by Dean Hughes
he was crying again himself. He had never thought himself capable of this much emotion.
Peter was still there, too, and like his father, he didn’t intend to embrace the elders. But Elder Thomas took him in his arms anyway, and Peter didn’t seem to mind. “Thank you,” he kept whispering. “Thank you, Bruder Thomas.”
Elder Thomas patted him on the back and told him, “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it.” But Peter kept repeating the words.
And then Frau Stoltz motioned for the elders to follow her, and they walked to Anna’s bedroom again. She was sitting up, with two big pillows behind her. She still looked white and delicate. Elder Thomas stepped close and reached out to shake her hand. She took his hand, but she kept it, held it. And Elder Thomas saw something new. Her eyes were alive, but they were quieter than before. “Thank you,” she said.
“It’s all right. We only—”
“I heard your voice. I was very far down. But I heard you call me back.”
“Really? I didn’t think you even knew we were here.”
“I didn’t know. I was leaving. I felt comfortable. I wanted to go, and I was moving toward something good. And then I heard your voice. I knew I had to come back.”
“That’s . . .” But Elder Thomas had no idea what to say. “That’s good,” he finally offered, feeling stupid for not saying something more meaningful.
“I feel different,” Anna said. “I’m not the same person.”
“It’s all right,” her mother said. “It’s not a bad change.”
“I know,” was all Anna said. She was looking up at Elder Thomas, and he saw something there that embarrassed him. She was still holding his hand, and finally he thought to pull it away.
Chapter 9
Bobbi hesitated outside Professor Stinson’s office and almost walked away. But she told herself she was being silly, and she tapped on his door. “Yes? Come in,” she heard him call, and she couldn’t help smiling. There was something brash in calling out that way, in not bothering to come to the door.
She opened the door about half way and looked in. “I just wanted to ask a quick question, Professor Stinson.”
He was seated at his desk, but he let his chair swivel around, and he was already smiling, as though pleased to have someone—or maybe Bobbi—stop by. “Come in. Sit down.”
“Oh, I’m not staying that long,” Bobbi said. She stepped into the room, but she kept her hand on the doorknob. She had been in the office once before, but again she was amazed by the chaos. Books and papers were stacked everywhere—or perhaps dropped was more accurate. A dusty basketball was lying in the same corner where it had been before, and a picture of Henry David Thoreau was propped on his desk, leaning against a wall, still not hung. Next to it was a hotplate with a coffeepot perched on top, and the air was full of the smell of coffee. “I’m working on my paper, and I couldn’t remember what you said about footnote style,” Bobbi said. “Is Turabian all right?”
Professor Stinson laughed and tossed his hands in the air. “I don’t care. Just stick something down there. I never check the footnotes anyway.”
“Oh. Some professors are very—”
“I know. I always got my footnotes wrong in grad school. And some of my profs made a big thing of it. But as long as I wrote something brilliant, they forgave me.” He laughed again with a little boy’s kind of elation, his voice putting like a motor. “And I’ve got to admit, I was always brilliant.”
“You went to Columbia, didn’t you?”
“For grad school, yes. Amherst, undergrad. And my dad’s a professor at Yale. You’re looking at a thoroughbred—good genes, good training. The only thing I lack is demeanor.”
“And footnotes,” Bobbi said.
That set off another surge of laughter, which delighted Bobbi, but she was hardly prepared when Professor Stinson stood up, thrust his hands into his pockets, and said, “Bobbi, you are absolutely wonderful. Do you know that?”
Bobbi felt her face turn hot. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“I mean it. You’re twice as bright as anyone in any of my classes, and you’re always right with me. Don’t you see me directing my lectures to you? Sometimes I forget anyone else is there.”
Bobbi had certainly noticed, and it sometimes made her uncomfortable, but she kept the eye contact because she loved the amazing range of emotions in his subtle green eyes, and she liked to watch for his smile, lurking and then bursting out with joy in response to a comment—more often than not his own. He was the youngest professor Bobbi had taken a class from, and even though he wasn’t exactly handsome, she found
him—when she admitted the truth to herself—disturbingly attractive. She also knew, just on the edge of her consciousness, that the question about footnotes was more an excuse than a reason for stopping by.
“What are you going to do, Bobbi? And don’t tell me you want to teach high school. You need to teach at a college. It’s the only life for someone who likes to think.” He motioned at a chair in the corner. “Sit down.”
Bobbi did sit, even though she had told herself she
wouldn’t stay long. “I’m not sure what I’ll do,” she said.
Professor Stinson sat in his desk chair again. He had already taken off his tweed coat and tossed it onto a radiator near his desk, and he had undone his tie and loosened the clasps on his suspenders so they looped loosely on his chest. Bobbi could see some muscles under his white shirt; apparently he hadn’t spent all his life reading and thinking.
“I saw you showing off your new diamond ring the other day,” he said. “It’s big as a baseball.”
“I wasn’t showing it off. Some girls wanted to see it.”
“Well, in any case, I suppose you’re getting married before long. But I hope you don’t drop your studies when you do.”
