“I’m not surprised. And how did Jacob and Deborah react to that?”
Elder Bussero shrugged and grinned. “Wasn’t much they could say to refute it, the way he put things. And Brother Warshaw was awesome, too. I think they were real impressed with him.”
“We explained to them that all the fine points of doctrine can’t possibly be covered in the missionary discussions,” Elder Rivenbark said. “They promised that when anything comes up again that they don’t understand or agree with, they’ll study about it, make it a matter of prayer, and also ask for help from somebody knowledgeable. And like Elder Bussero said, that somebody will likely be Brother Warshaw.”
The bishop drew a long breath of relief. “Good, good! Couldn’t be better. Thank you both for responding to that need. The Kresses are a fine family, and they’ll be almost as much of an asset to the Church as it will be to them. Now, Elder Rivenbark, how are you settling in?”
Elder Rivenbark shook his head ruefully but smiled. “Frankly, it feels really weird, but it was good to get my feet wet last night. Now I’m stoked about getting back to work! And I guess it is true that there aren’t as many walk-up apartment complexes and houses with lots of front steps here as there were in my area of Cali. It’s probably better for all concerned, I guess.”
“I know you’ll do a lot of good here. Already have, for that matter.”
Elder Bussero nodded. “He sure has. He handled that question way better’n I would have. Well, Bishop, we just wanted to stop by and say hi and let you know how things went. Now we’re off to pick up a couple of new investigators for sacrament meeting.”
“Way to go! Thanks again.”
* * *
As was his custom, he looked out over the congregation during sacrament meeting with a prayer in his heart that he might be led to know if there was anyone in particular who needed him. He reminded himself that Pratt Birdwhistle was about to turn nineteen and needed an initial mission interview. Probably Dan McMillan was already on top of that, but he would check. Little Tashia Jones came in, smiling as always, and cute as a button in her yellow sweater and skirt. She slid in beside her friends, the Arnaud girls. Their mother, Camelia, leaned around her daughters to give her a welcoming smile and hug. Elders Bussero and Rivenbark accompanied a tall young black couple, pausing at the row where Scott Lanier sat alone, asking if they could sit there. Scott scooted toward the wall, then reached over to shake hands with the four. The bishop saw Elder Rivenbark’s little sister, Rosalin, watching her brother with pride.
Buddy Osborne came in, sat by himself as usual, and tried to appear engrossed in the Sunday bulletin. The bishop was pleased when Jamie turned around, got Buddy’s attention, and beckoned to him to come and sit with the family. Buddy declined with a shake of his head, but he smiled. Melody and Andi Padgett slipped in and sat toward the rear of the chapel, beside Frankie Talbot and her brood. He saw Brother Warshaw greet the Kress family and take them over to meet Magda. He watched for the Jernigans, but they never appeared.
Ida Lou Reams entered, with Hilda Bainbridge leaning on her arm, the two of them moving slowly to a seat toward the middle of the chapel. Dear Hilda, the bishop realized, was getting older and less well. He knew she sorely missed her husband, Roscoe, and had no living children or grandchildren to fill her hours. Her vision was too bad to allow her to read or do needlework, and even seeing the television was a strain. He blessed Ida Lou for her friendship and care of Hilda. Ida Lou helped her shop and clean, took her to the temple, and invited her over often for meals.
He smiled to see the Parsons, Lori and Joe, taking a seat close to the exit with their beautiful miracle baby, Alyssa, whose total deafness had been cured—at least in one ear—in a way the doctors had yet to explain. Alyssa now reacted to sound as any baby would and fussed up a storm during meetings. Don and Connie Wheeler were also experiencing the joys of parenting for the first time, with their little adopted baby boy, Collin. The Lord was blessing the Fairhaven Ward, and for each instance of that, the bishop was grateful. For once, he wasn’t aware of anyone he should invite into his office for a talk.
* * *
After Sunday dinner that afternoon, Brother Sam Wright stopped by to pick him up, and they headed to Birmingham to visit T-Rex, who, with his breathing apparatus removed, was able to speak a little and had been moved from Intensive Care into a regular room.
