All Is Swell Read online

  I sheepishly applied the eyes.

  Elder Boone shook his head in disgust. I realized for the first time that I just might fit in here.

  Sister Watson served ice cream for dessert, and Old Bishop Watson, in the spirit of competition, made a snowman out of his portion.

  My mission was taking shape.

  9

  Drifting

  Trust had been gone for more than five weeks but Lucy was adjusting. She shifted in her skirt and practice smiled at herself in the mirror. It wasn’t often that her father set her up with dates, let alone a non-Mormon boy.

  Lucy was looking forward to it. Gentile, beware.

  Trust’s letters were getting shorter. He complained less about the backwards people he was serving.

  Lucy was concerned.

  It was good to minister, but attachment could be catastrophic. What if Trust picked up unsophisticated mannerisms or a few awkward habits? He was supposed to grow up and out of his childish traits and ways, to come home ninety percent done, so Lucy could finish him off.

  But Lucy’s ability to refine, even by her own high estimate, could do only so much. Trust was a hardening ball of clay that needed to be molded further. Now, as his character stiffened, other people besides Lucy were there shaping him—people with names like Narlette and Feeble. It was all there in his letters.

  Lucy furrowed her brow.

  A mission was supposed to be regal and prestigious. It developed the finer arts of communication and persuasion. It was upper-class training, the first in an orderly sequence of steps leading to a foreign ambassadorship or overseas business appointment.

  Lucy thought she would make a perfect ambassador’s wife.

  But stuck in Thelma’s Way, Trust was about as likely to become sophisticated as she was to break out. Lucy had added the petition for his being transferred to her nightly prayer. So far, the request had gone unheeded.

  “Oh, the trials I am forced to endure!” she moaned.

  The doorbell rang—Lucy’s blind date. The door opened. There stood Lance Fitzgerald with his square gentile jaw and dark gentile eyes. Lucy felt her body temperature rise.

  Lucy was adjusting.

  10

  One Up, One Down

  Week Seven

  I realized in my first couple of weeks that Roswell and Feeble Ford were really the heart of Thelma’s Way. It wasn’t necessarily a healthy heart, but they seemed to keep the town exactly where it was at.

  Both Roswell and Feeble were Mormon, but only Feeble was active. Roswell had been inactive ever since Paul showed him the picture of Thomas’ finger and bid him follow. He left the church and took up smoking all in the same week. Roswell felt a pipe made him look more mature, which was no small feat, given that he was over eighty.

  Inactivity fit Roswell. He was tired of living under the substantial shadow of his hour-older twin. He liked the freedom and independence that inactivity provided. He liked to hear people say things like, “Feeble would never go inactive.” It made him feel like a true individual. Yes, at eighty-some years old he had finally found himself. Unfortunately, his inactivity helped foster the town’s indecisiveness. People felt better about not doing what they should be doing because Roswell wasn’t. Roswell was old, you see, and supposedly wiser than most. If he wasn’t going to church, then the rest of them could stay home, too. Roswell basked in the lukewarm glow of his newfound leadership position.

  Of course, the few active Mormons used Feeble as their inspiration. Feeble had always been the good one, and smart. Feeble had read the Book of Mormon at least three times, the Doctrine and Covenants twice, the New Testament once, plus he had reread the Sermon on the Mount on at least six additional occasions. He had even started the Old Testament and gotten past First Kings. He was quite the scholar.

  Feeble was definitely the more righteous of the two, what with his visions and all. Everyone felt that the only reason he had not already been translated was because he was so heavy. The heavens just couldn’t heave him up. Most people believed that he ate so much just so he could remain overweight and stay here on earth to administer among the people. Such sacrifice. This theory, however, redefined the word administer to mean sit around and prattle. And it called attention to Roswell. After all, Roswell was so skinny that had God wanted him back, a slight breeze would have been enough to lift him home. His still being here in his eightieth year was a pretty good indication of where he stood with the heavens.

