Falling for Grace

by Robert Farrell Smith

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that before,” Ed said excitedly. “Toby, does Wad still have that big piece of pressed wood?”

  “Of course,” Toby answered as if it were ridiculous to think of someone ever giving up such a thing as a large piece of pressed wood.

  “You got them big bricks still?” Ed asked Pete.

  “They’re over behind the boardinghouse,” Pete reported.

  “Good.”

  “What’s the plan, Ed?” Roger asked.

  “You’re all gonna feel real silly that you didn’t think of it first.”

  “Spit it out,” Roswell demanded.

  “I’m going to jump the river,” Ed beamed. “We’ll build a little ramp, and then I’ll sail over to the other side.”

  Everyone oohhed and ahhed, embarrassed that they themselves hadn’t thought up such a solution. Everyone except Roger Williams.

  “Ed, you can’t jump the river,” Roger said. “That’s no different then just riding across it. It’s impossible.”

  “This is a time for support, not mutiny,” Roswell scolded.

  “Think about it, Ed,” Roger pleaded. “This motorcycle can’t go over ten miles an hour. And even if it could go a hundred, that still wouldn’t be fast enough to fling it across the Girth.”

  “We’ll see,” Ed insisted.

  “Yeah.” Roswell slapped Ed on the back. “We’ll see.”

  “Say something, Toby,” Roger begged, knowing Toby was a tad more levelheaded than the others.

  “I’ll spread the word,” Toby said. “I bet we could get a right nice crowd to witness this.”

  “D’you think?” Ed smiled excitedly.

  “You’d better bring your bandage,” Roger said, disgusted, referring to the Ace bandage that Toby doctored the entire town with.

  “Oh, you of tiny faith,” Toby commented as he ran off to alert everyone about today’s spur-of-the-moment festivities.

  Within half an hour, most of Thelma’s Way had gathered down by the river. Pete and Wad dragged out his big flat board and Digby, with the help of his little sister Narlette and sturdy Sybil Porter, brought out a few big cinder blocks. Then they constructed a makeshift ramp and aimed it toward the river. Roger Williams had thought about just leaving town. Getting out while the getting was good. But he felt compelled to stick around and witness the outcome of this manmade tragedy.

  To make things even more spectacular, Ed tied several pieces of long rope to the back of his bike. He figured once he was airborne and flying across the river, the ropes would flap around in the wind creating a visual wonder like few in these parts had seen before. Folks lined both sides of the path leading up to the ramp. Toby tried to get everyone to hold hands and form a sort of course-marking fence, but Roswell refused to hold hands with Jerry Scotch, claiming that Jerry had never really cleaned up since the taffy pull the town had put on a week back. And Sister Watson was not about to give widowed Frank Porter any ideas by putting her mitt in his. So no one held hands, except for Leo and CleeDee, Wad and Miss Flitrey, and Philip Green, who held his own—but that was mainly to hide the extra finger on his right hand that he had only recently become ashamed of. It’s funny how something can be neat at age seven and awkward at age sixteen. Paul Leeper was on hand, taking lots of pictures so he would have proof of this occasion when and if people ever doubted it.

  Ed revved up his engine and rode over toward the boardinghouse so as to be able to get the necessary speed required to help him make it across. Everyone watched Ed work up the nerve to make the run. He drove in a few circles near the boardinghouse. He waved at all those standing near the river and across the meadow. Then he faced his motorcycle toward the ramp and gunned it. The bike took off from underneath him, went a couple of yards by itself, and then fell to the ground. Ed picked himself up and ran over to it. He waved to everyone to indicate that he was all right. Everyone waved back.

  Roger Williams was sick in the stomach.

  Roger figured there was no way Ed could come out of this unscathed. He hadn’t even gotten near the ramp and already he had fallen over. Ed got back on the bike and started it up again.

  This was it.

