Fiction:

Crawford P. Jones Is More Than Okay

by Don Smurthwaite

Maybe it was his height—six feet, five inches from his toes to the top of his flyaway hair. Perhaps it was the way he walked—a jerky, foot-flapping gait that gave him the look of a crane. Or it could have been his glasses—canning jar thick, perched halfway down his nose, held together at the bridge with (no kidding) masking tape.

And there was one thing more: the expression on his face. It’s difficult to describe, but it reminded me of a puppy begging for a pat on the head.

I’d been told there was a new boy in the ward. But when I saw Crawford amble into the chapel during sacrament meeting, my first reaction was, “He’s too big to be a teenager.” He didn’t sit next to anyone.

After the closing hymn, I walked over and extended my hand.

“Hi. I’m Jon North. And something tells me you’re a teacher, right?”

“Uh, yes. You’re quite right.”

His voice was crisp and deep. He looked surprised but pleased that someone would speak to him.

“My name is Crawford,” he said. “Crawford P. Jones. Most people mistake me for someone older because of my size. You’re very astute.”

“Thanks, Crawford. I try to be astute. Are you going to be in the ward for a while?”

“We just moved here to Oregon from Arizona. We’ll be staying some time, I think. Sorry I missed the earlier meetings. The change of time zones left me perplexed.”

“Perplexed we can deal with,” I said, wondering about his vocabulary. “Meetings start at nine, priesthood meeting first. I’m the teachers quorum adviser. I’ll come around with the president and visit you this week.”

The Jones’s small home sat by itself on a couple of acres a mile or two from town. Crawford and the quorum president, Dan Quayle, were chattering outside. I was in the kitchen, talking with Sister Jones. I found out she was a widow who had moved here to take a teaching job at the community college.

“Crawford’s a good son,” she said softly. “Kind to his sisters. A good student. The last couple of years, he’s taken on a lot of responsibility. When his father died, he started a paper route and washed cars for a dealer. He’s already looking into a part-time job at the grocery store here. The extra money helps, but I worry that he’s missing out on other things he needs. Sports. Church dances. His dad taught him a lot about photography, but he hasn’t done much lately. It would be nice if he could make some friends here …”

Her voice trailed off.

“It was his father who chose the name Crawford,” she continued. “He wanted him to have a distinctive first name because he thought Jones was so common. Sometimes it’s seemed like a big name for him, but I guess he’s growing into it.”

I could hear the back door open and the shoe-flapping sound of Crawford and Dan coming back to the living room.

“Listen,” I said before the boys could hear. “We’ll make him feel at home.”

On the surface, it was easy. Crawford attended all his meetings. Not once did he clown around in class. He had all the right answers to the questions. He pursued Varsity Scouting with the doggedness of a marathon runner. And he got along well enough with the other teachers. But he didn’t really pal around with them.

With me, he was polite, but distant. I knew something wasn’t right, but I still had to find out what. Sister Jones’s words about hoping he’d find friends kept ringing in my ears.

The first break came during priesthood meeting. There was an announcement about the junior basketball team beginning practice. Crawford was by far the tallest boy in the stake. It seemed like a natural. I pulled him aside after the lesson.

“You’re going to play, aren’t you?”

“I’m awfully busy.” He hesitated. “And despite my stature, I’m not athletically inclined.”

“Are you kidding? With your height, just stand under the basket with your arms out. That’s how Bill Russell got started.”

“Bill who?”

“Never mind. Just look menacing. Go ahead, you can do it.”

He twisted his face into what was supposed to be a scowl. It looked more like a smirk.

“More teeth. Give me some teeth.”

He pulled his lips back a bit.

“Now a growl. Mean and low.”

Crawford obediently growled.

“Okay, we’ll work on it. Let me call Todd Bowers. He’s the coach. He’ll make sure you get to practice.”

“Well …”

“You can do it, Crawford. At least try.”

“All right. Maybe I have some undiscovered native ability.”

Nothing more was said about basketball until several weeks later, when Crawford called one evening.

“Our first game is tomorrow night. I expect you’ll attend.” There was a twinge of excitement.

“Oh … well, I expect I will.”

“Terrific. Simply terrific. I will not let you down.”

