Irreantum, Autumn 2002

2002 autumn issue.
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IRREANTUM
EXPLORING MORMON LITERATURE
MAGAZINE OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR MORMON LETTERS

AUTUMN 2002 • $4.00
Douglas Thayer reflects on his

writing career and looks ahead
Paul Edwards previews his

highly anticipated murder
mystery, The Angel Acronym
Also featuring memoirist Tom Johnson and IRREANTUM fiction-contest

winners Sharlee Mullins Glenn, Brian Jackson, and Darlene Young
Fiction, reviews, literary news, poetry, and more
2002 autumn issue.qxd 2/11/03 1:54 PM Page 2
IRREANTUM
MAGAZINE OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR MORMON LETTERS
E D I T O R I A L S T A F F
Tory Anderson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fiction editor Marny K. Parkin . . . . Speculative fiction coeditor

Christopher K. Bigelow . . . . . . Managing editor and AML-List Highlights editor
Harlow Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Poetry editor Scott R. Parkin . . . . . Speculative fiction coeditor
Travis Manning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Essay editor Jana Bouck Remy . . . . . . . . . . . . . Review editor
D. Michael Martindale . . . . . . . . . . .Film editor Edgar C. Snow Jr. . . . . . . . Rameumptom editor
A M L B O A R D
Gideon Burton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . President D. Michael Martindale . . . . . . . . Board member

Cherry Silver . . . . . . . . . . Annual meeting chair Tyler Moulton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Board member
Sharlee Mullins Glenn . . . . . . . . Board member Eric Samuelsen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Board member
Gae Lyn Henderson . . . . . . . . . . Board member Kathleen Dalton-Woodbury . . . . Board member
A M L S T A F F
Linda Adams . . . . . . . . . . . AML ANNUAL editor Terry L Jeffress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Webmaster

Christopher K. Bigelow . . . . . . Magazine editor Jonathan Langford . . . . . . . . AML-List moderator
John-Charles Duffy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Treasurer Melissa Proffit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Secretary
Andrew Hall . . . . . Assistant AML-List moderator
IRREANTUM (ISSN 1528-0594) is published four times a This magazine has no official connection with or endorsement
year by the Association for Mormon Letters (AML), P.O. Box by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
51364, Provo, UT 84605-1364, www.aml-online.org. © 2002 IRREANTUM welcomes unsolicited essays, reviews, fiction,
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Autumn 2002 2 IRREANTUM

IRREANTUM
Autumn 2002 • Volume 4, Number 3
C O N T E N T S
Interviews Reviews
Douglas Thayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 The Double Life of a Mormon Essayist: Tom
Paul Edwards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Plummer Writing for or about Mormons
(but Not Both), Laraine Wilkins
Novel Excerpts A review of Tom Plummer’s Second Wind:
A White House, Douglas Thayer . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Variations on a Theme of Growing Older and
The Angel Acronym, Paul Edwards . . . . . . . . 24 Waltzing to a Different Strummer . . . . . . . 85
A Spy in Zion Is Undone, Jeffrey Needle
Memoir Excerpt A review of Jeff Call’s Mormonville . . . . . . 88
Rocky, Fertile, and Scorched, Tom Johnson . . 34 Finding the Good in All People, Jeffrey Needle
A review of Jerry E. Johnston’s Dear Hearts,
Editorial Gentle People . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Sing, Ye Waste Places of Jerusalem College-Aged Attitudes toward Sexuality,
Harlow Soderborg Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 R. W. Rasband
A review of Eric Samuelsen’s play
Essay Peculiarities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
On Writing “Umbilical Cord,” Darlene Young 83 Best LDS Film since Dutcher? Preston Hunter
A review of Out of Step . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Poetry The Little Movie That Couldn’t but Should Have,
Times of Refreshing: 1820, Alice E. Howe . . . 34 D. Michael Martindale
And She Loved to Dance, Béla Petsco . . . . . . 50 A review of Out of Step . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Elegy, Béla Petsco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 Selected Recent Releases . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Umbilical Cord, Darlene Young . . . . . . . . . . . 83
Fire, Marilyn Brown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Mormon Literary Scene . . . . . . . . . . 101
Stories AML-List Highlights . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Idaho Love Song, Sharlee Mullins Glenn . . . . 52
Jabulane, Brian Jackson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Rissa Orders Cheescake, Darlene Young . . . . . 65
On the Last Day, God Created
Virginia Baker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
IRREANTUM 3 Autumn 2002

I N T E R V I E W associate chair, and associate dean. He has received

various regional awards for his writing. He is married
Douglas Thayer to Donlu DeWitt. Although he married late, as we say
in the trade, he and Donlu managed to have six great
kids in nine years—Emmelyn, Paul, James, Katherine,
Douglas Thayer was born in Salt Lake City but Stephen, and Michael, and now have a grandson,
grew up in Provo. His mother Lil had a great influ- Marcus, who growls. One of the things Thayer likes
ence on him. Lil taught the avoidance of three sins: about his extended family is that his father was born
laziness, rotten laziness, and damned rotten laziness. in 1865 (twelve years old when Brigham Young died)
As a boy Thayer’s great passions were hunting, fishing, and he has two half-sisters, one born in 1890 and the
and swimming naked in the Provo River and polluted other in 1892 (both dead, along with his father,
Utah Lake (every town in the valley emptied raw regrettably). Thayer teaches full-time. Donlu is in her
sewage into the lake; a quick, cheap immunization second year of law school at BYU. Thayer’s younger
against every known disease, if you survived). In 1946 brother Bob, who didn’t go into teaching or writing
he dropped out of high school and joined the U.S. Army fiction, is retired and drives a new Jaguar.
and served in Germany. After that he came home,
attended BYU for a year, and then returned to Ger- To start off, give us an overview of your pub-
many as a missionary. As an army reservist Thayer lished works. What are your favorites? Which
was called up to fight in Korea but was on his mission. are your least favorite? If someone asked you
He had no desire to kill or wound or be killed or where to begin reading your stories and how to
wounded but has always felt he missed his war (a great get the best overview of your career and writing
deprivation for a writer who liked Hemingway). range, where would you point them?
Thayer later finished a B.A. in English and went to I published Under the Cottonwoods (a collection
Stanford to work on a doctorate. He didn’t like research of Mormon stories) in 1977, Summer Fire (a novel)
(he was more interested in his own ideas) and sneaked in 1983, and Mr. Wahlquist in Yellowstone (a collec-
out of Stanford with an M.A. (unpromising doctoral tion of non-Mormon stories) in 1989. I’ve pub-
students are often given an M.A. as a kind of sop). He lished fourteen stories in magazines and journals,
wanted to teach high school but ended up teaching at most of them found in the collections. I don’t have
BYU in 1957. He started preparation for a doctorate any particular favorites in my work, although I
in clinical psychology, but gave that up. He went to think that Harris, the new novel I’m working on,
Maryland, after teaching at BYU for three years, might be the best thing I’ve written, assuming I get
to start a doctorate in American studies. But he didn’t it finished. Anyone who wants an overview of my
like that (for the same reason he didn’t stay at Stan- work should read it all; it shouldn’t take too long.
ford) and decided, finally, to do what he’d always
wanted to do, but didn’t know it, and went to the What prompted you to start writing? What
University of Iowa to do an MFA in fiction writing. early experiences and influences shaped you to
During his schooling he worked at various times as an be a writer? How did you learn the craft? Trace
insurance salesman, driller’s helper near Moab during for us how your writing inclination developed
the uranium boom, laborer in a pig-iron plant, sea- and how you first became a published writer.
sonal ranger in Yellowstone, janitor, dishwasher in a I started to write because I kept getting a lot of
restaurant, laborer in a salvage operation, supervisor ideas for stories. I felt that if I didn’t write I would
of a men’s dormitory, fire fighter, and construction regret it someday. I also felt that I should write, that
laborer. After finishing the MFA, he returned to BYU it was one of my tasks in life. I don’t know why.
to teach literature, composition, and creative-writing I learned to write by teaching the short story and
classes, and to write fiction. At BYU he has served as taking every story apart piece by piece to learn how
director of composition, director of creative writing, it worked. I also learned by writing sometimes

thirty or more drafts of my first stories (down to the new novel Harris (see below), which goes from
about fifteen now) and getting good readers to read 1945 to 1953. Because I returned from my mission
my manuscripts and make suggestions, most of fifty years ago, I have had time to gain a little per-
which I took. The MFA also helped. If I have tal- spective (I’ve also had three children complete mis-
ent, it’s in my ability to write and rewrite until I get sions in the last six years, have one out now, and
what I think I want, although I have also been one planning on a mission in the summer—which
accused of writing all the life out of my fiction. also helps the perspective). Missions are also impor-
tant in A White House (again, see below), although
What are your goals, motivations, and desires not my mission as such.
as a writer? Your greatest reward as a writer?
Your greatest fear? Do you ever feel inspired in a Tell us about your writing habits: how often
spiritual way with regards to your writing? you write, how you balance it with other things,
My intention (I don’t like the word goal) is to any rituals or conditions you require for a good
write serious Mormon fiction that intelligent read- writing session, and perhaps some comments
ers will enjoy and learn from. My reward is to write about how you use notes, outlines, research,
something I know is good, that works, and to have multiple drafts, et cetera.
readers tell me they like my stuff. I don’t have any I try to write two hours a day at least. I take the
fears, great or otherwise. I am, though, a little con- first two hours of my working day. They are mine.
cerned that I will die, have a stroke, or go senile If teaching gets heavy, I stop writing and take care
before I finish some of the stuff I’m working on of teaching. I need absolute quiet to write. Fortu-
now. I don’t feel particularly inspired in a spiritual nately I have a study in the Lee Library with cin-
or any other way, but I do believe it is my lot in life der-block walls. When I write a draft, I take notes
to write, that it’s important for me to write, that I as changes come to me, print the draft, and write
would somehow be shirking (a word my mother the notes in the margin where I think I want to put
used to use) if I didn’t. them. If the notes are many (for a novel I might
have a hundred or more after an early draft), I write
Talk to us about where you get your ideas and them on 3x5 cards, categorize them, put them in a
material. Most fiction is a combination of three box, and then add them to the margins of the new
elements: what the author has experienced, draft. I typically single-space and have pages reduced
observed, and imagined. How do those three (two pages to a sheet of paper) so I can spread the
elements work together for you? How much is draft of an entire novel (I don’t write long novels)
autobiographical? out on tables in the library to enter my notes. In
My ideas come to me out of my experience and this way I get a sense of the balance of the story or
out of what I read. Journals, diaries, memoirs, Ann novel, of the parts and how they fit together.
Landers, family stories, and gossip are good sources
of material. I’m not sure how the sources work What works of Mormon literature have you
together. As far as I can tell, they all get mixed up personally most enjoyed? What works of general
in my mind somehow and then I find what I need literature have most influenced you? Do other
or it just surfaces in some odd way. Not much is auto- cultural influences besides fiction—such as
biographical that I’m aware of, although my wife music—play into your creativity?
Donlu is somewhat afraid that I will inadvertently The Mormon books I have most enjoyed include
spill my personal beans, to our mutual chagrin. Levi Peterson’s The Backslider, Virginia Sorensen’s
Where Nothing Is Long Ago, John S. Harris’s Barbed
Does your mission experience in Germany Wire, Marilyn Brown’s The Earth Keepers, Scott
turn up much in your fiction? Card’s Ender’s Game, Annie Clark Tanner’s A Mor-
It’s in a couple of short stories. It’s very much in mon Mother, Don Marshall’s Rummage Sale, and

Dean Hughes’s Children of the Promise series. I also or thirty-five take an MFA. An MFA certainly isn’t
enjoy Gene England’s personal essays, Brigham necessary to become a writer, although far too
Young’s sermons, and an array of other poems, per- many students think that it is. The best way to
sonal essays, and stories by individual Mormon learn to write is to write, learn to read as a writer,
authors. I don’t know about particular works that get somebody who knows how to read and com-
have influenced me, but certain writers have— ment on your stuff, develop your capacity for hon-
Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Flannery esty, and consistently and persistently to send your
O’Connor, James Joyce, John Steinbeck, Eudora stuff out to publishers.
Welty, J. D. Salinger, James Thurber, E. B. White,
D. H. Lawrence, and Leslie Norris. I’ve always What have you learned about marketing your-
wanted to sing and play the piano brilliantly, but self as a writer and approaching different pub-
never have, alas. This yearning may have affected lishers? Which LDS-market publishers have you
my writing in some way. I don’t know. I like poetry; worked with, and what has been your experience
I think a good story is in some ways poetic. I like with them? Have you sent out much for consid-
paintings that are full of color and passion, and eration by national agents and publishers? What
would like to think that some of my stuff shares is your best advice for aspiring fiction writers?
these two qualities, at least at times. I haven’t tried to market myself much. Without
Dialogue, Signature Books, and Peregrine Smith
Let’s talk about your teaching profession and Books, I would have been dead as a writer. I owe
how it plays into your writing career. How does them a lot. Deseret Book doesn’t publish the kind of
teaching writing and literature affect you as a stuff I write. I’ve tried national publishers a little and
writer? What are your observations and advice have published in quarterlies, but not Mormon stuff.
related to students of creative writing? Is the As far as I can tell, the national market isn’t much
proliferation of college creative writing pro- interested in Mormon fiction. But that doesn’t bother
grams good or bad? me too much. I want to publish for a Mormon audi-
As I said earlier, teaching the short story taught ence, however small. I think about one-half of one
me something about writing fiction. If nothing percent of the English-speaking population of the
else, it taught me what the typical college student Church would be interested in reading a book-length
could understand in a short story and what he or piece of serious or literary Mormon fiction. That’s
she liked. Teaching distracts me from writing and about 25,000 readers. But then you have the big
tires me out at times, but I learn a lot from my stu- problem of distribution. There is no way that I know
dents, particularly those in freshman English. As of to tell these readers what’s available and get it to
far as creative writing students go, the vast majority them. Web pages and online sales may help in time,
don’t have the endurance and work ethic it takes to but I don’t see much happening right now.
be a writer. MFA programs are okay (if the student
wants to teach), but unfortunately by the time the What have been some highlights and lowlights
typical student has the MFA, he or she has been in of reader and critical responses to your works?
college for six or seven years, which can be disas- Mormon reviewers and critics have, for the most
trous in terms of a wider experience. What experi- part, been good to me—Jerry Johnston, Gene Eng-
ences have they had, outside of school, worth land, Bruce Jorgensen, and Richard Cracroft, to
writing about? Instead of getting the MFA and name four. I have no complaint. It’s all been pretty
teaching, I much prefer that a student become a even, no low or high spots.
lawyer, doctor, corporate CEO, engineer, plumber,
high school teacher, soldier, or mother of ten kids What do you think of Only Once, the Peck/
and write from that experience and perspective. In DeVilliers film adaptation of your story “Greg”
fact, it might be well not to let anyone under thirty and Donlu’s story “Kelly”?

I found the title very odd. The film doesn’t bear set it all up. The press would also need to offer sub-
a lot of resemblance to the two stories, except maybe stantial prizes ($5,000 is probably a substantial
thematically. The film was produced for a Christian prize) and publication for winners of annual con-
market, not a Mormon market, which makes it tests in the various types of book-length literature.
essentially non-Mormon. Donlu and I didn’t write
the screenplay. Since you’re one of the founders of modern
Mormon short fiction, what do you think of the
What are your observations about the histor- genre? Are the kids getting out of hand?
ical development and current state of Mormon No, I don’t think the kids are getting out of
literature? What’s your impression of today’s hand, if you mean that young Mormon writers are
Mormon reading audience? What, in your opin- somehow saying things they shouldn’t or writing
ion, should be the role of literature in Mormon about forbidden topics. Mormons typically don’t
life? What do you see as the realistic future get much out of hand, young or old, writers or
prospects for Mormon literature? plumbers. From what I’ve seen of new short fiction,
I don’t have any particular observations on the I’d say the stories often seem too dashed off to me.
development and current state of Mormon litera- They need to be more worked on, more polished.
ture. It’s not something I think much about. I don’t The one or two editors I talk to who publish stories
feel that Mormons as a whole are much interested say they seldom get a first-rate publishable story.
in a serious literature or that they are interested in The last contest I read for sent me eighteen or
reading generally. Like the rest of the country, they’re twenty stories, the best from all the stories submit-
more interested in TV and movies. Mormons aren’t, ted. I found one, maybe two, that I thought were
as far as I can tell, interested in the knowing and publishable. I’d say a story ought to go through ten
feeling that come through becoming an intelligent or fifteen drafts over a period of a couple of years
reader of fine literature. Yet, I think that Mormons, before it’s probably ready. You keep maybe half a
particularly Mormon men, are lonely and that seri- dozen stories going at the same time. You write a
ous literature could help heal some of that loneliness draft, put the story away for a month or so, maybe
by showing that we are all in most ways the same six, while you work on other stories, and then come
and help us understand and connect with each other back to it. This way you get perspective, and you
more. It might also help convince us that each of us also have time to think about your stories. There
is a unique individual, and that we might want to are of course many ways to go about writing a short
value that uniqueness more. (What is the point of story. My way is only one. From what I’ve seen of
heaven or salvation if we are all the same? How the students in our creative writing program here, I
incredibly boring the eternities will be.) Mormons think we have a lot of fine young writers coming
don’t like conflicts with unhappy endings, and they along. They certainly have ability; I don’t know
don’t like writers who turn over rocks. What serious about their capacity to endure or if they have some-
Mormon writers and readers need is a press that thing to write about. But I’m hopeful. Write more;
publishes book-length fiction, poetry, biography, auto- talk about writing less.
biography, and memoir (maybe even creative non-
fiction, although I haven’t really figured out what What do you think of modern fiction in
that is yet, but I may in time). The press would have general?
to be run as nonprofit, I expect, but it would still Finding first-rate novels and short stories isn’t
need to be professional and pay its bills. Such a press easy. You have to hunt for them. Too much suffer-
would probably need an endowment of some sort. ing, despair, angst, failure, self-pity, self-hatred, pop
(Certainly there must be a literate Mormon mil- psychology, and faithlessness for me—plus an aban-
lionaire out there somewhere who seeks a kind of donment of plot, theme, responsible characters, and
immortality in this life.) Maybe IRREANTUM could significant resolutions.

Is it a worthwhile goal to get Mormon char- N O V E L

acters and themes before a national audience? E X C E R P T
Do you think this nation will ever have a Mor-
mon Saul Bellow or Flannery O’Connor, some- A White House
one winning a Pulitzer or National Book Award
for literature that deals with Mormon themes, By Douglas Thayer
settings, and characters?
Yes, as long as the writer writes about Mormons [Note: Following is the first chapter from a novel
in a humorous, condescending, ironic, cynical way, titled A White House, forthcoming from Signature
or, better still, doesn’t write about them at all. I’d Books (alternate title: A Member of the Church).]
like to see a Mormon Flannery O’Connor (she didn’t
write much about Catholics, although her faith in Chapter 1
the Atonement informs every story), and I think it’s
possible. I don’t think there’s much chance of a Saul I was seventeen that June afternoon when I left
Bellow. Mormons aren’t Jewish enough, although San Diego for Provo to live for the summer with
they like to think they are. my cousin Christopher Lowery, who’d been sick for
almost a year, had a kidney removed, become very
You haven’t gotten out any new story collec- religious in the process, and was getting ready to
tions or novels lately. What’s ahead for you? put in his missionary papers and go to the temple.
What’s coming out in the near future, what are I didn’t want to go be the resident first cousin, even
you working on now, and what will you turn if I got to live on a hill above Provo in Aunt Helen’s
to next? new eight-million-dollar, fifteen-thousand-square-
I got started writing two novels and a collection foot house, with a swimming pool, tennis courts,
of short stories more or less simultaneously, and it game room, putting green, projection room, lap
took a long time. Signature Books has a novel ten- pool, indoor gym, and racquet-ball court, plus a
tatively titled A White House forthcoming (first few other advantages, such as my own car to drive.
chapter printed here with their permission). I have The Lowerys were very rich, and although I
another finished novel titled A Good Man, which believed absolutely in money and planned to be a
sits in my desk drawer, along with a rewritten gen- millionaire myself, I wanted to stay in San Diego,
tile version of Summer Fire, now called Fire Season, close to great surfing beaches and other pleasures
and a novella version of the “Red-Tailed Hawk,” offered by Mexico, southern California, and Lori
perhaps my best story. (I have a new story I will Stewart, who I thought of as my girlfriend, although
title either “Mrs. Meyers” or “Wolves” that’s almost my mother didn’t agree and required me to date
as good, maybe.) I have also finished the third draft other girls, too.
of a new novel titled Harris, have four new stories I liked Christopher well enough, but he was
finished and four or five in various stages of fin- what some Mormon mothers might call an ideal or
ished. Dialogue has a story called “The Crusher” perfect young man and totally spiritual, which I’d
forthcoming. I plan to finish up the in-process always known Aunt Helen believed. My mom said
stuff, get it and all the finished stuff published (may that perfecting their sons gives some faithful Mor-
have to start my own press to do that), and start a mon mothers something to hope for and also
new novel called Evangeline if I am spared, which I something to do, and it builds their testimonies,
fully expect to be. should they pull it off. Mom also said that other
Mormon mothers are grateful if their sons simply
manage to stay out of jail, graduate from high
school, and serve missions. She always looked at me
when she said that.

My family was religious (Mormonism was in my Dad was a good man, which made my life more
blood and bones), and although I went to church difficult than I wanted it to be because his goodness
and early-morning seminary, was an Eagle Scout obligated me. I’d never heard Dad swear, which was
(Mom made me get it), and wasn’t a complete idiot a disadvantage, but Mom swore occasionally, and
(I got As in English my junior year), I didn’t worry that helped, although she usually said I was the
very much about my testimony, knowing the cause. I knew that while I was gone my parents
gospel was true, being filled with the Spirit day and would be praying for the Holy Ghost to protect
night, going on a mission, getting married in the and guide me and for me to keep the command-
temple, or becoming an apostle. And though I ments. They were big on those two things. I didn’t
didn’t intend to commit any felonies in the process particularly like being prayed for because it made
(which would have pleased Mom to know), my me feel I had to be good. Dad wanted to give me a
primary objective in life was to enjoy my fleeting blessing before I left, but I told him I was only
youth. going to Provo, not to the moon.
My dad took me to the airport the day I left for Dad was old, tall, overweight, bald, and had
Provo. Mom was helping with another funeral high blood pressure. He’d been born and raised in
luncheon, something she seemed to do about once Provo; Mom had been born in Provo but raised
a week. I didn’t like hearing that another person in in Oregon. When Dad was sixteen, his father had
our ward had died. At seventeen I believed death died after having his leg amputated (he’d already
was unnecessary, or at best some kind of insult. had one amputated) because of diabetes. Dad had
Even if you were resurrected later, I didn’t like the gone on a mission to Germany, and had been in the
idea of me—my body—ever being dead. I’d gone Korean War, where his best friend was killed. Dad’s
to three or four funerals, but I’d never gone to a mother and two younger brothers had been killed
viewing. I didn’t want to see any dead bodies. in the fire that burned down their house three
Dad shook my hand before I started down the months after he got back from Korea.
loading ramp. Dad had left Provo after that for Los Angeles.
“It will be a good summer for you, Son.” He’d been inactive in the Church for fifteen years,
“Oh, sure, just great.” until he married Mom. During that time he’d earned
“You’ll be glad you went.” bachelor’s and master’s degrees in math and started
“Why? I’ll probably die of the heat. Utah is a big teaching high school. He was eight years older than
desert.” Mom. He was a quiet man. More than that, he
Dad didn’t answer. I picked up my carry-on bag didn’t like to talk about himself, particularly about
and started down the ramp. I turned once to look any time before he married Mom, as if he’d forgotten
back. We waved. I can’t say Dad was particularly about that time or it was too painful to remember.
affectionate. He sometimes shook my hand and He didn’t like to stay in Provo very long when we
put his arm around my shoulders, but he didn’t hug went to visit Aunt Helen and her family. He didn’t
much or kiss. Mom did most of the hugging and go anywhere except the cemetery to take flowers. In
kissing in our family. I loved my parents and Dave the evening he would stand and look down at Provo;
and Mike, my two older brothers, and as far as I Aunt Helen always built her houses on a hill.
knew they all loved me, but it wasn’t something I knew the outline of my father’s early life, but
I was ecstatic about, or even thought about really. not a lot of details, which was okay with me. He
What seventeen-year-old kid whose life is at least was an adequate father. I didn’t find it necessary to
bearable does think about it? think about him much. As far as I was concerned
I got down the aisle to my window seat (the first his main pleasure in life was working night and day
seat was empty), put my bag in the overhead stor- and finding work for me to do. At least in going to
age, sat down, and put my seat back. I looked out Provo I got away from Dad and work. I envied my
the window. cousin Christopher not having to work.

The plane began to move. I put my seat up and I let my seat back. An old woman about eighty
fastened my seatbelt (the flight attendant made was in the aisle seat. Just my luck. I’d hoped for a
me), put on my Walkman, turned it down a little, blonde about sixteen.
closed my eyes, and thought about Lori. Boyd and I was surprised when Christopher had phoned
Derek, my two best friends, dated Lori too, but I and asked me to come to Provo. I didn’t know why
was sure that Lori preferred me. Boyd said she had a kid who had everything would need me.
a body worth marrying for, and I agreed. I’d thought Christopher was a little over a year older than I
Lori would surprise me and come to the airport to was and, I’d always thought, a better person, a kind
see me off, but she didn’t. of a shining example actually, although that fact
“You’re really a good person, Jeff.” She had said didn’t make me grieve. I was too pleased with myself
that to me after I had kissed her goodbye the night and too unconcerned about my own spirituality to
before. worry about other boys’ goodness. Among his other
“Better than you are?” skills, Christopher played the piano like a pro (jazz
“Yes.” and classical stuff ), had a great tenor voice, was a
“I don’t think so.” straight-A student, and had varsity letters in golf,
“I do. Goodbye, Jeff.” track, and tennis; and as if that wasn’t enough, girls
Lori had been sad for weeks. I thought it was were nuts about him, and the Lowerys were rich.
because I was leaving for the summer and she would Aunt Helen had shelves of videos of everything
just have Boyd and Derek. I’d asked her for a pic- Christopher had ever done.
ture to take with me so I could look at it and think “Christopher’s more religious than he used to
about her every night just before I went to sleep, be,” Mom had said when we were talking about my
but she wouldn’t give me one. I had lots of color going to Provo. “He seems older than he should
photos, but I wanted a big picture. I was a photog- be, too.”
rapher for the school newspaper and yearbook, and Mom and Dad had gone to Provo to Christo-
I knew how much hot girls like to have their pic- pher’s sister Jennifer’s wedding in April. I couldn’t
tures taken. go because I had the flu. I hadn’t met Jennifer’s hus-
Mom wouldn’t let me date Lori exclusively because band, Mark, who obviously had enough brains to
she said having a steady girlfriend led too easily to marry into a family with that much money, what-
intimacy and fornication (her words). Lori’s being ever other reasons he might have had.
a member of the Church and living in our ward I hadn’t seen Christopher for almost two years.
didn’t make any difference. I’d tried that argument. Mom had also gone out to help Aunt Helen take
I’d even tried to persuade Mom that I should be care of Christopher after he finally got out of the
able to start dating at fifteen, but that was hopeless hospital to stay.
to begin with. The Church’s rule that you should- “He’s always been religious,” I said. “Now that
n’t date till you were sixteen was dumb. he’s getting ready to go on a mission, he’s probably
“So,” Mom said, “you mean no Mormon kids even worse. He’ll be a real joy to live with all
fornicate?” summer.”
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t any use. She “Don’t be so sarcastic. Going through what he
knew I didn’t like that word; it was harsh and mean- has would change anybody.”
sounding. I preferred making love, sleeping with some- “Sounds like a great summer.”
body, or even having sex. Mom was a nurse; she “It will give you a chance to think of somebody
knew all about physiology and sex. She’d been an besides yourself all the time. You wear out the mir-
army nurse for three years. She was always talking rors in this house.”
to me about my language and trying to get me to “All the women in my life expect me to look
use right words for things, which wasn’t too bad cool.”
because I kind of liked playing around with words. “I’m sure they do, poor dears.”

I accused Mom of setting up the summer pro- She wore dresses, always white or pastels, and
gram because she thought Christopher would be a never shorts or pants. I had the feeling she was
good influence on me, maybe teach me to be more going to suddenly overcome gravity and float away
concerned about other people and not so much to heaven, where she would be much happier being
about myself, and of course Provo would get me thanked and adored by all those thousands of grate-
away from Lori and the beach, at least for three ful dead people whose names she’d sent to the
months. We argued about it until the morning I temple.
left, but Mom always won because she had the best I expected Aunt Helen to ask me if I prayed night
arguments—most of Christopher’s friends were on and morning on my knees, studied the scriptures at
missions, he’d been out of circulation for over a least an hour daily, attended seminary faithfully,
year, I was the only cousin he had close to his age, filled all of my priesthood duties, and was truly
we’d always gotten along well on vacations, a big spiritual. She always put on her silver glasses (they
new mansion of a house was lonely and hard to get hung on a silver chain around her neck) whenever
used to, Jennifer was married and living in Salt she talked to me, as if she were able to see through
Lake, Uncle Richard and Aunt Helen were gone all to my soul and therefore there would be no point
the time, we liked the same sports, his former girl- in my lying. I knew she didn’t like my long hair,
friend was getting married, and it was the last chance which wasn’t long by San Diego standards.
we’d have to get to know each other well. I called Christopher “Chris” once in her hearing,
“Just like a woman to get married just before you and she corrected me.
leave on your mission. You’d think they could wait “Christopher is a lovely name, don’t you think,
until you’re gone.” Jeffrey?” She never called me Jeff.
“Oh, stop complaining and go practice the piano. Approaching Salt Lake City, the plane flew over
You might even learn your Brahms intermezzo in the Great Salt Lake. I looked down at the big islands.
another two or three years, if you keep at it; it’s We had read Lord of the Flies in my English class
beginning to sound like music. And then come and that spring. I thought then that it would have been
a better novel if half the people on the plane had
make a salad for supper. Basically, I think Christo-
been girls when it crashed on the desert island, and
pher needs someone to talk to. I’d be the first to
not simply all boys running around in their shorts
admit his mother isn’t the one he needs to talk
carrying spears and trying to stab pigs, although get-
to, or his father either, for that matter.”
ting rid of the adult supervision on a desert island
“Must be like talking to a sphinx.”
in the middle of the Pacific Ocean made some sense.
“All right, you don’t have to make unkind remarks I was surprised how hazy Salt Lake Valley was,
about your Aunt Helen.” almost smoggy.
Aunt Helen was one of the main reasons I didn’t Jennifer met me at the airport. Christopher had
want to go to Provo for the summer, plus the fact been asked to do baptisms for the dead at the last
that Uncle Richard was a stake president, which minute, so he couldn’t come. Jennifer was beauti-
made things even worse. Aunt Helen was too reli- ful. She was tall and thin and wore silky flowing
gious for me. She made me nervous. Tall, thin, dresses, and had shining hair and big warm eyes.
white-haired, she was always working on Thatcher She liked gold bracelets and earrings and thin gold
family genealogy and going to the temple in her necklaces.
white Mercedes; she always drove a white Mer- Going down the escalator, Jennifer waved to a
cedes. She’d submitted over five thousand names to tall, thin woman just getting on at the bottom and
the temple. It was as if the dead were more impor- said hello. Jennifer turned to me.
tant to her than the living. If she wasn’t doing “That’s Miss Lewison. She teaches AP English at
genealogy or at the temple, she was out taking care the high school. The boys all like her. Christopher
of her roses. She loved her roses. was one of her favorite students. She loves poetry.”

I turned to watch Miss Lewison go up the esca- I never stopped for freeway accidents in San
lator. Diego. I couldn’t imagine dying and just being a
Jennifer got a skycap for my luggage. We went spirit, not having a body. I particularly looked for-
up the escalator to the parking garage. Jennifer ward to marriage and sex. I thought it would be
stopped by a new red Porsche, a 911 Cabrio. I stood great to be married at seventeen, perhaps never
there. The ambition of my life was to own an expen- leave your hotel room for a week or two, have all
sive sports car. I’d been to every sports car dealer- your meals brought in, have lots of good videos to
ship in San Diego and had stacks of brochures. lie in bed and watch, and a big hot tub. But I knew
“Sweet.” I’d have to go to at least a year of college first and
“I thought you might like it, Jeff.” go on a mission. My brothers and Dad had all gone
I turned. Jennifer tipped the skycap ten dollars, on missions and graduated from college. Dave and
which I thought was cool. Mike were in graduate school and both married.
“Would you like to drive us to Provo, Jeff?” Dave and Keri had two little girls, and Mike’s wife
“You mean it?” Cathy was pregnant. Having two exemplary broth-
“Would I joke about a thing like that?” Jennifer ers with strong testimonies helped to make my life
smiled. difficult.
“Awesome.” The Church wasn’t the top priority in my life.
She handed me the keys. I unlocked the doors I was no straight arrow like Christopher, but I had
and got in. I breathed in deep the new-car smell never done anything serious such as dealing drugs,
mixed with the smell of genuine leather. I ran my auto theft, hit-and-run, assault with a deadly
hands over the steering wheel. I put in the key and weapon, or sex. I’d decided that I would probably
started the engine. It was such a beautiful sound. I have a testimony in time for my mission and be
shifted and backed out. Driving out on the circular spiritual enough when I was nineteen. In our youth
ramp was like driving a racetrack. The shifting was testimony meetings the kids always said how won-
so smooth it made me want to cry. derful it was to be in such a spiritual meeting, to
Shimmering in the hot afternoon sun, housing know the gospel was true, and to be like Jesus and
developments, light industry, and malls bordered love everybody in the world, and we always sang
the freeway on both sides. The new houses were all “I Am a Child of God” at the end.
two-story and faced with blue, brown, or white alu- I wanted to stand up and ask the guys how they
minum and vinyl siding. could be spiritual all the time and love Jesus when
The Porche was beautiful to drive; you couldn’t they’re out surfing, walking along the beach look-
even feel where the air-conditioning was coming ing at girls, at a beer party, or making out, but I
from. Jennifer put in a CD. She asked about my didn’t because I knew how far that would get me.
family. I didn’t worry about being too spiritual, though. I
I didn’t have a car of my own. I’d gotten two was too busy having a good time and trying to out-
tickets the first month I had my license, including smart Mom.
one very minor accident, so, according to my She had a lot of stories from being an army nurse,
mother, getting my own car was delayed a year not and in Sunnyvale, where we lived, she worked as a
as punishment but in behalf of California public trauma nurse in the emergency room at the hospi-
safety (Dave and Mike got their cars at seventeen, tal two days a week. This gave her more stories to
after a year of no tickets). use on me when we were discussing my behavior.
We passed a major wreck on the freeway just as These stories featured motorcycle accidents, drunk
we left Salt Lake. Two bodies covered with blankets drivers, amateur abortions, suicides, rapes, and teen-
lay on the cement. One car was burning. Jennifer agers drowned surfing because they were on drugs
turned in her seat to look as we passed. or drunk, or both. I grew up listening to horror
“That’s terrible, Jeff.” stories, usually told at the supper table, which were

meant to help prove to me the consequences of sin We pulled off on the second Orem exit and turned
and stupidity and what a good life I had. on State Street. Cheap and strung out, the Orem
I-15 rose up through the brown hills above the business district was one strip mall after another. We
Utah State Prison. went to a dealership called Foreign Imports, and I
“The grief and the sorrow behind those walls picked up the car I was going to drive, an Audi TT,
and fences.” a really sweet car. Christopher had had it serviced.
Dad had said this two years earlier when we’d It had nine thousand three hundred fifty-two and
passed the prison on the freeway. (I had looked four tenths miles on it but still smelled new. It had
at the towers and wondered if the guards had a cellular phone. A car like that would have made
machine guns.) my life beautiful in San Diego. I knew that Christo-
I didn’t think of Dad as a spiritual giant, although pher drove a new Mercedes SLK 230, which his par-
he spent a lot of time helping people, dragging me ents had given him when he graduated from high
along in the process. Religion wasn’t something he school with a perfect 4.0, even though he’d been
talked about much really. He certainly never talked sick most of his senior year. I’d never seen the Audi;
about becoming perfect, which seems a preoccupa- the last time we were in Provo he’d driven a BMW.
tion with many members of the Church who are Jennifer said the credit cards were in the glove
convinced it’s really just a matter of organization, compartment. I touched the cellular phone. I’d
motivation, and charm, like selling used cars. always wanted one so I could call girls from the car.
The Porsche was so awesome. I kept my hand on Even at seventeen I knew that girls liked to know
the gearshift just to feel the hum up through my how close you were so you could get there fast
hand and arm and into my body. when they needed you.
We came around the point of the mountain, and “You’re not supposed to spend any of your own
dropped down into Utah Valley. Hazy in the heat, money this summer, Jeff. Think of it as a long vaca-
the bluish mountains rose on every side. Mount tion. Why don’t you go for a ride to try out the car.
Timpanogos, the highest mountain at nearly We’ll eat about six, so be back early enough to take
twelve thousand feet (Dad had told me how high it a shower and change. I’ll have Christopher take your
was), walled the north end of the valley. Utah Lake, luggage up to your room.”
like a sheet of hot metal, lay along the west side. “Great.”
Provo was the largest town in the valley, each of the I regretted a little that Jennifer had gotten mar-
towns a spreading patch of dark trees and houses ried. It wasn’t jealousy, but I felt I’d lost something
that extended up into the foothills and out toward that had belonged to me, some kind of special con-
the lake. The high, steep mountains rose almost nection I suppose, that her being married now
straight up from the valley floor. Timp still had made impossible.
snow on the top. I drove back out on the freeway. The Audi was
Dad had told me that Lake Bonneville, an nice. I got it up to ninety miles an hour, but only
ancient inland sea, had formed the foothills, and for about twenty seconds. I didn’t want another
that in Utah Valley the Wasatch fault ran through ticket. I kept my hand on the gearshift. I liked the
them. The biggest and most expensive homes were feeling.
built in the foothills. Above the hills on the moun- I got off the freeway at a town called Springville
tain was a huge block Y for Brigham Young and stopped for gas at a little self-serve station just
University. We passed Geneva, a big steel plant before the Provo Cemetery. I liked a full tank.
between Provo and Orem, Utah Lake shimmering When I signed the credit slip, the woman behind
behind it. the counter read my name and looked up at me.
“The valley would be so nice if the plant weren’t A small fan on the counter blew on her. She had
here,” Jennifer said. “It causes so much pollution. dyed red hair. A can of Coke stood on the counter
But then people have to have jobs, don’t they?” by her hand. She looked at the card again.

“It’s not my credit card. It’s my Uncle Lowery’s. ning out and seeing the flames. I went to the
I’m staying there for the summer.” funeral. Provo was a lot smaller then and you knew
“Then you must be Frank Williams’s boy, or nearly everybody. It’s not like that now, I can tell
maybe his grandson, because you sure look like you. You don’t see hardly a soul in the Herald obit-
him. I know he’s connected to that Lowery family. uaries you know anymore. The only person left in
He married Mrs. Lowery’s sister or something.” the Sixth Ward that I knew growing up is old Sis-
“I’m his son. Did you know my dad?” ter Mitchell. I visit her sometimes. Just think, all
“Of course I know your dad, or at least I did. We those people you knew growing up are dead and
grew up in the same Provo ward. You look like him gone, whole streets of them. Provo has changed, all
when he was your age. I was just going through my the new houses going up everywhere and the traffic
high school yearbooks again last night. He was the so heavy. You’re sure welcome to come to my house
junior prom king and there’s this big picture of him and look at my yearbooks if you want to.”
on one side and Mary Tuttle on the other. Mary “Thanks. That would be awesome.”
was the queen. She lived right across the street from “I’m our high school class secretary and sent
me. I’m Ruby Olson.” cards to your dad to invite him to the reunions
Mrs. Olson held out her hand and I shook it. every ten years, but he never comes. It’s too bad.
“I had a crush on your dad, but of course he People remember him. It’s nice to keep in touch.
never knew that. Plenty of girls had crushes on Cory Tuttle asks about him sometimes. Like I told
Frank Williams.” you, he was Mary’s twin. He and your dad were
Mrs. Olson picked up her Coke and sipped it. friends. He and Frank and Don Nelson all went to
“There’s a lot of memories in those old year- Korea together. Poor Don was killed in the war,
books, I can tell you, so I keep all three of mine and now his wife’s moved back to Provo from Den-
right by my TV chair to look through when I get a ver, where she’s been living. I go to visit her too. It’s
little sad. We were all so young and beautiful once. nice to keep in touch with people you knew when
It’s nice to remember. I buried my third husband you were young. Cory Tuttle’s a professor or some-
just a year ago yesterday. Heart attack, poor dear.” thing up at BYU.”
Mrs. Olson sipped Coke again and set it back on Mrs. Olson shook her head.
the counter. I’d never really thought of Dad as ever being
“Well, Frank must be proud to have such a fine- young. He was so much older than Mom and one
looking son. He was such a cute boy and so much year away from retirement. I hadn’t thought about
fun, but he was religious too, of course, and so kind looking through his yearbooks and seeing pictures
to everybody. He was sweet on Mary Tuttle, but of girls he’d dated and reading their notes to him.
then she died of pneumonia, poor thing. Mary I’d never seen a picture of him before he married
lived in the Sixth Ward too, so I knew her and her Mom. I’d read all the notes in Mom’s yearbooks
twin brother Cory. Cory was a cute boy. But I guess and looked at the pictures of her boyfriends and
you’ve looked through your dad’s yearbooks more kidded her about them. Each yearbook had an “In
than once. I know my three girls liked to go through Memoriam” page with the pictures of all the kids
mine when they were teenagers.” that had died. So did the two yearbooks I’d worked
I looked at Mrs. Olson. I’d never thought of Dad on at Sunnyvale High. It was hard to believe that
as ever being cute or fun, but I was kind of glad kids you’d known had already died.
that I looked like him. Mrs. Olson sipped her Coke.
“He never had any. All of his stuff got ruined “That’s sure a nice house you’ll be living in. It’s
when his house burned down.” beautiful sitting up there on that hill all white.
“Of course.” Mrs. Olson shook her head. “That Some folks say it’s the nicest house in Provo.
was a terrible fire. I remember all the noise and every- They’re such a religious family.”
body for blocks around getting out of bed and run- “Yeah, it should be okay.”

Mrs. Olson gave me her address and phone I passed the BYU married student housing. I
number. I asked her if I could take a picture of her couldn’t think of anything nicer than being married
standing in front of the station. I thought Dad and living in your own apartment with your wife.
would like to see what she looked like. She laughed Three young wives pushed strollers along the side-
and said that would be nice. I always carried a cam- walk. I didn’t want any kids for at least five years
era with me in my backpack or in the car I was after I got married. I wanted to enjoy being married.
driving. “Most married people make love on Saturday
Mrs. Olson stood in the door and waved. I waved night.”
back. Out on the highway, I passed the Provo Ceme- Boyd had said that one night when we drove past
tery. I’d been there with my parents to visit family the married student housing at San Diego State. Most
graves. I didn’t like cemeteries. I didn’t like seeing of the windows were dark. It was Saturday night.
my relatives’ gravestones and reading the names “How do you know that?”
and dates. It was too personal. “They did a study.”
I turned on Ninth East. Jennifer had told me I looked at Boyd. He was driving. He had his
how to get to the house. I knew my way around own car.
Provo a little bit because of the vacations I’d spent “I could not love thee half so much, loved I not
there, even if they were short. All the streets were honor more.”
lined with trees on both sides, as if shade were very “You and your poetry.”
important. People were out watering their lawns or “From the nunnery of thy chaste breast . . .”
had their sprinkling systems operating. The houses “Oh, shut up, Jeff.”
had fences between the yards. Everything in Provo Mrs. Hart, my English teacher my junior year,
seemed so fenced in and hot and dry. had made the class memorize a favorite line from
The trees and brick houses look dark in the early twenty different poems. I had memorized lines
evening light. San Diego was more open and free; about love. Although I couldn’t always remember
the colors of the houses and buildings were brighter, the titles or the poets’ names, the lines kept pop-
with lots more flowers, and flowering vines and ping into my head, and I was glad Mrs. Hart made
shrubs that didn’t have to be watered constantly, as us do it. Girls thought that boys who memorized
if people in San Diego enjoyed life more than love poetry were sensitive and romantic.
people did in Provo. The high, steep mountains I didn’t spend all my time watching TV, playing
along the east side of the valley closed off the sky. video games, and listening to heavy metal. I actu-
The Wasatch fault ran all the way through Utah. ally liked some poetry; I liked to read. I had also
We had the San Andreas fault in California, but we begun to enjoy playing the piano after the first eight
didn’t have mountains to fall on us during an earth- years of lessons, although I didn’t mention this to
quake, and the ocean didn’t close off the sky. Mom. I earned good grades in school. I didn’t con-
I held the Audi at just five miles over the speed sider myself a total disaster, even if I wasn’t full of
limit, not my usual ten to fifteen. I kept checking love for the whole universe.
my rearview mirror. I didn’t want to get a ticket and I stopped for the light in front of the Missionary
have Aunt Helen find out. I could imagine her put- Training Center. A long iron-and-brick fence ran
ting her silver glasses on, looking at me, and saying, along the front of the squat, square buildings.
“Jeffrey, I understand you received a ticket for driv- When we had brought Mike to the MTC to go on
ing at an excessive speed.” That would be just great. his mission, I was sad. Mom thought it was because
I drove past the BYU dorms on 900 East. I watched Mike would be gone two years, but it was because
three girls walking along in shorts, their long legs I knew they would be dropping me off someday. I
gleaming in the sun. It was summer school, so I didn’t tell her that, though. She told Dad to stop
knew there couldn’t be as many girls as there were and get me a shake and hamburger and fries to
during the regular school year. cheer me up.

