All Is Swell

by Robert Farrell Smith

  “Glad to be of service,” I joked. Brother Heck was the most discombobulated, guilt-ridden person I knew, but he was wise in his own way, and I loved him for it. I couldn’t remember my father ever taking the time to talk to me like Brother Heck just had. Any contact with my father had mainly taken place at the dinner table on Sundays, the one time during the week when we all got together. The rest of the week he was usually too busy to be part of things.

  “There’ll be other girls,” Brother Heck said, referring to Lucy’s letter. “I’m real sorry yours gave up on you, but the Lord will provide.”

  I smiled. It was hard to believe this was the same man who tarred and feathered himself with latex house paint.

  “So, you gonna leave us?” he finally asked me.

  “Eventually,” I replied.

  “Funny how life works, ain’t it.”

  “Funny,” I said.

  21

  Lost and Found

  Grace had been only slightly reluctant to pick the backpack up. She knew it belonged to Elder Williams. She had seen it slung over Trust’s shoulder countless times.

  The pack was ripped at the bottom of the side pocket, and pieces of grease-stained paper towel were strewn about. It was wet from the snow, and there were telltale signs of dog slobber. But the bulk of the backpack looked okay.

  The previous night had been quite a night for Grace. She had only meant to take a late walk in the fresh snow. She had not expected to find Elder Williams frozen in prayer. She was not complaining, mind you, and now she had Trust’s backpack.

  Heaven was helping her out. She would return the backpack, but not before she took a peek inside.

  She hiked down to the Girth River and sat upon a rocky ledge. She unzipped the backpack and looked inside. There were scriptures, some books, a couple letters, and a wallet. There was a small cassette player and a pair of headphones.

  She poured the contents of the backpack out to examine them closely. She was having a good time until she saw the picture of Lucy in Trust’s wallet.

  One look was all it took. How stupid Grace had been to think Trust was different. She couldn’t believe she had let herself feel something for a missionary that would have a girlfriend like Lucy. Lucy was beautiful. She was too beautiful. Her skin was polished and her smile was manufactured. She was everything Grace wasn’t.

  Disappointment swept over Grace like a violent storm. Her thoughts connected like lightning. She shoved everything except the wallet back into Trust’s backpack. She pulled out the picture of Lucy and tossed it into the Girth River. She watched the mighty river drag it away.

  “Good riddance,” she sighed.

  She walked over to the missionaries’ home and dropped Trust’s wallet in front of his door. Then she slung the backpack over her shoulder and hiked off through the forest. It would be some time before she wandered into the meadow again.

  22

  Lather, Rinse, Repeat

  One Year

  It had been about six months since I had sat with Brother Heck in the cemetery. Six months. Pete Kennedy had grown a beard, let it go gray, shaved it off, and begun another. The winter had turned to spring, and the spring had given way to a beautiful summer that was now almost halfway over. Life was warm, green and rainy. I had been on my mission for over a year.

  I was still in Thelma’s Way, and surprisingly to everyone, especially me, I was okay with this. I no longer checked off the days till official mission letterhead informed me it was time to pack my things. In fact, there were things here that I knew I was going to miss whenever I did get transferred out.

  Astounding.

  I had had a premonition I was up for transfer a couple months back when President Clasp and the Virgil’s Find stake presidency came to Thelma’s Way to get a look at things. Instead I got a new companion, they released Bishop Watson, restructured the tiny Thelma’s Way Ward to be a tiny branch, and put Yours Truly in as the new branch president. Brother Heck was called as my first counselor with my new companion as second.

  I was in shock for weeks. I had been hoping for the chance to train a new elder, or be a senior companion. Instead I was given a handful of full-fledged responsibilities, and it required coming to terms with the fact that I would be traveling nowhere fast. I had not known that full-time missionaries could serve as branch presidents. What a way to find out.

