“Maribelle.”
“Hey if you want to come to the church Wednesday night, there are games and sometimes, there’s food.”
“Cool. I’ll see. Sorry again.” She went away, and I turned and went to the next house. Then, the next. I had forgotten my hunger and was one with the street, the sky, and with God. I passed more green lawns and white doors and blue paneling. Even the dirt seemed to fall in the right places. Everything was carefully and deliberately manicured and perfect, just like the paradise we all wanted. Just then, I realized I hadn’t had a dirty thought since meeting Maribelle.
It wasn’t until after I ate that I realized I hadn’t asked for her number. Sunday post-fast pork chops were heaven on earth, and the rolls and butter blend washed down with lemonade turned into nectar that was inebriated. I waddled to my room and found her number in a ward directory. Maribelle responded that she would join me that Wednesday, and already I thought about what she would wear. I thought tight white shorts would give her shape. I thought about her thighs and her ankles—her legs! The way they wrapped around the wet heart between. She would see me when I passed the sacrament with my white shirt, polished shoes, and slicked hair.
For Wednesday activity, boys and girls were separate for the first hour, then together for the second. I drove with two sisters and an older brother. Peterson was at the door wearing green gym shorts and an old Utah Jazz jersey. Maribelle flashed across the hall, her dark hair trailing like a shadow. She was there with a friend, of course. If I could see more of her here, in these hallowed halls, she would see me for the good boy I am.
The church building contained a whole life in its litany of stages. Passing the mother’s room where they take their newborns, there was a nursery for toddlers, complete with a tiny toilet. There was a classroom for each age group from infancy to adulthood. On the other side of the gym, 18-year-olds prepared to be missionaries. At the center of it all, attached to the gym, was the revenant room: the chapel, where nobody went during Wednesday activity. The room remained generally untouched outside of Sunday, with the exception of the Saturday cleaning crew.