TheVisionariesandOtherEssays

Thesis

PresentedinPartialFulfillmentoftheRequirementsfortheDegreeMasterofFine

ArtsintheGraduateSchoolofTheOhioStateUniversity

ByTanyaElizabethBomsta,M.A.

GraduatePrograminEnglish

TheOhioStateUniversity

2017

ThesisCommittee:

LinaFerreira,Advisor

MichelleHerman

Copyrightby

TanyaBomsta

2017

ii

Abstract

Thisthesisisacollectionofpersonalessaysthatexplorethenarrator’sexperience

withbelief,faith,personalloss,andmotherhood.Thecollectionseekstoexamine

theramificationsofchoice,thesplitandmergeofpastandpresentselves,andthe

implicationsofchangingone’sworldview.Theessaysemploydifferentnarrative

modesinordertointerrogatethenatureoftruthandtheformationand

deformationofself.

iii

Dedication

DedicatedtoEvelyn,BrielleandClark

iv

Vita

December2000……………………………………B.A.English,BrighamYoungUniversity

May2013…………………………………………….M.A.English,MarshallUniversity

August2014-present……………………………GraduateTeachingAssociate,Department

ofEnglish,TheOhioStateUniversity

April2015-January2017………………………NonfictionEditor,TheJournal

April2016-present……………………………….ProductionManager,TheJournal

Publications

“SanitaryEngineering.”Pleiades2017.

“Burn.”december27.2,2016.

“TheArchaeologists.”TheIowaReview46.2,2016.

“PaintingPortsmouth.”EveryRiveronEarth:WritingfromAppalachianOhio.Ed.Neil

Carpathios.2015.

“Erosion.”TheGettysburgReview27.1,Spring2014.

“Cartography.”december25.1,Spring/Summer2014.

“Traditions.”TheFloridaReview38.2,Winter2013.

“Elided.”ClockhouseReview,Summer2013.

“AReviewofAMoodyFellowFindsLoveandThenDies.”Pleiades,2015.

“PoemsLikeWind:AnInterviewwithNeilCarpathios.”EtCetera,2013.

v

FieldsofStudy

MajorField:English

CreativeWriting

vi

TableofContents

Abstract……………………………………………………………………………………………………….….…ii

Dedication…………………………………………………….……………………………….……………..…...iii

Vita……………………………………………………………………………………………….………….…….....iv

TheVisionaries………………………………………………………………………………………...………..1

Traditions……………………………………………………………………………………………….……..…26

Erosion…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….46

OntheNobleArtofSelf-Justification………………………………….………………………………53

TheMechanicsofReplacement………………………………………………………………………….61

TheArchaeologists……………………………………………………………………………………………90

SanitaryEngineering…………………………………………………………………………………….…104

1

TheVisionaries

ThewinterIwastwelvemyfatherhadleukemia,andIhadavision,wherea

spotlightfromHeavenshonedownonhim,andIknewitwasasign.Itoldnoone

aboutthevisionanditssoftelectriclight,becauseIknewtherewasnoelectricityin

HeavenandIthoughttheywouldcallitwishfulandmaybeevenpityme.ButI

thoughtaboutitoften,especiallyatchurch,wherethechandeliersinthechapel

shoneasnaturallyasdaylightandthewholeplacefeltlikeapaintingofallthatwas

orderlyandbright.Thevisioncameafterthedoctorstoldmymotheraboutmy

father’sfailingblood,aftermymothertoldmeandIwentinmyroomtobealone.

AndwhenIkneltandprayed,Isawhimstandingthereinthebeamoflight,and

thought,yes,myfatherwilllive.

AfterwardsIcouldonlyrecallthevisionwhenIwasinourchurchchapel,or

inmybedroomwithitsmintgreenwalls,whereIcouldlookoutthewindowandsee

thefieldofwheatgrassacrosstheroad.Itwasn’tabigroom,andIhadcoveredevery

inchofmywallswithposters.Notpostersfeaturingbandsormoviestars,likeother

girlsmyage,butmostlypostersofhorses,whichIloved,andreligiousmotivational

posters,whichkeptmecocoonedinmylifelongworldofMormonism.Oneofwas

themanartprintoftheFirstVision,whenHeavenlyFatherandJesusChrist

2

appearedtotheprophetJosephSmithtoinstructhimtoestablishtheMormon

Church;anotherofthemfeaturedtheBookofMormonwiththetagline“GoForth

andRead.”Theonlyrelieftothebarrageofpostersweremytwobedroomwindows,

whichframedthecountrysideofourupstateNewYorkhome.Ilovedsittingonmy

bedunderneaththewest-facingwindowandwatchingthecowsgrazinginthefield

acrossthestreet.

Iprayedalwaysnearmybed.Ikneltbesideit,orifIwerecold,I’dprostrate

myselfundertheblanketsandwhisperprayersintomypillow.Thevisionwaseasy

torememberduringprayer,thoughitwasdistant,attheotherendofatelescopeor

atunnel:myfather,standingthere,inthelight.Butinrealityhewaslyingina

hospitalbedfarawayinaroomnearanothersickmanwhohadsomeotherillness.I

forgotaboutthevisionthere,talkingtoDadwhosometimesseemednodifferent

thanusual,smilingatusandaskingifwehadfinishedourhomework.Butother

timeshewasjustanothersickhospitalpatient,coughingaswewalkedintothe

barebonesroom,unfamiliargrimacesshadowinghisface.Heseemedverysmall

thereunderneaththeunrelentingflorescenceanditwasawkwardtostandarounda

bedandmakesmalltalkwithmyownfather.Andwhenhewasn’ttalkingtherewas

nothingtoseeoutthewindowexceptlongstretchesofthehospital’sbricksiding.

OnSundayswewenttochurchbeforevisitingDadinthehospital.Thechapel

windowshadopaqueglass,andthoughtheyonlyletinfilteredsunlight,itfeltbright

astheeyeofGod.WheneverIsteppedinside,Ifeltallmyinsidesexhale,asthoughI

hadfinallyreturnedhomeafteralongtimeaway.Betterthanhome,becausehere

3

everyonespokeinwhispersandmovedwithsmilesontheirfaceswhileorganmusic

swelledinthespacesbetweenus.Thechapelwastall,andtheorgannotesbounced

androlledinhervaultedceilingandfellgrandlyoverallofusinthepews.Thepipes

stretchedupthewalllikegoldenveinsandIfeltcalmthere,andmorethancalm:in

place,andpeaceful,asthoughIweretheoneinthevision,lightdrapedovermelike

aveil.

Thechurchlayinasleepyupscaleneighborhoodaboutfifteenminutesfrom

ourhouse,upawindingroadtuckedinthehillsoftheNortheast.Thebuildingwas

longandlow,withTheChurchofJesusChristofLatter-DaySaintstattooedingoldon

thebricksunderitsvaultedroof.Iusedtodaydreamaboutclimbingtotheroofand

scalingthesteeple-likepoletoitspeakintheskyandstraightintoHeaven.Heaven,I

imagined,mustbejustlikeachapel,onlygrander.

Bythetimemydadgotsick,IhadlivedinNewYorkforeightyears,andhad

beenamemberoftheChurchsinceIlaycurledinmymother’swomb.Wespentso

muchtimethere,somuchofourlivessittinginthepews,staringaheadatthe

microphoneandpodiumandSacramenttable.OntheSacramenttablesateight

polishedsilvertraysthatthepriestswouldfillonSundayswithtinypiecesofbread

andlittlecupsofwater.Formostoftheservice,thetraysandthewholetablelay

coveredwithawhitelinencloth—asymbolofChrist’slinen-wrappedbodyinthe

tomb.Itdidn’ttakemuchtoimaginethosecloth-coveredbulgesofthetraysasthe

cloakedtopographyofHisholybody.OnlyduringtheSacramentordinanceon

Sundaysdidtwopriestsreverentlypullbacktheclothtorevealwhatwasbeneath

4

beforeservingthebreadandwatertoallofusinthepews.Iwasalwayshungry,

becauseitwasclosetolunchtime,andeachSundayIhopedforagoodkindofbread,

maybepotatoorsoftwhite.Isavoredthetinychunk,letitsoftenonmytongue,melt

downmythroat.Ifthedailybreadwasoldandstale,I’ddiscreetlywrinklemynose

andgulpitdown.I’dwaitimpatientlyforthewatertocomearoundinitsdoll-sized

papercups,justenoughforonetablespoonofliquid.Thewaterrepresentedthe

bloodofChrist,thisIknew,butitwasclear,notred,andIthoughtperhapsthey

shouldaddfoodcoloring,justtomakeitmoreauthentic.

***

Beforehegotsick,DadsatinthebluepewswithmeandmysisterTabitha,

usuallywithhisarmbehindmyshouldersaswelistenedtothespeaker.Tabitha

wasthreeyearsolderthanme,andwhenthetalkswentontoolonginchurchshe’d

braidmystraightbrownhairorI’dtrybraidinghers,whichwasthesamecolorof

minebutwildlycurly.Weplayedhangmantogetherinthepewtoo,whichwe

thoughtwasespeciallyfunnywhenevertherewasatalkaboutdeathandthe

afterlife.WordslikehereafterandresurrectionandSpiritWorldfloatedaboveour

headswhileourdoomedstick-mangoteverclosertounderstandingthosewordsfor

himself.TabithadrewX’sforhiseyesandwestartedgigglinguntilDadshushedus

reproachfully.Iturnedmyattentiontothespeaker,myhandsfoldedonmyskirt.

Tabithadoodledonthepagesofherscriptures.

5

Shecametochurchbecauseourparentssaidshehadto,butshefeltno

obligationtolistenonceshegotthere.WehadalwayslearnedthatGodcouldhear

ourthoughts;it’showprayersreachedhimandhowheknewthesinfulwhimsthat

skimmedacrossourbrains.SowheneverIhadaninappropriatethought—whichat

twelveusuallymeantbeingannoyedatmymotherformakingmewashthedishes,

orhowmuchIhatedsomemeangirlatschool—Iveeredmymindinsomeother

direction.Don’tthinkaboutthat,I’dtellmyself.I’dsingahymntofillthecavitiesof

myskullwithsongorI’dmakeamentallistoffivethingsIwasgratefulfor,sothat

Godwouldhearthemusicinmybrainthatcanceledoutanydissonant,deviant

thoughts.

Tabitha,ontheotherhand,hadlongsincegivenupontryingtorepressher

negativethoughts.Shehadfounditauselessexercise.Whenshewasveryyoung,

theomniscienceofGodhadtoweredoverherlikeanangryparent.Thebeliefthat

herthoughtswereneverprivatescaredher.Itseemedthattherewaslittlehopefor

everbeingperfectenoughforheaven,soasachild,shetriedtotrickGod:Mom

mighttellhertoturnofftheTV,andinhermind,Tabithawouldthinkhowmuchshe

hatedbeingtoldwhattodo,wouldchanttheterriblewordinherbrain:hate,hate,

hate.Then,she’dgetup,skipobedientlyandhappilytotheTVandpressthepower

button,smuglyleavingGodconfusedaboutthedissonancebetweenheractionsand

herthoughts,untilheconvincedhimselfthathemusthavehadsomestaticinhis

ear.

6

Ionlyremembermydadasafull,roundman,withabellylikeSanta’s,black

hairoverthickcheeksanddeepbrowneyes.Hewasafarmkidbeforeafather,and

oldphotographsofhimareofanaveragesizedteenager,maybealittlestockybut

notoverweight,asmilingboy.Maybehegainedweightbecauseofthechangefrom

farmworktoadayjob,ormaybemymotherlikedhimfullandroundandcookedup

hercasserolesandbreadsjusttomakehimso.Whenhecamehomefromwork

everyday,he’dsitonthedeepblueoverstuffedarmchairinourlivingroomand

lookatmeandsay,“Hello,Worm!”andI’dalwaysreply“Hello,Snake!”Butthatwas

longbeforehewasdiagnosedwithleukemia,whichhappenedjustafter

Thanksgiving,1994.AtourholidaydinnerDadsatontheendofthetable,my

motherandTabithaandIeachonourownsides.Hecarvedtheturkeyasalways

andscoopedheapsofpotatoesandgreenbeancasseroleandWatergatesaladfor

everyone.Hesmiledatusandsatdown,hislargebodytakingupmostoftheendof

thetable.Weprayed:agrateful-for-this,grateful-for-thatprayer.Dadatesome

turkey.Then,hepushedhisplateawayandsatback.Inoticedit,barely.Butaftera

fewminuteswatchinguseat,hegotup,apologized,saidhewasn’tfeelinggood,and

wentupstairstorest.Itwasjarring,thetablesosuddenlyunbalanced.

Aweekortwolater,hewenttothehospitalandthedoctorssaidleukemia

andpresentedtheveryfewchoiceshehad.Ihadtolookupthewordlater,not

knowingitwasatypeofcanceruntilIreadaboutthebody’soverproductionof

7

whitebloodcells,andlearnedforthefirsttimethatevengoodthingscanbe

excessive,andsometimesfatal.

WhenmymothertoldusDadwassick,thefirstthingIdidwasgotomy

roomandkneel.Thedoorwasclosedandthecurtainscoveredthefrosted

wheatgrassandtheroomsurroundedme.“Please,HeavenlyFather,”Iwhispered,

“blessDadsothathe’llbeokay.Helphimgetbettersothathewon’tbesick.”Ikept

myeyesclosed,andthat’swhenthevisioncame,thespotlight,myfather,the

surenessthatifIjustbelieved,everythingwouldbeokay.

AfewweeksafterThanksgiving,afterthedoctorspronouncedDadacancer

patient,TabithaandIsatinSundaySchoolasourteacher,SisterMalczyk,talked

aboutblood.Christ’sblood,whichwasshedforusingreatribbonsofredrunning

fromHishandsandfeetandsides.“TheatoningbloodofChrististhewaywecanbe

comfortedinthislife,”SisterMalczykintoned,herwordsrisingthroughthechapel.

Herfrizzyblondhair,cutshortandsensibly,lookedlikeacherub’s,andwehadto

leanforwardtohearherspeak.“Hediedsothatwecouldbeforgivenofoursins—

andnotonlyforgiven,butcomfortedtoo.”Shegesturedbehindhertowhereoneof

ourYoungWomen’sclassroomdecorationshung:awhitebannerembroideredwith

thewordFAITH.“FaithisthefirstprincipleoftheGospel.Evenwhenthingsare

tough,ourfaithinChrist’satoningbloodwillhelpusovercomethehardtimes.”

8

NexttomeTabithasatperfectlystill,orstiff,herarmscrossedoverherchest,

herlipsdrawnandherexpressionlikesomeonewhowasabouttojumpintoa

politicaldebatebecausetheycouldnolongerstandtokeepquiet.Sheseemedtoflip

backandforthbetweenannoyanceandboredomwheneverwewereatchurch,

which,Ithought,wasregrettable—thoughIhadtoadmit,thelessonwasonewe’d

heardahundredtimes.Still,Ilistened,mybodyassuppleasanantennae,drinking

inthewordsIdesperatelywantedtohearandbelievein.Iwasdrawntothe

easinessoffaith,howsimpleitseemedtobeabletothinksomethingintofact.Isaw

mydad’sillnessasjustoneofGod’stestsforme,thatwasall,toprobethestrength

ofmyfaith,justliketheprophetsoftheBibleandtheBookofMormon.Like

Abraham,whopressedondespitethethoughthissonwasgoingtodie,becausehe

believedinGod’somniscience;ortheprophetNephi,whowascommandedtobuild

aboatwithoutbeingtoldwhyorwheretheboatwouldtakehim,buthebuiltit

anyway,outofwoodandanironfaith.IjusthadtobelievemyfaithinChrist’sblood

wouldhealmydad’s;andthat,Iunderstood,sittingandlisteningtoSisterMalczyk’s

soft,comfortingvoice,waswhyGodhadgivenmethevision,forsomethingtohold

ontountilDadgotbetter.

“Whoremembers,”sheasked,“whatIsaiah1:18says?”

Iraisedmyhand.“Thoughyoursinsbeasscarlet,theyshallbewhiteas

snow?”

“Right.Andnotjustsins,butsometimesIliketothinkaboutthisastrialstoo.

Eventhemostpainfulofthingscanbeturnedintosomethingbeautiful.”

9

IpicturedthatscripturethesamewayeverytimeIheardit:firstastainof

bloodasbrightasKool-Aidonawhitecarpet,thenthepoolofreddrainingslowly,

fadingtocrimson,thenpink,thennothingbutpure,coldwhiteness.Asymbolthat

eventhedeepestpassions,whethersinorsadness,couldbehealed.Ifoundthese

wordscomforting,andmoreimportantly,true,assolidatruthasthebeatofapulse

againstafingertip.

AfterDadwasdiagnosed,hedidn’tcomehomefromthehospitalfortwo

months.Momoftenvisitedhimafterworkandstayedlateintothenight,andon

thosenightsIwentinTabitha’sroomandsleptonherfloor.Welayawakeinher

room,thestreetlamptintingourfacesanetherealorange,usuallynotsayingmuch,

andifitwedidtalkitwasusuallytogossipabouttheothergirlsatchurchor

concoctplanstogetourselvesinvitedtotheMalczyk’shousetoswimintheindoor

pool.Wealmostneversaidanythingdirectlyaboutdadorthehospitalortheway

thehousefeltdifferentnow.Butononenightwhenwewerebothlayingquietly

watchingthesnowtravelthroughthetriangleoflightfromthestreetlamp,Iasked

Tabithawhenshethoughtdadwouldcomebackhome.

“Idon’tknow,”shesaid.“Maybenotforawhile.Thedoctorsdidn’tsay

anythingabouthimcominghome.”

Iwatchedthesnow,admiredhowIcouldonlyseeitinthespotlightofthe

lamp—lookinguptotheskyorofftowardsthetreesIcouldn’teventellitwas

10

snowing.Ishiveredalittle.“Idon’tlikethedoctors,”Isaid,pullingtheblanketsupto

mychin.Ididn’tsayanythingelse,justthoughtabouthowallthedoctorsseemedto

dowasaskaninsincere“Howareyoutoday?”andflipthroughhischartsofastI

didn’tbelievetheyactuallyreadit.Theyneverofferedakindword,orcalledhimby

hisfirstname—John,sosimple;theyjustsaiddullthingsabouthismedicineand

dietand“we’llcheckbackintomorrow.”Theydidn’tseemtocareaboutthefactthat

hehadcancer,orthataworriedfamilycircledhisbed.Maybetheyweregodlike

withtheirpotentialhealingpowers,buttheywerenotChristlike.

“Iknow,they’rekindofmean,”Tabithaagreed.“Butthey’rejustdoingtheir

job.They’retryingtofigureoutwhattodo.”Iheardtheshuffleofablanketasshe

shiftedinbed.

Irolledontomysidetolookather.Thecastofsyntheticlightintheroom

madeTabitha’sbarepalepinkwallslooksalmon-colored.Icouldseethepinholes

fromwherepostershadoncehungwhensheandIusedtosharetheroom.There

weresomanypinholestheylookedlikeconstellations,somanypinholesbecauseno

onehadbotheredtospacklethemover,andnoonewouldunlessDadgotbetter,

becausespacklingwaspartofhisjobasadad.Iwhisperedaprayertomyself,again,

thathewouldgetbetter,andafterIfinishedwithan“Amen”inmyhead,Isaid

confidentlytoTabitha,“IthinkHeavenlyFatherisgoingtobringhimhome.”

Tabithadidn’tanswer.AfteraminuteIthoughtmaybeshewasasleep,but

thensheshiftedagaininbedsothatherfacewasturnedtowardthewall.“Maybe,”

11

shesaid,hervoicesoundingasthoughitweretrappedinasmallbox.“Butdon’t

holdyourbreath.”

Dadstartedchemotherapyashisleukemiaprogressed,andsoonhisthick

blackhairfellawayintuftsandhisroundstomachflattenedandhisskinpaledas

thebloodbloomedwhiteinsidehisbones.Wecameinshifts,mysisterandmother

andI,missingdayssometimesbecausethehospitalwasanhourawayandwehad

schoolandworkandchurch.Thedoctorscameinshiftstoo,walkinginthehospital

roomwithacivilhelloandthendeliveringallthebadnewsinquick,regulated,

sterilewords.

Twomonthsin,andthechemowasn’tworking,theysaid.Westoodaround

Dad’sbedinthesmallroom,underneathaprecariouslymountedtelevision,asthey

toldusthreeoptions,doornumberone,two,three.Hecouldcontinuechemo,but

theoutlookwasn’tgood;hecouldgetabonemarrowtransplant,fromoneofus

perhapsifourbloodtypewasright,buttheoperationwouldbedifficultandpainful

forusandhim,andtherewasonlyalittletinyrice-grainchanceofhissurvival;or,

hecouldjustgohome,liveoutthelastfewmonthsofhislife,andpassawayinhis

bed.Theytolduswehadtomakeadecision.

Mydadwassittingontheedgeofthebed,inhishospitalgown,andafterthe

doctorsleft,TabithaandIsatdownoneithersideofhim.Heputhisarmsaround

ourshoulders,slowly,forhisveinsmusthavebeenheavywithchemicalsandhe

12

tried,weakly,topullusclosetohim.Thenhebowedhisbaldedheadbetweenus,

andbegantosob.

Mychestconstricted;Ididnotknowmydadcouldcry.Isawthewallsofthe

roomforthefirsttime,howcolorlessandconfining,andtheblankeyeofthe

televisionscreenstaredatme.ThesilverpoleoftheIVunitreflectedtheshineof

fluorescentbulbs,andthebeepofDad’smonitorwasharsh,refusingtobequiet

eventhoughmydadwasweeping,itbeepedoutofsyncwithhissobs,onitsown

termswithtime.Hissobbingechoedinmybrainandhisarmswereheavyonour

shoulders,andthatwaswhen,forthefirsttime,mysisterandIcried.

