And It Came to Pass

by Laura Stone

  Adam was astounded. Only one person? “How long have you guys been here?”

  A tall boy with a strong Caribbean accent twisting his Spanish into something almost lyrical said, “Long enough. I’ve only got eight weeks left.”

  The linebacker-type popped the basketball off his own chest and caught it. “You’re getting trunky, LaSalle. Me?” he said to Adam. “I’m Sorenson. I’ve been here fifteen months and thinking about extending. I can’t go home with a zero, no way. My little brother is in Colombia, and he says they’re like lemmings off a cliff. He’s baptized almost fifty, only been there nine weeks.”

  The group gasped.

  “I know,” he sighed. “But then, we all know the real men go European.”

  A few of them high-fived as Christensen smacked the ball out of Sorensen’s grip and took control of it. He rolled the ball down one arm, behind his head and down the other until it spun on his finger. “What are we playing, teams? Three-a-side and tap-in?”

  The Caribbean boy, Elder LaSalle asked, “Yo, Young. You any good?”

  “I guess.”

  LaSalle laughed to Christensen, “Greenie’s on your team, then, Brandon.”

  Christensen slung his arm around Young’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. Somehow Adam’s chest constricted from the contact instead of his shoulders.

  “Don’t let it get to you. They’re good guys,” Christensen said, and his breath was warm and intimate on the side of Adam’s face. “And hey. You’re on my team because I want you there. But, uh, really. Are you any good?”

  Adam shrugged off the arm. His nerves jangled from the close contact and his cheeks flamed hot, probably bright red. He tried to hide his reaction by grabbing the ball and dribbling it between his legs. He kept his gaze down, concentrating on the ball while trying to force his face into something neutral. Really close contact made him nervous, that was all. And Christensen’s breath had been on his ear. Who did that?

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” Adam replied. “Don’t put me post, though. I’m a better guard.”

  Christensen proved to be a great shot and an innovative passer—no surprise that he was an excellent team player. The other team had a ringer in Elder Guymon, a ridiculous six foot eight guy who couldn’t have weighed more than a buck thirty and hailed from a small town in Idaho. His strategy: stand under the net, hope not to fumble a pass and just drop it in.

  “Whoa. Greenie’s got a wicked hook.” LaSalle bounced the ball between his legs while tossing Young a chin nod. He passed behind his back to Sorensen, who caught it easily.

  “You play back home?” Sorensen asked Young.

  “Not basketball, not since junior varsity in tenth grade. I, um, played football for the U.”

  All the guys made an appreciative “ooh” noise.

  “Probably the water boy. Couldn’t get into the Y, huh?” Guymon sneered.

  “Neither could you, Ketchup. Heck, neither could I. Family couldn’t afford it,” Sorensen said to Young. “But hey, Dixie’s cheap and an hour outside of Vegas, so I can still live at home.” He laughed, faking a pass to Guymon and bouncing it to Christensen as they lined up.

  “Ketchup?” Adam asked Christensen quietly.

  Christensen shuddered. “He puts it on everything.” He nodded at Guymon. “His mom sends him a care package once a month. So frickin’ nasty.”

  “Okay, gentlemen!” Sorensen posted up. “We have a professional in our midst now.”

  Adam blushed, but no one seemed to be bothered or looked as if they thought he was bragging about playing at university level.

  “Finally got ourselves a real game, huh? Had to go bring in the big guns to beat me?” Sorensen laughed.

  Christensen grinned. “I can’t wait to watch you cry when we crush you.”

  “Oh, big talk from the big man. Let’s see what your greenie’s got, bro.”

  Normally Adam would have taken that on as a burden, a responsibility not to fail. Looking around at the guys—LaSalle’s easy grin as he hip-checked Guymon, the Romney kid’s serious face as he dropped into his stance, the other guys’ laughter and camaraderie as they jostled each other on the court and sidelines—settled some of his unease. It was important to get along with all the other missionaries. Having each other’s backs could only help them in their goals. If they believed in each other, they could do anything.

  “That’s four to zip, us. Gosh, if only we were allowed to make bets.” Christensen passed the ball back to Sorensen.

