A Song for Issy Bradley (32 page)

“… marriage for Eternity or you can’t enter the highest degree of the Celestial Kingdom and have eternal increase and I’ve always wanted children. I think I’d be a good mother …”

She wishes Sister Valentine would go away and let her sleep. There is a cobweb on the ceiling just above the wardrobe that’s blowing in an invisible breeze like a wispy pendulum, almost hypnotizing.

“The thing is, Sister Bradley, and I didn’t tell Bishop Bradley this, but the thing is, and I hope you don’t mind me telling you—I’m sure you won’t mind, I feel like we’re friends—it’s just that, in my dream, I was getting married to
him
, to Bishop Bradley.”

The cobweb must be lighter than air or it would surely break. Perhaps it will multiply and there will be a white, swaying meadow on the ceiling.

“And then I heard you were ill and I, well, I wondered if it’s
serious
. I thought if you were, if you
are
—seriously ill, I mean—it might be of some comfort to you to know that I’m here and in the event, in the event of any unfortunate thing, I would—I
will
be so happy to
help
.”

There is a sudden thrumming in Claire’s ears as she becomes aware of the seriousness of what’s being said.

“… been thinking about it, and I’ve realized I
could
love Bishop Bradley. And you too,” Sister Valentine adds hastily, “like a sister. And the children. Zipporah and I—we’ve already shared so much. And I’m sure with time the boys and I—little Jacob and Alma—I know they like my cooking and, well, I’m sure.”

Claire has no words for this. She wonders if she is supposed to die in order to make way for Sister Valentine’s revelation; has she failed the test so badly that she deserves to be bankrupted, her assets stripped and given to another woman? Is she supposed to let Sister Valentine help herself to the family, to Ian? In the event of her death, Ian would probably do it. After a suitable period of mourning he
would remarry and he’d pick someone from church, a woman who otherwise didn’t have much hope of marrying in the Temple. He would decide to love this other woman in the same single-minded way he loves her. It’s a horrible thought, one she has done her best to banish since Ian’s mother revealed that eternal marriage is, at its very heart, polygamous.

“… like children—I love them. And it’s not too late for me to have some. I’ve got a good eight years at least, I think …”

The spot of spit has dried now. Claire lifts her hand and rubs at it, but she can’t erase its stamp.

“Anyway, Sister Bradley, I wanted you to know. I thought it might give you some comfort.” Sister Valentine gets to her knees and uses the bunk to heft herself up. “You look so tired and pale. And you never—you never said what’s wrong.”

Claire thinks for a moment. “I’m sad,” she croaks.

“Oh … is that—is that all?” She sounds disappointed. “Well, you look terrible. If you’re more ill, and you just don’t know it yet …”

“Thank you.”

Sister Valentine steps out of the room and closes the door behind her. Claire rolls over and stares at the picked wallpaper. It would be lovely to drift off to sleep and wake up in heaven, with Issy
—“Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
Ian is always saying this life is short and God’s time passes differently—quicker, somehow. Would it hurt so much to leave the family behind and fly through the next forty years with Issy rather than linger through them out here? She can’t leave deliberately, of course, that would be a sin. But she might leave accidentally or fortuitously. Ian would cope, he’d give comforting Family Home Evening lessons about pioneer trials and keep everyone going. Each morning she lies in bed and hears the sounds of the gap she would leave—the voices and the breakfast noises, the carrying on. She cups a hand over her heart and collects its beats. She isn’t ill, not at the moment. That could change, though. She rubs at the spot where Sister Valentine’s spit struck her. Everything could change.

Al is a coward. He hasn’t been to the bank to swap the fifties for tens ’cause he’s dreamed about the money every night since he took it. Last night’s episode was replete with smells, sounds, and feelings so horrifyingly real that they were bonded to the inside of his head when he woke up.

He dreamed he was pulling the handcart across America—the burned money was worthless, leaving them with no access to other forms of transportation. Brother Rimmer lay in the back of the cart, half dead with exhaustion. Having finally crossed the Rocky Mountains, they reached a gate manned by Brigham Young. Al tried to speak, but each time he opened his mouth Brigham Young shouted, “This is
my
place!” Al begged and pleaded but Brigham Young wouldn’t open the gate and that’s when the flesh-eating Armageddon zombies teemed down the nearest mountain: Brother Rimmer’s screams have been ricocheting around his head all morning.