Thedoctorstoldusthatabonemarrowtransplantwouldrequireadonor

withthesameHLAtypeasmyfather.Therewouldbeanesthesia,andsurgery,and

physicianswhoputaneedleinsideyourthighandpokeditdeepintoyourboneand

thensuckedoutthegoodmarrow.Therewasalwaysarisktosurgery,andrecovery

couldtakesometime.Butifitworked,they’dtakethemarrowandfeeditintoDad,

andthegoodbloodwouldovertakethebad,andaftermanymonths,he’dbewell

again.

Myfatherandmothertalkedforalongtimeinhishospitalroomafterthe

doctorsleft.TabithaandIwaitedsilentlyinacoupleofuncomfortablechairs,not

evensearchingourpocketsforquarterslikeweusuallydidsothatwecouldget

somethingfromthenearbyvendingmachine.

13

Whenweleftthehospitalandgotintoourcar,Tabithaimmediatelysaid,“He

shouldhavethetransplant.Icanhavethesurgeryifmybloodmatches.”

Mymotherstarteduptheengineandbackedoutoftheparkingspace.“Your

fatherandIdon’tthinkthat’sagoodidea.”

“Whynot?”Tabithaasked,annoyed.FromtheseatbehindherIcouldseeher

halooffrizzycurlsabovetheheadrest,sproutingcoilsincrazydirections.

“Becauseit’snotverylikelythatitwoulddoanygood,”Momsaid,pulling

ontothehighway,“andthere’snoreasontoputanyonethroughthatifitdoesn’t

work.”

“That’sstupid.Youdon’tknowitwouldn’twork.”

“Thedoctorssaid—”

“Idon’tcarewhattheysaid!Weshouldtryit.I’mnotafraidofgetting

surgery.AndifIdon’tmatch,weshouldfindadonor.”

Ilookedoutthewindowattheblurofgreyslushonthesidesoftheroad.

LateFebruary,andNewYorkwastwofeetunderfieldsofdirtysnowdrifts.

Mymother’seyesflittedtotherearviewmirror.“Whatdoyouthink,Tanya?”

Istaredoutthewindow,listeningtothetirespeltingslopatthebottomof

thecarastheypushedtowardshome.

IwantedDadtolive.ButIdidn’twanttobetestedtoseeifIcouldbeadonor;

Icertainlydidn’twanttohavesurgerywheretheyputmetosleepandpulledthe

verybloodfrommybones.Tolayonsomemetaltablewithpalemaskedfaces

hoveringaboveme,likeoneofthosevictimsinalienabductionmovies,crimson

14

bloodslurpingupwardsfromaplasticveinprotrudingfrommysplitflesh.Ididn’t

wanttobeapatientinthehospitallikeDad,whosewaningbodylaydrapedinwhite

sheetsandwhiteblankets,hisbumpyformsostillandcovered,layingdayafterday

onagurneydespitethefactthathewassupposedtobeathome,repairingthat

brokenboardonthedeckhehadbuiltyearsago,mowingourlawnonourgreenand

yellowJohnDeeretractor.IwantedHeavenlyFathertobringhimback.Iwantedthe

warmeasycomfortofachapelonfirewiththesun,andthemagicoffaithtotake

awaythecoldstareofsilverIVpolesandredpulsinglights.Iwantedthesurenessof

visions,oflifespotlightedinelectricbeams.

“IjustwantDadtocomehome,”Ianswered.Godwouldtakecareoftherest,I

thought.Ihadseenavision,once.IbelievedIhad.

IcouldnothaveknownorunderstoodthenjusthowafraidandinpainIwas.

Iwasonlytwelve,afterall,butevenmoreinfluentialthanagewasthefactthatIhad

beentaughtandIbelievedthatfearandpainwereamanifestationoftheabsenceof

faith,amanifestationofweakness.SoItriednottothinkanythingbesidesaferventI

believeIbelieveIbelieve,achantthatcancelledoutmorerealisticworldviewsand

repressedanyfeelingthatthreatenedthatbelief.Iallowedfaithtobeanescape

fromfeelingwhatIdidnotwanttofeel.

NeithermyfathernormymotherwouldletTabithagettested.Dadwas

deeplytiredofhospitals.Hehadalreadybeenthroughtworoundsofchemoand

didn’tthinkhecouldhandleanymoretreatments,sohecamehomeamonthlater,

inMarch.Iwasgladtohavehimback,despitethedoctorsestimatinghisremaining

15

timeinmonths.“It’sgoodtobehomeagain,”Dadsaid,andIagreed,andspentthe

nextmonthwillingthingstobefine.

Ithought,whenwedecidedDadshouldcomehome,thatthingswouldgo

backtothewaythey’dbeenbeforeThanksgiving,whenwewereafamilywholived

inalittleyellowhouseonacountryroadinNewYork,eatinggrilledhamburgers,

listeningtoDad’stwo-fingeredwhistleheusedtocallthedoghome,playing

Monopolyandarguingoverwhogottobethebanker.ButDadstillhadleukemia.He

spentalotoftimeinbed,andwetookturnsstayinginhisroomwithhimsothathe

wouldn’tbealone.Myparents’bedroomwasatthetopofthestairs,andafterDad

returnedfromthehospitalthosestairsgrewintoamountain,hisroomatempleat

thepeak.WhenIentereditwashushedandhelayonhisbedlikeanofferingtothe

gods.Abreezefromopenwindowsandascentofsomethingancientandeverything

wasquiet,theroomahallowedplace.

Heseemedveryweakthere,anddespitemyfocusedintentiontobelievehe

wouldlive,Irememberoncesittinginhisroomwithhimasheslept,tryingto

calculatewhatitwouldbelikeifhedied.Thechurchdoctrineconcerningdeath

claimedthatitwasonlyatemporaryseparationofbodyandsoul.Intheafterlife,

familieswouldbereunited,andwewouldseeeachotheragain.Ithoughtthatifdad

passedawaythisyearlikethedoctorsguessed,in1995,whenIwastwelve,andifI

livedtobeeighty-five,thenthatwouldbeseventy-threeyearsoftemporary

16

separation,andIwouldseehimagainin2068.2068?Icouldn’tbelievein2068;it

wassofarawayitcouldn’tpossiblyexist.Isattherecalculating,notrealizingwhatI

wasdoinguntilmymotherwalkedintheroomandIjumpedup,startledbythe

disturbance,thenumbersinmyheadtumblingawayallwhilethememoryofthe

visionslumbered.

InMarch,amonthbeforeDaddied,mysisterandIwenttochurchfora

WednesdayActivityNight.Ifshehaddislikedgoingtochurchbefore,Tabithahated

itnow;butshehadjustgottenherlicenseandsoshedrovetorelievesomeofMom’s

chauffeuringduties.TheonlytimeIsawhersmilinginthatmonthafterDadcame

homewaswhensheinhisbedroomsittingwithhim;otherwise,shestayedinher

ownroomalot,andhardlytalkedtoMom.IknewshewasstillmadatMomfornot

agreeingtoatransplant,butIdidn’trealize,asshewouldtellmeyearslater,that

shewasalsodonewithGod,thatanysupremebeingwhowaswillingtotakeagood

manawayfromaneedyfamilywasnothertypeofgod.AtthetimeIwasjustglad

shewasn’tdirectingherangeratme,sinceIhadn’twantedhertogettestedeither.I

neededTabitha,andatthesametime,Iwastotallyunawareofher.Iwastoo

investedinmyownbelieftounderstandhers,ortoaskherifshebelievedGod

wouldsavehim,orus.Shewasmyoldersister,whoIlookedupto;whose

willingnesstogolayonasilvertableinahospitalandbeputtosleepfrightenedme.

Icouldn’tunderstandthatherconfrontationoffearwassomehowmorepowerful

17

thanmyinsistenceonfaithassomekindofenchantment,mydenialthatfearhad

anyroomtoexist.Ionlyknewasisterwhowasnexttomeinallthosemoments

whenDad’sillnesspressedonuslikeasuffocatinghumidity.Shemightgotothe

hospital,likeDad,andnotcomeback.AndthenIwouldsitaloneduringSacrament

meeting,layaloneatnightinaforsakenhouse.

We’dknownforweeksaboutthisparticularWednesdayActivityNight:a

daddy-daughterdatenight.Isupposewefeltobligatedtogo—wespentsomuch

timeinchurchitwasanaturalplacetobeifweweren’tathomeorschool.The

outsideofthechurchthatnightwasasithadalwaysbeen,awell-manicuredand

solidbrickexterior.Butwhenwalkedinandreachedthemainhallway,westopped.

Weweren’tpreparedtoseetheblueBerbercarpetinthehalllinedwithflowerpots,

thebiggreenroadsignhungovertheentrywaythatreadMemoryLane,thepairsof

younggirlsandtheirfatherswalkingaroundlaughing.TheYoungWomenleaders

hadfilledeveryclassroomwithdecoratedstorefronts:barbershop,candystore,

movietheater,portraitstudio.Inthebarbershop,thereweregirlsusingrazorsthat

hadbeenstrippedoftheirbladestowipeshavingcreamfromtheirdads’chins,and

nextdoorsomeonewastakingapictureofablondgirlandhergrey-blondfather,

bothmakingfunnyfacesatthecamera.Evensomenon-memberfathershadcome.

Dadhadwantedto,hadhopedhe’dbewellenough,butthatmorninghewokeup

feelingnauseousandtiredandlikeamanwhohadamonthlefttolive.Hehad

lookedatussadly,apologetic.“It’sallright,”Tabithahadsaid,pattingDad’sarm.I

noddedandsmiledandadded,“We’llbringyoubacksomecandyandpopcorn.”So

18

wewent,goodsports.Wewalkedinside.Welookeddownthatlonghallwaywithall

itsbrightflowersandcandyandgigglinggirlsandsmilingfatherswhowereup

walkingaboutfeelingfine.Andwebolted.Tabithagrabbedmyhandandpulledme

tothechapel.Theblacknessslippedaroundusasweentered,andthenoisebehind

us,arushoflaughingandtalkingandmemory-making,fadedwiththesweepof

closingdoors.Oureyesadjustedtotheshadowsaswestoodshiveringinthedark.

Thepewslayinfrontofuslikeblackwavessinkingintooblivionthefartherwe

triedtosee.Farinfrontofus,beyondtheshapelessbencheswherethepodium

musthavestood,wesawasmallredglowingcircle,likeastoplightonalighthouse

inaseaofdark.Thepowerlightonthemicrophone.

Thereddidn’tbelong.Ihadneverseenitduringchurchservices.Never

noticedanangryorbinfrontofthechurchmemberswhostoodandgavetheir

solemnhappytalkssurroundedbyglasschandeliersandwhitewallsandornate

woodwork.Buttheredbeamedlikeacoldlaserthroughtheblackair,andthe

chapelwasjustaroomwithamicrophoneandsomehard,bluebenches.Tabitha

andIfeltourwayintothenearestpewandhuddledtogether,silentlymourningour

daddy-lessdaddy-daughterdate,whilethelittleredeyestaredcoldlyatus,andthe

chapelignoredus.

SisterMalczykmusthaveseenuscomeinside.Wehadsatthereforonlya

fewminutesbeforethedoorswungopen,throwingatriangleoflightontothebacks

19

ofpews.ShecameandsatdownnexttousandpattedTabitha’skneeasthedoor

shutandIknowshemeanttocomfortus,butshehadalsobeentheonetoplana

daddy-daughterdatenightevenwiththeknowledgethattwoofherchargeshada

dyingfather.Ormaybebecauseofthatknowledge,shewasjusttryingtogiveus

sometimewithourdadawayfromhisillness.Idon’tknowwhatherintentions

were,andIdidn’tknowthen.Icouldn’tseeherfaceinthedarkandIdidn’twantto

seeit.Hervoicewassoftandquiet,asthoughthechapelitselfhadrelentedand

spoke.“Iknowyourdadcouldn’tcometonight.Buthealsowantedyougirlstohave

fun.”Wesaidnothing.“Justremember,theLordknowsyourtrialsandhe’sgoingto

helpyouthroughthis.You’llsee.TrustHim.”

Wenodded,quietly—whatelsecouldwedo?

“Ithink,”shewenton,thebeatofhervoicepickingupasthedimoutlineof

herheadturnedtofaceus,“youcanhaveagreattimetonightandgohomeandtell

yourdadallaboutit.Ithinkhe’lllikethat.”Wenodded,sniffled,andstood.Sister

Malczykwalkedbetweenus,squeezingourshoulders.

Theymusthavenoticedourabsence,thosepairsoffathersanddaughters

wholookedupatusaswesquintedintothelightsofthehallway.Afewgirlssmiled

tentativelyatus,otherslookedquicklyaway.Ididn’twanttogodownMemory

Lane,butSisterMalczyktrailedbehindusexpectantly,soTabithaandIwalkedover

tothebarbershopstorefront.Anotheryoungwomanhadjustfinishedshavingher

father,whowassmilingintoahandmirror,rubbinghischinandproclaimingajob

20

welldone.Atthefronttablesatanotheryouthleader,wholookedupatuswitha

smileandheldoutthedisposable,bladelessrazor.“Whowantstoshavewho?”

IlookedatTabitha,whoshrugged.“Youshaveme,”shesaid,sittingdown.

SheclosedhereyesasIfoamedupherroundfacewithcream,leavingonlyhereyes

andnoseandlipsexposed.

“Okay,”IsaidwhenIwasfinished,pickinguptheunbladedrazorsoIcould

startwipingofftheshavingcream.Herbrowneyespoppedopen,andforamoment

wejustlookedateachother.Herwithwhitecloudsofcreamalloverherface,me

holdingapretendrazor,sittingunderbrightlightsplayingaverysillygame.Nothing

feltreal.

“YoulooklikeaveryhairySantaClaus,”Isaid.

Suddenlyshelaughed,whichmadethefoamonherfacestartjigglingupand

down,soIstartedlaughingtoo,andforafewmoments,wecouldnotbeconsoled.

MyfatherdiedonamorninginAprilwhentheairwasstillcoldandthe

leaveslayfoldedinsidethetreeslikeunexpressedthoughts.Themomenthedied

wasahinge,althoughIdidn’tknowthatuntillaterforIwasonlytwelvethen,

turningthirteeninthreedays,andatthatage,deathwasn’trealandthefuturewas

incalculable.Icouldn’tknowthatmydad’spassingwouldinvokethefirstserious

questionsIwouldeveraskmyfaith—notjustwhy,butwhatnow?Theanswers

changedasIgrewup:atfirst,hisdeathwasasignHeavenlyFatherneededhimin

21

heaven.Later,itwasatrialtobeovercome,andthen,anunfortunateeventthat

God’sgracewouldhelpmethrough.Asmoretimepassed,Iunderstoodhisdeathas

anunfairlossthatmorphedallourlives;andeventually,manyyearslater,afterI

endedupleavingtheChurchandreligionforgood,Isawhisdeathasacircumstance

thatjusthappened,justoneofmanythingsthatshapedmeandmylife.It’saloss

that’ssoftenedovertime,thoughoccasionallyitreturnsascrispasthatslanted

springmorning,afulcrumofunderstanding.

Isateatingcerealinthediningroom,scoopingupCheerioswithaplastic

spoonasIreadTheBlackStallionashungrilyasIatemybreakfast.Ihadfinishedmy

scripturestudyforthemorningandwasrelievedtoreadabouthorsesinstead.

Tabithalaysleepinginherpinkroomdownthehallfrommyparents’bedroom.The

nightbeforeshehaddecidedthatshewouldgetupearlyandspendsometimewith

Dad,playagameofchesswithhim,hisfavorite,andIknowshemeanttoasweall

meantodothings,later.Shewassixteen,somaybethefuturewasrealforher.

IwasinterruptedtwiceasIate.Thefirsttimebymydad:hewascallingme

inaraspy,hoarsevoice.Tanya,hecalled,Tanya.Iturnedmybookspine-sideup,

flatteningitagainstthetable.Ihikedthemountainousstairsandturnedintohis

room,whereDadwassittingupontheedgeofthebed,hisonce-largebody

trampledandworn.Thechemohadclaimedhisdarkhair,andjustafewlittlewisps

ofgreyrosefromhisheadlikeweaksteam.HehadbeenoverweightaslongasI

remembered,butnowhewasthinnedoutlikeateddybearwholosthalfhis

stuffing.I’dalwaysfoundhisbulkcomfortingbecausewhenIwassmallerIlovedto

22

climbonhislapandfeelhisthicksoftfleshgivebeneathmysmallweight,like

sittingonabigdownpillow.Icouldn’tsitonhislapnow,ofcourse,forhewassick

andinpainandallIcoulddowasstandthereandlookathim.

Hestartedtocough,agreathackingcoughI’dcometoknowoverthepast

month,asoundofbroken,crackedmarblesshakinginhischest.Iwantedtogoover

tohim,butsuddenlyIwasafraid.Hewasstillmyfather,mydad,buthehadbeenin

thehospitalformonthsonend,hadgrownthinnerandhairlessandfrail.Afterhe

camehome,hishairdidn’tgrowbackandneitherdidhisstomach.Hedidn’tcome

insidefrommowingthelawnandkissmymotheronthecheekasshesaid,“Hi,John

dear,”andhewouldn’treply,“I’mnotatractor!”AndInolongerlaughed,becausehe

nolongersaidit.No,hehadbeengoneandlostformonthsandthehouseseemed

emptywithouthiswarmlargebodytofillitup.Istoodinthedoorandlookedatmy

dad,andIwasafraidofthisunfamiliarmanwhowasbutwasn’tmyfather,resentful

oftheleukemiathathadraidedhisbonesandeatenawayhisbodyandhislapand

hisjokesandhissmile.

Whenthecoughended,heasked,inavoicethatshook,“Willyougetme

somewater?”Iwonderedbrieflywhyhehadn’taskedmymother,whowassitting

thereonherchairholdingabookandwatchingus.ButIsaidyesandfetchedhima

drink.Broughtittohimandhelditouttohim,likeapriestessofferingthe

sacrament,buthedidn’ttakeit.Insteadhemotioned,feebly,formetositdownand

toldmetosetthewateronthetable.Iwenttohimandtheairgrewsoftaroundme.

23

Wesattogetherforonlyamoment.Hetookmyhandinhisandputour

knottedfingersonmyknee.Hehadsuchalargehand.IstaredatitforaslongasI

satthere,thatquickandendlessmoment;hisknuckleslookedlikepebblesbeneath

acrinkledsheetofskinandhisgraspwasasthinandweakashisbodyandhejust

sattherelookingdown;atired,dyingman.

Thenthemomentwasoverandhepulledhishandaway,pattedmyknee.

“I’mgoingtorestnow.”Inoddedandgotupandleft,backtomyhorsesandbowlof

soggycheerios.

Tenminuteslater,Ihadpouredasecondbowlofcerealandonlyonelayerof

oatswasleft,littleo’sfloatingontopofskimmilk,ooo,tinyroundmouths

perpetuallysurprised.Itwasquiet,aquietspreadonthewholehouse.Tabithalay

dreamingandmymothersatreadinganddadmustbeasleepbynow,hefellasleep

soquicklythesedays.Theblackstallion’sriderwasjustabouttomountthehorse

foryetanotherrace,thestartinggunabouttoblow.Then,ascream:mymother

yelling,rippingapartallthedreamsinthehouse.“John,John,no.John!”Myplastic

spoonclatteredasitfell,milkdropletssprayingandlittlecheeriossayingo!o!o!asI

racedtowardthestairs.

WhenIranintomyparents’room,MomwasbendingoverDad’sbody,one

handextendedoverhimbutnottouchinghim,asthoughperformingaspell.She

wasnolongeryelling,justwhisperingdesperatelittleprayers,hopeless

incantations,“Comeback,comeback.”Isteppedclosetoher,mybreathsharpinmy

chest,andtherewasDad,headonhispillowandeyeshalfclosed;thetipofhis

24

tonguewashangingoutofhisopenmouth,whichscaredme;hisarmlayacrosshis

chestasthoughflungthere,andtherewasthehandthatIhadheldonlytenminutes

before.“Comeback,”mymothersaidagain,buthewasgone,thistimeforgood.But

hisbodyremained,hereinthehouse,afactthatpressedonmeimmediatelyand

mademenervousbutatthesametimeinawe;hisspiritthen,hadflownawaytothe

Afterlife.Flown?Didspiritsfly?Haditexitedthroughhisopenmouth,onthewing

ofhisfinalbreath?

Istoodsilent,hardlyhearingmymother’swhispers,heralmost-inaudible

comeback’s.ThenTabithacameintheroom,andwhenshesawusstandingthere

andheardourmother’sfadingpleas,shepanicked,grabbedmymotherbythearms

andshookher,yelled“Stop!Stop!”ButthensheturnedherheadandsawDad,and

brokeintohystericalsobs,andonlythendidmymotherstoppedwhispering.

WecalledHospice,andsoonsomenursescame,andtheytookDad’sbody

awayandIsawthemhaulingastretcherdownthemountain,hisbodycoveredwith

awhitesheet.Theydidn’twantustowatch,theytoldTabithaandmetogositinthe

livingroom,butwecouldn’thelpitandwepeekedthroughtheglasspanesofthe

Frenchdoors.Theyloadedhimintoabigcaranddroveaway.Thatwasit.

Thehousewasfullofpeoplethatday,afterwards.Mostlyfromchurch.The

bishopcameandaskedifhecouldspeakwithMomalone.SisterMalczykhadcome

withhim,andshetookmeandTabithauptomybedroom.Wesatdownonthebed,

25

mybacktothewindow.Istaredatthedresser.Thepaintwaschippingwherethe

cornerhadbumpedagainstthewall.Thedoortomysmallroomwasclosed,andit

felttightwiththreeofuscrammedonmytwinmattress.SisterMalczykwastalking;

shesaidalotofthingsIdidn’tlistento,butIheardhersayourdadwasinHeaven.I

wonderedwhatHeavenlookedlike,realizedIdidn’tknow.“He’snotsickanymore,”

SisterMalcyzksaid,pattingourknees.Iwonderedifhelookedasbigashewasin

life,justmorespirity.Paler.Noblood,spiritsdidn’thaveblood.Notred,notwhite,

justempty.Iwasn’tsurewhataspiritwouldlooklike.Iwasn’tsureofanything.We

satthere,onthebed.Tabithacuppedherchininherhandsandstaredatthefloor,at

theveryspotwhereonce,along,longtimeago,IthoughtIsawavision.

