Read a Little

Saturday

Cameron Richards yelped in annoyance. The hammer missed its intended mark and struck him on a finger instead. He shook his hand rapidly and muttered at the undercarriage of his Jeep. He had to roll over twice to retrieve the hammer he had thrown. The next time he hit the U-joint, it was with better precision.

“You dirty dog, let go!” Cameron yelled at the part.

With a metallic pop, the last piece of the fractured U-joint broke free and skidded across the gravel embankment. What was his mother thinking, having him drive all the way to California to meet this paternal grandmother whom he had never even heard of until last year?

Cameron wiped oil-streaked hands on his faded jeans. He grabbed onto the rear bumper and pulled his six-foot frame out from under the scratched, green Wrangler that was currently dead on the shoulder of Interstate 80 in Roseville, CA. He shook his head vigorously, and dust and gravel flew out of his dark, wavy hair. He pushed a lock of it out of his eyes; he was in need of a haircut. Pulling a pair of cheap sunglasses down over his nose, he hid his velvet blue eyes. He was a long way from home, and he was tired, hungry, and frustrated.

He kicked the knobby tires on his lifted rig in annoyance, and dirt went flying. It wasn’t that replacing the U-joint was difficult; it was just one more thing. He almost wished he had a cigarette. He sighed heavily and started walking toward the Douglas exit, looking for an auto parts store and food.

He saw fast food establishments close to the freeway but passed them by. The walk was calming him down. A block ahead he saw Mel’s Diner advertising “old-fashioned” food. He decided food would energize him, so he made that his target. The parking lot was crowded. It was a good sign.

Cameron entered the restaurant and caught the eye of the afternoon hostess. On her nametag was a neatly typed “Lauren.”

“Hi. How many?”

“Just one. Smoking please.”

“We don’t have a smoking section.”

“What? Well, where do the smokers go to eat?” He asked in sincere puzzlement.

She smiled and pointed outside.

“You’re kidding.”

“No. You can’t smoke in restaurants in California. Actually, you can’t smoke anywhere indoors in California...like at work and stuff.”

“Whoa, are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I live here. You must be new. Where are you from?” Lauren asked.

“Up until last week, Fargo, North Dakota. Before that, Kentucky. That’s where I grew up.”

“Well, do you want to try eating without the smoke?” Lauren grinned at him.

“Non-smoking is fine. I was just surprised—you say this is all restaurants?” he asked, still amazed.

Her ponytail bobbed as she nodded.

“Okay, table for one—no smoking please.”

Lauren smiled and her green eyes sparkled with amusement. She walked toward a booth near the front window and handed him a menu. He reached out his left hand to take it and the black and turquoise CTR ring on his index finger caught her eye. Her eyes narrowed a bit, and he caught the change in her expression.

“What?”

“Why do you smoke anyway?” she said with mild disdain in her voice.

“Huh?”

“I mean, I can’t believe you wear your ring while you smoke cigarettes. Don’t you find that a bit hypocritical?”

He looked down at his ring, then back at her. “What are you talking about? What does my ring have do to with smoking?”

“Duh! CTR.” When he continued to look confused, she added in a slow, parental voice, “Choose the Right.”

“Choose the right what? I don’t understand?” He said genuinely perplexed.

Now Lauren was the one who was confused. She looked at his ring, then at him, then at his ring. “You have on a CTR ring. The ring you first got in Primary?” Her words came out more a question than a statement.

“Primary?” He looked down at his ring, which he had been wearing for over a year. “I found this ring at the gas station I worked at in Fargo. Someone left it on the sink in the bathroom. When no one came back to claim it, I started wearing it because it had my initials on it—Cameron T. Richards. It fit and I liked how it looked.”

At this news Lauren became positively red-faced. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

Lauren reached out and touched his index finger. Her hand was cool and welcome on his rough skin. “I thought you were a member of the church. I mean a member of my church. This ring,” and she tapped her finger on his CTR ring for emphasis, “is something that we get right before we’re baptized. It’s to remind us to choose the right.’ A sort of gentle reminder to follow Christ. I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time about the smoking.” She shook her head. “Clearly you’re not Mormon.”

At the word Mormon, Cameron jerked his hand away. “Mormon? You’re a Mormon?” He blurted out the words.

“Uh huh.” She lowered her tone of voice. “I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints—or ‘Mormon,’ which is probably what most people outside the church know us as.”

“And this ring?” he said holding his hand out toward her. “Is this a ‘Mormon’ ring?”

She nodded and held out her right hand to show him her ring. Cameron looked at her hand. On it was a silver ring surrounded by Noah’s ark animals. Upon closer inspection Cameron could see the familiar crest he wore on his finger—the initials CTR imbedded in the polished silver.

“Oh brother.” He tugged at his CTR ring and pulled it off his finger. It left a white band of sun-starved skin exposed. He held the ring in his left hand and inspected it. “I always loved this ring too. Really, what were the chances someone would leave a ring that had my initials on it. I never for a moment thought it was anything other than that. But now I can’t wear it—I’m a Christian.”

. . .