World Gone Water

by Jaime Clarke

  I kept my plan to be baptized Mormon a secret at first; Jenny was wary when I asked to start attending church with her and her family, sensing my motive. “You don’t have to,” she said, though I knew she was thrilled about having me in the pews on Sunday.

  As far as I could discern, the Mormon religion seemed as harmless as any of the others, with the added advantage of securing the ribbon around my relationship with Jenny, whom I began to think of as my wife. We complemented each other nicely, and I noticed that the other Mormon couples did too, the women hanging on the men’s every word, gazing upwardly at them lovingly, laughing at their jokes.

  The first step to becoming Mormon was an interview with the bishop. While I knew the interview was a formality and that the bishop couldn’t thwart my intentions, I considered the audition seriously; my preemptive loathing for the bishop as a potential obstacle powered an authentic performance that persuaded him away from his speculation that I was simply joining for Jenny, and I convinced him that my intentions were true and well considered.

  The next step was a consultation with the missionaries. The elders like to convene with you in your home, but because I knew my first cousin twice removed wouldn’t want Mormons in his living room, I arranged to meet them at Jenny’s cousin’s house. The missionaries took the regular-guy tack with me right away, a shtick they no doubt devised to play up their regional differences: one was from Alaska and one was from Texas. Elder Alaska was the quieter of the two, the foil to many of Elder Texas’s jokes. Once we established that we were just three regular dudes, we proceeded with the business at hand.

  “What do you know about the Church?” Elder Alaska asked.

  I told them what little I’d gleaned from my limited exposure to the Church.

  “We’re ahead of the game,” Elder Texas joked. “We normally spend the first interview correcting mistruths and rumors.” A smile spread across his meaty face.

  Elder Alaska produced a video and we settled onto the couch, Jenny’s cousin and her cousin’s family artfully dodging the front room as they moved silently through the house. The video dramatized the finding of the Book of Mormon, the lost addendum to the Bible, by Joseph Smith in upstate New York, the actor playing Smith effectively portraying piousness. Next the Mormon belief system was detailed: God as the Heavenly Father; Jesus Christ, his son; how Mormons can return to live with God through the atonement of Jesus Christ; the function of the Holy Ghost as a guide to help recognize truth; that the Church of Jesus Christ has been restored on Earth through the Latter-day Saints; how God reveals his wishes through modern prophets (as he did in his own time); and, most appealingly, that by leading an exemplary Mormon life of sacrifice and service, families can be together forever in eternity.

  The elders asked if I had any questions and I shook my head, still absorbing everything I’d learned, connecting the dots between the ideas I’d heard uttered at dances and on Sundays and among the Mormons I’d known, the key to their secret language finally revealed. The question the elders were really asking was if I believed what I’d just seen—I imagined they were on the hook if they let a nonbeliever join for nefarious purposes, like wanting to marry another Mormon—but the question of belief didn’t enter my mind. Sure, some of the LDS principles were hokey, but I weighed losing Jenny against having to pretend to believe in an afterlife and decided that the latter was nothing matched against the sorrow of the former. And so I accepted the pamphlets filled with supporting information and signed up for the conversion process, which consisted of a set number of meetings with the elders to prepare myself for baptism. Jenny’s cousin was gracious to offer up her living room for these sessions so that I could continue my study in secret. By then, I was less concerned about my first cousin twice removed than I was about Talie finding out. For her part, Jenny continued to prod me with questions meant to ensure that I was acting of my own free will, my answers becoming more and more demonstrative as I pretended to embrace the Church.

  The day of my baptism finally arrived. I’d chosen Jenny’s father to perform the baptism, which involved full immersion into a tub of water. Arriving early Sunday morning, I sat in my car in the parking lot, the gravity of what I was about to do occurring to me for the first time. The absence of any family or close friends would not be a signal to the other members of the congregation, but I felt their absence and wondered if there was a tenable exit strategy. The fall from trying to convince Jenny that I was committed to our future to standing on the doorstep of conversion had been fast, and I looked around, a little shaken by what I’d done. Jenny’s family arrived and I switched on the autopilot, smiling and shaking her father’s hand. The parking lot soon filled with well-wishers and those brothers and sisters who made a sport of attending baptisms.

