Beverly, Right Here

by Kate DiCamillo

  “Well, sure,” said Iola. She kept staring at the sign. “But I also figured that there was a real good chance you would be right here.” She turned and smiled at Beverly. “And look at that. Here you are.”

  That night, Beverly told Iola “no, thank you” to the flowered nightgown. She slept in a T-shirt on the couch on the porch. The cat came in at some point and curled up behind her legs, purring.

  When she woke up in the morning, Nod was gone, and Beverly’s arms were sore from carrying the bucket full of dishes at Mr. C’s. Her legs hurt, too.

  She thought about the bird building the nest in the V at the VFW — flying back and forth and back and forth, and she thought about the lit-up letters, how beautiful they had seemed, how they had hummed in the darkness.

  The smell of coffee wafted from the little kitchen.

  Beverly lay on the wicker couch and looked at the gray light coming in through the louvers.

  She felt as if something inside of her were humming, too.

  Iola was sitting out in front of the trailer in one of the lawn chairs. Nod was curled up in her lap.

  When Beverly came outside, Iola said, “There’s coffee in the percolator,” but she didn’t get up out of the chair.

  Mist covered the bushes and the trees. Everything was muffled. But underneath the silence, there was the low, insistent mutter of the ocean.

  “I get blue spells,” said Iola without looking at Beverly. “You ever get them?”

  “No,” said Beverly.

  “It’s like somebody is setting right on top of my chest, to where I can’t breathe or hope.” Iola put a hand over her heart. “And then, after a time, it passes. It always does. I just have to wait it out.”

  Beverly nodded.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” said Iola. “But I worry about you. You’re too young to be away from home — I know you are. Surely someone is looking for you. But you give me comfort, and I can’t help it — I’m glad you’re here.”

  “No one’s looking for me,” said Beverly. “I’m going to get some coffee.”

  She went into the trailer and poured a cup of coffee and stood and stared out the little window, past the yellow curtains, and thought about how much she did not want to be a comfort to someone.

  She went back outside with her cup of coffee.

  A woman was standing in front of the trailer, talking to Iola.

  “I see you got some company,” said the woman, nodding in Beverly’s direction.

  “I do,” said Iola.

  “Now, who are you?” said the woman to Beverly.

  The woman’s hair was dyed bright red. She had on a green pantsuit, and she was smiling in a fake way.

  “She’s my niece,” said Iola.

  “I didn’t know you had a niece,” said the woman.

  “Well, I do. And she is visiting me.”

  “Her hair is so dark. Is she some kind of Italian?”

  “She’s my niece,” said Iola again.

  “I’m her niece,” said Beverly.

  “All right. If you say so. The two of you don’t look related at all. But there’s no explaining some things, is there?” She smiled her fake smile. “Now, Iola, I’m heading out on a little walk. You let me know if you want to go to church this Sunday, and when it is that you want to go grocery shopping.”

  “My niece will take me grocery shopping, thank you very much.”

  “If that’s how you want it,” said the lady.

  “That’s how I want it,” said Iola.

  The woman walked away. Iola said, “That’s Maureen. She’s the one who’s been taking me grocery shopping since I can’t drive the Pontiac. But she won’t ever take me to bingo. She says that bingo is corrupt. Corrupt and immoral! Have you ever in your life?”

  “I don’t like her,” said Beverly.

  “Me, neither,” said Iola. “I never have. But lying to her about you being my niece cheered me up some. And it was nice to tell her ‘no, thank you’ for the grocery shopping. I hate grocery shopping with her. She won’t buy one ding-danging thing unless she has some kind of coupon for it. She’s cheap is what she is. My Tommy would have called her ‘stingy of soul.’ And that’s exactly what she is. Stingy of soul.”

  “Her hair sure is red,” said Beverly.

  “She dyes it every week. The hair dye comes in a little box. She buys it at the store. With a coupon, of course. Do you want me to make you some eggs, honey?”

  Even though Beverly wanted to say no, she said yes.