  “You wish!”

  As they played, the guys grilled Adam.

  “How many kids?” Romney asked. “Me, we have four. I’m second-oldest. We have three out on missions right now, too. Crazy. My mom’s going nuts. Gardener’s family has six, kids that is, not out on missions, and he’s square in the middle. You can tell he’s a middle kid by how shifty he is. So?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Uh, five of us,” Adam answered.

  “Look at motormouth here.” Gardener laughed. “And? Well? Which are you?”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. I’m the youngest.”

  Sorensen whistled. “Tough. Me, too, youngest of six. So are you the screwup or the perfect child because you’re the baby?”

  “Um.” Adam hesitated. He didn’t really know these guys yet. Christensen caught his eye and seemed to sense that Adam was uncomfortable.

  “I think we know which one you are.” Christensen made a chest-pass to Sorensen, who held it and grinned.

  “Depends on who you ask,” Sorensen replied. “I would say, and my wonderful mother would agree, that I’m the perfect child.”

  Guymon snorted. “Pretty sure that means the majority of your family sees you as the screwup.” He failed to block the pass Sorensen sent back to Christensen.

  Adam blocked LaSalle, a lanky guy but quick-footed, and asked, “Where are you from?”

  LaSalle grinned; his smile lit his dark face. “Trinidad born, my parents moved to Toronto when I was four. That’s when we converted. Just me, no brothers and sisters.”

  “Spoiled brat.” Sorensen knocked his shoulder into his companion. “You should see the care packages his mother sends.”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  “Well, yeah! With six kids in my family? My mom’s lucky to remember my name half the time,” Sorensen said. Gardener laughed and fist-bumped him.

  “Got any girls waiting for you?” LaSalle asked, as he slapped the ball out of Christensen’s hand and did some fancy dribbling between his legs.

  “Big stud like you, Young?” Sorensen said, rolling his neck and letting out a wolf-whistle. “Playing ball at the U? Probably got them lined up.”

  “N-no,” Adam answered, hiding his embarrassment by easily blocking Sorensen’s layup.

  “What the heck?” Sorensen said. “Even this hideous string bean has a girl.” He jerked his head toward Guymon, who sniffed.

  “Here we go,” Sorensen said, rolling his eyes. “Any chance Ketchup gets to talk about Ronda Jean…”

  “It’s Randilyn.”

  The guys all sing-songed, “Randilyn.”

  LaSalle leaned close to Adam. “She’s apparently the prettiest girl in his little town, whatever that means.”

  “Mind you, she might be the only girl in town,” Gardener added, laughing.

  “Nah. Guymon has sisters,” a thin, bespectacled blond named Larsen called from the sidelines.

  Sorensen turned with his hand pressed to his mouth. “Ketchup, are you dating your sister?”

  “You shut your mouth, Sorensen!”

  The guys made an “ooh!” sound, all but Christensen, who shook his head. “Hey. Ease up.”

  “Thank you, Elder,” Guymon said, grabbing the ball between his spidery fingers and frowning.

  “When you live in a farm town,” Christensen said to the grou
p, his tone chastening, “I’ve heard it’s perfectly normal to date your siblings.” He laughed and ducked as Guymon swung a fist at his shoulder.

  “Um, Elders? I don’t find all this talk of girls to be spiritually uplifting,” LaSalle said, his hand over his chest and eyes closed in mock solemnity. “Unless it turns out that Greenie has a hot sister.”

  Adam must have looked horrified, given the laughter among the other guys.

  “Tough break,” Romney said. “Ugly sister?”

  “No? She’s all right, I guess. She’s just, you know, my sister.”

  “What’s her name?” Gardener asked, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Ruth.”

  Everyone hissed.

  “Bro,” Sorensen replied, dropping a hand heavily on Adam’s shoulder. “That’s an ugly-girl name.”

  Adam shook off the hand, pivoted into dribbling around Sorensen, jumped and almost dunked the ball in a modified layup. “Not as ugly as your blocking,” he said, relaxing a bit at the familiarity of horsing around with a team.

