Volume 13, Number 2 (2011)

Irreantum Staff
Editor Josh Allen
Fiction Editor Lisa Torcasso Downing
Poetry Editor Jim Richards
Creative Nonfiction Editor Brittney Carman
Critical Essay Editor Karen Marguerite Moloney
Lead Copyeditor Elizabeth Petty Bentley
Copyediting Staff Lotte Willian and Liz Jensen
Layout Marny K. Parkin

Association for Mormon Letters Board

President Margaret Blair Young
Past President Boyd Petersen
Board Members Mark Brown, Dennis Clark, Eric Samuelsen, Philip Snyder,
Charles Swift
Secretary Darlene Young
Membership Secretary Kathleen Dalton-Woodbury
Treasurer D. Matthew Jarman
Awards Coordinator Dennis Clark
Webmaster Jacob Proffitt
Blog Moderator Jonathan Langford
AML-List Moderator Stephen Carter

Front cover: Window, abandoned houseSquirrel, Idaho, Brian Atkinson

Irreantum (ISSN 1518-0594) is published twice a year by the Association for Mormon Letters (AML), PO Box 581422, Salt Lake City, UT 84158; www.irreantum.org.
Irreantum vol. 13, no. 2 (2011) 2011 by the Association for Mormon Letters. All
rights reserved. Membership and subscription information can be found at the end of
this issue; single issues cost $14 (postpaid); double issues, $16. Advertising rates begin
at $50 for a full page. The AML is a nonprofit 501(c)(3) organization, so contributions
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Views expressed in Irreantum do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors or
of AML board members. This publication has no official connection with or endorsement by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Irreantum is indexed in the
MLA International Bibliography.

 5 From the Editor

Fiction

7 Darin Cozzens The Last Blessing of J. Guyman LeGrand

59 Laura McCune-Poplin Anonymity
99 Mark Brown The Iron Door

Poetry

34 Tyler Chadwick I once found religion at the dollar store;

Self portrait with closed eyes; Landscape, with a Crickets
Chirr; Litany, with Wings; Pater Noster
73 Jared White Celestial Bodies; Speaking in Tongues; After
Reading Exodus; Poetry as the Art of Theft; Walking through
Winter in Rexburg, Idaho, after William Blake

Creative Nonfiction

Reviews

27
47
83
119

Suzette Gee Being Alone: Variations on a Theme

Kathryn Lynard Soper Seeing Stars
Melissa McQuarrie When Trees Fall
Kerry Spencer Who Peeks Through the Veil

135 Laura Hilton Craner Everything That Actually Matters

is Real
Anneke Majors The Year of the Boar
139 Kevin L. Barney Saint Jana
Jana Riesss Flunking Sainthood: A Year of Breaking the
Sabbath, Forgetting to Pray, and Still Loving My Neighbor
145 Doug Talley The Architecture of a Poem
Lance Larsons Backyard Alchemy
153 About the Artist
154 Contributors

Volume 13, Number 2 (2011)

-r-ntum
And we beheld the sea, which we called Irreantum,
which, being interpreted, is many waters.
1 Nephi 17:5

Irreantum is a refereed journal published twice annually (Fall/

Winter, Spring/Summer) by the Association for Mormon Letters.
We seek to define the parameters of Mormon literature broadly,
acknowledging a growing body of diverse work that reflects the
increasing diversity of Mormon experience. We wish to publish the
highest quality of writing, both creative and critical.
We welcome unsolicited submissions of poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and plays that address the Mormon experience either directly
or by implication. We also welcome submissions of critical essays that
address such works, in addition to popular and nonprint media (such
as film, folklore, theater, juvenile fiction, science fiction, letters, diaries,
sermons). Critical essays may also address Mormon literature in more
general terms, especially in its regional, ethnic, religious, thematic, and
genre-related configurations. We also seek submissions of photos that
can be printed in black and white. We welcome letters and comments.
Please visit www.Irreantum.MormonLetters.org for submission instructions. Only electronic submissions will be considered.

From the Editor

The oldest scar on my body is on my left foot. Its thin and faded,
and it snakes its way from my big toe to my knobby ankle. I got it one
fall morning when I was just three years old. My mother was biking
me to preschool, and I was riding on the back of her ten-speed in
one of those little toddler seats. Somehow, my foot got caught in the
spokes, and we crashed to the ground. Mom says my screams that
morning were shockingquick, gravelly, and surprisingly loud. She
scooped me up, and thats when she saw my tennis shoe, ripped open
on one side and blood pouring out.
That was thirty-four years ago. Today, I cant remember this wreck.
What I do know of it comes from Momborrowed thoughts. Still, the
scar is there. Its faded and skinny, just a tiny white string stuck to my skin.
I have other scars, too. Theres the inch-long scar on my left index
finger. I got it in 1994 while trying unsuccessfully to saw up a woodpile. And theres a barely noticeable scar on my forehead. I got it when
I walked face first into the corner of my office door in 2003. Thankfully, it blends right into my natural forehead creases.
Theres a large round scar in the middle of my chest. When I was
a senior in high school, I went for a late-night run, and two miles
from homeaway from the lights of Riverton, Utahit grew so dark
that I didnt notice the road sign right in front of me. I clanged into it
and gashed myself wide open. That scars faded now, but for years it
swelled and puffed and shined bright red and looked embarrassingly
like a weird third nipple. Thank heaven for chest hair.
Of course, those arent all my scars. If I stood in front of a mirror
and took my time about it, Im sure I could find plenty morefat
ones on my knees, faded ones on my elbows, a long forgotten one on
my shoulder, a chicken pox scar on my neck. And dont even get me
started on emotional scars. Youll be here all day.
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Irreantum

So, yes. I am scarred. Banged up. Ripped open. Gashed. Chances

are, you are too.
And, in my mind, thats a big deal.
Ask a group of children sometime to tell you about their scars,
and youll see what I mean. Even the most hyperactive of children
will stand in line for hours just to tell you about his scars. Youll hear
about the exact numbers of stitches, the date and time of the injury,
the black look in the eyes of the dog that caused it, and the flavor
of the lollipops the chubby nurse was handing out in the emergency
room. Pant legs will be lifted. Shirt sleeves will be rolled.
Stories emerge. Poems arise. Tiny philosophers compose lyrical
essays. Quite suddenly, without warning, children who dont even
know how to read will be speaking in narratives, offering cautionary
tales, waxing comic, exploring ambiguity.
Is this where literature comes from? Could it be that every work of
art is really just the manifestation of a scar?
After all, it seems to me that scars prove two things:
First, scars prove that weve been wounded. They reveal our weaknesses, our follies, our humanity, and they stand as a testament of
the chance encounters weve had with pain. Doesnt literature do the
samething?
Second, scars prove that weve healed. Whatever wounds we have
borne, as we look at our bodies each day, those scars are evidence that
time does heal. Doesnt literature do this also?
In this issue of Irreantum, youre going to explore a few scars. Youll
see the wounds of loneliness, of loss, and of so much more. And yet,
at the same time, youre going to read about how those wounds have
healedhow theyve crusted over and flaked away.
One day, Christ will come again, and when He does, He will stand
before us and bare His scars. He will show us His hands and His feet.
He will open His robe and reveal His pierced side.
When He does, I think there will be only one way to respond. We
will stand, lift our pant legs, roll our sleeves, and show Him ours.
Until then, we have these stories, these poems, these essaystestaments of the scars we bear, evidence of the healing we believe in.
Josh Allen
6

The Last Blessing of J. Guyman LeGrand

Darin Cozzens

Say the name J. Guyman in this part of Wyoming, and any Mormon older than I am will start quoting bits of a patriarchal blessing
given at his hand. This is not horoscope or palm reading; this is a
blessing. So just out of reverence, such quoting ought to be a more private affair than it sometimes is. But you cant really blame people, not
when so many promises through the years have turned out, especially
the unlikely ones. The spinster marries. The barren wife conceives.
The prodigal comes home. All in the Lords due timewhich can be
a long time, for surebut all foretold nonetheless.
By the time I had my turn in the ladder-back chair in his tidy parlorJune 1978Stake Patriarch J. Guyman LeGrand had been giving
blessings for forty-four years. Figuring from the day in 1934 when he
was ordained by a visiting apostle, that period covers two full generations of Mormons, including my parents and my older sistersAfton
Rae, Leona, and Eden. The way it works in the Church, he was not
paid a dime for this service; he earned his living as a machine foreman
at the sugar-beet factory in Ralston.
At some point in those forty-four years, the recording method changed
from his wifes stenography to a tape recorder, and Brother J. Guyman
retired from the sugar-beet factory. And somewhere along the way, he
wore out three or four Sunday suits and turned into an old man. But the
blessings kept coming as powerful as ever. Hundreds of themgiven in
the same little house in Balford, by the same priesthood authority, to an
endless line of young people with the same hope for the future lighting
up their eyes. Thousands of themall transcribed by Sister LeGrand
on the same old typewriter, mailed out in the same timely fashion.
1st place winner, 2011 Irreantum Fiction Contest

Irreantum

Only one thing made mine any different.

It was the last one he gave.
At sixteen, I couldnt know he would lay his fairly steady, ninetyseven-year-old hands on my head one Sunday afternoon, address me
in fullEverett Tolbert Godwinpronounce my patriarchal blessing,
and be dead by that evening. At sixteen, I couldnt know that within
thirty years after feeling those hands on my head, dry as papyrus, Id
lose my dad, then the farm, and now my mother, and wind up, at age
forty-six, working as an inspector for County Weed and Pest. None
of which, by the way, was anything my blessing gave me to expect.
What I did know, sitting in my Sunday clothes in that ladder-back
chair, was that the things Brother J. Guyman LeGrand said by the
power of his priesthood office surged through my scalp and down
my spine. With my arms folded and eyes closed, it was as if there
werent any years between the Ever Godwin in that chair and the one
who would provide for a wife and children through tillage and reaping,
gleaning the comforts and necessities of life on land entrusted to him
by his fathers. Those were the words. It was a strange and sobering
thing to be sixteen and feel no distance of time between me and my
progeny.
Or between me and my progenitors, either. By the summer of 1978,
my grandpa Warner Godwin had been dead eleven years; I hardly
remembered him. But during the giving of the blessing, I could
see him wresting that land from the wilderness. That was the verb
that came out of Brother J. Guymans mouth. I saw this wresting as
Grandpa Godwin grubbing and burning sagebrush below the canal
Loopwhich hed helped dig with a team and slip shoveland my
dad, in his boyhood, endlessly picking and piling and hauling off
rock. To credit myself with some part in the wresting, I imagined
jabbing my irrigating shovel upright between the grubbing hoe and
rock sledge.
Tillage and reaping, wresting and entrusting. Thats what the blessing says. Not failed farmer hired as a weed inspector because he happened to have a college degree in Ag Econ. At eighteen, I didnt want
to go to school at all, BYU or anywhere else. I planned to farm and
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Cozzens: Last Blessing

didnt much like pulling out on Labor Day, leaving my dad with eighty
acres of unharvested beans. But my going meant everything to my
mother.
Ag Econ! Thats rich. Just because several cousins on her side of the
family were getting masters degrees in business administration didnt
mean thats what I had to do. SoAg Econ. If youre really going to
farmand not just loan money to farmers or sell them insurance or
machinery or, in my case, police their weedsyou can pretty much
boil eight semesters of lectures and textbooks down to this: Spend
less than you make. My dad saw that law as being etched so deep in
stone even a patriarchal blessing couldnt counter it. But when things
started going bad for us, I really half expected a divine overriding. I
cited precedents. What about the spinster or the prodigal? My dad
said, Dont you think, from Gods angle, they might have a little better claim on a miracle?
My dad asked that question the morning the blood clot in his leg
broke loose and drifted toward his heart. He was loading the hopper
of the barley drill, down in a field Grandpa Warner called the milkweed patchto honor the one crop it could make with any predictable abundance. The doctor explained it like a gob of mud hitting the
fins in a water pump. Boom. His aortic valve sort of exploded. He was
sixty-nine.
I held on for three more years, but there was no divine overriding.
The only definite change in my prospects came when the man from
FHAs Denver office showed up one morning to tell me it was time
to call it quits.
Its a blessing in disguise, my mother said. You can finally use that
college degree I talked you into getting and make a steady salary.
Ive never told her, but there isnt much about Ag Econ you need
to know to drive around in a county pickup espying weeds. My patriarchal blessing does not mention turning into an offender for a word,
which is pretty much how farmers regard the weed inspector. I know.
They suffer him wandering their side roads and scrutinizing their plant
life for one reason: so hell sign the Weed Release they need in order
to sell their crops. You might want to nip that little patch on the ditch
9

Irreantum

bank before it seeds out, Dean. Say, Harold, have you tried Roundup in
that paddock of yours? Of course, the farmer is the one who has to do
the actual nipping or spraying before the release is granted. In the five
years since I lost the farm, I havent touched a machete or spray nozzle.
I advise. I consult. I sign with a flourish. Everett T. Godwin. Serving
agriculture in the Shoshone Valley. Smiling picture, with the whole
Weed and Pest gang, in the New Years edition of the Balford Clarion.
Could be, with the Pearly Gates calling, old J. Guyman wasnt at
the top of his game, my uncle Eb told me one time. Uncle Ebs a Jack
Mormon and prides himself on a nose for doctrinal soft spots. If you
dont believe in the idea of God knowing you and everything thats
coming, then saying a farm kid will take over his dads place is nothing
more than prediction. But I do believe. On the very day I graduated
with my degree in Ag Econ, I told my parents I had decided: I wanted
to come home and farm. I was twenty-four, unmarried, and not the
least bit tempted by a steady salary.
My dad was delighted. As we took our pictures outside the graduation hall, he said, With your brain and my backbone, we ought to be
able to earn the porridge. Between his hat line and his poorly knotted
necktie was a face ruddy with windburn, shaved maybe twice a week,
not counting Sundays and graduations. After the wet combing wore
off, his thinning hair was always at odds with his scalp. Yet, as he
stood among students and professors in their robes and hoods, there
wasnt an envious or apologetic bone in his body.
My mother was not so delighted. She waited as long as she could,
between the picture taking and lunch, before she said, I hope youve
given this a lot of thought, Ever. You could still apply for a masters.
I had given it a lot of thought, and I gave it some more that night.
While my parents slept, I drove their car on the long road back to our
corner of Wyoming, toward the farm and what I thought my life was
going to be. Just before he laid hands on my head, Brother J. Guyman,
patriarch and retired machine foreman, felt it meetas he put itto
clarify two points. First, he said, Dont blame God for war and cleft
palates. Then, regarding the line of inspiration from God to the patriarch to the person in the ladder-back chair, he gave me this counsel:
10

Cozzens: Last Blessing

Any troubleshooting regarding what is said and what is understood

had better commence at the bottom of the chain.
For my mother, the surest sign of my blessings divinity would
have been for my future in farming never to have been mentioned in
the first place. Every chance she got, from the time I went to Brother
J.Guyman until I left home three years later for my mission in the
Philippines, she made that feeling known.
Ever, you dont want to farm, she said on raw March evenings
when my dad and I came in from riding cabless tractors. Go get a
college degree, for heavens sake. Train your mind for office work. As
my dad and I peeled off coats and coveralls, and jockeyed for the hot
spot in front of the gas stove, she said, Are you even listening to me?
Yes, but I was in no mood to question my destined livelihood.
Nights like that held too many rewardsthe pleasant ache in the
palm from the steering wheel knob, the warmth creeping back into my
limbs, pork chops and boiled potatoes and bubbling-hot gravy waiting on the table, the good smell of baking-powder biscuits just out of
the oven. Office work! The thought was repugnant.
My dads brothers all ended up away from the farm, and I wouldnt
have traded places with any of them, certainly not Uncle Eb and his
ditch riding or Uncle Gurn roustabouting in the oil field. To me, even
Uncle Rector cruising Balfords streets in his snazzy police car was no
step up. When he told his story of lying to the Navy recruiter about
his age, he meant to emphasize the lucky timing of Pearl Harbor, how
it spared him another summer of weeding and irrigating for Grandpa.
I never understood why farming fared so badly in his comparisons.
Or in my mothers. After family reunions at Aunt Helens big house,
my mother was despondent for a week. For therapy, she rearranged
furniture, beat rugs, and scrubbed everything in sight. Your sister certainly did well for herself, she often remarked to my dad, referring to
Aunt Helens marriage to Uncle Frett Jr., the banker.
On those cold spring nights, when I wouldnt question farming, my
mother turned to my dad. Tell him, Tolbert. Tell him he doesnt want
to be out in the wind the rest of his life.
I dont know, Mina. Theres worse places.
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And my patriarchal blessing says

I know what it says, Ever.
And she did. She and my dad had sat with me that Sunday afternoon in Brother J. Guymans parlor, his last afternoon on earth. When
the official copy of my blessing came in the mail, my mother right
away retyped it herself, on carbon paper; she needed enough copies to
complete the family sets she gave us all for Christmas that year. I wonder sometimes if her fingers paused, itching to make changes, when
she came to that paragraph about tillage and reaping.
Uggh! This heat, she said on hot July nights, sitting close to the
screen door and fanning herself with a Readers Digest. Tell him, Tol.
Tell him he needs to get out of the sun. Tell him what itll do to him.
I dont know, Mina.
And my blessing says
My mother had her reasons for feeling the way she felt. Her patriarchal blessing said she would refine her musical talents and use them
as an ambassador for the gospel. In her middle teens she came to
believe that particular line meant she might someday sing in the Tabernacle Choir. At the very least, it seemed to mean she would put a
lot of distance between herself and her dads pig farm over by Cowley,
and that was promise enough for her. She had a good voice; in just
three quarters of college she took all the singing classes BYU offered.
One of her teachers said she had the makings of a professional and
arranged to send her to Chicago to prove it.
But a couple of months before she was to go, she met my dad at a
stake dance in Lovell. He was just home from the Army. Before long,
in accordance with another part of her blessing, she was convinced he
was the worthy spouse she was supposed to share the fortunes of life
with. And so she did. I have in mind forever a picture of my parents
sitting at the kitchen table with pencil and paper, green FHA Farm
Budget Planner, and a stack of bills.
I dont know where its going to come from, Mina.
Well, I dont either, Tolbert.
The greater the uncertainty, the more she sewed and patched, grew
and canned, plucked and stewed. One year, to follow a magazines
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Cozzens: Last Blessing

prescribed schedule for planting raspberries, she had me in the garden

plot in the middle of a spring snowstorm with a spade and bucket of
water. In the constricted oval of her scarfed face, her nose dripped like
a pipe leak. Some August, she said against the wind, when youre
enjoying your breakfast berries with cream and sugar, youre going to
thank me.
My mothers sharing of fortune cost her more than just hard frugality; she never quite made peace with her lot. At church everybody
appreciated her good voice, so she was called on pretty regularly to
sing in sacrament meeting, at wedding receptions and harvest-dinner
talent shows. But that sort of singing is not the Tabernacle Choir.
And she never got to Chicago. Once in a while she spoke of how
lucky we were to have what truly matters, the blessings money cant
buy, the sort of thing people say in testimony meeting. But most of
the time she masked her feelings for the farm behind a defensiveness.
Didnt coaches and Scoutmasters know that some people actually had
to work in the summer? Did activity planners think the whole world
got off at five oclock? Catch her in a certain mood, and the ticket to
heaven was calluses and a backbone crippled sore from field work.
From time to time, frugality became deprivation. Why didnt we
ski or snowmobile in the winter? Or head for warmer places, to golf
or ride sand dunes or whatever she pictured people doing in the name
of fun? Why didnt we have hobbies? She always asked that question
after one of Uncle Rectors visits. He liked to hunt pheasants on my
dads placehe and Uncle Frettand made a habit of stopping by
every few weeks in the summer to see what was growing in the fields
and how much bird cover he could expect come fall. He always had
a new story about hauling Aunt Libs silly dog to some show in Billings or bowling in the town league or riding the square dancing circuit. During the leanest stretches every year, despite the language of
her blessing, my mother made out like my dad was the one standing
between her and better fortunes.
Other farmers find a way to take off, Tol. The Binghams and
Teagues are always going up to their cabins to boat and fishwhere
its cool. Why dont we ever do that?
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Irreantum

The Binghams and Teagues have things I dont have, Mina.

Like what?
Like a boat and cabin, for starters.
It didnt matter that she wouldnt have known what to do with
leisure if shed had any. My mother in a nylon snow suit? In a golf
skirt and visor? I cant feature that. This is a woman who had slopped
and docked and clipped needle teeth by the time she was ten years
old. Dont misunderstand me. She had faith in patriarchal blessings,
her own and her childrens. She did. But she could be pretty selective
in how she read them. She naturally loved any mention of missionary service or temple marriage or keeping the faith. But the older she
got, the more she loved phrases she could read as guarantees of success and fulfillment. Whatever her definition of those two things, she
went to her grave thinking they had eluded her.
She didnt want them to elude her children. And if they didnt
elude any of her children, if all four of us turned out successful and
fulfilled, then maybe she could make a vicarious claim.
Thats why she told Afton Rae not to let anything distract her from
heeding the phrase in her patriarchal blessing about applying herself
to her studiesand, in the process, earning a full scholarship to BYU.
And nothing did, not even the returned-missionary son of Jersey
Teague, one of the biggest farmers in the valley. The kid really liked
her and was every bit the stalwart son of Zion promised in Aftons
blessing. But a couple of weeks into the relationship he made the mistake of confiding that he planned to take his place on his dads dairy.
Afton, you dont want to get up at four oclock the rest of your life
to milk a herd of cows.
So with tears fresh from the breakup, my sister went off to BYU,
where, in her second year, she met Bennett. After the fourth date, she
called home.
An optometrist! my mother said into the telephone. The stirring
or beating or chopping for the supper pot stopped cold, and I heard
her say, Oh, my. Career choice was all she needed to know about
this guy named Bennett. Returned missionary, active in the Church, a
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Cozzens: Last Blessing

young man of honorable intentions? Yes, yes, yes. But optometrist! That
clinched it. What better guarantee of comforts and necessities? Of
getting out of the weather and off the farm? And thats what Bennett
was doing. He grew up himself on a wheat farm in Agate, Colorado.
Just as long as he didnt plan to take Afton back to it, that upbringing
was a bonus to my mother. It meant his folks wouldnt look down on
the daughter-in-laws upbringing; it meant Bennett knew calluses.
Kayle C. Lowder was a little different story.
A lawyer! my mother said when Leona telephoned.
Kayle Lowder was from Costa Mesa, Californiawhich meant
he suffered a sore backbone, when he suffered any bodily discomfort at all, from too much surfing. But, eight hundred miles from the
beach, he didnt have to worry about surfing during summer school
at BYU. From the moment he and my sister met at a pool party at
their bishops house out in Oremafter a couple of his impressive
backflips off the diving boardthey knew they were more than just
compatible. So she brought him home in early August 1979, only a
little over a year after J. Guymans death.
So, Kayle, do you have hobbies? my mother asked at supper on
the first day of their visit.
He said his patriarchal blessing promised the means and opportunity to enjoy life to the fullest. So, yes, Sister Godwin, he said, you
could say I take my hobbies pretty seriously.
She was already smiling at the way this tanned wonder from the
land of beach food was shoveling in her roast and rolls and fresh green
beans, but now she beamed and said, Just call me Mina.
To that point in the visit, Just-Call-Me-Mina had spent her time
apologizingfor our pair of smoldering burn barrels, for the chopping block and outhouse (with assurances that we did have a bathroom inside), for the kitchens slightly intestinal smell from several
days of canning green beans. But now, as she looked from Kayle the
Complimenter to Leona the Lucky, she could beam and relax. If hobbies were in his blessing, he was destined to be a good provider. And
coming so far just to meet her country folks must mean he had all but
decided Leona was the one he wanted to provide for.
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Irreantum

After supper, in his California shorts and an old pair of my dads

irrigating boots, Kayle stood swatting deerflies on the ditch bank
while I moved water on a cornfield. He caught me looking at him.
City slicker, huh?
As long as he knew his place in my cornfield, he was okay. I couldnt
find anything not to like about him. When we were introduced, he had
even complimented my name. Ever? Like never-ever? Thats gnarly.
But then, out in the field, after watching me for a while, he asked,
So do you really like farming, Ever?
Ah-hah! Let him stand five minutes on a ditch bank instead of
a surfboard, suffer a few fly bites, and the California beach kid was
bound to come out after all.
Whats not to like?
Nothing, he said, without stooping to my tone. Theres nothing
not to like, Ever. Youve got a good life here. You really do. He hesitated. But will it be enough thirty years down the road? Thats all Im
saying.
What does that meanenough? Im still wondering. According to
Kayle and his patriarchal blessing, it meant hobbies, of course. But, as he
confided there on the ditch bank, it also meant his mission to a foreign
people (in Italy), the rest of his education (in law school), and a life of
rewarding toil with Lowder, Lowder, and Son, the law firm his grandpa
had started during the Depression. Kayles future was set. Someday
soon he would file lawsuits for people cheated by big companies and
share the good things of the earth with a lovely daughter of God.
And now, because of her, Im standing in a cornfield in Wyoming!
said Kayle Lowder, laughing and happy. Isnt it amazing how the
Lord keeps his promises?
The success and fulfillment of her two oldest daughters gave
my mother high hopes for her thirduntil Eden made her call home.
He sells what? my mother asked.
What kind of guy believes goat-whey lotion is his ticket to wealth?
And how does that one guy, out of thousands, wind up married to my
sister?
16

Cozzens: Last Blessing

Eden was different from Afton and Leona. She liked the farm.
When we were little, and young enough not to understand how things
work between husbands and wives, we actually planned to raise our
kids together on my dads place. She didnt go to college to escape
menial drudgery; she went to act on a phrase in her patriarchal blessing about seeking all the education to which she could attain. So she
attained two years worth, and, at age twenty, she attained Milton Murdock, from Ely, Nevadaa six-foot-two, 230-pound ex-linebacker
with a head full of thick hair, a white-toothed smile, and a surgery
scar on each kneecap. When they met, he was eight months home
from his mission and only recently cut from BYUs spring tryouts.
You think Id work like a dog to come back from two blown knees
wear ankle weights every day for two years in Koreaif I didnt think
I was meant to play Cougar football?
He asked this question of Eden on their first date. Back in Ely, he
said, when he was making most of the tackles for the White Pine
Bobcats, everybody called him Mighty Milt. But not anymore. Licking such a wound, he was bound to have looked handsome, easy to see
as the one intended for her. Maybe thats when she said that with faith
and hard work, the skys the limit. And maybe thats when he looked
in her eyes and decided the Lord might have something besides football in mind for Milt Murdock. Whatever happened on that date, it
happened two weeks before a big UPS truck delivered three pallets of
goat-whey lotion at the top of the concrete stairway of his basement
apartment.
The new plan was to make millions selling the lotion, then retire on
the interest and serve the Lord in ways only rich people cansponsoring scholarships, fundraising to fight poverty and disease, having
buildings named after them. If goat whey caught on, he wouldnt have
much time for college, so, with only two semesters behind him, he
dropped out.
But goat whey didnt catch on. Nor did tap-water filtering systems,
nor night-crawler sod stimulant, nor family survival kits in a bucket.
Nor Therma-Zap. Thats the last one I was privy to before I graduated and went home to Balford.
17

Irreantum

Come with me, Ever. Milt was hungry for the per-head bonus
he would earn taking guests to a Therma-Zap recruiting seminar.
He invited my roommates too. But Tucker, long ago burned out on
Amway, said no thanks. And Rolo, who mostly watched TV through
four years worth of evenings in Provo, suddenly had an appointment
at the library. Looks like its just me and you, Milt said. This might
give you a whole new perspective.
What it gave me was the willies. Four or five overgroomed exmissionaries in three-piece suits and tasseled dress shoes, bearing
testimony of attic insulation in front of a hotel conference room full
of penniless college guys. At the end of the show, the ringleader, the
winner of last years Hawaii trip, trotted in from wherever hed been
hiding and introduced himself as Val. He parted his hair slightly
off-center and wore contact lenses with a turquoise tint. Blinking
with well-practiced sincerity, he allowed theres nothing wrong with
digging ditch or pounding nails all summer, for five or six bucks an
hourif a person is satisfied with that.
But, gentlemen, he asked after a long pause, is that going to satisfy you?
No!
Do you think the Lord wants you earning peanuts when you could
make ten or fifteen thousand dollarsin one summer?
NO-OOO!
You wouldve thought we were rallying for the virtue of sisters and
mothersnot foam pellets. And eight long years after Mighty Milt
Murdock made one last goal-line stand, on knees already ruined for
college ball, he could join again in thumbs-upping and whistling.
Go-ooo Therma-Zap!
He left Eden seven months pregnant with their third child, went
out to Portland and shared a flat with several of the two hundred guys
who, like him, had stampeded to the sign-up line. They just knew they
were meant to make all those thousandsa minimum for can-do selfstarters with stick-to-itiveness, promised the fast-blinking Val, who
saw the world through turquoise lenses.
18

Cozzens: Last Blessing

Milt lasted a month going door to door, had to borrow for a bus
ticket to get home.
Go Therma-Zap.
One night in March, a couple of years after I graduated and left
Provo, Eden called me and confided that none of the schemes since
Therma-Zap had turned out any better. Once upon a time, the sky
might have been the limit, but not anymore. She was crying. To make
rent, she explained, Milton managed the apartment complex they
lived in. He did do that. He was a good guy, she assured me, and she
loved him. But he wasnt the one begging day-old bread from a bakery,
lining up, week after week, for government-surplus honey and cheese
and powdered milk. He wasnt the one hauling babies around on two
different paper routes. I tell you, Ever, she said, I never thought life
would be this way.
She blew her nose and apologized, said she had to tell somebody
and was tired of listening to our mother harp on how Milt should
have gotten an education like Bennett and Kayle, how a coaching
jobor any job at allwould look pretty darned good about now.
Maybe I should have encouraged him more in that direction, Eden
said. But he was so convinced that this was what hes supposed to do.
How do you argue with that?
That was as good a question for Never-Ever as for Milton Murdock. In a lifetime, what is enough? At the time of Edens phone call,
Grandpa Warner had been dead over twenty years. I sort of wished
I could phone him and ask if it was going to matter in the hereafter
whether I held on to the land he grubbed out of sagebrush. Godwin,
Godwin, and Son.
I dont know why Im such a boob tonight, Eden said. Then, after
a pause, she said she missed the fields in April, green with new grain.
She wondered if we were busy getting ready for planting. She hesitated. She said they were coming for a visit the next weekwas there
any chance Dad and I could use Milt on the farm for a while?
Does Milt know youre talking to me about this?
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Irreantum

Im going to tell him, she said.

