We couldn’t be what we wanted. Weeks included boy scouts, church prep, church, game night, and the same the next week. We rode in boats and helicopters, paintballed, camped in the mountains, played sand volleyball. We dreamed of high school girls. Community men looked after us and told us about a God that watched our thoughts. They taught us the songs of salvation, where to look, what to say, and how to be right.
“At every beginning is an urge, and subduing urges and keeping your hands to yourself is crucial to this process,” said Peterson, our assigned adult leader.
“Which process?” said someone.
Peterson looked like he’d lost 13kg overnight. His eyes sunk into a face that sloped down an Irish chin and disappeared into a fist-sized neck. He shielded his hands with his eyes as he spoke as if he was avoiding our youthful splendor.
“I remember when I was your age,” said a man in the corner wearing a dark suit. “When I was your age, I needed the gospel like a horse needs its bridle.” He stood and wrote the word AROUSAL on the chalkboard. He considered the word for a few seconds in silence. Peterson sat. Two girls braided their hair, and two others took notes. A girl nearest to the teacher crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. I followed her legs up as far as her white dress would let me, and I thought about underneath. I could hear other boys breathing. No one looked at me.
“Young men and young women, do you know why a horse needs his bridle?” asked the tall man.
“Are any of you familiar with the bit?” He held a finger sideways to his mouth. “It’s the part that the horse fights the most, but it controls him. It tells him where to go. At first, he’ll resist, but horses need the bit to know where to go. The bridle gives the rider control of the horse. When we use the gospel for a bit and let God take control, we are less likely to make mistakes. But we mess up, don’t we boys? I know all about disobedient horses. A horse without its bridle will run any which way, just like a teenager without the gospel will let their heart betray them.”
He peered down at me like a bird. “Next week you’ll all be at my place to ride some horses.”
The class broke and we walked to the chapel to reunite with our families. The girl in the white dress swung her bag. I moved behind her and bumped her leg with my bible case. “Hey,” she said. “Why would you do that?” I didn’t answer. She frowned and turned away.
The chapel had two dozen red-padded rows in three sections. We opened a book to sing about Jesus’s life. A woman led the prayer on the pulpit in the front while we bowed our heads and said amen in agreement. A khaki-colored man stood up with some announcements. Sister Baker’s mother passed. “We’d like to welcome the newest member to our ward, Bradley Shoehorn. Last Wednesday, young Bradley was baptized.” A boy a few grades younger than me stood up to receive a plaque with his name in gold lettering. He shook the khaki man’s hand and then stepped down to join his family.
We sang about Jesus’s body. We delivered bread. Babies coughed and mothers whispered. Husbands and sons and daughters closed their eyes, as instructed, and thought about Jesus bleeding from every pore.
We passed out water, and I thought about how I looked standing at the edge of the rows. I re-tucked my shirt, sucked my gut, and straightened my tie knot in case any girls watched. I gave the water tray with little cups to a mother at the end of the pew, then looked around for crossed legs in a white dress. Near the back row, there she was, the girl from class, quelling three small children that kept breaking the sacrament silence. Complete serenity was hard to ask from a room full of young families. Babies cried during the time to think about Jesus crying, and mothers sighed during the time to think about Jesus’ suffering.
After the sacrament, we sat in more silence. Silence was like the cousin that hugged too long. My pants itched and my stomach growled because today was the first Sunday of the week, meaning we fasted 24 hours or two full meals. Members then donated what they would otherwise spend on a meal to a fund for the needy and unemployed, overseen by the bishop.
Bishop Rayven stood and grabbed the microphone. An American flag in his lapel gleamed. His fat settled at the bottom of his gut, making him appear like a football. “We’d like to thank everyone who participated in the administering of the sacrament. We remind you that this time is to reflect on Christ and how you can come closer to him. I know that Christ is alive today and he watches over each and every one of us. I know he answers prayers both large and small, from finding keys to protecting us in car accidents. As long as we live right, God will protect us from danger.” Mom wiped a tear from her eye and sniffled.
Peterson approached the pulpit. His eyes had sunken a half an inch since class. He made a joke about learning the hard way to not start a fast before yard work. In the corner sat Peterson’s wife and son—I’d never seen his son before. He sat with elbows on his knees, and he had a diamond in each ear. Peterson cleared his throat and looked above all of our foreheads. Scarlet rims surrounded his eyes.
