Ya-Yas in Bloom

by Rebecca Wells

  Baylor ran to the kitchen. Fixed Rice Krispies right in the box. Ripped it open at the dotted lines, peeled back the foil, sliced on some banana, and poured on the milk. Baylor loved these little boxes you could eat right out of. They were like something you could take out on the prairie with you to save on pack gear. No time this morning, though, to listen to the Snap! Crackle! Pop! He was a cowboy in a hurry. Balancing the small cereal box on his palm, Baylor headed to the den, where Little Shep sprawled, still in his pajamas, watching cartoons. Baylor didn’t dare get comfortable because any minute he had to dash off to be a Junior Buckaroo.

  “Hey, cowboy,” Little Shep said, then ignored Baylor for the rest of The Road Runner show. Little Shep loved it when the Road Runner got into fights. He imitated the sounds that the TV made. “RRRRRRRRRRRR—MMMMMMMMM—BEEP-BEEP! KA BLAMMMMMMMMMMM CRASHHHHHHHHHHHHH SPLATTTTTTTTT! BEEP-BEEP!” Little Shep was a Road Runner kind of boy.

  The cartoon was too loud for Baylor. It made his head hurt worse. Where was Mama?! Surely she hadn’t forgotten his big day! Baylor raced into the kitchen, threw the cereal box away, rinsed the spoon, and put it in the dishwasher like he was trained to do. He went back to his room. It was dark; the curtains were still closed. He sat up on his bed, legs tucked under him, a cowboy in contemplation. He closed his eyes and saw the television cameras closing in on him, saw himself looking into the camera, addressing his hometown like President Kennedy did the whole entire country. “I have things to tell you, fellow Thorntonians. I want to tell you about the egret behind our house in the bayou. And the new bird’s nest in the pecan tree by the playhouse. And there’s the huge huge craw- fish that none of us can catch and the alligator that Daddy says lives in the bayou although none of us have ever seen it, and—” There were so many things Baylor wanted to tell the world. He daydreamed about the hundreds of stories he had made up, all the tales he could share with the people in TV-land, the countless opinions he wanted to impart to adults and children in living rooms all over town. But most of all, he wanted to sing.

  He checked his watch again. It was already twenty minutes after eight! He dashed back to Vivi and Big Shep’s room. They were back in the bed, Vivi lighting a Lucky, Big Shep with a relaxed smile on his tanned face. It was Saturday in the Walker household.

  “Hi, Angel Boy.” Vivi grinned. “Come get in bed with us.”

  “I can’t, Mama, I can’t!” Baylor was trying not to shout, but he was getting pretty upset. “I’ve got to be at Buck Lemoine’s Junior Buckaroos in exactly five minutes.”

  “Shit, I completely forgot!” Vivi said, and stubbed out her just-lit cigarette in the silver ashtray on the bedside table.

  “Leave your Mama alone, son. Go on in the den and watch it on TV.” Big Shep was propped up on one elbow with the sheet pulled up to his bare chest, his hand on the sheet right where it covered Vivi’s stomach.

  “He can’t do that, Shep,” Vivi said. She rolled over, then leapt out of bed without a stitch of clothes on. “Babe, can’t you see he’s already wearing his Junior Buckaroo outfit? This is his big day!”

  Vivi didn’t waste a minute. Before Baylor knew it, she was flying down the hall in her blue and beige negligee, moaning: “Oh, damn it! I’ve been telling everybody about this, all week long! I told the Ya-Yas, I told Buggy—” Pausing only for a second to grab her coat and the car keys from the kitchen, she flung open the kitchen door, and in a jiffy, she and Baylor were in the car, pulling out of the driveway. Butterflies going wild inside his stomach, Baylor watched the speedometer and wondered just how the officer’s face would look when he stopped Vivi for speeding and saw her negligee under her coat. If he concentrated on the numbers on the dash, he could keep his mind off his headache. Five minutes later, they pulled up right in front of K-Dixie-BS-TV.

  The car still running, Vivi reached over and opened the door for Baylor. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry I forgot. I’d go in with you, Dahlin, but they don’t like mothers in their nightgowns at TV stations. Don’t ask me why.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He could smell her sleeping smell. “You’re the finest cowboy I ever saw, Padnah. Go ride the range! I’m speeding home so we can all watch you on television!”