“All that’s a little unclear right now,” Bobbi said, “but I’m not getting married right away.”
“I would think not. You’re awfully young.” He exaggerated the words and let his eyebrows rise, as though shocked.
“Not really. My grandmother had two children by the time she was my age.”
“That is such a Mormon response,” he said, but with a tone of affection more than criticism.
Bobbi used it, however, as a chance to ask something she had wondered about. “What’s it like to come from the East and live here—with all us Mormons?”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” He let his head roll back, ran his fingers through his hair, and then looked at the ceiling as he thought. “My first year—three years ago—I was baffled. If I’d taken a job on some South Pacific island, I couldn’t have been more confused by the culture. But I like it here now. There are things I don’t like, but on balance, it’s a good place.”
“What don’t you like?”
He answered without hesitation. “There’s no curiosity in Mormons. They’ve got all the truth they want. And they’re suspicious of any fellow who’s been transported across state lines from one of Satan’s universities.”
Bobbi laughed. She thought of her dad’s admonitions about the godless doctrines she would have to discern and reject—especially from non-Mormon professors. “I’ve suspected all along that you’re a devil in disguise,” she said.
The words were out of her mouth before she realized how flirtatious they sounded. And she saw his response. He glowed with pleasure. It was time for her to leave. She stood up.
“Wait. Wait. Where are you going?”
“Oh, I just—”
“Finish your question. You only asked me what I don’t like.”
“All right.” She sat down again. “What do you like?”
“The goodness.” He nodded firmly. “I’m serious. Mormons are good people. My parents are Episcopalians. They go to church with nice people, well-educated and impeccably groomed, and they carry on a reserved sort of comradeship with them. But Mormons roll up their sleeves and turn religion into irrigation ditches and a side of beef f
or a needy family.”
“My mother’s response to any problem is to take in a meal. It doesn’t matter whether a family has had a death or a birth or the son has been thrown in jail—she shows up with food.”
“With apple pie. Right?”
“She’s actually a lemon meringue specialist.”
Professor Stinson grinned. “Wallace Stegner was still here the first year I came. He used to tell a great story about J. Golden Kimball. Did you ever meet him?”
“He spoke at our stake conference once—and ate dinner at our house.”
“Really? Did he get some of that lemon meringue pie?”
“He certainly did.”
“Did he swear?”
“No. We were all disappointed about that.”
“I wish I had met him. Wallace made him sound like someone I’d love. The story goes that old J. Golden blessed a young man and prophesied that if he would go on a mission the Lord would provide him, when he returned, with four good mules. Well, the boy served his mission, came home, and found no mules. He wasn’t one to complain, but he mentioned the discrepancy to Brother Kimball. So J. Golden gave the young man four fine mules of his own—and that didn’t exactly please his wife. But Golden told her—and Wallace always imitated him with a high, squeaky voice—‘Just never mind about that. If the Lord won’t keep his damn fool promises, then I will.’” Professor Stinson grinned. “Now that, to me, is Mormonism.”
Bobbi enjoyed the story, but she didn’t like the simplistic summary. “That’s only part of who we are,” she said.
“Tell me what you mean. I’m really interested to know.”
“Well . . . I know we’re practical. We’ve had to survive a lot of things. But there’s a profound theology behind everything we do.”
“Actually, I’ve read a good deal about that.”
“Then you know that learning is important to us—even if we are suspicious of irreverent fellows like yourself.” She smiled at him. “When your goal is to become like God, you know that you have to understand everything.”
“But tell the whole truth,” Professor Stinson said. “You don’t want to be like God. You want to be gods.”
“People misunderstand that. They think we’re trying—”
“Hey, I love it. It’s the most audacious belief in all of Christendom. It’s downright impertinent.”
“No. That’s not true. It’s a very humbling idea—if you think about it the right way. We’re not trying to put ourselves before God. We’re trying to reach our full capability.”
He nodded, and he seemed to take the idea seriously. Bobbi loved the thoughtful respect that came into his eyes. Professor Stinson’s feathery hair was beyond control, and his hands were constantly in motion, as if they had a will of their own. But amid all that wildness, Bobbi saw so much in his eyes—warmth, irony, fun, and genuine interest in almost everything, including her. When it came to impertinence, the man could point no fingers, but just when Bobbi would conclude that he was insufferably arrogant, she would discover again the fairness and kindness in those gentle eyes.
“That’s fascinating to think about,” he said. “I wonder what kind of god I would make?” He laughed, but then he added, “I do like this eternal progress thing Mormons believe in. It makes heaven sound like an interesting place. I’ve always thought of heaven as entirely too restful to suit my tastes. But if I had a whole eternity to keep discovering things—with a mind that could handle it—that would be appealing.”
“Then why are you making fun of it?”
“I’m not.”
“You sound facetious. Don’t you believe in a life after death?”
Professor Stinson leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know, Bobbi. It seems unlikely to me. But I’m open to the possibility.”
“Do you ever go to church?” Bobbi thought she was being bold, but he didn’t seem to mind the personal questions.
