He got off at Hashimoto and hiked a klick into the hills above the town. He didn’t recognize the bend in the river he’d seen in his dream. Maybe it was a station along the Wakayama JR line. What was the name of the college on her sweat top? He stopped a pair of junior high school girls in matching tennis outfits and carrying matching tennis racquets. “Could you tell me where Koya Women’s College is?” he asked in Japanese when they stopped tittering.
“Maybe Kudoyama?” one of them guessed. They didn’t know. So he spent a few more minutes impressing them with his Japanese while they practiced their terrible English.
Two nights later the dream came again. It wasn’t the same dream. But it was about her, the girl on the Nakamozu Nankai. And it ended with their making love with a passionate intensity that resonated deep within his soul. When he awoke the following morning and she was not there beside him, he felt a profound sense of loss. The dreams had awakened a hidden part of him, revealed the existence of something whose absence he’d never missed until now.
Connor hypothesized that he was suffering a delayed Freudian hangover. His libido was simply doing a bit of postpubertal catching up. The problem was the amount of detail in the dreams. He knew he didn’t know what he seemed to know. Not about Kudoyama. Not about her (whoever she was). And certainly not about sex. Nothing in his personal experience —not even Billy Bragg's embellished accounts of the backseat romps in his cherry-red Camaro—could have provided him with the substance of these dreams.
Connor was still a virgin. Common enough among Mormons his age. Curiosity won out over guilt. He wished for the dreams to return and they did, though unpredictably. In the dreams Connor and the girl never spoke. The people in the dreams had plenty of things to say to each other, though he was deaf to them. After that moment of breathless ecstasy, he forced himself awake, forced himself away from her. And then lay on his futon and wondered—wondered who, wondered why, wondered if this was what an intimate, physical relationship was really like.
Two weeks before he left Japan the dreams faded. When he left Japan they ended.
More than the dreams, he missed her. Her warmth and presence. But ultimately he was relieved (or so he told himself) when the dreams did not return. He put it down to some sort of long-delayed returned-missionarystress-syndrome, and so becalmed the vexations of moral Calvinism stirring in his Mormon soul.
Connor began Summer term comfortably settled into the BYU bachelor life of the thoroughly chaste. The girl he’d dated on-again, off-again his senior year had gotten engaged to somebody else during his absence. He was enormously relieved.
Even at the time, she’d been a good Mormon girl, he’d been a good Mormon boy, and they’d permitted themselves at most a spark of light petting. Bishops, Connor knew, possessed an olfactory sensitivity to pheromones. They could smell sex, and Connor rested assured he smelled like buffed linoleum.
“Dating anybody new?” The bishop asked the question lightly, meaning that Connor ought to be, but he wouldn’t hold it against him if he wasn’t.
Connor replied with a self-deprecating grin.
The bishop walked him to the door. “I don’t want you to think I’m getting on your case. Truth is, the best things often come when we’re not trying so hard to get them.”
Connor wasn’t trying at all. Not trying was easy too.
But the night after he renewed his temple recommend with the stake president, the night before Summer term began, the dreams returned. He sat up in the darkness, dazed by an acuteness of sensation that was almost painful. Japan had never been like this.
He hadn’t mentioned the dreams in his interviews. He wasn’t into confession. Bringing up the dreams would only make things worse. What did you do? they’d ask him. Because every problem had a cause.
But he couldn’t explain what he didn’t understand himself. I looked at a girl on a station platform in Japan. That’s all. Swear to God. Still, he applied all the remedies prescribed in situations like this. Because every problem had a solution.
1. Prayer.
2. Cold showers.
3. Reading himself to sleep with scripture.
4. Reading The Miracle of Forgiveness.
5. Watching late night television (Nightline, last half of Letterman, first half of Conan O’Brien) until his mind was as blank as a test pattern.
