------------------------------------------------------ NOTE: While this story is purely fictional, it draws on my actual experience as a former LDS missionary. (There's a story there, of course, but it's not the story you're about to read.)
For conscience's sake, I should say that my decision to submit this story to the Nifty Archive does not necessarily mean that I approve of the content of other stories in the archive. Nevertheless, I applaud the archive's goal of collecting "the diverse hopes, dreams, aspirations, fantasies, and experiences of the Queer Community." Gay Mormon experience--and fantasy-- is one piece of that diversity.
------------------------------------------------------ THE REUNION is a sequel to an earlier story, COMPANIONS, also in this directory. ------------------------------------------------------
THE REUNION
-- 1 --
I had not planned to attend the mission reunion. I'd attended the first one held after I returned from my mission--a BYOB affair at a local park--and had left feeling bored and disappointed. Hardly anyone I was interested in seeing again showed up, and the twenty- or-so people who were there didn't know what to say to one another. There seemed to be an unspoken rule against talking about our missions, which I would have thought was the whole point of the gathering. When the next mission reunion rolled around, six months later, I didn't see any reason to go.
I went to the third mission reunion because Hermana Finley called me at my apartment and used her best Commitment Pattern techniques to cajole me into attending. This would be the first mission reunion since President and Sister Ingersoll had finished their three-year stint in the mission presidency; so Hermana Finley wanted to turn this mission reunion into a homecoming. She was personally calling every one of the Ingersolls' missionaries she could track down--the Stateside ones, anyway. People would be coming in from all over the country, she told me. She tossed out a few names, only a couple of which I recognized.
"Is Mike Ralston coming?" I asked.
Hermana Finley didn't know Elder Ralston; she'd finished her mission around the same time he'd started his. I heard her leafing through an address list. "Let's see. Ralston. Yes. He's coming in from California. One of your companions?"
"My first junior."
"So you won't want to miss seeing him." She paused, letting the tension build a little before launching the commitment. "What about it, Elder McKinney? Will you be at the reunion?"
I couldn't help but be bemused by the textbook-perfect "will you" question. I did not want to attend this reunion, for various reasons. But Hermana Finley had been a good friend to me during the first couple months of my mission, when we'd worked in the same district, and I wanted to support her. So I said yes.
After I hung up, I sat by the phone, wondering how I felt about seeing Mike Ralston again.
-- 2 --
After Elder Ralston and I had sex, for the first and only time, he asked me to spend the night in his bed. But neither of us could sleep--the bed was too small and the night was too hot--so finally I returned to my own bed. Elder Ralston dropped off shortly afterwards. I lay awake for another two or three hours, stewing in guilt. The sex had been...unbelievable. But as soon as it was over, I felt sweaty and sticky and unclean. I'd made a huge mistake. I'd known going in that this was a huge mistake; but I'd allowed the moment to carry me away, and now that it had set me down again, I stood face-to-face with the enormity of what I'd done.
I started awake the next morning to find Elder Ralston just slipping into bed behind me. His arm closed around my chest, and he nuzzled the back of my neck. I didn't move, but mentally, I went rigid. This felt so good. I wanted so much to turn around. To embrace him face-to-face. To run my hands over his arms and chest. To... Please, Heavenly Father, give me the strength to resist. Give me the desire to resist.
"Morning," he said. I kept my back to him but craned my neck around. His hair was an unsightly mess and he needed to shave. But he looked radiant.
"What time is it?" I asked. The morning seemed brighter than it should be.
"Seven thirty. We overslept."
He snuggled closer. I shrugged him off. "We need to get up. The maid'll be here soon."
"You're right." He gave me a final squeeze and rolled away, but didn't get out of the bed. I waited a few seconds, then looked back to see what he was doing. He was propped up on one elbow, smiling at me. "This feels so good," he said.
I groped for something to say in response. My mind was a blank.
"Kiss me," he said.
I let him give me a domestic, Mom-and-Dad-getting-up- in-the-morning peck.
"I love you."
There was a tense pause while he waited for me to respond. Fortunately, he folded first. "All right, I know, I'm getting up."
While Elder Ralston showered, I sat at my desk, my bathrobe cinched tightly around me, and tried to do my daily Book of Mormon reading. I couldn't concentrate. I knew I had to end what was going on between Elder Ralston and me before it went any further.
When I came out of the bathroom after my own shower, Elder Ralston was talking with the maid in the kitchen. I hustled to get at least my garments on before he returned, so I wouldn't be naked in his presence. Coming back into the bedroom, he smiled at me, then sat at his desk to read from the Book of Mormon. I finished dressing. I combed, shaved, made my bed. Except for our having overslept, this was our usual morning routine.
