by Dean Hughes
Tom did lay off, didn’t say another word, but he continued to chuckle. And Garner was obviously too self-conscious to talk to Beverly in front of him. Everyone rode in silence for a couple of blocks, and finally Bev couldn’t stand the awkwardness. “It sure was a pretty day today,” she said.
“It was. It was real nice,” Garner said.
Tom seemed to sputter for a moment, as though trying to resist, and then he laughed out loud, hard.
And that was the end of the talk. Only when Tom pulled up to the high school and swung a U-turn so he could let the two out, did he say, “Mom says to pick you up at eleven-thirty. Okay?”
“Okay,” Garner said, and he slid out of the seat.
As he walked around the car, Tom said, “Good luck, Beverly. This little brother of mine might tromp your feet into bloody stubs.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Beverly said, but she was greatly relieved when the door came open and she was able to slip out. And when she did, she was looking up into Garner’s cute
face. “Sorry about all that,” he said, and under the street light, Beverly could see that he was the one blushing now.
Suddenly she felt more relaxed. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she said. She took his arm and walked with him into the school. And inside the gym, things went pretty well. Garner wasn’t such a terrible dancer as Tom had claimed—just bad. And somehow that was rather pleasing. She liked to think that Garner wasn’t any better at this dating business than she was. And when they traded dances, even though some of
the other boys danced better, she still liked returning to Garner, who seemed a little protective of her, the way he led her about, got her a drink of punch, asked how she was doing. They really didn’t have to talk a whole lot, but subjects kept coming up, and Beverly didn’t feel all that nervous.
But then the band leader announced a short break. “Hey, we’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” he said, “so keep your dancing shoes on.” His voice, through the microphone, echoed around the gym, and then suddenly all the sound seemed to stop.
Garner went off and got cups of punch for the two of them again, and when he returned, they sat down side by side on the first row of the gymnasium bleachers. Beverly hoped that another couple would come over to them and chat a little, but no one did. And Garner wasn’t saying a word.
“That’s a good band, isn’t it?” Beverly finally offered.
“I guess so. I don’t think I have much rhythm, though. When my mom tries to teach me, she always says, ‘Listen to the beat. Step to the music.’ But I guess I don’t hear it.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Not really.”
And then there was nothing to say again. Beverly thought of commenting on the punch, but there was really nothing to say about it. And she wasn’t going to bring up the weather again. Finally, when she just couldn’t stand the silence, she asked, “What are your interests, Garner?”
He hesitated, thinking. “Well, I guess . . .” Then he burst out laughing. “That’s what my mom told me to ask you, but I was afraid if I did, you’d ask me. And I couldn’t think of anything. At least nothing . . . you know . . . interesting.”
“That’s how I am. My sister told me to talk about Jane Austen, but I didn’t know what to say about her.”
“I know something about Jane Austen. I read one of her books, cover to cover. I thought it would kill me, but here I am, alive and well.”
“Which one was it?”
“I don’t know. Tell me some of them.”
“Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility—”
“I think it was one of those two, because it was like that—two words that sort of rhyme or whatever that is.”
“Alliterate.”
“What?”
“When the first letters are the same like that, it’s called ‘alliteration.’”
“Wow. You must be really smart.”
“No, I just . . . happened to know that.”
“But anyway, it was probably one of those. It was all about these English people who mostly go to parties and worry about who’s going to marry who, and stuff like that.”
“That could be either one of those two. Mostly, all of Jane Austen novels are like that.”
“And you like them?”
“Uh huh.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just like the girls, and I wonder what’s going to happen to them. You didn’t like the book at all?”
“Well . . . not really.”
So that took care of Jane Austen. Beverly was thinking about asking about track, but she had only gone to one track meet in her life. That was back when Wally was running and she had been a little girl. She remembered long, boring delays, quick races, and then more delays.
She knew that Garner was surely trying to think what to say, so Bev decided to take a chance on whatever he came up with this time. But the seconds ticked by like hammer blows, and she could sense how nervous he was getting. Finally, he said, “My mom told me that your brother was a prisoner of war, over in the Philippines.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Was that pretty rough?”
“He lost about eighty pounds, I think it was. When we first saw him, he looked all right, but he told us that he looked almost like a skeleton when they first let him go.”
“Is he doing okay now?”
“He’s doing great. He got married, and he’s working for my dad. But the whole time he was gone we didn’t know if he was alive or not. My parents always said they thought he was, but I worried about it every single minute, it seemed like. That’s the best thing about the war being over—not worrying all the time.”
“I thought the war would keep going on, and I would have to go. I always said I wanted to, but it scared me. I didn’t want guys shooting at me. My brother went through that.”
“Did he come home okay?”
“He came home. I wouldn’t say he’s okay.”
“That wasn’t Tom, was it?”
“No. An older brother. His name is Lawrence. He says his name is Larry now, but we never have called him that.”
“Did he get wounded or something?”
“Well, yeah. He did. But that’s not what’s wrong. He came home a lot different from how he used to be. I didn’t remember him all that well, he was gone so long, but my Mom, she cries all the time, just thinking about him. He smokes now, and he goes out every night, doesn’t come in until almost morning, drunk and everything. And he swears really bad, right in front of my mom and dad.”
