All Is Swell

by Robert Farrell Smith

  “Let there be not doubt as to what happened here today,” Briant Willpts said, still sitting in Feeble’s chair. “The heavens took two strong pillars from our community. One went in a golden chariot, body and all. The other? Well, see for yourself.”

  I wanted to cry foul, to stand up and make a protest. But as a missionary, I felt it wasn’t my place. Thelma’s Way had its mind set, and its mind was set on believing that Roswell had been translated and that Feeble had passed away in some sort of botched attempt by heaven to bring him home. Whatever the truth really was, that is what they wanted to believe.

  Amidst the commotion, Toby Carver’s youngest boy, Lupert, slipped away from the crowd and picked up the pewter statue still lying in the road where Feeble had dropped it. He examined it carefully, then ran off into the meadow, apparently unnoticed by anyone but me. The ring of people began to dissolve as folks remembered unimportant things they needed to tend to. Miss Flitrey tried to gather her brood and herd them back to class, but most of them were too hyped-up from all the excitement to heed her.

  “It’s a miracle, I guess,” CleeDee Lipton whispered in disbelief as she turned to go.

  “I’ll say,” Briant replied. “I’ll say.” Which, of course, he already had. And with that, Briant Willpts was silent.

  11

  Close Enough to Touch

  Grace had always liked Feeble considerably more than she liked that brother of his. Her heart sank when she saw him lying there on the ground. As the circle of townsfolk looked on, Grace looked away, her green eyes blinking back the hurt. Within her the seasons were already changing, and she could feel herself gearing up for a long, hard freeze.

  As she glanced away she noticed the missionaries coming up from the river. She slipped back to watch. By now Grace had learned the newer one’s name.

  Williams. Elder Trust Williams.

  She took his name as a good omen. With a name like Trust, he couldn’t be all bad. From her vantage point in the hills, she had watched him closely over the last month. She knew he was struggling to fit in.

  His brown hair and blue eyes were as familiar to her now as Lush Point or the Girth River.

  Grace scolded herself for feeling like some kid with a crush. She wasn’t going to fall for some missionary who would most likely leave in a couple months, never to come back. She was smarter than that.

  The missionaries joined the circle of people looking over Feeble. Trust asked Grace’s father about Feeble, and her father stated the obvious.

  “He’s moved on.”

  Grace followed the crowd as they walked into the boardinghouse. She stood behind Trust as he listened to old Briant Willpts prattle on.

  She breathed in. Someone smelled nice. Pleasant body aroma was not something everyone around here had. She watched Trust as he listened to Briant stretching his story out long and tall. She could see Trust wasn’t fooled.

  She stepped a little closer. The ends of her red hair brushed against the back of Trust’s arm. It was Trust who smelled nice.

  She stepped back, turning to go. Maybe spring would come sooner than she thought.

  12

  Half Empty, Half Full

  There were no law officers in Thelma’s Way. They had never really needed any. There had been no crime here until Paul pulled his stolen Book of Mormon stunt. I thought it would be good for someone in some sort of uniform to look into the missing Roswell, dead Feeble situation. But no one did. The closest thing was when Jerry Scotch, who worked at the Corndog Tent at the mall in Virgil’s Find, showed up in his work outfit and pronounced the case closed.

  Oh, the peace of mind.

  I thought we should search the area for Roswell. People were offended, hurt, and confused by how disrespectful I could be of the so recently deceased. Elder Boone and I tried to get someone to toy with the idea that maybe, just maybe, Roswell had not been translated. Maybe he was alive somewhere, smoking his pipe or crying for his brother for all we knew, and that we should look for him. No go. In the big collective consciousness of Thelma’s Way, Roswell had been lifted up just like Briant said, and his brother Feeble had died of a heart attack running to catch up. I wrote President Clasp and asked him if it wouldn’t be better for us to try to get these people to join another church so we wouldn’t have to associate with them anymore.

