by Dean Hughes
LaRue noticed, though she rarely thought of it, how pretty Mom was. She was wearing a royal blue dress, and her eyes looked very blue, set off against her graying hair, and even when she tried not to smile, her big dimples had a way of appearing. LaRue couldn’t help but wonder what all this would mean to her. “Mom, you may love Dad, but what are you going to do if he ends up being home a lot more than he has been? He’ll drive you crazy.”
There was a moment when LaRue thought she had said the wrong thing again, but her mom began to smile. “Do you think I don’t know that? This is a hard day for me, too.”
The girls all laughed. And even Bev said, “He’ll be checking with me every five minutes to see if I’ve done my homework.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” LaRue said. “I’ve got some I’ve got to do.”
“Don’t run off just yet,” Mom said. “Help me get these dishes done before you hide away.”
So Bev and LaRue helped their mom, and they got the dishes done quickly. Then LaRue headed upstairs. But she had hardly cracked her American History text before Beverly showed up at her door. “LaRue, I need to talk to you,” she said.
“Could you wait until after I—”
“I heard something about you at church this morning.”
“Now what?”
“Virginia Graves told me that you broke up with Reed Porter.”
“How would she know?”
“Her big sister is friends with one of Reed’s friends. He’s telling people that you gave Reed the brushoff without so much as a thanks-for-the-memories.”
“That’s not true. I was very nice about it. And I don’t think Reed even cared all that much.”
Bev walked over to LaRue’s bed, where LaRue was sitting up, leaning against the headboard with a pillow behind her back. She had taken off her church dress for now and was wearing her old plaid robe. “Why did you break up with him, LaRue?”
“You know why. The boy drove me crazy. He’s got the brains of a doorknob.”
Bev laughed, in spite of herself. “But he’s really cute, and he’s always nice to everyone—even me.”
“I know, Bev. But even that started to drive me nuts. You can only eat so many pancakes drenched with syrup before they start to make you sick.”
“Is that what he is—pancakes with syrup?”
“Sometimes he’s just straight syrup. Try to drink a gallon of that.”
Bev was laughing again. “So who are you going to go out with now?”
“No one.”
“Are you serious? If I had so many boys after me, I wouldn’t scare them all away.” She turned and lay across LaRue’s bed, at her feet, and she kicked off her shoes, as though she were going to settle in there for a time.
LaRue needed to study, and even more, she didn’t want to talk about this. She remembered that first year of high school when she had wanted so much to have boys pay attention to her—the way Beverly obviously did now. But she was tired of all that business now. Most of the boys she knew had nothing to say. They couldn’t carry on a conversation that interested her for ten seconds.
“Reed thinks you like Cecil Broadbent.”
“Virginia said that?”
“Yup.”
“That’s stupid. I do like Cecil, but not as a boyfriend.”
“Cecil’s so creepy, though. Why do you like him?”
“I’ve told you before, Bev. He’s interesting. He’s smart. He understands things. He can talk about something other than sports.”
“He’s never kissed you, has he?”
“No. Of course not. And he never will. That’s one of the best things about him.”
“But you kissed Reed, didn’t you?”
LaRue took a long breath. She had to end this conversation soon. “Bev, don’t worry about kissing. Just don’t let guys start all that.”
“I don’t. I just dance at church dances. Blair Handley likes me, I think, but he’s never asked me on a date.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just play with dolls or something.”
“LaRue! I’m not a little girl.”
“Maybe not. But wait until you’re older to start all this boy stuff. I got way too interested in boys when I was your age. It was the only thing I ever thought about.”
“I’m not like that. I just—”
“But Bev, you’re thinking about it too much. And that does something to you. I wanted to go with Reed just because all the girls swooned over him. It was like I’d won the biggest prize. I did everything to get him, but as soon as he started asking me out I was mean. I did rotten things to him just because he’d let me get away with it. The whole time I went with him, I didn’t like myself.”
“If I had a boyfriend, maybe I wouldn’t be mean.”
“No, you wouldn’t. But you’d fuss and worry about it all the time. You’re just better off to wait until you’re older.”
That seemed the end of the conversation, but Beverly was still lying on the bed. LaRue wanted to ask her to move on and was even thinking of the best way to say it when Bev said, “Virginia said something else. Something bad.”
“What?”
“She said that Reed told some of his friends that you don’t believe in Heavenly Father.”
“Reed said that?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, brother. That guy is so dumb.”
“Why would he say that, LaRue?”
“Because he makes these stupid statements about religion—and I would tell him how silly they were. He wasn’t even smart enough to know what I was talking about.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t remember any examples.” Actually, she did, but she didn’t want to talk about such things with Bev and upset her. The truth was, Beverly thought a lot the way Reed did.
Beverly rolled onto her side and propped up her head with her hand. “I told Virginia it wasn’t true. I told her about how you prayed about Wally that one time.”
“Don’t tell her things like that, Bev. You don’t have to. It’s none of her business.”
“But I know you do believe in Heavenly Father.”
“Well, then, forget about it.”