So I went to the game the following night. How do I explain the way it went? Easy. It was a nightmare.

Crawford was selected to jump for the tip-off. He was so eager to get the ball that when the referee tossed it up, he lunged in and knocked over the opposing player. Whistle. Foul. One second had ticked off the clock.

The other team took the ball out of bounds. One of the players took a pass, drove to the basket, and put up a shot. Crawford blocked it with a wild swoop of his arm. That was the good part.

The bad part was that he almost knocked the player’s head off in the process. Whistle. Foul. We were now 20 seconds into the game.

The fouled player made his first free throw but missed the second. Up went Crawford for the rebound—up and over another player. Whistle. Foul. Our ward called a time-out.

I watched Crawford during the time-out. His eyes were brimming with determination. He wanted to atone for his mistakes, and I got the feeling, he wanted to do it all at once. I hoped Todd would pull him and let him regain some composure. Instead Crawford trotted back onto the court.

Our team had the ball. Crawford took a pass at the top of the key. He turned toward the basket, pulled his lips back, and growled. I sensed disaster.

Before I could mumble, “No, don’t do it,” he put his head down and like a bull, battered his way toward the basket. One of those huge feet got tangled with the other, and Crawford was airborne. Three innocent players were in his path. I cringed and closed my eyes. Then came a crash and four distinct thuds as the bodies dropped to the floor. I opened my eyes slowly and wondered if I should call the paramedics.

Four young men were sprawled on the floor, a tangled heap of arms, legs, and dazed looks. Fortunately, no one was hurt, although Crawford seemed a little confused about which planet he was on.

And yes, there was a whistle and a foul on Crawford. Four fouls in 30 seconds. It must have been some kind of a record.

Todd motioned for me to come onto the floor.

“Crawford’s a little woozy. Will you keep an eye on him?”

“Sure.”

Crawford was sitting up now, holding his head with his hands.

“C’mon, Crawford. Let’s take you some place to rest.”

I helped him to his feet and he groggily followed me out the door. He slumped onto a couch in the foyer.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, looking up. “You’re Brother North.”

“Good. And who are you?”

“A failure.”

“That’s not true.”

“I let you down. I let everyone down.”

“You did not. That was the most memorable half-minute of basketball I’ve ever seen.”

He turned and stared out the window. He didn’t say a word for a couple of minutes. Finally, I moved to where I could see his face.

A thin line of tears ran down his cheeks.

“It is so difficult,” he said quietly. “I try. I really try. But I don’t seem to fit anywhere. Where do I belong, Brother North?”

I wasn’t sure what to say, other than I knew I had to begin with the truth. Crawford deserved that much.

“I’m not sure. But I do know this, Crawford. You will find your place someday. Just keep doing what’s right, and it will happen.”

He shifted a little on the couch. “I hope you’re right.”

“Hey, I’m the one you called astute, remember? Has that changed?”

“No.”

“You’ll have some rough spots, Crawford. Everyone does, especially while they’re growing. But you’ll be okay. More than okay. You’re a good person. You know who you are and where your roots are. Right there you have an advantage over most people.”

“But it doesn’t seem fair. If I have advantages, why isn’t it easier?”

“Life isn’t always easy.” I winced when I said it. More than most people, Crawford already knew that. From the time his father died and he started washing cars, Crawford knew it wouldn’t be simple and comfortable. Still, I wanted him to look at what he had, not what he didn’t have.

“A lot of blessings have already come to you. There will be more. Sometimes blessings are so close that we don’t recognize them.”

He rubbed his hand over the back of his head.

“Yes, I believe you are correct on that point. I have a terrific mother, three beautiful sisters, and I’m a member of the Church. And I have a great friend in you.”

“And I have a great friend in you. Now, do you want to get back in the game? You still have one foul left to burn.”

He said his head was still throbbing, so I helped him to my car and drove him home.

I thought our talk had helped, but all night long I wondered. Crawford still had a lot of things to sort out. Had I said the right things? The next day, I kept wondering. Finally, that night, as we were eating dinner, there was a knock at the door.

My wife, Sally, welcomed Crawford and invited him in.

“Good evening, Brother North,” he greeted. “May I have a word with you?”

