The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint

by Brady Udall

  I did not turn around, just stepped backwards, walking in a slow reverse, and stood on the other side of the refrigerator in the empty kitchen, stayed there without moving until they left a half hour later.

  Now, Sunny sat on an overturned plastic feed bucket and swung her hair around. It seemed to me that if you ever got in the way of that swinging hair it could take your head right off. “I don’t feel like going inside yet. I’ve been going out every weekend and they don’t even know about it.”

  I squatted on a hardened bag of cement and Sunny slipped a can of Budweiser out of the pocket of her vest. She popped it open, took a couple of sips, offered it to me.

  I wanted to take it, I would have taken just about anything she offered me, but something made me shake my head.

  “You take all that church stuff pretty seriously, don’t you?” she said.

  I shrugged, picked up a few pebbles with my toes. I said, “I don’t like beer.”

  “I don’t like it either,” Sunny said. “But then again I like it quite a lot. So do you like living here? It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

  “It’s pretty good.”

  “Wherever you were before must have been a dump.”

  I smiled.

  “Is it true you got your head squashed by a car?”

  “Mail jeep,” I said. “The mailman who ran over me thinks he killed me, but he didn’t. I’m going to find him and tell him I’m okay—it’s my purpose in life.”

  Sunny regarded me for awhile; maybe I had said too much.

  “Would you mind if I touched it?” she said.

  “Touched what?”

  “Your head, Romeo. I want to know what it feels like.”

  She set her beer next to me and rested the fingertips of both her hands on my scalp. I felt an electric tingle at each point of contact, a vibration of heat. She moved her nails lightly over the side of my head, which made me convulse in a full-body shiver.

  “Brain said you are on medication,” I said, panting a little.

  Sunny’s fingers suddenly pressed into my head almost to the point of hurting. She said, “That little fag.”

  “I used to be on medication when I lived in a hospital,” I said. “Everybody in there was on medication. I was in a coma. Had to ride around in a wheelchair a lot of the time.”

  “It’s none of your business,” she said.

  Out on the humped ridge of sandstone to the south the low, gray form of a coyote moved slowly through the sagebrush and cedar trees, appearing and disappearing like a ghost.

  The pressure from Sunny’s fingers eased but she kept her hands in my hair. “You probably thought you were going to come to this great place and live with a big happy family and everything would be perfect. I know that’s what you thought. That’s what they all think. I don’t know why my mom keeps bringing people to live here. All these animals, jeez. She thinks it will fix something. But it never does. Nothing will fix it.”

  “Fix what?”

  “Come on. You hear them yelling at night, don’t you? Do you ever see them talking to each other? They’re married you know, husband and wife? They used to love each other, I remember them kissing all the time, totally in love, I remember it. They used to check on us every night. Then little Dean, and there it all goes. They still can’t handle it. I think they hate each other.”

  She picked up her beer and, instead of a polite sip this time, took a long swallow, the gurgling rush of liquid loud in her throat. She was quiet for a long time, then poured the rest of the beer onto the ground. Droplets of mud spattered my feet. She bent down a little, looking me in the face. In her eyes glowed the miniature lights of the far-off houses. “You don’t know about any of this, do you? Nobody talks about it in this house, we act like it never happened.”

  “Brain told me,” I said.

  “Don’t listen to him. That little jerk doesn’t have any idea because nobody has told him squat. He thinks he’s the next Einstein and he doesn’t know what’s going on in his own family. He doesn’t know a thing.”

  “I don’t know anything either,” I said.