Seated at my own desk, I opened up my missionary gospel study booklet, the way I normally would, and stared at the pages while my stomach juices churned. Give me the courage to do what I need to do, Heavenly Father, I prayed silently. Help me know what to say.
Elder Ralston closed his Book of Mormon. "Shall we squeeze in a little comp study before we head out?" he asked.
How can he carry on as if everything's normal? I wondered. "Actually," I said in a low voice, "we need to talk."
Elder Ralston looked suddenly weary, as if letting down a mask he'd been struggling to keep up. "I had a feeling you were eventually going to say that," he said. He got up, closed the bedroom door softly, then returned to his chair. He sat with his legs spread and his hands folded on the seat between them. He waited for me to speak, with the air of preparing himself to receive bad news.
I couldn't bear to look at him as I spoke. "I'm sorry. I made a huge mistake."
I knew I needed to say something more; I knew he was waiting for me to say something more. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I waited a few moments, tried again, hoping that words would come to me. I did this a couple more times before shaking my head helplessly. I wanted this scene to be over. I wanted this scene to not be happening in the first place. I felt inept and cornered and angry--whether at Elder Ralston or myself, I wasn't sure.
"You told me you were certain," Elder Ralston said. It was both a defense and an accusation. He was referring to the night before, when I'd climbed into his bed: he'd asked me if I was sure about this, and I'd said yes.
"I thought I was." This was a lie, but the truth would make an already horrible situation even worse.
I glanced up at Elder Ralston. I got the feeling he wanted to cry but was keeping himself under control. "So you feel that what we did was wrong," he said.
I nodded.
"What do you feel you need to do about it?"
I knew what he meant: Would I be confessing to the mission president?
"I'm not going to tell President Ingersoll. I mean, that would get you in trouble, too, which wouldn't be fair..." I trailed off. My pretense of selflessness wasn't fooling either of us. "Look. Why can't we just say--you and I, I mean--that we made a mistake, we crossed a line, but we'll make sure it doesn't happen again, and we'll just go on the way we were before."
"I can't do that, Elder McKinney." It smarted a little to hear him call me by my title. Last night, mid- passion, he had pulled back suddenly to ask, "What's your name? Your first name, I mean." "Spencer," I told him. "I'm Mike," he replied.
That had been last night. Now he said, "I can't do that, Elder McKinney. I told you--I can't go on just being your companion. Especially not now."
An extremely uncomfortable silence.
"I'll call President and get him to transfer me," Elder Ralston said finally. "It's the only way out of this."
"I'm sorry," I offered again.
"Look, just..." For the first time, I sensed his anger. He clenched his jaw, got himself under control. "Would you mind leaving me alone for a bit?"
I left the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I felt physically ill. The maid was in the kitchen, washing the dishes we'd left from the afternoon and evening before. I told her Elder Ralston and I were both not feeling well, and that it would be best if she went home for the day. She lectured me for a while about not eating on the streets, threatened to make us soup and herbal remedies; but I finally managed to get rid of her. I went back to the bedroom. Pushing the door ajar, I saw Elder Ralston kneeling beside his bed, as if in prayer. He made no sound, but his shoulders shook a little as he cried.
Elder Ralston spun an elaborate story for President Ingersoll. He said that during our weekly community service hours, preparing bandages at a local hospital, he had fallen instantly--and utterly--for one of the nurses. She noticed and arranged for him to accompany her to the supplies closet. They made out wildly; she gave him her address, which turned out to be in our proselyting area; he couldn't get her out of his mind; he had barely been able to restrain himself from sneaking out at night to see her.
President Ingersoll ordered an immediate intercambio with the zone leaders, so that Elder Ralston could wait in their proselyting area, away from temptation, while President arranged an emergency transfer. Twenty-four hours later, Elder Ralston was on his way to the other side of the mission. I was out proselyting when the assistants to the president took Elder Ralston back to our apartment to pack, but I saw him briefly when I returned for lunch. With seven people crowded into the apartment--me, Elder Ralston, the ZLs, the APs, and Elder Evans, my new companion, shipped in from Cerro Alto--it was easy for Elder Ralston and I to avoid speaking to one another without anyone noticing.
I didn't get off scot-free. Right after Elder Ralston's "confession," President Ingersoll had him put me on the phone, so he could bawl me out for leaving my companion alone with a member of the opposite sex. And when Elder Evans was brought in to take Elder Ralston's place in the emergency transfer, I discovered that Elder Evans, not I, was designated the senior companion. I had been demoted.
I didn't complain. I knew that I deserved much worse.
