hold, tug hard, and allow
them to enter heaven.
As I sat through that sacrament
meeting, observing those women
smile and nod and kowtow,
my warped little mind
wondered if any of them ever
dreamed about really hot guys.
Somehow, I Couldn’t Reconcile
Any of the LDS viewpoint
with a “wake up, tingly all
over, and bathed in a cool
sheen of sweat” kind of dream.
I considered talking to Jackie
about it. We were really each
other’s best friends.
What else could we be?
Thick as mud, Mom always
said, and why not?
We shared siblings,
cohabited a double bed,
confided concerns,
divvied responsibilities.
Traded secrets.
Plotted the future.
Besides, who else
but my closest sister
could understand
the uncertainty of our lives?
Still, I was pretty sure
she couldn’t relate
to spicy dreams about
Justin Proud.
Mom was out. Jackie
was out. I tried to
think of a friend who
might understand.
Oh Yes
I had a few friends,
upstanding Mormon girls all.
Becca and Emily
lived just around the corner.
We’d known each other
since primary, and
before too many sisters
made it nearly impossible,
we used to play together.
In grade school we walked
to the bus together, sat as if glued
together, giggled together.
Confided hopes and dreams.
But our moms knew each
other, our dads held
church callings together.
Once things at the Von Stratten
house started to dive south,
I didn’t dare talk to Becca
or Emily about them.
Once baby detail fell more
and more to me, I didn’t
have time for outside activities.
Becca played outstanding
soccer. Emily sang outstanding
soprano. I was an outstanding
diaper-changing machine.
So we’d chat a bit at church,
walk to class together,
discuss a hunk du jour,
without believing he might
ever belong to any of us.
Sometimes we’d go to church
activities together, but in
the final analysis, we had
very little in common.
Not like Jackie and me,
who had almost everything
in common and no secret
worth keeping from each
other. At least not then.
But Neither Becca
Nor Emily could possibly
answer my questions about
maintaining all manner of decency
while a person dreams.
So I decided to pose the question in seminary.
Wait. Do you know about seminary?
See, come high school, Latter-Day
teenagers spend an hour each weekday
morning, before the first bell rings,
being reminded of Who We Are.
We met at Brother Prior’s house.
Dad drove me on his way to work.
Afterward, I could walk to school
with other good Mormon kids,
the “right kind” to have as friends.
Brother Prior repeated scriptures,
though we’d heard them a thousand
times already. It was his job to reinforce
our values and keep our testimony strong.
He did not encourage hard questions.
Once, after one of Dad’s really bad
Saturday nights left Mom too battered to chance
Sunday services, I arrived at Brother Prior’s
on Monday morning, weighted heavily.
I didn’t hear more than a select few words:
respect…
expect…
require…
Finally, I jumped up. “Excuse me,
Brother Prior, but is it okay for a man to…”
Nine of my peers turned and I caught
something strange in their eyes,
something…
knowing.
Did They Know
About Dad and his deepening
relationship with Johnnie
Walker Black scotch whiskey?
How, despite the church’s
prohibition of all things alcoholic,
he only drank more and more?
Did they know why Mom rarely
left the house and often wore
dark glasses to services?
How she never said a word,
and neither did we, though
we knew we really should?
How, no matter what happened
the night before, the next day Mom
and Dad would be tandem in bed?
How Jackie and I would get up,
straighten up, dress the little ones
and take them outside to play?
Did they know how maybe once
a year Dad would confess to
the bishop, promise to do better?
Or how every time he fell
back off the wagon his rage
only seemed to grow deeper?
I tried to find answers in their
eyes. But all I found behind
their blinks were blank walls.
I couldn’t cough out the rest
of my question. Instead I decided
to look like a total dolt.
“…Never mind. I forgot
what I was going to say.
It wasn’t important, anyway.”
Later, However
My cowardice came back to haunt me,
wrapped in Mom’s muffled screams.
And now, the dream thing preyed on my mind.
I’d never been so impressed by a dream.
I mean, it wasn’t a nightmare, not at all.
But its honesty ran chills down my spine.
Was it really something I wanted, deep down?
Would I rot in the grave because I wanted it?
So I stood up and dared to ask Brother Prior,
“Are we responsible for our dreams?”
Serena’s jaw dropped. Marla giggled.
Mike and Trevor poked each other.
Brother Prior looked completely perplexed.
I’m sure I don’t know what
you mean, Pattyn. Let’s get back
to our scriptures, shall we?
Maybe It Was the “Shall”
Maybe it was just his obnoxious tone,
but I decided not to let it drop.
“But are we? I mean, if we dream,
let’s say, about killing someone,
will God hold us responsible?”
Did you dream about
killing someone?
“No…” I fixed my eyes on his.
“…but I did dream about sex.”
The girls gasped. The boys laughed.
Brother Prior turned the color
of Mom’s rhubarb-cherry pie.
Uh. Um. Well, that’s fairly
normal for someone your age.
“What do you mean, ‘fairly’?
And how does God feel about it?”
I was center stage, everyone
waiting to see what came next.
But for once I didn’t care.
Uh. Um. Well, I can’t really
speak for God, Pa
ttyn.
“Really?” Then what, exactly,
was I sitting there for?
Journal Entry, March 23
Brother Prior is an idiot. And I’m
supposed to swallow his garbage
like it doesn’t even taste bad.
Well, it stinks! Ask him about
Joseph Smith, he can recite
an entire oral history.
Ask him about dreams,
he pretends like he
doesn’t have them.
Ask him about God…
I’m not sure he even believes
God exists.
Do I?
Does Mom?