God, Connor was certain, would develop a guilty conscience reading The Miracle of Forgiveness. To be sure, he hadn’t broken any major commandments while under Billy Bragg’s tutelage, though he’d thrown rocks at a few. But when the dreams came, they came no matter what. Not much of a chance of keeping sin from the door when it had directions and the key.
Only after climaxing could he tear himself away. Panting, soaked with sweat, fiercely angry at this loss of control. Yet grasping again for that welcome and wonderful unreality. The scent of her hair, the salt in her sweat as he kissed the smooth rise of her breast, the traces on his skin where her body pressed against his— lingered like a gentle sunburn. Hours later, studying in the library under the frigid blast of the air conditioning vents, he’d have to go outside and stand in the hot Utah sun and seek out an equilibrium of body heat.
Chapter 3
Senior Companion
A knock and the bedroom door opened. A shaft of light spilled into the room. Melanie asked, “Elly, are you all right?” Elly sat up as if shocked by a cattle prod. She touched her cheek. Her skin was damp with tears. Yes, she was awake. She was in her bed, in the condo on Ninth East she shared with Melanie Crandall, her once and forever senior companion. Elly put her hand on her chest and felt her heart pounding inside her rib cage. She took a deep breath, exhaled.
Melanie stepped into the room. “I thought I heard you moaning, like you were sick or something.”
Elly’s face flushed red hot. Thank goodness Mel hadn’t turned on the light. She looked at Mel’s blurred figure silhouetted there in the doorway. “I—I’m fine. It’s just that—I don’t know—for a minute I guess I forgot where I was. You know, still in Japan.”
Melanie smiled. “Yeah, jet lag. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay, Mel.” She repeated herself in Japanese for emphasis, “Heiki desu.” Saying it aloud did make her feel better.
“I’m going jogging. Want to come?”
“No. And I don’t want to tomorrow either. Really.”
“Hmph,” said Melanie. “Not all of us gaijin are blessed with those skinny genes you Japanese girls have.”
“A-kan-beh—” Elly said, sticking out her tongue. “Anyway I’m haafu.”
“Then you got the half that counts. I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Put on a couple of eggs when you get up, would you?”
“Yes, senpai.”
A year and a half ago, Melanie Crandall had been her first senior companion. Her senpai. And in Japan, once a senpai, always a senpai. Not that Elly minded the relationship playing out that way. Two weeks after her mission ended, she’d flown back to Utah to start Summer term at BYU. It was too much change in too short a time. But Melanie had taught her how to be a missionary. Now Elly hoped Mel could teach her to be a normal person again.
After the past several months in Japan, she was looking forward to a large dose of normality.
There were the dreams, to start with. At the end of the long, hot days, she found herself looking forward to the dreams. She looked forward to them, even knowing that in the morning she would be left haunted and alone, plagued with guilt, wondering in what deep, dark well of sin these dreams had been born.
And then there was Susan.
Pairing up with Susan Eliason, her last companion, had been a “favor” to the mission president, President Takada, which only proved that no good deed went unpunished. A year into her mission, Susan had been Dear Jane’d by her fiancé, who had the gall to write that he was sure it was an inspired decision.
Elly knew that if God had anything to do with it, God would have told the jerk to wait another three months.
So instead of being assigned a greenie to train, Elly’s task was to persuade her companion to see things through. Their first week together, Elly had to restrain herself from smacking her and yelling, “Snap out of it!” like Cher in Moonstruck. But she didn’t figure that was what President Takada had in mind.
She tried empathy instead. Susan was delighted when Elly told her that she’d hardly ever dated before her mission (true). She certainly didn’t have anybody waiting for her (true). But Susan chalked Elly’s abstention up to an iron will and concluded they were kindred spirits. Elly didn’t bother dissuading her. Yes, men didn’t deserve them. Yes, men were pond scum. Yes, their brains were in their pants. A pox on all their houses.
Elly didn’t tell Susan about the dreams. She had a hard enough time telling herself. And then her mission ended and she went home to Kobe, where her father was the mission president. (Somebody in the Missionary Department must not have compared notes.) Traveling from the Osaka Mission Home to the Kobe Mission Home was all of a forty minute train ride. But the dreams haunted her less.