I was strict about pushing thoughts of Elder Ralston out of my mind. I occupied myself memorizing hymns or scriptures in Spanish. The first month was the hardest. My companionship with Elder Evans was rocky: our personalities clashed, on top of which he was pissed about being yanked out of Cerro Alto, where he'd been on the verge of baptizing a family, into an area where nothing seemed to be happening. The tension in my relationship with Elder Evans only reminded me of how good the companionship with Elder Ralston had been. Members and investigators in our area wanted to know what had become of Elder Ralston. Over and over, people told me: He was such a fine missionary...you two worked so well together...it was obvious what good friends you were... And I would sit there, trapped, silently reciting a scripture or hymn in my head to crowd out the memories: Elder Ralston squeezing the back of my neck, propping his foot up on my chair as we studied, napping during the afternoon siesta, rolling over to face me the night I climbed into his bed, stripping off his garment top, stretching out naked on top of me...
Pushing away the memories of sex was the easy part, actually. I had plenty of experience pushing sex thoughts out of my mind. The hardest part was missing the companionship. I missed the teamwork, the easy give and take, the delight of being with someone who was delighted to be with me. It was hardest during the month I was with Elder Evans. Then I was transferred into a new area, where I shared a house with three other missionaries, all friendly and welcoming. My feelings of missing Elder Ralston became less acute. The need to memorize scriptures or sing hymns diminished.
When I had about six months left in my mission, I was transferred into the Los Portillos zone. Elder Ralston worked in the zone just adjacent, so we saw each other once a month at zone meeting--from a distance. I was careful to steer clear of him at the first zone meeting, so we wouldn't have to speak. He seemed to be doing the same.
The following month, during the loud socializing that followed every zone meeting, I stood in a crowded corridor, up against the wall, out of the way, waiting while my companion, Elder Wahlquist, chatted with friends. Suddenly, Elder Ralston was standing next to me--close enough that we could talk over the noise, but still a safe arm's length away.
"Hey," he said. His manner was friendly but subdued. He didn't offer to shake hands.
"Hi." My heartbeat had suddenly gotten a little faster.
"How are you?"
"Good. You?"
"The work's going OK. I think we may be able to commit a couple families to baptism this month. How's your area?"
I shrugged, tongue-tied in his presence. "The same."
"Good."
For the first time since we'd begun this exchange, I looked him squarely in the face. I had to look away almost immediately.
"You look tired."
I hadn't realized until he said it just how weary I felt. I thought how good it would feel to have his arms around me again.
"I guess I am," I said.
He must have sensed the longing in my voice: I could feel him pulling back. With an air of changing the subject, he indicated the elder standing next to him-- a native, not an gringo. The kid looked much younger than nineteen, and dwarfed as he was by Elder Ralston, he reminded me somehow of a doll. He had been standing patiently while Elder Ralston conversed in a language he couldn't understand. We gringos weren't supposed to speak English in the presence of natives, but we often forgot.
"Este es mi 'greenie'," Elder Ralston told me. "Elder Jimenez."
When Elder Ralston said, "This is my greenie," I felt a familiar emotion swell up inside me: envy. Envy that Elder Ralston had sufficiently won back President Ingersoll's trust to be made a trainer, while I had only recently been made senior companion again. But then something else happened. As he spoke, Elder Ralston brought his hand down onto the back of his companion's neck for an affectionate squeeze. A big, boyish smile broke out across Elder Jimenez's face...and an emotion I had never felt before surged up inside me. It was like envy, but it was different.
Instinctively, I knew what it was: I was jealous. Intensely jealous. Jealous of Elder Jimenez.
I wondered if they were sleeping together.
I shook Elder Jimenez's hand. "Gusto en conocerle," I told him. Pleased to meet you.
I'd barely feigned enthusiasm, but the doll was all smiles and nods. "Igual, elder."
"We should probably get going," Elder Ralston said to me. Was he in a hurry to wrap up the conversation because he could tell I was upset? "It was good to see you again."
"Right. You too."
They left. I leaned my head back against the wall and squeezed my eyes shut. When Elder Wahlquist came to find me, he asked if I was feeling okay. I told him it must have been something I ate.
Standing hunchbacked in a crowded minibus on the way home, I admitted to myself for the first time the true nature of my situation. Mine was not a case of "struggling with homosexual tendencies." My case was far more serious than that. As deeply as I wanted anything in life, I wanted to be with a man. A man who would squeeze the back of my neck and put his legs across my lap. A man who would tell me that he was head-over-heels in love with me and who would have his arm wrapped around me when I woke up in the morning. I wanted that as deeply as other elders wanted a wife and kids.
I lay in bed all that afternoon and evening, feigning illness, wallowing in self-pity and jealousy and despair. By nightfall, the drama had already gotten old. The next day I had to get up and go back to work. I had no idea what to do with my epiphany of the day before, but I did know that I couldn't afford to worry about it right now. I didn't have the time. I didn't have the energy. During my wallowing, I'd thought about making a full confession to President Ingersoll, but I couldn't bear the thought of everything that would surely follow. I didn't have the nerve to face it. Anyway, in the light of a new day, it was easy to tell myself that I was just being melodramatic. After my mission, I'd figure out what, if anything, I needed to do. Maybe when I started dating again, everything would work out.
