The 19th Wife (34 page)

“So what happened with you and the church?” he said.

“It’s a little complicated.”

“It always is.” He was fiddling with the radio, stopping when he found a song by the Killers. “For me it happened my sophomore year. I was at BYU, and you know what that place can be like. I was up in Salt Lake with my soccer team and one night I just kind of gave in and went to a gay bar. It was my first time ever in a place like that. I mean, I hadn’t even kissed a guy or anything, but I knew, and I wanted to go. And guess what: someone saw me. I’m still not sure who, but they sent an anonymous letter to my bishop outing me. The bishop sent a really scary letter to my parents and it was a total flippin’ mess.”

“That sucks.”

“What about you? Did you have a trial?”

“Not exactly.”

“I did. I mean, the works. I had to go before this committee who were all these guys I’ve known my whole life like my soccer coach and the guy who used to drive my carpool. And they were all sitting behind this table and I was sitting on this metal folding chair and they just came out and asked me—was I a homosexual? On my way into the trial I thought I was going to lie. It never occurred to me to confess, because I knew what that would mean. Good-bye life as you know it. But when they asked the question like that, and it really did feel like a trial and everything, it just hit me: I can’t lie, not if it’s true. So I said, Yes. My coach said, Do you know what this means? And again I said, Yes. Nothing more. And so he goes, Do you realize with this confession you’ll lose many things, but none more important than the salvation of your soul? And so you know what I said? I said, What do you want me to do about it? And that was it. Excommunicated. My parents cut me off. And that’s how I ended up at the Malibu Inn. The owner’s from India, and he doesn’t care about anything except how I do my job.”

“That’s messed up.”

“Tell me about it. But it had to happen. There are a lot of things I don’t know, but one thing I know for sure is those men weren’t speaking for God. They say they were, but they weren’t. God isn’t like that, not my God, anyway.” He turned into the cineplex parking lot. “Now what about you?”

“The thing is,” I said, “I’m actually not LDS. I’m a First. Or was. I’m from Mesadale.”

“A First? No kidding. That’s crazy. You mean like a gazillion wives and everything?”

“Yep, a gazillion wives and everything.”

Almost anyone will tell you if your mom’s in jail for killing your dad, it’s probably a bad idea to talk about it on the first date. Which is probably why I told Tom everything right there in the cineplex lot. When I finished he said, “Shoot, that’s a lot to deal with.” And then, “There’s no way this movie’s going to be more interesting than our own lives.”

He was right, the movie wasn’t any good—a retarded kid, an absent father, a bitter reunion, a reconciliation. None of it true. Halfway through I took Tom’s hand. It felt like the hand of a gentle, capable man. I was pretty surprised that such a hand belonging to such a man was warming up in my clutch, but there it was and here we were and some things sour only if you think about them too much. During the credits, just before the lights came up, Tom leaned over to kiss me.

“I think I like you,” he said.

And that’s when I heard Johnny say, “No PDA, dude.”

I turned around. Two rows back, Johnny’s eyes shined in the dark. He was alone, his t-shirt filthy with popcorn. Slowly the house lights came up on his jackass smile and he said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your man?”

LDS ARCHIVES

THE LION HOUSE COLLECTION

Restricted Access—Access Must Be Approved by the First Presidency

Some of Brigham’s wives developed a system of private communication within the Lion House. Two sister wives, or sometimes more, would circulate a copy of the Book of Mormon, into which they would crosshatch a private conversation about topics such as their children, the other wives, and domestic business like cooking, keeping house, and social gossip heard at Brigham’s store. Most often, however, the subject was their mutual husband, Brigham. On file here is an approximate transcript of a private dialogue between two of Brigham’s wives written in a kind of shorthand across the pages of the Book of Alma. From the events discussed we know it dates to the spring of 1868, shortly before Brigham’s marriage to Ann Eliza Webb. Due to the cramped, unnatural style of handwriting, we cannot identify with any certainty which of Brigham’s wives wrote these words.

—He’s after another.

—It was only a matter of time. Does Amelia know?

—I doubt it. He’ll tell her only when it’s too late.

—I’d like to see her face when she finds out she has a new rival. So much for everlasting beauty.

