Adam's Story

  © 2004 Jack Weyland.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © 2004 Jack Weyland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P. O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book Company.

  Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

  Visit us at deseretbook.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Weyland, Jack, 1940-

  Adam's story / Jack Weyland.

  p. cm.

  Sequel to: Charly.

  ISBN-10 1-59038-248-X (pbk.)

  ISBN-13 978-1-59038-248-6 (pbk.)

  1. Mormon missionaries—Fiction. 2. Grandparent and adult child—Fiction. 3. Mothers--Death—Fiction. 4. Mormon families— Fiction. 5. Stepmothers—Fiction. 6. New Jersey—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.E99 A67 2003

  813'.54—dc22 2003019947

  Printed in the United States of America

  Malloy Lithographing Incorporated, Ann Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  To our wonderful grandchildren

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

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  8

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  10

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  13

  14

  1

  As soon as Elder Norton and I left the commuter train, I looked at the address that I had secretly scribbled on a scrap of paper and stuck in my wallet twenty-one months earlier, just before leaving on my mission.

  Except for this unauthorized little excursion, we were on our way back to our apartment after a zone conference.

  “Welcome to Madison, New Jersey, Elder,” I said to Norton as we hurried down the stairs from the commuter train-stop to ground level. It was the first Wednesday in January, and it had been cold and drizzly all day.

  Norton was tall and skinny, and his dark brown hair never got out of place. People trusted him because he spoke softly and took great pains to choose his words carefully. Those were also the qualities that drove me crazy.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” he said, fixing his gaze on the ground. He only made eye contact when there was complete agreement.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Well, for starters, we’re out of our area.”

  “We’re in transit, Elder,” I said.

  He thought about it while I looked at a map of the town. “We were in transit on the train,” he said, “but now that we’ve left the train, we’re no longer in transit. We’re out of our area.”

  “Think of it as a slight detour to our area,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Reluctantly he kept up with me but continued whining. “This is no detour. We’re out of our area, and we’re breaking mission rules.”

  I shrugged. “Well, maybe so, but it’s something I’ve been promising myself I’d do since coming on my mission.”

  Even though I sounded confident, I did have misgivings. I knew President McNamara wouldn’t approve of what we were about to do, but more than that, I knew my mom wouldn’t like it. It was also out of character for me to break mission rules. Even when I was growing up, I’d never had any kind of a rebellious streak.

  We walked past the fire station and a couple of stately church buildings, and then the street became residential. The bare branches of tall trees formed a web-like canopy over the street.

  It began to rain again. After a couple of blocks we turned left down a less-traveled street. A sign said we were headed toward the town library.

  “What are we going to say if the elders assigned here catch us in their area?” he asked.

  “They’re not going to even know we were here. This will just take a minute, and then we’ll be on our way again.”

  “Who are the people we’re going to visit?”

  “They’re part of my family.”

  “Are they expecting us?”

  “Not really.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m not sure how happy they’ll be to see me, so I thought we’d just drop in and see how things go.” I checked the address written on the scrap of paper. “It’s that house. I’ll take the door.”

  Norton checked his watch. “We don’t have much time. We have a seven o’clock.”

  “We’ll be okay.”

  “You knew we were going to come here this morning during companion planning, didn’t you? So, why didn’t you discuss it with me then?”

  The answer was obvious. If I’d told him my plans, he would have told President McNamara at our zone conference.

  We walked up the path to the front door. It was a well-kept, two-story, white-frame house, older and more modest than the other houses on the street. Back in my neighborhood in Salt Lake City, it would have been considered an expensive home, but here, with the two houses on either side being in the million dollar price range, it looked almost shabby in contrast.

  Norton was still venting. “Why even have companionship planning if you won’t talk to me about your plans? We need to talk more.”

  “We’ll talk, Elder, we’ll talk.”

  “You always say that, but we never do.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  “We need to work together, we need to be a team. Sometimes I feel like you have no respect for me as a person.”

  Being with Norton was a lot like being in a troubled marriage.

  I knocked on the door.

  The woman who answered looked like she’d dedicated her life to reversing the aging process. Her hair, which should have been gray, was the color of a new penny. She wore a velvety looking, chocolate brown kind of pant suit thing and big gold loopy earrings.

  Once she opened the door and got a look at us, she scowled, “We’re not interested.”

  “I’m Adam.”

  A man’s voice called out from inside the house. “Who is it?”

  “Jehovah’s Witnesses . . . again.”

