by Laura Stone
Janet and Ruth had always found it odd that Adam had wanted to play with his toddler-aged nieces and nephews, for example.
“But your brothers are watching the game with your father,” Janet had said once. Her voice dripped with suspicion as she buttered the Sunday rolls.
“Yeah, but….” Adam hadn’t wanted to spend the next hour listening to his father’s pointed commentary on men of age not serving their missions, like the U’s current point guard. “I can go hang out with the kids, maybe pull out the old ping-pong table?” Adam offered.
“No. It’s buried behind my quilting rack. Just leave the grandkids alone,” Janet said. “You get them all riled up with the rough housing and Claudia—” That was Adam’s brother Seth’s wife. “—needs them to go down for naps soon.”
“Yeah, leave them alone,” Seth said as he grabbed an apple, then settled in on the giant sectional in the front TV room. “You don’t know what to do with kids, anyway. Come watch our team kick the U’s butts.”
“What kind of eighteen-year-old boy wants to play with little girls and their dolls, anyway?” Gerald had asked.
But Christensen… Christensen had little sisters: Brenda, sixteen, and Mary, nine. He talked about them as if it was normal to do stuff with them, as if his family thought it was normal for him to do stuff with them.
“Oh, man, Mary got a manicure kit before I left: all these weird little stickers and polishes in every color you could think of. Some of them had glitter, so those were her favorites, of course. She loved painting my nails,” Christensen said. “It had these little pens? You ever see those? She made ladybugs once, little spots and antennae. Cute as frick. She showed me off to everyone,” he laughed.
Adam stared at him.
“What?” Christensen asked. “It’s really hard to do your own left hand, so I let her practice on me. What’s the big deal? They’re just fingernails, dude.”
The most important parts of whom Christensen saw himself to be and what he saw as his duty as a servant of the Lord seemed to be those very ideals Gerald Young had tried to beat out of Adam. For example, Christensen didn’t think anything of talking about his feelings.
“Cried like a baby when we had to put our dog down,” Christensen said as they walked toward the city center to pass out pamphlets during Adam’s first week. “My sister Sarah still makes fun of me for it, but she was a good girl, Sally Dog,” he said about his former German shepherd. His voice broke. “Ha, sorry about that. It’s only been two years. And Sarah can laugh all she wants. I know all about her crying over some boy-band dude getting married. So, how about you? Any pets?”
“Oh, no. My mom doesn’t like the mess they make.”
“Uh oh. Your mom would probably hate our house, then.” Christensen laughed. “Eight kids, a big dog… My little brother Bill once had to bring home silk worms. Class pet sort of thing. They broke out of the Tupperware thingy they were kept in. We found them the next morning, webs spun all over the place and fat, squishy cocoons wedged in every crack and crevice you can imagine. Frickin’ nasty as all get out, dude.”
Adam shuddered at the thought of his mother’s reaction had that happened in their house. Janet Young considered herself a failure as a homemaker if there weren’t vacuum tracks on the carpet before they all turned in at night. The Young children were required to make their beds before they were allowed breakfast. A chore chart had been mounted on the wall of the laundry room with the title, “Have I Done Any Good In The World Today?”
“My mom made everyone check their phones for any pictures of the worms’ box before they’d made a break for it. She even sent out a text message to all Bill’s classmates asking them, too.”
“Why?” Adam asked, hopping onto a low wall to allow a group of school kids to pass, smiling shyly and waving as the kids stared at their black, shiny name tags and chattered in Spanish about the “misioneros.”
“The pictures? Oh, to see how many worms there were so we could try to find them all,” Christensen answered. He adopted a high falsetto Adam assumed was meant to be his mother and spoke in English. “‘John, if I catch you trying to bait that dog with a cocoon one more time, I am going to tan your hide!’ He was trying to teach Sally Dog what they smelled like so she could find them.”
Adam laughed. “Did it work?”
“Of course not! Sally was a champion butt-sniffer, but she wasn’t like, you know, a forensics dog. We found squished cocoons in bookshelves and in cupboards for weeks. So gross.”
