Favorite Wife by Susan Ray Schmidt

wasn’t alone. I immediately recognized Ervil’s broad shoulders and massive head. He was seated at the dining room table, just off of the living room.
    â€œSusan, dear,” Grandma was saying, her voice crystal clear and melodious as a lark’s, “go play ‘Gypsy Rondo’ for Ervil, while I finish putting this bread in the oven.”
    Ervil, the church Patriarch and Second Grand Head of Priesthood glanced at me. His mouth was full of something that looked like peach cobbler. He barely waved and turned back to his dessert.
    In the years I had lived in the colony, I had rarely been around Ervil. Something about him always made me self-conscious, and I sighed. Why did Grandma always want her students to play for everyone? Ervil was a prestigious, busy man, and I knew he couldn’t care less about hearing me play. But I dutifully sat down and ripped off the tune in my best form as Grandma fussed around her giant son. She served him up a second plate of cobbler as he talked steadily to her. I felt as if I were interrupting, so after the tune was over, I stopped.
    Immediately Ervil turned to me. “That was nice,” his voice was soft for such a big man, his deep-set eyes serious, as he looked me up and down. “Very nice. You do Mother proud.”
    â€œThank you, Brother LeBaron,” I murmured, my voice drowned out by his chair scraping against the floor. He stood up, such a huge man beside his frail mother.
    Suddenly he coughed and choked and gasped for air as he grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket. He spit in it and wiped his eyes on a clean corner. Grandma had reached up and was patting his back. “Now Ervil,” she reproached him, “see why I insist you wear wool on your chest? Bring me a bunch of your cotton tee shirts and I’ll sew woolen patches on for you. You’re going to have to start taking care of yourself, or you’ll end up back in bed.” She was walking him to the front door and talking to him as if he were only ten.
    As they reached the entryway someone pounded on the door.
    â€œYou ready to go?” a man’s voice said when Grandma swung the screen open. I peered out at Dan Jordan, one of the Twelve Apostles. He owned the other red brick home in the colony. He stood on Grandma’s threshold, a quizzical smile on his round face while he looked at Ervil. Dan was of medium height, with a perpetual beard shadow, black hair and eyes, and a dry, almost sarcastic humor that made the adult Sunday school classes he taught entertaining as well as educational. He was Grandma’s grandson by marriage, and he leaned down and kissed her cheek.
    â€œEverything all set?” Ervil inquired as, without a backward glance, they moved across the gravel drive. I could see them through the window when they climbed into Dan’s waiting pickup.
    â€œCome back soon,” Grandma called after them. She stood in the doorway a moment, watching them drive off. When she limped back to me, there was a strained expression in her clear hazel eyes.
    â€œSometimes, no matter how grown up your kids get, you still feel like they need a good pounding,” she declared. Shaking her head, she settled down beside me at the piano and opened my music book.
    The mental picture of Grandma trying to pound on Ervil made me giggle. “You’re worried about his cold?” I asked.
    â€œOh, that. And other things . . .” Her voice drifted off. “No matter. So tell me,” she said, “have you practiced much this week?”
    Impulsively I reached my arm around Grandma’s delicate shoulders and hugged her. She was so sweet and motherly, and it amused me that she was worrying about her grown son. Ervil was a man I subconsciously ranked with the angels, right up there next to Jesus, so perfect and good. And yet his own mother wanted to shake him. It was amazing and almost unbelievable. I considered asking her just what she was talking