  We didn’t really have a funeral for Roswell and Feeble. We had a ward service project. It took us all Saturday to dig holes big enough for the two of them. Thanks to some foresight Roswell and Feeble had grave plots already picked out. Two nice sites, right on the back edge of the cemetery, touching the river. I complained a lot about making anyone dig a grave for Roswell, seeing how there really was no body to bury. Folks began giving me a hard time about my lack of faith.

  “John was translated; Enoch was translated.”

  Roswell was hardly an Enoch or a John.

  “I bet they didn’t have graves,” I quipped.

  “If you want to have people join the Church you had better start showing some appreciation for the spiritual things,” Sister Yetch scolded.

  “Roswell is not dead,” I stated bluntly.

  “Hush,” Brother Heck intervened.

  I continued to dig.

  As missionaries we had clocked in an awful lot of service hours in Thelma’s Way. It seemed as if the only time people wanted us around was when they needed help around the house. Digging the graves was just such an occasion. Everyone professed to love and admire Roswell and Feeble, but the instant someone mentioned digging everyone suddenly had bad backs.

  We finished the excavation (there’s nothing else to call it when you’re digging a grave for Feeble Ford), covered the coffins, and offered a dedicatory prayer. Instead of sending for headstones, Briant Willpts just had Roswell’s and Feeble’s porch chairs cemented to the ground at the head of their graves. A nice piece of granite can set you back a chunk of change, and besides, people would need a place to sit while visiting the twins. He figured he’d kill two birds with one stone. Pardon the expression.

  Afterwards there was a small buffet in the boardinghouse for those who had known the deceased, which, of course, would be everyone in town—except for maybe Joey Carver, Toby Carver’s nearsighted brother who lived with their sister behind Lush Point. Joey spent his days making beautiful leather wallets that his sister took into Virgil’s Find to sell. Word was he didn’t particularly care for people. Everyone left him alone.

  As it turned out, even nearsighted Joey knew the twins. He stood in front of me in the funeral buffet line. Things would have been a lot neater if I could have served myself first.

  After everyone had finished eating, Sister Watson stood and proposed a toast.

  “To the twins.”

  We all toasted.

  “And to our future sesquicentennial pageant.”

  Most toasted.

  “And to me, for having to rewrite whole sections of ‘All Is Swell’ seeing how Feeble is dead and won’t be able to act.”

  Brother Watson raised his glass. Sister Watson sat down.

  As I got into bed that night, I started to thank my Heavenly Father for everything I had. But then I got to thinking and decided I didn’t have much. Maybe it was Feeble’s death getting to me, or the town’s refusal to believe Roswell might be alive. It seemed that my whole life I had planned for my mission. And now, here I was almost two months into it and I felt useless. I had hoped to be one of President Clasp’s up-and-coming elders. I had hoped to be a district leader, or a zone leader, or a trainer. Instead, I was a big zero. I was lost in Thelma’s Way. Lost and forgotten.

  God needed to work with me.

  13

  A Little off the Top

  Week Eight

  Six days a week we hiked the hills knocking on doors, teaching lessons to less-actives, and preaching to those who would lend us an ear. But every Monday was P-day. Preparation day. We would use our Mondays to do laundry over at the Watson house, go grocery shopping in Virgil’s Fi
nd, and take care of all the things that didn’t fall into our daily missionary routine.

  It was Monday, and I was about to receive my first Thelma’s Way haircut.

  The last time I had gotten a cut was in the MTC right before I left for Tennessee. A tall man with big hands had buzzed off any and all pieces of hair foolish enough to grow longer than a quarter inch. But now my hair was starting to look shaggy. Something needed to be done.

  Wad, the barber, was short, dark, and so weathered that it looked as if life had gnawed on him and spat him out. His name suited him to a “T.” His barber shop was an old outhouse shell that he had dragged down from his home once he had gotten indoor plumbing. It was filled with scissors and brushes.

  When I showed up for my trim, he pulled a folding lawn chair out of his shack, planted it in the grass, set me down, and went to work. He wasn’t shy about his work. He hovered around me like a wrinkled fly—buzzing and clipping as if his hands were intimately acquainted with my head.