I was transferred before the next zone conference. I became a district leader; later, almost at the end of my mission, a trainer. I didn't see Elder Ralston again.
I finished my mission, came back to Utah, returned to BYU. I moved out of my parents' house into an apartment close to campus. I experienced minor sexual tension around my male roommates. I felt no inclination to date. I had no idea what awaited me in the future, but I knew it didn't involve marriage anytime soon. I threw myself wholly into my studies. I professed to be too busy with school to have a social life.
I decided to major in history. Perhaps because I couldn't envision my future, I surrounded myself with the past. At least where my studies were concerned, I could map out the road ahead of me: complete these courses by this semester, graduate by this date, move on to a masters degree, then a doctorate, then on to a college teaching career.
One day in class, one of my professors mentioned a new book on same-sex unions as an example of an ideology- driven historian seeing in his sources what he wanted to see. I jotted down the name of the offending historian: John Boswell. The BYU library didn't have his book on same-sex unions, but it did have an earlier Boswell book: Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality. Too embarrassed to check the book out, I read it a little at a time there in the library. It was the first document I'd ever read written by someone unapologetically gay. Reading Boswell's book, I began to realize something that was confirmed in the weeks following, as I hunted down other books in the library on homosexuality: modern scholarship tended to side with the view that homosexuality was normal. I hadn't realized that. I thought only radical gay activists took that idea seriously.
I'd always been a good student; now my history classes were teaching me to be a critical thinker as well. And though my teachers at BYU certainly didn't intend this, my new critical thinking skills led me to see the Church and its teachings in a more skeptical light. I began to regard a lot of what was said in sacrament meeting, or at Sunday school, or during my BYU religion courses, or in Church publications, as simplistic or naive. More and more, I felt like a misfit at church. I felt guilty for feeling this way; a voice in my head warned that I was being led astray by intellectualism. I hungered to feel the Spirit the way I had during my mission. I read the scriptures for a half hour most mornings, though I didn't find scripture reading as uplifting or rejuvenating now as I had during my mission. I attended the temple once, sometimes twice, a week. I could still feel the Spirit in the temple; I rarely felt it anymore at church.
That's what was going on in my life when Hermana Finley committed me to attend the mission reunion.
-- 3 --
The mission reunion was being held in the home of Hermana Finley's parents, a large three-story house in the Indian Hills area, north of the Provo Temple. It was a brisk 45-minute walk from my apartment; I didn't own a car. I didn't start out until seven, which was when the reunion was scheduled to begin. I figured that if I arrived late, it would be easier to slip out early.
The house was packed with people. A lot of the returned missionaries had fiancees or spouses with them, and there were even a few babies. This was one of the reasons I hadn't wanted to attend the reunion. Hermana Finley gave me a big hug when I came in; I would have liked to have talked, but she was busy being hostess. I left my tub of store-bought macaroni salad in the kitchen (my contribution to the potluck), then went into the living room, where the Ingersolls were holding court. I talked with them briefly and superficially. They were both friendly, especially Sister Ingersoll, but I'd felt guilty around them ever since having sex with Elder Ralston, so I kept the conversation as short as I thought I could without seeming rude. They inquired about my studies and plans for after graduation. They didn't mention dating or marriage, which I thought was gracious of them.
I worked my way from room to room, squeezing past other bodies, to see who was here. Elder Ralston was in a family room in the basement. Seated on a sofa, he saw me as soon as I came down the stairs. His face lit up and he raised a hand in greeting. I nodded back. He didn't look as much like a model as I'd remembered, but seeing him was still enough to get my adrenaline pumping. He wore a checked button-up shirt and blue jeans. His hair was longer than he'd worn it as a missionary, but he still had a wholesome, comfortable, clean-cut look.
He appeared to be at the reunion alone. In imagining different ways this meeting might play itself out, I'd considered the possibility that he might introduce me to his wife or fiancee.
He excused himself from the people he'd been talking with, got up from the sofa, came across the room towards me. To avoid the problem of deciding what kind of greeting would be appropriate--handshake? hug? nothing?--I tucked my hands into my back pockets. I was surprised, actually, that he seemed as pleased as he did to see me. I'd come prepared for a repetition of our last encounter at zone conference: restrained courtesy, friendly but hanging back, a couple minutes of obligatory "So what have you been up to?" after which we'd be careful not to cross paths again for the rest of the evening.