After our good-byes, I thought how strange life is. I loved the farm.
I did. On the last leg home from the Philippines, in a prop plane from
Denver to Cody, I choked up when Heart Mountain came on the
horizon and I could place again the little patch of Wyoming I grew
up on. And a few years later, after my own graduation ceremony, I
was antsy to get home. My folks were looking forward to dinner and a
movie and a second night in a motel, which was as close to a vacation
as they ever got. Yet, at the time, I saw my offer to drive through the
night as a great generosity.
But home for the long stretch was different from home between
semesters of school. Not so much better or worsejust nothing
within the range of my foresight. When Eden called, I was already
headed into my third season using my Ag Econ degree to drive wornout, cabless tractors in forty-degree weather. Those hours breathing
diesel exhaust went a long way toward dispelling the charm of wind,
of living by myself in a trailer house above a milkweed patch, of sitting every Sunday on the back pew with old Widow Penroy and her
bachelor son Hewell.
And riding the tractor seat only magnified the charm of the BYU
life I was in such a hurry to leave. With each hour roller-harrowing in
lonely fields below Balford, college girls got prettier, classrooms warmer,
and Provo skies bluer. I found myself envying my old roommate Rolo,
of all people. He had finally gotten up off the couch and was going for
a masters degreein business administration. Unbeknownst to him,
his chosen path met with my mothers hearty approval. On top of that,
he was dating the profoundly beautiful cousin of my other roommate,
Tucker. Through many hours of engine throb and self-pity, I wished
for another of Tuckers many fair and marriageable cousins to come
loping toward my tractor on a white unicorn, its hooves unmuddied
by tilled ground. The Lord must wonder sometimes if we dont actually relish discontent.
At breakfast, a couple of days after Edens call, my dad and I disclosed our intention to offer Milt a job. My mother looked up from
her oatmeal and said, Are you both out of your minds?
20

Cozzens: Last Blessing

I said, Its got to beat goat lotion and attic insulation.

Ever, she said, Im not sure farming beats anything.
I never told her what went on in my head while I drove tractor. She
would have said, See what I told you? And she would have missed
the point. Dreaming bluer skies didnt make a case against farming; it
made a case against dreaming bluer skies.
True enough, I hadnt predicted life with any accuracy to brag about.
But my mother hadnt either. While she rightly foresaw her own satisfaction with her two oldest daughters full and happy lives, she didnt
foresee its underside: the envy hidden amid her fuss at every new
bounty made possible by optometry and law; the cheerfully swallowed
hurt when they laughed at her methodsscraping swill into a bucket
perched right there on the clothes dryer, baking with lard, stretching
a can of tuna to its utmost limits with mayonnaise; the smiling weariness at my sisters overdone praise for their modest upbringingOh,
Mother, how did you ever do it with just one bathroom and that old car?
It was odd, but in such moments my mother actually took up for
the farm. We made out all right, she said. You two look like you
survived just fine. At such times, she actually cast me as an ally. Your
brother here came back, she said. He must not have minded the life
so muchdid you, Ever?
Still, my mother didnt want Eden to come back; she wouldnt go
that far in taking up for the farm. But her worries about our Milt
strategy were wasted. He wasnt the least bit interested in the munificence of Tolbert and Ever Godwin.
You mean like farm work? he asked, sitting across from me and
my dad at the kitchen table. With you guys?
Now that it was clear how he felt about our work, we kindly asked
what sort of work he was partial to. He didnt hedge at all, at least not
in the way you might expect of a guy who hadnt drawn more than
half a dozen paychecks in a row in almost eight years of marriage. I
want to succeed, he said resolutely, parroting one of the motivational
hucksters whose books and tapes he was always pushing on my folks.
My dad told him that a lot of life depended on how you looked
at success and failure. And, in my tender wisdom, I said the wealth
21

Irreantum

promised in his patriarchal blessing might have to be read as something due a lot later in life. Or maybe it couldnt be read as money at
all. Milt had never seen my dad as anything but a good old farm guy
and my mother as an able meat-and-potatoes cook, but he respected
them. So out of that respect, he made a show of at least considering
my dads point. But mine? In one ear and out the other.
Then, very politely, with a conviction Therma-Zap Val would be
proud of, Milt said to both of us, I think when the Lord says material
success, he means material successsometime in normal mortality.
So Milton and I ruined my mothers clean sweep of success and
fulfillment in her children.
Nevertheless, by the fourth year of farming with my dad, I could
have stood in somebodys cornfield and checked off a good many of
my own promised blessings. Tillage and reapingI had that one for
sure, all day, every day. The biggest one missing from that season of my
life was the lovely daughter of Zion. And without that one, I couldnt
see how my promised parenthood would come to pass.
Its not a new problem, my dad said on another cold March evening, after another day of windy tractor work, over another supper of
pork chops and gravy. Look at Isaac and Rebekah; look at Jacob and
Rachel. Many a great man has had to go beyond his native borders to
find a worthy helpmate. He kept his eyes averted from my mother,
whose spatula was sliding two biscuits off a hot cookie sheet onto
his plate. For that matter, he said, with no change of tone, look at
Tolbert and Minahe had to go all the way from Balford to Cowley.
It took a moment for that last sentence to register with my mother.
When it did, she clucked her tongue at my dads effrontery and murmured, Many a great man. But for an instant, with her spatula poised
above the millionth biscuit of her life, she smiled.
I was no great man. I lived in a single-wide trailer above a milkweed
patch. I knew who was at the bottom of the chain and where to direct
my troubleshooting. In counseling Milt Murdock, I was more than
willing to delay his blessing to some distant point. Yet I was hoping
to claim my own a little earlier than that. And a hundred times a day
22

Cozzens: Last Blessing

I invoked his logic to justify that claim: When the Lord says a wife, I
think he means a wifesometime in normal mortality.
And so he did.
Youre going where? Thats what my future wifes father said when
she announced she was coming to Wyoming, to teach history at
Cody Community College. Like any father in his shoes, he naturally
wondered why Jen had applied for something in the boonies when
hometown Fresno and other nearby California places had all kinds of
schools where someone with her degree could teach. Jen didnt know
until her other possibilities evaporated. But she still didnt know why
Cody was the one that didnt evaporate. We hadnt known each other
very long when she told me all this. Come to find out, she said with
less-than-romantic resignation, Cody is pretty close to Balford. And
Balforda spot on the globe I never otherwise would have had the
pleasure of knowingis where you happen to live.
A farmer! Oh my!
Even in my most maudlin white-unicorn moments, I could not
imagine my future mother-in-law uttering that line in her Fresno
kitchen while talking into her Fresno telephone, at least not with any
positive intonation. As part of my marriage proposal, I told Jen about
the tillage and reaping, wanted her to see the same inevitability I did.
She said I was confusing a blessing with a plan and forgetting who
was responsible for each. She said it sounded like I wanted mortality
to be neater than it could be. She said maybe I was trying to hold the
Lord accountable for making me, Everett Godwin, accountable. Then,
after a long pause, she said the Lord might have guided her to Balford,
but he wasnt forcing anything. What youve done with your life so
far is your choice, she said, and whether I do it with you from here
on is mine.
When my mother died a few weeks ago, my sisters and their families of course came home for the funeral. After the dedication of the
grave and the Relief Society meal at church, we all went back to our
house on its half-acre lot in Balford, the house Jen and I moved into
when I lost eight hundred acres of farm land and pasture. Our children
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Irreantum

and their cousinsand their childrenhad the run of the yard and
house, except for the living room. There, on the sofa and loveseat, my
sisters sat close to their husbands. Jen and I sat in kitchen chairs.
Ever miss the old farm ... Ever? Kayle Lowder asked, to break the
somber silence. Even in mourning, he was fascinated with my name.
He said he thought of me every time he came across a client christened with something unusual. Eventide. Glory. Rainbow. I kid you
not, he said. Thats what got signed on the dotted line.
After a moment, Eden looked at me and asked, Do you miss the
farm?
The quiet in the room was like a lid I didnt want to lift.
After a moment, Afton Rae said, I know I miss it. Then she said,
It was such a good way to grow up. I wanted so much for our grandchildren to see that way of life.
Yeah, said Milt, who lately was managing a takeout barbeque restaurant in American Fork, Utah, and selling animated movies of Book
of Mormon stories, but its sure a tough way to make a buck.
Bennett, who has made an awful lot of bucks checking peoples
eyes in his string of optometry clinics in Denver, nodded with a very
reflective look on his face.
I always just assumed, said Leona, that youd end up farming
Daddys place, that wed keep it in the family. Doesnt your patriarchal
blessing say that?
The room fell quiet again. We had all lived beyond the halfway
mark of our lives. As spouse or parent or human being, every person
there had known some piece of the mortal mixif not money problems, then something else. Sickness and setback, a wayward child or
two, shaken faith. Even a cleft palate.
But then Jen, who remembers history better than most and always
gives faith its due, said, He did farm itfor twelve years.
A week or so after my sisters went back to their lives, I found myself
driving over what used to be my dads farm but is a farm no longer.
Iwent not on Weed and Pest business, but to help with a service project for a couple from church who moved here from Lansing, Michigan.
24

Cozzens: Last Blessing

It was the first time I had made myself go back since I lost the place
five years ago. Turning down the properly graded and graveled lane
was like launching a tour of my own failure. I found myself trying
to decide where my mothers raspberry patch might have been, but
there were no toeholds for memory. Barns, bins, burn barrels, chicken
house, outhouse, our houseeverything was gone except the land.
And it was cut up into lots for new-home units, one of which now
belonged to the nice couple from Lansing. Their big brick house was
all but finished; they just needed help landscaping the sizable yard.
Before we get started, the wife said, using the balustrade of her
front porch as a rostrum, I just want you all to know this house
and your helpis an answer to our prayers. She said her patriarchal
blessing promised she would raise her children in a place of peace and
beauty, away from the dangers of city life. We feel weve found that
here in Balford, she said. She looked then to her husband, who made
everybody laugh when he pointed to two approaching trucks and said
it looked like it was time to work for some of that peace and beauty.
He asked if wed gotten the word to bring wheelbarrows and shovels
and rakes. Soon enough we knew why. One truck was full of rock, and
the other, potted sagebrush.
Midafternoon of a warm day in June, thirty years ago, Patriarch
J.Guyman LeGrand stood behind a ladder-back chair in his parlor,
on two spots of carpet worn in the shape of his Sunday shoes. At that
moment, he was alive and lucid and, as he put it, healthy as a horse on
oats and beet molasses. A few hours later he was dead.
He and Sister LeGrand had been married seventy-five years. In
her sudden loneliness, she told many people, including my mother,
the story of his last hours. Even after Sister LeGrand died herself,
that story nagged me; I wondered if she had blamed me, if maybe she
thought giving my blessing had something to do with that afternoon
being her husbands last. But, strangely enough, since my mothers
death, that same story has been a comfort.
After my blessing, after my parents and I drove off, Brother J. Guyman returned the ladder-back chair to its place in the corner, put away
25

Irreantum

the tape recorder in his little closet-office, and changed into a pair of
blue cotton coveralls. Then he went outside to move the lawn sprinkler. Sister LeGrand said he looked at her begonias for the longest
time. He finally came back in, read scriptures, and announced he was
going to lie down a minute before evening prayer and his Sunday supper of bread and milk. A little later she set the bowl and pitcher and
loaf on the table, then peeled and sliced a peach the way he liked it.
Papa, she called, you dont want the milk to get warm. Only when
she had called a third time did the dread come over her.
When J. Guyman retired from the sugar-beet factory, the bosses
gave him a nice pocket watch. Lying in his blue coveralls, on the narrow bed in their cracker box of a room, he was clutching that watch in
one of his papyrus hands and staring with the most amazed expression at something through and far beyond the ceiling. After all those
years of inspired foresight, what fell under the sweep of his eye there
at the end? Something beyond tillage and reaping, Im sure of that.
Lately, riding farmers back roads, I imagine my mother looking and
looking in the same direction. And whatever she sees, whatever lies in
front of her now, it is enough.

26

Being Alone: Variations on a Theme

Suzette Gee

I.
I usually dont wet the bed if I say my prayers, my niece, Ainsley,
assures me as she climbs into the bed in my spare room. Its her weekend to be spoiled by her single auntie. She lies back on the pillow, her
head resting in a pool of lamplight.
It usually works better when I pray lonely, she says.
I smile at her. You mean when you pray alone?
Yeah. Lonely.

II.
Im at church, in my usual spot on the back row, one arm leaning
against the wooden armrest of the long, red upholstered bench, the
other resting on my bag full of singing-time props. This is the miscellaneous row, unofficially reserved for never-married singles, like me,
widows, or empty nesters.
Brother Hawkes makes his way along the back row of the chapel,
pushing his aged father in a wheelchair. He leans over the wheelchair
and shakes a few hands as he passes. Looking at the silver-haired people on either side of me, he asks, Are you sure youre old enough to
sit on this row?
Sometimes families, usually visitors, try, unsuccessfully, to sit on
the bench. Since the singles are spaced unevenly, its awkward to
squeeze a family in between them. Once a family persisted, asking
2nd place winner, 2011 Charlotte and Eugene England Personal Essay Contest

27

Irreantum

the singles on either side to move so that they could wedge each
family member in as they arrived. After scooting over three times,
Ifinally picked up my stuff and moved to a metal folding chair in the
culturalhall.

III.
I spot Jeff in the Super Walmart parking lot. A smile spreads across
his face as he approaches.
His older brother and I starred in the musical Oklahoma together
and made school history by spending thirty minutes in the wrestling
room learning how to kiss. (Only a couple of minutes were spent kissing, the rest in nervous laughter, which ended when Mike took me by
the shoulders and shook me, saying, Stop resisting!)
How many kids do you have? he asks, positive that at any moment,
a dozen of my offspring will join us.
None, that I know of.

IV.
Janel chats with me, as we cross paths in the hallway after church
one day. Jerika comes home from Young Women all the time saying,
Why isnt Sister Gee married? Shes so pretty.

V.
Craig is here for another weekend. Were driving down Main
Street, his elbow resting on the middle console, a hand hovering just
above my knee. Im not sure why he does that. Like the anticipation is
better than the reality.
I like it here, he says, looking around. Its like the Garden of Eden.
I can feel the hesitation in his voice. The hand hovering above my
knee. But ...
Its just not my Garden of Eden.

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Gee: Being Alone

VI.
I sit on a metal folding chair during an institute devotional as a
speaker tells of his father, a farmer who raised a child with disabilities.
How do you handle this? someone once asked his father.
Well, its like carrying a sack of grain. You just throw it up there
on your shoulders, so its good and square, and then, by damn, you
bear it.

VII.
On a Sunday morning, I sit in my olive green chair, feet perched on
a leather ottoman. I have a few hours before church. I read through
my patriarchal blessing and notes from other blessings Ive received,
all of which mention my future marriage. At age twenty, they were
comforting. At forty, perplexing. I stop, looking out the picture window at my arthritic boxelder tree. Sigh.
Maybe Im Not Trying Hard Enough.
I wander into my study, flip open my laptop, and get on the Internet. I purchase a book: Why Cant I Fall In Love: A Twelve-Step Program by Rabbi Shmuley Boteach. A friend recommended it.
For good measure I also purchase Fortytude: Making the Next
Decades the Best Years of Your LifeThrough the 40s, 50s, and Beyond.
Finally, I log in to ldssingles.com. I scroll through a few screens.
Should I sign up again? I shut the laptop. Maybe after Ive lost a few
pounds.

VIII.
My book slips onto my lap as I lean back on the rickety lawn
chair I inherited from my grandparents, breathing in the intermittent waves of lilac perfume released as the wind whispers through the
bushes. I close my eyes and let the sunlight seep beneath the fringe of
my eyelashes. My cell phone rings. I open one eye to peer at the caller
information. Jodi Cell. I flip it open.
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Irreantum

Hey.
Whatcha doin? my sister asks over baby Hannahs whimpers.
Just lying here in my backyard, reading a book, I say sleepily.
No fair, she sighs.

IX.
Before church starts, I sit in the chapel on a bench, talking to my
friend Melissa about her freshman year in college.
All of my roommates are either dating or engaged. Its so boring,
she complains. As we talk, a ward member comes over to greet us. As
he leaves, he checks Melissas hand for an engagement ring. She raises
her hand and wiggles her ringless fingers. I hold mine up too.
They laugh.

X.
I stand in the kitchen, spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread.
When my phone rings, I squeeze it between my shoulder and ear and
listen while an acquaintance tries to set me up with a relative.
Hes had some problems. He cheated on his wife and left the
Church for a while. But you know ....
I know.
The last two slices of bread always make a sandwich.

XI.
My sisters kids troop into my house, some heading straight for
the toys, others for the piano. After the first few minutes of happy
chaos pass, Abby proclaims, You live here all by yourself. You dont
have any kids.
Shes trying to sort me out. Categorize me. Like on Sesame Street.
One of these kids is not like the others.

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Gee: Being Alone

XII.
I try to navigate a lettuce wrap to my mouth, while two former
mission companions fill me in on their liveshusbands, kids. We
laugh about things weve seen on each others blogs.
You know we all want to be you, Tammy says matter-of-factly.
The lettuce wrap pauses on its way to my mouth, juice leaking onto
my fingers.
Me? I ask in confusion.
No kidding, Marla agrees. Where are you off to next? Morocco
one month; Alaska the next. The only traveling I do is with Dora the
Explorer.

XIII.
I pace around the house, straightening pillows, glancing at the
clock. My stomach is a pool of acid. I go to the bathroom every few
minutes. Blind date. Twenty minutes and counting. I piece together
the fragments of what I know about him.
He works on a farm. He loves to sing. He lives in Utah. We could
work around it. No ex-wives or children to worry about. Maybe he
could live here with me.
Suzette. You havent even met him.
A ladys imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love,
from love to matrimony, in a moment.
And who asked you, Mr. Darcy?

XIV.
I wake up too early on a Saturday morning and lazily drag my foot
over pale green, silky sheets, thinking hazily about the Relief Society
activity I attended the night before. Reviewing the people who were
there, I realize that all of the attendees were widows, divorcees, and
singles. My invitation didnt mention that the event was for s ingles
only, and suddenly Im oddly offended. I lie there with a frown,
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Irreantum

wondering why peoples thoughtless comments make me laugh, while

their conscious thoughtfulness sometimes stings. Suddenly Im not a
person. Im a project.
I complain later to my parents.
It took you that long to realize only singles were there? my dad
says with a laugh. My mom just looks concerned; if I seem unhappy
then shell start worrying.
I guess it was the assumption that I had nothing to do on a Friday
night that bugged me. Or that, because were all single, were all the
same, whether were forty or eighty.
My parents dont say anything.

XV.
Four months after my Grandpas death, I lean over and hug my
Grandma as my parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews all file
out the door after our weekly Sunday visitseveral hours of visiting
while eleven children periodically stampede through the living room
like wildebeests in a nature documentary.
Its so quiet when everyone leaves. Its the loneliest feeling, she says
with wide eyes.
Shes still surprised by it.

32

I once found religion at the dollar store

Tyler Chadwick

the Word, wrapped in cellophane ripped

on the binding side where the price tag
should have been, top-shelved beside
atlases full of trips my daughters have
taken across the in-laws living room
floor, roving Grandpas hardbound book
of oversized maps with an eight-by-ten lens
that gives an omniscient eye, makes the hills
wave, the oceans and rivers climb the banks
of their innocence; beside pocket planners
and a package of Wrigleys the clerk will have to
restock on an impulse tier because someone
changed minds, chose the two-for-a-dollar
nut rolls instead, let the chewing gum lie
a half-aisle down.

*
and again on a morning run up Galbraith Hill:
the rise and fall, longer rise and fall of body
against wind, flesh pressed into dawn like
the New Zealand fern leaf I flattened
in my KJV and smuggled past customs
into the canon of memory; the leaf Ive climbed
like Eve Adams rib, Jacob angels chatter, Christ
Heavens Manichean spring, my soul rubbed thin
on the altitude, God at my heels, the crickets
gone dumb in the thrum of His entourage,
the meadows tongue-tied at their sigh.
Honorable mention, 2011 Irreantum Poetry Contest

34

Chadwick: Poems

*
and now in Noachian blue:

in dove swell
heavy as Eden in fall, flesh come ripe as Eve
spooning with amniotic sky, the deluge
receding in purl and girth of vestment, wind,
and limb bent beneath atmospheres of God;
in the leaf ribs she tells like a roadmap to peace,
tests for the pulse of the tree Adam planted
the night they buried Abel, watched Cain
drift into dusk, his pathology thick over fields
he and Abel had idled as boys, wrestling bodies
blending into harvest like Abels blood
the moment Cain pulled the blade, heard Lucifers
laugh in the gash, and turned to wipe his hands
on the flock come to drink from the river of Gods
sudden tears.

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Irreantum

Self portrait with closed eyes

like a brumal serpent
listening to Earth
shed her crystalline
skin, slip off her chill
at dawns seductions
supple as hibernacula
warm with bodies
slendering into instinct
and appetiteEdens
infinite metaphors
sidled up to Gods breast,
areola iron on the tongue,
milk rich from desires simmer
and slow burn, the flame
set low so not to sear the soul
still this side of vision, lurking
like the mourning doves
anti-climactic elegies
teasing Eve from her
backwoods mythology
36

Chadwick: Poems

heavy with temptations

pome and tang and the rasp
of cherubim wings strung like
words along Lucifers tongue
as he conjures shame from
her constant woundfig
weeping matins in Edens halflight while Adam snores
downwind, only stirs when
shes roused scent enough
to slip into his dreams
as the rib slipped from his side
the morning God stopped by
and found the basket of figs
hed left last visit
still sitting on the altar,
thrumming with June Bugs
undone in the eating, mad
with the zephyrs rasp
through the scales of the constrictor
stretched at sleeping Adams side.

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Landscape, with a Crickets Chirr

Beneath the ramble and catch
of tumbleweed: the lull of horizon
delicious with distance and elegy,
dead-ends and blue highways hoarse
with the whisper of wind, dust,
wood, bone, memorythe grist
of solitude stirred up
the morning you woke determined
to pluck the sun from Gods thigh
as he passed, full-stride,
over this side of town. Thats
how Jacob got new-named, you say
when the story comes up with friends
and strangers, for that matter.
Like when you were painting
plein air roadscapes outside Redmond
and you used it to ply conversation
with the breeze as she watched you
seduce landscape from ripples of soul
stirred by her sigh. Yes, you say,
thats how Jacob got new-named.
Never mind it was his hip flicked
out of joint when the angel
stopped wrestling fair, wrested God

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Chadwick: Poems

from Israels shank. Never mind

your layover in Peniel via Genesis
left sand in the visions you put on
and off like shoes at Mnemosynes
fire ring. Never mind that wont earn you
a cross-reference from Jacob (see
Israel) in Gods Almanac
of New Names: From Michael (see
Adam) to the Present. Never mind
God hasnt appended his reputation
to your presence on these roads
supple as a crickets chirr
from the cleft between landscape
and soul, soul and skin, skin
and the palette youve mapped
like the zephyrs tattoo: blue-veined
compass rose sown in the right
inner-thigh, points unfurling like
worlds from Gods tongue
the moment his syllables slipped
into desire, he seduced the first coo
from the fecund dove,
and the wilderness raptured
with verbs.

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Chadwick: Poems

Litany, with Wings

With Thee, O, let me rise, let me combine.
O, let me imp my wings on thine. Let me
slip across your lesser coverts like the lift
that slips you into sky. Let me hitch
on that lift up Jacobs ladder. Let me spoon
with your slipstream beneath the atmospheres
sheets. Let me tease plumes of light from the altar
of your skin. Let those plumes purl like incense.
Let us purl like incense. Lets sear the souls
tabernacle, let desire rise like leaven, let our verbs
rise like leaven, let our flesh braze and sweeten
on Gods flaming tongue. Lets allelu this sacrament
of flesh. Lets savor the bodys carnival. Lets masquerade
singular as Legion. Lets legion singular as God.

