Magdalene

by Moriah Jovan

  “Why do you think she’s needy?”

  He glanced at Mitch warily. “You’ll think I’m crazy.” Mitch shook his head, and Trevor took a deep breath. “Her dad. He’s so awesome, right? He’s fun. He’s cool. He’s not all about the rules all the time.” He stopped. “But there’s something about him that’s not right. The way Hayleigh acts around him, it’s totally different from the way she is, like, when she’s hanging around me and Josh and Cordelia.”

  Josh and Cordelia. The other two kids who didn’t buy into Greg’s charm. Four teenagers out of thirty-eight. They didn’t know why, either.

  “Crazy, huh?”

  “Not at all. But think back. Does she come on to you? Does she act like she’s angling for anything other than somebody to listen to her who won’t think she’s crazy?”

  Trevor stared at the floor, silent for a couple of seconds. “Well, yes and no,” he murmured. “It’s weird. When Josh is around, it’s almost like she would rather be with him than me, but— It’s like, she wants me to do something for her, but won’t come out and say it.”

  “Like...something only you can do that Josh can’t, and if Josh could do it she wouldn’t be all about you?”

  “Yeah, exactly. Weird.”

  Not weird. Smart.

  Josh didn’t have a trust fund he could use to whisk Hayleigh away from her father, much less a full-time union-wage job and his own investment portfolio to support her on. Josh also didn’t have a father who could protect her from Greg. Hayleigh wasn’t mercenary—she was confused and desperate to either untangle her confusion or find an efficient, palatable way to get away from its source.

  Trevor had cash and Mitch had power.

  It was more than Mitch had had when faced with the same situation.

  “You know what’s going on with her, don’t you?” Trevor asked.

  Mitch shrugged. “I have my suspicions. Nothing concrete. It’d help if you paid attention to whatever she’s trying to tell you. Then maybe you could pass it along to me if you feel comfortable doing that.”

  Trevor studied him a moment. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I can do that.” He remained silent for a while, and Mitch began to dread whatever would come out of his mouth. A long silence like that meant Trevor was trying to decide how best to deliver bad news.

  “Dad, I don’t want to go to BYU.”

  Mitch released a long whoosh of air. Was that all? “Okay.” Easy enough. “I didn’t go to BYU and I never expected you to. Where do you want to go?”

  “NYU.”

  Mitch would rather he go farther away from home so he could feel truly independent, but it was Trevor’s money, Trevor’s decision.

  “And I don’t want to go on a mission.”

  Mitch had expected that a year ago. “Why not?” he asked, but he already knew. Trevor had spent a lot of time with Sebastian over the last few years. Even though Mitch had known the consequences of letting an impressionable teenager loose with a libertine like Sebastian, Mitch had needed help desperately.

  Sebastian was willing to step in where Mina’s parents wouldn’t, Mitch’s parents couldn’t, and this—

  “I don’t think I believe any of it, much less enough to preach it for two years.”

  —was the result.

  Mitch had gambled his son’s religious training and lost.

  “Déjà vu all over again,” he said under his breath, remembering the late nights, the arguments, the anguish of watching his best friend lose his faith, hurt, angry, bewildered, and, ultimately, alone in a mire of doubt. Mitch certainly wasn’t going down the “pray about it and you’ll know it’s true” route again. That rarely worked anyway.

  “What? No objections?”

  “What am I supposed to say to that, Trevor? You’ve always been expected to be a man, and you’ve grown into a fine one, so I trust you’re capable of making your own decisions.”

  “I don’t want to embarrass you in front of the ward.”

  Mitch laughed. “I haven’t been embarrassed about anything since I came home from my mission early.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Dad. You were sick.”

  That was the story, anyway.

  I’ve been hearing things about you, Elder Taight, Elder Hollander. The stock exchange? The Louvre? You’re not here for the sightseeing, Elders. You’re here to work.

  Have you seen our baptism numbers, President?

  Yes, Elder Hollander, I have. Impressive, certainly, but I simply can’t ignore you two breaking the rules. I know you two spent your last P-day in La Rive Gauche.

