The Infinite Future

by Tim Wirkus

  Thing is, I was a very ambitious kid. I looked at how hard my parents worked, and I looked around at where we lived—you know, how little all that hard work got them (that’s how I saw it, anyway)—and I knew I wanted a more comfortable life for myself, and I knew that college was the best way to do that. That’s how I would better myself. That’s how I’d get ahead in life. Problem was, I knew my parents wouldn’t have any money to send me; some months they could barely put food on the table. I knew that if I wanted to get a university degree, it was all on me. So I started a college fund.

  That was when I was fourteen years old. I told you, I was a very serious kid. Anyway, I did odd jobs around the neighborhood, worked harder in school than I had before, got involved in the honor society, played on the school basketball team—that was a little later, of course—and just did everything I could to give myself a good start.

  Now, my parents raised us in the Church, but religion wasn’t something I gave a lot of thought to as a boy. The state of my soul, what happens after we die, the nature of God—none of that held much interest for me. I was so focused on college and my future, you understand, that Mormonism was mostly an afterthought.

  All of that changed, though, my junior year of high school.

  I had just turned seventeen and was more determined than ever to go to a good college, and I’ll tell you, I was burning the candle at both ends. I don’t think I slept more than five hours a night that school year, I had so many obligations—my classes, the basketball team, student government, my job at the gas station, and then a social life on top of all that. I was young, though, and resilient. Somehow I pulled it off.

  Well, one weekend, for a special stake conference, we were told that Elder Merle G. Roberts of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles would be speaking to us. Obviously, he was before your time, Daniel, but Elder Roberts was such a beloved figure in the Church—a very warm, charismatic man; a former schoolteacher. He had striking, thick white hair, even when he got quite old, and he was an excellent public speaker. He had one of those warm rich voices—an old-fashioned way of speaking that you don’t really hear anymore—and everyone loved the stories he told about growing up in Southern Utah. And his teachings on the gospel—when he expounded on the doctrines of the Church, he did it so clearly and lovingly that even a child could follow along. Our stake was very excited, then, that he would be visiting us.

  And it was an interesting thing. When he met with our stake president in preparation for the conference, Elder Roberts told him that he’d received a strong impression the night before that in conjunction with this conference, he should speak one-on-one with all the high-school-aged young men of the stake.

  Our stake president said that of course he’d be happy to make the arrangements, which was how, a few days later, I came to be sitting in the office of Elder Merle G. Roberts. I’m not going to lie; I wasn’t thrilled to be there. I had so much going on at the time that I’d had to cancel some pressing engagement—a shift at work, maybe, or a study group, I can’t remember for sure—in order to show up at this meeting. Like I said, Daniel, I was just college, college, college at this point in my life.

  Elder Roberts was very gracious, though. He thanked me for making time to see him, and then in that rich warm voice of his, he asked me about my family, he asked me about school, he asked me about the basketball team. He was one of those people, Daniel, who, when I told him about my life, truly listened to what I was saying, listened with his whole being, if that makes sense. I had just told him about my desire to attend college when Elder Roberts nodded thoughtfully. He paused for a moment, and then he asked me if I planned to serve a mission.

  The honest answer was no, but I told him that I would like to, the only problem was that I didn’t know if I or my family could afford it. Back then, missions weren’t quite as strongly encouraged as they are today, so my position was not necessarily unusual. At any rate, Elder Roberts nodded at my answer and then asked me if I had a job. I told him I did. He asked me what I did with the money I earned. I told him I saved most of it. Like I’d said, I had hopes of attending college after I finished high school.

  Elder Roberts told me this was to be commended, and then he paused. He paused for so long, actually, that I wondered if I should leave. At one point his head was down and his eyes were closed, and I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. Just when I was about to say something, though, he opened his eyes.

  He said, “Craig, I feel prompted to make you a promise. I recognize that it won’t be easy for you to gather sufficient funds to serve a mission, but it will be possible if you’re willing to make a sacrifice. You’ve been saving money for an education, and as I said, that is commendable. I would challenge you, though, to consecrate that money instead to pay for a mission. While serving the Lord, you’ll be educated by the Spirit and you’ll bless the lives of countless souls. I promise you that, Craig. I also promise you that if you make this sacrifice, the Lord will ensure that you receive the college education you desire. So, Craig”—he paused, smiling kindly—“will you consecrate two years of your life to serving the Lord as a full-time missionary?”

  This caught me completely off guard. As I said, I’d had no plans to serve a mission, and yet as I listened to Elder Roberts’s invitation, I felt a warmth spreading through my chest, a strong impression that what he said was true.

  • • •

  Craig’s eyes shone and I felt a once familiar warmth in my own chest, a resonant sympathy with Craig’s sincere conviction.

  “Still,” he went on, “I wanted so badly to attend college, and if I did serve a mission, where would I find the money for school? Wouldn’t I end up just like my father, working long hard hours at a wage that could barely support a family?

  “Then again, I couldn’t deny what I was feeling. I told Elder Roberts I’d need a little time to think it over, and he said that sounded like a good idea. He thanked me for my time and wished me the best in all my pursuits.”

