A Song for Issy Bradley

by Carys Bray

  She just about manages to stop herself from saying, it’s more than a percentage point, it’s me. “But you’ll still come to church, won’t you?” she asks. “You can’t leave completely.”

  “You’ve just done a good job of explaining why I can’t stay,” he says gently.

  “Please stay.”

  “I don’t believe.”

  She doesn’t know what to do. If this was a story in a Church Lesson Manual, she’d give him the Temple picture card from his dad and he’d agree that missions are essential and there’s nothing lame about eternal marriage. But the card is sitting on her desk at home and if she tried to give it to him he’d almost certainly laugh and pass it back.

  “Do you believe in eternal marriage?”

  “Give it a rest, Zippy.”

  “Either you do, or you don’t.”

  “Not everything’s either-or. We’ve been friends for ages and we—we like each other. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t …”

  She shakes her head, remembering President Carmichael’s horrible little saying: “You like him; you love him; you let him; you lose him.” She won’t lose him.

  The school bell rings and Adam steps closer to the gate.

  “You’d better go.”

  She watches as he jogs away and then she walks to the bus stop by herself, wondering whether things might be easier if love wasn’t inextricably linked to marriage and she didn’t have to live every moment in the present and the endless future; it’s an unworthy thought—there’s nothing more important than marrying the right person, at the right time, in the right place. She’ll wait for him, hopefully not for as many years as Anne Elliot waited, but still, what’s a few years compared with forever? It’s just a small sacrifice; she’s only giving up something good for something better. It’s better to experience the agony now and save the hope for perpetuity, isn’t it?

  – 25 –

  A Bloody Miracle

  Al stands on the pedals but the position magnifies the ache in his thigh, so he sits down and decides to take his time. He explores the new contours of his lip with his tongue and thinks about what’s just happened. The old men have gifted him a story: He’s discovered the password to a club that’s excluded him for years; he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to join, but he could. He could tell people, if he wanted. He pictures himself standing at the pulpit on Fast and Testimony Sunday, describing how the three Nephites came to his rescue. The room would go quiet, people would really listen, and they’d know he was someone important and good. That’s the whole point of miraculous stories, isn’t it? To let people know that Heavenly Father thought it was worth stopping whatever it was He was doing, in order to intervene in your life. Al could hang everything on this story—build his testimony on it, like the wise man who built his house upon the rock.

  He pedals faster, even though the effort pumps pain into his thigh and shin and his breath rubs against the ache in his back. He sees other kids cycling on the opposite side of the road, cars and buses packed with uniformed bodies, all heading for school. Not him. He’s going to get the money out of his hoodie pocket, cycle to the bank, swap the notes, and take them straight to Mum. She’ll be stoked; she might even get up right away—it’ll be all religious like that bit in the New Testament when Jesus tells the man to take up his bed and walk. Once that’s happened, the whole story will be totally epic. He imagines going into Issy’s room with the money in his hand and holding it out to Mum. He tries to think of some words to go with the action as he swings onto the pavement and over a pedestrian crossing in order to avoid a red light at the crossroads. The words come to him as he bumps back onto the road, and he tries them out.

  “Mum,” he says in an authoritative voice that makes him sound quite a lot like Dad, “throw off your duvet and walk!”

  He cycles past the end of Brother Rimmer’s road. He doesn’t feel the urge to turn around until he gets to the next junction, and he wouldn’t normally pay any attention to such an urge, but it’s been such a weird morning that he slips down a side road, turns, and heads back. He isn’t sure why. All he knows is Brother Rimmer will listen and join the dots together. No doubt most of what he says will be completely bonkers, but Al finds he doesn’t mind.

  Brother Rimmer opens the door in his pajamas.

  “You’re lucky, I’ve just stuck my teeth in,” he says. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  “I wanted to tell you something.”

  “You’d better come in, then.”