—Guess who the new one is.

—I’m not familiar with the girls of Salt Lake.

—Remember the actress?

—Say it isn’t so. She thinks she’s the queen of something.

—I hope she enjoys her position at Number 19.

—I thought he tried to reel her in before, but the fish fought him on the line.

—I heard he set a trap for her.

—She’ll make a fine counterpoint to Amelia.

—That’s the only consolation. He was always longing for her, wasn’t he? Even when she lived here, his eyes always followed her around the room.

—He never knows when his eyes are popping out of his head.

—If only it were his eyes sticking out from his person.

—I’d scold you if it wasn’t true.

—Although I see a silver lining in the arrival of the 19th.

—What?

—He’s less likely to come knocking on my door.

—He hasn’t knocked on mine in eight years.

—See, Brigham is correct

—God does indeed answer our prayers!

OFF THE STRIP

“Every Sunday?” I said.

“Every Sunday,” said Tom. “Ten a.m.”

It was eight in the morning and we were on our way to Vegas for—you’re not going to believe this—church.

“What if you’re tired?”

“I drag my rear out of bed and I go. That’s what it means to make a commitment.”

“But Vegas? For church?”

“What’s a two-hour drive when it’s something you believe in? Besides, what else am I going to do on a Sunday morning?”

“I don’t know, lie in bed and fuck?”

“You know what I mean.” He rocked my shoulder the way you do when someone’s told a good joke. “Besides, I love this drive. Look at those mountains. You know God’s been hard at work when you see those.”

OK, so we weren’t a perfect match. I didn’t expect this to last long anyway. They never do. But we’d had a good time last night. I stayed over at the Malibu and Tom put Johnny up in a room next door and, well, we got up early for church.

“So this church,” I said. “It’s for gay Mormons?”

“It’s actually for anyone, but that’s generally who comes.”

“Isn’t a gay Mormon like an oxymoron?”

“Do I look like an oxymoron to you?”

“An oxymormon.”

“I think you’ll find it’s a really nice place.”

“I don’t get it. If the Mormons don’t want you in their church, why do you want to be in their church?”

“I don’t want to be in their church. I want my faith. That’s all. I don’t need to go to their temples to have my faith.”

Out on East Sahara Boulevard, two miles off the strip, we pulled into a strip mall. The church shared a parking lot with an insurance agent, a massage parlor, and a head shop. Tom turned off the engine and kissed me. “Happy fifteen-hour anniversary.”

“This is by far the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”

“Are you always this romantic?”

“Usually.”

“Come on, let’s go inside. And try to enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll try, but church and I have some bad blood.”

“That wasn’t a church, that was a cult. You can’t let one con man with a thing for teenage girls go and ruin all the love Christ put in your life.”

Should I go home now? I didn’t say that, it’d be too cruel. Tom was too good for that sort of ridicule. Besides, he didn’t talk about Jesus all the time. Just often enough to make me wonder if we’d last another fifteen hours.

“Look, I know you’re always internally rolling your eyes when I talk about God—I can see it, Jordan—but I’m sorry, that’s just who I am.” He kissed me again. “Besides, I know that’s what you like about me, deep down, I can see it behind your sneer.”

Who was this guy? I could go over his physical inventory, his green eyes and how they changed to gray at night, his Matt Damon smile, a mouth literally crammed with teeth, his slim waist and grabable ass. Is that why I spent the night with him in Room 112? Or was it an even more basic need: he had a bed and a shower and a tv, and he liked kids and dogs, especially Elektra, who right now was curled up on a wide motel mattress in front of the a/c with the tv on and kibble in her bowl? Or was it something else?

Tom leaned into the backseat and shook Johnny’s arm. “Time to get up, big boy, we’re here.”

Johnny yawned. “Where?”

“Church, chop-chop.”

“You can’t be serious?” Johnny sat up halfway and rubbed his eye with a fist. “I thought you were kidding.”

“Why else would we drive to Vegas on a Sunday morning?”

“I don’t know, hookers?”

“Not today. Now get up.”

Johnny flopped back down onto the seat and pulled his Raiders ski cap over his eyes. “Dude, wake me when it’s over.”

