All Is Swell

by Robert Farrell Smith

  Whatever the reason for their first date, they were now the talk of the town. Word was they would be getting married in the Atlanta Temple sometime in July. That would be after my mission, but I had decided I would fly back if it happened.

  Leo looked at CleeDee, and CleeDee glanced at her watch. Words were whispered and then Leo declared Paul officially late.

  Ed Washington and his mother got up as if to leave. People shook their heads, disgusted with Ed’s lack of patience. Ed’s mother made his excuses for him.

  “Ed’s got some chores to do,” she explained.

  Poor Ed.

  From the standing position Ed spotted someone down by the river coming their way. The crowd fell silent and parted to let him through. He was dressed all in black and strutting.

  “It’s Paul,” Ed said, stating the over-obvious.

  Any and all wind died and the sun clicked things up two notches. Paul stepped silently up to President Heck and nodded. President Heck answered with a similar nod. Paul took his seat at the table next to Sister Watson, and the circle of spectators closed in around them.

  President Heck cleared his throat as Teddy Yetch popped open an umbrella for shade. Everyone glared at her, filled with shade envy. I saw Toby Carver try to scoot closer to her and procure himself some cover.

  “A few rules,” President Heck said. “There’s no need to swear, ’ceptin someone says something really profound. In which case a respectful, ‘I’ll be darned’ is perfectly acceptable.

  “In the spirit of fairness,” he continued, “we will let Sister Watson go first because she’s a woman.

  “Each person will be given a certain amount of time to speak their mind,” President Heck said. Then he paused, using his mind to remember what amount of time that was. “I think a couple minutes a question is appropriate. Leo will be our official time keeper.”

  Leo lifted up CleeDee’s arm, showing all the watch he would be using.

  “And just so as we’re all in the know, the stated purpose of this debate is to find out if, given the chance, Parley P. Pratt would have acted a part in our pageant,” President Heck explained. “I’m assumin’ he would have played himself.”

  Sister Watson nodded her approval. President Heck signaled Toby Carver, who blew a whistle.

  The sun was warm. The sky was clear. The debate was on.

  Sister Watson turned to Paul and shuffled a few papers in front of her. She adjusted her reading glasses and sniffed through her nose. She pondered and looked as if she were going to ask a well-thought-out question.

  Looks can be deceiving. She went right to the jugular . . .

  “Why should anyone believe anything you say about pageants since you were the one who stole the Book of Mormon?” Her lips had barely moved.

  Everyone sat there, stunned. The debate had hardly begun, and Sister Watson had issued what seemed to be a certain death blow.

  Paul didn’t flinch. “I didn’t steal anything,” he replied.

  “That’s a lie,” Teddy Yetch yelled out from the crowd.

  There was no rebuke from President Heck, our unbiased official. Sister Watson smiled.

  “Why did you steal the P.I.G. money?” Sister Watson fired round two.

  “I didn’t steal your dirty money,” Paul replied. “I never stole anything.”

  “That’s a lie also,” Teddy yelled out again.

  I saw Toby Carver begin making a noose out of his ace bandage.

  “Where were you the night the Book of Mormon was stolen?” Sister Watson probed.

  “I don’t know. That was well over two years ago,” Paul sniffed.

  “Funny how your memory is so selective,” Sister Watson jabbed.

  The crowd woooooed.

  Pete Kennedy stood up in the third row. “Paul, you ’member when we caught that big deer that turned out to just be Geoff’s dog?”

  Paul nodded.

  “That was seven years ago,” Pete added.

  “Ten, actually,” Paul corrected.

  “Well, if you can remember ten years ago then how come you cain’t remember two?” Pete craned his head around, startled by his own insight.

  The crowd began to murmur.

  “Thing being . . .” Paul tried to explain.

  Leo held up his hand indicating two minutes was up.

  “Next question,” President Heck said. “Paul?”

  Paul tried to collect himself. He stood to speak.

  “No fair standing,” Jerry Scotch shouted out. “Makes Sister Watson look short.”