  Baylor jumped out of the car and ran fast as he could, the fringe on his cowboy shirt flapping in the morning air. Inside the door of the television station, a chubby lady with black hair piled on top of her head sat behind a desk. She gave him a big grin and said: “Hey there, Junior Buckaroo!”

  Baylor was gasping; his head throbbed, and he couldn’t think of a single word to say. The lady gave him a smile that he needed, but could hardly take in.

  “You better hurry, hon, if you wanna make it onto The Ranch. The rest of them are already in the studio. See that hallway behind you? Just go straight down to the end and then turn left. Can’t miss it.”

  He would die for a bathroom, but he dared not waste a minute. They could lock the studio door on him, and then he would be left outside forever.

  They just called it The Ranch, Baylor thought as he turned and ran down a long hallway, the heels of his cowboy boots clicking against the floor. He turned left like the lady said, and saw a door into a studio with a big red light above it. Baylor wondered if the red light had anything to do with the bombs he heard about in Cuba. He pushed open the door, terrified. The lady said to go in, but the red light meant STOP. One foot in the door, he spied a herd of other little kids, mostly boys, dressed in various stages of cowboy costume. They were all already sitting down, and there was a big man standing in front talking to them, telling them how to behave.

  For a moment Baylor froze. Should he step forward? Everyone would turn around and look at him, and he would have to slink away and hide. But then everyone at home would ask where he’d been. They’d looked and looked and hadn’t seen him on television. He had to go forward. A real cowboy wouldn’t just freeze in place. Gene Autry wouldn’t stand there paralyzed like he had polio. If only he’d gotten here on time like they told him to!

  Finally, the big man glanced over to him and said, “You’re late, Buckaroo. Don’t like late Buckaroos. But come on in. Sit up there wherever you can find a seat.”

  Oh, boy. He had planned on sitting up front so Buck could see him, so he could be seen by all of Thornton when he had his big moment.

  “Yessir,” he whispered, and made himself as small as he could. He tiptoed up a set of bleachers and crawled over endless kids until he finally found a place to sit. Some of the children he knew; some of them he’d never seen before. Still, his outfit held up just fine next to theirs. Thanks to his Daddy, who bought it at the Cowboy Store and gave it to him for Christmas. A lot of the other little boys just had makeshift outfits, tennis shoes instead of boots. No sir, his Daddy would never let him wear a cowboy outfit without real boots to match. His Daddy would laugh at something like that. His Daddy would say, “Look at that country club cowboy, would you?”

  There were lights up in the high ceiling, and a big camera mounted on a roller with a guy sitting behind it, with headphones on. The studio was so warm. Baylor felt his headache start to push at his forehead. He thought for sure that everyone could see his forehead pulsing in and out. They probably think I’m retarded or from outer space. Those outer space aliens always have weird foreheads.

  Why had he insisted on coming by himself? He should have asked Little Shep. But Little Shep had already been on the show twice and thought it was baby stuff. He should have asked Sidda to come, even with those long fingernails. Now he was completely alone. He had wanted to come alone, to make it all his. Everything else in his life was shared with the other three. Everywhere he went, it seemed Sidda, Little Shep, and Lulu were with him. He had wanted to stand out on television by himself. Now he felt an emptiness, a lack of protection that came with being part of the Walker kid pack.

  The Buck Lemoine theme song began to play, a cowboy song with an up-and-down-in-the-saddle sound to it. Without thinking, Baylor started to
whistle along to the tune.

  After a moment or so, Buck himself entered the ranch set and greeted the audience. “Morning, Junior Buckaroos! And welcome to Buck Lemoine’s Ranch. Fine-lookin’ bunch of cowboys we got here today. Yall ready to have some fun?”

  Buck was a rangy, almost handsome man, and he wore a silver cowboy outfit. He’s not just acting like a cowboy, Baylor thought, he is one. Baylor knew that Lemoine had been a famous rodeo star in the South until he hurt his knee riding bulls. He was a real cowboy, not a fake. Buck got out a small guitar and sang a number about a young cowboy who saved a hundred head of cattle from a terrible storm all by himself. Baylor loved the lights and the camera and all the guys running around doing all the things that get Buck’s picture on TV.