  Roswell and Feeble were the last of the Ford clan to still be living in the state of Tennessee. According to Roswell, there was a cousin named Stubby who owned a pawn shop in Virgil’s Find, but aside from him, they were it. What nice representatives they were. Roswell and Feeble spent all their time sitting on the front porch of their boardinghouse, Feeble commenting on the world around them, and Roswell making petty bets.

  “Bet it’ll rain this afternoon.”

  “Bet the raccoons’ll be back tonight.”

  “Bet Tindy’s sores take a good two weeks to heal.”

  “Five bucks.”

  “You’re on.”

  The boardinghouse was a nice center of town, despite the fact that it wasn’t much of a boardinghouse, or much of a town for that matter. There were a couple of rooms on the second floor that could have been used as a place for weary travelers to rest, but they were filled with old furniture, Roswell’s collection of Woodsman Weekly magazines, and Feeble’s “Great Men of the World” pewter figurine set, seventy-six four-inch figures in all. A complete set, all in perfect condition except for Thomas Edison’s missing arm—on account of Roswell throwing Edison at a pack of noisy dogs one cold November night.

  On the bottom floor of the boardinghouse there was a large all-purpose room and a small store that didn’t have much to offer. You could buy bags of rice, beans, or flour and tubs of lard. There was also a glass cooler filled with soft drinks.

  Feeble and Roswell had one of the few TVs in Thelma’s Way. (Only about two-thirds of the homes in Thelma’s Way even had electricity.) Their TV sat on a rolling cart in the middle of the store, and people from all over would come to watch football games and Days of Our Lives.

  Feeble and Roswell were an institution, as close as Thelma’s Way got to a Blockbuster Video or a high school basketball team. And to look at them rocking peacefully on the boardinghouse porch, you would never have guessed that their time had come.

  It was early September and the seasons were beginning to rub up against each other. Elder Boone and I had just returned from the other side of the river where we had been visiting Sister Teddy Yetch for breakfast. She had a couple of new recipes she had wanted to try out on us. Her peanut-butter pork dumplings had not been too bad, but her fried widget recipe needed some tweaking.

  Sister Teddy Yetch was about seventy years old. She was at the point in her life where her skin was turning from polyester to 100-percent cotton, wrinkling at every bend and crevice. She had thin gray hair and brown eyes that seemed to sag within their sockets. She didn’t actually have a full set of teeth, but she did have most of the important ones in front. Teddy was kind, and she was the only active member who lived on the other side of the great Girth River. Apostate Paul lived across the Girth, deeper back in the trees, though to this day neither I nor Elder Boone had actually met him. There were a few other less-active members and Paul’s abandoned chapel, but it was Teddy Yetch that we went to see.

  To cross the wide Girth River you had to drag one of the community rafts to the part of the river near the high end of the meadow, right by the burnt-out bridge, and then paddle quickly with one of the community paddles across the strong current. However, if you used your head, you could manipulate the current to push you to the other side. If you didn’t move fast enough, the river would pull you down past our place, past the back edge of the cemetery, through some rapids, and eventually down over Hallow Falls. It was quite a sight to see old Teddy cross the Girth. She put us young elders to shame.

  Eld
er Boone and I had just dragged our raft back up to the starting point for the next user and were stomping across the meadow when we noticed people were running to the boardinghouse, shouting and crying. I looked at my watch to see what time it was. I figured folks were just holding another unnecessary meeting to discuss their pageant that was still so far away. Or maybe they were all just throwing a fit over the current plot twist on Days of Our Lives.

  I was way off.

  I heard Feeble’s name hollered a few times by different people. I thought then that he was just having another vision and people were talking about it. We picked up our pace and ran to the boardinghouse.

  Feeble was lying on his stomach, his right arm stretched out, holding one of his pewter statues. His face was in the dirt, and it looked as if he had been in stride walking towards the meadow when he had simply fallen to the earth. Brother Heck was down next to Feeble searching for signs of life. Feeble’s days of prophesying were over.

  “What happened?” I asked as everyone else just stood around stunned, not knowing what to do.

  “He’s moved on,” was all Brother Heck said.