  He follows Brother Rimmer down the hall, past the Blu-tacked pictures of the prophets, and into the kitchen. Brother Rimmer hefts a bag of peas out of the freezer and wraps it in an orange tea towel. “Hold that against your lip. Reckon you can manage a bacon sandwich?”

  Al lifts the peas away to say, “Yes please.”

  Brother Rimmer doesn’t put the bacon under the grill. He fries it in a frying pan with a big lump of butter. Then, when it’s ready, he dips bread in the fat, folds it around the bacon, and smacks his lips.

  They eat standing up in the kitchen. Al takes small bites and chews with his back teeth. There isn’t a radiator, but Brother Rimmer’s got one of those electric heaters that blow like a hair dryer and Al stands with his back to it so his trousers can dry.

  After they’ve finished eating, he tells Brother Rimmer about being attacked by the lads and rescued by the three old men; he doesn’t mention the money.

  Brother Rimmer says the story is the best thing he’s heard in ages. He can’t be sure whether the men were the three Nephites, largely on account of the dog, which doesn’t feature in any of the reports he’s heard. However, it’s possible they may have decided to get a pet. After all, it must get a bit lonesome and boring, wandering the Earth until the Second Coming. Either way, he reckons it’s a sign that Heavenly Father is looking out for Alma Bradley—most likely a miracle, in fact. And because he says it so seriously and thoughtfully, Al can almost believe it; when it comes down to it, a miracle is just an unexpected but welcome change—water to wine, dead to alive, crap to brilliant.

  On the way out, Al pauses next to a picture of Brigham Young, whose sour expression is partially obscured by a lawnlike beard.

  “There’s something else I should tell you,” he says.

  “Go on then, lad. Spit it out.”

  “That money you’ve got in the garage.”

  “Oh yes?” Brother Rimmer’s eyebrows flex.

  “You should take it to the bank. It’s not safe. Anyone might steal it.”

  “Not anyone, it turns out. You’re a good lad, Alma Bradley.” He holds the front door open as Al climbs back on his bike. “Go carefully now,” he calls. “Don’t do anything daft—you’ve had your miracle today!”

  – 26 –

  Big Boy

  It’s quiet in the car. Dad doesn’t play the Tabernacle Choir CD and he doesn’t talk. When he pulls up outside the school, he switches off the engine and says, “I’ve learned something over the years, Jacob. The answer to some prayers is no.”

  They walk up the path together. Jacob says goodbye and Dad says, “I’m tired,” which feels like, “I’m sorry,” even though the words are different.

  He sits by himself in Early Drop-off Club. There’s no point in talking to anyone. Issy hasn’t come back, even though it’s All Souls’ Day.

  He wanted to tell Dad a story in the car but he wasn’t brave enough. The story is true, at least that’s what Sister Anderson said. It’s about one of the apostles who kept rabbits when he was a little boy. One day, when the apostle was seven, his favorite rabbit escaped. He looked for the rabbit but he couldn’t find it. Then he said a prayer and immediately a picture came into his mind and he went to the exact spot he had imagined and found the rabbit. This showed the apostle that Heavenly Father responds to the small, simple prayers of everyone.

  Jacob thinks about the rabbit story and what Dad said about answers to prayers in the car. There should be stories where the answe
r is no. There should be stories where children pray for lost rabbits that never turn up and then people might get used to it and know what to do next; he doesn’t know. He has prayed and blessed and waited, he’s done everything you have to do to get a miracle. If he can’t bring Issy back, the only way to see her again is to be good for his whole, entire life, which means he’s got to fix his lie.

  IT’S BUSY IN the classroom. People are putting their lunch boxes on the cart and chatting as they open their bags to retrieve reading books and spelling lists.

  Mrs. Slade hangs her coat and scarf over her chair.

  “What a chilly morning! Who can smell winter coming? Let’s get ready. Hurry up, everyone.”