  Craig wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, and I held as still as possible, not wanting to disrupt this heavy moment.

  “I have to say, Daniel, that it wasn’t an easy decision to make,” he continued. “Every morning and every night for a month after that meeting, I prayed to know if what Elder Roberts said was true. And I don’t want to go into too much detail—certain things are too personal and precious to be widely shared—but I can tell you that I did receive an answer, and that answer was that I needed to serve a mission.

  “I followed Elder Roberts’s counsel, and just as he’d promised, I had a tremendous experience as a missionary serving the people of New Zealand. Not only that, but I also received the education I’d so strongly desired. After my mission, I attended BYU on a scholarship, and from there I went to law school at Michigan. During those years I was blessed immensely. I had to work hard, and I certainly didn’t have much money, but I always had sufficient for my needs.

  “And you know, Daniel—you’ve served a mission, you’ve been a member of the Church your whole life, and I’m sure you could tell me similar stories of how you’ve been blessed by following the counsel of latter-day prophets. It’s a thrilling time we live in, to have the Lord’s Church restored on the Earth and prophets who receive regular, divine inspiration to guide us back to the Father.

  “What breaks my heart, then, is when you get these members of the Church who look at our leaders, and all they can do is criticize and find fault. You know who I mean—oftentimes it’s these academics or these feminists who think they know better than the men God called to lead His church. And it really is tragic, because not only are these brothers and sisters cutting themselves off from divine revelation—from the truth—but they’re also trying to cut others off as well. And the fact of the matter is, Daniel, that people like that need a wakeup call. For their own good, and for the good of others. They need God’s blessings just as much as I do and you do, and t
o receive those blessings they need to receive the counsel of the prophets.

  “I’m a cause-and-effect guy, Daniel, and I can tell you that every blessing I’ve ever received has been predicated on my obedience to God’s counsel. I’ve led a full, happy life because I’ve followed the leaders of the Church. When other people fail to live up to that potential, then, when they stubbornly refuse to receive that happiness, the most merciful thing you can do is try to snap them out of it, get them to see the stumbling stones they’ve placed in their own path. So do you see why I’m concerned, Daniel, that you’re spending all this time with someone like Harriet Kimball?”

  Warmth leaching from my chest, I said, “But I’m not really—”

  “No,” said Craig. “You don’t need to make excuses.”

  “But—”

  “Daniel,” he said firmly, lifting his hand. “It seems to me that you’ve reached a crossroads in life, and all I’m asking you to do is to consider the state of your heart. Will you do that for me?”

  In spite of all the bombast, I couldn’t help but feel drawn to what Craig was saying. Here, finally, was someone who had his life together, a man who knew what he knew, and who wasn’t going to be swayed from it. Here was someone solid, and while I may not have agreed with every single thing he’d just said, I couldn’t argue with the general air of security that surrounded him.

  “Yes,” I said. “I will.”

  “Good,” said Craig, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He looked at his watch. “Wow, I’ve really been talking your ear off! Can I steal you for a few more minutes, by chance?”

  I looked at my phone. Still no text from Harriet.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t want to keep you, though, if you need to be getting ready for your trip.”

  “No, no—I’m fine,” said Craig. “But there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about before you go.”

  “Okay,” I said, unsure what else there was to discuss.

  Craig clasped his hands together and laid them on his sweatpant-clad leg.

  “This morning on the phone, your dad was telling me a little about your situation,” he said, emphasizing that last word as if to underscore that situation was the nicest term he could use to describe the mess my life had become. “And I hope I’m not overstepping here, but it sounds to me like you could use a better job.”

  “A better job would be nice,” I said carefully.

  I wondered again where he was going with this.

  “Here’s what I propose,” said Craig. “I’m going to Ireland for a month, but I can set the wheels in motion to hire you as a filing clerk at my firm. I know you’re probably qualified for better, but it’s a place to start, and it’ll give you a taste of how a law office works, because what you need to do, in my opinion, is go to law school—put that English degree to practical use. I think you’d be very successful—very happy—as a lawyer.”

  “Wow,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

  You might be tempted to read this moment as a test of my integrity, a will-the-struggling-artist-sell-out-his-ideals kind of thing, but here’s the truth of it: I hated writing fiction—despised it—and although I’d enjoyed the few translations I’d done of Salgado-MacKenzie’s short stories, that kind of work held no appeal for me, not as an actual career. Because by that point in my life, I wasn’t looking for artistic fulfillment, or whatever it is you want to call that wispy mirage I’d been chasing with my failed novel. I say “wispy mirage,” but I know exactly what I’d been pursuing; I’m just too embarrassed to say it, even after all these years. What I wanted was to forge in the smithy of my heart the unformed conscience of my people, or however that line from Portrait of the Artist goes. I wanted to write the Great Mormon Novel. But that really wasn’t working out for me, so what I wanted now—what I wanted more than anything—was power.

