Falling for Grace

by Robert Farrell Smith

  He could afford to hang on a little longer.

  The locals had allowed him to use an upstairs room in the Thelma’s Way boardinghouse. It wasn’t too bad a setup from which to operate. He had drawn out maps and prioritized the people in town most likely to help him find the elusive first edition.

  Most everyone in the area believed the Book of Mormon was still around. Roswell Ford had informed him that the entire town was watching each other closely for clues. But President Heck thought maybe the heavens had taken it back, just like they did the golden plates.

  Roger was betting on Roswell’s theory.

  The search continued. Information wasn’t hard to extract because these people loved to talk. Plus, Roger had made it even easier for them to do so by tearing a small piece of paper up, writing the word “Press” on it, and sticking it in the brim of his hat on his way into town.

  Everyone bought it.

  Roger claimed he was a reporter from out west, one who was looking to chronicle the history of Thelma’s Way in a book. Not a single person in Thelma’s Way was shocked by this. Most folks wondered why it had taken the west so long to come around.

  He had made no mention of the connection between him and Trust. He didn’t want to complicate things by having people get sentimental and nostalgic on him. It was obvious, however, that Thelma’s Way loved his son. Roger found himself growing proud of the boy he had grown so distant from.

  “ . . . I think you should dedicate an entire chapter—no, section—to the pageant that I wrote and . . .” Sister Watson was blabbering.

  A sudden knock at the door silenced her for a moment.

  “Well, who in the . . .” Sister Watson mumbled as she got up, more than mildly bothered by the interruption.

  Sister Watson was decked out. She had on her nicest dress and her best-fitting wig. She was also wearing more makeup than a non-circus performer should be allowed to wear. Her attempts to impress Roger Williams were going unnoticed, however, and now someone had the gall to disturb their conversation.

  She stepped to the door and flung it open. Framed by the weather-worn doorjamb was Toby Carver, holding a plate of food and wiggling his neck to look around her into the house.

  “I’ve got company, Toby,” Sister Watson insisted.

  Toby ignored her by stepping inside. “Thought I might bring something by for Mr. Williams here,” he explained.

  Roger turned in his seat to face him.

  “We’ve plenty of food,” Sister Watson scolded.

  “Well, I also just thought of something that might interest Mr. Williams.”

  “What is it?” Roger asked, setting his fork down.

  “Well, you was asking ’bout that Book of Mormon, and where to find it.”

  “Yes,” Roger said with excitement. “Did you find it?”

  “Sort of,” Toby bragged.

  “Sort of?” Roger demanded.

  “Well, not that exact one, but I went down to the church in Virgil’s Find and borrowed one of their extra copies for you. Them’s the same words inside.”

  Toby Carver handed an inexpensive blue-covered Book of Mormon over to Roger.

  “I marked a couple of my favorite parts for you,” Toby said proudly.

  Roger forced a smile. It took everything he had inside not blow up in Toby’s face. The last thing he needed was a worthless modern copy of the Book of Mormon. These people were impossible.

  “Thanks,” he managed to say. “But it would really make my history of your town complete if I could see, or maybe take a picture of, the real first edition.”

  “It’s lost,” Toby informed him.

  “I know that,” Roger said, frustrated. “But I’m sure someone could find it.”

  “Yes, Toby,” Sister Watson said. “Why don’t you go look for it and leave Mr. Williams and me alone.”

  “If I found it, could I hold it up for the picture?” Toby asked.

  “Of course,” Roger brightened. “In fact, you tell everyone that whoever finds it, I’ll put their picture on the front of the book.”

  “The front?” Toby asked reverently.

  “The front,” Roger punctuated.

  Toby Carver smiled, slowly took two steps backwards, and raced off.

  “That book will turn up now, sure as rain,” Sister Watson said. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t trade a dusty old book for the chance to be on the cover of a new one?”

  Roger Williams smiled. Things were looking up.