  Miss Flitrey’s curiosity had gotten the best of her so she let her school kids out to see what all the commotion was. The horde of children joined the ring of folks that was now circling Feeble. The sky above clouded as if on cue. There was a heavy stillness in the air.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” I asked in disbelief.

  The entire ring of people nodded back, as if they too, by virtue of just knowing him, now knew him to be dead.

  Toby Carver burst through the crowd and fell down beside Feeble. Toby was a kind person. He was always red cheeked and flustered. His square body was blocky and wooden, and he always had his sleeves rolled up, as if he were about to do something. He had a long thin beard and a pointy forehead that seemed to extend out past his nose. Toby was sort of the town’s unofficial doctor. He had no medical training, but years ago he had twisted his ankle so badly, he had had to get it looked at by a clinic in Virgil’s Find. The attending physician gave Toby a stretchy Ace bandage and a big bottle of pills for the pain. As things worked out, no sooner had Toby’s ankle healed, than CleeDee Lipton hurt her wrist harvesting wildflowers east of the meadow. Toby trotted over to CleeDee’s place, wrapped her wrist with his bandage, and gave her a couple of his pills. A week later she was fine. Well, from that point on, whenever anyone had an ailment or condition, Toby would hustle over and wrap it. He eventually ran out of the pills, but that bandage would be good forever. It had helped heal everything from Bishop Watson’s pulled thigh to Digby Heck’s swollen glands.

  Toby knelt there next to Feeble’s body, his Ace bandage clenched in his hand. It was too late. Toby cursed the heavens for not giving him more time. Toby could wrap Feeble from head to toe and it wouldn’t make any difference now.

  Then someone asked, “Where’s Roswell?”

  Everyone looked up.

  Roswell rarely left Feeble’s side. They were inseparable, everybody knew that. It had been difficult for Roswell to go inactive because it meant time away from his brother every Sunday. As much as he wanted to be his own man, Roswell needed his twin. Now here was his Feeble lying alone on the ground. It didn’t look right. No one said it, but when it came to leaving this life, everyone had assumed the two would go together. Brother Heck and Digby raced into the boardinghouse. A few moments later they hollered for everyone to join them indoors. We all scrambled inside and into the bedroom, pushing and shoving for best position.

  There were two twin beds about six feet apart from each other in Roswell and Feeble’s room. One was sagging in the middle, sheets untucked, pillows on the floor. The other looked almost new. It wasn’t difficult to guess whose was whose. Roswell’s pillow was indented as if a head still lay on it. His blankets were folded neatly back. Next to his bed was a pair of red slippers, ready for Roswell to step into.

  One problem. No Roswell.

  Brother Heck and Digby searched the rest of the house while everyone else just stood there staring at the beds.

  No Roswell.

  “I knew it,” old Briant Willpts exclaimed as we stood there bewildered. “I had a dream ‘bout it and I warned Feeble. He laughed me off. Thought he was the only one who could have any visions. Well I say to you all, look who’s laughing now,” he spat.

  Everyone looked at Briant to see who was laughing now.

  “Well, I’m not laughing, laughing,” he covered. “But inside I’m a big wad of righteous snickery.”

  Briant Willpts was an orphan. He was one of the few residents of Thelma’s Way who had not actually been born in town. Because of this he felt he could misuse or make up words and then explain them by saying that these were words used in the outside world and people here just hadn’t heard them before. Due to a bout with polio as a teenager, Briant walked as if he were trying out for the Hunchback of Notre Dame, his long arms swinging wildly whenever he stepped. He was about sixty years old, and used a cane whenever he needed sympathy.

  “In my dream,” he continued, raising his arms for dramatic effect, “I saw both Roswell and Feeble being lifted up to heaven on a liffy. I told Feeble to start preparing to lixidate this life. Pack your bags, Feeble, I says. Clean up your life and prepare to meet your creatoriums. Did Feeble take me seriously?”

  Could anyone take him seriously?

  “I’ll answer on behalf of Feeble,” Briant rambled, “seeing how Feeble is deceased and there is no way that he could properly respond to my incisive and indicament line of spectorial questioning. The answer is . . . Nope.”

