by Jack Weyland
* * * * *
A day later I felt rotten for insulting her. That’s the trouble with a conscience—it keeps bugging you. I decided to phone and apologize.
“Sister Whyte, this is Sam Roberts. I was the one under the table last night.”
She laughed. “I hope nobody’s listening in on this conversation.”
“I called to apologize for being so rude.”
“I accept. Now it’s my turn. I apologize for being so impatient with you.”
Pause.
“I guess we’ve cleaned the slate, haven’t we?” she said.
“I guess so. Can we talk for a few minutes to fill it with things we won’t have to erase again?”
A minute later we got on the subject of our missions.
“You know,” she said, “that reminds me of something that happened on my mission. We’d been tracting all day, and it was time to quit, but there were just four more houses on the block, so I suggested we finish. On the last house we met a great family. We taught them, and four weeks later they were baptized—a wonderful family of six.”
“Six—how nice,” I said politely. “But your story reminds me of something that happened on my mission. We were out tracting and there was a house with a big fence and a sign that read ‘Beware of Dog.’ I told my companion we weren’t going to let a little dog stop us. So we opened the gate and the dog came over and jumped him. I went ahead and knocked on the door while he wrestled with the dog. I met the nicest family there. They called off the dog and let us in. In a few weeks they were all baptized—a family of seven.”
“How nice,” she said politely. “My family of six has been such an asset to the Church. He’s a bishop now.”
“Oh, a bishop,” I said, outwardly delighted, “that’s nice.”
“Is the family you baptized still active in the Church?” she asked.
“Oh, yes—he’s the custodian of a very large chapel. You know, a good custodian is worth so much these days—maybe even more than a bishop.”
“Not only is he a bishop,” she continued, “but they in turn invited their friends to learn about the Church. Last time I checked, four other families had joined from their efforts.”
I would not be defeated. Secretly though, I loved the challenge.
“A custodian is the hub around which a ward rotates.”
“And from those families, there are now two missionaries serving. Who knows how many they’ve baptized by now.”
“An excellent custodian can save the Church thousands of dollars each year by doing routine maintenance himself. For instance, my custodian does his own periodic boiler upkeep.”
“Is that good?” she asked.
“Oh, my, yes. Not only that, who can put a price on the value to missionary work of a well-kept lawn and flowers? Do you know how many people join the Church each year just because they drive by our buildings and think, ‘I ought to join that church—they keep up their lawn.’ Do you?”
“No, I don’t,” she confessed. “How many?”
A long pause. “I don’t know either—but I”m sure we’d both be surprised by how many there are.”
I started to laugh. “I surrender! You topped me—this time.”
“Can you come over?”
“Well, I don’t know. If I come over, I might get to like you. That’d be too bad, wouldn’t it? We were getting to be such good enemies.”
“If you want, we can sit under my aunt’s kitchen table. So far, that’s been the only time you’ve been very friendly.”
“Why not?” I said. “I’ve still got a family of ten I haven’t used yet.”
Give me an hour to get ready.”
The reason I like her, I thought as I shaved, is she’s a challenge. That turned out to be one of the great understatements of my life.
An hour later when I rounded a corner, I saw twenty paper bags glowing in the dark along the sidewalk to her house. She was sitting on the porch waiting for me.
“Have any trouble finding the house?” she asked as I walked up the glowing sidewalk.
“Sorry for making fun of your idea—they look great.”
She showed me how to set one up—a small paper bag, a candle, a little sand or soil. “In New Mexico, they call them luminarios.”
We went inside. I met her aunt, Sister Gillespie, a cheery lady who played the role of matchmaker.
We had grape juice and a slice of whole wheat bread. Then we played Pit, a game where everyone yells trying to trade off some cards. After the first game, Lara excused herself for a minute.
“She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she?” her aunt prompted.
Yes, she is.”
“And she’s smart too, and a wonderful cook. She made the bread, you know. And so spiritual.”
I nodded as the sales pitch continued.
Then Lara returned and her aunt disappeared.
I played my trump card, the family of ten, and she didn’t even try to top it. An hour later we walked out onto her porch.
“I’d like to take you out tomorrow night.”
“That would be nice,” she said.
“Oh, one thing,” I said, “in case you were wondering if I’m going to kiss you, I’m not.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” she said.
Pause.
“You weren’t?”
“I’m very selective about who I kiss.”
“What I mean is, even if we date a lot, I probably won’t ever kiss you.”
“Fine,” she said, apparently unconcerned.
I studied her. “Is that why you went on your mission?”
“What?”
“Oh, you know—some sister missionaries resent men. When I was a zone leader, we had several like that.”
“What you mean is they didn’t like you,” she defended.
“They didn’t like any men.”
She laughed.
“Is this a trick to get me to kiss you, to prove I’m not a man hater.”
“No trick,” I said, suddenly serious. “It hasn’t been that long since my wife died.”
“I understand.”
“I still love her. We were married in the temple, so we’re still married. How’s that for dumping cold water on things?”
