by Dean Hughes
Still, all this talk was wrong. It wasn’t fair to David. It wasn’t right to let Afton say, in effect, “Don’t feel so bad; you still have the other one,” or even, “The other one was better for you anyway.” What Bobbi wanted to think about, for the moment, was the friend she had lost. “David loved life. He found everything interesting,” she told Afton. “We need more people like that, not fewer. It seems like the earth ought to be moaning right now, just for the loss of such a man.”
“Bobbi, you can cry.”
“I know. I will cry.” But the tears weren’t coming yet. What she saw in her mind was David at the front of his class at the University of Utah, pacing and talking with his hands, loving his own ideas, stopping sometimes as though he enjoyed his own language so much that he wanted to savor his last sentence before he spoke another one. He was the sort of man Bobbi’s father would never understand and wouldn’t want to, the kind of person Salt Lake City didn’t really welcome. But at the moment, Bobbi felt sorry for all the people who couldn’t love David, hadn’t loved David.
“Why in the world did he join the Marines?” Afton asked. “It was the wrong place for a guy like that.”
That certainly seemed to be true. It was what Bobbi had told him. But it was like him to wonder about every experience, and to fear that the war might pass him by without letting him in on some secret that only combat soldiers understood. It was even like him to secretly enjoy the idea that he was more patriotic than he let on. He would have been embarrassed to spout the clichés of nationalism. It was just more like him to love the whole world than any one part of it, but it was also like him to love the rocks and rills—the idea—of America. It didn’t seem like him to kill for those things; it did seem possible that he would die for them.
Bobbi didn’t answer the question. Instead, she said, “In class, when he would give a lecture, I would always know that he was talking to me. He knew how fascinated I was—with the literature, and with him—and he loved it. It turned him into a performer. He would talk to me, and I would feel the way a girl does when she’s walking down a hallway and some boy’s eyes turn to watch her go by. Do you know what I mean?”
“Sure. Every girl knows about that. But I never had a teacher look at me that way.”
“It was more than just having a guy look you over. I always knew that it was my brain that excited him.”
“That doesn’t sound very romantic.”
Bobbi didn’t answer that, but she wondered whether Afton knew the first thing about romance. It was actually one of the most enticing things Bobbi had ever known. The kiss, finally, in his office, had only been the natural result of all the brain tangling they had done in the classroom. She had felt that with Richard at times, too, that way in which they could embrace with their words and their thoughts, get close without touching, but Richard was so afraid to let go, and David didn’t know how to do anything else.
“You’re taking this so well, Bobbi. I didn’t think you would.”
After all the days Bobbi and Afton had spent together, Afton still didn’t know Bobbi. That had never been more
clear. “Once, when I went to Chicago, David came to my hotel room. He was very proper about everything, but when he was leaving, we started to kiss, and after a while, I didn’t want him to go. It was one of those times when I could have done the wrong thing.”
“Sam and I know all about that,” Afton said. And then she added quickly, “But we’ve been good.”
“David was the one who decided to leave. He didn’t want to hurt me. He knew how I would feel, after, if I did something I believed was wrong. Then, the next day, he sent me home for the same reason. He didn’t want to take my religion away from me, and he was afraid he would. He loved me that much.”
“I think he’ll accept the gospel in the next life,” Afton said.
Bobbi was stunned by the response. “Afton, what do you mean?” she said. “That is the gospel.” And finally, she began to cry.
Chapter 4
When President Thomas came home from his Sunday morning church meetings, he seemed distracted. Mom always said that he had to deal with lots of problems in the stake and had things on his mind. Maybe that was true, but LaRue wondered whether he didn’t like that excuse. It helped him stay out of conversations with “the girls,” as he called Bea and Beverly and LaRue.
Today, however, when the four sat down for Sunday dinner, Dad did have something to say. He offered the prayer himself and dwelt more than usual on the past, on all the blessings that had come to the family through his opportunity to serve as stake president, and, as usual, he thanked the Lord for Wally’s return to the States from prison camp and for Alex and Bobbi’s well-being. After the prayer, he picked up a plate of boiled potatoes and cooked carrots, scraped some of them onto his plate with a serving spoon, passed them on to Beverly, and then said, quietly, “President Smith called me this morning.”
There was nothing all that surprising in that. President Thomas talked to the president of the Church fairly often. The two had known each other for a long time, and President Smith tried to stay in contact with his stake presidents. What was obvious in President Thomas’s voice was that he was trying to act more unaffected than he really was. LaRue heard a hint of emotion in his voice, but she didn’t know whether it was excitement or concern.
Bea held a bowl of creamed corn in front of her, as though she had forgotten what she was going to do with it, and asked, “Really? What did he call about?”
“I’m going to tell all of you something, but it absolutely cannot leave this house.”
It was Dad’s usual proclamation. LaRue rolled her eyes and said, “Bev and I like to go upstairs and shout everything you say out the windows. All our neighbors sit in their yards, summer or winter, and just wait to get the latest word.”
“I’m serious, LaRue.”