After winged figures by George Herbert and J. Kirk Richards

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Irreantum

Pater Noster
The breath of life that comes in sharply once, and is forever after going out.
Jim Richards

i. Litany
Ah! to, snakelike, tongue
your subtle psaltery. To
taste your staves profane
as the Gloria Patris
tonguing my cheek,
tonguing the irresistible,
iron-rich canker Ive
mapped like a bad habit,
traced and retraced
like a compass rose
etched in the mouths
wilderness. To tell
faces sketched
from memories remembered
sidelong, laid down on
lambskin scraps strung
like shrunken heads
on Gods rosary, features

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Chadwick: Poems

fingered dull through

a Sibyls aeon spent
stroking the omniscience
she inherited from her folks.
To lip the oracles youve
lipped like live coals
passed in Gods palm
to purge the palate.
To savor how her Verb
verbs everything else,
how
her cleft-tongued hymn
seers everything else.

ii.
Scratch that: sears. Like
the conversation kindled
backstage memory.
The one you cant help
eavesdropping on, pressing
your ear to a glass pressed
to the partition you raised
to keep the noise down.
Next door, a chorus
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Irreantum

incants oracles from

the souls velum. But all
you hear is the string
of blasphemies you let
slip from your dreams
just before you wake.

iii.
No. Not blasphemies:
Gods image stripped bare,
retrofitted with words
pinched from the doves
dictionary, etymologies
shat on the waters face,
turned spindrift, pronounced,
Elegy. Movement. Desire.
Grace. Breaths skipped
while you translate
the bodys pieties into
stones pale and smooth
as faces waiting,
waiting to be named.

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Chadwick: Poems

iv.
Like the pebbles
my two-year-old
plucked (and repeat)
plucked (and repeat)
plucked (and repeat)
from stones pooled
in the feral lot next door,
her wonder brushed
impasto on words
you cant help but tongue:
Look. Rock. Roly-poly.
Reticular desires
relentless as the DNA
between us. As the verbs
weve fallen into. As
the pill bug carapace down
in her palm, parsing
the breeze, kicking air
to finally bring itself
right.

45

Seeing Stars
Kathryn Lynard Soper

I. Descent
Its an hour or so from sunset when we pile into the Jeepme and
my roommate Stacey, her friend Dave, his friend Tim, and a couple
whose names I cant remember, who Stacey and I squeeze next to
in the back seat. Its the beginning of my sophomore year at BYU,
early September, 1990a few weeks since I met Reed, the man who
becomes my husband eighteen months later. Id rather be with him on
this Friday night, and I regret promising Stacey that Id come along
for a caving trip west of Utah Lake. Tim starts the Jeep and I search
in vain for a seat belt
The warm air pushes against my cheeks as we pull onto I-15 south
and Tim accelerates to freeway speed. He pops in a cassette tape, and
Led Zeppelin blasts from the stereo speaker, reminding me of humid
east-coast nights after high school graduation. I first heard the music
years ago, vibrating through my brothers bedroom door; I stole his
cassette tapes and listened to while them lying on my bed, using a
battered Walkman with foamy earphones. The tapes came with me
to Provo, where I sat under a tree next to the freshman dorms with
my Walkman blaring Whole Lotta Love. I wondered if Id ever find
my place in the high Mormon desert. A long year later, Im finally
catching glimpses. When we hit Santaquin and leave the freeway for
Route 6, I boost myself to sit above the Jeeps back seat, knees over the
headrest, hands gripping the black foam padding of the roll bar, hair
whipping in the wind.
1st place winner, 2011 Charlotte and Eugene England Personal Essay Contest

47

Irreantum

The western horizon glows rose pink as we leave Route 6 for Highway 68, driving north to Elberta. After the seven-mile turnoff there
are gravel roads and cattle gates, then the rise of Blowhole Hill, which
houses Nutty Putty Cave. When Stacey told me about the cave I pictured an arched hole in the side of a mountain, with damp passages
leading past formations of stalactites and stalagmites. But when the
Jeep stops were nowhere near a mountain. The hilltop is barren with
dead scrub brush and outcroppings of broken rock. I have no clue
where the cave might be, but Im too cool to ask. Tim leads the way
toward what looks like a moon crater ahead, and as we approach I
see a black hole in its middle. The cave opening. Apparently going in
means going down.
Dave and Tim go first, lowering themselves from boulder to boulder into the darkness split by flashlight beams from above. They spot
the rest of us as we climb down, and as I descend, I feel the thin, dry
air of the hilltop swell with moisture, which soon dampens my lungs
like a swampy Maryland night. Once were all inside, Tim points the
way forward; we duck our heads and follow him through a tight passageway that narrows to an opening barely big enough for an average-sized college kid to trespass. We get down on our stomachs and
wriggle through the opening in a long-forgotten primeval motion, and
Im surprised by the ripped piece of carpeting that pads the bottom
of the tightest place, evidence of the modern world weve left behind.
We emerge into a more manageable space known as the Big Slide,
a sloping cavern studded with boulders that we scramble over on our
way down, grateful for thick jeans and long shirtsleeves that shield
our tender flesh. The cavern walls are close enough to touch with
both hands, and we move single file, feet first, pulled by gravity deeper
and deeper into the earth. Fifty yards ahead, the cavern widens into a
pocket of space, the Big Room, where we sit and rest on the bedrock.
The damp air makes the flashlight beams opaque. At one point Tim
and Dave turn off their flashlights, and we plunge into utter darkness,
thick as ink. I cant see my hand in front of my faceIm not sure it
even exists. I would doubt that I existed at all, that anything existed,
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Soper: Seeing Stars

were it not for my voice bouncing off the rock walls and returning to
the twisting cavern of my inner ear. I tamp down my panic and crack
jokes as a way of whistling in the dark.
But even when the flashlights snap on again, I cant shake the uneasy
knowledge that Im so far below ground that light cannot reach me.
We retrace our steps up the Big Slide, breathing the thicker, hotter air
as we crouch and then crawl and then squirm our way back toward
the cave entrance. Night has fallen since our descent, and when we
reach the cave mouth, Im disoriented, unable to see the way out. Tim
and Dave climb up and shine their lights through the opening, and
when my turn comes, I follow the yellow beam up to the surface and
out into the hilltop air, shockingly cool and thin in my gulping lungs.
As I move out of the light, I look up, and my mouth gapes wide:
Stars.
Ive seen stars before, of course. As a child I spotted the Big Dipper on Brownie camping trips and slept beneath a twinkling sky on
our family sailboat. I saw scattered white glimmers over the nightblack Atlantic during our yearly trips to the shore. But even when
far removed from the ambient light of the cities and the suburban
sprawl, I never saw anything like this. I have never seen this inverted
bowl of blackness pricked by a billion points of blue-white light. I
have never seen heavenly bodies flowing in currents like a brilliant
river, the milkiest of ways. And if I hadnt followed Tim down into the
cave I wouldnt be seeing it now, either. Something similar, yes. And
still impressive. But only to one emerging from the dank bowels of
the earth could the world be this vast, this clear, this fresh and bright
andwild.
What shocks me most is realizing the stars were already there
when we descended into the cave. They were there as we drove along
Highway 68 and Route 6 and I-15. They were there when the sun
peaked at noon and when it peeked at dawn. As I continue to stare,
the gears of the universe shift and the earth slowly rotates, making the
stars whirl around and above my head, like a diamond kaleidoscope
spun by the hand of God.
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Irreantum

II. Blue Boy

The kids and I are decorating Christmas gingerbread men when the
phone rings. I sigh, knowing that even a few minutes interruption
could spell disaster in a kitchen full of rowdy kids wielding tubes of
frosting. I head toward the phone, snatching the sprinkles away from
twelve-year-old Ben, whos sprinkling them straight into his mouth.
My mothers name shows on the caller ID; I pick up to tell her were
in the middle of a mess and Ill call her back. I need you for just a
minute, she says, and her numb voice stops me short. When I ask her
whats wrong, she clears her throat and says, I have some bad news
about your brother.
My brother. George. He is my only blood sibling, elder by two and
a half years. He was my ally when our parents marriage ended, my
witness in the troubled wake of our mothers remarriage, and my sole
partner in the subsequent dance between two families separated by
divorce. On holidays wed make our way through the maze of cheekkissing Greek relatives crowding our Yia Yias living room. Together
wed survey the buffet table, snitching pieces of roast lamb and baklava from the shining silver platters. Together wed doze in our fathers
smoke-filled Oldsmobile on the long drive back to our home. Dad
would drop us off across the street a half-block away from the house
because he couldnt tolerate any closer proximity to our mother.
But we stayed close, George and I. Once a month we navigated
an overnight stay at our fathers dark townhouse in Capitol Heights,
where we holed up in the wood-paneled den to watch Love Boat and
Fantasy Island and eat Jiffy-Pop. During family vacations on the Delaware shore we spent days crashing through the green gray Atlantic
waves, popping bubbles of seaweed, and poking jellyfish with sticks;
in the late afternoons wed roam the tar-creased boardwalk, buying
crappy novelties from the beachfront five-and-dime and wasting
hours in the arcades, where Id faithfully stand at Georges elbow and
watch him play Spy Hunter and Galaga.
Even after he outgrew family vacations, he drew me to his side again
and again, often sequestering me to listen to whatever music he was
currently obsessed with: Rush in the early eighties, Metallica in the
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Soper: Seeing Stars

late; Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin throughout. I loved it all, because
he loved it. Each track is a memory: Fly By Night is the beach house
bedroom we shared, with cheap prints of Gainsboroughs Blue Boy
and Lawrences Pinkie on the walls. Brain Damage is his deodorants
muskwood scent, which permeated his bedspread and drapes. Over
the Hills and Far Away is the day he drove our mothers blue Ford
van home from an explosive family therapy session; dizzy with rage,
Ipicked a spot on the back of Georges gingery head, and I stared at it,
like a dancer spotting for a turn, while Robert Plant yowled poetically
through the stereo speakers about following the open road.
The last time I saw George, he was driving a van, a battered pea
green camper-top VW belonging to the guy riding shotgun, a deadhead with stringy black hair and vacant eyes. It was 1997, years since
wed crossed paths during one of my trips to our hometown. The
depression wed both suffered from a young age had followed us into
adulthood, but while my life took a sharp upswing after leaving home,
his continued its downward spiral, moving from substance use to
abuse and addiction. He blew out a knee in a car accident just weeks
before he was to join the army, and then blew the $60K insurance
settlement that could have given him a life, leaving him broke and
broken, drifting from state to state and sleeping on friends couches. I
knew we had grown apart, but until he pulled that van into my driveway, I didnt realize just how different our lives had become: I had a
house, three little kids, a stable marriage, and a temple recommend.
He had a rucksack of filthy clothes, a box of Grateful Dead bootleg
tapes, and a pal named Jelly.
The two men stank, so when they asked if they could do some laundry, I readily led them to the basement, where they stripped naked
right in front of me and put on the least dirty clothes they could find
in their bags and threw the rest in the washing machine; when I came
back downstairs to check the cycle, the wash water draining into the
utility sink was muddy brown and heavy looking, thickened with
earth. I knew they must be hungry, so I made them vegetarian sandwichesgrilled provolone on rye, my specialtyand watched them
devour several each. My kids watched too, from a slight distance, shy
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Irreantum

in the company of this uncle they didnt know. I wondered if George

noticed how much two-year-old Ben looked like our father, but I
didnt get a chance to askas soon as the laundry was done, they hit
the open road. I waved good-bye from the front porch, balancing the
baby on my hip and holding Bens hand to keep him safe as the van
pulled out of the driveway.
The crash came two years later. Nevada, fall of 1999. Two people
died; a strict new DUI law held George accountable. He received two
prison sentences, each two to twenty years. After serving his minimum four years, he was released on a writ of habeas corpus due to
controversies surrounding the new law and to misconduct by his
attorney, who was disbarred soon after Georges trial. But now, just
eighteen months later, in December of 2006, the states appeal has
been granted and my brother has been summoned back to prison to
finish his full sentence, which might last longer than his life.
But he hasnt gone back. This is what my mother calls to tell me:
instead of complying with the warrant, George has disappeared.
Nobody knows where he is headedCanada? Mexico? Nobody
knows when, or if, well ever hear from him again. I stand in the middle of my kitchen, hands itchy with flour and apron smeared with butter, with my children chattering in the background and the smell of
cinnamon billowing from the hot oven and gobs of frosting hardening
on the countertops, while my brother runs scared, over the hills and
far away, looking for a cave to hide in.

III. Day of the Dead

When I come inside from lighting the jack-o-lanterns, the boys are
waiting for me.
When are we going to go? Sam asks from behind the white sheet
of his ghost costume.
Yeah, lets go, says pirate Matt, swinging his pumpkin-shaped
candy bag. He is eight and Sam is six. None of our older four kids are
willing to be seen trick-or-treating with their parents. Matt and Sam
would actually be pleased to have both of us tag along, but taking a
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Soper: Seeing Stars

long stroller ride in the dark is not our preschoolers idea of a good
time, so one of us will stay home with him while the other walks the
neighborhood. I know Reed will refuse to take the boys more than a
few blocks, so because I am I good mother, I volunteer. And because
I am a bad mother, I bring along my iPod, placed strategically in my
jacket pocket so that I can easily hit pause if the kids stop thinking
about candy long enough to talk to me.
Ive forgotten that kids can think and talk at once, and they keep
up a steady stream of chatter from the moment we step off our porch.
Its a glorious not-too-cold Halloween night, with crisp autumn air
and a magical indigo sky, and as soon as the boys are occupied at the
neighbors door I scroll through the iPod menu to find the right music
for the occasion. Although my tastes have mellowed as Ive aged, Ive
been in a Led Zeppelin revival phase for the past few weeks, and
theyve got the perfect song: The Battle of Evermore, a delicate ballad set to impossible melodies on mandolin and Jimmy Pages threenecked guitar.
The queen of light took her bow and then she turned to go,
The prince of peace embraced the gloom and walked the night alone.
The dark Lord rides in force tonight, and time will tell us all
Oh, throw down your plow and hoe, rest not to lock your homes;
Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all.

Matt and Sam scamper up to show me their loot before running

off to the next house. Supposedly, the treat begging echoes the medieval traditions of All-Hallows-Een, when cakes and wine were set
outdoors as offerings for the deceased, and All Souls Day, or the Day
of the Dead, when the cakes would be distributed to children and
poor folk who went from door to door singing and praying for the
deceased in purgatory. Every cake eaten represented the freeing of a
soul from that limbo state between heaven and hell.
Somehow I doubt the Twizzlers and Snickers in the kids pumpkin
bags will hold the same redemptive value, but I wont begrudge them
their annual candy fest, especially now that their oldest siblings are
outgrowing the fun. Ben, now fourteen years old, no longer presides
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Irreantum

over the post-game candy trade, cutting shrewd deals and scamming
the littlest players like my brother George once did. Diagnosed with
clinical depression two years ago, Ben is withdrawing from our family
circle more swiftly than I anticipated. He still talks to me about music
and school and friends, but I can no longer hold his hand to keep him
safe, as I can with Matt and Sam. Watching the two little boys gape at
the full-sized candy bars handed out by one generous neighbor, I realize they will never be more open to me, more eager for my company,
than they are now.
On impulse I look up at the night sky. It shows few stars due to the
artificial light and pollution of the Salt Lake Valley, but I can see the
telltale angles of the cup of the Big Dipper. Large trees are blocking
the full view, so I change my position on the sidewalk, and Matt and
Sam return from their latest candy conquest to find me peering into
the distance. I try to show them what Im looking at, but pointing
doesnt quite do the job. With the help of reference points from rooftops and tree limbs, Matt finally spots the constellation. Sam does too,
or at least pretends he does. Matts eyes are glowing with discovery,
and Im thrilled for him. But Im also sad that he doesnt know how
much else is up there, sad that the only Milky Way he knows is in his
pumpkin bag.
I want them to see the stars. I will take my kids camping, Matt and
Sam and anyone else who still looks when I pointlast time we went,
years ago, they were too little to stay up past dark. Better yet, I will
take them to Nutty Putty Cave, where they can experience not only
the vastness of the sky but the closeness of the earth, and know both
through contrast. Rather than just showing them the stars, I will first
give them the adventure of crawling underground like the worms and
ants they study in our backyard. Then I will lead them out of the
stifling narrowness into the starry brilliance of a clear night, and they
will see what I saw, and know what I know.
But as I follow the boys up our street and watch them break into
a run at the sight of our house, there is much I do not know. I do not
know that three weeks hence, on November 24, 2009, a man named
John Edward Jones, age twenty-six, a student at the University of
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Soper: Seeing Stars

Virginias medical school spending Thanksgiving with his family, will

join eleven companions for a trip to Nutty Putty Cave. I do not know
that the six-foot-tall, 190-pound man will separate from the group to
successfully traverse a narrow cavern called the Birth Canal only to
become lodged in a pinch point at its far end, a cervix eighteen inches
wide and ten high. I do not know about the twenty-seven-hour rescue
attempt which will follow, involving more than 130 volunteers, and
that Jones will hang headfirst, 125 feet below ground and 700 feet into
the cave, for more than eight hours before a rope-pulley system will
ease him free and lift him to an upright position. I do not know that
a failure in the rope system will soon drop him back into the pinch
point, where he will slowly suffocate from pressure to the chest, and
that he will die around midnight on November 25, leaving behind a
wife and a baby daughter.
When I do come to know these things, some time later, I will also
know that due to the extremely high cost and danger of retrieving
the body, the family agreed with state and local officials to entomb
it in the cave, and that, despite hundreds of protests, the caves main
entrance was sealed shut, in addition to the passageway holding the
remains. The way in and out is now blocked by a concrete plug. A
stopper in the blowhole. A stone sealing the tomb.
Visitors might regain access to the main entrance at some point in
the future, but even if the cave reopens, I know I will never reenter it.
I could not force myself to squirm through its narrow openings while
remembering the botched delivery of John Jones. I could not guide
my boys down the rocky slope of the Big Slide with the knowledge
that one man never climbed back up again. I could not sit with them
in the inky oblivion of the Big Room, so near the corpse of the young
father, hanging like a soul in purgatory, quietly decomposing in the
dark humidity of the Birth Canal.

IV. Stairway to Heaven

We are entwined in bed when the phone rings. We let the machine
answer, annoyed by the interruption but determined not to lose focus.
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Irreantum

Seconds later the phone rings again. Reed mutters something, and I
silently curse whoever is lame enough to call repeatedly at 10:30 p.m.
When it immediately rings again, Reed lunges out of bed, grabs the
phone from the computer desk and barks a hello. I brace myself on
behalf of the caller, probably one of the kids clueless friends, whos
about to get an earful. But Reed doesnt say much. All I hear is yes
and okay and thank you in a tone of voice I cant identify; I can see
the outline of his upper body in the windows faint backlighting but I
cant see his face. After half a minute he hangs up the phone and turns
on the light. Get dressed, he tells me.
Ten minutes later Im backing the car out of our driveway, my head
buzzing with adrenaline, my hands white-knuckled on the wheel. Ben
is in the passenger seat. I drive as fast as I dare toward the nearest hospital, leaving Reed behind to watch over the little boys. When were
two blocks away, Ben groans and clutches his stomach. I pull over, and
he opens his door and vomits on the side of the road. His shoulders
heave again and again. I lean back against my seat, limp with sudden
relief. Once the retching stops I get out of the car and study the pool
of vomit on the asphalt. In the yellow light of the streetlamp I see
what I was hoping to see: intact capsules, blue and white, at least a
dozen. These are the capsules he swallowed without water minutes
before, from the prescription bottle with his name on it, holding a
ninety-day supply of antidepressants. When I tossed the bottle on his
bed that evening, reminding him to refill his pill case for the week, it
was jammed full. An hour later, when Reed and I burst into his basement bedroom, it was half empty. Ben sat on the side of his bed, still
holding the laptop hed used to compose a suicide note and email it to
his best friend, who (thank God) is not clueless and didnt hesitate to
call us, or to call us again and again.
I get back into the car and turn the ignition. Since the urgent medical crisis has passed, our best bet for treatment is the pediatric hospital half an hour away, so I flip a U-turn and head east toward the
freeway. Ben sits quietly next to me. I-215 bends and curves like the
road we drove together the summer before last, a rural road leading
from the Utah side of Bear Lake to Minnetonka Cave, a limestone
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Soper: Seeing Stars

formation tucked high in Idahos greening hills. We had the van windows cranked down and the iPod cranked up, and I played him Stairway to Heaven for the first time. Tonight the windows are shut tight
against the February chill, and there is no music playing.
As soon as Im able to form sentences I begin asking Ben questions,
and he answers me calmly and candidly, both of us pretending that
words can help, that words can explain.
His voice sounds just like my brothers in tone and cadence. His
words are ones my brother might have spoken. I try not to notice, but
at sixteen, Ben is more like George than I can ignore. Thankfully he
has a stronger family, a stronger identity, a stronger support system
but hes haunted by the same grim melancholy, the same crushing selfdoubt. Like George, he carries an ink-black void in his heart that light
cannot reach. Sometimes when I catch a glimpse of Ben in his Led
Zeppelin T-shirt or hear him laughing from the other room, I think
hes the ghost of my brother, and I shiver. Tonight, I am shivering.
The hospital rests on a mountain bench overlooking downtown
Salt Lake City. Its past eleven when we arrive. The ER parking lot is
full, and the parking garage feels too far away, so I pull into a deserted
loading zone. Ben follows me through the sliding ER doors to the triage desk. The admit nurse asks me why were here. Im not sure how
to answer. Were here because Ben is having an acute psychiatric crisis.
Were here because I handed this kid my mental illness and then handed
him a potentially lethal dose of medication. Were here because my son
wants to die.
I stammer something about an overdose and produce the halfempty prescription bottle from my coat pocket. A blonde nurse
takes charge, peppering Ben with questions until shes satisfied that
hes not an immediate threat to himself or others. He is stripped and
gowned, weighed and measured, bled into a test tube, drained of urine,
pumped with IV fluids. We are questioned by another nurse, a physicians assistant, the resident internist, and the social worker on call.
When the lab reports indicate no toxicity, were put out to pasture
in a room at the end of the hall. Its been a crazy night around here,
warns the social worker. I might not be back for a few hours.
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Irreantum

She shuts the door behind her. The room is cramped and dark,
windowless. Ben passes out on the narrow cot, overcome by fatigue. I
slump in the vinyl armchair in the corner, panicked by the closeness of
his pain, this dank despair heavy enough to stop a heart. I try to pray.
In my mind I envision that one, God himself, who came down among
the children of men and embraced the gloom, alone. That one who,
in due time, will lead his children out of the earths gaping mouth
and into the clearest of nights. But as I sit in this pinch point of a
room, my view of that future redemption is faint, too faint, a dim light
flickering at the back of a cave. I can only cling to the hope of things
unseen for my son, my brother, myself.
Im startled awake when the door opens with a rush of fresh air.
The social worker apologizes for taking so long; she was needed by a
bereaved family in the pediatric ICU. I look at my sleeping child, broken but alive. The resident has cleared Ben for discharge, and an ambulance is waiting to transfer him to the neuropsychiatric inpatient unit
down the road. Within minutes the EMTs arrive with a gurney and
strap Ben down for the ride. He looks so young beneath the restraints,
so weak and so pale, shrouded in the hospitals white woven blankets.
As hes wheeled away, I wave to him, but his eyes are closed.
I gather Bens discarded clothes and walk through the sliding
exit doors into the last vestiges of the night. It will soon be dawn.
Approaching my car, I inhale the thin winter air, icy like menthol,
which clears the staleness from my lungs. As I pull out of the hospital driveway, I see the vast valley spread below, its edges curved up
into mountains that touch the overarching heaven. It is veiled by haze.
When I look up, I see nothing but black. But when I look down, I see
wide swaths of white and gold, countless lights forming constellations
of cities and towns and neighborhoods, each bright spot marking a
street, a home, a life. And it shocks me anew that so much goes unseen
in the light of day, that only darkness can reveal these stars, these
souls, glittering on the ground as if the earth has become the sky.

58

Anonymity
Laura McCune-Poplin

Except on the brightest of days, the cement skyscrapers of Bordeauxs low income housing projects were dark and cold inside, their
entries lined with metal mailboxes labeled in identical cursive lettering,
not because the same person had written all the cards, but because all
French handwriting looked alike. Even if Lucy had been blind, she
couldve identified the lobbies by the smell, lemon-scented ammonia
and cigarettes, and by the sound of her black shoes on the tile floor.
Lucy bent over to read the mailboxes, her breath curling in front of
her face as she silently mouthed names. Boudou. Crespin. Bredoutin.
Chowachi. Mboup. Roux.
Who are we looking for again? she asked Soeur Miller, her companion since October transfers. When Soeur Miller got off the train,
she stretched her long thin arms and belched so loud their district
leader, Elder Williams, awarded her the title of honorary elder.
Soeur Miller pulled the ward list out of her backpack and turned
the pages with her mittens. The names in the creases were illegible.
Christelle Laborde.
Are you sure theres no apartment number? Lucy asked. She had
a love-hate relationship with the part of missionary work involving
inactive members of the Church. Although she could rationalize the
hours spent trying to locate a missing person (which she much preferred to contacting or tracting), she resented having to actually barge
in on people newly discovered. She figured they had stopped coming
to church for a reason.
Nope. No number, Soeur Miller said. We could always tract
herout.
2nd place winner, 2011 Irreantum Fiction Contest

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Irreantum

Lucy bent over and resumed reading. Id rather look at mailboxes.