  For the full cut I was the center of the community. Everyone who walked by commented on what a good or bad job Wad was doing. Out in the open like that, I was fair game.

  “He’d look better with more off the top,” Toby Carver said on his way to the boardinghouse.

  “It’s uneven on the left,” CleeDee Lipton advised, passing through the meadow.

  “Not entirely symmetrical,” Miss Flitrey, the school teacher, said as I sat there getting pieces of hair all over myself. Wad quickly took her comments into consideration.

  The big secret, or the best known rumor around town, was that weathered old Wad had eyes for Miss Flitrey. He cut her hair for half the price he charged Sister Watson, used big educated words when he spoke to her, and would spend what some folks considered to be an inappropriate amount of time dusting her neck off with his softest brush after the do was done.

  The guarded affection was reciprocated. Miss Flitrey would bring baked goods to Wad and was presently tutoring him in math. Private lessons. Well, that is, if you consider the boardinghouse on a Saturday when the whole town is there watching television “private.”

  Miss Flitrey was a big, sturdy woman. She had taught school here in Thelma’s Way for some twenty years. Her hair never looked the same, thanks to her frequent trips to Wad’s scissors shack. She wasn’t very tall, and her smile was like a comet—it appeared only once every hundred years and even then was difficult to spot. She was a workhorse and as stubborn a woman as I had ever met.

  We had helped Miss Flitrey a couple of times at school by substitute teaching for her. It was a great way to give service to the community. Once when she had food poisoning, we filled in for a full day, teaching her school kids their times tables and alphabet. I would never forget how confused little Opie Wilford was as we sang the alphabet song. Every time we would sing the “l-m-n-O-P” part he would glance around nervously, thinking we were calling his name. I had the students sing the song a few extra times just so I could watch his reaction. Actually, his response had been the first indication to me that my heart was changing.

  Don’t get me wrong. I still wanted to be transferred out. But for the first time I was seeing these folks as the kind, simple, big-hearted people that they were. Maybe they didn’t all have aspirations to own large homes. Maybe they weren’t working towards owning a boat and a new pair of water skis. No, these people did things like put up chicken wire, chop wood, and shoot the breeze until the air was fatally wounded.

  Wad snipped around my right ear.

  “You liking it here?” he asked me.

  “Sure,” I replied. “What’s not to like?”

  Elder Boone was sitting on the ground next to the pile of old magazines Wad would put out for his waiting customers to read. He looked at me as if I were pulling Wad’s leg.

  “I like it here,” I defended.

  “Beautiful country,” Wad said, “beautiful country. Makes a man want to take up painting.”

  I nodded in agreement. Wad jerked my head back, bothered by my moving it around.

  “I’ve always dreamed of trying my hand at painting. I’ve got the artistic touch, you know. Right now, however, your head is my only canvas.”

  “Thank you, I think,” I said.

  “You’ve got such lovely hair, too,” he went on. “So thick, so soft. My fingers love to touch it. Look at my fingers rejoicing,” he said as his fingers celebrated within my hair.

  I was about to tell him to please have his fingers rejoice elsewhere, when he set down his scissors and brushed me off.

  “Well, you’re done. What do you think?” He handed me a small mirror to look at myself.

  My eyes were still blue, and my nose was still centered. Oh, and my hair was short.

  Tindy MacDermont was strolling by as I stood up.

  “Looks good, Wad,” she complimented.

  Wad sort of curtsied.

  I offered to pay him, but he refused.

  “I like to help out the missionaries,” he blushed.

  “How about coming out to church then?” I asked kindly.

  “I sleep in on Sundays,” he said, making his excuse and suddenly acting overly busy while putting his tools away.

  “Church doesn’t start until twelve-thirty,” I rebutted.

  “Like I said,” he said, “I sleep in on Sundays.”

  Elder Boone and I headed over to the boardinghouse so I could use the shower and wash off all the tiny hairs that would otherwise stick into me for days. The town decided to turn the boardinghouse into a sort of co-op. Roswell and Feeble had left no will. Since the funeral, Briant Willpts had moved in to keep things going, but Briant had no objection to us using the facilities.