  “Beast!” Gardener bumped his fist against Adam’s.

  “Aw, man,” LaSalle groaned. “He’s going to kick our butts.”

  “I had no clue he could play.” Christensen ducked so Sorensen could ruffle his hair.

  Larsen began counting on his fingers. “So, no girls waiting for their Elder Kestler to return.” Adam snorted at the Mormon musical reference to the missionary with the girlfriend pining for him to return and marry her. “You’re the baby of the family. Now, whether you’re precious and can do no wrong or are the tail end and why your folks didn’t have a sixth is yet to be determined. You played football for the U, have an ugly sister… Fellas? What are we missing?”

  “The fact he’s fighting jet-lag, and you’re all being a bunch of dinks?” Christensen asked.

  “Yeah, come on, let’s just play. Greenie’s all right. White boy who can almost dunk?” LaSalle held out a fist for Adam to bump again.

  Everyone eased off him, laughing and getting set up for another game, chirping and razzing each other genially. Something settled in Adam, as if his lungs hadn’t properly drawn breath until just then. This wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d thought his mission would be full of strict, sour looks from the other elders if it wasn’t all gospel doctrine and accomplishing goals. But so far this was just like hanging out with the guys on his team back home. One of his older brothers, Jacob, had talked about how great P-Day had been, a chance for all the elders to unwind, but he’d never expected it to be… fun.

  Adam could hear his father’s disapproving voice responding to that thought: “Missions aren’t meant to be fun. They’re your duty.” Well, at least Jacob had been right about this much. Besides, it was just his first day. The other guys all seemed pretty chill, and that was the complete antithesis of what was expected of him by his father, Adam knew. He still had to figure out what the heck his companion was like apart from this break in routine and order and whether or not he would ever be able to let his guard down.

  They played four more half-court games, all of which Young and Christensen’s team won, though the Missionary Guidebook clearly stated that scores weren’t to be kept when missionaries were engaged in casual P-Day sporting events. They quit when Sorensen begged off, complaining about being hungry as he filled his water bottle from the park’s ornate bronze and stone water fountain.

  “Never took you for a sore loser,” Romney said, high-fiving Christensen.

  “As if.” Sorensen toweled off his face. “We have a dinner appointment tonight, and you know how rare that is. Usually you just get invited around for lunch. Oh, the wife said she’s making us chuletillas.” He rubbed his belly, then grabbed his bag.

  Christensen hollered after him, “Elder Sorensen! Remember: Cava is not a fancy type of grape juice!”

  Sorensen turned, walked backward toward the bike racks and grinned, “Hey, we’re supposed to respect the cultures of the locals. The Native Americans get to smoke peyote, you know.”

  Christensen turned to Adam and must have seen Adam’s worry.

  “He’s just joking,” Christensen said, bumping their shoulders. “He knows it’s wine and won’t drink it. Cava is Spanish champagne. There’s no mistaking what it is.”

  “Hey, Young, easy,” Sorensen said. “You think I’d do anything to upset the big guy?” He pointed at Christensen, then laughed and pointed at the sky with a wink. “Aww, B, did they send you another greenie with no sense of humor?”

  Adam rolled his eyes.

  “Just messing with you, dude. Lighten up! You’re all right, Young.”

  “For a Ute,” Guymon said.

  “Ugh, give it a rest, Lurch,” Christensen sighed. “You don’t get brownie points for sucking up to the Y. Like, you’re not going to come home and find an acceptance letter waiting for you.”

  “You’ll learn to ignore Ketchup,” Elder Gardener said, grabbing up his bag. Young thought he heard Gardener mention earlier that he was from California, the same as Christensen. “We all do. But yeah, it’s getting late, Rom.”

  The rest of the group decided it was time to get back; they all wanted to have a quick bite, hit some neighborhoods for potential members, and be back home in time for the required 9:30 p.m. curfew. There were high-fives, fist bumps and firm handshakes all around as the pairs left, leaving Young and Christensen on the court. They wouldn’t be canvassing that night, not until Adam got settled in. The sun began to set, casting a pretty orange glow over everything. A couple wandered nearby arm-in-arm, giggling and poking each other before sitting on a park bench. Adam looked away when he saw them kissing.