  Jacob opens his desk. The Box of the Dead is just Issy’s glasses case now. There’s nothing special or magical about it. He picks it up and peeps inside. The dead things are getting smaller. Their legs are folded tighter. Perhaps they would disappear altogether if he just left them there. But he can’t. He told a lie and he has to repent. He carries the case over to his table and sits down. He feels a bit sick. He knows Mrs. Slade likes him, he can tell by the way she says his name; it sounds like “Jay-cub,” and her voice goes up and down just like it does when she says the word “lovely.” But she won’t like him once she finds out he’s a liar.

  “Why’ve you got that out?”

  Jacob ignores George. In just a moment Mrs. Slade will write three sums on the board and there’ll be five minutes to answer them before the bell rings for assembly. As soon as everyone is working on their sums he will go over to her desk and explain.

  George pokes him in the leg. “What’re you doing?”

  “Get off.”

  “Give us a look in there.”

  “No.”

  “Go on.” George slides his hand across the table, wraps it around one end of the glasses case, and yanks.

  “Get. Off.”

  “Make me.”

  Jacob stands, George follows, and they’re suddenly doing a tug-of-war in front of everyone while Mrs. Slade writes sums on the board. A few people start giggling and Mrs. Slade turns round.

  “Sit down please, boys.”

  Jacob slides a nail into the lip of the glasses case to get a stronger grip. George pulls harder, and then the case flicks open and a litter of insect skeletons flies to its final resting place beside Jessie Sinkinson.

  Mrs. Slade runs. She glances at the insects on the table and bends down to lift the big, umbrella-shaped spider off Jessie’s lap. She puts it with the other dead creatures and that’s when Jessie starts to scream, her mouth so wide that Jacob can see the dangly bit at the back of her throat.

  The screams jab fright into his tummy, they remind him of Mum howling at Issy’s funeral, of the coffin sliding into the earth and mud splatting onto its white lid, and of every other sad and disappointing thing that has happened since. He sits down, clutching the open case. Another teacher rushes into the room and tells everyone to stop staring and line up for assembly while Mrs. Slade kneels on the floor next to Jessie and says, “Shush, shush.” Every time Jessie pauses to take a breath, George hisses, “I knew Jacob Bradley kept dead things in his desk. I told the truth.”

  “Go to assembly with the others, George. And, Jacob, please don’t cry. It was just an accident.”

  There are splashes on the table. Jacob rubs them with his finger. Jessie’s voice is loud and strong like a burglar alarm and it seems even louder as the classroom empties and there’s more air to fill.

  “Shush, shush.” Mrs. Slade slides her hand across the table and brushes the insects away from Jessie and onto the floor. “Jacob, there’s no need for you to cry,” she says.

  He can’t stop the tears, it’s like someone’s switched a tap on in his eyes. “Issy’s never coming back, my mum won’t get up, and there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”

  George pokes him in the shoulder. “You’re a liar, Jacob Bradley, a big, fat liar.”

  “George, go to assembly. Now.”

  “Pants. On. Fire.”

  “Now.”

  George hurries away. He’ll be in trouble later and that should make Jacob feel better but he just feels tired and old, as if he has been awake for his whole life.

  “Why don’t you go and wait in the corridor, until Jessie calms down?” Mrs. Slade says.

  He does as he’s told and waits by the door to the classroom, beside the display of Egyptian pictures and drawings. He realizes that all the tears he could have cried but didn’t because he was busy bringing Issy back to life haven’t gone anywhere, they’re still inside him. He tries to swallow them but it’s hard and in the end he thinks “better out than in,” which is what Mum used to say when someone did a burp. Thinking of her makes more tears come and he watches them splash on the corridor floor.

  Once Jessie’s screams have settled into an unhappy sort of hum, Mrs. Slade comes out and puts her arm around his shoulder.

  “What are we going to do with you, Jacob Bradley?”

  She makes him sit on a chair in the corridor, outside the bathroom, right where you have to wait to be picked up if you’ve been sick. Then she goes to the office to telephone Dad’s school. It smells of wee and disinfectant by the bathroom, and when people walk past on their way back from assembly, they leave lots of space because they don’t want to catch sick germs. But he hasn’t been sick; he’s been sad, which is actually much worse.