  “We’re never going to reactivate these people,” I mourned, referring to Wad.

  “Never’s a long time,” Elder Boone replied.

  He was right.

  14

  A-Lot-o-Lance

  Lucy liked Lance. Their relationship was so easy. It didn’t require a lot of depth or thought for her to be with him. Lucy liked that. Trust had been so enamored with her that he was constantly trying to talk about important things, trying to sound more interesting.

  Lance, however, didn’t need to talk to be interesting.

  Not that Lance wasn’t as enamored with Lucy as Trust was, it was just that Lance expressed it so much more elegantly.

  Gifts.

  Yes, in Lucy’s eyes Lance was about as close to being perfect as a man could be. He had wealth, reputation, and stunning good looks. True, he wasn’t a Mormon, but Lucy felt she needed to become a better person by looking beyond that.

  “Didn’t someone once say ‘every member a missionary’?” Lucy asked herself.

  Well, Lucy felt she was doing the lioness’ share by continuing to be with Lance, and by setting such a high standard. Lucy made the Mormons look good.

  Trust would understand, Lucy reasoned.

  After all, Trust was also about the work. Lucy was simply doing her part. Could Lucy help it if Lance was right, and ready to harvest?

  15

  The Road to Don’t-Ask-Us

  Three and One-Half Months

  The path from Thelma’s Way to Virgil’s Find was remarkably unspectacular. For hundreds of years it had served as the townsfolk’s only way in and out. And for hundreds of years no one had made a single improvement or upgrade to it. Despite the number of bare feet and dirty shoes that had traversed its dusty sprawl, it still remained nothing more than a skinny brown line that lay as a lazy guide from Virgil’s Find to Thelma’s Way, or more appropriately, to nowhere.

  The people had petitioned the state for a road, but in the entire town there were only two registered voters: Sister Watson and Feeble Ford, now deceased. The state politicians didn’t see Thelma’s Way as a vehicle that would further their political careers. They saw it as an unknown pock concealed by forest, pleasantly forgotten by anyone who was anybody outside of Thelma’s Way. Besides, turning the path into a road would requir
e backhoes and dump trucks and risked offending the local environmentalists who wished to keep the parts of Tennessee that they didn’t actually live in personally in their somewhat natural state.

  Virgil’s Find was a good-sized town with all the amenities that Thelma’s Way was short on—movies, a mall, and plenty of paved main and minor roads. Its growth had covered what was once a big chunk of rural Tennessee, libraries replacing barns, banks replacing bars, and supermarkets replacing ranches and forcing the wannabe cowboys to spend their Friday nights sitting atop the grocery cart corrals, wishing for what once was well before their time.

  We had to hike into Virgil’s Find at least once a week. Thelma’s Way just didn’t have it all; in fact it hardly had any. It was a pain having to walk four miles to buy deodorant. The path was always either too muddy or too dusty. I wished for a road or a real trail. I wished for a legitimate out. I wanted a couple of well-marked exits, someplace where the ground was striped with black asphalt and orange dotted lines, with cars whizzing past me. Sure, Leo Tip had a car in Thelma’s Way, but it didn’t really count. Leo had built his car piece by piece, packing in old rusted parts from the Virgil’s Find auto salvage yard, and assembling them in the dirt lot next to the school. Eventually, Leo had himself a real working automobile. Actually, what Leo had was four wheels hooked together by two bucket seats and a lumpy engine that ran only when it wasn’t raining and if you greased the spark plug before you turned the starter over. It wasn’t much to look at, but it did run, and Leo held his head high, perched in that bucket of bolts. It didn’t matter that there were only about two hundred yards of actual dirt road in Thelma’s Way. On a nice day Leo would drive that two hundred yards back and forth and around the boardinghouse again and again. At a cruising speed of five miles an hour he would wave at the local kids and nod at the occasional passerby who was usually walking faster than his piecemeal transportation could even go. If you were really lucky and caught Leo in an excessively unselfish mood he would pull up right next to you and pat the passenger side seat invitingly. I had yet to be invited.