  But Baylor was not doing so well. He knew he should have gone to the bathroom before he left home. His gut felt like someone was shoving a knife through it.

  Baylor told himself to ignore his stomach, and his headache. He had a bigger mission. For weeks he had been practicing a song designed to make him known and loved throughout the town, possibly in all of Garnet Parish. It would give him a new life. This was the reason for being on the show—the song he’d written about Andrew Jackson, made up on the bus coming home from school over two months ago. Baylor had been dying to sing it on the air. He had talked Sidda into helping him record it on her treasured, much-repaired tape recorder. When Sidda played that tape back and he heard his voice, he knew he had to sing it on television. He could have appeared instead on K-Dixie-BS-TV’s Nita Marie Jeansonne Thibeaux’s Searching for Talent program. But his daddy always made fun of that show. He always said, “That damn Nita has been searching for talent in this town for years, and she hasn’t found any yet.”

  This was not like Baylor. His siblings were always performing to the hilt, encouraged by Vivi, who claimed to be an ex-Broadway actress. Usually Baylor was the quiet one. This was different, though. This song was all his. Not his big brother’s or one of his sisters’ routines. Nobody knew anything about it except Sidda, and she had no idea he was going to perform his song for the folks in TV-land.

  Once he sang his number, Buck would ask him to be a regular on the show, right up there with Buck himself. He’d probably have a silver cowboy outfit custom-made to fit Baylor. Baylor would leave the older Walker kids in the dust. He’d stand out from everybody he knew. His Mama and Daddy would be astounded and treat him like something special, like another little boy, not his own regular self. He wouldn’t have to wear Little Shep’s hand-me-down shoes anymore that were all bent up at the toe from genuflecting.

  Buck started to interview the kids, one at a time. The other children were giggly and shy, holding their hands over their mouths. They were so stupid! If they did say anything worthwhile, you’d never understand them anyway. Baylor knew if he could just hold off going to the bathroom, he would sing his song like a pro.

  It took forever for Buck to go down each row, bending over and talking to each dumb kid. Baylor’s stomach hurt worse and worse. Time stretched out even longer than a High Mass, after you’ve been fasting for hours to go to Holy Communion.

  Finally Buck stepped in front of Baylor, bent over, and placed his sun-wrinkled face right next to Baylor’s. Baylor could see the orangey makeup caked onto the cowboy’s face.

  “Mornin son,” he said, smiling. “How you today?”

  Unlike the other little boys, Baylor decided to stand up. Buck was holding a microphone, and Baylor wanted to speak clearly into it. He wanted to do anything to distinguish himself from the other kids. He had never acted like this before. He was possessed. It was his song that was making him do this. He had something to give the world.

  “Real fine,” Baylor said, proud of himself for adding the word “real.” It sounded like a natural-born cowboy.

  “What’s your name, Buckaroo?” Buck asked, positioning the microphone right in front of Baylor’s mouth.

  “My name is Baylor Walker. My Daddy is Big Shep Walker.”

  “Well, sure, I know your Daddy. Darn good hunter, Shep Walker. How many ducks did your Daddy bag last weekend?”

  “Oh—” Baylor really had no idea how many ducks his Daddy shot. “Around two hundred. Yeah, my Daddy killed two hundred ducks last weekend.”

  Buck Lemoine rocked back on his cowboy heels and gave a laugh like a deep-pitched hoot. “You real sure about that, son?” he chuckled.

  “Oh, yes sir, I’m sure,” Baylor lied.

  “Haw-haw-haw! Well, I suspect the game warden is gonna be a tad upset if he’s watching the program this morning. I’d say that’s a few ducks over the limit.” Then Buck turned to the camera and spoke directly: “Shep Walker, if you’re watching this morning, you might oughta instruct your son about the power of television.” Then he gave a big laugh that made lots of the little kids laugh along with him, even though they didn’t get the joke.

  “Well, good to talk with you, Baylor. Tell your Daddy I said hey.”