  The rusted old motorcycle choked and coughed as it tried desperately to get above ten miles an hour. The crowd held its breath as Ed closed in on the ramp. When he finally got there, the motorcycle barely made it up the incline. It reached the top and sort of rolled over on its side, flinging Ed onto the river bank. Well, not actually flinging him, but it was far fancier than saying he rolled limply off of the bike and landed in a goofy-looking heap in the mud. The motorcycle itself splashed in the water near the shore. Everyone just stood there speechless. Ed floundered around on the banks of the river, moaning and flapping like a sea lion who had just been harpooned in the ego.

  Everybody ran to Ed’s aid. All the fuss really wasn’t necessary, seeing how Ed had sustained no more than a couple little scratches and bruises. Roger Williams stepped back from the crowd to watch. Toby and President Heck disassembled the ramp and carried the large flat board over to Ed. They laid it down by him and rolled him onto it. A number of men and boys grabbed hold of the edges and lifted him up, carrying him about like an open-faced sandwich. The entire crowd marched off toward the boardinghouse. Roger just stood there staring at the motorcycle that was still lying in the water. Young Narlette Heck was the only soul around. She wandered up to Roger.

  “Ed’s not real smart,” she commented.

  Roger just smiled. Two weeks ago, this girl had been a bothersome pest. Now, however, he found her almost endearing. Although she was at least five years younger than Roger’s daughter Margaret, he saw a lot of similarities.

  Roger needed to get home. It had been too long.

  “The motorcycle’s slipping,” Narlette said, pointing to the bike that was now beginning to be tugged by the current.

  Roger looked around him, wishing for someone he could send to grab it. Not a soul was in sight. Everyone was inside the boardinghouse by now helping Ed dress wounds that didn’t need dressing. Without a word, Narlette ran to the bank and tried taking hold of one of the ropes that was tied to the back of the bike. It was no use, she wasn’t strong enough, and the motorcycle kept sliding forward.

  “Help,” Narlette struggled. “It’s slipping.”

  “Just let go,” Roger hollered.

  “Ed needs it for school,” Narlette yelled.

  Roger shrugged in frustration. He ran to help. The motorbike seemed to be floating—the large foam seat and gas tank seemed to make it more buoyant than anyone could have predicted—but it was being dragged in the current at a pretty good clip now. Roger couldn’t help thinking as he got his shoes wet that this whole day could have been salvaged if Ed had only known of the floatability of his bike.

  The rope began to whiz through Narlette’s small hands, burning her palms and bringing tears to her eyes. Roger stomped into the water, grasping for the back wheel. The rubber slipped from his grip. He stumbled, pushing the bike farther into the river. Narlette gave up and let go. Roger would have done the same. He could, after all, easily afford to buy Ed another motorcycle. Unfortunately, his leg had become tangled in the dangling ropes. He stood up and tried to brace himself, hoping he had the strength to hold the thing still.

  He didn’t.

  The weight of the bike pulled him over as it continued its rush downriver. He could feel his wet clothes growing heavy. He thrashed at his jacket, fighting to rip it off.

  “Narlette,” Roger yelled, again losing his footing. “Narlette!”

  The motorcycle caught in the fast-moving belly of the river. It whipped and turned, picking up its already speedy pace. Once again Roger was pulled under.

  “Mr. Williams!” Narlette screamed. “Mr. Williams!”

  Narlette took off running toward the boardinghouse. Her feet scraped loudly against the December ground. When she reached the others, it took almost a whole minute for her to catch her breath and get the words out.


  Roger Williams was in trouble.

  28

  Teach Ye Adequately

  December 5th

  Sunday morning I received a call from Brother Morose, the Thicktwig Ward Sunday School president. He solemnly explained that Sister Winters was under the weather. He then told me that I would be teaching gospel doctrine today. I felt like I needed to say thanks for being picked.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m hesitant to ask you,” Brother Morose whispered. “What with all the talk of you and your bad decision this last Wednesday.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Noah Taylor is a respected visitor.”

