All Is Swell

by Robert Farrell Smith

  An older lady I didn’t yet know raised her hand.

  “Yes, Teddy,” Sister Watson pointed.

  “Will there be food?”

  “Lots of it. This is going to be the celebration to end all celebrations. Plus we’re going to open ourselves up to the world. All the surrounding towns will be invited, as well as anyone else who would like to come. This will put us on the map.”

  Pete Kennedy shot his gun off again.

  BOOOM!

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Roswell raised his hand and asked, “Do you have to be an active Mormon to participate?”

  “No,” Sister Watson answered. “The only requirement is that you have Thelma’s Way blood coursing through your veins.”

  Everyone looked at their arms.

  Brother Heck stepped up. “I’d like to say just a couple things, if’n that’s all right.”

  Sister Watson nodded.

  “Now, I never been a fancy word user. In fact, me and English just ain’t real cozy. But I don’t want some of you thinking that this is just another one of Sister Watson’s silly plays. This is a pageant extra-ganza. And just ’cause it’s got a three-dollar word like sesquicentennial in front of it, is no reason to not take it seriously. That’s why we voted to start preparing so soon. We want every stranger that comes to the celebration in two years to walk away with a dazed look on their face.”

  “Thank you, Brother Heck,” Sister Watson said. Brother Heck stepped down. “Now, we here in attendance are the fortunate few. We’re getting in on the ground floor of this. As the day gets closer, more and more people are going to want to get involved, and—”

  BOOOM!

  “We’re on the ground floor!”

  Everyone looked at Pete. Sister Watson held her startled hand to her heart.

  “Anyhow,” she continued, “as the time gets nearer there will be more and more to do. I hope I can count on all of you to do your part and then some. I promise you that if you do, this will be a pageant the people will never forget.”

  Everyone nodded, congratulating each other for getting in on the ground floor. I think I was the only one who was nervous. Thankfully, it was none of my business. Some other unfortunate missionary would have to deal with it twenty months from now.

  I was deluded.

  8

  It’s a Small Ward after Paul

  Week Four

  I had been told by President Clasp that the Thelma’s Way Ward was small, despite the fact that virtually everyone in the surrounding area was Mormon.

  President Clasp had lied. Small is measurable. The ward consisted of Bishop Watson and his wife; the Heck family—Brother and Sister Heck, Narlette, and her older brother, Digby; Sister Teddy Yetch, an older woman who lived across the Girth River; Miss Flitrey, the grade-school teacher; Feeble Ford; and us.

  “It’s a small ward after Paul,” Elder Boone sang as I sat there looking at our tiny congregation.

  Paul Leeper was the infamous, dishonest, local apostate. Heavy on the local, heavy on the apostate. I had been briefed on him by my companion.

  Six months ago Paul had won a free trip to Rome from the Savin’ Town grocery store over in Virgil’s Find. Paul was shopping for anti-lice medicine and ended up being the one-millionth customer, thus procuring himself a clean scalp, a one-week, all-expenses-paid trip to Rome, and a lifetime 20 percent discount on all nonsale items at Savin’ Town.

  Rome wasn’t ready for Paul.

  Paul spent the first half of the week there perpetuating every ugly-American stereotype the Romans had ever had of us. He demanded that his waiters and servers speak English. He took pictures in places that were off-limits, and when people tried to stop him, he screamed about his rights under the U.S. Constitution. He talked loudly, walked loudly, and made fun of everything from their dilapidated coliseum to the stupid-looking currency the Romans used.

  To make matters even worse, Paul had somehow confused Rome with Ancient Egypt. He became enraged when one of the local taxi drivers refused to take him to see the pyramids. Paul called the driver a couple of America’s choicest words. In turn the driver ran over his foot, breaking all five of his toes and ruining his best pair of travel shoes.

  While getting his foot worked on by one of the Roman doctors, Paul overheard someone talking about the finger of Thomas. Apparently the Vatican had the finger of Thomas the Apostle on display in its museum: the very finger that had once touched the Master after Thomas had refused to believe.