“Tom,” I said, “Forget it. He’ll be fine out here.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t drive all this way just so you could sleep in the car.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Why don’t you go in and find out.”

“Dude,” said Johnny. “You sure you’re into this guy?”

“Tell him to get up,” said Tom.

They were both looking at me as if I had some control over the situation. “He doesn’t listen to me. Let him sleep.”

“He’s just putting on a show. He wants to go in, he just won’t admit it.”

Tom got out of the car and opened the back door. He plucked the cap off Johnny’s head. The kid’s hair shot up with static. “What the fuck?”

“Tom, this is crazy,” I said. “We’re not his parents. He can do what he wants.”

Tom looked a little defeated. “Jordan, it’s not going to hurt him to sit there for an hour.”

“I don’t want to be the only kid,” said Johnny.

“You won’t be.”

“I thought this was a gay church.”

“Gays can have kids.”

“Tom, man, I hate to break it to you, but you and Jordan aren’t having kids, I don’t care how hard you try.”

“Tom, let’s just go inside. He’s fine out here.” I got out of the car and started walking.

“Then why’d he want to come with us, anyway?”

“Because he didn’t want to be alone.”

We walked through the door, and a man in a leather vest and a bushy mustache descended upon us. “Tom! Who is
this
?”

“This is Jordan. He’s my—”

His what?

“My new best friend.”

“Jordan, welcome to our church.” The man hugged me, which wasn’t so unusual because other people were greeting and hugging, but this guy whispered into my ear, “I hope you find the peace and love God wants you to have,” while squeezing my ass.

When the guy was gone I said, “He felt me up.”

“He did not.”

“I’m telling you, he did.”

The church looked like a bingo hall or a senior citizens’ center. A blank space with a dropped ceiling, bad lighting, and coffee stains in the carpet. The color scheme reminded me of the lobby of the Malibu Inn, purple on beige with hunter green accents. Some queen had stenciled a garland of grapes around the walls. The whole thing depressed me. I know, how does a guy who’s been living out of his van get off calling anything tacky? But it was.

Tom waved at a lot of people and they came over to hug him and shake my hand. “You have a lot of friends,” I said.

“And what could possibly be wrong with that?”

It’s pointless to argue with someone so logical. Still, he seemed to know everyone—the chatty dyke in Hello Kitty suspenders, the diabetic guy on the mobility cart, the kid with the safety pin in his eyebrow who wasn’t much older than Johnny. His name was Lawrence; two weeks ago this little church helped him off the streets. “Thanks in part to Tom,” he said shyly. Tom denied doing anything out of the ordinary. “All I did was make a phone call. You got the job yourself.” Lawrence’s patchy, anxious face was an assortment of pimples and whiskers and lingering hurt. He pressed together his courage to tell me, “You’re real lucky, man.”

When the service started the pastor asked if there were any special visitors who needed an introduction. “Tom. Please don’t.”

But it was too late. Tom was on his feet saying he was here with me. The congregation—there were about seventy-five people—said “Hi Jordan” or “Welcome Jordan” or “Amen.”

“Jordan,” Tom said through his teeth, “stand up.”

I rose and lifted my hand for a little wave. Everyone waved back and several people applauded as if I’d actually accomplished something. Am I a hater for cringing?

There were a few other guests there—a mother visiting from Fresno; a friend in from Albuquerque. Everyone waved and called out hello and it was no big deal. Really, what was the point of getting embarrassed? As Tom likes to say, It’s just life.

“Before we start,” said Pastor Walter, “does anyone have a praise they want to share?”

A slight woman in heavy denim jumped to her feet. “Yes, thanks.” She wore a big, out-of-date phone clipped to her belt, a buckle that said, “Kick Ass!” and a pair of hearing aids. “As many of you know, Rusty had his operation this week and thanks to God everything went just fine. He was home the next day and I was able to take the drain out after only four days, even though the vet told me it would take a week.” She went on a little longer about Rusty’s condition and a lot of people said “Amen” and several people raised their arms as if invisible wires were pulling them from above.