  “I’m Adam,” I repeated.

  “Tell ’em we’re not interested!” the man inside hollered. His voice was raspy but carried throughout the house.

  “I told ’em that!”

  “Tell ’em again. They never take no for an answer the first time.”

  She turned to face us. “We’re really not interested.”

  “I’m your grandson, Adam. My birthmother’s name was Charlene, but everyone called her Charly.”

  She was in the process of closing the door when what I’d said finally registered. Her mouth dropped open, and she covered it with her hand. “Heaven help us,” she said softly.

  “You’re talking religion with ’em, aren’t you?” the man called out. “Look, whatever you do, don’t let ’em in! If you do, we’ll never get rid of ’em.”

  She was staring at me like I was a ghost or something. “Please, come in,” she said s
oftly.

  My first impression on entering their house was that she, like my mom, watched home decorating shows on TV. The windows were draped with layers of fabric, and every couch had five or six little pillows that served no purpose other than to cause visitors to wonder where they should sit.

  “Just move those over to the side,” she said, apparently anticipating my confusion.

  Before we could sit down, the man stormed into the living room. He looked like someone used to getting his own way. He was bald except for a tuft of hair on the back of his head. “You let ’em in? Are you out of your mind?”

  She was still staring at me. “This is Adam.”

  He looked confused. “Like from the Bible?”

  “No, our grandson, Adam.”

  After a second or two it sank in. “This is Adam? After all these years? I can’t believe it.” He leaned against the nearest chair. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Adam?”

  “I just did.”

  “I mean earlier.”

  “I didn’t know earlier.”

  “No matter,” he said, turning his attention to me. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?”

  “I’m on a mission for my church. The Mormons.”

  He nodded his head. “We used to live in Utah, for a short time. We moved back East about a year after . . . after . . .”

  “ . . . your mother died,” she said, finishing his sentence.

  “Do you remember her at all?” he asked.

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “No reason why you should. She died when you were about a year old.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re Eddie and Claire,” he said.

  “He found us, Eddie, so I’m pretty sure he knows our names.”

  “We’re your grandparents,” he said.

  “I also think he knows that.”

  Eddie was tired of her kibitzing. “Don’t you have something in the kitchen you need to fetch?”

  She turned to go. “All right, I’ll get something, but don’t make a fool of yourself. I mean it, Eddie. Don’t make me come back here and be embarrassed.”

  “You never give me credit for anything,” he called out as she started for the kitchen.

  “Just don’t smother the boy, that’s all I’m asking. He’s not used to us.”

  “What’s there to get used to?”

  She practically ran into the kitchen.

  Eddie came over and stood in front of me. “Adam . . . Adam . . .”

  “I’m hurrying, Eddie, do you hear me?” my grandmother called out from the kitchen. “I’m not even putting ice in the water.”

  Eddie reached out and wrapped his arms around me. He drew me close. “My boy, my boy, is it really you? It’s been so long.” He held me tight against him. I could feel his bristly beard against my cheek, and his clothes smelled like old people.

  Just then Claire rushed back into the living room, carrying a plate of cookies and four glasses of water on a tray. “What are you doing? I go away for one minute, and when I come back you’re hugging the poor boy?”

  He let go of me. “Why shouldn’t I hug him? He’s my only grandson.”

  “He doesn’t even remember us.”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “This is not the time for that, Eddie. Just sit down.”

  He kissed me on the cheek. “Welcome home, son.”

  “Would you leave the poor boy alone!”

  He grumbled under his breath and sat down. We all sat down.

  We were back to gracious living again. “So, how are your folks?” she asked politely, as if she had no memory of just having yelled at her husband.

  “They’re doing good.” It was then I realized I hadn’t introduced Norton. “Oh, this is Elder Norton. He’s from Idaho. His dad grows potatoes.”

  Norton turned to me and asked quietly, “These are your grandparents?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come they don’t know you very well?”

  “My real mom died when I was very young. My dad remarried. And then—”

  “We moved back East,” Claire said. “That’s where we were from originally. This is the same house we were living in when Charly was born. We rented it out while we lived in Utah.” To Norton, she added, “Oh, Charly is Adam’s mother.”

  “We tried to stay in contact with you after we moved out here,” Eddie said.

  “But that didn’t always work,” Claire said. “I guess Lara didn’t want to confuse you. I mean, you already had two sets of grandparents.”

  “Who’s Lara?” Norton asked.