  There was something about sitting at the tiny table in the tiny kitchen in the tiny trailer and having Iola slide a plate of food in front of her that made Beverly feel like a little kid might feel — happy, taken care of.

  Maybe in her letter to Raymie she would describe Iola’s kitchen — the yellow curtains and the tiny table and the blue plates and the clock that was in the shape of a cat, and how the real cat, Nod, sat on top of the refrigerator with his tail hanging down.

  “Do you have a piece of paper and an envelope?” Beverly asked Iola.

  “I do.”

  “I need to write somebody a letter,” said Beverly.

  “I figured,” said Iola. “That’s what them things usually add up to. Are you going to write home and tell them where you are?”

  Beverly said nothing.

  “Never mind,” said Iola. “It ain’t my business.” She pushed herself up from the lawn chair. She made it halfway up and then sank back down. “That old arthritis is in my knees, too,” she said. “Some days, everything hurts.”

  Beverly stepped closer. She reached out and took hold of Iola’s hand. It was bony and small.

  Beverly pulled, and, slowly, Iola rose to a standing position.

  “Oof,” said Iola.

  “Okay?” said Beverly.

  “Okay,” said Iola. She squeezed Beverly’s hand. And then she kept hold of it as the two of them walked up the stairs and into the trailer.

  Well, look at that,” said Freddie. “You wore a different shirt today. It must be a national holiday or something.” She was sitting at a table in the dining room, smoking a cigarette and rolling silverware up in blue paper napkins. Her hair was piled high on her head.

  The sun flashed off the silverware. The room was empty except for Freddie and the mountain of napkins and another mountain of forks and spoons and knives.

  Beverly stared at Freddie.

  “What?” said Freddie.

  “Nothing,” said Beverly.

  “I take it back about you being a model and all,” said Freddie. “You might have good legs and good hair and white teeth, but you’re not friendly enough. You’ve got to be friendly to model. People want to look at somebody that knows how to smile, someone who smiles like they mean it.”

  Freddie smiled a big fake smile.

  “Like that,” said Freddie. “That’s how you do it.” She stopped smiling, took a long drag off her cigarette, and blew the smoke up in the air.

  Mr. Denby came out into the dining room. “Good morning, Beverly Anne,” he said.

  “Right,” said Beverly. She went back to the kitchen.

  Doris was at the sink, scrubbing something. Charles was mopping the floor.

  “It occurred to me last night that you might not know what ‘tipping out’ means,” said Doris without turning around, “what with you being young and wet behind the ears. Charles didn’t know how things worked when he got here, either.”

  “I didn’t know nothing,” said Charles. “Still don’t.”

  “You’re learning,” said Doris. “Now, Aunt Beverly, listen. Tipping out means that Barbie gives you a percentage of what she gets in tips. Ten percent, at least. How much did she give you yesterday?”

  “Two dollars,” said Beverly.

  Doris snorted.

  “What?” said Beverly.

  “Pay attention to what’s going on,” said Doris. “See what people leave on the table. Know what things cost. Pay attention. Nobody watches out for yo
u in this world.”

  “But you’re watching out for me,” said Beverly to Doris’s wide, solid back, “aren’t you?”

  Doris snorted again.

  Charles kept mopping the floor. He laughed a low laugh.

  The lunch rush started slow, but by half past noon, Mr. C’s was full of sunburned kids and dazed parents. Beverly was almost running with her bucket full of dishes, trying to keep up. Freddie was smiling her fake smile, moving from table to table. And Mr. Denby, wearing a tie with a frowning fish on it, kept escorting more people in.

  The same thing happened that had happened the day before. Everything slid out of Beverly’s head: Iola’s bony, insistent hand; the memory of her father and the rocket launch; the VFW and the bird’s nest; Buddy’s grave and Raymie’s question about how they were going to survive without him.

  Beverly forgot. She didn’t think. She just worked.

  At one point, a fat old man with a cigar in his mouth pinched her on the butt.

  “You’re kidding,” said Beverly, “right?”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s just Lou,” Freddie told her. “If you don’t complain about him, he tips more.”

  “Tips who more?” said Beverly.