Does Dad? I mean, really?
I know his past haunts him.
But if he truly believes
he and God are brothers,
meant to live together
in the Great Beyond,
can’t he ask for a hand,
a way to silence his ghosts,
without Johnnie WB?
Or is his drinking sin
enough to make his Heavenly
Sibling turn His back?
The Next Day in Chemistry Lab
Mr. Trotter partnered
me with Tiffany Grant.
Her style was low-ride
jeans, belly-baring tops
and designer tennis shoes.
Oh good, she cooed. I get
the smart one. Guess I won’t
start any fires today.
Tiffany and Bunsen
burners were incompatible.
One time she singed the ends
of her perfect hazelnut hair.
My life was in danger!
Tiffany poured water
into a beaker. You light
the burner, Pat.
Pat? That’s what you did
to a dog’s head. Part of me
wanted to say something
nasty. The cautious part won
out. “Please call me Pattyn.”
That’s actually a pretty name.
Her carrot-colored fingernails
tapped against the counter.
Actually? As I added salt
to the beaker, Mr. Trotter
stepped out of the room.
Not two minutes later, guess
who walked through the door?
Justin Sauntered Over
Totally
defining the word
“saunter.” For
one completely
insane
minute, I forgot
about my lab
partner and actually
thought
he was coming
over to talk to me.
A fine, prickly
mist
of sweat broke
out all over my body,
chilled by a jolt of
reality.
Justin barely glanced
at me before turning
to Tiffany.
Hey, gorgeous.
Still on for Saturday?
Zap!
I was
nobody. So
why would I think
he wanted to talk to me?
And why wouldn’t he want
to talk to Tiffany, who had
everything I would never have:
beauty, money, confidence (okay, conceit)?
Justin
slid his arm
around her tiny
waist, walked his long
fingers along her exposed
skin. I couldn’t keep from watching
out of the corner of one eye, jealousy
seeping from my pores, sourdough perfume.
Tiffany
pretended to be
offended. “Stop it,
Justin. Everybody’s
watching. And what if Mr.
Trotter comes back right now?”
But she didn’t try to move his hand
and in fact, curled tighter against his torso.
Zap!
I was nobody.
Someday, would
another nobody slide his
arm around my substantial waist,
walk his hand up under my homemade
blouse? And would I draw back into the curve
of him, close my eyes, and take pleasure in his heat?
Daydreams Bite
At least in chemistry lab.
As my body broke out
in a bone-chilling sweat,
Mr. Trotter snuck up behind me.
Don’t add the oil yet, Pattyn.
Pay attention!
I jumped, knocking over
the beaker of salt water,
with an oil float.
Exxon Valdez in miniature!
I’m surprised, Pattyn.
Usually you’re so careful.
Usually I wasn’t confronted
by sex dreams in the flesh;
living, breathing sex dreams,
with a Tiffany twist.
Clean up your mess. Then
perhaps you’d better start over.
I turned to apologize to my lab
partner, but she and Justin
had slipped out the door, no doubt
before Mr. Trotter returned.
Timing is everything.
Timing Was Poor
The next afternoon—Friday
afternoon. Mom asked me
to run out back to the storage
shed to get a jar of spaghetti sauce
from our stash of emergency supplies.
Imagine, storing enough
food and water to nurture a family
of nine for a year, “when the shit
hit the fan and it all came crashing down.”
Another Latter-Day Saints edict.
Dad’s aged Subaru was already
parked out back. Some Fridays he
got off early from his job, working
security at the state legislature.
He saw it as a decent occupation,
which paid the bills
and provided insurance and retirement.
I saw it as kind of boring most
of the time, with the odd takedown
to provide a rush of adrenaline
and a blush of importance.
Anyway, somewhere between stacks
of batteries, boxes of bullets,
and countless cans
of tuna, Spam, and beans
was Dad’s stash of Johnnie WB.
Weeknights, he’d duck outside
for an after-dinner belt. Just enough
to allow sleep. But come Friday
afternoon, he’d head straight for his
good buddy Johnnie. They partied hearty.
And the party had already started.
As I Approached the Shed
I heard his voice, thick
as caramel on his tongue.
Leave me alone. I
can’t help you now.
Part of me wanted to run.
Part of me had to listen.
Goddammit, Molly,
go away. Please.
Molly. His first wife.
The true love of his life.
I miss Dwight too,
you know I do.
Dwight, who carried soldier
in his genes.
I couldn’t tell him not
to go, could I?
Their first son, killed in a
firefight in Somalia.
What’s that? Fuck Douglas,
the friggin’ fag.
Their second son, until he
came out of the closet.
No, dammit. No son of mine
will take it from another man.
So he told him never to show
his face nearby again.
But you didn’t have to do
what you did!
One son dead, the other
shunned, Molly folded.
&
nbsp; Don’t you know how
much I miss you?
Put a .357 into her mouth,
pulled the trigger.
Oh God, Molly,
please stop crying.
The Long Pause
Told
me it
wasn’t
Molly who
was sobbing.
I’d never heard
my father cry
before.
How
many
times
had I tried
my best to hate
that complicated
man. But this
tiny piece
of me
kept
thinking
back to another,
happier time, when
Mom loved Dad.
And me. And
Dad loved
Mom.
And
me. At
least as much
as he could with
that dead, cold space
growing inside him,
that place no
amount
of love
could
ever settle into.
That impenetrable
arctic land where his
ghosts had carried
his heart.
I Sort of Remember
Crawling up into Daddy’s lap,
when Dad was still
Daddy,
nodding my head against
his chest, soaking in
the comfort of his heat,
Burned Page 3