“You’re honest. I like that.”
I reached out and held her hand. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“When you were in high school,” she kidded, “I was still getting The Weekly Reader.”
“It’s fun talking to you, Lara.”
I’d spent the evening admiring her face. The smooth, graceful neck and almost sculptured beauty of her face were offset by the down-home touch of her freckles. Looking into her eyes as I did then gave me the feeling of falling, like some wandering comet suddenly captured by the sun.
“I’d like to compliment you on your eyes,” I said, still captured by them. “Since I’ve been married before, I know about the wonders of chemistry women use to look nice—you know, eyeliner, eye shadow, eye-coloring pencils, mascara. Still, I find a certain satisfaction in staring into your eyes.”
“If that’s a compliment,” she grinned, “then thank you.”
I escaped. “Well, good night, Sister Whyte. Don’t forget to say your prayers.”
“I won’t—I’ll pray for you.”
“What for?”
“That you’ll come by again.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“My prayers are answered,” she smiled.
“Can I ask you a personal question? Is there anything wrong with your neck?”
“No, why?”
“Well, that scarf around your neck. It’s July, you know. I thought you might be hiding some sort of scar.”
“Just a habit from my mission, I guess. Here, I’ll show you.”
She pulled off her scarf, revealing the rest of her attractive neck.
“Oh, sure, a regular neck. Thanks.”
; “Good night, Sam.”
“Good night, Sister Whyte.”
She shook her head. “That won’t do anymore.”
“It won’t?”
“Now that you’ve seen my neck, you’d better call me Lara.”
“Good night . . . Lara.”
“Good night, Sam.”
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
The next day I dropped by at seven. She wasn’t ready, so her aunt continued the Lara Lectures.
“She’s so healthy. And her teeth—you shoul ask to see her teeth sometime.”
Lara showed up and we looked at a newspaper to see about a movie. We ruled out the Rs, marked out the PGs with obviously lurid titles. I’d already seen the Gs. Finally we were left with three PGs.
She had a magazine that rated movies; she looked up the three in question.
“Well,” she said, “They’re basically all right, except for a little nudity.”
“A little nudity?” I asked. “Does that mean little in time or in area of body exposed?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No movie—right?”
“Right. I’m still reeling from seeing your neck.”
After a couple of games of Pit with her aunt, I asked Lara if we could drop by and see Paul. He’d taken his Ph.D. comprehensive course work exam that day and I wanted to see how he’d done.
“I passed!” he shouted as he opened the door. We sat down while he gave us a question-by-question playback. I didn’t understand a word he was saying, but I knew he was happy.
“You should celebrate tonight—let us buy you a treat.”
We drove to my favorite ice cream store. I suggested we all get banana splits.
“Not for me, thank you,” Lara said. “I don’t eat anything with refined sugar in it.”
She’s a strange one, I thought.
“Well, what would you like?”
“Could I have just a plain banana?”
“So what’s wrong with refined sugar?” I asked after the waitress left.
“It’s not good for the body.”
“Don’t you ever have anything sweet?” I asked.
“Oh sure—I make a little candy with honey, raisins, and wheat germ.”
Inwardly I groaned.
“But it’s paid off. I’ve never had a cavity.”
“I’ve heard that—can I see your teeth?”
“You’ve seen my neck—that should be enough.”
“C’mon, your aunt promised me.”
She gave me a warm smile, but I forgot to look at her teeth.
A few minutes later our food came. Paul and I dug into our banana splits while Lara peeled her banana.
“All I have left now in school,” Paul said eagerly, “is a little more research, then writing the dissertation.”
“And then what?”
“Get a job someplace—maybe Bell Labs in New Jersey.”
“What about marriage?” I asked.
“There’ll be time for that after my dissertation.”
“Not many LDS girls in New Jersey. You’d better spend time on it before you leave.”
He considered that for a few spoonfuls. “You’re right—I should get married before I leave Utah. Who do I see about that?”
“See?” Lara asked. “First you have to start dating.”
“I don’t know anybody.”
“How about in your ward?”
“I’m the assistant clerk, so it’s not like I’m a stranger to the girls in the ward. After all, my name’s on all their donation receipts.”
Lara and I looked at each other.
“Paul,” Lara suggested, “I know a girl who goes to the U of U. She works part-time in our store. I think I can talk her into going out with you—once.”
“I’ve never been on a date. What do I do?”
“Well,” Lara said, “you can always take her to a movie.”
“. . . with just a little nudity,” I added.
“What?” Paul asked, now even more worried.
“Or,” Lara reconsidered, “you can take her to dinner.”
“Alone?” he asked. “Do I have to be alone with her?”
* * * * *
A week later we arranged to have Paul and his date to dinner at Lara’s place.
Her aunt left the house as we finished the preparations for the evening. Paul nervously paced back and forth as Lara and I were setting the table.
“What do I say to her?” he asked, wiping his forehead with a linen napkin from the table, then tossing it back on a plate.
