He left the room and hightailed it back to his office before any of the astonished class members could buttonhole him. He hated to be high-handed about such things; it wasn’t his way. But sometimes you just had to do what was requisite.
* * *
The priests were unusually quiet during their third-hour quorum meeting, and had questions that didn’t always pertain to the lesson at hand. Bishop Shepherd felt he understood—they were worried about T-Rex. He answered their queries the best he could. He was concerned, too.
* * *
As he stood in the hall after the third hour, greeting people and generally making himself available to them, he noted with satisfaction that a number of adults were making their way back into the chapel, some with shaking heads and hangdog expressions, but going, nevertheless. He smiled encouragement and nodded at them. Some of the looks he received in return suggested the term “cruel and unusual punishment,” but he didn’t waver.
Elaine Forelaw ushered her children toward the door. She wasn’t included in the choir calling, since she attended the Gospel Essentials class taught by the missionaries for those who were new in the Church, investigating it, or who simply wanted a review of the basics.
“Bishop, I want to thank you again for them Book of Mormon storybooks you brought the kids. I’ve been readin’ to ’em every night—and I honestly think Sarge is listenin’ in. He’s still got my Book of Mormon in his truck, and the other day I saw a little New Testament in there, too.”
“Really? That’s great. You still haven’t discussed it with him, though?”
She shook her head. “He’s not one to feel comfortable talkin’ about deep things, you know? So I’m just lettin’ him find his own way, till he’s ready to bring it up. But you know what else I’ve noticed?”
“What’s that?”
“Well, his stash of beer in the fridge hatn’t needed to be resupplied much, lately.”
“Excellent! We’ll just keep praying for him. And I’ll think and pray about what message to give when I visit. Is Wednesday of next week still a good time?”
“Good as any. Thanks, Bishop!”
“Thanks for telling me, Elaine. Bye, kids!”
The children smiled and waved shyly. He hoped none of them was old enough to report to their dad that their mother had been discussing him with the bishop. This was a delicate matter.
* * *
The choir seats were nearly full. A few people were standing in place, singing a warm-up of vowels that went up by a half-step each time it was repeated.
“Okay,” Linda DeNeuve said. “All y’all who are left standing—ladies, you’re sopranos; men, you’re tenors. Those who are seated—ladies, you’re altos, men, you’re basses. Now let’s have all the tenors—all three of you—sit on the left side, here, and the basses sit on the right. Altos, please sit in front of the basses, and sopranos, in front of the tenors. Go ahead and move now.”
After the shuffle, Linda began explaining the rudiments of singing parts. “I know some of you have done this before, and it’ll come easy to you. I hear alto and bass parts in the congregational singing. For others, this’ll be a brand-new experience, and I want you to listen very carefully to those in your part who are strong and follow them—try to hear and sing what they sing. Also, we’ll take one part at a time and go over and over it with the piano and organ, so that you’ll be learning it like a melody. Then, when we put it together, you’ll get to experience the thrill of singing harmony.”
“How come us basses cain’t just sing the melody we know, only lower?” asked one brother who looked about as intimidated as anyone could. “That’s what we’re used to doin’.”
“And that’s fine, for congregational singing,” Sister DeNeuve told him. “And sometimes, we do let the basses sing the melody in choir pieces, too. But generally speaking, we’re going to sing what’s written in the hymns, and I believe you’ll grow to love doing that.”
“I don’t know, sister—I ain’t got an ear for this stuff!”
Linda nodded. “I understand. Some people naturally have a good ear, but the rest of us have to develop it. We’ll work on that. Now, let’s begin with just a line from the hymn we’ve been asked to learn for stake conference. Please turn to number ninety-nine, ‘Nearer, Dear Savior, to Thee.’”
The bishop turned away. Sister DeNeuve would do just fine.
* * *
His executive secretary, Dan McMillan, met him in the hall just as he turned the corner toward his office. “Bishop, there’s a call for you, from Sister Rexford at the hospital. She sounds upset.”
