by Jack Weyland
Anyway it was a wonderful and touching script—one that Adam apparently hadn’t read.
The restaurant was crowded and the service was slow. Adam was starving and irritable because of a missed nap. At first he only whined for food and attention. Then he yelled—finally he screamed. Anxious not to create a scene, I went to the next table, where a nice retired couple were having supper, and stole their crackers.
“Do you mind?” I asked above the roar of my son.
Apparently they didn’t mind.
I ripped open the wrapper and gave him two crackers.
That quieted him for ten seconds, then he smashed the crackers with his pudgy little fists and tossed the mess on the floor. He screamed to get out of the high chair. I told him he couldn’t get out, reasoning calmly in a loud voice.
Then he went into orbit, a classical tantrum, screaming and kicking.
I picked him up and carried him football style out to the car, tossed him in the backseat, locked the doors, and marched sullenly back inside.
I carefully cleaned up the cracker crumbs, wiped up the spilled water, and say down. We were back to gracious living.
She looked at as if I were a monster.
“You’re just going to leave him locked up in the car like some animal?”
“He is some animal. You saw him. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Well, I think that’s terrible.”
“He has to learn a lesson.”
“It’s very near being child abuse.”
“I’m his father—I know what he needs.”
“It could be a very traumatic experience for the child.”
“The child?” I mimicked. “Elizabeth, this isn’t some college discussion circle. This is real life! Real life is a very traumatic experience for all of us—or don’t they teach you that in college?”
“Do you mind if I sit with him until you’re through eating?”
“Yes, I mind! What about your food?”
“I’m not hungry anymore—you eat it.”
“If nobody’s hungry,” I exploded, “then why are we here? We might as well all sit in the car!”
Just then the waitress brought the food. I stood up, handed her a twenty-dollar bill, told her we couldn’t stay, and asked her to give the food to the nice retired couple.
We drove silently home—silent because Adam had fallen asleep in her arms, and silent because Elizabeth and I weren’t speaking.
We dropped Adam off with my parents and took off again. Even though I was starving, neither one of us dared bring up the subject of food again. I was at a loss to know what to do with the rest of the evening until I remembered the single adult dance.
When we entered, we were given name tags to fill out and were told they were going to have a little fireside before the dance. We found seats near the back of the room.
“Dorothy,” the man conducting the meeting teased a lady, “have you and Albert anything to tell us tonight?”
The man next to Dorothy looked down at the floor with embarrassment. He was old and wore suspenders. “Not yet, Leroy, not yet.”
“Well, you keep us posted now,” the man conducting said.
Looking around, I realized these were old people.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered to her.
Try and find a decent movie sometime. We drove around for another forty-five minutes, ruling out the R-rated movies, finally settling on a PG, which must stand for Pretty Gross.
We didn’t even stay to the end.
* * * * *
Less than two weeks to go and there had been no indication that Elizabeth was falling in love with me. I didn’t understand it. It was time to apply a little subtle salesmanship.
But first the agony of talking to Cathy at the apartment while Elizabeth kept me waiting.
“Elizabeth tells me you were married once and have a kid.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re looking for another wife, aren’t you. That’s why you keep coming to see Liz.”
“I love music.”
“No, that’s not it. Well, I think you should stay up there in Salt Lake where you belong.”
“That’s an interesting opinion, Cathy. I appreciate your expressing it.”
“Scott is getting back in ten days. What are you going to do when he’s here?”
I smiled warmly. “I’ll buy him a banjo too.”
“Did you know he’s an assistant to the mission president?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t know that. That’s nice.”
“Were you ever an assistant to the mission president on your mission?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“I didn’t think so. Someday he’ll probably be a stake president.”
“Could be.”
“I don't think you ever will.”
“Probably not.”
“It’s not that hard to imagine him as a General Authority, either.”
“That’s nice.”
“You’re jealous of him, aren’t you.”
“Cathy, it doesn’t matter what our calling is. What matters is that we try to pattern our life after the Savior.”
“I knew you were jealous.”
“The purpose of the Church isn’t to climb up some corporate ladder. If we can remember the Savior, then that will give us joy in whatever we do in the Church, no matter what our callings are.”
She continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “My oldest brother is a high priest, and he’s on the high council, and he’s even younger than you are. My parents say they’re grooming him to be the next stake president. You’re only an elder, aren’t you?”
I decided to try one more time. “Cathy, a high priest isn’t higher than an elder. They both hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.”
“Someday you might make Scoutmaster,” she predicted, “or maybe ward clerk or Sunday School teacher, but you’re just not stake president material. Sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters, but you’re just jealous. Sam, let me tell you something. There are just two kinds of people in the Church—those who are the leaders and those who are the followers. And you’re definitely one of the followers.”