“”Talk about the weather,” I suggested, placing the napkin back in place.
“Oh, sure.” He sighed with relief, but then panicked again. “Tell me something to say about the weather.”
“It’s hot for this time of year,” I suggested.
“Thanks.”
The doorbell rang and Lara got it. Julie came bouncing in. She was a sophomore in Physical Education—blonde, and energetic.
“Sorry I’m late! Our game went into extra innings, but we won!”
“Julie,” Lara said, “this is Paul and this is Sam.”
“Hi, Julie,” I said. “Lara’s told me a lot about you.”
Paul shook her hand in a stiff missionary style. “It’s certainly a pleasure to be here today.” Then, almost ominously, he added, “Everybody’s talking about you.”
She flinched just a little but then smiled.
Lara interceded. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get us something to nibble on while the casserole cooks.”
Lara left and the party ground to to a halt.
“Well, here we are,” Julie said warmly.
Seconds ticked by.
“Yes, we are—we’re here,” Paul said desperately.
More dead time broken by Paul blurting, “I’m hot for this time of year.”
“Oh, sure,” she agreed.
We were saved by lara bringing in some dip and a bowl of potato chips.
“How nice,” Julie bubbled. She tasted the dip. “This is delicious! What is it, Lara?”
“A shrimp and clam dip. One of my aunts taught me how to make it before she passed away.”
“How soon before?” Paul asked, eyeing the dip suspiciously.
We ignored him. I tried some and liked it.
Paul tried but in the process knocked the bowl onto the carpet.
“Oh, no!” he moaned, falling to his knees and scooping up the dip in his hands and plopping the mess on the coffee table. Then he tried to wipe his hands with the cloth on the coffee table, managing to spill the chips too.
While he apologized over and over again, Lara ran to get a rag, and I picked up the chips. In a minute, it was all cleaned up.
“Paul,” Julie said, “can I give you a little advice? You seem so tense. You need to learn to relax your body.”
“Relax?” Paul croaked, his voice at least an octave above normal. “My body has just destroyed Lara’s dead aunt’s chip dip, and you ask me to relax? My body feels like it’s made out of stiff cardboard.”
“Let me teach you an excercise that’ll help,” Julie said. “Just lean back and relax.” She rearranged Paul’s head against the back of the swivel rocker, then encouraged Lara and me to sit on the couch and follow along.
“Okay, are we all ready? First thing, everybody relax your toes. Think of calmness flowing over your toes.”
Paul sat up. “It turns out my toes are never very tense.”
“It’s okay, just sit back. Now let’s all relax our ankles. Concentrate on your ankles. Paul, are your ankles relaxed? Okay—now relax your legs. Do you feel the relaxing essence flowing into your legs?”
She waited a few seconds. “Now let’s all relax our lower trunks. Think of the calming essence flowing into your lower trunks.”
Paul suddenly stood up.
“What’s wrong?” Julie asked.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” He left, opening doors at random until he found the bath
room.
Lara shook her head and started to laugh. “Julie, I”m sorry about this. You’re being such a good sport. Can you hold out through dinner?”
“I sense such potential in him, don’t you?” Julie said.
“You’re kidding?” I asked.
In a minute, Paul returned and sat down, his back still ramrod straight. Lara went to check on the food. Julie stood behind Paul’s chair and massaged his neck and shoulder muscles.
“You have very strong shoulder muscles.”
“That’s from doing this,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Does this feel good?”
“Oh yes—very good.”
“Tell me about yourself,” she said.
“I’m an assistant clerk.”
“Really? My father was a stake clerk before my parents left on their mission.”
“My parents are gone this year, too. My dad works for an oil company. If your father were here, do you know what I’d do? I’d ask him about my PF-19 report.”
“He’d help you. He’s very good at reports.”
Paul’s eyes were partially closed as Julie massaged his shoulders. “You know, if the other secretaries’d just get their reports in on time, a clerk’s job’d be a lot easier.”
“That’s just what Daddy used to say.”
Next Julie began to massage his scalp.
“You have a very loose scalp.
Paul opened his eyes and looked worried. “You mean it might fall off?”
“Oh, no—it’s good to have a loose scalp. People with tight scalps go bald. Here, reach up and move it around. See, it moves.”
“How about that!” Paul exclaimed. “It really is loose, isn’t it! Sam, do you have a loose scalp?”
“I don’t know.”
“Julie, see if he does.”
She tested my scalp with her fingers. “It’s loose, but not as loose as yours, Paul.”
“Isn’t that wonderful about my scalp?” Paul grinned.
“I always test the scalps of the guys I date, and I don’t remember anyone with a looser scalp than yours.”
Paul was smiling proudly.
Watching them, I had the feeling I was in a foreign country.
“And,” Julie continued, “your nose. I’ve made noses my hobby. I even have a nose scrapbook—I like your nose.”
“My nose, too?” Paul said, almost unable to contain his delight. “I hardly think about it—except when I have a cold.”