He ran the last few yards and caught up the phone.
“Lula, this is the bishop.”
“Oh, Bishop—Thomas is real sick. They say he’s got pneumonia, now. His fever’s real high—he’s purely burnin’ up with it. I’m so scared!”
“I’ll be down there as soon as I can make it. I just need to run the family home. Is there anything we can bring you?”
“No, sir. Just some strength and courage, I reckon.”
“You always have that available to you, just by asking Heavenly Father. Gather up every bit of faith and belief you can and pray really hard. I’ll see you very soon, all right?”
“All right. Thank you, Bishop.”
He stepped back into the chapel and beckoned to Trish and Tiffani in the choir. They slipped out, gathering up Jamie and Mallory on the way, who were quietly drawing pictures.
He explained the situation to Trish.
“Do you want me to come, too?” she asked. “Rosetta’s been a couple of times, and Ida Lou’s not back yet from Mobile. Gene Talbot’s working this afternoon, so Frankie needs to be with her children. Tiff can supervise and feed ours, so . . .”
“That’d be great,” he told her. “I expect Lula’d be glad of another sister there. Let’s head out as quickly as possible.”
Trish adjusted their dinner plans and told Tiff what to serve the younger ones, then quickly made a couple of sandwiches for them to take along and eat on the way.
“Usual Sunday rules,” she told the children. “Mind Tiffani. No TV. No playing with friends. Just quiet games and reading and puzzles—things like that. You guys know the drill. Be good, okay? We’ll be back as soon as we can. And say a little prayer for T-Rex, too, all right?”
“Why isn’t he better yet?” asked Mallory. “I already prayed and prayed for him!”
“Some things take a while,” her father assured her.
Tiffani followed them outside. “Dad?” she asked, and he knew her unspoken question.
“I don’t know, honey. They’re doing all they can, but he has pneumonia now and a really high fever. We’re going to try to comfort his folks.”
Tiffani nodded, and went back inside.
The sky was overcast, but it was a high, pale gray that didn’t seem to threaten rain or snow. The grass was brown, the trees bare, and everything seemed colorless as they sped toward the city. They spoke little, each absorbed in thought.
Finally, Trish asked, “Ready for your sandwich yet?”
“You know, I’m really not. Maybe on the way back. You go ahead, though.”
“No. I’m not very hungry, either. They’ll keep.”
They rode in silence for a few more miles.
“Babe, you know how I’ve had the impression that Thomas will decide his own fate?”
“Right.”
“I think it’s time to share that with Tom and Lula. I hope I can say it right.”
“You will. And I’ll pray for you—and for them to understand.”
“Thanks.” He reached to squeeze her hand. “I’m grateful for you, Trish.”
* * *
Lula’s eyes were red, and she seemed to have aged by ten years, her cheeks gaunt and hollow. Tom also looked miserable, but stoic. He rose wearily to shake their hands, while Lula accepted Trish’s hug.
“Y’all are so good to come,” Lula said. “I mean, reckon there ain’t nothin�
� you can do, but we sure appreciate havin’ you here.”
“We couldn’t stay away,” the bishop assured her. “Not when things are so serious. Let’s sit down over there, where it’s a little more private, all right? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
They followed him to a far corner of the waiting room and pulled a couple of chairs around to form a small circle.
“Tom, Lula—when we blessed Thomas the first time, at the scene of the accident, I had a very unusual impression come to me,” the bishop began.
“Oh, Bishop—he’s gonna die, idn’ he? I just cain’t bear it!” Lula began to cry.
The bishop reached over to squeeze her clenched hands. “I honestly don’t know, Lula,” he told her. “But whatever happens, I believe it’ll be up to Thomas, himself. He’ll make the ultimate decision, whether to stay or go on into eternity. That was the impression I received. And I blessed him to that end, that he can be healed if he chooses to be. Apparently the Lord is letting him choose, in this instance. So, I guess what we need to do is to try to be ready to respect that decision, whichever way it goes.”