The light turned green; I took my foot off the the fence. The bronze plaque set in one of the large
brake. grey boulders anchoring the gate said “Hill Farm.”
Missionaries were playing soccer on the grassed I reached up and touched the remote. The gate
field across the street from the MTC and down swung slowly open and I drove through, the gate clos-
from the Provo Temple, which was white and had ing behind me. I drove up through an apple orchard;
a gold spire, like a big Las Vegas motel, according the trees were old and the fresh-cut lawn grew under
to Mom. She liked the San Diego Temple. the trees. I saw no weeds anywhere. Small green
Silhouetted against the green playing field and a apples hung in clusters on the trees.
huge buff water tank, groups of elders wearing dark
clothes and looking like monks or something walked
up the sidewalk toward the temple. I felt kind of I’d always hoped
sorry for them.
I turned right at the corner, pulled over, stopped, Aunt Helen would find
and got out. A very large house, brilliant white in
the late afternoon sun, stood above the temple on the
that the Thatchers were
hill. It was the only one on that hill; it had to be related to Atilla the Hun
Aunt Helen’s. It was whiter than the temple, so white
that it gleamed. It looked Greek, almost stark, the or Genghis Khan.
lines classical. I’d studied Greek architecture in my
ancient history class my junior year.
I stood looking at the house and then I got back A white van passed me going out. The two men
in the Audi. Pulling out, I leaned forward to see it in front wore white coveralls and white hats. The
through the windshield. I knew that Aunt Helen sign on the side of the van said THE PROFESSIONALS.
had bought the whole hill for this house, which was My great-great-grandfather Thatcher had planted
supposed to be the last new one she would ever the orchard. On the wall in our hallway at home
build. was a big oval picture of him and his four wives and
I drove up past the temple. The parking lots thirty-two children. Each wife had her own farm.
were full. All the people who owned the cars were Aunt Helen had built her house on part of her
inside doing work for the dead. Christopher had Great-Great-Grandmother Lily’s farm. She was the
told me that he would start going to the temple a youngest wife.
lot as soon as he got his recommend. Although I’d I drove out of the apple orchard. I stopped. From
been baptized for the dead, doing work for the the back the slanting sun outlined the two-story
dead had always seemed to me like a strange thing house in a halo of gold, the whiteness of the stucco
to do. It was as if you were building a house for house turned soft. It was beautiful in its geometric
them or repairing their cars. If you were sick or got lines and whiteness, a separate carriage house on
hurt in an accident, they put your name on a prayer the left, a five-bay garage on the right.
roll and everybody prayed for you. The looming house stood surrounded by wide
I turned right. Oak Lane led higher into the hills. green lawns, rose gardens, and flower beds. Flowers
The high brush was thick around the big houses, bordered the walks and driveway. Three tall, heavy
the brush coming down from the mountain to cover shade trees stood on the right; I decided that they
the hills. In the late summer, when everything was must have shaded the original pioneer house. The
dry, Provo had mountain brush fires. I wondered new house and the grounds were immaculate. It
if the people in the big houses thought about that was like nobody lived there, just a crew coming
much. every day to do all the necessary work. The stone
I came to the grey rock fence and the iron gate wall held back the oak brush. I wouldn’t have been
Jennifer had described. A freshly cut lawn bordered surprised to see flocks of white doves circling the

house, their wings flashing in the fading sun as they be ready. Mom and Jennifer went out to the ceme-
turned and wheeled. tery to take some roses to Matt’s and Luke’s graves.
I’d cut lawns and done yard work for five sum- Your luggage is already in your room.”
mers, and then last summer had run a crew for “Great.”
Pacific Landscape. I’d seen a lot of yards and beau- Matt and Luke were Christopher’s brothers. Twins
tiful homes, some bigger and more expensive, but and two years older than Christopher, they had
none as perfect as Aunt Helen’s. It was the kind of both died a week after they were born. The sum-
house I wanted. I couldn’t see the swimming pool mers we visited, Aunt Helen took white roses out
or the tennis courts; they had to be behind the to their graves at least three times a week. I’d always
house. It was bigger than Aunt Helen’s two other thought that she liked cemeteries.
new houses. I was impressed. Wealth had always Mom said once, “Christopher would have had
impressed me, which is one of the reasons why I a much easier life if his brothers had lived. His
had liked reading The Great Gatsby for Mrs. Hart’s mother would have had less time for him, for one
class. I didn’t think Gatsby had deserved to be shot. thing. Helen has never gotten over their deaths,
I drove forward and parked in front of an open that’s for sure.”
garage bay. A big black Mercedes, a smaller white I suppose Christopher’s life would have been eas-
Mercedes, Christopher’s metallic silver SLK 230, ier. I know that before Dave and Mike left home to
and Jennifer’s Porsche stood parked outside the go on missions and then got married, Mom didn’t
garage in the long shadow of the house. The cob- have as much time to keep track of me.
blestone driveway was wet; except for the Porsche, I looked at the oak doors. The fixtures were solid
all the cars had just been washed. brass.
I opened the door and got out. I walked over to I followed Christopher through the tiled entry-
Christopher’s car. I ran my hand along the top of way and into a foyer bigger than our front room.
the door just for the feeling. Awesome. The floor was marble, the vaulted ceiling two sto-
“Hello, Jeff.” ries high with a huge crystal chandelier hanging
down. I stopped. A wide circular staircase curved
I turned. Christopher walked toward me from the
up to the second floor. In the middle of the foyer,
big double oak doors. I hadn’t heard him, and obvi-
exactly under the chandelier, was an oval table with
ously he had been watching for me. He was smil-
a large vase of white roses. Large paintings of the
ing. I remembered what Mom said about his
Salt Lake Temple, Joseph Smith’s First Vision, and
looking older; it was in his face and eyes, a slight Jesus blessing the multitude hung on the walls.
tiredness. He was tanned but not thinner. He wore Christopher walked over and sat on a bench and
a white shirt, blue shorts, and white socks and white took off his shoes. I looked at him.
Nikes. Christopher looked clean, almost bright, as “Mom likes us to wear slippers in the house. But
if he might suddenly start to glow. His thick, dark you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
hair was cut short, missionary length. He was six- “Oh . . . sure. It’s okay.”
one, a half an inch taller than I was, and moved eas- Christopher stood up, opened a built-in wall cab-
ily, even gracefully. Smiling, he reached out and inet behind him, and put his shoes on a shelf. He
shook my hand hard. He’d always had perfect teeth opened a drawer at the bottom of the cabinet and
and never had to wear braces like I did. took out two pairs of white slippers and handed me
“Gee, it’s great of you to come, Jeff. I really a pair.
appreciate it.” I sat down and took off my shoes. I realized he’d
“No problem. You look good.” put on his shoes just to come out on the steps.
“Thanks. I feel really great.” Christopher stood up.
I turned. “That’s an awesome car.” “I’ll be right back, Jeff. I need to go turn off the
“You’ll have to drive it sometime. Come on in. TV. I was watching a rerun of a BYU devotional on
You’ll want to take a shower, and then supper will preparing for your mission.”

“No problem.” the wall near the bottom of the stairwell. I felt that
I put on the white slippers, stood up, put my I should talk quietly in that house and never shout
shoes on the shelf by Christopher’s, and closed the or laugh. Everything was clean, polished, gleaming.
cabinet door. You didn’t have to wear slippers in It was as if the house wasn’t meant to be lived in,
Aunt Helen’s other two houses. My mother hadn’t but was some kind of monument.
said anything about wearing white slippers in the I decided that Aunt Helen’s study would be on
new house. She probably figured that if I’d known the second floor by her bedroom. She’d had a study
that I wouldn’t have come because that would have in each of the other two houses. Her study shelves
been too much for me. I always went barefoot a lot were filled with church books, videos, CDs, and
in our house, and so did she. It felt good. I knew tapes, the walls covered with pictures of Thatcher
that in the temple you had to wear all white clothes ancestors, pioneer scenes, and family trees; her files
and white shoes or white slippers. Maybe Aunt were full of family genealogy. She always had a
Helen thought her house was a temple. It wouldn’t computer, a fax machine, and a printer.
have surprised me, but it was a little annoying Aunt Helen submitted the names to the temple
because how could you relax and enjoy yourself in and did temple work so the family members could
a place like that? leave paradise—or spirit prison, if that’s where
Waiting for Christopher, I stood looking at the they’d ended up—and continue to progress. She’d
three large religious paintings. made trips to England to search for names. When
I’d seen religious pictures in Aunt Helen’s other you died, all the people whose work you had done
houses, and I knew that all Mormon children were were supposed to welcome you to heaven and thank
supposed to have a picture of a temple in their bed- you. They had all waited to be able to continue
rooms to remind them to have a temple marriage. progressing, whatever that was supposed to mean,
But I didn’t know exactly what seeing the three some of them for a thousand years.
paintings as you came in the house was supposed to I’d always hoped Aunt Helen would find that the
make you think or feel. It was as if all questions Thatchers were related to Atilla the Hun or Genghis
about religion had already been decided in that Khan. I told Mom that any time Aunt Helen came
house and no one had a choice anymore, or per- up with those names as Thatchers, I would be glad
haps that the Second Coming and the Millennium to be baptized for them.
were due any minute, if I would just stand there. “Yes, I can see you would,” she said.
From where I stood I could see into the library, “It would make the family more interesting.”
the music room, which had a concert grand piano, “You think the family is boring, do you, Jeff?”
and into a living room filled with white overstuffed I didn’t say anything. What was the use?
furniture. The rooms were large; the two-story Although my parents went to the temple, they
foyer made the interior of the house seem vast. didn’t do genealogical research.
Except for the dark oak doors and woodwork, the Christopher came back into the foyer. “Sorry to
walls were all pale white, the carpets a flat expanse take so long. Sister Johnson stopped me to ask a
of off-white, with no designs, the wallpaper, drapes, question. She said to say hello.”
curtains, and sofas all in whites or pale colors, just “No problem.” Sister Johnson had worked for
like the interior of a temple, but that was no big Aunt Helen in her other two houses.
surprise. I followed Christopher up the wide, soft, off-
Large porcelain figurines stood glistening on white carpeted stairs to the second floor. The slip-
tables and wall shelves. I saw three large wall mir- pers felt funny, soft. I didn’t know why you couldn’t
rors—as if you were always supposed to be check- just wear your socks, but I decided they might not
ing up on yourself. Under each mirror was a table be clean enough either.
with a bouquet of fresh roses. The only sound was Glancing up the stairwell, I wouldn’t have been
the ticking of a grandfather clock that stood against surprised to see a ten-foot-high copy of the Christus

statue in the Temple Square Visitors Center stand- The long, wide lawn, dark now in the beginning
ing there, arms outspread, looking down at us. evening light, spread out to the darker shrubs and
We turned left down a wide hall past another flower beds along the surrounding high stone wall.
grandfather clock. A large vase of roses stood on a The pool looked competition size, with both low
table against the wall. Bronze busts of the Prophet and high diving boards (I was always trying to get
Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum rested on the Dad to put in a pool, but my mother said we didn’t
table. need a pool—we had the Pacific Ocean). The dou-
“This is your room, Jeff.” ble tennis court, putting green, driving cage, and
I walked through the door. My two suitcases basketball pad were to the right of the pool, below
were on the floor next to the double bed. The room that and to the right was the lighted Provo Temple.
was twice as big as my room at home, with a big The view from the balcony was great. The white
walk-in closet and a bathroom. The furniture, walls, temple, MTC, BYU, Provo, and the whole valley
drapes, and carpets were all coordinated in pale lay before us, the first lights coming on in the
browns and greens. The room didn’t have a TV or houses and buildings and the car lights visible out
a stereo, which I regretted. A French door led out on the freeway. Beyond the dark trees of Provo lay
onto a balcony; another open door led into an the silver lake, beyond that the silhouetted wall of
adjoining room. A picture of the Provo Temple mountains. To the right was Timpanogos, the snow
hung on the wall. on top grey in that light.
“The clothes on the bed are welcome-to-Provo Christopher pointed with his hand.
gifts from my mother, Jeff.” “The old farm road used to come up across the
A new pair of white Nikes, three shirts, and two bottom of the hill. Great-Great-Grandfather
pairs of shorts, and a stack of socks lay on the bed. Thatcher had a farm for each of his wives, but he
The shirts and shorts had been ironed. liked this farm the best.”
“Gee, thanks.” “Cool.”
“This is my room.” The whole western sky above the mountains was
I followed Christopher through the door joining rose-colored, the sunset fading. Flocks of gulls flew
the two rooms. west toward the lake. I’d always thought it odd that
“Hey, this is great.” there were gulls in Utah, which was so dry and
It was the kind of room I’d always wanted—a mostly desert.
built-in wall unit with a fifty-inch TV, VCR, and The sunsets in Utah Valley were sometimes
stereo, a desk, baby grand piano, computer, printer, incredible; the clouds turned purple, gold, red, yel-
and special built-in shelves and cabinets for all the low, orange, becoming great walls of light, the light
CDs, tapes, videos, and records. Christopher’s room reflecting off Timpanogos and the high east moun-
was done in white and pale blue. An upright white tains, until the whole sky seemed full of fire. I’d
hospital scale stood near the bathroom door. On never seen sunsets like that over the ocean. It was
the desk was a vase of white roses, a personal the only thing I could think of that was better in
leather-bound journal, and brown leather-bound Utah than it was in California.
scriptures lying next to it. Behind the desk on the I liked standing there on the balcony, looking
wall was a painting of the Salt Lake Temple and down on the valley, feeling a little as if I owned this
pictures of all the presidents of the Church in a house and grounds, or wanted to. I felt powerful,
long gold frame. free, a man who could control his own destiny and
“This is the balcony.” whose life could only be wonderful. And for that
I walked through the open double French moment I was glad I had come to Provo.
doors onto the enclosed balcony. I walked to one
of the large open windows and looked out through
the screen.

I N T E R V I E W usually a brilliant caricature of a dazzlingly idiotic

bureaucratism.”
Paul Edwards Anderson writes: “A philosopher by training and
taste, Edwards has a ferocious eye for cultural incon-
gruities, so when he’s writing Mormon crime fiction,
Paul Edwards has a unique résumé: descendant of he can skewer both the LDS and RLDS churches so
Joseph Smith; a long publication list of philosophical, deftly you have to check for blood. In addition to being
historical, and educational works; a career navigating very, very funny (his protagonist, Toom Taggart, col-
first the shark-inhabited waters of a religious uni- lects titles by inadvertently appropriate authors—like
versity and then in the central administration of its Voluntary Euthanasia by Barbara Smoker), this mys-
sponsoring religion (the Community of Christ, head- tery weaves together ultimate questions about how
quartered in Independence, Missouri); and a leg- faith functions in human life, the limitations of insti-
endary reputation for deft wit. It is only logical, then, tutions, the limitations of logic, and the potentialities
that as soon as he retired as head of the RLDS of love. There’s no question that crime fiction is a
Church’s Temple School, he turned immediately to a major popular genre, and Signature, which has long
life of crime. Scheduled by Signature Books for release published distinguished Mormon serious fiction, has
in January 2003, The Angel Acronym is his first been looking for the right door opener into this new
murder mystery, although with his son Greg he has co- fictional field. Edwards’s Toom Taggart series is based
authored three novels under their shared middle name on the proposition that every major religious sacra-
and last name: Madison Edwards. Paul, a veteran of ment, or event, has the potential to turn violent. This
the Korean War, is also director of the Center for the novel features delicious writing, an irresistible protag-
Study of the Korean War, which maintains an active onist, suspense, a faintly sinister figure behind the First
program of symposia, publications, records and arti- Presidency, a brainy and pretty lady lawyer who acts
facts collecting, and education. He has published as Taggart’s sidekick and almost-romantic interest,
29 works: 13 on religion and philosophy related to the and above all, the looming cat-and-mouse chase
Community of Christ and the Latter-day Saint move- between a murderous mind and a logical one. The
ment (including Ethics: The Possibility of Moral next book in the Toom Taggart series, Murder by
Choice and Preface to Faith); eight on the Korean Sacrament, is already in manuscript form.”
War (including The Korean War: A Documentary
History); a book of poetry (Echo on the Ice); a book How would you introduce this novel to a
on poetry from the Korean War (The Hermit King- chatty stranger sitting next to you on an air-
dom); a Guide to Films of the Korean War; two plane?
books of essays (The Poetics of Place and To I would describe The Angel Acronym as an inter-
Acknowledge a War); and three novels: Termination esting and spirited murder mystery based on events
Dust, The Brothers Crusoe, and Cinnamon and unique to the Mormon movement and the Com-
Old Toast. munity of Christ and suggesting some of the deep
“Getting The Angel Acronym was a case of love at advantages and glaring drawbacks of Mormonism
first sight,” said Signature Books editor Lavina Field- and the institutional church. It is a good story with
ing Anderson. “One of our directors, who is a personal believable characters.
friend of Paul Edwards, came into the office, eyes all
alight, and said, ‘I’ve just read the best murder mys- What are your personal motives and goals
tery I’ve bumped into for ten years. We’ve got to pub- behind the novel?
lish it.’ Everyone in the office who picked up the I first considered writing a murder mystery deal-
manuscript became an immediate convert. We had ing with the Community of Christ—and indi-
people walking into other people’s offices saying, ‘Listen rectly the Latter-day Saints—right after I retired
to this!’ and chuckling over their favorite passages— from several years working within the system. I was

considering an intellectual history of the move- Community of Christ literature and how your
ment but decided that it would be a very short novel fits into that tradition?
book and that no one would read it. If I wanted to The Community of Christ has a good but lim-
consider some of the more interesting social and ited literary tradition. There are persons within the
economic aspects of the movement, then I needed movement that have written, some of them widely,
to do something that would entertain the reader but there has been little to be considered literature
and allow the reader to consider some commentary or poetry. The work available has, primarily, been
about the movement without seeing it as a threat. stories for children and considerations of faith and
The murder mystery seemed an appropriate way to testimony. This is, I believe, the first contemporary
do it. Once I got started, I was having so much fun attempt at a mystery focused on today’s church that
I did not want to stop. deals with modern and contemporary issues. In a
very significant way, it is hard for the members of
What audience(s) are you aiming for, and the Community of Christ to consider themselves
what effects do you hope to have on them? How involved in the “outside” or larger world enough
do you imagine your ideal reader? to find its people engaged in life. They are not so
In writing the mystery, I anticipated an audience much bigger than life as they are “other” to the
made up of members of the Mormon movement, daily human existence. The movement always seems
in all its variations, as well as those who simply liked disquieted to find its people in the mainstream.
mysteries. My experience has been that mysteries Until that is less true, there will not be a lot of lit-
are more fun to read if they are relating to some- erary efforts.
thing I know about. Thus, I wanted to entertain the
reader with a story based on, and in, an environment How much of the story is based on research?
they knew and among persons they respected. At How much on imagination? How much on
the same time I was interested in taking a human, autobiography?
and sometimes humorous, look at the organization Let me be quick to say that this is just a story.
of churches. Fiction is the exaggeration and exten- The places mentioned, the various roles played at
sion of what normally is unseen or unconsidered. church headquarters, and the bureaucratic environ-
The mystery allows the author to experiment with ment is public knowledge. And much of what is
deep emotions without being emotional. written about emerges from my own background.
So in that sense it is autobiographical. But, I repeat,
How do you expect the novel to be received by it is only a story. No characters and no ideas are
mainstream LDS readers? LDS critics? LDS lit- reflecting living persons or immediate problems.
erary academics? The conditions have been adjusted to meet the
I think the mystery will be well received by the needs of the story. In this case there was not a lot of
mainstream of the LDS and RLDS communities. research necessary other than working out methods
The murder mystery is an easy genre to mold by which to commit a murder. But in the most
around specific events and ideas. I think most read- important sense, it is a work of imagination.
ers will identify with the situation and empathize
with the characters. So, while the genre is not the Tell us about your writing process for this
sort that excites many literary academics, if they novel: how often you wrote, how you balanced it
will read it I think they will discover that it con- with other things, any rituals or conditions you
tains some excellent and insightful commentary required for a good writing session, and perhaps
about the common Mormon heritage. some comments about how you used notes, out-
lines, research, multiple drafts, et cetera.
Most IRREANTUM readers are affiliated with I have been engaged in writing most of my adult
the LDS Church. Can you give us an overview of life. My habit is to get up early, go somewhere and

get coffee and a light breakfast, and write at the I have been greatly influenced by the novels of
table for about an hour or an hour and a half. I do Colin Wilson more than anything. Wilson writes
that four to five days a week. The rest of the day I in a manner that keeps the reader interested while
go about my other duties: work at the Center for informing them of something or other. I have tried
the Study of the Korean War, domestic activities, to do that. Of course, as any writer knows, the pri-
church activities, research and study. At this rate I mary requirement for writing is that you read, and
write about fifteen pages a week. Some days I edit, I have been reading mysteries most of my life. I am
or rewrite, or read and decide to tear it all to pieces. particularly fond of Raymond Chandler, Hillary
When I am writing, it is necessary for me to avoid Waugh, Ellery Queen (I guess I am showing my
places that are too quiet. I have never been very age), and the more contemporary author James Lee
good at writing at a library. It is best to be some- Burke.
where where there are people and noise, but where
none of it is directed at me. If the telephone rings, Did you write with a potential feature film in
I know it is not one of my children. mind? What do you think of that prospect?
When I am writing nonfiction, I try to become It never occurred to me that the film industry
as familiar as I can with the information and read would be interested in a murder mystery of this
and reread notes that are the results of my research. sort. I guess I never considered a film. Of course,
Then I try and write the total piece as quickly as I that would be a lot of fun, particularly if I were
can. After that I go back, and back, and back. In allowed to pick my actors. In my wildest dreams
most cases, I will rewrite a piece ten times or more I can see Holly Hunter as the heroine Marie, Tom
before submitting it to an editor. And, once that is Selleck as the bishop’s agent, and, of course, Sean
done, I pay attention to what editors suggest. I believe Connery as Toom Taggart, the hero.
that editors are very significant members of the writ-
ing team, and an author should listen to them. What have you learned about marketing
yourself as a writer and approaching agents or
What were the most challenging aspects of editors? Where did you send this novel for con-
writing this novel? What were the most difficult sideration, and what kinds of responses did you
choices you had to make? On the other hand, get? How did you end up at Signature, and what
what elements came easiest? has working with them been like?
In this particular case, the most difficult thing In the last three decades I have learned a great
about writing the mystery was that I was trying to deal about marketing nonfiction and have devel-
reach a balance between the story I wanted to tell oped a proposal style that includes a full descrip-
and the need to consider the feelings and attitudes tion of what I can do to help sell whatever I am
of those I knew would be its audience. I am not offering. In most cases it is necessary to know the
sure how successful I have been. But I have made audience that the publishers seek to reach and to be
considerable effort to raise some questions in order sure that what you offer lies within the publisher’s
to make the reader think about them but not turn part of the market. I have published enough now
them off or cause them to be offended. that I usually work with publishers who know my
A minor trouble was caused by the long-term work and who, if the topic is right, will give me
habit of being able to explain things in a footnote. prime consideration.
It is often more difficult to write in the explanation Fiction is much harder for a variety of reasons.
than it is, as in academic works, to simply refer to One is the strong competition for the publisher’s
some authority. attention. Another is the large number of sales nec-
essary these days to make publishers happy. They
What other books and authors influenced you are looking for works that will sell in the tens of
in writing this novel? thousands, and many good manuscripts can never

expect that sort of distribution. I have never used when I am doing nonfiction. Formal writing is
an agent, primarily because I never found an agent more stilted, with longer sentences, and—I am
who was willing to take a chance on me and, less told—is hard to read. Fiction comes easier and is,
important but significant, because I was not willing I hope, easier to read. Dialogue seems to come
to share the small income available from nonfiction easier since I have been involved in some screen-
with another person. writing. I love it—I can’t think of anything that I
In this case I approached Signature because I knew would rather do. I write because I must.
the people there—I have a great deal of respect for
what they do and for the people involved in what What’s ahead for you? What are you working
they are doing—and I thought this particular topic on now, and what will you turn to next?
might be of interest to them. I made one other I have agreed with Signature to submit two more
effort to locate a publisher and got an offer, but manuscripts in the series of Toom Taggart murders.
since Signature was interested I much preferred to Hopefully they will find them adequate and pub-
work with them. lish them in the next couple of years. Both are writ-
Working with Signature is always a good experi- ten—that is, I have the quick first draft—and the
ence. The one with whom I have had the most long process of rewriting is in order. I just finished
contact is my editor Lavina Anderson. She is a a book for Scarecrow Press called The Korean War:
wonderful editor, makes excellent suggestions, and A Historical Dictionary, to be published after the
can turn the most difficult sentence into reasonable first of the year. Currently my creative efforts are
English. Certainly Tom Kimball has been good to on a mystery coauthored with my son, called Mur-
work with on the marketing. In this particular case, der Painted Over. At the moment we have not
since I have so many contacts with the Community approached a publisher.
of Christ, I can be of considerable value in sup- Finally, let me say that I believe it is in the best
porting sales in the Midwest and among members interests of the Mormon movement to encourage
of that organization. such books as The Angel Acronym. Not that mine is
of any vast value, but because works like that pro-
What early experiences and influences shaped vide an opportunity to discuss and to consider things
you to be a writer? How did you learn the craft? that might otherwise be hard to produce. I am
Trace for us how your writing inclination devel- grateful to Signature Books for helping me accom-
oped and how you first became a published writer. plish this. Besides, authors love to be published.
It sounds like a cliché, but I have always wanted
to be a writer. I remember the construction of my
first piece of fiction, somewhere around my seventh
year. The plot of that work was to later appear in a
book I coauthored with my son called The Brothers
Crusoe (Pelsmith-Monroe, 2001). Both my mother
and father were published authors in their respec-
tive fields of English literature and religion. Writing
was in the air in our house. At my mother’s insis-
tence I have kept a journal since my sixteenth
birthday and write in it five or six times a week.
Over the years I have taken advantage of college
writing classes and, it seems, hundreds of workshops,
one-on-one sessions with established authors, and
the crooked path of trial and error. I do not know
how to explain it, but I write much differently

N O V E L “I didn’t know you drank coffee.” The waiter was

E X C E R P T stern.
“Yes, yes, I do,” Toom said, continuing to smile.
The Angel Acronym He lifted his cup toward the waiter. “In fact,
I could use a refill right now.”
By Paul Edwards The waiter drew in his breath with a scandalized
hiss. “I am not going to pour you any coffee,” he
Note: Toom Taggart is a middle-aged philosopher- whispered, as if Toom had asked him to cheat on his
bureaucrat and coffee connoisseur in an Independence, tithing. “Don’t you believe in the Word of Wisdom?”
Missouri, institution that bears a mysterious resem- “The what?” Part of it had sounded like whiz.
blance to the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of “The Word of Wisdom,” the waiter enunciated
Latter Day Saints, from which author Paul Edwards clearly, still keeping his voice low, as if the topic
recently retired as long-time head of its Temple School were just too embarrassing to discuss in public.
(educational program) and president of his high priest “Ah, you’re a member of the church.” Toom was
quorum. Toom arrives at work one hot August morn- starting to fit things together.
ing to find his office surrounded by crime-scene tape “Yes, and you’re drinking coffee.”
and the church archivist being wheeled out in a body “True. At least I am trying to,” explained Toom.
bag. This archivist had an unfortunate accident with “I thought we’re not supposed to drink hot
a cleaning substance while he was looking at a historic coffee.”
document. It couldn’t have been anything but an acci- “And why did you think that?”
dent—could it? But why was the archivist in a labo- “Because the Word of Wisdom tells us not to.
ratory he didn’t have a key to at midnight when the You’re in the priesthood, aren’t you? You even work
building was closed? And why does Louis T. Cannon, for the church.” It was an unanswerable accusation.
the blank-eyed fix-it man for the First Presidency, keep “Don’t you drink coffee?” Toom asked.
insisting that Toom stop asking questions? And above “Me?” The waiter was obviously shocked. “Of
all, how could a historical document in a religious course not!”
institution possibly be worth killing for? “But you serve it.”
The Angel Acronym, forthcoming from Signature “Yes, but I don’t drink it,” the waiter announced
Books in January 2003, is first in a series of biblio- triumphantly. “There’s nothing wrong with serv-
mysteries featuring this Spinoza-reading detective who ing it.”
stands squarely on the battleground between human Toom saw a loophole: “The Word of Wisdom
faith and human corruption, counting corpses. doesn’t say anything against serving coffee, right?”
“Of course not.”
Toom was sitting at the far table at First Watch “Then you could serve me some coffee, couldn’t
on Tuesday morning relishing a piping hot cup of you?”
coffee and flipping through the memos he had car- “I certainly could not!” exclaimed the youthful
ried home with him the night before and brought zealot. “Because you’re not supposed to drink coffee
back to work unread this morning. either, Brother Taggart.”
“Aren’t you Brother Taggart?” a youthful voice Toom tried a flanking attack. “Is it against the
asked. Word of Wisdom for you to leave the coffee pot
Toom looked up. The waiter, coffee pot in hand, here on the table?”
was on his way back to the station from serving the The youth hesitated.
retired couple wearing identical green eyeshades “Come on,” Toom pushed. “Does the Word of
two tables away. Wisdom say anything about leaving a coffeepot on
Toom didn’t recognize the boy’s face. “Yes,” he a table?”
admitted, smiling pleasantly. “No,” admitted the gangly one.

“Then just put the coffeepot here.” Toom ges- whom he had known before his ordination, and,
tured to the table. “You’ll be happy, I’ll be happy, almost as an afterthought, the police. By the time
and the Word of Wisdom will be happy.” someone called Toom—no question about the
The youth drew himself up stiffly in his brown afterthought in this case—he was on his way to
apron. “But then you’ll just pour it yourself and work and had arrived unwarned to find the foyer
drink it. No matter how you get it, drinking it is jammed with gleeful groups, faces studiously
what’s wrong. You should be ashamed of yourself. shocked, swapping news and rumors while uni-
You should read what the Word of Wisdom says.” formed policemen herded the crowd from one side
“I’m very well acquainted, young man, with the to another, strung crime-scene ribbon, and refused
Word of Wisdom.” Toom could tell it was a lost to answer questions. Jerry Baccarat nervously
cause. “Every time I can get someone to serve me screwed the back of his Transition 2000 lapel pin as
some hot coffee, I fan it with my D&C until it’s he paced back and forth jerkily, as if walking off the
cool.” The waiter turned away and stalked off to effects of the discovery, with a uniformed cop keep-
the kitchen. ing an eye on him lest he disappear.
Toom sighed and drained the last, lukewarm Quietly working the scene was Amos Kincade, a
swallow. It was time for him to leave anyway. He local man who had risen through the ranks to
had fifteen minutes to make it to his 8:00 A.M. become a lieutenant in the Independence Police
meeting, and he needed to make an appearance at Department. He and Toom had gone to school
the morning worship. He had a part in this one. together; and while they had not been close friends,
their paths crossed regularly at civic functions. Eliz-
By 8:01 that morning, everyone in the Temple abeth Mindy, crisp of manner and effortlessly jug-
knew that Ralph Hastings was dead. By 8:02 gling her clipboard and her cellular phone, trailed
everyone in Independence knew. By 8:04, the first Kincade.
calls began to come in from California, Toronto, Toom had not lingered in the foyer after getting
and London to be sure that it was true. Church the basic message, sure that he would be considered
communications had certainly improved since a godsend to some bad-news bearer looking for a
Elizabeth Mindy Comupin had taken over. Known pair of fresh ears. He was right. He had barely
without affection as the “evil twin,” Elizabeth switched on his coffee pot before Myrmida arrived,
Mindy was the sister of Debbie Lenore Comupin, spilling out a jumble of details between excla-
who worked in the human resources office. Eliza- mations of “Poor Susie—completely distraught”
beth Mindy had come to work for the church from and ejaculations of “How on earth could it have
Sprint’s Kansas City PR office and dealt with most happened?”
issues as if she were selling cheap long-distance Myrmida rushed off to witness the gurney’s
calls. She was as dull as a nun’s confession, but she departure with the body into a mortuary van, then
had power, liked it, and steadily acquired more. rushed back to report every revolution of the wheels
Jerry Baccarat, the cautious museum director, and that Bishop Pico himself was picking up Susie
had found Hastings’s body in the lab at 7:30 A.M. to bring her to the second-floor conference room,
Shocked, then frightened, he had returned to his where the medical examiner, Kincade and his
office and sat for a moment trying to remember groupies, and Elizabeth Mindy, who had efficiently
where he had put the emergency plan. A new one laid out coffee and four dozen of Poppy’s Long
had come out earlier in the month, but he could Johns, would have a press conference in twenty
not remember if he had read it. The only thing he minutes.
remembered from the old one was that everything At the mention of coffee, Toom suddenly real-
started with the Public Relations Office. So, feeling ized that his close personal and administrative rela-
the need to do something, he had called, in this tionship to the deceased dictated that he be present
order, Elizabeth Mindy, Apostle Harding M. Stout, on this sad occasion. He immediately left his office;

but instead of heading for the elevators, he walked Toom shook his head. “He’s never mentioned
into the museum. The crowd had thinned out con- anything to me and always seemed very healthy.
siderably. When Toom nodded authoritatively to No asthma. No allergies. All I know about his offi-
one of the uniformed cops manning the yellow cial medical record is the exam he had when we
tape by the laboratory door, the cop glanced at hired him. The only item on the form checked yes
him, then pulled back the barrier and let him pass. was near-sighted.”
He walked into the lab. The police photographer “He was wearing his glasses when we found the
was dismantling his floodlights. Barney Sligo, the body,” murmured Kincade. He glanced at his
temple’s lugubrious and emaciated head of security, watch. “Miss Comupin will be starting the press
was standing with his hands in his pockets talking conference. Going up, Toom?”
to Amos Kincade. The two men broke off their Kincade stopped in the foyer to detail a man to
conversation as he approached. go with Sligo, so Toom arrived just ahead of Inde-
“Hi, Barney. Hello, Amos.” Toom extended his pendence’s freedom-of-the-press mongers. Fortified
hand. “I don’t want to interrupt, but I’m Ralph in his sorrow with the really excellent coffee that,
Hastings’s supervisor, and I’d just like to get things no one knew how, was made on the second floor,
clear in my own mind, if you don’t mind.” and with a still-warm Long John on a napkin on
Kincade shrugged neutrally. “We don’t know the his knee, Toom bore up bravely during the confer-
cause of death for sure, but it looks as if he had a ence. Elizabeth Mindy orchestrated the event from
heart attack while he was working on this piece of her clipboard, the expression on her face changing
equipment here.” He nodded toward the ultravio- at appropriate moments through a range of con-
let lamp. cern, courageous fortitude, deference to the police
Toom glanced at it, then looked at it more authorities, appreciation for the succinctness of
closely. “Is this how it was set up?” he asked. their message, and rapt spiritual attention as Presi-
“According to Baccarat, yes,” answered Sligo. “The dent Olympia delivered a sixty-second speech
lamp was on, the fan was on, the overhead light was lamenting the departed, thanking the city police
on, and the door was locked. Ralph collapsed here, officials, condoling with the widow, and alluding to
right next to the lamp. He was still on the stool God’s comfort, reserved especially for the chosen
with his head on the table and both arms hanging called to suffer great trials.
down. The document was exactly where it is, as At the “great trials” part, Toom choked on his
though he hadn’t had time to clamp it on yet.” last bite of Long John, for which he had thought-
“Strange for him to be working so late,” com- lessly not saved any coffee, and buried his face in
mented Toom, his eyes fixed on the document with his handkerchief, thereby earning three seconds of
a slight frown between his brows. “What about visual play on the evening news during a voice-over
his car?” segment. Channel 4, lingering a little longer on his
Sligo snapped his fingers. “I didn’t think to heaving shoulders, also got footage of his streaming
look—just assumed it’s in the parking lot.” eyes as he emerged from the folds of white muslin.
Kincade asked, “No reason for it to be anywhere Annoyed at being upstaged, Elizabeth Mindy
else, is there? Why don’t you take one of my men, concluded the conference by tilting her chin and
Barney? Make sure it’s there and let my man run turning her face slightly to the left so that the light
over it to be sure there’s nothing unusual in it.” fell on her flawless makeup in three-quarters’ pro-
“Are you thinking of drugs, Amos?” asked Toom file as she responded to President Olympia by
with interest. pledging the united efforts of the membership in
“Oh, it’s always well to eliminate the obvious in bearing this burden with nobility and integrity.
an unattended death,” said the detective mildly. What’s more, she did it in a mere twenty seconds,
“Did he have a heart condition that you know thereby ensuring that she would have the closing
of, Toom?” spot on the segment.

The official story was short and sad: Ralph Hast- Marie had hardly known him, but she nodded
ings, diligent archivist, had come in late Monday intelligently when Toom explained that it was a hell
night to work on some technical aspects of the of a time for the Church Archivist to die. He was
Frederick M. Smith “supreme directional control” pretty sure that the Brethren would not authorize a
document, one Elizabeth Mindy had expertly replacement. Ralph had done little to prove that
squelched any interest in by calling it “an extremely archives were central to the mission of the church,
crucial document in the history of church gover- and the number of friends made and people influ-
nance” and offering handouts in tiny type with enced in a bureaucratic sense had probably dwindled
more than two dozen footnotes. Hastings had died under his administration.
of a heart attack or stroke while he worked, said the “They keep slicing away your personnel, Toom,”
M.E. Probably the former. Yes, the police always she agreed ruefully. “So of course, you can do less.
came when there was an unattended death. Pure And then people want to know why they should
routine. Kincade confirmed that there was no evi- keep financing this less-productive department. So
dence of anyone else being there, no signs of vio- they cut back some more.”
lence, only one set of fingerprints on the lamp, Toom winced. As usual, Marie’s extraordinary
probably Hastings’s, and the document undisturbed clarity cut through the haze he had learned to evoke
on the grate. It was a sad accident. when thinking of the educational program’s long-
term future. “Thanks for the prognosis, Counselor,”
he said. “Feel free to write it on any one of these
Toom explained that it peach-and-cream walls in case the Budget Com-
mittee’s missed it.”
was a hell of a time for the “Speaking of prognosis . . .” Marie began.
Church Archivist to die. Toom winced again. He couldn’t help it. It was
the question everyone wanted to ask. Toom wanted
to know the answer, too. He’d asked the question
Toom glanced around the conference room as over and over again for the past fifteen years. Now
the reporters, after checking to be sure all the cof- he knew the answer. The answer was that no one
fee and Long Johns had disappeared, surged out. could possibly know.
Toom stood up slowly. James Pincer was standing He shrugged. “Who knows? There’s not much
out of the way at the end of a row of chairs, rolling change.” He waited a beat, then said with a changed
the edge of his tie mechanically between his fingers. tone, “How’s lawyer business? What do the Brethren
Toom thought he looked distracted and disori- of the Banner of the Wilderness Triumphant want?”
ented, also pale and fatigued. “Would you believe the temple site?” Marie asked.
“Which one?” Toom asked. “This temple? Or
Late that afternoon, Toom saw Marie in the the old one?”
foyer. The place echoed hollowly to voices, but he “The old one.” Marie smirked. “I told them to
understood her clearly. Several of the executives, take a number and stand in line behind every-
unlike the staff, felt that death was a good reason to body else that wants it. It was a very satisfying
go home. There were not many around. conversation.”
“Have you seen her this week?” Marie asked. He
knew who she meant. The first call Wednesday morning was from
“Yes, I drove down yesterday morning. Good Bishop Pico’s office. Toom stared at the multi-
thing it wasn’t this morning. I mean, since I was paneled board to the right of the ivory-colored
here, I needed to be here.” phone for a moment. The phone system was only
It was not lucid, but Marie knew what he meant. slightly less confusing than his computer. He zeroed
They talked for a few minutes about Ralph Hastings. in on the light that was flashing, punched the button,

then, when nothing happened, punched the but- He hung up. Even the click had a decisively tri-
ton that took it off call-forwarding to Myrmida. umphant sound.
“Toom Taggart.” Toom had not only been outflanked but circled,
“Bishop Pico’s office calling,” said Lulu Sue’s sin- pinned down, and hand-grenaded. He sat and looked
cerely nasal voice. “Please hold for Bishop Pico.” It at the phone for a moment. The chances of seeing
never occurred to Lulu Sue, he supposed, that he President Olympia between now and morning were
would not wait. Then the music came on—hymns about as good as finding a tract recommending
recorded by the Temple Children’s Choir. “God plural marriage in the lobby of the Stone Church.
of Our Parents” had made it only to “. . . living
still . . . ” before the bishop terminated all those [. . .]
shrill young voices. Most of the morning passed quickly. Toom was
“Tom,” he intoned. deep in a variety of activitites that some called an
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?” art and that most simply assumed was administra-
“I was calling about a deadline.” tion. After signing letters to prospective students,
“A deadline?” Toom inquired. he wrote a brief introduction for a book his depart-
“Yes, I’m laying out our publication schedule for ment was about to publish, switched on the dicta-
the next year and wanted to clear it with you. Is it tion machine that dated him to the dark ages, and
okay to put you down to complete the angel book rattled off a series of memos to staff members in
in February? Can you do that?” response to recent questions: “Yes, we’re still wear-
“Bishop Pico, I thought you understood that I ing business clothes to the office and short shorts
didn’t want to do that.” are nice but not acceptable. Yes, we are still sched-
“Oh, yes. Yes, Tom, I understood that, but I uling vacation time, even if it’s only two days, so
thought it wouldn’t hurt to get it on the schedule.” please schedule yours. Yes, the clock in the lobby is
There was no change in his voice. “Just so you wrong, but you should come to work at 8:00 A.M.
could get it on your personnel analysis report for God’s time and not worry about Temple Time.” He
the last quarter and into next year. We wouldn’t reminded himself to feel hypocritical about that one
want to try and rush you on this. President later. “Yes, the cheap pop in the refrigerator is stale,
Olympia is very concerned that we do not put too but so are the donations in the cash cup. Yes, it’s
much pressure on you.” He was about as subtle as Alice’s sixty-fifth birthday, but she did not want a
the lady bringing Colonel Sanders’s chicken to the party. Always a pleasure to serve you.” After that burst
potluck. of energy, Toom spent a half hour puzzling over a
Toom countered with an expert bureaucratic lat- manuscript from Loving Hands University, which
eral move. “I’d like to talk with President Olympia laid claim to three hours of “divine intervention.”
about this before we set a date. Is that possible?” He planned to call Pico’s office around noon. With
“Certainly, Tom. How about calling me in the any luck, both the bishop and Lulu Sue would be
morning? That will give you plenty of time to see gone, and he could leave his insincere “so sorry”
President Olympia today.” message on voice-mail. But it was not to be.
Toom realized that he had just been outflanked. About 10:00 A.M. Myrmida walked in, carrying
He counterattacked with a wild card. “Bishop, you an interoffice folder. “This is a hand-delivered mes-
are aware that one of my staff died yesterday?” sage from Bishop Pico. It is marked FOR IMMEDIATE
“Yes. Yes, I am, Tom. I am so very sorry about ATTENTION.”
that. If I can do anything to help during this diffi- “Well, you have my immediate attention,” Toom
cult time as you carry on with your responsibilities, said glumly. “Let me look at it.” He took the manila
just let me know. We can talk any time tomorrow envelope. His full name, academic degree, and title
before my building department meeting at ten. were on the cover. Not a good sign. Inside was
Let me know when you have seen the president.” a small sheaf of papers stapled together. It was a

schedule. On top was a 3x5 yellow post-a-note on “Fine, thanks,” answered the even voice on the
which Bishop Pico had written in his own pointy other end. “I understand that you’re Ralph Hast-
hand: “Glad you and President Olympia talked. He ings’s supervisor.”
was so pleased that the February deadline was not “Yes, I guess I was,” Toom conceded. “What can
too soon. Please note publication schedule.” I do for you?”
Toom felt as confused as Joseph on hearing of “Mrs. Hastings asked if I would call you. She
Mary’s pregnancy. Had he somehow failed to com- wants you to attend the medical examiner’s report
municate that what he was saying was no? Myr- on the autopsy.”
mida was watching him, her weight slouched on “Me?” Toom was unbelieving.
one hip. “That’s what she said, Toom. Said she wanted
“Myrmida,” he queried, “have I had trouble mak- someone official to hear it, and that you were the
ing myself clear lately? Is there something in my right one. Are you free to come down to the morgue
sapphire eyes that whispers ‘yes, yes’ when my ruby for a few minutes now? It won’t take long.”
lips are screaming ‘no, no’?” This was not the kind of invitation Toom was
Myrmida gave a ladylike snort. “The trouble isn’t capable of rejecting. He was there in eleven minutes
your bright blue eyes or your ruby lips, boss. It’s your flat and had spent the drive wondering why Susie
unpierced ears. They’re not picking up the subtle wanted him there. He didn’t know her well—just
signals that say we’re not taking no for an answer.” from employee parties also attended by spouses—
She cocked her head on one side. “Say, Lulu Sue but it must mean something to her.
had this really terrific angel stick-pin last week. She He drew deeply on his memory of police movies
said she got it at the Angel Lady’s and that you to prepare himself for the morgue—the refrigerated
wouldn’t believe all the angel stuff that’s available. slots, the rolling gurneys, the sheeted figures with
Maybe you should start doing research there.” tags on their toes. He was disappointed when a recep-
He glared at her suspiciously. Before he could tionist, who was obviously waiting for him, ushered
ask if she’d been talking to Marie, she pivoted him into a bland conference room that could have
neatly and disappeared back to her desk. come straight out of his own education wing, includ-
He stared at the schedule. There was a precise ing the fake walnut folding table standing under
checkmark next to “cover approval” and the date the blackboard. These walls were faintly green instead
was last Saturday. Ah, that confirmed his suspicion of faintly yellow. The only smell was a very residual
about the strange meeting with Lolly Bird. He ran scent of coffee, but there was none in sight.
his eye down the list. The rough draft was due for Toom nodded to Amos Kincade, who was talk-
review by the Aaronic Priesthood Committee and ing with two men on the other side of the room,
the Resource Committee on October 1. Six weeks. and walked straight to Susie Hastings, who was
He thumbtacked the schedule to his bulletin board. sitting bolt upright on a metal folding chair, her
Then, moved by an obscure impulse, he pulled out hands clenched in her lap. She smiled mechanically
a box of colored pushpins and made a margin-to- at him as he took her hands and murmured a few
margin spiral in red until he ran out of that color words of suddenly sincere sympathy, regretting that
and had to shift to blue. he had so callously considered Hastings’s death
It was almost noon, and Toom was still fuming only as a bureaucratic complication. An older man
when Myrmida reappeared in the doorway, lifted and woman were sitting next to Susie, but she did
one eyebrow at the spiral, and announced, “Lieu- not introduce them.
tenant Kincade from the Independence police is on The knot on the far side of the room broke up,
line one.” and the men sorted themselves into a row with
He tried to remember if he’d ever received a call Amos at the right. Toom, not sure what to do, sat
from the police before. He lifted the receiver. “Toom down next to Susie. Amos gestured to the men on
Taggart here. How are you, Amos?” his left. “Our medical examiner, Dr. Wallace. The

Hastings family physician, Dr. Sharp.” He nodded people, especially men who work around machin-
at Toom. “Ralph Hastings’s supervisor, Toom ery. It is generally considered to be obnoxious. But
Taggart.” Toom nodded back, and all three men the degreaser is also found in a dry powder or pel-
sat down. lets that do not smell. They are usually very stable.
Amos continued. “Mrs. Hastings requested that But they can give off a dangerous gas when mixed
her own physician perform the autopsy to deter- with metals like aluminum. Or”—a smile flickered
mine the cause of death. That wasn’t possible. Since faintly and was gone—“when it comes in contact
it was an unattended death, the medical examiner with ultraviolet radiation.” He clearly expected Toom
had to perform the autopsy, but Dr. Sharp attended to be astonished. Toom had not the slightest inten-
and observed. They concur in the information they tion of disappointing him.
found.” He turned his head and looked at Wallace. “How does that work?” His mind was racing,
The medical examiner said, “Hastings was poi- trying to visualize everything in Baccarat’s lab. Ultra-
soned.” There was no expression at all in his face or violet light? Well, yes. But airplane degreaser?
voice. Toom glanced at Susie. The fierce tension in “The gas forms quickly. The reaction is almost
her face and body did not change. Amos Kincade instantaneous when it is inhaled or injected by
said nothing. some means. The poison depresses the central nerv-
Where was Amy Vanderbilt when you needed ous system. The first signs are a headache, dizziness,
her? Toom cleared his throat. “What do you mean, nausea, and then fainting and unconsciousness.
poisoned?” he asked. You never wake up.”
“I mean, the cause of death was poison,” Dr. Wal- “How long does it take to kill someone?”
lace continued. “Not a heart attack, or exhaustion, “Two minutes. It kills by respiratory depression,
or one of those things we thought it might have and it usually takes between two and five minutes.
been. His system was poisoned, and he died of it.” But you understand the victim might well become
“How?” Toom asked when the silence lengthened. unconscious on the first inhalation of the gas.”
Was he supposed to be asking these questions? “Was he?” It was Susie, her voice harsh and grating.
“How.” Dr. Wallace sounded slightly disapprov- The doctor’s eyes shifted to her. “Yes,” he said
ing. “If you mean what caused it, I can give you an neutrally, “I would say he died within thirty seconds
answer. If you mean how he came in contact with or so, guessing from the amount in his system.”
it, I can’t.” Something suddenly occurred to Toom. He
“The first how,” Toom said. glanced at Kincade. “Would you have located it if
“It took me awhile, but I finally located it.” Mrs. Hastings had not requested you to attend the
Dr. Wallace obviously felt some satisfaction in the autopsy?”
answer. “The official name is 1.1.1.trichloro- There was an uncomfortable silence. Amos spoke:
methane. It’s a heavy-duty degreaser for airplane “No. We had no reason to think it was not a heart
engines, but it is also used in many industrial clean- attack.”
ers, generally in the form of a colorless liquid. It Dr. Sharp spoke for the first time. “An autopsy,
smells something like chloroform and evaporates if not specifically looking for this kind of poison,
readily.” usually would not find it. There would be little evi-
“Ralph Hastings was killed with a cleaning dence suggesting poison—at most some small hem-
fluid?” Toom repeated, disbelieving. orrhages in the lungs or brain. Even in the most
“A degreaser,” Dr. Wallace said again. severe inhalation cases, symptoms are usually not
“Does it do the same thing as chloroform?” obvious enough to alert the ordinary physician.”
Toom asked. His medical knowledge of such things “Then how come you found it?” Toom asked,
was limited to late-night TV. dividing the question between the two doctors.
“Sort of. In layman’s terms I suppose it is about They glanced at each other, and Toom read a
the same. It has a smell that is familiar to most united front solidly covering something that must

have been considerably less solid when the family to it. “Dronel-7 is a cleaning compound used
first insisted on an autopsy. Sharp spoke. “We were throughout the building. There was a five-gallon
looking for it. That’s what the medical examiner drum of it in the main janitorial supply. That par-
does—look for the unusual. In this case, Ralph’s ticular drum has been used since about May and
parents were very upset. God had taken their son at was about half gone. The janitor for that wing was
a moment when he was healthy, happy, engaged in a fairly new woman.”
his work. There was apparently no reason for the He glanced down at his notebook. “Bobbie Bell
death. If his heart gave out, that was one thing.” Shumway. There were traces of Dronel-7 in the
The man sitting beside Susie cleared his throat under-tray. She said she didn’t put it there and
and said loudly, “Suicide. If it wasn’t a heart attack doesn’t think she even used it that night. But when
or a stroke, then did he do it himself? But why? we pressed her, she admitted that she’d used the
People would say he had AIDS or something. Or tray for other cleaning solutions in the room and
even that somebody killed him. Now we can be at finally got hysterical and said she couldn’t remem-
peace.” ber what she’d done that night—whether she’d
The older woman—Ralph’s mother—leaned for- even used Dronel-7 at all.”
ward. “It’s still a terrible, terrible tragedy, but now He sighed. “She’d started cleaning the room about
we know. It’s an accident, just one of those horrible 6:00 P.M., almost as soon as she got there, but got
things that shouldn’t have happened.” interrupted several times. A call from home. Or
“An accident?” Toom was confused. He looked maybe that was the night before. Or maybe it was
back at Dr. Wallace. “I thought you said it was both nights. Her husband trying to find out where
poison.” their teenage daughter was. She’d been slipping out
“Yes, the cause of death was poison.” at night. So Mrs. Shumway was worried. Then
“But the death was an accident?” President Olympia wanted his office cleaned right
“Yes.” It was Susie. “A horrible accident. Some away. And then at 11:45, Mrs. Shumway was sent
stupid person left it out where it could kill Ralph.” over to the Auditorium. Some lights went out and
Dr. Wallace straightened and said with a note of one of the ladies, working late, couldn’t leave until
finality, “Yes. He most likely managed to get this the bulb had been replaced. She was working on
poison into his system strictly by accident.” something she couldn’t move.”
Amos considered for a moment. “I suspect it was “Who told her about the light in the Audito-
a stupid mistake. There’s no reason for the cleaning rium?” asked Toom.
crew to have trichloromethane, at least in pellet form. “Your security guy—Sligo,” responded Kincade.
The ground crew keeps some in its supply room to “He was working a double shift and had been on
clean the underside of the mower, but there’s only from three, so he also found her to take the phone
a little bit there now. They seem to remember there call and send her up to Olympia’s office. She was
being more. Maybe someone saw it marked as a pretty fuzzy about the times, but he was quite def-
cleaner and thought they’d use something stronger inite. Most of the custodians had already finished
than the usual.” their sections and left, or he would have sent one
“Wouldn’t they know it’s a poison?” of the guys. It was almost midnight and she was a
Amos shrugged. “All that stuff is marked poison, woman and all, but he came to the upstairs lobby
and no one pays any attention. No, the key to this door and watched her walk across the parking lot
one is the trichloromethane. It’s in Dronel-7 but in to the Auditorium until she got inside.”
a nonlethal form. The problem is that someone— “Neither one of them saw Hastings?” Toom
by mistake, is my guess—didn’t realize the differ- already knew the answer.
ence and substituted one for the other.” “No, and nobody noticed his car in the employee
“So how did it happen?” Toom focused on Amos. lot either.” The policeman smiled without humor.
Amos pulled a notebook out of the side-pocket “If his body hadn’t been there the next morning,
of his jacket and flipped it open, but did not refer nobody would even have known he’d been in.”