  “Wanna play a little one-on-one?” Christensen asked. “Show me what you got, Elder.”

  Adam caught the ball bounced to him and tossed it back. He was nervous without the group of guys to help carry the conversation. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Don’t go easy on me, U.” Christensen bounced it back and moved in, arms wide, attempting to block Adam’s shot. Adam pivoted on his right foot trying to find an opening, but Christensen shifted and blocked his jump shot. Their bodies collided. The force knocked Adam backward onto the court.

  “Here. Sorry, man. That’s probably enough, huh? Hey, you’ve had a long day. Let’s get you back home and get you to bed. Bet you could use the sleep.”

  Christensen held his hand out to pull him up on his feet. Feeling wrong-footed, Adam ignored the heat building in his face. Most likely it was just because he was tired; the jet-lag was finally hitting him as Christensen said. He couldn’t help but focus on the rough strength in Christensen’s hand, on the tendons twisting and flexing under Christensen’s smooth, tan skin, on the ease and strength in Christensen’s hold as he tugged Adam to standing. It brought to mind the image of Christensen standing in a baptismal font with his white temple clothing stark against his dark skin and with whomever he’d baptized holding onto his forearm that was raised to the square, steady and sure as they became sanctified, cleansed, born again into the Gospel. Renewed.

  The wrought-iron street lights turned on with a loud pop, and Adam jerked, stepping back from his companion. As Christensen loped to the side of the court to retrieve their gear, Adam turned away from the lithe manner in which Christensen seemed to do everything. He watched moths as they swarmed, attracted to the glow of the lights. They circled feverishly, unaware of the danger of dying from touching the light they couldn’t help but be drawn to.

  The men started the mile-long walk back to their piso. Adam wobbled as the pressed-tin-looking grey cement tiles of the sidewalk changed into tiles that were crisply white with an art deco flower design pressed into them. It didn’t feel decent to step on them, but others were, so he lengthened his stride to catch up to his companion, who was patiently waiting a few yards ahead. He listened to Christensen talk about various basketball players he liked as they walked back
to their apartment. His companion’s appealing voice was both soothing and heady; the background symphony of car horns, traffic, and people moving all around them combined until it became a white noise that in his jet-lagged state lulled him into a stupor.

  Adam tried not to get too close to Christensen on the narrow streets, but it was a challenge. A lot of people were walking home, hurrying to their own suppers but flashing smiles and calling out friendly “¡Holas!” to them and to others on the streets and in doorways. He was nearing exhaustion, which explained how he kept getting distracted by talk about mundane basketball facts and losing his footing as the foundation of the sidewalk changed from one intricate design to another. He flashed again and again to the moths attracted to the halogen lights, unable to help themselves.

  Chapter Three

  “Your goal is to help investigators become converted by the Spirit. . . To do this you must help them feel and recognize the influence of the Spirit. As they feel the Spirit, you will be able to help them make and keep the commitments that lead to conversion.” ~ (Missionary Discussion Handbook, First Discussion)

  “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God.” Doctrine & Covenants, Section 18:10

  Two weeks in, and Adam Young still didn’t know how to define Christensen or if Adam liked him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Christensen, but he couldn’t get a bead on whether Christensen liked him or if he was just affable by nature. It was unsettling to think of investing himself in connecting with Christensen if Christensen was simply making do with Adam because of circumstances. His companion wasn’t sending signals that he was enduring Adam’s presence, but Adam couldn’t tell if Christensen’s pleasantness toward him was genuine or a by-product of his religious station. Since the rule for missionaries was never to leave one another’s side except when using the bathroom, he’d had plenty of opportunities to study Christensen and make up his mind.

  Adam just, well, he couldn’t.

  Christensen behaved like no other guy Adam knew. Christensen was clearly a man’s man and had grown up that way. He was tough, physically strong, but there was a gentleness to him as well, a softness toward others. In Adam’s family, the men didn’t do anything their father considered a “woman’s sacred responsibility,” which meant things that revolved around comfort and support.