Falling for Grace

by Robert Farrell Smith

  “It’s me, Dad,” I said.

  “Son, we feel . . . well, we’re encouraged by your change of heart. But we can’t pretend that we are delighted about your feelings for this person.”

  “Grace is her name,” I helped.

  “Son, I just don’t want to see you thumbing your nose at all the opportunities that lie ahead of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, hoping to end the conversation.

  “Son, this is an important time in your life. Our community won’t let you drift forever. People expect more from a Williams child.”

  “I’ll try not to let you down, Dad,” I rolled my eyes. “I promise to only drift a little.”

  “Good to hear, my boy, good to hear. Now here’s your mother.”

  I could hear my father whisper, “We’re reaching him,” to my mom as he handed her the phone.

  “He always did respect your opinion,” she whispered back as she took the phone from him.

  “Trust? Are you there?”

  I couldn’t imagine what my parents thought happened to people waiting on the phone over here.

  “I’m still here, Mom.”

  We talked for a few moments more, making arrangements and trying hard not to say things that might get someone upset. Sybil Porter tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that she needed to use the phone to place an order for makeup. Sybil had been working really hard on getting in touch with her femininity. She had spent her life under the many shadows of her older and manlier brothers. Recently she had moved in with Sister Watson, and Sister Watson was trying to turn her into the lady folks figured Sybil really wanted to be.

  Sybil tapped me a little harder.

  “I’d better go, Mom. But if someone could pick us up from the air . . .”

  Sybil pushed me and “Grrrrred.” I turned to look at her. She glared at me for a moment and then frowned as if she were remembering how to act.

  “Sorry,” she scowled. “It’s just that if I call in the next fifteen minutes I save twenty percent on all eye and lip liner.”

  “Mom, we’ve got an emergency here,” I said into the phone. “Grace and I will see you tomorrow. Bye.”

  I hung up the phone and moved aside so Sybil could use it. I walked out of the boardinghouse and down the porch. Grace was outside watching some of the local kids play on the rotting pioneer wagons in the meadow.

  She had her long red hair tied behind her neck. A couple thick strands hung in front of her face as she looked on. I watched her push them back behind her ear. She was more beautiful to me than a thousand wordy poets could ever describe, her presence a previously undiscovered chemical compound—one that supplied huge amounts of oxygen to my brain. I hoped that I was doing the right thing by taking her away from Thelma’s Way.

  Grace noticed me and smiled as I approached.

  We were going to Southdale.

  3

  Open Harms

  November 12th

  As our plane descended, I held Grace’s hand and watched Southdale grow big around us. Each foot we lowered left my insides feeling even more knotted. Like taffy in the hands of a nervous pessimist, I was being twisted and pulled. Bringing Grace back home was a big deal.

  From out of the plane window Southdale appeared brown and unspectacular. I could see the Dintmore Hills, and the Southdale River. The hills rippled across the landscape, flattening out a few miles away from the city and making the earth appear as if it were having a cellulite problem. The now shallow Southdale River slowly pushed through the middle of town, dividing the city. A recent drought had thinned the river out something terrible. From high above, it looked no wider than a road, but covered bridges spanned its water in stripes, and the new Wedge Freeway cut across it downtown, wide and topless. Southdale itself seemed to bleed even more in every direction than it had just a few months ago—homes and neighborhoods where once there was nothing. New malls and shopping centers were rising from the ground like blocky weeds.

  Southdale was supposedly named for Dale Wedge, a Scottish immigrant who helped settle what was then called Weaver’s Claim. According to legend, Dale had taken two bullets in the head while arguing with a cousin over water rights. Both bullets got lodged between his right ear and brain. Amazingly, they seemed to cause nothing but a few days of pain. Well, with little discomfort, and fantastic bragging rights, Dale decided to leave the bullets in his head. They didn’t seem to affect him mentally. (Of course, he was no cerebral wizard in the first place.) After the shooting, people noticed that Dale seemed to lean south just a bit. Some reasoned that it was due to the extra two ounces of silver embedded behind his ear. Others figured it was the magnetic pull of the earth on the metal. Of course, it could just have been that Dale’s right leg was shorter than his left. Whatever the reason, Dale leaned, and in doing so earned himself the nickname, “South Dale,” or so the story goes. Shortly after his mysterious death, the town voted to change its name from Weaver’s Claim to Southdale. Sure, there were still some who insisted the town got its name from the fact that it was one of the southernmost towns in the state. But those folks were labeled crackpots and invited to settle farther west.

  I liked Southdale—I always had. I liked the small hills that surrounded it. I liked the people and the pace. I liked the warm, mild, year-round weather. It was an almost perfect American city. Crime was low, wages were up, and a national magazine had just ranked it seventh in its “Great Places to Raise a Family” poll. I had to agree. True there were moments I had begun to wish that it was a little smaller or more green and hilly, but that was my only real complaint. And now with the addition of Grace, my city had everything. The fact that I felt this way made me wonder why I couldn’t relax.

  “Are you ready for all this?” I asked Grace as our plane approached the runway.

  “I hope so,” she answered softly, her green eyes taking in the big city below us. “This certainly isn’t Thelma’s Way, is it?”