  My new companion was Elder Jorgensen from Blackfoot, Idaho. He was almost seven feet tall and had the shiniest set of buck teeth I had ever seen. All his suits were too short for him, and his blond hair was wiry and abrasive-looking. He walked with a spring in his step, and was constantly talking about trucks and how to make them go faster. He was one of fourteen kids and the first in his family to serve a mission. Always up before dawn, he was the kindest, hardest-working missionary I had ever met. His parents were potato farmers who sent him boxes of spuds along with pictures of his truck, which they were washing regularly for him.

  I had not heard very much more from Lucy. I assumed she was married and happy by now—while selfishly I hoped for neither of those things.

  Months back, my mother had sent me a new backpack and a new set of scriptures to replace my lost ones. I guess I was grateful. The backpack had a big pink rainbow stitched on the back of it, and the scriptures were my father’s set that he never used. Of course, the set was so old that it didn’t have the new references or page numbers. Mom had also soaked the backpack in dog repellent, hoping that would prevent me from losing it again. The thing was too pretty, too stinky, and too small. But I carried it around in honor of my mom.

  I never found my old backpack. Oddly enough, the morning after I had lost it, I discovered my wallet lying in the dirt in front of our door. Everything was in it except for Lucy’s picture. It was a miracle. I figured fate had removed her photo for me so I wouldn’t have to suffer any further. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I had not clearly seen Grace Heck since our life-saving encounter in the snow. The first thing I did when I was put in as branch president was to set out to find her. My records showed that she was now twenty-one and, as her branch president, I felt it was my duty to make sure she was having success in life. But Grace was too elusive. Even her parents couldn’t round her up long enough for me to talk to her. I had tried dropping in on the Hecks and surprising them at dinner or other points when I thought Grace would be there.

  She never was.

  We were having some success where reactivation was concerned. We had managed to get a couple of people back to church. Ed Washington and his mother were attending regularly, and Toby Carver had been out twice in the last two months. We had also found an older woman named Nippy Ward over behind the Heck home who was now coming out to church. Nippy was as old as the hills and almost totally deaf. She never really understood a word of what you said, but she nodded a lot and smiled enough to make you feel like you were getting through to her.

  The big news was that Leo Tip had decided to be baptized. He was going to be my first baptism. The event that pushed him over the edge was when Sister Watson and the members of P.I.G. held their first annual hand shadow contest to raise money to take Paul to court—Sister Watson really wanted to get some closure on this Paul mess so as to be able to fully focus on the coming sesquicentennial pageant. They held the contest at the boardinghouse late one night using Tindy MacDermont’s powerful flashlight. Practically everyone in Thelma’s Way threw their hands into the ring. Competition was fierce. Digby Heck almost won with his realistic eagle hand shadow, but then he made the mistake of looking directly into the flashlight and temporarily blinded himself. Teddy Yetch’s turtle with retracting head was also quite spectacular. But Philip Green ended up winning the trophy, he and his eerie beetle hand shadow impression. Of course, he had a tremendous advantage due to the extra finger on his right hand.

  At the end of the event people milled around in the dark eating refreshments that the members of P.I.G. had brought. Young Narlette got hold of Tindy’s flas
hlight and waved it around making scary noises. Well, the whole thing sort of spooked Leo, putting him into a reflective mood. That night he dreamed he was drowning in a baptismal font. He could see his father looking down through the water, but he did nothing to help.

  Leo was unnerved. What if the dream was prophetic? What if it was his father telling him to get baptized now or suffer the consequences? What if it was the two dozen of Sister Teddy Yetch’s pickle wheat cookies that he had eaten at the hand shadow contest making him hallucinate?

  Leo wasn’t taking any chances. He scheduled his baptism for July 4th. The town was abuzz. CleeDee Lipton started coming back to church and talked of eventually going with Leo to the temple. There were those who had their doubts about Leo’s resolve, of course, but today was July 4th and unless my eyes were deceiving me, Leo was wearing all white.

  Most of the active members of the Thelma’s Way Branch were gathered around the river next to the burned-out bridge. It had been raining all day, and the extra water had given the Girth a bloated, angry looking belly. We thought about postponing the baptism for a clearer afternoon, but Leo was ready now, and I didn’t want to run the risk of having him change his mind.

