Date: Fri, 17 Jan 2003 13:50:13 -0700 From: lrglmear Subject: Penalties (no-sex) ------------------------------------------------------ NOTE: While this story is 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. ------------------------------------------------------ PENALTIES is the continuation of an earlier story, SIGNS AND TOKENS, also in this directory. I recommend that you read SIGNS AND TOKENS first. ------------------------------------------------------ PENALTIES Paul drew me inside without a word and shut the door as quietly as he could. I understood: his landlady and her adult son lived just on the other side of a plank wall. We reached for each other in the dark, located each other's mouths. His beard was rough against my face, which I found a little unpleasant; but that was nothing compared to the thrill of finally, finally doing this. As we kissed, Paul kept one hand behind my head for leverage, while with the other he set to work-- expertly, I thought--unbuttoning my shirt. His movements were urgent and self-assured. Not certain if this was a "right thing" to do, but impelled by instinct, I placed a hand against his belly and roamed through his body hair with my fingertips. None of the books I'd read gave me a clear description of what was supposed to happen from here. But Paul's lead and my own instinct carried us through to a mutually satisfactory end. * * * Because we came together in the dark, I never got a good look at Paul entirely naked. During sex, we read each other's bodies by touch alone. Paul slept in his underwear, so even the two times I stayed over until the gray light of early morning, I didn't get to see his whole body. I was, however, able to eye his torso all I wanted while I dressed. His body was a little flabbier than I'd expected from a former athlete, but still shapely. He had broad shoulders, thick upper arms. And I never tired of admiring the hair that covered his chest and belly. I did not consider myself physically attractive. I was spindly, and my chest boasted nothing more than a light fuzz that made me think of mold growing on bread when I looked at it. So I was grateful that Paul was willing to take me to his bed. While I trusted that he genuinely liked me, I had no illusions: Paul and I were having sex because, for the time being, he didn't have a more attractive option. What we were doing was not romance; I knew that. But it wasn't just assisted masturbation, either. It was something in between. A respite from loneliness. A chance to strip off pretense. A chance to be known. I snuck out to Paul's place five times over a period of a week and a half. Our encounters were, for me at least, intense but always silent. We never let ourselves get so carried away by passion that we forgot to be careful not to make noise. The first three times, I got up shortly after we finished, dressed in the dark, and rode back home. The fourth time, as I was sitting up in bed, Paul caught my arm and whispered, "You can stay if you want." I did want, and I did stay. Elder Crogan, I'd learned, was a sound sleeper. Creeping in and out of our house, I had to open and close a heavy padlock and an iron gate--but the sound had yet to rouse Elder Crogan. So I took the extra risk. I spent that night next to Paul, and then in the early morning I biked home for a couple more hours of sleep in my own bed. There was so much I would have liked to have asked Paul, if we'd been able to talk. When did you realize you were gay? Have you told your family? How do you meet other gay guys? Is there a part of you that feels guilty? I felt guilty, but it wasn't the bowel-devouring guilt they'd threatened us with in Sunday School and seminary. It was the same level of guilt I felt about masturbation. The fear of discovery was much greater, of course. But the guilt I could push to the back of my mind easily enough. I told myself that, in basic principle at least, I wasn't doing anything that Elder Langford hadn't done. I knew that wasn't really true. I knew that the consequences--the scandal--would be much more serious if I got caught than if Elder Langford had gotten caught, even assuming that Elder Langford had gone as far with that girl Francia as I had gone with Paul. Heterosexual transgression was not in the same league as homosexual transgression. I knew that. But I didn't let myself think about it. I realize there's no point in asking "what if." But I can't help but wonder how my life would be different if I hadn't slept over at Paul's after our fifth time. Or even if I'd left his place a few minutes earlier. * * * I was easing into my clothes in the half light, trying to wake neither Paul nor his landlady, when I heard the car pull up. Since few people in Barrio Nuevo owned a car, I immediately sensed danger. Car doors opened and closed; two or three sets of footsteps approached; someone knocked on Paul's door. Paul sat up, locked eyes with me. We waited. Another knock. "Quien es?" Paul called softly. "It's Crogan." Paul motioned for me to go stand in the corner behind the door. As I tiptoed across the room, Paul scuffed on the cement floor with his flip-flops to provide cover. Dressed in his underwear, he opened the door just a crack, as