Al zips up his hoodie and strokes the pocket. It’s been only five minutes since Dad left. “Look after your brother,” he said as he split for the hospital to see Brother Anderson. He’s spent hours there this week, even though he promised to take Jacob to the beach and the penny arcade at the end of the pier.

When Dad’s been gone for ten minutes, Al sneaks out the back way. He’s got no intention of looking after Jacob, he’s far too busy. He gets his bike out of the shed and wheels it round to the front of the house. As he lifts his leg over the bike frame, Sister Anderson pulls up in her car and rolls down the window.

“Alma, dear! I hate to be a nuisance, but is your dad home?” she calls.

“He’s gone to see Brother Anderson.”

“Oh, I hoped I might catch him first. I’m going shopping.” Someone beeps their horn at her, but she isn’t at all bothered. “Your dad said he’d sit with Brother Anderson while I catch up with a few things. I’ve been meaning to tell him something, but with Brother Anderson being so ill, I keep forgetting. And as I was passing …”

“Well, he’s not here.”

“Can you give him a message, Alma, dear? In case he’s gone when I get to the hospital?”

“All right.”

“I’m a bit concerned about Jacob. Something happened in our Primary lesson on Sunday. He said—this sounds silly, but he definitely said it—he said his goldfish was
resurrected
.”

Al stares at Sister Anderson’s puffy pink cheeks and her fluffy hair, at her bright red lips and the way she’s somehow managed to smear a bloody, Halloween line of lipstick across her top teeth. He hates her for telling tales on Jacob, for blocking the road as if she owns it, and for coming to the house to speak to Dad when he is already at the hospital.

“I’m sure Jacob wasn’t telling lies,” she continues. “He’s a good boy. I’m sure he
wishes
it happened, but he needs to learn the difference between make-believe and real life.”

Beep-beep
. Al watches as the cars that have formed a line behind Sister Anderson take advantage of a break in the traffic to get round her by driving on the wrong side of the road. She doesn’t give a shit, she’s perfectly happy to block the way.

So what if Jacob lied about the fish? What does it matter? Why shouldn’t he get in on the miraculous-story gig? Everyone else is bullshitting about spectacular visitations and answers to prayer.

“So you’ll remember to tell your dad?”

He nods, and then he can’t help himself. “Sister Anderson?”

“Yes, dear.”

“You reckon you saw Issy in the Temple.”

“Yes, I did,” she says.

“I’m sure you weren’t telling lies.”

“Sorry?”

“But you need to learn the difference between make-believe and real life.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He puts both hands on the handlebars and pedals away. He totally
owned
Sister Anderson, he rained on her parade and shat on her stupid story; there’s no way she saw Issy, no way. He lifts his butt off the seat to gather speed and then he races all the way to Brother Rimmer’s house, laughing into the wind.

A
L SITS ON
the edge of the pink velvet sofa, grateful to see Brother Rimmer alive and intact, despite the annoying racket.

Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink
.

“It’s a dying art, spoon playing. Andrea used to love this, she used to beg me to do it.”

Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink
.

Brother Rimmer slaps the spoons against his hand and thigh and grins as if he’s on one of those dancing programs on TV, trying to make the audience like him. “Give us a tune on the spoons, Dad—that’s what Andrea used to say.”

Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink
.

Al doesn’t want to know about poor, dead Andrea. Just hearing her name makes him wonder whether she drowned on the beach in the olden days before the marsh took over and the sand was golden, or somewhere else: one of the sluices out on Churchtown Moss or the lake in the park across the road from home.

“I can teach you, if you like.”

Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink
.

“Nah, it’s all right, thanks,” he says.

Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink
.

“It’d be no trouble. I don’t charge for lessons!”

“No thanks.”

“Good opportunity for you to develop a talent.”

Playing the spoons is beyond pointless; Brother Rimmer would have been better off learning to swim, Al thinks. Brother Rimmer smacks the spoons along his belly and across his chest in a rousing finale and Al claps a couple of times, eliciting a gratified bob of the head.

“Shall we go out to the garage now?”

“Not yet, I’m puffed.” Brother Rimmer lowers himself onto the cushioned swivel chair. “Anyway, I’ve got something to show you first.” He turns on the computer and types something into the Internet search bar. “Wait ’til you see this,” he says. “Just you wait! Wait … wait … wait … There. Look!”