“Cathy, let me tell you something. There are just two kinds of people in the Church—those who say there are just two kinds of people in the Church—and those who don’t.”
It took her several seconds to unravel that.
“I still say you’ll never make high council.”
Elizabeth and I had supper high atop the Wilkinson Center and then went to the music practice room to try “Duelin’ Banjos.” It sounded more like “Duelin’ Mistakes.”
Then we took a drive. By then I had installed a rather expensive car stereo. We listened to Brahms and drove by the homes overlooking the temple in Provo. I was trying to get her into a domestic mood.
“Ever dream of living in a house like that?” I asked.
“Sure—maybe in a hundred years,” she smiled.
“Maybe sooner, Elizabeth.”
“Oh?” she said, raising her eyebrows.
“I had insurance on my wife and we sold our home in South Dakota for a profit. I could buy a house in this neighborhood.”
“Sam, is this a proposal?”
“Almost—it will be when you’re ready for it.”
Very kindly she said, “It’s true what they say, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“You try harder when you’re number two.”
My stomach tensed up and I felt an attack of failure coming on.
“You haven’t seen Scott for two years. Time has a way of changing things. Maybe you won’t feel the same about him when he returns.”
“And that’s what you’re banking on?”
“I’m a decent guy—I’d make you happy. You’d have a nice dishwasher in a nice house, even a grand piano if you want.”
“Anything personal in this, or are y
ou just trying to furnish the house with a wife?” she smiled.
“Why don’t you take me seriously?”
“Because you’re not serious.”
“I’m serious. I’ll marry you tomorrow if you want.”
“Oh, I think you’re serious about marriage—but you don’t love me.”
“You’re a nice person and I think you’re beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said lightly.
“I mean it—you’re very beautiful.”
“I said thanks.”
“You treat it as if it weren’t important.”
“All right,” she sighed. “I’m glad I’m beautiful.”
“It’s very important to me. I like to look at you. It’s very inspiring.”
“Inspiring?”
“It’s like the first time I saw Hoover Dam.”
She broke up. “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”
“It means a lot to me. I could watch you for hours.”
“And what’s my favorite color?” she asked.
“Blue,” I guessed.
“Wrong. Which of my brothers is on a mission?”
“Ralph?”
“No, it’s Larry. Have I ever had braces on my teeth?”
“I don’t know.”
“What classes am I taking this semester?”
“Let’s see—”
“You don’t know, do you. You’re not interested in that. You just want me to be a centerpiece for your house and a mother for Adam. Then you’ll fill in the rest by imagining I’m really your dead wife.”
We drove silently to her apartment.
“Sam, I’m sorry for saying that about your wife. But I still feel as though you and I don’t really know each other very well.”
“I know Scott is coming back next week. Let me give you a little advice, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Keep your options open.”
She smiled. “Were you always this romantic?”
“I’m out of practice.”
“Cathy’s warned me about that—that a man who’s been married, well, you know.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you were afraid of me. Sam, you haven’t really gotten over losing your wife yet, have you.”
* * * * *
Her missionary returned. The agreement was that I would give them a week to get reacquainted and then Elizabeth and I would meet in one of the practice rooms.
At the appointed time, I carried my banjo down the hall to our room.
“Well, you’re here,” I said.
She nodded politely. “Just like we agreed.”
“Could we try ‘Duelin’ Banjos’ just to warm up?” I asked. We did a pretty good job of it.
“Well, how did it go between you and Scott?”
“It went well.”
“How well?” I asked, feeling miserable.
“It couldn’t have been better.”
I picked out a couple of chords to “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” and then forced myself to look at her. “You sound like someone who’s just closed her options.”
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry it didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”
“I’ve learned a lot about music.”
“I want to give back all the records and the banjo. It’s not right for me to keep them.”
“No, go ahead, keep them.”
“Scott insisted I give everything back. The records are in that box.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll be able to come here to play ‘Duelin’ Banjos’ anymore, will we.”
“No, not anymore.”
“Well—could we try it one more time from the top?” I asked.
* * * * *
Chapter Four
I played it lightly enough for Elizabeth, but as the days passed I gradually came to the realization that I was trapped and might never escape.
I was a single adult.
You remember them, don’t you? They are the ones who sit in the small pews along the sides of the chapel, the ones who leave quickly after sacrament meeting talks about the blessings of marriage and the family.
If I had a choice, I’d choose to remain forever a young married when Charly and I were poor students, eating a ton of pinto beans and week-old bread, going out together on her Avon route.
Or if I couldn’t have that, I’d like to be a sophomore at BYU forever, a young adult, just off my mission, the man of the hour, optimistic and positive in my blue blazer, the choice of girls for Sunday afternoon supper invitations, the bright goal-setting eligible man on campus. That year everything seemed possible.
Now nothing seems possible.
And I don’t have a choice.