With a sense of anticipation, the two men knocked on the door of the room assigned to Thomas Rexford, and heard the voice of Tom Sr., inviting them in. Tom shook their hands. A reclining chair made up with a blanket and pillow crowded one corner of the small room. In his bed, T-Rex lay propped in a semi-sitting position, looking, the bishop thought, somehow diminished—smaller than he should be. The bone-structure of his face was more visible, and showed his distinct resemblance to his mother.
“Hey, son—you got you some comp’ny,” Tom said, rubbing his son’s arm. The young man’s eyes opened sleepily, and he looked from one to the other of his visitors.
“A-ay, Bish,” he whispered hoarsely. “Brother Wright.”
“Hey, Thomas,” the bishop said, his own voice a bit hoarse with emotion. “It’s great to see you awake and talking.”
“Sure is, T-Rex,” agreed Sam. “Gave us all a good scare, son. How’re you feelin’?”
“Weak. Like a little bitty kitty-cat.”
“That’ll improve,” the bishop told him. “You’ll regain strength now—more every day.”
“Hope so. See . . .” He gestured toward the shelf that was intended for flowers and cards. “My helmet? Shoulda been—my head.”
They glanced at the metallic red helmet, split down one side and dull with dried mud, but still in one piece.
“I’m sure grateful you were wearing that,” the bishop told him, gripping the boy’s fingers.
“Yeah, the police come and told us it looks like his head caught the edge of a tree stump,” put in Tom. “That helmet may have caused some injury to his neck, but it also saved his life.”
“Do you remember the accident at all, Thomas?” the bishop asked.
“No sir. Last thing—openin’ presents.”
“Reckon that’s pretty common when you’ve hit your head,” Sam said.
“Heard y’all was out lookin’ for me.”
“We split up into pairs and fanned out all over town,” the bishop told him. “But it was Buddy Osborne who clued us in as to what shortcut you might have taken on your way home. And he came with us to look for you. Put his coat over you, to keep you warm, and went with us to the hospital.”
“Huh. Lil’ ol’ Buddy. Saw him—no, hadda been—a dream.”
“He’s anxious to come see you. We’ll give it a couple of days, though, before we bring him down.”
“Yeah, the docs don’t want the boy overwhelmed with visitors right off,” Tom agreed. “They say he needs to gain some strength and try to process ever’thing that’s happened.”
“Sure,” the bishop agreed. “Understood.”
“Mom go home?” Thomas asked, looking toward his father.
“Gone home for a shower and a nap,” his father told him. “She’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He looked at Bishop Shepherd and Sam. “She’s so relieved the boy’s woke up, she hates to leave his side. But she needs a break. We been takin’ turns sleepin’ here, nights, since they moved him in this room.”
The bishop nodded. “Looks a little more comfy than the ICU waiting room.”
“And a little darker, late at night. And, o’course, closer to the boy.”
“The boy” in question seemed to have drifted back into a peaceful slumber. It was good to see his chest rising and falling in a regular, natural rhythm. The bishop gripped Tom’s hand again.
“We’ll be going, now. It sure is good to see this improvement. The Lord continue to bless you all.”
“He has been, Bishop. He shore has been.”
* * *
Monday was a sunny day—a January th
aw in the best sense of the word, with birds venturing out and twittering in their search for food, kids at recess shedding jackets and sweaters—and in many cases, leaving them strewn around the playground—and shoppers taking advantage of the good weather to get out and stock up on groceries and other needs. There were lines at Fairhaven’s one automatic carwash and lines at the checkout counters of Shepherd’s Quality Food Mart. Proprietor Jim Shepherd was pleased to see them and manned one of the cash registers to relieve the other two checkers.
“I can take you over here, folks,” he called to a couple who were approaching one of the other lines with a laden cart, their backs turned toward him as they conferred over an item.
“Oh,” said the woman. “All right.” As she turned toward him, Jim was startled to see that it was Marybeth Lanier. The man with her was not Scott. He was Dugie Winslow, Muzzie’s soon-to-be-ex. The bishop struggled to maintain a friendly, casual professionalism as he began to ring up their purchases.
“Hi, Marybeth. Dugie. How’s it going?”