Toom heard the slightest intake of breath beside sink, she went into the bathroom which was just
him from Susie Hastings and flinched. off his bedroom. On her way in, she lingered a bit.
“So it was just a stupid accident,” he said flatly. Her relish for snooping was one of the traits that
“Well,” Kincade acknowledged grudgingly, “it made her an excellent attorney. The bedroom was
was more of a freak accident, like getting hit by light- not cluttered, but neither was it especially neat.
ning. Your head custodian—Zakheim—confirmed Piled on the bedstand was Midnight Clear, one of
that nobody had warned Mrs. Shumway about the the Callahan Garrity mysteries by Kathy Hogan
ultraviolet light, but that’s because he didn’t know Trocheck. Marie had borrowed Trocheck’s Strange
himself. So if your cleaning staff had been using Brew after Toom had recommended it last month,
409 or Pine-Sol instead of Dronel-7, and if but hadn’t yet returned it. Colin Wilson’s The New
Mrs. Shumway hadn’t been flustered from the Existentialism was the second book on the pile.
interruptions and trying to hurry, she would have Toom knew what she was doing and had started
used a bowl or at least done a better job of cleaning slicing tomatoes and cucumbers. They had known
up, and if Hastings had come in any other night in each other for ten years, and their relationship was
the year, or if he’d been doing something else— hard to define. Except for Ellen, his life was rela-
anything that didn’t require ultraviolet . . .” tively pain-free, comfortable without being self-
He shrugged and let his hand fall on the table. indulgent, interesting without being challenging.
“We’ve gone over means, motive, and opportunity. Few of the moments that sparkled for him occurred
No one benefits from Hastings’s death—certainly in company other than Marie’s. She was charming,
not in comparison to the benefits if he were still bright, vital. He liked her mind very much. She
alive. Of course the family can always claim crimi- was one of the very few people who knew the
nal negligence and wrongful death and press for a source of the nursery rhyme “all the king’s men” or
civil action; but as far as the police are concerned, could tell you the difference between Plato and
the case is closed.” Play-doh. He didn’t think about her body more
“Civil action?” Toom asked. He suddenly knew than he could help it; they both worked for a very
why he had been invited. conservative church, after all, and there was Ellen.
He suspected that he would like it at least as much
Marie had changed into a scarlet patio dress after as he liked her mind.
leaving the office. Her tanned legs were bare, and She lived in Sherwood Forest, a duplex develop-
her hair was pulled on top of her head. She was car- ment. She called the second story of her vertical
rying a slab of ribs from Gates Bar-B-Que. Toom duplex her treehouse and refused to cut the branches
had a plate of French fries in the microwave. They of the maple that brushed the windows. It was a
weren’t as good as Bryant’s, but it was better than much longer drive to work than Toom’s apartment
driving all the way over to 18th and Brooklyn. on 28th Street and Lee’s Summit. They usually
He let her in and went back to his interrupted lunched or had breakfast once or twice a week,
task of filling a couple of glasses with ice. A large depending on their work schedules. People at work
bottle of generic-brand cola stood on the counter. watched them but studiously did not ask about
The kitchen was small, and Toom seemed out of their relationship. There was Ellen, after all. Every
place in it, his hands clumsy as he laid out plates couple of weeks, they got together for supper and a
and silverware. He had to tell her about Pico’s movie, or took a walk and had rambling conversa-
schedule and wanted to. He had to talk to her tions about a little bit of everything. Every once in
about Ralph Hastings inhaling fatal degreaser, and a while, Toom noticed just how beautiful she was.
he definitely didn’t want to. He pulled lettuce from
the crisper.
“I’ll wash my hands and make the salad,” said
Marie. Instead of turning on the tap at the kitchen

E D I T O R I A L much it means to a missionary despite some pretty

horrendous happenings, but I was also trying to say
Sing, Ye Waste Places of Jerusalem that people call a mission the best two years because
of all the bad stuff, that confronting and working
By Harlow Clark, IRREANTUM Poetry Editor through affliction causes people to grow. (And
indeed, the book is structured as a hero journey.)
Sing, O barren; thou that didst not bear. One classmate would have none of it. “What if
—Isaiah 54:1 someone read that book and decided not to go on
a mission?” An unanswerable argument, what people
Isaiah’s words seem a little ironic for the poetry
say if they don’t expect to be persuaded otherwise.
in this issue, given that the image of an empty belly
Unanswerable even though any 18- or 19-year-old
in Darlene Young’s “Umbilical Cord” (p. 83) is an boy who could appreciate the style, which Lavina
image not of barrenness, but of having just borne. Fielding Anderson called “austere and remote” in
Neither is Young’s commentary on the poem’s Sunstone and on the dust jacket, would likely have
birth, part of our series on poets talking about their the literary sophistication to sense Béla’s celebration
craft, an image of barrenness, except as an intima- of missionary life.
tion of the loneliness parents feel in setting free Of course, that last sentence took twenty years
their children. to form itself. I understood that the book’s style
Nor is Marilyn Brown’s “Fire” (p. 84) an image was celebratory, but didn’t think about it as a style
of barrenness, though winter and its desolation are most teens wouldn’t appreciate, because I probably
nigh. Rather, it is an invitation to an aging lover to would have.
enjoy the warmth of old love. Marilyn has said sev- My own style is very different, but my writing
eral times recently on AML-List that having just owes a great deal to Béla’s friendship. About a year
turned sixty she wants to turn more fully towards and a half after my mission, I took his creative writ-
her writing, so the poem is also an invitation to the ing class, which introduced me to Flannery O’Con-
reader to enjoy the warmth of a winter’s work. nor’s Mystery and Manners, with its lovely insistence
I chose the epigraph for that exultant word sing, that art comes from our health, not our disease, that
that urging to joy of one who has not borne, that art is a sign of health, healing, wholeness.
song of joy at new birth. “And She Loved to Not everyone understood Béla’s own art-issuing
Dance” (p. 50) and “Elegy” (p. 74) are not new- health, his love for gospel and Church, and in the
born poems, but they mark Béla Petsco’s return to later 1980s he fell silent. I encouraged (euphemism
print after several years’ silence. for bugged) him to keep writing, and once he said,
I was in my father’s office one day shortly after “I’m dead, Harlow, let me be,” but it would be a
my mission and saw a white book on his desk, Noth- shame to just let someone be dead who’s given so
ing Very Important and Other Stories, a gift from the much life to my own writing.
author, once his student. Eventually I picked it up What a pleasure, then, to open his Christmas
and read a story called “The Shell.” Interesting, letter one year and find a new poem, an elegy for
engaging characters, a pair of missionaries who Allie Howe, who had also taught me much, in a
don’t seem to fit in well with the mission but get Shakespeare reading and performance class with
along together. Shocking—one elder kills himself. Robert Nelson, and who had written a fine profile
I read the whole book. of my father when he retired in 1981. My father
It was the first book I tried to review, something very much admires her poem, “Times of Refresh-
I wrote for an interdisciplinary singing-art-theater- ing: 1820” (p. 34), and it seemed a fit companion
writing class. I was trying to explain the affection to the elegy. The poem was originally published in
the novel shows for missionary life, that Béla demon- Poems of Praise: Poems in Commemoration of the One
strates the importance of a mission by showing how Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary of the Founding

of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a M E M O I R

collection from the BYU Humanities faculty, E X C E R P T
edited by Edward L. Hart and Marden J. Clark.
I am grateful to Blaine Hall, Allie’s literary execu- Rocky, Fertile, and Scorched
tor, for permission to reprint.
By Tom Johnson
Chapter 5
P O E T R Y In the middle of a parking lot surrounded by
fruit vendors and trinket sellers and solemn men
Times of Refreshing: 1820 pushing Tio Rico ice cream carts, a bus with purple
A wisp of the new morning stripes streamed into the depot. After a dozen pas-
Washes across his face sengers exited, Elder Marquez stepped down, wear-
And turns him to wooded temples. ing a beige neck brace and dark sunglasses. He was
tall, about six-foot-one, but slouched his shoulders
The way along a little, which if straightened would have probably
given him an extra inch of height. His forehead was
Winged harbingers lighten above
pronouncedly square, looking even more square
Through among, back and before,
framed by his square-buzz haircut. He seemed to be
And unstartled anxious buds
25 or 26 years old rather than 21. He stretched his
Await nativities.
long arms and rotated his back in a few circular
motions while another arriving missionary unloaded
Under his boot and on
his luggage from the storage below.
Dark leaf-mold, dew-dampened, patient,
Elder Marquez looked in my direction but seemed
A teeming earth secures.
confused—another elder, a gringo, was standing
Hearing his step,
beside me, and Elder Marquez looked unsure about
The stone beside quickens which of the gringos was his new companion. He
To its rolling, walked closer, squinting to read our name tags. Up
And the showered-clean air, close I noticed he had a long scar beginning on his
Ecstatic, forehead and running to the middle of his nose.
Freshens millennia past, The scar looked reminiscent of a terrible accident,
Whispers everlastings. as if someone had thrown a machete at him—from
a distance, however, this scar blended invisibly into
Ancient-in-days, the awakening earth his deep brown skin.
Lifts “Compañero,” he said, reaching out and hug-
Against his supplicant knees, ging me.
And a breath above, I had done a little research on Elder Marquez
Reigning all the space around, from information listed in the monthly missionary
The Holiest of Holies bulletin, the Estandarte. Elder Marquez was com-
Unveil ing from Zona Merida, where he and Elder David-
son had just baptized seven people. It wasn’t
And Joseph sups from Their Presence . . . possible to tell from the bulletin whether those
—Alice E. Howe baptisms were scattered bachelors, nine-year-old
children, staunch Jehovah’s Witness converts,
extended family—it didn’t really matter, according
to the Estandarte; they were all baptisms, sure signs

of missionary success. Marquez and Davidson had “We haven’t had too much luck out here,” I said.
also taught 73 charlas—21 more than anyone else, “Have faith, Compañero. In my last area, in the
24 more than Rodriguez and I, and four times the Andes, where the people are more difficult than in
mission average. Marquez’s name also appeared in Punto Fijo, we had more baptisms than any other
the “Five Star Program” section, indicating that his companionship in the entire mission. Part of it was
apartment had been the cleanest of his zone. because we taught so many discussions—the more
I loaded his luggage into the taxi. We hopped in, you teach, the more you baptize. But you can teach
and the taxista pulled away, driving us out from the all you want and still not have any baptisms
city center’s claustrophobic buildings tightly because the Spirit has to be in each charla. Elder
packed together and into the free-breathing rural Davidson and I always had the Spirit because we
roads that were not burdened by any structure over were close, buddy-buddy, we were always talking,
one story tall. There was something else about while we walked down the streets or rode the bus
Marquez, something that I knew but didn’t know. or were at the apartment. Some companions are
What is he like, I had asked Elder Rodriguez, tell me quiet all day, closed up. One walks in front, the
about him. He is great, he said, he is definitely the best other walks behind, and they keep their mouths
missionary in the mission, but he . . . uh, except closed tight. It’s pathetic to see missionaries like
that . . . never mind. No, I said, tell me. No, he said, this. They’re nice to each other, but not really
it’s nothing, really. I’m sure you two will be great com- friends. In front of investigators they appear to be
panions. You’re lucky to get such an excellent compan- close-knit, but when they’re alone they hardly talk.
ion so early in the mission. Make sure you learn all If we’re going to have success we’ve got to be con-
you can from him. stantly talking to each other, be best friends. Didn’t
Perhaps it was better not to know all the details, you see Davidson and I the last two months in the
so that I could formulate my own judgments. Estandarte? We were the number-one companion-
Inside the cab, Elder Marquez was full of energy. ship in the whole mission, and it was because we
“Elder Johnson, I can tell we’re going to have the were such good friends that Davidson and I had so
best district in the whole mission. We’re going to be much success.”
on top of the Estandarte with the most charlas and In saying the name Davidson, Elder Marquez
most baptisms of anyone in the mission, because paused and turned nostalgic, remembering their
we are the best district with the best spirit. Every- times together—“Compañero, Elder Davidson was
one else will be looking up to our district because a great friend of mine. I was very sad to go. I did
we’ll be number one. Correction, we are number not want to come to Punto Fijo and be a district
one.” He smiled and put his arm around my shoul- leader; we were having so much success there. We
ders. He still wore his dark sunglasses even though had six baptisms lined up for the next two weeks.
the light outside wasn’t strong enough to warrant Two entire families. You’ll see their names in the
them. I rolled the window down and let the wind Estandarte next month. I loved those people. It was
in, which whipped our ties around. very difficult for me to leave, and to leave Elder
“The first thing we have to do is get to know Davidson, that beecho. I love that beecho! But I
each other, because if we’re best friends and open know that transfers are inspired, and that this is
and honest with each other and always talking then where I should be. I know that we can become
the Spirit will flow into the charlas, and the people good friends, too.”
will want to be baptized; we will have success. Beecho (or bicho) means “little insect.” Elder Mar-
We’re going to teach a minimum of 20 charlas a quez was using the word as a term of endearment.
week—a week, Compa, that means 80 per month— “Now who is in the program? Do you have any
so we’ll put the goal at least 25 a week. Maybe 30. baptisms coming up? Any appointments for tomor-
You shoot for the stars and you hit the tops of the row? How is the branch? Do they help out with the
mountains.” work? Which members have you gone to for referrals?”

“There are a just few people we’re teaching,” slept in the other bedroom of the apartment. When
I said. night fell Elder Marquez strapped the neck brace
“Just go ahead and read me the names.” He bus- back on and lay perfectly flat on his back, like a
ied himself adjusting his tie, looking at his finger- robot preparing to be recharged.
nails and then out the window while I pulled out When he woke up the next morning at 6:30 A.M.,
my program. On the back there were seven or so the first thing Elder Marquez did was fill a bucket
names I had written. with bleach water and begin mopping. From the
“There are the Gomezes, Yasmelys, some guy we kitchen he shouted how we all needed to clean this
taught a first charla to last week but who skipped us place up if we wanted to get the Spirit in the apart-
on the second. . . .” I gave little biographical narra- ment. From the bedroom I could hear the mop
tives of each investigator. moving back and forth along the floor. “This is a
“That’s fine,” he said, loosening and retightening pigsty!” he shouted. “No way we’re going to get the
the Velcro of his neck brace. “You’ll just have to Spirit in here!” Mop, mop, mop. “Doesn’t dwell in
take me to all their houses and then I’ll see what unholy places!” Mop, mop, mop. “Beechos! ”
we’ll do. With the people who aren’t progressing, I got up and opened my Book of Mormon,
we’ve got to just drop them from the program and yawning and highlighting and yawning some more.
move on. That’s where most missionaries fail; they “It doesn’t dwell in unholy places!” he shouted
spend months and months trying to teach people from the kitchen again, “and it’s definitely not
who’ll never get baptized.” dwelling in here! You can read your scriptures all
At night he ripped loose the Velcro of his neck day if you want, but you won’t get the Spirit in a
brace and slowly unclasped it from his neck. I showed mess like this! Freaking Pollo! ” The mop continued
him his bed and where he could lay his clothes. He swish-swashing, pausing only to be wrung by his
tested the mattress. “Too soft for me,” he said. “My eager hands. The wrung-out water spattered in the
back almost kept me from coming on the mission. sink.
I need something harder. The doctor said I couldn’t “And without that preparation you might as well
go on a mission. But I was too stubborn, so they stay in bed all day! Beechos! This apartment is filthy!
had to let me. The only thing is, Compañero, I have When’s the last time you mopped it! Jeeminy freak-
to rest my back one hour after lunch every day. ing Christmas! ”
That was the condition the doctor set.” Elder Magarrell shouted back that we had never
Though only one hour, it seemed that this rest- actually mopped the place, nor any other mission-
ing time would cut a large chunk out of our prose- aries before us—“The filth gives us an incentive to
lyting time. leave in the mornings,” he said, laughing coarsely.
“Yes, I’m sorry, one hour, every day. President Elder Magarrell sat on his sheetless bed, with rips in
Porter knows all about it.” the mattress, and strummed a cuatro, which is a
He unrolled a small foam pad onto the floor and small Spanish guitar with four strings. He spent
put a sheet over the pad. Elder Magarrell, the other several hours each morning learning to play it.
gringo missionary in our apartment, a chubby blond Marquez swabbed the mop around the living
from Utah, kept passing by to see my new com- room, the hallway, the kitchen, the bathroom. The
panion. “I hope you’re as good as we’ve all heard,” smell of bleach was everywhere, saturating the air,
Magarrell said. Elder Marquez ignored the com- filling my nostrils. Elder Marquez sang while he
ment and continued unpacking his suitcase. Elder mopped, and when he finished mopping each
Magarrell was also getting acquainted with his new room, he filled the bucket with new bleach water
companion, Elder Cerrano, who had arrived with and mopped and sang everything again. It took
Elder Marquez. It seemed that the two were hitting him the entire morning, but when he finished he
it off well—Magarrell was an out-of-shape soccer was satisfied. He sat down and took several long
player and Cerrano was an all-around athlete. They breaths. There was no dirt under his feet, nothing

dirty on the walls, nothing dirty in the cracks or the in analytical ways these verses in the Book of Mor-
corners. “What a relief. Beechos,” he said. “Beechos, mon I meditated on. The leaders, however, argued
what a relief. Now we can finally start getting some- that there would be time for that later; for now we
thing done.” were to concentrate on the spiritual, to know the
The next morning he wasn’t so eager to rise. At scriptures before we knew commentary about
about seven thirty he still lay on his pad, his eyes the scriptures.
shut. I approached him and saw that he had several Elder Marquez exited the shower and discovered
packets of papers underneath his blanket. After a that I was reading his packets. One of the essays
while he got up and grabbed a towel and some new argued that our premortal behavior had deter-
underclothes and shut himself in the bathroom to mined the type of families we received on earth.
shower. He wore sandals to shower, as we all did, I objected to the determination idea, arguing that
because we feared bacteria worms might climb into we had no such knowledge about that time, except
our toes and tunnel up to our heads and make perhaps knowledge of our gender, which was eter-
Swiss cheese of our brains. But unlike the rest of us, nal. In fact, the idea that gender was an eternal con-
Marquez brought the clean underclothes he would struction was officially declared by church leaders
change into with him into the bathroom, so that he in a proclamation issued several months later.
could always enter or exit fully clothed, and never “No, no, Elder Johnson, in the hereafter the
have to walk around the apartment with only a whole idea of gender will simply fade away. We
towel, half-naked. won’t have it anymore. We’ll move to a higher
The papers under his blanket were written by a plane. We can’t understand it now, but we will
general authority of the church whose name I move beyond gender.”
didn’t recognize. Yellowish and musty and seem- I thought little of his comment then, and only
ingly long out of circulation, the papers offered later realized how important this belief was to him.
an extensive dialogue on how to undercut attacks In the ensuing weeks, I brought Elder Marquez
on the church, replete with counter-scriptures, over to the Gomez’s. After learning about the cir-
counter-arguments, counter-questions. Were Mor- cumstances of Señor Gomez’s curious death, Elder
mons polygamists? Were they Christians? Were Marquez said we should visit the family every two
they racists? The author demonstrated how, in dia- or three days. “Now they are going through the
logue format, one might proceed with respective time when they need us most,” he said. Although I
rebuttals. The dialogues looked impracticably com- felt reluctant about visiting so regularly, as if we
plex to follow: one answer hinged intimately on were annoying them, Marquez had no compunc-
another, and another, and another, so that if the tion about knocking on the door, inquiring about
investigator didn’t follow you to the next level, your their well-being, sharing a brief verse from the
plan collapsed. In the end, at the top of the ques- scriptures, offering a prayer, and then leaving—we
tion terraces, if there wasn’t a good defense, the made this visit every two or three days. The chubby
author responded with nebulous, unanswerable daughter would usually answer, call over her
questions. These dialogues inclined missionaries to mother, still dressed in black. The mother would
butt heads with investigators rather than rely on invite us in, give us a glass of iceless water, and
the Holy Ghost, but the dialogues interested me within five minutes we would be on our way.
precisely because they treated the gospel in a criti- Elder Marquez also wanted to pay a visit to
cal manner, unlike the other publications we were Eudys and Lisset, to see if they were “salvageable.”
allowed to read. The list of allowed literature we When we arrived, Marquez asked a few compre-
could read was short, consisting mostly of the hension questions. Eudys had not read more than
scriptures and a few books written by other general four or five chapters, but Lisset had progressed
authorities. More than once I wanted to get my halfway through the book. Elder Marquez asked
hands on some heavy critical material that addressed if they wanted to be baptized. Yes, both wanted

baptism. But were they married? No. Here Mar- I had desperately needed a person like Eudys.
quez began to talk to them in a casual yet sincere Operating under the guise of serving others, I was
way, speaking about the gospel, and the things they really being served by them. I had needs; I had to
had read. He looked at them both as he talked, find people who needed me to help them. I could
focusing on Eudys, then Lisset, then Eudys. He not fulfill my mission without these people; I
read a few verses of scripture and asked them what could not teach discussions and baptize like I was
they thought. Letting my claim on them go, called to do without people who wanted baptism.
I watched the wind ruffle through the green I could not really “bring the world the truth” if
branches of the trees, the ants crawl slowly along there was no world who wanted truth. By listening
the dirt floor. For the first time in a long while I felt to us, Eudys allowed me the opportunity to feel the
peace. Marquez’s sentences weren’t careful or pre- Spirit of my testimony and to be converted more
planned. He often spurted them out extemporane- myself. But beyond this, he allowed me into the
ously as he felt them, and they hung together story of his life, right at the frontlines of his strug-
emotionally. “Ah, see what I mean? Don’t you want gles. We missionaries weren’t passing our time sit-
your family to be together for all time and eternity, ting on a library bench meditating on the gospel,
not just now; you want her to be a queen and you not just reading stories of early Christian fathers
to be a king and to never be separated from the side and heretics. We were participating in living stories.
of your daughter? This is what the family is all Eudys was the first person we found who seemed to
about, this is what the gospel is all about: families really need us. He truly needed help, and however
with eternal increase, I know this, I know the poorly we had given it, however much I initially
gospel will make your family strong, the church felt apathetic towards his condition, in the end,
will bring you two together, unite your hearts and through our teaching him the gospel and encour-
minds as you pray together each morning and aging him to marry the woman he loved, we had
night, when you kneel together side by side before helped him. We, or at least Elder Marquez, whom
the bed . . . .” Marquez was working up a sweat and I had quietly accompanied, had changed his life,
just beginning to unload an arsenal of testimony not in some small way, but in a massive way. Before
when I noticed Eudys and Lisset looking at each we arrived on the scene, he was alone, crouching in
other differently. I could tell that something good some dark corner of his mother’s house, and we
was going to happen. They were staring into each brought him out of it, united him with Lisset. For
other’s eyes but not seeing each other’s eyes; they the first time it seemed that we had given someone
were looking, I think, at the family they might something that was not restrictive or inane, but
become. uplifting, useful. We didn’t harm him, we helped
“So, Eudys, Lisset, what do you think? Do you him, and this feeling uplifted me so much that I
two want to get married?” could hardly sleep at nights, scribbling away as
“Yes, we do,” she said, excitedly. I was in my journal.
Eudys nearly did a backflip. His smile was so For the first few weeks we worked hard, carrying
wide his lips nearly split. Afterwards we tramped our backpacks all day through the heat, teaching
around town to investigate the exact details and charla after charla, talking to every idle person we
procedures for marriage, the required documents, passed. The skin on my knuckles was torn from
the fee, and so on. It would cost more than we knocking on so many doors. My heavy backpack,
thought, but that was okay because they had all the filled with so many Books of Mormon, pulled
necessary papers and the bishop offered to subsi- down on my shoulders and strained my back mus-
dize the cost. A generous member rented a car for cles. I ran my thumbs under the straps to relieve
them, and after their baptism they drove off on a the pressure, but running my thumbs over my shirt
honeymoon to a cacti-ridden desert town one hour made the shirt dirty, so I had to choose between
north. a dirty shirt or sore shoulders. Marquez likewise

grimaced in pain as he walked. Periodically he lowed more ibuprofen pills in response. Every
touched his lower back, and when he noticed me 30 yards he winced from a sharp pain in his back,
looking he smiled and pretended to be okay. When glanced at me, and popped another pill.
we stopped at a bodega for a drink, he reached into One day Marquez proposed a solution: instead of
his bag and swallowed, to my astonishment, twelve returning all the way to our apartment, which was
ibuprofens at once. at least a 20-minute bus ride once the bus actually
arrived, which sometimes took another 20 minutes
of waiting, we could simply duck into the chapel for
I enjoyed the chapel more a while and he could lie down on a hard pew.
“Brilliant!” I said. So the next day we unlocked
this way. There was some- the empty chapel door and proceeded toward the
pews. The Punto Fijo chapel had about 20 rows of
thing holy about the place, hard wooden pews facing an elevated pulpit. There
now that it was empty. were no pictures or fancy stained-glass windows on
the chapel walls, no hanging Jesus or scenes of
miracle-working saints, no Passion—nothing but
We’d been returning to the apartment after plain, white, simple walls to suggest religion. Elder
lunch so that Marquez could get his necessary rest. Marquez lay down on a pew, which wasn’t quite
But because our alarm clocks kept malfunctioning, wide enough to accommodate both of his arms, so
we would often wake up three hours later, missing his outer arm hung straight out to the side. This
appointments or having to skip the current appoint- arm flopped around a bit. First he put the arm
ments to make up those we missed. I tried to keep behind his head, then over his eyes, then on the top
awake by reading during his rest hour, but it wasn’t of his leg, then wrapped it around his ribs. In the
so easy to read silently with a full stomach in a hot end he settled back to the original straight-out
apartment. I drifted off for just a second and position, like a bicyclist signaling right.
then . . . we had practically slept the day away. While he tried to sleep, I walked up to the pul-
Hell’s bells. I jumped up and jammed my feet into pit, positioned the microphone (turned off ), and
my shoes, crushing the leather heels in my impa- pretended to give a rip-roaring sermon about
tience. Marquez took his time rebuttoning his damnation and hellfire, threatening the audience
shirt and arranging his tie. We grabbed our scrip- with the gnarls of hell and the hot sweaty darkness
tures and raced out the door. that was the fate of the sons of perdition if they did
When we arrived at the appointed house, the not repent and turn to me. I waved my hands in
investigator came to the door and was irate that we the air and lip-synched the words in my head,
were so late, explaining that now he had visitors working up a crescendo of religious frenzy and
and could not attend to us, that he was reluctant to jerking my hands in staccato-2/2 chorister thrusts
reschedule because his schedule fluctuated so errat- until finally I fell to the floor, convulsing in a
ically, and the appointment we’d set and blown was blinding-light vision. Lying on the floor, I saw that
the only sure time he’d had this whole month, and there were eight fans bolted to the ceiling, and after
yakkety yak yak, looking at his watch and increas- I got up, with a little trial and error at the switch
ing the sharp tone of his voice. I didn’t entirely panel I was able to turn on all eight fans at high
believe his schedule constraints, since people lied to speed. Their speed was adjusted by a dial, like a
us so frequently, but the situation made me feel race-car wheel, and it amused me to see the arms of
lousy nonetheless. We slowly walked away, tails these fans swinging so furiously and lopsidedly,
between our legs, moving toward the next appoint- squeaking and creaking like old airplane propellers.
ment we had missed. I began to look at Marquez’s Being a missionary was serious business all day, and
neck brace with spite. He saw me looking and swal- sometimes it helped just to let go.

The side of the chapel had a panel of windows, and out while the doctor pressed his stethoscope on
locked tight, with shades pulled down. I walked various regions of my chest.
to the windows and opened the glass panels but left In the mornings I no longer rose at 6:30 A.M.
the shades down in case church members were to Elder Marquez did not insist that I get up to pray,
pass by and think that we weren’t working. Along either. I guiltlessly snoozed until eight or nine A.M.
the sides of the curtains the rays of afternoon sun While I slept, I could hear Elder Marquez moving
penetrated the room, illuminating dust particles the plunger up and down in a basin of dirty
floating in the light beams. For some time I clothes, singing while he plunged. It was our cus-
watched the dust particles float weightlessly, rising tom to wash our clothes using the suction power of
and falling in all directions. The chapel was silent a plunger to create water motion. I thought noth-
except for Marquez’s breathing, and I enjoyed the ing of this plunging sound until I noticed that my
chapel more this way, without all the people bustling laundry bag was empty and that he was washing my
around, giving sappy speeches and smalltalking in clothes. Realizing this, I wanted to rush over and
superficial ways with everyone. I could sit here for thank him and iron his clothes in return, but I felt
the rest of my life, I thought. There was something too weak and bony to pry my butt from the bed, so
holy about the place, now that it was empty. I just remained there, half-asleep, listening, wan-
Elder Marquez’s loose arm soon woke him up. dering through desert cacti in my mind. As I heard
We locked up the empty chapel and returned to the Marquez dump out the basin into the sink, I focused
hot streets. on the swooshing sound of water in the sink, the
Within a week or so, while knocking doors around hungry drain sucking the last of the water down.
town, I felt something squirt in the back of my Marquez then began to scrub the shirt collars,
underwear. I tried to ignore it, and then attempted tttsshh ttsshh ttsshh, filling the kitchen with the
to counterattack it by sucking in my stomach mus- sound of bristles scrubbing cotton. He sang while
cles, anticipating the next one, clenching myself so he scrubbed, happy as can be, ttsshh ttsshh ttsshhing
steel-like tight that I had to go slow and bowlegged all morning long.
through the streets. I’d heard about these amoebas, Whereas in the MTC I would have resented
the malicious bacteria that would invade the intes- someone laundering my clothes, now I was grateful
tinal tracts of gringos, little single-cell parasites that for it—it was something I really needed. It takes a
hooked themselves somewhere along your stomach lot of energy to wash a half-dozen shirts and pants
lining and lived off what you ate. with a plunger, and energy is one thing I didn’t
Within days I began to lose weight. Soon I could have. I was exhausted, and he served me. I suppose
slip my hand sideways inside the waistline of my it might be argued that he was attempting to build
polyester pants. I no longer felt hungry. I left the our friendship only to get more baptisms so that he
chicken on my plate at lunchtime and merely might ultimately appear as the greatest missionary
stirred the rice with my fork. Sister Porter, in charge in the world, but I don’t believe those slippery-
of the mission’s health, sent me money through the slope arguments, and besides, why would he sing?
zone leaders so that I could get checked out by a He seemed to scrub out of the pure joy of doing it.
local doctor. In addition to two boxes of special On one of my amoeba mornings, I woke to the
amoeba-killing pills, she gave me a special stool sound of arepas (round cakes of cornmeal) frying.
sample kit and told me to bring it full to the near- I thought I could also smell beans, or was it per-
est laboratory. I filled it, but when I jammed the kit haps ham? Soon Elder Marquez brought in a plate
lid on, it didn’t quite do the job lids are supposed with two oil-fried arepas, each cut open and but-
to do, so I put the leaky receptacle into a ziplock tered, arranged beside a pile of black beans sprin-
bag and headed to the lab. I gave the nurse the plas- kled with white cheese. He handed the plate to me,
tic container and then submitted to a doctor’s exami- and without even praying I dug in with my fork,
nation, which consisted of me breathing deeply in stuffed beans into the arepas, and began to chew

and swallow. I didn’t notice that he’d returned to On the streets, Elder Marquez was getting to be
the kitchen until I heard Elder Marquez fire the the cat’s meow of the town. He had gotten to know
blender up and shake it around a bit. After he just about every person in the neighborhood, and
turned it off, he poured some liquid into a glass and as they stood outside watering their lawns, carrying
returned with a tall glass of avena (ground oatmeal in groceries, sitting on the porches, working on
blended with milk and sugar), which he set on the their cars, Marquez would greet each as an individ-
nightstand next to my bed. ual: “And how are you today, Mrs. Gonzalez?” And
“These arepas are terrific,” I said. “They’re almost then, to the next, “We’re still waiting for you at the
as good as French toast.” chapel, Señor Polanco.” “Milagros, how is the baby?”
“What is French toast?” “When are we going to come and visit you, Ramón?”
“I’m kidding,” I said, taking a big bite. “These “Carmen, que día, have you read the chapters we
are the best dang things I’ve ever eaten.” marked yet?” “Alonso, we waited for you at church last
Other missionaries let their sick companions week. Como estan las cosas?” People everywhere
toughen up on their own, like beef jerky in the sun, seemed to step down and out of their houses on
but Marquez was a pleasant nurse, constantly purpose when we passed. We found dozens of char-
attending to my every request. It was as if there las this way. Elder Marquez even struck up a con-
were a bell beside my bed I could ring at any time, versation with the lady at the panaderia, so that
and he would be there. Did my temples need mas- each time we went for some rolls and juice he
saging? My feet washing? My hair combing? Elder would ask her about what she’d read in the Book of
Marquez would break his back to help me—in fact, Mormon, and with my mouth full of bread I’d have
all the cleaning and cooking and nursing he was to listen to her summarize various chapters of the
doing must have heavily taxed his back, but he hid Book of Mormon.1
his pain. One day knocking doors I watched a peculiar
After breakfast my first destination was the throne event take place. An old woman (abuelita) with
room, and I brought along my scriptures and con- whitish-blue hair opened the door and invited us
templated eternal increase while slowly emptying in. She kindly sat us down on an antique-looking
myself of amoebas. I got to know all the tiles of the couch while her two sisters or cousins—likewise
bathroom and pondered the dirty grouts and pushing 90-plus years of age—gathered around us.
whether Marquez had attempted to scrub each I asked what their names were. They took great
with a toothbrush or whether that was too much pains to pronounce for us their names, enunciating
for him. Once I felt that I could stand tall again each syllable, repeating the name twice. They seemed
and walk straight-legged into the living room, we to take an enormous joy in pronouncing these
returned to the streets. Not much time had really names—probably no one had taken an interest in
passed, but this lag time while I was sick seemed an them for thirty years, and now we wanted to know
eternity in the absence of rigorous proselyting. who they were, where they were from, what rela-
Elder Marquez cautioned me not to drink any tionship they had to each other. When I asked each
unboiled water offered me (refusing unboiled water the year in which she was born, one abuelita
was already one of the missionary rules anyway, but scratched her chin a little and began, “I was born
I hadn’t been paying much attention to it and in . . . I was born in . . . ,” but for the life of her she
assumed nobody really did, since as a guest it was couldn’t finish the sentence. She was absolutely
offensive to refuse a drink offered you, and few puzzled that she couldn’t remember the date she
people boiled their water); Marquez also said that, was born (it seemed that I had just now brought
even though he could drink water straight from a this lapse to her attention). The realization of her
river and not get sick, he would likewise agree to
abstain from unboiled water so that I would not 1. About six months later, this panaderia lady was
feel uncomfortable in front of our investigators. actually baptized.

memory loss saddened her. I too would feel a that is, if we want the concert to have the Spirit.
melancholy in losing the knowledge of the year I This is much worse than I anticipated.”
was born. Here was such a simple piece of infor- “Really?” I said, thumbing my chin.
mation, just one day in the year of a near-infinite “There’s absolutely no way we can pull off a con-
history—losing it, though, was like losing a part of cert with the current state of this piano.”
yourself. The others followed the same pattern, none
remembering the year of birth. When I changed
the subject and asked about health, however, each It seemed the pianists
abundantly named frailties of several different
kinds—a recurring pain in the leg, an arthritic hip, preferred to play principally
a nagging cough, a rickety elbow. They elaborated
on and on until Elder Marquez asked if they for themselves, not to perform
wanted us to bless them. Like schoolgirls receiving
candy, each squirmed for instructions on what to on command for others.
do. Elder Marquez pulled out a chair and instructed
one of the abuelitas to sit in it while he adminis-
tered the oil and blessed her, and then the next, and “How long will it take you to tune it?”
the next. Each old woman wiggled with delight to “Me? Freaking Pollo! I can’t tune it.”
be the one being blessed, and after it was all over “Why not? If you know what a C should be,
they thanked us profusely. Undoubtedly these ladies can’t you just turn a little screw until the sound
were not altogether there—I had the impression comes out right?”
that they thought we were Catholic priests making “No, Elder Johnson. Playing a piano and tuning
our rounds to individual houses—but this made no a piano are two very different things. It’s not like
difference to Elder Marquez. He was interested in setting the idle of a car. Besides, even if I did know
serving all, old and young, man and woman, com- how to tune a piano, I don’t have the right tools.”
panion or stranger—whoever needed him. “Can’t we buy the tools you need?”
“Sure, but they would cost more than the fee the
One afternoon, during one of Marquez’s back- tuner would charge.”
resting hours on the chapel pew, he got up and “Oh.”
walked over to the piano. “I’ve been thinking about “Actually, we will be lucky to find someone in all
putting on a concert here,” he said. “I put on a con- of Punto Fijo who knows how to tune a piano.”
cert in my last area, and it worked very well.” He “Hmmm.”
propped open the lid of the old brown piano, “And then there is the question of cost.”
roughened by the passage of time and use, and “How much?”
struck the same note several times while looking at “At least ten thousand Bolivares,” he said.
the strings. “Freaking Pollo! ” he said. “Ten thousand! Freaking Pollo! ” He looked at me
“You play the piano?” strangely and closed the piano lid. Ten thousand
“Oh yes, Compañero.” Bolivares only amounted to about eighty dollars,
He asked me to take a look at the piano’s loom- but this was more than each of us spent every two
like string structure. I knew absolutely nothing about weeks on food, transportation, and other things.
pianos. When I looked inside he pounded the same Having insulted the piano verbally, Elder Mar-
note again and again, pushing the key as fiercely as quez sat down to insult it physically. His fingers
a torturer might press a shock button hooked to his began to attack the keyboard, pounding the keys,
victim. Apparently the C didn’t sound right. hacking out the scales. He then opened the piano
“Well,” he said, “we definitely need to get this lid to look at the strings again, pushing new keys
piano tuned if we want to put on a concert here— while watching inside.

“Oh, well,” he said. He stretched his fingers he wasn’t acting at all—he just liked to move his
back, cracked his neck a couple of times, placed his head in slow circles while he played the piano. His
fingers softly on the keyboard. He began to play hands manipulated the keys furiously, at other
lightly and nimbly. I couldn’t tell what he played, times gently. He got into a rhythm and was able to
but it was immediately clear that he was a musical carry on a conversation without breaking out of
genius. His fingers ran up and down the keyboard that rhythm.
with an unconscious, natural motion. I was sitting While I sat there, I felt that he was speaking to
beside him on the piano bench while he played, me through the notes and chords. The world around
which forced him to stretch over or around me to us was trapped in a furnace of hellishly hot heat,
reach certain notes. but we were in the stillness of sacred space, a holy
“You want me to move?” I asked. chapel of music. It was enough just to sit there.
“You’re fine,” he said. “These were days never to be forgotten—to sit
I wanted to remain on the bench so that I could under the sound of a voice dictated by the inspira-
watch his fingers dance—I am fascinated by dex- tion of heaven, awakened the utmost gratitude of
terity. After he finished a few pieces, I requested this bosom! What joy! What wonder! What amaze-
that he play Beethoven’s Für Elise. He played this ment! While the world was racked and distracted—
with ease, then said it bored him—“It is cliché,” he while millions were groping as the blind for the wall,
said. I agreed. I asked if he could play Mozart’s and while all men were resting upon uncertainty, as
“Rondo Alla Turca.” a general mass, our eyes beheld, our ears heard, as
“Don’t know it,” he said, “but if you know how in the ‘blaze of day’!” (Oliver Cowdery, scribe to
the tune goes, if you can hum it a little, I could Joseph Smith). What added to my experience was
probably pick it up.” I couldn’t quite remember it the sense that the music was just for me. In the
at the time—my head was filled with the pieces past, the piano players I’d known disliked being
he had already played. As he continued to play I requested to play tunes others wanted to hear; it
noticed that there were several instances where he seemed the pianists preferred to play principally
seemed to break away from the normal rhythm and for themselves, not to perform on command for
improvise, to give a personal response to what the others. But Elder Marquez seemed to reverse that
composer had written. tendency and play principally to please me. I was
“When did you begin playing?” the focus and purpose of his music, or at least I
“Four years ago.” felt I was.
“Just four?” As we were leaving the chapel, Marquez said,
“Yes.” “You know what, Elder Johnson? I miss Elder David-
“Why did you start?” son very much, but I think you and I have become
“Because I just wanted to.” better friends.”
“Well, why did you practice so much in four This made me feel very good inside. To be loved,
years?” the best of all feelings. We were always burning
“I used to play at a club for several hours a day. with the Holy Ghost during the charlas, and soon
The club wasn’t very respectable; the men were fre- we baptized a visiting cousin of an inactive and an
quently drunk and rude, but it paid well.” extended family member of a long-time member.
Before I could press him further, he closed his “Elder Johnson, these baptisms will pale in com-
eyes and began another song. About a quarter of parison to those we’ll baptize after the concert.”
the way into the song, he began moving his head This upcoming concert was like a prophetic
around in little circles, leaning it slowly forward vision in his head, and all day long he kept going
and back and around and around. I thought he on and on about it, about how the chapel would be
might be acting, and I played along with the circle afire with the Spirit, about the dozens of baptisms
joke, giving him a few chuckles, but it turned out that would immediately follow, how every zone

leader in the mission would soon be organizing and and intimately squeeze my shoulder. Twenty min-
demanding concerts in their areas. For the pro- utes later he got up again, perhaps to find a pen or
gram, we would sing about two standard hymns, he pencil, and when he returned, he paused behind
said, but for the other numbers we would draw on me—I felt a hand curl a tuft of my hair in a quick-
independent Latter-day Saint artists. One of these swirl motion. The hand let go, and Elder Marquez
artists turned out to be Janice Kapp Perry, and it quickly returned to his desk to study.
was her song that would serve as the clincher of “Compañero? ” he called from his chair.
them all. “It will draw water from the stones,” he “What?” I answered.
said. “Like Moses.” “Te amo.”
He played the Perry song on a tape recorder in The meaning of Te amo is “I love you,” but there are
the mornings so I could get the hang of the tune; various verbs for love in Spanish, and amar is not the
he then wrote down the words on a little notecard strongest of them. Later Marquez passed by again and
for me to carry in the streets. playfully hit me on the shoulder. During the course of
Le oi venir, y su faz vislumbrar the morning, I soon felt, once again, a hand softly ruf-
La faz del ser, del que vino a este lugar fle my hair. I looked up to see Elder Marquez smiling
De por su amor, sufrio todo dolor at me. An hour passed by, and I felt another playful tap
Entre aquel que oyo, y no lo acepto. on my shoulder. All week long he performed these
little acts of affection. It became his habit, and despite
I heard him come, I saw his very face, my nonreciprocation, he continued.
The face of one who came into this place, In the streets we continued to step double file
Who because of love, suffered all kinds of pain through the bludgeoning heat, trying to achieve
Among those who heard, and did not accept him. those 20 charlas Marquez had set as the lofty
I liked it because I felt similarly in the streets as a weekly goal. The first week we actually did teach
missionary—coming to a people who constantly 20, the second 18, but now we were scraping by
rejected me, speaking but not being heard, etc. The with only 15. We were not quite accomplishing the
song stuck in my head, and I sang while we walked. goal. Elder Marquez gave up trying to sleep on
I made notes to myself on the card about the verses— the pew during the afternoons—the bench was too
what words to emphasize, where not to fluctuate small. So we had to return to the apartment again,
my voice but to hold the note, where to clip it where once more we slept through our appoint-
short, which letters to muffle and which to pro- ments. In hopes that he wouldn’t have to rest his
nounce, where to begin the chorus and where to back so much, I started carrying Marquez’s share of
end it. I sang the song in the mornings before read- the Books of Mormon, and at the end of the day
ing and during the day while we walked and at my shoulders ached from the weight. One night I
night while I made dinner. The other elders in the whimpered to exaggerate the pain. Marquez asked
apartment began to mock my singing, but I tuned if I wanted a backrub—“Okay,” I said, a bit reluc-
them out. I closed my eyes and sang, and some- tantly. He sat on the side of my bed and massaged
times moved my head in little circles. my shoulders for a few minutes.
Soon the test results from the laboratory came In the mornings at my desk, I felt the soft hits on
back. In a column titled Analisis Microscopico, the my shoulder, the strange hand twirling strands
report said En la muestra examinada, no se observan of my hair. “Beecho, look at all this wax in your ear,”
parasitos ni sus huevos ni quistes. It meant, strangely, he said. He began to clean the inside of my ear
that I’d never had any amoebas at all. with his finger while I sat silently in my chair, but
One morning I was reading scriptures at my desk, then his finger wasn’t cleaning anymore; it was just
which was really only a flat fold-up table. Marquez doing figure eights inside my ear. I was stunned,
was reading at his. He got up to get a drink or and my brain and body froze. Was he trying to
something, and on his return, I felt a hand softly advance a physical relationship?