And then they stopped.
Now they were back.
Somehow, when she was in Japan, she’d never cried out in her dreams. The feelings and the intensity had never been as strong as now. Shimatta. Where had she picked up that expression? But her heartbeat quickened even as she cursed the beautiful, intoxicating dreams.
The front door opened and closed. Melanie trotted into the kitchen. Her hair was fashionably disheveled, her face streaked with sweat. Still, she looked great. Melanie could run the Boston Marathon and cross the finish line looking like she’d jogged around the corner to get a quart of milk. She tossed the Daily Herald on the table, peeled off her sweat top and draped it across the chair back.
Elly couldn’t understand why Melanie was always teasing her about her (lack of) weight. The only fat Elly could see on Melanie’s body was right where it was supposed to be, tightly contained within her sports bra. She had a chest that Elly envied, breasts that actually got noticed.
One day while they were proselyting Melanie said to her, “You know what I like about being on a mission? I don’t have to spend an hour every morning preparing to face the world. All that time wasted getting ready for dates—what a relief!”
“But you look great now!” Elly exclaimed. It was a good thing Melanie didn’t make herself up, or she’d draw a crowd for entirely the wrong reasons. Japanese schoolgirls constantly asked her, “Are you a model?”
Melanie shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose.” She rarely resorted to false humility. “But girls like me attract the sort of men who expect us to look like this all the time. I guess I got used to living up to their expectations.”
Melanie had taken a more realistic measure of men’s expectations since her mission, and had modified her vanity schedule accordingly. Simply having a pulse, she exceeded the expectations of most men.
Elly drained the water out of the saucepan, added cold water, and set the pan on the table. “Mugi-cha?”
“Please.”
She poured two cups of barley tea, then sat down at the table and took a sip. “Mel,” she said, “mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“D z .” Melanie pushed aside the paper and picked up an egg. She hit it once on the table and rolled it between her palms.
“Have you ever, you know, with a boy—”
Melanie flashed her a look of mock horror. “Elly, how could you think such a thing! I’m not that kind of girl!”
“No, no, no. I didn’t mean that. I meant, like, when you were in high school—”
“You mean, making out?”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s just that, all those Young Women’s lessons, they were always so abstract. I wasn’t very socially active in high school. I’m not saying my Christmas Cake is going stale tomorrow. Well, maybe it is. But even in Japan, girls don’t start panicking when they turn twenty-five anymore, and—”
Melanie allowed herself a wistful smile. “To tell the truth, Elly, I was that kind of girl. Okay, not that kind of girl. But I was in the ballpark. If not on the field, then in the stands keeping the box scores. Salt and pepper, kudasai.”
Elly slid the shakers across the table. “I followed the rules. Most of the rules. The important rules. I didn’t start really dating until I was sixteen. I did date non-Mormon boys. And allowed them a few more liberties than I should have. But I kept it above the waist.” She smiled again. “It wasn’t hard drawing the line in high school. Teenage boys are so immature. Being an early bloomer makes the contrast so obvious. And I promised myself that I would only marry a returned missionary.”
She passed the salt and pepper back to Elly. “The only time I really let myself be tempted was during my sophomore year. I had myself an honest-to-goodness returned missionary. Shawn Nance. A real nice guy. Marrying him wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world. I got his wedding announcement on my mission. I was very happy for him.”
“How tempted?” Elly asked a bit too breathlessly.
Melanie shrugged. “Let’s just say that on more than one occasion we were rounding second base, headed for third. I’m sure it looked like an inthe-park home run.”
Melanie was a Physical Education major. She’d played fast-pitch softball in high school.
“But you didn’t—”
She shook her head. “You see, all those Young Women’s lessons, they were custom-made for me. Like giving me my own third-base coach saying: Hold up, hold up. The cut-off man’s got a strong arm.”
“What’s a cut-off man?”