We moved to the living room while Sally and our one-year-old, Kelly, finished eating.

“I want to apologize for my moodiness last night,” Crawford began. “I had many deep and introspective thoughts last night about our discussion in the foyer. I have concluded that you are absolutely correct. I will find my place. If I continue to do what is right, I will be okay. In your words, more than okay, though I thought it was an unusual way to express it.”

“No need to apologize, Crawford. I remember crying my eyes out in a high school baseball game when the coach replaced me with a pinch hitter. I couldn’t even look at the other guys. I didn’t feel like part of the human race. Things like that happen. Rough spots, remember?”

His eyes opened wide.

“You have had thoughts about not fitting in?”

“Of course. And I still have them, sometimes.”

Crawford looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t have guessed. You have a good job, a splendid family. You are not the kind to wear masking tape on your glasses. Everything seems to be going your way. And yet we have a lot in common. I’m beginning to understand. One must not base his outlook on life on a single incident, good or otherwise. One must learn to keep the larger picture in perspective.”

“Exactly,” I enthused. “And by the way, what you just said is very astute.” That was the first time I ever heard him laugh.

“This is crazy,” I shouted, even though I was sure nobody could hear me. To my right, not more than a couple of feet away, water thundered over an 80-foot drop. Crawford was below, camera on tripod, motioning for me to get still closer to the falls.

Our Varsity Scouts were camping near Silvermoon Falls. I’d asked Crawford to serve as official overnighter photographer, and he’d eagerly accepted. Now it was Saturday morning, and much to the delight of the other boys, Crawford had talked me into hiking to the top of the falls so he could get my picture.

He waved me over again. I shook my head no. He made a face and flapped his arms at me in mock disgust. Then he stepped around his tripod and set the timer. A few seconds went by, and I smiled and tried to look serene, despite the roaring water. Then the boys broke into a cheer and signaled for me to climb down.

“Are you guys trying to get a new adviser?” I huffed after arriving. “You could be more subtle about it. And when do I get to see the picture?”

“At the right time,” Crawford said with a wink. “At the right time.”

Crawford’s visits to our home became more and more frequent. “I think you’re becoming the big brother he never had,” Sally observed one night. “And maybe a bit of the father he misses.”

“All that he needs now is an older sister, right?” I said.

“Are you getting at something?”

“Now that you mention it, a week from Saturday our ward is sponsoring the stake dance. It’s time Crawford went to one. He’s almost 16, and the social polish will do him good.”

“And?”

“And my guess is that part of the reason he doesn’t go to dances is that he doesn’t know how to dance. Typical male teenager.”

“You want me to teach him how to dance? But his feet are so big! And there’s not much time before the dance. And …”

“And?”

“And when would you like me to start?”

That’s why, two days later, our family room became a dance studio. I was in charge of music, Sally in charge of instruction, and Crawford in charge—well sort of in charge—of his two huge feet.

“I can’t do this!” he lamented.

“Yes you can. Two steps forward, one step back. If you can count, you can dance,” I cheered him on. Sally kept an eye on his feet.

“To the beat, Crawford,” Sally said, looking at me. “You’re doing quite well. You’re already much better than my husband.”

“Two ahead, one back … Two ahead, one back. …” Crawford muttered dutifully. “Are you sure I can do this?”

Two hours later, Crawford had the two-step down cold and a little bit of the swing memorized. Miraculously, Sally’s feet were neither bruised nor broken.

“We’ll be chaperoning at the dance Saturday,” Sally said as he left. “You’re ready, and you’ll have a great time. See you there.”

“I’ll be there,” he pledged.

And so he was.

He walked in the door about 20 minutes late, wearing a new sports coat and slacks. The tape on his glasses was gone. In fact, his glasses were gone.

“Oh Crawford, you look so handsome,” Sally said.

“My mother talked me into spending some of my money on a new coat,” he said. “I objected, but she insisted. And I’ve had contact lenses for a couple of years, but I’ve seldom worn them. Mom says when I take my glasses off I look like my father.”

Music was playing. A spotlight shone on a revolving mirrored ball, flashing patterns of light across the floor. A few dancers were making their way to the center of the cultural hall. Crawford gazed at them.