  I waited in a small room attached to the baptism chamber, whose front opened out into the chapel. Jenny’s father entered with our baptism suits, a one-piece long-underwear type garment that left little to the imagination. We both suited up and Jenny’s father stepped into the knee-deep lukewarm water in the baptismal tub. He asked me if I was ready and I nodded that I was, wanting to be over and done with the embarrassing ceremony. The shield on the baptism chamber went up, revealing a gallery of smiling faces, ready to accept me into their fold. I looked away, not wanting them to be able to read my face or that I was preoccupied with how exactly my frame was going to fit into a tub the size of a small whirlpool. My concerns proved to be real when, during the ceremony, Jenny’s father leaned me back for submersion and we both toppled into the water, his small arms unable to hold me as I fell backward. The crowd didn’t react, and Jenny’s father and I bounced up, drenched, the first part of the ceremony over.

  The second stage of the baptism involved me ascending the pulpit to deliver my conversion speech, a talk I hadn’t worked out in advance. I began by listing the litany of nice things I knew about Mormons, naming the Mormons I personally knew, breezing through Jenny’s name so as not to give rise to speculation. I knew the crowd was anticipating my humbling, an act I understood from the missionaries (who were in attendance as the two required witnesses) was as much a part of the baptism process as the submersion. My eyes teared as a surprise homily about the importance of family and friends issued forth. The ghosts of everyone I’d ever known and would never know again floated through me as I completely broke down, sobbing, gasping phrases about how nice it was to be among so many caring people.

  I Give a Handout

  Some women don’t know how well they’ve been treated. When Jane comes back, she’s going to owe me a truckload of apology. If she tries to start up with another guy, she is going to see right away how superior utopian love is. Most men are only out to get. Take, take, take. Taking is a natural behavior, like for instance the guy with his sign, standing on the median across the intersection, clean shirt, blue jeans, worn tennis shoes. He walks along the median, pausing at the driver’s side of each car for a three count before moving on to the next. The left-hand turn lane holds six cars at a time. The third car and fifth car give him money. The sixth car rolls up the window.

  The sign says, FATHER OF 3, GOING TO BE EVICTED TOMORROW A.M. I see it when he swivels around and walks back toward his duffel bag, which is planted at the base of the traffic light. The car behind honks for me to make the right turn, and I almost go, but I see the girl in the seventh car, which is now the first, roll down her window.

  The car honks again, and I switch on my hazards, letting traffic go around. The girl in the car is classically beautiful, the sort of vision of perfection you’d see on TV, and the guy with the sign doesn’t move on after the girl shakes her head no. The guy goes into some kind of rap and the girl just stares straight, praying for the green light. I think I’m going to jump out of my car and maybe tackle this guy if I have to. The girl finally rolls her window up, pissing this guy off, and he smacks her window with his hand, yelling “Bitch!” just as the light changes and she speeds off.

  I change lanes, drift
ing left, and flip a U to enter the left-hand turn lane.

  “Spare any change?” the guys asks me.

  “How much do you need?” I ask.

  He says, “Whatever you can spare, man,” without missing a beat.

  “I can spare lots,” I tell him.

  He’s never heard this and lowers his sign a little, looking me over. “A couple bucks would be good.”

  “I can give you more than that,” I say. “Climb in, we’ll drive to the ATM.”

  “I’ll just take the change in your ashtray,” he says.

  “Look, the light is going to change and I’m going to drive away,” I say. “Get in and we’ll go to the bank and I’ll give you a couple hundred bucks.”

  The light changes and he says, “Wait, man,” and grabs his duffel bag.