  Umbrellas were opened, slickers were pulled close, and mismatched boots stood in inches of mud. Just to be safe, Leo and I each tied ourselves to the frame of the derelict bridge before we waded into the Girth. The water was cold, especially for the middle of summer, and twice I felt the current almost knock my feet out from under me. We had to push out a good twenty steps to where it was deep enough for dunking. We then turned and faced the crowd. Everyone looked gray in the rain. Here and there a lit smile flashed, bright and cheery. Brother Heck and Ed Washington leaned out over the river to make sure Leo went completely under.

  I said the words of the prayer and pushed Leo back. But his knees buckled as his head hit the water, and I fumbled to maintain my balance. It was no use, the water rushed over us and pulled us down river. Leo grabbed me and pushed me down, trying to climb above the water. The rope around my stomach went taut. I struggled to find my footing and stuck my head above the water, spitting and coughing. Leo was standing next to me breathing hard, his hands wrapped around his rope. We looked over at Ed.

  “Sorry, it wasn’t a complete dunk,” he yelled above the noise of the water. “Leo’s hand flew up.”

  I sighed, wiping the rain from out of my eyes. All that, and it didn’t count. I thought back to when an older gentlemen named Myron was baptized in our ward back in Southdale. No one knew he wore a toupee, but when he went down, his hair didn’t go with him. Someone screamed that he’d been spiritually scalped. One of the little boys in the front row reached out to grab it. His mother almost fainted, thinking it was a water rat. But Myron’s girlfriend cried the loudest, never having seen Myron without his fuzzy top.

  The local priesthood leaders began to debate whether or not it was necessary for a person’s toupee to be submerged. They consulted the handbook, but there wasn’t a section on bad-looking rugs. Just to be safe, they baptized Myron once more with him holding his hair in his hand.

  Now here I was standing in the pouring rain in the middle of a raging river, and Leo needed one more dip. We waded back upstream, feeling with our feet for firm footing. I tugged the rope around my stomach to make sure it still held. I wiped the rain from my eyes and pushed the short hair off of my forehead. Lightning crackled in the far distance. We needed to hurry. I threw a smile of encouragement to this branch I had grown to . . . love? Sister Teddy Yetch, her wrinkled face pinched in reverence to the event; Narlette, prancing on the shore with excitement; Bishop and Sister Watson, looking miserable in the rain; Digby Heck; Ed Washington and his mother; Nippy Ward nodding; and Grace Heck standing there next to the burnt-out bridge, her green eyes seeping out from under a yellow umbrella.

  Her red hair was darkened by the wet air, and her white arms were cold and pale in the summer rain. I wanted to push Leo over and run back to shore. I just wanted to talk with her. She had been so elusive and now here she was.

  I turned back to Leo. He was standing at attention, ready for baptism. I pulled my focus back to the moment and shut my eyes. I took his hands.

  “Leo Tip,” I said solemnly. “Having been commissioned . . .” I finished the prayer and pushed Leo under, holding on for all I was worth. This time Leo let himself go down. He came back up coughing and spitting water. We waded back to shore. I saw Grace slip away back behind the crowd. I almost called out to her, “Wait. Don’t go.” But I thought better of it, me being the branch president and all.

  Folks congratulated Leo as they collectively stepped back from the crumbling river bank. Pete fired off his gun a couple of times in celebration and ruined his umbrella. Rain poured down through the holes onto his head.

  “Do you think God’s happy with my decision?” Leo asked, skeptical because of the rough weather.

  Sister Heck handed him a wet towel to dry off with. “It’s an Indian legend that God’s happy when it rains,” she explained.

  “Paul says rain is a weapon God uses to smite the ingrates,” Ed Washington chimed in.

  Ed’s mother flashed him a ‘be quiet’ expression.

  “I don’t know no Ingrates round here, anyways,” Toby Carver observed. “Less yore talking about them private folks next to Tindy’s place.”

  “It’s not a name, Toby,” Brother Heck corrected. “Anyone can be an ingrate.”

  “Not me,” Toby scoffed. “I’m German.”