Tom frowned. “That happen often, Bishop?”
Bishop Shepherd shook his head. “Not that I know of, Tom. I do know that my grandmother once had something similar happen to her. I heard her tell of a time when she was a young mother and terribly sick with typhoid fever. She said she found herself in a bright and beautiful place, with grass and trees and flowers, where two young men came to meet her and told her that she could choose either to go on toward a shining city that she could see some distance away, or she could return and finish bringing up her children. She said it was a really tough decision, as much as she loved her children, because she felt drawn toward that city, and she dreaded going back to her body. But she thought of her husband, trying to take care of the little ones and work on the railroad and take care of his farm all alone, and she decided to come back.” He smiled. “She said she never again felt afraid to die, after that experience.”
Tom and Lula were silent, contemplating this new concept. Lula stared unseeingly at the orange vinyl chair next to her. Finally she spoke.
“So—do y’all reckon we’re bein’ selfish, prayin’ for Thomas to stay with us?” she asked, her voice quavering. “Should we—should we tell him he can go on, iffen he wants?”
The bishop shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “But I think it’d be good if, in your own hearts, you could somehow prepare yourselves for the fact that he might not recover. Try to be willing to let him go, if that’s the choice he makes.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Thought the good Lord was in charge of who dies and who don’t,” he said. “Didn’t never reckon it was up to us.”
“I know,” the bishop said. “Like I said, I think this may be kind of unusual. Or maybe we just don’t know how often it happens. I’ve also heard of folks being told it’s not their time, that they have to come back. I suppose each case is different.”
Trish spoke. “Maybe the thing to do would just be to pray that Thomas makes the best and wisest decision, you know? In his best interest,” she said.
Lula looked at her and nodded, then bowed her head. “It’s real hard,” she said, after a minute. “It’s just so hard to even consider Thomas goin’ off to heaven. I mean, he’s just a boy, Bishop! He needs to finish growin’ up, and get married to a nice girl, and have his own young’uns. It’s real hard to picture anything else.”
“I know,” he agreed. “We want a whole, complete life for him, don’t we? That’s what feels right. It never feels right for children to die before their folks. It goes against nature, and against all our expectations.”
Tom looked up from staring at his hands. “And what if he lives, but he cain’t play football, or ride his bike, or—you know—be active? He’d hate that, in the worst way. I mean—he’s T-Rex, you know?”
Lula began to cry again, silently, the tears just spilling from her eyes and running down her cheeks. “I don’t—I don’t want him to be different, neither,” she said. “But even if he was, I still want him alive!”
“Of course you do,” Trish soothed, sitting beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders. “He’d still be himself, and he’s your child. Of course you want him to live.”
“Well, sure, I do too,” Tom put in. “I’m just sayin’ how he’d feel.”
“If he chooses to live, I believe he’ll eventually recover to live a normal life,” the bishop stated. “He’s a strong boy, and even if he did have a few limitations for a while, I think he’d adjust.”
“It’s about time we can go in, again,” Lula said, drying her eyes with a tissue Trish handed her. “Did you want to see him, Bishop? Trish?”
“Just for a second,” Trish said. “Then we’ll let you be with him, while we head back. Can we do anything for you? Water plants at your house, collect your mail, do some more laundry? Here—could you use a couple of sandwiches?” She held out the sack lunch she had prepared for herself and her husband.
“Well, thank you, we could—it’ll save us goin’ down to the snack bar on a Sunday. We sent our soiled things with Rosetta yesterday, and she’s taking care of our place, bless her heart. But thank you. Y’all just keep prayin’ for all of us.”
They moved toward the intensive care unit, donning their masks and washing their hands. In the few days since he had seen Thomas, the bishop thought the boy had lost weight. One side of his head was shaved and swollen, with a line of stitches behind his ear. He lay propped up, pale and shivering, the covers drawn up to his chin. A nurse stood nearby, checking his temperature.
“What is it, now?” asked Lula.