Instead, he was beaming, speaking with emphasis to show that he really wanted to know: "How are you?"
"Good."
I got the feeling he wanted to do a handshake or hug, but when I didn't remove my hands from my pockets, he crossed his arms across his chest to get his hands out of the way. "I was getting worried. I was afraid you might not come, and I'd miss the chance to see you."
I didn't know how to respond to that. "Well, here I am," I laughed nervously.
"Here you are," he echoed. We both seemed unsure how to proceed. "So you're at the Y."
I nodded. "You're still in California?"
He named a city. I knew nothing about Californian geography except that Los Angeles was farther south than San Francisco. But I said, "That's a long way to come."
"Two-day drive; I stayed over in Vegas and drank a lot of Coke." He laughed. "Maybe I shouldn't say that so loud here. But it's been great. This is my first time in Utah--other than the MTC, I mean, but of course I didn't really get to see anything then. I'm staying with Cutler and his wife. Tomorrow they're gonna take me to Temple Square. I was hoping to watch Conference in the Tabernacle, but they tell me it's really hard to get in. I guess you have to get there hours early to stand in line."
"Yeah, it's pretty crazy." Mentally I added: About as crazy as this conversation. Here we were, former missionary companions and partners in homosexual transgression, talking about how eager one of us was to attend General Conference at Temple Square.
"Have you ever been to Conference?" he asked me. "Inside the Tabernacle, I mean?"
"Once. With my deacons quorum. We went to priesthood conference."
"What was it like?"
"The wooden benches were really uncomfortable." I couldn't bring myself to say what I knew I was supposed to say: Oh, it was so incredibly spiritual. But I felt I needed to try. "It was neat, you know, seeing the Prophet and the other General Authorities in person."
He nodded a little but didn't say anything. What was he thinking as he looked at me?
"Listen," I said, "I'm going to see who else is here. It was good to see you again."
From the look on his face, I could tell he hadn't expected the conversation to end so soon. He caught my elbow as I turned to go. "Spencer..." he said, then he stopped. My heart pounded. He released my elbow. "Come find me again before you leave. Okay?"
"Sure."
He wasn't convinced. "You won't forget to look for me?"
"Yeah. I mean, no. I'll look for you."
As I climbed back up the stairs, I glanced down to see him watching me.
I couldn't tell whether I felt hopeful or uneasy.
I returned to the kitchen to get some food, then found a seat in an upstairs tv room. Most of the people sitting around me I knew either by name or by sight. I listened to them talk as I ate, not contributing to the conversation but smiling at the right moments as if I were a participant. After I'd finished eating, I wandered the upstairs portion of the house. I ran into Elder Niederman, who had been my companion just before Elder Ralston. He introduced me to his wife; we talked for a while. I'd felt close to Elder Niederman when we were companions, but now I felt that we had little in common. I saw Elder Evans, but he was talking with someone else, and I didn't attempt to make contact. Returning to the kitchen for something to drink, I found Elder Wahlquist. He was still single--he'd only been home a couple of months--and like me, he felt out of place surrounded by couples. I let him talk for several minutes about how weird it was adjusting to post-mission life and what he planned to do now that he was back. When I could tell he was running out of steam, I brought the conversation to a polite close before he could start to inquire about my life.
When I was ready to leave, I retrieved my coat from one of the bedrooms and found Hermana Finley so I could say good-bye. We talked for a few minutes. Talking with Hermana Finley wasn't as awkward as talking with Elder Niederman had been, but I still felt a vague let-down or disconnect, especially after she introduced me to her husband and toddler. Yet one more reminder that I hadn't continued down the life- path the Church had charted for me.
At last I went to find Elder Ralston. "I'm taking off," I told him. "What did you want to see me for?"
He looked a little confused. "I...wanted to talk. We didn't really get a chance to catch up earlier."
"Oh."
"Do you have to go right away?"
I wavered in the face of temptation. "I guess I could stay a bit longer."
My tone had been obviously reluctant, so he offered a compromise. "Actually, it's kind of noisy here. Maybe we could go someplace else to talk."
"Sure. If you want."
I waited by the door while he said his good-byes. This took a while; he'd made a lot of friends as a missionary. Finally he was ready. "Where are you parked?" he asked me.
"I walked."
"Oh, perfect. So we'll go in my car, and I'll drive you home afterwards."
As we pulled away, he asked where I thought we should go. "What did you have in mind?" I asked him.
"I haven't really seen anything here yet; I drove in just a few hours ago. If we went to BYU, is there someplace...quiet...where we could maybe walk around and talk?"
The way he said "quiet," I took it he meant "private." Someplace we could talk about what had passed between us on our mission without being overheard. This was going to get raw. The most secluded place I could think of was the wooded area at the lower end of campus, so I told Elder Ralston to head south.