  “You’ll do great,” I said, wanting to reassure her.

  “I think you have more to lose than me.”

  Grace was already coming around. She had been a mystery my entire mission, staying away from town, hidden from view. She had kept her distance, and in doing so, had laid claim to my heart. Now here she was, sitting next to me, about to meet my parents. I stared at her shamelessly for a few seconds.

  “What?” she asked self-consciously.

  Her white skin and red hair stood out against the horribly busy fabric that was covering the seats on the plane.

  “What is it, Trust?”

  Her long fingers closed as she pressed a hand to her chest.

  “Trust?”

  Her pink lips teased me.

  “What are you looking at?” She smiled.

  “Nothing,” I replied, wanting more than anything to make this work.

  My father, Roger, picked us up from the airport. He was all smiles. He shook both of our hands and asked Grace how she spelled her name. (He had read in one of his many business books that this gesture let people know you were truly interested in them.) He treated Grace as he would a client. He tried to be clever and funny in a sterile sort of way. It seemed more pathetic than personal. We took a detour on the drive home, stopping off at a nice restaurant for a light lunch and a heavy lecture. Once Grace and I were trapped in a booth, he started talking at us.

  My father was an interesting person. He was tall and fairly fit due to all the tennis he played. He had thick dark hair that he insisted wasn’t dyed. But by the end of each month Dad’s hair would fade, only to turn jet black a day or two later. He had become very successful in the last few years with his investment company. In the process, however, he had found that he no longer needed the gospel. Oh, he didn’t mind my mother taking us to church and participating, but he wanted no part of it. He had come to think that all religion was silly unless it could make you money. It was a humble outlook.

  Dad wasn’t really too involved with us kids anymore, either. In the la
st few years we had been mainly raised by our mother with Dad checking in on us mostly during Sunday dinners, and never in depth. I loved my father, but I longed for the father I remembered from my childhood.

  I wanted so badly to talk to him about my mission and what I had learned. I wanted him to tell me how much I had grown. But unless I could present it in a portfolio, with a spreadsheet showing my increased value during those two fiscal years, he just wouldn’t be interested anymore.

  At the restaurant, Dad went on and on about when he was a kid and all the wonderful things he did to make his parents proud. The entire conversation was peppered with innuendo showing his displeasure at Grace and me. He just couldn’t see how marrying a poor girl from Tennessee could benefit my future professional life. He told us about his courtship with my mother, and how things were so rosy due to their similar backgrounds. Then he told us a story about a Canadian boy who married a Hawaiian. “Ended in a bitter divorce,” he said dramatically. “Ruined both of their reputations.”

  I had warned Grace about my parents acting a little weird toward her. But now there was no denying it—they were hoping that Grace was a phase and not a destination.

  “Actually, Dad, Grace and I are just going to date. We only want to see if there is something between us.”

  Dad tried to smile. The waitress dropped off our food and we all started picking at our plates.

  “Grace, what does your father do?” my dad asked bluntly.

  “He works in Thelma’s Way.”

  “Doing?”

  “Dad,” I argued, knowing full well that he was aware of what Grace’s father did and did not do.

  “How about your mother?” my father asked while picking up his glass to take a drink.

  “She’s a seamstress,” Grace answered. “And she teaches school to my brother and sister at home.”

  Dad spit out what he was sipping. In the Franklin planner of life, homeschooling was a four-letter word. He could think of nothing more repressive or achievement-stunting than isolating a child in the home.

  “Homeschool?” Dad clarified.

  Grace nodded and took a bite of her sandwich while trying to look unaffected by my father’s arrogant attitude.

  Dad didn’t say another word the rest of the meal. When we were done he took us home and dropped us off, claiming he had somewhere else to be.

  Our home was located on the east side of Southdale in a nice neighborhood that lay low against the river. The houses in our area were big three- and four-floored models with large double-acre yards around them. In the summer the yards were lush and green, with lawns spilling about like dark green paint. At the moment, however, the scenery was bare, brown, and colored as if God owned nothing but rust-colored crayons. The homes had all been built a few years back, giving our neighborhood more character than any other spot in Southdale. I had loved growing up here.

  Mom greeted Grace on the front porch so she would be able to warn her about not wearing shoes in our home. She hugged Grace like she would a thorny cactus.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, dear,” she tried.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sister Williams,” Grace said graciously.

  “Call me Mrs. We’re not in church,” my mother said pettily.

  My fifteen-year-old sister Margaret told Grace she would be happy to help her with her hair, and my eleven- year-old brother Abel’s only words were, “She doesn’t look that weird.”

  All things considered, I thought things were going rather well.

  4

  Close Proximity

  November 13th

  Grace and I had thought long and hard about where would be the best place for her to stay while she was in Southdale. We both agreed that it wouldn’t be right to have her under the same roof with me. Her parents had offered to pay for an apartment, but there really weren’t any inexpensive ones in our part of town. So we decided to hit up my longtime neighbor, Wendy.