“I’m grateful that my son could be with us. He’s back from treatment, and hopefully, we’ll be seeing more of him.” Peterson rubbed his eyes. “Today my message is short. I know that we all have temptation, and,” he paused, “I have temptation.” He looked at his son. “Through the years I have learned that inspiration comes from abandonment. I have to abandon my prejudice, my resentment.” He paused to wipe his eyes. He told a story about backpacking with his wife in college. “I waited to kiss her until after she married me, out of respect.” He closed with the message that we all make mistakes, and we can all become clean through Christ. He looked right at me, and at everyone. “You and me, we know when we need to repent. God gives us feelings like gifts that we can either accept or reject.”
Peterson closed his talk in the name of Christ and then stepped down to sit next to his son, squeezing him close. When a man in a gray suit stood, mom leaned close and whispered, “He’s the stake president,” meaning he was a rank above bishops. He was a man elected by another man, elected by a group of men chosen by God. He’d seen the sins of the congregation. He knew who cheated on whom, and who stole, lied, or coveted. He concerned himself with the masturbatory and heavy petting practices of young people.
President Farkus removed a tissue from beside the pulpit and wiped the sweat from his brow and neck face. Some of the soggy tissue stuck to his chin. Mom wiped her face as well. President Farkus told a story about a man who had to kill an evil king to save the village. God told the man, as he held a sword over the king’s fat neck, that it’s better for one man to die than a whole civilization to sin. The man killed the king and followed God’s command, demonstrating that when right and wrong aren’t clear, the best decision is to listen to God.
After the meeting, I met at the bishop’s office with the other boys my age. We took donation envelopes to all the members of the ward and collected checks for the amount donated during their fast. I took my packet of 20 envelopes and began walking down the street towards the first row of houses. Some of these families hadn’t been to church in years. I avoided cracks as I walked, and I hoped a woman of God would see me.
The first address had a winding stone path that led to a front door with a metal gate. There was yelling, then a slam. The door opened, and a short man without a shirt asked who I was. His breath smelled like cleaner. “Um, I’m from the church down the street.”
The man turned and shouted “Hey! They sent the church; can you believe it?”
“I’m here for donations.” The man closed the door halfway and stepped towards somebody.
“He’s from the church and he wants money, and all you do is sit. Why don’t you give him some of your money?”
He slammed the door and I stood for a minute, wondering if he was preparing a check. When nobody responded, I looked at the second family envelope. The Neilsons, who I knew from class. Inside, brother Neilson asked about sports and school and girls while his wife grabbed a couple of 20s from the bedroom. “No use in these checks anyway,” he said. He bid me on my way and I had thirteen more donations to collect.
My empty stomach sent empty-cloud thoughts to my head when what I needed were clean wits for dialogue. The sun was prickly and the sidewalk perpetually uphill, and I thought about my future calling as a Priest Quorum First Counselor, the 16-year-old right-hand man to the bishop. Mom would buy me a new suit; Dad would buy me whatever he first saw online. I hoped for shoes. The hill turned steeper, and the shoes I wore were old and heavy, and peeling like pigs from too many miles.
Mom said old shoes were the missionary relics and that I should cherish them. I wondered if Christ thought about shoes this way. With all that dirt road walking, he must have said something about shoes. Feet cleaning would have been thrice-daily maintenance. I heard a comedian say masturbating was like maintenance for men, just so they could focus on other things. I heard it years ago, but it stayed in my brain for no reason.
I trudged through small gardens and lawns as perfect as families. Large trucks and garages were full of tools. When dad wasn’t at the office, he was working on home projects using tools he bought from his time at the office. This Sunday afternoon walk was a glimpse into the near future. Me, an F-150 owner with a blonde wife that tends the children and redecorates. Maybe she’ll paint our front door yellow, or an exciting red, depending on the color of the paneling. She would wear a white dress that slipped so far up her leg that she would have to pull it down. It was easy to get a boner when hungry, so I stayed focused up the street, placing one foot in front of another. I was doing God’s will.
I passed brass door knockers and tiny windmills in front gardens. White pillars with grown ivy lined front porches. I knocked the knocker, and a girl my age opened the door and deferred me to her father, who was in the kitchen fumbling in his wallet. He commented that they are eating breakfast and thank you but we’ll have to fill out the rest of the offering at church. He sent me with a twenty and a signature to the next house.
I waved and she waved, then I was back out with ten envelopes. “Hey!” I turned around and another girl (could it be that I was wanted?) approached. She wore a loose black t-shirt. “You’re from the church?” she said. I looked down at my blue and red striped tie and polished, worn shoes. “Yeah the one down there.”
“I just wanted to say sorry about the yelling back there.” She pointed to the house with the metal gate that slammed in my face.
“No problem.” I held out my hand and she took the shake. Formality felt appropriate. “Tanner.”
“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.