Instead of talking at people, the way Gerald Young did, Christensen encouraged others to talk so he could listen. The more Adam realized that Christensen really listened when people talked, made them feel as if every word they said was important, the more Adam clammed up. He squirmed at the realization that someone was really paying attention to him, especially someone with such laser-focus as Elder Christensen. The more they talked—or tried to talk—to the locals, the more Adam understood that the Spanish people had this in common with Christensen. The locals stood very close when in conversation and gave their full attention. Some older people would cup the nape of the person speaking to them to keep them close.
It was unnerving and seemed to be inescapable. The locals, his companion…. Adam didn’t know if it was a by-product of the mission, or if Christensen was that laser-focused all the time. He always seemed to know what was happening in the other missionaries’ lives, too, things about their families and personal struggles, and was always ready to offer words of encouragement or at least lend a willing ear.
It became clear that the other missionaries tolerated Guymon’s negative attitude, but Christensen seemed best equipped to look past that and create a space where Guymon could be productive in the group. Guymon and his companion Gardener stopped by one evening. Christensen, who clearly didn’t want to be overheard by the others, pulled Guymon aside in the kitchen. That left Young and Gardener to chat.
“‘Sup,” Gardener said, bro-clapping Adam’s back and tugging him into a brief one-sided hug. “So what’s your story, man?” he then asked, dropping his Doc Martens onto the dilapidated coffee table. “Town, family, girls writing you letters… There has to be one or two who snuck in there. Come on, let’s have it. We’re brothers out here. Plus, Guymon’s boring, and I’ve heard all of his stories at least nine times. I want fresh meat.”
Young glanced toward the kitchen. Christensen’s face was the picture of concern. Guymon had his back to the living room and was hunched over with his arms tightly wrapped around his waist.
“Don’t sweat it,” Gardener said. “Ketchup does this every few weeks or so. Needs to just run his mouth.” He leaned forward and rabbit-punched Young’s shoulder. “So? Speak.”
“Oh, um, like I said, I’m the youngest of five.” At Gardener’s irritated expression, he added, “Four brothers, one sister. Dad works in contracting for the Air Force out at the OO-ALC in Orem.”
“Military guy, huh? No wonder your place looks like this.”
Young looked around the clean apartment.
“Ketchup’s a total pig. Leaves his dishes and laundry everywhere,” Gardener said, picking at his slacks. “But then, so do I.” He laughed. “Works out pretty great. And hey, that’s what P-Day is for, right?”
“Dude, don’t get your bad habits all over my comp, Dave,” Christensen called out, pushing to his feet.
“Got him potty-trained already, Christensen?” Guymon asked, slouching into one of the rickety chairs.
Young looked over at Christensen, who rolled his eyes and mouthed, “Sorry.” Young watched as Guymon gnawed on the edge of his thumb. The rest of his fingernails looked pretty raw, too. Clearly the guy had poor coping skills. Adam chose to ignore any further comments, since Guymon was clearly a bit of a mess. Young had enough on his mind, anyway, like marveling at Christensen breaking off to fill glasses of water for everyone and passing them out.<
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“Gracias, Madre,” Gardener said.
“De nada, Puerco.” Christensen settled right next to Adam’s side. Adam stiffened at the warm, solid line of his companion’s body pressed right up against his. He glanced at the others, who were frogging each other’s thighs in a flinching competition. Neither of them commented on his and Christensen’s sitting arrangement, so he guessed it was okay. They were in close quarters and all. And there was that bad cushion Gardener perched over, apparently aware of its hidden dangers.
“So tell me about tracting yesterday, Elders,” Christensen asked, leaving Adam alone with his unwelcome thoughts as Gardener and sometimes Guymon talked about their afternoon at one of the universities. As their District Leader, Christensen was all ears, making appreciative or consolatory noises at various points, offering fist bumps, shoulder squeezes and back-pounding hugs as the others gathered their things to leave.