“I know you are. We won’t do it this time . . . we’ll only tell a few close friends.” But when her father stared at her sternly, she said, “For crying out loud, Dad, I’m just kidding. We won’t say anything.”
President Thomas leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He looked across at Bea. “I’m going to be released as stake president,” he said. He glanced at LaRue and Beverly, then looked back at his wife.
“When?” Mom asked, her breath almost gone.
“At stake conference. Second week of December. Six weeks from today.”
“My goodness,” she said. A little shock had set in. LaRue could hear it in her mother’s voice, saw it in Bev’s eyes, but Dad was stone-faced.
It was hard to imagine. LaRue could still remember when her father had first become stake president, but it had been a long time ago, when she was a little girl. What she wondered, immediately, was what life in her home would be like now.
“Why is he releasing you, Dad?” Beverly finally asked. Bev’s cheeks had turned red, as though she took this as some sort of insult to the family.
“It’s a big scandal,” LaRue said. “They found out that Dad’s a Republican.”
Dad actually smiled a little. “That might be it,” he said. But then he added, rather seriously, “More of the Brethren are coming around to my way of thinking these days. Don’t be surprised if we don’t have more Republicans than Democrats in the Quorum of the Twelve before long.”
“Dad, I’m serious,” Bev said. “Why would President Smith release you?”
“There’s no reason. It’s just time. When I was growing up, stake presidents used to stay in office twenty or thirty years, but it’s gotten to be a harder job, with all the things that go on in our world these days. President Smith said that he felt he’d asked enough of me, and it was time to let someone else carry the load.”
“How do you feel about that, Al?” Mom asked, and LaRue could tell that she was a little concerned. LaRue knew why, too. Dad’s church work had been the center of his life for such a long time that it was hard to imagine him around the house more, the phone not ringing al
l the time, the family living like other people.
“It’s fine with me,” Dad said. “The timing seems right. With our kids coming home, it’s a good time to move back a little from all the busyness. I’ll still have a church calling of some sort—you can be sure of that—but if it’s something that doesn’t keep me quite so on the go, and if I can cut back a little on my hours at work, I think that’ll be very nice for a change.”
“You say that, Al, but are you sure you won’t be at loose ends, wondering what to do with yourself?”
Everyone had stopped passing food, but Dad reached for the roast, took a slice, and passed it to LaRue. She could see how hard he was trying to act normal, to hide what he was really feeling.
“I’m not old enough to retire. I don’t mean that,” he said. “But I can involve myself in some other things a little more than I’ve been able to in the past. Wally will be home one of these first days, and I want him to start carrying some of the load down at the plant. I want to break you loose from the place a little more—and me too.”
“To do what?” LaRue asked.
“I’ve talked with my dad about some other business interests, for one thing, and I’d like to give more of my time to politics, one way or the other.”
“What business interests?” LaRue asked.
Dad hesitated, looking stern. “It’s just an idea right now—something we chatted about the other day.”
“Just tell me a little about it—so I can tell all my girlfriends.”
Dad was obviously about to deliver another one of his little rebukes when Mom said, “Weren’t you going to tell me about it?”
Dad was trapped, and LaRue could see him squirm. “Of course I’m going to tell you.” Again he looked at LaRue. “Girls—all kidding aside—this is something you absolutely cannot talk about.”
“Not even on the party line—with Sister Aiken listening in?”
“I’m serious, LaRue.”
“I know.”
Dad cut off a bite of his roast and forked it into his mouth, and then, after a couple of quick chews, he said, “This area out here in Sugar House, especially south and up into the foothills, is going to boom in the next few years. Dad has a chance to buy some of the farms and orchards out that direction. The prices have jumped pretty high, but they’re going to go a lot higher. If we get in now, buy up some of that land, and then parcel it out into building lots, we can do really well with it.” He looked toward Bea. “This is a big opportunity for us. It’s a lot of money to invest, but we could get a bigger return than we’ve gotten on any of our other business interests.”
“But what about that camel, Dad?” LaRue asked, and she waited for him to look at her again.
“What camel?”
“You know—the one trying to get through the eye of the needle.”
Dad took this more to heart than LaRue had expected. She could tell he had already thought about it. “LaRue, there’s nothing wrong with wealth in and of itself. It’s what you do with it. I don’t like the direction a lot of things are going in this country. John L. Lewis and these labor unions have way too much power. Between the coal miners and the auto workers, they can shut down the whole country any time they please. Look at all the strikes we’re having—and we’ve got more coming, that’s for sure. But if I want to do anything about it, I have to have a voice, and it takes money to be heard. That’s just the way our system works.”
“So what are you saying—that truth wins out as long as you’ve got the money to pay for it?”
Dad was absolutely stopped. He stared at LaRue. “No,” he finally said, but he added rather weakly, “The truth will win out, but you have to let people hear it. And getting the word out can cost money. Part of it is getting the right people into public office, where they can have some influence.”
LaRue knew that it was time to stop, had actually known before she had made this last remark. “I’m sure that’s true,” she said, and went back to her dinner. And she took a little pride in backing off. A year before she would have kept pushing until an explosion finally occurred.