  President Heck knitted his brow. Paul sat down again.

  “Thing is,” Paul began. “I never stole nothing. Are these the hands of a thief?” he asked, gently spreading his palms before him. Sister Watson sort of opened her mouth, but Paul’s words continued to fill the air. “True enough, these are the hands of an imperfect man.”

  Some of the spectators started licking their lips. Paul seemed ready for confession.

  “But these imperfect hands,” he continued, “have held infants that were sick, pulled friends out of predicaments, and paddled across the Girth in service. Take a good look at these hands. Respect the service they have dished up. Pull up a chair and feast from my sacrifice.” Paul took out a hanky from his shirt pocket and started to wipe his eyes. “There is something I have not told you all,” Paul continued, misty-eyed. “But I feel you have aged in wisdom.”

  The compliment melted like chocolate over the crowd.

  “When I was in Rome,” Paul went on, “all those years ago, I experienced something that I was told not to share. The heavens forbade me to share it with you. But it was revealed to me this morning as I was shucking corn that now is the time to let you know. I’ve been given clearance to impart the truth . . .”

  Leo’s hand went up.

  “Next question. Sister Watson?” President Heck said.

  Paul cursed himself, aware of how close he had come to swinging the crowd emotionally to his side. This two-minute time thing would be the death of him.

  Sister Watson stood and looked down at Paul. She knew he had gained ground as it was. She pulled out all the stops. “Did you or did you not try to kill Digby Heck?” She was passionate, at least as passionate as a person can be without moving her lips.

  The crowed started to murmur again and craned their necks looking back at Digby.

  Paul’s tiny, poorly arranged face, puckered up.

  “I . . . I never meant to hurt Digby,” he claimed.

  “Never meant to, meant to,” Sister Watson repeated. “Just like Cain never meant to hurt Abel.”

  Folks wiped at their brows in awe of Sister Watson’s powerful debating style. It was obvious from her last question that she had done research on the matter of murder.

  Miss Flitrey raised her hand. “Do you really think it’s necessary to drag the Bible into this?” she asked.

  Sister Patty Heck, who was sitting behind Miss Flitrey and was still sore over her teaching her children about ape genealogy, shifted in her chair and knocked Miss Flitrey’s legs out from under her. “Stop trying to remove the Bible from everyone’s lives,” Patty accused.

  Miss Flitrey turned around with a raging face and said, “Nice skirt,” snidely to Sister Heck, making fun of her homemade clothing.

  Well, not everyone could afford to shop the Virgil’s Find garage sales like Miss Flitrey. Her teacher’s salary allowed her to live a little too comfortable for most folks. Besides, everyone knew that Wad was dropping a lot of his hair-cutting money on her these days. Yes, at the moment Miss Flitrey was the closest thing the town had to having its own Kennedy. Sure, Leo was well off, but he didn’t flaunt it like she did. And yes, Pete actually bore the Kennedy name, but Pete was Pete, and Pete was poor.

  Toby Carver bravely stood up for Sister Heck and her homemade clothing. “I think her skirt looks right smart,” he said, tugging his beard.

  “How would you know if anything was smart,” Miss Flitrey bit back.

  �
��Hey!” President Heck yelled. “This debate is for Paul and Sister Watson. If you two want to schedule time to have your own argument, that’s fine. Although I must say right now that my wife is right, and Flitrey is wrong.”

  Miss Flitrey looked at Wad, wondering if he was going to stand up and defend his woman.

  Wad remained bunched down.

  President Heck brought things back to the debate. “Paul’s up. Next question.”

  “Wait a minute, he never answered my last question,” Sister Watson argued.

  “Your time’s up,” Brother Heck officiated. “Paul’s turn.”

  “You can’t count your wife and flighty Flitrey’s squabbling as my time,” Sister Watson protested.

  “Rules is rules,” President Heck snorted.

  Sister Watson sat back, steaming like a bowl of blushing chowder. In the spring heat her wig was starting to slide to the back of her head.

  “Can I speak now?” Paul asked, flicking the tip of his nose.