  “Then I’ll tell you,” she said, and sat down next to me on my bag of cement. Our thighs touched. My sprained right arm, cradled in its sling, touched hers. She was stepping on my foot and didn’t seem to know it. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  LITTLE DEAN

  LITTLE DEAN WAS an angel. Everybody said so. He had his mother’s blond hair, but his was as curly as hers was straight, and his eyes were the deepest blue, almost violet. Folks were always telling Clay and Lana that they should take him to Hollywood, put him in commercials, they could make a mint off a baby that cute. A happy baby, never colicky, he chirped and cooed and sang, his face taken up with that famous, gap-toothed grin. By the time he was one he was already speaking, his voice high-pitched and a little raspy. He would walk around in wide-eyed wonder, pointing at things with a pudgy finger, naming them: “Floor! Light! Kitty! Cup! Ball! Chair!” When he didn’t know what something was he would hold out his hands, palms up, a look of earnest puzzlement on his face and ask “Wazzat? Wazzat?” until somebody came up with the necessary information.

  Neighbors would stop by just to visit him, people from the ward would call to ask if they could baby-sit him for the day. At church, there was always a pack of women, young and old, milling around him like groupies. They would fawn over him, whisper and squeal and chatter at him, ask to hold him, and he would always oblige: he’d flirt and make peekaboo faces and give out kisses to anyone who asked.

  Look at him, everybody said, he really is an angel, a baby of light. Nobody, not even the old grandmothers who were the daughters of old-time polygamists, had ever seen such a beautiful, good-spirited baby boy. Straight from heaven! they would say. An angel straight from God!

  It was a Saturday afternoon, three days before his second birthday, and he was asleep in his crib while Clay worked at the desk downstairs, preparing for his Sunday school class. Dean’s crib was an antique, an heirloom, built by Clay’s great-grandfather only a few months after his family had crossed the plains, all the way from Ohio to settle in this small valley in the middle of a desert. Countless Madsen babies had slept in that crib through the years, including Clay’s grandfather, Clay’s father and Clay himself, and eventually Sunny and Brain. The crib was sturdy and beautifully fashioned out of the oak planks of the same covered wagon that had brought the family so far, but it had one small flaw, a flaw that had never shown itself over the course of a hundred years and those dozens and dozens of babies: the vertical slats were a little too far apart, wide enough for a baby, if it really wanted, to get its head through. In his sleep little Dean managed to push his head between the bars and when he had tried to pull himself out, became wedged securely there, his face caught in a mound of bedding.

  While his father read the Sermon on the Mount downstairs, no more than thirty feet away, Little Dean quietly suffocated and died.

  He was buried in the town cemetery in the huge family plot shaded by a couple of elm trees. In the three years since the day of the funeral, Lana had never been back to the cemetery, but Clay went every week to tend the grave, to water the flowers he had planted there, to spray and polish the smooth granite headstone with glass cleaner. Every time he would stop by the house to ask Lana to come with him, and every time she would refuse.

  After the graveside service, when the family and a large portion of the town retired to the house for a luncheon, Clay pushed through the throng of mourners and friends, climbed the stairs to Dean’s room, and smashed the crib to kindling with his bare hands.

  A MISSIONARY VISIT

  OUT IN THE OLD railroad car, behind the peat moss bags and stacked rolls of barbed wire, Edgar counted coins. It was a hot summer day, the still air full of dust and fat, ponderous flies that orbited my head like tiny black planets. Here in this shadowy hidden place I kept my crucifix and the rock that had fallen out of my head and other secret belongings, the notes that I wrote to
Sunny but never gave to her, the letters I had written to my mailman, the prayers I typed asking forgiveness for all of my bad thoughts and self-desecrations. And now I had one more sin to repent of, one more apology to make. God had saved me from death, had taken me into His bosom, had washed away my sins with baptism, had banished the ghosts that tormented me, had rescued me from Willie Sherman and given me everything I could have wanted, and here I was letting him down. Edgar was, once again, a thief.

  Over the past few weeks I had stolen thirty-five dollars’ worth of small change, one coin at a time, from Clay’s bedroom dresser or from the purse that Lana left hanging over the back of a chair in the kitchen. Each quarter, nickel and dime: one more stab in Jesus’ tender heart.

  You’re a good boy, Art had told me the day I left St. Divine’s. I knew that it wasn’t true.