if for modesty. "What's up?" he asked in a sleepy voice. "We're looking for Elder Seeley," I heard Elder Crogan say. Who was "we"? Neither our district leader nor our zone leaders had a car. Was it someone from the mission office? At five in the morning? Why? "I haven't seen him since the last time you guys came over." At Elder Crogan's suggestion, we'd visited Paul a couple nights before on the way back to our place. Elder Crogan had quizzed Paul about which movies he ought to see when he got home, while I'd browsed the non-gay selections on Paul's bookshelf. "Do you want me to help you look?" Paul asked. "Well..." Elder Crogan was confused. "His bike's here." I'd forgotten--my bike was chained to a tree outside the house. Apparently, Paul had forgotten, too. Paul poked his head out the door for a look. "Hunh. That's weird." He shrugged apologetically. "I don't know what to tell you. Wherever he is, I guess he'll be coming back here eventually. If I hear him, I'll let him know you're looking for him." Elder Crogan held a murmured conference with whoever else was out there. Then he said to Paul, "Tell Elder Seeley we'll be back at our house. If you see him." I didn't like the way he'd added that last sentence. As if he were letting Paul know that he saw through the charade. Paul and I didn't speak until we heard the car drive away. "Who were the other two?" Paul whispered. "It has to be someone from the mission office. Maybe the APs." I pressed a hand to my eyes and hissed, "Shit!" "Do you know why they're looking for you?" My panic made me lash out. "Because they looked for me at my place and I wasn't there!" Paul let the insult roll over him. "I mean, do you know why they're out here? In Barrio Nuevo?" "No." I slumped against the wall in despair. "Tim, look at me," Paul said. "Let's figure out what your story's going to be, so I can back you up on it if I have to." "What's the point? They know I'm here." "Not necessarily. I think Crogan figures I know where you are and I'm covering for you. But I don't think it could even enter Crogan's head that a fellow jock might be gay. So I highly doubt he's figured out what's really going on. If he suspects anything, it's probably that you're with some girl somewhere close by." For a second I wondered if Paul knew about Elder Langford. Then I thought: No, he's just being logical. I considered his suggestion. In a certain sense, of course, it was better for Elder Crogan to suspect that I was spending the night with a girl. But since spending the night with anyone, male or female, would get me sent home, Paul's suggestion wasn't much of an improvement over the truth. Was there another option? Could I say I'd gone out for an early morning bike ride? A run? A session of hard outdoor prayer inspired by Enos, from the Book of Mormon? In none of those scenarios, though, could I explain why I'd left my bike at Paul's house. I was still screwed. I was a little calmer now. Adrenaline was still pulsing through me, but panic was giving way to a kind of horrified determination. No story was going to get me out of this. I didn't see how I could avoid being sent home. But that didn't mean I had to tell anyone where I'd been or what I'd been doing. "What are you going to tell them?" Paul asked me. "Nothing. It's none of their business." Paul didn't seem to think this was the greatest idea; but I also got the feeling he didn't really want to get bogged down in this. It was my problem, not his. I suddenly felt angry at him, as if he were abandoning me--even though I knew I had no right to feel that way. The last thing Paul said before he shut the door behind me was, "Good luck." * * * It was indeed the APs who were waiting at the house. Elder Thornock and Elder Goodwin. They were helping Elder Crogan pack his suitcases when I entered. "Where have you been?" Elder Crogan demanded. "That's none of your business." During the bike ride home, I'd envisioned myself saying this with what the Missionary Handbook called "quiet dignity." But when the moment came, I was so frightened that it came out sounding curt and sullen instead. The APs stared. Elder Crogan bristled. "Excuse me? When my companion goes out at night, alone, I'd say that's definitely my business." I wondered to what degree his righteous indignation was a show for the APs. Despite my bravado at Paul's, I didn't have the nerve for a confrontation, so I ducked my head and walked into the kitchen to get myself a glass of water--mostly for the sake of having something to do. "You need to pack your things, Elder Seeley," Elder Thornock said. "Why?" I asked. Once again, my intentions failed me: I'd meant the question as a show of defiance, but my voice quavered. "It's an emergency transfer." "Someone's sick," Elder Crogan butted in. "They're sending me home early so I can fly back with him." An emergency. Hence the unexpected early morning visit from the APs. "President's closing this area until we get more missionaries," Elder Thornock said. "What about the branch? Or our investigators?" "President'll make arrangements." Elder Goodwin elaborated. "They'll probably send someone from the high council to conduct church. And the Villeda missionaries can keep teaching