The streets in this part of Indian Hills were a maze. The road we were on curved down into a hollow, and as we came up the other side, suddenly the Provo Temple loomed directly in front of us, its spire glowing orange in the night. Elder Ralston was impressed; the plan to go to BYU was immediately postponed.
We parked alongside the sidewalk that ran around the temple. It was close to nine o'clock. I couldn't remember when the temple closed, but the gate was still open. Elder Ralston wanted to take the little walk that led to the back side of the temple, the side facing east, toward the mountains. Then he wanted to climb up to the top of the hill that cradled the temple from behind like an amphitheater. I was worried that we'd get locked inside the temple grounds, but I followed him.
Elder Ralston sat down on the hilltop; I sat close enough that we could talk, but far enough away that we couldn't touch. The ground was cold, though the October night was only slightly chilly.
"It must be great to be so close to a temple," Elder Ralston said. "Do you go a lot?"
"Once a week."
"That's great. My singles ward has temple night every month or so. I go when I can."
Given our history, I thought, it was bizarre for us to be sitting here talking about temple attendance. At the same time, I was struck by how natural it felt to be with Elder Ralston--despite our history, despite the fact that we hadn't seen each other in nearly two years.
We did the catching up he said he'd wanted to do. He told me he was taking classes at a community college, with hopes of eventually getting into a business program. He thought he might like to start his own construction company. He still built houses; he was good at it; his knowing Spanish was a plus, since a lot of the other employees were Mexicans. He asked about my plans. I told him I was majoring in history, that I was beginning to make decisions about where to apply for grad school. "Maybe you could come out to grad school in California," he said. "I'm sure you'll have no problem getting in wherever you apply to."
I didn't say anything. The suggestion of my moving to California seemed to open up a dangerous pathway for the conversation.
Elder Ralston was apparently determined to take us down that path. "Are you dating anyone?"
"Don't have time, really. Too busy with school" My stock answer. I hurried to deflect the conversation away from myself. "What about you?"
"I go out with people from my ward. You know, group dating. Nothing serious, though."
More silence. I wanted to say, "Well, we should probably get going." But I didn't have the nerve to say it.
"Listen, Spencer." With our missions over, we should be on a first-name basis now, though out of habit, I still thought of him as Elder Ralston, not Mike. He didn't look at me as he spoke. "I keep waiting for the right moment to bring this up. But that moment doesn't seem to be coming. I mean, we both seem kind of uncomfortable, which I guess I should have expected. So let me just be direct and up front--" He interrupted himself, laughing a little. "That's what I always used to say, right?" He glanced over; I got the impression he was hoping for a smile or chuckle from me. When I didn't offer it, he looked back at the ground. He sat hugging his knees to his chest. I was cross-legged, my hands buried in the pockets of my jacket.
He plunged on. "I was really mad at you after...what happened. I felt like I'd been totally open with you, but you hadn't been with me, and that had screwed things up. And I was really hurt by that. But since I've been back from my mission, I think about you a lot. I've still never felt as attracted to anyone as I was to you. For a while I thought maybe it was just the mission. You know how you get back and you start to realize that you were a little crazy as a missionary--doing things that made perfect sense at the time but were actually kind of extreme or unrealistic when you look back on them. Everything's so intense when you're a missionary. And for a while, after I got back, I thought, maybe that's what had happened between us. Things had been so intense just because, you know, we were missionaries. And now that I was off my mission, I was going to go back to...dating women and finding someone to marry and have kids with and all that. But that didn't happen. I still felt--I still feel--like what we had was incredible, at least as long as it lasted. And obviously I don't know where you're coming from. But from my end of it...I'd really like to give things between us a second chance."
I felt a strong urge to swallow, but I was afraid he'd notice if I did. It was important to me right now that I look unfazed. Collected. In control.
"I want to take things slow," Elder Ralston continued. "I know that a lot of what went wrong before is that things moved way too quickly. But...if you're willing ...I'd like to date you. Court you, I guess is what they call it. And if things go well--you know, if we both feel after a while like we can make this work-- then I want to ask you to be my husband."
As soon as he said "husband," I knew there was no way we could continue this conversation on the grounds of the temple. I stood up. "We can't talk about this here."
"Why not?"
"Just...Let's go somewhere else."
"Okay." His voice was docile, placating.
We got back in the car. "Where do you want to go?" he asked.
The question made me want to lash out. There was nowhere we could go to have the kind of conversation he wanted to have. Anywhere we went, we'd either be seen or overheard. Even south campus wouldn't be safe; what the hell had I been thinking when I'd suggested it?
Elder Ralston--Mike, whatever--was waiting. The best I could think of was Rock Canyon. I told Mike to turn the car around and head higher up into the foothills. We parked at the mouth of the canyon. Another car was parked nearby, but its occupant or occupants were nowhere in sight.