  The first thing I notice is that he doesn’t smell like he’s been standing outside all day. His hands are rough and he has the fingertips of a smoker.

  “I’m Robert,” he says, a little nervous.

  I couldn’t care less.

  He starts his rap about how he lost his job (a lie, most likely) and then his wife left him (who would even consider marrying this guy?) and his children, oh, his children (they’re better off).

  “The world is a cruel place,” I say in my best patronizing tone.

  “You said it, man.”

  Robert stares at the mirrored bank building as if he is looking at heaven, turning in his seat when I pull around back.

  Thankfully, there are no cars at the ATM.

  “Wait right here,” I say, and, just for sport, I leave the car running.

  After moseying to the machine, I thumb through the cards in my wallet, standing out of range of the camera watching from behind the tinted glass. I look up and wave for Robert to come here.

  He jumps out of the car, leaving the door open. “Yeah?”

  “You’re pathetic,” I say.

  “What?” He cups his hand to his ear, still walking toward me.

  “Is two hundred enough?” I ask.

  “Oh man, that’d be great,” Robert says, putting his hands together like an altar boy.

  “How about three hundred?”

  “Oh, no.” Robert shakes his head. “That’d be too much.”

  “Two hundred might not be enough, though.”

  “It’s plenty.”

  “I think five hundred would be better,” I say, nodding my head to make the decision final. “Yeah, five hundred.”

  We stand, looking at each other. “Man, you’re jerkin’ me around,” Robert says, realizing something.

  “No, really, it’s right here,” I say, opening my wallet. “Just take it.”

  Robert approaches me slowly, peering ahead as if afraid of stepping off a high cliff, his feet dragging loudly against the pavement.

  “Just take my wallet,” I say, folding it up and holding it out.

  In the instant Robert reaches out, I grab his arm and whirl him around, slamming him into the side of my car. Too stunned to say anything, Robert tries to get his balance, but I kick him in the stomach and he quietly falls over.

  “You shouldn’t … take … money … from … strangers.” I get in his face. “You fuck.”

  Robert looks like he’s sorry, that he’ll never do it again, but this in no way satisfies me, and I prove myself to Jane and the world as a Great Defender by kicking wildly, and I keep kicking and kicking and just as Robert starts to scream, I hear a car pulling around to the side of the bank and I stand up straight, smoothing out the front of my shirt, feeling the sweat underneath, thinking, Oh, God, Jesus, it’s a cop; but instead it’s a white limo, idling. For a moment the whole earth is quiet. I can’t jump in my car and drive away, since I’m blocked by the limo. Robert is writhing on the asphalt on the driver’s side.

  A chauffeur gets out and opens one of the limo’s doors. A guy dressed in Bermuda shorts and a Duran Duran concert T-shirt steps out, looks over at us, looks away, steps up to the ATM. When Robert doesn’t yell for help, I look down at him and see how badly I’ve fucked him up.

  Another door opens and another guy gets out, dressed in a tailored suit—I can’t tell if it’s blue or black—and he looks so impressive I have to wave and smile.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  The guy at the ATM looks over at us.

  I feel like this guy could really understand my anger, so I explain, pointing at Robert, “This guy was taking money by the freeway.” I’m gasping, and the guy is trying to understand me. “He was slapping this girl around who wouldn’t give him money.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Robert protests, crumpled in the fetal position.

  “Yes, you fucking did,” I yell. I’m so freaked out by the limo, the limo driver, the guy at the ATM, and the guy who is practically standing on my shoulders that I can’t remember if that’s exactly what happened, even though I’m pretty sure it is.

  “Scumbag,” the guy says, spitting on Robert.

  “Let’s go,” the guy at the ATM calls out, and just as I’m about to say something polite like “Thanks for stopping by” or “Nice to meet you,” the guy standing next to me kicks Robert in the head, once, twice, until Robert is unconscious.

  All I can think is, This guy isn’t even sweating, and his grin makes me step back.