  Well, Paul had his doubts. But he hobbled to the Vatican to see this finger for himself. There with his own two eyes he saw it, encased in glass and pointing toward him. It was an epiphany for Paul. It was a miracle, a life-changing event. Actually, it didn’t really change him all that much, but it did afford him a whole new level of self-righteousness. He had seen the finger.

  Paul was touched, and not like usual.

  He was mugged by a couple of rough men on his way back from the Vatican. They took all his money and kicked him a few times. Paul saw this as a sign that Satan was personally trying to prevent him from making it back to Thelma’s Way where he could testify that he had seen the finger of Thomas.

  Penniless and stuck in Rome, Paul went to the American Embassy and demanded that he be given a few dollars for souvenirs and meals, seeing how he was a red-blooded American and all. The Embassy didn’t give him any pocket change, but they did help him get an earlier return flight home.

  Paul returned home to Thelma’s Way two days sooner than he had planned and with an attitude that he was now better and more righteous than anyone there. Yes, he had stood next to the finger that had once touched the Master, and this, in Paul’s mind, made him as important as any biblical figure, except maybe Moses or Abraham or that one guy who was in the fish.

  The first thing Paul did was return to Savin’ Town, the grocery store that had given him the trip, and demand some compensation for the two days of Rome he was forced to give up. Well, not only did the store refuse, they informed Paul that they had miscounted and he was not really their one-millionth customer. Their accountant, who was really the owner’s nephew, had been off by a couple hundred thousand. Savin’ Town revoked Paul’s 20 percent discount and threw him out the door. Paul stood in the parking lot and prophesied that Savin’ Town would rue the day they had tossed out the self-made apostle. Three days later the Savin’ Town dumpster caught fire, causing the store to close for four hours.

  Coincidence?

  Paul thought not.

  In his mind, this proved he was a full-fledged prophet. He left the LDS church to strike it out on his own. The only thing he needed was a congregation. Sadly, he found one in the Mormons. He led almost all of the members away from the Church. In the past Paul had been known as a chronic liar. One of his most famous lies was that he was actually the top-secret fourth Nephite not mentioned in the Book of Mormon. There was also his claim that as a youth he had spent two summers harvesting cookies at the Pepperidge Farm. But unlike before, this time Paul had proof of his brush with greatness. You see, he had brought back a postcard of the finger of Thomas, a relic of his own. He used it as token of his authority and his Savin’ Town prophecy as the proof of his power.

  The members flocked.

  The People of Paul began to construct a small chapel on the other side of the river. They organized a choir, bought a bell, and watched their congregation grow as the gullible locals and their fascination with the parable of the finger drove them from the ward. The heavens appeared to have smiled on the People of Paul. But fate served up the final snicker.

  Before the big desertion, the Thelma’s Way Ward was doing pretty well. It was good sized and relatively normal, despite its relatively abnormal members. Bishop Clem Watson and his counselors, Feeble Ford and Toby Carver, were moving the work along at a perfect pace for the area. Then along came Paul, and the ward fractured like clay pigeons in the sight of God.

  Bishop Watson tried desperately to keep his ward together.
He pleaded with the members to pray and stay focused, but they seemed to like the blur. People didn’t want to focus; they were too swept up in the momentum of Paul’s new church. Even Toby Carver, the second counselor, deserted the Thelma’s Way Ward. Bishop Watson was devastated. He petitioned Church headquarters for full-time missionaries to be assigned to Thelma’s Way. He felt that with a little help, he could bring the deserting members back to their senses. The Church considered his request.

  As Bishop Watson prayed for his wayward members’ souls, Paul badmouthed Bishop Watson until he was red in the face. Then, during one of his tirades, Paul became bold enough to predict that bad things would befall the active Mormons. Two nights later someone broke into the church building (an act of minor difficulty, since it was never locked) and stole the Thelma’s Way Ward community Book of Mormon.