Whose turn is it to knock? Soeur Miller asked as they climbed
the stairwell, sweating beneath their winter coats, their footsteps
echoing three floors high. There was an elevator in the building but
Soeur Miller insisted on taking the stairs. In Bourge, she had ridden
an elevator so old it had gates instead of doors and had slipped two
floors and made her pee. She was so scared, she vowed never to ride
another elevator for as long as she lived. Lucy didnt mind. Sometimes she and Soeur Miller would sing Christmas carols in the stairwell, their mediocre voices made beautiful with hollow acoustics and
harmony.
Its this one, Lucy said to her companion, waving her over. They
stood on the straw doormat elbowing each other and repeating you
knock until Lucy gave in. She always gave in, afraid of what somebody might do or say if they opened the door to find two American
missionaries standing on the doorstep in the dark, hitting each other
and whispering in English.
Shes probably not home, she said, sighing as she rapped the door
four times. She always knocked in groups of four. Three felt incomplete. A baby started to cry inside, and Lucy winced, knowing it was
her fault.
Jarrive, a voice shouted as the door slowly opened to reveal a little boy, his diaper falling off and stripes on his face where tears had
cleared paths through dirt and crusted snot. A woman wearing a misshapen T-shirt and carrying a half-naked baby on her hip yanked the
little boy away from the door. How many times have I told you not
to open the door to strangers? she said in French. Looking up, her
expression changed from one of anger and apology to one of disgust.
Oh, its you, she said, wiping hair from her face with the back of her
wrist. In her hand she held a baby bottle. I thought I told you never
to come back.
Is there anything we can do for you? Any way we can help? Soeur
Miller asked, leaning to the right, trying to see into the apartment.
You can leave.
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McCune-Poplin: Anonymity

Lucy nodded and started to turn away, but a little girl, wearing a
dress two sizes too small, appeared.
Are you sure you dont need anything? Lucy asked. She waved at
the little girl, who smiled shyly and buried her face in her mothers leg.
Need? Ill tell you what I dont need. I dont need your religion or
your Jesus, she said, letting go of the doorknob to cup the little girls
head. The door swung wide and the living room became visible. It was
clean, but almost bare: the only furniture, a floor lamp and a sagging
couch. The linoleum floor looked cold, and all three children were
barefoot. What I need is money. Does your Jesus have money? Can
your Jesus give my kids Christmas?
Lucy thought the question redundant because without Jesus there
wouldnt be Christmas in the first place, but she knew Christelle was
referring to presents and not salvation, so she didnt say anything. Soeur
Miller started to talk about the Church welfare program, but Christelle
held up her hand with the bottle in protest.Maybe you dont understand
French. I said I dont want to hear it. She shut the door, leaving the missionaries standing on her doorstep in silence. At the other end of the hallway, the elevator door rang open, the light from inside spilling into the
corridor, creating shadows and depth where before there was only gray.
That was when Lucy got her idea.
She told the elders about her idea at the next district meeting.
Elder Tyler tipped his chair against the wall and laughed. The lady
hates us, and you want us to eat oatmeal for two weeks straight so we
can buy her kids presents? He shook his head and the other elders
laughed too, except for Elder Duchne who lifted his shoulders and
puffed out his cheeks and said in his native French, Je pense que cest
une bonne ide. Elder Williams sighed and rolled his eyes without
looking at his companion. You would.
Lucy let the subject drop.
So do you think well lose weight? Lucy joked. She and Soeur
Miller were snaking through aisles in Leader Price, filling their baskets with generic cereal and canned green beans.
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Irreantum

Soeur Miller smiled. She was the only soeur in the mission thinner
than Lucy. Maybe if we lose weight, people will think were French.
At the checkout stand, the woman sitting behind the cash register
sighed as the missionaries stacked canned food on the rubber mat
that moved in spurts, causing the tops of the towers to crash down.
Lucy looked at their purchases and felt her heart grow sad. After a
particularly bad day, the soeurs would prepare their favorite comfort
foods and eat away their frustrations. Like the day Genevive threatened to kill herself because Lucy asked if she ever planned on coming
to church now that she was baptized. The only bright part of that
day had been the crme frache and lardons pasta with stuffed mushrooms that Lucy made, with baguette and Brie and globe grapes so
round they made the soeurs cheeks bulge.
Lucy wondered if they would find solace without cheese.
Looking at her companion, who wore a worried expression on her
face, Lucy tried to smile. This is for a good cause right? she asked.
Soeur Miller nodded. The best.
The last time Lucy had eaten nothing but cereal and green bean
salad was during splits at the beginning of her mission, when her
companion swapped places with Soeur Tait for the weekend. At first
Lucy thought Soeur Tait would be a welcome respite from her companion, who after four months still didnt talk much and rarely smiled.
But during their weekend together, Lucy realized that everybody had
problems. Soeur Taits problem was food.
After watching Soeur Tait eat an entire baguette with one wheel
each of Camembert and Brie, followed by a whole pan of brownies and a half kilo of pasta, Lucy excused herself to the bathroom
to throw up. Simply the idea of eating that much food had made
her sick, and she refused to eat anything for the next three days
except for cereal and green bean salad. On her last night, Soeur Tait
confessed to Lucy, already groggy with impending sleep, that she
had gained fifteen pounds in the three weeks she had been living
in Francethats how badly she didnt want to be a missionary. But
her parents had promised to pay her student loans if she went on a
mission, and Soeur Tait couldnt make that much money in eighteen
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McCune-Poplin: Anonymity

months let alone eighteen years, and so she ate her way out of debt
and sadness.
When the cashier finished ringing up the groceries, she looked
over the rims of her glasses and squinted at the total. Deux-cent
cinquante-trois francs, sil vous plat.
We bought a whole weeks worth of groceries for less than forty
bucks, Soeur Miller whispered to Lucy as they stacked cans into
their backpacks and doubled plastic bags. You know what this means,
dont you? She often asked questions as though Lucy could read her
thoughts.
That after next week well have one thousand francs for presents?
That we get to go shopping and call it work.
Lucy followed Elder Tyler down the toy aisle in Champion,
making a conscious effort not to walk too close. When she was little, her favorite part of Christmas was running to the mailbox with
her brother the day after Thanksgiving to find the Sears Wish Book
shoved inside. They would open the catalog with great reverence and
scrutinize pages that smelled like ink and left a black residue on their
fingers. Shed lie on her stomach, so close to her brother their legs and
elbows touched, developing a longing for toys that their parents could
never afford. She wondered if Champion had a Wish Book.
I cant believe you didnt tell us you were actually going through
with this, Elder Tyler said. He bent over to check the price on a Playmobile castle and stood up, his face disgusted.
You didnt have to come, Lucy said, taking a box of finger paints
off the shelf.
Elder Tyler took the box from her hands. Paint is too messy, he
said. What about these? He held up a package of sixty-four crayons.
Are you buying?
Elder Tyler turned over the package, looking for a price tag.
You can get anything you want if youre buying. Lucy made her
eyes as wide and innocent as possible.
Dont give me that look.
Why are you being so stingy? Its Christmas.
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Irreantum

If you hadnt kept your little plan a secret, I could have saved more
money.
I told you at district meeting. You said I was stupid.
I was being facetious.
Lucy walked past Elder Tyler and pretended to be absorbed by a bin
full of stuffed animals made out of washcloths. Out of the corner of her
eye she saw him walk off, gripping the package of crayons in his hand.
An empty feeling spread through Lucy, making her feel slightly
ill. She felt this way whenever she and Elder Tyler argued, or when
she thought about being transferred. They were going on six months
together, December would make seven, and they had seen each other
every day for the last five. Picking through the toys without seeing
them, Lucy tried to think about something else.
Is it really that difficult? Elder Tyler asked softly when he returned.
Is what that difficult?
Elder Tyler pointed to the bin of stuffed animals.
So are we done here or what? Soeur Miller asked as she and Elder
Wells rounded the corner with a shopping basket full of clothes and
shoes and books. They wore identical smiles, so large and toothy Lucy
smiled too. But when she looked into her own basket at the toys, bottles, and diapers, her smile disappeared. During the past two weeks,
the soeurs had cheated three times on their green bean diet, and now
Lucy felt guilty, regretting the seventy-five francs they spent on pastries and cheese because they were tired and depressed. At the time,
seventy-five francs didnt seem like very much money.
Looking at her basket again, Lucy tried to imagine the expression
on Christelles face when she opened her door to a mountain of presentsthe same expression she imagined whenever she craved chocolate or Orangina Rougeas a reminder that her hunger was serving a
higher purpose. But now she realized that real life limited her generosity to five, maybe six, presents, and her mountain deflated from the
size of her heart to the size of her wallet.
I think were going to have to put most of this back, Lucy said.
Elder Tyler looked at his feet and cleared his throat, and Soeur
Miller elbowed Elder Wells in the side, unconcerned with the taboo
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McCune-Poplin: Anonymity

of touching an elder. Elder Wells didnt care either, and this made
Lucy feel more normal, as though they were all good friends. But no
matter how much she wanted to, Lucy couldnt bring herself to touch
Elder Tyler.
Tell her, Soeur Miller insisted.
Grinning, and with his head turned slightly, Elder Wells looked
at Lucy out of the corner of his eyes like a little boy with a secret so
important it required a slow telling. My mom wired me money for
my Christmas present, he said, pausing to take a deep breath. And I
decided to use it all for Christelle.
All of it? Lucy asked. But you dont even know her.
So excited her head bobbed, Soeur Miller elbowed him in the side
again. Tell her how much.
The apples of Elder Wellss cheeks turned red, making him look
like a Kewpie doll. Two hundred dollars, he said, and Soeur Miller
grabbed his hand to thrust it in the air, declaring him loudly the
champion of Champion. Elder Tyler shook his head and looked away,
but he, too, was smiling.
At first Lucy didnt speak, she didnt know what to say. But everyone was waiting for her reaction.
Youre my hero, Elder Wells, she said finally. Soeur Miller snorted
with laughter.
Im serious. Youre the most generous person Ive ever met, Lucy
said, but this made his blush deepen, so she looked at her watch
instead, remarking out loud they should probably go.
Soeur Miller and Elder Wells started walking toward the check
out. Elder Tyler followed them, but stopped when he saw Lucy wasnt
coming.
How come you never tell me Im your hero?
Standing on the sidewalk at the mouth of Rue St. Catherine
with bags of presents at their feet, Lucy watched as busses stopped
and spilled passengers onto the cobblestone. So far fifteen different busses had come and gone, but Lucy and Soeur Miller were still
waiting for the elders. They had asked Elder Duchne to deliver the
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Irreantum

presents dressed in civilian clothes so Christelle wouldnt guess whom

they were from.
What time did you tell them to meet us? Lucy asked Soeur Miller,
the cold air coating her throat with a thin film of mucus and making
her voice scratchy. She looked up the street of tall, eighteenth-century
buildings that reminded her of Paris, only cleaner. Lucy was so cold
she tap-danced time steps to keep warm. No matter how many l ayers
Lucy wore on top, her skirt always let cold air surround her legs and
give her goose bumps, even when she wore extra long socks that left
only her knees exposed. Since her bike accident, Lucy refused to
weartights.
Soeur Miller didnt answer Lucys question. She wasnt a morning
person. Sometimes she wouldnt utter a single word before ten thirty.
She more than made up for it later in the day.
Side by side, the soeurs waited while pedestrians and mopeds and
busses swirled around them in chaos and noise before disappearing
into intervals of quiet, making Lucy feel both permanent and invisible, like the stone archway behind them, or a tree. But Lucy also
felt guilty because a better missionary wouldnt keep quiet among so
many people.
When the fifth A bus in a row pulled up to the curb, Lucy saw the
elders and looked for Elder Duchne but didnt recognize him.
Holy cow, Duchne, you really are French, Soeur Miller shouted
as he walked over and set a large cardboard box at their feet. You look
like everybody else.
Whats in the box? Lucy asked when he stood up. She couldnt
believe how different he looked. He wore a black pea coat, jeans, and
dress shoes. Even his hair looked different, slightly messy as if he
hadnt bothered to comb it. If she had passed him on the street, Lucy
would have never known he was Mormon, let alone a missionary. If
she had seen Elder Duchne while contacting, she probably would
have walked by, assuming him too French to be interested.
Elder Duchne smiled and lifted the boxs lid. Inside were seven
rows of baby food stacked three jars high. Tyler said you needed
more food.
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McCune-Poplin: Anonymity

Lucy raised her eyebrows at Elder Tyler. And I thought you didnt
care, she said, bending down to pick up the jars and read the labels.
Look in my backpack, Soeur Adams, Elder Williams shouted,
jumping in front of Lucy so his bag was at her eye level. She unzipped
the backpack and saw oddly shaped packages wrapped in newspaper.
I bought cleaning supplies. Is that not the best idea ever? Who doesnt
need cleaning supplies? He waited until Lucy zipped the bag closed
before turning around. And man, cleaning supplies are expensive.
Lucy told Elder Williams she was impressed. That she never
would have thought about cleaning supplies. And Elder Williams
declared himself the smartest elder in the mission.
Dude, Duchne, youre going to have to make ten trips to carry all
this stuff, Soeur Miller said, stomping her feet to keep warm.
Tired of standing, Lucy went to sit on a nearby bench and placed
her backpack on her knees. Pulling out a card she had written, she
read her note to Christelle: Joyeux Nol, from? Then she started to
worry that her idea might not work.
She glanced at the shopping bags filled with presents wrapped in
red and green paper and thought how unreal they looked, as though
an artist had painted them onto an old photograph. Like many people
in France, the missionaries wore mostly somber colors, their clothes
blending with the gray sky, gray cobblestone, and gray buildings. Lucy
had learned in church that everything could be separated into black and
white and right and wrong, but now she realized that anybody who
would say such a thing must have never been to France. Or if they had,
they must not have opened their eyes. Everything in France was gray.
From her seat on the bench, Lucy heard Soeur Miller laugh. Elder
Williams was telling a joke; Lucy could tell from the way he bent forward and looked Soeur Miller in the eye, smiling through every word
he said. Soeur Miller tilted her head backward, opening her mouth to
fit the size of her laugh, and Elder Williams stood up straight, pleased
with himself and the effect his joke was having. Elder Tyler and Elder
Wells were talking to Elder Duchne, and although Lucy didnt know
what they were saying, she could tell by the shape of their lips that
they were speaking French.
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Irreantum

The cold of the stone bench seeped through her cotton skirt and
numbed her thighs, but Lucy didnt stand up or move to rejoin the
others. Instead she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, wondering if
French gasoline differed from American gasoline because the traffic
didnt smell the same. Inhaling again, Lucy said slowly in her mind the
name of the city, trying to internalize her surroundings so that years
later, she would walk down another street in winter and remember
this moment, when she was still in Bordeaux and not yet transferred.
Opening her eyes, which were watery and somewhat blurry from the
cold, Lucy watched the missionaries huddling around the presents
and wondered for the first time in her life if it was possible to love
too deeply.
Elder Tyler glanced in Lucys direction and excused himself from
his conversation. He walked over to sit next to Lucy without speaking.
They were close, but not touching, and at first Lucy considered scooting over to give him more room, but she decided not to. A minute
passed, and the silence, although not uncomfortable, made Lucy curious. She turned her head to look at Elder Tyler, who was watching a
young mother push a stroller on cobblestone, the child asleep despite
the bouncing. He didnt move or in any way acknowledge Lucy or
her attention, so she tried to commit his face to memory, staring long
enough that when she closed her eyes, she could see the negative of
his profile imprinted on the insides of her eyelids.
What? Elder Tyler turned to Lucy, waiting for her to say what she
was thinking, and she almost did, but she chickened out, not knowing how to put her thoughts into words but wanting to tell him that
she could no longer imagine a world without him in it. Instead, she
pressed her lips together and said, Everybody has been so generous.
Im going to feel stupid if this doesnt work.
Soeur Miller blew hot air into her mittens. Any day now, Duchne, she said, speaking to nobody. Elder Duchne had been gone for
almost twenty minutes.
You think I should go in there after him? Elder Williams asked,
kicking the wall Lucy was leaning against, her backpack still on.
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McCune-Poplin: Anonymity

Of all the missionaries Lucy had ever met, none looked so American as Elder Williams. Tall, as in six feet four inches tall, with blond
hair and blue eyes, and freckles on his nose and cheekbones. Elder
Williams was attractive enough in Lucys opinion to be in a Gap ad,
or Calvin Klein. Especially because his suit was always slightly askew,
as though his haphazard elegance was intentional.
Give him a few more minutes, she said. If Christelle saw Elder
Williams with his suit and tie and nametag, she would know for sure
the missionaries were involved. And Lucy wanted Christmas to be
a miracle. Miracles become less impressive when discovered to have
been achieved by ordinary means. And even less impressive to the
point of meddlesome when performed by Mormon missionaries.
Lucy wanted Christelles Christmas to be anything but ordinary. She
tried again to imagine Christelles face when she opened her door
to presents piled so high they almost reached her chin, but now she
could only remember Christelles face angry. With deep pockets of
sadness clinging to the corners of her eyes and mouth.
Look. Soeur Miller hit Lucy in the arm and pointed toward
Christelles building. Elder Duchne was strolling through the parking lot, hands in his pockets, smiling.
She saw you didnt she? You took the elevator didnt you? Soeur
Miller asked him.
Yes. No. She opened the door right before I finished stacking the
presents. She said I was so loud she could hear me in the kitchen.
Elder Duchne said this like it was really funny, but nobody laughed.
Its okay though, he said quickly, I told her I was Pre Nol three
days early.
And she was okay with that? Elder Tyler asked.
Elder Duchne nodded and Lucy felt the knot lodged in her stomach begin to dissolve.
What did she say? she asked.
Did she cry? Elder Williams always wanted to know if people
cried, were crying, or thought they might cry.
Oui, Elder Duchne said. But not until her kids came to the door.
They all just stood there, like they were afraid to touch the presents.
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So what did you do? Elder Wells asked, and Elder Duchne
looked happier than Lucy had ever seen him. Everyone was speaking
French. Usually the missionaries spoke to each other in English, and
Elder Duchne couldnt understand what they were saying.
I carried them inside.
She let you inside? Soeur Miller asked.
So then what happened? Williams asked.
Nothing.
Nothing?
I said I had to go. So I left.
The other missionaries nodded in understanding as they absorbed
Elder Duchnes story, but Lucy refused to analyze what just happened. She always thought too much, and this time she wanted only
to feel because she was feeling more necessary and important than she
had felt her entire mission.
And Christelle would never know.
Walking back to centreville, the rest of the day looming too long
and too empty, Lucy tried to figure out what she and Soeur Miller
could do. Elder Tyler matched his stride to Lucys without saying
anything. She thought again of leaving Bordeaux and him, and her
stomach fell for what seemed like the thousandth time, convinced she
would become for him faceless and common, disintegrating into fond
but unspecific memories and bad photographs.
So, are you worried about transfers? she asked.
I dont worry until theres something to worry about.
But you know youre getting transferred.
Elder Tyler stopped walking so Lucy did too, turning around to
face him. If theres nothing I can do about it, whats the point of worrying? he asked.
So if youre not worried about transfers, are you at least a little
bit sad to leave Bordeaux? Lucy asked, holding her breath without
realizing it. She hoped he would say yes, because his sadness would
validate hers and make it more manageable.
Elder Tyler shrugged his shoulders, and his coat fluttered because
of his hands in his pockets. Not really, he said. Im sick of this place.
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Looking into the street so he wouldnt see her face, Lucy decided
not to ask any more questions. But her silence was not the comfortable kind, nor intimate. Lucys silence made Elder Tyler seem distant,
as though he had already left and no longer walked at her side. The
only reassurance of his presence was the sound of his shoes against
the sidewalk, their footsteps no longer unified, the uneven pacing
dulled by the noise of passing cars.
Well, Im going to miss Bordeaux because I wont be with you anymore, Lucy said finally. The effort it took for Lucy not to say things
exhausted her. She was tired of being exhausted all the time. Youre
the reason I love Bordeaux so much.
Elder Tyler stopped walking again, but Lucy kept going. She
wanted more than anything to be alone. To lie down on her bed and
cry without having to wonder what her companion might be thinking, constantly aware that her space was not sacred because it was not
her own. But she had reached the place they had started from, still
swarming with busses, and realized there was no place left to go.

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Celestial Bodies
Jared White

There are also celestial bodies, and bodies terrestrial:

but the glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of
the terrestrial is another.

1 Cor. 15:40

1
After studying etymologies, I
ask my wife, while watching her
apply makeup in the bathroom mirror,
Why do you wear cosmetics?
They make me pretty.
But youre already pretty; you dont need them.
You want me to wear them, trust me.
To this I say,
Cosmetics comes from the word
cosmos, which means to put into order
that which is in chaos.
She looks at me, says nothing.

2nd place winner, 2011 Irreantum Poetry Contest

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Irreantum

2
There is one of the sun
one of the moon
one of the stars

3
Im sitting in my house,
alone, as a child,
during lightning.
The power leaves
the house as from a body
in death. I fumble through
a drawer for a flashlight
and take it with me to hide
under the stairs.
I turn the light on and cup
my hand around its lens.
My skin glows
translucent, a glove
unable to contain the light inside.

4
Theyre not white, these bodies,
as if dusted with flour or caked makeup,

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White: Poems

but of a foreign brightness,

a spark in the chest
that spreads by veins
to quicken

5
In my brothers second winter he finds in my coat
slung over the sofa one thin glove.
It is white and dirty and loose on his hand
as his fingers wiggle life into its cotton body,
a smooth gesture to embody that
which was disembodied. With his hand waving
he mimes among us, touches my face, trills the
keys of mothers piano, crab-walks on her table.

6
and each mortal thing resumes:
lucid as breath; the fingers flex;
nerves pulse light and heat, stoking
fire until the body rises up, walks.

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White: Poems

Speaking in Tongues
The only way to get rid of a temptation
is to yield to it, says the minister
on TV. I notice hes reading
from a teleprompter,
and struggling. He starts to laugh
to buy time, sounding out the word
hes looking at. His southern accent
offers him no credibility
to my northern ear. He turns
to his default sermon: interpreting
Bible verses in ways not done before.
His producers dont realize hes breaking
new ground, an odd miracle.
His slurred speech suggests a serious
breakthrough in turning
backstage water into wine.
His sermon is on speaking in tongues,
the notion that no one can
have a secret prayer language,
but that Gods spirit translates
one tongue to anothers yielding ear.

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After Reading Exodus

its as if Im on sacred ground
wherever I go, so I stay
shoeless, let my hair
and feeble beard grow
for months.
My neighbor burns a bush
of heaped mulch that flames
and spits. I cant hear
whats being said
between them.
I plague all day the jerks in traffic, casting black
boils to their backsides.
Driving to the beach
I imagine Im leading the procession of cars
from lives of bondage
toward the sea.
I weave a dead snake
through a rock rakes metal teeth,
hold it up while standing on the roof
of my car parked at the mall. Security
guards approach cautiously. I spread my arms
slowly at eye level, palms outward. I speak
declarative praise to the sky, but nothing happens.
They laugh
It starts to rain.
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White: Poems

Poetry as the Art of Theft

I first learn to steal in church
as a child. During long sermons
I thumb apart pages, search
the hymnal. It feels heavy
and comprehensive. I land in the
sectioned appendix where the page is marked
by Meters, syllables numbered
in each phrase of text. I dont yet know
of sin, or redemption, or the longing
I will develop for both. I catch on
immediatelyinterchanging texts and tunes,
paring and re-pairing, stealing words
from one rhythm to bless another
with articulation, my hosannas washing
past priests, under pews, pillars of smoke
ascending into darkness.

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Walking through Winter in Rexburg, Idaho

after William Blake

Though this walking has been dark for hours, still I search

the asphalt, the snowfields, the dark pool above

with distant thimbles of light, like leaves
scattered by wind across a surface

for the moon.
Around me wind blows bluetinted snow. The blackmoon, aching
for spring, drowns in grey clouds.
Ice coats handrails, bare trees, lean and tired,
lean and are tired.
How like a god the snowy owl luminous, blushing
light, perched on a hummock in the snowfield, its white plumage bristling
against sleet. No
against sleep.

O what balance you keep in black wind!
Nearby, childrens pinched voices float taut through
dry air, their numb limbs shiver, vision
blurs to lake, lashes blink away
flakes while Blake busies
Gods inner ear:
The north is thine; there
hast thou built thy dark
deep-founded habitation.
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White: Poems

I imagine seeing through Gods

windows fires flame and thaw
while nights white-hot frost
windburns my skin raw.

81

When Trees Fall

Melissa McQuarrie

As soon as my four-year-old, Nathan, sees me filling up the inflatable pool, he puts on his swimsuit and calls to his siblings, Lets go
swimming! Minutes later, I slather my children with sunscreen and
sit on a lawn chair under the cottonwood tree while they jump in
and out of the pool and chase each other in figure eights on the lawn,
blades of grass sticking to their feet. Ten-year-old Kylie suggests they
make a whirlpool, so she and Nathan and eight-year-old Shane run in
circles in the water, then lie down and let the current carry them, their
faces tilted toward the sun, while two-year-old Miranda stands next
to the pool and squeals, Pool! Pool! and claps her hands. Nathan
splashes me and giggles. I smile, lie back and skim through a magazine,
try not to doze.
A sudden rush of air through the leaves punctures the languid
afternoon; I look up to see slate-gray clouds obscuring the sun, trees
tossing and bending in the wind. The hair on my arms is standing
up, and a flash of uneasiness makes me say, Time to go inside. No
sooner do we come inside and start to dry off than we hear a loud
crack and a window-rattling boom, and we look outside to see the cottonwood tree uprooted and lying across the lawn chair and the pool,
both smashed flat. Water from the pool is flooding the lawn, swirling
leaves and bits of bark over the grass.
When my husband, Scott, comes home a few minutes later, my
hands are still shaking and Miranda is still crying. Scott looks at the
tree and the flattened pool and chair, and hugs me tight.I had a feeling
I should come inside, I say, because now I see divine order in the timing of the afternoons events, the makings of a faith-promoting story
2nd place, 2010 Charlotte and Eugene England Personal Essay Contest

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we can tell our children for years to come. As Scott thanks the Lord
several times during the dinner blessing for our protection that day,
Isilently add my own thanks to his, secure in the knowledge of Gods
watchful care. Then we chatter and joke as we pass around platters
of barbecued chicken and potatoesexcept for Miranda, who cries,
Pool! every few minutes and bursts into fresh tears. Scott finally says,
Lets go buy a new pool, and, since tomorrow is the Fourth of July
and we just narrowly escaped death, I tell the kids to leave the dishes
and hop in the car.
And its as were pulling out of the garage, still talking and laughing,
that we see the emergency vehicles across the street. Two fire engines,
two ambulances, three police carsall with their lights flashing
parked in front of the Thompsons house; people standing like effigies
on the Thompsons front lawn, looking toward the backyard. I turn
off the car stereo, hear the whoosh-whoosh of my heartbeat.
Wow! Look at those fire trucks! Nathan says, and Miranda
squeals, but the rest of us are silent as we drive down the driveway.
Scott stops the car in the middle of the road to ask our neighbor, Greg,
what happened, but somehow I already know.
Riley. They found him in the pool, Greg says. He wipes his eyes
and looks away.
Riley. I want to leave before my children see what happens next,
but were stuck amongst the vehicles and people in the street, so we
all watch as two paramedics wheel out a stretcher with Riley strapped
on it, in his swimsuit, his eyes closed, his legs splayed. One of the
paramedics is ventilating him.
Oh no! Nathan says. I wont be able to play with Riley anymore.
Im mute as I watch Kellie, Rileys mother, and Kris, Rileys father,
run out behind the stretcher, as I watch the paramedics load Riley into
the ambulance, watch Kellie and Kris follow a policeman to a police
car. When Kellie turns toward us, I catch a glimpse of her facetear
streaked, the color of cement. She tucks a strand of hair behind her
ear, ducks her head and climbs into the car.
Dont worry, Nathan, Shane says. Hell have to go to the hospital
for a couple of days, and then hell be okay.
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I feel Kylies eyes on me, waiting for me to say something. Scott and
I look at each other, say nothing.