  President Heck nodded.

  “First off, let me say I would never harm Digby. He and I are kindred spirits. In fact, he reminds me of my trip to Rome.”

  Nice segue.

  “Quick count,” Paul continued. “How many of you here have ever been to Rome before?”

  Narlette raised her hand, but she was ignored.

  “I guess that makes me the expert,” Paul bragged. “You folks have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  Touché.

  “Now listen up,” he said. “I am going to share with you what happened and those of you who are touched enough to understand will know I speak the truth.” Paul paused and breathed deeply. He was going to say it all in one breath.

  “When I saw the finger of Thomas I also had a vision about how you all would one day doubt my words and try and drag me down and have this debate and not let me be in the pageant and persecute me and then finally come to understand my position on heavenly and important and mystical things.” He sucked in air. “So what I am about to tell you has been prophesied. The ghost of Thomas . . .”

  Once again Leo’s hand went up.

  Paul was furious. “Why can’t you allow a visionary man to properly prophesy?” Paul demanded, his big arguing mouth taking up the bulk of his face. “Blasphemy is your ally.”

  “The floor is now Sister Watson’s,” President Heck answered, motioning for Paul to simmer.

  “So, Paul,” she began. “Why did—”

  “Maybe we should let Paul finish what he was saying,” Ed Washington’s mother interrupted. “Sounded sort of important.”

  We all stared at Ed’s mom.

  “Sister Watson has the floor,” Jerry Scotch argued, as if he knew what having the floor meant.

  “Don’t you mouth off at my mother,” Ed Washington demanded, showing more spirit than I had yet seen him have.

  Jerry Scotch smirked. Ed lunged at Jerry, but his mother stopped him.

  President Heck waved frantically at Toby Carver, signaling him to blow his whistle. Well, Toby was too busy offering Teddy Yetch money so he could sit in her shade to notice Brother Heck.

  Paul pounded on the table. “Silence!” he demanded.

  Everyone shut up.

  “I have come down from my home,” he huffed. “I have crossed the Girth River and taken the time to come to this farce. Your disrespect is a tube full of pasty ill will. I decree that I will be patient no more.”

  Paul stood.

  “President Heck here,” he pointed, “and his Mafia missionaries have had control of this valley for too long. Look at what they have brought you. The amount of Christian love contained in this meadow could be measured in a thimble’s thimble.”

  Most of the crowd looked at their fingers, sort of pinching the size a thimble’s thimble would be.

  “Look at me,” Paul blared. “I am an agent of prosperity sent to dwell among you. Your attention is necessary to your salvation.”

  Everyone now focused on Paul. In fact, they focused so intently that they didn’t realize Sister Watson was not only standing up next to him, she was swinging one of Teddy’s empty brownie pans at his head. I guess she wanted to speed up the debate.

  “Sister Watson!” I yelled, pointing at her.

  I had hoped to prevent her from hitting Paul. Instead, my pointing caused Paul to turn towards her. Sister Watson whumped Paul square in the face, the brownie pan ringing out through the meadow. Even Sister Watson was stunned by what she had done. Paul fluttered and then fell flimsily onto the table in front of them. President Heck ran to him and lifted his head. Because of Paul’s already discombobulated facial features I couldn’t tell if Sister Watson had done any damage. Toby undid his Ace bandage noose and sidled up to Paul. Paul stirred. He was all right.

  I figured it was time for me to stand and tell the world what I knew.

  “Paul didn’t take the book,” I yelled out.

  “What book?” President Heck asked, the entire ring of spectators now looking at me.

  “The book,” I clarified. “The Book of Mormon that Parley P. Pratt gave Thelma’s Way.”

  Everyone kept staring.

  I walked up to the table. “I know for a fact that Paul Leeper did not take the Book of Mormon.”

  “Listen, Elder Williams,” Toby said. “We like you and all, but I don’t think this is really any of your business.”

  “Yeah,” said Briant. “You’re a good kid, but you ain’t stock. Everyone knows it was Paul that stole the book. Just ask Jerry.”

