Road to Bountiful (23 page)

A gust of wind blows from across the sagebrush plain and knocks me off balance. I stagger back to the driver’s side of the car, open the door, and climb in.

“There. We have no more issues. We’re stuck here. We can go no farther. Can’t drive into Utah without the car keys. Problem solved.”

I steal a glance at Uncle Loyal. To my relief, he doesn’t look upset or annoyed or angry. He just looks like Uncle Loyal. The sparkle in his eyes. The edges of his mouth curled into a bemused slip of a smile.

“We have to go somewhere . . . eventually,” he suggests in a sweet way. “We cannot stay here interminably, eh? We will need food, water, and shelter. Our jerky supply, I’m afraid, is running low.”

“Jerky. Yeah. We need more jerky. I suppose. I guess. But for now, this is good. I’m not hungry. Are you hungry? You can have my share of the jerky. This is really good, just sitting here. I’ll have time to think. I’ve got to think our way out of this, Uncle Loyal.”

So I sit there, eyes closed, and think. Nothing comes to me. Every time I start on a possible solution, something prevents me from going any further with it. Take him back to North Dakota? He’d be happy there, but he had no place to live, and Aunt Barbara wouldn’t be pleased about me not delivering her pops. And kiss good-bye the six hundred bucks. Find him another place to live? No. What’s the point of that? Glad Tidings might be the best spot for him. I didn’t have a firsthand tabulation of the pros and cons of nursing homes in the Salt Lake Valley. Have him move in with Barbara and Warren? No, they’d probably already thought of that and decided it wouldn’t work. Every exit ramp off the road led to a dead end.

Uncle Loyal finally asks me a one-word question. “Thoughts?”

“Nothing seems like it’s going to work. This all just feels
wrong
.”

“I’ll be fine, Levi. You’ll be fine. This is life, and we must move on. We can’t bow out and just stop, tempting though it may be at times.”

“I know. I know. But this isn’t right.”

“It is likely my only option, or at least the best option I have. My gratitude for your concern knows no bounds. It has been . . .” and he stops, and he looks out across the dry sagebrush steppe, “It has been so long since anyone has shown so much interest in and care for me.”

“And for me, it’s been so long since anyone has taught me so much, especially in such a short time. We’re a good team, Uncle Loyal.”

“Yes. A good team. A very good team. So what do we do?”

I fold my arms and scowl. I understand that this roughly represented the attitude and actions of a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum, but it didn’t matter. I had earned this chance to power whine. You’ve got to take a stand, right? Sometimes you have to say, “This isn’t right, and I’m not going along with it.” I keep coming back to the word
right
. It seems so clear, the right and the wrong here. I
have
to act on it. Isn’t that what we’re taught since we’re Sunbeams? I was at that point. Maybe I was just a small cog in a big machine, but when even a small cog doesn’t do its job, it can cause the whole thing to grind to a halt.

Small cogs count too. Maybe I wouldn’t be ground into powder.

“I guess we just sit until we think of something better,” I say, letting out a hissing sound as I speak. I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel in a death grip.

“That might be a while.”

“Yes. It might be. We spent one night in the car, and in a worse place than this. We can do it again. Room on wheels. Levi and Loyal rule. The road kings.”

“Doubtlessly, we’d eventually attract the attention of local law enforcement officials. They tend to notice cars stopped on the side of the road.”

“I guess so. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Then what? This is a fine predicament we find ourselves in.”

“We make a run for it. They ain’t takin’ us alive, Ma! We make a beeline across the sagebrush, head for the border. We crawl low, so they can’t see us there. We paint our faces with mud so that we blend in. We become desert ghosts. We hole up somewhere. We get ourselves nicknames, like Butch and Poncho. We get inside their heads. We grow beards, let our hair go, and rob the Wells Fargo stagecoach.”

“I like the sound of it. I had never considered a career as an outlaw. Although we eventually would be apprehended. Or worse. And I haven’t seen a single stagecoach on our entire journey. They may be obsolete, Levi. We may be buying into a dead industry. Just a thought.”

“But what a life we’d have until then.”

“And Rachel? Do you think you could coax her into becoming an outlaw’s wife? And your choice of careers might considerably alter your chance at a temple marriage and sealing.”