It will seem absurd to me later, but after they take Riley away we keep
driving to Toys-R-Us to buy a pool. To buy a pool. It just doesnt occur
to us to go back home. As we turn onto the main road, I remember how Kellies face shone the day she told me she was pregnant. A
caboose baby, she said, since Charisse was already six. We were standing in the hall at church, and I was holding newborn Nathan, and
Kellie stroked his head. We didnt know then that her baby and mine
would one day play together, run Mattel cars along the floor and
watch Sesame Street, and swing plastic golf clubs. Or that theyd be
the only two boys in Sunbeams and sit next to each other in Primary,
heads together, giggling and sharing confidences.
All the way to Toy-R-Us and back, while Kylie and Shane sit quietly in the backseat and Miranda sings to herself, Nathan peppers us
with questions: How did Riley get in the pool? Did he fall in? Why
werent his mom and dad watching him? Why didnt anyone hear him
fall in? Why did they need two fire trucks? How long will Riley be
in the hospital? Scott and I try to keep our answers matter-of-fact as
we take turns responding with vague, noncommittal phrases that will
become our mantras in the months to come whenever we discuss this
night: I dont know. Maybe. I dont know. Thats a good question. I
dont know. I dont know.
Later, after the kids are in bed, we piece the story together. The
Thompsons were having a pre-Fourth barbecue and pool party with
their extended families. After the barbecue, while the adults did the
dishes in the kitchen, Riley came inside and tugged on Kellies shorts,
asking when he could go swimming. Because her oldest two children
were gone at friends houses and Brady, the eleven-year-old, was playing volleyball on the lawn with his cousins, Kellie asked Charisse to
take Riley in the pool, where some of the teenage cousins were already
swimming.
Dont forget to put on his floaties, Kellie said, as Charisse led
Riley out the door.
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The same microburst that had felled our tree had scattered pool
toys and Rileys floaties all over the backyard. Charisse told Riley to
wait for her at the side of the pool and ran to retrieve the floaties. By
the time she came back, Riley was floating facedown in the built-in
Jacuzzi attached to the shallow end of the pool. The teenage cousins
were still swimming in the deep end; the younger cousins were batting a ball back and forth on the lawn. And the adults were laughing
and talking inside the house.
My children look up as flashes of red, white, and blue light up the
night sky and then fizzle in the darkness. Im sitting on the damp
grass, holding Miranda on my lap and swatting at mosquitoes, while
Scott lights fireworks in the street and our three older children dance
around him and clap their hands. Watch out! Scott says. This ones
going to be loud. I cover Mirandas ears as the firework explodes into
a fountain of white heat and shrieks like a banshee before whistling
to extinction. Scott helps the kids light sparklers. They twirl them
in wide loops and flinch as sparks singe their arms. I hug myself and
shiver: my children are lighting fireworks while Riley lies brain-dead
in the hospital, on life support.
When Scott said our family prayer last night, he asked for Rileys
recoveryif it be Thy willwhile my chest squeezed tight like a
fist. When, toward the end of the prayer, Scott again thanked the
Lord for protecting us from the falling tree, I opened my eyes and
glared at him. Later, as we were getting ready for bed, I erupted: How
can you thank the Lord, in front of our children, for protecting us
when Riley clearly wasnt protected? My hands were shaking.
He paused, studied the wall for a few moments. I think we still
need to be grateful you and the kids werent crushed by that tree,
hesaid.
Hours later, I lay in bed staring up through the darkness, crying,
my mind churning with images of the fallen tree and Riley strapped
to the stretcher. Had that feeling of foreboding really been a spiritual
prompting or was I just using common sense when I decided to go
inside? And why hadnt Kellie felt even a hint of warning, as she stood
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in her kitchen, that her little boy was drowning? I tried to unravel the
mysteries of divine intervention and coincidence, accident and fate,
until, head throbbing, I finally got up and took a sleeping pill.
First thing this morning, Nathan asked, Is Riley coming home
today? I swallowed and shook my head , then told the older kids
that the bishop asked us to fast today. We skipped the parade, and
instead of having a picnic in the canyon, we went to a matinee, where I
slumped in my seat in the dark and let the tears slide down my cheeks
until I dozed off halfway through the movie. Later, we gathered at a
neighbors house for a ward prayer. Brother Parker, whod been at the
hospital all day with the Thompsons, said Riley had wiggled his big
toe and fluttered his eyelidsand we all brightened, until Brother
Jackson, a doctor, said that just meant Rileys neurological system
was misfiring, a sign that his body was shutting down. Everyone fell
silentthen.
The kids have stopped twirling sparklers now to sit on the grass and
watch the big fireworks erupt over the stadium. Across the street, the
Thompsons house is silent. As colorful pinwheels whirl through the
sky and the whole city explodes with light and sound, the Thompsons
sprinklers pop up and start their rhythmic sweep over the manicured
lawns and tidy flowerbeds, just as they do every night.
The cemetery is set against the hillside, overlooking the valley. A hawk
is circling overhead in the hot, still air. Bronze plaques, placed flat in
the ground, dot the wilted lawns, and a mound of dark earth is piled
next to Rileys plot, dug at the edge of the grass, where the flat terrain
drops off into a steep, scrub-covered slope. I can see the childrens
school just below us and the sun-bleached valley, the faraway streets,
the lake beyond, colorless in the noonday sun. Next to the plot is the
casket, covered with white roses and teddy bears. A large bunch of
white balloons is tied to one of the folding chairs set up on the lawn.
Two images I will carry with me for years to come: Rileys cowlick,
visible over the side of the small, white casket at the viewing this morning; and the look on fourteen-year-old Noelle Thompsons face when
it was time to kiss Riley good-bye before closing the casket, when she
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turned to Kellie and whimpered, Mama. Kellie was so busy hugging

Noelle and consoling her other crying children that she barely had
enough time to plant a hasty kiss on Rileys forehead before the mortician lowered the casket lid. And I thought in that moment how lonely
she must feel, stuck at the bottom of the totem pole of the grieving.
The morning after they took Riley off life support, I found a gardening glove in the laundry room and sat the children on the couch.
Using the analogy Id seen in Primary, I put the glove on and took it
off as I moved through premortal life, mortality, death, and the resurrection, ending with, So right now, Riley is like this hand without a
glove, but hes still Riley, and when hes resurrected (putting the glove
back on), hell have his body again. Nathan watched me, then took
a turn putting the glove on and taking it off. So, when will Riley be
resurrected? he asked, and I tried to think of a way to explain lifetimesmillennia, perhapsto a four-year-old.
The sun is hot on my arms and legs, and sweat trickles down my
shirt. Before Kris dedicates the grave, one of Rileys grandmothers
unties the white balloons and gives a balloon to each of the Thompson children and their cousins. She tells them to release their balloons
into the sky and send their love and well wishes up to Riley in heaven.
I watch the balloons drift upward, like dandelion tufts, neck craned so
far backward it hurts, until they shrink and disappear.
Youve got to hand it to Kellie and Kris. Here they are, two Sundays
after Riley died, sitting in their pew in sacrament meeting. Kellie is
wearing pearls and a gray dress; her hair is styled and shes wearing
makeup. Looking at her youd never know. She sits up straight as she
listens to Sister Reichmans talk. She doesnt run from the chapel
screaming when Sister Reichman mentions Riley. She doesnt pull
out her hair or claw out her eyes. Panic grips me as, for the briefest
of moments, I imagine myself in her place and know with absolute
certainty that I could never be as strong and accepting, as full of faith,
as Kellie.
In the few quiet moments Scott and I have had with Kellie and
Kris since the funeral, they say theyve felt peace and reassurance and
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comfort. They say Rileys death was Gods will. They say they can even
see a divine pattern in the events of that night, that Riley was meant
to go when he did. No blame, no guilt. Although Im glad this interpretation of events comforts them and I want to believe Rileys death
was part of some grand cosmic design, this thought unsettles me as
much as the thought of his death being a tragic, preventable accident
either way, God seems distant and incomprehensible and unfeeling.
Scott and I have sidestepped the issue of fate and told our children
that, although we dont know why Riley died, were certain hes safe in
heaven, that his family will see him again. At church last week, however, Brother Wilson said Riley was too good for this world and that
he has a great work to do on the other side; others, like Kellie and Kris,
murmured the phrase, meant to be. The kids were told in Primary
that Riley is a very valiant spirit, that he completed his lifes mission.
This morning, when our home teacher, Brother Frasier, visited us
before church, he told our children that they are just as valiant as
Riley, with an important mission to fulfill, as well. I didnt want them
to think they were less righteous, he said to me as he was leaving.
Afterward, I had to explain to the children that being as valiant as
Riley doesnt mean theyre going to die.
Now, in sacrament meeting, I search my memory for some sign
that Riley was too good for this worldbut then, I wonder, arent
all three-year-olds too good for this world? I think back to fast and
testimony meeting two weeks ago, when we sat behind the Thompsons. Riley was wearing a light blue shirt and khaki pants; his cowlick
was slicked with gel. He smiled cheekily up at Kellie when he took
two pieces of bread during the sacrament; he drew pictures of trucks
and handed them over the pew to Nathan and ran toy cars along the
bench. He went out with Charisse for a drink of water and, toward
the end of the meeting, he laid his head on Kellies lap. Kellie had run
her fingers through his hair.
The bishop is announcing the sacrament hymn. I watch as Kellie
puts her arm around Charisse, and Charisse lays her head on Kellies
shoulder. In the past ten days Ive seen Kellie and Kris wipe their eyes
and hug friends who line up to console them, and Ive heard them
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say theyre grateful Rileys exaltation is assured. They talk about the
miracles theyve experienced since Rileys death: the dying flowering
pear tree in their backyard has suddenly, in the middle of the summer,
sprouted new, green leavesa testament to the resurrection. They
call it their Riley tree. They see evidence of Gods compassion everywhere. With one crucial exception, I think: Riley still died. And then I
feel ashamed.
Im sitting with Nathan in a small, soundproof room, having his
hearing and speech tested. For some time now, Nathan hasnt been
pronouncing consonants at the ends of words, and the last several
months hes added a slurp between syllables. I finally took him to the
pediatrician a couple of weeks ago and got an order for an evaluation.
Since Rileys funeral, Nathans been asking every morning, Will
Riley be resurrected today? and every morning I say that it wont be
for a very long time. A few days ago, when Miranda heard us talking
about Riley, she ran to the laundry room and got the gardening glove,
then ran back and gave it to Nathan. He threw it on the ground.
Yesterday Nathan found me in the kitchen; he was holding a toy
tank. Look! Riley left his tank here! he said. And I remembered how,
the last time Riley had played at our house, hed brought his tank and
clutched it while I took him and Nathan to the grocery store, and he
and Nathan had held onto the grocery cart, giggling, and chased each
other through the aisles.
How will I give it back to him? Nathan asked, and before I could
answer, he said, I know! Ill save it for him until hes resurrected.
When I looked at him, opened my mouth to speak, he sighed and
said, I know. It wont be for a long time, and he trudged back to the
playroom.
A technician fits headphones over Nathans ears and makes notes
while Nathan repeats the recorded words he hears. And as I sit
behind my son, I take in his white blond hair wisping over his neck;
his shoulder blades, like bird wings, visible under his yellow T-shirt;
his thin, sun-caressed arms; and his legs dangling over the chair. My
son is here, alive, I tell myself, feeling a rush of relief so exquisite that
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I have to resist the urge to press myself to him and inhale his musky,
little-boy scent and kiss the back of his neck.
At the end of the evaluation, when the technician tells me Nathan
needs speech therapy and hands me a referral card, I think of Kellie,
who will never take her son to speech therapy. I accept the referral
card gladly, my eyes welling with tears.
Nathan is refusing to get dressed. For days now hes been grabbing
toys from Miranda, banging his head on the floor, crying at bedtime,
and waking up in the middle of the night. Ive been trying to comfort
him and keep our household running as usual, but Ive found myself
crying while doing the dishes, feeling heavy limbed as I drag myself
out of bed, and staring at my plate at the dinner table, unable to follow my childrens chatter. Now, as Nathan stands before me in his
pajamas, crossing his arms and scowling, I suggest that we call Quinn,
a new five-year old boy down the street, and invite him over to play.
Nathan shakes his head. I want to play with Riley, he says.
I sigh. I sit on the couch, pull him onto my lap, and rest my chin on
the top of his head.
Why did Riley have to drown? he asks.
I shake my head. I dont know, I say.
Do you think he slipped and hit his head, Mommy, and then
he fell in the pool? he asks. Do you think he was running? I wish
hed walked slowly, like an ant, like this, and he hops off my lap and
marches in exaggerated, slow steps around the room. When he climbs
back onto my lap, he says, If Id been six instead of four, I could have
jumped in the pool and pulled Riley out. Id be wearing my goggles,
and Id know how to swim. Then, starting to cry, he says, I know
hes happy in heaven, but why did he go in the pool by himself? Why
didnt Rileys mom and dad watch him?
Heat surges through me as I think, Why werent they watching him?
Why didnt they put a lifejacket on him? If they hadnt been so careless, my
child wouldnt have lost his best friend, and none of us would be grieving,
and I wouldnt have to answer these impossible questions.
And then shame again, bitter on my tongue.
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I hug him, whisper consolations, then take him to the kitchen

table and give him paper and crayons. I ask him to draw a picture
of Rileythe way you remember him, I sayso we can give it to
the Thompsons. He begins drawing, biting his lower lip. When hes
finished, he holds up the paper.
I see a swirl of blue enclosed in a rectangle, and a little stick figure
in the blue swirl. Feeling my heart pound, I say, What is it?
Its Riley. Hes in the pool, Nathan says. His eyes are earnest, innocent as they look into mine.
My shoulders sag. Theres no end in sight to this pain. I wait until
he runs off to his room to play before I shove the picture in a drawer.
Picking up some groceries one morning with Nathan perched in the
front of my cart, I round the corner and see Kellie straggling about
the produce aisle, pushing an empty cart. I havent talked to her in
almost two weeks; Ive been too preoccupied with the turmoil in my
own house, andlets face itIve been avoiding her, not wanting to
be reminded of my own fears and questions and feeling at a loss as to
how to comfort her. Now, running into her like this, with Nathan in
tow, I wince. I make myself go up to her and say, Hello, and when she
turns around, I see that her face is thinner, longer, and lined with tiny
rivulets carved along the length of her cheeks and at the corners of her
mouth, and that she has purple shadows under her eyes. And it hits
me that while Ive had a glimpse of sorrow these last few weeks, I cant
even begin to fathom the wide, black, bottomless pit that is her grief.
She smiles wanly and ruffles Nathans hair, and as Nathan looks up at
her through his eyelashes and grins, her eyes fill with longing and tenderness so raw, so palpable, that I clutch my chest and exhale in one
quick, sharp breath. I dont want to add to her pain, so, after exchanging a few pleasantries and giving her a hug, I flee to the checkout.
The fallen cottonwood tree in our yard has been cut up and stacked
in the woodpile, the broken lawn chair and pool thrown away, leaving a circle of dead grass. I always thought I could count on Gods
protection, but the world is now all sinister shapes and sharp angles.
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Determined to be more vigilant than Kellie and Kris were, through

the hot, brittle days of August I snap Nathan and Miranda into lifejackets when I take them to the local pool, and I sit on the edge of the
pool, my eyes darting constantly from one of my children to the other,
as sunlight bounces off the water like shards of glass. I flinch when
someone shuts a cupboard door or drops a plate, and once, in a restaurant, I yelp when someone knocks over a chair. Some nights I dream
Im moving in slow motion, always too late to catch Nathan, who falls
headfirst from a high ledge onto cement. Other nights I dream Im
suckling a baby, always a boy, and even though Ill be forty in October,
Scott and I talk about having another child, in casewell, we dont
say that part out loud.
One morning, before the heat pulses from the pavement, I sit on
our front porch and watch my children ride their bikes down our
driveway, circle the cul-de-sac, and ride back. Everyone has a helmet
on, including Miranda, who is on her tricycle. As she rounds the corner to the garage, her tricycle pitches, then tips over, and she falls onto
the concrete. She lies there like a doll, unmoving, and my heart leaps
into my throat and I think, This is it. I cant shake the fear that tragedy
will strike us too, dividing our lives forever into Before and After. I sit
on the porch, legs turned to jelly, until I finally make myself run to
Miranda and pick her up. Her eyes flutter and she starts to cry. Just a
little falland she was wearing a helmet, after all. I laugh and chide
myself for overreacting, but my hands shake the rest of the morning.
And then a week later, over breakfast, I read in the newspaper
about a family who was picnicking in the canyon, celebrating their
grandmothers remission from cancer. Grandparents, aunts, uncles,
cousins, all eating around a picnic table. A microburst swept through,
knocking a massive tree onto their table. In the split second between
the snap of the trunk and obliteration, someone managed to grab
the baby, sitting in his car seat, off the table. But several other family
membersincluding a five-year-old girl and the newly cured grandmotherwere killed.
Sitting at the kitchen table stirring my oatmeal, I marvel that I ever
presumed to understand Gods will and purposes. I will never know
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why my children and I were spared the day the tree fell or why Riley
drowned. I will never know why accidents happen, why some people
die and others live. And something elsea truth I havent wanted to
face but that now hits me with relentless force: I will never feel secure
again, because, try as I might to keep my children safe, they could still
die at any moment.
I put my head down on the kitchen table and weep.
The trees in our yard are crimson and copper and gold against the sapphire sky, and sprays of purple asters spill onto our leaf-strewn lawn.
Relieved to put the summer behind us, I turn my attention to making
school lunches, potty training Miranda, helping Kylie with her poetry
project, and driving Nathan to speech therapy and soccer and Shane
to karate. On Saturdays we rake leaves, clean out the garage, and put
away the patio furniture. I prepare my Relief Society lesson, go visiting teaching, plan the Cub Scout pack meeting. Some days Im so
busy that I hardly think about Riley at all; other days I cant seem to
think about anything else. Walking into Toys-R-Us in late September, I see grinning, hollow-eyed skeletons dangling from a shelf, and I
picture Riley in his casket, the flesh rotting off of his bones. I shudder
and walk back out the door.
At night after everyone else is asleep, I send prayers up through
the darkness: petitions for comfort and healing, appeals for help in
making peace with my unanswered questions, and entreaties for protectionalways for protection. Some nights all I can do is say Please,
over and over, before falling into a fitful sleep.
Mornings I drive by the Thompsons house as I take my kids to
school, and I think of Kellie alone in their house all day, now that
her remaining kids are in school. Her days with a preschooler are
suddenly over for good. At church one Sunday, I hear that one of
the neighbors bought a puppy for the Thompsons, so Kellie will have
company during the day. I dont remember Kellie ever mentioning
that she wanted a dog.
Meanwhile, Nathan makes some new friends at preschool, and hes
played a couple of times with Quinn. Though he still wakes up some
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nights crying, he doesnt bang his head on the floor anymore. One
afternoon, as Im driving Nathan to speech therapy, were listening to
Sheryl Crow on the stereo and sunlight is streaming through the window. I find myself tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, humming
along to the tune, feeling quiet inside for the first time in months. As
we pass the Thompsons house Nathan says, You know, Mom, Im
not angry anymore that Riley died. Then he sighs and looks out the
window. Im just sad, he says.
The Primary children are sitting on the stand, fidgeting, swinging their
legs, and whispering as the Primary-program sacrament meeting begins.
Nathan is wearing a little-boy suit, a white shirt and tie, and a fake missionary nametag. His hair is combed and lying flat, and hes sitting next
to Katie and McKenna. He told me last week that he hates being the
only boy in Sunbeams now.
After the Sunbeams sing I Hope They Call Me on a Mission, Sister Johnson walks to the podium, says, We want to dedicate this program to Riley, our special little Sunbeam, who we all love and miss
very much and who is serving a valiant mission on the other side,
and her voice cracks. Then all the Primary children and the congregation sing, Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam. And even though I try
not to, Iglance over at the Thompsons, and I see Kellie and Kris wiping their eyes, and the Thompson children sitting with their heads
bent, their shoulders shaking.
Last week, when the Varleys spoke in sacrament meeting, Sister
Varley talked about their two-year-old son dying twenty years ago. It
still hurts, she said. We still think of him every day. Kris left after
sacrament meeting, and later, when Scott and the elders quorum
president visited him, Kris was in his jeans. His eyes were red, and he
said, Is it going to hurt like this for twenty years?
After the Primary program, Im walking to Sunday School when
I see Kellie, Noelle, and Charisse sitting on the floor in one of the
side alcoves. Mascara is running down Noelles face and pooling onto
her shirt, and Charisse is gulping between sobs. Kellies back is to
me; shes wiping Noelles cheeks and brushing the hair away from
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Charisses face, murmuring something over and over. In the wake of

so much grief, I wish the carpeted floor would open up and swallow
us all. As I walk past them, Noelle looks up at me over Kellies shoulder, and because I dont know what else to do, I keep walking briskly,
all the way down the long corridor to the Gospel Doctrine room.
Riley would have turned four today. I remember his birthday because
its the same day as Kylies. So after we sing Happy Birthday and
Kylie unwraps her gifts and escapes to her room with her new books,
I sift through my stacks of photos until I find pictures I took of Riley
at Nathans last birthday party.
Wed hired a magician; he entertained the kids in the family room,
and when he waved his wand over his hat, Riley shouted Abracadabra! along with the other children. And then he watched, laughing, as the magician pulled brightly colored cotton squares, tied in an
endless row, out of his pocket. In the photos Riley is wearing denim
Oshkosh overalls and a sage green shirt, the same color as his eyes. In
one of the photos hes standing next to Nathan, pulling his lips apart
with his fingers and making a silly face, and in another photo hes eating birthday cake. And though the heavens remain a mystery to me,
Ifind myself hoping, as I trace my finger over Rileys face, that one day
God will show me how all of itfate, chance, death, loss, and grief
is magically tied together in one bright, divine pattern.
I crop the photos carefully, frame them with cardstock, glue them
on a scrapbook page, and write the date. Then I put the page in a sheet
protector and write a note to Kellie and Kris before stopping by their
house to deliver it on the way home from Nathans soccer game. Kellie
opens the door. I hand her the scrapbook page, gushing out a hurried
explanation, hoping Im not making a huge mistake. But she smiles,
takes the scrapbook page, exclaims at the photos, laughs at the picture of Riley making the silly face. Thats a typical Riley pose. What a
goofball, she says. She tells me theyre going to the cemetery, says shes
bought flowers and a couple of toy cars to put on Rileys grave. She
thanks me again, and I hug her tight, stroke her hair.
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McQuarrie: When Trees Fall

As I drive away from the Thompsons, Nathan in the back seat,

Ihear Nathan say, Poor Riley, and I feel the familiar throbbing in
my chest. And then I go home to frost Kylies cake and tie balloons to
the chairs, to make quiche and fruit salad for her birthday dinner, to
celebrate with gusto, while Kellie and Kris put flowers on Rileys grave.
The Sunday after Rileys birthday, Scott and I take the kids to visit
Rileys grave right after church. Nathan is holding Rileys toy tank on
his lap as we drive up the winding road toward the cemetery, nestled
against the cinnamon-colored foothills. Its a warm, late-fall day, the
sky a fathomless blue; the afternoon sun is like liquid amber, spilling over the hills and washing the cemetery with soft light. Crunching leaves underfoot, we walk across the cool, wide stretches of lawn.
The air smells of freshly cut grass and damp earth, of moss and wood
smoke. Its the first time Ive been back since the funeral.
We walk to Rileys grave at the edge of the hillside. Afar off, I can
see the lake, a shimmery silver in the afternoon sun. The grass has
filled in over the edges of Rileys grave, although the smooth bronze
plaque, with Rileys name etched on it, is still shiny. We see evidence
of the Thompsons visit here yesterday: blue and white carnations, a
teddy bear with a blue ribbon around its neck, and a toy car, which
Nathan exclaims over. He places the tank on the gravestone next to
the car, says, Happy Birthday, Riley. I brought you the tank you left
at my house, as the rest of us are quiet, listening to the breeze sighing
through the leaves.
Then Kylie, Shane, and Miranda run off to play hide-and-seek
amongst the trees while Scott and I meander through the cemetery. When I glance back, I see Nathan lying on his stomach. He is
stretched out on the grass covering Rileys grave, chin propped on his
hand, talking, still sharing confidences with his friend.
Though its hard for me to imagine now, I know that this ache in
my chest will easeafter all, I remind myself, it wasnt my child who
died. And I know that, though I will always make my children wear
helmets and seat belts and life jackets, someday I will no longer wake
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up every morning holding my breath, waiting for trees to fall and the
mountains to tumble down.
But what I dont know yet, is that six months from now the
Thompsons will move away; that, years from now, their house will
remain vacant, the pool sealed up tight, the lawns gone to seed and
the unwatered trees withering in the summer heat. I dont know that,
though Kellie and Kris and their daughters will remain devout, neither of their surviving sons will serve missions, or that every time
I see Kellieonce a year or soI will still see her grief etched in
her face. I dont know that during these brief encounters well mention Riley and Ill feel that bittersweet ache, and then well talk about
Kriss job or Noelles new baby, after which Ill return to my intact life,
the tumult from that summer fading with every passing year.
I dont know any of that yet. For now, I breathe deeply as I watch
my children scamper over the cemetery lawn, watch them whirl and
spin in the afternoon sun, flit through light and shadow. I watch
Nathan leave Rileys grave and join in the chase, his arms flung out,
his head back, running as fast as his mortal legs can carry him.

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The Iron Door

Mark Brown

Jesse Ipsen told someone at church hed seen the Iron Door.
Between sacrament meeting and Sunday School, he stood in the foyer
of the meetinghouse, summer morning light resting in bright squares
on the carpet, and he said, Dangdest thing. There it was. Rusted, of
course, but right there.
His friend cocked his head. Youre saying you saw it?
Jesse grinned like hed told a silly joke. Yeah, crazy, huh?
So was it there? Was the gold inside?
Jesse laughed and shook his head. Jeez, I dont know. I didnt open
it. It looked rusted shut.
The other man almost seemed to wince. He looked away for a
moment, eyebrows low and pushed up against each other. Shoot, Jess.
If it was me, Id have pried that thing open with my fingernails. He
shook his head, chuckled, and looked back at Jesse. Well, he said,
patting Jesse on the shoulder, lets get to Sunday School before they
think were skipping, eh?
By the time church ended, three other people asked Jesse about
the Door. They wanted to know what it looked like, what hed been
doing up in the hills, and, most importantly, where he found it. Jesse
answered them as straightforwardly as he could. The Door, he said,
was mostly cankered with orange rust but still had some patches of
what must have been its original black paint. It sat in an outcropping
of basalt, set there with some kind of concrete. The large, notched
tumbler and latch handle were on the right and three big hinges held
it to a timber set in the mortar.