  “I think all this rain is just Satan playing his fife,” Sister Watson said as our group began to wander away from the river and back towards the boardinghouse. “He can finger some pretty tricky tunes,” she went on. “Heard him play ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’ as I was deciding whether I should go to church last week.”

  Leo and I quickly changed out of our wet white clothes. Then we all crammed into the boardinghouse for the celebration. We had planned for fireworks to celebrate the Fourth, but thanks to the rain, that was out of the question. Besides, someone had taken the box of fireworks outside and now they were soaking wet. Elder Jorgensen dragged them back into the boardinghouse where Digby fetched a blow dryer to dry them out. I told him it seemed like a bad idea, but he wouldn’t listen until one of the fire flowers ignited on his lap and singed a hole in his shorts.

  The rain stopped about two hours later. We set up lawn chairs in the mud and attempted to light the rain-soaked fireworks. We tried to ooh and ahh as wet wicks sizzled and dudlike sparks spit out of the only slightly airborne fireworks.

  There was a big sheet cake made by CleeDee in honor of Leo’s baptism. CleeDee slit it up and passed out pieces on paper plates with plastic forks. Folks ate the lemon flavored cake with big smiles and loud laughs, as night became late-night, and the day just a memory. Elder Jorgensen and I relished every minute of it. It was our first baptism and it had gone over Thelma’s Way style. Not with a bang, but with a pop and sizzle.

  At CleeDee’s suggestion, Leo pulled his old jalopy close, turned on the headlights, and pointed them toward us so we could see to talk. We told stories long into the night. We talked about the crazy Tennessee weather. We talked about the branch and the litter of Mormons who still refused to come back to church. We talked about Paul. We talked about his problem with telling the truth. And we talked about how the members of P.I.G. almost had enough money to get themselves a lawyer and take Paul to court. We reminisced about Feeble and Roswell. We talked about the pageant, and how it was creeping up on us, and whether or not people would come.

  Eight-year-old Narlette fell asleep on her mother’s shoulder. Mosquitoes buzzed around us like bad thoughts. Bishop and Sister Watson finally left the group to go home, the bottom half of their legs covered in mud like the rest of us. Ed and his mother eventually bid us adieu, carrying their two lawn chairs off into the dark. Soon it was just the Hecks and Leo and CleeDee and us. Leo’s headlights were getting dimmer as his car battery drained.

 
“I saw Grace there today,” I ventured.

  The Hecks nodded, Brother Heck scraping his paper plate with his fork and cleaning off the last bits of his third helping of cake.

  “She and Leo go way back,” Sister Heck replied, swatting at the mosquitoes near Narlette’s sleeping face. “I think Grace was sweet on Leo for a while.”

  Leo blushed. CleeDee looked on with pride. She had won her man. They smiled in silence for a minute or two. Then Leo looked at CleeDee’s watch, said something about not wanting to haul another car battery in from Virgil’s Find, and the two of them slipped off together, leaving us in the moonlight. The sky had cleared and the night was ablaze with stars.

  “Grace seems like a nice girl,” I observed.

  “She is,” Brother Heck said. “She spends too much time alone, but whatcha gonna do. She can be stubborn,” he went on. “If’n I tell her to go south, she goes up. If I tell her that today is Tuesday, she’ll argue that it’s Wednesday.”

  “But it was Wednesday,” Sister Heck said, reaching over to touch her husband’s arm.

  “Sure it was, that one time,” he huffed. “But I’m still her father, ain’t I?”

  Sister Heck rubbed her husband’s shoulder with her outstretched arm. I looked closely at Brother and Sister Heck. Although they appeared different on the surface, they were worn to the exact same point. They were two peas in a rather weathered pod.

  Sister Heck was proud of her man lately. Brother Heck had been doing so well controlling his addiction. So well, in fact, that I could see a point in the not-too-far-away future where he would be ready to assume responsibility for the branch. I know the idea of a twenty-year-old kid being over him was a blow to his backwoods pride. But he had handled things gracefully. As first counselor, he had stepped up to the plate.

  Crickets moshed. Raccoons and critters were coming out of the woods. Every now and again eyes would flash in the moonlight. The meadow was ready to go to bed and we were keeping them up.