Falling for Grace

by Robert Farrell Smith

  It just might.

  Bishop Leen’s wife tried to wave her husband up to the stand. She must have been hoping he would close the meeting a few minutes early. But we all knew that wouldn’t happen. Bishop Leen was actually part of the problem. He refused to ever end fast and testimony meeting early, but he didn’t mind if it ran overtime. He didn’t have the guts to tap anyone on the shoulder and tell them to sit down. Sunday School teachers assigned to teach the first Sunday of the month knew to prepare summaries of their lessons, never knowing how much time they would have.

  Brother Rothburn began to glance over the crowd. Like a rickety old lighthouse searching for wreckage, his worn eyes skimmed across the reeflike rows. Systematically, he picked his way over the pews, looking for an unfamiliar face. He knew all the regulars rather well. People made it a point to talk to him often so that he would always be aware of the fact that they were supposed to be there. If anyone changed their hairstyle or lost a significant amount of weight they always kept him up to date. No one wanted to take a chance.

  I tried not to look nervous as his glance got closer to Grace and me. I didn’t want to give it away. Then, like someone else’s bad breath, I could feel it slowly wash over me. I stopped breathing. His gaze brushed right past us and moved on, without so much as a hitch. I breathed out. I could see shoulders relax throughout the gathering. But just as his gaze reached the Chavez family, Brother Rothburn glanced back our way as if something had caught his eye. Somehow, he was peering his way over shoulders and around hair.

  Bishop Leen began to stir on the platform. He leaned down to pick up his things. He grasped the armrest on his chair to lift himself up.

  It was a little too late.

  Brother Rothburn had spotted Grace. He smiled as if he had just eaten something buttery. I had been foolish to think we could get away with it. There were only two other members of our ward with red hair. Slowly, like crust-topped lava, Brother Rothburn began to ooze up and out of his seat. Bishop Leen saw him and shifted his weight back into his chair.

  Brother Rothburn stood and straightened his tie. He pulled out a hanky and blew into it. He carefully folded the hanky, placed it back into his pocket, and began to amble up to the pulpit. It seemed to take a full five minutes for him to make it up to the stand. He shook the bishop’s hand. He shook his counselors’ hands, one by one. He stood at the pulpit and instructed the bishop to raise it a bit. Then he asked him to lower it again.

  Too high.

  Down just a little.

  Nope.

  Up a little bit more.

  Tiny bit more.

  Bit more.

  Nope.

  The bishop gave up in frustration. Brother Rothburn adjusted his microphone to compensate.

  Brother Rothburn was old. He had already turned ninety before I left on my mission. His second wife had passed away about ten years earlier and he had lived alone ever since. He didn’t do much besides go to church. He went to every scheduled function there was. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t invited—he went. I couldn’t remember a single meeting in my entire life where he had not been in attendance. He had thick gray hair and a big rubbery nose. His eyes had been blue once, but age had washed them out to a shade that matched his hair. He was tall for a ninety- year-old man, and still got around amazingly well.

  “I wasn’t planning to come up today,” he began. “But I thought, seeing as there is a fresh young face among us . . . Oh, that reminds me. What do you get when you cross . . . oh, what was his name? He was always real outspoken about modesty. Well anyway, I was at the big mall just recently looking for a part to my phonograph, that’s a record player for you youngins. They don’t seem to make many of them anymore, can’t understand why. To me there is nothing more exciting than the scratchy intro on a new 45. We used to get stacks of them and play as many as twelve songs right in a row. Anyhow, I couldn’t believe some of the outfits that these kids wear to the mall these days. It seems modesty is outdated. When I was a young boy we used to get dressed up for such things. I hardly went anyplace without a coat and tie. A person wouldn’t dream of going to the movies or taking a plane ride in jeans. But I suppose I’m just old and out of it these days. Oh, that reminds me of the story of the stagecoach driver. It seems that this gentleman was interviewing potential applicants for his stagecoach company. The question he asked was how close to the edge can you get? So the first driver, he . . .”

  This was terrible. This was worse than terrible. Brother Rothburn was on a long roll and it was all my fault. Every chance they could, ward members turned in their seats to scowl at us. There would be no forgiveness for Grace for coming today, or for me for bringing her. This would last half an hour if it lasted a second.

  “ . . . And do you know who he picked? The man who could drive the farthest away, that’s who. Anyhow, what do you get when you cross . . . now let’s see, what was his name. None of you probably remember him, and of course I’m dating myself by bringing him up, but he was a great General Authority with sort of a salty mouth. Bishop, can you recall the name?” Brother Rothburn turned toward the bishop.

  “J. Golden Kimball,” Bishop Leen answered.

  “I do believe you’re right, J. Golden Kimball. Now, a lot of people frown on profanity, and well they should. But if you ask me a well-placed swearword can make the impression of twenty plain ones. But I guess you didn’t ask me. . . .”

  I put my head in my hands.

  Fifteen minutes later he began to wrap up. Twelve minutes after that he said something about “In conclusion.” And four minutes after that he closed with, “And that’s why bonnets were originally called head wraps. Amen.”