On our next preparation day, Elder Marquez soon appear. Some minutes later Elder Marquez
decided that, in order to foster district unity, we entered the bedroom with a plate full of French
needed special T-shirts. The T-shirts said “Zona toast and a side platter of bacon.
Falcon” and pictured two sister missionaries and “You said French toast was your favorite, right?”
two male missionaries sitting in chairs among I returned a faint smile and quietly cut the toasts
desert cacti with the wind whipping around the ties into little squares with my knife and fork. When he
and dresses. Elder Marquez had every one in the insisted on washing the dishes, I shamelessly
district wear the new T-shirts and get photos at a handed him my syrupy plate and empty glass and,
local photo shop. It was my birthday, and at our without thanking him, moved over to my desk to
district meeting in the chapel I opened a door to a skim through the Missionary Guide. I had become
small Sunday School room to find a Happy Birth- utterly bored with the thing and could now only
day streamer stretched across the room, two bottles doodle in it. After dishwashing noises in the kitchen
of ice-cold Coke on the table (the condensation ended, two hands interrupted my doodling to gen-
dewing on the outside of the bottles), and little tly squeeze my shoulders. When I turned around,
paper plates set out beside a white-frosted cake with Elder Marquez smiled and looked into my eyes. “Te
green icing. We were all wearing our T-shirts, and amo,” he said, and then walked back into the
everyone took pictures and smiled at each other. kitchen to make me some avena.
That night I was trying to sleep and had been The next day I stopped speaking. Elder Marquez
lying there in the dark for ten minutes when Elder began asking questions, trying to discover why.
Marquez asked if he could give me a “gift.” “Okay,” I could not find the words to respond openly, and
I said, suspiciously. He approached the side of my consequently kept turning inward. He continued
bed and proceeded to give me a massage, his hands not only to hit me playfully on the shoulder (he hit
moving in circles on my lower back muscles, then me a bit more nervously now), but also to look into
my upper torso muscles, his hands kneading my my downcast eyes and ask what was wrong. “¿Com-
neck and shoulders. Then he fully straddled my pañero, que tienes? ”
back and kneaded the sides of my torso, the mus- I didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but as the
cles along my back, his fingers pressing up and day wore on, sinking feelings began to weigh down
down the tracks surrounding my spine, rubbing my chest. I wondered how it was possible for one
the inner muscles of my neck, then my shoulders of the best missionaries to be so questionably phys-
again, then my outer shoulders, digging deep for ical. In the streets I stared at a Tio Rico ice cream
20 minutes. I tried to think of Moses wandering vendor pushing his little cart down the sidewalk,
through desert cacti and not Elder Marquez strad- periodically ringing a little bell. The sun had baked
dled on my back, and my mind raced between the the poor man’s face to a dark-brown. He looked
two images while the uneasiness inside my body absolutely cheerless, ringing his bell and never say-
increased and I didn’t know what to do or if I was ing anything. What drudgery, this cart and its
overreacting or if I should react then or later to pusher, as if he were some kind of bell toller mov-
express my discomfort. ing through the streets with dead corpses, pushing
When he finished, he crept back to his bed. I lay without shade, all day long, ringing the bell and
in mine wondering about the boundary he had just receiving only dead bodies. Never think for whom
crossed. I became confused and angry. On the one the bell tolls, for it tolls for thee. Yes, it was tolling,
hand, maybe I was just being paranoid—it was just but I could not manage to go to it.
a massage. On the other hand, I very highly On Mondays, our day of preparation, it was cus-
doubted that it was just a massage. tomary to write home to the family (actually, it was
In the morning I woke to the smell and sound of a rule). In the past Elder Marquez, strangely, had
bacon sizzling in a pan. I listened half-consciously, been writing to my father, which I found amusing.
thinking a big plateful of eggs and bacon might But this week he was in tears writing a long letter

to President Porter. I thought he must be coming “C’mon. Out with it,” Marquez said, seeing me
to terms with himself, making plans to go home. immersed in complex thought.
Here is the reconciliation, I thought. The more I I shrugged but could say nothing. While we
watched him write, the more I began to like the walked I tried to put it off, but it continued to
idea of seeing him go. Off with you, my friend. In hound me. I felt depressed, as if my heart were
my letter to Porter, I requested a transfer, explain- in the bottom of my shoes and I was scuffing it
ing that Elder Marquez’s backrest hour was too dis- along the sidewalk. I didn’t want us to be the “gay
tracting to the work. missionaries,” knocking on someone’s door and
In the streets I ruminated on the issue, thinking teaching with my “partner.” What happened to all
quietly while we walked along, my own mind far of our goals? I felt that something had gone very
distant from the concerns of Marquez, not caring wrong. My world shrank. I had no desire to prose-
about what he was thinking. The church was lytize. I wanted to break free and leave Punto Fijo.
against the practice of homosexuality, but it But I could not leave until Porter transferred me.
admitted that thoughts and desires weren’t always What could I do? Pretend that everything was okay,
possible to expel. Whether he was gay or not, I and possibly lead him on to further physical
didn’t like the idea that our friendship had ulte- advances? But if I abruptly told him what I
rior motives; we weren’t just friends anymore. He thought, it would be like driving a stake into his
had introduced a physical element into the rela- heart, after all he had served me. Surely he didn’t
tionship that sullied it. He had been my idol as a want me to feel uncomfortable, but wasn’t it clear
missionary, and now this. All of this business with the signals I was sending, with my absolute
about oneness, about talking all day so that we nonreciprocation, that I did not want that type of
could have “the Spirit”—I just couldn’t take it relationship, that I was in fact uncomfortable, that
anymore. As far as I was concerned, our mission- I in fact wanted nothing to do with his hair-
ary closeness was over. And yet, I had been so twirling and shoulder squeezing? Something didn’t
keen on closeness before, on others opening up, so register in his mind; perhaps he thought I would
eager to break down the barriers that separated me come around to seeing things his way. But maybe
from others, others from me. Elder Marquez had nothing registered because there was nothing to
seemed to let all constraints go and just do what register; maybe it was only my own imagination
he naturally felt to do. We had each arrived at the laying false foundations about his subidentity.
companionship as a stranger and had managed to I couldn’t share what I was feeling without hurting
progress and become one in heart, might, mind, him, but by closing myself up, keeping my emo-
and strength, but when he wanted to go beyond tions inside and not telling him, I was also hurting
the mere symbolic sense of oneness, it ruptured him. I didn’t know which was better. Telling him
everything. might only increase companionship tensions worse
We passed alongside an old cement wall enclos- than they already were. Not telling him only drove
ing an empty gravel lot. The wall, about 10 feet him insane to know what was wrong. I wanted to
high, was built presumably to keep people out, retreat into that silent hum of the seashell Levinas
except that it hadn’t quite worked, since someone had talked about and remove all of my responsibil-
had blown a hole in it to create a passage to the ity and interest for him, to be alone and completely
center. Funny thing was, there wasn’t anything in unrelated to any being. He demanded too much of
the center. It was a wall protecting air, or barren me, not just the physical element, but the emo-
land. The hole was a portal that led to nothing. Per- tional upkeep of it as well, because he would not
haps in my mind I had made an issue out of noth- stop asking, “¿Que tienes? ” which means literally
ing; perhaps I was building a stone wall around “What do you have?” All day long he asked me
something that didn’t exist, causing an unnecessary what I had, and I knew I did have something inside
division between us. of me: recoiling tensions and constantly rumbling

anxieties that were compelling me to seek freedom at the patterns in the concrete, the cracks, looking
rather than resolution, but I didn’t know how to only down as I walked.
express it without wounding myself or him. Eventually along one of these sidewalks I had an
We didn’t have any appointments planned, but I idea: Marquez’s affection was only the culture, the
was so morose it didn’t seem right to be knocking Latino way of expressing brotherly love. Yes! Latino
doors anyway. Elder Marquez trailed behind me, men sometimes stand almost nose to nose when
trying to appease me by letting me lead the pro- talking. In Spain men greet each other with kisses
gram. I trekked on, walking wherever I chose to go, on the cheeks; in Italy men give each other long
which was nowhere in particular, perhaps the pana- and hearty hugs; in Egypt men sometimes hold
deria, or the oil refinery, or an unfamiliar street just each other’s hands in the streets; in Israel Jesus told
for the unfamiliarity of it, walking for the sake of the early apostles to greet each other with a holy
walking. People curiously watched us trudge, single kiss—and this was all Marquez had been doing:
file. I didn’t care. I needed to be alone in order to expressing cultural affection.
figure out what to do, but being alone is precisely The epiphany brought me back to normal. I
what the missionary companionship restricted. smiled, raised my head up, and with a breath of
I had to face the problem directly—I couldn’t over- relief explained to Elder Marquez the misconcep-
look it because everywhere I looked there he was . . . tion, that I mistook a trait of culture for a trait
beside me. Being together required an imminent of something else. He listened intently at first,
resolution. Had we separated, this tension would moving his eyes quickly across my face, but before
not have existed so strongly, but together we were I finished his countenance changed; in a tenth of
like two prisoners locked into the same pair of a second his eyebrows changed from a raised to a
handcuffs. lowered position and the corners of his mouth
I decided to take a bus across town, to find some turned down. Seeing his angry countenance, I
new place to walk. Maybe I could go back to La wished I’d never said anything. I wished that my
Chinita and walk across that white sand, or to the tongue had been cut out by bandits long ago.
basketball court. Elder Marquez sat behind me on “We are not going to talk about this anymore,”
the bus. After a few blocks I felt a tap on the back he said, sternly. “I will continue serving you, but I
of my shoulder. Unenthusiastically I turned around won’t do anything to make you feel uncomfortable
and accepted a yellow envelope offered me. Care- or awkward.” Then he marched along ahead of me
lessly I ripped it open. May you always be happy, on the sidewalk, angrily striding forward and leav-
friend, the type on the card said. On the blank ing me alone. I followed. We began to walk exactly
space below, Marquez had written how grateful he like the sour companions Marquez had described
was that I was his friend, for walking by his side in that first day: single file, distantly spaced. After
times of need. He explained that our great opposi- about an hour of relentless marching, I realized that
tion would eventually lead to a great friendship, we weren’t going anywhere, and I began to fall far-
and then added how much he admired and loved ther and farther behind him. About 40 yards
me, and wrote some other sentimental stuff. behind, I stopped on the sidewalk and watched
“Understand and help me,” he finally wrote, on the him proceed down the block. I wanted to see how
last line. far he would go, if he would mercilessly continue
Understand and help me. I wondered what that or if he would wait for me. I sat down on the
meant. What was I to do? I put the card back in the cement. It was strange to hold this power over him,
envelope and stuffed the envelope into my back- to threaten to leave, or at least not to follow. If I
pack. We got off the bus and began trudging down walked the other way he’d have to follow me—he
a new sidewalk, which was hard cement, light was the district leader and would have probably lost
gray—hardly distinguishable from any other side- the title had he abandoned me. Though I wanted
walk in Punto Fijo or the rest of the world. I stared to be alone, I didn’t have the heart to leave him.

I didn’t hate him; I just didn’t understand him. seemingly amusing, almost entertaining, the hum-
When he finally looked back and noticed that I was ming too increased in severity until it dominated
waiting, he waited too, cooling himself from the my thoughts entirely. I could not think but could
hot sun with a page of his day planner. only hear the hum, the ring, which seemed like a
For two days we walked like this. Sometimes I dull knife in my head. After more than an hour of
lagged 30 paces behind, other times just two. But sleeplessness, Elder Marquez bolted up and scooted
I never left, and he never left me. There was a kind to the edge of his foam pad. He couldn’t take it any
of cruelty in this denial of solitude, but there was longer. He sat up quickly, a mad explosion of
also a benefit to it, which was that it was extremely action, a sudden resolution, his emotions rumbling
taxing to remain angry at the one you walked inside to get out, those internal abstracts erupting,
beside all day. Alone you can wander off in solitude like the process of fission, only the weight was not
and become distracted, let the hate mellow out into the force of gravity pulling the particles inward but
a good-bye and official parting, but there was, in rather the weight of enduring in that unconscious,
hindsight, something more rewarding in our not uncaring silence. He could not live alone any
being able to do that, in being forced to stick it out longer. He grabbed my forearm and looked me
and reconcile, compromise, forgive. Anger has a straight in the eyes. I wanted to look away, but
saturation point, but then it dissolves, slowly. when I did he tightened his grip. His claw grip
Our program fell apart. When Elder Marquez seemed to pierce my skin with his fingernails. His
knocked doors, I stood behind him and waited eyes focused directly into mine, and he didn’t speak
until he mumbled something and then we left. for a dozen seconds while he assured himself that he
I hoped investigators would think my silence was a had my full attention and that I was aware of how
language problem—and maybe that’s all it really serious he was. I turned my eyes away, but he
was, only a language problem, some confusion over gripped my forearm more tightly in demand that I
some signs. Many times I apologized to Elder Mar- keep looking him directly in the eyes.
quez, but they were apologies of consternation Finally he spoke: “When I was young, I was
rather than of contrition. They were flat I’m sorrys, raped many times. That’s why I’m strange in my
coupled with shoulder shrugs. I didn’t know I had affection.”
done anything wrong, so why should I feel culpa? He let go of my arm and fell back onto his foam
And yet, I did feel guilt. I felt plenty of guilt. pad and breathed. Lying on his back, he looked
I wondered how long we would be this way, if up at the ceiling, put his hands under the back of
the situation could ever be repaired. I didn’t know his head.
how much longer he would hold out, but I “Wow,” I said, listening to see what he would say
knew that I had played all of my cards, I had told next, and how these words would heal us.
him what was on my mind, had swept clear the “It was someone I knew, a friend of the family.
corners of the thoughts I feared to express. I hate that man every time I think of him. I hate
When it came time for us to retire at night, we what he did to me. He did it more than once.
didn’t pray together as missionary companions do. I hated it when he did it. It makes me feel so dirty,
I lay on my back and looked at the dark ceiling and you know. Dirty and guilty. And I couldn’t sleep all
listened to the sound of cars driving past. Elder last night, because I was thinking about this. I didn’t
Marquez lay quietly on his foam pad and listened sleep more than 20 minutes—nothing, do you under-
to the same. Some time later the cars stopped. Then stand? I knew this topic was coming. You’re the first
I listened to silence. There was that hum Levinas person I’ve ever told.”
talked about; a silence was humming loudly in my “Do your parents know?”
ears. It was a small noise, but just like the water “I don’t want to tell them. I’m afraid they’ll think
droplets that fall slowly and softly onto a Chinese they did a bad job raising me. They’ll think it was
torture victim’s head, which in the beginning are their fault. I don’t want them to think that.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. concert on for the Coro-based missionaries and
“I feel like I didn’t put up enough of a fight. I their investigators, championing the cause of the
was only 11, but I should have resisted more. zone rather than just our district. The Coro mis-
I didn’t. That’s why I feel so guilty about it, sucio, sionaries filled the chapel with their investigators
dirty. I didn’t fight back enough.” and, though not all were baptized, nearly all did
We gazed up at the darkness of the ceiling, like tear up and sniffle several times during the songs.
cowboys who stare at the stars at night. He contin- The last thing I wanted now was to be transferred
ued, “I was a very cold and untouchable child after to some barren area with an incompetent compan-
it happened. For years I didn’t let anyone touch me, ion. Marquez may have been overly affectionate, but
not even my mother. And I didn’t touch anyone he had a good heart. We were friends again, though
else either. I was extremely antisocial. Then I started not quite as before. I wrote a letter to President
to play the piano, to get some of my emotions out. Porter stating my request to stay, that there was
I practiced all day long, because it was the only way now absolutely no need to be transferred. Although
I had of getting it out. That’s why I got so good. we had not reached our goals for charlas or bap-
Only in the last year on the mission did I begin to tisms, we still had the best in the zone, and we had
show some affection again. It was tremendously several more investigators lined up for baptism.
hard for me. I’ve had trouble with this before, you Porter called at eleven P.M. Elder Marquez
know, with other companions. I’m not affectionate answered the phone. He took notes and doodled
like this with everyone. With other companions I with a pencil while talking to Porter.
am cold, as I was with you these last two days. I go After hanging up the phone, Marquez said, “You
about my business and they go about theirs. But requested a transfer, didn’t you, compa? ”
with Elder Davidson, and with you, I could break I quietly packed my suitcases, thinking of the
out of that state.” dim empty chapel and the strings of the out-of-
After Marquez finished speaking, he lay still on tune piano. I thought to my first moment watching
his foam pad, and eventually we both fell asleep. Elder Marquez play, and hearing him play for me,
I was surprised at how quickly I was able to fall and knowing that he would never play for me again.
asleep. It was as if all of the thoughts racing inside The chapel would not be ours anymore. He would
of my head were suddenly expelled and I could return with another missionary to the apartment,
sleep. The same happened to him. We were not another missionary would walk beside him, and
plagued by insomnia anymore after that night. In just as I had requested, I would be very far from
that one brief moment everything changed; all the him, hundreds of miles away perhaps. He would
divisions that had been built up between us were probably go through all of this again with his new
torn down. It took several sentences, nothing more. companion, or he might close up entirely.
Expressions of what he felt inside, that’s all. The Our apartment began to lose its shine. The dishes
odd thing is, those same expressions are also what piled up, the floor became sticky, cockroaches cruised
stirred everything up in the first place. around in the kitchen, our clothes were scattered
We soon received word about the state of the about in the bathroom and living room. One of the
piano. The mission president felt that the ten thou- other missionaries left his clothes soaking in the
sand Bolivares needed to tune it should come out wash basin for a week, which created a mildewy and
of the ward’s pocket, since it was the ward’s piano. rancid smell. He had to wash them all over again.
The ward, however, didn’t have ten thousand Boli- Elder Magarrell and Elder Cerrano wanted to
vares to spend on a piano, especially for baptisms of have a wrestling match, so they asked to borrow
the mission. Because Elder Marquez wouldn’t put our mattresses. The three of us laid our twin-size
on a concert with an out-of-tune piano, we ended mattresses on the empty living-room floor, and
up busing our choir to the next city over, Coro then we tackled and pinned and flipped and head-
(which, coincidentally, means “choir”), to put the locked and cradled and clipped and body-slammed

and double-arm-barred each other for hours, until P O E T R Y

our hair and shirts were wet and sweaty. Elder Mag-
arrell was some kind of state-champion wrestling And She Loved to Dance
maniac and pinned me every time. Elder Marquez,
sitting in the corner and wearing his dark sun- Glen Gray
glasses, refused to participate in la barbaridad, as he Eddie Howard
called it. He sat facing us, wearing jean-shorts, music creating magic
reading a church magazine, pretending not to notice her body flowing
us wrestling. aswhirl
“C’mon, Elder Marquez, you’re next,” Elder Cer- in tempo
rano said. “Get over here.” Elder Marquez ignored patterned magic
him, and only when Elder Cerrano insisted, trying around and around
to pull him down onto the mattress floor, pulling another uniformed man
him as wrestlers do, did Elder Marquez resist and turning her, spinning her
shout how idiotic it was for us to be doing what we her feet flying
were doing. I didn’t ask Elder Marquez to wrestle— to graceful rhythm
I knew this was something he could not do, this her face flush
was something he would not be able to do, at least her hair tousled
not comfortably, for a long time. Marquez remained his arm encircling
in his chair, separate and isolated from us, trying to circling her
read some insipid church article but not being able holding her, guiding her
to finish it, not being able to look at us either, not enchanting
being able to concentrate on anything. all to music
Tom Johnson graduated from Columbia University’s yes,

School of the Arts with an MFA in literary nonfiction. she loved to dance.
He currently teaches writing at the American Univer-
sity in Cairo, Egypt, where he resides with his wife
and daughter. This chapter is excerpted from a longer [Part of “the war effort”
work about his missionary experiences in Maracaibo, The Church encouraged its young women
Venezuela. to attend the servicemen dances]
service men
military men
uniformed men
passing through Salt Lake City
east front, Europe,
most, west to vast Pacific
men needing a bit of diversion
and so the full of wonder nights,
the full of wonder nights of dances
and dancing
and she loved to dance.

Intermissions were And years later

something else. years
when no one remembered how she had once loved
A navy man talked of Missouri—
or was it?—Mississippi to dance
and she was required to respond
and offered: or even,
“well . . . life is just a bowl of cherries” that she had ever danced
[something she heard on the radio] rhythmic patterns
and the lieutenant stiffened and said: “really, . . .” ancient motions
his eyes piercing intricate measures
penetrating her to the music of Glen Gray
“you think that?” to the voice of Eddie Howard
and they danced a final dance she had
his body tense [what some are more comfortable in calling]
his steps stilted a dream
his demeanor and Jim
cutting. young, uniformed in white
Still she loved to dance, walked into her room
and there were many dances woke her
many service men and smiled
and then she met Jim
and they danced and she knew.
went through the motions
survived the intermissions
he even met her parents and liked them For Allie Howe, in memory, 1997.
and they, he
—Béla Petsco
except he was Catholic, and
—perhaps relieved—
—perhaps thankful—
—perhaps just . . . —
she said: “We do not marry outside
The Church”
and she never knew if ever he returned from
The Pacific.

S T O R Y they didn’t
but they don’t do me no good
Idaho Love Song if I can’t reach them
And I can’t
By Sharlee Mullins Glenn
my hat got in on the game too
[Note: The following story won first prize in IRREAN- there it is
TUM’s 2002 fiction contest.] too far away
and the sun beating down on me
So this is what it’s come to like an angry woman
and me with this dang kink in my neck
Me flat on my face in the grass and I can’t even turn my head
right next to a fresh-laid pile of dog poop on account of that poop
and something broke for sure not six inches from my face
and if I point my nose that direction
It don’t hurt too bad if I don’t move it smells like shit
as if I could which of course it is
Problem is damn stray mutt!
I am here (feeling every damn one of those 82 years But it’s my hip that I really done something to
Bonnie was so set on celebrating last month with that Doc Taylor’s been telling me for years
cake she picked up down at Albertson’s he needs to replace it
then turned into a pin cushion poking all them Replace it with what is what I want to know
candles—82, to the number—into it which made it
look more like a dang porcupine than This old geezer body of mine is falling apart.
the poor excuse of a store-bought cake it really was. Between my arthritis and crumbling knees and hips
I can barely walk
Velma always made my cakes from scratch) between my glaucoma and cataracts
I can barely see
and my canes is there but I get around, you bet I do
and there (shot up and away, both of them, Dean and Vickie they’ve been threatening
when I went down) to have my driver’s license took away
I guess I sorta got caught up in the moment ever since that accident last spring
and tried waving one of ’em in the air as I charged which was all that young whippersnapper’s
(more like hobbled if I’m honest) fault anyway.
at those dangdable magpies Over my dead body.
pecking away at Velma’s sunflowers I ain’t so old yet as I can’t drive
and that’s what must of threw me off balance I’d just as soon spend my last days in jail
as be cooped up in that Shady Brook Manor
Anyhow, down we went with all them old snoots
the canes and me in their pale yellow polo shirts
like blamed pick-up sticks and their la-di-da golf shoes
me here who spent their entire lives
them there. stuck away in some stuffy office building
I broke and don’t know a pea plant from a bean.

but my heart— And I could really use some water

now there’s another story
I may be rotting away elsewhere •••
but my old ticker’s still going strong
Doc Taylor says thanks to all that irrigating I been thinking
and bale throwing and the way I figure it is entirely possible that
I got the heart of a 30-year-old nobody’s going to come looking for me
at least not for quite some time
but my hip hurts like hell what with Bonnie off on one of her
and what am I going to do blue-hair bus tours
(Dinosaur Land, or maybe
••• the Grand Canyon this time)
and not due home ’til next week
it’s well after six P.M. now and none of them old codgers at Shady Brook
judging from the sun will miss me
I been here they’ll be too busy with their card games
sprawled on the grass like some damn sunbather and old folks yoga and afternoon TV programs
who forgot to take off his clothes to even notice I’m not there
for over two hours not that they ever see much of me anyway
and I need water something fierce I’m not exactly Mr. Sociable
I been whooping and hollering Maybe Dean will come

but there’s no one to hear might be he’ll wonder why I didn’t show up
The Hancocks is the nearest neighbors at dinner time like I’m liable to do
and they’re clear across the road whenever Bonnie’s gone
and set back a ways Not that Vickie will shed any tears over not
and me not even in the front yard having to set out another plate last minute
and them beet trucks rumbling up and down
on their way to the sugar factory Vickie don’t approve of me, never has
There’s just no way they’re going to hear anything don’t like how I cuss
Greg and Darrin, the cousins from over Wendell and how I don’t bathe often enough to please her
who farm the land now and how Dean and me like as not
they’re not even around today will talk about the hay crop
on account of them having cut the last and how many bushels of beets per acre
of the alfalfa a couple days ago all through dinner and dessert too
and now it’s drying in the fields but he’s my son and there you have it!
they’ll be back to bale it of course That set jaw of hers
but who knows if it’ll be soon enough and that sideways look in her eyes
don’t change our genealogy.
I can lift my head
and I can move my left arm but, damn, it’s Tuesday
and I can wiggle the toes on one foot Dean’ll eat quick and then be off
but I can’t even roll over on my side to church meetings ’til late
he’ll come home dead tired and like as not
I don’t know what all I done to myself won’t even think to ask Vickie if I came by or not
but it’s bad Might be he’ll try to call from his office tomorrow

first to Shady Brook, then here they looked dang purty against
If he gets no answer either place, the red brick of the house
he might come looking
but more than likely he’ll just think That Velma
I’m out watering the flowers she was a true helpmate
or giving some scraps to the cats and a very religious woman to boot
with her it was to church every week
the phone’s right there inside the back door no excuses
not more than 20 feet away and to the temple
if only I could just get to it clear up to Idaho Falls
twice a month
There’s ants crawling all over my arms and neck no ifs ands or buts
but at least it’s not so damn hot anymore
what with the sun west now, and low She was a hard woman
and behind those big spruce trees in the front yard Velma was
and her standards was high
We planted those trees way too high for me to ever measure up
Velma and me she warn’t always easy to live with
planted them with our own hands but then again, neither was I
right after we finished the house I can recall plenty of silent meals
before we put in the grass seed even and strained bedtimes
But we stuck it out
That Velma
she was a worker She loved farming, Velma did
now there was a woman didn’t mind She was a woman who’d get her dander up
getting her fingernails dirty mighty easy
we built this whole farm up together, but I never saw it so high up as when she read
her and me, from nothing that Dear Abby column one year
started out with just 10 flat acres of dirt with its so-called scientific listing of the world’s
then built a house—a two-room cabin first most respected professions
made from logs we downed and sawed ourselves doctors and lawyers and engineers and such
(this here brick house we built later, but did it say farmers?
after Dean was already in school) Nope, not even at the very bottom
the barn was next and land of mercy you should have heard
then the sheds and other outbuildings Velma sputter
and all the time we were buying up land, she went on about that for days
whenever the crops was good, grumbling over the stew pot
a parcel here and a piece there muttering as she ironed
until we had 180 acres she even went so far as to write a letter
all connected and spread out behind us to Dear Abby, telling her off good
like our own little kingdom but the letter never got printed,
and it felt that good least not in our paper
and Velma with her flowers Who has always fed the people? she would say
and her yard she liked to keep so nice Who? I’d like to see them fancy doctors and
She planted marigolds, hundreds of them, engineers do their work without a full stomach.
every spring Who is at the entire mercy of cockeyed

government policies and world politics they used to tease me for having
not to mention the weather such an affection for it
and yet go on said it smelled like marijuana to them
day after day, year and year And just how exactly would you know
plowing what marijuana smells like,
and planting I asked them once
and weeding right in front of their mother
and harvesting and that shut them up fast
feeding the whole world! hee hee
doctors and lawyers my foot, she would say
They’re good kids
Me and her would sit together at night my grandkids
her with her mending
me with a big bowl of Corn Flakes Velma and me always wanted a lot of children
and watch Gunsmoke and Hee Haw but there were all those miscarriages
and never once did she mention any hankering and only Dean took
to go galavanting all over the globe
•••
Idaho, me, and Dean—that was
plenty enough for her. There!
it took some doin’
I don’t mind saying it— but I was finally able to work my hand down
I loved that woman inside my overall pocket
and I sure wish I would have thought and get out two of them pain pills
to mention it to her Doc Taylor prescribed for me
on account of my crumbling joints
••• I swallowed them down
and they helped somewhat
Now that it’s cooler only now I’m real sleepy
and the dog poop is drying up a bit
the smell of things down here is better Bonnie thinks I should eat ’em like candy
I always loved lying in the grass as a boy them drugs
(haven’t done it in probably 65 years) plus she thinks I should have
always loved the evening smell of them replacement surgeries
living, growing things Bonnie says she thinks I like to suffer
and dying things too, I suppose thinks I’ve gived up on life
living and dying smells all meshed together
birth and decay Bonnie—
that’s the smell of life, I guess my bride of three years.
I married her less than six months after Velma died
If I breathe long and deep
I can smell the sugar factory too I don’t know what I was thinking
it’s familiar and sweet
and smells like home to me Bonnie’s one of those bright flitty types
Kyle and Krissy, Dean and Vickie’s kids, who goes in to have her hair done every week
can’t stand the sugar factory smell Every damn week!

Bonnie’s always on the get-up and go wouldn’t leave fer nothin’

and always looking for a good excuse said she’d feel my forehead if it needed feeling
to make brownies with sprinkles on top
So you can imagine
She’s a spring chick—only 75 how it was on my wedding night
we met at a church single’s dance I drug myself to me crawling into bed with
out of sheer loneliness 75-year-old Bonnie Bright-Eyes
I still don’t know what she saw in me and just knowing Velma was there somewhere
probably money watching every move
that and the fact I was pert near
the only man in the whole stake over the age of 70 Bonnie wouldn’t hear of living on the farm
who wasn’t in a wheelchair (in that house? she said)
or living in a nursing home wanted me to move into her double-wide
at the trailer court
but it was a mistake
we never should have married There ain’t no yard, I said
I don’t know what possessed me There’s two perfectly fine planter boxes,
she said back
I was just so lonely and neither of us would budge
so damn lonely So Dean and Vickie arbitrated
and we ended up at Shady Brook Manor
I guess I thought I would be getting Velma back
or something like her Shady Brook Manor. Ha!
Bonnie must of thought she would be Now there’s a good one.
getting a travel companion Do you think they paid someone
(and me never gone past Salt Lake City in all my to come up with that name?
82 years and that plenty far enough!) Posh new retirement center plunked right out there
on the barren rim of the Snake River canyon
Boy, were we both in for a surprise The only thing shady about it
is the management
oh, we get along all right and they just upped the rent another $75 a month
I guess
Bonnie and me I can’t stand the place
only she’s mostly gone on trips with its artificial plants
and when she’s not and its pinstriped matching sofas
I mostly sleep on the couch and its country club clientele
on account of Velma so I get up early every morning
drive myself over here
Velma was a jealous wife where I can breathe
powerful jealous fix myself some Postum and Corn Flakes
one time when I was in the hospital and do what I can do
after that surgery on my gall bladder
she came in and saw the nurse feeling my forehead Every spring I plant marigolds for Velma
Land of mercy! and try to keep her garden up too
Hell knoweth no fury I even putt around on the old Masey Ferguson
she stayed right there in the room with me after that when I can get her to start

and on my way home every night Everything’s old and falling apart
I stop at Velma’s grave I can see that now
from here
I can feel her in this light
crumbling sheds, outdated farm machinery
Say what you want bails of rusted barbed wire,
but I can— stacks of gray rotting hay,
here on the farm piles of warped lumber, empty drum barrels,
more than anywhere else old tires, old buckets, old cinder blocks,
That’s why I come old man
every day How did this happen?
day after long, hard day And when, exactly?
to feel Velma
We used to take such pride
And to die of course such pride
Velma and me
I been waiting to die
for three years now And who’s left to care a hoot?
hoping to die Dean’s not interested in the farm
praying for it maybe he was listening too close to that
Dear Abby column when he was a youngster
I keep my recommend up-to-date, signed ’cause he’s done gone and made himself
and in my overall’s pocket into a lawyer
just in case Time was I thought Kyle, Dean’s youngest,
don’t know if I’ll need it might want to take over the operation
there beyond the veil he loved to tromp along behind me
but better safe than sorry when he was little
when it comes to matters of salvation wearing my old oversized irrigating boots
is what I figure and poking at the water-filled furrows
with a shovel
I plead with God to take me home but he’s gone away to college now
every single day and Vickie says he’s discovered computers
And why not? There’s Greg and Darrin of course
Here I am, 82 years old they want to farm the land
and kids dying all the time but they’ve got their own places over in Wendell
babies even and they don’t care about the house and yard
just last week Clarence and Ida Harper’s or about the upkeep of the place
little great-grandbaby died in her crib
not three months old So, is this what it’s all about?
That just don’t seem right to me you work your fingers to the bone
and break your back every day of your life
••• building something
making something
It’s mighty interesting then one day you find yourself
viewing the farm from this down-low angle face down next to a pile of steaming dog crap
at twilight and suddenly see it all for what it really is?

••• while she chopped up a chicken

with this huge shiny cleaver
I must of slept a bit but it must have been a dream
it’s completely dark now
and them pain pills the pills is working some
has wore off and I’ve got to get myself turned over
before I suffocate
there’s four left I figure at this point I got two choices
and I’m thinking I’ll take them all at once either I smother to death
and maybe that’ll get me through till morning slow and panicky
like an baby who gets his head stuck
I’m all wet down my front down in his blankets
and I need to roll over bad and can’t get enough air
and now I’m wondering or I roll over
could this be it?
my left arm still works
I won’t last another full day sort of
I’m pretty sure and if I can get the right one pulled in
with that sun under my torso just so
and no water and grit my teeth
and this pain and kinda rock back and forth, then heave
(damn!)
for three years I’ve been praying to die And again
so why am I suddenly having second thoughts? and again
and . . .
oh I want to go, sure
but like this? I can’t do it
All sprawled out and helpless
like one of them bugs Krissy used to poke through But I got to
with long pins for her 4-H collection
and as I’m grunting
where’s the dignity in that? and sweating
And what on earth would Velma say? and heaving
and pushing
••• I get to thinking about Velma
and how she gave birth to Dean
The last four pills is in me after all them miscarriages
though I scarce had enough spit to get ’em down and the doctor said
but the pain’s still fierce her female parts was all wored out
it’s pitch black and I’m shiverin’ from all those other times
like somebody stricken with palsy and twice she was five to six months into it
and the labor with Dean went 26 hours
I thought for a minute there and they wanted to cut her open
I was home with Bonnie but Velma said no! she’d finish this thing
and she was chattering on it’s all about endurance, she said
about her Relief Society meeting and she heaved and rocked

and pushed and pushed As a youngster, Sharlee Mullins Glenn spent far too
and pushed some more many hours roguing and weeding in the fields of
and Idaho. You can bet she knows a pea plant from a bean!
Sharlee holds a master’s degree in humanities from
whoo Brigham Young University. Her work has appeared in
now there’s a relief The Southern Literary Journal, Women’s Studies,
and suddenly I’m looking up at the sky Wasatch Review International, and BYU Studies.
so huge and black She has published three books and numerous maga-
and I’m so small zine stories for children. Sharlee lives in Pleasant
Grove, Utah, with her husband, James, their five chil-
oh, but them stars! dren, and an escape-artist cat named Houdini.
just look at them stars
and I say a prayer
the first true prayer of my life maybe
Help me, Father, I say
then I must have falled asleep

cause next thing I know
there’s the vision
and it’s Velma
and first I think she’s coming for me
and I hold up my arm
but she just hovers above me
and glares
Well this is a fine howdy-do
she says, hands on her hips.
Take hold, you old coot
says Velma
You’re not done yet, Eldon J. Horrocks
there’s still fences to mend
and pies to be tasted
She says it hard
hard and direct
but it’s like a song
a sweet, sweet love song
and then she’s gone
and the sun’s just now breakin’ over

the alfalfa fields to the east
and I figure if I can get myself turned around
and use my left arm to grab hold
of the grass in front of me
and use my right toes for leverage
I should be able to pull myself back
to the house by noon.

S T O R Y 75 miles an hour. The new tenants threw garbage

out their windows and stopped up the plumbing
Jabulane systems and strained the elevators until they busted
and draped dirty, wet laundry over the balconies
By Brian Jackson that dripped filth down. Griley had learned to walk
five feet away from the buildings so clothes or
[Note: The following story won second prize in worse wouldn’t drip on him. Of course he didn’t
IRREANTUM’s 2002 fiction contest.] tell Elder Burnett. Burnett would have to learn the
Hillbrow Way the hard way, like every missionary
The elders walked on a littered sidewalk to the does. In spite of the sanitary hazards, there was a
appointment in South Hillbrow, downtown Johan- certain honor affixed to working in a place where
nesburg. Elder Griley took a monogrammed hand- a woman is raped every four minutes.
kerchief from his suit coat pocket and trumpeted Jabu lived on the fourth floor, down the hall
into it until his pale face turned red. He opened it, from the lobby with the torn-up red carpet and the
laughed, showed the contents to his companion, congregation of Lion lager beer bottles. Door num-
Elder Burnett, who flinched away. Griley folded ber thirteen, Griley told Elder Burnett. Unlucky.
up the handkerchief and stuffed it back in his The elders had an appointment for eight-thirty,
pocket and took a deep breath of thick, caustic which was when Jabu’s husband went to the e-mail
Joburg air and looked up at the dirty apartment café to write to his family and friends in Germany.
skyscrapers that flanked them on both sides of the How a white German Jehovah’s Witness ended up
street. This place is a dump. Griley wondered about with a black Suswati potential Mormon was
the miserable people whose lot it was to live in such beyond Griley’s imagination. He had never met the
a hellhole as South Hillbrow. The unlucky losers in man. A few weeks before, Jabu had approached
the premortal lottery. Griley at the street stand and asked for free pam-
The elders had a teaching appointment with one phlets. She told him her husband wouldn’t like it if
of those unlucky losers who lived in the Lloyd build- he saw the young, white Americans coming to the
ing, at the end of Quartz Street (four dead bodies a door, so if they’d please come at such and such a
week, Griley told Elder Burnett, on Quartz Street). time, he won’t be around. The first four discussions
The Lloyd leaned lazily over the street like a drunk were quick and tense, with Jabu and the elders half-
getting ready to throw up. The building was owned, expecting the husband to bust in and break heads.
perhaps, once upon a time, before the fall of Griley wasn’t afraid of the guy. This is God’s work,
apartheid, by a rich German family that had made this is God’s army, I am God’s general.
all their money by sending Africans into the It took only one knock on thirteen before Jabu
world’s deepest, darkest holes to look for diamonds. opened the door. She waved in the missionaries
The Germans, the Dutch, the French, the Russians, impatiently and closed the door behind her. Some-
Swedes, and Italians and all other first-world mod- thing was wrong; Griley watched her pace around
erns had evacuated Johannesburg when all of cen- the apartment, wringing her hands and crying,
tral Africa had poured into the city like high tide. looking out the window, then at the elders, then at
One day in Rwanda or Zimbabwe or Zaire or some the floor. Little curly-haired Sam waddled out from
literally God-forsaken place, the impoverished mil- behind the kitchen wall to watch Mom, his diaper
lions left their mud huts and jagged tin shacks and sagging to the floor. He cooed at the missionaries
riverbed shanties and made the exodus to the New and threw a handful of mealie-meal on the carpet.
Holy Land—Mandela’s South Africa, where they Griley smiled at the little boy. He felt a thick sludge
crammed into buildings of modern architecture of sadness at the scene before him. Sam, you’re going
and let everything go to hell. Rural jungle life met to grow up in South Hillbrow. I’m sorry. Can you tell
city jungle life like two freight cars coupling at us what’s wrong with Momma?