“Proud of you guys,” Christensen said, reaching up to wrap a hand around the back of Guymon’s neck and shaking him a little. “Keep at it. If it is to be…”
“It’s up to me,” Gardener said, grinning.
“Uh, thanks, B,” Guymon muttered, nodding his chin at Adam as they headed out and grinning shyly when Christensen fake-punched him to make him duck so that Christensen could ruffle his hair.
For a big, strong guy like Christensen, the gentleness, the touches he passed out to the other missionaries and the way the other guys ate that up, how it made them relax or smile… It was absolutely foreign. Christensen behaved in a way no male in Adam’s family behaved, and Adam didn’t know what to make of it.
Publicly, Adam’s father gave his mother a kiss on the cheek on anniversaries, offered one-armed hugs to Ruth when she came visiting, laid a stern hand on a grandchild’s head when asking about their behavior that day and shook the boys’ hands, sometimes going to far as to clap a hand on their back when they attained some milestone. Gerald Young simply wasn’t a demonstrative man and had always said that growing up on a farm and enlisting in the military meant there wasn’t time for any of that “soft stuff.”
Janet was taciturn and aloof at best, displeased with those around her at worst. She often told Ruth that affectionately touching her children too much would “spoil” them. Adam thought that if she hadn’t been an alcohol-abstaining Mormon, his mother would have fit the stereotypical 1950s role of the housewife stealing sips of sherry to make it through the day. She was an unhappy woman, Adam had always thought, and didn’t want others’ happiness within her perimeter. She took the Church’s commandment to be perfect—not to strive for perfection but to be perfect—to heart, and to her children’s detriment, Adam had started to realize.
Beyond the Young brothers razzing each other, the normal wrestling and manhandling when they were younger, there hadn’t been a lot of physical contact in the Young house. And Adam was six years younger than his closest-in-age brother, Jacob. The older boys, Seth and Paul, had been too big to play with Adam. If it hadn’t been for sports, he wouldn’t have had much physical contact with other people.
Christensen, however, always hugged people—the kind of hug that made you feel better instantly. Christensen routinely pounded the side of his fist on the other missionaries’ shoulders, looped an arm around Adam’s neck, squeezed people’s arms and hands. It was constant contact, as if Christensen needed to connect with people that way; a smile and handshake just wouldn’t suffice.
Evidently everyone in his family was the same.
“Well, I didn’t grow up in a big house,” Christensen said, shrugging. “I shared a full-sized bed with my little brother John, and my older brother Jack got the top bunk, lucky jerk. Brenda and Mary got my older sister Joanna’s room when she moved out. It’s freakin’ huge, but it’s also right next to my folk’s bedroom upstairs, so that sucks for them. All the boys are down in the basement. You just, you know, adjust. And my mom can’t keep her hands off us, always fixing our hair, wiping our faces, makes us kiss her cheek before we leave… You know. That handsy-mom kind of thing.”
No, Adam didn’t know. An ache for something he’d never experienced began to build. Could a person be homesick for a family to which they didn’t belong?
Later that same week, Sorensen and LaSalle dropped by.
“Oh, District Leader,” Sorensen said with a bow. “We come bearing cookies.”
Christensen took the offered Tupperware container and opened it. “Oh, whoa. Dude. Are these those fig things?”
LaSalle grinned and rubbed his stomach. “There is nothing like a woman who knows how to cook.”
“Unless it’s a woman who knows how to cook, loves cooking and, more importantly, takes it upon herself to fatten up some poor foreign missionaries,” Sorensen said stealing a cookie before Christensen could twist them out of his grip.
“How many of these have you had already?”
“One? Two dozen?” Sorensen answered, looking to LaSalle.
“Yeah, seems about right. Hey, don’t hate us for finding a family who wants to feed us,” LaSalle said, settling into the sofa. He sank into the bad cushion. “Man, why can’t they get us better furniture? I never remember which one is the janked cushion over here.”
Young laughed, then thanked Christensen when he held the cookies out for him.