  Which shut Freddie up.

  After lunch was over, Freddie gave Beverly two dollars.

  “Is that my full ten percent?” said Beverly.

  “What are you even talking about?”

  Beverly stared at her.

  Freddie rolled her eyes, and then she peeled three more dollars off a big roll of bills. “Are you satisfied now?” she said.

  “Sure,” said Beverly. “Thanks.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Freddie. “Here comes Jerome. He’s early.”

  A man was walking across the almost-empty dining room. He was big and dark-haired. He was wearing a red tank top and a thick gold necklace that winked in the light.

  Freddie waved and smiled her model smile. “Hi, baby,” she said. “Hi, Jerome. You’re early.”

  “Who’s the new girl?” he said, tipping his head in Beverly’s direction.

  Up close, Beverly could see that he wasn’t that old — seventeen or eighteen, maybe. He had a toothpick in the side of his mouth. It waggled up and down when he talked.

  “I told you about her already,” said Freddie. “You never listen to me.”

  “I listen to you,” said Jerome. “That’s all I do — listen to you.” He winked at Beverly. “Hi, new girl.”

  Jerome’s shoulders were hairy, and his nose was big. He looked like a wolf in a cartoon. He reminded Beverly of her mother’s boyfriends — stupid and desperate and sometimes mean.

  “What’s the matter, new girl?” said Jerome. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Beverly Anne,” called Mr. Denby. He was standing at the threshold to the dining room. He looked tired.

  Jerome took the toothpick out of his mouth and used it to salute Mr. Denby. “Good afternoon, sir!” he shouted.

  “Hello, Jerome,” said Mr. Denby.

  “The world treating you okay, Mr. Denby?” said Jerome. He put the toothpick back in his mouth. He grinned. “How is the fish business, sir? Is it good?”

  “The fish business is just fine, Jerome,” said Mr. Denby. “Beverly Anne, if I could see you in the office?”

  “Bye-bye, Beverly Anne,” crooned Jerome as Beverly walked out of the dining room. “Bye-bye. Have a good time in the office with Mr. Denby, Beverly Anne.”

  Mr. Denby ushered Beverly into the office and closed the door. He turned to face her. He tugged at his fish tie.

  “I don’t like him,” said Mr. Denby. “That boyfriend of hers is not good news.” He sighed. “Of course, Freddie isn’t exactly good news, either. She’s a crackerjack waitress, though. Very motivated in that regard.” He sighed again. “But I feel like she is primed to take a wrong turn. It’s worrisome, how people can take a wrong turn and never right themselves. I hope that doesn’t happen to you, Beverly Anne.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Beverly.

  “You think about these kinds of things when you’re a parent,” said Mr. Denby. “You do a lot of thinking about wrong turns when you’re raising children. In any case, we’re going to get the paperwork filled out just as soon as I locate the paperwork, but in the meantime, here is some cash. And I thank you for your good work.”

  “Thanks,” said Beverly. She took the money.

  “I’m guessing that you’ll come back tomorrow?” said Mr. Denby.

  “Sure,” said Beverly.

  “How’s your grandmother?”

  “I don’t have a grandmother.”

  “I thought you said you had a grandmother.”

  “No,” said Beverly.

  “Well, maybe it’s just that I saw you in the car with your grandmother yesterday.”

  “You didn’t,” said Beverly.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Denby. He gave his fish tie another tug. “My apologies. I wish for things to be a certain way, and that is how I see them. Wishful thinking, I suppose you would call it. It’s a personality trait that drove my wife to despair.” He sighed. “I have three daughters, you know.”

  “Yeah,” said Beverly. “You told me.”

  “Right,” said Mr. Denby. He clapped his hands. “I’m certain that I did. Well, have a good afternoon, Beverly Anne. Enjoy the sunshine. I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” said Beverly. “See you tomorrow.”

  Beverly walked out of Mr. C’s and saw a dark-blue pickup truck parked at a rude angle in the parking lot.

  Jerome, she thought.

  The driver’s-side window was down. Beverly put her head inside the truck. It smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

  Yep. Jerome.

