It’s the second Saturday of the month, and that means worm day—the day I help Dad box up and deliver worms to the bait shops around the lakes. To Dad, it’s another exciting day with worms. To me, it means getting up before dawn.
Mom always fixed pancakes on the day we made deliveries. She’d say, “You need a breakfast that will stick to your ribs.” As if boxing up worms and driving from bait shop to bait shop was hard manual labor. I’d give anything to have a stack of those golden cakes with maple syrup dripping over them. Since Mom left, I’ve woken up starving because Dad’s suppers are heavy on vegetables and light on meat. They slide right through, leaving me hungry ten minutes later.
Downstairs the house is dark, except for the yellow glow from the hood light over the stove, where Dad
stands, frying spatula in hand. A lopsided stack of pancakes sits on the table.
Dad looks up, kind of grinning. “I’m starting to get the hang of this. Don’t worry about eating the ones on the table. These are going to be better.”
I head toward the pantry. “I just want cereal.” I don’t even have to look to know he’s disappointed, and for some reason I feel satisfied knowing that I’ve hurt him.
Later at the table, Dad reads the paper while I try to hike my eyelids enough to see the spoon to my mouth. I focus on the Elvis plate hanging on the wall. Mom bought that two summers ago, when we went to Memphis on vacation. It hangs between the North Carolina plate and the Florida one. I don’t know what Elvis has in common with Florida and North Carolina, but Mom says he balances out the wall.
Outside the sky is pitch-black, and the air feels unstirred because the wind hasn’t picked up yet. From a distance I hear the moan of the train passing through town. Light slips underneath the shelter’s door because Dad keeps it on over the worms at all times. If he doesn’t and it starts storming, the worms will split, heading for the hills or wherever worms escape.
The boxes line the shelf with labels that tell us the dates we last changed the soil. Some have Separated
marked on them, meaning we’ve sorted them by age. Dad thinks it’s amazing that in three months a white threadlike worm develops into a four-inch worm with a pale ring around it. I think Dad needs to get out in the real world more.
Dad hands me a tower of round cartons. “We’ll need about a hundred boxes this morning.”
I know the procedure. Fill boxes with peat moss. Dig for a worm. Worm in box. Repeat twelve times. Lid on. Next box. Dad always gives a baker’s dozen—thirteen to a box.
I guess to most people it would feel creepy to fumble through warm dirt, feeling hundreds of worms wiggling against their skin. And it’s not my favorite thing to do, but I’ve gotten used to it. After all, I’m Toby Wilson, son of worm man.
Dad flicks on the cassette player he keeps on the top shelf. Classical music bounces off the tin walls. Mom wrote a song about Dad digging for worms while listening to Beethoven. It’s called “Wolfgang Wiggle.”
The packing takes us an hour, and we let the piano sonatas fill the quiet. Maybe Mom would have stayed if Dad did something more interesting than raise worms and work at the post office. But it probably wouldn’t matter anyway. She wanted to be a singer ever since I remember. I wonder if she wanted to be
one when she was my age, like Scarlett wanting to be a model or a stewardess. Maybe living in a place like Antler makes people latch on to big dreams instead of drying up and blowing away.
Finally we pile the cartons into the truck and head east to the bait shop on Lake Kiezer. At Claude, we turn off the highway and onto the road that winds through Palo Duro Canyon. The canyon breaks begin about a mile out of Claude. They seem to rise out of nowhere and then suddenly the land flattens again.
We cross at the Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River, only it’s nothing but red mud today. Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know how the ranchers and farmers are making it this year, dry as it’s been.”
“Cal said Mr. Boggis lost his cotton crop.”
“Makes a man glad he’s raising worms.”
I wonder if he’s being funny, because it sounds funny, but Dad isn’t the type to joke. I check out his face. He’s serious. “You know, Charlie McKnight may be tight with his money, but it’s probably what’s saved his farm over the lean years.”
“Why did you leave Dallas?” I ask. Dad’s never given me a straight answer when I’ve asked before. In Dallas, my uncle and aunt are lawyers in my grandfather’s firm. They drive nice cars and live in big fancy houses.
The creases dig deeper into Dad’s face, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the road. “There’s nothing in Dallas worth staying for.”
I’ve heard that answer other times, before, but today I want more. “What about your family?”
“My family is here.”
“Mom isn’t here.”
Dad is quiet for a moment, then says, “You read her letter?”
A lump gathers in my throat, and I can’t speak. Outside the window, tall sunflowers along the road wave to us. Mom loves sunflowers. She once told me, “Being a farm kid, I grew up despising them. And then on our first date, your dad stood at my door with a silly grin on his face and a jelly jar of those weeds.” Over the years sunflowers became her favorite. Dad used to give them to her on their anniversary, but now when I think about it, I can’t remember the last time he did.
“I read the letter.”
We’re quiet again, and I wonder if this is what our life is going to be like from now on. Big empty spaces of silence like the wide-open land spread on both sides of the road.
I decide not to let my question die. “What about Uncle Arnie and Aunt Maureen?”
“What about them?”