26

Traditions

Clark:cleric,scholar.English.Superman:amanwithsuperhumanabilities.American.

IfoundoutIwaspregnantwithmythirdbabyin2007,onemonthafter

Brandon’sfatherhaddied.WhenIwassixteenweeksalong,Iwenttotheultrasound

alone(Brandonwasinthemiddleofhisphysician’sresidencyprogramandwas

alwaysworking)andtoldthesonographerIwantedtoknowthesex.Ilaydownon

thebed,crinklingthepapercoverbeneathme,andshespreadthecoolgelonthehill

ofmybellyandswishedthewandaround.Amovieappearedonthescreenabove

myhead,thebaby’sbodyalandscapeofgreyvalleysandmountains.Assheslidthe

wandbelowmybellybutton,thebabysuddenlystretcheditslegs;shepausedthe

video,drewanarrowonscreenpointingtoasmallupsidedowntree,andsaid,“Well,

there’snodoubtaboutthisone.”

Ourfirsttwochildrenweregirls,andbothBrandonandIwerethrilledthat

wegottopickoutaboy’sname.Ifiguredwe’deasilyfindsomethingwebothliked.

SowhenBrandon’sfirstsuggestionwas“Johannes,”afteroneofhislong-dead

ancestors,Istaredathimanddespairedathowimpossibleitseemedtoeverbeon

thesamepageashim,evenafterfiveyearsofmarriage.

“Areyouserious?”Iasked.

27

Heshruggedalittle.“Yeah,whynot?It’sacoolname,andit’soneofmy

ancestor’snames.”

“It’shideous,”Isaid,andIwenttothebookshelftograbthebabybookwe’d

usedtofindourdaughters’namesofftheshelfandhandedittohim.“Fine,”hesaid,

andflippedthroughthebook.Ethanwashissecondchoice,butIfavoredthename

Clark.IpretendedIhadseenitoverhisshoulderasheglancedatChristopher-

Clifford,butI’dknownsincebeforetheultrasoundthatifIhadaboy,Clarkwasthe

nameIwanted.

WhenIsuggestedit,Brandonlookedatmesuspiciously.“Isthisbecauseof

Superman?”

“No,”Isaid,innocently.Butitwas.BrandonknewIlikedSuperman,though

hedidn’tknowjusthowmuch.IlovedthesecretpowerClarkKentkepthiddenjust

behindapairofglassesandunderneaththatcrisp,button-upshirt.I’dgrownup

watchingthenineties’re-interpretationofhisstory,LoisandClark:TheNew

AdventuresofSuperman,andnow,pregnantwithmyfirstson,Iwasinthemiddleof

bingewatchingtheentireseriesofSmallville(butusuallywhileBrandonwasat

work).“Ijustlikethatname,”Isaid,“Ialwayshave.”Ithadavintagequality,a

monosyllabicquickness.IrefusedtoadmittoBrandonthatIwantedmyson’s

namesaketobeafictional,aliensuperhero.Itseemedsilly,juvenile.

“Clark,”hesaid,tryingitout.“Clark.”Henodded.“Yeah,Ilikethat.”Sowe

agreedonClark,andourfirstson’sgivennamewassettledinamatterofhours.

Itwashismiddlenamethatformonths,wearguedover.

28

Brandon:hillcoveredwithbroom,aprolificweed.Irish.

Brandon’smiddlenamewasgiventohimbyhisfather,Larry.Itwasthesame

middlenamethatLarryhadgivenhisothersons:David,inhonorofthegreatkingof

Israel.

Brandon’sfirstnamewasgiventohimbyhismother,Sheryl,whofounditin

aromancenovel.Brandonwastheheroprotagonist:theloverandtheloved.I’mnot

sureifsheknewthemeaningofthename,thatbroomisaprolificweedthatspreads

wildlyoverdryrangelands.Asmall,two-foottallbush,broomsproutsfifteento

twentytinyyellowflowersoneachofitsmanystems.Ahillcoveredinbroomisa

floralsunrise,anarcofyellowinthemiddleofthedesertWest.

Itisalsotoxic.

***

BythetimeLarrydied,BrandonandIhadspentthemajorityofourfiveyears

of marriage trying to deal with the fact that Brandon had a problem with

pornography.WehadgottenmarriedwhenIwastwentyandhewastwenty-three,

which was certainly too young, but the bigger problem was that we were both

Mormon,with largeMormon familiesanda lifetimeofChurchprohibitionsonsex

outsideofmarriagebuzzinginourbrains.Thefirsttimehetoldmeabouttheporn

waseighteenmonthsafterourwedding,whenIwaspregnantwithourfirstdaughter.

Theconfessionshockedme.We’dalwaysbeensoreligious,sodevout,Ithought.We

29

attendedthetempleregularly,weprayedtogetherasacouple,wewenttochurch.I

thoughtwehadagoodsexlife.Thefactthathehadlookedatporn,whichwasonly

onebabystepawayfrominfidelityinmyMormonunderstandingofthehierarchyof

sin,shifted thecenterofourrelationship:westopped focusingoneachother,and

insteadorbitedaroundhisproblemwithporn.

AfterBrandonfirstconfessed,wecalledourbishopandaskedifwecouldtalk

tohim.HewasayoungEnglishprofessorwithhairthecolorofsandandsea-foam

blueeyes,andhecametoourhouseimmediately,andsatoppositeusontheloveseat.

HelistenedintentlyasBrandontoldhimthathehadbeenlookingatpornographyfor

hoursaday,thathehadbeentopornshopsandstripclubs,thatheknewheshould

stopbutcouldn’t.BishopHandleyleanedforwardinhisseat,hisarmsonhisknees

andhishandsclaspedinfrontofhim.HethankedBrandonfortellinghim,andthen

said,“It’sareallyhardthingtoovercome.Iknowawomanwho’sbeendealingwith

herhusband’saddictionfortenyears.”

Ilookedathiminhorror.Ihadonlyknownaboutitforonehour—anhourthat

wasalreadystretchingintoeternity—andthethoughtoftenyearsofbeingsecondto

pornterrifiedme.Imadeadecisionrightthen:thatwomanwouldnotbeme.

ButBrandonbeganmeetingwiththebishopregularly,andeventuallythings

returnedtonormal.

Therewasapoint,aboutthreeyearsintoourmarriage,whenIthoughtwehad

movedon.IwouldaskBrandonoccasionallyhowhewasdoing,andhewouldsmile

and say, “Good,” and then turn away again. But then I’d see the blue light of the

30

computer from underneath the office door late at night, and when I checked his

Internethistory, I foundhundredsofwebsites,picturesofbarebodiespoppingup

like silent explosions all over the screen. I confronted him, angrily, and he

shamefacedlyconfessedandpromisedtostop.Monthslater,Ifoundmoreevidence.

Therewasanotherconfrontation,anotherconfession.Andthecyclekeptturninglike

awaterwheel,liespilingupuntiltheyfloodedoverinasuffocatingrush.

Afterfouryears,Iwastired—tiredofwatchingBrandongivein,tiredofour

stop-and-gomarriage.Itriedangerandreasoningandprayer.Itriedtolosemyselfin

watchingre-runsofLoisandClark,admiringtheirwholesomeandlovingrelationship,

admiredthewaySupermanonlyliedbecausehehadtosavetheworld.Butnothing

changedbetweenmeandBrandon,andIbecamemoreandmorehopeless.Ididn’t

seriouslyconsiderdivorce,becausemybeliefsdictatedthatmarriagewasthemost

necessaryandsacredunionofall.ButafterIfoundmyselfstaringoutthewindowfor

hoursonend,unabletoenjoymychildrenbecauseofdepression,Ifinallywenttosee

apsychologist.Ibroughtmysecondbabydaughterwithme,sleepinginhercarseat,

andsatonthebrownleathercouchinthedoctor’soffice.Thedoctorwasinhisforties,

dressed inablueplaidbutton-upshirt thatwasstretchedtautoveracomfortable

belly.Heheldnopaperpadorpencil,likeIassumedhewould,butjustleanedback

inhischairlookingexpectantlyatme.HeaskedwhyIwasthere.

“Well…”Ihesitated,lookedatthebrownsquaresprintedonthecarpet,then

backupathim.“Myhusbandhasanaddictiontopornography.”

31

I’dactuallyneverdescribedBrandon’spornproblemasanaddictionbefore.

I’dnevernameditthatway,butthemomentIdid,Iknewitwasright,eventhoughI

didn’tfullyunderstandit.

Henodded.“Whatdoyoumean,”heasked,“by‘addiction’?”

ItoldhimeverythingIcould.“I’mafraid,”afterI’dgivenallthedetails,“thathe

mighthaveanaffair.”

Heshookhisheadatme.“There’snoscientificevidencethatmenwholookat

pornaremorelikelytohaveanaffair.”

Hesaiditwithasimplefinality,asthoughthatonefactshouldbeenoughto

erasemy fear.Andmaybe it shouldhaverelievedme,but itdidnot. I sat there in

silence,staringatmybabyasleep inhercarseat.Herdarkhair, thesamecoloras

Brandon’s,curledalongherforehead.

Thesilencestretchedonforanothermomentbeforethedoctor finallysaid,

brusquely, “I’m not really sure why you’re here. Men weren’t meant to be

monogamous,youknow.”Heshrugged.“Biologicallyspeaking.”

Ilookedupfrommybabyandstaredathim.

IwishI’dhadthegumptionatthatpointinmylifetostandupandleave.Or

better, confront him for making a remark that was not only sexist but that also

completelyignoredmyownpsychologicalneedsatthetime.ButIdidn’t.Icouldn’t.I

wasincensed—what,Ishouldn’tbeupsetthatmyhusbandlooksatpornallthetime

becausehe’samanandhecan’thelpit?—butIwasalsoterrifiedhewasright;that

infidelitywasinevitable.

32

David:beloved.Hebrew.Goliath:uncovered.Hebrew.

Bathsheba:daughteroftheoath.Hebrew.

Brandon’sfamilyfollowedatraditionwhenitcametomiddlenamesforsons.

EverysonandgrandsonbornintheBomstaclanreceivedthemiddlenameDavid.It

beganwithLarry,Brandon’sfather,thefirstmaleintheBomstagenealogywiththe

honorarymiddlename.LarrylovedthestoryofKingDavid,thegreatkingofIsrael:

AsthegreatwarbetweenthePhilistinesandIsraelcomestoastandstill,the

PhilistinesdecidetosendoutGoliath,thewarrior-giant.Goliath,tallasatelephone

pole,hissize20feetslammingthegroundashemakeshiswaytothefrontofthefield,

challengestheIsraelitestosendamantofighthim.Heraiseshisswordtothesky,its

pointslicingopenapassingcloud,andbellowsouthisdaretwiceadayforfortydays.

Finally,someoneacceptsthegiant’schallenge:David,thebeloved,braverthanKing

Saulwhositsshakinginhistent;David,toosmalltofitintotheking’sarmor,too

youngtoevenbeawarriorinthefirstplace.Hestepsontothebattlefield,wearing

nothingbutapurewhitetoga,carryingnothingbutfivesmallstones.Davidfaces

GoliathandgallantlyproclaimshisfaithinGod.Inturn,Goliathpromisestocrush

David’sbodylikeacornflake,andDavidstretchesastonebackintohistrustyslingshot

asthoughhewerenothingmorethanalittleboytakingaimatasparrow.Goliath

charges,andDavidfliesthestonetrue—straightintoGoliath’sforehead.Thegiant

Philistinestops,hisfacepetrifiedinshockanddisbelief,andhefalls,slowlyatfirst,

33

thenpicksupspeedandslamsintotheground,andtheearthquakesathisimpact.He

liesthere,hisbody’slastdesperatetwitchestinklinghisgoldarmorlikewindchimes.

ThenDeathcovershimwithstillness.AmomentlaterthePhilistinesflee,theIsraelites

celebrate,andDavidiseventuallycrownedking.

ItwasthestoryIgrewuplisteningtoagainandagaininmyMormon

upbringing,sittinginchurchonswelteringSundays.AndIloveditbecauseIloved

storiesofheroes,evenoneswhodidnothavesuperhumanstrengthorsecret

identities.ThestorycontinuedafterGoliath’sdeath,ontothesecondhalf,thepart

thatrevealsaverydifferentDavid:

Butheroes’triumphsarealltooquicklyshadowedbytheirfalls.David’ssecond

giantcameintheformofawoman:Bathsheba—beautiful,well-born,andmarried.

Davidalreadyhadwivesandconcubinesspillingoverthewallsofhishome,buthesaw

Bathshebabathing,andlust—thatcomelyword,devilishcrossbetweenloveand

thirst—lustovertookhim,agiantofshadowsonawarmdarknight.

Sweatingbetweenthesheets,DavidandBathshebaconceivedachild,a

testamenttohislustandadultery.AsaChristiankingthiswasasignificantproblem,

butDavidtheGiant-Slayerwasclever.HetriedtoconvinceUriah,Bathsheba’s

husband,toreturnhomefromawartosleepwithhiswife,hopingUriahwouldbelieve

thechildwashisown.ButUriahcouldn’tbeartoleavehistroopsforhiswife,soDavid

instructedanarmycommandertoplacetheinconvenienthusbandinthefrontlinesof

thebattle,hopinghewouldbekilledinthelineofduty.Hopeprevailed:Uriahdied,and

DavidmarriedthewidowedBathsheba.ButGodpunishedDavid,takingfromhimthe

34

promiseofexaltation,thepromiseofeternalglory,andDavidwasforeverlost,forever

aftertormentedwithalustforGod’smostpreciousblessings,alustthatwasnever

quenched.

IthinkLarryrelishedthelasthalfofthestory,becauseitwastherethathe

foundinhisnameasignificancethathewantedtopassontohissons.In

Mormonism,David’sstoryisusedtoillustratetheconsequencesofgivinginto

carnaldesires.Lusthadledtomurder,anunforgivablesin.Afatalmistake.David’s

littleloopholebecamehisnoose.LarryexplainedtohissonstheMormondoctrine

concerningDavid,whichholdsthatinspiteofhismanyrighteousdeeds,David’s

unforgiveablesinscausedhimtosufferaspiritualdeath,tobecomeafallenking,

eternallyforsaken.Hewillneverreceivefullexaltation,neverenterthehighest

levelsofheaven,neverreceivetheblessingshewouldhavebeengivenhadhenot

succumbedtohisownlust.

ThisisthelegacyofDavid:Bravery,faithfulness,power—lust,adultery,

death.

ThereasonLarry’sparentschosetogivehimthemiddlenameDavidislostto

me,butLarrybequeathedthenameoneachofhisownfivesonsforonespecific

purpose:HetoldhissonsthathewantedthemtorememberKingDavid—to

rememberthekingwhohadbeengiveneverything,onlytoloseitallbygivinginto

hiscarnaldesires.HetoldhissonstorememberKingDavid—andnottobelikehim.

ItwasatraditionthatIwantedtofindcomfortin.Asourmarriagecontinued,

Brandon’spornographyaddictionsteadilygrewworse.Istartedresearching

35

pornographyaddictionsonmyownafterthatfirstpsychologistvisit,havinggiven

upontherapy.Sexaddictionsaren’taboutsex,theexpertswouldsay.It’sjustlike

anydrug—heroin,cocaine,meth—usedtoescapestressanddepressionandahost

ofotherproblemstheaddictwantstoignore,andit’sjustasdifficulttogetover.I

believedthembutdidn’tliketheirfatalistictones,achorustomypsychologist.I

kepthoping,throughallthoseearlyyearsofourmarriage,thatBrandontookhis

dad’snametraditiontoheart,thatheknewtherewasalinehecouldn’tcross,that

thestoryofDavidwouldkeephimincheck.Maybemypsychologistwasahopeless

pessimist—ormaybehejustdidn’tunderstandthepowerofaname.

Sherylhadahandinthefirstnamesofherchildren,butwhenitcametothe

Davids,sheletLarryhavehisway.Astheirsonsgrewupandmarriedandhadsons

oftheirown,theycontinuedthetradition,untilelevenmaledescendantssharedthe

middlenameDavid.

Larry:crownedwithlaurel.Latin.

Larrywastallandlanky,askinnygiant,sixfootfourbutonly190pounds.He

believedwholeheartedlyintheChurch;he’dbeenamembersincehewastwenty,

andattendedthetempleonceaweek.Everymorningaroundsixa.m.hewould

gatherhisfamilyforscripturetime,readingwithhiswifeandkids,askingeach

familymemberaquestionabouttheversesbeforeamblingofftothehospitalwhere

heworkedasaphysician.Mostly,though,hekepttohimself;whenhewasathome

36

heusuallydisappearedtohisworkroomtocleanhiscollectionofriflesandpistols.

Mymother-in-law,Sheryl,wouldwatchhimdisapprovinglyasshefinishedthe

dishesalone.

Brandonemulatedhisfather.Hewasthefourthchildofeightandtheonly

onetofollowinhisfather’sfootstepsinbecomingaphysician.WhenBrandonandI

metwewerebothfinishingupcollege,andhewasplanningtogotomedicalschool.

Iaskedhimwhyhewantedtobeadoctor,andhesaidsimply,“Iwanttobelikemy

dad.”Iwasbothmovedandenvious—myownfatherhaddiedfromcancerwhenI

wastwelve,andIwishedIcouldstillhavesuchaclosefather-daughterrelationship.

BrandonandIwereengagedafewmonthsafterwemet,andImetLarryfor

thefirsttime.AsIstoodontiptoetohughim,histoweringframenearlybendingin

halfjusttoputhisarmsaroundmyfive-foot-tallfigure,hetoldmeIcouldcallhim

Dad.Ismiledandsaid,“Ihaven’tcalledanyonethatinalongtime.”

ButLarrywasreserved,andhebecamemoreofanenigmatomethana

father-in-law;IneverdidcallhimDad.Weonlyhadahandfulofone-on-one

conversationsduringthesevenyearsthatIknewhim.Mostlywhenwevisitedhe

wouldspendalittletimewithhissons,shootingwater-filledmilkjugsinthe

backyardwithshotgunsorsittingaroundtellingstoriesabouthisgrandparentsand

great-grandparents,eventuallydisappearingintohisgunroom.He’dreappeareach

nightatseveno’clocktoputacupofwheatandacupofwaterinthecrockpot,

leavingittosimmeruntilmorning.Asaphysicianhewascarefulabouthishealth,

askingSheryltousefructoseinsteadofsugarinbaking(“Fruitisbetterthancandy,”

37

he’dalwayssing)andeatinghiswheatmealeverymorning,chewingthesoftbrown

kernelslaboriously.Withoutfailhe’dofferussome,andwe’dalljustshakeour

headsinhumorousdisgust.

Sometimes,though,Brandonwouldacceptthelumpybreakfast,andhe’dsit

nexttohisdadatthetable.HewasonlytwoinchesshorterthanLarry,aboutthe

sameweight,andthey’dsitside-by-sidescoopingbrownhealthintotheirmouths,

theirlongfacesandsquarejawsmovinginrhythm.Mirrorimages,exceptthatLarry

wasbaldingandBrandonstillhadaheadfullofthickbrownhair.

AfewmonthsbeforeLarrydied,asBrandon’saddictioncontinueddespite

religiouscounseling,abishoprecommendedthatBrandontalktosomeoneelse,

maybeafriendtocheckinwith.IsuggestedLarry.“He’llunderstand,”Isaid,“he’s

yourdad,herespectsyou.”

“That’swhyIcan’ttellhim,”Brandonsaid.

IneverreallyunderstoodBrandon’sadmirationforhisfather.Itwasn’tthatI

hadanythingagainstLarry,buttherewasadissonanceabouthimthatIcouldn’t

reconcile.Brandontoldmethatherespectedhisfather’sworkethic,butinallthe

timeswevisitedIrarelysawLarrydomuchelsebesidestellmoralisticstoriesand

fadeintohisworkshop.Larry’sconversationnevervariedfromscriptures,

genealogy,health,orguns;hewasn’tamanwhofavoredthepersonal.WhenSheryl

grewangrywithhim,hewouldjuststareatherinunmovedsilence,andthen

meanderawayinthedirectionofhisgunroom.

38

ButIknewBrandonlovedthetimehewouldspendwithhisdad,listeningto

hisstoriesorshootingwithhimoutinthebroadbrownfieldsbehindtheirhomein

Idaho.Theywouldstandnexttoeachother,Brandonwithariflepulledtighttohis

shoulder.Hisdadwouldthrowaclaypigeonhighintotheairandthey’dwatchthe

orangediscasitsoaredtowardtheclouds,higherandhigher,untilitbeganto

slowlylosemomentum;justasitreachedthepeakofitsclimbandpausedforasplit

secondtotouchthesky,Brandonwouldpullthetrigger,andthey’dstandthere,

fatherandson,watchingthebulletsmashtheclayintoahundredfragmentsthatfell

likeorangeteardropsfromtheclearbluesky.

***

MyfirstthoughtwhenIheardthereasonbehindLarry’smiddlename

traditionwasthat,ifnothingelse,itwasauniquewayofchoosinganame.The

parentswhoIknew,myselfincluded,tendedtochoosenamesakesofpeople(orjust

aslogically,amazingcomicbookcharacters)whotheyhopedtheirchildwould

emulate.Tonameachildaftersomeoneyouhopedtheywouldn’tbelikewas

certainlyachangeofpace.

