Grace had meant to hear.
Grace had been wrong about Trust. Very wrong. How had her heart permitted this to happen? Grace’s one ally, her own intuition, had turned on her, betrayed her, left her alone. Grace could not explain the feelings she had for Trust, and she could not brush them away; she knew there was something more at stake. It had seemed at times as if Trust had come to Thelma’s Way just to give her hope.
So much hope. So much hype.
“I do not like Grace.”
Five words from Trust’s lips.
Grace stood there, her back against the side of the boardinghouse, her heart lying cold with the snow.
“I do not like Grace.”
Five words. Nothing else.
It was just that she hoped for something more.
28
Sleigh Bells Ring. I Ain't Listening
Month Seventeen
Snow fell like shaved cheese—slices, wedges, and gobs—mixing together on the ground, and piling up as if God were Italian and earth was his lasagna. Just gratzi. We wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. I looked over at Elder Weeble. He scrunched his face up against the window.
“Great,” he said, raising a fist and pretending to curse Mother Nature.
It was ten o’clock Christmas morning, and the prospect of spending my day cooped up alone with Elder Weeble didn’t exactly excite me. The snow was at least a couple of feet deep and still coming down. So much for Christmas cheer this year.
I was still in Thelma’s Way, celebrating my second and last mission Christmas. We had put up a tiny tree in the corner of the house, and a few small gifts sat beneath it waiting to be opened. We had planned to spend the day at the Hecks’ home. They had invited us over for food and Christmas company. I couldn’t help being excited about the prospect of possibly seeing Grace. Surely she would spend Christmas with her family. I had bought a little secondhand book in Virgil’s Find to give to her. She had gone into deep seclusion the last couple of months, and I was simply hoping that my small Christmas present might make her feel welcome.
Yes, those were my intentions. Purely concerned.
The snow kept coming.
“Some Christmas,” Elder Weeble whined, thrusting himself upon his bed in anger. “If I were home in Colorado, I’d be having a blast.”
I pulled a chair up to the window and stared at the falling skies.
“Let’s go do something,” Elder Weeble complained.
The wind was really howling now, making the visibility about three feet.
“We can’t go out in this,” I replied.
“If I was in Colorado I would,” he snapped.
I thought about starting a fist fight with my companion just for the sake of having something to do. Heaven knows he irritated me enough to bring me to blows.
I opened my backpack up and pulled out Grace’s gift.
“Merry Christmas, Elder,” I said, handing it to him.
“I didn’t get you anything,” he fumbled, suddenly gracious.
“No big deal,” I replied, waving the whole thing off. “No big deal.”
29
Spring Runoff
Month Twenty
I had never seen a more beautiful time or place. This year spring seemed to bring more than just renewed life, it brought new colors and textures. Even the air seemed freshly pressed and packaged. The Girth ran stronger than ever, and the meadow was alive with tiny green limbs and speckled yellow faces. The children seemed older and wiser, and the adults less absurd. The dirt seemed richer, the houses nicer, and the season longer.
Oh, and by the way, I had been released as branch president.
I was now just a regular missionary again. My days in Thelma’s Way were numbered. I had not actually received word concerning my transfer, but I knew it would happen soon. I had served in Thelma’s Way for twenty months.
I was grateful for my time as branch president. It had taught me a lot. The Lord had allowed me to really care for these people. I hoped they would remember me. And I had reason to believe I had worked my way into the local lore thanks to the Nippy Ward Incident, as it had become known.
A little while back I had finally talked the mission into putting out the money to buy hard-hearing Nippy a hard-hearing hearing aid. Nippy had been faithful in coming to church every week, and I felt that we owed it to her to help her hear what was being said. The mission put up most of the cash, and the branch members got together and tossed in the rest. We bought her a really nice one—an unbelievably tiny device that was supposed to let her hear every interesting, and uninteresting, thing we said without hardly being visible in her ear. The Sunday after we had gotten it, we all met at church early to make the presentation. When Nippy came in we yelled “surprise.” It was loud enough for her to hear. Then I approached her and presented her with the little piece of technical wizardry. I put the tiny thing in her palm and promised her it would help her to hear. Nippy smiled, nodded, thanked me profusely, and then, before I could stop her, she swallowed the thing. Hundreds of dollars down the throat. She thought it was some sort of super hearing pill.