“Didn’t you ever want to be a lawyer like them?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t you ever want to—”
“Toby, I like my life. Your mother didn’t like hers, and that’s why she isn’t here. And when you grow up, you can decide where and what your life will be.”
I feel trapped, but I don’t know where I would go if I could leave. I wouldn’t go to Nashville like Mom because everybody there probably wants to be a country music star. I wouldn’t want to live in Dallas because it’s not far enough away from Antler to feel like you’ve really been anywhere. And I wouldn’t want to travel in a trailer like Zachary Beaver, never having a place to call home. I only know that now with Mom gone, the only thing keeping me in Antler is an impossible dream. Heck, I know I’ll probably never see Scarlett Stalling loves Toby Wilson scribbled across her notebook, but there’s something inside me that won’t let go. If there was ever a chance that she could be mine, it’s now, while Juan is out of the picture.
The sun starts to rise as we reach the marina. Inside the shop, the smell of coffee dripping mixes with a faint fish odor. Freddy, the bait shop owner, is setting out ketchup bottles on the counter in the eating area. As usual, a yellow baseball hat covers his bald head
and red suspenders hold up his baggy pants. “How are ya?” he asks. “Toby, you look like you just rolled out of bed. Got some fresh coffee, Otto.”
“Sounds good,” says Dad. “We’ll get these boxes unloaded for you first. Toby, you think you’re up for a cup of coffee?” He winks, but I don’t say anything. Dad acts like everything is the same this morning, when it’s not.
After we unload the cartons, I swig down a bottle of Coke and look at the pictures of people and the fish they caught posted on the bulletin board. The weight of the catch is scribbled underneath each photo.
Dad sits at the counter, drinking a cup of coffee, while Fred points out a picture of the biggest bass that was caught yesterday. “Five and a half pounds.”
“Not too shabby,” Dad says.
“Hate to tell you this, Otto, but he caught it with one of those night crawlers.”
“That a fact?”
“Of course I have to order those from Canada, so there’s no tellin’ when I can get them. They aren’t as handy as getting hold of you and your Tennessee brown nose babies. The young man who caught that bass got back from Vietnam last month. Won’t hardly speak to anyone. His dad said, when he landed in San
Francisco, he stepped off the plane and was spit on by hippies. You believe that? After serving our country. Damnedest thing.”
“Damnedest war,” Dad says.
Freddy clears his throat. “Yeah, well, I was in World War II. Back then, we came back heroes.”
Dad doesn’t say anything, and the quiet is so uncomfortable that I keep staring at the pictures on the board. But all I can think about is how Wayne is a hero and how no one better ever spit on him.
After a long moment Freddy asks, “You like to fish, Toby?”
I shrug. “It’s okay.”
Dad holds the coffee mug close to his chin. “I think my son has a dose of big city in him.”
“I didn’t know you ever lived in the city, Toby.”
I frown because I know what Dad is referring to, and I don’t see how asking a few questions about why he left Dallas makes me a city kid.
Dad takes a sip of coffee, then says, “He kind of thinks cities like Dallas have something special.”
I’m wondering why Dad, who is private about everything, is talking like this to Freddy.
“Oh, they do,” Freddy says. “Yes, indeedy, they do. They got traffic jams, and smog, and oh, yeah, they got
those big ol’ shopping malls where you can spend every bit of your hard-earned money.”
My blood boils, and when we get back into the truck, I’m quiet. I don’t even ask to stop at Prairie Dog Fork on the way to the next shop. And when Dad slows down anyway and asks if I want to see the prairie dogs, I say, “Nah.”
Without saying a word, he accelerates, and I add, “Prairie dogs are no big deal.”
He shrugs, and I say, “If you’ve seen one prairie dog, you’ve seen them all.” It’s no use. Dad is as good at the silent treatment as I am. Mom would be chattering away right now, saying something about the sunflowers blooming early or pointing out a family cemetery in the middle of nowhere. She always got us to talking again, mainly to shut her up.
Maybe Mom will make it big and I’ll be a famous country music star’s kid. I’ll enroll at my new school in Nashville, and the teachers will say, “This is Tex Wilson, Opalina Wilson’s son. No, he doesn’t have time to sign autographs. Just treat him like anybody else.” Only the kids won’t because I’m Tex Wilson, number-one son of a top recording star.
I’ll drive a Jag to school. I’ll even parallel park it out front. I’ll have my own wing in our mansion next
door to Tammy Wynette. She and Mom will be best friends. They’ll roll each other’s hair on those giant orange juice cans. I might even date Tammy Wynette’s daughter. And poor Scarlett. Poor, poor Scarlett. She’ll write to me, and I’ll dictate letters to my personal secretary that will always end with, I’m sorry that Antler drives you crazy. Maybe I’ll send my limo down to pick you up this summer. Then again—maybe I won’t.
“Toby?” Dad stands beside the truck, looking at me through the passenger’s window. Somehow we’ve made it to the lake, and we’re parked in front of Bob’s Bait Shop. “Are you ready to unload?”
There’s nothing like worms to bring you back to reality.