“One-o-three point eight,” the nurse replied. “He’s in a chill phase right now. His body’s trying to fight off the fever and overreacting to it. You all go ahead and visit for a minute, and then we’re going to suction him, and try to clear his lungs.”
Tom looked at the bishop. “Reckon it’s just as well he’s unconscious and cain’t feel all his body’s goin’ through right now, don’t you think?”
The bishop nodded. “I’ve heard that a coma can be a mercy—kind of the body’s own defense against too much pain.”
“Bishop,” said Lula. “Would you give us a little prayer, before you go?”
“Sure.” They stood at the foot of Thomas’s bed with bowed heads. “Heavenly Father, we ask a blessing of comfort and strength and wisdom for these good people, Tom and Lula Rexford, and for their dear son, Thomas. We pray that the priesthood blessings pronounced upon Thomas may be effective, according to thy will and his best interests, and that those who care for him may be led and guided to do their best, as well. We are aware of thy great love for each of us. We join our prayer with the many others being given in this young man’s behalf, and do so in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ, amen.”
The amen was echoed, and hugs were exchanged, then the bishop and his wife slipped out, to give the Rexfords a minute alone with their boy.
In the car, Trish put her head back against the seat. “I feel so drained,” she said. “How do they do it, day after day?”
“If it were one of ours, we’d find the strength to do it, too,” he reminded her. “But you can see, it’s sure taking a toll on them.”
“I know. And poor little T-Rex—all those tubes and wires and bandages—he looks awful!”
The bishop smiled sadly to himself. He didn’t think the words poor and little had ever been used in the same sentence with the name “T-Rex” before.
Chapter Six
* * *
“ . . . ring out the old; ring in the new”
On Monday morning, while Jim Shepherd, proprietor, was working at Shepherd’s Quality Food Mart, the cell phone in his pocket burred, making him jump. He snatched it up to his ear, carefully pushing the tiny button with the image of a receiver on it and saying, “Hello?”
It wasn’t Lula or Tom Rexford. He exhaled. It was Elder Bussero.<
br />
“Bishop? You remember how we said that we might need the font filled soon? Well, how about Saturday morning? Billy Newton’s ready to go, and a family that we thought we’d lost called us up last night and asked for baptism, after all! Man, are we stoked!”
“That’s great, Elder! Congratulations. And you bet, we’ll have the font filled. Ten o’clock a good time?”
“Perfect. Say, could you arrange for somebody to play the piano and lead a couple of songs? We’ll take care of the rest. Oh—and maybe invite a few ward members? Somebody from the Relief Society for Sister Kress, and from the Aaronic Priesthood and Young Men for Billy, and so forth?”
“Will do. We’ll look forward to it. A couple of good convert baptisms should perk the ward up a bit. We’ve all been kind of down, with young Thomas Rexford’s situation.”
“Anything new, there?”
“Not so far, today. Still unconscious, with high fever and pneumonia. All prayers appreciated.”
“We’re including him in ours—and I can spread the word—ask other elders and sisters in the district to remember him, too.”
“Thanks, that’d be great. See you Saturday, if not before. Oh, and Elder? Happy New Year.”
* * *
“Hey, Jim? How’s that football player doin’?” asked his office girl, Mary Lynn Connors.
He sighed. Even if he had been able to put Thomas’s situation out of his mind—which he could not—he wouldn’t have had a moment’s respite. People were constantly asking about him. He felt guilty even thinking that way, realizing what the boy’s parents were going through, and Thomas, himself—but the accident had cast a pall over a holiday season that, at best, already wasn’t the merriest ever, given the terror situation and the war in Afghanistan.
He updated Mary Lynn, and she twisted her long brown hair thoughtfully. “Reckon you’ve already done that blessin’ thing that y’all do, for him,” she commented.
“Twice—and many, many prayers are being said for him. We’re all just hoping for the best.”
She nodded. “Well. Me, too. And how’s that couple doin’—the one where he was hurtful to his wife?”
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