  It was finally over. Heads began to pop up all around like prairie dogs. Brother Rothburn exited the podium and Bishop Leen once again gathered his stuff together by his feet. I was in rapture. I hardly noticed Grace stand and begin to walk to the front. I hardly noticed the bishop sit back down. Before I knew it, however, she was standing at the microphone looking as if she had something to say.

  What was she doing? Had she lost it? Didn’t she know the patience of these Saints had already been pushed beyond the breaking point?

  I sat stunned in my pew wondering how I would ever live this down.

  Bishop Leen was as surprised as anyone. We were already running half an hour over. I heard someone moan out loud.

  Grace began. “Brothers and Sisters, I’ve never been one to know just what the Lord was thinking. It’s always been kind of a guessing game with me. But I know He’s there, and I . . .”

  I don’t know how you would describe my relationship with Grace. I knew that I loved her. She said she felt the same for me. But everything between us seemed so discombobulated. In a normal relationship, people date, they cope with uncertainty, and after a while things get clearer. If they’re made for each other, they come to the conclusion that love is in the air, in the water, and in the food. They talk about getting married.

  Things were running in the opposite direction for us.

  I had known of Grace for most of my mission. I was intrigued by the bits and pieces of her she let me see. By the end of my two years I knew I couldn’t live without her. But lately, I wasn’t so sure.

  It was like seeing an intriguing new board game that you instantly want. You fall in love with the colored box and the concept, but when you crack it open you realize that you’ve got a whole book of instructions to wade through and understand before anything worthwhile is going to actually happen.

  That was us. Except our instructions seemed to be written in Spanish.

  No hablo eb panola.

  Had I asked the people Grace had grown up with to describe her, they would more than likely say she was shy, hard to track, an enigma with red hair. Of course they wouldn’t have used the word enigma, but stick in “kinda confusing” and you get the idea.

  But I had seen Grace differently. I had seen her use her determination in the most self-assured ways. It was as if Thelma
’s Way had been holding the real Grace back. I had gone there to find myself. But it seemed Grace had needed to get away to discover who she was.

  In the two days since we had arrived in Southdale, I had already noticed a difference. She was coming through loud and clear. In fact, I was a little frightened by it. I didn’t want to get left behind.

  Grace bore her testimony. She talked about how wonderful it was to be in such a huge ward. She said all the right things in all the right ways and by the end of her testimony, the feeling in the room was entirely different.

  I just stared at her. She came down and sat next to me. She smiled.

  Bishop Leen closed the meeting.

  A couple people came up to Grace afterward and welcomed her to the ward. Sister Barns apologized for what she was thinking about Grace at the start of the meeting. Brother O’Shawn informed us that he just remembered that he had a nephew who married a girl he met on his mission and that so far, things had worked out okay.

  “You’re amazing,” I whispered to Grace between well-wishers.

  “I’m glad you think so,” she whispered back.

  It felt as if most folks were suddenly willing to give Grace a chance—most folks besides my mother, that is. She slipped out the back without saying a word.

  I mentally notched off week number one.

  6

  Lucy

  Lucy Fall was miserable. For the first time in her life she felt absolutely helpless. Still, she couldn’t decide if she was more upset about what she was going through, or by the fact that what she was going through had caused the natural blush in her cheeks to fade. Pale was not on her color wheel.

  It had been three days since Lance had walked out on her. He had simply packed his bags and stepped away. That was it. Lucy had known that the marriage was strained, but she never imagined Lance would leave her for someone else.

  She threw off her robe and slipped into the bath. Even the warm water didn’t cheer her.

  Where was her mother?

  Where was her father?

  How could her folks be in Europe at a time like this? Weren’t parents supposed to have some sort of intuition thing going on? How could they not have known that their daughter would need them?

  Need them. Lucy needed them.

  It was such a demeaning thought.

  Lucy had thought Lance was perfect. Sure, he wasn’t Mormon, but she had married him knowing that her power of refinement could produce the desired results. Lance had come out to church a few times, but he had ultimately decided that fishing and boating were a lot more fulfilling than church. Apparently, he had also come to the conclusion that marriage was a little too confining. He claimed to have tried, but in truth the marriage had gone downhill right from the honeymoon itself. Lucy had wanted to hold things together for the sake of their image, but it hadn’t worked.

  And now it was too late. Lance was gone.

  She began to panic. Something was happening to her. Her insides were pushing up inside her and tears were streaming down her face. Lucy hadn’t cried since the day Sally Moss punched her in the stomach for liking Billy Wheeler. That was the third grade.

  Her shoulders shook, her throat released, and she moaned. A sudden anxiety wrapped around her, squeezing the air from her lungs. She noticed the mascara dripping into the tub. Things were going to get messy before the night was out.

  7

  Fact-Finding Feast

  That night at family dinner my father tried to keep the conversation light. He asked my sister Margaret twice how school was going, and told us all the score of the high school basketball game three times.

  “Forty-seven to thirty-two. Can you believe that?”

  All the while, he never once made eye contact with either Grace or me. Dad had been avoiding us ever since he had dropped us off from the airport. Clearly, he didn’t know how to handle the situation, and life seemed to go better for Dad when he just ignored the things he couldn’t change.