Honorable mention, 2010 Irreantum Fiction Contest

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I was up there on my days off. Just hiking around, you know. I went
up Saturday morning and spent the day. Slept out last night and then
was taking one last walk around this morning when I saw it. Its pretty
far up there. Seems like it wasnt that far from the top of the center
peak. On the west-facing side behind some trees. Thats probably why
no one ever saw it. Its masked pretty good.
Verle Rasmussen, the high priests group leader, frowned as he listened to Jess and said, The whole towns been all over those hills for
years, Jess. Doesnt seem likely youd just stumble across it walking
around like that.
Jesse shrugged. I saw it. It was there. Dont know what to tell you
other than that.
The old man scowled and said nothing more.
At home after church, Jesse heated up a can of soup and made
a mayonnaise and cheese sandwich. He sat at his small kitchen table
and ate while staring out the window that faced the Plymouth Hills
to the south. The purple basalt cliffs stuck out like bones pushed
through skin. The hills deep hollows were filled with birch trees
and cottonwoods, and thick groves of green junipers covered the
rounded tops. The range of hills walled in Plymouth Valley like heavy
greengates.
Jesse stared hard at the second tallest peak, at a spot near the top
on the east-facing side. Swathed in dark green, it looked no different
than any other part of the hilltop. But Jesse murmured aloud in his
empty kitchen, Its right there.
His phone rang six times that afternoon. Six different people called,
asking about the Door. Five men and one womanall from church.
One person said, Congratulations. Another all but called Jesse a
dirty liar. A man Jesse graduated from high school with offered to
come pick him up and drive him back to the hills that very afternoon.
Cmon, Jess. Wont take more than a couple of hours. Its light out till
nine these days. You can show me and well head right back. Jesse
said he wasnt up to it. He hung up and didnt answer the phone again
that evening.
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The next morning, Jesse dammed the ditch above the western field
and watched as cold, clear water welled up and poured out of channels in the bank. Water would creep down the furrows for a few hours
until it reached the far side when Jesse would come back and pull the
dam. He leaned on his shovel handle while the tan, sandy earth turned
black as it grew wet. To Jesse, the shape of the dark water inching
down the furrows looked like dark knife blades pointing south.
His boss, Granger, drove up in his orange Ford pickup. He heaved
himself out of the truck and waddled over, adjusting his enormous
overalls. You moving to the Rockland Pass field next?
Yeah. There and then the reservoir field.
Granger breathed heavily and nodded. Under the hot, hard July
heat, his jowly face looked like it might pop. Youre a popular fella
these days. Folks been asking about you all morning. Did he see it?
Did he really see it? Youd think I was your answering service, Jess.
He smiled.
Sorry bout that. I didnt think itd cause so much fuss.
Hell, Jess, people in this valley have only been looking for that
damned door for the last hundred years almost. You show up at
church and announce you saw it just as nice as you please. What do
you thinks going to happen? He pursed his lips and looked as if he
might start laughing. Instead he just smiled at Jesse.
Jesse shrugged. Hadnt thought about it that way, I guess.
Granger spat, lifted the red bill of his hat, and wiped the sweat
away. I know you saw it, he said. I know you dont lie. Ever since that
first year you worked for me, Ive known that. You accidentally let that
cow out on the road that got smashed all to hell. There was a dead cow,
a wrecked car. Most other men wouldve blamed that loose animal on
a washed-out fence or something like that. He stepped closer to Jesse
and lightly punched his shoulder. But you took responsibility.
Jesse felt his cheeks flush and he looked down at the ground.
I know you dont like me talking about it. Youre embarrassed
about leaving that gate open. But you stood up like a man and told the
truth. And thats why everybodys calling about you seeing the Door.
Jesse cocked an eyebrow and looked up.
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You know I tell everybody about how honest you are. I always
say, The Lord loves an honest man and Jesse Ipsens an honest man.
People around here know you tell the truth. So when you say youve
found the Iron Door, its not like when some half-brained idiot who
wandered up here from Utah says it. Granger spat again, as though
the word Utah tasted bad.
Jesse smirked. Guess its a good thing the Lord loves me because it
doesnt seem like much of anyone else does right now.
Well, peoplell either love you too much or not at all depending on
whether or not you can show them that door. Myself, Im more worried about keeping this wheat from burning up. He pointed at the
field. Thats the only gold Im concerned about.
Jesse pushed through the rest of that day, turning water, feeding
animals, and repairing Grangers ancient combine. He occasionally
found himself looking south at the hills. A car drove up as he threw a
muddy dam into the back of his truck. Jesse recognized the two teenage boys from town, one with a silver stud in his lip and the other with
disks in his earlobes. The driver hung his head out their windows
and asked where they could find the Iron Door. Jesse directed them
as best he could, trying not to stare at the metal stud hanging out of
the boys face. The driver said, Thanks, man as though he was surprised Jessie even spoke to him, and then he drove off. After dinner at
Grangers, Jesse drove to his small house that sat in the far corner of
a hayfield between an irrigation reservoir and a line of slate-colored
grain bins. As he pulled up to the dirt driveway, he saw three cars
parked a hundred yards down the road. He slammed the door to his
truck with his elbow, leftovers in his hands, and muttered to himself,
I aint going into the hills tonight, you ignorant donkeys.
That evening, someone tapped on Jesses front door. He sat in
his easy chair staring for a long time before getting up. He parted a
yellowed curtain and peered outside. A saggy, middle-aged woman
stood on his porch, arms folded across her chest. She gazed slightly
to the side as though she didnt want to look him directly in the eye
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as he peered through the window. Jesse recognized her and noticed

that the thick glasses that normally hung around her neck on a chain
were perched on her long, lined face. When she taught the Gospel
Doctrine class on Sunday, Sister Hughes sometimes held her glasses
up as though she was going to put them on, but she never did. She
looked foreign and somehow menacing to Jesse with them on her face.
Jesse glanced both ways out the window and couldnt see anyone else.
He opened the front door just enough to poke his head through and
quietly say hello.
Hello, Brother Ipsen, how are you? Im sorry to bother you.
Jesse looked both ways again. No bother, Sister Hughes. What
can I help you with?
People tell me youve found the Iron Door up in the hills.
Jesse said nothing.
Sister Hughes waited a moment and then spoke. You may not
know this but it was my grandfather who first heard about the door.
She unfolded her arms and Jesse saw she held a small black book.
This is his journal, and I was wondering if youd like to hear what
he wrote about it.
Jesses mouth pulled into a straight line. Why?
The question seemed to take her aback. She stammered a little.
Ithought ... youd be interested. I thought you might want to know...
Her glasses caught the porch light glare, and, for a moment, she looked
completely moon-eyed, like a helpless child.
Jesses face softened, and he opened the door. Sorry bout that,
Sister Hughes. I dont mean to be rude. Its just been an odd couple
ofdays.
She stepped in, the book hugged to her chest again. I understand,
Brother Ipsen. I understand completely. Something about the story of
that door up there drives everyone around here a little crazy. Im sure
youve already gotten an earful from several folks.
Jesse chuckled a little. Sure have.
They moved through the house to the kitchen table, and the woman
put the book down gently. She spoke as she used her thumbnails to
slowly pry open and turn the brittle pages.
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Youve heard about how the story of door began? she asked, looking at him over the top of her glasses.
Bunch of criminals robbed the stage that went between Pocatello
and Tremonton, and they hid everything behind an iron door theyd
hauled up into the hills.
But do you know how that story got started?
Didnt one of them kill the others and turn up here in Plymouth?
Sister Hughes nodded and sighed. She left the book on the table
and settled back in the chair, almost looking as though she was going
into a trance, her eyes half-closed, her face pointed upward toward
some far corner of the kitchen ceiling. My grandfather was working
a field out near the hills when he saw a man sitting under a tree. It
was spring, and Grandpa was plowing. Hed pass one way and then
the other, and the man didnt move. At first, he thought he was just
resting but, once he got closer ... She paused, staring into a far corner
of the room, and then suddenly snapped her eyes back and looked
directly at Jessie. He saw blood all over the mans clothes. Jessie wondered if she had practiced this dramatic pause when she told this story
at family reunions and quilting bees.
She seemed to sense Jesses mind wandering, so she leaned dramatically forward to look at the journal on the table. She turned two
more pages and said, He took him home and sent for the doctor who
was ten miles away. She slid the book in front of Jesse and pointed to
a passage. Jesse read to himself.
The man was very pale and shook terribly though it was a warm day.
I held a plaster to his wound but it caused him as much pain to have
the blood stanched as to let it flow. He grippd my wrist and said his two
companions had betrayed him and tried to take his property. I killed them,
Ikilled them, he waled. His excitation worsend his condition and made
his blood flow all the faster. I told him the doctor would care for him and
all would be right in time. He settled some at that but began making a
quiet sound with his breath like a kitten calling for its mother. It did not
disturb me to hold back this mans blood but I must confess, having heard
him cry out of murder in his distress, I wondered if the crimson on his
fingers was solely his. The evening drew on and I was troubled that the
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doctor had not yet arrived. The man seemed also to feel this anxiety and
he called me from the window. He was very low now and his face was as
white as milk and his lips and tongue were ruby coloured from the blood
in his throat. He spoke in a whisper and his words were hard to make out.
He said Sir, your doctor will not save me. Ill die now. I am a thief and a
murderer. You will find my partners in the hills to the south near the top.
Our door is there, our iron door. The gold is behind the door. It is up near
where the waters divide.

Jesse pushed the book back with his fingertips and looked at Sister
Hughes.
The old woman said, Its real, Brother Ipsen.
Jesses face clouded. I know its real. I saw it.
Sister Hughes bit her lip and seemed to consider what to say next.
Measuring her words, looking at the book on the table the whole time,
she spoke. I showed you this so you would know I believe you. So
youd listen to me. People have been buzzing about your announcement in church. Trying to teach the Relief Society lesson was like trying to herd cats last Sunday. Half believe you and want to follow you
into the hills so they can get a look themselves. The other half think
youre a liar or crazy or just out for attention.
Jesse clenched his jaw. I didnt make any announcement, he
muttered.
She reached across the table, stopping just short of putting her hand
on his. I know youre telling the truth, Brother Ipsen. She paused and
waited for him to look her in the eye. When he did, she spoke again.
But I think it would be best for everyone if you just say you made the
whole thing up. Or you could say the brother at church you spoke to
just misunderstood what you were saying.
Jesse stared at her, mouth half-open, confused. Why would I do
that?
People have gone their whole lives trying to find that door and
whats behind it. Spent their money on metal detectors and geological
maps when they could have been paying their tithing. Neglected their
children because they had to spend every weekend in the hills looking.
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She tapped her fingers on the page of the journal. Lives have been
ruined.
Jesse shook his head. But I did find it. I dont need to spend anything or neglect anyone. I saw it. Theres no need for me to lie about
something I actually saw.
Sister Hughes spoke softly. Youll never see it again. No one who
ever claimed to see the Iron Door has ever found it a second time. Its
not meant to be found and opened, Brother Ipsen. That door and the
gold are just a test from Heavenly Father. He uses it to test our hearts
for greed. He uses it to see if well do the right thing even when theres
earthly treasure to be had right in our own backyard.
Jesse folded his arms and looked away with half-closed eyes. Idont
think Gods in the buried treasure business.
God is in everyones business.
Jesse looked back at the old woman, his eyes narrowed and his
teeth clenched. Sounds like someone else I know.
She sat back and simply said, People in this town will go crazy.
She pulled the journal toward her and closed it, her fingers resting on
the worn cover. You watch, she said, you watch. Finding that door
and whats behind it will become the only thing anyone will talk about.
She scowled at Jesse. You watch. Gold. Thats all anyones going to
care about. Iron and gold.
Jesse held his hands out to her. But thats just it! I dont care about
it. I dont need a bunch of stolen, buried, hidden, stupid treasure anyway. I wouldnt know what to do with it even if I had it. Why do you
think I didnt even try to open the damn thing? Im happy how I am
and dont need any more. He paused and looked at his hands flat
on the table. I just dont want people thinking Im some kind of liar.
Isaw that door up in those hills yesterday and Im not going to say I
didnt just because a bunch of idiots in town are greedy.
Sister Hughes tilted her head as though watching something curious. But sometimes were asked to do things that seem wrong for
the sake of the greater good. Whole tribes were wiped out in the
Bible because God commanded his children to wage war. Nephi cut
off Labans head so his family could have the Brass Plates. If God is
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willing to ask someone to behead a man for the sake of others, I think
hed be perfectly willing to ask someone to lie a little in order to preserve a community.
Jesses cheeks flushed. Except Hes not asking, he said. You are.
And last I checked, you werent in charge of passing along His messages. Not to me.
Sister Hughes opened her mouth to speak, but then abruptly
closed it. She picked up the journal and stood. Jesse stood too and
followed her as she walked silently to the door. The kitchen linoleum
crackled as they walked across it.
Jesse opened the door and Sister Hughes walked into the blue darkness beyond his porch light without saying anything. Jesse called after
her. I can solve this whole thing, you know. I can just take people up
there and let em have at it. He heard her open her car door. No one
has to waste another minute looking for it because I can just show it
to them, and then they can decide who opens it and gets whats inside.
Her car door closed, and the engine started. He watched the headlights blink on, turn onto the main road, and grow faint with distance.
Despite what he said, Jesse didnt return to the hills. For the next
three days, he stopped answering his phone, avoided going into town,
and didnt even take his dinners at Grangers, choosing instead to eat
canned soup by the light of his television at home each night. On the
fourth day, when Granger suggested some important but not pressing maintenance for the combine, Jesse felt happy to do it because he
knew the machine was at the back of the property, far from the road,
and wasnt likely to include visitors.
Jesse sat on a tall stool at the side of the rusting John Deere combine.
Replacing a drive belt covered his hard, thick hands with scrapes and
friction burns. He had a wide pool of shade cast by the old machine
when he started the job that morning, but the sun had climbed and
left just a hard, black shadow under the combine. Sweat drops ran
down his back. His hands hurt.
When he heard a truck drive up behind him, he hoped it was just
his boss coming to check on his progress, but he had a feeling it wasnt
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Granger. Jesse turned around and saw Arch Jones from church pulling up. Arch was just two years older than Jesse, but his thin, almost
transparent blonde hair and the dark bags under his eyes made him
look two decades older. Jesse fished a socket wrench out of the toolbox on the ground to finish reattaching the belt cover. He kept his
back to Arch as he approached.
Hey, Jess.
Jesse didnt turn. He kept ratcheting loudly. Arch.
Talk to you?
More ratcheting. I guess.
You been back up to the hills yet?
Im sure the whole town knows I havent. Jesse tucked the wrench
under his arm and dug around in his pocket for another bolt.
Im wondering if you have any of the gold bars from behind that
door.
Jesse wheeled around, the muscles in his shoulders and chest felt
tight and coiled, like he might punch Arch in the mouth. Yeah, right
the hell here in my toolbox, Arch! In fact, I think I have a couple in my
pocket. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his grease-covered
jeans. Hmm. Nope, musta left my hidden treasure in my other pants.
Arch sagged and said nothing.
Jesse wiped his arm against his forehead and took a long breath.
Idont have any gold. I havent even been back up there. More I think
about it, the more I think maybe I dont want to go back. I dont need
people following me, hounding me, or begging me.
Arch pursed his lips, looked up into the hot clear sky, and said,
Alright, then. Sorry to bug you. He turned and walked back to his
truck.
Jesse watched him go, so bent and unsure in his steps that he
looked like a man walking to his own funeral rather than one on a
treasure quest. Feeling like hed kicked a cat, Jess called out just before
Arch climbed in the cab. Whyd you ask? What do you want it for?
Half in the truck, half out, Arch said, You know my moms been
sick awhile. Were needing to put her up someplace where she can
have a nurse all the time. Places like that are expensive and... He
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paused, and Jesse saw the purplish bags under his eyes as they turned
toward the hills. I was thinking that maybe if you had more than you
needed... He looked back at Jesse, his face twisted up in a combination of embarrassment and hope. Sweat gleamed beneath the thin
layer of his hair as he mumbled, I was thinking maybe you could loan
me and Jean something.
The anger that strung like an electric wire across Jesses shoulders
flickered out. He dropped the wrench back into the toolbox and
walked over. Sorry, Arch. I shouldnt have snapped at you. Hows
your mom doing?
They talked for a few minutes, and Arch described his mothers
decline. Closer now, Jesse saw how Archs skin looked slack, like it
barely had the energy to hang on to his bones.
Arch said, So thats all. It was a shot in the dark, and Id never normally ask you for money cause I know you dont have any more than
anyone else. I just thought maybe if you did, youd be able to part with
some. Arch looked sideways at Jesse. But you dont, right?
Jesse shook his head. Nope, I dont. If I had it, Id give it to you
though. To tell the truth, I have no idea what to do. I didnt think
a thing about what might be behind that door when I saw it. I just
thought it was kinda neat that it was really up there. Now everyone
and their dog has heard about it, people are calling me on the phone
at all hours, waiting outside my house, calling me a liar, asking me to
lie. I dont want any of this.
Arch nodded and said his wife needed him back home. He climbed
into his pickup and shut the door. After he started the engine, he said.
You oughta ask the bishop what to do.
Jesse grunted. Yeah?
Hes been real good to Jean and me. Every time weve had a question, hes been real good about telling us what to do. Arch gave half a
wave and drove off.
Archs sad, slack presence hung in the air like the tan dust his truck
raised as it drove away. Jesse sat back down on the stool and shut
his eyes. Sun pressed down on his shoulders. He looked at his watch.
Lunchtime. He decided to head home and make a call.
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Bishop Rulon Foster opened the door to his office and motioned
for Jesse to come inside. Jesse stepped out of the light-filled foyer and
into the cool, silent office. He sat down across the polished desk from
the bishop and rubbed his eyes.
Bright out there, he said.
Bishop Foster looked at the door and nodded. I dont think they
considered the sun when they laid out this building. All those windows facing westmakes summer a tough time to wait for the bishop
here. From about four until nine, that foyer is like a magnifying glass.
He smirked a little. As if some people werent sweating enough.
Jesse chuckled. Well, bright or not, I appreciate you meeting me
on an off night, Bishop.
I meet with people when they need me. He gave a short smile that
left as quickly as it came. You sounded like you had something to say
on the phone so I figured a Thursday night meeting was in order. He
laced his long, white fingers together in front of him. So what can I
do for you?
Youve heard about me and the Iron Door?
The bishop nodded, his face blank.
I just need some help because I dont know what to do. I have
people asking me for money, other people telling me to say I made it
up. Ive got folks parking outside my house every night waiting for me
to go back into the hills. I just about punched out Arch Jones yesterday because he asked me about it.
Bishop Foster raised an eyebrow. Well, thats not the sort of thing
you need to talk to me about. Maybe if youd actually struck him, but
the desires of our hearts are usually things you can reconcile with the
Lord through prayer.
Jesse shook his head. No, thats not it. Im not worried about wanting to hit Arch. If I came to talk to you every time I wanted to sock
someone, youd see me after every trip I take to the hardware store. He
chuckled but the bishop didnt laugh. Its this business about the door.
Its just got me all stirred up and I dont know what to do about it.
Are you experiencing a stupor of thought?
Jesse thought. I guess you could say that.
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When you think about all this business youve started, do you feel
confused or uncertain? Do things not seem as clear as they should?
Jesse clenched his jaw a little when he heard this business youve
started. He leaned back in his chair and spoke slowly. I feel confused
about how everyone seems to have gone a little crazy since last Sunday. I didnt mean to start anything. The bishop nodded in a way that
seemed noncommittal to Jesse, as if he was only pretending to listen.
Jesse paused and looked over his shoulder at the door to the office.
He took a deep breath and spoke again. Thing is, I dont think I want
to go back to that door. I imagine theres money to be had in leading
everyone to it, but I dont need the money, and I certainly dont want
the attention.
For a moment, Bishop Foster almost seemed to smile but he leaned
forward across the desk, and his face changed. His eyes widened,
became disbelieving. And so? he asked.
The air in the room shifted and turned dry. Jesse pushed the heels
of his dress boots against the legs of his chair and slid it back slightly.
His teeth clenched, but he continued. On the other hand, theres
people who need help around here. Arch Jones came by yesterday
to ask for help in paying for his mom to get put up someplace half
decent. If I did go back to the Door, I could maybe help him. Others
maybe. Im just wondering if itd be the right thing to get the gold
and use it to help folks, or if I should just leave it be, seeing as how
I dont really need it, and it manages to get people a little worked up
around here.
Bishop Foster pursed his lips and studied his white, folded hands.
His dark, imposing brows covered his eyes, and, for a moment, he
seemed to be praying. Without looking up, he asked, Do you hold a
temple recommend, Brother Ipsen?
Uh, no.
Have you ever been interviewed to receive one?
No, sir. Jesse squared his shoulders and sat up straighter in his
chair.
The bishop peered out from under his brows. Its the highest, best
thing a Mormon can do, you knowattend the temple.
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Jesse nodded, his face hardening, his throat growing tight.

Temples are the Lords house. If a man wants to be close to Him,
thats where he goes. Do you know the questions I ask during the
interview?
Jesse said nothing.
The bishop continued. I ask about your testimony, of course
whether or not you believe in God and Jesus Christ. Joseph Smith
and the Book of Mormon. I need to know if someone has that foundation of belief. Then there are other questions that focus on whether
or not you act on those beliefs.
Jesses neck felt hot and tight, like he was standing out in the field at
noon. He didnt understand what the bishop was doing.
The bishop saw Jesse glancing over his shoulder at the door and
leaned to the left to catch his eye. The other questions, Brother Ipsen,
are about what you do in your life, the things that show whether or
not youre a disciple of the Lord.
Jesse nodded, unsure of what else to do.
For a moment, the bishops face looked sad, as though he felt sorry
for Jesse. He said, Do you live the Word of Wisdom, Brother Ipsen?
Do you abstain from coffee, tea, alcohol, and tobacco?
Jesses heels pushed the chair back farther. Hed come here looking for help for help. This was not what he expected. He answered
anyway. Yeah.
The bishop leaned farther across the desk. Do you live the law of
chastity? Saving yourself for your future wife and no one else?
Yeah. He replied as though it was a stupid question.
The bishop seemed to hear the tone in his voice and scowled a
little. Do you pay your tithing? Do you offer a full ten percent of
your increase to the Lord?
Yes, Jesse said.
The bishop paused for a long moment. He studied Jesses face, his
gaze still and steady. Finally, he said, Are you honest in your dealings
with your fellow man, Brother Ipsen?
Jesse shrugged like it was the easiest question of all. Of course,
hesaid.
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Sighing, the bishop looked down again. Are you sure? he asked.
Sure Im sure. What do you mean am I sure?
Bishops cant read peoples minds, Jesse. I cant see into your soul
or anything like that. But sometimes, the Lord gives us a little insight
into folks, helps us to give them a second chance to say what they
meant to say.
Jesses narrowed his eyes. What kind of insight are you talking
about? he asked.
Bishop Foster shrugged. Is there anything else you want to tell
me? Do you want to maybe reconsider that last question?
Jesse stammered. Do I...? Hell, no, I dont. He leaned forward,
the heat of discomfort stoked into a fire. I came here for a little advice,
not so you could ... what? Interrogate me? Tell me you dont believe
me? What kinda bishop are you anyway?
The bishop gritted his teeth. Were not just here to be listening
ears, you know. Im a judge in Israel. Its my job to speak the truth and
call people to repentance for the sake of their souls.
Is that what youre doing? Cause it sounds a lot like youre just
being an ass!
Rulon Foster pointed his finger at Jesses heart. Youre saying you
saw something that simply doesnt exist! You are creating contention
and discontent for people with real problems. They should be spending their time with their families, not camped out in front of your
house. People should be coming to the church for assistance, not asking you for gold.
Tell me about it, Jesse said as he stood up, knocking his chair over
behind him.
The bishop shot up. It wouldnt be happening if you hadnt said
anything in the first place!
I said it because I saw it!
People have looked for that door for a hundred years. You stumble
across it one morning on a stroll? I dont think so. He stood, knuckles
pressed flat on his desk, eyes wide.
Jesse cocked his head to one side and squinted. Is that what this
is? Youre just pissed because you never found it or something? You
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spent your summers up there looking around and didnt find anything
so that means no one else ever can?
The muscles in Rulon Fosters jaw flexed, forming twin almondshaped dents on the sides of his face. He exhaled long and deep and
then sat down. The Spirit has left this meeting, he said. Its probably
best that we dont continue.
Jesse sneered. If you think the Spirit was ever here to begin with,
its probably best we dont. He turned and left, slamming the door
behind him.
The days last light lit up the rows of Russian olive trees along each
side of the road, and the tawny skin of the hills glowed like embers
about to go out. As lovely as the world was, Jesse filled the cab of
his truck with curses as he sped south. He swore at the bishop, Sister Hughes, Arch Jones, and anyone else he could think of. Not long
before the turnoff to the Plymouth Hills, Jesse looked in his rearview
mirror and saw three cars following him. He swore again. He realized
they must have followed him from the church.
Dust plumed as Jesse stomped on his brakes at the turnoff. He
got out and tore the wire loop off the access road gatepost. Behind
the gate, a two-track dirt road crawled up a ridge of the hills. For
a moment, Jesse considered refastening the gate and speeding off as
fast as he could. But as the cars following him approached, he reconsidered. He held on to the steel gate and felt how cold and heavy it
was. Even if he could chain it shut, nothing could stop people from
climbing over it and following him up the hill. No gate, no chain, no
hiding out would stop anyone who really wanted to follow him. Hell,
he thought, I cant even meet with an idiot bishop without someone
staking me out.
He stood in the middle of the entrance until the three cars arrived at
the turnoff. Then, with a shrug, he threw the gate open and motioned
for people to follow him. Two trucks and a car trundled across the
cattle guard and up the access road. Jesse looked into each vehicle as
it passed. He didnt recognize the first man but knew the other two:
one was the guy from high school who had called him the first night
after church, and the other was Sister Hughess son. Wordlessly, Jesse
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returned to his truck and headed up the incline with the other vehicles
close behind.
Once the incline grew too steep, Jesse parked, put the parking brake
on, jumped out of his truck, and started hiking without looking back
at the others. The land grew wild and rocky toward the top. Wheat
fields ended and basalt boulders sprang up amid wide patches of sagebrush. The road turned to an increasingly rough and ill-defined trail.
Jesse still wore the white shirt, slacks, and dress boots he wore to see
the bishop. He felt dark sweat rings circle his armpits. No one spoke.
The men heard only their labored breathing and the crunch and slide
of loose stone underfoot. Jesse stayed a few steps ahead of the others
and never looked them in the eye.
Jesse found where hed slept the weekend before. The indentation
of his sleeping bag was still apparent in the thin grass next to the
blackened fire pit. He paused, orienting himself, and the other three
men looked around as though they expected the door to materialize
out of the air. The fields below already sat in long, blue shadows, but
sun still hit the spot high on the hill where the men stood. Faded light
shone across the campsite, burnishing the cheat grass, gilding the
edges of sagebrush. Gnats dove and circled above the men like hyperactive motes. Abruptly, Jesse walked off, passing through a clump of
juniper trees, the others hurrying after him.
After an hour of the men clambering around, the sun sank. The
chill air raised gooseflesh on Jesses arms and neck. Three times he
started at the campsite and walked along the narrow basalt ledge he
remembered leading to the door. He circled back, trying a different
path each time and each time, he came to nothinga pile of stones,
a blank ledge, gnarled junipers. Each time, he moved more slowly,
looking more carefully. He tried to remember whether or not hed
done something different before, if he had gone over a small ridge or
made a turn. Somewhere along the trail each time, things began to
look unfamiliar. Jesses head hurt, and his feet burned from slipping
around in his boots. He felt the eyes of the men behind him drilling
into hisneck.
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After the last try, the man Jesse didnt know said, You even know
where youre going?
The cold sweat on Jesses collar chafed his neck. I aint your tour
guide, mister. I didnt ask you to come along, and I sure as hell didnt
ask you to ask me anything. You got questions, head back down the
mountain and see if you find any there.
The mans mouth dropped open. He looked at the other two, eyes
bulging, then looked back at Jesse. Who do you think you are? he
sputtered.
Jesse took two quick steps toward the man, fists balled. I think Im
the man whos going to toss you down this hill if you dont decide to
get out of here yourself.
The man flinched and backed away. Once he stood about twenty
feet off, he spoke. I thought you might have been something because
of what people said about you. But youre nothing. This is nothing.
Youre just another liar. Just a sick, little liar.
Jesse scooped up a fist-sized rock near his feet and pitched it as
hard as he could. The man spun, and it hit his turned back with a dull
thud. He cried out, and Jesse bent down and grabbed another rock.
The man scrambled down the ledge and behind a juniper tree. The
sounds of his stumbling as he hurried away were sharp and clear in
the evening air.
Jesse turned toward the other two men. Even in the dim evening
light, he could see them watching him, waiting to see if he was going
to throw something their way. Jesse let the stone fall out of his hand.
He suddenly felt very tired. His shoulders sagged, and he felt his feet
pulse in his boots. He wondered about the other man and winced at
the thought of him stumbling through the dark, a black and green
bruise forming on his back. He looked around at the shadows and
outlines of rocks and juniper trees. In the dark, everything looked
alien, and Jesse wasnt even sure where he was standing. He saw
Rulon Fosters face, his finger pointing at his chest. Heard his voice.
You stumble across it one morning on a stroll? I dont think so. Looking
into the dark sky over his head, Jesse said, You two can leave. Theres
nothing to see.
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Theres nothing to see or youre just not going to show us? one of
them asked.
Jesse looked down and sighed. Either way. Doesnt matter. You
might as well go home.
Sister Hughess son said, Youre just saying that. You just want us
out of here so we wont know where it is. So you can have it all for
yourself.
Jesse smirked. Maybe. Youll never know. He turned and walked
back along the basalt ledge. His legs felt thick and heavy as he picked
his way through the darkness. The other two men followed at a distance. Finally, Jesse found the screen of juniper trees that flanked one
side of his old campsite. He ducked through it and sat down in the
spot where hed slept the weekend before. He took off his boots and
rolled the soft leather tops down toward the heel. He propped the
two rolls together as the other two men came through the trees.
What are you doing? one of them asked.
Going to sleep.
Out here? No sleeping bag, no coat? Just going to lay down on the
ground and snooze, huh? You think were stupid or something?
Jesse put his head on the leather pillow hed fashioned. Ill only
think youre stupid if you stay up all night on a cold hilltop just to
watch a man sleep.
The man from Jesses high school spat. Youll close your eyes for two
seconds until we leave, and then youll hop up and head for the door.
Jesse said, Suit yourselves. If your wives arent wondering where
you are, I guess I dont care where you spend the night. He looked out
at the dots of orange and yellow light flickering on in the shadows of
the valley floor. He thought he could tell which lights belonged to the
church where hed left the bishop just a few hours before. He shut his
eyes. Go ahead and wait. It doesnt matter. Maybe Im lying, maybe
Im not. Doesnt matter. Tonights as good a night as any to sit and
wait for something to happen. He yawned. Good luck. Jesse turned
over and breathed deeply.
Jesse listened for long minutes as the other two men stood behind
him, no doubt staring at his back, trying to decipher whether or not he
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was really sleeping. They muttered to each other a few times, and then
Jesse heard them turn and walk down the trail, rocks scraping beneath
their feet as they went. Once he was sure they were gone, Jesse rolled
onto his back and stared up at the stars. They looked hard. Cold crept
up his legs, and his feet felt thick and raw. He leaned forward and
rested his forehead on his knees. His breath caught in his throat for a
moment. He pictured Bishop Foster behind his desk, shoulders stiff
with anger, his finger pointing at Jesses heart. He heard his voice: Im
a judge in Israel. Its my job to speak the truth. He saw the distain in
the bishops eyes, heard the doubt when he asked, Do you want to
maybe reconsider that last question? Jesse shook his head and felt his
lip curl with hatred for Rulon Foster. For him, for Sister Hughes, for
the dimwits who parked outside his house night after night, for the
poor, stupid fool with a stone-sized bruise on his back.
Jesse closed his eyes again and saw the Iron Door in his head. He
felt the cold iron against his palm and the immovability of the ridged
tumbler. He saw the rough orange lichen blotching the face of the door
and the old concrete caught in frozen drips hanging over the frame
timbers. It sat under an overgrown brow of basalt, like a dark halfclosed eye looking over Plymouth Valley. Jesse saw it clear and bright.
He looked out at the lights in the darkness. To hell with you, he
said aloud. To hell with all of you.