  I now had enough to buy a round-trip bus ticket to Nevada. In two days, while Clay and Lana were gone to a wedding in Ogden, I planned to take a trip and visit Cecil. It had been well over a year since I had last seen him, since he had saved me from Nelson and got shipped off to prison because of it, and only now had I decided to do something more than send him boring letters, many of them full of lies, with a few dollars tucked in the envelope. There was something that I had finally been able to admit to myself: I had done all I could to forget Cecil. It made me burn with shame to think of it. I had abandoned him for casseroles and a soft bed and cartoons on Saturday morning. I thought I would be able to lose myself completely in the comforts of a new family, I thought I could distract myself with the root beer floats and the Christmas presents and the lush pinkness of the heavenly bathroom, but it was still there, like a cold piece of metal lodged somewhere in the soft tissues of my gut: I missed Cecil. I was lonely for him.

  But I had to keep my visit a secret from Lana and Clay. I wanted them to believe that I had left my old life entirely, that I had forgotten about it, that I had no place or past to go back to. I wanted to give them no choice but to keep me.

  Brain was the only one I told about my trip. He had showed me where Nevada was, after all, and even though I hadn’t asked him to, he’d ended up calling the bus station for me to get price quotes and a schedule. He wrote it all down for me on a slip of paper and left it on top of my typewriter. Underneath all the pertinent information he had written: P.S. Sometimes you aggravate me.

  I shoveled the coins from the Irish Eddie’s Potato Flakes can into the pockets of my jeans. This morning I had filched the last fifty cents I needed from Lana’s purse. I was going to pedal down to the KUM-n-GO Mart and transfer all that change into dollar bills. I didn’t want any foul-ups. Early Saturday morning I would go up to the window at the bus station, pay the lady with paper money, take the bus to see Cecil and be back before Clay and Lana got home from their wedding late that night.

  I was walking around the barn toward the garage when Clay opened the back door.

  “Edgar,” he said. He had come home for lunch and was powdered head to toe with drywall dust. He looked like a sugar donut. “Come on in a minute. Somebody here to see you.”

  I turned my body to try to hide the bulges in my jean pockets. I said, “Right now?”

  “Right now. They’re waiting on you.”

  I walked in slow motion, doing my damnedest not to jingle. Clay held the door open and I passed through the kitchen into the living room. What I saw was like a hand clapping against my chest. Sunny slumped on one of the couches in shorts and a T-shirt. On the other couch sat Dr. Pinkley and Jeffrey. They were both dressed up as missionaries: white short-sleeved shirts with black name tags, dark slacks and shoes buffed to a high acrylic finish. Jeffrey’s hair was so short you could see the white of his scalp. The way they were smiling you couldn’t help but believe they had the Lord on their side.

  I might have saved myself right then, might have kept it all from coming apart. I should have done whatever was necessary to drive them out of that house; maybe I could have stomped my feet, raised a ruckus, hollered bloody murder, exposed those two men for what they were: interlopers, criminals, frauds of the first degree. But I did nothing. I stood there like a prisoner caught in the guard-tower spotlight, trembling so that the coins in my pockets made a low metallic buzzing.

  I felt Clay’s hand on my back. He pushed me gently forward. Jeffrey and Dr. Pinkley stood at the same time and both held their hands out to me. They seemed to be doing everything in sync.

  “This must be Edgar,” Dr. Pinkley said.

  “Be polite now,” Clay said. “Go ahead and shake their hands.”

  I had a hard time hearing anything because a siren wailed from somewhere deep inside my head. I held out my hand to them over the coffee table and they both gave it a vigorous shake.

  “I was just telling Brother Madsen and—Sunny, is it?—that we’re in the area checking on some of the placement families, to gauge how the program is working out.”

  “I mentioned that they look a little old for missionaries,” Clay said.

  “Lots of people tell us that,” Jeffrey said. He had a Bible and Book of Mormon in his lap and his name tag said ELDER WILTBANK. It was the first time I had ever seen him looking anything except wretched. “We are older than most, that’s why we’ve been given this assignment. You don’t give this kind of assignment to any kid off the farm. We receive our directions straight from the men in Salt Lake.”