“I’m going to hide them over the hood vent,” Christensen said. “Sorensen can’t reach that high.” He laughed, easily brushing his fingertips along the ceiling of the apartment after stashing the container.
“Bro, please. Those four inches you got on me are just a waste. It’s all about a low center of gravity,” Sorensen said before lunging toward him, wrapping his beefy arms around Christensen’s waist and lifting him up easily.
“Here we go,” LaSalle said, wriggling to get comfortable. His knees were up near his shoulders.
“They do this often?” Young asked. Rough-housing while playing a sport was one thing, but this was their missionary apartment. They were still in their dress shirts. They all still had their name tags on. What if Christensen’s got ripped off his dress shirt and tore a hole?
“They do this all the time. Sorensen’s always looking for a chance to get his hands on that boy,” LaSalle laughed.
“Can you blame me?” Sorensen said, grunting as he hoisted Christensen over his shoulder in a fireman-carry, twirling back and forth. “Look at his fine booty,” he added, wriggling Christensen around, who cracked up. “This is some Grade A, prime-time American meat, boys.”
“Okay, okay,” Young said, getting to his feet. The guys’ shoes were a mess at the front door. Also, Sorensen was pretty close to knocking over one of the lamps with Christensen’s head. “You guys? Come on.”
“I’m just honoring God’s creation,” Sorensen said, putting Christensen back on his feet and catching his breath.
Christensen began whistling the chorus to “Put a Ring on It” as LaSalle did the dance’s distinctive arm moves from where he was trapped by the bad cushion. Christensen winked at Young, then plopped onto the sofa. “Sorensen, you wish you had something this good looking. Now tell me how we get some of those leftover chuletillas…”
Yeah. Adam was having a hard time figuring out his companion. More importantly, he was having a hard time figuring out his reactions to Christensen, why he was making him so prone to anger. Anger was not an emotion he should be experiencing on his mission.
They were active servants of the Lord. It seemed to Adam that doing anything as indulgent as being so casual—especially all the touching—with a fellow missionary made light of the seriousness of their tasks, of their duty.
If he allowed himself to think about how he found himself reacting, he might have admitted that Christensen’s familiarity made him feel lonely, hungry for something he’d never had but wanted all the same. That seemed disloyal to his family to say or even think, so he quickly squashed it when it p
opped up in his thoughts, and was left with residual anger that he couldn’t understand.
Every day had the same routine. The two woke up at the required time of 6:30 a.m., made their beds, showered, dressed, prayed over their meal, ate then sat at their small table and studied their lesson ideas for the day. Christensen would hum hymns under his breath as they walked through the streets of Barcelona canvassing for potential converts. It was a Catholic city, so they most often got polite smiles with a head shake. “No. Gracias, no.”
For long stretches of time they walked back and forth offering smiles and conversation, yet were routinely avoided by people on their way to work or the beach. Christensen used these moments to try to pry personal information from Adam.
“So, you’re a jock,” he asked, smirking when Adam rolled his eyes. “Hey, you played at the U. You’re officially a jock.”
“Did you play anything?” Adam asked, eyeing Christensen’s athletic body. He was lean, so he could have been a running back. Slightly too bulky for soccer, Adam thought.
“Wanted to play football, but it was too expensive to play multiple sports,” he replied. “Baseball, mostly.”
“Yeah? Me, too. High school, varsity league.”
Christensen shook his head. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”
“What?” Adam spluttered. “Just, like, everything.”
Christensen stopped and put a hand on Adam’s chest to get him to halt as well. Adam jumped back a step; his face heated in his embarrassment.
“Uh, are you for real? You played varsity. You were good enough to get a frickin’ scholarship. We played basketball the other day. You’re a freaking natural, dude.”
Adam stared at the toes of his shoes and made an X on one of the sidewalk tiles. They were perfect squares with circles pressed into the center of every other one and spread out in front of him like an endless one-player tic-tac-toe board. “I… don’t know about that.”