I got out of the car. Even though outside we ran some risk of being overheard, I was afraid that if we just parked we could end up...doing something stupid. Mike followed me as I climbed to the top of a little rise, where there was a large stone we could lean up against. We stood there for a while, looking out at the view: the temple, the MTC, BYU, the rest of Provo beyond.
"What are you thinking, Spencer?"
I shook my head. "I don't know."
"Is it that you don't know what you're thinking, or that you feel like you shouldn't be thinking what you're thinking?"
The question hit home, which made me snap. "Look. I know you believe that whatever you feel is right is right." That was unfair, and I knew it; I plowed on before he'd have a chance to protest. "But have you actually thought through what you're saying? I mean, you've told me tonight how much you're looking forward to going to General Conference tomorrow. You've told me how much you like to go to the temple. If you... court me--and by the way, I could be your lover, but I could never be your husband; I don't know what the fetch you're thinking there--but that's not really the point. The point is: you can't have it both ways. You can't be a member of the Church, and go to the temple, or to General Conference, or whatever, while you're living in a homosexual relationship. Unless you're planning to go into your bishop's office and tell him bald-faced lies."
I was trembling--not from cold, but from the intensity of my emotions. Mike kicked around in the dirt with one foot, letting me calm down, maybe letting himself calm down, too. Then he said, "So is that a no?"
It took me a couple seconds to understand the question. Even after I understood it, I couldn't answer. I knew what I ought to answer if I were going to be a good Church member. But I couldn't bring myself to say it. I was afraid to walk through the door Mike had opened, but I wasn't willing to close it either.
He didn't let me off the hook this time; he held out, waiting for me to answer his question. Finally I said, "You're asking me to make a choice I'm not ready to make yet."
"What do you think you need to do in order to be ready to make that choice?"
He was the missionary, Resolving the Investigator's Concerns. I resented that; I felt like he was minimizing the dilemma, insulting my intelligence. "It isn't that simple. There's a lot of things I have to figure out. I have to decide whether I believe the Church is right about...homosexuality. Which means I have to decide whether I believe the Church is right about anything. And then on top of that, I'd have to figure out what to do about the fact that I'm going to BYU, and my family, and society, and just...the whole ...everything."
Mike seemed to be waiting for me to say something else. When I didn't, he said, "I don't mean to sound selfish, but you haven't...I mean, I'm still wondering if...in everything you just said...where do I fit into all of that? Or do I?"
I could tell it was a vulnerable moment for him. I felt I ought to reciprocate by lowering my own defenses, if only a little. "There's a part of me that would very much like..." I was going to say "the same thing you want," but that seemed too euphemistic, too stand-offish. I decided to use the words he had used, even though I felt terribly embarrassed doing so. "There's a part of me that would very much like to be courted by you."
He nodded--gratefully, I thought, though he didn't seem as pleased or relieved by my confession as I'd expected. He said, "But you're not sure if it's right for you to want that. So we're still where we were back, what, three years ago."
"I'm not like you," I protested. "I can't just pick and choose which parts of the Church I'm going to accept. If the Church is wrong about something as big as...this, then I can't trust that they're right about anything. I can't trust that they're really receiving revelation. I can't keep believing that the Church is true. But on the other hand..." I came up short, at a loss to explain succinctly all the doubts and struggles I'd experienced over the past several months. "It's not just this issue. There are all kinds of things that I've thought the Church might be wrong about. But at the same time, I feel the Spirit when I'm in the temple, or when I've read the scriptures, or while I was on my mission. And I can't just deny all that. But then again..." I shook my head, frustrated. "I don't know what I believe anymore, okay?"
"Have you prayed about it?"
A part of me wanted to scoff; another part of me was guilt-stricken. Even as a missionary, I hadn't been as diligent or conscientious in my prayers as I felt I should have, and I'd fallen out of the habit of saying my morning and nightly prayers almost as soon as I'd returned home. Why hadn't I been praying about this? It would have been the first thing I'd have recommended to someone back when I was a missionary.
"No. I haven't been praying about it."
"Do you think it would help?"
"Probably. Yeah. I don't know why I haven't."
He started to say something, then stopped. "What?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"No. What?"
"Well, I was just thinking about the Book of Mormon, when it says that the evil spirit teacheth a man not to pray. I thought maybe that's why you hadn't thought to pray about this. Maybe Satan's been trying to keep you confused. But I didn't want to say that, because I was afraid you might think I was trying to bias you."