  His eyes are sore and he feels all crackly and dry inside, like a bag of potato chips. He wonders when he will be allowed to come back to school—you have to wait twenty-four hours if you’ve been sick. If he has to wait until he is completely happy again, he might be off for quite a while. He clasps Issy’s glasses case in both hands and rests his head against the corridor wall. As he closes his eyes, it occurs to him that all this—the Box of the Dead and George and Jessie and the insects—is an answer to prayer.

  – 27 –

  He That Is Happy Shall Be Happy Still

  Ian is doing percentages with Year Eight when Dave Weir knocks on the door.

  “Can I have a word, Mr. Bradley?”

  Ian hurries down the aisle between desks and steps out into the corridor.

  “Firstly, everything’s OK, mate. Everything’s OK.”

  The terror is instantaneous. “What is it?”

  “There’s been a call from your son’s school. He’s fine, but they want you to go and pick him up. I’m covering—what’re you doing?”

  “Which son? Why do I need to pick him up if everything’s OK? Has he had an accident on his bike?”

  “I don’t know, sorry. Swing by the office on your way out, they’ll fill you—”

  “Percentages.” Ian feels for his car keys and realizes his things are still on the floor next to the desk.

  “Percentages?”

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Top number divided by bottom number, times one hundred. It’s all up on the SMART Board—click on MyMaths—I’m sure it’ll all come back to you.” He dashes into the classroom. “I’m needed elsewhere and Mr. Weir’s going to supervise the rest of this lesson.” He grabs his bag and coat. “Thank you, Mr. Weir.”

  They tell him it’s Jacob in the office, they say he’s fine but Ian can’t believe them. He breaks the speed limit and runs two red lights. He’ll repent later.

  MRS. SLADE IS waiting in the foyer. She says perhaps Jacob came back too soon. She suggests a few days off, maybe a week, to give him a chance to come to terms with things.

  “Mr. Bradley, you should know he thought his sister … he didn’t realize … he thought she was coming back,” she says, and Ian feels horribly ashamed of Jacob, and himself, and the whole family for failing to set a good example. He thinks back to the Family Home Evening he gave after Issy died; he thought he’d covered everything but perhaps he didn’t.

  Jacob is sitting on a small plastic chair in the corridor, leaning into the wall, eyes closed, Issy’s glass
es case in his lap. Ian resists the urge to pick him up and carry him to the car. Instead, he is jolly.

  “Oh dear, never mind, you big silly billy. Come on, let’s go.”

  He heads for the cemetery. Jacob doesn’t say anything when he realizes they aren’t going straight home. He just sits quietly, clutching the glasses case.

  IAN PULLS UP near Issy’s grave. The sun is higher now and it’s not as cold as it was first thing. They cross the grass and stand side by side looking at the ground.

  “We’ll have to choose a headstone before too long,” he says. “What do you think Issy would like?”

  “Something with animals on it. And birds. And purple writing.”

  “It would be good if we put something on it to let people know about the Church. Something about how families can be together forever. Lots of sad people come here; they could do with hearing about the Church.”

  Jacob taps him on the arm.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re sad, Dad.”

  “We are. But not as sad as nonmembers would be.”

  The ground seems flatter, as if it’s beginning to settle around Issy’s body. He watches Jacob test the mound with the tip of his shoe and disturb a few clods of soil. “When we die, our spirit leaves our body,” he begins.

  “Do you think Issy is a skeleton yet?”

  He remembers what Jacob’s teacher said and resists the temptation to say Issy isn’t actually there anymore—one step at a time. “I don’t know.”

  Jacob holds his hands up and inspects them. “How does all your skin come off when you die?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  He watches as Jacob drops his hands into his pockets and begins to nudge the ground again.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Issy’s going to be dead for my whole, entire life, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s sad, isn’t it?”

  Ian can’t trust his voice. He nods.