“But it worries me that people are going around saying things like that. I don’t understand why Reed would think it.”
LaRue had slipped a little too far down, and her back was hurting. She pulled herself up straight. “Okay, I’ll tell you how this all got started,” she said. “But then I need to do my homework.”
“Okay.”
“I used to go with Reed to his sacrament meetings sometimes. And one night we were in his ward and this woman got up and said she was sure that God had saved her life. She said she was walking home from the grocery store, carrying a bag of groceries, and she came to a corner. She waited for the light, and she was about to step out into the street when something made her hesitate. This car came buzzing through right then. It would have hit her if she had stepped out when she first started to.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. But after the meeting, I just said that I’d read in the paper about a little boy who got hit by a car, on his bicycle, and got killed. Then I said, ‘I guess God didn’t love him as much.’ Reed got all upset about that.”
“LaRue, in Beehives, Sister Jenson, our Beekeeper, told us it’s not God’s fault when things like that happen. Maybe the boy turned right in front of the car.”
“I know that. But this woman was about to step in front of a car, and she said that God told her not to—or the Spirit did, or something. I just wonder why people get hit by cars and killed all the time, and God steps in and saves this one woman and not the others.”
“Why do you think he does?”
“I don’t know, Bev. That’s what I’m saying. People talk like they understand everything, but Cecil and I talk about this kind of stuff all the time, and it’s not as simple as everybody makes it sound. People stand up at testimony meeting and make<
br />
it sound like God is in control of everything, just running the whole show. But then they turn around in Sunday School class and say that everything is up to us. The way I look at it, if God is in control of everything, he has no right to judge us. But if everything is in our control, why would he jump in and tell that woman not to step off the curb?”
“Maybe it wasn’t her time to die?”
“So is everyone supposed to die at a certain time? If I wander down the street and step out in front of a truck, if it’s not my time, is God going to send a wind to blow me out of the way?”
Beverly sat up, seemed to consider, but what LaRue caught was a whiff of the sweet perfume Bev was wearing. It was like flowers, rather annoying, but something Bev loved, and suddenly LaRue realized that she was planting questions in poor Bev’s head that would plague her forever—and the girl wasn’t the sort of person who could let such things go.
“Look, Bev, there’s probably a good answer to all of that. God knows it. But we don’t. I just don’t like it when people think they have all the answers when they don’t.”
“But LaRue, it does sort of sound like you don’t believe in Heavenly Father.”
“I don’t see why. There are lots of things we don’t understand in this life. Think of all the boys who went off to war. Most of them had parents at home praying for them, but some got killed and some didn’t. No one knows why exactly. Maybe God wants certain people on the other side at certain times—or maybe it’s just the way it works out. We just don’t know. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“But everyone said that Gene was needed to do missionary work in the spirit world. Don’t you believe that?”
LaRue took a deep breath. “That could be right, Bev. I’m just saying that I don’t know. And I don’t think anyone does.”
“Dad said that.”
“It’s a nice thing to believe.”
“That’s all it is? Just something nice to believe?” Beverly stood up and turned toward LaRue. “Is that what you think?”
“No. We believe there’s a spirit world. And we believe that people do missionary work there. So that’s what Gene is doing, I guess. I’m just saying that we don’t know why God needed Gene and not Wally, or something like that. And we don’t need to know.”
“Dad always says that the Spirit can tell us things. Maybe the Spirit gave Dad the answer—told him why Gene was needed.”
“Okay. Maybe it did.”
“And maybe that woman, too. The one in Reed’s ward.”
“Maybe so.” LaRue was going to let this go. Beverly was standing almost stiff, her arms straight down. She was like a little iron rod—straight, steadfast. It was wrong for LaRue to make her bend.
“Has the Spirit ever said anything to you, LaRue?”
“I don’t know, Bev.”
“Don’t you have a testimony?”
That was something that LaRue had thought a great deal about lately. But she was much more confused than she wanted to admit. She chose her words carefully when she said, “I thought I felt the Spirit at Gene’s funeral. When President McKay spoke, and he told us about Christ giving us peace and everything, I felt all tingly and good, and I thought that was the Spirit. I hope it was. But other things can make you feel that way. That’s what Cecil keeps telling me, anyway. So I don’t want to claim I know something that I’m not exactly sure about. I do believe in things, but I’m not sure I have a testimony—or at least a really strong one. But that’s my fault, not God’s.”
“Sometimes I feel the Spirit really strong, LaRue. I did that day when we found out Wally was all right and we all prayed together.”
LaRue had felt something that day too. But she wondered now. She wasn’t going to tell Beverly this, but Cecil had told her that anyone would feel relieved and happy at such a time. That didn’t prove that God was out there sending messages. Cecil wanted proof that there was a God, and he couldn’t find one. “I’m not saying there isn’t a God,” he had told her. “I’m just saying that I don’t see any evidence that convinces me. Most of what people say on the subject is just a bunch of hocus-pocus.”
“I felt something that day, too,” LaRue told her sister. “We all did.”