“My dad always talks about that—how many boys are coming home like that. I guess being in the army does that to some people.”
“I guess it’s his own business if he doesn’t want to go to church, but right now, he’s just ruining our family. He’s mad all the time. It doesn’t matter what anybody says to him, he blows up about it. The bishop came over to talk to him, and Lawrence almost threw him out the door. He was cursing God, saying how he had seen too much bad stuff to think God loved anyone—and saying words that were the worst ones you can even think of. I went to my room and put a pillow over my head, and I could still hear him.”
Garner wasn’t looking at her. He was looking off across the room. Kids were standing around in little groups, talking, drinking punch, but Beverly didn’t think he was seeing any of that. He was remembering, and she could see how sad he was.
“Maybe, after a while, he’ll get over some of that, Garner. My dad says that some soldiers have to get things out of their systems for a while.”
“Lawrence is too far gone. I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. Sometimes I think he would have been better off to die in the war. I don’t think he’s ever going to be happy.”
“My brother did die. My brother Gene.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”
“That’s all right. He was on the island of Saipan, and he died the very first day he was in battle. He went onto the beach
and he got shot, right off. His sergeant wrote to us and said how brave he was and everything, but I don’t see how he had time to do much of anything that was brave.”
“It was brave to hit that beach.”
“I know. But somebody made him do it. Gene never would have hurt anybody if there hadn’t been a war. He was the nicest boy you can even imagine.”
“I wish the war had never happened.”
Beverly looked over at Garner. It was hardly a brilliant thing to say, but she felt how much he meant it, knew the feeling herself. “Sometimes I think we got cheated,” she said. “We missed out on a lot of neat things, just because everything got changed so much.”
“I don’t care if we didn’t have as many parties, or if we couldn’t bake cakes as much—stuff like that. I just wish Lawrence was okay.”
“I know. I wish I had Gene back.”
“Yeah. I’ll bet.”
The silence returned. Beverly was pretty sure she had
nothing more to say on the subject, and Garner didn’t either, but she felt close to him. They even danced a little closer when the band came back. When Tom picked them up and drove them home, they didn’t say anything again, but Garner sat with his leg touching hers a little, and she didn’t feel nearly so awkward. At the door, he stayed far away, seeming only too happy to say “Well, thanks a lot” and make his getaway. But Beverly liked him. She was pretty sure LaRue would think he was rough as a cob, and maybe he was, in a way, but he was nice, and he had talked to her about things she doubted he had told anyone else.
When Beverly walked inside, she was hoping that her parents were in bed, but she not only found her mother up but also Bobbi and Richard sitting in the living room. “I just wanted to see you in your pretty dress,” Bobbi said.
And Richard stood up and said, “My goodness. You look so grown up, Bev. You’re a knockout.”
The truth was, Beverly still had a bigger crush on Richard than she did on Garner—or on anyone else. Richard was handsome and confident, and so nice. She wished there were boys more like him at the high school. But then, they probably wouldn’t want to take her out; they would all be chasing after LaRue.
“Your hair is so cute,” Bobbi said.
“LaRue did it for me.”
“Didn’t LaRue go to the dance?”
“No. She doesn’t go to dances very often any more.”
“Why not?”
“She’s gone from chasing boys to running them off,” Bea said. “I don’t know which I worry about more.”
Bobbi came to Beverly and took her into her arms. “Oh, honey, this is so fun for me to see you. I hate to watch you grow up, in a way, but it all reminds me of me—not so long ago as you might think.”
Beverly thought she understood that, but she thought she would rather escape now, not be quite so admired.
“So how was this boy? Do you like him?”
“He can’t dance at all,” Beverly said, and she giggled. “But he was really nice to me.”
“Did you think of anything to say?” Bea asked.
“I guess so—enough to get by.” Everyone laughed, including Beverly. But the truth was, she thought she had done pretty well.
Chapter 21
Wally and Lorraine were seated in a sealing room in the Salt Lake Temple. They watched as Don Cluff and his wife Marjorie knelt on opposite sides of the altar, reached across, and took one another’s hand. Elder Spencer W. Kimball, one of the newest members of the Quorum of the Twelve, had agreed to perform the ceremony. He spoke the prayer gently, and Wally listened to the words, the promises, that he had received not so long ago himself. He could see Don’s solemn face, how gratefully he looked at his wife. What Wally thought of, had thought of often these past few days, was that night near Clark Field in the Philippines when Don had asked Wally to pray. Wally had hardly felt worthy to do such a thing, but he had asked for the very thing that had happened, that Don would be spared so he could return to his family. What Wally never would have imagined then was that someday the two of them, with their wives, would be here in the temple together.