  At first I had no idea why these people were so concerned about a missing Book of Mormon. I was quickly informed that the stolen book was not your average, free, blue-covered copy. It was in fact a first edition that Parley P. Pratt had given the Saints when he had passed through Thelma’s Way more than a hundred years ago. It was the most treasured possession in the entire town. It was the Mormons’ stamp of approval—validating them, as it were. Parley P. Pratt had donated it to the town as a gesture of his appreciation for all the kindness and compassion they had shown him when he had become horribly ill from some bad meat, and the entire meadow area had helped nurse him back to full health. He had signed that Book of Mormon with the inscription:

  With sincere appreciation, Parley P. Pratt

  Not just appreciation, but sincere appreciation. It was quite a tribute to the backwoods town of Thelma’s Way. The book was kept in the bishop’s office and brought out to rest on the small table next to the podium each Sunday.

  No longer. The book was gone. Someone had stolen the last thing the Mormons had to feel good about. The few members who had stayed faithful during the apostasy ordeal had always found additional strength in that old Book of Mormon. Now they didn’t even have that.

  The town was aghast. Thelma’s Way prided itself on not having to lock its doors, on being able to leave a pie on the windowsill or a melon in the field without worry. What good was a neighbor if you had to keep an eye on him? Geoff Titter once left his good rake on the porch of the boardinghouse for a whole year before picking it up. No one ever touched it. That’s the kind of people that populated Thelma’s Way: mellow, Mormon, and honest to a fault.

  Not anymore. The ugly crime of theft had appeared. And much like the mole on Tindy MacDermont’s arm, the deed seemed to stick out and get attention. It was a big, hairy deal. Thelma’s Way had its theories, or, more befitting, its theory, as to who had done it.

  Everyone suspected Paul. They had found him to be a little too prophetic. They all figured he had done the deed so that his anti-Mormon prophecy would come true. As an ugly, final gesture he had stripped the Mormons and the town of their most prized possession. It wasn’t enough that he had already driven everyone away—now he had, in a sense, stolen their soul.

  Well, faster than they had joined him, Paul’s people deserted him. They burned the bridge that spanned the Girth River and broke out the windows of the unfinished People of Paul chapel. No one wanted a leader who was a thief. He was completely dethroned, stripped of all the prestige his wacky prophecies had once afforded him.

  Nowadays Paul spent his time in relative shame, working on his house in the forest across the Girth River. Neither Elder Boone nor I had as yet actually seen him. He still claimed his innocence, even though everyone knew he was guilty.

  There being no real proof, however, Paul went unprosecuted for the crime, and the mystery of the missing Book of Mormon lingered like a goofy local legend. Paul’s cabin had been searched, but the book wasn’t there. Here in these hills there were a zillion places a person could hide a book. Most people figured he had either thrown it into the Girth River or burned it. Both possibilities were equally horrific and hideous.

  Sister Watson took up with a couple of other civic-minded women and formed a small action group called M.A.P., Mothers Against Paul. It was a good name until Frank Porter, ever the wave maker, insisted on joining the group. Since he wasn’t a mother in the true sense of the word, Sister Watson changed the group’s name to P.A.P., People Against Paul. But then old conspiracy-minded Pap Wilson thought their group was out to get him personally. So Sister Watson changed the name once again, and P.I.G., Paul Is Guilty, was formally formed. Yes, young Digby Heck tried to make an argument for all the local sows, but his voice was not heeded. P.I.G. stuck.

  So far, P.I.G. had made very little progress in its efforts. Its goal was to bring Paul to justice, or at least to give him a whipping or burn his house down. Justice worked differently in Thelma’s Way.

  Meanwhile, the Saints who had left the ward to join up with Paul never came back to our congregation. So now the hills were filled with inactive Mormons who were either too lukewarm, too lazy, or just too embarrassed to come back. Our job as missionaries was to rebuild the ward. We were to find the ninety and nine who had foolhardily left the figurative one in this secret basin community filled with less-active Mormons.

