Free When Zachary Beaver Came to Town by Kimberly Willis Holt Page A

nice fancy napkin to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I don’t know what to do with that napkin, and I watch Sheriff Levi, but he doesn’t seem to know either. So I wait for Miss Myrtie Mae’s cue. She flings hers open and drops it daintily into her lap. The sheriff and I follow her lead, only when
I fling my napkin, one corner lands in the pitcher of iced tea. I go to rescue it, only to knock my glass of ice over.
    â€œWhoa, whoa, Toby,” she says. “Sit back. I’ll get you a clean glass of ice.” I want to tell her don’t bother. I’m filthy and sweaty, and dirty ice won’t hurt me at this point. In fact, any kind of ice sounds great, but she swiftly removes the glass and disappears into her house.
    Sheriff Levi leans over the table and whispers fast, “Toby, can I help myself to some worms? I’m heading out to my secret fishing hole.”
    â€œSure, Sheriff, help yourself.”
    â€œI’ll leave the money in the tin can.”
    â€œNo problem.” Dad leaves an empty coffee can on the shelf so the locals can take what they need and leave the money in case we’re not there, but Sheriff Levi always hunts us down before taking any.
    Miss Myrtie Mae heads our way with my glass of ice, so I quickly ask, “Sheriff, what could happen to Zachary Beaver if Paulie Rankin doesn’t come back?”
    Sheriff Levi tips back his hat. “I’ll have to notify social services in Amarillo.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”

    He tries to steady his eye by raising his brows. He removes his hat and wipes the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “He’ll probably be put in a foster home or some sort of home for juveniles.”
    â€œOh.” I look away. Some blurry white moths fly by, their wings fluttering in the breeze. I don’t like Zachary Beaver, but I don’t much like the thought of him living in some house with strangers either.
    Miss Myrtie Mae hands me the fresh glass of ice. “Here you go, Toby.”
    Sheriff Levi shovels the salad into his mouth in quick huge bites, then washes it down with iced tea, holding his head back as he empties the glass. Giant gulps move down his throat, then he stands and announces, “Miss Myrtie Mae, I hate to eat and run, but I forgot Duke was waiting for me in the car.” He grabs a couple of lemon drop cookies, tips his hat, and steps off the gazebo before Miss Myrtie Mae can utter a protest.
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    Four hours later I sack up the grass, then cross off task number twenty-three. The flower beds are groomed and free of weeds. I feel proud. I’m different than Cal—I finish projects. I remember when Cal and I were five or six and we turned on the garden hose
and made a mess in the mud. Wayne fetched Cal and cleaned him from head to toe with the hose before taking him into the house. I cleaned myself off. I don’t have big brothers watching out for me.
    Before paying me, Miss Myrtie Mae inspects the yard. She walks to each corner flower bed. Her eyes comb every grass blade, and when she spots an apple on the ground, she walks over and picks it up. It probably fell a second ago.
    She hands me my money and says in a sharp voice, “Not bad, but next time take care in the direction you mow. You shock the grass blades if you don’t cut it in an east-to-west pattern. Can I expect you next week?”
    My arms ache from pushing the lawn mower, my back throbs from bending over picking up apples, and my hands have blisters on them from pulling weeds. I open my mouth and say, “Yes, ma’am.”
    Miss Myrtie Mae asks me to step inside the house for a moment, and I’m relieved that the Judge isn’t inside, waiting to haul me off to prison. Smells of something wonderful drift from the kitchen. The TV is on, and the early evening news broadcasts from a jungle in Vietnam. I wonder if Wayne is nearby.
    Miss Myrtie Mae shakes her head, looking at the television.