the investigators who are progressing." "They won't know where our investigators live." Barrio Nuevo was a maze, and neighborhood juntas were still in the process of naming streets and numbering houses. "That isn't really important right now, Seeley," Elder Crogan snapped. "Where the fetch were you?" All three waited for the answer. "I told you--that's none of your business." I felt a little faint. I went into the bedroom to pack. I could sense them behind me, looking silently at me and each other, wondering what to do. Then they resumed packing. * * * The maid arrived as we were finishing up. Elder Crogan and I paid her for the rest of the week and explained that we didn't know when new missionaries would arrive to replace us. She looked wounded, as if we'd fired her. Some neighbor women were commiserating with her when we finally locked up the house and drove away, suitcases in the trunk and bikes tied to the top of the car. As we drove out of Barrio Nuevo, I thought about Paul. When I'd left him, two hours earlier, I'd been so worried about the confrontations that lay ahead that it hadn't occurred to me I wasn't going to see him again. I had no idea what I would have said by way of farewell, but I wished now that I'd said something. While packing, I had realized that I still had Paul's copy of Maurice, which he'd loaned to me after I finished Giovanni's Room. Maybe I could find out the address of the Peace Corps office here in the capital and ship it back to him when I got home. Twelve hours ago I'd taken entirely for granted that I'd be a missionary next week, next month, next year. And now, suddenly, it was over. We were driving down streets that I might never see again in my life. It felt unreal. What was I going to tell my parents? The thought made me sick to my stomach. No one said much during the drive into the capital, and no one said anything to me. * * * At the mission office, the APs told us to leave our suitcases in the car until we found out for sure what President wanted us to do next. Elder Crogan and I waited in the front part of the building while the APs went back to President Hill's office to report in. I was not surprised when they came out and said that President wanted to talk to me, not Elder Crogan. "Shut the door," President told me. I did. Without waiting to be told, I sat in the chair across from his desk. President Hill had been a college dean before being called as mission president. He wasn't known for being stern, but he was in authority and that was enough to make me feel intimidated. "Where were you last night?" he asked. His voice was soft, but his tone made clear that I was being called on the carpet. I looked at the top of the desk. My hands were squeezed together. "That's none of your business" had been good enough for Elder Crogan and the APs, but I'd worked out a politer version for President. "I won't tell you that," I said. He hadn't expected that reply; it took him a few seconds to recover. When he spoke again, his voice was louder and his tone harsher. "Elder Seeley, I am responsible for my missionaries' safety and their moral worthiness. Sometime last night, I'm told, you left your companion. You apparently spent the night somewhere else, none of us know exactly where. If something had happened to you--if you'd been hurt--no one in this mission, none of the people who are responsible for you, would have known how to find you. And entirely apart from concerns about your physical safety, the circumstances give me grave doubts about your worthiness to go on serving as a representative of Jesus Christ. So let me repeat the question: Elder Seeley. Where did you go last night?" I shut my eyes and shook my head. I said again, in a low croak, "I won't tell you that." A sudden clatter made me open my eyes; President Hill had tossed his glasses onto the desktop. He cradled his head wearily. "I don't have time for this, Elder. I'm in the middle of making arrangements to send a very sick missionary back to Salt Lake. I was going to send Elder Crogan to accompany him, since he goes home in a couple of weeks anyway. But if I can't be assured of your worthiness to serve in this mission--and if you don't respect my authority--then I'm going to send you back instead." He waited. "Do you understand? Is there anything you want to say to me?" I shook my head. "Then tell Elders Thornock and Goodwin to come back to the office, and go wait with your companion." This was the angriest or curtest I'd ever seen President Hill. This was also the first time in my life I'd flouted the authority of a Church leader. I was trembling a little as I left his office. When I resumed my seat in the front part of the building, Elder Crogan asked in a solicitous voice, "Elder Seeley, what's going on?" I ignored him. I clenched my eyes shut and crossed one leg high over the other, sort of folding myself together in my chair. I was experiencing a welter of emotion, which I silently vented in Elder Crogan's direction as a single hot stream of hatred. * * * President Hill told the APs to drive Elder Crogan and me, with our luggage, to the mission home, where we'd spend the night. But Elder Crogan didn't want to spend the rest of the day sitting