  All eyes focused on Jerry. “I think he took it,” Jerry said sheepishly.

  “If he took it, then how come I have it?” I unzipped my rainbow backpack and pulled out the first edition Book of Mormon with the special Parley P. Pratt inscription—the very same one Paul was accused of stealing all those years ago.

  Everyone gasped. Children cowered behind their parents. People covered their mouths.

  “I told you!” Paul hollered. “I told you I didn’t take it.”

  Pete Kennedy yelled out, “It was Elder Williams all the time. Let’s get him.” He reached for his gun, or at least where his gun would be had he been allowed to bring it.

  I think they were considering a lynching, but Sister Watson spoke out. “Elder Williams wasn’t even here when it was stolen,” she said, staring at the book in amazement. “He wasn’t even on his mission yet.”

  Everyone paused to think about this. It was worth considering.

  Elder Staples tried to help me. “My companion didn’t steal this book,” he said standing. “I just saw him buy it.”

  “He bought it!” Pete yelled, still furious. “Let’s get him.”

  President Heck held his hands up to silence the crowd.

  “Maybe you have some explaining to do, Elder Williams,” he said to me. The crowd hushed. I set the book on the table in front of me.

  “I know that this will come as a great surprise and disappointment to all of you, but Roswell Ford took your book.”

  “Come on,” Briant Willpts booed. “How dumb do you think we are?”

  I prayed he wouldn’t force me to say.

  “It’s true,” I argued. “Roswell knew everyone would blame Paul, since Paul had prophesied that bad things were going to befall the Mormons, and Roswell needed the money. He stole the book and sold it to his cousin Stubby in Virgil’s Find.”

  “Roswell’s dead,” Sister Yetch yelled out. “We shouldn’t be speaking ’bout the rotted like this.”

  I hadn’t considered that translated beings actually rotted.

  “Teddy’s right,” Old Pap said. “Disrespectful through and through.”

  I threw out my next bit of news.

  “Roswell’s not dead,” I shouted. “His cousin saw him last week. In fact, I have reason to believe he also stole the P.I.G. money.”

  Everyone’s eyes turned red as they glared at me. Elder Staples stepped right up next to me and flexed his chest. I guess he was acting as my security.
r />   “Now, Elder Williams,” Toby cautiously said. “It’s one thing to tell wild stories, but it’s an entirely different deal to slander the translated name of Roswell and Feeble.”

  “You people have sinned,” Paul spoke up. “You have misjudged me and now as the truth rears its big fat head you will see me as your superior.”

  Jerry Scotch had had enough. He jumped up and ran towards Paul, ready to grab his neck. Brother Heck held him back.

  “People, listen up,” he demanded, struggling against Jerry. “There has to be an explanation for all this.”

  “Yeah, Elder Williams is lying,” Briant Willpts shouted.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” I insisted. “Roswell sold the book to his cousin Stubby for two hundred and fifty dollars. Stubby then sold it to a woman who collects old books so as to appear educated. I bought it back from her this morning.”

  The crowd fell hushed. I couldn’t tell why until Wad spoke up.

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars for that old thing. That’s a fortune!”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars,” I repeated.

  President Heck picked up the book. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “This thing’s worth two hundred and fifty dollars?”

  “Actually,” I said, “this book is worth far more than that. A man back in my hometown bought a first edition Book of Mormon for twenty thousand dollars. And this one here’s in better shape, and it’s signed by Parley P. Pratt. I bet you could get a lot more for it.”

  Everyone was standing now.

  “Twenty thousand dollars?” Sister Watson whispered in unbelief. “I thought all that book had was spiritual value.”

  President Heck set it back down on the table as if it were a hot coal. Then he reconsidered his actions and picked it back up. He held it tightly to his chest.

  The crowd started to drool. I watched the gears in the noggins around me calculate what they could do with twenty thousand dollars. The wind picked up, blowing honesty, decency, and Christian consideration out of the meadow, replacing them with a triple helping of half-crazed greed.