All Is Swell

by Robert Farrell Smith

  “Think Grace might be interested in coming out to church?” I asked, standing and picking up my muddy chair.

  “I’m not sure,” Brother Heck said. “She marches to a different pianist.”

  “Grace is just finding herself,” Sister Heck defended. “If only she could find something to be interested in here,” she said, heaving Narlette higher on to her shoulder and standing.

  If only.

  23

  Wet Your Appetite

  Grace slipped down into the meadow with her umbrella overhead and stood behind the crowd of spectators. She owed it to Leo.

  She watched Trust and Leo mess up the first time and almost float off downstream. Trust looked different. A full year in Thelma’s Way had changed him. His shoulders seemed wider, and his smile easier. His brown hair, wet from the river, was almost enough to make Grace like him again. She slid right up next to the bridge to observe their second try.

  Since that night in the snow, when Trust’s companion had assumed the worst, she had put Elder Williams out of her mind. The last thing Thelma’s Way needed was another church scandal. And, secretly, she felt she would be doing Trust a favor by staying out of his way.

  Never in a hundred years did Grace think Trust would notice her standing there, but he did. And Trust’s locked gaze was long enough to cause her to smile back at him.

  Grace was no dummy; she was truly smarter than the entire town of Thelma’s Way. The volumes of books she had digested made her a mental master on almost everything. She knew the whole idea of missionary romance was a contradiction in terms.

  But she could not deny the feelings growing inside her. She ran off before Trust could climb out of the river, but she had seen how he was coming for her. So what if he was a missionary and, as such, just a fantasy. There was no harm in dreaming, was there?

  24

  Door Number Two

  Month Thirteen

  Sister Watson had finally completed the pageant script. She called a town meeting in the boardinghouse and, with great flourish, she presented “All Is Swell: The Story of Thelma’s Way.” Everyone applauded. She handed out copies to everyone interested in being involved. I took a copy and flipped through it. As I read a couple of the lines, I realized that the pageant would be even more ridiculous than I had anticipated. But knowing how important it was to everyone, I kept my opinions to myself. I slipped the script into my rainbow backpack, figuring it would make a nice souvenir.

  Elder Jorgensen and I left to do some missionary work up in the hills. We had decided to investigate a particularly thickly wooded part of Thelma’s Way that day. We had been systematically working our way through the woods, scouring every trail for lost locals. I kept having strong feelings that somewhere within these hills was someone no one knew about. An unknown nonmember. The Holy Grail.

  We climbed over Lush Point and ran down through an arroyo for a few hundred feet. We hiked up a small hill and into a clearing

  “This is where we left off last time,” Elder Jorgensen said. It was only about three in the afternoon; we had hours before dinner. The trail stretched out in front of us, beckoning.

  It was always surprising to me the number of homes hidden up in these hills. Most of the houses had been built years ago. According to Brother Heck, the community had really rallied together back in the good old days to help each other build.

  Before long, we stumbled onto a house perched precariously on a small knoll next to a flowing stream. The place was old and looked to have been added on to about three or four times. It was the home of Corndog Tent employee Jerry Scotch.

  Jerry was trying to be active. He had been coming out to church. Last fast and testimony meeting, he had testified about how he had almost lost his job. According to his testimony, Jerry had bought a candle for Jan, a girl that worked at the Teriyaki Carousel two shops down from the Corndog Tent in the mall. Jerry was kind of sweet on Jan and figured he would give her a scented candle because he had heard that people of Asian descent liked incense. Jerry bought the candle from a store on the upper level of the mall called Mr. Wick. Well, Mr. Wick charged three dollars for gift wrapping. Extortion! Jerry wasn’t exactly getting rich working at the Corndog Tent. Luckily, Jerry thought up what he considered to be a fantastic idea. He took the boysenberry scented candle back to his work, dipped it in batter, and fried it up. He figured it would come out covered like one of his hot dogs.

  Creative cornbread wrapping paper.

  There were two problems with his plan . . . well, actually there were far more than just two, but the two most obvious were, one, just because Jan worked at Teriyaki Carousel didn’t mean she was actually Asian. Jan, in fact, had been born in Virgil’s Find to Inga and Swen Swenson. Problem number two was that candle wax melts when put into a big vat of boiling oil.

  Who knew?

  Imagine Jerry’s surprise when he pulled that present up to find nothing there. Jerry ended up giving Jan a discounted calendar from the year before. Jan didn’t even accept it, informing Jerry that her parents wouldn’t allow her to date until she was at least fifteen. Jerry’s boss never found out about his mistake, and people enjoyed boysenberry flavored corndogs until the oil was changed a few days later.

  It had been quite the faith-promoting testimony.

  Elder Jorgensen and I talked with Jerry for a few minutes at his home and then headed out to find somebody even less active. We hiked for another mile or so without seeing a soul. We were just about to turn around when Elder Jorgensen spotted a rock chimney hidden behind a thick wall of trees.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing like a happy dog.

  I patted him on the back. “Good work, Elder.”