Griley, feeling the injustice of a crying woman, “What did he do?”

took off his backpack, dropped it on the floor, and “I smelled he had been phuza phuza,” she said.
stepped closer to her. His eyes were fixed on her Drinking. “He did not know what he did.”
tenderly; he wanted her to know she meant every- “Are you all right?” asked Griley.
thing to him at this moment. He wanted to right “Eh,” said Jabu, new tears coming out. She
all the infinite wrongs, as he’d always done. wiped her nose with her hand and wiped it on her
“Jabu,” he said, softly. “Jabu, what’s wrong?” dress. Outside on the street a car alarm went off
The young African woman pressed her eyes with and somebody shouted an obscenity at somebody.
her palms. She looked miserable, mouth twisted, her In the kitchen, Sam scattered the dishpans all over
cheeks wet. She sniffled and pulled helplessly at the floor, singing to himself a sweet tra la la.
her pink cotton dress that hung straight on her, Then they heard heavy footsteps approaching in
a sheet out to dry on a windless day. “Oh, Eldahs,” the hall. Jabu took in a sharp breath and Griley
she said. “Eldahs, I have the bed news.” She put her turned expectantly. The footsteps stopped at the
skinny hands over her eyes. “Theh is a bed, bed door. The room tensed up. They heard mumbling,
thing that is happened last night when he come then rattling of keys before a door opened across
home last night.” the hall and then slammed shut. Jabu and the eld-
The elders waited. Griley folded his arms over ers let their breath out. Griley could feel the strain
his solid chest and leaned forward, slightly, to catch of his arm and neck muscles. He had his hands
her words. Elder Burnett put his pudgy thumbs in clenched into fists.
his backpack straps and shifted weight from one “I did a stupid thing, Eldahs,” said Jabu. “I left
foot to the other. Griley looked down at Sam, who your Book of Momon, you know the one you give
teetered from the sag of his ill-fitted cloth diaper. me in Suswati language, and he see it andah the
Then, strangely, he looked at Jabu’s cracked ebony bed and he ask what is it. Then he say I know what
feet, naked and exposed to the broken glass and it is and he get so angry, he frightan Sam and he hit
jagged stone of Joburg streets. Does this woman me. He tell me I have you as my boyfriends. He
wear shoes? Has she ever? Griley felt, once again, the talk crazy and he hit me.”
burden of the white hero among the black Then Jabu sobbed for the missionaries, shook
oppressed. And Jabu is the poster child for all violently with her face in her hands. Griley felt as if
Africa: Dear God, how we suffer! his heart would burst in his chest. He leaned for-
Jabu seemed ready to talk now. “What’s wrong, ward as if to put his arm around her shoulder, and
Jabu? What’s wrong? What did he do? Has he hurt his companion pulled him back gently.
you? If he hit you—” “What?” asked Griley.
She waved her hands in front of Griley. “No, no, Elder Burnett looked confused. Then he whis-
Eldah Grylee,” she said. “No, you must nod do pered, “Should you really do that? I mean . . .” He
nothing.” trailed off.
Griley took a soft step to her. “Jabu,” he said. “It’s okay, Burnett,” said Griley. “The woman
“He can’t be hitting you. He shouldn’t ever hit you, needs comfort. Don’t worry about the rules. We
understand? We’re not going to let him do this have to do something.” After a moment of awk-
again, are we, Burnett.” Burnett kept quiet, stood ward hesitation, Griley put his arm around Jabu
there looking like he just rolled off the boat, which and drew her head gently to his chest. She buried
he had. Griley didn’t know what to say. His hands herself in his white shirt, her tears and mucus run-
fell to his sides and he studied Jabu’s face, the soft ning out on his tie and his firm chest. Elder Bur-
form of her countenance, the blackness of her ears nett put a beefy hand on Griley’s shoulder but
and neck and face, the sadness written there. Griley shrugged it off and gave him a sour look.
She said, “It’s not his fault, you see. You see, I have Elder Burnett shrugged and walked slowly across
nod been straight with him. It’s okay he is angry.” the room to the window. Griley held Jabu close to

him, close enough that her nappy head of hair like a flood into the house and we have to get up on
scraped his chin. He looked over at Sam in the the table and it tip over sometimes. Last night, he
kitchen. Sam had sat down in a saucepan and tried didn’t come home from phuza phuza; this moning,
to wiggle out, panicked, then started to cry. I heah he been shot on Qwatz street; I pray Jesus it’s
Jabu responded instantly to her baby. She moved nod true, we have no money for mealies or tea.
from Griley’s embrace to the kitchen and picked up “Well, look at it this way, Burnett,” said Griley,
the little cinnamon-skinned boy and held him putting a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “It’s
against her breasts. The boy groped at them until our fault. It’s our fault for teaching her even though
she reached down the front of her worn cotton we knew her husband was going to be an A-hole
dress and pulled out a breast for Sam to feed. Griley about it. We should’ve guessed he’d find out. She’s
turned from the scene and joined Elder Burnett at all alone, and we’re so close to getting her dunked.”
the window. Burnett was singing a Garth Brooks “You mean, baptized? ” asked Elder Burnett.
song quietly to himself, staring languidly down on “That’s the idea, yeah. Baptized. Dunked.”
the street where two drunk men quarreled over a Elder Burnett slid his glasses on his face. “Well,
broken shopping cart. Griley looked at his greenie, I don’t know anything. But if we don’t belong
the young boy from Alberta, Canada, with rosy here, I mean, if this guy doesn’t want us here . . .”
cheeks and wire-thin glasses. He has to learn the Griley got impatient. “So what do we do?” he
spirit of the law, the spirit of Africa. Though we may asked. “Tell her it’s been real and drop her from the
not want to, we must be their saviors. teaching pool? Like that?”
“You’ll find out soon,” he said, staring down at “I didn’t say that. I don’t know. You’re the trainer.”
the street, “that sometimes they just need comfort. Then he pulled a chained watch out of his brown
They need something tangible to hold onto. This slacks pocket and flipped it open. “It is getting late,
place sucks the life out of every thing unlucky Elder Griley.”
enough to be here.” Griley gave him a bored look and turned from
Elder Burnett didn’t know what to say to that. the window and said, “Yes. Past our bedtime.”
He took his glasses off, shrugged, and cleaned the Dishes clanked in the kitchen. There was a hiss
lenses with his tie. Three weeks ago, he’d been in of steam coming out of a pot, and Sam whimpered.
frosty Alberta, maybe iceskating with his plump Then Jabu walked into the living room with hot,
girlfriends. Griley had been in South Africa for orange herbal tea in chipped teacups and short-
16 months. He’d forgotten what it was like to clean bread biscuits all arranged on a gaudy silver tray.
your clothes in a washing machine and drink water “You can just sit down, Eldahs,” she said. “I have
right from the tap. Luxury. Excess. He’d heard warm tea.”
Jabu’s story a thousand times in over a year. Mostly The elders knew better than to reject this sacri-
women. They sang their stories to Griley in their fice. They sat down on the two Castle beer crates
closet kitchens and in their dusty scrap backyards and Jabu sat on the floor with Sam in her lap chew-
while they leaned over rubber pails full of wet ing on sweetroot. She sat the tray down in front of
clothes. Griley’s tender demeanor, coupled with a the elders on the threadbare carpet. The two young
fair complexion and short blond hair, gave him the Americans leaned forward awkwardly and took up
appearance of an angel to these bowed women of their teacups and blew on the hot tea and sipped.
Africa. They trusted him with their stories. Eldah Elder Burnett leaned over to take a biscuit, keeping
Grylee, every day I get up and walk five miles to the the hot teacup balanced on his thigh. He grabbed a
tuck shop with Sipho on my back to buy mealie-meal. biscuit and munched on it loudly. Crumbs fell all
My husband, he is a bed man; when he goes that side over the floor. Griley studied Jabu’s face as she
with his friends he drinks so much, and when he come coddled her child. She had a tender, soft face with
home I have to hide in the closet. It’s just me and the sharp cheekbones. Throughout his mission, Griley
childrens, Eldah Grylee; when it rains khakulu it come had been slowly infected with love for African

women, on every level that a man can love a woman. Griley to his senses. They both stuck their heads
When he returned to California, he wanted to marry out the window, and Griley noticed they were in
a black woman—but not just a black woman, an an outdoor plumbing shaft, of sorts. Dark pipes
African woman, with a soul of granite. Maybe he snaked down the sides of a tiny square well to the
would come back in the Peace Corp and take Jabu depths below.
away from here. He followed the smooth course of Jabulane pointed down the well and then looked
her chin and down her neck and down. He closed up into the night air. “I don’t know if you can see
his eyes tight and fought to get the thought out down, but he throw the book down theh. He took
of his head. it like this and he say, it’s rabbish, and he throw it
down.”
Griley squinted, looked down four floors to the
We’ve got to show him we’re bottom of the shaft and, with what little light the
moon gave to this hellhole, could make out a few
not scared of him, that he beer bottles, some wrappers, boxes, and trash, what
looked like big balls of hair and heaven knew what
can’t get rid of us by tossing else, and then faintly, in the corner, lying limp in
our scriptures out the window. the cool of night, was Jabu’s precious book of scrip-
ture, written in Suswati. Griley clenched his fists
and felt the hot presence of anger in his throat.
“So what are you going to do, Jabu?” asked Gri- How dare he treat holy words like this!
ley. “What do you want us to do?” Jabu pointed into the darkness. “You see down
Jabu shook her head and looked at the ceiling. theh, Eldah?”
“I don’t know, Eldah Grylee. I don’t know. I pray “Yes, I think.”
Jesus he tell me what to do because—ayish!— Jabu put her hands to her chest. “I try to explen
myself I don’t know what to do.” to him all about the book and about the Jesus but
With a mouthful of biscuit, Elder Burnett asked, he no want to listen to me. I tell him, it’s not a
“Did you try to talk to him?” Griley rolled his eyes. story. I tell him to read and he see that it’s not
“Yes,” said Jabu. “He don’t want to listen. He say a story, but the Jesus he is on the pages. Now I can’t
these books are rabbish and he don’t want them read my book, Eldah, and it’s down, down theh
in the flat. Then he take the Book of Momons and wheh he throws it.”
he throw it down theh, in the hall.” Griley heard bottles clinking behind him. Elder
Griley put his teacup on the floor and stood. Burnett got to the window, looked down, and then
“Where, in the hall?” looked at Griley. He pulled out the watch and stared
Jabu put Sam on the floor and stood up, at its face. The three stood together in the dark.
straightened her dress, and walked to the door. “Why aren’t there any lights in this place?” asked
Griley followed her out into the hall. Elder Bur- Burnett.
nett called after him as the door closed. All the “I don’t know,” said Jabu. “They don’t replace
lights down the corridor were either burned out or them. I don’t know.”
busted, so they stumbled along the wall, kicking Griley said, “Hey, Burnett, let’s go down there
beer bottles and stinky trash. Griley heard the high and get Jabu’s book back for her.”
crunch of broken glass under his feet. The stinging Burnett frowned. “How?”
odor of urine and filth almost knocked him out. “There are windows at the end of all the halls, all
How in the world can they live like this? He fol- the way down. I’ll crawl out the window on the
lowed the sound of Jabu’s stumbles until they first floor and just pick it up, I guess.”
reached a window at the end of the hall. Jabu Down the hall, they could hear Sam crying again.
opened the window, and a cool breeze brought Jabu started back and said, “Be keful, Eldahs. I’ll

watch from heah.” Her door closed behind her. have to make things worse. I mean, I don’t know
The hallway was quiet and dark as a tomb. anything, but you don’t have to start a fight with
“It’s 9:45,” said Elder Burnett. this guy.”
“So?” Griley put his arm on Elder Burnett’s shoulders.
“So. It’s 9:45.” “Man, greenie. Who’s senior freaking companion?
“So what?” Griley started down the hall. “Let’s C’mon,” he said. “This will soon be a happy mem-
get her book back and get the freak out of this ory.” They eased down the hallway until they were
crapheap.” He made his way back to the lobby framed in the light of the window. Griley cracked
where the elevators were. Burnett, by the sound of it open and felt a cool wave of rancid odor wash
it, reluctantly followed. The elevators broken, they over him. He felt his insides bubble up and he put
took the stairs, braving broken bottles, dead rats, his hand over his mouth and gagged. Holding his
and choking stench. Elder Burnett gasped and put hand to his mouth, he climbed onto the windowsill
his tie over his mouth and nose. In the lobby, a and looked up the shaft to where Jabu had her head
crowd of dark faces congregated around a small tel- out the window on the fourth floor. The moon
evision, watching township soccer. When the two hovered behind her head, such a perfect halo that
boys passed, a drunken voice called out, “Hey, he couldn’t see her face. She waved her hand in a
Bafundisi: one settler, one bullet.” The crowd mechanical fashion, as if to say, I see you.
laughed together. Griley ignored the jeers and “Be keful, Eldah Grylee,” she hollered down.
headed down the hall for the window. Maybe he Okay, he waved back. He scooted his feet to the
looked it, but he did not feel brave. He was edge of the windowsill and looked down into the
spooked out of his mind. darkness, to the garbage and the book below. He
The first-floor hall was darker than the fourth. couldn’t tell if the ground was cement or dirty
Shadows near their feet scurried along the walls. carpet; the refuse covered every inch. He balanced
Televisions blasted in the rooms, and eerie slits of himself, shifted his weight, then dropped into
light glowed under the doors. the well.
“I don’t like this,” said Elder Burnett, stumbling There was a thick, sponge-like splash. Griley
down the hall behind Griley. “I don’t like this at all. found himself submerged to his waist in sewage.
This is crazy. We should get out of here now, Elder.” So startled he couldn’t do or say anything, he
Griley stopped his march for a moment to put threw up. The murky waters underneath him
his hand on Burnett’s shoulder. “I don’t like it splished and splashed against the four walls of the
either,” he said. “Stay close to me. Let’s get that plumbing shaft. He had a terrifying sensation that
book quick, and then we’ll go.” he was sinking deeper into the filth. Keeping his
“Why don’t we just get her another book? Don’t hands high above his head, he turned in the bog
we have other books? This place feels wrong. Why and put his hands up on the windowsill and pulled
do we need to get this book?” himself up and brought his legs close to his body
Griley considered the question a moment. Good and flopped down on the other side, on the carpet
question. “I don’t know. It’s her book—it’ll be easy next to Elder Burnett. There was a splash when his
to get. She loves her Book of Mormon. She loves feet hit the ground, then a dull dripping on the
us. That German jerkoff can’t get away with throw- dark carpet. He didn’t know what to do with him-
ing sacred scriptures into the garbage. We’ve got to self but stand there, his arms away from his body,
show him we’re not scared of him, that he can’t get his wet legs apart, dripping sewer water on the
rid of us by tossing our scriptures out the window. carpet.
We’ll take the book back up there and cram it Elder Burnett asked, “You okay, Elder? Gosh,
down the Jay Dub’s throat.” I thought you went all the way under.” Then he
“It sounds like this isn’t about getting Jabu’s sniffed, choked, and threw up on the wall next to
book back to her,” said Elder Burnett. “You don’t him. The smell suffocated them both.

Griley stuck his head out the window and S T O R Y

looked up. Jabu called him from above, waving her
hands. In despair, he hollered up to her, “Jabu. We Rissa Orders Cheesecake
can’t get your book. I—it’s—there’s stuff down
here. We’ll get you a new one.” By Darlene Young
“Okey, Eldah. Thank you, Eldah. Come tomor-
row, same time. Everything will be okeh tomorrow. [Note: The following story won third prize in IRRE-
I pray Jesus everything will be okay.” ANTUM’s 2002 fiction contest.]
Griley felt the wet sludge of refuse on his slacks.
He stormed down the hall, kicking beer bottles “Mom, you didn’t have to tell the waitress I’m
with his sewer-soaked shoes, cursing. He cursed the getting married.”
day he’d come to Africa, he cursed the legions of Joyce sighed and spread her napkin on her lap.
people who lived in South Hillbrow like rats in You’d think that by now Rissa would have out-
shameless filth. Elder Burnett followed behind, grown the embarrassed-by-Mom thing that had so
holding both their backpacks in front of him, plagued her as a teenager. “Oh, Rissa, calm down.
telling Griley that swearing wasn’t going to make it She was thrilled for you. Everyone loves weddings.”
any better. Griley disagreed. “Well, it wasn’t so much you telling her I’m
engaged that bothered me. It was—”
Brian Jackson is working on a master’s in English at “I know. You’re annoyed that I told her you’re
Brigham Young University. He lives in Taylorsville, marrying a Chapman. You’re so touchy about that.
Utah, with his wife, Amy, and son, Benjamin. You should be proud, honey. Everyone in Salt Lake
knows the Chapmans. Two general authorities and
a politician! You know any girl would die to be in
your shoes.”
“Mom, that’s so shallow.”
“It is not! A boy’s family says a lot about who he
is. And the fact that a Chapman boy wants to
marry you says a lot about who you are. That
you’ve been raised right.”
Rissa sighed.
“Rissa, don’t give me that look. I am your
mother. And I am proud of you. There’s nothing
wrong with that. It’s a mother’s right.” Joyce leaned
over and pulled a paperback out of her purse: Plan
the Wedding of Your Dreams. She kept her eyes on
the pages she was flipping as she casually said, “You
know, honey, you really ought to eat salad instead
of that creamy pasta. We don’t want your dress to
be too tight, do we?”
Joyce saw Rissa tighten her lips. But Rissa was
silent.
“Just a little reminder, sweetheart.”
Joyce found the checklist entitled “Four Weeks
Before the Big Day.”
“Let’s see,” she began. “‘Verify reservations for
the wedding banquet.’ But we don’t have to worry

about that because that’s the groom’s responsibility. Joyce was clenching her scripture carrier with one
And I’m sure that KayLynn, of all people, is on top hand and her umbrella with the other. And she was
of that. Did you say it was going to be at La Caille?” clenching her jaw, her gut, her neck—the whole world
Rissa nodded without looking up. was clenched tight around her and inside of her. She
“Imagine that. I’ve always wanted to go inside, could barely talk. She had to get out the door before it
and here I get to go there for my own daughter’s all came out, had to talk to the bishop first—it was
wedding breakfast! I can’t think of what this is possible her father wouldn’t let her go to church at all
going to cost Chuck’s parents. But it’s probably today if she told him now.
nothing to them. They probably eat there all the “I’m just going early to talk to Bishop Walker about
time. And all of their friends. But we’d better be something.”
extra careful to do everything just right, shouldn’t “What do you need to discuss with the bishop?” Her
we? We wouldn’t want them to think they’re mar- father, a lapsed Mormon, knew enough about bishop
rying trashy people.” talks to be curious.
Rissa wasn’t paying attention. “I just need—I just—” and Joyce felt a wave of
“Rissa, this is important. You’ve got to watch despair wash over her. Weak with the struggle—or
how you handle yourself. Life can be so miserable maybe it was the morning sickness—she sat down on
if your mother-in-law doesn’t approve of you. Trust the floor and burst into tears.
me on this one.” Joyce paused. “Have you been Her father didn’t hit her. But over the next half-
reading that etiquette book I bought you?” hour as she confessed to him and listened to him curse
Rissa shrugged. her and Tom and the Church—of course he would
“Well, honey, be sure you read it. You’ve got to find a way to blame the Church—she found herself
show them you’re as good as they are.” wishing he would just hit her and be done. Every
“I am as good as they are. And besides, they’re word he said hit her as hard as anything he could do
really nice people. They don’t notice those kinds of with a fist. And then every day for months—for years—
things, really. I think you care more than they do.” he kept hitting her with those words. He took to call-
“Oh, I know they’re nice people. I certainly ing Tom “Mr. Righteous.” He snorted sarcastically
didn’t mean to imply that they aren’t. I just can’t get when he saw her study her scriptures: “Lot of good
over how blessed we are that you have found such a those have done you.”
wonderful family to marry into!” It was her fault her father had died still bitter
Rissa rolled her eyes and straightened her legs. towards the gospel. And her guilt from knowing this
Joyce could tell that this topic really irritated her was as hard to bear as the guilt of breaking the law
daughter, but it was so important that Rissa realize of chastity.
how valuable it is to have a good, solid background Every time she heard another member-missionary
in the Church. Despite her husband’s weaknesses lesson in Relief Society, she writhed again with the pain
in areas of faith, she had done her best to raise Rissa of that confession to her father. “Be a good example,”
to be good, to follow all the rules, to successfully the sweet Relief Society teacher would croon, tilting
navigate each little step that would lead her to the her head, and Joyce could chant along with her: “Let
wonderful blessing of a celestial marriage. your neighbors and nonmember family members see
Rissa, of course, took it all for granted. She had the good the gospel has done in your life. Then they’ll
just sailed through life, doing everything right. Joyce see the light in you and want to find out what it is.”
had made sure of it. That’s what a good mother Her father’s soul was a heavy weight.
does—spares her child the pain of stupid mistakes. But she was determined to make up for it. Her
whole life since then she had done everything, every-
Joyce was standing in front of her father’s armchair. thing she could.
He blew smoke into her face. “Church doesn’t start And she couldn’t be doing so bad, could she?
until later. Why are you leaving now?” he asked. Because here was her beautiful daughter, strong in the

Church and about to marry a Chapman in the Joyce recognized the stubborn frown on her
temple. She had been a good mother, hadn’t she? daughter’s face and decided to let the subject drop
for now. But she made a mental note to call Rissa
Rissa startled her by asking, “Mom, when you on Sunday to remind her to get to the post office
were in love with Dad—I mean, when you were the next day.
dating him, you wanted to marry him, right?” Rissa stared off into space as she chewed. After a
Joyce looked up, wary. few moments, she said, “Anyway, I just want to
“Yeesss, you know I was smitten with him. But know what other people feel like when they are
that didn’t excuse—” engaged. I mean, am I supposed to be really happy
“Oh, I know all that, Mother. I’m not talking and giddy all the time like Melanie was when she
about your mistake.” Joyce winced at the word but was engaged?” Melanie was the daughter of Joyce’s
Rissa moved along quickly. “I just want to know friend Valerie, and the girls had grown up in the
how you felt about him, how you knew you wanted ward together. It must be several years now since
to be with him.” she was married. To a dentist, wasn’t it? “Because
“Well, I was just a teenager. I had a crush, that’s I’m not like that,” Rissa continued, “and I wonder
all it was. You’ve had crushes before—you know, if it’s just a difference in personalities or something.
you and . . .” I mean, not that I want my relationship to be like
Joyce saw Rissa stiffen. Calm down, Rissa, she Melanie’s or anything.”
thought. I’m not going to mention Simon. “Why? What’s the matter with Melanie’s mar-
“ . . . and, oh, what was his name, Tim? In tenth riage?” It would be interesting to hear a little tidbit
grade?” about Valerie’s daughter. Valerie was currently the
“Oh, yeah,” chuckled Rissa in obvious relief. Relief Society president and was always so darn
“Tim, tall and handsome. I was really gone on him, loud about how perfect her children were.
wasn’t I?” “Oh, nothing really drastic. It’s just that Jameson
Joyce was glad to hear her daughter’s laughter. is always criticizing her. Like if any little thing goes
Maybe after you’re married you’ll be able to laugh wrong it’s because she is spacey or disorganized or
about Simon, too, she thought. “Hoo, boy, were you lazy. And she believes him! She sits there and takes
ever gone. Remember all the toilet paper you guys it like she deserves it! And when I finally asked her
used up on his house?” about it once, she said, ‘Oh, Rissa, that’s just how
“And you made me pay for it out of my marriage is. You have to put up with things because
allowance, too.” you love each other.’ I just think that’s so wrong.”
“And you denied doing it for Tim. You said you Joyce found herself wondering if Rissa ever ana-
were doing it because his mom was your Mia Maid lyzed her mother’s marriage that way. Of course she
adviser.” does. . . . Do I criticize Tom too much in front of her?
“Well, she was.” “Well, it is wrong, sweetheart. Married people
The waitress came with their food. Joyce put the shouldn’t talk to each other that way in front of
paperback away to make room on the table. She other people. But I’m sure Chuck would never treat
looked up to find Rissa spreading real butter on you that way. He’s such a sweet boy.”
her bread. She sighed loudly but didn’t comment. “No, I know he wouldn’t. That’s not what I’m
Instead, she asked, “Have you mailed the invita- worried—I mean, that’s not what I’m talking
tions yet?” about. I just want to know what other engaged
“Not yet,” Rissa answered, digging into her people are like. Are they happy all the time and
pasta. stuff.”
“Honey—” “Oh, sweetheart, you’re not getting a few little
“I know, Mom. I’ve just been really busy. On wedding jitters, are you? That’s just normal. People
Monday for sure.” go through that all the time. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, no, I’m—but it would be nice to know that! Six hundred dollars on roses alone, but don’t
how other people feel, you know? So I could tell— you worry about that. It’s what your father and I
whether it’s just, just . . .” have been saving up for, and we want this reception
Rissa wasn’t meeting Joyce’s eyes. A small worry to be just perfect, right up to your new in-law’s
began to gnaw Joyce’s stomach. standards. Oh, it’s going to be beautiful, and you
“Rissa, listen to me. Everyone feels little doubts two will be the happiest newlyweds ever.”
when they’re engaged. That’s why short engage- Rissa toyed with her linguini and didn’t look up.
ments are best. It’s the adversary trying to stop a Joyce took a piece of bread and spread it with
good thing from happening, that’s all. Don’t give in margarine. Then, making up her mind, she set it
to those little thoughts he puts in your mind. down on her bread plate and took a breath.
Think back to the time when you got your answer. “Rissa, this isn’t about Simon, is it?”
Remember how sure you were? How you called me Rissa dropped her fork on her plate and puffed
from your apartment to tell me you had the ring? her breath.
I’ve never heard you sound so happy.” “No, Mother, this is not about Simon. I am
Rissa looked up eagerly. “Did I really? Did I over Simon completely. This has nothing to do
sound happy? It was such a strange day . . .” with Simon.” A pause. “It’s probably just nerves
“Oh yes, you sounded happy. You didn’t squeal anyway.”
and shriek like some girls do, but that’s not your “Because maybe a little bit of you is still won-
way. You’re more serious by nature. And you told dering what things would have been like with
me that Chuck was the right one for you, and that Simon, that’s all. It’s easy to build up something
you were so relieved because you used to think that might have been. But you’ll never know—”
you’d never get married after”—oops, cover it up “No, it’s not Simon, Mother. It really isn’t. I’m
quick—“I mean, not before you graduated from really over him. It’s just Chuck. I mean, it’s just me.
university. Remember? Remember telling me how It’s probably the stress of finals and all.”
happy you were?” Joyce picked up her bread. “You’re probably
“Yeah, I think I do remember. But I like hearing right. Yes, I’m sure you’re just stressed over every-
you remind me.” thing. After all, we’ve been so busy and you’ve
“Rissa, you’re not seriously doubting, are you? hardly had time to sleep, let alone plan a wedding
Because you have no reason to doubt. Why, Chuck and study. Give yourself a few days after finals are
is the most—well, the handsomest, kindest, sweet- over and you’ll be back to your own self again. And
est guy you have ever brought home. Your father then two weeks after that you’ll be married! Mrs.
and I fell in love with him right from the start. And Chapman! Doesn’t that sound nice?”
he has so much going for him—only two years left “Mom, do you think that maybe I could get a
in law school and then a job waiting for him in blessing from Dad? I think maybe that would help
his father’s firm. And what a family! How could me—you know, calm my nerves a little bit.”
you ever do better? Certainly you can’t be having A blessing from Tom. Joyce set her fork down and
doubts about him. This is all just a normal part slowly wiped her face with her napkin. “Well,
of an engagement. In a month you will laugh I think a blessing might be a good idea. But maybe
about this.” it would be good to have Chuck give it. He’ll be
“Oh, I know, I know. It’s just that . . .” She the priesthood head of your family, you know. It
paused. “Well, maybe it’s nothing.” might be good to start things off right and have
Again Rissa was avoiding Joyce’s eyes. Joyce’s him do that.”
little worry was growing into anxiety. “No, I think I want Dad to do that. Do you
“And think of all the things we’ve just bought! think he would?”
It’ll be the most beautiful wedding reception ever. “Well, I’m sure he would, but . . . maybe we
A real rose for every woman who comes! Imagine could ask Grandpa to do it. He gives wonderful

blessings. Remember the time you were sick with scripture I mean. Just have faith in the answer you
pneumonia—” already got instead of always asking for new ones.”
“But I want Dad to do it. Why do you sound Joyce paused and smiled a little. “You’ve always
like he wouldn’t do it? He helped Grandpa bless been a question asker anyway, haven’t you. So eager
me that time. He’s a priesthood holder. And he’s to know everything about the world.”
my dad!” They ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Of course he is.” Now, be careful. Joyce could “I’ll miss you, Rissa.”
tell she was beginning to sound edgy. “Of course “Mom, I’ve been living on my own for almost
he’s your dad.” She forced a little chuckle. “I ought four years now.”
to know that, shouldn’t I? I just meant that, well, “I know, I know, but it’s not the same. At col-
he’s not used to that kind of thing. He’s not really lege, you were still my daughter and I was still the
as, I don’t know, spiritual as some other men are.” one you came to when you needed help. Remem-
“He’s just as good as any other man! Better than ber the phone call on the night you and Simon
most. Why do you—” broke up?”
“Your father hasn’t had the spiritual experiences “Yes.”
that other men have—you know, not going on a “And you know what? There’s nothing a mother
mission and all. I just thought you might like—” likes more than to be needed like that. And now
“Dad’s the most spiritual guy I know.” you’ll be turning to someone else instead of me
“Honey—” when you’re sad. But Chuck will take care of you.
Rissa held up a hand. “Wait. I want to talk about You couldn’t find a better man than Chuck.”
this. I don’t understand why you seem—why After a moment, Rissa said quietly, “Mom, I
you’ve always seemed to sort of apologize for him, never told you how much you helped me that night.”
to be embarrassed by him.” Joyce was surprised at the sincere warmth in her
Thump. Joyce’s heart seemed to drop to her daughter’s voice. “What night?”
stomach, and she froze. She felt like a deer caught “The night Simon broke up with me.”
in the headlights of her daughter’s question. Rissa “I helped you?” Joyce felt herself smiling like a
had obviously thought about this before. But she shy schoolgirl.
had never dared to ask before. Whatever she had Rissa was smiling too. “Yes. I called you at—oh,
observed, she had always respected her mother’s it must have been 1:00 A.M.—and got you out of
privacy. Should I answer? bed. I was sobbing like a lunatic, and you couldn’t
But—relief!—the waitress was there filling the understand what I was saying for the first five min-
water glasses. By the time she left, Joyce had calmed utes. But you weren’t mad. You were just very calm.
her heart. She would pretend it hadn’t been said. A ‘Rissa, Rissa, shhhh,’ you kept saying. ‘It’s all right.
mother need not—could not—bare everything to Whatever it is will be fine.’ And then when I finally
her daughter. Rissa was watching her, waiting. got it all out, you didn’t say any of that stuff people
“All right, dear. Go ahead and ask him. But don’t always say, like ‘It’ll be for the best’ and ‘You’ll find
be expecting a big revelation, because you already someone else.’ You just listened to me and told me
know that what you’re doing is right. Just have faith I could get through it and just sort of patted me on
in that. Remember when the Lord told Joseph Smith the back through the phone, and it was—”
to cast his mind back to the hour he believed—” “Wow.”
“Oliver Cowdery.” “It was just what I needed, you know? Someone
“What?” to listen. And by the time I hung up, I was ready to
“It was Oliver Cowdery the Lord said that to.” pray and to make peace with it. It was just really,
Joyce felt her face flush. “Oh, well, I guess I don’t really good.”
know as much as you about that since I didn’t get “Wow. That means so much to me, to know I
to take an institute class about it. But you know the did something right for once.”

Rissa’s face changed. “I didn’t mean—” What if we have kids and then I have to take care
“I know. You didn’t mean that that was the only of them, and then—”
time I ever did it right. But it’s just that—well, “Honey, that’s what life is all about! It’s the plan!
you’ll learn when you’re a mother, but it’s hard for It’s your greatest work! Having children is more
a mother to ever know if she’s done the right thing. important and more joyous than anything you
Somehow I always manage to see the ways I could could paint.”
have done better without seeing the ways I did
well. I really appreciate you sharing that with me.
And here I am, a mother about to lose her child— “I am worried about
in the happiest way!” Joyce laughed with joy.
There was silence for a while as Rissa took having children. But I think
another piece of bread and began buttering it. Joyce
was so full of love for her daughter she felt she I’m also worried about
would burst. “How is school coming, anyway?
How’s your art?” she asked. marrying Chuck.”
“It’s coming, Mother. Only, I’m starting to get
scared.”
“Scared of what?” “I know that’s what we’ve always been taught.
“Well, Chuck and I were talking last night about But couldn’t I work on my art for a few years before
how we’re going to be able to afford everything, I have kids? I just feel so much inside of me that I
and we talked about maybe I could drop out for a want to do, and . . . God gave me this talent, didn’t
year or two and work, just until he’s through with he? Doesn’t he expect me to do something with it?”
law school.” “Of course, dear, and you can always work on it.
“Aren’t his parents paying for his school?” At night after they are down, for example. And
“Well, actually, they have been, but after he gets after they go to school. There’s a time and a season
married they’re only going to pay for half of it, and for everything.”
we’ll need something to live off of. You know how “But—”
expensive housing is around campus.” The waitress was there, asking if they wanted
“Well, sweetheart, you have to do what you have anything else. Joyce started gathering up her things.
to do! Lots of girls have to drop out to put their But Rissa surprised her by ordering cheesecake.
husbands through. It’s not the end of the world. Joyce slowly sat back down with a small smile.
And besides, I’m sure you’ll continue to paint “I couldn’t eat another bite after that huge salad.”
in the evenings and magnify your talents on your Rissa wasn’t listening.
own.” “Mom, did you have fun raising me?”
“Yeah.” Rissa wiped her mouth without look- “What do you mean? Of course I had fun rais-
ing up. ing you. You were a wonderful child, always so obe-
“And anyway, you don’t really need all that stuff dient. You never gave me a moment’s trouble. Well,
they’re teaching you on campus, do you? I mean, except for being a little too emotional sometimes.
you used to make such beautiful pictures, and since Oh, Rissa, you’ve always been my pride and joy.”
you’ve been in school your pictures have become “No, what I mean is, did you like having a
so . . . dark. I’m sure that’s not what God meant for baby—you know, having a kid.”
you when he gave you this talent.” Joyce’s head snapped up, and Rissa hastily
Rissa sighed. “Oh, Mom, let’s not talk about this added, “I’m not talking about when you got preg-
again. You know how I feel about what I’m doing nant. I just want to know if you were glad to have
in school. I’m making so much progress, and if I a child. I mean . . . I never really thanked you for—
have to drop out . . . Well, what if I never get back? for giving up everything to have me. For sacrificing

the other things you could have done to stay home “I know you did, Mom, but I don’t know if I
with me.” will. I watch other moms with their kids, and they
Joyce laughed. “Oh, don’t thank me. It really seem so happy to just make cookies with them and
wasn’t a choice at all! I had never wanted to do any- teach them piano and brush their hair, and I—”
thing else with my life. From Primary days on I A thought struck Joyce. “Wait. Rissa, is this
believed what I was taught—that it was the most what’s been bothering you about getting married?
important thing in the world for me to have kids, Are you just worried about children?”
and to stay home with them. I always planned on “No. . . . I am worried about having children.
having eight kids. That seemed the perfect number But I think I’m also worried about marrying
to me. But, as you know, it just wasn’t meant to Chuck.” Rissa paused and drew in her breath, as if
be. But you were still worth it. And look how she had come to a decision. “Mom, I’m worried
wonderfully you’ve turned out! I couldn’t have about marrying Chuck. I really am.” And suddenly
done that badly, now could I?” a sob rose to her throat, and she grabbed her nap-
“No, Mom, you did great. You were a great kin from her lap.
mother,” Rissa said. And she really seemed to mean “Rissa!” Joyce’s eyes were wide. “Rissa, honey,
it. Rissa touched her hand. “I know I could never calm down! Sweetheart! Sweetheart! Stop crying!
be as good a mother as you’ve been.” Don’t worry! Everything’s going to be fine!”
“Oh, nonsense, of course you could.” Rissa pushed her chair back and, carrying the
“No, really, Mom, I . . . Sometimes I think that napkin with her, went quickly to the restroom.
maybe I would make a bad mother. Maybe it Joyce couldn’t believe what had happened. Were
would be better if I didn’t have children.” people staring? She tried to glance around the
“What?” Not have children? “You’re kidding, restaurant without being obvious. No one seemed
right?” to have noticed the little scene. She straightened
Rissa looked down at the table. “No, I—” her napkin, touched her hair, sipped some water.
“You think you’d be a bad mother? Of course Rissa had hardly touched her cheesecake. Joyce
you wouldn’t! Every woman has little insecurities thought about her in the bathroom crying. She
about being a mother. It’s a big job, and so impor- wondered if she should go to her. No, probably she
tant. All mothers are a little scared, but you just would rather be alone for a minute, she decided.
kind of dive in and do your best, and God helps Could Rissa really be considering not marrying
you. He really does. Oh, Rissa, don’t be worrying Chuck? Could she really, possibly break it off? Joyce
about all that now. You’ve always kept the com- sat very still at the table, staring straight ahead.
mandments, and you know they’re for your good. After a minute, she found herself remembering
It’s God’s plan for you to have children. You’ll do a day she and Tom had fought. Rissa must have
just fine. And Chuck will make such a good been about three at the time.
father—you two will be just fine.”
Rissa was silent. The waitress brought her It was so silly how it had all started. It was some
cheesecake. comment Tom’s mother had made about Joyce’s dress
Joyce just had to convince her. “You’re not seri- size. It was obvious that she had meant to imply that
ously worried about this, are you?” Joyce was getting a little heavy. When Joyce told Tom
“Well, it’s just that—I’ve never enjoyed baby- about it, he had refused to believe that his mother had
sitting, you know, and—” meant any such thing.
“Well, that’s other people’s children. It’s so differ- “You’re misunderstanding her. She never meant
ent when they’re your own children. Suddenly they anything of the sort.”
are interesting and fun and so darling . . . Just trust “Yes, she did. Women know these things. We don’t
me. Motherhood is the most fulfilling thing you always say things straight out, but we understand
could ever do, and you’ll love it. Like I did.” when hints are thrown at us.”

“Joyce, I know my mother. She does not think you’re it well. She had vowed to be the best mother—and the
fat—you’re not fat! And even if you were and even if best wife—there ever was. And she had to show God
my mother thought you were, she would never say any- that she really deserved to be forgiven.
thing about it to you. She’s just not like that.” She returned to Tom and apologized for stomping
“Are you saying that I’m lying?” out and leaving him with Rissa all evening. And since
“No, I’m just saying—” then she had been meticulous about keeping all the
“Because I wouldn’t lie about this. And it’s not just rules. She went to the temple every week with her
this once, either. She’s always making little comments.” friends. She had 100 percent visiting teaching. She
“She is not!” fasted. She did genealogy. Everything, everything she
“She is. She has never approved of me. Right from— could think of.
well, from the time we got pregnant—she has always And Tom didn’t seem to understand. Yes, he was
seen me as the one who brought you down—I’m the active and took her to the temple once a month. But
little whore.” he was never as anxious about being righteous as she
“Joyce!” was. He didn’t come home from church with ideas of
“It’s true. She can hardly even look me in the eyes. I how they could improve. He didn’t spend as much
can tell she hates me!” time praying as she did when they had their individ-
“Joyce, you’re making this into something it’s not. ual prayers at night. He snickered at some of the things
You’re tired. Let’s—” the bishop said and did imitations of some of the gen-
“Don’t touch me! I hate it when you put your arm eral authorities during general conference. He even
around me like that when I’m talking. You’re not watched R-rated movies sometimes. He was just so . . .
listening to me. Can’t you just listen to me and relaxed about things. And he was genuinely puzzled
believe me?” by her anxiety.
“Joyce, you’re not being reasonable.” He did not realize the true depth of their sin and
“Quit trying to reason with me, then, and just lis- how much they had to make up.
ten! I’m trying to tell you how I feel!” He was not spiritually sensitive—or else how could
“Well, it’s pretty obvious how you feel. But you’re he be so happy?
wrong! She doesn’t hate you. We all love you. How can But Rissa had inherited her mother’s desire to do
we convince you that we love you?” He had sounded so what was right. Joyce was absolutely convinced of
condescending and all-knowing, and she had been that—Rissa really did want to do the right thing.
so angry and at such a loss for words that she had
stomped out. Joyce was squeezing her eyes shut at the table.
Later, as she roamed the mall, she convinced herself Dear God, help Rissa. Then Rissa was back.
that he had only married her out of a sense of duty and Although her eyes were red and puffy, she looked
that really he and all his family saw her as their good very calm.
deed for life. The thought of being dependent on their “Rissa, are you really seriously doubting Chuck?
charitable feelings for the rest of her life—no, for all Because if you are, we can talk about it. But I just
eternity—was more than she could bear. For a few want you to be sure that this isn’t just nerves or
minutes she toyed with the idea of leaving him. And stress or something. You know you’ve always been
maybe it would be best to leave Rissa, too. He would so emotional when you don’t get enough sleep—
find another woman, a righteous woman that he could now don’t turn away like that. You know it’s true.
respect who would raise Rissa to be morally strong. But I’m really trying to understand. I really want
But no. That would be cheating. She had promised to know, honey. What’s going on?”
God during the year of repentance after their hasty Rissa took a drink from her glass.
marriage that she would spend the rest of her life earn- “Mom, I think I’m going to call it off.”
ing forgiveness for her mistake. And part of her Joyce blinked and tightened her lips. But she
penance was that she would raise Tom’s child, and do said nothing.

“I just now decided. I think. Yes, I think I’d bet- Rissa stared at her mother. After a moment,
ter not marry Chuck.” Rissa was very deliberate in Joyce realized what she had said.
her movements. Slow and heavy. “It’s not that he’s not a good man . . .”
“What—” “He is a good man, Mom. He’s the best man
“I’ll tell you. Just give me a minute.” I’ve ever known. And he’s righteous and kind and
Rissa took another drink. The waitress walked caring . . .”
by, saw the women’s earnest faces, and passed on “Of course he is. He’s a fine man.” Joyce
without interrupting. straightened her water glass. “What else is wrong
“He doesn’t make me laugh.” with Chuck?”
“What?” “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s
“I said he doesn’t make me laugh. I know that perfect.” Rissa spit out the word. “Only—only I’m
sounds dumb.” not happy.”
“What are you looking for, a comedian?” Joyce paused. Then, gently, thoughtfully, “Not
“No, it’s just that—he embarrasses me.” happy. Well.”
“He embarrasses you.” “And I’ve just been agonizing. Really, Mom.
“He makes these dumb jokes, and I took him to How could I not want him? I mean, he really is
that party with my art friends and he was doing perfect. And we do get along. He’s all I ever
this goofy stuff that—” wanted. And I think he really does love me. So
“You like goofy stuff. You’re goofy yourself what’s wrong with me?” And the tears came again.
sometimes.” Joyce looked at Rissa, feeling again that old
“Listen to me, Mother, stop trying to sell him to familiar pang of love so big it hurt her heart to hold
me. I’m trying to figure this out.” it. And she felt something move inside of her and
Joyce quieted herself and listened. Rissa contin- then settle into stillness. She took a breath, accept-
ued. “I feel dumb when he acts that way, and I ing, and said, matter-of-factly, “Rissa, if you really
want to crawl under a rock.” are unhappy, you can’t marry him.”
Joyce waited. She would be patient. Rissa took a Rissa dabbed at her eyes in silence, listening
bite of cheesecake. When it was clear that she intently to her mother. But Joyce didn’t continue.
wasn’t going to continue, Joyce asked, “Is that all?” After a moment Rissa said, “I had this sort of
Rissa sighed. “I don’t know, Mom. Just that—” vision, or a daydream or something, just now, while
“Because Chuck is righteous, he’s honest, he’s a I was in the bathroom. I’ve been so confused, you
hard worker, and . . . doesn’t make you laugh! Well, know, because I really felt like I had received an
let me tell you, laughing isn’t everything. Laughing answer about marrying Chuck, but I’ve been feel-
doesn’t get you married in the temple . . .” ing so sick inside, and tight and dark and just
“Mother, it’s not like—” churning all the time, and every time I try to get
“Because your father made me laugh, and look those invitations out I just can’t, I can’t make myself
where it got me!” sit down and do them. So I was in the bathroom,
“Mom—” and I just pictured myself having an interview with
“Pregnant! That’s where it got me!” Joyce was God. He was sitting behind this big wooden desk
getting louder. like the bishop does when he interviews you, and
“Mom, shhhhh!” he asked me how I was feeling about Chuck. I told
Joyce looked around, embarrassed. She lowered him all about Chuck and why he was such a good
her voice but not her intensity. “You can not sit there choice for me. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I want to know how
and tell me that sharing jokes is something to base a you feel about Chuck.’ So I told him how I felt so
life on. Because I have spent twenty-two years trying lucky to have found Chuck because he would be
to make my life back into what it would have been such a righteous father for my children and we
if that man who made me laugh hadn’t come along.” would be so strong in the Church together and I

could really serve him—God—with Chuck. And P O E T R Y

do you know what he said? He said, ‘Rissa, I know
you, and—’” Rissa gulped to stifle another sob. Elegy
“‘I know you, and you would serve me no matter
who you marry. But I want you to be happy. Transfixed, I sit unwilling
Choose someone who makes you happy!’” unable to take
Joyce stared at her daughter. Rissa was busy my eyes from you
mopping her face with the napkin. from the shell of flesh
I know you. And I want you to be happy. that once sheltered you
The table in front of her became blurry.
Rissa began speaking quickly. She must have
noticed Joyce’s tears. “Mom, I’m so, so sorry. I know Wondering
this is going to be such a mess. And the money—” which cased cell
“No, no, Rissa, don’t think about that. I’m not which hardened molecule
concerned about that.” your soul
“And you’ll be embarrassed. I’m embarrassed. It’s
awful. What am I going to do? But I’m not happy,
Why is there no emanation of light
Mom. I’m not. I feel so sick when I think of the
no slightest pinprick glow
wedding, and that sick feeling means something,
you know? I—I just can’t marry him.” Rissa blew
out her breath. “Ah, it feels so good to say that! You, you once radiated flames of love
I know it’s the truth. But what am I going to do? flames of spirit
How can I do this to him? And his family—what It was—almost—impossible to breathe
will they think of me? . . . But I’ve got to. He within your aura
doesn’t deserve a woman who doesn’t think he’s . . . within the circle of your light
I do love him, but how can I make him believe that within the circle
when I’m going to . . . Oh, Mother, don’t cry—I’m within
so, so sorry.”
“No, no, it’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay!” And
Joyce was laughing. “It really is okay! And we’ll get How many years is it—
through this! It’s okay. The tragedy would be if you years we have known each other
had married him, wouldn’t it? Of course it’ll be have sat
fine. We’ll take care of everything. Oh, Rissa, I love walked
you, sweetheart.” And Joyce stood and came to talked
Rissa’s chair and bent and hugged her, held her
tightly and sobbed onto her daughter’s shoulder,
not caring who saw. In darkened theaters
Rissa awkwardly patted her mother’s back. Across too-small dinner tables
By firelight
This is Darlene Young’s second short story. Her first mesmerized by dusk-orange flames
won first place in last year’s IRREANTUM short fiction
contest. She hopes to write many more—and maybe a
novel someday—but she spends most of her time these In spring’s slim warmth
days chasing after her three sons and is expecting Across dry-rain summers
another one in April. She lives in Pocatello, Idaho. Through quick autumn terrain
huddled against fog-gray chill

And talked
talked
of great and nebulous things
love
grace
God
of your love for God
of His love for you
And, in course, we have talked

of his love for you
and of your love for him
of how intensely you loved him
wanted
craved him
of your fiery need of him
of your consuming need to be loved
of the need that—
because of your love for God,
and
because of His love for you—
could only be eased, assuaged by marriage
by holy marriage
And of his childish reluctance

of his steadfast inability to commit
and yet
he loved you
I-he-you
you knew he loved you
and,
for the first time in thirty years, he said the words
over and over he chanted
the words he considered mystic
binding
the words that were not enough
you—desired—an other incantation,
mystic words he was unable to utter

And he had truly believed in mystery

in the magic of the words
And your indifference
to the words
to his magic
destroyed his belief
And—somehow—everything became ashes
whitedry
brittledry
ashes
and you blamed him
then you blamed Him
for your radiating light

your nimbus of love is withdrawn
the light that I
and he
loved
Thus, transfixed
I sit
bloodless
and gaze on your coffin,
your hard, rough coffin—
the coffin you have nailed
you have sealed—
probing the hardened crust
seeking just
a pinprick of light
finding none
Imagine—
should they now advertise for someone
to drive dull nails through His hands and wrists
to pound thick spikes through His pure and innocent feet
I believe you would volunteer

And you dare tell me, me who all these years

has witnessed you,
your flames, your spirit—
radiating,
reeling—
your aura, within which it was almost impossible
to breathe:
“Nothing has changed.

I am still the same.”
—Béla Petsco

S T O R Y •••
Mom had promised to take me to Arches. Gram
On the Last Day, God Created asked if we were going to church. At least, had any-
one else said those words, they would have been
By Virginia Baker asking a question. The syntax would have made it
one; the tones would have seen it through. But
My grandmother said it was Armageddon when words were like the Loaves and the Fishes to
the third nuclear bomb exploded near the Mount Gramma: She could make anything out of them.
of Olives. Uncle Herb said she says that every time Mom had thought to get out of it: She said she
a bomb drops near Israel: Within five minutes, she didn’t have a dress, had forgotten to bring one.
has most of Sunday School believing it. He asked Gram’s mouth twisted a little, but she turned and
her to pass the potatoes; she gave him the peas instead. left us alone. Mom smiled and said how she
I didn’t know what I believed. I knew for a fact expected that had finished that.
that Gramma made cookies with lots of chocolate But Gram came in again, carrying over her arm
chips, that she let me eat the dough before dinner, five or six of her own good dresses.
and that their warmth just out of the oven was a big “See if any of these will fit,” she said.
part of the smell of them. I knew Uncle Herb didn’t “Mom, I don’t have any shoes,” my mother said.
care to do much, anymore; and though he said he Gramma put on the floor a pair of scuffed black
just favored the wound he got fighting in Free PAL
sandals: Sunday shoes, with the heels worn down.
zone, Mom said it went deeper than that. And I
“Try these.”
knew Gramma and Mom didn’t always get along.
Mom did; they fit. Gram left smiling.
Believing, I thought, was supposed to be some-
“Now what?” Mom whispered. I shrugged my
thing different.
shoulders; I didn’t know. She bit at her thumbnail
Sitting next to Gram, who sat between her chil-
dren like an isolated saint, I had to ask; catechism and looked down at the shoes, then back at the
makes good conversation for some. So: dresses on the bed.
“Mom,” I asked, “what is Armageddon?” “I guess we’re not going to Arches, huh?” I asked,
“That’s when all the world goes to war, when it trying not to sound hopeful when I knew there
gets so bad only Jesus Christ Himself can step in to really was none.
save us,” she said. She glanced at Gramma, and she She shook her head. She shook it longer than no
had that look in her eyes, the one she gets when she would have taken.
has to watch me snitch cookie dough before dinner
and can’t say anything to stop me because her The dresses were polyester, some double knit.
mother is in the kitchen, winking and laughing Mom was no clotheshorse, but she took pride in
over my sins. what she wore. Gramma’s dresses were made to fit
Gramma smiled beatifically and passed the Gramma, who, after seven children and some
mashed potatoes, then folded her hands at her advanced age, wore dresses that fit like tents over
plate, though we had already said the prayer. They Mom. Some had flowers in lime and orange, flo-
were knotted, like the roots of old trees. Brown rescent gardens lying flat on a nubby, black world.
spots lay on the skin of them, against that whisper- She wouldn’t even put one on.
thin skin that was so dry and hot whenever I Instead, she dug through her own clothes and
touched her. found some pale floral pants and a sweater, and put
Mama bent her head before that smile, and slid on her sneakers. Me, she dressed in jeans and a T-
a look to me that said, Thanks a lot, Tod. They had shirt.
squabbled that morning, she and Gram. Over “Nothing fit,” she told Gram. She held her head
church. Like always. high for this.