Dad began to eat much more resolutely, even quickly, after that, and then he did something LaRue had never seen him do before. He left almost half his food on his plate, pushed it back, and said, “I’m sorry, Bea, but I have to run. I’ve got to spend some time in my office at the stake house this afternoon. Before they release me, I’ve got a thousand things to put in order.” He slid his chair back from the table.
LaRue was sorry now, as usual. She had only meant to tease him a little. She hadn’t expected to get him upset. “Dad, you’ve been a good stake president,” she said. “Everybody always tells me that.”
He hadn’t stood yet. And once again, he was clearly taken by surprise. He seemed unsure how to take the words. “Thank you, LaRue,” he said. “But what do you think?”
“I told you. You’ve done a good job.” But LaRue didn’t really know how good he had been, and her voice registered her uncertainty.
“I’ve worked hard at it,” he said, and yet the words sounded like an apology.
“You’ve helped a lot of people. That’s what people tell me all the time—how much you helped them when they were going through a hard time.”
“Well, that’s what I’ve tried to do,” he said, and now his sadness was much more evident.
“You’re one rich man who’ll get through the needle.”
“I have no interest in being rich, LaRue. I want my children to have a way to make a good living, and I want to do some good. That’s all.”
“Dad, I was only kidding.”
“I know.” He got up, however, and he walked back to his little office off the dining room. He was only there a minute or so, and then he came out, carrying his old leather briefcase. “I’ll be over to our ward for sacrament meeting,” he told Bea.
“I’ll see you there.” And then he left.
“Mom, I was just teasing him,” LaRue said.
Bea had finished her meal. She leaned on the table with her elbows, her fingers laced together over her dinner plate. “I know,” she said. “But I doubt you have any idea what he’s going through right now.”
“Why, Mom?” Beverly asked. “He said it’s a good time to be released.”
“That’s what he’s telling himself. And I’m sure he knew this was coming. But Al has loved being stake president. That’s who he is now. Everyone in Sugar House knows him. He can’t walk three steps through this part of town without someone saying, ‘Hi, President.’ I think it’s going to be hard for him to turn all that over to someone else.”
“Won’t he be glad to have all the problems off his mind?” LaRue asked.
“No. I don’t think so. There’s nothing he loves more than identifying a problem and then doing something about it.”
“Maybe so. But he’s a lot more patient with other people’s problems than he is with ours.”
There was a long silence, and LaRue knew she had said the wrong thing again. It was Bev who finally said, “LaRue, he’s a good dad,” as though she felt someone had to defend him.
“I didn’t say he wasn’t.”
“LaRue,” Mom said, “it’s always hardest to solve your own problems. But I think you kids are turning out pretty well, and a lot of that is because of him. Maybe he preaches more than you like, but sooner or later, the things he tells you have a way of sinking in.”
LaRue didn’t know about that. But she hadn’t intended any big insult. She really believed that her mother had more to do with keeping the family running than Dad ever did, but she wasn’t about to say that now. She didn’t want an argument—or to get Bev all upset. “I do okay with Dad now,” she said. “Most of the problems we had were my fault. I’ve admitted that to you—and to him.”
“And all I’m saying is that this is a very hard day for him, whether he lets on or not. We all need to understand that. Just when all the good things are about to happen, and we’re getting our family back togeth
er, he has to make another big adjustment in his life.”
“Maybe he’ll get called to be an apostle,” Beverly said.
“No. I just can’t picture that,” LaRue said. “Do you think that’s what he was expecting, Mom?”
“No,” Bea said. But then she added, carefully, “I think at one time he did imagine that possibility. He was called to be bishop when he was very young, and he’s been stake president quite a while for a man his age. Plus, he knows all the Brethren, and I think they all think very highly of him. But—I don’t know—raising you kids, as much as anything, has changed him. This is just my idea, and I don’t know if it’s right, but I think he felt, at one time, that he pretty much had this world figured out. But you kids have each been different, and you’ve each given him some challenges. I think it’s taken some of the starch out of him.”
“You’ve knocked him down a few rungs, too, Mom,” LaRue said.
Mom didn’t like that. LaRue saw her head swing around, saw the little twinge of hurt in her eyes. “LaRue, he’s gained some humility along the way. He’s a better man than ever. I think he’d be a wonderful apostle.”
“I’m just saying that we aren’t the only ones who’ve humbled him. You have too.”
“LaRue, I’ve always supported him, but I’ve asked him some hard questions. And to his credit, he hasn’t just passed them off. He’s changed the way he thinks. He’s made some difficult compromises with all of us.” She looked at Bev, and then back at LaRue. “And there’s something I want you two to know. I love him more than ever. I respect him for doing what he thinks he has to do to be a good father and a good husband. He may not get everything right, but who does? I certainly don’t.”
LaRue smiled. “Maybe so, Mom. But he needs to learn how to love a little more and preach a little less. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from him.”
“Well . . . yes. That’s pretty well put,” Bea said, and she reached out and patted LaRue’s hand. “I just hope you kids will understand how hard the job is when you have your own kids to raise.”