118

Who Peeks Through the Veil

Kerry Spencer

They come to me in a dream.

Its one of those dreams youd expect to hear about in churchthe
kind of dream for which rationality demands dismissal while irrationality demands attention. The problem is youre not sure what to pay
attention to and youre not sure what to dismiss. And yet, you cant
forget about it.
Right before the dream, I am stumbling into my professors office,
collapsing into a self-pitying heap.
Oh, honey, my professor, Zina, says. You look like you need chocolate. She sifts through her desk drawers and pulls out a Snickers bar
and tosses it to me. For your dementors, she says. Im sorry about
the scholarship. She pauses, as if she wants to say or do something
else. I have to teach a class. But Ill be back. Take a nap and wait for
me? You look tired. She points to the lounge-like chair she keeps in
her officespecifically for napsand leaves.
I am tired.
My exhausted, twenty-year-old self must be a mess. Eyes all puffed
and red. Un-washed hair frizzing. Shoulders sagged by my git-like
crying at my own failures. All I can think about is that Ive lost the
Rhodes scholarship and will, consequently, never go to England.
And going to England feels so much more important than it seems
like it should.
As I sit in the nap-chair, I try to push all of my self-pity into
each bite of chocolate. But as I eat, I keep hearing the judges gritty
questions.

1st place, 2010 Charlotte and Eugene England Personal Essay Contest

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Dont you feel a little nave for having faith?

Missionary work is a form of imperialism. And imperialism is one
of the greatest atrocities of the modern era. How do you feel about
being a part of the atrocity?
Youve read Chaucer. Youve heard of the Wheel of Fortune. What
makes you think its spun by God? How do you tell the difference
between divinity and sheer chance?
It was an unexpected line of questioningone I felt completely
unprepared for. I had been convinced that, irrational as I knew it was,
my competing was of vital, eternity-laden importance.
So I answered the best I could. And I thought I felt a power there
with me as I was talking. I thought I saw one of the judges cry.
And then I lost.
I stood with the other eleven finalists, waiting for the results. Wed
all made it past state finals. This was the last level of the competition: four of us would go to Oxford. We were in the lobby of a Texas
hospital where one of the judges was a doctor. Poorly clad patients in
wheelchairs, IVs attached to the handlebars, kept rolling by.
When the judges came out of their deliberation in the conference
room, I knew it wasnt a good sign that they wouldnt look at me. But
I was still unprepared for the empty place in my chest when they
didnt call my name. Why was it so important to come here? To lose?
It didnt make sense. And it kept not making sense even when I was
back. Even when Stevewho Id met at State finalse-mailed me to
ask me on a date. And especially when I knocked on Zinas door and
when she handed me the chocolate.
But at least when the last of the chocolate melts against my fingers,
I feel some of my self-pity melt along with it.
Completely spent, I decide to try that nap.
Generally speaking, I dont really sleep very well. Especially during the day. But I drift quickly into a haze. And suddenly, everything
around me is calm and fuzzy with light.
Im dreaming.
Theres someone standing in front of me. Hes young and old in an
ageless way. Hes got blonde hair and he looks like my dad.
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I cock my head to the sidesilently asking him why hes standing

there.
He looks me right in the face and he says, You have to find us.
Theres an urgency in his voice and he doesnt blink.
I look down to his left and notice that a girl is sitting there next to
him. Her hair is darker than his and she doesnt say anything.
But where are you? I ask.
There is a beat of silence before he answers.
England, he says.
And the dream is over.
Ever since I was a little girl Id been taught about dreams. About
Lehi, dreaming of the Tree of Life. Joseph, interpreting the dream of
the baker and the king. Joseph Smith, listening to angels that spoke as
he lay covered by his bed-quilts.
A lot of what Id heard came from my grandmother. She lived
with us when she had congestive heart failure and, even though she
did eventually recover, at the time we all thought she was dying. She
couldnt lie flat and breathe, so shed sit upright in a chaisea crocheted blanket covering her newly thin legs (that she claimed she was
far too old to shave).
Terrified that she might die any minute, I would sit next to her
every night until two or three in the morning. Shed hold my hand
and tell me about my uncle who had visions. Her friend who heard
voices. The way that the ghosts of her ancestors would speak to her at
night when she was worried that she was about to pass. The prophets
of the Bible must have seemed maniacal, shed said. But I would be a
little crazy, too, if I could see through the veil. Glimpses through the
veil can terrify you with their violence.
You need to remember, she said to me once,when the veil between
the worlds is open ... its dangerous. Spirits flow both ways: life meeting death. If youre not careful, you could fall back through.
If I had been older, or more cynical, maybe I would have rolled my
eyes.
But I wasnt old and I wasnt (yet) cynical. All I knew was that the
clocks in the room seemed to whirl their arms around too fast. And
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that every minute, every second, that I could spend with my grandmother was terribly important.
So when I have the dream ... when I feel how important it seems ...
Its not terribly hard to ignore every bit of my rational self. Dreams can
matter, I decide. Especially when they seem like they matter.
But there is something still so baffling about it all. The urgency
the pleading. The call to a quest. The best I can figure is that the people in my dream are ancestors. And ancestors are important, I think.
Thats why were sealedone generation to the nextin a line back
through time and forward into an eternal round. Our connection to
both the people before us and the people who come after us is sacred.
Maybe, I figure, maybe Ill still get to England. Because my ancestors
are calling me to find them. The spirit of Elijah finally speaking to me,
the way my grandmother said it might someday.
How are you doing? Zina asks when she comes back from teaching.
Good, I say. But, even though I try, I cant elaborate any more than
that. It all feels too important, somehow. Even the nap-chair and the
chocolate have started to feel like holy space and sacred communion.
The chocolate was magical.
When I go home, I sit on my twin-sized bedsurrounded as it is
with piles of books and notepads full of my scratchings. I watch the
curtain to my bedroom window blow in and out, as if its breathing.
The last time my curtain breathed that way was on the morning I
decided to apply for the Rhodes scholarship. I had been eating oatmeal and when the urge hit I called it the ghost of Cecil Rhodes calling. But it was just a feeling. If Id had another grandmother, I might
have called it something besides a ghost. The only other sources of
the feeling I could think of were God and the devil. I did not want
God to tell me to do something so annoying. And the devil seemed an
unlikely visitor at dawn, when I was eating oatmeal.
Today I hold a notebook in my lap, wanting to write the dream
about my ancestors down. But I cant even do that. The words dont
come because every time I try to think of them, theyre pushed out of
my head by waves of calm.
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Its six years before I can write it down.

And its three years before it ever occurs to me that the messengers
of my dream could be anything other than ancestors.
Because its not until three years laterwhen I am married to
Steve, who I met competing for that Rhodes scholarshipthat I find
out that we cant have babies.
And its not until that same three years later that a professorwho
is practically a stranger to mewalks up and asks me to come teach a
study abroad class with him. Its a hiking trip, he says. More than two
hundred miles over seven mountains.
And its in England.

Were en route to Milton Abbey, hiking through a muddy forest.

The light is dimtwilight in the midday. There is no sign that there
might be wild animals, but the thick trees that surround the footpath
are the kind that youd expect to look into and see multitudes of glowing eyes looking back. Ancient England had lions, but today is the first
time I really believe in them.
My feet are leaden with mud and I am so exhausted that I feel
almost as if my spirit isnt fully connected to my body. Its hovering
just outside the space of my body, connected only to my toes. Im
embarrassed to be so exhausted. Embarrassed that the injections have
made everything so dark and fuzzy feeling.
I should be grateful, I think. Here, in England, IVF is so much
less expensive than it is at home that even weon our grad-student
budgetcan afford it. This is our only shot at having a baby for years.
The only shot at making that dream I had unfold. The fact that I have
to hike two hundred miles on IVF hormone injections shouldnt be
an undue sacrifice. Even though my reaction to the hormones has
been ... extreme. Ive been seeing things, hearing things. At night I
dream of dismembered body parts and demons who eat the rancid
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carcasses of cats. When I wake up in the morning, I can almost feel

fur caught between my teeth. My head will pound, I will vomit, and
then Ill start to cry.
But is it really the injections making me feel this way?
The emotions feel real. The disorientation and darkness feels real.
Every bit of anxiousness has a real cause. Can I blame drugs for that?
I try to keep my eyes wide open and a smile pasted on my face.
But the view ahead is obscured by a misty haze and the squishy path
underneath our feet punctuated by sharp rocks that you cant always
see. Im not hiding much of anything very well.
I slow my pace and look around. The trees are tall.
And then my spirit, still hovering in front of me, looks at me.
Someday youll be rich, she says.
I have never cared about being rich. But in that momentsurreal
as it is with the living shadows of trees hoveringit seems like a really,
really wonderful idea.
There are two people nearby talking about their boyfriends. They
must know that I can hear them, but Im not sure if Im supposed to
pretend I cant or if Im supposed to join in the conversation.
The spirit who looks like me speaks again.
And when youre rich, people will want to hear you speak. Theyll
cry and applaud at the very sound of your voice.
The connection between me and my spirit loosens. Its elastic now
and stretching away from me.
Steve is far ahead of me, smiling as he talks to someone in the
group. I think, He is such a good guy. A bird squawks above me. I
look up at it.
The spirit who looks like me says, Hell probably be an apostle
someday. Youll have to travel the entire globe and everywhere you go
people will fawn.
Someone in the line of hikers bumps into me, and I let myself fall
farther back in line.
Says the spirit, When youre rich and powerful no one will bump
into you. Or if they do theyll be sorry. Theyll rue the day that they
bumped into you...
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Spencer: Who Peaks Through the Veil

My guts start filling with ... a yearning. Its a completely unfamiliar

sensationa mix of greed and bloodlust.
You can make it happen you know. Its easy. Watch.
In the sky in front of me, I see a cliff ... I see the cliff and I see the
person who just bumped into me ... I see them falling down the cliff
... and then I see myselfpushing arms outstanding at the edge of
the cliff. Smiling.
I stop.
The hikers keep moving forward, like a moving body of water. I
look around, trying desperately to snap my spirit back into my body,
but I cant.
Who are you? I ask the spirit. Because you are not me.
She smiles once more, fading into the shadows of the trees.
I quicken my pace and try to find someone to talk to, to pull myself
out of the fogginess of my IVF-addled brain.
For a while, I almost feel like myself again.
But when we get to the Abbey, Steve hands me a pamphlet about its
founderKing Athelstan. He was king a long, long time agosomewhere around 900 AD. I read over the pamphlet with a tired sort of disinterestedness. Im hot and cold at the same time and so exhausted that
I approach the grandeur of the Abbey with something like boredom.
I leave my heavy-with-mud shoes at the entrance and walk around
in my wet wool socks.
The Abbey looks like every other cathedral weve been to so far.
Ceilings so tall you feel like youre outside when youre in. Stone walls
that echo against a quiet so present it seems to encourage reverence.
Walls of graves etched with the names of noble patrons, whose lifetime of money earned them a hollow carving in rock.
I read through the pamphlet as I walkthe cold, hard of the floor
such a contrast to the muddy path.
Before he was king, the pamphlet says, Athelstan was walking in
the wooded hills above what would become Milton Abbey.
Its strange to read of a king, walking the same place that I just
walked. I wonder how heavy with mud his shoes were. How tired he
was as he came out of those woods.
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The pamphlet goes on.

But as he was walking, he started to see visions.
Visions of himself as the greatest king England had ever known.
The visions grew more and more persuasive. More and more
appealing. It was simple, he told himself. Just a few things to do first.
Watch.
And he saw it all play out in his head, stomach churning with
something like greed and bloodlust.
There is a bench next to me and I sit down on it.
I can still feel it in my gut, toothat unfamiliar yearning.
But Athelstan did more than just feel it.
He was so swayed by his visions, that he went down to the town that
stood at the edge of the forested hills. He burned the entire village
and its peopleto the ground. And in the space of the destruction, he
erected Milton Abbey. A tribute to God and his greatness asking.
The abbey feels cold as I put the pamphlet down.
I can almost see that spirit who looks like me, laughing. A phantom
haunting the very stones that I sit on.
I watch the other members of the group move past me and am
again struck by the sensation that they are part of a moving body of
water while I am a rock, stuck in the mud of the riverbed.
Could it be a real demon? I think. One whispering temptations,
driving you to sin, or maybe insanity?
How large is the gap between sin and insanity?
I start to shiver. The IVF clinic has been messing with my brain.
Literally. I told them Id had nightmares. I told them Id been seeing
things. They said it wasnt normal, but it wasnt abnormal, either. No
one really knows what happens when you change the chemistry of a
persons brain.
I cant see Steve anywhere. But I think I can hear him just outside
the Abbey. I think I can hear the way his laugh is so present and I
wonder if Ill ever be capable of being so present again.
Is the veil between the worlds a mix of molecules and neurons?
When the clinic shut down my pituitary gland, did they evacuate
my brain of whatever chemical was keeping it closed? Are the hills of
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Milton Abbey inhabited by a spirit that once haunted a king and now
haunts me?
I stand up and I walk from tomb to tomb inside of the Abbey,
scanning the names of the dead. My wet, wool socks leave footprints
behind me as I go.

Its egg collection today. They gave me a valium this morning,

but I dont feel it working. Not even a little bit. The room is hot and
I am half naked and shaking. The doctor is almost unrecognizable
in her surgery garb. She is covered from head to foot and is wearing
goggles. I cant see her eyes.
They give me something in an IV and everything starts to get fuzzy
fast. My legs are pried back (so dignified!). Steve is squatting next to
me, all whispering and smiles.
When they asked me earlier how much I weighed, I was embarrassed about how much weight the hormones made me gain. So I lied.
By about thirty pounds.
Its not until they use that weight to start calculating my anesthesia
that I realize you should never lie about your weight to doctors who
might have to give you anesthesia.
The next thing I remember is pain. Screaming pain. Writhing pain.
Tearing pain. And a fuzziness. I am here and there and nowhere all
at once.
And then, in my mind, I am back at Tintagel, where the sun beat
down at us when we scaled the cliffs. I can feel the sun against my eyes,
my head throbbing against its piercing. The sun is blanching.
I think about the word blanching and immediately my inner voice
begins to recite Elizabeth Barret Brownings Grief in a nonstop loop
as I kick at the dust of the cliffs. Intra-poem Grief morphs into John
Donnes Death Be Not Proud, and then Batter my Heart.
Below I see the bright aqua of the Atlantic Ocean, crashing onto
the shores next to Merlins cave. The air smells like dust and salt.
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I remember the way Steve meets me on the top of the hill where,
underneath our feet, lie the ruins of a castle floor. He walks with me
to find shade. I am beginning to stink with sweat and my headache
intensifies, shooting a stake through my pupil to the back of my skull.
Steve kisses me and puts a pregnant flower into my hair. Its
a magic flower, he says, pointing to the way the belly of the flower
bulges. The ancient veins of power pulse here with the mystery of
conception. All they need is an offering now.
You talked to George too long, I say. George, the bus driver, kept
going on about the veins of power underneath Tintagel Castle.
Ifrown in the blanching sun, unable to smile at Steves magic flower.
My inner voice of Browning-Donne chanting grows louder and louder,
humming in a cacophony of grief, sin, and death.
We make our way, shoes in hand, down into Merlins cave as the
tide comes in.
You feel the power here, dont you? asks Steve.
Cold waves crash, stinging against my feet. The cold slowly creeps
from the numbness of my toes to my torso, but the ache in my head
lingers and the stink of my sweat mingles with the crusty smell of
water and sand. Yes, I say. I feel it.
I wade into the oncoming waves inside the cave, pushing my sunglasses up into my hair to help adjust to the darkness of it. Im teetering upon rocks as the swirl of the tide sends me off balance. While I
try to right myself I do not notice that my sunglasses have fallen from
my head and have been sucked into the swirling vortex of water and
rock.
Back on the beach, after the tide has pulled the cave opening almost
completely underwater, I notice that they are gone.
The Tintagel Gods of conception have taken their offering, says the
ghost of Cecil Rhodes, who is laughing. And fortunately they have a
taste for hideously ugly eyewear.
I cry out, shake my head.
No, Cecil Rhodes isnt allowed to be here, I say.
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Spencer: Who Peaks Through the Veil

Dont worry, says the doctor. Hallucinations are common with

this type of anesthesia.
I lied about my weight, I say.
They dont believe me. The nurse strokes my arm, Hush, honey. Its
going to be okay.
The pain is making me sweat and its a struggle not to scream out.
My memory is doing funny things.
In front of me, I see my thesis and I see myself sitting over it,
hunched with anxiety.
My advisor wants another draft. And he wants it to be good.
I dont care if its good. I just want it done.
But I know that if its going to be good, Im going to have to consider the logical possibility that there is no God.
Because the premise of my thesis is that Enlightenment philosophers misinterpreted the physics of Newtons Principia. That the
hypotheses upon which their atheistic philosophies rested were laden
with fallacies.
You cant write that kind of thesis without considering the logical
possibility that there is no God.
I close my eyes. Take a breath. Im not entirely sure whether or not
Im about to talk myself out of my faith and it terrifies me.
Axioms, I think.
If you follow them back far enough, all logical conclusions are ultimately based upon fundamentally improvable axioms.
Trace the logic back to the axioms ... whats the axiomatic difference?
The pages of my thesis get caught in the breeze of my swamp cooler,
but I let them scatter.
Nothing.
Something.
I realize.
Thats the axiom.
Theres either something.
Or theres nothing.
Neither one is provable.
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Irreantum

Neither one is necessarily more probable.

But both are the beginning of two very different types of logic.
My left ovary is screwed up, I say. Scar tissue. It burst a few years
ago. And I lied about my weight.
The nurse leans down harder on me because I am writhing.
I repeat things without knowing that Im repeating them. My left
ovary, I say, it has scar tissue ...
Every few minutes, I see the doctor hand off something to the
embryologist, who then runs into the lab next door.
Weve got another one, I hear coming from the other room.
If I could be just the tiniest bit coherent, I might realize that this
is the moment of human conception: dreams meeting reality inside a
Petri-dish.
Psalm 19.
Ive been having Steve read it to me every night. Im not entirely
sure why, but it has resonated with me in a way none of the other
psalms have.
The heavens declare the glory of God; And the firmament sheweth his
handywork.
Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge.
There is no speech, nor language, where their voice isnt heard.
Their line is gone out through all the earth and their words to the end
of the world
In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun ...
The sacredness of nature. The importance of words. How all things
testify of God.
I can feel myself shaking, feel the nurse holding me down.
I start to cry. A deep moaning sob that I could never have allowed
myself if I werent drugged.
It was never Cecil Rhodes who sent me to compete for those scholarships, I realize. Never Cecil Rhodes who sent me on this trip.
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Spencer: Who Peaks Through the Veil

It was always God.

I try not to writhe, try not to let the pain get in the way of the
collection.
Should we have faith in God? Or faith that Hell do what we want
Him to?
I know the answer to this and it makes me feel desperate and angry.
I dont want to be told that an empty uterus is all part of Gods plan
and I dont want to be told that He wants me to suffer. I want Him to
tell me it will all work out. I dont want Him to tell me that it will be
okay even if it doesnt work. I want it to work.
I am not okay with failure. And it makes me feel like a terribly selfish person.

Now I lie on the edge of a London gutter.

The air smells of dust, grime, and cigarette smoke. Vaguely, I am
aware of the filth that is coating my hair, dirtying my clothes. But
I cant make myself care. Everything is hazy from the egg-collection
anesthesia and my stomach is aching.
Steve is knocking, trying to get the property manager to open the
door so we can check in and I can lie down on an actual bed instead
of a grimy gutter.
Were not open right now, says someone from inside. Come back
in an hour.
But I told you wed be coming, says Steve. And he did. He told
them Id be having surgery. That we needed to check in right after it
was finished.
Its lunchtime, says the nasally voice through the door. Come back
in an hour.
Steve looks at me, a little desperately. I see the lines of anger, compassion, worry, all deepening as he looks. But my wife, he says, shes
not doing very well.
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Irreantum

His face is so kind. So Steve.

The voice from the other side of the door snaps, A person has
toeat!
And Steve steps away from the door, fuming. He kneels down next
to me, touches my hair.
Im aware that I could be crying, but that I am feeling so hazy that
I cant tell whether or not I am. I simply smell the dust, the cigarette
smoke. I feel the pavement under my hips, the total dirtiness that
has accompanied this entire attempt at an, ironically?, immaculate
conception.
And then, there in the steamy London gutter, I feel her next to me.
When I think about it, shes been watching me for days. Watching
as the heat set me snapping. Watching as I retched at the toilet during
Les Misrables Watching as I cried when we rowed our way across the
lake at Hyde Park.
Today, when they took those eggs so forcibly from my ovaries,
they put them into a dish. There was no sex. No meeting of man and
woman in love. Just a violent attempt to force open the veil.
I look at her Madonna face. She seems so young. So much younger
than I would have ever imagined. How violent was her immaculate
conception? How hard was it to open the veil and let Jesus through?
Did you know? I want to ask her. Your uncle talked about light
and darkness and death when he heard. But did you know he was
talking about you? That you would have to go through something
even Joseph, sweet as he was, could never understand?
I close my eyes, listening to the hum of traffic as it is filtered by the
concrete.
I dont know yet that this procedure is going to bring me those
children I dreamed of. But I do know things I didnt. That conception,
no matter how miraculous, brings you directly through the shadow
of death. That God meant it when he told Eve that she would have
sorrow in childbirth.
And that even she, mother of God, was a daughter of Eve.
I watch the black taxis whiz past, stirring up black fumes.
Steve reaches out, holds my hand.
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Spencer: Who Peaks Through the Veil

She puts a hand on my ankle, sends me a gentle smile. These

immaculate conceptions, she says, just a hint of laughter underneath
the softness of her voice. They just never let you in the inn afterward,
do they.
And for just a moment, I forget about the pain. I forget about the
grime and the ache in my stomach. The entire dirtiness that has accompanied this possibly futile attempt at an immaculate conception.
I just stare at the open veil.
And I laugh right along with her.