Gram sniffed and muttered about people wear- A breeze whispered in an arroyo I couldn’t see. A
ing pants to church. Mom muttered back about tall rock stood on the tip of a cliff, maybe ten miles
how she only meant women wearing them, and how distant. It stood as straight as any sentinel, keeping
she expected Gram might be a whole lot more watch over a tribe it had lost long ages since.
offended if the men didn’t wear any. “Mom, what are those things?” I pointed to a
At a quarter to four, when it was obvious Mom pictograph that looked like a tall tree with long, long
was not going to change, Gramma gave up and told arms and a terribly angry face. And even if it didn’t
us not to be late for sacrament. have a name, I knew I could believe in it, believe in
a thing as tall as a tree, that hunted the small people
We snuck out after an hour. We couldn’t go to of the tribes, just to make them frightened enough
Arches. Church would be over in two more hours, to stay by their fires, shivering, at night.
and Gram would want help making dinner. And to She shrugged. “I don’t know. Nobody knows.
get there we’d have to go to Moab, anyway, and Uncle You okay, slugger?”
Herb had said travel around the Colorado River I nodded, but didn’t stop looking. You know when
had been restricted. Mom wondered if there could you look at something long enough, how it seems
be the threat of a bomb there, and Uncle Herb said to move?
he hoped so. “Maybe if Moab went,” he said, “she Goose bumps shivered on my arms the whole
wouldn’t think it was Second Coming no more.” time we were there.
So Mom took me to Newspaper Rock instead. I
hung my arms over the fence while she told me the So that was something I could believe in. It was
pictographs there had been made probably cen- better, in a way, than all the true-life stories in
turies before Christ. Whoever had written on this Gramma’s magazines—all of them church—and
stone had stopped around 1300 A.D. No one knows way better than the Church News part of the news-
why they stopped. No one knows why they started. paper, which was the only part she ever kept.
Some of the shapes I recognized: men on horses, It was awesomely better than the news, which
deer, and buffalo (even though Utah never did have was the same all the time, anymore: Terrorist
buffalo; figure that). Others were strange, things I groups had stolen more bombs and were threaten-
couldn’t figure at all: rings carved around crosses, ing to nuke just about everybody. And they didn’t
circling like orbits around the hub of lost religions. even have the brains to nuke anyone important, so
A few were frightening, because they were you never knew where to be safe. Uncle Herb said
strange but also because they always seemed to have it was like sex in the ’90s, and wasn’t I glad I had-
their hands out, like they were reaching, reaching, n’t been born with two noses? I didn’t get it, but
and the hands always looked like claws on the he’s been that way since God was born, and even
crude canvas of the rock. worse after the PAL. I smiled anyway.
They looked like things that lived a long time My cousin Randy (who shared my desk in Car-
ago, way before Jesus, maybe, things that had son’s sixth-grade homeroom) called to tell me that
scared the hell out of some people and put the fear some kid had flipped out during recess when a
of—what? The fear of something into them, any- couple of guys from Mr. Kenyon’s class rigged a
way. holo of a bomb taking out the principal’s office.
I looked out around the place, beyond Newspa- Randy thought it was hysterical, but then Randy
per Rock. The rock was in a gully, and all around uses the word nuke to describe sex: “The good parts
us the stones rose up, red and orange. Sharp and version, Toddy. Your whole gut just goes boom.”
smooth. Barren, for miles. As though they had “Ha,” I said. “Like you know. You and Uncle
been sculpted in the gravity of an entirely different Herb just like the word.” But I admitted that it had
world, a House of Horrors world, then planted probably been a really good effect, and wished that
here and picked clean by the wind. I had been there to see it.

It’s funny how a word can change. I used to ’cause it sure didn’t have anything to do with the
think of that word, nuke, as the springboard to some prophets and angels and life-after-life-experience
of my favorite movies, and the key to my own save- stuff she usually read about.
the-world fantasies. James Bond Meets the Termi- She just smiled, long and sweet, and beamed up
nator Too. at them. The pride in her eyes at that time was,
Like, nobody really dared, you know? I think, as much for having finally surprised some
And then they did it: Let a little one go in Khar- laughter out of them as for her knowledge of a
toum. The whole city, gone. The reporters went thing they didn’t know.
wild but couldn’t get close enough for pictures. Now “Right down the way, between here and Bland-
we’re all supposed to be fair game. I wasn’t sure I ing,” she said. “Had to put something out there,
could believe all this, without real pictures and all, I guess. Since the uranium mines dried up, hasn’t
though I’d seen the flashes on TV, the little tracks been work for decent folk within hundreds of
on the satellite maps glowing black for each time miles.”
some place got hit. She patted Mother on the hand and got up.
Uncle Herb said that anybody could make those Herb went into the bathroom, chuckling. But
pictures, make up any old story they wanted to. Mother just sat still. The sports reporter on the
But the shots, close up, showed where things had tube said that the Celtics were on a hot streak; his
been, and the fissures that had opened along the voice was tinny on Gram’s TV. A flyer at the bot-
hot ground, leaving deep glowing lines, like bad tom of the picture came on, announcing in large
scratches infected with glow-in-the-dark pus. print that the president would address the nation
They always juxtaposed the hit shots with shots following the newscast.
of the skylines where the cities had stood. Like flip- Mom was still quiet.
ping a switch: there and gone, there and gone. “Mom, is it really Last Days, do you think?”
Maybe I couldn’t believe it because Gramma said I asked.
it was Armageddon, sitting in her chair during the She wouldn’t talk, just sat still on the couch, qui-
news. She said it every time. eter than she’d been all week. Gramma turned off
You wouldn’t think something like that could the TV and tuned in the radio to the Spoken Word.
happen more than once. So when we got back from She closed her eyes and listened, and I wondered
Newspaper Rock, I was even more surprised when what she saw within the world of her memories.
the Sunday news at 6:00 reported a hit in some The smile was still on her face.
town in Siberia I couldn’t pronounce, the one that The wheeze of plumbing banged through the
split the Mount of Olives, and one they found house, and Uncle Herb came out of the john and
(before it blew) right under the Smithsonian in into the living room, a paper he’d gotten at 7-Eleven
Washington, D.C. So it had to be Armageddon, tucked under his arm. Mamma looked up to him,
Gramma said: They’d attacked America. and her eyes reflected the magenta glow of the
“May be one in Moab, Ma,” said Uncle Herb, Southern Utah sunset.
mugging at her with a crazy grin. “Wrath a’ god vis- “In Blanding, Herb?” she said. “That’s only
ited on all those cow-town heathen artists colonies. 20 miles.”
Betcha.” Uncle Herb breathed a “Goddamn” because he’d
“More like to hit the UNSF,” Gramma said, fought them, during the war, and seen how insane
primly brushing a mote of dust from her skirt. some of them could be—crazy, by the way we reck-
“Underground Nuclear Storage Facility, United oned it—and there was no comfort in the desert
States Air Force.” between those 20 miles. He grinned at me before
“The what—?” Uncle Herb began, but then he he thought I could see this, see it in his eyes and the
and Mom both busted up laughing, and Uncle Herb pinching of his face that was halfway a grimace. He
asked where in the hell she’d heard about that, winked, but I had already seen.

And then Gramma was drawing herself up, the Then I saw myself as nothing; even the ash that
way a snake does before it strikes, and saying to him, had been my body was blown away by the wind.
“I won’t have that language in my house. That word I woke myself up, this time for real, and told
especially. You never say that word in my house.” myself I would never dream that dream again.
“Tell it to the president, Ma,” Uncle Herb said. But less than one week later, I again slept in a
“His house about got orbited and you’re worried dream and was awakened there by a bright light
about a few nasty words. Jesus.” above me. And though I’d promised myself I never
She looked at him with that kind of love that can would, I looked out the window anyway.
kill you and said nothing more. No one said any- This time, it wasn’t a bomb. It was a bright light,
thing more. It was quiet. but it didn’t hurt. It was radiant, like the sun seen
Quiet. through a prism in the soul. It was descending, and
I thought of the terrorists and wondered, briefly, in the center stood Jesus Christ.
if their language would look to us like the pic- This light was warm, and in the dream, it was
tographs we’d seen on the rock. I wondered if their that warmth that told me that I was in the presence
minds worked different than ours because of it. of God. Maybe not Gramma’s God or even Mom’s,
And I wondered what else had been here on the but the one who loved the little children. And I
earth, before the people of the rock had stopped remember thinking, “This is it, that’s it, it’s over,”
writing on it. but that felt pretty much okay, too. It wasn’t fall-
From the bathroom, the smell of Gramma’s stale out, or nuclear winter, and so far as I could see,
medicines made me think of the wind through the Jesus wasn’t hurting anybody on his way down. In
arroyo and the goosebumps that had raised as hard the way of dreams, I didn’t think He ever would.
as rocks on my flesh and wouldn’t go away. And that was just fine by me.
Bombs. I could believe in those. I had seen them After the news, Mom took me into the yard and
in my dreams. made me watch the sunset with her. She stood at
I only dreamed of them once. Once, I dreamed the fence and watched the sun go down, her fingers
I was sleeping, and a bright light outside my win- tight on my shoulder.
dow woke me. I looked out over the sill and saw it: She was crying.
a glaring cloud blooming on the horizon. Though I was about to ask her what was wrong, if it was
the sun hadn’t quite come up, the dawn was bright, Gram or that morning or maybe the news or (if the
hotter than a killing sun in the desert. I stood up bombs were too close) or anything. But she held up
on my bed and watched until the wind hit, which her hand, the way the teachers do in school, telling
wasn’t more than a second or two. us to hush, hush.
It was almost pretty. I looked out beyond the fence. From where we
Then the angels came. They were like the tree- stood, so high on Peter’s Hill, I could turn in a cir-
things on the rock, but with kinder faces. cle and see everything: mountains, fields, and
As they took me up (as Gramma said they some- desert, almost all at once.
day would), I watched that bright hot ball make The winter wheat was crimson, the sun just a
the dust of the earth walk and talk. I looked back crescent of vibrant orange over the horizon. Beyond
to see it turn all I had known or ever would have the wheat tips, there was the desert, red earth and
known into a world of white, just white. And I red rock. I could see where the riverbeds had dried
didn’t even turn into salt, like Lot’s wife. I know, out from the summer before: this far away, the dry
because I heard, in my own ears, a chorus of angels beds were little more than cracks in the earth.
screaming their hosannas above a buzz of wildly Behind me, the La Sals slept in a purplish hump,
dancing molecules as it burned the flesh of this the sunset misting around their base. I thought
world, of my own body, right off my bones. about the legends I had learned in school, that said

that trees had once been people; and I wondered if The last of the light had reflected on the win-
maybe those mountains had once been dragons dows of Gramma’s house, making it blaze; but even
who’d stayed too long in one place and been caught that had dwindled now, and I could see Gramma
in some enchantment, like the rock. I knew the inside, like a shadow, sitting quiet in her chair and
Indians who lived there could believe that; I moving to the slow sway of the choir’s voices on the
thought I could believe it, too. radio, singing “Oh, My Father,” low and sweet.
“Momma?” I asked. We could hear the words, like a whisper on the
She reached out then, put her hand on my head wind, running through the wheat; it swept up and
as though to ruffle the hair there; instead, she by us and touched our heads, and the sigh of it
pulled me close and bent down to brush her lips moved in our hair. I thought of my other dream,
against my forehead. the one of Jesus coming, and saw goosebumps rise
“What is it, Toddy?” she asked against my skin, on my mother’s arms like mountains bursting up
though her eyes were still on the dying sunset. on a world seen through a giant’s microscope.
“How many angels can dance on the head of a I looked up to tell her about that dream, but
pin?” I asked. then she hugged me, held me tight enough to make
“How many—?” she said, and then she laughed. small white dots swim on my eyes. When she stood
There wasn’t much fun in it, and her eyes didn’t up again, I didn’t say anything, just took her hand
light up the way they usually did when she really and smiled.
thought something was funny. But she did smile, The sweetness of the wind was like a blessing on
and she did ruffle my hair then. “The things you us. We went inside, and it followed, its scent like
ask,” she said. the coming of a cleansing rain.
She straightened up once more to scan the hori-
zon. The sun had all but disappeared; small, brilliant Virginia Baker writes for a living as the president of
shoots of its last light shone through the swaying Indigo Ink, a marketing and sales content-development
stalks of the wheat. Above us, the moon was begin- company based in Utah. For fun, she writes fiction
ning to show, a rime of frost high over our heads, a and adopts those in need of rescue: friends, parrots, cats,
sliver in the sky, like broken silver coming slowly and (so far) just one child from Russia. Born in Ger-
together. many and raised around the world as an army brat,
She looked out there so long, I wondered what she is a graduate of BYU with a B.S. in Near Eastern
she saw. Dragons in the mountains? Old riverbeds? Studies and an M.A. in English.
Did she see the Horse’s Head, its face staring out at
us from smack in the middle of Blue Mountain,
where the pines had fallen to shape a perfect sil-
houette, even down to the blaze that stretched from
the forelock to the nose?
I looked around and thought it could be any-
thing: Dusk had brought out that quality of light
I’ve seen only in the West, that raises each stone,
each blade of grass, to its own degree of exaltation,
each one extending a singular sort of grace.
Then I looked up at her eyes and I knew. She
saw what I had seen in my dream: the molecules,
charging the air, the whole world; filling it with a
swarm of little suns, like bees, the enormous hum
of their buzzing like the sound of angels’ wings and
the singing of their hosannas.

P O E T R Y E S S A Y
Umbilical Cord On Writing “Umbilical Cord”

You, empty-bellied, press against my flesh By Darlene Young
To feel this tiny future man of God
Flexing tiny legs, testing the walls This poem was much longer originally. I kept
Of a quart-sized world of warm and wet. feeling, though, that it wanted to be a sonnet. Try-
ing to make it into a sonnet forced me to pare it
All life he drinks direct through twisted cord, down and tighten it up, which was good. One ver-
Source of constant nourishment through me; sion had a good rhyme scheme (you can see a rem-
Fast it holds, despite his testing squirms, nant of it if you swap wet with warm in the first
Building a defense from future harm. stanza to rhyme with harm in the second), but in
the end I liked the sound better this way, and I was
There! Your palm is humming from his kick able to get more meaning, I think, once I let myself
But now you move away and fall asleep . . . abandon the rhyme. A more skilled poet could
Soon your hands will press against his head have pulled it off, though.
While I pray empty-bellied on a pew That same line in the first stanza was originally
“pint-sized universe,” but quart and world sound so
Flesh on flesh, you’ll make the cord of life— good together. The second line of the second stanza
Antibody strength for future fights originally said, “Source of constant nourishment, it
holds,” but I needed to get the “through me” in
May it hold fast. there to contrast with the other cord mentioned
later. I didn’t want this to be a whiney “I don’t have
—Darlene Young the priesthood” poem but rather an interweaving
of contrasting roles that parents take in the nour-
ishment of a soul. I originally mentioned the word
antibody in descriptions of both cords, but I
decided that “defense from future harm” was a little
more subtle while still allowing the later mention
of antibodies to feel like an echo.
The last line of the fourth stanza was originally
“while I sit empty-bellied on a pew.” Again, that
sounded a little too much like I was complaining
about not getting to stand in the circle or some-
thing. The “pray” works better, also, because I
wanted to express the fear a mother has about her
child’s future “kicks” and “tests” (adolescence, for
example) and the longing for assurance that some
sort of spiritual connection to God will hold fast
through the child’s trying times. For this reason,
too, I just couldn’t get rid of the last line, although
it obviously breaks form.
It may sound weird for a palm to “hum,” but I
was thinking of what happens when you are touch-
ing something that is hit hard—a railing or some-
thing—and I wanted to compare the impact with

the jolt of an electrical connection. I wanted to P O E T R Y

convey the sense of flow and connection through-
out this poem. Also, “hum” communicates to me a Fire
shock that is happy.
I meant the line “But now you move away and The grates are cold
fall asleep” to convey the contrast between the mar- Leaves hit like hail
veling expectant mother and the husband who The wailing sound
can’t really understand the wonder of carrying life. Of the wind comes down.
I wanted to show that neither parent fully under- The inside chimney
stands the connecting experience that the other Like a pipe, tunes up
engages in. I think that this line needs a little work, And rattles vines
maybe, so that it doesn’t sound so bleak. In the tinny cup.
I’m still not completely satisfied with this poem.
For example, I wish I could find a better word for The threshold’s buried under gold
“fights” at the end. But maybe it works. I’m actu- And feathered webs blow all apart.
ally never fully satisfied with any poem, but there The storm of winter whispers down
just comes a time when I have to let it go—like let- The aerie ways of every heart.
ting your child leave home when there’s nothing
more to be done for him. Come, warm the fire and sit with me
Inside behind the double pane.
Darlene Young studied English and humanities edu- Blow on the hearth and stir the coal
cation at BYU and worked for a few years as a tech- That kindles flowers of hot blue flame.
nical writer. Now she lives in Pocatello, Idaho, with Pray, the lancet flies, the crow will rest
her very supportive husband and three sons. She The snuff of cedar bark will burn
served for a while as secretary for the AML. She looks Through fibers of our murky nest
forward to the time each day when the kids are nap- The glow of candles shades the breast
ping and she can boot up and join the great conversa- While our love will take its season’s turn.
tions going on through AML-List.
Come, love, come be alive with me
While every scent blows in the grate
With smiles, take lily leaves and churn
The season’s love that knows no harm
That sighs like willows on the lawn
And pulls the sky upon us, warm,
Come, love, be held by winter’s arm.
—Marilyn Brown

R E V I E W S wry exuberance that one might expect from an aca-

demic who’s looking back at his life and has figured
out he has nothing to prove anymore—it’s just time
The Double Life of a Mormon Essayist: to laugh about everything and celebrate a little.
Tom Plummer Writing for or about Second Wind is organized in four parts, reflecting
different stages in the process of growing older, plus
Mormons (but Not Both) an introduction. The introduction is written by
A review of Tom Plummer’s Second Wind: Varia- Louise Plummer, award-winning author of young
tions on a Theme of Growing Older (Shadow adult literature and Tom’s wife. The bulk of the
Mountain Press, 2000) and Waltzing to a Different book that follows plays like a symphony that achieves
Strummer (Bookcraft, 2002) a rhythm quite extraordinary for such a casual
Reviewed by Laraine Wilkins work. With a mix of personal essays short and long,
lists, letters, conversations, and even a recitation,
With Second Wind: Variations on a Theme of Plummer achieves no small feat in a small space.
Growing Older (2000) and Waltzing to a Different Although some essays border on sentimentality,
Strummer (2002), Plummer has published four and a few end a little too abruptly, the book man-
books of personal essays to date. The first, Eating ages to transform everyday experience into some-
Chocolates and Dancing in the Kitchen (1998), won thing quite profound. “Signs and Symptoms” begins
the AML’s award for personal essay; the second, with anecdotes about shoes: the Doc Martens store
Don’t Bite Me, I’m Santa Claus (1999), appeared he shops with his son, and the slippers he unwit-
only a year later. At the rate of almost a book a year tingly wears to go out to eat. He shows the practi-
now, one might expect to see a dozen works from cal applications of knowing the works of dead
him in the next decade. What those works look like white males by quoting Goethe and his contempo-
could be different from the humor that has marked rary, the German philosopher-writer Jean Paul, on
the quality of Plummer’s writing thus far. In con- the status of old men. The next piece switches gears
sidering these two works together, I detect a shift in in the form of “a list compiled by Tom and Louise
tone from the witty to the contemplative. Perhaps and Al and Ginny over light supper at the Urban
Plummer is just interested in writing something a Bistro.” Such a smorgasbord of styles is never irri-
little different. But whether by author’s choice or tating; it’s underplayed and helps keep things fresh.
publisher’s decree, the audience for these works Part two is “Separation and Reunion” and includes
seems to be part of the shift. The change raises one piece with the titillating title “You Aren’t Sup-
some interesting questions about the status of the posed to Smell the Same.” One of my personal
personal essay in Mormon literature, which I hope favorite pieces is in Part three’s “Lamentation and
will be addressed by the end of my review. Defiance—A Lament for Two Aging Voices.” It is a
In Second Wind, Plummer assembles a highly sort of poem meant to be read aloud, “preferably by
readable assortment of personal essays that weave two people in their mid-fifties or older.” It recites a
together stories and observations about life at vari- litany of ailments from A to Z, with banal cries of
ous stages. The overriding tone of the stories is woe punctuating the scientific prose from a med-
funny. These are the kinds of stories that even my ical handbook. It’s the perfect piece for a ward or
prepubescent daughter can laugh at. From the per- family reunion talent show. Another of my favorites
spective of a small child to that of a middle-aged is “Reflections on Conducting My Virtual Funeral.”
man facing his midlife crisis, from the view of a I’ve never thought about my own funeral—perhaps
man approaching his retirement years to observa- it’s a guy thing (girls dream about their perfect
tions about his father’s untimely death, Plummer wedding).
explores the theme of aging from multiple perspec- In spite of the unflagging delightful humor,
tives. He achieves a tone that reflects the kind of Plummer is also able to write poignantly. One of

the most memorable prose moments for me is in the tome, explaining that it was an answer to a friend’s
essay about a singing canary from Tom and Louise’s question posed in 1992. In the face of a brain
graduate school years in Cambridge, Massachu- tumor, Plummer inevitably began to take stock of
setts. “Living with Reality” tells the story of Fang, his life and make changes. The friend’s question
the bird that failed to thrive once he arrived home was this: “How do you manage to stay changed?”
from the pet store. After Louise lost interest in the Plummer’s short answer is this: “I’ve had to reedu-
bird that refused to sing, his talons began to fall off cate myself.” More overtly religious than Second
one by one as Tom watched the bird slowly fade Wind, this book is an account of the searching that
from life. Plummer continues: “One morning I brings him to a process of “reconnecting with ances-
awoke to silence. Fang was not thumping around as tors; locating past friends; putting [him]self in har-
usual. I found him on his back, stumps up. I gen- mony with God and his world; laying anger to rest;
tly put him in a brown lunch bag and buried him [. . .] striving to become one with God, his chil-
at the corner of the apartment building just behind dren, and his world, and becoming whole with
the sandbox. Then I went to Louise, who was still [him]self, coming to at-one-ment.”
in bed. ‘Fang died,’ I said. ‘I buried him out by the The essay that follows, “Do You Just Laugh All
sandbox.’ My voice broke. Louise held me for a the Time?” suggests that it is not necessarily the
while until I felt better. She didn’t cry though.” The brain tumor that has Plummer writing more
image of the short-lived pet bird on its back with soberly. It is the need for variety. He explains: “It’s
stumps in the air continues to stay with me. It’s the clear to me that if we just laughed all the time, we
author’s tender moments of vulnerability, like this would laugh while we ate, spitting food all over the
one, that lend the book its greatest appeal. table; we’d laugh when we brushed our teeth, drool-
The strongest single piece of the book is in the ing toothpaste down our chins; and we’d laugh our-
fourth and last section, “Conciliation.” The essay selves sick at funerals.” Of course, his desire for a
“Above the Canopy of Stars” is the longest in the bit of sobriety is expressed in rather humorous
collection and suitably appears next to last. It is the terms, but he successfully makes the shift by quot-
most overtly religious, and it affirms faith in a way ing Nietzsche: “‘Inverse cripples,’ the philosopher
that highlights the purpose of the book as a whole. Friedrich Nietzsche calls them: people who get so
Plummer begins with stories of old people who attached to doing one thing, who are so locked into
reassure him of the resilience of the spirit that is a routine, so accustomed to using one hand, one
possible in later life. But he also recounts story after foot, one ear that the whole body becomes that one
story of grief and pain, of his own distress in mid- part—a hand or a foot or an eye.” Making the con-
life and the way out he found through a New Tes- nection to Paul’s discourse in Corinthians about
tament scripture. Finally, Plummer summarizes the the body needing all its various parts would be almost
power stories and words hold for him: “I cling to predictable at this point. But Plummer restrains him-
their story and others like it. I cling to the story of self. Instead he tells stories about his students, his
the man who begs Jesus to fill in the gaps of his fishing buddies, and invokes eating as a metaphor
unbelief. I cling to the words of Job: ‘I know that of achieving a necessary variety in life. The discus-
my redeemer liveth’ (Job 19:25). I cling to these sion of Paul doesn’t appear until a much later essay,
because I know that when I face the last moments “They’re My Gifts, I’m Afraid.” The choice to quote
of my life, I will be weak.” Unwittingly, perhaps, from the unfamiliar translation in the New English
Plummer describes the power of his own book. The Bible lends a wonderful touch. But it also forges a
craft of storytelling is his forte; his are stories to tie to the earlier discussion of Nietzsche and lets the
cling to. attentive reader consider the connections between
The more poignant storytelling is continued in “inverse cripples” and the Christian community.
Waltzing to a Different Strummer. Plummer has his With these essays, Plummer achieves a pathos
reasons for maintaining a more serious mood in this that is not quite so available in his earlier work.

I cried more than I laughed. The essay “Finding experience, while at the same time allowing them a
Paths to At-one-ment” reminded me of my own peek at how Mormons might appear to “outsiders.”
guilt in neglecting those who have previously I’m not sure “outsiders” would be receptive to a
found reason to connect with me, especially older style that refuses to explain; it comes off as patron-
relatives. And in “Christ’s Love for Each Person,” izing. Let me cite an example. Plummer’s humor is
the story of Patrick, the difficult teenaged son of particularly well wrought in the touching, hilarious
some friends, who decided to go on a mission but story about the woman whose sister died and was
returned early in a state of frustration and anger, is about to be buried without her having a chance to
particularly heartwrenching. His unexpected reunion say good-bye. The confusions of the funeral atten-
with his family tells something of the reconciliation dees might have been more readily explained if a
of children estranged from heavenly parents. This is slight but significant difference in traditional Mor-
perhaps the overriding theme of this book, for it mon services had been described as specifically
ends with the essay about Tom’s reconciliation with Mormon rather than as generically “different.” If
his own sons in “The Hearts of the Fathers.” The Plummer is serving as the woman’s “clergyman,”
experience of an unexpected encounter with the why not call him a Mormon bishop? Such examples
dentist on the same day as his son Sam leads him to abound in Second Wind. Plummer told me himself
consider the symbolic connection with his father one time that it’s a good idea not to let people know
through the unlikely object of a razor. Passing on you’re Mormon, or at least don’t wear it on your
the razor from one generation to another becomes sleeve; he could tell stories. However, it seems to me
a symbol of reconciliation for him. that effacing one’s Mormonness in stories of a per-
The essays in Waltzing could be sacrament-meet- sonal nature is at least unnecessary, at worst con-
ing talks. One would be hard-pressed to use the fusing. And if you have stories to tell, why not do
essays from Second Wind in church meetings, mainly it here? If Plummer mentions Utah, he may as well
because of their humor. But the effacement of mention he’s Mormon. He can still reach a wider
Mormonism in Second Wind leaves me wondering audience. Besides, it could be fashionable to be
about the possibilities for achieving broader recog- Mormon these days—just ask Mitt Romney fans.
nition of the Mormon experience with an audience Waltzing, on the other hand, is designed to reach
that appreciates the experience of the divine as well an exclusively Mormon audience. Published by Book-
as of the comical. There could be a certain value in craft, the arm of Deseret Book aimed for Mormons,
being a “fool for God,” but Plummer does not want the book also doesn’t mention Mormonism but is
that playfulness to be associated with his Mormon- full of Mormon-specific language. References like
ism. Perhaps this is more a function of the publish- “bishop,” “home teaching,” “President Spencer W.
ing company. Shadow Mountain Press is billed as Kimball,” “Ensign,” and “Satan’s plan” can, if left
“the national trade publishing and music imprint unexplained, only be understood by Mormons.
of Deseret Book Company” that produces books of These are clearly essays for the insider. But perhaps
general interest. Perhaps this explains why Plummer these texts can have universal appeal. Such a reach-
never uses the word Mormon in his more humorous ing for a broader audience would require some
work, in spite of the fact that he mentions growing explanatory remarks. Perhaps the editors were too
up and later settling in Salt Lake City, taking trips weary over the idea of including a massive section
across the country to Utah for conference, attend- of footnotes. Figuring out which terms need expla-
ing the University of Utah, and working at nation and which don’t might be even more weari-
Brigham Young University as chair of the humani- some. But Plummer seems close to achieving it in
ties department. Second Wind, in the essay that most closely resembles
I find this effacement technique to be downright those of Waltzing. His best essay in Second Wind,
irritating. It allows Mormon readers to be self- the most overtly religious, is also the most touch-
congratulatory at knowing the tradition behind the ing. In it, he manages to explain that a mission is

what brought him to live in Europe for thirty A Spy in Zion Is Undone
months, though this fact was omitted in an earlier
piece in which he describes traveling with his A review of Jeff Call’s Mormonville (Cedar Fort,
provincial parents when they came to pick him up 2002)
after his long stay in Austria. Can there be room to Reviewed by Jeffrey Needle
be playful as well as profound in recounting the
stories that come out of religiously motivated expe- Mormonville is a winner of the Marilyn Brown
rience? I hope someday someone will be brave Novel Award, an honor awarded by the Association
enough to try it more consistently from a Mormon for Mormon Letters. High praise, indeed, for a first
point of view. novel. And, in fact, this is a pretty good book. And
Plummer is perhaps forging new paths for the Jeff Call is a very good writer.
personal essay in Mormon literature. If I had to Mormonville tells the story of Luke Manning, an
make a choice, I would say that the essays in Waltz- arrogant, self-assured investigative reporter for the
ing are much stronger. But Second Wind is down- New York Post. At the top of his game, Manning is
right hilarious and would probably make a better summoned to the office of Jack Kilborn, vice pres-
gift for members of my family. If Eugene England ident of a huge publishing empire. Kilborn wants
was ponderous and Mary Lythgoe Bradford confes- to hire Luke to do a special one-year project: relo-
sional, then Plummer falls somewhere in between, cate to Utah, infiltrate the Mormons, and produce
with a distinctive sense of humor thrown into the a scathing exposé of their practices and beliefs. He
mix. Elouise Bell might have been his tutor on would be paid lots of money and have a relatively
the humor front, but she seems to operate more free hand in the work. Luke accepts the challenge
in the function of cultural critic; more likely his and soon finds himself in the small town of Hela-
wife Louise influences his style. Perhaps the more man, where he will engage his neighbors and get
restrained manner in Waltzing is a defensive the dirt on the Mormon Church.
gesture; Plummer may want people to know he has His neighbors welcome him and quickly integrate
other sides to him as well. But somewhere in him into the life of the Church. In particular, his
between his humor and his religion, there may be a closest neighbors, Ben and Stacie Kimball and their
collection of essays waiting to be born that manages children, embrace Luke and bring him into their
to reconcile both dimensions of his writing to show circle. One of the Kimball children, oddly named
the wider world that committed Mormons can Brooklyn, quickly becomes a favorite of Luke’s.
write simultaneously for the outside world and for Luke’s resolve to produce the kind of scandal-
their own. filled broadside required of his employer runs head-
on into the reality of the Mormon people he meets.
Laraine Wilkins lives in the Boston area with her And when Hayley, a stunning returned mission-
thirteen-year-old daughter and is in a Ph.D. program ary, enters his life, Luke realizes that Kilborn’s cru-
for German literature at Harvard University. She sade to uncover the evils of Mormonism isn’t his
earned B.A. and M.A. degrees from Brigham Young crusade.
University and is interested in film and media stud- Author Jeff Call catches the various moods of the
ies. Idaho Falls, Idaho, is her hometown, but she characters perfectly. As a born-and-bred New Yorker
expects to return to Salt Lake City when graduate myself, I was delighted with Call’s characterizations
school has finished with her. of Luke’s discussions with the Mormons. During
Luke’s first days in Helaman, several neighbors
have appeared at his doorstep, and he’s about had it
with these folks:
While eating cold cereal, he was startled by
a knock on the door. Luke was unshaven and

tired of the constant interruptions. A smiling, “I don’t think so,” Stacie replied. “Why?”
middle-aged woman holding a large paper “I know I know him from somewhere.”
sack stood on the doorstep. Luke was not in “Maybe you knew him from the pre-exis-
the mood. tence,” Stacie said.
“Good morning,” the woman said brightly. Sister Fidrych was sure she had seen him
“I hope I didn’t disturb you.” since then. She was determined to get to the
“Oh, not at all,” Luke replied, rubbing bottom of it. (90)
his eyes. “I love to have visitors on Sunday
mornings.” Poor Sister Fidrych. Was Stacie being sarcastic in
Not appearing to hear the sarcasm in his her comment? Probably. But Sister Fidrych never
voice, she continued. seems to notice this.
(Incidentally, the absence of the article “a,”
“I’m Monica McGown, president of the
noted above, is but one of the editing errors that
Ward Welcoming Committee.”
should have been caught during production. Other
“Luke Manning,” he replied, “president of errors include the misspelling of Shirley MacLaine’s
the Leave Me Alone Committee.” name and the maddening “Revelations” for the last
Sister McGown’s smile froze. “I under- book of the Bible, my pet peeve.)
stand you just moved in and wanted to wel- Call demonstrates a wonderful understanding of
come you to the neighborhood. You wouldn’t a typical Mormon ward in Mormonville (the title
by chance be LDS?” Luke decides to give his forthcoming book). Read-
“No,” Luke said, “but I once tried LSD.” ers are delighted at how Luke, not yet baptized, gets
Sister McGown glared at him. “Just a sucked into the Mormon dynamo that is a ward.
hunch—you don’t have many friends, do He finds himself helping to teach Primary (how did
you?” (29) this happen?), shoveling snow, home teaching—
well, you get it; he’s part of the group now. Little do
Ah, the delights of a hard-shelled New Yorker they know that he’s really a phony, out to infiltrate
coping with a syrupy Utah Mormon! Call catches their society and reveal all their warts to the read-
the nuances just right, and such conversations are ing world.
frequent and hilarious. Call is careful to avoid simplistic situations,
Call has a talent for irony that is, well, delicious. where the answers to questions come easily and
Witness the following. Sister Fidrych, please note, completely. That is, until the last few chapters. And
is one of those nosy busy-bodies that seems to pop- here, I will say, I was just flattened. I enjoyed every
ulate every church house in existence: chapter and anxiously looked forward to getting
During sacrament meeting, Sister Fidrych back to the reading, until the final chapters. There,
was racking her brain. Luke looked so famil- Call, in effect, changes the dynamic in a way that
iar, but she couldn’t figure out why. It was shocked and disappointed me. As if driven by some
beginning to eat at her. She was the type of desire to end the project and tie up loose ends, he
woman who would go into a bookstore and invents situations that are as unbelievable as the rest
read the last page of book [sic] just so she of the book was believable. For the life of me,
could tell people what happened. She couldn’t I can’t figure out why he did this.
stand not knowing everything. Before going Indeed, loose ends aren’t always tied up. There
into Relief Society, she cornered Stacie by the aren’t always simple answers to questions, neat
water fountain. solutions to problems. These uncertainties charac-
“Did Luke ever work at Disneyland, by terize Luke’s immersion into Mormonism. And, in
chance?” Sister Fidrych asked. my opinion, they are right on target. When faced
with the death of a child, Luke struggles with

understanding how God could allow this, and no there to report? How creative can one get before
simple answer is forthcoming. This is just how it one runs out of ideas?
should be. Dear Hearts, Gentle People is a collection of thirty
So why did Call change direction at the end of columns that appeared in his newspaper from 1997
the book? I have no idea. It made the finishing to 1999. They are gathered around the common
reading very tough. While I could have accepted theme of looking for the good in all people.
most of the book as a realistic picture, the end of Is this particularly Mormon? Consider the fol-
the book just fell flat, ruining what should have lowing:
been a wonderful read. It is our duty and calling, as ministers of
But I must balance my final disappointment the same salvation and Gospel, to gather every
with the enjoyment of the rest of this book, and item of truth and reject every error. Whether
based on this, I do recommend you give it a read. a truth be found with professed infidels, or
Perhaps you won’t react the same way I did to the with the Universalists, or the Church of Rome,
ending. Maybe you think that there are answers to or the Methodists, the Church of England,
every question and that folks really do live happily the Presbyterians, the Baptists, the Quakers, the
ever after, but I don’t. Maybe my New York cyni- Shakers, or any other of the various and numer-
cism? I don’t know. ous different sects and parties, all of whom
I hope Jeff Call continues writing fiction. (By have more or less truth, it is the business of
profession, he’s a sports writer for the Deseret News, the Elders of this Church (Jesus, their Elder
and this interest in sports comes through in this Brother, being at their head) to gather up all
book.) But I also hope he’ll be in less of a hurry to the truths in the world pertaining to life and
finish his next book, allowing the dynamic of the salvation, to the Gospel we preach—to the
story to play out consistently, avoiding a jarring sciences, and to philosophy, wherever it may
conclusion that ill befits such a fine writer. be found in every nation, kindred, tongue,
and people and bring it to Zion. (Discourses of
Jeff Needle lives in southern California with his books Brigham Young, 248)
and his computer and spends far too much time read-
ing. A 2001 AML award winner, he has written One of the unique teachings of the Restoration
numerous reviews that have appeared in IRREANTUM has to do with what Joseph Smith called “the Light
and online on AML-List. A self-described Jewish Gen- of Christ.” This is a truth rather unique to Mor-
tile, he remains on the outskirts of Zion, despite the monism, as an explicitly stated phenomenon. The
elders’ best efforts to get him under the water. Encyclopedia of Mormonism has this to say: “The
Light of Christ refers to the spiritual power that
emanates from God to fill the immensity of space
Finding the Good in All People and enlightens every man, woman, and child.”
It goes on to describe the Light of Christ as an
A review of Jerry E. Johnston’s Dear Hearts, Gentle “important manifestation of God’s goodness and
People (Quiet Vision Publishing, 2002) being.”
Reviewed by Jeffrey Needle Bruce R. McConkie is even more explicit in his
Mormon Doctrine: “It is because of the light of
Jerry Johnston is a religion columnist for the Christ that all men know good from evil and enjoy
Deseret News. Living outside Zion, I don’t get to the guidance of what is called conscience. (Moro.
read his columns as they appear in print. One 7:12–19.) It is the Spirit by means of which God is
might wonder just what a religion columnist, writ- omnipresent; it is the light which enables Christ to
ing for a Church-owned newspaper, might have to be in all things, and through all things, and round
say week after week. How much Church news is about all things. It gives life to all things, is the law

by which they are governed, and the power of God “Dave and me.” A professional writer, and a good
is manifest through it. (D. & C. 88:6–13.)” editor, should never allow something like this. And
So, is this light present only in Mormons? Of later in the note, we have this: “This is the legacy,
course not. And Johnston illustrates this in this col- you get when you grow up in Brigham City.” Again,
lection of essays, whose subjects range from writers and editors ought to know how to use com-
Mother Teresa to C. S. Lewis to King Hussein of mas better than this.
Jordan. Such errors occur only in that section that didn’t
Some of his columns involve people we’ve never pass through the watchful eyes of editors at Deseret
heard of, people who have touched his life in a way News, and this speaks well for the editors who
that demonstrates the pervasiveness of the Light of know their stuff. As one who worked as an editor
Christ in the hearts of mankind. A Catholic priest many years ago, I know how difficult it can be to
who allows him to sing, albeit badly, at a Christmas work through the writing deficits of otherwise
service; a high school senior who overcame the lim- good writers. But these problems do not detract
itations of Down’s syndrome to gain his diploma, from the book. The central message is there—God
against all odds; ordinary people who achieve extra- has blessed all of humanity with the Light of
ordinary things. Christ. To be sure, some shine brighter than others.
I was particularly moved by the essay on Moses It is so easy to dismiss the good in someone like
Hogan. The idea of an African-American leading Joseph Cardinal Bernardin (how happy I was to see
the Tabernacle Choir in a selection of soul music the name expressed correctly, with “Cardinal”
makes me wonder, as did Johnston, whether you between the first and last names!) simply because
can get real soul out of a rather conventional choir. he promotes a version of Christianity in disagree-
And what, exactly, is soul? How does one transcend ment with the Restoration. Johnston reminds us
the barriers of race, culture, and tradition and find that God’s good radiates through every person. And
a place of mutual appreciation and understanding? we ought to always be open to the good that they,
These are important questions. as fellow travelers on this rugged earth, may wish
Admittedly, the essays in this book focus on the to share.
good. And we all know that no person is purely good. To be fair to the reader, I suspect that Johnston’s
But Johnston’s purpose is not to elevate any one essays have more impact as they are read over a
person but rather explore a common spirit that tran- period of time. When one reviews a collection such
scends denominational boundaries and fills the earth as this, there’s always the danger of becoming bored
with the possibility of peace and understanding. with repetition and overlapping expressions. But
We may safely leave the icon busting to such as these essays were chosen wisely. They pursue a com-
Christopher Hitchens, who is perfectly able to knock mon theme, and yet express this theme from many
such icons as Mother Teresa off her pedestal. Those viewpoints.
who know Hitchens’s work know that he goes out Brother Brigham would have been proud of
of his way to find the evil in those placed on Brother Jerry:
pedestals by society. And if Johnston were placing “Mormonism,” so-called, embraces every prin-
such people on pedestals, I would be critical. Instead, ciple pertaining to life and salvation, for time
they all, from the famous to the remote, come across and eternity. No matter who has it. If the infi-
as just folk, which makes them, and their goodness, del has got truth it belongs to “Mormonism.”
approachable and worthy of emulation. The truth and sound doctrine possessed by
I would be remiss in my duties if I did not report the sectarian world, and they have a great deal,
two small irritations, both in the author’s note: all belong to this Church. As for their moral-
“When we were kids, in fact, Mother began groom- ity, many of them are, morally, just as good as
ing Dave and I to be the next Everly Brothers.” I’m we are. All that is good, lovely, and praisewor-
guessing the Everly Brothers would have known it’s thy belongs to this Church and Kingdom.