  “So, Margaret, how is school going?” he ventured again.

  Margaret had just turned fifteen. She was a pretty girl with way too many clothes. I had never seen her wear the same outfit twice. She changed clothes more often than most people brushed their teeth. The Gap had personally called her on her birthday to wish her well, and to inform her that the new jumpers were in. She was short enough to be nervous about her height, constantly praying for a growth spurt, and skinny enough to make all the other girls mad. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile bright enough to make every Aaronic Priesthood holder in our ward simultaneously woozy.

  “You’ve asked Margaret about school two times already,” my brother Abel offered.

  “I’m just interested,” my father defended, while buttering one of his dinner rolls. “Just interested in my little girl. Isn’t that right, princess?” he winked.

  “School’s fine, Dad,” Margaret replied.

  “Good to hear,” my father said, “good to hear. Is there any more jam in the kitchen?” he asked nobody in particular.

  My mother got up to check.

  “So, Dad,” I dared. “Do you know if there are any jobs available at your office right now?”

  “You never know what kind of strings your old man can pull for his son.”

  “I already have a job,” I said. “But could you pull a couple for Grace? She’d like to work until the semester starts.”

  “You already have a job?” my father questioned.

  “I’ll be working for Brother Barns again starting next week. But Grace could really use some help.”

  Dad sort of huffed and shifted in his seat. “Well, I’d need to find out a little bit more about this Grace. I can’t just hand out a job on the spot.”

  “What do you need to know?” I asked.

  “Well, for starters, what can this Grace do?”

  I looked around the room, wondering why he was talking about her as if she weren’t there. “Dad, you can talk directly to her. She’s sitting right in front of you.”

  Grace opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, my father hollered, “Marilyn, how’s that jam coming?”

  My mother came out of the kitchen and began spooning jam onto everyone’s plates.

  “So, Margaret, how is school going?” Dad asked.

  “This is stupid,” Abel said, frustrated. “Trust, are you and Grace going to get married?” he asked bluntly.

  “What?”

  “Dad thinks you’re going to get married and ruin your future.”

  “Out of the mouth of babes,” my mother sang as she sat down.

  “Now, Abel, that’s not exactly how I phrased it,” my father backpedaled.

  “I know,” Abel said, “but I didn’t want to hurt Grace’s feelings.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Margaret snipped. “Who cares who Trust marries?”

  “Wait a second,” I tried to say, “why don’t—”

  “There are certain things that are expected of us, young lady,” my mother interrupted, waving her fork at my sister. “If you were doing drugs, do you think your father and I would just turn our backs?”

  “Margaret’s doing drugs?” my father asked in shock.

  Abel began to laugh. I saw him smile at Grace as if to say sorry for all this. Grace smiled back.

  “Margaret’s not doing drugs!” my mother shouted.

  “Good going, princess,” my father congratulated.

  For a second there was nothing but the sound of chewing.

  “Dad, what about that job?” I tried again.

  “So how was church today?” Dad asked, ignoring my question.

  It was obvious that my father didn’t want to talk about a job for Grace. Painfully obvious—Dad never talked about church. He sort of skirted around the fact that he was inactive by never talking about anything related to the gospel. The fact that he had just brought it up was proof positive that he was getting desperate.

  “Mom bore her testimony,” Margaret informed him
.

  “This roast is better than ever,” was my father’s only reply.

  “Sister Barns brought an old Book of Mormon to class,” Abel tried.

  “Patty Barns has really lost weight,” my mother commented. “I hardly recognized her in that waisted dress.”

  “How old was the Book of Mormon?” Grace asked Abel.

  I looked at her, thinking about how nice it was to hear her voice at our dinner table.

  “I don’t know. Old. But not real old, fake old,” he answered. “Sister Barns said it was just a copy of the first one.”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a real first edition,” my dad said, happy to have landed on a less threatening topic. “That’s quite a piece of American history. Remember Jack Shaw?” he asked no one in particular. “He had that first edition. Boy, he thought he was something else.”

  “They had a real first edition in Thelma’s Way,” Grace ventured.

  “Where’s that?” he asked.

  I shook my head. Forget the fact that his own son had lived there for two straight years, or that one of our dinner guests was born and raised there—Dad still didn’t recognize the name.

  “Thelma’s Way,” she said, unfazed. “It was a nice copy. It was even signed by Parley P. Pratt.”

  “You’re kidding,” my dad said, actually looking at Grace and showing genuine interest for the first time in the entire conversation.

  “Nope.” Grace smiled. “It belonged to the branch.”

  “Where is it now?” he asked quickly.

  “Who knows?” I piped in. “Someone took it.”

  “Who knows?” my father said, turning to me. “Did someone sell it?”

  “I don’t think so. Folks are kind of just waiting for the guilty party to admit they did it.”

  “Do they know how much it’s worth?”

  “I told them about twenty thousand,” I said.

  Dad took a big bite of his roast beef and chewed thoughtfully.

  “One sold at a New York auction for over fifty thousand last week,” he finally said.