All Is Swell

by Robert Farrell Smith

  “I just might,” Elder Weeble said boldly. “This mission needs some innovators.”

  I took the dishes out to the river and rinsed them off half-heartedly. I brought them back inside and set them up to dry. We then headed over to the festivities. It was still light, and snow fluttered as the ominous clouds scratched themselves, sending dandruff-sized flakes down through the air. As we walked through the meadow we passed groups of kids dressed up for Halloween. It looked as if most of them had chosen the copout ghost costume.

  Paul was in the meadow as well, heckling all those who were heading to the festivities. We waved politely. He didn’t return the gesture.

  We walked back behind the Watsons’ house and over to the improvised spook alley. Sister Watson was standing out front with what looked to be a glass fishbowl, collecting money from the line of people waiting to go in and be scared.

  “Are we going in?” Elder Weeble asked me.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied, stepping up to Sister Watson.

  “Good turnout,” I commented on the long line of anxious patrons.

  “Folks appreciate the effort we’ve put forth,” she proudly said. “Should put us over the top as far as P.I.G. money is concerned. We’ll get that Paul Leeper yet.”

  So far no one had actually been into the tarp-covered structure to be able to fully appreciate all of their efforts.

  “This isn’t going to give kids nightmares?” I asked her.

  “The kids around these parts are accustomed to fear.” It seemed like a logical reply.

  “Is it appropriate for missionaries?” I asked.

  Sister Watson scoffed as if she would never take part in any activity that was not appropriate for missionaries. We paid her four dollars and took our place in line. A few minutes later Tindy MacDermont parted a portion of the tarp and started ushering people in. Lupert Carver was the first to go into the haunted house. I expected to hear screaming or hollering coming from inside as he entered. But there was not a sound. What seemed like only a few seconds later, Lupert came around from the exit in the back holding a small dish of something and complaining.

  “Is that it?”

  Ed Washington quickly whisked Lupert away before he could say anything else. The next child to go in and come out looked a bit more frightened but still seemed dissatisfied. Every child after that had the same expression when they came out. And always they were carrying a small dish of something brown and a folded piece of paper. For those kids who could get a word in edgewise before Ed hustled them away, it was always, “That’s it? That’s the whole haunted house?”

  Finally it was our turn. We were the first adults—well, semi-adults—to go through. I parted the tarp cautiously and crept inside. It was pitch black for a few seconds and then, as the tarp closed behind me, a light flashed on and there was old Bishop Watson sitting on a folding chair handing out pamphlets for the John Birch Society.

  “Corruption is everywhere,” he booed. “Beware.”

  Around the next corner was Toby Carver covered in ketchup and lying on a table. I watched him lick and taste himself when he thought we weren’t looking. Just past him was Miss Flitrey serving up chocolate pudding from a big kettle. The kettle was labeled “mud.”

  “Have some dirt, my pretty,” she said. Sister Lando was standing next to her, sporting her hat and cackling.

  For the grand finale, Jerry Scotch sort of barked at us as Pete Kennedy escorted us out the back tarp.

  I stepped back outside and just stood there, wearing the same expression as everyone else. P.I.G. had spent a week on that haunted house and that was all they could come up with. I looked at my John Birch pamphlet.

  “Do you really know who your friends are?” it said across the front in bold.

  Obviously not.

  Elder Weeble came out complaining about the pudding.

  “This stuff tastes like tar.”

  “What’d you think?” Ed Washington asked us.

  “It was short,” was all I could think of to say.

  “But scary, right?” he added.

  “In a sense,” I replied.

  “Are you going to eat your pudding?” he asked.

  I handed him my pudding and walked off with my companion.

  * * * * *

  Those who had been through the haunted house already, and those who weren’t planning to ever go through, had gathered at the Watsons’ home to drink cider and socialize. I was pretty familiar with the Watsons’ home, due to the fact that we did all of our laundry over there. We walked in and took a seat on their couch. People sat around talking about the haunted house, the John Birch Society, the coming pageant, and Paul, as kids smeared pudding over everything the Watsons owned.