  It was a P-day, President. Preparation day. That was part of our preparation.

  Don’t get smart alecky with me, Elder Taight. I always knew you were trouble. And where are you getting all the money I know you’ve been spending? You can’t afford half the food that’s in your apartment.

  No, Elders Hollander and Taight weren’t blameless.

  Sebastian had indeed dragged Mitch to the stock exchange and museums on the sly, taught him about money and art and philosophy, encouraged Mitch’s taste for subversive books at the tiny bookselling stalls they found on their explorations of Paris. Mitch ate well on Sebastian’s dime and didn’t beat his feet to death walking everywhere because Sebastian made sure they had the money to use the subway and, if they were desperate enough to risk being found out, a taxi. Sebastian had taught him what it felt like not to pinch every penny because he had to, and Mitch was only too eager to take the mental and emotional respite his renegade companion offered.

  But they also worked hard and had the numbers to prove it. It should have been enough.

  You two need to figure out if you’re here to work or if you’re here to mess around.

  But President, we’re the second-highest baptizing companionship in the mission.

  I heard you the first time, Elder Hollander, but you’re not listening to me. It doesn’t excuse either of you. You and Elder Taight here, birds of a feather, shirking your duty. I’m sure your parents are very proud, but then...the Church is paying for your missions, right? Because your parents can’t? So they don’t have any real investment in how you do here. Weak, both of you.

  The mission president’s insults had stunned Mitch into silence, but not his companion.

  Oh, fuck you, President. You wouldn’t know weak if it crawled up your ass and died.

  Elder Taight! Your language!

  Maybe you should worry less about my language and my food and my going to the stock exchange, and more about your two lily-white rich zone leaders out fucking every pretty girl they can find. That’s against mission rules too, right? I never hear about them getting called on the carpet. Put our stats up against any other companionship in the mission and you’ll see who’s fucking around and who’s not. C’mon, Elder. Let’s go back to tracting, like we’re supposed to. Like we were doing when we got hauled in here. Totally bogus.

  Mitch had walked out of the mission president’s office nauseated, ashamed of whatever weakness that had made him sit there and take it. His transfer orders had arrived the next day, as had Sebastian’s. No, the mission president couldn’t let a companionship like Elders Taight and Hollander exist; their hard work made everybody else look bad.

  Just like working for the government. I’m blowing this popsicle stand and going to Spain. Come with me and we can see Europe like it’s supposed to be seen.

  No, I have to do this. I want to make my parents proud.

  Proud? Of what? Bending over? This is shooting fish in a barrel, and we’re the fish.

  My brother didn’t have these problems. Your cousins aren’t having these problems. It’s just this mission.

  So what? It doesn’t change our situation.

  My dad says when you’re going through heck, keep going.

  Yeah, Mitch, you know what? There’s this thing called strategic retreat. Why are you letting a prick like that judge us worthy or not? He’s the one with the problem, not you. Not me. We’re doing what we came here to
do, what we said we’d do. That’s all the Lord cares about. You can’t tell me you believe the Lord depends on that asshole to tell him whether we’re worthy or not.

  I don’t. I can deal with it.

  Mitch had been assigned to Elder Snow, and he didn’t think it was a coincidence that Elder Snow was considered the “cleaner” of the mission. An extraordinarily high number of missionaries who were assigned with Elder Snow went home early.

  Mitch’s weary disappointment that a quarter of the mission’s elders were partying grew to anger, then rage, under Elder Snow’s abuse.

  The guy never slept. He kept the lights on and made noise so Mitch couldn’t sleep, taunted him relentlessly, ate all the food, and stole what little money Mitch had.

  Turn the other cheek. Turn the other cheek turn theothercheekturntheotherche—

  Elder Hollander, did you hear me? Oh, no wonder you’re such a retard. Just a steel worker, like your old man. Do you even know how to read?

  What would Jesus do? What would Jesus do what wouldjesusdowhatwo—

  It was true that after two months with Elder Snow, Mitch had grown ulcers so severe he should’ve been in the hospital, but that wouldn’t have gotten him sent home.