  The limo pulls away slowly, flowing through the outside teller channels. I jump in my car, maneuvering around Robert, trying to follow the limo, but the limo gets lost in traffic.

  Best Man

  Slowly I start toward JSB’s office, the walls of the hallway lined with framed posters of past ad campaigns for Buckley Cosmetics, twenty years’ worth. Sunlight wafts in from the rectangular windows above me. I stop in front of Talie’s mother’s layout, the one introducing her as the 1971 spokesmodel, her face peeking out from behind her long brown hair. She is dressed up like a mermaid, submerged in very blue water, her hair floating behind her, the words “World Gone Water” in black print floating around her. I’m staring into her eyes, wondering about the exact moment JSB decided that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. I begin to move away from the poster, watching Talie’s mother’s eyes as they follow me down the hall until I am out of sight.

  “He left a message he wanted to see me,” I tell JSB’s secretary, and she nods that he’s in and smiles. The double doors to the office are open and I feel the air become cooler as I step forward, the Oriental rug muffling my footsteps, the light from the picture windows causing me to squint. When my eyes adjust, I see the back of JSB’s head, his hair trimmed tight. He is staring intently at the desert-landscaped inner courtyard, watching two speckled birds just outside the window. Boxes stacked in the corner lean pathetically and I feel myself begin to pity him. I stick my hand in my pocket and jingle my keys, warning him that I am coming up behind him.

  “Hello, JSB,” I say.

  “How are you?” he finally says, swiveling around in his chair, looking me over, up and down.

  “I’m fine,” I say, not smiling.

  A grin spreads across his face and he jumps to his feet. “I’ve got some news for you,” he says. “I’m getting married.”

  “Really?” An automatic response. I get that familiar feeling that I’m misunderstanding something. “When?”

  “Next month,” he says. He’s actually beaming.

  “But I thought …” I start. “The other day …”

  “We’re really in love,” he assures me. “Will you stand in my line? Be my best man?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “And I want you to initiate a promotional contest for the new line of cosmetics,” he says. “You can handle it. Just organize a party and make sure we get a winner. I’m going to fight this bankruptcy. I’m not giving up.”

  “Okay,” I say, and it’s a long time after I’ve left his office before I can even comprehend what any of this means.

  Saving Room for Dessert

  The dinner Talie has prepared is laid out
on a small table in the corner of the formal dining room at Arrowhead. Penne pasta steams from a porcelain bowl; the single candle is reflected in the oval faces of the two china plates and silverware. “This is fabulous,” I say.

  “We’re having a date,” Talie says breezily, which explains her request that I wear a suit. She spins playfully, showing off her strapless black gown.

  For the first time since Jane left, I sense that I won’t go to bed with a gray feeling pulsating through me.

  Talie tells me I look fabulous too and kisses me on the cheek. “A couple of us from the cotillion have been doing these mock dates,” she tells me. “You know, to learn how to weed out bad men. I told you I joined the Phoenix Cotillion, right?”

  I nod, vaguely recalling her telling me about joining what sounded like a girls’ finishing school held on weekends at the Phoenix Cultural Center. “What’s the sign of a bad man?” I ask, pouring a dark cabernet into her glass.

  “There isn’t one sign,” she says. “It’s an accumulation.”

  “What kinds of things do you talk about on these mock dates?” The pasta sears the roof of my mouth and I wince, flush it down with wine.

  “The gentleman is supposed to lead the conversation. A lady punctuates with witty interludes and thoughtful asides,” she says, quoting something. The echo created by the vast darkness of the dining room forces us to calibrate our words to low humming.

  I tell her about Jane, lying that I don’t really care that she’s gone. I consider telling Talie about utopian love, about how Jane and I were a model couple, but her newfound stock in the conventional keeps me silent.

  “Did you think you might marry her?” Talie asks, pointing up her beliefs.

  I shake my head no. “Do you think you’ll marry Dale?” I ask.