  There was a gold graduation tassel hanging from the rearview mirror.

  “Ha,” said Beverly. “Right. I bet.”

  She opened the door of the truck, took the tassel off the mirror, and put it in the pocket of her jeans. She got out of the truck and slammed the door.

  “Some people take a wrong turn and never right themselves,” she said out loud.

  The words cheered her up.

  She walked across the parking lot of Mr. C’s, and then turned down A1A going north, in the opposite direction from the Seahorse Court. Her arms hurt and her feet hurt. She smelled like fish and ketchup. She had a wad of cash and a graduation tassel in her pocket.

  She decided that she wanted to buy something, but she didn’t know what.

  Up ahead, there was a sign for a convenience store called Zoom City. The word Zoom had wheels under it, and it was tilted to one side so that it looked like the letters were going somewhere in a hurry.

  Out in front of Zoom City, there was a metal horse, the kind that you put a dime in to take a ride to nowhere.

  Beverly had loved those horses when she was really little. And then she’d realized that she wasn’t going anywhere — that the horse was always going to stay in the same place, no matter how much money you fed it.

  She’d been three or four years old, standing out in front of the Tag and Bag with her mother, when she’d finally figured it out.

  Her father was there, too.

  “Get on the horse, Bevvie,” said her mother.

  “No,” said Beverly.

  “Get on the horse!” shouted her mother.

  “The kid doesn’t want to do it, Rhonda. Leave her alone.”

  “She loves these horses. Don’t you love these horses, Bevvie? Every kid wants to get on a horse. That’s what kids do. Get on the horse, baby.”

  “No,” said Beverly.

  “Get on the horse and have some fun!” shouted her mother.

  But Beverly hadn’t.

  She wouldn’t.

  She didn’t want to ride a horse to nowhere; she wasn’t going to let herself get fooled.

  “See how she is?” her mother said to her father. “Hard as a rock.”

  Beverly stared at the Zoom City horse. His mout
h was open so that you could see his teeth. He looked terrified. But underneath the terror, there was sadness, too.

  Beverly felt bad for him. It must stink sitting out in front of Zoom City, offering kids rides to nowhere.

  Beverly patted the horse on his metal flank.

  The door to Zoom City opened, and a woman came out dragging a screaming toddler.

  “Stop it, Vera!” shouted the woman. “You can scream all you want, but you ain’t riding the horse.”

  The kid didn’t have on shoes or a shirt — just a diaper.

  “Want to get on the horsie,” wailed Vera.

  “No,” said her mother.

  “Horsie! Horsie!” screamed Vera.

  “Shut up,” said the mother.

  The door to Zoom City opened again. A boy came out. His face was red. He was wearing a name tag that said Zoom! Elmer.

  “Here,” he said to the mother. He handed her a dime. “Give the kid a ride.”

  He went back into the store.

  “Horsie?” said Vera. She stopped crying.

  “Get on the horse!” shouted Vera’s mother. “The nice man gave you a dime, and now you need to get on the horse!”

  Vera blinked. She opened her arms so that she could be picked up.

  “Go ahead,” said the mother. “You want it so much, get on there your own self.”

  “Stop it,” said Beverly to the mother. “Can’t you just stop it?”

  She knelt. “Come here,” she said to Vera. She held out her arms.

  Vera stumbled over to her, and Beverly picked her up. The kid smelled like pee and talcum powder. She was as solid as a sun-warmed brick in Beverly’s arms.

  “I wonder what you think you’re doing,” said the mother.

  “I’m putting the kid on the horse,” said Beverly. “Duh.”

  “Horsie,” said Vera.

  “Right,” said Beverly. “Okay. There you go. Do you know how to hold on?”

  Vera nodded. “Yes,” she said. Her face was streaked with snot and tears. She grabbed hold of the reins.

  “Okay, then,” said Beverly. She turned to the mother. “Put the dime in, would you?”

  “Who do you think you are?” said the woman.

  But she dropped the dime in the box, and the horse started to move. Vera held on to the reins and looked up at Beverly.