“Mormonism” includes all truth. There is no tell themselves; we would just be two people going
truth but what belongs to the Gospel. It is life, out. But things aren’t that easy, and the holiday
eternal life; it is bliss; it is the fulness of all atmosphere degenerates into arguing and acrimony
things in the gods and in the eternities of the about everything—except what actually happened.
gods. (Discourses of Brigham Young, 3) The bickering is funny and nauseatingly familiar,
but these two are just so stupid and unaware of
If the idea of finding the good can better be themselves and each other that it’s very hard to care
digested in small doses, then this book fits the bill. about them. If you met them in real life, you would
It takes only a few minutes to read each essay. You run as fast as you could in the opposite direction
can pick and choose those you find most interest- (I suppose Samuelsen would say that’s the point).
ing, but don’t risk missing some moving stories The next segment, “Pizza and a Movie,” has
about people less familiar. Charlene and Courtney in their apartment watch-
Johnston is to be commended for his forwarding television while their roommates are off on a
looking optimism. In a time of wars and rumors of group date (that famous Mormon courting innova-
wars, we do well to remember that the Light of tion). They eat pizza and veg out on old movies
Christ continues to shine in dark places. For this (“Road House! Two hours of Patrick Swayze with-
we can be very thankful. out his shirt on!”) and MTV’s Dismissed, a show
largely about sex and rejection. Charlene is sanguine
College-Aged Attitudes toward Sexuality about her lack of marriage prospects (“I’m going to
work and get a house and lots of cats”). Courtney
A review of Peculiarities, a play by Eric Samuelsen is wistfully romantic and, as we learn, terribly lonely.
Reviewed by R. W. Rasband They wonder what “it” looks like live (“I’ve seen
statues and changed my little brother’s diaper, but
People are never stranger than when they are as for actually seeing one—I’ve heard it gets bigger
involved with sex—even Mormons—and much just before, you know”). Charlene says she intends
comedy (and tragedy) can follow. Peculiarities, a to stay “pure and all that stuff ” but would love to
new play by Brigham Young University professor of “feel what it’s like, just once.” Courtney struggles to
theater Eric Samuelsen, debuted in October 2002 come to terms with her impending spinsterhood
at the Villa Theater in Springville, Utah, and will (as she sees it). Samuelsen is greatly gifted with dia-
hopefully be restaged elsewhere in the future. If it logue; his words sound entirely natural and sponta-
were a movie, it probably would get a PG-13 rat- neous. It’s only when you examine them that you
ing; there’s no cursing or gratuitous language, but it can see how carefully wrought they are. He explores
gets you thinking with its provocative dialogue and with great tenderness the painful situation in which
take on that seemingly most dangerous subject for these “good girls” find themselves. It’s an extraordi-
Mormon audiences and artists. narily compassionate piece.
The play is made up of four separate but inter- “Temps” takes us along in a carpool with Alexis
locking tales. The locale is obviously Utah Valley. and Jason. She is a young wife and mother; he is a
The characters in the play are students, probably single, slightly older working stiff. They both have
from BYU. clerical jobs under the petty tyrant Rita. They talk
“Tahoe,” the first segment we see, is for me the about popular music; he loves Nirvana, she has a
weakest. Ted and Kendra are driving across the guilty fondness for mellow ’70s rock. Gradually we
bleak Nevada desert, returning from a weekend learn her life has become constricted beyond all
spent at the resort of the title. They think they have measure. Her husband is totally wrapped up in his
discovered a loophole, a way they can have sex and dissertation and ignores her entirely. Her toddler
deny they have done anything wrong. If we weren’t demands every moment of her attention once she
Church members, it wouldn’t be a big deal, they gets home. Her “crappy job” is actually the one thing

to which she looks forward. Jason’s wry advice: very entertaining. It’s frequently laugh-out-loud
“This too shall pass. It’s like home teaching. If you hilarious. Eric Samuelsen has a cold eye, a warm
thought you had to do it for the rest of your life, heart, and a sharp mind (and tongue). This play is
you would go crazy, but if you think of it as only a searching inventory of our attitudes toward sexu-
temporary, well . . .” He thinks she’s great. It ality. One can imagine the apartment bull sessions
becomes clear that he wants her but would never that would follow a viewing of this play. And I think
push the situation. She can see how he feels and this kind of candid discussion would be very healthy.
responds in a joking, bantering way. The whole
thing is a skillfully written exercise in sexual ten-
sion, a portrait of two unhappy people fumblingly Two Views on Out of Step
trying to comfort each other without it going too A film directed by Ryan Little
far. “Temps” is peculiarly sad, a study in love, frus- Produced by Cary Derbidge and Kenneth Marler
tration, and loss. Screenplay by Michael Buster, Willow Leigh Jones,
The most dangerous segment of the play is and Nikki Ann Schmutz
“NCMO,” an abbreviation for “noncommittal DVD released 2002 by Thomson Productions, Inc.
make-out.” One would have to say that this is
about a sadomasochistic relationship in a discreetly Best LDS Film since Dutcher?
LDS way. A suggested theme song would be
“Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. Kim and Trent both By Preston Hunter
have serious significant others but meet regularly in
her apartment and have everything except actual The newly released Out of Step DVD (or video)
intercourse. Kim says, “I’m going to be married in is a must-have for any fan of Latter-day Saint cin-
the temple and be a virgin on my wedding night,” ema. Out of Step is the fourth LDS-themed feature
but until then she is willing to push things with film originally released in commercial theaters to be
Trent right up to the edge. They know nothing made available on DVD, following God’s Army,
about each other except their names. She controls Brigham City, and The Singles Ward. Of these, Brig-
what they do and how far they go. She likes to play ham City is the best overall film, followed by God’s
mind games; she demands of Trent, “Have you ever Army. But out of The Singles Ward, Out of Step, and
lied to your bishop? Do you look up porn on your The Other Side of Heaven (not yet released on DVD
computer? You were a bad missionary, weren’t you?” or video), I honestly couldn’t tell you which I like
(All the men in this play are at the mercy of their best. They are so different that it is difficult to com-
women, an interesting twist for a depiction of such pare them. Each broke new ground in a number of
a patriarchal society.) Trent is guilt-stricken and ways, and each has many commendable aspects, as
tries several times to break things off but just can’t. well as definite flaws.
And maybe in the end Kim isn’t as tough as she lets The greatest strengths in Out of Step are the act-
on. “Why do we do this?” she cries out in anguish. ing and the writing. Michael Buster (who played
“Why do we have to do this?” That question is at the AWOL Elder Kinegar in God’s Army) and
the heart of this play. Jeremy Elliott (who starred as Sam in Jack Wey-
This play should run at the Harris Fine Arts Cen- land’s Charly) are good enough to be in any major
ter on the BYU campus, where I’m sure it would Hollywood production, and they really shine here.
draw packed houses. It’s a fearlessly honest, bulls- Making her film debut, Alison Akin Clark is a
eye picture of 18-to-30-year-old Mormon life. newcomer but very watchable. She plays a slightly
Watching it, I was sucked back into all those old unconventional Latter-day Saint dance student from
feelings and memories and remembered the sheer Utah who enrolls in a prestigious New York City
hardness of the way things were for everybody back dance program. As Jenny she is very real and believ-
then. And though this play gets very serious, it’s able, yet gently quirky simply because she is so far

out of her natural habitat. With her look and per- is nothing like I expected. In fact, he is one of the
formance, Clark creates a fresh screen persona that best movie characters I’ve seen in a long time.
is nothing like standard Hollywood leading ladies. One of the surprises and strengths of Out of Step
The dialogue is almost uniformly excellent. The is that there is not a villain anywhere in the entire
plot seems to border on being conventional at times, movie. There are a number of characters who appear
but it is constantly full of surprises. Watching Out at times as if they will be some kind of stock villain
of Step for the first time, I did not know where the for the story: the nonmember boyfriend who is
movie was going. The movie quickly became some- perhaps a drug user, the promiscuous roommate,
thing completely different from what I had expected the philosophy professor who seems bent on destroy-
based on the trailer. When I thought the movie was ing his students’ faith in God, and the bigoted
treading a conventional path, it again surprised me. black Baptist classmate. Yet over the course of the
Yet everything that happened was very true to life. movie, all these individuals emerge as eminently
The opening scene is a brief, almost seminary- good, not because they change to accommodate
esque montage showing Jenny, a Latter-day Saint Jenny but because they were good already, on their
living in the heart of Mormon country, growing up own terms. They are all a strength to Jenny and are
in tranquil neighborhoods while loving and excelling valued by her. What is most remarkable about the
at dance from an early age. This soon gives way to movie’s portrayal of the many differences between
an energetic introduction to New York City, punc- Jenny and the people around her is that the worth,
tuated by rapid cuts, street music, and a beaming even correctness, of her own beliefs and values is in
Jenny riding a taxi from the airport to dance audi- no way diminished. The movie ultimately affirms
tions at New York University’s prestigious dance bedrock Latter-day Saint values, yet does so with-
school. out resorting to straw men or artifice.
When an expected scholarship fails to material- Not only does it discard conventional movie vil-
ize, Jenny is forced to find a job to help pay for col- lains, but the movie also manages to intrigue and
lege. Only if she does well enough this semester will inspire without reliance on the heroes one might
she will be able to win a scholarship and continue expect. Although Paul, the Latter-day Saint film-
studying dance in New York. While applying for maker, helps Jenny out of an academic-related jam,
work at a café, she runs into Paul (Michael Buster), he has his own flaws and is of no help in Jenny’s
an all-too-hip Latter-day Saint film student. Soon primary crisis relating to Dave. Jenny’s father is quite
after hearing her story, Paul asks if he can film her a Saint who truly does inspire her, but he is too far
throughout the semester in order to make a docu- distant to rescue her or make decisions for her. And
mentary for his film class. Jenny’s devout Latter-day Saint mother, played by
Paul develops a crush on Jenny, but not before Tayva Patch (the FBI agent in Brigham City) is,
she meets New Yorker Dave Schrader (Jeremy quite unexpectedly, the darkest character in the
Elliott), a handsome musician from her philosophy movie. The movie is primarily about growth within
class. Dave is not a Latter-day Saint, and therein Jenny herself. She is never held up as a role model
lies the central conflict spelled out on the DVD or example, simply a person. Her escalating mistakes
cover: Will Jenny choose the “man of her dreams” in navigating her new life on her own are entirely
or the “man of her faith”? realistic. In the end, her decisions, whether right or
I thought that eventually the other shoe would wrong, are entirely her own.
drop and Dave would turn out to be the worldly Unfortunately, Out of Step is marred by a low
gentile whose shortcomings drive Jenny back to her budget that, in its theatrical release, was evident
convictions. Had the movie come from Hollywood, in the uneven quality of film stock, some grainy
I would have expected Dave to rescue Jenny from scenes, sound problems, and other technical prob-
her stifling family background. Neither of these lems. These problems aren’t disastrous, but they
things happen. Jeremy Elliott’s nonmember character detracted from the film in the theater. Viewed on

DVD on a television, these problems are rarely even daring look at a realistic romance between a
noticeable. According to the producers (and appar- Latter-day Saint and a nonmember. As a married
ent to me as a viewer), many problems, particularly adult, I enjoyed it for its entertainment value. The
relating to the soundtrack, have actually been cor- authenticity in the writing and performances out-
rected for the video/DVD release. Don’t let the low shines any flaws that arose from the movie’s lack of
budget or film stock keep you from buying the a bigger budget. It also contains lessons I would
DVD. Most people won’t notice anything at all want my children to watch if they were teenagers.
amiss. Although it used short ends, this movie was Of all the LDS-themed feature films released
shot in 35mm, and its visual quality still exceeds since God’s Army and Brigham City, this is the one
what you’ll find in most videos and TV programs. that Richard Dutcher singled out and compli-
Another nitpick is that a few of the perform- mented. All of the people involved can be proud to
ances by supporting actors didn’t quite work. In have been a part of this movie. As both a work of
particular, Tayva Patch as Jenny’s mother and T.L. art and a piece of entertainment, I would rank Out
Forsberg as Jenny’s roommate have some odd of Step among the year’s better movies, whether
moments. Some of the scenes between Jenny and from Utah or from Hollywood. It’s not as good as
her parents are awkward. Perhaps this is because of mega-hits such as Minority Report or Spider-Man or
the writing more than because of the talent of the as critically acclaimed films such as Spirited Away or
actors. Larger character arcs involving those charac- Brigham City. But it is more original and much
ters have been cut from the film. But nearly with- more enjoyable than countless $20–$100-million
out exception, this is an amazingly strong cast for productions I’ve seen during the last few years.
such a low-budget feature. This was a Screen Actors
Guild production, and the quality of experienced DVD Special Features
actors in supporting roles, such as Peter Asle
Holden as Jenny’s dance instructor, really raises the The new Out of Step DVD includes a number of
quality of the whole movie. special features, including a commentary track by
I was a little disappointed that, in this movie director Ryan Little and actor/screenwriter Michael
about a dancer, there was not more dancing to Buster, a making-of documentary, deleted scenes,
watch. There are some nice dance scenes that and 30-second trailers for two upcoming LDS-
enhance the movie, but they are not captured on themed feature films: The R.M. and The Work and
film as well as has been done in many other movies. the Story.
Jenny is shown doing modern dance, both solo and The reel with about five deleted scenes shows
as part of her class studies. But perhaps the best events you will recognize if you have read the nov-
dance sequence is the swing dancing (with great elization by Nikki Schmutz. The cuts were good
music!) at the “Zephyr Club,” featuring Jenny cuts. After reading the novelization and listening to
amidst “New York City swing-dance enthusiasts” the director’s commentary track, it is clear that
actually played by the very talented BYU swing- there was much more in the movie before it was cut
dance club. In a way, I suppose, this is not really a down to focus on its essential elements. The initial
dance movie. Perhaps I was thinking of movies by edit of the film ran more than two hours long but
Fred Astair or Gregory Hines or Baz Luhrmann was eventually cut down to about an hour and a
before I saw Out of Step, movies with an emphasis half. Most of what was cut was additional scenes
on dance but far removed from reality. Out of Step and dialogue relating to subplots and story arcs for
is closer to an art film or an intensely realistic the supporting characters. Such material would be
drama. Highly stylized, staged dance segments entirely appropriate for a TV series, and there’s
would not fit and are wisely absent. nothing necessarily wrong with having it in the
Out of Step is a character study. Don’t expect West novel, but it was just too much for one feature film.
Side Story or even Saturday’s Warrior. It is a fresh, With the cuts that were made, the movie is far

more focused on the main character and her jour- The Little Movie That
ney. On the commentary track, cowriter Michael Couldn’t but Should Have
Buster points out that this was his first screenplay
and readily admits that he overwrote the script. By D. Michael Martindale
This DVD has one of the best, most interesting IRREANTUM Film Editor
commentary tracks I have heard in a long time; it
is refreshing and fascinating. Director Ryan Little is Just ask your father—he’ll tell you. Life isn’t fair.
joined by cowriter and costar Michael Buster (who It’s one of those truths that all human beings must
plays the Latter-day Saint film student in the accept if they want to live with some measure of
movie). Unlike many commentary tracks where peace. Yet when unfairness strikes, it’s hard for a
every other sentence comments about how brilliant caring human not to feel the dander rise.
everybody was in the movie and how unendingly In the fledgling but quickly expanding LDS film
wonderful the movie was, this commentary pro- industry, a grave injustice has occurred. Nobody
vides a no-holds-barred look at a very low-budget, has seen the film Out of Step.
often-troubled production. Along with praising Of course, not nobody, but much too close to
(quite justifiably) quality aspects in the movie, the nobody to help one believe in poetic justice.
director also frequently points out things that The film opened in theaters early in 2002 almost
could be improved and even outright mistakes. He without notice, played for only a short time in spite
claims that the budget for production design was of positive reviews, and disappeared before this
six dollars. He jokes that the slogan during produc- critic even had a chance to see it. It opened again
tion was “If it’s not free, we don’t do it.” The fact later in the year, again as a flash in the pan, and
that Out of Step is as good as it is despite how little once again disappeared before I, and apparently a
money was spent on it and despite all the difficul- lot of other people, made it to the theater.
ties encountered is nothing short of a miracle. But now Out of Step has been released on DVD
The DVD includes a making-of documentary so everyone can see it, and all’s right with the
directed and edited by Chantelle Squires, with universe.
videography by Christian Vuissa and Calvin Cory. Not.
It is essentially a collection of brief interviews and But before I go into that, let me explain why this
sound bites, along with footage from the movie and wallflower film is worth seeing.
great music. Many scenes in the documentary were A few years ago, LDS films were a thing created by
filmed at the movie’s premiere, a surreal, daringly the Church and viewable mostly in seminary classes
ostentatious affair complete with limousines and or in theaters owned by the Church and heavily
tuxedos. The documentary is less illuminating than guarded by LDS missionaries, lest someone escape
the director/screenwriter audio commentary, but it without feeling the Spirit. Then Richard Dutcher
is a welcome addition to the DVD. Unfortunately, and God’s Army happened. Suddenly it’s getting hard
it is far too short. The story about the making of to keep track of all the independent LDS films com-
Out of Step could easily fill an hour-long documen- ing out, although it’s still possible to see them all.
tary. In fact, there was so much drama behind the (Happy day when that becomes untrue.)
scenes of this production that a feature-length Dutcher’s two pioneering films showed us how
movie about the making of Out of Step would be as real movies with real stories could be made about
interesting as the film itself. Mormons. The Other Side of Heaven showed us
how a classy, Hollywood-quality film could be made
Preston Hunter runs a website devoted to LDS film about a prominent Mormon. (However, viewers
at ldsfilm.com. This review originally appeared in walked away asking, “Where’s the beef?”) Singles
online and e-mail venues. Ward demonstrated that rumors of the death of
humor among Latter-day Saints are premature. (It
just didn’t demonstrate that its filmmakers knew
how to make a film.) Charly introduced the phe- have it in stock. They had to call around to find a
nomenon of popular-novel adaptations to LDS copy for me, and I had to drive twenty minutes
cinema. (Whether that’s a good thing or not is a away to pick it up.
matter of personal opinion.) And that copy turned out to be defective and
But what Out of Step does is bring us a new kind wouldn’t play in my DVD player.
of film genre, one well represented in mainstream No, life’s not fair. The bland Other Side of Heaven
film but which until now has not appeared among gets wide play and viewership, while the significant
Mormon films. That is, the cinematic view of gritty Out of Step struggles to be noticed.
slice-of-life that you can get in films like Fame, the But even though life is not fair, the nice thing
first half of Deer Hunter, and Raging Bull. about human beings is that their dander still rises
These films adopt a cinematic point of view, when unfairness rears its ugly head, and they can
with the camera one step removed from the char- do something about it. Go to your LDS retail out-
acters, a silent and unnoticed observer that records lets, search for this gem of a film, buy it, and watch
real life. Characters in such films don’t wear their it. You are lacking in your LDS cinematic experi-
hearts on their sleeves for the audience to see. They ence if you pass this one up. Give the film that is
act like real people and, as with real people, you trying to scale the mountain, but can’t quite seem
have to pay attention and think to figure out what to muster the steam, a little push.
they’re feeling. You’re not spoon-fed how you Help life be one modicum more fair than it is.
should respond in such films, unlike the approach
that has plagued most Mormon art since Mormon Selected Recent Releases
art was invented.
Out of Step is refreshing in the ways it handles Allen, Nancy Campbell. Faith of Our Fathers,
some familiar conflicts. The typical LDS film would Vol. 2: To Make Men Free (Deseret Book). The
have resorted to the same black-and-white, one- Civil War progresses in tragic intensity as the saga
dimensional character reactions that we’ve grown continues with two brothers divided in their loyal-
weary of over the years. In this film, the characters ties between North and South. Reporter Anne
act like real, decent, thinking people—in other Birmingham continues her charade as a soldier, and
words, not like the clichéd Utah Mormon. Maybe citizens in the Utah Territory struggle for state-
it’s because they live in New York. hood. Border to border and coast to coast, emotions
Out of Step is not a great film. Frankly, a great and blood ties are strained as the young nation con-
LDS film has yet to be made. But it is an accom- tinues to rend itself at the seams.
plished addition to the LDS cinematic repertoire, Crane, Cheri. The Girls Next Door (Covenant).
representing a film genre that has been absent until Karen Randall and Bev Henderson have been best
now. It can hold its own against any of those main- friends since grade school. When the two girls head
stream cinematic films. It shows how real Mor- off to BYU–Idaho, their dreams of independence
mons act, perhaps in a way that no film to date has have finally come true. As they meet their new
shown. roommates, Meg, Jesse, Treena, and Kassidy, not only
But too few people are seeing it. And that’s unfair. do they discover new friendships but also a dark
Not even release to DVD seems to be helping. secret that threatens their relationships. Meg is a
When I went searching for a copy to view, I couldn’t serious-minded nursing student who systematically
find it in Wal-Mart, even though they carry Dutcher’s avoids her family as well as the young men who are
two films. I couldn’t rent it at Blockbuster or Hol- interested in dating her. Jesse, tall and athletic, has
lywood Video, even though I could rent Singles a major chip on her shoulder from her parents’
Ward. It was nowhere to be found in MediaPlay or divorce. Easy-going Treena is strong in the Church
Target. And when I went to the obvious place to but worries constantly about her roommate,
find the DVD—my local Deseret Book—they didn’t Kassidy, a beautiful young woman who is slowly

destroying herself with a problem that she hides she realizes that she has to trust her heart to find
from everyone. happiness.
Green, Betsy Brannon. Until Proven Guilty Hansen, Jennie. Abandoned (Covenant). Tisa
(Covenant). When Beth Middleton’s fiancé dies in Lewis has spent her life remembering frightening
a traffic accident on the day of their wedding, Beth images from her childhood: a dead woman, head-
makes the decision to shut herself away from soci- lights in the night, an empty highway, an aban-
ety and simply exist from day to day. In time, how- doned girl clinging to a fence in the wind and the
ever, Beth begins the journey back to a normal life, rain. These fleeting memories have pushed her to
but she finds that nothing comes easy. When she deny six fiancés, prevented her from keeping a
accepts a job as a court-appointed evaluator for a steady job, and kept her from developing faith in
local high-profile attorney and his five-year-old her church and her God. Now, just as she begins to
daughter, Beth finds herself embroiled in a trial settle in at a new company and fall in love with
that could be the most important one in her boss’s Cabe Evans, her foster brother’s new police partner,
legal career. Witnesses disappear, the district attor- the past she can’t remember threatens to take every-
ney is kidnapped, and a man with a gun has just thing away from her. Then Peter and Cabe’s inves-
knocked on her door. tigation of a powerful mafia family begins to
Grossman, Jeni. Behind the Scenes (Covenant). uncover Tisa’s past.
Dulcey Martinez is a stunning, feisty young televi- Hinckley, Gordon B. Way to Be! (Deseret Book).
sion reporter for AIRtime, the nation’s top investi- This upbeat, life-affirming book shows teenagers
gative reporting team. She is dazzled by her exciting and their families how to navigate through the moral
new job and the glamorous life that goes with it: minefields of contemporary life and truly enjoy the
burgeoning popularity, elegant dinner parties, and opportunities and blessings the modern world has
the thrill of meeting the rich and famous residents to offer. Drawing upon his faith as well as his per-
of New York. On a highly publicized assignment to sonal experience, Gordon B. Hinckley provides his
cover a series of dangerous drug busts, Dulcey is readers with a game plan for discovering and embrac-
approached by a young member of a powerful drug ing the things in life that are valuable and worth-
cartel who offers her the scoop of the century if she while. He shows how our lives are shaped by the
can get him enough money to start over. But when decisions we make every day about personal behav-
the news assignment goes disastrously wrong, Dul- ior, and he shows how to make the right decisions
cey’s life hangs in the balance. with the help of nine guiding principles.
Guymon, Shannon. A Trusting Heart (Cedar Horne, Lewis B. The House of James (Signa-
Fort). Ten years after high school graduation, Megan ture). Four college-age roommates live in James’s
Garrett is living the quiet life with a new job selling house. Two are Native American, one of them a
real estate, a great little house, and a dog. As a teen- parolee. All attend church, more or less. Only one
ager with bleached-blonde hair, designer clothes, perceives the conflicts that will eventually turn the
and the class hunk for a boyfriend, Megan had house against itself. In each of these short stories by
thought her life was destined to be wonderful. Lewis Horne, there is a glimpse inside someone’s
Now, with her natural brown hair, discount clothes, intimate space through the eyes of young neigh-
and as single as ever, Megan seems destined for borhood peeping toms or a burglar who steals a
monotony. But destiny works in mysterious ways. young woman’s diary or through the writer’s ability
When Trevor Riley shows up at their ten-year high to see beyond the structures we build around our-
school reunion, he changes her life with a simple selves.
kiss. He charges in like a whirlwind, planning and Hughes, Dean. Hearts of the Children, Vol. 2:
controlling every detail. Confronting the past is the Troubled Waters (Deseret Book). This isn’t the way
only way Megan can begin anew. As she comes to his mission was supposed to go, but Elder Gene
grips with her parents, her ex-fiancé, and herself, Thomas has a lot to learn. So do Kathy and Diane,

both away from home for college, and Hans, whose changes forever. Devastated, she struggles to find
attempt to help his friend escape East Germany has the will to go on, to live without the one person she
tragic consequences. Troubled Waters continues the thought she could never live without. Handsome
gripping story of life in the sixties for the Thomas widower and longtime friend André Perrault would
grandchildren, a time of growth and self-discovery, like to help her find joy and love again, but Rebekka’s
of facing tough decisions and figuring out how to determination to hold onto the past makes a future
get along in a rapidly changing world. relationship doubtful.
Lyon, Annette. Lost without You (Covenant). Okazaki, Chieko. Being Enough (Deseret Book).
For two and a half months Christopher Morris has Most of us feel our inadequacies keenly, and the
been Brooke Williams’s idea of the perfect man: fear of failure can keep us from reaching out and
attractive, charming, and fun to be around. But over offering what little we do have. Citing the New
the last two weeks, he has begun to act strangely, Testament story of the widow who cast her two
becoming possessive, controlling, and moody. mites into the temple treasury, Okazaki demon-
Brooke feels that she has no choice but to break up strates that a feeling of abundance is rooted in faith.
with him. But Christopher does not take it well. As “This mortal probation is an invitation to walk
he wildly drives her back home, they are involved with faith in the Savior,” she writes, “and his prom-
in a car accident. That’s when Brooke first meets ise is that he will make up all of our deficiencies. If
police officer Greg Stevens. She keeps meeting him we will give Christ our trust, then he will give us
at the worst possible times, and they soon begin everything we lack.”
dating. Greg confesses that he is a widower and that Rees, Shirley. Hannah Stands Tall (Cedar Fort).
Brooke is the first woman he has dated in three Hannah York is only fourteen, but she finds herself
years. But even as Brooke agonizes over whether in charge when her family creates a home along the
Greg will ever be able to truly love her, Christopher Santa Rosa Creek during the 1860s. Her mother’s
makes a dangerous return into Brooke’s life. death soon after their arrival in southern Utah tests
Marcum, Robert. House of Israel, Vol. 1: The Hannah to the limit, as the family battles crickets,
Return (Covenant). As the end of the Second floods, and drought. Her 12-year-old brother, Caleb,
World War nears, the Western nations breathe a resents her new authority and rebels at Hannah’s
collective sigh of relief as many of their soldiers orders, claiming she must be the “bossiest critter”
rush back to anxious families and friends. But for in the Utah Territory. It takes a mountain lion,
Hannah Gruen, a young Jewish woman in post-war renegade Indians, and a domineering aunt to make
Germany, threats still abound in many forms. Res- the Yorks see how much they truly rely on each
cued from the horrors of a concentration camp, she other.
finds that she has no family left and that her home Savage, Jeff. Into the Fire (Covenant). Joe Stew-
has long since been destroyed. Ephraim Daniels, an art is a success by nearly every definition of the
LDS American pilot, is initially drawn to Hannah word. Over the past twelve years, he has built his
by his need to help her survive. Through his visits computer-networking company into one of the top
and assistance, Hannah’s desire for life and her in the industry. He is a devoted husband, a loving
longing to know God are rekindled. As she regains father, and he even sits on the boards of several
her health and her fighting spirit, Ephraim realizes charities. Everyone agrees that Joe Stewart is a pil-
that his feelings for Hannah are changing from lar of the community. Yet, in a dramatic series of
those of concern to affection. But soon Hannah events, Joe loses virtually everything: his job, his
finds herself in a battle for her life and the lives of wealth, his home, his reputation, and his health.
countless others, as she seeks to provide safe passage Even his family teeters on the brink of falling apart.
to faraway Palestine, the ancient and future Israel. His only hope lies in the strength of his faith and
Nunes, Rachel Ann. Twice in a Lifetime (Cedar in the words of a mysterious stranger: “Know your
Fort). On a beautiful summer day, Rebekka’s life enemy and protect that which you deem most

valuable.” Joe finds himself miles from civilization, mortal husband. She must help him solve a mys-
his health deteriorating rapidly, and his family tery that has haunted him for over twenty-five
menaced by the dark entity that haunts his dreams. years. Years earlier, Ivan’s daughter had been kid-
Joe must somehow find a way to unite his family. napped for a large ransom. The kidnapper man-
Staheli, Don H. It’s the Principle of the Thing aged to get the money but never returned his
(Deseret Book). A boyhood escapade climbing trees. daughter.
A trip to a small-town cemetery. A discussion with Young, Margaret Blair. Heresies of Nature (Sig-
a security guard in the hallway. This book of short nature). The Morgans seem like a typical Utah
essays tells how the lasting imprints formed by such family. The teenagers act like teenagers and the par-
simple circumstances can change the way we see ents respond like normal parents—except Mom
our world. has multiple sclerosis. The family copes with this
Stansfield, Anita. Gables of Legacy, Vol. 1: The situation, more or less. They treat Mom like the
Guardian (Covenant). Over the past few years, fun-loving person she always was before she had to
Tamra Banks, a new convert from a troubled fam- be confined to a wheelchair and rely on a Morse
ily, has blossomed into a faithful Church member. code–like system of elementary communication.
Friends, family history, a mission in the Philip- Inspired by a true story and told as a slice-of-life
pines, and the sacrifice of all she knows bring about account of the ups and downs and twists and turns
this change. But stability in life does not mean sta- that fill every family’s life, Heresies of Nature is
bility in love. And now, Tamra is faced with her alternately subtle and powerful. Only gradually do
greatest challenge. Tamra moves into the home of readers realize how much of this shattering account
Michael and Emily Hamilton, a couple from Aus- relates to the unimaginable emotional challenges
tralia she met during her mission. The Hamiltons’ involved in facing a progressively debilitating, ulti-
son, Jess—burdened by the guilt of being involved mately fatal handicap.
in an accident that killed his brother and sister-in-
law—believes that life is no longer worth living.
And though Tamra at first finds Jess brooding and
harsh, she cannot deny her attraction to him. Liv-
ing in his ancestral home, sharing the stories of his
family’s history, Tamra connects with Jess, and a
cautious love develops between them. Jess’s depres-
sion runs deep, however, and the day is fast approach-
ing when he may choose isolation over marriage
and a permanent end to his pain.
Wright, Julie. Loved Like That (Cedar Fort).
Love had simply escaped him—at least, that’s what
James, a 32-year-old police officer, had decided. He
would have given up on dating altogether were it
not for the fact that friends and family keep setting
him up. Then he meets Katherine, and he immedi-
ately is smitten. James is certain he will spend the
rest of his life with her. Convincing her of that,
however, proves to be a monumental task.
Yates, Dan. Eyes of an Angel (Covenant). Allison
Barker is a guardian angel with a new assignment.
She’ll be working very closely with Ivan Barker,
a wealthy attorney who happens to be her still-

M O R M O N • Mormon author Richard Paul Evans’s new

L I T E R A R Y novel, The Last Promise (Dutton), is set in Italy,
S C E N E where Evans recently moved in search of more pri-
vacy and time with his family. The plot involves a
Compiled by Christopher Bigelow transplanted Utahn artist who, stuck in an abusive
marriage with an Italian, seeks emotional solace
with an American artist living nearby. Noting that
Books Evans has sold more than 11 million books world-
• Twenty-five-year U.S. Senate veteran Orrin wide, a Baltimore Sun reviewer said that his readers
Hatch has published his memoirs. Titled Square have been “hoodwinked by Evans’s quasi-spiritual
Peg and published by Basic Books, the account is cant. Missing the craft and depth of serious novels
friendly, fair, funny, and flawed, according to Salt as well as the robust fun of honest trash, Evans’s
Lake Tribune reviewer Martin Naparsteck. The sanitized romances are inoffensive and nonnutri-
book “is written in a friendly, easy-to-enjoy style; tious—the pale, squishy Wonder Bread of popular
Hatch, despite being one of the most powerful men fiction. It doesn’t take a critic or connoisseur to
in the country, writes with sincere humility. His object to the shoddy writing and all-around poor
book leaves you with the impression that this is a imaginative effort in The Last Promise. The book
guy who would make a good next-door neighbor. doesn’t pretend to be high literature, and it need
Also, it is a fair apologia, a reasonable explanation not be measured against that standard to be found
for why he did what he did.” However, “the prob- wanting. Evans presents himself in the framing pro-
lem is Hatch’s tendency to use words as if they logue as a simple storyteller. Unfortunately for his
mean less or more than they really do. Consider the audience, there’s a lot more telling than story here.”
book’s subtitle, Confessions of a Citizen Senator. • Richard Paul Evans’s latest novel, The Last
There’s not a single true confession in the book, at Promise, ran afoul of new content standards
least not in the sense he admits to having done adopted by Deseret Book’s retail division. “In this
something terribly wrong.” book, adultery is implied,” said Deseret Book pres-
• Deseret News reviewer Dennis Lythgoe didn’t ident and CEO Sheri Dew, after Evans made pub-
care for Power of Deliverance, volume two in lic Deseret Book’s decision not to carry his book.
David Woolley’s Promised Land series of Book of The main offensive passage is contained in chapter
Mormon fiction, published by Covenant. “Uriah is 31: “Dawn comes early to Florence. It was only five
on trial for treason, having intercepted sensitive o’clock, and the curtain of morning rose across the
military letters from Captain Laban,” Lythgoe sum- city and exposed the two of them, still together on
marizes. “If Laban and the Elders in the Jerusalem the bank of the golden Arno, Eliana lying against
City Council have their way, Uriah, and the secrets Ross’s chest, encircled in his arms. They had talked
that could prove to be Laban’s undoing, will be for- most of the night.” Evans said: “There is no adul-
ever silenced.” Lythgoe continues: “What ensues is tery in this book. I didn’t write something that con-
a series of invented characters, such as Jonathan the dones adultery. A man stays with a woman through
Blacksmith and Josiah the Potter, who complement the night on the banks of the Arno River. To me, it
the actual characters Lehi, Nephi, Zedekiah, Ish- was a compassionate, tender thing he is doing to a
mael, Jeremiah, etc. It is chaos. This book gets the woman who has been emotionally abused for seven
reader only through 2nd Nephi, and it is more than years.” Evans continued: “We need to take care of
600 pages long. (The Book of Mormon itself num- each other. We all need love—and if we’re deprived
bers only 522 pages.) Mark Twain once satirized of it, eventually we’re gonna find it.” Deseret
the Book of Mormon as ‘chloroform in print.’ But Book’s new buying guidelines resulted from surveys
Woolley’s book, with its wooden style, would per- indicating that customers don’t want the LDS
haps have caused Twain to redirect his remark.” Church–owned chain to stock titles with messages

that clash with LDS values. “This is completely a coincidences that happen in all of our lives, and
business decision,” said Dew. “It’s not a religious which seem to be giving us guidance or comfort,”
decision, it’s not a moral decision. It’s a customer according to Deseret News book editor Dennis
decision.” Soon after the controversy received wide Lythgoe. “The book is Pearson at her best: conver-
coverage in the Utah media, Deseret Book began sational, colloquial and personal. As I was reading
an ad campaign with the slogan “What matters to it, I could hear her distinctive voice, as if she were
you matters to us,” and Dew sent a letter to cus- talking from the next room.” In a Deseret News pro-
tomers that included the following statement: file, Pearson said: “You invite more of these con-
“Many customers have asked if we will continue to nections into your life when you pay attention.
carry books and other products that explore the This is as close as I’ve come to magic in my life.”
classic conflict between good and evil (and thus However, “there is no way you can create a syn-
deal with everything from adultery to abuse). Of chronicity. You only recognize it in hindsight. You
course we will. But we will stock only those that go about your life, and suddenly something hap-
clearly distinguish between right and wrong and pens, and you realize it connects with something
that show the honest consequences of individual that happened yesterday. The ones that mean the
choices. Most of the significant literature of the most to me are the ones that say, ‘Don’t worry—it’s
world does this. We are not inclined, though, to all right.’ I’m blown away by the nice little comfort
include in our inventory products that reward, they provide. They assure me that it’s not just a ran-
glamorize, or take a sympathetic view of immoral- dom universe.” She added: “My habit of being a
ity or other evils.” Buyers and managers at Deseret poet allows me to look at a physical thing and make
Book’s 35 stores are reviewing the chain’s 40,000 a metaphor out of it. We can’t use it as a compass.
active titles against the new content standards. But as a metaphor, the meaning might be a lot
• John Fulton’s first novel, More Than Enough more subtle. It doesn’t take the place of prayer, but
(Picador), is “about the alienation and sense of fail- it’s another avenue for guidance and comfort.”
ure experienced by people who are not members of • Illustrating a pitfall of publishing historical fic-
a majority culture, in this case non-Mormons liv- tion, author Margaret Young set the record straight
ing in Salt Lake City,” according to Salt Lake Tri- on AML-List about some fictional material inaccu-
bune reviewer Martin Naparsteck. After a Mormon rately quoted as factual in media coverage of a new
bully beats up the novel’s 16-year-old narrator, the monument to Elijah Abel, a main character in Stand-
bully’s father gives the family money, but the ing on the Promises (Bookcraft), the black pioneer
impoverished family squanders it. Then Steven’s novel series by Young and Darius Gray. “I am in a
mother “decides to leave her husband for Curtis, a rather awkward position today of seeing what I
Mormon lawyer, while Steven’s younger sister, recognize as my own conjectures about Elijah Abel
Jenny, becomes friendly with Mormon children. (used to further the first novel’s plot) touted as facts
Everything that centered the family refuses to about his life and of having a quote I made up
hold.” The narrator finds himself turning into his attributed to him on the Elijah Abel monument
father, an unsuccessful man who cannot seem to program and on the TV news,” Young wrote. “I feel
understand life. Naparsteck concludes: “More Than pretty strongly about truth, so I want the facts
Enough is an honest, if sad, look at a family of fail- straight.” A Salt Lake Tribune article stated that
ures. Fulton consistently refuses to fall into opti- Abel was born a slave in Maryland in 1808, fled to
mistic pabulum that provides filler for so many Canada at age 23, obtained free papers, and later
novels about the poor. Honesty is always more worked on the Underground Railroad. In reality,
nutritious than pabulum.” the birth year is uncertain, and it is not known if
• Drawn from her diaries, Carol Lynn Pearson’s Abel was born a slave, when he went to Canada, or
latest book, Consider the Butterfly (Gibbs Smith), whether he obtained free papers. An earlier researcher
“deals with ‘synchronicities,’ those strange little had suggested that Abel used the Underground

Railroad, but that has not been substantiated, and is that we distribute through Covenant Communi-
his having later worked on the Underground Rail- cations. This gives us the ability to market to one of
road is fictional. “The quote in the monument the largest customer bases in the LDS market, by
program and read as Elijah’s words about his dedi- having the ability to place our titles in virtually
cation to the faith despite difficult circumstances every LDS shop in the country. Some other bene-
indicates his attitude, I hope, though I made it up,” fits we offer are greater editorial freedom and more
Young wrote. Noting that Abel was illiterate and contractual freedom on future titles.” Submission
left no written records, she wrote, “Darius and I details are available at www.koffordbooks.com.
tried very hard to capture the man we imagined • Brian Evenson’s latest novel Dark Property is
Elijah Abel was.” described by publisher Four Walls Eight Windows
• Best-selling LDS romance author Rachel Ann as follows: “A woman carries a dying baby across a
Nunes is no longer publishing with Covenant. desert waste, moving toward a fortress harboring a
Regarding her latest novel Twice in a Lifetime, the mysterious resurrection cult. Menaced by scav-
author says on her website: “I left the company engers, she nevertheless begins to suspect that the
who published 14 of my 16 books (16 at this writ- reality within the fortress may be even more unset-
ing, that is) mostly because of the issue of respect, tling than the blasted environment outside. As she
but also because of contractual and content differ- slips unobtrusively towards the city of the dead, she
ences. I felt strongly that it was time to move on if is pursued by a bounty hunter who cuts a bloody
I was to be true to my stories and to my readers, as swath after her. On one level, Dark Property is an
well as to myself and my career. I am striving to exploration of religious fanaticism. Although Even-
broaden the scope of my writing in both the LDS son’s characters owe more to the Book of Mormon
market and the national one. So far it has not been than the Koran, their frightening intensity will spark
an easy change but a rewarding one. Everyone at recognition. This brooding tale is reminiscent of
[Cedar Fort] (the publisher of this book) has been Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian and J. G. Bal-
really great to work with, and I thank them for lard’s more disturbing works of fiction.” In other
their kindness and their quick job of getting this Evenson news, University of Nebraska Press/Bison
book published for my readers who have been anx- Books recently published a paperback version of
iously waiting.” Nunes added more clarification on Evenson’s debut 1994 short-story collection Alt-
AML-List: “All I can say is that Covenant and I had mann’s Tongue. The new version includes Evenson’s
some differences of opinion. At the same time, I 1997 O. Henry Award–winning story “Two Broth-
had some family, personal, and writing goals that ers,” a new introduction by Alphonso Lingis, and a
I wanted to work toward, things I could not accom- postscript by Evenson about how fallout from the
plish without making major changes in my life. book led to his leaving BYU.
After a lot of soul-searching about where I wanted • Robert Farrell Smith’s latest Mormon humor
to be in five or ten years, I realized I had to start novel For Time and All Absurdity (Bookcraft) has
moving out of the box in which I had become so “a shockingly predictable storyline that somehow
comfortable.” She added, “No, I didn’t pay [Cedar manages to give us a few brief nuggets of satisfy-
Fort] to publish the book, though they do have a ingly insightful surprise along the way,” according
cost-sharing program for new/untried authors.” to a BYU NewsNet writer. “Smith’s prose is sim-
• Greg Kofford Books is seeking submissions of plistic, sometimes painfully so. He seems less a
children’s books and any other books, both fiction master storyteller and more a keen observer and
and nonfiction, relating to Mormonism. “We cur- gifted satirist of Mormon culture. He takes playful
rently have over 30 books under contract and are mini-stabs at the small but laughable incongruities
planning to publish 20 to 24 titles per year,” said of Mormonism.” The reviewer continued: “The
Kofford staffer Andrew Gallup. “One of the strengths book will no doubt please audiences looking for a
we feel our company can offer a prospective author light and light-hearted Mormon read. But for those

seeking a bit more to chew on, disappointment is story about one young Latter-day Saint student’s
inevitable. The book has plenty of entertaining struggles and romance in New York City. Every-
moments but fails to pull those moments together thing in the movie is in there, plus a lot of back-
into a compelling whole. The vanilla plot dooms ground material that wasn’t in the movie. This is
the story despite a mildly suspenseful side-plot a must-read for any serious fan of the Out of Step
dealing with a fraud investigation.” feature film.”
• BYU professor Don Chapman told the Salt
Lake Tribune that the Harry Potter series is a mir- Film
acle of modern marketing rather than an enduring
literary classic. “Potter may be great juvenile fic- • A nationwide Associated Press article recently
tion, but ‘I don’t see any allusions, literary self- assessed the direction of the Mormon cinema
consciousness,’ Chapman says. And the themes movement that started with Richard Dutcher’s film
don’t draw on ‘age-old traditions,’ as does Lord of God’s Army. “LDS moviemakers may be holding
the Rings. Nor do the books display Rings’ level of out for crossover appeal” like the unexpected $200-
maturity. Harry Potter ‘is clearly for children, million-plus success of My Big Fat Greek Wedding,
which is not to say adults don’t enjoy it.’” Chap- wrote the A.P. reporter. “But even if they don’t
man teaches The Lord of the Rings in literature make $100 million, a market filled with [Utah]’s
classes at BYU. “Tolkien showed fantasy could be religious majority is sure to keep cameras rolling.”
serious literature—pioneering a path that Rowling Dutcher said: “I wanted it to bring all these LDS
could follow, Chapman says. And he didn’t have filmmakers and writers out of the woodwork. But
mass marketing to churn interest in his stories.” now that I see how it’s gone, however, I’d like some
• Jeff Call’s novel Mormonville, which won the of them to go back into the woodwork.” The
AML’s Marilyn Brown Novel Award and was recently reporter continued: “Sean Means, movie reviewer
published by Cedar Fort, “probably intends to pro- for the state’s largest newspaper, The Salt Lake Tri-
vide some knowing chuckles about Mormon cul- bune, says films like The Singles Ward, Handcart,
ture and warm affirmations of the gospel, but the and Charly mark a sophomore slump for LDS cin-
story is mired in amateur writing,” according to ema. They’re plagued by bad scripts and boring
Publishers Weekly. “Call’s prose is plodding and plots, he says. Because they aren’t good enough to
mechanical, with only superficial plot development. succeed elsewhere, Means says, they end up being
Every purported scandal [the main character] dis- marketed squarely at locals. And there’s enough of
covers predictably proves to be quite the opposite. an audience here to pull down a profit.” Means was
He also occasionally hijacks scenes to deliver sermons directly quoted as saying, “At the moment the
on LDS culture. At least the book is punctuated mindset is: It’s a movie about Mormons, let’s go see
with a few humorous bright spots. Call successfully it. But a few more movies of questionable quality
captures the quirkiness of Mormon testimony and they’ll get over it.”
meetings and has fun with the inevitable oddballs • Called “one of the finest film festivals held in
who people any LDS ward.” As of December 2002 Utah each year” by LDS movie reporter Preston
the novel had sold about 3,000 copies. Call works Hunter, the Eclipse Film Festival that took place in
as a sports writer for the Deseret News. St. George during November featured several LDS
• Nikki Anne Schmutz has novelized the LDS- filmmakers and judges. “The 29 films that were
themed movie Out of Step. LDS film specialist selected as finalists from a much larger pool of entries
Preston Hunter said that, despite some typos and came from all over the world,” said Hunter. Best
minor editing problems, the novel is “a very fun, picture was awarded to Soledad, best director to
interesting read. In many ways this is the most dar- Christian Vuissa for Roots & Wings, best screenplay
ing story out of all the Latter-day Saint–themed to Maria Perez for Roots & Wings, best cinematog-
feature films. This is a very realistic, highly grounded raphy to Jim Orr for Soledad, best actor to Reggie

Willis for Soledad, best animation to Bug-Beat, and and a 24-hour filmmaking marathon held during
audience choice to 5 Minutes. This year’s festival the festival. Several films were selected for two
judges included Deseret News features editor Chris “Best of 2002” programs that will be shown at var-
Hicks, producer/director Rocco DeVilliers, producer/ ious worldwide locations during the coming year.
director Philippe Denham, casting agent Jennifer For more information about the festival, including
Buster, and cinematographer T. C. Christensen. a list of the 2002 winners, visit www.ldsbox.com.
• In an article titled “Throwing Stones at Our- • Handcart is the seventh independent LDS
selves: LDS Film and Its Critics” in the online film to appear in theaters since God’s Army started
Meridian magazine, LDS film veteran Kieth Mer- the movement nearly three years ago. Filmmaker
rill offered wide-ranging observations about the Kels Goodman’s $300,000-budget fictionalized
Mormon film movement. “I am the first to recog- account of the 1856 Martin Handcart Company
nize that many—if not most—of the new offerings received 2.5 stars out of 4 from Salt Lake’s two
in Mormon cinema are artistically compromised daily newspapers and a grade of C- from Provo’s
and technically misshapen,” he wrote. “Historic mar- daily paper. Tribune reviewer Sean Means wrote,
ket forces will ultimately shape the future of Mor- “Though the results ultimately suffer for Good-
mon cinema. Supply and demand are entrenched man’s financial constraints and his cast’s sometimes
realities. In spite of initial curiosity—and some elated limited talent, the movie manages to be a rousing
sense of “a movie for us at last”—mediocrity will and sometimes soul-stirring ride.” He continued:
quickly fade and quality will be required for sur- “The script [by Mark von Bowers] makes strides
vival.” He continued: “One or two will hopefully toward exploring its characters’ faith and their
cross over into mainstream. When they do, I hope wrestling with LDS doctrine—small strides, to be
the integrity of the sentimentality of the culture is sure, but more than such timid LDS films as Charly
not wholly expunged.” He added: “I am tempted or The Singles Ward attempted.” Deseret News
to write an article entitled ‘How to Invest in Mor- reviewer Jeff Vice wrote that Handcart is “bogged
mon Movies’ to augment the inevitable sifting out down with a mediocre-at-best first half and a
of bad projects that must inevitably take place. tacked-on ending, which blunt the film’s overall
High-net-worth Mormons with discretionary capi- impact. Yet, unlike some of the more recent LDS
tal are beginning to feel besieged.” Merrill con- film productions, Handcart seems to have a lot of
cluded: “If you fail to support the movies by LDS heart. And the film’s considerably more involving
filmmakers who struggle to make a difference and second half helps make it quite watchable.” Calling
who want to create family-friendly films that run Handcart one of the worst LDS films yet, Provo
counter to popular culture—however imperfect and Daily Herald reviewer Eric Snider wrote, “The
flawed their early attempts—then you forever for- story of the Mormon pioneers has great dramatic
feit your right to complain about Hollywood and potential, but it is squandered here with a rickety
the steady decline of popular culture.” script and some terrible acting.” He continued: “The
• More than 1,500 people attended the second- film’s most egregious sin is that it’s boring. The
annual LDS Film Festival held in Provo, Utah, character arcs, when they exist, don’t flow; charac-
during November. The four-day festival featured ters just wind up different, with no examination of
screenings of about 80 films in various genres, what caused the change. The film asks excellent
question-and-answer sessions with numerous film- questions about faith—like why God would drop a
makers, a dozen presentations and workshops, a snowstorm on a group of people who were only
forum addressing the theme of “Fantasy and Real- trying to do his will—but doesn’t answer them.
ity in LDS Media,” and a panel discussion on “The The survivors seem to emerge with stronger faith,
LDS Cinematic Audience.” A total of $3,000 was but again, the movie doesn’t show us why or how.
awarded to winners of several competitions, includ- The film is unsure what it wants to say, and what it
ing short screenplay, feature screenplay, short film, does say, it does clumsily.” In a two-star review, Salt