Al stands so he can see over Brother Rimmer’s shoulder. “It’s a picture of a tree,” he says.

“It’s an apple tree.”

“Yeah.”

“Blossoming in
October
.”

“Oh, right.”

“It’s a sign of the times. The seasons’ll get all mixed up before the Second Coming. Prime piece of evidence for any Second Coming detective right there! Could be any day now. What does the Lord say? ‘
Behold, I come quickly.’
 ”

Al cups one hand over his mouth to catch a snigger.

“Don’t just stand there like a bump on a log, come closer, have a proper look.” Brother Rimmer clicks on another tab and opens a site called Follow the Signs of the Times. The home page is boardered by flames. He clicks on the “Questions” tab and a list appears.

Is it true that the Second Coming will happen after a year without rainbows?

How soon after the Second Coming will Christ declare the Mormon Church his Church?

Is it true that God is the literal, physical father of Jesus Christ?

“You can learn anything you want here,” Brother Rimmer says. “Pick one thing. Go on.”

Al sighs. “That one,” he says, pointing at the middle of the screen.

“Where are the three Nephites?”
Brother Rimmer reads. “Right then, let’s find out, shall we?” He clicks on the question and a whole page of text appears. “Now this is very interesting, Alma Bradley. What do you know about the three Nephites?”

“I’ve heard of them,” Al says. “I’m meeting my mate to play football at one o’clock, so I need to—”

“When Jesus visited America, after he was crucified, three of his Nephite apostles asked if they could stay on Earth until he came again. And Jesus said yes, which was nice of him. Look here, listen to this:
‘The three Nephites are still on the earth today, ministering to all nations, kindreds, tongues, and people.’
 ” Brother Rimmer swivels his chair slightly to look at Al, who makes a feeble attempt to appear interested.

“Isn’t that smashing? And do you know what? When Sister Rimmer was alive, she had a very special experience.” Brother Rimmer sits like one of those nodding dogs people stick in the back windows of their cars. Al can see he is supposed to ask about the special experience, but he doesn’t. After a few moments Brother Rimmer gets fed up with waiting and carries on anyway.

“It happened on the highway. On the hard shoulder of the M58. One of her tires blew out and she had to pull over. It was before cell phones and the Interweb. Sister Rimmer didn’t know what to do, so she prayed for help.”

Al stuffs his hands in his pockets. Not another stupid story where someone gets their prayers answered.

“Eventually, another car stopped to help. Three men got out. They put the spare tire on for her and then they drove away.” Brother Rimmer’s eyebrows flex, as if to say, “Ta-dah!”

Al shrugs. He can’t believe Brother Rimmer thinks three ancient, undead Americans changed Sister Rimmer’s tire—he may as well credit the three little pigs.

“The three Nephites. First thing we thought of. Can’t say for sure, of course. But that’s what we reckoned—our very own miracle. Sister Rimmer told everyone in Testimony Meeting. She was right proud.” Brother Rimmer swivels back to the computer screen and minimizes the page. “It’s a comfort, isn’t it? To know the Lord’s looking out for you. He’s a personal God and no problem’s too small to turn over to him.”

Al wonders why the three Nephites went for a roadside-assistance miracle when they could have rescued Andrea. At least the miracle was practical—a changed tire is more useful than a bleeding statue or a potato chip shaped like Jesus.

“Can we go out to the garage now?” he asks.

“All right then. You’re keen, aren’t you? Good lad.”

S
ANDING THE WHEELS
is tricky and time-consuming. They are huge, higher than Al’s waist, with twelve thick spokes. Brother Rimmer sits in his high-backed chair, arms resting on the mountain of his belly.

“Won’t be long now,” he says. “A few little repairs and a couple of coats of varnish.”

Al slides his spare hand between the spokes as he rubs the wood. “How do you make wheels, then?” he asks.

“You start with the hub.” Brother Rimmer points to the middle bit of the wheel. “You drive the spokes into the hub with a sledgehammer. Then you attach the wheel. It’s divided into four fellies, they’re like quarters, and they join up to make a circle. Once that’s done you measure around the outside of the wheel with a traveler so you know how much steel you need to hold it all together. You have to heat the steel and hammer it round the wheel while it’s hot. You cool it with water and the steel shrinks tight. No need for screws or anything. There’s other ways, of course, but I wanted to do it like the pioneers did.”