ButasIwatchedLarrythroughouttheyears,Istartedtounderstandit.He

lovedscripturestorieswithmoralsandhewasdedicatedtotheChurch,servingasa

HighPriestinhislocalward,studyinghisscripturesdaily,tellinghischildrentostay

faithful.TonamethemDavidwastoremindthemofalltheycouldloseifthey

waveredintheirfaith.Iftherewasonethingthatwasn’tenigmaticaboutLarry,it

washisconstancytothedoctrinesoftheChurch.

39

Thenightbeforehedied,LarrytoldSherylthatifanythingweretohappento

makesuretheiryoungestsonfinishedoutthemissionhewasservingforthe

Church.Sheaskedwhathethoughtwasgoingtohappen,buthejustdisappeared

intohisgunroomandshutthedoor.

Shefoundhimthenextmorning,lyingontheconcretefloorcurledinfetal

position,huggingapistoltohisheart.

Sheryl:beloved.French.

WeflewouttoBrandon’sfamilyhomethedayafterweheardthatLarryhad

died.Nooneknewatfirst,notevenSheryl,whyLarryhadchosentoendhislife.

TherewerebitsofrumorsaboutLarryprescribingmedicationsillegallytooneofhis

patients,butnoevidence.Mysisters-in-lawandIhelpedSherylwithfuneralplans

whileBrandonandhisbrotherswentthroughtheirfather’sguncollection.Brandon

cameupstairsafteralittlewhileandtappedmeontheshoulderasIwaslooking

throughacatalogofcoffins.

“Ineedtotalktoyouforaminute.”Wewenttotheguestbedroomwherewe

werestayingandshutthedoor.Heheldaplasticbaginhishandandthrewitonthe

bed.Videotapesspilledontotheburgundybedspread.“Ifoundthoseinmydad’s

stuff.”

Iwalkedovertothebedandpickedoneup.Abig-bustedwomanwasonthe

front,theword“unrated”stampedacrossherbodyinredletters.Ifroze,unableto

40

pullmyeyesfromthecover,jumbledinconfusion.Ihadnoideawhythesethings

wouldbehereinLarry’shouse.LarryhadbeenaHighPriest.Hehadreadhis

scriptureswithhisfamily.Hewouldn’twatchthisstuff.Hecouldn’thave.

Islowlyputthevideosbackinthebag,stealingaglimpseatBrandonasItied

itshut.Hedidn’tsayanything,juststoodthere,lookingasthoughsomegiantthing

washurtlingtowardshim,tryingtofigureouthowtogetoutoftheway.

***

NooneunderstoodLarry’sdeathuntilweekslater,whenSherylfoundthe

stackoflettersinLarry’sdresserdrawer,scrawledinhishandwriting,theword

“beloved”atthetop.TheywerenotaddressedtoSheryl,buttoawomansheknew.

SheryltoldBrandonthisoverthephoneasheandIsatinourlivingroom

together.Wehadonlydaysbeforefoundoutthatwewereexpectingourthirdbaby.

Giventhestateofourmarriage,itwasprobablyafoolishthingtodo,butwewere

still,well,veryMormon.Webelievedthatmarriageandchildrenwereourprimary

dutiesonearth,andIstillhopedthatBrandonwouldbecapableofsomesuper-

heroiceffortandgetoverhisaddictiononeandforall,thathewouldchooselove

overlust.Anddespiteitall,Iwasexcitedabouthavinganotherbaby.WhenSheryl

calledthatnight,Isatdownonthecouchandpretendedtoreadapregnancybook,

listeningtoBrandon’slongstretchesofsilenceasheheldthephonetohisear,

eyeinghimshakinghisheadandglaringatthewall.Whenhefinallyhungup,he

staredatthephoneasthoughheweredisappointedinit.

41

“Mydadwashavinganaffair.”Helookedatmeandthendown,shakinghis

head,whetherinangerordisbeliefIcouldn’ttell.“Mymomhadnoidea.”

HetoldmethatLarryhadmetthewomaninhisoffice.Shewastwenty-six,

beautiful,andalmostfortyyearsyoungerthanLarry.Astheybeganseeingeach

other,shehadaskedhimtoprescribehermoremedicationthanwaslegally

allowed.Heagreed,butneededaloophole:sohewroteouttheprescriptionsin

Sheryl’sname.Afterall,accordingtohisletters,hewasinlove.Whentheauthorities

discoveredthefraud,theytoldhimtheywerecomingtohishousetotakehis

license.AndLarrylookedatthepast,andthefuture,andknewtherestofthestory.

Heendedhislifethenextday.

Lust,adultery,death.ItwasthestoryI’dgrownuphearingmywholelife,

sittinginchurchonswelteringSundays.AndIstartedtofear,watchingBrandon’s

longfaceandsquarejawashetoldmeaboutLarry,thatitwasthestorythatIwas

living.

IhadalwaysthoughtthatBrandon’saddictionwashisown,ananomalyina

familyofrighteous,non-addictedmen.IthoughtthatLarry’sDavidwasjusta

remindernamesake;Ididn’trealizethatforLarry,thenamehadbeenanamuletto

wardoffevil.Towardofftheinevitable.

***

42

Tanya:fairyqueen.Russian.John:Godisgracious.Hebrew.

Anapel:littlegrandmother;theNamingStone.Koryak.

Namingtraditionsvaryamongcultures.TheKoryakpeopleofnortheastern

Siberiabelievethatthebirthofachildisareincarnation.Thespiritofadeceased

ancestor—agrandfatheroruncleperhaps—entersthetinybodyofthenewborn,

andthefatherisresponsiblefordiscoveringwhosespiritinhabitshischild’sbody.

ThisrequiresthatheuseadiviningstonenamedAnapel,whichhehangsfroma

stringoverthechildashechantsthenamesofancestors,slowlyandprayerfully,

likeakingblessinghisfirstbornson.Thestonewillstarttospinashesaysthename

ofthereincarnatedancestor,indicatingthesoulwhohasreturned.Hehonorsthem

bygivingthembacktheirname.Afather’sgifttobothdescendantandancestor.

Maybeourtraditionsaremoresimilarthanwerealize.Fivemonthsafter

Larryhaddied,BrandonandIstartedarguingoverwhatmiddlenametogiveour

son.Hewantedtoholdtradition,tohonorthetwelfthBomstamaledescendantwith

Larry’stalismanofaname.Hisfamilyexpectedit.Traditionexpectedit.

IwantednothingtodowithDavid.

“He’dbetheonlyonewithoutthemiddlenameDavid.”Brandon’sarmswere

crossedoverhischestasheleanedagainstthekitchencounter.

“So?”Iasked,washingmythree-yearolddaughter’sfaceatthesink.“We

don’thavetodowhateveryoneelseinyourfamilydoes.”

“Well,whatnamedoyousuggest?”

43

“Idon’tknow.Ihavetothinkaboutit.”IsetEvelyndownandstarteddoing

thedishes.

“Youalreadygottochoosehisfirstname.SomaybeIshouldgettodecidehis

middleone.”

IstoppedscrubbingtheplateIwasholding,andlookedatBrandonsquarely,

soaprunningdownmyhands,anewkindofangercoursingthroughme.

“I’mnotnaminghimDavid.”

Helookedbackatmeforamoment.Thenhelookedaway,inhaled,andput

hishandsinhispockets.“Ijustwanttocarryonthename,that’sall.”

“Youknow,he’salreadygoingtohavethenameBomsta.Hegetsthatforthe

restofhislife.”Iturnedbacktothehalf-dirtyplate.“Andwhataboutme,don’tIget

apartofhisidentity?”

“Yeah,”Brandonsaid,shrugging,“Iguessthat’strue.”

IwishedIhadsomethinglikeAnapel.Butthen,Iwasn’tthefather;inKoryak

cultureIwouldn’tbeallowedtochoosethenameofmyson.

IttookusacouplemoremonthstosettleClark’smiddlename.Isatinchurch

oneSunday,doodlingnamesinsteadoflisteningtothespeakers.ClarkLarryBomsta,

ClarkBrandonBomsta,ClarkDavidBomsta.

Myfatherandmymotherhadmadeadealaboutnamingme—ifIwereaboy,

mymothergottochoosethename;ifIwereagirl,thenitwasmydad’schoice.He

namedmeTanyaElizabeth,simplybecausehelikedthesoundofit.Mydadhad

44

beennamedJohnafterhisdad;andmygrandfatherhadbeennamedJohnafterhis

great-grandfather.

Fathertoson,sontograndson,traditionontraditionontradition.

MydaddiedfromcancerwhenIwastwelve,andnowIsatthirteenyears

later,pregnantwithhisgrandson,doodlingmyhusband’sfamilynamesonapage.I

starteddrawingcirclesaroundthenames,spinningmypenaroundandarounduntil

eachnamewasblottedoutunderspiralsofblackink.Atthebottomofthepage,I

wroteClarkJohnBomsta.

ItappedBrandonandgavehimthepaper.Hestaredatitforaminute,then

helookedatme,andnodded.

Clark

Idon’tliketothinkofanythingasinevitable,inspiteoftheDavids.

Inevitabilitystripsmeofcontrol,ofpower.Butwhatistradition,ifnotaropethat

lashesustoourforbearers?Becauseitdidn’tendwithLarry.Brandonnever

overcamehisaddictiontopornography,andthreeyearsafterClark’sbirth,Brandon

admittedtohavinganaffairwithawomanatwork.Oneyearshortofourtenth

anniversary,weweredivorced.

WhenIheardofLarry’sdeath,witnessedthespillofvideosonthebed,and

listenedtothestoryofhisaffair,Isawmyownmarriage—itspresentanditsfuture,

andIwasafraid.Oftheinevitable,oftradition,ofloss.Iwasafraidformysonwho

grewinmywomb,whosepaternalmalelinewasshatteringintofragments.Iwant

45

tothinkthatIchangedsomethingwhenIchoseClark’smiddlename,thatIbroke

somedarkblightthatwasbeginningtotakeholdofhisfamilytree.

Butevennow,Iknowthat’snottrue;anamecan’thavethatpower.Weplace

ourownsignificanceinournames,likeLarrydid,andchooseourownidentities.I

triedtofindsomerevealingtruthinthepatternofstoriesIwitnessed—thatporn

addictionsalwaysbecomeaffairs,thatsonsbecometheirfathers—butthat’stoo

simplistic.Truthisslippery,mutable.Itdoesn’tgrowongenealogicaltrees.Maybe

thenameJohnwaslessofanamuletandmoreofanoffering,amother’sgifttoboth

fatherandson.Clark’smiddlenameisstillatradition,stillanamesake;butIhoped

togivehimanameofsomeonetoemulate,notthelegacyofafallenhero.Andwhen

hedoesfall,aseveryonemust,Ihopethathe’llplaceinhimselfsomeofthepowerof

hisfirstnameandriseagain.

ClarkJohnBomsta.He’salittlebitofSuperman,alittlebitofme,alittlebitof

Brandon.

Iwatchthemnow,BrandonandClark,playingtogether.Clarkhasthesame

darkhair,thesametallframethatevenatfoursuggestshe’lltowerovermesome

day.Headoreshisfather,runninguptohimwhenhegoestovisitonweekendsand

jumpinginhisdad’sarms.AndwhenIseethem,fatherandson,armsaroundeach

other,Idon’tfeelafraid.Ropescanbecut;destinyisapaththatweforge.

Allittakesisalittlesuperman.

46

Erosion

“Comeon,it’llbefun.”

“Ireallydon’twantto.”

We’restandingonthetopofafifty-footboulderjuttingovertheRedRiver,

theJulysunheatingthesandstonesothatwehavetoshiftourfeettokeepoursoles

fromburning.Brandonhasalreadyjumpedoffthreetimes,doingbackflipsoffthe

rockandplummetingintothedeep,murkywatersbelow.Ihadwatchedhimfrom

theothersideoftheriverasIsatontherockybank,thecoolwaterlappingmyfeet,

squintingtomakeouthistall,leanframeashewalkedtotheedgeoftheboulder

withhishandsonhiships.Helookeddown,saidsomethingtoaguyinredswim

trunksstandingnearhim,thenbackedupafewstepsandstoodstill.Suddenlyhe

rantwogreatlongstridesandjumped,vaultinghisbodyintothenothingnessofair,

tuckinghisheadandkneesintoaknot,turningmidaironce,twice,then

straighteningintoalonglinewithhandspointeddown,down,down,untilhesliced

theRedRiveropenanditpartedanddrankhimin.

Hepoppedupthreeorfoursecondslater,tenfeetfromwherehehadgone

under,andswamacrosstherivertowardme.Hisarmsweretanandmuscled,and

47

hecutthroughthewateralmostlazily.“Impressive,”Isaid,smilingasheemerged

drippingandgleamingandstoodnexttome.

“It’syourturnnow,”hereplied,reachingdownformyhand.

He’dalreadytriedtwicetogetmetogoupwithhim.Butjumpingoffrocks

intodeepriverswasn’tmysortofthrill.Ipreferredreadingabookonthesand,

wadingintothewaterwheneverIgottoohotandfeelingtheriverbedshapeitself

betweenmytoes.ButIknewBrandon.Hewouldn’tstoppesteringmeunlessI

followedhimupthesteepclimbandthrewmyselfintotheriver.

“Well,I’llclimbuptherewithyou,”Isaid,“butI’mnotgoingtojump.”Iput

myhandinhisandhepulledmeup,andwesteppedbackintothewaterandswam

acrosstothepathwindinguptheboulder.

WehadarrivedatRedRiverGorgethenightbefore.Itwasouranniversary,

andwe’ddecidedtorejuvenateoureightyearsofmarriagebyleavingthekidswith

mymotherandtakingatwo-daytripintoKentucky.Thegorgewasdeepinits

summerbrooding,therockshotandtheriverwarm,thesugarmaplesandpinoaks

heavywithgreen.Iwantedtothinkofitasasultrysummerheat,butinrealityit

wasjustmuggy,theweightoftheseasonclingingtoourbodieslikeasweat-

drenchedT-shirt.Thenightswerecoolthough,andwesleptuncoveredinalog

cabinasmoonbeamswashedoverourbareskin.Itwasunusual,forus,tosleep

withoutclothes,withoutlayersofclothorblanket.Buttherewassomethingabout

48

beingsoclosetonature,somethingabouttherocksofthegorgethatshotoutofthe

earthandtheriverwithitsprimalrushthatmadeusshedwhatlaybetweenus.

Butthemoondisappeared,andinthemorningthesuntookover,dappling

ourbedwithunflatteringlightandpushingusoffourpillowsandintoourclothes.

Afterwedressedandbeforetheheatbegantoblanketthegorge,wehikedtoDark

Hollows,oneofthegorge’snaturalstonearches,wherethewindwasstillatwork

sculptingitsmasterpiece.Aswewalkedundertheshadeoftherockledgeand

throughtheopening,Iplacedmyhandontheinsideofthearchandfeltthecool,

smoothunderbellyoftherock.Ilovedthearches—theywerestructuresof

grandeur,buttheyhadanairofmodestyaboutthem,asiftheyknewtheirbeauty

wasatthemercyoftheelements.Inanothermillionyears,thewindandtherain

wouldcarvethemsohollowthattherockwouldcollapse,andthearcheswouldbe

nothingmorethanafewbrokenpebblesscatteredontheearth.

AfterweleftDarkHollows,wewentrockclimbingupScrambledPorn,a

sixty-footcragwithtwodeephorizontalcutsthatdividedtherockwallintothree

bulky,offsetsections.Brandontwistedtheropeintoafigureeightthroughmy

harnessasIstoodnexttothesandstonewall,andthenhesteppedbacktobelayme.

Ireachedaroundtheropeandlaidmyhandsontherock.Itwascooltothetouch,

roughandunforgiving,sodifferentfromthesmootharchIhadfeltthatmorning.I

ranmyhandovertheholesanddivots,searchingforahandhold,theerodededges

passingbeneathmypalmuntilIfoundasmallledge.Igraspeditandheavedmy

49

bodyupwards,liftingmyfoottostandonaprecariousnarrowshelf,clingingtothe

rockandshapingmysoftfleshtotheunyieldingstone.

Brandonhadtaughtmehowtorockclimbwhenwefirststarteddating,nine

yearsearlier.Itwasthefirstofmanyhobbieshewouldropemeintoovertheyears.

Afterrockclimbingcamewoodworking,whichIfoundtediousandtimeconsuming;

thentherewasclogging—Brandonhadbeenonouruniversity’sdanceteam,soItoo

learnedhowtodance.Hetaughtmehowtoshootriflesandpistols,ausefulenough

skillbutapainfulonewhenIhadn’tpulledtheshotguntightenoughtomyshoulder.

Therehadbeentennis—fun,butIneverdidwinagameagainstBrandon—anddirt

biking,whichwasterrifyingwhenI’dhadtospeeddowntreacheroushillsjustto

keepupwithhim.Therewasskiingtoo,whichIparticularlydisliked.Ikeptfalling

intoUtah’sfamouspowderedsnow,myskimaskhidingmyfreezing,frustratedface,

butIgotupagainandagainbecauseIwantedtoimpresshim.Itwasasthoughhe

werefillingme,formingme,connectingwithmethroughclimbingandshootingand

dancingandskiing.

Icouldonlyrememberonehobbyofminethathehadtried.Hehadreada

novel,TheGrapesofWrath.Heenjoyedit,andhadneverpickedupabookoffiction

since.

“Justclimb,”hehadinstructedmewhenIencounteredmyfirstcragnine

yearsago,“anddon’ttouchtherope.”SoIhadclimbed,asIwasclimbingnow,

clutchingjaggedlipsofweather-beatenrockasitclawedmycallousedhands.

50

TherockwallsIclimbedalwaysseemedtohavecharacter,althoughIhada

hardtimedecidingexactlywhatthatcharacterwas.Ononehandtherockseemed

passive,oblivioustotheminisculelifeformattemptingtomakeitswayupher

roughbody.Ontheotherhandsheseemedcold,merciless,abletoflickmeoffwith

onetrickhandholdorunmountmewiththeshockofaspiderthatmadeitshomein

oneofherdark,recessedholes.AndwhenonoccasionIfellfromherweathered

face,Ithoughtperhapsshewasangry,maybeatthewindthatworeheraway,

particlebyparticle,withitsharshgustsandmildbreezes.Ormaybeshewasstill

outragedbytheRedRiver,whichhadcutitspaththroughher310millionyearsago

andshapedheragainstherwillasthewaterforgeditswaythroughcanyonsand

centuries.

Maybetoo,then,shewasiratewithme.ForevenasIclimbedherashencliffs,

littlepiecesofrockwerebrushedawaybymywhite-chalkedhands.Erosionis

usuallydefinedasaforceofnature—thewearingawayofearthbywaterandair.

Butitisahumanforcetoo,acorrosionachievedbyhandsandwordsandsilence,

actionandinactionandapathy.Icouldfeel,asIinchedmywayupthebottomthird

ofthecragandontothetorso,theragged,sharpsurfacethathadbeentornupby

thewindandthewater.Icouldseethesilveryveinsrunningwildthroughher

sandstoneskin,thebitsofrockdustcaughtingossamerwebs,theeyehooksteel

boltshammereddeepintohersidesbyrockclimberswantingtoscalehertowering

terrain.

51

WhenIfinallyreachedthetop,Istoodontheledgeandlookedoutoverthe

milesandmilesofsandstonecliffsthatextendedineitherdirection,andthenI

lookeddownatBrandon,aspeckontheground.Iwassixtyfeetabovehim,butwe

werestillconnectedbytherope,aliterallifeline.Ihadcometoenjoyrockclimbing

overtheyears—oneofthefewhobbieshehadwantedmetolearnthatIactually

liked—butstillhatedcomingdownfromthetop.Somepeoplesayitisallabout

trustingthepersonwhoisbelayingyou:heholdsyourlifeinhishands.Andthisis

true.Butitisalsoabouttrustingtherope.It’stheonlythingconnectingyoutoyour

belayerasyoustepfaithfullyofftheedgeofasixty-footcliffintonothingness.Rock

climbingropesarestrong—theycanholdhundredsofpounds—buttheytoocan

erode,theytoocanwearaway,especiallyifleftoutinthesun,thewind,therain,

andifyouslipandthetensionistoogreat,theropecansnapintwo,andyouwillfall

likearockfromtheskyandreturntotheearthfromwhereyoucame.

Weclimboutoftheriverandontothedirtpaththatleadsaroundthebackof

theboulder,pushingbranchesandbrushoutofthewayaswescrambleupthe

naturalstonestepsontheeastsideoftherock.Thereareafewotherswimmers

standingonthetopwhenwemakeitup,andIfollowBrandontotheedge.Leaning

overslightly,notwantingmyfeettogettooclose,Ipeekatthequietwaterfiftyfeet

belowme.Itisalongwaydown.AndIdon’treallylikeswimming.

“Comeon,”Brandonsays,“it’llbefun.”

52

“Ireallydon’twantto,”Ireply.

“You’llregretitifyoudon’t—trustme,it’sarush.”Hesmiles,encouragingly,

pesteringmewithhisexpectations.

Istepclosertotheedgeandlookdownagain.Thereisnoropeconnectingus

here,now,andifIjumpIwillhavetohopethatIdon’tendupgettinglostinthe

mazeofwateranddrown.

IlookovermyshoulderatBrandon,whohasbackeduptogivemeroom,

anticipatingaresponsethatIdon’twanttogive.Therockishotandgray,andthere

arebitsofdried,brownmossdyingbeneathBrandon’sfeet.Ilookdownatmyown

feetandseerockdust,divots,holes,andIwonderhowmuchofthisrockhasalready

disappearedintothewind,howdifferentitmustthanwhatitoncewas.Thesun

scorchesmybackandtheheatismakingwavesintheairinfrontofme,and

suddenlyIcanseeus,Brandonandme,standingonthispromontoryofweathered

earth,anditisdisappearing,waning,eroding,itiswearingawaybeneathus,andsoI

jump.