“She could start her own band of outlaws. The Wild Women. The Daughters of Ishmael. Or something like that. She’ll be Bad Rachel. We could be on the cover of magazines. We’d be famous. They’d make action hero figures based on us. You could be played by Robert DeNiro.”

“Very well. Who is this Robert De Nardo?”

“Never mind. And I’d share all the booty with the poor and the needy. Orphans. Widows. High priests who can’t remember their names.”

“Very noble of you.”

“Noble. Yep. That’ll be us. The L&L Gang. Noblest of the bad guys. We could run for Congress, too.”

Uncle Loyal pauses a few seconds and then looks at me. He folds his spotty brown hands on his lap and sighs.

“It won’t work, Levi. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But your plan will not succeed. Neither of us fits the criminal profile. And a life of crime, I assume, is hard, a difficult way of existing, indeed.” He looks at me with a slight smile. “We have but one choice. Shall we go look for the keys?”

I let go of the steering wheel. Of course, he was right. Of course, it was only make-believe; I was trying to inject a little humor in a bleak situation. It was silly. But it’s how I deal with stuff. I knew the answer, at least the short-term answer.

“Okay. We don’t have a choice. Let’s go look for the keys.”

So we climb out of the car and into the blustery wind. I have to admit that when I chucked the keys into the sagebrush, I sort of kept track of where they landed, just in case. Finding the keys wouldn’t be hard, and it takes only a couple of minutes before I see them glinting in the late-afternoon haze and reach down for them by a little clump of wheatgrass.

Uncle Loyal’s always-calming effect had worked its magic again, but I was firm in my conviction about two things. One, I wished for something else, a way to keep him happy, close, alive, and vital, keep that river of wisdom flowing, at some other place than the care home; and two, I was not going to be the one who drove him across the state line into Utah.

Call it a point of pride or honor or stubbornness, but it represented something to me, although just what symbolism it carried I couldn’t quite figure out. Maybe it was as simple as not wanting to be the one who delivered him to what likely would be his end, but I felt it was something much deeper.

We get back to the car. Uncle Loyal starts toward the passenger side, just where he’d been for eighteen hundred miles. The red car is a mess—mud from the mountains, bugs splattered across the grille and windshield, the inside filled with empty bags of chips and jerky, pop and juice cans scattered in the backseat.

I walked a few steps behind him toward the passenger door. Uncle Loyal looks at me with an unspoken question.

“Here you go, Poncho.” To his surprise, I flip the keys to him, and he reaches out with his left hand and catches them. At least I had settled on one thing.

“Your turn, Uncle Loyal. You get to drive the chuck wagon home.”

Mile by Mile, We Come Closer to Bountiful

There is little that surprises me in life. I am, I believe, an observer of human beings. I see patterns in our behavior. I understand, I believe, most things about most people. It comes from years of watching and years of thinking about what I’ve seen.

But I confess to being taken aback when Levi tossed me the car keys and instructed me to get us home, and I also wondered about the word
home
, which in another hour or so would take on an entirely different meaning for me.

I thought of my old Dakota house, windswept, on the prairie. Maybe the fleeting thought of wind on my face caused me to do what I did next.

I meekly climb behind the steering wheel, adjust the mirrors, and start the car’s engine. The accelerator roars at the light touch of my foot. It is a very fast, powerful, and filthy car. I cautiously pull into the traffic, and then, perhaps in retribution for Levi’s surprise to me, I jam my foot on the gas pedal, while he, at first, ignores me, then grins slightly, then becomes wild-eyed with joy. As we used to say in my youth, I laid rubber with a screech that brought me something akin to joy.

He looks my way. “Well?”

“One hundred and five, Levi. I am sorry.”

“And you were worried about a life of crime. You said we weren’t cut out for it.”

“I just wanted to see how fast this car would go. Now I know. At least one hundred and five. I will now begin the repentance process by confessing my sin: I am speeding. Remorse comes next, but it may take a while. This is rather fun. Quite enjoyable, in fact.”

“You are definitely speeding.”

I ease up on the accelerator, but Levi’s smile stays in place for twenty miles.