I don’t think Nippy ever fully realized what had happened, but she graciously pretended that the pill had had a positive effect. Now she nodded with much more vigor. I knew that incident would not soon be forgotten. That, and maybe the job fair that I had put on.
I had wanted to help the members better their lot in life by teaching them how to find work and instilling in them a desire to be self-sufficient. I invited some of the more established members from Virgil’s Find to come and talk to us about work habits and share their secrets for procuring a good job. It actually went pretty well. Average-looking Jerry Scotch, however, interrupted the speakers a lot, butting in with suggestions. I guess he thought his steady job at the Corndog Tent made him an expert on the subject. His suggestion about taping a piece of licorice to your resume as a treat for whoever would read it was certainly a novel idea. Well, the long and the short of it was that Pete Kennedy actually got a job as an exterminator in Virgil’s Find. Later, of course, he did get fired when it was discovered he had been spraying the funeral home with his eyes closed, scared he might see something that would unsettle him. His indiscriminate spraying had killed a lot of expensive rose bushes and ruined a good portion of wallpaper. But the point was that being assertive brought results. I hoped he would remember the principle. Even if he never worked again.
Elder Weeble had given way to my latest companion. Elder Staples was from Texas, and he was big. His shoulders barely fit though our door. He had big hands, big feet, and a big voice. He had an appetite that an “all you can eat” buffet would be hard pressed to fill. He was writing to about twenty girls back home, and talked realistically about how he would someday play quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys. He was constantly calling me “Sport.” When I went over the “Elder” rule with him, he began calling me “Elder Sport.”
He liked to look in the mirror. Actually, he liked to look at anything reflective. Polished shoes, silver- ware, glass, he wasn’t too particular, as long as the image reflecting back was his own. He worked hard enough, but he also enjoyed playing dumb pranks on the locals. When we knocked on someone’s door he would turn around so that his back would be facing them when they opened the door. He liked to tell people that he was from China and a member of the U.S. shuffleboard team. He liked to play “Got Your Nose,” “Your Shoe’s Untied,” and “Button-Button.” He had wavy blond hair and blue eyes that were shallow and gleaming. He didn’t like the fact that I was senior companion and was rather vocal about it. We were working to make our partnership productive.
Grace’s father was put in as branch president. He had come a long way. Toby Carver was his first counselor, and Leo Tip his second. They were a good team.
The work was going well. We still had not recovered as many inactive Mormons as I had hoped we would, but the ones who had hung around had grown stronger. On a sad note, Bishop Watson had passed away a few da
ys after Christmas. He went peacefully in his sleep. We laid him to rest alongside his predecessors in the Watson family mausoleum.
Sister Watson mourned for an appropriate time over the death of her husband. Then she lost herself in preparations for the upcoming sesquicentennial pageant. With no husband to hold her back she was moving forward with great effort.
I had not seen Grace since before Halloween. She seemed to have disappeared. Brother Heck said that even he and his wife hardly saw her. She came by to help her mother with the costumes for the pageant, but that was about it. The Hecks didn’t know what she did with the rest of her time. I was tempted to seek her out, but I knew that would not be right. Besides, with my poor sense of direction, I wasn’t sure I could find her place again. Toby Carver had seen her a few times on the path to Virgil’s Find, and Leo said she stopped by every once in a while to visit his dogs. When I thought about leaving Thelma’s Way, my thoughts always circled back to Grace.
I had even written my mother and dropped Grace’s name. I had mentioned that she seemed nice, and that I thought highly of her. Two weeks later I received a copy of The Miracle of Forgiveness in the mail. Mom wasn’t taking chances.