When the marriage sealing was complete, Elder Kimball stepped outside for a moment, and everyone waited until Don and Marjorie’s daughters were brought to the room by a temple matron. Then the little girls joined their parents at the altar. Patty, who was nine now, knelt next to her father, and seven-year-old Joanne next to her mother, and the two rested their little hands on top of the joined hands of their parents. Both were dark-haired little girls, petite like their mother. They were busy kids, little live-wires, but they looked angelic now in their white dresses. Wally thought how often Don had talked of these two while he and Don had been in prison camp together, and how much Don had longed to see them. Now Marjorie was expecting her third baby in the fall, but this next child would be born in the covenant.
Again Elder Kimball pronounced the sealing quietly, slowly, in his mellow voice, and the children listened intently. Then, when he had finished and everyone was standing up, he said, “I want all of you to come around to this side of the altar and stand together, and I want you to look into that mirror.” On either side of the altar were large mirrors, facing one another, the surfaces reflecting back and forth. Above the altar was a pretty glass chandelier whose image, in successive reflections, seemed to recede into nothingness. Don and Marjorie and the little girls stepped into that picture. “What you see there, children,” Elder Kimball said, “should give you some idea of eternity. Can you see how those images of you seem to go on and on forever?”
The girls were obviously touched by this quiet, holy place, by the mood here, by Elder Kimball’s mildness. They looked solemnly into the mirrors, and both nodded.
“You’re joined to your family forever now. You’ll be together in the next life. And you can create a link to them when you find mates someday and marry. You can be sealed to your husbands and to your own children. You can keep your family together throughout all eternity.”
Wally had heard those words all his life, had thought he knew what they meant. But he glanced now at Lorraine’s lovely roundness. He hadn’t realized how he would feel about that, about a life coming from the two of them, about the connection not only to his child but also of the child’s connection to his parents and grandparents. And then he tried to picture that chain into the future, like the images in the mirror, separate and yet overlaid upon each other, individual and still aggregate. Being one, being an agent unto himself, was important, and it carried responsibility, but this larger whole, his tie to something that had started long before him and would continue long after—that was so much more meaningful. His dad had tried so hard to tell him those things when he was a teenager, and Wally had grown weary of hearing about his “heritage,” but he thought he understood now, hoped he could somehow get the idea across to his own children.
Wally and Lorraine hugged Don and Marjorie and the girls. Wally shook Elder Kimball’s hand too. “Thanks so much,” he told him.
“Oh, I’m glad to do it. We in the Twelve don’t do so many as we used to, but I always enjoy doing sealings.” Elder Kimball was much shorter than Wally, but he reached up and patted him on the shoulder. “You served a mission, as it turned out—to bring this family into the Church. Maybe, at the time, you didn’t realize that that’s what you were doing. I’m glad
you remembered who you were, even in those terrible circumstances.”
Wally had never thought of it that way, but the idea struck him as right.
“How’s your father doing?” Elder Kimball asked. “Is he making the adjustment all right, not having quite so much to do?”
“I think he is. But it wasn’t quite as easy as he thought it was going to be. It’s taken him all this last year just to settle into a new routine.”
“Well, we need to send him out as a mission president somewhere, just so he doesn’t start feeling lazy.” Elder Kimball smiled, almost playfully. He had been called to the Twelve during the war, so he was not
one of the General Authorities Wally knew, but Wally liked the man already. He was natural and genial. What Wally liked, however, was that he didn’t seem at all impressed with himself.
“Dad would make a good mission president,” Wally said, and he meant it. He suspected that his father might be just a little too stern with the missionaries at times, but he would be a lot more understanding than he might have been a few years back.
“He’s one of the stalwarts,” Elder Kimball said. “People out in your part of town tell me all the time how much they love that man. I doubt you have any idea how many families he’s helped. If someone was up against it during the war, he’d do whatever it took to get them through, and I happen to know that a lot of that came right out of his own pocket—not from the bishops’ storehouse.”
“Elder Kimball, I didn’t know that. He never mentions anything like that to the rest of us.”
“Well, that’s just like him. I’m sure your mother knows, but he would never blow his own horn about the things he does.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
Elder Kimball took hold of Wally’s arm, gripped it. “I had a long chat with your father one day, during the war, when he didn’t know whether he would ever see you again. He told
me some of his regrets—that he hadn’t been as close to you as he wished he had been. He said that if he got the chance, he wanted to make up for that. I hope that you two are taking advantage of this second chance you have.”
“I think we are.” But Wally realized that he sounded hesitant, so he added quickly, “I appreciate my father more than I did when I was younger.”
“Well, that happens to most of us. We grow up, and then we see things a little differently.” He looked over at Lorraine and smiled. “Someday—maybe not so long from now—you two might have a child who tests your patience. That’s when you’ll really understand your father.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Wally said.
Lorraine laughed and said, “This one we’re expecting has already made up its mind that it needs more room to move around in.”
“Yes, yes. It starts from the very beginning.” Elder Kimball turned then to the Cluffs and chatted with them. Wally looked again at the mirrors. It struck him how many times in the history of the world the same story had been told: parents teaching their children the things they believed, and the children trying on those ideas, sometimes throwing them off, sometimes grabbing hold. He wondered what it would be like if this baby he and Lorraine were expecting turned out to be the kind of teenager he had been himself.