I didn't think he was trying to bias me. I did think that his belief in demonic influence was absurdly naive, though I'd held the same belief as a missionary. At the same time, Mike's comment had a certain appeal for me. He was talking in Mormon terms, but to support an idea that was the complete opposite of Church teaching: that if I prayed about it, I might discover that it was okay for me to pursue a romantic relationship with a man--a truth the devil wouldn't want me to discover, because he would want me to be unhappy. Mike was creating for himself a new kind of Mormonism, one that let him be both Mormon and gay. I didn't buy what he was saying; but I was attracted to the possibility it represented.
"Look," Mike said. "Maybe you're right when you say that I just pick and choose, or that I believe whatever I want to believe. I know I'm not as intellectual as you are, and I'm probably not seeing the big picture or all the doctrinal stuff as well as you do. But I know what I want, and I know what feels right to me." He scuffed the dirt again with his toe. "You asked if I was planning to lie to my bishop--"
"I shouldn't have said that."
"No it's a fair question. And the answer is, I don't know what I would tell my bishop if you and I ended up...you know...together. I might decide that it isn't any of his business; so if he asks if I'm living the law of chastity, and I feel like I am, even if I know he wouldn't agree, then I might answer yes, even though other people would see that as a lie. Or maybe I would be direct and up front with him and deal with whatever the consequences turn out to be. I don't know. I'd have to do whatever felt right when the situation came up. But I'm not really thinking about that now. Right now, I'm just trying to figure if, realistically, I should even go on hoping that you and I could become...husbands, or lovers, or partners, or whatever. After that, there's plenty of time to figure out all the other stuff. You know, church, and family, and all those other things you were talking about. I'm not trying to make light of that stuff. I mean, frick, I have no idea what I'd tell my parents, or the guys I work with--it's not like construction workers are super tolerant of gay people, you know? And I'd really like to have kids, which is obviously a problem, though you hear about gay guys who adopt. But again, I'm not worrying about that right now. I guess what I'm trying to say is--even though I know I shouldn't tell you what to think, but here's what I think, anyway, and it's that...if this is what we're supposed to do, then God will help us work it out. So the important thing right now is to figure out whether this is what God wants us to do or not."
I was thinking about what he'd said about wanting to have kids. I wasn't sure I wanted kids. But I also realized that wasn't the point at the moment. Mike was right: what mattered now was deciding for once and for all whether or not I believed it would be wrong for Mike and me to become...whatever we were going to call it. There was no question that, like him, I wanted to try. The question was: Was it wrong for me to want that?
What if I decided that it wasn't? What if I did as Mike suggested, and prayed about it, and emerged from that experience feeling that in fact God wanted me to...court Mike? What then? What kind of relationship would that be--me at BYU, he in California? I guess I could apply to grad school in California, like he'd suggested; or maybe he could move to wherever I ended up going to school. Until then...well, we wouldn't be the first people in the world to have a long-distance relationship. Courting from a distance might be better anyway; it would let me decide whether or not I thought this could work in the long-term without physical attraction getting in the way.
But all these, too, were questions that could be worked out later. First I had to figure out whether I should even be letting myself entertain these possibilities.
I had to admit that entertaining them made me feel... buoyant. Hopeful. Like an array of possibilities--a future--was finally opening up for me where up to now I hadn't been able to see anything.
Should those feelings be telling me something?
What Mike and I had done as missionaries was wrong. Of that I had not a sliver of doubt, whatever Mike's views might be. Maybe, though, there was a right way to do what we hadn't done right then. A right time. A right place. A right foundation.
"What are you thinking?" Mike asked.
"I'm gonna pray about it." It was a commitment, not a put-off.
"Would you like me to fast with you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I would."
"When?"
I fumbled. "What about tomorrow?" he suggested.
"That's kind of quick." He wasn't hoping for an answer before he went back to California, was he?
"Whenever you want, then."
I thought about it. As a missionary, I had routinely invited people to pray about the truthfulness about the Book of Mormon before our next visit. Why not fast tomorrow? The worst that would happen is that I'd end the fast feeling I needed more time to mull this over. "That's fine. Let's fast tomorrow. And then...we'll see what happens."
It wasn't a terribly monumental decision. And yet I had the feeling that a significant shift had occurred. That in a way, I had just decided to do what the fast was supposed to help me decide whether or not I should do: to start seriously exploring the possibility of a relationship with Mike Ralston.
Surely I ought to be frightened or anxious about the huge step into the unknown I had agreed to take. But I didn't. I felt at peace in a way I couldn't remember having felt since my mission.
The conversation was done, but neither of us knew how to end it. We stood for a while longer, looking out at the lights from the MTC and BYU, standing near each other but not touching. Finally, Mike said, "I should probably take you home." We walked back to the car and got inside and drove back down past the temple into the valley.
------------------------------------------------------ Send feedback to the author at lrglmear@attbi.com. ------------------------------------------------------