  “Ppfft,” I said.

  Everybody looked at me and then at each other. Jeffrey sighed. “Yup, those men in Salt Lake.”

  I sat down next to Sunny. The coins in my pocket shifted and tinkled. Barry sat on the edge of the couch cushion and looked me right in the eyes, no more than six feet away. All I could think about was the shiny gun he had waved around the last time I’d seen him. If it was possible, he looked more gaunt and angular than before, but his short hair, brilliant with some kind of styling oil, his plain blue tie, his name tag that said ELDER RIVERS, all gave him an air of righteous authority that was hard to deny. “Brother Madsen has told us that you’ve been a wonderful addition to their family, Edgar, nothing but good to report. That’s the kind of thing we like to hear.”

  Jeffrey kept his head bobbing up and down in affirmation. “Praise the Lord,” he said. “Praise Jesus.”

  “Have you enjoyed having Edgar in your family?” Barry asked Sunny.

  “He’s all right,” she shrugged. “We’ve had a lot worse.”

  Jeffrey giggled like a cartoon mouse. “A lot worse!” he said. “Amen.”

  Barry stood and pulled Jeffrey up from the couch by the arm. “We should really let you get on with your day. We’d like to talk with Edgar in private for a moment if you don’t mind.”

  Clay stood to leave and Barry suggested they might take me for a drive, have a little chat, maybe get an ice cream cone.

  “Not to worry,” Barry said, showing off his missionary smile. “We’ll have him back here in a jiffy.”

  We all stood and Jeffrey told Clay it would be an honor if he could leave a blessing on this household on their way out. Barry glared at Jeffrey, who folded his arms, bowed his head, squinched his eyes shut, drew in a long, dramatic breath and prayed, “Our loving Father who art in heaven…” He paused, as if concentrating all of his humble desire toward the heavens. “We thank thee for one more beautiful day on this Thy green earth, for the opportunity we have to find ourselves here in the house of this good family, Thy servants every one. We ask Thee, O Lord, by the Melchizedek priesthood which we hold, to bless this house and its occupants with all the bounty of Thy kindness, with the hearty abundance of Thy spirit, bless them with safety and peace and comfort and joyousness, bless them in their work and play, in all their sleeping and waking hours, in their comings and goings and everything in between.”

  Jeffrey’s voice had taken on a kind of exalted Southern twang. Right in the middle of the prayer he looked up and gave me a big wink.

  “May Thy spirit dwell in this house, Heavenly Father, let no evil enter
herewith, allow the milk of human kindness to be in evidence at all times…yes, and the blood of the Lamb, let us never forget that, may we always remember. Give us the strength to carry on in our travails, great Jehovah, be in our hearts every moment, we pray in the name of our Savior and Lord Jesus Christ, Amen.”

  Once we were safely outside Jeffrey said, “Who ever heard such a ring-a-ding kickass prayer?”

  Barry put his hands on my shoulders. “Look how big he is now. Do you see this?”

  He tried to hug me but I took a step back.

  “Okay, all right,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

  I felt dazed, blinded by the stark afternoon light. I walked with them into the shade of the willow trees and out again.

  “Did you see little blondie in there, Elder Rivers?” Jeffrey said. “Perky little hooters! Yea, I sayeth unto you, behold!”

  Barry grabbed Jeffrey’s tie and gave it a yank as if it were the leash of a disobedient dog. “Would you keep your voice down? You’re high, aren’t you? I told you we have to watch it around here. They were looking at us funny in there. They were suspicious.”

  Jeffrey wrestled his tie from Barry’s grasp, situated it around his neck again. “I’m not high. Jesus! I’m merely relaxed. I had them eating out of my hand. Nobody suspected anything, nobody ever suspects anything. I am a man of God, a humble servant of the Word. You worry too much.”