  Always keep your cool, Son. Honorable men let it roll off their backs.

  It was the day Mitch had managed to slip his jailer and find a street vendor a few blocks away where he’d spent the last of his stipend on a crêpe filled with cheese and sausage that sealed his fate. Mitch had watched in horror as Elder Snow snatched the crêpe out of his hands and tossed it in the Seine with a victorious smirk.

  Mitch had thrown the first punch.

  And the second.

  And the third, fourth, and fifth until Elder Snow was curled up on the concrete, protecting his head, sobbing and pleading for mercy.

  The mission president hadn’t been any happier with Elder Snow (for having botched the job) than he was with Elder Hollander (for not groveling for mercy from Elder Snow). But Mitch had a weapon: his journal, loaded with every detail of the mission and his tenure with Elder Snow. He would not bend over one more time.

  President, you send me home with a dishonorable release, and I’ll make sure the General Authorities hear about this mission.

  You can’t threaten me.

  Try me.

  Mitch knew that if he hadn’t been so ill, so emaciated and clearly exhausted, President Bates would’ve called his bluff—but all Mitch had to do was drop his journal in the mail to Salt Lake and head to the hospital. Mitch had backed the man into a corner until he’d agreed to a medical release.

  It was easy for people to buy that. Mitch’s father had taken one look at him and driven him straight from the airport to the hospital, where Mitch had spent a couple of weeks.

  Yo, Elder. Did you hear about President Bates?

  Sebastian, you’re calling me from Europe?

  Yeah. They reorganized the mission just after you left, and sent Bates home. Apparently, you and I weren’t the only ones kicking some ass and getting kicked back. It’s a big scandal.

  That had twisted the knife even deeper.

  Not even Sebastian knew the real reason why Mitch had come home early. Sebastian would have crowed and praised him, but Mitch didn’t want praise. He was ashamed. Ashamed for letting Elder Snow get under his skin, for cracking, for losing control. And if Mitch had had a little more faith—in himself, in the Lord—if he’d waited it out...

  Mitch toyed with the idea of telling Trevor about Elder Snow, but instead of being a successful object lesson, it would only reinforce the contrary opinions Sebastian had already pounded into the boy’s head.

  “Doesn’t matter why you come back early, Trev,” he finally said. “If you say it’s medical, you’re either lying, crazy, or weak. If you say nothing, you must have been sent packing because of a girl. The worst is always assumed.”

  “Maybe if I did go, Grandpa Monroe would—”

  Acknowledge my existence.

  Trevor couldn’t even finish the sentence, and Mitch felt the boy’s pain as he’d felt Mina’s, as he’d felt his daughters’. Mina’s parents, who had moved to Philadelphia upon the Hollander family’s return to Bethlehem, had never acknowledged their grandchildren’s existence. Once Mina had had the temerity to run off and marry a lowly steel worker, Shane Monroe had stricken Mina’s name from the family tree. As far as Shane was concerned, the Hollander family simply didn’t exist.

  “He’s never going to, Trev,” Mitch said simply. “Don’t do things with the idea that you can earn his approval or love. Your sisters already tried that and it didn’t work.”

  Lisette and Geneviève lived picture-perfect good-Mormon-girl lives: graduating from BYU with honors, serving missions, marrying in the temple. Shane knew of it—they’d both insisted on sending him invitations to their graduations, pre-mission send-offs, post-mission open houses, weddings—but had still never spoken to them.

  They’d both cried for hours, inconsolable, and Mina had cried with them. Mitch could only stand by and watch, mop up the tears, listen to their heartbreak.

  “’Cause you were a steel worker,” Trevor muttered into his Gatorade bottle, half angry, half hurt. “That’s messed up.”

  A steel worker who’d deprived Shane of the son-in-law he’d wanted.

  Trevor was angry, hurt. He wouldn’t cry, but his back molars might suffer some damage from the grinding of his jaw. Either he was trying to control his normally even temper or he was planning some scheme to get his grandfather’s attention. If it were the latter, Mitch wished him the best of luck and prepared for the emotional fallout.