  14

  Dizzy

  November 26th

  The next morning the doctor informed me that I should be able to go home within 24 hours. I was ecstatic. I had been a little concerned about the whole Doran-and-Grace thing. Not that I thought she would actually leave me for him, not that he was a real threat, but it just made me nervous to have a gung-ho returned missionary spending all his time in pursuit of my girlfriend while I was chained to an IV.

  Grace dropped by Friday afternoon after work. She sat on the edge of the bed and read to me from the newspaper for a while. It was one of the nicest moments of my life. Then she proceeded to bring me up to speed on the ward’s current events.

  Noah was continuing to drum up sales for his food storage time-share, and Grace was beginning to speak about him in far too glowing terms. Apparently everyone was really happy he was around. Everyone except Leonard Vastly, that is. Two weeks ago, Leonard Vastly had been singing Noah Taylor’s praises—not anymore. Word on the ward was that Brother Vastly was beginning to feel Noah Taylor was encroaching on his status as the number one hoarder in Southdale. Brother Vastly did not like that. He had worked long and hard to be known as “That crazy man with all the food.” Too hard to let some yahoo from southern Utah with a fancy warehouse come in and bump him from power. So, in an effort to one-up his new rival, Brother Vastly had completely sealed off his single-wide trailer with heavy clear plastic tarps and duct tape, vowing not to come out until the first phase of his food storage ran out. After a couple of hours, he had been forced to cut an air hole, but aside from that minor glitch he had completely cut himself off from the world. He called it his “Bio-Doom.” He was funding his little project by collecting his retirement ten years early. He hated to give up his livelihood, but some things were worth it—this was for the betterment of society. Grace told me he kept the curtains on his bay window open so that scientists and interested civilians could study and watch him in this great endeavor of self-reliance. No one had complained about him taping up his house, but a couple of his neighbors protested the open-curtain policy. Now, by order of the mayor, his curtains were to remain closed after six in the evening. No one wanted to know that much about him. Brother Vastly communicated to the outside world via ham radio and hand signals.

  “Won’t come out at all?” I asked in amazement.

  “That’s what he signaled,” Grace replied.

  Grace told me all about the missionaries who had come over to practice their discussions on her. According to her, my mother could not have been more obvious about her intentions if she had tried. She had played soft music on the home stereo and served hot cocoa with chocolate mints while they taught Grace the discussion. Elder Nicks and Elder Minert were a little embarrassed, but they had been good sports.

  “So, I guess they won’t be coming back?” I asked.

  “Actually,” Grace said, “I was hoping I could hear the rest of the lessons. With you by my side, of course. I don’t know if Thelma’s Way really afforded me the chance to learn much about the Church.”

  “How about if I teach them to you myself,” I offered.

  “You’d get too distracted,” she smiled.

  “Hmmm,” I mused, staring at her.

  Grace stood up, signaling that it was time for her to go.

  “How are you getting home?” I questioned.

  “The bus.”

  “So did Doran tell you?” I asked.

  “About being in love with me?” She smiled.

  I
nodded.

  “Not in so many words, but this morning at six o’clock he was outside my window singing.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No,” Grace laughed. “Wendy threw one of her cats at him. He got pretty scratched up. Then when he drove me to work, he kept playing country slow songs and looking over at me. I thought maybe it would be best if I learned how to use the bus system.”

  “Sorry about him,” I apologized.

  “He’s harmless enough,” Grace brushed it off. “He kind of reminds me of Leo back home.”

  I hadn’t thought about it, but Doran and Leo Tip did have a lot in common.

  “You just have this effect on men,” I smiled.

  “Boys,” Grace joked while leaning over to kiss me.

  She kissed me longer than usual. I’m sure I would have resisted, but I was a helpless patient strapped to a hospital bed.

  Saturday morning I was released from the hospital. For insurance purposes, I had to ride in a wheelchair to the front door where the nurse then dumped me out and wished me well.

  My mom and Grace had come to pick me up. Grace helped me into the car as if I were an invalid grandfather.