  I sipped my cider, enjoying the conversations and voices that had grown familiar to me. I was comfortable here. I would have helped myself to a second glass of cider, but Briant Willpts came into the room and informed us that they had used that same cider to play bobbing for apples earlier in the evening, and had anyone seen his teeth.

  I stared into the empty glass in my hand with new horror when we heard Sister Watson screaming outside.

  “It’s gone!” she was yelling. “It’s gone!”

  Everybody ran out to see what was going on.

  “What’s gone?” Brother Heck asked.

  “The money,” Sister Watson sobbed, falling to her rear on the porch and beginning to cry. Her wig slid to the back end of her head. “All of the money we collected. Gone. Gone. Gone.”

  “Can’t be,” Sister Heck insisted.

  “But it is,” she insisted back.

  Money missing was something to be concerned about. There was no one in Thelma’s Way who took money for granted. Sure, Leo seemed to always have enough, but even he still seemed to respect the almighty bill.

  Grace’s brother, Digby, pulled up just then on his motorcycle and unwrapped the Saran Wrap from around his head.

  “Are you sure it’s gone?” Pap Wilson asked Sister Watson.

  “I looked everywhere,” she wailed. “We were keeping the proceeds in Sister Lando’s crystal ball, and I set it down to help. We were just cleaning up, pulling down the maze. I turned around and it was gone. The crystal ball was right where I’d put it, but the money inside it was gone.”

  “Who could have taken it?” I asked.

  A giant, dimly lit mental light bulb cracked on in unison above the crowd’s head.

  Paul.

  Everyone turned around.

  As if on cue, there he was standing about fifty feet from the porch. He had been pestering everybody earlier, now he was suspect. He stared at us all in disbelief.

  “What are you all looking at?” he asked in disgust, taking a couple steps backwards and away from us. “I didn’t do anything. Truth is the wind that lets me soar.”

  These people would show him sore.

  “Thief!” Briant yelled in response to Paul’s wisdom.

  “Where’s the money?” old Pap Wilson demanded.

  Paul didn’t stick around to answer questions or dish out any more confusion. He raised his fist in defiance and took off running down to the meadow and towards the river.

  Everyone stood there as if they were helpless. It was one thing to be outraged by what Paul had done. It was something else to actually exert effort to try to apprehend him.

  “I’ll get him,” Digby yelled, jumping back onto his motorcycle and kicking it to life. Smoke burst from its rusty pipe. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, providing a place for him to cycle through.

  Digby gallantly whipped out his roll of plastic Saran Wrap and haphazardly rolled a bunch of it around his head to protect his eyes. He looked like a clear mummy out for trick or treat. He revved his bike, nodded to the crowd with his now-matted noggin, and took off across the snow.

  The chase was on. It was almost impossible to see Paul and Digby in the dark.

  As luck would have it, Tindy MacDermont just happened to have her powerful flashlig
ht with her. She flicked it on and spotlighted the spectacle, bright against the snow.

  Paul was well over halfway across the meadow before Digby had even gotten started. If Paul could make it to the Girth River and onto a raft by the burnt bridge, escape would be certain. We watched as Digby closed the gap.

  Digby’s rusted motorcycle was no speed demon. It had a top speed of somewhere just above the double digits. So now as he sped across the meadow trying to catch Paul, it looked rather surreal, like slow motion. From where we all stood, we could see the back of Digby and the back of Paul even further off as he ran like the wind.

  Digby was closing in.

  Paul was heading straight for the bridge, his arms flailing wildly as he ran.

  Digby was getting closer still.

  Narlette began to chant.

  “Go, go, go, go,” she repeated over and over.

  Everyone began chanting along.

  Paul was getting ever closer to the river. It looked as if Digby might not be able to catch him. We saw Paul glance over his shoulder, see Digby, and move even faster. Digby was not about to give up. He needed to lighten his load. He reached over his shoulder, pulled off his backpack, and threw it down. Then, in one swift move, Digby lifted both feet from the pedals and kicked his boots off and into the air.