  “I’m not going to try to talk you into going on a mission,” Mitch finally said, more to change the subject than make his next point, “but think about this. If you don’t go and you decide you do believe and you want to find a good LDS girl, your options will be cut about in half. That probably doesn’t make any difference to you now, but it will if you change your mind later.”

  “But Mom didn’t care.”

  “Your mother was very young. All she wanted was to get married and have children.” And escape an arranged marriage. “I caught her attention and she caught mine, so it worked out. But she had all these romantic notions of living on love, and part of the romance is hardship and struggle. When you marry a guy who didn’t finish out his mission and works in a dying industry, you get an extra helping of hardship and struggle.”

  “And you struggled.”

  “I don’t regret a second of it, either.”

  “Dad,” Trevor said slowly, “why did you and Mom elope?”

  “Ah, well...” He took a deep breath, wary of where this could go. “Her father wanted her to marry someone else and she didn’t want to marry that man.”

  Trevor shrugged. “All she had to do was say no.”

  “She did. She said it the only way she could make it stick.”

  “Huh?”

  “She married me instead.”

  “Oh, Grandpa Monroe wouldn’t have forced—” He stopped short when he saw Mitch’s raised eyebrow. “No,” he breathed.

  “The wedding was planned. The rings and dress were bought. She already had her temple recommend in preparation. The flights to Salt Lake were booked. Honeymoon was paid for. She was a good girl. She would’ve done what she was told.”

  “Running away was your idea?”

  “Yes.”

  But once Mitch had presented the idea, Mina had been only too willing to let him rescue her. It wasn’t the best way to start a marriage: two kids who weren’t as in love as they should’ve been, getting married under duress, both of them with questionable motives. He and Mina might have been young and desperate, but they’d had a common culture and common goals, and had worked hard to make their marriage a success.

  So what if Mina’s crush on Mitch hadn’t completely matured— So what if Mitch’s simple compassion for Mina’s circumstance hadn’t completely matured— So what if they hadn’t be
en completely in love on their wedding day—

  They were by the time Lisette was born a year later.

  “And so now you’ve met somebody else?”

  “Yes. Not sure where it’s going yet. Or if it is. Would it bother you if it did?”

  Trevor shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t...remember Mom very well. I guess it would depend on the woman.”

  Ah, well, then, Mitch might as well get his most pressing issue out in the open. “She’s from Blackwood Securities, doing the reorganization.”

  “I thought that’s what Sebastian does.”

  “He doesn’t do as much of that anymore. He likes the design work he’s doing for me, wants to dig into the metal, learn the machining, see what he can get it to do. And he likes being a stay-at-home dad.”

  Trevor shuddered and Mitch laughed. “Okay, so then the problem is she’s not a member of the Church?”

  “Well, not that so much as her previous profession.” He paused. “She was a prostitute. A very high-dollar one.”

  “No shit,” Trevor breathed, straightening up, all interest now. “She told you that? Just out of the blue?”

  “She wanted to shock me, to see what I’d do, how I’d react.”

  “Maybe she was lying.”

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  Trevor laughed. “Well, hell, at least she was smart enough to get paid instead of giving it away.”

  Mitch grinned. “There’s a certain honor in that, eh?”

  “Yeah. So...?”

  ...in my previous life, I wouldn’t have taken him as a client.

  “Doesn’t bother me.”

  “What if she just wants your money?”

  “Doubt it. She has her own and if all she wanted was a meal ticket, she wouldn’t have stopped being a prostitute. That’s a lot more honest than a woman who marries for money.” He paused. “What I think she wants is to see if she can get a Mormon bishop in bed. She sees me as a challenge. It’s a game for her.”

  “And?”

  He slid a glance toward his son. “You know me better than that.”

  Trevor threw up a hand. “Of course. It’s why you drag me out of bed at one o’clock in the morning to play killer soccer whenever you’re horny, which, by the way, is seriously fucked up.”