Marybeth smiled broadly, her very attitude challenging him to say anything. “I’m doing wonderfully, Mr. Shepherd. How’re you?”
“Doing great, thanks.”
Dugie didn’t say anything. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Bet you wish you’d gone to Albertson’s, the bishop thought. I kinda wish you had, too.
“Looks like you’re getting ready for quite some event,” he said aloud, noting the paper plates, cups, and plastic flatware that they were buying in large quantities, and breaking his own rule, which he carefully instilled in all his checkers, about not commenting on customers’ purchases.
Dugie cleared his throat. “We happen to be in charge of a luncheon tomorrow of the Fairhaven Youth Sports Association,” he said. “It’s a fundraiser. Mrs. Lanier, here, has been good enough to volunteer to help with arrangements.”
“It’s a good cause,” the bishop said mildly. “Believe I received an invitation to that, come to think of it. I can’t make the luncheon, but I’ll send a check.”
“All help greatly appreciated,” Marybeth all but sang. “It’s a wonderful feeling to be involved with an organization that does so much to help our youth.”
“It’s important, all right,” he agreed.
“We need lots more volunteers, both in this organization and in the Red Cross. Maybe, if the time ever comes when you aren’t so involved in your religion, you’ll find time to be of help to your community.” Her smile continued to be bland, but her emphasis on the word religion dripped with vinegar. He chose not to rise to the bait. He chose not to say, “Maybe, if you weren’t so involved with other causes, you’d find time to know and serve the God who made you and to respect the husband who loves and agonizes over you.” He didn’t say that. That would be petty. He said it later, however, to Trish.
She looked at him, appalled. “You don’t think—surely Dugie and Marybeth aren’t . . .”
“I’m trying real hard not to think the worst of either of them. I mean, you can’t complain about community service, and of course, plenty of men and women work together on projects like that without anything shady going on. But, yes, sure, I wondered. They seemed pretty chummy. And Marybeth has become so—I don’t know—so ‘in your face’ about her stance. I don’t know how Scott tolerates it.”
Trish looked pensive. “I wonder how long he will.”
* * *
In the backyard, in the waning sunlight of this gift of a day, her father watched as Mallory played with Samantha, trailing a twisted piece of paper on a long string around the brown grass for the Siamese to chase and pounce upon. Something caught Mallory’s attention, then, and he saw her gather Samantha up in her arms and carry her behind the garage. Curiosity got the better of him, and he slipped out into the rapidly cooling air to stroll into the yard where he could see what was going on.
Marguerite Lowell stood pressed against the fence, reaching to receive the cat from Mallory, cradling it gently against her like a baby. Samantha pulled her head back indignantly to gaze into the stranger’s face, her front paws pushing against Marguerite’s chest, her position clearly communicating the thought, Excuse me, but do I know you? Marguerite turned the cat around, stroking her back and kissing the top of its head.
“Marguerite? Where in the world are you? I need you in here.”
Her mother’s strident tone broke the spell, and Marguerite thrust the cat toward Mallory and turned to hurry back to her house as if guilty of an evil deed.
“Hey, Mal,” said the bishop, strolling forward. “Playing with Samantha, I see.”
“Yep. And Mar-greet really likes her, too. I wish she could come over and play.”
“I bet she wishes she could, too.”
And why can’t she? He wondered.
* * *
By Tuesday morning, the sunshine had disappeared, replaced by unseasonably mild breezes and high-flying clouds that spoke of March rather than January and which—the bishop knew from long experience—heralded the approach of a moisture-laden storm. Ah, well, he thought, philosophically, Monday had been lovely, while it lasted.
The appointment during his lunch hour, which prevented his attending the Fairhaven Youth Sports Association luncheon, was with the Jernigans. He had called Ralph and Linda on Sunday evening, having noted their absence from sacrament meeting, and Ralph had said that Linda wasn’t feeling well. The bishop felt they needed a visit—and Ralph had learned that when the bishop wanted to visit them, he didn’t take no for an answer, even if Ralph was worried about danger from the ubiquitous, unnamed “enemy” that haunted the periphery of his thinking. Most recently, of course, with the 9/11 attacks and the war in Afghanistan, the enemy’s faces were bearded and their heads wrapped in turbans. Ralph had a way of personalizing generalized threats; the bishop knew that the man wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find Osama bin Laden himself, scaling the barbed-wire-topped, chain-link fence that surrounded his home.