  “Noah Taylor is a—”

  “Respected visitor,” he reiterated. “And you, Brother Williams, seem to have let your emotions get the best of you. But that’s neither here nor there. Today is Sunday, and I’m giving you an opportunity to redeem yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  “The lesson is on Alma, chapter 32.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s largely about faith. And seeds.”

  “I’m familiar with the chapter.”

  “A few lessons back the topic was repentance,” he snipped. “Pity you couldn’t have taught that one.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Good-bye, Brother Williams.”

  Click.

  The last couple of days had not been my finest. When I returned home from Leonard Vastly’s on Thursday morning, I found my mother crying at the kitchen table. She was not expecting me and was very embarrassed to be caught knee-deep in actual emotion. When I asked her what she was upset about she refused to answer me. When I asked her if it was concern for my father that was making her cry, she just hollered at me and warned me about prying into other people’s business.

  Mom was worried about Dad.

  It really was no great surprise. We were all pretty concerned about where Dad had gone and when he would come back. It had been well over a week since he had last called. Mom was beginning to fear abandonment. It was no secret that my parents’ relationship had not been one of marital bliss these last five or six years. They had begun drifting apart when my father threw himself into building up his tiny empire. Consequently, many important parts of our family had grown soggy in the wake of his neglect. But for him to simply walk out on us seemed unbelievable. And the thought of him just walking out on his business and all he had created seemed absolutely unfathomable.

  Grace and I had not had much of a chance to talk about what had happened between her and me. I had tried to get her to go out with me on Friday night, but she kindly brushed me off, claiming she had volunteered to help Sister Barns collect food donations for the auction. When I told her I would be happy to come along and help, Grace told me that Sister Barns had specifically requested that I not come.

  So I asked Grace out for Saturday night. She said she would like to, but that the missionaries were coming over to Wendy’s to teach her the third discussion. When I asked her if I could join her, Grace explained that the elders were frightened of me, and that it would probably be best if she did this alone.

  We were losing big chunks of ground. Our once full relationship was thinning, making what we had feel bald and barren. Alopecia of the heart. I didn’t know quite what to do. I had called Wendy and asked her if she could please let Grace know how sorry I was about hitting Noah, and asked if there was any way I could make it up to her. Wendy answered by listing all the things that Noah Taylor did better than I.

  It was an embarrassingly long list.

  “But I grew up with you, Wendy,” I argued.

  “Maybe we’ve grown too familiar.”

  “Wendy, what are you saying?”

  “It’s over, Trust.”

  “What’s over?”

  “I don’t know,” Wendy admitted. “I’ve just wanted to say that for a long time and I’ve never had the chance.”

  Doran was continuing to pursue Grace. He had gone to a recording studio downtown and made a tape of himself singing a song he had written for her. It was called “Amazing Grace.” He parked his truck outside of Wendy’s home and blasted it on his truck’s beefed-up stereo system. His voice wasn’t as bad as his song-writing abilities:

  Amazing Grace how fine your face,

  How nice your body too.

  I think it’s time you changed your mind

  Give that other guy the boot,

  Give that other guy the boooooooooot.

  Dooodoodoo, ooohwaahhwahhhdiddy.

  Etc. etc.

  Things were just getting more and more confusing. So Saturday afternoon, I bought Grace a card and made Abel deliver it to her. It was one of those cards that guys only buy when they know they’re in trouble. There was an angel on the front with a poem underneath. On the inside, there was a broken heart with a big bandage on it. Like I said, under normal circumstances I would have gone with something a little more classy, a little less desperate.

  With Abel reporting back that the card had been successfully delivered, I spent Saturday evening with my sister Margaret, shopping for sweaters at the Gap. I wasn’t willing to admit defeat just yet.

  Margaret and I returned home from the mall to find a note from Noah taped to the front door. He was basically apologizing for having done anything to offend me and pleading for my forgiveness. This guy was unbelievable. He didn’t flinch. For days I had felt nothing but rage and disgust for the man; now I found myself actually wondering if I could have somehow misunderstood him. I replayed our conversation in my head, finding nothing open to any other interpretation but that he was a jerk in nice guy’s clothing.