Sally whispered in my ear. “Look at him. Can you believe it?”

Crawford ambled over to the refreshment table and picked up a cup of punch. He sipped it and chatted with some of the boys from our ward.

“When will he dance?”

“Soon enough. My guess is that he’ll wait for a slow one. You know, two steps forward, one step back.”

Ten minutes passed, then 20, then half an hour. A slow song came on. Crawford put down the cup of punch and walked across the floor. Slowly he moved toward a small group of girls. One had her back to Crawford.

“That’s the one, Sally. He’s going to ask the girl in the blue-and-white dress for a dance.”

“Oh, she’s cute,” Sally whispered. “His very first dance. I’m so excited.”

“Go, Crawford.” I almost wanted to shout it. “Confidence. Remember confidence. Ask her before the song ends. Sally, this is going to work. I know it.”

Wrong.

Crawford, though he could now dance, did not know how to ask a young lady to dance, a key omission from our family-room lesson. He simply reached out one of his huge hands and sort of thumped it on the poor girl’s shoulder.

As she turned around, she must have had visions of meeting King Kong. Crawford sensed something wasn’t going right, promptly froze, and sat there with a silly smile plastered on his face. The girl’s jaw dropped, and she began to back cautiously away. Awkward is too mild of an adjective to describe the situation.

“Oh, Crawford,” Sally moaned.

Finally, he began to show signs of life. Without changing facial expression, he backed up, one foot, then the other. The music stopped. Some of the returning dancers noticed the odd scene and stared at him. As though in a trance, he kept backing, backing away. It was the basketball fiasco all over again.

Crawford backpedaled until he nudged the refreshment table. The punch bowl sat at the far end. Crawford reached back with his hands, and without thinking, hoisted himself onto the table. It was only then that his grin disappeared. Replacing it was a look of sheer horror.

His weight on one end of the table sent the other end shooting upward. The punch bowl came sliding toward him. Too late he realized what was happening. He spun around after the punch bowl had plowed through a tray of cookies and just as it fell off the edge of the table. Instinctively, he grabbed the bowl and saved it from crashing to the floor. But he couldn’t prevent a tidal wave of raspberry punch from sloshing all over his face and his clothes.

Everyone’s gaze was on Crawford, who stood forlornly at the end of the table, holding the almost-empty bowl, dripping sticky red liquid from head to foot.

The music started, a fast number with a strong beat. Flashes of light from the mirror darted around the room, but nobody was dancing. Some of the kids were applauding, some laughing and pointing. Others were trying to help clean up the mess. One of the boys in the teachers quorum ran to get towels. Someone else went looking for a mop, but all he could find was a broom.

About a dozen people or so just stood there, wondering what to do.

Finally, Crawford straightened.

“Are you all right?” someone said. It was the girl in the blue-and-white dress. “Did you still want to dance?”

“I’m okay,” Crawford said. “In fact, I’m more than okay. I’ll just run home and change clothes, then I’ll be right back. Don’t worry. It’s my first dance. I’m supposed to make a big splash.”

Later that evening, Sally pointed to the middle of the dance floor. There was Crawford in his old suit, dancing with the girl in the blue-and-white dress. It was a slow number. I could see him mouthing the words, “two steps forward, one step back,” in perfect rhythm to the music.

What more can I say? Crawford did find his place. I watched him evolve from a struggling boy to a fine young man. He grew two inches taller, and a whole lot more comfortable around people. It’s a funny word to use for someone his age, but he was beloved—by his family, his ward, his friends.

Crawford’s on a mission now, in Germany. I get a kick when I think of size 15 feet on cobblestone streets. It’s a difficult mission, no doubt. But Crawford will succeed. He knows who he is.

And on my desk is a photo he gave me when I was released as teachers quorum adviser. It’s a photo of me at Silvermoon Falls, trying to look calm while balanced on a rock next to the rushing water. Next to me is the stream, narrow and hard-running, no different than dozens of other streams. Then it shoots over the cliff and becomes a waterfall, a thing of beauty, a thing of power, a thing of inspiration.

I think about the waterfall and I think about Crawford. It seems to me that in many ways, they are almost the same.

Illustrated by Paul Mann