Lake City Weekly wrote: “Sigh . . . here we go again. reviews by Evangelicals that have criticized the
Earnest presentation. A few ghastly performances. Church yet bemoaned the fact that Evangelical-
Preaching to the choir. Scenes of near-instanta- made movies have consistently failed to be as well
neous conversion. Complete absence of a credible made as Latter-day Saint–made movies. Of course,
skeptical voice. It must be one in the latest wave of even Latter-day Saints have far to go before match-
LDS-themed films that expect a low budget and ing the collective filmmaking talent of the Catholic
good intentions to excuse a mediocre product with- and Jewish communities.”
out much in its head. Paging Richard Dutcher— • A Salt Lake Tribune feature about Excel Enter-
can someone remind these guys that they should be tainment Group, the Salt Lake City–based music
making movies first, and testimonies second?” and film distributor behind God’s Army, Brigham
• Sixteen of the most powerful filmmakers in City, The Other Side of Heaven, and Charly, focused
Hollywood, including Steven Spielberg, Martin on Mormon film’s potential to cross over into the
Scorsese, and Robert Redford, filed a federal law- mainstream. “There’s a misconception that to cross
suit to stop companies from selling or renting videos over with a niche film, you have to generify it,” said
in which the swearing, sex, and violence have been Excel president Jeff Simpson. “The truth is, a story
edited out, reported the Salt Lake Tribune. “The has to go even deeper into a culture to make it uni-
suit, filed by the Directors Guild of America (DGA) versal.” According to the reporter, “If you take the
on behalf of the directors, claims [Utah-based] word Mormon out of a script like Charly, replace it
CleanFlicks is ‘undoing, undermining, and super- with Jewish, Catholic, Italian, or even Greek, you’ve
seding the artistic work in which a director has got standard Hollywood fare, not a limited-release
invested considerable time, effort, and talent.’” The cultural-ethnic film.” Simpson said that the “best is
DGA’s position is that selling or renting edited yet to come” as far as Mormon films crossing over.
movies violates federal laws against false advertis- “The real limitation is, how good are we at making
ing, trademark infringement, and unfair competi- movies and writing stories? They can have all the
tion. DGA president Martha Coolidge said, “It is attributes of the religion, but they have to be stories
wrong to cut scenes from a film—just as it is to rip well told. The passion of the story is where your
pages from a book—simply because we don’t like limits lie.” Variety recently rated Excel as the nation’s
the way something was portrayed or said, then eighth-largest limited-release film distributor.
resell it with the original title and creator’s name • Continuing his publicity efforts for his latest
still on it. It is unethical, it is shameful.” More directorial project Possession, Neil LaBute made
recently, eight major movie studios filed suit in some comments about his Mormonism to the Los
support of the directors, and many legal experts Angeles Times. “LaBute, a devout Mormon, has
predict this case will prompt changes in copyright paid spiritually for his art. After his Bash: Latter-
and trademark laws. Day Plays appeared on Showtime two years ago, the
• In a short article titled “Mormon Film a Les- Mormon church was mortified by LaBute’s por-
son in Telling Faith-Based Stories,” Christianity trayals of Mormons committing murder. The eld-
Today described Richard Dutcher’s Brigham City as ers barred him from taking the sacrament and
dark and challenging and called the film a model of voting on church matters. LaBute, who lives in a
“how to tell faith-based stories without hammering Chicago suburb with his wife, Lisa, and two chil-
people with theological lectures.” LDS film reporter dren, can still attend church, but the welcome mat
Preston Hunter added, “The article does not point seems slippery. ‘More than just not writing about
out that national secular movie critics, as well as Mormons, they don’t want me writing about any-
critics for Evangelical and Protestant publications, thing that isn’t uplifting or enlightening, and I’m
have consistently given better reviews to Latter-day having more trouble doing that,’ he says. ‘I have no
Saint–made feature films than to other Christian- agenda about writing for Mormons, and I haven’t
market films. We’ve lost count of the number of written a Mormon character since [Bash]. That may

come to more of a head down the road.’ Asked if he selves to the Ad Board; this is the place to list your
was rethinking his affiliation, he answers, ‘I don’t services or your talents. The Job Board is where
question my faith at all. I question my place in the filmmakers can post job listings for their produc-
church.’” tions or browse the jobs or needs available. There
• Newsweek recently ran a small blurb titled will soon be a Project Collaboration section where
“Mormons: They’re a Laugh Riot” about Mormon filmmakers can get together and develop projects.
comedy films. “Mormons, known for their serious- The site is meant to be interactive, and it is fully
ness and sobriety, are letting loose on the silver database-backed and automated.”
screen with a spate of small-budget comedies.” • The movie version of Jack Weyland’s popular
Identifying the trend as having started with The 1980 LDS teen-romance novel Charly received
Singles Ward, the magazine reported that eight mixed reviews, although most commentators
additional Mormon comedies are in the pipeline. agreed the film is better than the book. Grading the
“A few are about the perils of missionary work, and movie a B-, Provo Daily Herald reviewer Eric Snider
one’s about church basketball leagues. All this has said the film “is true to Weyland’s story while
prompted Mormon filmmaker Nathan Smith Jones expanding and improving it.” However, “the film’s
to make a mockumentary about the quest to become third act—which should be about whether faith
the Mormon Spielberg. (Think Spinal Tap with has practical applications in real life—falters, fail-
Mormons.) ‘This market will be really competitive,’ ing to completely address the issues it needs to.”
Jones says. ‘I’m mocking it before it gets out of Snider continued: “The movie’s sentiments are
hand.’” lovely, and for the most part they are expressed
• Two independent Book of Mormon movies well. To the extent that Mormon doctrine is pres-
have been announced for release in 2003, both ent, it is delivered without much sermonizing. It is
intended as the start of a series. Due in the spring, a likable story, told with competence.” Giving the
the $2-million-budgeted Book of Mormon Movie, film two stars out of four, Deseret News critic Jeff
Volume One is helmed by writer, producer, and Vice said that viewers who weren’t already fans of
director Gary Rogers; for complete information, the novel “will probably find it a little too manipu-
see www.bookofmormonmovie.com. Slated for later lative, even maudlin.” He continued: “The story
in 2003, the $8-million-budgeted A Voice from the skips around too much—it’s unclear how much
Dust: Journey to the Promised Land is headed by time has elapsed between certain scenes. The film’s
writer, producer, and director Peter Johnson; for real problem, though, is that the romance between
complete information, see www.voicefromthedust.com. the leads isn’t as compelling or as believable as it
Writing in Meridian about these forthcoming Book should be.” Also giving the film two stars out of
of Mormon films, LDS film veteran Kieth Merrill four, Salt Lake Tribune reviewer Sean Means said
said, “As a Mormon I want these films to be all that the film is “derivative, manipulative, and as sugary
I’ve imagined. As a moviemaker I know the ominous as green Jell-O” and “suffers from a syrupy script
challenges ahead. As a Mormon I am tingling with (credited to Janine Whetten Gilbert, an English
anticipation. As a moviemaker I am terrified for my professor at BYU–Idaho) and some contrived situ-
courageous colleagues.” ations.” He continued: “The movie’s most intrigu-
• The LDS Film Insider is a new website for net- ing plot development—not the romance, but Charly’s
working within the LDS film industry. Located at conversion to the LDS faith—is also the most
www.lomaxgroup.com/ldsinsider, the site is designed problematic. Because Charly comes to the Book of
to be “an interactive place for LDS filmmakers to Mormon as a professed intellectual, the questing
visit and share their needs and services with other viewer might hope for a solid point-for-point dis-
LDS filmmakers,” according to LDS film reporter cussion of LDS doctrine (something even the mis-
Preston Hunter. “There is no cost to add info or to sionary drama God’s Army provided, albeit briefly).
view the site. Industry members can add them- Instead, Charly’s acceptance of her new faith is fast

and unflinching, even in the face of death, and an Drama

opportunity to explore the complexities of belief
is lost.” A Salt Lake City Weekly reviewer wrote: • The Deseret News recently featured the Center
“The standard-issue melodrama is frustrating (if Street Theatre in Orem, Utah, the Nauvoo The-
predictable) enough, especially when coupled with atrical Society’s new home founded by Thom Dun-
far too many episodes of forced whimsy. What’s can, J. Scott Bronson, and Paul Duerden. Their goal
even more frustrating (if equally predictable) is is “seeing that Mormon theater gets its fair chance
watching yet another LDS narrative turn into an on stage. They’re tired of having to cast about for
exercise in serene handholding. The conflict carries places to put on LDS-oriented shows and musicals
all the kick of a frustrated Little Leaguer booting each time a new one is written, essentially starting
second base after a close call, because this story by over every time one is produced, renting school audi-
the faithful and for the faithful isn’t really about toriums and taking leftovers for space.” Duncan
asking hard questions. It’s about making you feel said: “We exist to make it known Mormon theater
good about how you already see the world, no mat- is not as limited as people think. Our definition of
ter how many cathartic tears it squeezes out of you Mormon theater is anything written by a Mormon
along the way.” or about Mormons written by anybody. We want
• Reviewing the DVD release of The Singles to do anything that pertains to the community.”
Ward, Deseret News feature editor Chris Hicks said Duerden said: “I’ve always been intrigued by the
the film struck him as “little more than a bigger- fact that in Happy Valley we have no Mormon the-
budget roadshow. Silly comic subplots and charac- aters. We’re not just adding another theater to the
ters abound. Singles Ward is really just a series of valley. There’s enough theater already. We want to
skits—some good, some mediocre, some awful— say we’re going to be here for Mormon audiences
and the performances are a mix of professional and and theater.” Bronson said: “There’s a whole lot
amateurish, including the LDS celebrity guest cameos. more Mormon theater than people realize. We know
The film’s jokes and colloquialisms are extremely the public perception is that you have Saturday’s
inside; those unfamiliar with the culture may be Warrior and a few dozen roadshows, but there is so
lost. And, of course, most gags play off of broad much of it and so much of it is good.” The theater
stereotypes. Having watched it again, I still find operators say they have enough material to run the
much of it puerile, but I did chuckle here and theater for 15 years without repeating a show, includ-
there. It really plays better on the small screen, ing pieces written by Tim Slover, Marvin Payne,
where its flaws have less impact.” He added that the Eric Samuelsen, James Arrington, Thomas F. Rogers,
DVD extras “are quite clever, and many are more Josh Brady, Elizabeth Hansen, Steven Kapp Perry,
amusing than the film itself.” Julie Boxx Boyle, and Susan Lewis, as well as by
• Sweet Home Alabama screenwriter C. Jay Cox Bronson and Duncan. “We’re not just talking fluff,”
will make his directorial debut with Latter Days, Duerden said. “We’re talking serious and sometimes
a film about a gay party boy/waiter who makes a controversial material.” Upcoming plays include
bet he can seduce an LDS missionary and ends up The Way We’re Wired by Eric Samuelsen, Stones by
falling in love with him. The missionary must choose J. Scott Bronson, and Wedlocked by Marvin Payne.
between his religion and his love, and a pivotal role The box office can be reached at 801-225-3800.
belongs to the antagonistic missionary companion • Almost Perfect, a new musical comedy by Sat-
who discovers the romance. The project sponsor, urday’s Warrior creator Doug Stewart, received poor
Funny Boy Films, is an independent company reviews during its premiere at Utah Valley State
devoted to gay and lesbian films. College in Orem. Grading the show a D+, Provo
Daily Herald reviewer Eric Snider wrote: “There is
no story here. It borrows heavily from Guys and
Dolls and The Music Man specifically, but more to
the point, it borrows from every major musical the-
ater work of the past 65 years. The conflicts are all tive, even by its author’s own prickly standards,”
standard musical-theater fare, as are their resolu- wrote the New York Times. Starring Sigourney
tions. What’s stunning is how little effort is put Weaver and Liev Schreiber, the play takes place on
into conveying them.” A Deseret News reviewer September 12, 2001, “as a married man named
wrote: “There certainly are some bright spots. But Ben (also a father) and his mistress, Abby (also his
overall, as a new musical trying to become a favorite, boss), debate their future. The day before, on his
it’s too long and too uneven to succeed. Which is way to an early meeting at the World Trade Center,
not to say this production doesn’t have some origi- Ben had been diverted to Abby’s nearby apartment.
nality. The music box melody ‘Segue La Voce’ is When the planes crashed into the towers, the lovers
beautiful, but it’s outweighed by those songs and were engaged in oral sex. Now, presuming his wife
characters that have an air of deja vu about them. and children think he’s dead, Ben sees an opportu-
The play also vacillates dramatically and suddenly nity to start a new life. Abby’s revulsion leads to a
from mock comedy to intense drama. Is this a light bitter dissection of their relationship.” The Times
comedy or a deep treatise on humanity?” continues: “The cynicism can seem breathtaking
• Neil LaBute’s play The Shape of Things was but weirdly heartening, a sign that we haven’t been
recently staged at the Aurora Theatre in Berkeley, pummeled, politically and emotionally, into taking
California. A San Francisco Chronicle reviewer wrote a uniform view of that terrible moment and its
that the play “isn’t as intense, disturbing, or well- meaning. The play requires almost a nonstop out-
shaped as Bash. But it’s a generally engrossing and put of high-octane emotion, whose venom level
provocative exploration of trust and betrayal in the was startling to these gifted and experienced actors.
making of art and love.” He continues: “The key (Even the humor, and there is more than you would
plot development isn’t hard to solve, and LaBute think, springs from bitter truths and suppositions.)”
almost spoils it with a superfluous, over-explanatory Weaver said: “That people in the daze of Sept. 12
late monologue that sounds too much like a script could make remarks like that was so unthinkable to
synopsis. But his dissection of American social atti- me. They were so clearly in their own selfish world.
tudes, and of the mutual self-deceptions of the But I must say, as well as shocking, it was funny.
mating game, is as acute as ever. The dialogue is And necessary. As if the pendulum had to swing
invigoratingly colloquial and character-specific, back to the other direction. My character is an adul-
laced with apt allusions to everything from Oscar teress, a ruthless businesswoman, but she does the
Wilde, Kafka, and Pygmalion to Kung Fu, I Love right thing in the end. We’ve been couching all this
Lucy, and Cosmo. Shape is bracingly funny, painfully in good and evil, black and white, but people come
moving, unexpectedly sexy, and as trenchant as in shades of gray.” Schreiber said: “I’m scared.
only a passionate moralist like LaBute could make I don’t think I’ve been in a place in my life or my
it.” The reviewer concludes: “As predictable as career where things are as sensitive as they are in
LaBute’s main plot development may be, the this play. It makes me question all the foundations
rationalizations, observations, and justifications of of my training and belief and faith. I completely
his characters contain some stunning twists and respect people’s decision to stay away from things
thought-provoking turns. Though we know their that will be painful to them. This is a play for
Eden is illusory, the fall of this Adam and Evelyn people who are hearty of spirit.”
continues to confound us with illuminations about • Since its Salt Lake City premiere in November
the many subtle and overt ways we objectify each 2001, Steven Fales’s one-man show Confessions of
other.” The movie version of The Shape of Things a Mormon Boy, which traces the development of
will soon be released. his homosexuality, has been staged in San Francisco
• Neil LaBute’s new play The Mercy Seat, which and Las Vegas and is scheduled to open off-
he directed in its recent New York City debut, is “a Broadway. Directed by Jack Hofsiss, the Tony
tough-minded play whose ideas are highly provoca- Award–winning director of The Elephant Man, the

new version has been retooled and expanded to dreams come true.” Larson added: “Each charac-
touch on Fales’s gay lifestyle in New York City. ter’s musical journey is an attempt to learn, relearn,
• After a three-year absence and its third retool- and even unlearn their vaudevillian acts in order to
ing, the Tuachan Amphitheater production of Utah! master the steps to a new dance that will allow
The Jacob Hamblin Story “still seems a bit dis- them to break from their dysfunctional past and
jointed and could use some substantial tightening,” start again.”
according to a Deseret News reviewer. “Jacob Ham- • Each year the Villa Institute for the Perform-
blin is the driving force in this big-as-all-outdoors ing Arts in Springville, Utah, holds a playwriting
production centered around Brigham Young’s colo- contest to encourage development of family-style
nization of Utah’s Dixie and Hamblin’s efforts to dramas, comedies, and musicals. Winners of the
build peace with the area’s Indian tribes. During third annual contest include the following: first
the show’s various incarnations, it has become con- prize to Louise Helps of Provo for The Day After, a
siderably less preachy, but there is still an over- family comedy about mistaken identity; second
abundance of ‘thus saith the Lords’ in the script. place to BYU student Jessica Woodbury for her
Juggling three parallel plotlines also bogs things untitled comedy about truth serum; third place to
down.” The reviewer continues: “While Utah! is Jaren Hinckley of Provo for his one-act play Povey
still big and spectacular (and, yes, the Santa Clara Playhouse Presents . . .; and honorable mentions to
River still floods the stage with cascading, recycled Jeff Bierhaus, Loren Lambert, Alan Mitchell, and
water every night), the central focus of the story— Bonnie Vernon.
Hamblin and the Indians—keeps getting sidetracked
between far too many dance sequences that are way Miscellany
too long.” He concludes: “Kurt Bestor and Sam
Cardon’s music (along with most of Doug Stewart’s • The 21st-annual Life, the Universe, and
lyrics) have largely been retained, and some of the Everything symposium on science fiction and fan-
music is very moving. But in whacking out sections tasy will be held February 13–15, 2003, at Brigham
of the script, the flow of the story is hampered by Young University. Guests of honor will include
some confusing gaps.” Orson Scott Card, Patricia C. Wrede, and Esther
• Twenty years after BYU theater professor M. Friesner. Until February 1, organizers will con-
George Nelson started writing his musical comedy sider abstracts for 20-to-45-minute papers dealing
Soft Shoe, the show finally premiered at BYU’s Par- with all aspects of science fiction and fantasy,
doe Theater. “There are three characters in my play, including literature, film, and television. For more
and all of them have come from quite dysfunc- information, contact Ivan Wolfe at rabidwolfe@
tional settings,” Nelson said. “It’s that mess of try- byu.edu or visit humanities.byu.edu/ltue.
ing to deal with love and life and what it takes to • Christina Axson-Flynn is making national
be happy. I think a lot of musicals have pretty light waves with her federal civil-rights lawsuit against
characters. I’ve tried to write deeper characters, the University of Utah for requiring her to use the
dealing with deep issues, but in a romantic-comedy f-word and take the Lord’s name in vain in a theater-
way.” With music by BYU senior David Larson, performance course. The case, which has reached
the play is set in the 1930s, during the decline of the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals in Denver, is
vaudeville. “Dancing and the need to learn the “catching the attention of attorneys and legal schol-
proper steps represent the struggle to understand ars nationally, some of whom say it could break
real love, in all its forms,” Nelson said. “Light rep- new ground for how courts test certain First
resents the source of truth and human fulfillment, Amendment rights claims,” according to the Salt
while the vaudevillian acts represent both the Lake Tribune. The University of Utah is arguing
facades we construct to shield us from the realities that the case is a matter of academic freedom, while
of failed dreams and the effort needed to make our Axson-Flynn argues that it is a free speech and reli-

gious freedom case. Garrett Epps, a former staff by May 1, 2003, directly to IRREANTUM’s fiction
writer for The Washington Post and visiting profes- editor: Tory Anderson, P.O. Box 445, Levan, UT
sor at the Boston College of Law, said, “This is dif- 84639. Send any questions to irreantum2@cs.com.
ferent than citing the pledge. It’s an academic • The AML’s biannual Marilyn Brown Novel
requirement that all students have to shoulder. You Award will next be presented in 2004. The winning
can imagine a host of situations where students are novel will be the well-written work for mature
required to do something they don’t feel good readers that best reflects Mormon values and cul-
about. What if you were a medical student who ture and fulfills as many of the following criteria as
refused to look at naked bodies?” Marci Hamilton, possible: by a Mormon, about Mormons, for a Mor-
a professor at Cardozo Law School at Yeshiva Uni- mon audience. Explicit Mormonism is not neces-
versity in New York, pointed out that Axson-Flynn sarily a prerequisite, but consideration of high and
didn’t have to enroll in the first place. “Unlike pub- moral values is. Only unpublished novels are eligi-
lic-school children forced to recite the pledge, she ble; the author may be seeking a publisher while
had the choice of deciding to go into theater or the manuscript is being judged, but a contract with
choose to take another path. I just don’t think she a publisher must not be signed until after the award
has a strong argument.” Acknowledging that the is presented. The prize is $1,000, and honorable
academic freedom argument will be difficult to mentions may or may not be awarded. Two anony-
overcome, Axson-Flynn’s lawyer said, “Shouldn’t mous judges from the AML will help Marilyn
there be some effort by school officials to make accom- Brown pick the winner. If the majority of judges
modations for students who could be excellent feels no entry is worthy of a prize, the prize will be
actors, who are committed and want to work hard, withheld. Authors should try to attend the AML
but who have certain moral rules they adhere to?” annual conference in February 2004, because the
• The Association for Mormon Letters is pleased winner will be revealed at that time. Manuscripts
to announce the third annual IRREANTUM fiction should be typed, double-spaced, copied on both
contest. Because IRREANTUM is a quarterly literary sides of regular white paper, and bound in a comb
magazine dedicated to exploring Mormon culture, or spiral binding like a book. Include a self-addressed
all contest entries must relate to the Mormon expe- stamped postcard if you want to be notified that
rience in some way, either explicitly or implicitly. your novel has arrived. The title of the novel and
However, authors don’t have to be LDS. As long as the author’s name, address, and phone number
an entry doesn’t exceed 8,500 words, any fictional should be placed in a sealed envelope, which will
form will be considered, including short stories and not be opened until the day of the AML conference
excerpts from novels, screenplays, and play scripts. luncheon. On the outside of this envelope, indicate
Any fictional genre is welcome, including literary, only the title of the novel. No other author identi-
mystery, romance, science fiction, fantasy, historical, fication should appear on the manuscript in any
and horror. The first-place author will be awarded shape or form. Postmark deadline is July 1, 2003;
$250, second place $175, and third place $100 for return, include SASE. Send your manuscript to:
(unless the judge determines entries are not of suf- Marilyn Brown Novel Award, 125 Hobble Creek
ficient quality to merit awards). Winners agree to Canyon, Springville, UT 84663. If you have any
give IRREANTUM first publication rights. To facili- questions, contact Marilyn Brown at 801-489-4980
tate blind judging, entries should be submitted with or wwbrown@burgoyne.com.
a removable cover sheet that includes the author’s
name, address, telephone number, e-mail address,
and manuscript title, with only the manuscript title
appearing on the rest of the manuscript. Stories
should be double-spaced in easily readable type.
Entries will not be returned. Submit manuscripts

A M L - L I S T to figure out ways to replace the funding? Of

H I G H L I G H T S course, once the threat of killing the NEA went
away, so did the creative scrambling, and it was
Compiled by Marny K. Parkin back to business as usual.
Much of this debate over government funding of
AML-List provides an ongoing forum for broad- the arts presupposes that without government
ranging conversation and a stimulating exchange of funding, art won’t happen. But that’s a false pre-
opinions related to LDS literature. Discussion dur- supposition. AML, IRREANTUM, and Sugar Beet are
ing May, June, and July 2002 included topics such all proof of this. Government doesn’t like funding
as Satan figures, baby exhaustion, missionary fic- Mormon things (as IRREANTUM found out), so we
tion, Mormon utopias, secret combinations in lit- figure out other ways to do Mormon art, because
erature, and Disney morals. Read on for a sampling we haven’t the luxury of going hat-in-hand to the
of the sentiment on some other interesting topics. government.
If you find yourself champing to chime in, send an Does the unpopular NEA-funded art get much
e-mail message to majordomo@lists.xmission.com play in society? Unpopular Mormon art already
that reads: subscribe aml-list. A confirmation request exists without government support—an audience
will be sent to your e-mail address; follow the direc- for it won’t suddenly spring up just because the
tions to complete your subscription. AML-List is NEA starts funding it. So what have we won with
moderated by Jonathan Langford. government funding? Just some artists who get a
paycheck without ever bothering to figure out how
Money and Art to make their art more relevant to people. Govern-
ment sponsorship of Mo-lit will stymie the efforts
D. Michael Martindale (May 2): Rather than people are now making to figure out how to nur-
enabling the existence of something that otherwise ture a genuine Mo-lit audience.
wouldn’t exist, the real effect of government fund- Scott R. Parkin (May 2): To some degree my
ing is to suppress creative solutions that would response is pragmatic. What others do or have
work much better, because everyone becomes lulled done is irrelevant to me; what I’m looking at is how
into believing that it can’t be done if government to use the system to my own advantage.
doesn’t do it. If I can get funding to support what I believe is
Of course, the experiment can’t be done because a better form of alternate Mormon literature than
too many citizens would object to implementing it, the vast majority of what I see from Covenant or
but I would bet you dollars to (Krispy Kreme) DB, then why shouldn’t I? I would far rather work
doughnuts that if we could wipe out all govern- through the existing free-market structure, but the
ment funding of the arts, eventually alternate ways simple fact is they won’t buy or publish some of the
would be developed to fund them, and they’d go excellent work that I see being produced because it
right on existing. Because it always happens in doesn’t fit into their idea of appropriate (or mar-
human endeavors. Even though in the minority, ketable) work.
there are still enough lovers of the arts around that So I have to look for other ways to do it. I’m not
they’d figure out a way, once the blinding veil of “it sure how NEA (or Utah Arts Council or Utah
can’t be done” is removed from their belief system. Humanities Council) dollars are going to stymie
Government funding of the arts also causes com- my effort; but I do see how those dollars could help
placency. The government is already funding it, so me start something that I believe can become self-
I don’t have to. Does everyone recall the fear that sustaining and both literarily and socially relevant.
arose when threats of killing the NEA were in the I can’t argue that a great many lazy people use
air? Does everyone recall how those organizations the government dole to fund their own trivial
receiving funding from the NEA were scrambling vision and shock-oriented esthetic. But seeking and

using money offered by the government does not that only goes so far. I remember the first time I
automatically turn me into an artistic zombie— was published in a high school literary publication.
though coming to depend on the handout can cer- Got no money. It was a thrill. But the thrill dies
tainly cloud one’s pure vision. fast. Personally, I have all the fame I ever want.
I don’t have the knowledge or the power to What I want now is to be paid for what I write,
change the way other people think, but I do have even if only one person reads or sees my stuff. The
the ability to express (often poorly) my own hope biggest motivation for me to get this theater group
for a better existence and to support the publica- going with Scott Bronson is so I can finally make
tion of those people who express their own hopes some money with all the plays I’ve written over the
better than I do. Theoretically, that’s one of the last decade or so.
purposes of Art, and even art that disgusts me Todd Petersen (May 3): I’m not interested in
moves me to refine my own vision and belief. making my living with The Sugar Beet, Thom. It’s
Which I consider to be good, regardless of the fun. Work sucks, the Beet is fun. If I had to worry
intent of the artist or his/her personal morality. about my success with the Beet affecting my ability
At the risk of offending my good friend Scott to adequately provide for my family, I’d be so stink-
Bronson by using his words to support my ing nervous. . . .
social/political views, that’s why his statement that Also, according to our consulting attorney, once
his goal with art was to build the kingdom of God we make money people will be more likely to try
is so powerful to me—it seems like the best and and sue us, which means we’d be more likely to
most complete reason to create art that I can image. censor ourselves. This way, it’s still fun. For me, at
Art to impress a snobbish New York elite will have least. Can’t vouch for others.
its limited play and will vanish when its patrons Money, says songwriter David Wilcox, is the “sex
pass on (either in death or to the next fad). But art drug of rock and roll.”
used to build a heritage of godly seeking and spiri- Also, even King Benjamin worked in the fields
tual building strikes me as a good thing. along with his people. What makes LDS writers
So why shouldn’t I use the tools designed to sup- think they don’t need to do the same?
port a snobbish elite to support my own artistic J. Scott Bronson (May 6): At last, the crux of the
vision and hope? Why shouldn’t I benefit from a matter. And the answer to the question that still has
system that supports trivial expression, and turn it not been asked. Does a writer labor to produce?
so it supports a somewhat less trivial (IMO) expres- Apparently not, and so is unworthy of her hire.
sion? That’s one of many ways that I as an individ- Steve Perry (May 6): (Okay, self; take deep breaths,
ual citizen can determine what art tax dollars go to count to 10 backwards, picture a very peaceful place
support—but only if I seek it. where no one will hurt you and you won’t feel the
Thom Duncan (May 2): [Todd Robert Petersen] need to hurt anyone . . . in, out, in, out . . . )
offered The Sugar Beet as an artistic endeavor that But LDS writers do do the same; and their writ-
did not receive gummit funding, as if to show that ing is their field.
we don’t need NEA money to create good art. To make a distinction between “writing” and
Quite right. But the fact remains that no one in “real labor” is a distinction you can choose to make
Sugar Beet is likely to be able to pay their bills from personally, but I don’t believe it reflects reality.
the fame they will get. To do that—to actually My music paper and piano keyboard and com-
make a living doing something as high quality as puter screen are my field and I work way dang
Sugar Beet but also as necessarily focused—will totally hard for many of the same reasons and same
require some outside funding at some point. motivations King Benjamin expressed. What I do is
[. . .] Can an artist make a living doing such a real job, not ethereal or mysterious or unfairly sat-
things as writing for Sugar Beet, etc.? Todd Petersen isfying and without drawbacks and stress like other
makes the claim that writers are paid in fame. Well, “real jobs.”

Welcome to the world of being a writer, musi- way I agree—I’m lucky enough to enjoy doing
cian, artist, anyone self-employed at all. something that also pays a regular salary. I just took
If work “sucks” and writing is “fun,” and both a break from reading student essays to read some
are honorable, why make the puritan choice? Well, Nabokov, and before I go home I’ll play the piano
money is a possible reason and yes, I am often “so for a while (I have one in my office). I spent an
stinking nervous” that I have trouble sleeping at hour this morning discussing European labor laws
night. But wouldn’t I feel the same if I’d just pur- and the perils of the Euro experiment with a col-
chased a new Hogi Yogi franchise and wondered if league. Is this work?
it was going to fly? Yes, it is. I’m planning to develop a course on
I have had occasional part-time jobs along the Nabokov (yes, I’m an economist, but teaching in
way since music is a crazy way to attempt a living an interdisciplinary honors college means never
with actual spouse, children, vehicles, and consis- having to say “I can’t teach that”), I’m playing some
tent shelter involved. I have not begrudged the jobs of the prelude and postlude music for our com-
(and they have not been particularly glamorous or mencement, and I’m working on a paper about the
highly skilled) since nearly all work is honorable, effects of EU agricultural policy on former East
especially with the purpose of supporting my fam- Bloc countries. All of which offers some sort of
ily. These part-time jobs (including the one I just value to someone.
got last month since the dentist prophesied three Work isn’t about breaking a sweat or a fingernail.
sets of braces in the next five years) also fulfilled my It isn’t about getting dirty, nor is it about making
main requirement for a part-time job; they gave me something that someone can touch. It’s about improv-
time to write. ing the lives of people around you, about making
God gave me a particular piece of land to plow your society a better place. If the baker wants to
and I’ll be hanged if I don’t work in that field, no bake loaves of bread and then toss them in the lake,
matter what else I have to do to make it possible. It fine, but that’s not work. If he sells one to me, he
is always my main labor—my “real job”—even makes both of us better off, and that’s honorable
when I’ve been packing boxes or taking pictures of work. My piano teacher works (I wouldn’t pay him
desserts for industrial emailings, etc. if he didn’t), Marie-Claire Alain works (I’m listen-
Obviously, this concept of “real work vs. writing to her performance of a Widor organ symphony
ing” touched a nerve with me, but I think I am also as I write this), and the person who came up with
speaking for the many folks I know well and dis- the beurre blanc recipe I’ll be using for dinner tonight
tantly who follow their personal sense of mission works. They take resources (if only their time and
into the unexplored and risky territory of trying to fertile imaginations) and turn them into something
live as artists. worth more than what they started with. That’s work.
I applaud those who maintain writing as a hobby Mormons have a distorted view of work. Hugh
or necessary release. May they create many great Nibley once remarked that we have more respect
and wonderful (and yes, hilarious) things. for the man who gets up early to write bad manuals
I applaud those who feel to reverse that way of than for the one who sleeps in until ten and writes
living and maintain themselves by the sweat of a masterpiece. We hold in higher esteem the person
their creative brows. May they create many great who paints houses than the person who paints can-
and wonderful things. vases, probably because the former is doing some-
May they both respect and honor each other and thing practical and certain to be remunerative. It’s
the work—both “writerly” and other-than—which a puritanical point of view, as Steve noted, holding
they both do. that work is a function of sweat, misery, and wages.
Jim Picht (May 8): I appreciated Steve Perry’s It’s a view enshrined in our tax code, the differentia-
comments on writing as work. People occasionally tion between “earned” and “unearned” income (that
tell me that what I do isn’t really work, or that I “unearned” income often results from the willingness
don’t work in the real world (whatever that is). In a to put resources into the financial systems that are

the life-blood of a modern economy and to manage For some, what work is for is to make money.
them—work as important as making steel). It’s the For me, what money is for is to make work.
belief that making other people better off is just a If the money to enable the next project comes
happy side effect of work, irrelevant to the nature from the last project, great. If it comes from the
of work. government, great. If it comes from an anonymous
Painting, writing, and playing the piano well are donor, great. If it comes from somebody who doesn’t
all work, though usually of a very poorly paid vari- like me, but for some reason owes me money, great.
ety. If it’s wealth you want, get an M.D. or open Kathy Fowkes said (rather beautifully) that Mor-
a dry-cleaning establishment. Mormons are often mon artists are paid well in spiritual coin for the
enamored of medical and business schools—very work they do. I agree. But I also regard every tem-
practical, very dependable wages, high likelihood poral coin as coming from the Lord, and always to
of being able to take care of your family while serv- enable the work more than to reward the worker.
ing as a stake president. I’m happy there are people
who learn to be anesthesiologists—I wouldn’t want “Choose the Rock”
an operation without one—and I don’t begrudge
them their enormous fees (well, to the extent that [In reference to “Choose the Rock,” Rebecca
those fees are due to a badly functioning medical Vernon’s article about young Mormon rockers that
industry I do, but not to the extent that they rep- appeared in Salt Lake City Weekly. As of December
resent the high cost of getting that training and the 2002, the article was still available at www.slweekly.
very inelastic nature of supply and demand in that com/editorial/2002/feat_2002-07-11.cfm.]
market). I also don’t much regret the low pay of Kathy Tyner (July 15): As the article says, it is
artists and writers. In the nature of markets, these possible to be both a rocker and an active, faithful
things just are, sort of like gravity. member. In our Northridge, California ward our
I have much more to say on this, but I don’t elders quorum pres. belonged to a rock group
suppose this is the forum for a lengthy discourse on called Spaghetti Western that we saw perform at
the economics of labor markets and the price sys- the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip a few years
tem. Let me just note that I think it’s sad that so ago. He is now Bishop Hollister of the Northridge
many people have jobs they dislike, or study to 1st Ward, a rocker and a bishop, wow.
enter professions they don’t care about but which BTW, Elvis gets a pass. He accepted, read, and
offer financial security. Work isn’t about being mis- even made notes in the margins of the Book of
erable, but many of us think that that’s a natural Mormon that the Osmond family gave him, as
part of the work experience. Our priorities and noted in Donny Osmond’s autobiography, Life
expectations are distorted, I think. Is What You Make It. After Elvis died, his father
Kathy Fowkes (May 8): Unworthy of his hire? Vernon returned the BoM and eventually the
I guess if all you are writing for is to obtain money, Osmonds gave it to the Church. Yes, just imag-
then yes, I suppose it can be looked at this way. But ine—Elvis was so close to accepting the gospel and
I think, given the covenants made in the waters of then he up and dies on us! He’d have been a bigger
baptism and at the temple altars, LDS artists and catch than, say, Steve Martin.
writers, when laboring for the kingdom of God, Susan Malmrose (July 16): I’m a closet rocker.
most certainly are hired, trained, led, and paid. The Among my music-oriented friends, I’m not a closet-
coin one is paid in is of far greater value than mere Mormon. But among the Mormons I know, I’d be
mortal money, though. But payment for services pretty reluctant to say what I’m about to say: I’m
rendered is extremely generous! totally into stoner rock and doom metal.
Marvin Payne (May 9): I don’t know if this feel- I grew up going to see all the local Seattle grunge
ing is common to my fellow full-time artists, but bands play in little dinky places before they got
here it is. huge. Then I got married and was too busy with

kids and trying to make ends meet to go to shows. remembers Buddy Holly fondly, and rocks out to
But now my kids are old enough to stay home on Little Richard. Or a hardcore Dylan fan. Or a hard-
their own for an evening, so I’ve started attending core Led Zeppelin fan. Or Smashing Pumpkins.
shows again. Last weekend I saw Mudhoney play at I mean, for Father’s Day this year, my wife got
an outdoor block party, and this weekend I’m see- me the best FD present I’ve ever had: two third-
ing two different shows, both at little bars. row-center tickets to see Jethro Tull. And my son
I’ve often felt like I don’t fit in anywhere, except tells me that Tull was always one of those bands
with my husband. It’s nice to hear about other Lat- seminary teachers were particularly fond of attack-
ter-day Saints into rock. I’d already heard about ing, but I grew up with Tull, have been listening to
Low, but now I’m going to have to check into some their records for thirty years, have all their albums,
of these other bands. and have most of their songs memorized. I’ve had
[Name withheld] (July 16): I have a son, my spiritual experiences listening to Locomotive
only son, the youngest of four children, who is a Breath. And I also love classical music, spent years
wonderfully sensitive young man (25). He went working professionally as a classical music DJ.
down a forbidden path at age 14 and we have I make no differentiation, IOW, between Mozart
struggled for 11 years to bring him back. He is and Jerry Lee Lewis. So what if that were the atti-
almost there, but we still have a ways to go. I haven’t tude of the Church? What if we in the Church
been pleased with his choice of music, and I thought actually took Psalm 150 seriously?
this would be the last great obstacle to get him over. Scott R. Parkin (July 18): I think it was my
Thanks to this article I don’t see it as that big a deal. father who first pointed out that “A Passage to
My son is interested in rock, and some of the stuff Bangkok” by Rush is a drug song. As a twelve-year-
he listens to now is clearly inappropriate; however, old that hurt my head because otherwise Rush was
some of it is quite good. I know we listened and known for intelligent lyrics that stayed clear of the
danced to rock and roll and rhythm and blues standard “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” stuff that
music back in the ’50s when I first joined the dominated popular music. I had shown the record
Church. It was played at Church dances, and no jacket to my father because I thought the 2112 col-
one grew tails or long floppy ears. I think this arti- lection on the front side was an interesting repre-
cle will give my son some wholesome alternatives to sentation of Satan’s plan (portrayed as a bad thing),
turn to as he works to regain his testimony. and I thought it was cool that these non-LDS
Eric R. Samuelsen (July 17): Here’s my ques- Canadian rockers could come with something that
tion: what happens when we get the first genera- looked darned close to gospel truth. [. . .]
tion of General Authorities who grew up liking, I’m not sure when I started listening to lyrics,
and kept liking, rock and roll? but it’s been recently. I find myself arguing with
Fact is, I don’t think we have any yet. So far, the them a lot now, but I still like the tunes the lyrics
stance of the Church vis à vis rock seems to be, after are delivered in. I disagree with a lot of Neil Peart’s
an initial period where talks periodically would social and political stances, but I still love the fact
declare it carnal, sensual and devilish, a grudging that he has those opinions and that Rush couches
recognition that it’s probably not going away, and them in interesting music. I recently started talking
that our youth do seem to like it, so let’s damage- back to David Bowie while listening to “Diamond
control as much as possible. And now we seem to Dogs” (a very old song from the ’70s), but that didn’t
be at a cultural moment nationally where the main keep me from enjoying his creativity and admiring
response to rock is to mourn its passing, which may some of the social commentary he was trying to
mean it’s about time for a more positive reassessment make. I just have to ignore Metallica’s lyrics because
of it. Me, I like it all, from the Carpenters to gangsta they make me mad—which is annoying, because I
rap. I think it’s all a valid cultural expression. But really like the music. Godsmack is a whole different
what if we had leadership in the Church today who problem.

I don’t accept a lot of the messages those bands However, the last date I went on before entering
are trying to offer, but then I don’t accept the mes- the LTM (yes, LTM, not MTC) was with a girl
sages Gerald Lund offered in The Freedom Factor or who had gone to the fireside. Much of our conver-
The Alliance either. If you include what I consider sation was her telling me things that Randy had
to be the partial messages or incomplete presenta- said. I told my friend that he was getting the story
tions, I argue at least as much with LDS authors as second-hand, but he ought to ask Randy about the
I do with rock lyricists. For me, at least, that’s half time that he met President Spencer W. Kimball.
the fun of it. Randy had expressed to President Kimball his anx-
But isn’t rock music like any other input from ieties about being a rocker and a practicing Latter-
any other source? Don’t we need to think about day Saint. Randy said that the rock-and-roll
everything we hear and evaluate it against our own business made it extremely difficult for him to live
knowledge and revealed gospel? Does the presence that double life as a rocker and a Saint. He said that
of any false teaching require us to reject the entire he would like to get out of rock and roll. President
thing, or only to be aware of that falseness? I know Kimball said that he wanted Randy to stick with it.
that I’ve thought as much about what I believe (and He said words to this effect, “We need to be exam-
refined those beliefs) while arguing with rock lyrics ples to the world. And we need good Latter-day
as from nearly any other source—including Gerald Saints to be examples in every walk of life.” So my
Lund. Though arguing with talk radio hosts is still friend asked Randy if that story were true. Randy
where I have the most fun. confirmed it. And that’s where the title of the series
When I played in an alternative rock band, one comes from.
of the things that differentiated us was that our [Name withheld] (July 26): With all due respect
lyrics, while sometimes deeply introspective and to the idea of music being neutral—hogwash.
occasionally dark, never glorified evil things as good— Who hasn’t seen a baby calm down with a sooth-
often pointed out the ugly results of evil things, but ing lullaby? Hasn’t everyone heard a particularly
never glorified the fact of that evil. Even the songs jammin’ song and couldn’t help but tap their feet
we covered were songs we thought had valid lyrical
when it came on the radio? Why do we sing hymns
content (though in one case we mocked a song by
before the sacrament? (Granted, the intention isn’t
performing it in such a way as to communicate
always successful, but the point is there that we sing
exactly the opposite of its intended meaning—vastly
to get into the proper frame of mind and mood).
improving the song in the process, I believe). [. . .]
I will say this, though. If I could get that band I could go on and on with examples, but the point
back together, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I wasn’t a cre- is that those arbitrary sounds, when put together in
ative guy; I just played bass. But making music certain ways, have a tremendous impact—aside from
with my friends was some of the best fun I’ve ever the lyrics (Mozart didn’t always use lyrics, and his
had, and I recommend it to anyone. music certainly has a very specific influence, much
J. Scott Bronson (July 24): A friend of mine is different than, say, the Cure, which I admit to lik-
producing a series of short documentaries for KBYU ing myself ). I have certain CDs that I almost can’t
or BYU-TV called Every Walk of Life. Each segment help but get into a good mood listening to, and I
focuses on an LDS individual who may or may not can guarantee that it’s not because of uplifting lyrics.
be famous but who has accomplished remarkable It’s the actual music, the notes, the drums, the instru-
things with their life. As my friend was embarking ments, and so on. Music can affect a listener’s heart
on the project and explaining to me the types of rate—their entire body—and lyrics aren’t necessar-
people he would be spotlighting, he mentioned ily why.
that he would be interviewing Randy Bachman By the same token, some music is depressing in
(of BTO and The Guess Who fame). I told my physical, emotional, and/or spiritual ways when I
friend how I had missed an opportunity before my listen to it. That’s the kind of music I have no desire
mission to go to a fireside where Randy spoke. to listen to and I know I need to avoid for myself.

Then there’s the fact that only a few notes of a song Sex can be indulged in when there is no roman-
can trigger emotions and memories buried by years tic love to express. Sex can be exploited for finan-
and years. Last night my husband and I heard all of cial gain. Sex can be used as a form of violence.
one bar of “our song” on the radio, and a second These things cheapen it, defile it. But in no rational
later we were holding hands and smiling like silly logic system does it therefore follow that anyone
lovebirds because of the memories conjured up who talks about it—even frankly—is sinning.
before the singer even sang a word. My husband Neither does it follow that anybody who
loves The Little Mermaid, more for the memories acknowledges sex and the abuses of it that humans
and emotions brought on by the music than the indulge in, and writes about these things, is sinning.
show itself. I’m the same with Beauty and the Beast. If his writing contributes to the cheapening of sex
Music is not neutral. We are all affected deeply by itself being prurient and exploitative, then we’re
by music, so we all need to be aware of how we are talking oranges. But if the writing merely expresses
influenced by different kinds of music so we can this form of human abuse without condoning it,
make good choices for ourselves—which obviously that would be apples and is not comparable.
will be different for everyone, but are important Sex is as legitimate a topic of discussion and lit-
decisions nonetheless. erature as any other human experience. I weary of
the dread Mormons have of it, and wish I could
Sexual Frankness in Mormon Writing read LDS literature that celebrates its wonders as
well as warns of the dangers of abusing it—any-
D. Michael Martindale (May 3): Many on this thing but ignore it. Certainly there are plenty of
list have wished, with a weariness that comes through stories that can be told without sex in them. But I
in their words, that they could read a book or watch think there are few that can be told without the
a movie without sex always intruding. I feel some- potential for sex being there, because that’s what
what differently about this. I grow weary of the sus- romantic love is, that’s what the human condition
picion Mormons have about sex. is all about.
In all the church lessons, Sunday sermons, sem- Certainly I never go through a single day of my
inary classes, and temple sessions I’ve experienced, life without having romantic love and the expres-
never once have I heard the law of chastity defined sion thereof (sex) impact me one way or another.
as, “Thou shalt pretend sex does not exist.” It’s not No, I don’t have sex every day (I wish). But in some
a sin to acknowledge the existence of sex, to talk way the existence of sex affects my life each and
about sex, to discuss sex, to write about sex, or— every day. Therefore I find that a body of literature
dare I say it?—even joke about sex. So when I do which pretends sex doesn’t exist is a lie, and a pathetic
any of these things, why do so many of my fellow one at that, since no one can possibly believe it
Saints look at me like I have sinned? from personal experience. Where is the virtue, the
As with most things in life, sex can be disre- inspiration, in a lie? [. . .]
spected, defiled, abused, or wielded as a weapon to [Sex] is a gift of God, after all.
harm others. But the opposite of defilement is not Jacob Proffitt (May 6): I don’t know if you have
silence; the opposite of abuse is not ignoring the sinned or not, but it is just possible that you chose
existence of something. Chastity is not born of an inappropriate setting to bring up sex. I have
shame and embarrassment. heard, very rarely, a joke involving sex in Gospel
Romantic love is the emotion; sex is the intimate Doctrine followed by a delightful chuckle and
expression thereof. The two are different, but insep- appreciative nods. But that is rare because it is so
arably connected. The goal of all romantic love is rarely appropriate—not because sex is a hidden and
sex. Often the relationship may not work out, and shameful act. Sometimes sacred really does mean
the quest for the goal is short-circuited. But the secret—or at least restricted, private, and appropri-
goal was there nonetheless. ately self-censured. [. . .]

Oh, I don’t want us to be so hesitant about it number of my stories do address it.) I have been so
that it never comes up. Sex does have its place in aware of marriages where the wife in particular was
our stories and art. It has a place in our sermons squeamish about sex and shared herself infre-
and discussions. But that place is not universal. quently with her husband. I personally feel that
And sexual details are so rarely appropriate that I such is a violation of covenant. The wife has given
don’t expect to encounter them in any public forum herself to her husband, and he to her, in a sacred
I participate in. As far as I’m concerned, we already setting (in or out of the temple) and before God.
talk plenty about sex in our lives, sermons, discus- A marriage between a man and a woman symbol-
sions, and literature. I don’t agree at all with your izes (to an extent) the marriage between Christ and
call to make it more common, to discuss it more the Church. It suggests that just as we must become
often. intimately, even nakedly familiar with our Savior,
I don’t discuss or share every gift of God. In fact, hiding nothing and rejoicing in His benevolence,
gifts of God deserve respect and care. I have expe- so we are called upon to become intimately
rienced more than one occasion when the Spirit acquainted with our spouse, giving of ourselves
told me not to share a thought or experience I had freely and receiving “due benevolence.” As does
planned to share. I don’t display my garments for Gae Lyn, I know of a case where a man was
all to see, I don’t discuss the temple endowment excommunicated after he committed adultery—
outside of the temple, I don’t share details of my sex twenty years or so into a marriage where his wife
life with anybody (um, yet, I suppose there could refused him sexually. Well, the Church judged that
arise circumstances where it would be appropriate, man, but God will judge the wife. I’m pretty bold
but I expect that to be very rare). God expects us to on this subject, by the way, and have told my mar-
pursue every good gift in the measure he has given ried daughter that sex should become one of the
it. We need to seek the balance and priorities of great joys of her life. When we got the “chastity”
God. They are His gifts, after all, and not our own lesson in Relief Society, I got so sick of the
to do with as we please. “Beware” signs getting stuck up everywhere that I
Ethan Skarstedt (May 6): One of the greatest finally blurted out, “So is sex good at all?” That
things literature has done for me in my life is pres- brought a rather timid laugh from my RS sisters,
ent me with information and ideas that differed and the answer, “Yes! That’s why it’s sacred!” By the
greatly from each other and from what I heard in way, unlike Joseph Smith, I consider the Song of
school, at work, in church, and in my home. I learned Solomon deeply inspired and magnificent, express-
to separate the tripe from the truffles, to under- ing the joy of fully intimate relations between
stand what was opinion and what was objective, to spouses and the joy of full spiritual intimacy
separate fact from fiction, and niftiest of all, to between Christ and his bride.
glean fact from fiction. As an author I try to write
truthfully even when I’m turning out sword and
sorcery fantasy (if that makes sense to anyone;
I know what I mean).
I think there is a great good to be done in the
Mormon culture through literature that presents
the widest possible range of information, philoso-
phy, opinion, doctrine, science, etc. . . . Literature
is a great way of disseminating good intelligence,
especially if it’s entertaining.
Margaret Young (May 10): Someone told me
that he thought my writing was always about sex.
(Well, that’s not true, of course—though quite a

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MAGAZINE OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR MORMON LETTERS

Douglas Thayer reflects on his

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Also featuring memoirist Tom Johnson and IRREANTUM fiction-contest

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I N T E R V I E W associate chair, and associate dean. He has received

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Is it a worthwhile goal to get Mormon char- N O V E L

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I N T E R V I E W usually a brilliant caricature of a dazzlingly idiotic

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N O V E L “I didn’t know you drank coffee.” The waiter was

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E D I T O R I A L much it means to a missionary despite some pretty

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of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a M E M O I R

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and double-arm-barred each other for hours, until P O E T R Y

Tom Johnson graduated from Columbia University’s yes,

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Intermissions were And years later