With Bishop Watson dead, and the leading role in “All Is Swell” now up for grabs, Paul Leeper had taken new interest in the town pageant. Despite what Sister Watson might think of him, he demanded the right to star in the show as the only other male in town with the spiritual charisma and presence enough to represent Parley P. Pratt. He took it very seriously. He even said that since the lead male was Parley P. Pratt, the part should go to him, seeing how Parley’s middle name was Paul. I informed him that Parley’s real middle name was Parker. Paul insisted that in German “Parker” meant “Great Paul.” Apparently he now saw the pageant as a way for him to get his message about seeing the finger to a wider audience than even he had originally conceived. The world was his stage, and he was ready to act on it.
But, of course, it was for naught. Sister Watson said there was no way on earth that she would ever consent to a thief like Paul having anything to do with such a sacred enterprise.
When it became clear that Sister Watson would not give in, Paul changed his tune.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in such a silly, stupid show, anyway,” he said. “The real Parley P. Pratt would roll over in his grave to know you were representing his life in a pageant. May the winds of disgrace visit your commode.”
Sister Watson stood her ground. Pulling her wig down over her eyes, she bore solemn witness that, on the contrary, outdoor pageants had served a critical role in Church history. Each of the centennial parades in Salt Lake City had featured pageants. And just because Parley P. Pratt or Brigham Young had never been in a pageant didn’t mean they wouldn’t have leaped at the opportunity had it been presented. Brigham Young was reportedly quite a dancer.
Paul said she was full of hot air and Sister Watson challenged him to a duel. Well, not a duel, really, but a public debate on the subject of pageants. Paul agreed, and a date was set.
The town was abuzz. Finally, Sister Watson and Paul would go toe to toe, tongue to tongue, and testimony to testimony in the middle of Thelma’s Way. There was some concern about Sister Watson taking on so much so close to the big pageant, but she felt strongly that she must do it. The time had come to put Paul in his place, P.I.G. money or no P.I.G. money.
The afternoon before the big debate, Elder Staples and I slipped out to finish canvassing the very last section of Thelma’s Way that I had not yet gotten to. It was a portion of forest between Thelma’s Way and Virgil’s Find. I felt like once I had really gone through this piece of land then I could leave feeling as if I had done all I possibly could.
Elder Staples led the way. We found a couple of homes. One was vacant, the other was occupied by a hermit named Melvin who claimed to have known Joseph Smith personally.
“Used to bowl together.”
When I suggested that perhaps he knew another Joseph Smith besides the one who had restored the gospel, he got offended.
“Nope, knew the real one.”
I kindly pointed out the fact that had he really known Joseph Smith then he, Melvin, would have to be at least a hundred and fifty years old. Melvin simply said that the little bit of extra weight he carried around helped push out his wrinkles and make him look younger.
Melvin wasn’t interested in ever coming back to church. He claimed that Joseph cheated at bowling and that he wanted no part of a religion that condoned that kind of behavior.
We checked the back forest line of the area and found one more home. A young kid answered the door and invited us in. I recognized him from the meadow. I had seen him a number of times playing on the wagons.
“My mother’s an actress,” he said as we sat down.
“Wow,” Elder Staples replied. “I’m impressed.”
“Is your mother home?” I asked.
The kid ran off without answering.
A couple of minutes later the actress, his mother, came out. It appeared she mainly starred in parts requiring frumpy-looking backwoods leading ladies. She had a robe on and curlers in her hair. She sat down on the chair across from us.
We introduced ourselves and asked if she was familiar with the Mormon church.
She was. Her deceased husband had been a member.
“You’re not a member?” I asked, seeking clarification.
“No,” she answered.
“You’re positive?”
She nodded.
I thought I was going to hyperventilate. Here, before me, sat a true-to-life nonmember—a real rarity in this hidden pocket of Tennessee. I think I was most jealous of other elders in this mission because they had so many nonmembers to work with. Well, we had one now.
“I’m a born again,” she informed us.