  His load now lighter, he closed in on Paul. I don’t know exactly what we all thought Digby would do when he got to Paul. I guess he could have run him over, or jumped off and wrestled him to the ground. Not knowing somehow made the suspense even greater.

  “Go, go, go, go, go,” we all whispered.

  He was so close now. Paul wasn’t going to make it. We all watched the back of Digby’s head as he went in for the kill. Digby looked strong and heroic as he gallantly pursued Paul, his Saran Wrapped head shining in the light of Tindy’s focused flashlight. He sat up straight on his motorcycle as he moved in for the grab. He put out his left hand, reaching. Then the back of his head began to wobble. His shoulders slumped as he suddenly put his hand back on the handlebar.

  Something was going wrong.

  Digby was slowing down! We saw him sort of bob from side to side as he decelerated. Then in one fluid movement he tipped over, bike and all. A patch of oil smeared against the snow marking his spot. Paul jumped down on the bank, grabbed a raft, and took off across the thickening Girth.

  “What happened?” Sister Watson yelled.

  I took off running with Brother Heck towards the spot where Digby had collapsed. Elder Weeble was right behind us. I could see instantly what the problem was. In his haste, Digby had plastered Saran Wrap around not only his eyes but also his nose and mouth, cutting off all air intake. I quickly pulled the wrap off of his head. He coughed and took in a huge gulp of air. He looked up at me.

  “I almost had him,” he whispered.

  “Paul’s fast,” Brother Heck said, leaning over Digby and me, his hands on his knees.

  I helped Digby to his feet and then let him lean on me as we crossed back over the meadow to the Watson’s place.

  “I almost had him,” Digby told his father.

  “I’m right proud of you, son,” Brother Heck said.

  Leo wheeled the motorcycle back to the Watson’s porch and leaned it against the rail.

  “Good chase,” everyone said, patting Digby on the shoulder.

  “What about the money?” Sister Watson cried.

  “It’s gone for now,” Brother Heck said. “We’ll give Paul a visit tomorrow.”

  “It’ll be too late,” Teddy Yetch moaned. “He’ll have hid it up by then.”

  “Well, I for one ain’t going to go stomping over to Paul’s place right now,” Brother Heck said. “Paul would shoot me and claim he couldn’t see who I was.”

  “And to think I was ready to re-believe in him,” Pete Kennedy said.

  Once again Paul had botched everything. Everyone besides Elder Weeble and I shuffled back into the Watson’s home. I guess they were hoping to salvage some sense of celebration. In my mind it was too late for that.

  Elder Weeble and I left the crowd and headed into the night.

  26

  Open Mouth, Insert Future

  Elder Weeble and I walked back across the meadow to the boardinghouse and sat down on the porch. It wasn’t often that the boardinghouse was vacant. Usually locals were strewn through it long into the night. But tonight the party was somewhere else. I could hear faint voices still coming from the Halloween celebration across the meadow.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Elder Weeble asked, after we had settled onto the porch.

  “It’s kind of a nice night,” I replied.

  “It’s Halloween and I’m cold,” he complained. “If I were back home in Colorado I’d be hanging out with my friends.”

  I just stared at him.

  “What?” he finally said self-consciously.

  “After all that’s happened today, that’s all you can say?” I asked bluntly. “Why’d you even come on a mission?”

  It was Elder Weeble’s turn to stare at me for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said stubbornly. “I guess my brother went to Russia, my sister went to Australia, and I’m stuck here.”

  I appreciated the family history, but his dialogue didn’t exactly answer my question.

  “So you went on a mission because your brother went to Russia?”

  “No,” he insisted.

  “Because your sister went to Australia?”

  “Don’t be dumb,” he said. “I came on my mission because I was supposed to.”

  “So why don’t you try to like it here?” I asked. “These people aren’t so bad, if you leave out Paul.”