  I realize that sounds like something a James Bond villain might say, so let me clarify. I didn’t want a disproportionate amount of power—no metal-toothed henchman or volcano lair for me. No, all I wanted was the kind of power Craig D. Ahlgren had wielded earlier when he’d composed that terse, bluff-calling letter to Wayne Fortescue. The words he wrote could actually do something in the world, unlike the pages and pages of fiction I’d produced. They had served as nothing more than deadweight in my pathetic downward trajectory.

  I was tired of being at the mercy of crackpots and hucksters, of living in a storage room below a doughnut shop and eating microwave chicken potpies for dinner every night. During my undergrad years, I’d been so dismissive of my law-school-aspiring classmates, feeling smugly superior about my own more noble vocation. Now I could see that the pre-law kids had been right all along. There was nothing noble in penury and failure.

  It was in that moment, as I considered Craig’s job offer, that I understood the true danger of The Infinite Future. A book like that could destroy me, not through esoteric theologies or musty curses, but through its inveterate elusiveness. I could spend the rest of my life searching and hoping for a book like that to fill my life with meaning, but ultimately what would it bring me? It would bring me a life like Sérgio’s or Harriet’s, a life spent in the cramped, subterranean office of a university library, for instance, or in an isolated cabin in Danesville, Utah—the type of grim confinement where all prisoners of a certain type of idealism eventually end up serving their self-righteous sentences. That kind of confinement had felt inevitable to me, but now, talking with Craig D. Ahlgren in his lovely dining room, I realized I didn’t have to end up like Sérgio or like Harriet. If I wanted to, I could still make something of my life. And I did want to.

  “That sounds great,” I said. “I’d really appreciate that.”

  “You’ll come work for me then?” said Craig.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will.”

  “So it’s agreed,” he said, obviously pleased to have helped out.

  “Yes,” I said and Craig shook my hand, his grip warm and sure.

  XIII

  Three days later, on the penultimate weekend of October 2009, Harriet and I sat waiting on a bench in front of the Spud Diner in Fremont Creek, Idaho. Inside the diner, Sérgio—deep in the grips of a formidable disappointment—sulked his way through a cheeseburger combo meal. The search had not been going well.

  We’d arrived Tuesday evening to discover that the address from Roger Ash’s Rolodex was now occupied by a shabby little video rental place: framed posters of ten-year-old movies taped to the dusty front windows, display shelves containing more dead flies than DVD cases, a half-deflated Mylar balloon tethered limply to the cash register. The proprietor had never heard of Eduard Salgado-MacKenzie. He had only been living in Fremont Creek for a few years, in fact, having more or less inherited the video rental place from an old friend who’d unexpectedly died. He suggested we ask around town, though—who could say what we might find?

  Over the next three days, then, we’d visited city hall, the chamber of commerce, the Fremont Creek city archives, the police station, and the one-room office of the local paper, the Fremont Creek Crier. We’d talked to every shop owner, restaurateur, hunting guide, bartender, ex-mayor, local character, and octogenarian we could find, and not a single one of them knew or remembered any Brazilians or science-fiction writers who’d lived among them. Given the size of the town (1,237 residents, their WELCOME TO FREMONT CREEK sign proudly proclaimed), it seemed pretty likely that if no one recalled the name Salgado-MacKenzie, he hadn’t lived there long, if at all.

  We had learned that the video rental place was once a barbershop and that the more transient residents of the town used to have their mail delivered there. And so we’d spoken to every former employee of the barbershop still living. Like most citizens of Fremont Creek, these former barbershop employees—men and women in their twilight years—answered our questions with a perfunctory friendliness that belied a yawning indifference to us
and our quest. Before arriving in town, I’d wondered if we might be met with suspicion or even hostility here, but the reality was, nobody even cared enough to treat us as the nosy and bothersome outsiders we were.

  At any rate, none of the former barbershop employees could remember receiving letters for an Eduard Salgado-MacKenzie.

  By Friday afternoon, then, we were running low on new places to look and people to talk to, and it was becoming harder and harder to deny that in a day and a half Sérgio would fly home empty-handed. The situation, in other words, was grim.

  It should be noted, though, that there are much worse places to watch a dream die than Fremont Creek, Idaho. That, at least, was what Sérgio had kept saying during our first couple of days in town, although by day three he sounded less and less convinced each time he repeated the sentiment, until finally he stopped saying it altogether.

  He wasn’t wrong, though. In a lesser location, this petering out of a lifelong quest would feel all the more pathetic for the uninspired surroundings. Here, though, the failure had a Wagnerian heft to it. Just north of town was a wide, Rhinemaiden-friendly bend in the Snake River, and to the east were the craggy peaks of the Teton Range, where Valkyries might gather to do whatever it is that Valkyries do at the tops of impressive mountains. What I’m saying is, majesty oozed from the surrounding countryside—orange-leafed groves of quaking aspens, vast plots of rich farm soil, striking gray basalt cliffs—positively soaking our sorry enterprise with a vicarious grandeur.

  Still, though, failure is failure, which is why Sérgio was currently sitting alone in the Spud Diner eating his feelings with a side of curly fries while Harriet and I waited out front, having sensed that our Brazilian friend could use a few minutes to himself.