53

OntheNobleArtofSelf-Justification

afterOctavioPaz

Ibearyouthroughallthings.Whenheisnothingbutshadowandquestion,I

carryyouasawoundedsoldierthroughthewhiteflapsofhospitaltents.Yourblood

ismineandeverhasbeen.Ionlyseektoredirectit,feeditthroughyourbrain

beforeyourheart.Youknowyouneedme,knowI’mthealternativetooblivion.

SometimesIwatchyoustaringoutthewindow,Iseeyoureyesdeadonthepanes

seekingthelifeyoucannotfindinhim.Irememberyoubeforehisfirstconfession,

howyoubelievedyouheldthewholeoftruthinyourunreadpalms.Youwereso

young,sonewlywed,soChristian.Socomfortedbythefaiththatyourchurch,your

marriage,yourlife,wasonecarouselofeternalknowledge.I,ofcourse,always

speculated,butyoushruggedmylogic.Youinsistedsomethingdeeperlived.Whatis

thatdeeptellingyounow?Irememberyou,apoor,pitiedthingonyoursecond

anniversary,whenheadmittedthatforyearshehadbeenlyingtoyou.Theway

yoursolesgrewrootsandboundyourfeettofloor.It’snotyourfaultofcourse,how

couldyouhaveknown?(Butyoucanguesswhatyouwouldhavedoneifhe’dtold

youhistransgressionsbeforeyougotengaged,can’tyou?Ifyouhadperceivedthe

shamehefeltfromlookingatsomanyunclothedbodies,youwouldhavebeentoo

scaredtostay,toojealous,toounsurehowtolivewithamanwhodabbledin

54

somethingyourreligionforbade.Youwouldnothavegottenmarried,been

sovereigninsteadofduped.Youseehowtruthisfreedom?)Rememberhowyou

realizedafterhisconfessionthearcofthingsyoudidnotknow,howwideandvast?

Sonaïve,youslunktothelibrarythedayafter,tryingtocomprehendpornography.

Youknewonlydefinitionandtaboo—notlikewhatyouknownow.

Webothknowthere’smore,knowyoumustdowhatittakes.Thisisno

Machiavellianinjunction,butamoralimperative.Itissurvival.Withoutknowing,

howwillyoulive?Withouttruthyouarecrossed,andmaybeitspathiscircuitous,

butseekingitendsinyourownpreservation,andisn’tthatreasonenough?Iwatch

youtrytoembracefaith,patience,honesty—virtuesyouthinkarenobler.Wring

themoftheirworth,goahead.Andwhenyou’vegotteneverythingyoucan,left

wanting,knowyou’vesatisfiedHeaven.Thenletmepickyouupagain,shoulderyou,

showyou.

Idon’tblameyouforthinkingconfessionwasproofofhispenitence.You

thoughtitwouldbeanendtohimspeakinginshadows,butinsteaditlitaflaming

swordthatcastaburnishedlightonallhiswords.Thepornographybotheredyou,

ofcourseitdid—butrealizingthatyouspentyearsinignorance,thathehadasecret

youdidn’t,thatwasthekey.Hekeptyoudormantinsidehimwhereyoudidn’teven

knowyouwerepowerless.Andnoweverytimehetalkstoyou,somethinginyou

pauses,suspects.Thattimejustafterhisfirstconfession,whenyouaskedwhyhe

camehomesolatefromwork(twofullhours—yourpalmswerelegendsofworry,

imprintedwithtinysemicirclesofyourclenchednails),youdoubtedhisanswerthat

55

hegotcaughtupinhismedicalcharts.Andweren’tyourighttocheck?Therewas

nothinglefttodobutinspecthisinternethistory,anditboretruthtoyou.Youhave

seenthosebodieseversince,youtrythemonsometimesforsizeandplausibility

andwhenhelooksatyoudotheyliveintheblackholeofhiseye?Youcannotask

him.Hedoesnotknow.Ormaybehedoes,butit’sbeensevenyearssincethatfirst

confessionandyou’vetrustedtoolonginthemethodofaskandyeshallreceive.

Truthhasneverbeensopassive.Youasked,helied,youdiscovered,youconfronted,

heapologized,andbacktotheroundbeginning;howmanytimeswillittaketo

breakthecycle?Seventytimesseven,yousay?It’sstillafinitenumber,anend.If

proofisinnumbers,thenletusbeginabodycount.Thinkofthetimehesatinbed

withthecomputeronhislapandslammeditquickassinthemomentyouwalkedin,

andlater,theconfessionalwebhistory.Thinkofthetimeyousawanelectricriverof

lightleakingfromhisclosedofficedoor.Rememberhowatfirstyoufoundnothing,

howgoodhe’dgottenathidingit,untilyouresearchedtheanatomyofcomputers

andlearnedtoresurrectdeletedfileswithonlyyourfingertips?Thinkofthelibrary,

whereyoufoundhimsearchingthestacksandwhenyoucheckedlater,thecall

numberfornudeart;howyoupitiedandreviledhim.Thinkofthetimesorecent

whenyousearchedhisemail,suspicious,thinkofthemessagefromthatwomanhe

workswith,theinevitableshiftfromdigitaltocorporal.Countthetimesyouhadsex

lastmonth:arethenumbersdisappointingyou?Doesitalladduptofourhundred

andninetyyet?

56

Nowthinkoflastweek,whenyouaskedtoseehisphoneandhepulleditto

hischest,justahair,tappedafewbuttons,thebeepofdelete.Youknowhe’scrossed

someotherline,andyet,whenyoutriedcheckinghisemail,youcouldn’tfind

anythingbecausehechangedhispassword—damningenough—somethinghe’s

neverdone.Yes,youcouldjustaskhimwhy,butthenhe’drealizeyoutriedtobreak

in.He’slearning,andsoshouldyou.

Youdon’twanttobethefoolagain,doyou?Doyouwanttobepressedunder

thethumbofhissecrets?No.Youdon’twanttobethatwife,thekindwhoironshis

shirtsandbleachesthestainsandbirthsthebabiesandteachesthemtheir

scriptures,allwhilehesitsinsomedarkbooth,masturbatingtopixelatedwomen,

orsleepingwithrealones,cominghomewithsmilesandkisses.Youdon’t.Yourage

atthatidea.Promiseme,now,thatyouwillnotbethatwife.

Payattentiontohim.Idon’tmeaninthesweet,you’re-my-whole-worldkind

ofway;Imeanpayattention.Peelyoureyesoffthewindowpanesandwatchclosely,

youcanseethewayheimmobilizeswhenyouaskhimifhe’slookedatpornlately

andishestilltalkingtothatgirl?Hiseyelidsdon’tshudder,hispupilsdon’tcontract.

Notethedayshe“forgets”hisringathome,thewayherubstheimprintoffhis

fingerafterheremovesit.Youhopethesearecoincidences?HowIwearyoulikea

scar,likeaburden!Youinsisttheworldisasphere,buttheweddingbandyouwear

ishollow,someonehadtoshovelitout.Stopclingingtotheoldprayers,trusting

faithtomakeyourmarriagewholeagain.Provethegodsunnecessary.Youhave

sacrificedyourhearttouselessvirtuesandyourlimbstoinaction.Underyoureyes

57

darkhalf-moonswilt,yourshoulderstenseathalfhiswords,youdressinshadesof

brownandgrey,sweatershroudsthatburyimperfections.Butthebody—howlithe

andprofitable!Itcanbeallvision,alleye.Thefingersalonearelikeantennae,

probing,inputting,searching,finding,installing.Itwillbeeasy.Alittlesoftware

program,yousee,sosimple,afewclicksofthefinger.Justalittletechnologicalspy,

agoodsoldierthatwillreportbacktoyouhispasswords,hiswebviews,hischat

sessions.It’sfamilyfriendly,itevensaysso,justamonitorofhisdigitalactions.It

willtestifytoyou,grantyouthefidelityyousodesperatelyseek.Ofcoursethisisfor

him,foryourmarriage,howelsewillyouprotectit?Butif,ontheside,yougainyour

ownlittlesecret,well.Marriageshouldbeequalinallthings.

(Weonlywantsalvation.OncemanyyearsagoIsawhim,throughthe

bulbousglobeofyoureyeIwatchedhim.Histearsarefantasticallypowerful,and

whenheaskedforgiveness,forhelp,thosevasthandsoverhisoliveirises,sobbing

intohiscrinkledpalms,Iandyouandhewereallone,andweheardawar-trumpet

andtookuparmstosavehim.Wefoundatherapist,readbooksandtooktwelve

steps.Wetriedtotrust,untilIpeeredbeyondhisretinaandsawtheglintofa

shovel;andsoIretreat,andIbearyouwithme.)

Iseeyourfingersskulkingthere.It’snotrevenge,notspying,notBigBrother,

butWiseWife.Christmayhavediscernedwhenpeopleweretryingtodeceivehim,

buthewashalf-deity,andyoucanbenogodunlessyoueatofthetree.

Haveyoulivedthesesevenyears?Hisliesarethecockingofagun,dangerous

cock,perilouscuckold.It’snotlikeyouhaven’tgivenhimachance.You’velooked

58

theotherwaysolongyourneckistwisted.Buttherodofknowledge,howstraight

andnarrowitliesacrossthatpithe’sdug,andthisisyourchancetocrossover,to

pluck,steal,toknow.

So,yes,there,commandthefingers.Install,wait.

Letthebreathtakecharge,cracktheeyelidswideandlook:

Thewebsites,theemails,theFacebookphotoshegazedoftheyoungnursein

abikini,factsasbareastheycome.Andthere,thatconversation,thewords

themselves.Theoldonesheusedwithyou,once,oflastnightandtomorrow,

touchingandtouched.Youonlyhalfbelievedit,butsheisreal,andworse,youhave

beendeceived.Thatashentasteinyourmouth—theshockofknowledge.Butthis,

too,istruth:thecollapseofthebody,thewayitfallsintoitselflikeaburned-up

paperlantern,thesobsinfestingthelungslikeacough.

Andthen,thesatisfaction.Unexpected,cavernousandwholesome.

Iknowyou’vebeenwonderingwhatit’slike.Thewayconcealmentcreates

control,andpossession,power.Maybethisiswhatfeedshim,whyhealwaysseems

sosatisfied,thiscradlingofathingsoprivate.Youweresmotheredinsidehimbut

nowyou’vesteppedout,ribbedwithconsciousnessandfreedom.Thefirstlungfulof

airyoudevourislikeasecret,yourveryown.Hisliesarefutile,arenolongerlies

butpitiablecover-ups,andtheyareyours.Hedoesn’tneedtoknowhowyoufound

out.It’sgratifying,thewayyourbrainswaddlesasecret—aslongashisdoesn’t.And

itcan’t,notanymore,notnowthatyou’vediscoveredhiscache.

59

Still.Thescreen,thecandiddataofspyware,no,Isupposeyou’reright,even

theycan’ttellthewholetruth,eventheycanbepartlyunaware.Thebodyistheonly

thingtobetrusted.Itisthenotknowingthattorturesandthenotseeingthatmocks.

Youwanttowatchhimtogetherwithhertoreallyunderstandhowheispulled,if

herbodyswallowshimwhole,ifyourscan.

Butwhat,areyousoinsatiable?Howfastthefillslipsaway,howsoonthe

bodycravesagain.You’refreeIsaid.Noneedtokeepdigging.It’suselessto

speculate.Itshouldn’tevenmatter.Youalreadyhaveasliveroftruth,theFacebook

conversationproofenough.Andthey’llbeatworkatthehospital,youhaveno

reasontobethere.

Thatlittletastehasleftyourthroatdryandravenous.

Fine,go.Butifyoulookforhimatthehospital,hecan’tseeyou.Ifhedoes,

you’llhavenothingtocallyourown.

Ablondewig,largesunglasses,newclothes?You’lllooklikeastar—

imploding.

Hewon’trecognizeyou,evenIhardlydo.Stopignoringme!Howtightly

boundyouareinthoseclothes.Youclimbintothatoutfitasthoughit’sanempty

body,waiting.

I’veneverseenyousohungry;I’mabitafraidofyou.

He’ssomewherenearby,isn’the?Hispresenceislikeashadow.He’llalways

bedreadfullynearyou,youknow,ifyoukeepthisup,ifyoukeepcirclinghisworld,

bentonunspinninghissecretsuntilthethreadsorbittheearth.Look—yourvery

60

skinisquiltedwiththestrings.Howpressedyouare,howtaut.Ican’tlook.Ican’t.I

didn’tcarryyouheretocreepaboutinduplicitiesoffleshuponflesh.Ican’tbear

watchingyouanymore,undoingyourselfbonebysplinteredbone.

61

TheMechanicsofReplacement

Sixdaysaftermyex-husbandtellsmehe’sengaged,Istandinmybathroom

staringintothemirrorandwonderingifthereissomethingwrongwithmyface.It

looksalittledifferentthanusual,butIcan’tputmyfingeronhow.

Ibendclosetothemirrorandexaminethefaintlinesatthecornersofmy

eyesperchedtherelikethreats.MaybeIlookold—butI’monlytwenty-nine.There’s

apatchofdry,scalyskinitchingbelowmyrighttemple,butitseemstoosmallto

changethewholeeffect.Myskinispale,italwayshasbeen;maybewearingnothing

buttintedmoisturizerforthepastfewyearshasactuallybeenthewrongchoiceall

along,maybealittleblushwouldperkupwhateveritisthatseemstobefailing.

Iturnanddiginsideadrawerforsomemakeupjustasmyphonebuzzesa

reminderatme.Brandonwillbehereinafewhourswithhisnewfiancé,andIhave

thingstodobeforethat.Importantthings,Itoldhimonthephone,it’snotlikeIhave

allthetimeintheworld.Hehadcalledyesterday,hisnameoncallerIDenoughto

momentarilywreckmyeuphoriaofcontentedunmarriedindependence.Ihatedit

whenhecalled,butIpickedupbecauseIwasworrieditmightbeaboutthekids,

whowereathishousefortheweekend.Butitwasn’taboutthekids.Itwasabout

62

himandhisfiancé,andno,Iwantedtosay,Idon’twanttomeether.ButIdidn’tsay

that.Becausesheisgoingtobemychildren’sstepmother,soIsaidyes,fine,

whatever,andnowI’mspendingextratimeonmyhairandmakeup,notforhimbut

forher.It’spossiblethatshe’sprettierthanme,andthisworriesme.Iknowthisis

shallow,knowitevenasIlookatmyfaceinthemirrorandapplymoremascara.I’m

studyingfeministtheoryinmygraduateprogramandwewomenshouldnot

compareourbodies.Toooftenmendoitforus.Brandondidanyway,oratleastI

thinkhemusthave,lookingatallthatpornforallthoseyears.

IfIcouldsumupourmarriageinonephrase,it’dbethis:“Ihavetotellyou

something.”Asclichédphrasesgo,it’sfarworsereally,than“Weneedtotalk,”

becauseatleastthelattermeansthere’sanendinsightandthere’sprobably

nothingyoucandoaboutit.But“Ihavetotellyousomething”impliesaconfession

iscoming,whichmeansyou,thelistener,willhavetomakeachoice.

ThefirsttimeBrandonsaidthesewordstomewasaboutayearafterwehad

marriedinourMormontemple.Hehadsatdownonourfadedsecondhandcouch

andsaid:“Ihavetotellyousomething.I’vebeenlookingatpornographyonthe

internet.”Andmonthsoryearslateritwas,“I’vebeengoingtostripclubs,”andthen,

“Fine,yes,IliedaboutwhereIwas.Canwejustmoveon?”Butwecouldn’t,because

ourChurchconsideredalltheseactsasserioussins,almostasseriousasadultery,

andtheywerenosmallconfessionsforeitherofus.Fortherestofourmarriage,he

triedtomasterhispreferenceforporn,andItriedtoforgivehimforhavinga

preferenceoverme,andwebothfailedandwewerebothmiserable.Meanwhilehis

63

favoredphrasekeptpoppingup:“Ihavetotellyousomething.I’vebeentalkingto

thisgirl,”andthen,intheninthandfinalyearofourmarriage:“Isleptwithsomeone

else.”

Sowegotdivorced,andforthenextthreemonthsIreveledinthefactthatI

wouldn’thavetospendtherestofeternityhearingthatphrase.

Andthen,justafewdaysago,Brandonstoppedbytopickupthekidsforthe

weekend.Andaswewerewaitingforthemtogettheirstuffandcomeoutside,he

leanedupagainsthiscar,lookedatme,frowned,andsaidgravely:“Ihavetotellyou

something.”

Itwaslikehehadpressedaninvisiblebuttoninsideme:Ifeltpanicchurning

throughmystomachrightoncue.Wewerestandinginthedrivewayofmysmall

WestVirginiahouse—whereIhadlivedsincethedivorce—andIcouldhearthekids

inside,feetpoundingacrosswoodenfloors,brightlaughscarryingthroughtheopen

window.Isteadiedmyself.

“Well?”Iasked,lookingatBrandonandraisingmyeyebrows.

Hisshouldersslouchedalittle,exactlythewaytheyusedtowheneverhe

confessedsomething.

“I’mgettingmarried,”hesaid.

Mychindropped,butIrecoveredafterasecond.Icrossedmyarms,

narrowedmyeyes,andsaidevenly,“Isshepregnant?”

ExceptthatIdidn’treallycrossmyarms.Ornarrowmyeyes.Andmyretort

wasn’tallthateven-voiced.AndwhileIliketothinkthatbarelyabeatpassedbefore

64

Iresponded,I’mprettysureIstoodthereforatleastaminute,chapfallenand

stutteringbeforeguffawing,“You’rewhat?Towho—wait,you’vebeendating?Like,

you’reactuallygoingto—whowoulddateyou?What,isshepregnant?”

“No!”hescoffed.Thenhecrossedhisarmsacrosshischest.“She’sApostolic.”

IcouldtellbyhisitalicizedvoicethatIwastotakethisasproofofhervirtue,

butIjustlookedathimblankly.“So,what,becauseshe’sreligiousthatmeansyou

don’tsleeptogether?”Ithoughtaboutpointingoutthatreligionhadn’texactly

stoppedhimfromextramaritalsex,butIdidn’t.“Wait,”Isaidinstead,andthistimeI

reallydidnarrowmyeyes,“isthatwhyyou’regettingmarried?Soyoucanhave

sex?”

Herolledhiseyes.Butitwasafairquestion.Webothknew(andyearslater,

wouldevenadmit)thatourownreligion’schastitylawwasamajorfactorinour

decisiontogetmarried.Wewerebothvirginsandwewantedtohavesex.Andwe

believeditwasahorrendousanddamningsintodoitbeforemarriage,solikealot

ofMormons,werushedthroughdatingandengagementandgotmarried.

ButifthatwasthereasonforBrandon’shurrytowardremarriage,hewasn’t

goingtoadmitittome.Hesaidhe’dmetheramonthago,andtheywereinlove,and

thatwasenoughsowhywait?Hejustwantedtoletmeknow,hesaid.Andoh,they

weregettingmarriedinNovember:sixweeksaway.

65

IblendBerryBerryblushintoeachcheekandlookcriticallyatthetwo

mauveblobssittingliketargetsonmyface.ItlookslikeIjustdunkedeachcheek

intoabowlofsmashedcherries.

Ithrowtheblushinthetrashandwipeitalloff.I’mnotarisk-taker,Inever

havebeen.Backtotintedmoisturizerandaswipeofmascara:classic.

I’lljustwearaprettyskirt,Ifigure,goingtomycloset.Somethingthatshows

offmylegs.

OfcourseallIcanreallyshowoffismycalves,becauseI’mMormonandI

weargarmentsandit’sverydifficulttoshowoffmuchofyourbodywhenyou’re

wearingtwoshapelesswhitepiecesoflongunderwearunderyourclothes.I’ve

neverreallylikedwearinggarments,butIdoitanyway,becauseI’msupposedto.I

beganwearingthemtenyearsago,justdaysbeforeIgotmarriedtoBrandon.A

prerequisitefortemplemarriage,garmentsareoneofMormonism’squirksthatI’ve

beenaskedmostfrequentlyabout:doIwear“magicunderwear?”peopleask.The

Church’sphraseis“outerexpressionofaninnercommitment.”Garmentsaremeant

tobeaprotectiveforceagainstsinandworldlinessandgivingintotemptation,

protectionthatweearnthroughmakingcovenantswithGod.Itwasinthetemple

thatwefirstputourgarmentsandformallymadeourcovenantswithGodtobe

obedient,chaste,andtoconsecrateourselvestotheChurch.

Informally,wecalledthewholeceremony“goingthroughthetemple.”It’s

alwaysstruckmeasanoddphrase,asthoughyoucameoutdifferentthanwhenyou

wentin.Likeoneofthosecartoonconveyerbeltswhereapileofmachineboltsand

66

springsandwashersgoinonesideandthencomeouttheotherasafullyfunctional

robot.

IguessIdidcomeoutofthetemplealittledifferent,though,thatfirsttime

tenyearsago.WhenIwalkedthroughthefrostedglassdoors,Iwaswearingregular

underwear(whatIwouldhavecalled“worldly,”):pinkbikinicutfromAeropostale.

InthedressingroomIunwrappedthepinkplasticofasmallpackageandunfoldeda

pairofgarments:abottomandatop,bothmadeofwhite,silkymaterial,similarto

thefabricwomen’sslipsaremadefrom,thinandwispyasatissue.Thetopgarment

lookedprettymuchlikeat-shirt,withtheadditionofsewn-inbreastcups.It

wouldn’tbetoobad.Iundressedandstoodnakedforamomentinfrontofthe

mirror,fumblingwiththetopgarmenttofigureoutwhichwayitwassupposedto

goon.OnceIpulleditovermyheadthewholethinghunglooselyfrommy

shouldersandthebreastcupsdroopedaroundmychest.IlookedlikeIwaswearing

silkrags.