The Church calls those over twenty-six and single, Special Interests. But my interests didn’t used to be that special from anyone else’s. I was interested in keeping my wife alive and healthy. I was interested that she not slip away from me, leaving me all alone with our precious little boy.
Nobody deliberately chooses to become a Special Interest. What sixteen-year-old girl would say that, when she grows up, she hopes she’ll never get married and will work her whole life as a ploddingly faithful secretary in an office with only an eighth-inch layer of walnut on the walls, trudging home each night to an empty apartment and her African violets? Or that she wants to get married, have two children in quick succession, and suddenly find herself divorced—and all the while go to meetings to hear that marriage should last forever? Or that she will get married and that her husband and she will scrimp and save all their lives to raise children, send them on missions and through college, always with a dream that some day they’ll travel—and then two months after retirement he’ll catch a virus and never recover?
Nobody chooses to become a Special Interest. It’s just something that happens. All of a sudden you find yourself the father of a two-year-old boy, and your wife is gone, and you’re alone.
I am a Special Interest.
* * * * *
A week after Elizabeth and I had dueled our last banjo, the elders quorum president called and asked if I would home teach with Brother Porter.
He picked me up on a Tuesday evening near the end of February in his pickup with a new camper in the back.
The back fender sported a sign that read, “When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns.”
“Nice camper,” I said as I got in.
“Yeah—brand new. Guess how much I paid for it.”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
“Go ahead,” he grinned. “Just guess.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know—maybe six hundred dollars.”
“Six hundrend dollars?” he snapped. “Are you kidding? It’s worth at least seventeen hundred.”
“Oh,” I said.
An uncomfortable silence settled in.
“So guess how much I paid for it.”
“I really don’t know.”
“Go ahead and guess.”
“Okay—let’s see, I’d say nine hundred.”
His smile deflated. “Yeah,” he said, looking very disappointed. “How’d you guess?”
“Just lucky.”
“It’s a steal, isn’t it, at nine hundred?”
“Sure is,” I said, playing his game.
“You bet,” he said, running his fingers through his thinning hair. “I’ve already been offered fourteen hundred for it, but I won’t take it. No sir.”
He went into some detail on how he happened to make such a good deal, and I found myself in the role of admirer, needing only to say occasionally, “Is that right?” and “Boy, you really did well, didn’t you!”
Finally at a stop light I asked, “Who are we visiting tonight?”
“Oh, don’t worry. We’ve got a good home teaching beat—all active people, very few problems. They all go to church, and none of them smoke or drink. Usually I can wrap the whole thing up in a night. Say, you ever been to the Uintahs?”
Th
e first top was a gray four-story apartment house built in the forties. We knocked on 312. The door was answered by a round-faced girl in her late twenties. Her name was Shirley Benson, and she worked as a seamstress in a lingerie factory. She invited us in, and Brother Porter introduced us.
She smiled. “I hope you like dessert, because I treat my home teachers every time they come. Isn’t that right, Brother Porter?”
“You bet! I’ll never forget that coconut cream pie last month.”
She asked if I was married and I explained my situation, something I had learned to do quickly in matter-of-fact tones. I cried only at night now.
We had cake and ice cream.
“Sam, have a little more.”
“No, thanks— it was delicious though.”
“Oh, go ahead,” she encouraged. “It’s not fattening.”
Brother Porter had more.
A minute later, Brother Porter took one last drink of water, sat back in his chair, sucked air between his front teeth to remove any food particles there, and started his lesson.
“I have this little book with some real nice stories and I was reading one just before we came over. It’s about these two frogs. It seems they both got trapped in a farmer’s milk bucket. Well, they tried and they tried, but they just couldn’t get out. After a while one of the frogs got discouraged and just gave up, and he drowned. But the second frog, he wouldn’t give up, and just kept swimming. And you know what? After a while, all that swimming churned the cream into butter, and that old frog just walked out of the bucket. That’s a great lesson to all of us, isn’t it? No matter how bad things get we just have to keep swimming and never give up.”
“That’s so true, isn’t it? Shirley said, picking up the plates. “We do have to keep swimming, don’t we. Thanks, that was a great lesson.”
“The lessons are the easy part,” Brother Porter grinned. “I’ll keep the lessons coming if you keep the treats coming.”
We had a prayer and left.
“Well, that didn’t take too long, did it.” Brother Porter observed as we got back in his pickup.
“Is she trying to do anything about her weight problem?” I asked.
“I don’t know—she probably likes being fat. Besides, it’s none of my business.”
Our second visit was with Joan Anderson, a divorced woman in her early thirties with a two-year-old named Melissa. Three months ago she had been living in Denver with her husband, but on day he left her for another woman. Joan had moved to Salt Lake City so her mother could babysit for her during the day while she worked as a waitress in a pancake restaurant.
