A Song for Issy Bradley (21 page)

“L
ONG-SUFFERING
”—
THE
word finally comes to him.

“Please bless Claire with patience and long-suffering.”

He pauses for a moment to add, “Me too,” and, having settled on the right words, continues with his prayer.

“Please bless Jacob with understanding and bless Zipporah as she continues to develop the qualities to attract a righteous husband.”

Ian’s knees are complaining; he moves and one of them crunches. The answering of prayers must be a triaged procedure, he thinks, with the most urgent pleas floating to the top of the queue for immediate attention. He has always been happy to wait his turn but tonight, beset by a sense of urgency, he searches for words that will elbow his entreaty to the front of the line.

“Please bless Alma,” he says. “Bless him … bless him with …”

B
Y THIS MORNING
, things were running a little more smoothly. They were eating breakfast when Jacob asked how long it would be before Mum got out of Issy’s bed.

“Well …” Ian struggled for an answer, “she can’t, she can’t find …”

“What? What can’t she find?” Alma asked.

“She can’t … It’s very difficult …”

“I’ve just got to do something.” Alma dashed out of the kitchen and pounded up the stairs to his bedroom and Ian was grateful for the interruption.

When they got home from work and school there was a casserole dish on the doorstep—Sister Campbell’s shepherd’s pie, made with instant mashed potatoes, ground wheat, and several tins of baked beans.

“This is pukable,” Alma moaned. “I’m going to cycle to school by fart power tomorrow.”

“Don’t say ‘fart,’ ” Ian scolded.

“I saw this bloke on the way back from school, right? He was about 400 pounds. He was wobbling down the road and his legs were rubbing together, all the way down to his shins—friction burn—ha ha! He was wearing this T-shirt and on the back of it, it said,
‘Imagine there’s no hunger. —John Lennon.’
So I cycled past and I shouted, ‘You don’t need to
imagine
it, mate!’ ” Alma put his fork down and sniggered. “If he ate Sister Campbell’s shepherd’s pie his massive guts would blow right out of his butt.”

“That’s enough. Don’t be so unkind and ungrateful.” They ate in silence after that. There was a long hair in Ian’s portion but he couldn’t complain—the last time he cooked was on his mission, if you could call that cooking. When he got back he lived at home, so his mum did it all, and then he married Claire so there’d never been any need.

After dinner he needed to go Home Teaching but he didn’t want to leave until he knew everything was in hand. Zipporah was finishing the dishes, Alma was outside getting the washing off the line,
and Ian was sitting at the kitchen table listening to Jacob read, pleased with himself for organizing things so well, when he heard a strange noise coming from the garden. He told Jacob to keep reading to Zipporah and went outside to see what was going on.

It was Alma, sitting on the grass next to the washing basket, crying loudly. Half the washing spilled out of the basket in an untidy jumble and the rest was still on the line. Alma’s face was buried in his hoodie and his shoulders shook as the back garden filled with undulating, high-low howls. Ian couldn’t recall a sorrier sight. He hurried over and sat down on the grass.

“Don’t cry.”

Alma didn’t look up from the pillow of his hoodie.

“When I feel—when I’m upset—there’s a thing that sometimes helps me to feel a bit better.” He reached out to pat Alma’s back a couple of times. “I know you miss her, especially out here, perhaps? What makes me feel better is when I do something for someone else. It’s called
‘losing yourself in service.’
You forget about yourself by making other people feel happy.”

Alma’s sobs rolled on, so Ian increased his volume.

“I’ve been thinking that BROTHER RIMMER could do with some HELP. I went to SEE HIM, the other Saturday, the day when Issy … He’s getting ON A BIT and he can’t do everything he used to. His lawn needs MOWING.” He paused to rub the curl of Alma’s heaving back. “And perhaps he’ll give you a few POUNDS for your MISSION FUND if you do a good job.”

Alma’s sobs suddenly decelerated and Ian mouthed a silent “Thank you” to the heavens for helping him find the right words.

“I’ll see Brother Rimmer later, when I go Home Teaching. I’ll tell him you’ll help on Saturday, instead of going to the Work Day at the chapel. OK?” Alma’s face was still buried in the hoodie, but he moved his head up and down a couple of times, which seemed to indicate “Yes.”

“Great. Don’t forget to bring the rest of the washing in,” he called as he hurried back to the kitchen.

F
AITH
. T
HAT
’
S WHAT
Alma needs.

“Please bless Alma with faith.”

Ian yawns and leans forward, resting the shelf of his folded arms on the mattress.

“Please bless Mum and Dad in Ireland. Help them to bring many souls to the gospel. Please bless everyone at church.”

He pauses to remind himself that charity is the pure love of Christ and continues, “Bless the Andersons …”

H
E WENT
H
OME
Teaching with Brother Stevens. They visited the Andersons, Sister Valentine, and Brother Rimmer. Ian hadn’t had a chance to read the Home Teaching message, so Brother Stevens gave him a quick summary in the car on the way to the Andersons’ house.

“A young man is dying and the prophet is at his bedside—oh, I’m sorry, Bishop, this is kinda close to home.”

“Not at all.”

“So the man asks the prophet what will happen to him when he dies, and the prophet reads him some verses from Alma chapter forty that explain it all. The man dies happy—yadda, yadda, yadda—the Book of Mormon promises incomprehensible joy and never-ending happiness, et cetera—it’s the most correct book on the face of the Earth, and so on. It’s pretty straightforward. We could change it a bit for the Andersons—with his cancer and everything, it might be kinda insensitive.”