  “I’m really okay,” I insisted.

  “Let me help,” she said, slipping her arms around me.

  I obliged. I was happy to be going home.

  15

  Signs o’ Stress

  That night, before bed, I sat in the kitchen watching my mother reiron my father’s shirts. She carefully went over each one. She would take one from its hanger, lay it across the ironing board, and press down on it as hard as she possibly could.

  “They get wrinkly just from hanging,” she fussed.

  “Mom, are you going to be all right?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “Happy as a . . . happy as a clam.”

  “No news from Dad?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll call when he gets a chance.” She pressed so hard with the iron that I thought she would rip the shirt. “You know how busy he gets.”

  “Busy doing what?”

  “Business stuff.”

  “Where?”

  “Honestly, Trust, what’s with all the questions?”

  “I just think it’s weird that Dad’s been away for so long. He missed Margaret’s recital, and Abel’s play, and Thanksgiving.”

  “He was there in spirit,” Mom pointed out. “Besides, if I recall correctly, a certain someone else missed those things as well.”

  “I was in the hospital,” I defended.

  “And your father is on business.”

  “Mom, who are you trying to protect?” I argued.

  She set the iron down and steam hissed out angrily. “Trust, there are things about marriage you can’t yet understand,” she said harshly.

  “I’m not fifteen,” I pointed out.

  “You just don’t understand how your father and I operate.”

  “So tell me.”

  “This isn’t the time, Trust.”

  “You know, I can remember a time when you and Dad were different,” I told her.

  “I’m ironing,” my mother said, as if she were eating a good meal and I had just begun to talk about some graphic surgery.

  “I really thought Dad would come around while I was serving my mission,” I said reflectively. “Do you know that he only wrote me four letters the entire time?”

  “He works very hard to keep this family comfortable,” she defended.

  “You don’t look so comfortable,” I observed.

  “Trust!” she said, slamming down the iron. “I don’t appreciate you talking to me like this.”

  “I just meant that with all the things you and Dad can afford, our family still seems lacking.”

  It was no use. I had lost her. Mom had slipped into her “I’m not going to talk about anything emotional” mode.

  “So how is Grace liking the missionary lessons?” she asked.

  “Actually,” I sighed, “I wanted to talk to you about that too.”

  “Abel’s getting tall, isn’t he?” she said, blatantly changing the subject again and focusing only on the shirt in front of her.

  I stood up, kissed my mother on the cheek, and went to bed.

  16

  The Problem with Widowers

  November 28th

  Sunday morning we all rode together in my mother’s van to church. Grace had even talked Wendy into coming with us. She and Wendy had really gotten along well, despite their age difference. I think Grace was happy to have a woman to talk to, and Wendy was thrilled to have anyone to talk to. The only other time Wendy had ever come to church with us was for my mission farewell over two and a half years ago. I had forgotten what she looked like in a dress. Common courtesy prevented me from laughing.

  When we pulled up to the building, the parking lot was already full. Cars and minivans covered the ground like bulky sequins on a black rug. As we were walking into the building it became obvious that folks no longer feared or felt bad about Grace. Everyone would greet my mother, comment about my half-shaved head, and then trip over themselves to say hi to Grace. I couldn’t believe it.

  “What did you do to these people?” I asked Grace quietly.

  “They just feel sorry for me,” she brushed it off.

  Wendy didn’t really want to go into the chapel, so she decided to stay out in the foyer and sit on the soft, boxy couches. When I told her that the foyer was sort of reserved for parents with fussy children, she told me she loved kids. When I reminded her that she really didn’t like children, she told me that her opinion of children had changed ever since she saw that one movie about that one kid that saved that whale. I decided not to reason with her any further.

  Grace and I entered the chapel and picked out a private pew on the side. It would have been a nice place to observe the meeting, but Sister Cravitz walked over and insisted that we join her.