  Buck was moving down the row toward the next child when Baylor reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “Wait, Buck!” Baylor told him. “I’ve got this song I wrote for your show.” Baylor reached down into the pocket of his cowboy pants and pulled up a folded piece of paper with large childlike letters printed across its surface.

  “I got to move on here, son,” Buck said, tugging on the microphone.

  “No! Wait!” Baylor insisted. He reached up and jerked the microphone out of Buck’s hand. “Just gimme one minute, please sir!”

  Buck Lemoine had never seen such a nervy little kid in all his years on The Ranch. But he couldn’t grab back the microphone. Couldn’t afford to look mean-spirited when you got a children’s television show. He had himself a reputation to consider.

  Baylor gripped the microphone tightly in his right hand and held it up to his mouth. He held the piece of paper with the words on it in front of him. He took a big breath, and then he began to sing, to the tune of the Daniel Boone television show theme song.

  “Andrew Jackson was a man,

  Yes a big man

  He had a fine mind

  And he had a fine time

  And all along he was one of a kind!”

  Buck reached for the microphone, but Baylor held on to it. He was not finished yet. He was just getting going.

  “Andrew Jackson had a dream

  Yes a big dream

  And he worked in the morning

  And he worked in the evening

  And at night he went to sleep in the pines!”

  When Baylor finished, he handed the microphone back to Buck with just a hint of a flourish. How he wished he had the nerve to whip the microphone cord around like a lasso.

  “Thank you, Buck,” he said.

  Before moving on, Buck looked at him through gritted teeth.

  “No, thank you, son. Thank you.”

  By this time, Baylor could feel his gut about to explode. After Buck had moved far enough away and Baylor figured he was no longer on camera, he jumped down from his seat on the bleachers, tripping over two little girls who were sitting with their arms around each other, looking frozen in fear. Baylor ran down the bleachers until he got to the studio door, which he pushed open madly. He was mortified at having to leave the set like that, but he knew if he didn’t find a bathroom right away, he would have something to be ashamed of the rest of his life.

  He flew down the hall to the front of the station, skidding to a halt at the reception desk.

  “’Scuse me,” he said, his hands held in front of his belly. “Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”

  “You okay, baby?” she asked.

  Baylor could not look at her. He followed her down the hall, and when he got inside the bathroom, he locked the door and sat for a very long time without turning the light on. It was very dark and still in the room, the darkness providing a tiny respite for his headache. As his stomach began to relax and he released himself, he felt that he was sinking, floating in dark s
pace.

  He prayed he hadn’t ruined his whole song by running away right after singing it. He prayed all the people wouldn’t think he was ashamed of his song, that they wouldn’t think he was a chicken.

  A fear he could not name, the worst kind, floated up. His body began to contract again, and he feared for a moment that he would stay paralyzed on the toilet in the K-Dixie-BS television station until the end of time. He tried to pray. None of the prayers he had been taught seemed to apply to his situation. They were just words. After a while he started to whistle, then to sing—just anything that came into his mind. He made up words to tunes that were a combination of Sidda’s piano music and television theme songs. “My country was a big one,” he sang. “Moving on, moving on,” he sang again and again, a song he thought he had heard his Daddy whistle along to the radio in the truck. After a while, the small dark stall felt safe after being under the TV lights. Baylor sat and rocked back and forth, and forgot about time. He was pulled out of himself by a knock on the door.

  “Hon,” he heard the receptionist saying, “you all right in there?”

  For a moment he could not speak. “Yes ma’am,” he said, finally. “I’m fine.”

  “You want me to call your Mama to come pick you up? All the other Little Buckaroos have already gone home.”

  “No ma’am, thank you. I’m on my own,” he said.

  He waited until she had had time to walk away from the door. Then he wiped himself. He pulled up his cowboy pants and stared at the door of the stall. Open the door and move, he told himself. Open the door and move.

  It was a leap of faith for Baylor to unlock and open the door of the stall. Putting one foot in front of the other, he walked to the sink and washed and dried his hands. Then he unlocked the door to the bathroom and left. He walked past the receptionist, who sat reading a paperback at her desk.

  He would have preferred not to talk, but he must leave with dignity.