Ian turned into the Andersons’ road, signaled, and pulled over outside their house. “I don’t think so,” he said. “The prophet chose October’s message, it might be just what the Andersons need to hear.”

The visit was a short one. Brother Anderson wasn’t feeling well and Sister Anderson interrupted the message to ask if Claire had received a letter. Ian said he hadn’t had a chance to talk to Claire—she’d been so busy.

“I wrote to say I saw Issy at the Temple.”

There was something pink and marshmallowy about Sister Anderson’s face and Ian was tempted to test the veracity of her claim with a series of skewering questions. It wasn’t that he thought such a visitation was impossible, but it seemed both unlikely and hurtful that Issy would choose to appear to Sister Anderson. He wanted to say that communications from the Spirit World shouldn’t be chatted about as if they are everyday occurrences, but Sister Anderson’s eyes were dribbly with emotion and he had to remind himself that everyone is given a gift by the Spirit of God: Some are given the gift of faith, some are given gifts of knowledge or healing, and others are given the gift of the discerning of Spirits.

“Thank you for telling me,” he managed.

Sister Valentine was pleased to see them; she listened to the message carefully, and when Ian asked if there was anything they could do for her, she nodded.

“I had a dream,” she said. “I dreamed I was kneeling at the altar in the sealing room at the Temple. A man was kneeling opposite me and we were holding hands—our reflection stretched on and on forever in the sealing-room mirrors. The man was older—when I say older, I mean about your age, Bishop.” Her voice shushed to a whisper. “I know it was only a dream and you have to be
careful
when you talk about the Temple, don’t you? But I was there, and the man was there, and our eyes met across the altar … what do you think it means?”

Brother Stevens was happy to offer an interpretation.

“Gosh, I bet I know what it means, Sister Valentine, I bet you’re gonna get married! I bet you’re gonna get married to the guy in your dream!”

“Do you think so?” Her eyes filled with tears, which she prevented from falling with fluttery, hand-flapping motions. “Do you really think it means that?”

“Sure,” said Brother Stevens, “I think that’s exactly what it means.”

“What about you, Bishop? What do you think?”

Ian had been thinking unworthy thoughts as Sister Valentine spoke. He knew it was uncharitable but he couldn’t help it:
“Issy died eighteen days ago, I don’t care about your ridiculous dream.”

“I think Brother Stevens is right,” he said.

Sister Valentine beamed. “Oh, Bishop!” she said and she stood in her doorway and waved as they drove away.

Brother Rimmer’s blue-and-white-striped pajamas hung from his enormous waist like a circus tent. He offered Barleycup and Brother Stevens said, “Sure, we’d love some,” so Ian had to drink it, even though it tasted like mud.

“I’ll put the lad to work, Bishop,” Brother Rimmer said when Ian asked him about Alma. “There’s nothing like a bit of graft to cheer you up.”

Ian dropped Brother Stevens at home after the visits.

“Goodnight,” he said. But Brother Stevens didn’t get out of the car.

“How are
you
doing, Bishop?”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“And is Claire OK? Only, Ashlee’s tried to call her a few times during the day and there’s never anyone at home. Jacob said she was in bed when Ashlee phoned yesterday, but it was only five o’clock.”

“She’s got a bit of a cold.”

“Oh, poor Claire.”

“All bunged up … and a sore throat.”

“Give her our love, won’t you?”

When Ian got home he felt terrible for lying and it suddenly occurred to him that he was going to have to do it again on Sunday if Claire didn’t get out of bed. The situation had the potential to morph into a deception of huge proportions, and that’s why he’d stayed up late looking for answers on the Internet.

“P
LEASE FORGIVE ME
for being untruthful and please bless me to carry on. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

Ian waits beside the bed, hoping for an immediate answer. All he hears is an echo of his own words—“Carry on, carry on, carry on”—and it is enough to keep him going; if he doesn’t get into bed he will fall asleep on his knees.

He climbs in carefully and Jacob shifts and rolls closer as the mattress dips, air beating out of his mouth in shallow, sour puffs. Ian remembers how it was when the children were babies and their milky breath blew through bare gums, he remembers Issy occasionally lying between him and Claire when she wasn’t well or she’d had a bad dream, and he reaches for Jacob’s hand, trying to find the right tightness of grip, one that won’t wake him but will hold him fast to mortality.

Jacob persistently arrows toward the center of the bed, no matter how often Ian gently repositions him, and at five o’clock, when there’s no longer any point in trying to sleep, Ian climbs out, pulls on yesterday’s clothes, and tiptoes down to the kitchen. He makes the sandwiches and loads the washing machine. The kitchen smells strange, like rotting and something else, something burned. It’s probably the sympathy flowers; their crispy petals dot the countertops like confetti and the ribs of the leaves are showing. He opens the back door and carries the flowers out to the green garden-waste bin, bunch by bunch. He puts the empty vases and buckets next to the sink to wash later and wipes the countertops clean. The room feels empty and bereft.

When the children come down, he tells them to sit at the kitchen table.

“Mum isn’t feeling well at the moment. She’s very … tired because of everything that’s happened. If people ask where she is, you can say she’s not feeling very well, but I don’t want you to say she’s in bed—we’ll keep that bit a secret in case people think she’s lazy, which she isn’t. Understand?”

They all nod.

“Now, what cereal do you want?”

“Shreddies.”

“Oh, I forgot to buy a new box on the way back from Home Teaching.”

Jacob starts to cry and Alma calls him a big girl.