Fate brought Maribelle to the structure of my life, and she ran down the hall, irreverent with a friend. I played basketball with the other boys until we decided to go outside. The breeze was cold and the sky clear, and from here the mountains reminded us of our insignificance.
“This lead ball is impure,” said Peterson, holding a gray musket ball between his fingers. “I say impure because the lead is full of impurities. But not for long.” He sparked a torch with a striker and held it to the musket ball. We craned to see the liquid metal that shimmered like alien material. He poured the liquid into a heart mold. “Notice the slag keeping back, like our sins stay back when we’re purified by Christ.” Peterson held the ingot into the inspection light. The result, a clean heart ingot, free of impurities.” From a bag he removed another heart of the same size but specked with stained black. “Over time, dirty thoughts and acts will tarnish the heart and purifying will require more fire.”
I worried about my heart getting smaller each time it burned. After so much forgiveness, my heart would be like a seed you could smash between fingers. Peterson made hearts for all seven of us, and when he gave me mine, I said thank you and put the warm heart in my pocket, where it would remain for years and would remind me when I needed burning.
That night, as I said my prayers, I knelt and told God about Maribelle. I pictured God’s grandiose throne in gold and white, illuminating. I imagined hundreds of glass globes around the room lit by screens playing moments from my life. The globes rolled freely like someone dropped them from above. One rolled into a scarlet drape. I asked God why scarlet among all this white, and he said to represent blood.
While praying on my knees I thought about pushing my face into Maribelle’s thick hair and smelling the last meal she made, or the last conditioner she used. My front turned stiff and I pushed into the box spring and asked God for the strength to resist temptation. I thought Maribelle tying her hair back, lifting her arms and using her thin fingers to handle herself. I found a space between the box spring and mattress. I told God to forgive me of my filth and I thought about Jesus frowning and reaching his hand into the mortal plane, onto my shoulder. I found a sweet spot between the mattress and box spring with the top padded and the bottom ridged. I’m doing okay. I pressed my hips, then pulled back, then pressed.
The next day, I stopped by the church after school to help clean. My family had already been there an hour, but I would help for the last 30 minutes. Maribelle’s silhouette flashed at the end of the hall. I hurried to the end only to find a closed closet door. Inside, she searched through cleaning products. She whipped around when I opened the door.
“Hey there you are!” she said.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and prayed to forget about the night before.
“I saw that your family signed up to clean today, so I thought I would help. Never done it before, and I wanted my first time to be with—well, to be honest, I needed to get out of the house.”
The words ‘first time’ bounced like tennis balls. “You came to help us clean?”
“Yeah. Is that weird?”
“No way. You’re welcome here.” I thought about what I was supposed to say and said it. I thought of what it must be like in a home with a father who yells and bangs around. “Where are you cleaning now?” “The stage.”
“Mind if I help?” I said.
She leaned against the wall holding a rag and spray bottle, and I thought about holding her wrists above her head and planting a long kiss, just like in the movies.
“Sure,” she said. Behind the chapel was the gym, and behind the gym was the stage. Closed black curtains held silent secrets. The stage door closed and I went for it: I grabbed Maribelle’s small shoulder and turned her to lean in. She put her hand up.
“Sorry. Don’t.”
The air hung like a lame joke. She held her hands together on her lap. “I want to see what this church is about. Your family seems like it has something. You treat each other differently, I don’t know.”
The lights went out. “Anybody in here?” said a voice.
“Yeah,” I shouted, and the lights turned on, despite my wish to sit in the darkness forever.
A few days passed, then church. Mom and Dad and us five kids sat in the third row from the back. I stood up to use the restroom but decided to leave the meeting entirely to take a penitence walk. Funny word, penitence. It means feeling like you’ve done something wrong. Wrong to God. There’s so much he hadn’t addressed, and there’s so much we have to decide about. Penitence, then, is self-prescribed.
I stopped at the corner outside the church and looked down Maribelle’s street. Outside her house stood a for-sale sign, a representation of my impotence. What does it say when the person looking for happiness finds none in me? On the road home I kicked gravel with my heavy shoes. People passed me in their cars, always waving. The Sunday sun was out and it was beautiful. Across the street, people broke the Sabbath at the gas station. Non-Mormon patrons sipped coffee outside a busy cafe, impervious and smiling. Uninvolved birds danced rituals in the trees. Regardless of me, the world turned, and I found myself back at the dinner table, bowing my head for the fifth time that day, thanking God, thanking God.
Tanner Lee lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. His writing appeared in Hobart Pulp, The Daily Drunk, West Trade Review, Weber: The Contemporary West, The Comstock Review, Entropy, and The Cardiff Review. Find him on Twitter at @heytannerlee.