The tall mountains loom to my left. I feel comforted by them after my experiences in Montana and Wyoming. We pass several towns. We pass an old mill with many colorful slogans spray-painted on it, many of them seeming to welcome missionaries home. A strange custom, I think. We pass tall power lines appearing as gaunt giants with arms spread wide to hold electrical lines. We pass the Great Salt Lake, its murky waters lapping the shore. We pass subdivisions tucked next to the freeway and a ceaseless string of billboards. We pass a huge lot filled with junked cars. We pass many car dealerships. We pass gleaming little chapels, their spires tall and white in the fading evening light. The cars around me drive bullet-fast, and I conclude that use of turn signals must be optional according to Utah law. And the song of the wheels on the road, spinning over and over, seems to repeat in oily cadence, “a mile, a mile, a mile, a mile . . .”

The signs tell us that Salt Lake City is growing close. At a town called Layton, Levi asks if I will pull over. I do, and he suggests that we trade places. I do not fully understand why, unless it’s a matter of practicality; he knows the way to Barbara’s home, and I do not. But his movement and his voice suggests something more. My guess: we have traveled almost two thousand miles together in the red car, and perhaps he feels that he should finish the mission, distasteful though it might be for him. I remember similar feelings when my Daisy passed on. To finish, to finish. We must always finish.

So he takes control of the car and gets off on one of the exits that says Bountiful. We wind our way up a steep drive. To the south, I see a golf course stretching along the hillside. Levi tells me that Barbara’s house is not very far from where we are. Our long journey had been condensed to mere minutes.

I look back over my shoulder as we drive higher on the hill on our way to Bountiful. The lake stretches out for miles. Long-fingered rays of the sun skip over the water. The air is hazy. The first lights of the evening glow in the gathering brown dusk.

I try to think of this as my new place, my new home, somewhere I can and will be happy. I close my eyes and concentrate.

But all I can see in my mind are fields of corn swaying in a midsummer’s morning, sticky hot, under an eggy-blue sky, and I cannot help but think,
I wonder if a storm will rise tonight.
The skin on my arms and face feels gritty, and even the cool air from the car’s vents does little to make me feel comfortable.

If I could only hear a meadowlark sing
, I think,
I would feel much better, feel much more at home.

This Man Called Loyal, Who He Is

This man Loyal. I didn’t even know him a week ago. Who is he? I think I know.

He is kind and wise, and he never wanted anything beyond what he needed.

He is true to the woman he married, even though she is gone.

He never hurt a soul.

He helps the ill.

He binds the wounds of others.

He comforts those who mourn.

He speaks softly.

He acts gently.

He never had a bad thought about anyone.

He never had a bad word about anyone.

He sees the best in everyone.

He knows the stars in the heavens, the birds in the skies, the plants beneath his feet.

He knows contentment.

He knows the secrets of life but will let you discover them on your own.

He knows peace.

He climbs mountains.

He is a fisherman.

He is a man of the plains.

He laughs.

He hasn’t watched television in five years.

He doesn’t know what an iPad is.

He doesn’t care to know what an iPad is.

He drives too fast.

He moves slowly but with a purpose and with grace.

He taught me the amazing power of slowness.

He is unbelievably, amazingly, and extraordinarily cool, and he doesn’t even know it.

He knows what matters.

He knows what counts.

We’re friends.

And now, here I am, pulling around the corner, spying Aunt Barbara and Uncle Warren’s house. I’ll drop him off. I’ll say good-bye. I’ll drive to my home. And quite possibly never get rid of the gnawing feeling in my stomach that I’m doing something that, while maybe not wrong, is far from being right.

A Note on the Door and Things Change, but Only a Little

I recall Barbara and Warren’s house. Somewhat, at least. I know it is large and white and has two columns on the porch and that it faces west, toward the lake. It is high on the hill. Barbara and Warren seem successful, and I am glad for them.

The red car doesn’t seem to move so fast now. It is a steep hill, and I fear Levi and I have been rough on the car. Yet I have a stray thought, one that makes no sense and yet also makes much sense: the flashy red car is probably a better vehicle now than when Levi steered it down my street in North Dakota. It’s broken in. It’s added a few miles. It has a few healthy rattles.