  Sister Cravitz was the Thicktwig Ward’s unofficial mother. She watched over and kept track of every part and person within our fold. She felt most comfortable with her big nose wedged forcefully into everyone’s business. She wasn’t a pretty woman, but she wouldn’t have made a completely ugly man. She styled her hair in a tight bun that was flat and perfectly round. She wore huge orthopedic shoes and the same skirt every week, alternating it with her rose-colored blouse that matched, and her orange- colored one that didn’t. Sister Cravitz had celebrated her sixty-ninth birthday about a month ago. She had no kids, and her husband was buried in the Southdale Memorial Park right next to the maintenance shed. Although Sister Cravitz made it her business to be involved in others’ lives, it was generally understood that she didn’t like people.

  Now here she was, doing an uncharacteristic thing like inviting Grace and me to sit next to her during church. I was shocked. Two weeks ago she had acted as if Grace were a virus sent to infect us, and now she was letting her sit closer to her than she had usually allowed her husband to sit. It must have been because she felt pity for me and my recent accident.

  It’s fun to pretend.

  I knew full well it had everything to do with Grace. I was amazed. It had taken me almost the entire two years of my mission to recognize the effect Grace had on me, and here she had been in Southdale for only a few weeks and people were already falling all over themselves to get to know her. After we were seated, Sister Cravitz pulled out her change purse that was filled with white Tic-Tacs, and offered us some. I took only one, not wanting to appear greedy. Once again I was astounded—Sister Cravitz didn’t share her Tic-Tacs with just anyone. The only time I could even remember her doing so was when she had been forced to sit by Brother Vastly in Sunday School during one of his garlic health blitzes. Of course she didn’t actually give him Tic-Tacs—she threw them at him.

  Sister Cravitz took a Tic-Tac for herself and then snapped the clip shut on her coin purse. She sucked the marrow out of the mint, and then turned toward Grace.

  “I hear you’re doing w
onders for Brother Taylor,” she said. “I’m not quick to hand out compliments, but I’m usually first to say ‘job well done’ when the task at hand is accomplished properly.”

  “Thank you,” Grace said.

  “Being prepared is a mighty task,” Sister Cravitz lectured. “A mighty task indeed. This city has got a real leg up on adversity thanks to Noah Taylor. What are you most frightened of, dear? Drought, or fire?”

  “Both,” Grace answered politically.

  “How about you, Trust? What do you fear most?”

  I paused for a moment to give the appearance of contemplation.

  “No need to answer,” she insisted. “I can read your mind.”

  I was just about to apologize for what I was thinking when she guessed . . .

  “Fire.”

  “You’re right.” I played along.

  Sister Cravitz smiled and pulled out her coin purse again. Suddenly we were her best friends.

  Sister Morris began to wrap up the prelude music and Bishop Leen stepped up to the pulpit. He ran his light fingers through his faded hair and pushed his skin-colored lips to the microphone.

  I looked at my program to see how the meeting would run today. There was one youth speaker, Jeffy Smith; a musical number by the Rose kids; and a nonyouth speaker, Noah Taylor. I looked up at the stage to see if I could spot Grace’s employer, but from our position, I couldn’t see anyone sitting on the other side of the pulpit. I wanted to meet Brother Taylor and thank him for everything he had done for Grace. I still wasn’t convinced he was as honest as everyone said he was, but the positive effects he had had on my girlfriend were worth setting aside any personal misgivings.

  Doran came in the far doors and sat down across the room from us. Coming in five minutes late had allowed him to make something of a dramatic entrance. He was still pursuing Grace. It was as if the heavens had commanded him to persevere. He was that committed. The fact that Grace had made her feelings for me clear made no difference to him. In Thelma’s Way, with him as my junior companion, I had been so happy about the strength of his will. Now it was beginning to make me uncomfortable. Doran had moved into a small apartment across town and sent Grace a copy of his personal mission statement. I couldn’t remember the whole thing, but a couple of lines still stood stiffly in my mind.