133

Everything That Actually Matters is Real:

Genre-blending and Anneke Majors
The Year of the Boar
Reviewed by Laura Hilton Craner
Review of Anneke Majors The Year of the Boar (Self-published, Kindle
edition, 2011)

My lifetime is shorter than my literary ambitions writes Anneke

Majors in the forward to her new autobiographical novel, The Year of
the Boar (Kindle location 56). She continues, Many of the stories
came to me in a much more barebones form than you see here.... But
I stand by these stories as true stories because the characters are true.
Everything that actually matters is real (Kindle location 89).
And so begins The Year of the Boar, a lovely and comforting offering
in the genre-blending autobiographical novel style of Coke Newells
On the Road to Heaven (2007; Provo, Zarahemla Books). This is not
a light comparison. Newells offering was the first book to win both
the Association of Mormon Letters and the Whitneys Best Novel
Award in 2007even on the heels of the literary scandal of James
Freys fictionalized memoir, A Million Little Pieces. So what does an
autobiographical novel offer Mormon readers that typical memoirs or historical fiction do not? According to Majors forward, its
simple.Truth.
Primarily a missionary tale that follows the authors own mission
in Japan, The Year of the Boar is an autobiography-in-stories that
swirls in and out of timeeven jumping to the future in a final sectionbut finds its anchor in the Chinese Zodiac and the soulful Sister Majors, who embodies the very traits of the zodiac Boar. She is
diligent (when it comes to persevering through bad weather, she beats
the US Postal service) and compassionate (when stuck with a negative companion, she tries to love that companion by always finding
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Irreantum

positives and doing the emotional lifting). She is extremely likable

and everything a sister missionarya woman bringing truth to the
worldshould be.
Truth in the Mormon lexicon is a slippery term. It is canonically
defined in Doctrine and Covenants 93:24 as knowledge of things
as they are, as they were, and as they are to come. But that knowledge comes from many sources. Scripture and prophetic statements
are the most reliable, but personal revelation and experience are the
most common, and complex, sources. Fairly often it is in the personal
nature of truth that Mormon testimonies, and Mormon art, flourish. It is a case in point that Majors invokes truth and realness in
her introduction but never actually defines what she means by those
words. Regardless of how important the concepts may be to her, their
slippery nature leaves them obscured even in the authors mind.
The Year of the Boar is Majors second self-published novel and is
based both on the time she spent as a missionary in Japan from 2005
2007 and stories from her family history. In a June 2011 interview with
William Morris at A Motley Vision, Majors described her book as a
conversion story. She said:
Its, at first examination, a missionary story, but I like to think of it
actually as a conversion story. Its essence is the process of conversion
and what that means in the context of history, family, and everyday
life. I do hope that The Year of the Boar brings some fresh offerings to
the missionary story genre, and among those would be the perspective
of sister missionaries, the experience of women in the modern world,
and also a realization of the realities of the gospel in Asia.1

The book is split into three sections and follows four women and
their conversion stories through the rotations of the Chinese Zodiac.
The first section is the Year of the Rooster, which chronicles events
in 1957, 1969, 1981, and 2005. The second section is the Year of the
Dog and starts in 1949, jumping forward in history also by twelve year
intervals. The third section is the titular Year of the Boar and resolves
all the story lines as it follows events in each of the Chinese zodiac
boar years.
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Craner: Everything That Actually Matters is Real

The Year of the Boar shines most when Majors is applying her creative talent to other smaller, transitory characters and not herself. It is
their moments of revelation and experience that give the book its truth
and reality. Because Majors chose a blended genre she isnt hemmed
in by the literal nature of truth that a more typical autobiography
would call for. Also, because she isnt writing historical fiction, she is
free from the genre constraints of fidelity of time and overemphasis
on well-known historical figures. Majors novel paradoxically bucks
literal truth in order to embrace real, experiential truth. Because her
genre gives her leeway, she is more free to communicate truth.
My personal favorite transitory character was Tetsuo, a man who
survived World War II in Japan, and helped translate the democratic
constitution and later works as a public servant. Tetsuos defining
moment comes when he finds a crucifix (the European god nailed to
the character for ten like they always depicted him [Kindle location
17901791]) in a bombed-out Christian church. Majors writes,
[Tetsuo] thought for a moment about taking it home, showing it to his
mother, keeping it as a curio. But as he went to slip it into his sack, he
felt a pang of guilt. It wasnt his to keep, and it should be with someone
who would know how to take better care of their god than he. The statues face was pitiful, contorted with pain. For so long he had resented
this big European church up on the hill, staring down at them all like
it deserved to be above them. He had had no regard for the Europeans
or their little god, but now, holding it in his hands that way, it looked so
frail. He hesitated, wanting to make the right choice. But was leaving it
on the ground in the rubble the right choice either? He decided to hold
onto it, but only for safekeeping. He would come back when there was
someone back to rebuild or take care of the church in some way, and he
would return their god to his house, hopefully a house that would be
strong and beautiful again. (Kindle location 17911798)

Moments like this one, small moments where the characters must
negotiate between the ever-shifting political and spiritual forces
around them, are what give this book its heart. This is where the truth
that the author purports to provide and that the characters are all
seeking, nebulous as it may be, comes to light.
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Irreantum

Occasionally, the book stumbles. As a self-published work it falls

to some common editing errors and a few structural difficulties. Some
characters appear and are lost too quickly in the revolutions of the
Chinese zodiac calendar, making their backstories hard to hold on to
(a family tree in the opening pages would have alleviated that). Other
times bits of Mormon phraseology creep in where they shouldnt (at
one point a Baptist minister offers to pray over a mans dying wife
and asks, would you like me to be the voice in a way that seems a bit
too home-teachery [Kindle location 18391849]). Sister Majors tends
to think in run-on sentences that often take up paragraphs at a time
and give her portions of the book a rushed feeling. There are even
odd moments of over-explaining, like when a fictional Chinese stake
is being formed in 2013 and the author stops to explain what a stake
means to Mormons (Kindle location 23282330).
But overall the book is ambitious and heartfelt. Majors obvious
love for Asian cultures and peoples, her love for the gospel, and her
own personal devotion to artistic truth make The Year of the Boar an
enjoyable read. Full of interesting historical tidbits about Japan and
China, and small period vignettes in Texas and France and even Algeria, this is an ideal book for book clubs and vacation reading. It is, as
the author insists, very real, very truthful, and very nice.

Note
1. Majors, Anneke. Interviewed by William Morris. Q&A With Anneke Majors
on Her New Novel. A Motley Vision. n.p., 8 June 2011. Web. 8 Sept. 2011. <http://
www.motleyvision.org/2011/anneke-majors-new-novel/>.

138

Saint Jana
Reviewed by Kevin L. Barney
Review of Jana Riess, Flunking Sainthood: A Year of Breaking the
Sabbath, Forgetting to Pray, and Still Loving My Neighbor (Brewster, MA:
Paraclete Press, 2011)

My daughter Emily was the one who lured me into the Buffyverse.
I was late to the party, but I made a deal with her: I would buy the
DVDs of the various seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer as they came
out, watch them, and then give them to her to keep. So that was how
I ended up watching all seven seasons, and how she got a complete
DVD collection of them.
I have a fond memory of the time I took Emily with me to Sunstone for a little daddy-daughter bonding. The highlight was a session
graced by Jana Riess. At that time I knew who she was and had read
some of her work, but she did not yet know me from Adam. She
began her session with a Buffy trivia quiz, which my daughter handily
won. The prize was an autographed copy ofWhat Would Buffy Do?,
and although we each already had a copy and had read it, Emily was
thrilled by the experience. And just the fact that I knew who Jana
was and had access to someone as cool and whip-smart as that gave
me major points with Em. When your daughter is just beginning to
emerge from the black hole of the teenage years, trust me, a father will
take all the cool points he can get.
That was a long time ago, and in the intervening years Jana and I
have become friends. I somehow managed to run into her twice on
my recent vacation to Utah, first at the FAIR conference and again
at a session of Sunstonethe only one I made it to this year. And at
Sunstone, she gave me a treasure: an advance reading copy of her new
book,Flunking Sainthood: A Year of Breaking the Sabbath, Forgetting
to Pray, and Still Loving My Neighbor, recently published by Paraclete
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Irreantum

Press. (Paracletecomes from the Greek word rendered Comforter in

the KJV of the Gospel of John.)
For those who may not know Jana Riess, she has an impressive
background: an undergraduate degree from Wellesley College, a
masters in theology from the Princeton Theological Seminary, and
a Ph.D. in American religious studies from Columbia University.
What impresses me most about Jana, however, is that she converted
to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as a (knowledgeable) adult, with eyes wide open. Her previous contributions to Mormon letters include The Book of Mormon: Selections Annotated and
Explained and, with Christopher Bigelow, Mormonism for Dummies.
The volume under review, Flunking Sainthood, is intended for a broad
rather than a specifically Mormon audience, but it is nevertheless a
book Latter-day Saints would do well to read.
Janas original idea for this book was to chronicle her experience
in reading great spiritual classics of the Christian tradition over the
course of a year. As the project was being conceptualized, however,
Jana upped the ante and determined not only to read spiritual classics, but to live the spiritual disciplines they encouraged. She would
devote one month to each discipline and write about her experiences
along the way. There was a problem, however. She found as the year
progressed that she kept failing in fundamental ways in her efforts
to practice these spiritual disciplines. Although she almost gave up
the project, an editor convinced her that writing of her failures could
be even more illuminating than writing of her successes. So Flunking
Sainthood was born.
With her years plan in hand, she begins the project in earnest
in February, with Fasting in the Desert. While this practice was
inspired by the early Christian Desert Mothers and Fathers, their
fasting practices were so extreme as to be positively dangerous. So
instead Jana decides to apply Ramadan-like fasting procedures for
the month, even though it is not actually Ramadan. This is perhaps
cheating a bit, because she knows that February will be a relatively
easy month for her fast, given the shortness of both the month and
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Barney: Saint Jana

the days of the month, but that doesnt make her fast easy. Far from
it. Going without food and water during daylight hours for an entire
month is a major challenge, even for a Mormon who has some experience with fasting. At first, the challenge is quite daunting, and shes
not sure she can do it. With the help and encouragement of a Muslim
friend, however, she sticks with it, and it does indeed get easier. But
then she reads the words of Jesus in Matthew 6:1618, and she realizes she has been doing it wrong, making a big (and public) thing out
of her ordeal, when she should have been doing it sub rosa, as a little
secret between her and Jesus. One of the things Jana learns from her
experience is the importance of community in fasting. The easiest day
of her fast was the first one, because her own religious community
was fasting also on Fast Sunday. She envied the Muslims who fast as
a global community together during Ramadan.
Later, following a (failed) attempt at practicing lectio divina (learning to read in a contemplative, meditative fashion) in April, May
brings us to her chapter on Nixing Shoppertainment. Her goal is to
abstain from all shopping during the month, except for her familys
groceries, and avoid advertising (good luck!). Although shopping as
such just isnt her thing, she learns that she needs to be hyperaware
of all the ways [she seeks] status and approval from other people. She
admits that she likes being petted with praise when [she speaks] at
a conference and people applaud [her] ideas, [her] brain, [her] verbal
quickness, [her] humor. I just eat that shit up, she writes.
Wait a minute, Im thinking, did she just say shit?
As if to answer my question, she continues:
And yes, I say shit here because thats what the potty-mouthed
apostle Paul calls anything that we feel inordinately proud of but ultimately doesnt point to God. The word he uses in Philippians3 is skubula, which is not the most respectable way Paul could have phrased
it. The Greek of his day had its own euphemisms, polite terms like
poop and caca. Paul could have chosen any of those words, but he
didnt, presumably because he wanted to call attention to the foulness of all our status-seeking. We are sinners, full of shit, I most of all.
There is excrement in me. (56)
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By the months end Reiss has come to the following realization

about Shoppertainment:
Its not just about curbing materialism, though thats a good thing, or
even about not coveting. Its about taking some choices out of the mix,
of letting Gods guidance dictate the basic contours of what I will and
wont do. Im not just reducing physical clutter by not shopping; I need
to reduce spiritual clutter by becoming the kind of Christian who does
not covet. (64)

Such insights abound in Flunking Sainthood, especially during

the month when Jana tries to keep the Sabbath day holy. Mormons
may read this and be curious about why Jana would need to spend
a month learning to keep the Sabbath. I mean good Mormons do
that every week, right? Uh, wrong. Every Latter-day Saint should be
required to read that chapter at least, so that they have some idea
of what keeping the Sabbath really means in the Orthodox Jewish
context. Our petty observances are a trifle compared to what they go
through for the day.
I really enjoyed reading about all the ways she had good intentions,
but had not fully thought through everything, such as undoing the
alarm in the morning so her dog could go outside and do its business.
Within the space of mere minutes she had struck out three times on
her Sabbath observance. Her failures aside, though, Janas description of the actual rituals of the Sabbath are quite lovely. First comes
the lighting of the candles. Then there are the Sabbath prayers. Next
come the ritual blessings. Janas husband Phil gamely lays his hands
on her head and tries not to laugh as he calls her a woman of excellence (drawing from the ideal woman imagery of Proverbs 31). But
what particularly touched me was when Jana and Phil jointly lay their
hands on their daughter Jerushas head and give her a parental blessing. Although Jerusha is anxious for all the ritual to stop so that they
could finally eat already, the image of that blessing is beautiful and
filled me with a fair amount of sacred envy for such a tradition.
Personally, the chapters I enjoyed the most were the ones featuring the most concrete and understandable practices, such as fasting,
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Barney: Saint Jana

cooking with Jesus, giving up shopping, keeping the Sabbath, hospitality, going veggie, fixed-time prayers, and end-of-year generosity. The
other ones were more abstract and harder for me to wrap my mind
around, just as they were hard for Jana to grasp as well. The book is a
brisk read, however, and it is everything I expected it to be: personal,
insightful, and funny. But I most appreciated the Epilogue, in which
Jana reflects on her failures, and eventually realizes that those failures
may not have been failures after all. I cant spoil the ending for you,
but suffice it to say that I found it to be quite powerful.
I highly recommend Flunking Sainthood, whether for yourself or as
a gift. Perhaps you should consider buying a gross and handing them
out to relatives, friends, and strangers, in your own attempt to practice,
as Jana did in December, end-of-year generosity.

143

The Architecture of a Poem

Reviewed by Doug Talley
Review of Lance Larsons Backyard Alchemy (University of Tampa Press,
2009)

Ever since Walt Whitman abandoned rhyme and the iambic

foot for the cadences of the King James Bible, American prosody has
increasingly gravitated to the many possibilities of free verse. The very
premise of free verse continually poses an implicit question, What is
the proper architecture of a poem? This question lies unarticulated
in Lance Larsens latest work, Backyard Alchemy, and his attempt to
answer this question with each poem makes the book a fine, exhilarating read. What, for example, is the architecture of the poem With
the World as my Body, where the title itself suggests a vast, uncharted
construct? The poem in full reads as follows:
What sort of lover would I make as a field
pasturing the winters of a lame draft horse
named Ulysses? As a wild apple tree
unclenching its one good limb in a riot of white
blossoms? Or as this puddle on a dirt road
holding the world chastely in its wet mirrors?
Make a green dance of me, lattice of trees.
Drop from this bedroom of sky, lost wren,
to drink at the blue pageantry I reflect
then carry my stillness over three mountains.

This deceptively simple structure begins with a series of conjectures

marked by a clean layering of imagesa field with a horse, an apple
tree with a single limb of blossoms, a puddle reflecting the world.
These conjectures give way to a series of related commands: Make a
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green dance of me, and Drop from this bedroom of sky, culminating
in the poems ultimate mystery, carry my stillness over three mountains. The poem, therefore, is loosely structured like a sonnet, not
with octet and sestet, but rather a sestet answered with a quatrain, yet
this does not fully explain its architecture.
The poems theme, that the body of a man can be thought of as a
world, may call to mind George Herberts poem, Man, particularly
in the following lines:
For man is evry thing,
And more: He is a tree, yet bears no fruit;
A beast, yet is, or should be more ...
His eyes dismount the highest star:
He is in little all the sphere ...
O mighty love! Man is one world and hath
Another to attend him.

In Larsens treatment of this theme there is no central event, no

occasion leading to an epiphany, around which the poem is structured.
Nor is there an ordered, logical development of the theme as in Herberts poem. Rather, Larsen has dashed a bit of paint around the idea
that ones body might be viewed, not as a metaphor for the world, but
in a sense, the actual world itself. The poem does not narrate an experience from which it derives, but rather creates its own experience, as
though a poem, instead of reflecting upon the beauty of a fading aster,
could become itself, on its own terms, that very flower.
Central to the theory of such writing is a willful suspension of disbelief. To enter the cathedrals of mystery this kind of poetry offers,
we cannot rely alone on our pedestrian natural sensesthose of sight,
hearing, taste, smell and touch. Instead, we must surrender to an idea
Robert Frost once proposed: Belief is better than anything else, and
it is best when rapt, above paying its respects to anybodys doubt whatsoever (Robert Frost, Poetry and Prose, edited by Edward Connery
Lathem and Lawrance Thompson, Henry Holt and Company, New
York, p.299). Poetry, like faith, need not be understood in its entirety
in order to have value. We can appreciate and adhere to belief in an
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Talley: Architecture of a Poem

afterlife without any understanding of its mechanics, or without any

visible, physical evidence that such an afterlife even exists.
The principle of rapt belief lies at the heart of Larsens organizing
method, whatever structure a particular poem may otherwise take,
not unlike the artwork of Marc Chagall, that most poetic of modern painters, to whom Larsen pays homage in the poem, With Chagall as My Tailwind. Chagall believed deeply in the rustic simplicity
of his childhood Vitebsk and returned to the images of that village
repeatedly in the chickens and goats, the fences and rooftops, that
float through his paintings like birds on the wing. When rapt belief
governs in art, the chicken need not take its logical place and proportionate size scratching for feed in some corner of the pen, but instead
can grow to the size of a horse and walk on air and carry a man to
boot. Larsen believes in this audacity, the audacity that can steer an
immense country to ones own liking, as he states in his tribute:
nail
my shoes to the floor, I will still twist free and float
to my beloved, whether she be a giraffe-headed bride
or Moses sleeping. Each bouquet a reprieve, each wing
a chance to think out loud in whites.

Larsen strings his lines on the page in a manner similar to Chagalls

own sweeping brushwork. By way of contrast, when Keats reflected
on a Grecian urn and envisioned a shepherd on the vase [f ]orever
piping songs forever new, his poem became a metaphor for the urn,
presenting itself as an object every bit as timeless as the urn, but that
poem never proposes to be the urn in the way that Larsens meditation proposes to be, not a metaphor for Chagall, but rather a Chagall
itself. Such an architecture claims a rather high ambition, and Larsen
seems to say as much in his opening line, I steer an immense country. Whatever else we may look for in an artist, self-assurance is a
welcome quality.
The fault-finding critic might complain of excess, as one might
complain of excess in Chagall, that Larsen at times uses too much
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metaphor, or in his continual stretch, overreaches for it. A Larsen

poem, if nothing else, is always packed. Anyone who cares to look
for and find excess, can call it such if so inclined. As an example from
In Memoriam, Larsen writes Ill be forced to convert my father
into past tense, a fitting image for this elegy written in anticipation
of death, and then adds, my mother into a detective / novel written
under the skin. Here the reader may halt, because the metaphor begs
a puzzling visualization and may feel too stretched to continue the
fine, expanding passion of the poem. One could point to Dante Alighieri instead as a cleaner model when he commences a swell of passion
and the figure with which he caps his point is perfectly natural and
unforced, as in Canto III of the Inferno:
voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle
facevano un tumulto, il qual saggira
sempre in quell aura sanza tempo tinta,
come la rena quando turbo spira.

Dante has just entered the threshold of hell and hears the horrible
wailing of those who have been refused even there:
voices shrill and faint, with the wringing of hands,
made a tumult that churns forever
through that rank air unbounded by time,
like sand whipping through the midst of a squall.

Precisely because of his skill in delineating a deep and vivid passion, I have set Larsen next to Dante, before whom, in one respect
or another, we all pale as poets. Still, the comparison is difficult to
resist because of Larsens ability in his best work to build and cap his
passion in the Dantesque manner with images that are clear and compelling. Even in the poem In Memoriam, where arguably the slight
hitch occurs midway through the poem, his foundational comparison
of two potted chrysanthemums, likened to his parents, builds to a
natural and entirely fitting image in the last lines: Colors? / White
to calm, shivering purple to wound like rain. Here, we are left with a
pure, strafing poignancy.
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Talley: Architecture of a Poem

With repeated readings of Larsen, the critic should simply conclude

that it is this very reaching, this continued stretch of imagination for
the vivid, compelling image, which gives Larsens work its strength
and vitality. Nowhere is this more evident than in the poem entitled
Socratic. Here Larsen poses the same question seven times, What did
he die of, referring to the death of Socrates, and follows each question with a different answer, each answer in its turn considering certain
possibilities and stretching the imagination to quixotic, but compelling conclusions. The first and literal answer is that Socrates died [o]f
quaffing the hemlock, but in answer to the question repeated again, he
answers Not enough tears and too many, suggesting in this paradox
all the spiritual irony of Socrates martyrdom as Plato narrates it in the
Phaedo. From this point forward in the poem, Larsens quest for the
answer ranges through a multitude of sympathies, so when the question is asked for the fifth time, we have progressed through two millennia of human quandary to the present day, still searching for truth in
the same Socratic framework that the architecture of the poem sets up:
Q: What did he die of?
A: Of that which resists categories, of the tangential and irrational,
of armchair fabulists like me wrestling with death but remembering
a pig-tailed girl with Downs syndrome who petted my hand on the
bus: Is your wife pretty? Do you love her? What color is her hair?
Like being interrogated by a Sybil. Red, I finally told her. Meaning,
yes, she is pretty. Meaning, yes, I love her. Meaning not red, but
a chestnutty alive color like wind storms, as coppery as it was curly
until her hair darkened during pregnancy and that shade I cant name
vanished from the earth. Call it red.

In these lines is found a key to Larsens excess, which I prefer to call

largesse, presenting itself in a phrase that all but aches with resignation, that shade I cant name. Larsen cannot name the color, but all
the vast range of a deep, poetic nature will labor richly, and offer generously, in the effort.
Paradoxically, Larsens quest for the proper architecture of a poem
may find its ultimate largesse in the prose poem, in that structure
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which seems to abandon structure altogether. Some of the best work

of Backyard Alchemy is found in this form, as in The Provenance of
Ether, which relies on the traditional formula of a poetic occasion,
but abandons every other vestige of traditional structurerhyme,
meter, stanza, even that rudimentary staple of free verse, the line
break. The occasion is an intermission of Bizets Carmen inside the
Royal Albert Hall. Instead of breaking for the restroom or a kiwi
sorbet, the poet remains seated and watches as the stage crew tears
down the set for the next act. This, of course, would be the otherwise
dull, prosaic interlude, slipped in quietly between the music and art
of the opera. A poem about such an interlude would quite naturally
take its form in prose, and yet far from being prosaic, the poem is
rich in metaphor. During this intermission six giant trees lower from
the sky, like brooding deities. The poet watches this cabal of twisted
branches descend, then pause, then hover a few feet above earth, like
landing space ships. The stage is now literally set for what ironically
becomes a kind of negative epiphany:

What does it mean, this lowering of
the heavens, this haunting? How can I explain the inwardness that
suffuses the stage? One can taste the unsung tremolo, a lightness. But
wait, one tree touches down, and stagehands gather to anchor it. Then
a second tree, then all of them. Stupid earthly trunks, opera, history,
convention. I who was floating have touched down too. Let the trees
rise, let all of us rise.

This image of floating trees, articulated as a lowering of the heavens,

does indeed haunt the soul. The moment is richly poetic and memorable, and the whole occasion primed for an ultimate epiphany. Finding himself unexpectedly in this poetic moment during the operas
intermission, Larsen asks the recurring questions that have threaded
through every poem of Backyard Alchemy, the questions that remain
unanswered but for the largesse of poetry, What does it mean? and
How can I explain? And when stupid convention reasserts itself and
the trees are anchored to the stage, the poet, of course, laments the
lost epiphany, the opportunity to remain in this magical provenance
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Talley: Architecture of a Poem

of ether, and properly insists, [L]et all of us rise, let us rise continuously to the privilege of poetry.
A poet understands that on some level we are the words we speak.
They are more than veneer, more than the sheen of our daily conversation, because they may on occasion pour from the very fountain of the
soul and become the audible symbol of it. Every poem contains the
potential for some unique imprint of the spirit. And the poet knows
that every human being possesses such infinite variety of spirit that
time does not diminish, but improves, the opportunity to explore that
variety. In Larsens Backyard Alchemy, his third and best collection of
poetry to date, we have a rich poetic voice in the full, forward swell of
that exploration.

151

About the Artist

Brian Atkinson has been making photographs for nearly thirty

years. He began his formal training at Ricks College in 1983 and then
spent seventeen years in Logan, Utah, pursuing a Masters degree
and working as a professional photographer. In 2003 he returned to
Rexburg, Idaho, to take a faculty position in the art department at
BYUIdaho. He is married to his sweetheart, Marie, and they have
two children.

Artist statement
These photographs are part of an ongoing project I began while
in graduate school at Utah State University. I have always found
myself drawn to abandoned spaceshouses, schools, churches,
offices. The interplay of light and shadow combined with the strangeness of forgotten objects left behind makes for haunting and compelling images. All of the photographs included in this issue were taken
between Logan, Utah and Ashton, Idaho.

153

Contributors

Kevin L. Barney studied classics at BYU before obtaining law

degrees at the University of Illinois and DePaul University. He practices public finance law with Kutak Rock LLP in Chicago. Kevin also
blogs on Mormon subjects at www.bycommonconsent.com.
Mark Brownwas born in Pocatello, Idaho, in 1974. He lives in rural
Illinois where he teaches English at a small college. Mark and his family live near the banks of the Vermilion River.
Tyler Chadwick lives in Pocatello, Idaho, with his wife, Jessica, and
their four little girls. Hes (almost) a doctoral candidate in English at
Idaho State University, and he teaches freshman composition at ISU
and online for BYUIdaho. He sometimes blogs at Chasing the Long
White Cloud and A Motley Vision, and hes the editor of Peculiar
Pages recent anthology Fire in the Pasture: Twenty-first Century Mormon Poets. His latest poetry project (of which his poems in this issue
are a part) is an ekphrastic engagement of J. Kirk Richards paintings.
An online archive of Richards work can be found at www.art.jkirk
richards.com.
Darin Cozzens grew up in Ralston, Wyoming. He has been a semifinalist for the Ohio State University Press Prize in Short Fiction and a
finalist for both the Iowa Short Fiction Awards and Sarabandes Mary
McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction. His first collection of stories, Light
of the New Day and Other Stories, received a 2010 Honorable Mention in Short Fiction from The Association for Mormon Letters. He
has taught in Georgia, Arizona, and, for the past ten years, at Surry
154

Contributors

Community College in Dobson, North Carolina. He and his wife are

the parents of four children.
Laura Hilton Craner is a wife, mother of four young children,
writer, blogger, dabbler in the expressive Arts, and Mormon literature
enthusiast. You can read more of her work at www.motleyvision.org
or at www.butnotunhappy.blogspot.com.
Suzette Gee lives in Sugar City, Idaho, and teaches composition, literature, and education courses in the English Department at
BYUIdaho. She attended Ricks College, Utah State University, and
Brigham Young University. She is a doctoral student at Idaho State
University.
Laura McCune-Poplin lives with her cat, her son, and her husband
in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. She teaches first-year writing classes
at Emerson College. Anonymity is an excerpt from her unpublished
novel Entertaining Angels Unaware.
Melissa McQuarriehas a BA and an MA in English from Brigham
Young University. She has published creative nonfiction in Inscape,
Dialogue, and Segullah. As well as serving as head prose editor for
Segullah, she writes monthly for the Segullah blog and is a copyeditor
for the Mormon Women Project. She lives in Provo, Utah, with her
husband and four children and their dog, Daisy.
Kathryn Lynard Soperis the author of the memoir The Year My
Son and I Were Born (Globe Pequot Press, 2009) and the founder and
editor-in-chief of Segullah, a journal of literary and visual art by and
for Mormon women. She has edited four published anthologies and
contributes to Mormon forums from Meridian Magazine to Sunstone
on a variety of topics including gender issues, disability, mental health,
sexuality, family life, and spirituality. Kathryn lives in South Jordan,
Utah, with her husband and seven children.

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Irreantum

Kerry Spencer teaches writing at Brigham Young University. Her

quest to England resulted in two beautiful babiesSam and Lily.
Neither are remotely close to being babies anymore, but of course
theyre still beautiful. Most days. The Spencers live in a hundredyear-old house in downtown Salt Lake City, but they hardly ever see
ghosts there lately. (Even Cecil Rhodes.)
Doug Talley received a BFA in creative writing from Bowling
Green State University and a JD from the University of Akron. His
poems and essays have appeared in various literary journals and in
2009 his work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His collection of
poetry, Adams Dream: Poems for a Latter Day was recently released
by Parables.
Jared White received a Bachelors Degree in English from Brigham
Young University in 2007 and in 2008 entered the MFA program at
the University of South Florida, from which he graduated earlier this
year. He has taught undergraduate courses in composition and creative writing and has given presentations throughout the country on
creative writing, popular culture, and creative writing pedagogy. His
work has been published in Confrontation and Masons Road.

156

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157

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The Association for Mormon Letters and Irreantum Magazine

are pleased to announce our annual literary contests:

The Charlotte and Eugene England

Personal Essay Contest,
the Irreantum Fiction Contest,
and the Irreantum Poetry Contest
Contest Rules
Individuals may submit a maximum of three entries total to all three
contests (e.g., a person may submit one entry in each genre, or a person may submit three entries to the fiction contest). Winners are not
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For complete rules, see irreantum.mormonletters.org/Rules.aspx

Submission Window
January 1, 2012, through May 31, 2012. Winners will be announced
on the AMLs website, www.MormonLetters.org, on August 31, 2012.
Irreantums annual literary contests have no official connection to the
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.