The gates to that formidable fence rolled back, and the three guard dogs swarmed out to inspect the bishop’s vehicle for explosives or for whatever it was that Ralph had trained them to detect. Satisfied, they returned to sit beside the steps to the house, waiting for Ralph to emerge and toss them a treat. Having thus done their duty, two of the dogs subsided into ordinary doggy behavior, one crunching his biscuit and the other rolling around in the grass in an effort to scratch his back. The third dog, a German Shepherd mix that bore a distinct resemblance to a wolf and whose eyes revealed a near-human intelligence, had for some reason unknown to the bishop taken a liking to him, and now cavorted about him like a puppy, thrusting his head into the man’s hand for a caress. The bishop, strangely flattered, complied.
“Corporal! At ease,” Ralph commanded, and Corporal sat in place, though his eyes beseeched the visitor for another morsel of affection.
“Good boy,” the bishop said. “Ralph, how’re you? And how’s Linda feeling? Any better?”
“Come in, Bishop. No sir, I wouldn’t say she’s improved. We don’t know what the trouble is. Can’t help wondering if she ate something from the grocery that had been tampered with. Not to cast blame on your store, you know—everybody’s subject to it.”
The bishop walked into the Jernigans’ living room, where Linda lay on the sofa, covered with a quilt. Her face was paler than usual and beads of sweat stood on her brow and upper lip.
“Hey, Linda,” he said, pulling a chair closer. “Not feeling so great, huh? What seems to be the trouble?”
“S—sorry, Bishop. I don’t dare sit up. I get all woozy and nauseous. And seems like my back hurts worse when I move around, too.”
“Sounds to me like you should probably see a doctor,” he suggested.
“Don’t trust the medical establishment,” Ralph said, his own forehead wrinkled in worry. “Hard to know what to do. Maybe a blessing, Bishop? If it’s not too much trouble?”
“That’s never too much trouble, my friend. T
hat’s what the priesthood is for—to bless mankind—which of course, includes women,” he added in Linda’s direction. “I have some oil here, on my key chain. You want to anoint, Ralph, or bless? Your home, your call.” He pulled out his key chain and unscrewed the cap on the tiny vial of consecrated oil.
“You bless, please, Bishop. Trust your judgment, and all.”
Ralph performed the anointing, and in the blessing that followed, the bishop felt prompted to encourage the Jernigans to seek medical attention, promising that if they did so with full faith, Linda would be healed.
“I know that wasn’t exactly what you wanted to hear, Ralph, but that was what came to me,” the bishop explained afterward. “And I’ve learned to listen to what the Spirit says at such times.”
“Thought somehow the blessing would take care of things by itself,” Ralph said, his brow furrowed in deep concern.
“I know. And sometimes they do. But I also think the Lord has blessed the world with lots of medical knowledge and advances and expects us to make use of what he’s already given us. Now, who’s your family doctor?”
“We don’t have one,” Linda said weakly. “Neither of us ever been to a doctor, whole time we’ve lived here. No clue who to call.”
Ralph lifted his head. “What about that Dr. Lanier? At least he’s in the Church.”
The bishop considered. “Well, he’s a foot specialist—but he might know who to recommend.”
“Didn’t he have to study general medicine before he specialized in feet?” Linda asked.
“I believe that’s true, all right.”
“Know him pretty well, Bishop?” Ralph inquired. “Would you call him for us? Not sure he’d know who we are. Never spoke to the man. Just heard his testimony. Seemed a good sort.”
“He is a good sort. Sure, I’ll call him.”
He took out his cell phone, ignoring Ralph’s start of alarm, and contacted Scott Lanier’s office, giving his own name and explaining to the clinic’s receptionist that this was something of an emergency, so that she would contact Dr. Lanier during his lunch break. Scott’s voice came on the line almost immediately.
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