  “She’s my stepmom. Actually, she’s the only mom I can remember.”

  “At first Lara was very good at including us in family occasions,” Claire said. “But then . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Eddie reached over and took two cookies then passed the plate to me. “Eat all you want.” He looked trim and fit for his age, except for a slightly protruding stomach.

  I took a cookie.

  “Take more,” Eddie said, gesturing with his hand. “Claire’s got boxes and boxes stashed in the house somewhere. Of course, only she knows where they are. She can’t eat ’em because she might put on an ounce. So if she’s not going to eat any of ’em, she thinks I shouldn’t either.”

  “Oh, hush. We’ve got our grandson here, and all you can talk about is cookies?” Claire said.

  “I’m just trying to put him at ease.”

  “That’s what you call it?”

  “This is such a good cookie!” I said, desperately trying to change the subject.

  “And then there was the Mormon thing,” Eddie said. “We aren’t Mormons, but, of course, Lara and Sam were, and the other grandparents.”

  “Your real mother converted not long after she met your dad.”

  “I know,” I said. “My dad told me all about it. When I was about ten years old, he started taking me fishing to the same lake he took my mom before they were married. He talked to me about her while we fished . . . but then . . .”

  “What?” Eddie and Claire asked together.

  “My mom found out about him talking about Charly, I guess, because after that my dad didn’t talk to me very much about my real mom.”

  “You have a brother, don’t you? Clinton, is it? How’s he doing?” Claire asked.

  “It’s Quentin. He’s doing really well. He just left on a mission to Finland. I won’t get a chance to see him until he gets back, so that’s not so good.”

  “How long is this mission of yours? Is it like forever?”

  That made me laugh. “No, it’s just for two years. I’ll be finished the last week in April.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’ll work for my dad this summer and I’ll be starting at BYU in the fall. My mom filled out all the paperwork and sent it in and even made a few phone calls to get me accepted.”

  “What are you going to study?” Eddie asked.

  “Information systems.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It has to do with computers. You know, programming, Web site design, things like that.”

  “Too complicated for me,” Eddie said, shaking his head, “although we do have the Internet and I have finally learned how to send an e-mail letter.”

  “My dad sets up Web sites for small businesses. I started working for him in ninth grade.”

  Seeing me glance at the plate of cookies, Eddie handed me the plate. “Take all you want! I’ll go fill the plate in a minute.”

  “We still have some of your mom’s things from when she was growing up,” Claire said. “Photos and such . . . if you’re interested.”

  “I’d like to see them. The thing is, I don’t know much about her, just what my dad told me, but that was a long time ago. I’d like to see whatever you have.”

  “I’ll go haul some photo albums down,” Eddie said, standing up. “We keep them in Charly’s room. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. After all th
ese years to still call it her room and have her things in it. But, really, it’s not that much trouble. It’s a big house, and we’ve never really needed that room. I don’t know about Claire, but I go in there once in a while and, you know, think about her. She was our only child.” He cleared his throat. “We never expected we’d outlive her.” He moved toward the stairs. “I’ll go get the albums.”

  Norton touched my arm. “We’ll need to go soon if we’re going to make it to our appointment tonight.”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to stay much longer today,” I told Eddie when he returned.

  “When can you come see us again?” Eddie asked.

  “Well, let me look at our schedule,” I said, reaching for my planner.

  “Can I talk with you for a minute privately?” Norton asked me.

  We went outside on the porch. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “How can you justify coming here again when it’s out of our area?” he asked.

  “These are my grandparents.”

  “I didn’t come out here to attend your family reunions. You’re a good missionary. You keep the mission rules. If you start breaking this mission rule, where’s it going to stop? They’ll still be your grandparents after you’re released. You can come back here then and spend as much time as you want with them.”

  I thought about what he’d said, then sighed. “You’re right. We can’t come back. Let’s go tell them.”

  By the time we returned, Claire had filled the plate of cookies and replaced our water with lemonade.

  “You’re in luck! Claire went into the vault and brought out the mother lode of cookies just for you two.”

  I cleared my throat. “We have to go now. I’m really sorry about this, but we won’t be able to come back.”

  They were stunned. “Why not?” Claire asked.

  “Each pair of missionaries is assigned a particular area where they’re supposed to work. We’re not supposed to leave our area.”

  “Adam, where is your area?” Claire asked.

  “It’s Morristown.”

  “But that’s not very far away. Won’t they let you come here once in a while?”