  Here it was, another Sunday service in Thelma’s Way, and the enormity of the task ahead was giving me a headache. Elder Boone and I sat on the stand with Feeble and Bishop Watson. We were trying to make it look as if we had some sort of leadership authority.

  Bishop Watson was a little old man. He stood just under five feet tall and walked with a limp. He had no hair and usually wore a shirt with sleeves that were entirely too long, and a tie that was too short. He had gray eyes and a big smile that made him look at least an inch and a half taller than he actually was. He was kind and spoke with a booming radio announcer’s voice that didn’t really match his physique. Everything he said sounded like an advertisement or news flash.

  “Church at eleven.”

  “Don’t miss out on tithing settlement.”

  “Be the first one to pick up your new manual.”

  Bishop Watson’s wife was considerably taller and thicker than he was. She wore a dark wig over her light hair and spoke without really moving her mouth. It was actually a rather amazing and unnerving thing to witness. They made an interesting couple.

  After church, Elder Boone and I had lunch over at the bishop’s house. Sister Watson served up meat loaf, tossed salad, bean sprouts, peas, and some local delicacy called “ramp.”

  “It’s the best thing around these parts,” she bragged about the odd vegetable.

  “One of the real perks of living here,” Bishop Watson added.

  I tried to smile as I ate.

  “So, are you elders excited about the upcoming pageant?” Sister Watson asked.

  “Well,” Elder Boone answered, “it’s still an incredibly long way off. I’m sure neither of us will be here.”

  “We’re getting a real jump on this one,” Bishop Watson boomed.

  “I’ll be finished with the script in a few months,” Sister Watson announced. “The story is based on Parley P. Pratt coming here and getting nauseous. Of course there will be a lot of singing and dancing. Oh just think of it, Elders, our very own outdoor pageant. A pageant can really put you on the map, you know? Look at the Hill Cumorah, look at Nauvoo.”

  Bishop Watson looked around as if searching for Nauvoo.

  The conversation drifted. Sister Watson began telling us in detail how she had helped to deliver the very cow we were now eating. Brother Watson provided color commentary. I found myself sculpting my portion of cow into the shape of Lucy with my spoon. It started half-heartedly but soon drew my attention. I glanced up nervously, but no one had noticed I wasn’t listening. I pulled the table centerpiece in front of my plate to hide what I was doing. I stabbed a few pieces of lettuce from Elder Boone’s plate when he wasn’t looking and rigged up some clothes for my sculpture. I spied the peas across the table. They were green, but they would have to do f
or eyes. I asked Sister Watson if she would kindly pass them.

  “Hand me your plate and I’ll scoop some out for you,” she offered.

  I sat there for a moment, not sure what to do.

  “Uh, actually, I like to scoop myself.”

  “Nonsense,” Bishop Watson said, his radio announcer’s voice booming through their dining room. “Sister Watson will set you up fine; hand her your plate.”

  I decided to skip the eyes. I backpedaled.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m full.”

  They both stared at me for a few moments, but soon they returned to their meals. Things would have been fine if I had not noticed Bishop Watson’s sprouts. They would make perfect hair for my Lucy. I just couldn’t resist. I commented on an antique-looking clock on the wall. While everyone was looking the other way, I stabbed the sprouts from off of Bishop Watson’s plate.

  No one noticed.

  It was not enough. Lucy had thick hair. I complimented the tole-painted watering can that was sitting on the shelf behind them. But before I could successfully extract any more of Bishop Watson’s sprouts, everyone turned back around.

  “What are you doing?” It was Elder Boone. I covered my plate with my hands.

  “Is something wrong with your meal?” Sister Watson asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Then why are you covering your plate?” Bishop Watson questioned.

  I slowly moved my hands to reveal a mound of misshapen meat loaf adorned with a lettuce dress and stylish bean-sprout hair. I felt my face go flush. Any moment the Watsons would throw me out of their home for displaying such awful table manners. But Bishop Watson just went on and on about how lifelike the likeness was, and Sister Watson passed me the peas with new understanding.