“LaRue, that was Heavenly Father. Wasn’t it?”
“I’m sure it was.” But LaRue wasn’t telling the truth now. She wasn’t sure. She just didn’t want to pass her doubts along to her sister.
Bev walked to the door and stopped. “LaRue,” she said, “it worries me to hear you talk that way.”
“I know. But don’t let it upset you. Maybe my faith will get stronger. I think it will. We’re still young.”
“But my faith is strong.”
“I know. You’re a better person than I am.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true, Bev. It really is. But don’t worry about me. I’m not falling away from the Church. And don’t say anything to Mom or Dad. Okay?”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll make it sound like I’m an atheist or something.”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind. Just don’t say anything.”
“Okay. But do you say your prayers every night?”
“Not always. Mostly I do.”
“Say them every single night, LaRue. And read the scriptures. That helps me.”
“Okay, Bev. You’re right. I do need to do that.”
“Are you going to try to get your Golden Gleaner award?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“You need to, LaRue. That would help you. Will you promise to try?”
“No, Dad, I won’t.”
“What?”
“You’re more like him than any of us.”
“But you do need to pray. And you do need to read the scriptures.”
“I know. But I need to do it on my own—not because someone pressures me.”
“Okay. But please do it.” She finally smiled.
LaRue smiled too. And she was surprised to think how much she loved her little sister—even if she was too much like her dad.
Chapter 5
It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon when Wally’s bus pulled into the Greyhound station on South Temple Street in Salt Lake City. He hadn’t told his family what day he would arrive because he didn’t want them to pick him up at the station. He had imagined thousands of times the way he wanted to return: he would walk into his house the way he had always done when he was a kid, just open the door and stroll in, as though he had been playing outside for an hour or two and hadn’t been gone for all these years. He didn’t want to see everyone at once, either, or get stuck in the middle of a big celebration. He just wanted to find his dad sitting in his big chair reading a newspaper, or meet one of the girls out playing hopscotch on the front walk. He wanted to feel that it was a normal day, and he wanted everything to look the same, smell the same, be the same as he remembered.
So Wally didn’t call home for a ride. He grabbed his duffel bag and walked to the corner of State Street, and he caught a bus home. Riding up Twenty-First South he saw the changes, some new buildings, some old businesses that were under new management—that sort of thing—but what surprised him most was the sameness of everything, how very familiar everything was. In San Francisco he had gotten used to the idea that America was alive and busy, not at all like Japan, but something about the mountains, the angle of the afternoon sun, even the people moving about on the streets suggested that life had continued much the same at home. It was strange how safe he felt here, how consoled—even welcomed, although he didn’t really talk to anyone.
Wally got off the bus at Eleventh East, by the old World War I Memorial, right in the center of Sugar House. As he walked north toward his house, through his old neighborhood, he recognized all the details of the place: the old cracks in the sidewalk—ones he had avoided stepping on as boy—and
the elevated spot where the roots of Larson’s big silver maple
tree bulged the concrete. He remembered roaming through these streets, playing hide-and-go-seek among the homes and vacant lots, building snow forts in winter or sweating in the August sun. Each front porch or tree or fence jumped back to his mind—all surprisingly clear, part of him, and at the same time dreamlike. He had lived here as a boy, as a teenager, and then for so long he had lived here in his mind. Now, to be back, to feel it all again, brought back a sense of himself that he hadn’t felt for a long time.
He remembered a summer day when he was maybe eight or nine, and he and Alex had been riding their bikes, going hard, and somehow, in turning a corner—this corner, right in front of him—they had bumped wheels or something, and both of them had crashed and flipped over on top of each other. Wally had come up crying, his pants torn, his knee bloody, and Alex had told him, sounding like Dad, “Your skin will grow back. It’s your pants you need to cry about.” And they had both laughed. Alex had seemed a giant then—so much older and braver and stronger, and Wally had known then that he would never catch up, that Alex would always be the king of this neighborhood, the star.
A block or so from his house, Wally saw Brother Shaw, who had been his Scoutmaster, but Brother Shaw was watering his roses, holding a black garden hose and crouching a little, as though he were bending over a baby in a crib. He didn’t seem to recognize Wally, or maybe notice him, and so Wally said nothing. He wanted to see his family before he talked with the neighbors.
When Wally turned the corner and saw his big white house across the street and halfway up the block, he slowed. He wanted to savor this. He looked all about, trying to recall everything. What he felt was that it was all sacred, blessed, part of a beauty he had carried within him in his darkest days. Up on the mountain the fall colors were already fading, the red and bronze of the scrub oak turning gray. The air was cool and burnished, the sun lowering in the west. The two big spruce trees in front of the McKinnons’ house had fattened, it seemed, grown a little taller, and the flowering plums in front of the Fairbankses’ house had grown up considerably from the little braced-up sticks they had been. But most things were unchanged. The houses, the hedges, the telephone poles—everything was just as it was supposed to be, and his house, gleaming white in the softening light, was perfect, unfazed.