  I couldn’t even remember the question.

  “Now, let me tell you all what happened,” Briant waved his hands in front of himself, indicating that he would now lay things straight. A couple of people attempted to sit down on the beds, weary from standing and hoping to hear the explanation in comfort. Briant quickly scolded them and, as kindly and succinctly as he could, asked them please not to disturb the scene. So we all just stood around the beds while Briant spun one huge pile of yarn.

  “Late last night after Roswell and Feeble retired to bed, a heavenly visitor came in a white robe. He came down and visited them here in this bedroom.”

  People looked around as if they were suddenly standing on holy ground.

  “I know this to be an enveloping fact because around nine last night, I was walking past the boardinghouse and saw a strange glow coming from out of that window.”

  He pointed with his cane.

  “It was a beautiful blue glow, brighter and more simshinery than any color I’ve yet seen before, and I’ve seen a lot of colors. Red, blue, green, brown, red . . . and some more I’m sure, I just can’t remember right now. Anyway, I knocked on the front door but no one answered.”

  “I should have knocked longer,” he added glumly.

  “That heavenly visitor must have been informing Feeble and Roswell that they were about to be translated. He must have lifted Roswell out of his bed and tossed him up to heaven. It’s obvious to the trained and scholaticable eye that this is what happened. Take a look-see. Slippers still neatly by the bed as if Roswell had never gotten out or up. Feeble, like we have suspected all along, must have been too heavy to yank topside-up. The way I see it is that this angel must have struggled with him, which would explain the messy bed. Then in frustration he must have given up. Feeble, desperatic to not be left without Roswell, ran outside in hopes of following this visitor. The visitor was so filled with compassion that he must have struck Feeble dead to end his heartache.”

  Everyone was nodding as if it all made sense.

  “So you’re saying that Roswell was translated?” I asked in amazement.

  Everyone looked at me with one collective “Duh.”

  “That seems a little absurd,” I observed, my blue eyes trying not to laugh.

  Briant Willpts ignored me. He just stood there as if receiving fresh revelation. After a brief pause he opened his eyes and walked out o
f the room. He shuffled to the porch and then did the unthinkable. He planted himself in Feeble’s good sitting chair.

  Everyone gasped. They let out a collective murmur of approval. It was a sign—proof of Briant Willpts’ authority as messenger. It was apparent to all, except me, that the spirit of Feeble had rested upon the hump of Briant Willpts.

  “I don’t think it’s right,” Brother Heck ventured. “You sitting on Feeble’s chair as he lies there on the ground.”

  Leo Tip and Toby Carver, as if on cue, went to pick up Feeble and lay him somewhere more dignified. One tug, however, told them they weren’t men enough to do it. Toby waved over Brother Heck and Pap Wilson.

  One per leg. One per limb. Still not enough.

  Gun loving Pete Kennedy and Ed Washington joined them. They wiggled their arms underneath Feeble’s belly, and locked hands. Then with one mighty heave, all six of them lifted him up off the ground. A pewter statue slipped from Feeble’s grasp, making their load one pound lighter but still not easy by any means. With red faces and buckling knees they shuffled him over to the porch where they attempted to lay him down in dignity. Unfortunately the two porch steps got the best of them. Leo Tip, who was carrying the left leg and walking backwards, missed the second step and fell flat on his back. Brother Heck and Pap Wilson, literally at the head of this endeavor, pushed Feeble on top of Leo trying to keep their balance. Feeble’s off-kilter weight twisted Pete Kennedy and Ed Washington’s arms, giving the latter a burn he would complain about for years. The two of them fell towards Leo and onto the porch. Feeble’s dead body rolled off of Leo and came to a stop in the center of the porch looking upward. Though deceased, Feeble wore the biggest smile I had ever seen him sport.

  Everyone gasped. I guess folks had never seen Feeble smile before.

  “He looks so happy,” Sister Watson gushed.

  “Downright peaceful,” Bishop Watson added.