A couple of other people shared their praises—a medical test that came back all right, the return of an estranged child, a new job: the usual stuff that is so common that you sometimes forget these events define our lives. It made me think of something I once read on a billboard: How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. Is that religion or just plain wisdom?

“Let us now each take a few moments to think about our blessings.” That’s when Tom put his arm around me. The pastor concluded the moment of silence by declaring, “I personally want to thank God for our new second bathroom! Brothers and Sisters, it’s finally finished!” More applause and a lot of amens. “No more sharing a single toilet with a hundred people!”

If you haven’t been to church in a while, you might forget how much chatter there is about day-to-day business—the newsletter, the board elections, the day care. I guess it makes sense. It’s probably why a lot of people bother: the organization, the community, the belonging, the having something to do. A lot of the people here looked like they’d had a hard time fitting in—the blind dyke; the six-foot-four-inch tranny; the hairy bear ravaged by HIV; this kid, Lawrence. As if he were reading my mind, the pastor said, “Most of all, I want to thank God for our sanctuary where everyone is welcome, and where everyone is loved.”

The pastor spoke with a curious accent I couldn’t quite place, southern regal, something like that. He wore his longish hair oiled back so that it bunched up in little curls at the nape. He was about forty-five, elegantly handsome, and clearly had the admiration of his congregation.

There’s no point in my recounting the service. Except for the lesbian couple passing the offering trays and the ushers in leather chaps and the shy tranny giving communion, it was more or less familiar. If it had a theological point of view, it was that Christ loves everyone and that Joseph Smith was right—the churches of the world had moved away from Christ’s true message of universal love. Look at these people here—they were proof of it. “This is why I still believe,” Tom whispered. “This is why I don’t need their temples.”

He pointed out a quotation in the bulletin:

The one who comes to me, I will certainly not cast out
(John 6:37).

(Under that it said, “Please note: All communion stations use grape juice.”)

Next the deacon stood up to give the sermon. “Today I want to talk about love,” she said. Her name was Irene, and she was a sincere person with a limp, practical face. Soon her voice turned to noise in my ear because she was saying what you’d expect: love is the greatest gift, and God’s greatest gift to man was Jesus, and that shows how much he loves us, blog, blog, blog.

“But instead of me telling you what I think love is, I decided to ask my students. So here’s how a few first, second, and third graders define love.” She flipped nervously through her notes.

“The first one’s from Christie, who’s only seven: ‘Last year when my grandma fell and broke her hip she couldn’t paint her toenails anymore. So my grandpa started doing it for her, even after he fell and broke his hip, too. For me, that’s love.’” Everyone laughed and it was so sad and ridiculous I chuckled too.

“And Benjamin, who’s just six, describes it like this: ‘I know someone loves me from how they say my name. Like with my mom and dad, when they say “Benjamin” it’s like my name is safe in their mouth.’” More laughter, and a couple of sentimental aaahs.

“And Catherine, age six, came up with this definition: ‘For the people I love, I’ll always give them the last bite of my ice cream without asking for the last bite of theirs.’”

“And Nancy, who’s only seven but already a wise soul, says, ‘I think the best way to learn how to love someone is to start with someone you hate.’”

And then Irene said the one that caused me—forgive me—to go to mush inside: “Melanie, who’s just four years old, says, ‘When my doggy licks my face, even after I’ve left her outside all day—I know that’s love.’”

I couldn’t take it anymore. Not because they were so corn-dog, which they were, but because they were true. Kids. They always call it as it is. I hated feeling this way. The combo of love and God was supposed to make me puke—so why were my eyes getting all misty?

Two things happened that morning in the Vegas LGBT-friendly ex–Mormon church two miles off the strip (try saying that real fast). First, I got to sit through a sermon holding Tom’s hand. Big fucking deal, I know, but where in the world do you get to do that? Not many places that call themselves houses of the Lord.

Tom leaned over. “Isn’t this nice?”

The second thing was this: halfway through the sermon, the back door opened. Irene stopped and waved. “Come in, don’t be shy.” It was Johnny, his Raiders cap pulled low on his brow. He climbed over a woman to sit between Tom and me.

“You’re such a player,” I whispered.

“You know it, dude.”

Then he listened as Irene read even more definitions of love.