  I wanted desperately to talk to someone about everything going on in my life, but my only real confidant at the moment was Leonard Vastly. And even though I was beginning to sort of like the guy, I wasn’t about to start sharing secrets with him. Besides, the only way I had to talk to him was by visiting his garlic-scented doom dome. I considered calling President Heck in Thelma’s Way. Chances were he was hanging around the boardinghouse and I’d be able to catch him. But President Heck was not only a friend, but he was also the father of the girl that I was currently stewing about.

  Saturday night I went to bed feeling more lonely than I had felt in a long while. I stared at the ceiling for hours, running all the things that were bothering me back and forth across my mind. I eventually fell asleep in uncertainty.

  After I got off the phone Sunday morning with Brother Morose, I put on my new sweater and yelled down the hall for Margaret and Abel to hurry up. Church started in half an hour, and I didn’t want to be walking down the aisle late. I was already feeling conspicuous enough in my new outfit. I didn’t want to give anybody anything extra like arriving late to use against me. When I got downstairs, my mother informed me that she wouldn’t be going to church.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked her.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, looking at me. “I just don’t feel up to going. And your sweater doesn’t match your tie.”

  I left that discussion right there.

  Grace knocked on the back door and Margaret let her in.

  She looked as beautiful as usual—her hair full and loose, her green eyes not letting on to the fact that she knew just how pleased I was to see her. I stared at her, taking in all the subtle changes she had undergone since being here. It wasn’t that she was fading into someone else, or that she was shedding her old self to take on the new. Who she was and had always been was just getting more polished in Southdale. As if Southdale were toothpaste with whitening agents. She had moved up at least seven shades, currently residing at a brilliance two notches above blinding. The only real tainting she had sustained was her willingness to take Noah’s side over mine. But with the things I had done, I couldn’t completely blame her.

  Grace took my hand.

  “Thanks for the card,” she said.

  Who can resist a bandaged heart?

  “You’re welcome,”
I said humbly.

  We got into my mother’s car and drove over to the chapel. It was a wonderfully nice day for December. The sun was out, and on the ride over, I spotted at least three pedestrians brave enough to sport shorts on a warm winter morning. The sky was clear above Southdale, making the world seem that much wider and that much warmer. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious about my sweater.

  I watched a small plane streak across the blue, two thin trails of smoke behind it. From down below, it gave the illusion of being the toggle on a smoky sky zipper.

  The church parking lot was about two-thirds full when we arrived. Everyone was walking in past Bishop Leen, who was out front with a couple of deacons trying to extract a kite that had become tangled up in our steeple over the weekend. They were having very little luck.

  Before we reached the building doors, Sister Cravitz stopped us and asked if she could talk to me alone. Grace went in with Abel and Margaret to save us seats.

  “What can I help you with?” I asked as we stood outside.

  “Your hair’s getting better,” she observed.

  “Thanks. Did you need something?”

  “Well, I’m aware of how things are going with you and Grace, and I’m afraid I took a little liberty,” she said, as if she had just swiped a hotel towel or taken a salt shaker from some restaurant.

  “Do you want me to help you put it back?” I asked, trying lamely for humor.

  Sister Cravitz just scowled. I mean that as a statement of fact like “grass is green” or “the sky is blue.” Sister Cravitz’s face only had one gear. She never smiled, she just scowled.

  “Trust,” she said. “I’m doing you a favor.”

  Warning bells began to ring. The last time Sister Cravitz had done me a favor I had found myself signed up and committed to teaching orphans how to make piñatas at the Southdale orphanage.

  “I have a niece,” she continued.

  “Sister—”

  “Hear me out,” she said, holding her wrinkly palms up at me and flashing the deep, long life-lines that she was always bragging about. “Cindy, that’s her name, Cindy Finders. She’s a relative on my side. Doesn’t have the Cravitz name, but she has a nice share of the Cravitz’s levelheadedness. She’s also served a mission in Spain. Speaks pretty Spanish though I can’t understand a word of it.”