“The guy who relays the ball from the outfielder to the catcher. Anyway, the moral scold in my head made me pause and say to myself, Melbaby, home plate is still there. It’s going to be there tomorrow. It’s going to be there the day after. Don’t rush it. So, I went on a mission. I know bishops aren’t supposed to encourage girls to go on missions, but Bishop Broadbent was convinced that sooner or later I would be the downfall of some good elder. He was more than happy to see me off to anyplace-buthere.” She finished her egg. “Pretty lame reason, no?”
“Better than mine.”
Melanie shrugged. “Guys don’t need a reason, they just do it. It’s a giri thing. I say, any reason a woman’s got is better than your-girlfriend-won’tmarry-you-unless-you-do.”
Elly smiled. She’d long ago resigned herself to the fact that she’d never have a body like Melanie’s. But common sense didn’t depend on genes or fashion sense.
Melanie read her thoughts and shook her head. “You’re a lucky girl, Elly. You’re smart and you’re real cute. But you don’t walk around with your own portable klieg light shining on you. You don’t have to wonder whether the boy who falls for you hasn’t fallen in love with the thought of how good he looks with you. With me, men begin with this and these.” She pointed at her nose, Japanese fashion, and then at her breasts. “And I can only let them down when they get to the other categories.” Elly said, “I really don’t think they care.”
“I know. That’s the problem. I think living up to somebody’s expectations is ultimately easier than living down to them.” She disposed of the egg shells and plucked her sweat top off the chair. “See you in class, girl,” she said and marched off to the shower.
Chapter 4
Sex Education
C onnor’s sex education started at the age of twelve. He was taking maturation at a leisurely pace. With four sisters ahead of him, this was uncharted territory. His parents felt no need to rush things along either. Still, he couldn’t do anything about turning twelve. Twelve was the age at which well-bred Mormon boys became deacons.
Before becoming a deacon, he had to have an interview with Bishop Hodgson, a friendly though timid man about the same age as his father. Bishop Hodgson greeted him with a big smile. “How’re you doing, Connor?” He shook Connor’s hand, patted him on the back.
“Okay,” Connor said, with a shrug. Everything went along smoothly until Bishop Hodgson asked
Connor if he had a problem with masturbation. Except what he actually said was, “So, Connor, you, um, you got a problem, um, with, um, self-abuse?”
Connor had no idea what the nice man was talking about. It sounded like something painful you did to your thumb with a hammer. He hesitated. The bishop grew distinctly discomfited. The way he asked the question, Connor figured it was something he wasn’t supposed to do, so he said he didn’t.
The bishop’s relief was palpable.
On the other hand, Connor’s deacons quorum advisor took to the task of moral education with a breathtaking enthusiasm. Evan Bushnell saw the enemy and the enemy had breasts, an attitude that made priesthood lessons thoroughly engrossing in a gross sort of way.
Example: The high school basketball team is going to the state championships, and they’re staying at this motel. The coach leaves to take care of some business. So they’re all alone. And the cheerleaders drop by. THE CHEERLEADERS! They’re GIRLS! That means DANGER! But do these poor slobs recognize the wolves in sheep’s clothing? NO. Just a bunch of heathen gentiles with their hormones on overdrive.
He had a half-dozen deacons on the edges of their seats. Well? well? THEY ALL HAD SEX!
No kidding!
EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM!
That’s incredible!
BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT I’M TELLING YOU
RIGHT NOW!
Would it have made a difference?
THIS IS A WARNING!
Warnings usually came like that in priesthood, fast balls to the chest.
Oof! Knocked the breath right out of him. The moral of the story had to. Because once he started thinking about the details, he came up with questions like: What high school basketball team around here ever made it to the state championships?
Despite Brother Bushnell’s apocalyptic stories, Connor soon learned that women were unlikely to throw themselves at him unless he first exerted a significant effort in their particular direction. Disappointments in life came like that—in the absence of high drama.
The Path Of Dreams Page 2