  Wendy was a widow, in the loosest sense of the word. There had been a man she met a few years ago on the bus. Henry, she thought his name was. He had said hello to her for two straight years, only to up and disappear on her a couple of years back. The bus driver claimed Henry had retired, but in Wendy’s mind, he was dead. She wore black for a month afterward, which made sense in a backward kind of way, not because she was mourning the loss of someone she had never had, but because black was slimming, and Wendy had put on a few pounds while grieving.

  Wendy had lived next to our family forever. She had inherited her home from her parents after they passed away. Her folks had also left her enough money that she would never have to worry about working. She didn’t worry. Not only did she not have any employment, she also didn’t bother to lift a finger around the house. Her place was a mess and her yard was the topic of many neighborhood association meetings.

  Wendy was heavyset and short. She had the driest eyes I had ever seen—her eyelids squealed every time she blinked. She kept her hair short and had a long nose that hung over her top lip. Wendy wasn’t a member of the Mormon Church, nor did she ever plan on being one. She claimed the doctrine was too restrictive. I couldn’t imagine what she thought our beliefs would keep her from. All she ever did besides ride the bus back and forth to her book club was stare out of her front window and make calls to the other neighbors whenever something or someone looked out of place.

  Well, Grace and I thought that since Wendy had the whole house to herself, maybe she wouldn’t mind having a little company. And surprisingly enough, Wendy liked the idea. So Abel, Grace, and I helped Wendy clean out one of the bedrooms on her top floor.

  Abel was big for an eleven-year-old. He was as tall as some of the priests in our ward, and would soon pass up those who were taller. He had the perfect little-brother personality—smart, funny, and always entertaining. He had changed from being a pain to being a peer within the two years I had been away. What impressed me most at the moment was how kind Abel was to Grace. Both he and Margaret seemed to be happy for us. It was nice to have my siblings on my side.

  We finished cleaning out the bedroom and then worked on the bathroom next to it. When that was done, we all stood around in Grace’s room acting as if we had accomplished something impressive, and wishing there were someone around to tell us so. The bedroom was big, with a large window that looked out and across the yards and down into my window.

  “You won’t mind me looking down at you?” Grace asked.

  “Thank goodness for curtains,” I joked.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Wendy said with a passion, creeping us all out.

  Saturday night as I lay in bed, I looked out my window toward Grace. The night air looked still and heavy. My window seemed to buckle under the weight of it. The light in Grace’s room went off, causing the silhouette of Wendy’s home to completely disappear.

  I searched for stars but found none.

  5

  Debating the Odds

  November 14th

  The moment we walked through the chapel doors the whispering began—like air leaking from obese tires, the hissing spit about. I watched Sister Fino almost throw her back out bending over the pew to blab something to Sister Johnson. Brother and Sister Treat held their hymnbooks in front of their faces to hide their gossiping lips, and Leonard Phillips actually pointed at us. I squeezed Grace’s hand. This was not going to be easy for her. And part of me was struggling with it too. These people were polished, refined to the point of bland. This, after all, was the ward that had spawned my once-girlfriend Lucy. I couldn’t help worrying people would look down at me because I was taken with Grace. Of course, I felt horribly guilty for even thinking such a thing.

  We walked down the aisle and took a seat next to Brother Leonard Vastly. He looked at us as if to say “Why me?”

  Sister Morris was pounding on the organ keys and spreading prelude music over the whispering Saints—her large fingers struck too many notes, as usual. I could see Sister O’Shawn six benches back, tell
ing her husband something with great animation. Then she shoved him up out of their pew and across the aisle toward Grace and me. The O’Shawns were the Thicktwig Ward irregulars. No matter how hard they tried they just didn’t seem to fit in. Brother O’Shawn worked for a computer company writing math software. He was tall, and walked with a sort of “I’ve not yet mastered gravity” swagger. He had extremely dark hair with a perfectly round bald spot, which from any distance greater than two feet away made it look as if he were wearing a flesh-colored yarmulke. He wore a cell phone clipped to his belt even during church. I suppose he was just being prepared in case someone needed some emergency math software. Sister O’Shawn was a homemaker, but admittedly, not a very good one. Her kids always wore pajamas to church, even when our schedule shifted to the 1:30 meeting cycle. She was constantly talking about how much laundry confused her. She dreamed of Southdale getting a temple so she could work in a laundry room where she wouldn’t have to worry about sorting whites from darks.

  Brother O’Shawn stuck out his arm to shake my hand.

  “Trust,” he said sweetly. “How nice to see you here. So, this must be the girl that we’ve heard so much about.”

  Grace took Brother O’Shawn’s hand and gave it a gentle shake.

  “Can she understand what we’re saying?” he asked me with his other hand to the side of his mouth.

  “I can understand you perfectly,” Grace answered for herself.

  “Wonderful,” Brother O’Shawn replied awkwardly. “Does everyone talk like you back home?” he asked, referring to Grace’s Tennessee accent. He spoke a little too loudly and a little too slowly, as if Grace were some rare native that didn’t have a clue.

  “Most people do,” she replied kindly.

  “Well, I’m sure it will wear off eventually,” he remarked, still too loud, reminding me of just how socially inept all those hours of designing software had made him. “So, are you just visiting?”