IthoughtmaybeitwouldbebetteronceIgotthebottomson.Istoodinfront

ofmymirror,mybottomhalfbare,thelightsmellofplasticpackagingwaftingoff

thetopgarment.Iheldthebottomsoutinfrontofmeatarm’slength.Theylooked

likeaflimsypairofwhite,knee-lengthboxer-briefs:athin,elastic,high-rise

waistbandatthetop,andatthebottomofeachpantleg,arolledhem.Ipulledthem

on,stumblingalittlewhenIaccidentallysteppedonthehem,thenstaredatmy

reflection.IlookedlikeIwaswearinga19thcentury,ill-fittingandsheerbathing

suit.

67

Tiny,almostunnoticeablesymbolswereembroideredintoeachgarment.I

tracedmyfingeroverthem:aV-shapedmarkovertherightbreastandabackwards

Lovertheleft.Andjustabovethehemoftherightleg,ahalf-inchlongstraightline.

Sacredsymbols,Iwaslatertold,thatservedasremindersthatImustbowbefore

God,keeponthestraightandnarrowpath,andthatalltruthisoneeternalwhole.

Ididnotknowwhatthatmeant,notthen.Ididn’tlikethefeelofthe

garments,thewaythefeatherweightsilkweighedonmyshoulders,thewaistband

diggingintomymidriff.

ButIwasthereinthetempletomakecovenantssoIcouldpreparetoget

marriedtoBrandon.AndIbelievedwholeheartedly,then,thatIwasdoingtheright

thing,thatmakingthesecovenantswaswhatGodwantedmetodo—I’dbelievedit

allmylife.Itdidn’tmatterifgarmentswereuncomfortable,orevenugly.What

matteredwasthecovenanttheyrepresented:wearingthemwasatokenofmy

obediencetoGodandmydevotiontotheChurch.

Ipulledmywhitetempledressovermynewunderwear,andafewminutes

laterIwasguidedintoasmallroombythetemplematron,asmilingolderwoman

responsibleforhelpingwomengoingthroughforthefirsttime.Isatinawhite

paddedchairassheinstructedmeinthecareandproperwearofgarments:Iwas

supposedtowearthemundermybra;Iwastowearthematalltimes,dayandnight,

exceptforswimmingandintimaterelations(shedidn’tsay“sex”),orwhenchanging

intofreshgarments.OnlyifIworethemappropriatelywouldthegarmentactasa

shieldandprotectionforme,onlythenwoulditguardmefromspiritualharm.

68

Whenagarmentbecametoowornouttowear,Iwastotakescissors,cutoutthe

sacredmarks,shredthemintotinypieces,andthen,andonlythen,Icouldthrowthe

garmentaway.Ifcuttingthemupwastootedious,though,shetoldme,Icouldjust

burnthem.Mostimportantly,Imustnever,everdesecratethesecretsofthe

garmentsymbols.

Iwasn’tsurehowIwouldgoaboutdoingthis.IfeltlikeIshouldn’task,thatI

shouldhavealreadyknown.Ileftthetemplethatdaywithmyoldunderweartucked

inmybag,mybodyshroudedinamystery.

Threedaysafterthatceremony,BrandonandIwentbacktothetempleand

gotmarried.Iwastwentyandhewastwenty-three,andwewerebothvirgins,and

whilelookingbacknowitseemsridiculouslyyoung,Ithoughtnothingofourages

then.Wewereinlove.HundredsofthousandsofyoungMormonswentthroughthe

templeandgotmarriedeveryyear,butwhatdidthatmatter?Backthen,whenIwas

religiousandabrideandabelieveroffantasticalthings,numbershardlymeant

anythingtome.Whatdiditmatterthattherewereoversevenbillionhumanson

EarthwhenGodhimselfhadformedme,shapedmeoutofclayandbreathand

spirit?Therewasnoonelikemeanywhere—theytoldmesoinchurch,andmy

familytoldmeso,andIlikedtothinkso,becauseitwasapleasantbelief,so

empoweringandsmug.

Wekneltatawhitealtarandbehindeachofushunghugegildedmirrors,so

thatwhenwelookedintothem,wesawourselvesreflectedinfinitely,imagesofus

stretchingbackandback.Thosecountlessiterationssymbolizedtheeverlasting

69

natureofoursoulsandourmarriage.Atleast,sosaidtheChurch.Everythinginthat

roomwasagleamingwhite—ourclothes,ourpurity,evenourunderwear.And

whenweleanedacrossthealtartochastelykiss,itdidn’tmatterthatIwasoneof

sevenbillion,butthatforsomebody,Iwastheone.

Ipickawhite,A-lineskirtoutofmyclosetandpairitwithafittedblackshirt,

andasIputthemonthereisapartofmethathopesthatdressingattractivelyisa

subtextthatsaystoBrandon:ourdivorceisnotmyfault.BecauseI’mprettysurethat

whenBrandontoldmehewasgettingmarried,therewassubtextbrimmingunder

hiswordstoo:IfonlyIhadhadadifferentwife,Iwouldneverhavelookedatporn,

andmymarriagewouldhavebeenjustswell.

Iwanttotellmyself,andhim,thathisproblemshadnothingtodowithme,

thatItriedandtriedtomakeourmarriagework,thatIstayedfaithfultotheGospel

andtoourmarriage,andalso,thatI’mverypretty,justlook.Logically,Iknowthat

ourdivorcehasnothingtodowithmybodyormylooks,butit’sdifficulttobelieve

thatafternineyearsoffeelingsecondtoporn.It’shardtobelievethatforsovery

longI’vebeenfaithfultoallthosetemplecovenants,thatIworemygarmentsdayin

anddayout,andintheend,myhusbandcheatedonmeandtemplemarriagedidnot

turnoutperfectly,thewayIhadalwaysbeentolditwould.

70

Iputonsomeblackflatsandturnaroundforthemirror.Ilookpretty;andI

feelsilly.IknowI’mnotgoingtoproveanythingbywearingsomething,butright

nowitfeelsliketheonlythingIhavecontrolover.

Thewhiteskirtandblacktoplookjustright.Coversthegarmentlinesbut

accentuatesmywaist,whichifI’mbeinghonestandnotmodest,isenviouslysmall.I

wonderifTarahasasmallwaist.That’shername,Tara,Brandontoldmeoverthe

phone.I’veneverlikedthatname.Itsoundstoomuchliketear,asthoughthename

isfallingapartevenasit’sformed.

Icouldgooutandbuysomethingshorter,Ihavetime.Justfortoday.Icould

notweargarmentsforjustafewhours.

Butno.Idon’twanttogodownthatpath.Garmentsareashieldanda

protection,thephraseisalikeacatechisminthetempleceremony.AndI’vegotten

usedtowearingthem,thoughneverreallycomfortable.Whenmyoldpairshave

gottenholesinthecrotchorgrewmisshapenaftertoomanywashcycles,I’vecutor

burnedthemjustlikeI’msupposedto.Ihavetodressjustrighttocoverthe

garmentscompletely,andthehemlinescanbeannoying,alwaysshowingthrough

tightpants;Ican’twearlow-cutshirtsorasliverofwhitesilkwillinevitablypeek

out,asthoughI’mhidingahandkerchiefinmybra.ButImanageitallasbestIcan.

AndI’mprettygoodatfindingcute,trendyclothesthatdon’tsitabovethekneeor

allowshoulderskintoseethelightofday.

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Itisn’teasythough.Ipullalintrollerfrommydrawerandglideitupand

downmyskirtandtrynottothinkabouthowfrustratinglyrestrictiveitfeelsat

timestobeMormon.Protection,myinternalvoicecorrects;notrestriction.

That’swhattheaphorismis,thoughit’sbeenhardertobelievelately.Every

choiceI’veevermadehasbeenweighedontheChurch’sscales,andIguessthatit’s

neverledmeintoharm.I’veneverhadtoregretdrunkchoicessinceI’venever

drank,I’veneverriskeddrugaddiction,mylungswillneverbecloudedbysmoke,I

havethreebeautifulchildren,I’veneverhadtoworryaboutSTDsoraccidental

pregnancies.

Still.I’mprotected,butnotquitefulfilled.StagnatingwasthewordIgave

Brandon:ayearbeforewedivorced,that’swhatIsaid:IfeellikeI’mstagnating.

Allthelintisgonefrommyskirt,allthoselittleflecksofdustanddirt

banished,andIstandandexaminemyreflectionheadtotoe.Inchurchtheyusedto

tellmetothinkofmyselfasaflowerpot,fullofdrydirtandafewseeds,andthe

Gospelandallitsprinciplesasthewater:ifIjustobeyedthecommandments,andifI

woremygarments,andservedotherstirelessly,andifIwouldjustforgiveand

forget,andifIstayedathomewithmykidsliketheprophetsadvised,andifallmy

choicesbroughtmeclosertoGodandeternity,thenI’dsoakupthewaterand

somethingwouldgrow.ButnowIlookatmyselfinthemirror,dressedinblackand

white,andIseethatithasneverbeenthatsimple.

Andthetruthisthatsometimes,Ijustdon’twanttothinkabouthoweach

choiceImakeaffectsmyeternalsalvation.Sometimes,Iwanttodosomething

72

becauseIwantto,notbecauseI’msupposedto.SometimesIwanttostayhome

fromchurch,Iwanttohavesexwithoutbeingmarried,Iwanttowearsleeveless

shirtsandshortskirtsandIwanttoshedthesereligiousskinsanddancenaked,feel

somethingwakeneverybaredinchofme.

ButIcan’t.Ishouldn’t.Becausedressingmodestlypreventssin,thatisone

truthoftheGospel.

Itakemytweezersout,pluckafewstrayeyebrows.

AttheveryleastIcanflauntafewcurves.Especiallynow,whenIhavetogo

meetthewomanwhoBrandonhasdecidedwillreplaceme.AtleastI’msureshe

won’tbewearinganythingmoreflauntingthanthis—I’vedonealittleresearchon

ApostolicisminthefewdayssinceBrandondroppedthenews.It’sevenmore

conservativethanmyownreligiouslife,whichsurprisesme.Sheisn’tallowedto

wearpants,cutherhair,orenteradifferentchurch.Sheisallowedtogetajob,buta

husbandispreferable.Luckyforhershefoundonesoyoung—Brandontoldmeshe

wasnineteen,fourteenyearsyoungerthanhim.Ipityheralittle,Idecide,forthis

ignorance,ormaybeignoring,ofBrandon’spast.Andforsuchnaïvesubscriptionto

anobviouslypatriarchalandoutdatedreligion.I’mtakingacourseonfeminist

rhetorics,soIthinkIcanspotsexismanywhere.Imean,atleastasaMormonIcan

wearpants.

Withgarmentsunderneath,ofcourse.

73

Therearehourstokillbeforetheygethere,soIlogontoLDSSingles,a

Mormondatingsite.AlreadyI’vehadafewflirts,andnowthere’saresponsefrom

anengineerI’vebeentalkingto.He’sgottwokidsandacutesmileandmost

importantly,he’sawidower.Noex-wifeI’dhavetodealwith,nodivorcewithits

loadedbaggageofblame.

Isignedupforthesiteonlytwodaysago,afteralongandunsuccessfulbattle

withmyselfabouthowIdon’tneedtostartdating,howIdon’tneedaman.But

Brandon’sannouncementhassetsomethingoffinsideme,somethingthatwas

eitherrepressedornonexistentinthethreemonthssincewegotdivorced.

Forthosefewmonths,IwashappierthanI’dfeltinyears.Therewasa

constantsmileonmyfacewithoutevenmywillingittobethere;afternineyearsof

feelingtrappedinastagnantrelationship,divorcefeltlikebeingpardonedfroma

prisonsentence.Ihadanew,busierlifethatIalreadyloved,thoughitwasn’teasy.

I’dmovedstates,becomeasinglemother,andstartedgradschool,Iwaslivingona

studentbudgetwiththreechildren,andIhadneverbeforeworkedorgonetoschool

full-timewithkids.Ihadalwaysbeenastay-at-homemom—asituationInever

reallyenjoyedbutthatIdidoutofanalmostprogrammedsenseofdutytomy

Mormonreligiousbeliefs.Awoman’spinnacleroleinlifewastonurtureher

children,nottogetajob.

AtfirstwhenIenrolledingradschool,Ifeltanunreasonableyetrealmoral

guiltaboutnolongerstayingathome.ButitdissipatedquickerthanIthoughtit

would.Secretly,Iwasthrilledtogobacktoschool.Ilovedmykids,butIhadalways

74

wantedmore(andfeltguiltyforwantingmore,becausemotherhoodwassupposed

tobeenough).Iwantedtoearnagraduatedegree,maybebecomeawriterorapilot

orareallyintelligentpersonwhocoulddodifficultmathinherheadandwinat

Jeopardy.

WhatIdidnotwantduringthosemonths(whatIstilldonotwant)wastoget

remarried.Ididnotfindmenordatingparticularlyinterestingafterdivorce.Iwas

interestedinspendingtimewithmykids.Iwasinterestedinmynewclasses,in

theoriesofrhetoricandphilosophy.Inlivingalifenotquitesosteepedinchurch

andmarriage.IfeltawaryinklingthatIwouldneedtofusethisnewfound

independenceandthesefeministtheoriestomylifelong,practicallyhardwired

beliefinMormonism,whichtoldmeIwasdependentonGodandmen.ButIignored

it,andwassimplystunned,unnervedeven,bythesubtlewaysIfeltmorealive.

AndthenBrandon’snewsshatteredthelittlebubbleIwassointenton

admiring.

Becausewhenhetoldmehewasengaged,inthatmomentitseemedtome

thathewasremarryingbecausethistime,hewantedtogetit“right.”Asthough

beingwithmefornineyearswasonelong-livedmalfunction.

Obviouslythiscouldn’tbetrue,becauseIwasaprettygreatwife.Iwasn’tthe

onewhohadanaffair,afterall.WhenBrandonfirsttoldmethathehadaproblem

withporn,Ihelpedhimfindthecouragetocallourbishopforconfession,because

that’swhatGodwouldhavewantedmetodo.IstayedwithhimevenafterIfound

flirtatiousemailstonursesheworkedwith,becauseIbelievedineternalmarriage,

75

evenifIdidnotbelieveinus.IwastheonewhowasobedienttoGod,whosuffered

faithfullyinthewings,andbecauseIdidn’tknowwhereelsetofindit,Ifound

uniquenessinthesuffering.Thereisspecialnessinsuffering,isn’tthere?Inthe

strengthtostaydespiteit,thecompassionitexacts,thenine-yearfortitude?Godwill

onlytestusasfaraswecanwithstandit,myscripturessaid,soHemusthave

believedIwasdistinctivelyhardy.Whoelsecouldhavehandleditwithsuchgrace?

Wetellourselvesanythingwecantofeelspecial.

Whichiswhydatingmatchsitesaresubjecttodisdainbytheromantic

amongus.It’snotfindingtheoneinthisbigcrazyworld;it’samachinedismantling

yoursoulintoanalgorithm.

ButIdon’tknowhowelsetogoaboutdating,notinWestVirginia,wherethe

Mormonpopulationisscarce.AndIhavetodateaMormon.HowelsewillIremarry

inthetemple?Plus,Idon’twanttoexplaintoanon-membermystandardsof

waitingtohavesex,ofnotdrinkingorsmokingorgambling,andI’mnotreadyto

dealwiththemdrawingbackinalarmwhentheyfirstseewhatIwearundermy

clothes.

SotwodaysagoIhadtypedinmynameandmychurchrecordnumberand

postedaprofilepictureandwithinafewhoursthisMormonengineerhadsentmea

littledigitalclusterofpinkhearts,andI’dwrittenhimamessageandnowherewas

hisresponse.Justsmalltalk;helikedtofishhesaid,andhewasservingasayouth

leaderinhischurchward,andeventhoughIcan’tstandfishingandIdon’tcare

76

aboutwhathedoesatchurch,Itypeoutareplytohismessage.I’veonlybeenfishing

once,Iadmit,butIlovebeingoutdoors.

No,that’scheesy.Andcliché.

Ilovetakingwalksincemeteries.

That’sactuallytrue,andnotcliché.Butpossiblycreepy.

MyfingershoveroverthekeysandIsigh.ThetruthisIstillreallydon’twant

todateorgetremarried.Ijustwanttoknowthatsomeonefindsmeattractiveand

interesting,thatatleastonemanouttherethinksI’mpotentiallytheone.And

becauseIstillbelieveinMormonismandallitsprinciples,includingthatmarriageis

thecrowningordinanceofthislife,IknoweventuallyI’llneedtogetmarriedagain

becauseit’sthemostnecessaryandimportantthingIwilleverdo,Istillbelievethat.

Mostly.

Imean,there’smaybeasliverofdoctrinaldiscontentwedgedintomysoul.It

beganalongtimeago,asfarbackasBrandon’sfirst“Ihavetotellyousomething,”

andasourmarriagedeclined,thediscontentonlyburieditselfdeeper.Marriage

certainlywasn’tveryholy-feelinginmynineyears’experience,andnow,with

Brandon’smarryingsoquicklyafterdivorce,itfeelsonlymoreprofaned,moresilly,

morecommon.Ican’tquitereconcilemyownexperienceofmarriagetothe

Church’sversionofit:thesacredunion,theholypartnership,thebreadandbutter

oflife,theserenityoftwopeoplejoinedtogether.Idon’tknowwhatitmeansthatI

actuallyfeelmorefulfilledasone,morehappylivingasadivorcedsinglemother:

notexactlytheprescribedMormonlife.Myexperiencepullsmeoneway,mybeliefs

77

another;butlikeallMormondoctrinesIcan’treconcile,Ijustfileitallawayina

shadowyvalleyofmymind.

Isticktotalkingaboutmyclassesingraduateschoolinmymessagetothe

engineer.Thatseemssafe,andmaybeit’salittlebitofatesttoo:ifhe’semasculated

byawomanearninganadvanceddegree,thenI’msigningoffforever.I’mwritinga

paperrightnowaboutfashionandfeministtheory,Iwrite.ItellhimI’vebeen

studyingnoseringsandwhattheyrevealaboutdomesticitybutIdonottellhim

howI’velearnedthatmen’stiesarepointedatthebottomtodrawtheeyetothe

penis.Partlybecauseitseemsindecorous,andpartlybecauseIfeellikethisshould

nothavebeenarevelationforme.Iendwithafewquestionsabouthimselftokeep

theconversationgoing,eventhoughI’dbeperfectlyhappyforgettingaboutthe

wholething.Butwhoknows,maybehe’smynexthusband,maybeGodinspiredme

tosignup,maybeGodistryingtotellmesomething.

Awaveofpanicfloodsmystomach.

IwatchTVforthenextcouplehours,turningmyheadtochecktheclockso

oftenthatmyneckstartstofeelbent.Icallafriendandaskherexactlywhatone

shouldsaywhenonemeetsone’sex-husband’snewfiancé,andshetellsmethatI

needtolookinthemirrorandrepeataffirmationstomyself.Itwillcalmmedown,

shepromises,andremindsmethatnoneofBrandon’schoicesarereflectionsofme.

78

SoIstandthereforafewminuteslookingatmyselfforthefiftiethtimethat

dayinmyfull-lengthmirrorandsaying,Iamstrong,Iamnottoblame,Ibelievein

myself,andothersuchdismalthings.ButmyreflectiondistractsmeasI’mtalkingto

it.Mytopgarmentisalreadypeekingoutofmyshirtalittle.Andmyface:itstill

looksoff,somehow.Iforegotheaffirmationsandfindahandheldmagnification

mirrorandexaminemypores,littleraspberryseedsplantedallovermyskin.Maybe

they’vegrowninsize,maybethey’returningintofreckles,andI’veneverimagined

myselfwithfrecklesandIjustdon’tknowwhatIwoulddoifIweretogetthem,ifI

weretosuddenlydeveloplittlebrownspotsallovermycheeks.Maybethey’dbe

cute,ormaybehorrible,maybeafreckledlifeisentirelydifferent.Maybeit’sbetter

somehow.

Ishakemyselfoutofthisstrangefantasy.Iturnaroundsomybackistothe

bigmirror,andholdthesmallmirrorupabovemyheadsothetwomirrorsare

facingeachother,andIshiftuntilIgetthesameeffectasIalwaysseeinthetemple

mirrors:alongandendlesscurvingrowofmyreflections,repeatingasfarbackasI

cansee.IamadaughterofGod,Iaddtomylistofaffirmations.Hemademeeternal

andunique.

Andit’strue,right?Iaskmyselfaggressively.Itdoesn’tmatterwhatBrandon

did,itdoesn’tmatterthatI’mdivorced.IamauniquedaughterofaGodwholoves

me,whohaspredestinedmetocometoearthtobepartofhisonetruechurch.

AfewminuteslaterIheartiresonthedriveway;asI’mwalkingtowardsit,

thekidsallruninside,andtheyscreamhelloandhugmeandtellmehowmuchthey

79

missedmeandthatDadisoutsideandhewantstotalktome,andthentheyrunoff

inthebackyardtoplay.

Ituckmystrayinggarmentin,takeadeepbreathandalastlookatmyfacein

amirrorbythedoor.Iwalkoutside,primpedandprepared.Iampretty,Itellmyself.

Iamthewomanwholeft.Iamnottoblameforourdivorce.Iamgood,special,unique.

Whoeverthisgirlis,shehasfallenforsomeoneshedoesnotunderstand.Thislastone

isnotanaffirmation,butitmakesmefeelbetteranyway.

IstepoutsideonmydrivewayinthecoolOctoberairasBrandonwalks

aroundthehoodofhiscarandopensthepassengerdoor,andsheemergesfromhis

passengerseatinamid-lengthskirtandheels.Theywalkuptometogetheras

Brandonholdsherhand,andIholdsteadythroughaswellofdisappointmentthat

sheis,admittedly,kindofpretty.Hernever-cutbrownhairisknottedinabun.The

sameshadeasmyhair,thoughmineispresumablyshorter.Shegivesmeatight

smile,andIgiveitback.Sheisthin.Infact,sheisjustasthinasIam.Shelooks

Apostolic,Icanseeitinthelongskirtandvirginhairandvirginityingeneral.AndI

amMormon,andprobablylooklikeit.Bothofusaredressedinaccordancetothe

dictatesofourconservativereligions,wecoverourshouldersandabove-the-knee

skinmodestly,myshirtblackandherswhite,herskirtjeanandminewhitecotton.

