanted to go. So you don’t have to be so moody about it now.”
He stopped walking. “I didn’t mean to seem like I wasn’t having fun. It’s that my dad … my dad loved a lot of those songs.”
I felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry.”
“He’d sing ‘I Walk the Line’ around the house. Sometimes he’d belt out ‘Welcome to My World’ while he was in the shower. I had forgotten about that until now.”
Not knowing what else to say, I asked, “Was he a good singer?”
Joe’s face slowly slid into a grin. “Well, let’s just say that he sang as good as your mom cooks meatloaf.”
We laughed.
Joe shook his head. “He was terrible.”
The cars on Highway 287 stopped at the corner traffic light, and we crossed the highway.
Joe continued. “I can’t get used to this. Life happening without him. I keep hoping I’m going to walk into another room and never bump into anything that makes me think about him, but there is no other room. Everything reminds me of him. I think that’s what moving here was about for my mom.”
The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas Page 11