“I haven’t for a long time. But preachers always want to give me answers. And I like questions much more than I like answers.” His sneaky smile appeared. “That’s the real devil in me, Bobbi.”
Bobbi was suddenly self-conscious about the way he was looking at her. “Well, I’m glad you warned me,” she said, and she decided to leave. Soon.
“You have a taste for questions yourself. Where did you get that?”
“I don’t know.” But it crossed her mind that she did know. Something about her father’s certitude had always elicited from her a subtle sort of skepticism. She didn’t rebel or deny; she simply wondered, How can you be so sure?
“Well, I think you’re remarkable. I don’t know where you came from. It’s hard to believe you’re home grown. And your father is a stake president, isn’t he?”
“How did you know that?”
Suddenly he was the one blushing. “Oh. Well . . . I talked to one of the other professors about you. He lives out in Sugar House—knows all about your family.”
Bobbi felt certain she should leave now. There was nothing exactly wrong with his talking about her, but his embarrassment seemed to imply something that she didn’t know how to deal with.
“Tell me about your fiancé,” Professor Stinson said. “Is he worthy of you?”
“I think most people would ask the question the other way around,” Bobbi said. “He’s very . . .” But Bobbi couldn’t think what to say.
“Very what? Handsome? Rich? Righteous?”
He was all those things, and yet Bobbi heard the irony in her professor’s voice. “He’s good. He’s . . . very kind to me.”
Professor Stinson rolled his chair back a little and extended his legs, and then he crossed his arms over his chest. Bobbi could see that the fabric over his elbows had worn thin. “He’s in law school, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” But once again, she didn’t know how he would know that. She looked past him, through a smudged and dusty window. Outside, students were moving in a steady stream around and across the University Circle. Eleven o’clock classes had just ended, and lots of people were heading toward the union. Bobbi realized she was supposed to meet Phil across the street at the University Inn for lunch in just a few minutes. She suddenly felt guilty.
“He must be someone very special. You wouldn’t fall for just anyone. Does he love ideas as much as you do?”
That seemed almost purposeful, as though he knew very well what sort of man Phil was. “We find a lot to talk about,” Bobbi said, but the words sounded feeble. She stood up. “Well, anyway, thanks for your time, Dr. Stinson, and—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What?”
“It seems so silly. And formal. Just call me David.”
“No. I . . . couldn’t.” She stepped to the door. “Anyway, thank you.”
He got up. “Let me say just one more thing. And you take it however you want.”
“Is it about footnotes?”
He laughed in a burst. “No. Not footnotes. I guess it’s about your getting married, but it’s more about you getting your Ph.D. and becoming an English professor.”
“I doubt I would ever do that.”
“I know. But I want you to think about it.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. Then he waited until she looked at him. “I tell most of these students that Thoreau sat by Walden Pond for a year, and they say, ‘What in the world for?’ But you’re not like that. I watch your eyes, and I can’t believe someone so alive is sitting in front of me, just drinking all this stuff in. It would be a tragedy for you to hide yourself away in a house—with a dozen children to raise and no time to think and read.”
But this angered Bobbi—maybe partly because it also pleased her so much. “I don’t think there’s anything finer in life than being a mother,” she said.
“Actually, I agree. But what I’m saying is that there are other things, too. I don’t know about you, but I want to see everything there is to see on this planet, feel every emotion, think every thought. I want to
chew up life and swallow it—and then lick all the good juices off my lips.” He smiled at his own image. “I don’t think being a mother should mean that you have to cut yourself off from life.”
“I would never do that.”
“Maybe not, but . . . well, I’ve said enough. I saw you with your boyfriend one day, and I got some sort of impression. But that’s none of my business.”
“What impression?”
“No, really. I’ve said enough. The truth is, I was probably just jealous.”
And now Bobbi felt the heat start in her face and spread. She had to get out of there. “Thanks for your time,” she said again, quickly and awkwardly, and she slipped out the door, down the hallway, and out of the Liberal Arts Building. She told herself that he was the devil, indeed, and that he had been entirely improper to say such things. She also vowed not to watch him in class the way she had, not to engage his eyes so often.
That night Bobbi went to MIA. All too often lately she had missed her Gleaners’ class. But even with her paper due the next morning, she decided to go. Sister Holmes had talked to her at church. “Too many of you older girls aren’t coming,” she had said, “and the younger ones need your example. More than anyone, as the president’s daughter, you need to show that you don’t think you’re too good for Gleaners just because you’re out of high school.”
Bobbi never liked that kind of pressure, but she did respond—although she purposely chose to arrive late enough to miss opening exercises. Normally, there were a couple of short talks, and often one of the Beehive girls played a piano solo or sang. She decided she could live without all that.
In class Sister Holmes talked about prayer, something Bobbi cared very deeply about, but the woman used every cliché. She explained that God always answered prayers; sometimes he answered yes, and sometimes no. Bobbi had wondered all her life about that. How could she identify an answer if “nothing” was as much a response as “something” was? She considered asking about that, even offering some of her own thoughts, but she was certain Sister Holmes wouldn’t appreciate that sort of discussion.