“ThisisTara,”Brandonsaid,andhernameringsonlytwoconsonantsawayfrom

mine(ourmailwillforyearskeepgettingmixedup),andsheisnineteen,theageI

waswhenImetandgotengagedtoBrandon,sheisquietandreservedandsoamI

80

andwhenshesmilesherlipsarepolitelikemineandshelookssomuchlikemethat

allmyaffirmationshaltintheirparade.

Itisalikeafunhousehereinmydriveway.Likestaringataslightlydistorted

butentirelyhorrifyingmirror.

Inoticeweareshakinghands—slender,long-fingeredhands.Ifindmyself,

andwesaidhelloandnicetomeetyou,insincerely,whileIexamineheras

surreptitiouslyaspossible.

Sheisnotexactlylikeme.Shehasseveralinchesonmyfive-foot-two-inch

frame,whichIenvy,butherfaceisdecidedlydroopy.Hereyelidsseemperpetually

half-closedandhernosefallslikealong,sadteardropandIlikedboththesefacts

tremendously.

BrandonisbusyrilingupmyGermanShepherd,whoIhavecustodyofalong

withthekids,butunfortunatelyIhaven’tbeenabletomakehercaninebrain

understandthis.Shechaseshimaroundtheyard,yipping,andTaraandIstandside-

by-side,hersmilingatheralmost-husbandwhileItrynottoscowlathim.

Idon’tknowwhyIsaywhatIsaidnext.Brandonisplayingwiththedog

yardsawayandunabletohear,andwhatIwanttoaskTaraisExcuseme,butona

scaleofonetoten,justexactlyhowdeludedareyou?

InsteadIlistentomyvoicespurtingouthalfsincerely,halfspitefully,“Ijust

hopehe’stoldyouthetruthabouteverything.”

Tarasaysnothing.Maybeshedidn’thearme,ormaybethereisnothingto

say.Brandoncomesbackoverandtheykissandsmileandthentheykisssomemore

81

untilIthinktheymightkissthemselvesintoeternity.Finally,theysayalastgoodbye

tomeandthekidsandtheydriveaway,andIstandonmyporchandthinkhowvery

commonplaceImustbe,andhowprobablyamillionotherwomenarestandingon

theirporches,thinkingtheexactsamething.

***

Idonotknowityet,andIwillnotknowitforacoupleyears,butmeeting

TaraisthemomentwhenthestoryIhavealwayslivedbychangesirrevocably:the

momentwhenalltheoldandorderedwords,thesingsongcatechisms,thepoetic

verses,thetidymorals—whenallofitfallsoffthewrinkledpageofmybrainand

leavesnothinginitsplacebutapurewhitescrollandapileofbrokenwords.

WhatIdoknowasIgobackinsidemyhouse,afterBrandonandTaraare

gone,isthatIfeelstrange.Dazed,asthoughablindinglighthasjustflashedinfront

ofmeandIamblinkingandblinkingbutallIseeisvibrant,neoncolor.InrealityI’m

lookingoutthewindow,seeingbutnotseeingmythreekids,whoarediggingahole

inthegroundwithsticks.MyoldestdaughterEvelyn,whoisalmostseven,bends

downandpointstosomethingontheground,arolypolyoracentipedemaybe;then

sheshriekswithlaughterandrunsawayandherlittlesisterandbrotherscream

andrunafterher.

Ihope,fortheirsakes,thatTaraisnice,andgood,andkind.Formyownsake

IhopesheandBrandonaremiserabletogether,becauseBrandonisnotsupposedto

behappy.Heisnotsupposedtobeinlove,andnooneissupposedtobeinlovewith

82

him.OnlyGodcanlovehim,andeventhatfeelsalittleunfair.Why,afterhe

disobeyedoneofthehighestcommandmentsofGod,doeshegettofindsomeone

wholoveshim?Isn’tallthatsufferingIenduredsupposedtobefollowedbysome

typeofjustice?Isn’tsufferingsupposedtobeworthsomething?

Thekidsarestartingagameoftagnow,andEvelynisstandinginthemiddle

oftheyardcoveringhereyesandcountingtoten.IlookatwhatIcanseeofher

face—justtingesofsmoothskin,herchin,forehead,herpinklipsmoving,andI

know,inthatmoment,thatIdon’twantherorhersistertothinkthathermost

importantcallinginlifeismarriageandbabies.Idon’twantthemtogetengaged

whenthey’renineteenorbeastayathomemotherifthat’snotwhattheywantto

do.Iwantherandhersistertogrowupandchoosetheirlifepath,unfetteredby

genderedexpectations.

Idon’twanttorestrictmydaughterstobelievethereisonlyonerolefor

theminlife.Istandatthewindowandbreathe.

Andforthefirsttime,thereisnobacklashfrommymind:no“protection,not

restriction,”nocensorsaying,“butmarriageinthetemple!It’sthecrowninggloryof

life.”Instead,thereissureness:asparkofheatinsideme,atinysproutofanger

buddingthroughgreyfog:Iwon’traisemydaughterstobelievethat.

ItisthemostsincererebelliousthoughtIhaveeverallowedmyselftothink.

83

Iwalkaroundforthenextcoupleweeksgoingthroughthemotions:Itake

mychildrentoschool,gotomyclasses,writepagesofmypaperonfeminismand

fashion,cookdinner.Ibuysomenewclothes,andtheystillcovermygarments.But

strangeanddissonantreplicationsofmylifekeepintruding.Brandonposts

engagementphotosonFacebook—someofjusthimandTaratogether,butone

picturewiththetwooftheminthebackandmythreechildrenlinedupinfrontina

neatducklingrow.Asthoughsomegianthandhadreachedintothephoto,plucked

meout,anddroppedTarainmyplace.

IfeelasthoughIhavesteppedintoTheStepfordWivesorsomething,butstill,

ItrytohangontothebeliefthatI’muniqueandthatmarriageistheidealwayof

life.Iprayandreadmyscriptures,likeIalwayshave.IdoeverythingI’msupposed

to,butunderneathallthemotions,Ibecomeobsessedwithfiguringouthowto

meshmylifelongMormonbeliefswiththeseexperiencesandthoughts.

MyscripturestellmeI’maspecialdaughterofGod,myall-maleChurch

leaderstellmeIshouldprobablystartdatingagain.Thesacredembroidered

symbolsonmydailygarmentsremindmeofallthecovenantsI’vemade,thatImust

bowbeforeGod,keeponthestraightandnarrow,andthatalltruthisoneeternal

whole.AndmylifelongadherencetotheGospeltellsmethatifIdon’tkeepmy

covenants,orifIdesecratethegarmentsymbolsordon’tdisposeofworngarments

properly,Iwillbemiserable:tossedaboutbythedevil,theysay,likeakickballin

hell.

84

Butnoneofitseemsquiterightanymore,everythingfeelsalittlebitoff.

Obviously,I’mnotthatunique;Ijustmetmyalmost-doppelganger.AndBrandon

seemsprettyhappy,yethe’sbrokensomeprettymajorcommandments.Andtruth

isnotwholeorstraightornarrow—itseemsmessy,slippery,expansive,fullof

possibilities.Tostayonthestraightandnarrowsuddenlylookslikeavery

mechanizedwaytotravel.

ThefeministtheoryI’mreadingarguesthatapatriarchywhotellswomen

theirmostprizedgoalismotherhoodisdoingnothingmorethansystemically

silencingandcontrollingthem:makingwomenbowbeforeanidolofnarrowgender

roles.Itsuggeststhattorequireawomantohideherbodyistosuggestthather

bodyisdirty,shameful.Ihavenotyetdecidedifallthesetheoriesareright,butthey

presentacounterargumentthatpercolates.ThereisonethingtheChurchhasin

commonwithfeministrhetoricaltheory,though:everythinginlife,theybothimply,

issymbolic.

Andthen,onedaynotlongafterImeetTara,Ireadanothertheorythat

short-circuitsmybrainforamoment.Itisbarelymentioned,burieddeepina

scholarlybookI’mskimmingthroughformypaper.ThetheoryoftheUncanny

Valley,andthoughitisfamous,IhaveneverheardofitsoIlookitup:Itdescribes

howpeoplefeelanemotionalconnectionbothwithrobotsthatlookexactlylike

humans,andwithrobotsthatlooklikerobots.Butwhenarobotisjustafewsteps

awayfromlookingexactlyhuman—whentheyhaveafewdisturbinglyinhuman

featureslikeeyesthatneverblink,orlimbsthatjerk,orwirespoppingoutoftheir

85

mouth—peoplearerepulsed.Theydon’tfeelaffectionfortherobot;insteadtheyare

repulsed.It’sliketheyseesomethinginhumanitythattheywouldrathernotsee—

somethingthatterrifiesthem;something,maybe,thatsymbolizestheroboticness

withwhichweoftenliveourlives.

Thistheory,Idecide,istrue,andwhenIthinkthis,itisasthoughsomany

otherlong-heldideasarebeingsnuffedout.Becausetheoriesarelovelyfragile

things,createdandkilledinasinglemoment.Forthefirsttwenty-nineyearsofmy

lifeI’veheldontoseveralofthemwithakindofdeathgripthatnoamountofprying

couldloosen.I’veclutchedGodinonehandandmyselfintheother,stuckwiththem

throughmymarriageanddivorce,anduntilImetmyalmost-doppelganger,Iwas

quitecomfortable.

ThenImetTara.Thatday,whenItoldherIhopedBrandonhadbeenhonest

withher,itwasbecauseIfeltstrangelyprotectiveofher,fleetingthoughitwas.But

Ialsokindofhatedher,becauseIsawmyselfinher.Itwaslikewatchingmyself

makethesamemistakeagainandIwantedtowarnthatlong-agogirl.Toforceopen

hereyessoshecouldseeherowndelusions.Thereshewas,inlovewithBrandon,

andhewasinlovewithher,andnineyearsdowntheroadshewouldbestandingin

adrivewayinaquiet,bitterfrenzy;thenshe’dtumbledowntheslopeofthat

uncannyvalley,andforthefirsttime,lookatthingsshehadneverallowedherselfto

see.

***

86

It’sbeenweekssinceI’vesignedontoLDSSingles,butonenightasI’m

editingmypaperthat’sduethenextday,IgetanemailremindingmethatIhavean

unreadmessage.Theengineerwrotemeweeksago,andthefirstfewlinesarequick

bitsofsmalltalk,untilallthesuddenhesaysveryforthrightlythathe’sinterested,

andwantstoknowifrelocatingisanoptionforme.

I’mtakenbackbythis,especiallysincewe’vehadonlytwodigital

conversations.ButnotnearlyasshockedaswhenIread,afewlineslater,thatwhile

theideaofhavingfivekidsinafamilymakeshimpause,it“isn’tadealbreaker.”

Iwanttotellhimhispersonalityisadealbreaker.Ormoreprecisely,his

desperationtogetremarriedis.Mormonmarriage,itseems,isnotaboutfindingthe

one,butanyone.

SoItellhimpolitelythatI’mnotplanningonmovinganywheresoon,and

thatI’veonlyrecentlyrealizedI’mnotquitereadyforanotherseriousrelationship,

andthenItellhimthatmen’stiesarepointedforareason,andIsignoffforever.

ItiswhileIamstirringalargepotofpotatosoupfordinner—alwaysmybest

thinkingtime—thatmytheoriesstarttopplinglikedominoes.Ihadalwaysthought

thatbeingchosenbyBrandonandbeingchosenbyGodwereprettyreliableproofof

myuniqueplaceonEarth.Butproofshiftswithexperience.Marriagehasnotbeen

thecrowningachievementofmylife,liketheChurchprophesieditwouldbe.AndI

nolongerwanttobesubjecttoahusband,astheChurchteachesIshouldbe.

PerhapsMormonismisn’trightabouteverything.

87

ButifMormonism,achurchasindividualasIhadbelievedmyselftobe,and

theOneandOnlyandCompletelytruereligion,isnottrueabouteverything,thenit

cannotbecompletelytrue;ifMormonismisnotcompletelytrue,thenwhateverGod

IbelievedhasbeentellingmesoisaTricksterandaLiar;butGodcannotlie,soHe

cannotBe;andthusthethingthathasbeentalkingtomealltheseyearsmightbe

nothingmoregodlythanmyself.And,moreloudly:themanyandloudandoften

malevoicesoftheChurchthathavebeenimprintedonmybrainforalifetime.

Itisdizzyinglogic,incompleteandimperfect,andIamatoncebothskeptical

andsureofit.MaybeIgotmarriedbecauseIhadbeenprogrammedto,hadstayed

marriedbecauseIneverhadthechancetountanglemydesiresfromthoseof

BrandonortheChurch.Or,alternatively,Ithink,withatwingeofworry,my

marriagedidn’tworkoutbecausetherewasjustsomethinginnatelywrongwithme.

Brandonispracticallymarriedagain:someoneloveshim;andIcan’tevenmakeit

pasttwoemailexchangeswithaman.MaybeI’mjustnotthedatingkind.MaybeI

amnotthelovablekind.Maybetheseareillogicalleaps,unprovabletheories.But

theoriesaren’talwaysmeanttobeproven.Theyaremeanttodisrupt.Tostretchthe

knowableworld.

AsmykidsandIaresittingaroundthedinnertable,Iwatchthemeating

theirpotatosoupandIsaysomethingIhaveneversaidbefore,andIsayitdespite

thefactthattheyareonlyseven,six,andfouryearsold.“So,”Ibegin,lookingat

them,“Ijustwantyoutoknowthatwhenyou’reallgrownup,youdon’thavetoget

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marriedifyoudon’twantto.Andyoudon’thavetohavekidsunlessyouwantto.I

justwantyoutoknowthatyoucanchoose.Youcandowhateveryouwanttodo.”

Evelynlooksatme,alittleconfused,probablywonderingwhatI’mtalking

about,andherhairisthecolorofshadowedstrawandhereyeslikebluesmoke.

“Okay,”shesays,andslurpsupanotherspoonfulofsoup.Ilookatherandsmile.It

isn’tenough,Iknow,butit’sastart.

ThatnightafterIgetoutoftheshowerIwrapmyselfinatowel,smoothnight

creamontomyface,andopenmydresserdrawerforacleanpairofgarments.

CloudsofcrumpledsilkspilloverthesidesasIrummageforatop.Thenightquiet

hassettledonthehouse,thekidsaresleeping,andtomorrowisSunday.Churchday.

Ishouldgotochurch.Iamsupposedtogotochurch.Ihavealwaysgonetochurch.

ButIdonotwanttogo.

Iglanceupatthemirroronmydresser,andIrealizethatIhavenoideawhat

itisliketonotgotoChurch.BesidesthehandfulofSundaysIwassick,I’vespent

almosteverySundayofmytwenty-nineyearsinchurch,listeningtomentellme

whatIshouldthinkandwhatIshoulddo.Ihavenoideawhatmyworldwouldbe

likeif,instead,Iweretostayhome,orshop,orjust,Idon’tknow—live.Idon’tknow

whatIwouldbelike,whoIwouldbe.

ButIwanttoknow.

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Theairfromtheheaterventsticklesmybareskin,andmyhandsareburied

inwhitesilkandIthinkhowallgarmentsreallyareisauniformthatkeepsthe

worldatadistance;IthinkhoweverychoiceI’vemadehasbeenanofferingtoaGod

I’mbeginningtodoubtisthere,howeverythingIbelievedaboutmyselfnowmust

andshouldbequestioned;andasIstareatmyfaceinthemirror,I’mterrifiedand

irrevocablycompelled.Ipullmygarmentsfromthedrawerandrunthesilkthrough

myfingers,andwhenIlookatthem,reallylookatthem,Iseethattheyareworn

out;andsoIthrowthemaway—uncut,unburned,wholeandsymbolic.

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TheArchaeologists

1.

Glass,likesomanydelicatethings,issurroundedbymysticism.Beforethe

adventofsyntheticglass,humansusednaturalglasscreatedbythelavaof

volcanoesandthestrikeoflightningondesertsand.TheMayareliedonobsidian,

thatsolidblacknesscreatedfromthebloodoftheearth,formirrorsandscrying,and

fashioneditintosharpbladestoslicethenecksofsacrifices.Anoldlegendsaysthat

agroupofsailorsaccidentallydiscoveredhowtocreateglasswhentheirvessel

carryingsodiumcarbonateshipwreckedontheshoresofJudea.Whentheybrought

thesodaontothesandandbuiltafire,astrangeliquidspilledfromtheashesand

whenitcooled,itglistened,likeicehardenedintopermanence,likeanotherstateof

matter.Translucent,createdbychance,asmalleableasprophecy,glassbecamethe

perfectmediumforacquiringspiritualknowledge.Oncetheydiscoveredglass’s

fundamentalingredients—sand,soda,lime,andheat—glassworkerscreatedlenses

formonkstomagnifyreligioustexts,jarstoholdtheashesofthedead,crystal

globesforseerstoseealltheworld.

—

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WhenIwassixIlearnedtoreadbystudyingscripture,soundingoutthe

poemsofprophetsasIgatheredwithmyfamilyaroundmyparents’bedeverynight.

WetookturnsreadingfromTheBookofMormon,engrossedinstoriesofprophets

whoprayedalldayandnight.IwasbornintotheMormonchurchbydevout

parents:a“childofthecovenant.”BeforeIlearnedtoread,evenfromthetimeIwas

conceived,Ilistenedtoscripture.MymothercarriedmetoChurcheveryweek,

beforeandaftermybirth,andnotjustonSundays.WewerethereforSunday

School,MondayFamilyHomeEvenings,WednesdayPrimary,Saturdaybaptisms,

andendlesspotlucks,funerals,serviceprojects,socialevents.Prayersmarkedthe

beginningandendofeveryget-together.InprayerswepromisedGodourfaith,in

scripturewelistenedtoGod’spromisestous.Beforemymouthhadevenformed,I

wasimmersedinourlanguage,beliefbuiltintomyverybones.

—

AlthoughMormonismwasofficiallyfoundedin1830,itreallybeganin1823,

when,afteralongprayer,JosephSmithreceivedavision.Therewasaburstoflight

sobrightthatJosephshieldedhiseyes;whenthelightsoftened,hesawanangelsent

fromGod.Theangel,whosenamewasMoroni,toldJosephthatdeepinahillcalled

Cumorahlayagoldenbookofscripture,writtenbyancientAmericanprophetsand

buriedbyMoronihimselfin421CE.AtnightJosephwenttothehillnearhishome

inPalmyra,NewYork.HebroughthiswifeEmmawithhim,handedherthehorses’

reinsasheclimbedfromthewagon.Theshovelrestedonhisshoulderashehiked

westward,hisformfadingintothetrees’shadows.Emmawaited,alone,inthedark,

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asthehorsessnuffedandblew.Fromfarawaysheheardthethudsoftheshovel

strikingtheground.Thehorseschewedtheirbits.FinallyJosephreturned,carrying

abundlewrappedinsackcloth.Hehadbeeninstructedbytheangelnottoshowthe

platestoanyone,soEmmadidn’tasktoseeinsidetheclothasherhusbandguided

thehorseshome.SheunderstoodthatburiedinthegroundwhereJosephdugthat

nightwasthematteroffaith,pureasgoldmaybe,butmuchmoredelicate.

—

ItwassixteenyearsbeforehisdeaththatJosephfoundthegoldenplates.The

restofhislifehespentbuildingtheMormondenomination,convertingover16,000

people,includingmyownsixthgenerationgreat-grandfather,JoelH.Johnson.Joel

marriedfivewomen(yes,atthesametime)andforthenext151yearslittleJohnson

descendantsmultiplied,grewupandmarriedMormons,birthedMormonbabies

andlivedMormonlives,downtomygrandmotherandmother,tomyownbirthin

1982.FormostofmylifeIbelieved,likeallMormons,likemyancestors,thatJoseph

foundtheplates,engravedwithstrangecharacters,andtranslatedthemintoThe

BookofMormon,thefoundationoftheMormonreligion.Belief,though,isastrange

thing—ittendstoshiftwiththelight,likevisions.

—

Ireadsomewhereoncethatinthecenturiesafterthediscoveryofglass,

doctorsbegantotakeinpatientstheycalledglassmen:peoplewhosufferedfroman

unusualpsychiatricdisorderofperceivingthemselvesasbeingmadeentirelyof

glass.Theglassmanfearedhewouldshatteriftouched,andinsistedthatother

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peoplekeeptheirdistance.Hewouldn’tsitwithoutapillowandworepadded

clothes,alwaysshieldinghisbody.Hefeareddeath,sotoguardagainstdanger,he

believedhimselfintofragility,protectedhimself,andthusfeltsecure.Ofcourseit

wasadelusionofsafety(althoughmaybenotoffragility),butwhatwastheglass

manwithouthistranslucent,breakablebody?Hewasjustaman,likeallothermen,

amashoffleshandboneandblood.Amanofglasshadpower.Heknewhisown

mortality,betterthananyone,somuchbetterthathehadtoconvinceothersofhow

breakablehereallywas.Sometimes,doctorsorfriendstookituponthemselvesto

cureaglassmanofhisdelusion:theylithisstrawbedonfire,makinghimjump,or

cruellypokedaneedleinhisskin.Andthat’swhentheglassmanshattered.

—

IgrewupinNewYork,onlytwohoursfromwhereJosephSmithdugupthe

plates,amemberoftheMormonminorityintheNortheast.Nooneelseinmyschool

districtwasMormon,andevenonSundaysinchurchonlyabout150peoplesatin

thepews.ButIdidn’tfeeloutofplace.Ifeltunique,special,asthoughI’dbeengifted

somelovelypieceoftruth,justlikeJoseph,somethingnooneelsehadorunderstood

orbelieved.AndsoIsetmyselfapart,maybeevenabove,everyoneelse.