  We pushed through the trees and up to the cabin. It was small and weathered but cute. There were flowers in the window boxes and a front walkway that had been swept despite the fact that it was only dirt. The windows were clean and trimmed with colorful curtains. We stepped up to the door, feeling a little like Hansel and Gretel, our mouths watering over the possibility of teaching a first discussion.

  I knocked. No one answered.

  “Hello, anyone home?” Elder Jorgensen called out. He pushed his face up against one of the windows and peered in. “There’s got to be somebody in there,” he said, his buck teeth clicking against the glass as he spoke. “There’s a half eaten apple on a table and a book lying open on a chair.” He knocked again, harder this time.

  One thing I had learned while serving in the backwoods was that if people didn’t want to be interrupted, they wouldn’t be. And if you continued to bother them after they had made it clear that they wanted to be left alone, you could expect a brandished shotgun or a couple of loose dogs.

  “We’d better go,” I said, about ready to head back to town. But Elder Jorgensen looked deflated.

  “When I saw that chimney,” he said, “I thought for sure it was a sign. There’s just got to be somebody out here.”

  I gave in. “Maybe we should hike back a little further,” I said. His face lit up, and he took off walking.

  We had covered about a half a mile more territory when Elder Jorgensen hopped up on a fallen tree that was lying across a small crack in the earth. He proceeded to balance himself along, his arms outstretched, talking a thousand words a minute about back home.

  “So Chet said, push the pedal harder. You’ll get more torque if you just—” Elder Jorgensen was mid-sentence when I heard this huge snap and saw the log give way.

  “Elder,” I yelled, jumping down into the crevice where he and the tree were now wedged.

  Elder Jorgensen was conscious, but his right leg was pinned by the folding tree—pinned and immobile, if not worse. His face was wrinkled by a grimace. He was in some serious pain.

  “Can you pull me out?” he asked with the faith of one certain I could bring him back from the dead if I had to.

  I pulled on the tree. I pushed on the tree. I kicked the tree until he began screaming.

  “I’ve got to go
get help,” I said, wiping sweat off my forehead.

  “But we’re supposed to stick together,” he moaned.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Elder,” I reprimanded. “This is an emergency. You’re in real trouble.”

  “If I only had my truck . . . ” he started to say.

  I took off running before he could finish.

  I’d never been great with direction. Standing next to the North Pole, I probably couldn’t tell you which way was south without making at least three guesses. It was a serious flaw. I don’t know why my perception was so bad. You could blindfold my mother, put her in an electric dryer for three hours, take her out, turn her upside-down, and she’d still be able to tell you exactly which way was north. My father was the same way. I don’t think I had ever heard him use the words left or right.

  “Look over there to the west, son.”

  “The fork goes on the east-hand side.”

  But my soul lacked direction, geographically speaking. This had been a real problem living in Thelma’s Way. The forest and hills really threw me. I worked hard to establish a series of markers to help me stay oriented close to town. But deep in the woods, I was useless. I’d never make it back to the meadow alone.

  I thought of the cabin nearby, the one with the unwilling occupant. It was my only hope. It took me a while stumbling around, but I finally spotted the cabin’s rock chimney. I banged on the door begging for help. Nobody came. The handle was locked.

  I considered trying to retrace my steps and hopefully find Jerry Scotch’s place again. But I didn’t think I’d be able to do it.

  I took a deep breath. I forced myself to calm down, and then I did what I should have done earlier. Standing right there in front of that door, I prayed. I prayed for Elder Jorgensen. I prayed for his leg. I prayed for my mind to stop buzzing long enough for me to think clearly. I prayed for God to send help. I prayed that if he was not going to send help, he would at least let me know what to do. And while I was praying, I heard the door open.

  It was a miracle. And it was Grace.

  There she stood. She was the last person I had expected to see. And in the same moment that I realized I had discovered her secret hiding place, I also realized I had not been wrong about her. Her appearance was like the memory of a embarrassing pop song from my junior high years. I felt silly for being moved.

  I stared.

  Her red hair was long and loose. Strands of it were touching the right side of her face. She had on a summer dress and no shoes. She might have appeared to be just an average girl to anyone else, but I could see how the light rested upon her in the most unique way, giving her both sharp lines and soft curves. Not even Lucy had created such a visionary event for my simple mind. Don’t get me wrong, Grace was no classic beauty. She wasn’t the kind of girl you would see in a fashion magazine, or looking good in spandex at the gym. She was simple and complicated. It was as if she were a part of this lush landscape, her green eyes and pink lips being the best thing these hills had to offer. For me, it was kind of like staring at a psychedelic pinwheel.

  Far out.

  I was suddenly well aware of how companionless I was. Elder Jorgensen was in trouble and, by almost all measures, what I was now doing was against the mission rules.

  I was alone. With a girl. The same girl as before, that night in the snow. I pulled myself together.

  “My companion needs help,” I stated.

  “What can I do?” she asked calmly.

  “Is there anyone else here?” I questioned.

  “Only me.”

  Under normal circumstances Grace would be more than enough, but not at the moment. I needed a couple people to help me drag my companion out from under that tree.