Hallelujah.
We slowly questioned her making sure she hadn’t simply forgotten that somewhere down the line she had been baptized a Mormon.
She had not.
Her nine-year-old son, Greg, was not a member either. Elder Staples had not put in the kind of time in Thelma’s Way that I had. Consequently, he was not as overjoyed as me. Sure there was a chance she would never join the church. But at the moment, she was a possibility. She was a single nonmember mother. Her name was Judy Bickerstaff, and she worked part-time in Virgil’s Find as a secretary for a small business. Of course, as her son had pointed out earlier, she aspired to one day be an actress. Her son, Greg, attended school in Thelma’s Way. According to Judy, she and Miss Flitrey were fairly good friends. I couldn’t understand why Miss Flitrey had never told us about this good nonmember friend of hers before.
Greg played with some toys on the floor as we got to know Judy. He set up action figures on my knees so that he could shoot them down with his dart gun. One figure caught my eye. It was a little metal man. I recognized it from someplace. I held onto it and studied it as we talked. There was a name etched into the bottom. “Martin Calypso.”
“Where did you get this?” I finally asked Greg.
“Lupert gave it to me,” he replied, snatching it back.
“Lupert Carver?” I asked.
Greg nodded. “He got it from a dead man.”
Feeble.
I remembered seeing Lupert pick it up after Feeble dropped it in the dirt all those months ago. It was one of Feeble’s “Great Men of the World” pewter figures.
“Martin Calypso,” I said aloud. “It sounds so familiar.”
“Whatever,” Elder Staples replied. “It’s just a toy.”
Greg ran off, bored by us, and Judy invited us to dinner in three days and promised she would at least consider listening to the lessons. When we finally left their place, Elder Staples was properly excited. I was excited, too, but there was something about the name Martin Calypso that made me somber.
“Get over it, Sport,” Elder Staples said as we walked back home.
It was early evening, the day before the big debate.
We had found a potential investigator.
Judy Bickerstaff.
Martin Calypso.
I hardly slept that night.
I woke up Elder Staples at four-thirty in the morning and told him to get dressed. We were going to Virgil’s Find.
30
Food Flight
By the time Elder Staples and I got back from Virgil’s Find, Thelma’s Way was primed for the afternoon debate. There was already a crowd gathering in the meadow.
Two long banquet tables had been set up in the meadow next to the rotting pioneer wagons and not far from the nearly completed pageant stage. One table had two chairs, one for Sister Watson and one for Paul; the other was covered with food that folks had brought for the pot luck that would follow the debate. President Heck was actually wearing a tie and standing in front of the tables trying to look official. Sister Watson was working the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs. It was a big day.
Out in the meadow, Wad was sitting next to Miss Flitrey, CleeDee was lounging on a blanket with Leo, and Teddy Yetch and Sister Lando were selling extremely moist looking pre-debate pineapple brownies. I watched Digby Heck pull up on his motorcycle, unwrap his eye protection, then use the same sheet of Saran Wrap to cover one of the brownies for later. Kids ran around, and adults brought down lawn chairs and tree stumps to sit on. Old Pap Wilson and considerably younger Sybil Porter dragged out a couple of cinder blocks from the boardinghouse and made a few benches by laying boards across them. Nippy sat down in a folding chair and prepared to nod. The air filled with anticipation.
The scheduled starting time for the debate soon passed, and Paul had not yet arrived. Briant Willpts offered to play the part of Paul and debate Sister Watson himself. Sister Watson declined the offer. She would wait for the real thing.
The afternoon sun warmed the tops of our heads and shoulders as we sat ringed around the rosy looking at Sister Watson. Smugness seeped from her smile as she glanced about, feeling like maybe she had already won. President Heck shrugged his shoulders and looked to Leo Tip for the time. Leo didn’t actually wear a watch, but CleeDee did. In fact, it was rumored that the real reason Leo had begun going out with CleeDee was simply because she wore a watch.
All Is Swell Page 14