  “This place is a dump,” Elder Weeble said.

  I looked at the black sky and the distant sparks of scattered houses lighting up for the night. I smelled the air as if it were a fine stew simmering in front of my hungry stomach. I looked at the porch steps and observed the knife etchings carved into its wood.

  “Feeble was he . . .”

  I assume it was supposed to say “Feeble was here.” Feeble must have become distracted before he was able to properly mar the porch. I knew people who were dead here. That really made me feel attached.

  I had barely gotten to know Roswell and Feeble, but I still missed them. Of course, in so many ways Feeble still was here. Thelma was still here. No one’s spirit ever seemed to leave this place. The meadow seemed to trap the souls of all who wandered in. I already knew I would leave a large chunk of myself when I left. Elder Weeble just couldn’t see it.

  “This place really isn’t so bad,” I reiterated.

  “Give me a break, Elder,” he mocked. “You’re just confused from being here so long. Besides, you like it here because of your weird girlfriend.”

  “What?” I asked sharply.

  “Your girlfriend, the redhead,” he explained. “Hope, Chastity, whatever.”

  “Grace?”

  Elder Weeble snickered.

  “What about Grace?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard things. It’s all through the mission.”

  “What kind of things? I hardly even know her,” I protested.

  “That’s not what Elder Sims said,” Elder Weeble went on. “He said you used to meet with her in secret. Even Toby Carver said you two were caught walking alone in the woods. Sounds awful cozy to me. No wonder you never want to leave. Although I can’t see what you see in that backwoods horse.”

  I hated Elder Weeble.

  It was an awful thing to feel, but I just couldn’t stand him any longer. I don’t know why my emotions boiled to the surface so suddenly, but I had a feeling that talk of Grace had something to do with it. I had never done anything wrong or improper. I had never even had an improper thought about her. But heaven be scorned, I did feel something for her, and in that respect I had been open and honest with President Clasp. I had done nothing to be ashamed of.

  I had left Lucy, the most gorgeous girl in Southd
ale, and I had discovered that the world was bigger than her and her perfect smile.

  Now, as I watched Elder Weeble sit, trapped in his box of pity and misunderstanding, I was sick. His mean words were both stupid and wrong. Grace was no backwoods horse. She was a confusing painting that took time and knowledge to truly appreciate. I was going to dispute what he had so callously said, but once again he opened his big mouth.

  “Let’s hear you stick up for your girlfriend,” he slurred.

  “She’s not my girlfriend and you know it,” I argued. “I’m a missionary, for goodness sake.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, standing up and wiping the cold from off his seat.

  I don’t know why I didn’t tear into Elder Weeble. I wanted to throw him to the ground and make him take it all back. I wanted to call him names and maybe hit him a few times. I wanted to stand up and say, “Yes, I like Grace, and no, I do not like you.” But I didn’t do any of these things. We were companions. We were stuck together. I was the senior companion and consequently the one that should act with more maturity and reason. Elder Weeble was just confused. I needed to make this missionary experience good for him. I had a responsibility. It would do no good to drag things out. So I did the expedient thing and laid it to rest.

  “Listen,” I began slowly. “I do not like Grace. She’s just another part of this crazy town. We’re here to do a job and that’s it. We can leave this place better than we found it, or worse. If we want it to be better, then you should at least act like you care.”

  Elder Weeble said nothing.

  I stood up next to him.

  “Happy Halloween,” I joked.

  Voices drifted from across the meadow as the snowy ground lay silent and clean. The festivities were still in full swing at the Watson house. I felt my heart slump as my tired feet and soul recognized the end of another day.

  “I’m tired,” Elder Weeble informed me.

  We headed for home.

  27

  Painfully Marred

  Grace had not meant to hear. She had been walking through the cemetery when she saw Trust and his companion make their way back and sit down on the dark porch of the boardinghouse. She crept up to the wall and listened as they spoke. She couldn’t resist.