  “He’s pinned down under an old tree,” I began to explain. “His leg might be broken, and I don’t know if he’s bleeding or not.”

  “Did you give him a blessing?” she asked.

  Good question. How dumb had I been? Here I was a full-time missionary and branch president and I had failed to do the one thing that could really make a difference. It took an inactive member to get me to even think of it.

  “I didn’t really think—”

  “There’s some rope inside,” Grace interrupted. “We could hook it around a pulley and try to get the tree off of him.”

  I just stood there as Grace ran back inside collecting things that might be useful. Then we took off. The plan was to get Elder Jorgensen out from under the tree and make him comfortable. Then Grace would run into town and get further help. It was a pretty good plan, or would have been, had I been able to find him. We were lugging around the rope, the pulley, and some bandages. Our futile search soon became a pain.

  “Can’t you remember which direction you came from?” Grace tried to ask kindly.

  “Over there,” I kept trying to say with some confidence.

  “What were you guys doing out here?” she asked.

  “We were looking for investigators.”

  “No one lives out this far,” she said. “The wells are bad.”

  I thought for a moment that she was saying the Wells family who lived a mile behind the boardinghouse were bad people. Then I realized she meant the water.

  “So is that your family’s cabin?” I asked, knowing already that it wasn’t.

  Grace didn’t answer.

  “I’ve been looking for you for quite some time,” I huffed as we climbed up a small hill.

  “Why?” was all Grace said.

  “I wanted to thank you for waking me up all those many months ago. In the snow,” I further clarified.

  Grace just shrugged.

  “Plus, I wanted to talk with you.”

  “About what?” she asked skeptically, stopping in her tracks.

  I didn’t have an answer for that. I had just always wanted to talk to her. It was my turn to shrug my shoulders.

  We trudged on.

  I thought we were headed in the right direction until we came to a stream that I knew I had not crossed before.

  “Shoot,” I said, embarrassed at being lost.

  I screamed Elder Jorgensen’s name but no one answered.

  We stopped again.

  “Tell me what the area looks like where he got hurt,” she said.

  “It looked like forest,” I joked. “There were some trees, and bushes, and a short gouge in the earth.”

  Grace turned and headed in the opposite direction. I guess my poor description had been enough for her. A few minutes later, we were standing by the crack in the earth.

  But Elder Jorgensen was gone.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “He was really trapped.”

  I craned my head around, but there was no sign of him.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Grace said calmly, sensing my panic. “I’m sure he’s okay. He probably got himself out, or somebody found him. Let’s head into town. Someone will know where he is.”

  “Which way is town?” I asked.

  Grace answered with a point.

  We walked towards Thelma’s Way looking for Elder Jorgensen. We hiked up a few hills, across a few meadows, and down a few steep slopes. Neither Grace nor I spoke much. We were both uncomfortable. I started thinking about how this would probably be my only chance to talk with her. For over a year now I had been living and serving here in Thelma’s Way and for all that time, Grace had remained hidden. Even though I was worried about Elder Jorgensen, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to ask Grace a few questions.

  “So you must like it here,” I finally said.

  She turned and looked at me like I was daffy.

  “I mean, you grew up here.”

  She smiled at my poor communication skills. “This is home,” she responded, her voice the sound of good news.

  “How long have you been in Thelma’s Way?” she asked me.

  “Over a year.”

  “That’s not normal,” she observed.

  I looked at her as if seeking clarification.
<
br />   “Missionaries don’t normally stay so long in one area,” she added.

  “Yeah,” I replied wittily.

  “Are you being punished?” she joked as we walked down through a small overgrown patch of ivy.

  “Possibly,” I replied, trying to keep up with Grace without appearing winded. “Heaven knows there’s a long list of things I need to correct.”

  Grace smiled. “I find that hard to believe,” she said, walking faster. “Do you think they’ll keep you here until the pageant?” she asked.

  “No way,” I answered ignorantly.

  Grace walked on in front of me, her bare feet stepping in all the right spots. I didn’t know if I had romantic feelings for her or just feelings. I couldn’t help but see her in a different light from the rest of the citizens here. It was as if she were purely an emotion with arms and legs. I had no idea how to voice my thoughts, even in my head.

  Let me attempt, however.

  I remember being a kid and going down to the toy store with my friends. We would stand in front of the display of action figures and talk about which one we would buy if we had the money. My friends always drooled over the mean-looking ones, the ones with rows of big teeth and huge muscles. I secretly liked the nice ones, the dad-looking ones with parted hair and smiles.

  On one occasion when I actually had money, I cowardly bought a tough-looking one with flashy guns and karate-chop action just to save face in front of my friends. Had I been alone, I probably would have picked out the camping boy with working flashlight and first aid kit.

  Well, that was Grace.

  That’s not to say that she was a boy, or that she carried a flashlight. She was just the kind of girl I would pick out if I were totally honest with myself. She wasn’t like Lucy with all her bells and whistles. Grace was like the science kit that most of us pretended to loathe, but secretly worked with in our rooms—fascinated by all the parts, and constructing worlds, but not brave enough to admit that learning was fun.

  I was ready to learn.