TheBookofMormonwasthedictionary,thepoem,thestory,thefieldguide

totheMormonworld.Iknewthebookandthedoctrinesbetterthanthepopculture

ofthetime,butwhenItriedtoexplainmyworldtonon-memberfriends,I’dget

tongue-tiedandfrustrated.“Well,Mormonsdon’treallybelieveinatypicalHeaven,”

I’dtellacuriouslistener.“Webelievethere’stheCelestialKingdomforthe

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righteous,whichissplitintothreetiers;thenthere’stheTerrestialKingdomandthe

TelestialKingdom—butpeoplewillgowhereverthey’rehappiest.”Suddenlyit

wouldsoundconfusingandunrealandthey’dgivemeaskepticallook.SoIwouldgo

homeandread,forclarity.Straightisthegateandnarrowistheway,andfewthere

bethatfindit.AndIwouldfeelbetter.Itwasmyworld,andIgrewupinthefoldsof

itsbooks,thewarmthofitswords,themagicofitsorigins.Longbeforehebecame

anangel,theprophetMoronihadtravelledallthewayfromSouthAmerica(the

settingofTheBookofMormon)justtoplacethegoldplatesintheHillCumorah,just

soJosephcouldpullthemoutcenturieslater.Ilovedthedestinedadventureofit,

thestoryofaGod-sentangelplantingthegoldenkernel.Eveninsidethebook,a

mysticaltonehoversintheantiquephrases:Ifyouhavefaithyouhopeforthingsthat

arenotseen,whicharetrue.Evenifyoucannomorethandesiretobelieve,letthis

desireworkinyou.Ibelievedintheplatesdespitehavingneverseenthemandthat

gavemebeautyanditgavemepower.Toseeiseasy;tobelieveisahigherformof

art.Believingrequiresfortitude,andwillpower,andsuchextremeself-confidencein

yourfeelingsthatyoudeemthemtheonlyevidencethatmatters.Ican’thelpbut

thinkonthatnightwithJoseph,howEmmamusthavelongedtoseeunderthecloth,

tofeelthesmoothgold,totracetheimpressionsofthecarvings.ButIunderstand

whyshedidn’t.Iknowtheseductionofbelief.

—

Magicandmysticism,ofcourse,onlylastuntilyourbedissetonfire,oryou

discoverthetrickisjustacleveruseofmirrors.Growingup,Ifoundreasonsto

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questionthingsaboutMormonism,butbeliefoftenmeansignoringorjustifyingor

acceptingsomequestionsasunanswerable.WhatIdidunderstandaboutmyfaith

wasenoughforme.LongafterIgrewupandlefthome,whenIwastwenty-nine,two

majorthingshappened:IgotdivorcedandIenteredgraduateschool.The

combinationofafailedrelationshipandreturningtoschool,atanagethat’sa

preambletomiddle-agerealism,spurredmetopushmybeliefascloseto

knowledgeaspossible.Ifmyreligionweretrue,andIthoughtitwas,itwouldstand

uptoscrutiny,asIthoughtitalwayshad.AndsoIfinallystartedtoletmyselflook

beyondMormonanswerstoexistentialquestions.Ibegangently:Iwatcheda

documentaryonreligioncalledTheNatureofExistence.Amantravelsallaroundthe

world,askingeveryonefromCatholicstoatheiststoarchdruidsofStonehengewhat

theybelieveandwhy.“EverythingcreatedisonethoughtinthelifeofGod,”arabbi

says,andasciencefictionwriteranswers,“Theoppositeoffaithisatendencytoask

questions,”andanatheistproclaims,“There’sactuallynomoreevidenceforGod

thanforthelunatic’sbeliefthathe’sNapoleon.”AMormonisfeaturedtoo—“God

canonlytellusasmuchaswecangrasp”—amonghundredsmore,peopleacross

theworldtalkingaboutwhattheyknow,orthinktheyknow.Itseemsincredibleto

menow,thatattwenty-nine,forthefirsttimeandsuddenly,Iunderstoodjusthow

small,howminisculemyworldwas.ButIhadlivedonewayandlivedonelanguage

foralmostthreedecades.Nowmyworldwasaspeckonamap,itwasonewayof

thinking,itwasfaithinoneman,justoneamongbillions,whoclaimedGodgavehim

anearth-boundbookthatheldtheoneandonly-evertruth.BythetimeIturnedoff

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theTV,IrealizedthatImustbeoneoftwothings:eitherblessedlyluckytobeinthe

minoritywhoknewtheonetruthoflife,orcompletelyandutterlydeluded,atiny

breakablebeinginatinybreakableworld.

—

InMormontemples,theCelestialRoomisanornatelydecoratedspacefor

meditationandsilentprayer,withcrystalchandeliersandwhitecarpetandlight

glintingeverywhere.Iwentthereoften,tryingtocurbthedesiretofurtherquestion

myfaithbyholdingontoitsrituals.Largemirrorshangoppositeeachotherinthe

room,sothatwhenyoulookintoone,youseereflectiononreflectiononreflection,

thousandsofyou’sandthousandsofmirrorsstretchingonwardintoillusive

eternity.HowoftenIstoodinthatroom,lookingdeepandwondering.

—

ThisiswhatIdiscovered:ForyearsbeforeheclimbedtheHillCumorah,

peopleknewJosephSmithasthe“glass-looker.”Josephclaimedthathehadlooked

throughanenchantedpieceofglassandsawwhereaseerstonewashidden.Once

heretrievedthestone,heplaceditinahatandsawvisionsofburiedtreasure.The

glasslookedlikeanoceanwaveandthestone,apalepotato.

MenwhobelievedinseerstoneswouldpayJosephtolook,toguidethemto

fortune.Josephledfollowersoverhills,throughtrees,intofields,andwhereverhe

stoppedthemenwoulddrivetheirshovelsintotheground.They’ddig,dig,andthen

clunk!Theysworetheirshovelhitsomething.Josephinstructedthemtobeperfectly

silent,sotheywouldn’tperturbtheevilspiritsprotectingthegold.Butinevitable

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someonemadenoise,andJosephwouldshout—thetreasurewasstartingtosink.

Franticallythemendug,cleavingtheearthfromitself,chasingthephantomchest.

Butthedeepertheydug,thedeeperintothegroundthefortunedropped,burrowing

away,slippingfromthem,fallingdown,down,down,plummetingthroughthecrust,

themantle,allthewaytotheearth’score,whichglitteredliketheverygoldthey

sought.

—

InchurchwhenwetalkedaboutJoseph,weonlytalkedabouttheangeland

theplates,nevertheglassandthetreasurehunts.ButafterTheNatureofExistence,

afterIstartedtowonderandquestion,Istartedtoresearch.WhenIreadstories

aboutJosephstickinghisfaceintohishatsohecouldhavehisvisions,Iwas

staggered.HerewasthegreatprophetoftheMormonchurchpocketingacommon

stoneandmakingmoneyoffhisdisciples:asideofJosephincompatiblewiththe

honest,selflessstoriesofofficialChurchbiographies.Itwasatoncesohugelycomic

andsoterrifyinglyscandalousthatIbecameafraid,andfeltahard,heavyweightin

mystomach,asthoughmyhearthadplummeted,landinginaballofhottight

muscle.

Istartedreadingeverythingmychurchleadershadtoldmenotto:scoresof

anti-MormonwebpagesandrecordsofJoseph’scourttrialsforhistreasure-seeking

scams,proofofsecretmarriageshehidfromEmma,hiscounterfeittranslationsof

Egyptianpapyri.IstudiedMormonapologistresponses,booksaboutworldreligions

andessaysaboutlanguage.IdugupeverythingIcouldfind,heldituptothelight,

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sawhowdelicateandsharpitwas.Ireadanessaycalled“OnViewingRhetoricas

Epistemic,”wherethewordswerelargeandunfamiliar.Language,itsaid,creates

truth.Wecraftknowledgeaswespeak.Andtruth,Isaw,wasasfragileaswords,

andwhenyourverylanguagehasbeennourishedonthepropheciesofscripture,it’s

difficulttodisentangleyourbeliefsfromtheeverydaynounsandverbsofyour

nativetongue.Especiallywhenthelanguageisasseductiveasitoftenisinscripture.

Fornowweseethroughaglass,darkly,Paulsaid.Yes,forsomeprophetsare

designedforlowlightsandmirrors.

—

OnlyafterIbegantoseethevastnessofitall,ofJoseph’sworldandmyown,I

lefttheMormonchurch.WhatevertruthIoncegraspedbecametooslipperytohold.

ButIstillwonder,sometimes,whatJosephreallysawwhenheheldupthatglassto

hiseye.Shadowyfiguresmaybe,orthegoldenhueofeasyfortune.Afuturejoke

he’dtellhisfriends.Ormaybehesawthepeopleinthe21stcenturywhowould

becomemembersofhisvisionaryreligion,thefifteenmillionMormonswhoknow

JosephasIoncedid,asaprophet,seer,revelator—notasamanwholookedthrough

glassandsawitforwhatitwas:sand,soda,lime,fire,andendlesspossibility.

2.

Archaeologyisthespacebetweenguessandproof.Ilearnedthisasachild,

whenIlostthemouthpiecetomyclarinet.MyparentshadtaughtmetopraywhenI

neededhelp,soIprayed,andsearched,andfoundnothing.Perhapsitwasaproblem

99

offaith,Ithought,soIprayedandlookedagainandstill,itwasn’tthere.Alwaysa

littlestubborn,Irepeatedtheprocessathirdtime,searchinglonger.Andthere,ina

cornerbehindthestairs,Ifoundthemouthpiece,coveredinspotsofmudlike

blemishes.Thefindwasevidenceoftheendlesspowersofprayer,andsinceInever

consideredthatmaybethepersistentsearchhadrevealedthemouthpiecerather

thantheprayer,Iwedgeditintothestoryofmyfaith.

AfterIstartedlookingintoJosephSmith’shistory,listeningforthingsbeyond

whatamissingmouthpiececouldreveal,IprayedtohearthevoiceofGod,alast,

desperateattempttoseeifeverythingI’dlearnedcouldbetrumpedbysome

profound,all-encompassingspiritualexperience.Iwantedtohearthatmyreligion

wasnotafraud,notaschemeorproductofaglass-looker’sstonyvisions.SoI

prayed,butallIheardwassilence.Ididn’treturntochurchafterthat.Iknowbetter

thantokeepsearchingforthingsthataren’tthere.

Andyet.Irecognizetheconundrum:whereonceItookfindingalost

possessionasasign,nowItooksilenceasasign.Once,Ifoundmeaningin

somethingthathappened,nowinsomethingthatdidn’t.

AllIhavearemyexperiences;andmyexperiences,beingfinite,cannotreveal

theinfinitetome.

—

So.Idoubtmanythings:experience,time,wordslikeeternityand

omniscience.Idoubtpeoplewhoseemtoknowtruthtobeasolid,unbreakable

thing.Ienvytheirconfidenceintheirownperceivedpurposeinlife,evenwhileI

100

disdaintheirunwillingnesstoscrutinizealltheinevitablediscrepanciesbetween

faithandevidence.

ItryaddingupallthetimeIspentinvestingmyselfinmyfaith,toseewhatis

lost,whatmightberecaptured.Butthisisauselessandincredibleexercise.Ican’t

knowwhereI’dbewithoutmyyearsoffaith.SometimesIwanttotravelbackto

1831,whenmygreat-grandfatherJoelattendedMormonmeetingsanddecidedto

jointheChurch,toseewhatspoketohim,whatexperiencemovedhimtochangehis

wholelife,askhimifhe,too,sawvisionsofgenerationalfollowers.I’daskhimwhat

hefeltwhenhemetJosephSmith.He’ddoubtlesstellmeofhisencounterswitha

spiritualforce,whichI’dargueagainstwithmypilesofevidence,andwe’dsitthere

instalemate,theweightof151yearsofMormonancestryasheavyasscripture.

—

Inthe1950s,anamateurarchaeologistnamedTomFergusontravelledto

southernMexicotodig.TomknewTheBookofMormon,hadreaditmanytimes,

memorizedhisfavoriteversesthewayapoetlearnsasonnet.HebelievedJoseph

Smithtranslatedthegoldenscriptthroughagodlystone.Heknewtheancient

prophetswhowrotethebookspokeofhorses,barley,gold,iron—andhealsoknew,

inapuzzledway,thatthesethingsdidn’texistinthepre-ColumbianAmericas,the

timeandplacethebookwaswritten.Scientistsandarcheologistsoutsidethe

ChurchpointedtotheseanachronismsasproofthatthebookwasJoseph’sown

fiction,butTomconsideredtheseanachronismssmalldiscrepancies.Hesetoutto

reconcilethembylookingforartifactsthatwouldprovethetruthofTheBookof

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Mormon:ancientearthenwaredecoratedwithartworkofbarleyandfigs,fossilsof

horses,theglintofgoldandironembeddedinlayersofsediment.Theprophets

wereinspiredmenofGod,hebelieved,sohesiftedthroughtwothousandyearsof

earth,searchingfortheminbrokenbitsofpottery.

“Theseartifactswillspeakeloquentlyfromthedust,”Tompromisedthe

churchleaderswhofundedhisquests,beforetheearthyieldedanything.Forthe

nextdecadehesearchedthroughalltypesofdirt.Umberclay,chocolatesoil,beige

loam.Istudyhislettersandwatchtheslowdeclineofhisfaiththedeeperhedigs,as

certaintybeginstoyield:“Ihopeithappensduringourlifetime.Itcould.”Thenthe

crisis.Aftertenyearsofpeeringintowide,deepholes,theearthrevealednothing.

NoarchaeologicalevidencethatcouldverifyTheBookofMormonwaswrittenby

ancientAmericanprophets.“Prophets,”Tomfinallyconcludes,“arenothingmore

thanmortalmenliketherestofus.”

—

JosephSmithdiedatagethirty-nineinaprisonafterbeingchargedwith

polygamy.Asthestorygoes,acrazed,gun-wieldingmobbrokeintothejailhouse,

whereJosephwasstandingatasecond-storywindow.Whentheyshothim,the

forceofthebulletspushedhisbodythroughtheglass,andashefelldownanddown

withhislastbreathhecriedout,“OLord,myGod!”Hisbodyslammedintothe

groundandthen—

102

Well,whatthen?Didheenteradarktunnelwithacircleofpromiseatthe

end?Wasdeaththeendofhisvisionsorthebeginning?Didhemeetsometypeof

god?Reincarnate?Attainnirvana?

Andwhatofhisfollowers?Whathappensafterthefallofaprophet,whenthe

crutchoffaithisrippedawayandGodisburiedwithhim?Inolongerknowif

there’sanythingafterthislife,afterall,oranyoneaboveit.Whichmakeslifedevoid

ofmeasurablepurposebeyondmyownselfishhappiness.Iamfearfullyawarethat

mybodyissimplyamassofsinewywiresandpulsingelectrons,notamplifiedby

spiritmatterasIoncethought.Buthowcanthatbe?Iconsiderthepossibilityoflife

createdbychance.Ican’tunderstandhowmybodyisn’tamplifiedbyspirit.Itfeels

likeitis.Butreligionwasallonegreattrapforme,offeelingsomethingI’mnotsure

waseverthere.Imistrustmyownhistory,myabilitytofindtruthinanything.I’m

angryatJosephforbeingsuchatrickster,butbegrudginglygrantthathewasa

brilliantman.Perhapsabelieverhimself.Butno,hewasn’t,washe?Itwasalljust

somegreathoax?Still,I’msogratefultobedisillusioned,relievedthatInow

recognizerealityforwhatitis.ExceptwhenIrealize,withaclaritythatdefiesitself,

thatdisillusionmentisunderstandingthatIcanneverknowrealityatall.

3.

Archaeologistsconstructentireculturesfromthingstheyfindembedded

underground.Theyturnanobjectoverandover,brushitoff,translateitscode.An

urnrevealsthelifeofanancientpeople.Ashardofglass,adullblade,anythingthe

103

ancientstouchedandused.Theystudyitclosely,seewhatisthere,wasthere,how

thingsmighthavebeen.

Ononearchaeologicalexpedition,researchersinPerudiscoveredamass

graveofforty-threesacrificedchildren.Bonescrushed,heartsofferedtothegods.

Probably,thearchaeologistsguessed,disasterstruckthisPeruviancityandthe

peoplefearedthewrathofthegods.Afamineorearthquakemaybe,wieldedto

disruptthelandandcomplacency.Sotheyappeasedtheirdeitiesbyofferingthe

mostcherishedthingstheyhad.Sometimes,salvationisexpensive.Itspricerises

forty-threepercent.Beliefliesinthebonesofthechildren,remainsburiedforeight

hundredyearsundersevenfeetofdirt.

Thearchaeologistinthenewsphotokneelsinfrontofoneofthelittle

skeletons,headdownasthoughinprayer.Yethiseyesareopen,searchingthrough

theblackholesofachild’sskull.Doeshewonderhowthechildrendied?Beyondthe

slittingofthroats,ortheclubs,Imean.Didthechildrenknowtheywouldbe

sacrificed?Didtheystandwitheyesclosed,anticipatingacutofhonor,proudto

savetheirpeople?

Ordidtheyscream?Andcry?Andcursethebeliefsoftheadultswhoheldthe

knives?

Hemaynotknow.Hemaynotevenwonder.Hepicksupthebones,carefully,

asnewevidenceofhistory.Thereistruthintheartifact,itsphysicalpresence,the

verytherenessofthething.Heholdsitinglovedhands,probesitspast.Gently,now:

feelforwhatisgone.

104

SanitaryEngineering

Thecircumferenceofatrashcan’smouthiseternal.Mathematicsis

deceiving:whenwewerebarelygirls,theytaughtusdivision,that24dividedby5is

4remainder4.Asthougheverythingcouldbesoeconomicandalldivisionscould

havesurpluses.Atamuseumtheyshoweduswing-tippedspearsandfingernail-

moonknivesandhowNativeAmericansusedeverypartofthebison,gallbladders

andeyeballsall.Wegapedattheplasticbovineandimagineditspiousintestines.In

churchtheymeasuredourlivesbythetimesignatureofhymns,productivityby

numberofversesmemorized.Whatcouldwedobutwriteinthemarginsofour

Bible,tinycursiveprayersthatwewouldnotbeEsau?Weunderlinedversesin

coloredpencil,neatly,nolineoverdrawn,andadmiredtheefficiencyofrainbows.

Whenourlegsgrewlongtheytaughtustohunt:notbison,butmen.Weskimmed

aftertheminbarefeetandmadechecklistsofdesirableattributes.ThesummerI

wassixteenIkissedaboywhosearmswerelikeumbrellas.Ilearnedthelengthof

ourtonguesandhetastedlikeseasalt.ButhewasnotTheOneandtheysaidyou’ve

soldyourkissesforpretzels.(Yearslater,Isawhimandhisarmwaswrappedaround

thewaistofawife,andherbluedressdrizzledlikerainagainstherbody.)

Thatwinterwediscoveredahiddendooratthebackofthechapel,andwhen

wepusheditopenwethoughtwe’dfindGodsittingonathronetrimmedwithgold

105

andsunlight.Butinsidetherewasonlya40-wattbulb,extrabreadforsacrament,a

trashcanswarmingwithuneatencrumbs.Still,wereturnedtothechapel,laidthe

sacramentaltoastonourtongues.Butwehadbentourbodiespeeringinsidethe

church’sbowelsandthebreadtastedlikeash.Bythetimeweleft,ourbackswere

permanentlyhunched,asthoughwehadstokedafiretoolong,brandedourselves

intosickle-shapedwomen.

Welefteachotheratharvesttime,wesplitourselvesintwo.Alone,Ifound

TheOneMan,hishairrustedandhiscarbroken.Isearchedforpartsinajunkyard

wheretheownerwanderedamongdeadengines,bewildered.Whenhemoved,his

jointssqueakedonwornhinges.Hesoldmeanaxleandasheplaceditinmyhands,

hesparked.Butalone,hecountedcarcorpses,wonderedhowlongmetalresists

decomposition.For3,285days,TheOneManandIfixedwheels,weldediron.Then,

hepackedupthedays,filledhispilfered-axlecarwiththem,andashedrovethey

flittedoutthewindowslikedragonflies.

LaterIlovedamanwhohadaredbeardandaBonsaitree.Andthenanother

withthinblackcurlswhodrewportraitsonballoons—allthecurvesboundupmy

eyeballs.Butthetreedied,theballoonsdeflated,andwhenmyeyesunwrappedthey

weredryfromdisuse.AtfirstIkeptthebranchandrubberinakeepsakebox,

labeleditwastenot,wantnot.Ishouldhavemadeuseofitall,plantedthebranchin

abranch-shapedgraveandgroundtherubberformulch.ButIcouldn’t.Rubber

takes5,982yearstodecompose,andthebranchwasimpotent.Iheldtheboxuntil

thecardboardfestered.

106

Wewereschooledwhenwereunited,threshedwomen,thebonesbeneath

ourbreastsweakfromreaping.Isupposeweshouldhaveaddeditupsooner,cut

ourlossesandmovedon.Wespent9,863hoursinchurch.Themanhourswe

couldn’tcalculate.Wewonderedhowmany,howmuch,howcome.Butwewere

women,andwhenwemournedtheygaveustissues,toldustoblotoureyes.They

clamoreduswithclichés,mistakesmakeyougrow,howelsewillyoulearn,nothingis

awaste.Wethrewthetissuesawayandhadnotimeleftforsparescriptures.We

longedtoescapethebrutalityofmath:theexponentialsubtractionoflossrequires

accountingforsquanderedpotential.Buttheyleftussunkintheembersofa

burned-downchurch,ourfeetgnarledandfeverish.Becausewaste,theysaid,is

surplus.Litterisbyproduct.Trashisexcess.Theycalledthissanitaryengineering.

Anythingtoignorethedirtunderourfingernails,thegrimeembeddedinourpalms,

thetimeinourhandspilinguplikesomuchgarbage.