around the mission home, so he wheedled the office elders into letting him tag along with them as they ran errands around the city. As long as I was in the mission home, it wouldn't really matter that I wasn't with my companion. Sister Hill was grandmotherly and therefore well-liked by the missionaries--more so than her husband. After the APs helped me haul the suitcases and bicycles into the mission home foyer, Sister Hill asked me if I'd eaten yet. When I told her no, she took me into the kitchen and had the maid make me breakfast. She asked me to join her upstairs once I finished eating. Located in one of the city's historic quarters, the mission home was spacious and elegant, with hot running water and its own generator for use during power outages--luxuries I'd never had in any of the places I'd lived in as a missionary. The Hills lived on the lower floor; the upper floor was where missionaries spent their first and last nights in the field. Except during transfers, the upper floor was unoccupied. I ate alone downstairs, in the dining room. Then I went upstairs to find Sister Hill. As I came to the top of the stairs, I heard her call from one of the bedrooms, "In here, Elder Seeley." She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Lying next to her was a young elder in t-shirt and shorts. He lay flat on his back, arms at his sides, staring at the ceiling. Sister Hill was stroking his hair, but the elder gave no indication that he even knew she was there. He held perfectly still, his eyes never moving from the ceiling. Occasionally he blinked. Nothing more. "I don't believe you've met Elder Ostler," Sister Hill said to me. "He's one of our new missionaries; he joined us just a couple months ago." "What's wrong with him?" Although Sister Hill had spoken in a normal voice, I felt an urge to lower mine. Sister Hill kept stroking the elder's hair as she spoke. I got the feeling she intended her words--or at least the sound of her voice--to be soothing to Elder Ostler. "Doctor Ford says he's probably severely depressed. He's had a difficult time adjusting to life here. His trainer knew he was having problems, but Elder Ostler seemed to be coping, so he didn't worry too much about it. Then yesterday, after lunch, Elder Ostler lay down for what Elder Rasmussen thought was a nap. But when it came time to wake him up, Elder Rasmussen found him like this. Apparently he was struggling even more than he let anyone see, and when it became too much for him, he just shut down for a while. Doctor Ford says he can hear us. But he doesn't talk. And he doesn't move much. His feelings are so intense, he's afraid to do anything that might let them out. At least that's what Doctor Ford thinks. Since Elder Ostler isn't ready to talk to us yet, we don't really know for sure what's going on." She talked as if this were an everyday kind of illness- -a bug, nothing to worry about. I was horrified. When they'd said that one of the missionaries was sick, I'd assumed someone was suffering from a nasty parasite, maybe Dengue fever. I would never have imagined this. "Would you mind sitting with him for a while?" Sister Hill asked. "I'd like to get some work done, but I'd rather not leave him alone." The thought of being alone with Elder Ostler unnerved me, but I couldn't refuse. "Sure." "Perhaps you'd like to get something to read." No doubt she was thinking of the mission home's gospel library, a collection of books by General Authorities and popular inspirational LDS speakers. Instead I went down to my suitcase to retrieve Maurice. I sat next to Elder Ostler's bed with the book open in front of me, but I was too preoccupied to read. Because Sister Hill had said that Elder Ostler was aware of us, I didn't stare at him. Still, I couldn't resist glancing at him frequently. There was a word to describe this kind of immobility; I couldn't remember what it was. "Catharsis" came to mind, but I knew that wasn't right. What was Elder Ostler thinking as he lay there? Anything? Did he resent my being here? How much stress did it take to do this to a person? My thoughts strayed between Elder Ostler, Maurice, and anxiety about my own future. I imagined my homecoming: my bewildered parents pleading with me to explain why I'd been sent home; my serene, stolid, impassive silence. The fact that I had yet to pull off serene, stolid impassivity with Elder Crogan, the APs, or President Hill didn't keep me from fantasizing that I could succeed at it with my parents. An hour passed. An hour and a half. Downstairs, the phone rang. I heard Sister Hill answer, though she was too far away for me to be able make out what she was saying. I could hear chopping and the occasional clatter of pots or pans as the maid prepared the midday meal. Sister Hill came up to relieve me when lunch was ready. She caught a glimpse of Maurice tucked under my arm and asked what I was reading. Embarrassed, I showed her. "E. M. Forster," she said. "Didn't he write A Room with a View?" I didn't know. When I went downstairs for lunch, I left Maurice in my suitcase to avoid further questions about it. Even though I knew it was absurd under the circumstances, I felt guilty about having been caught reading "prohib" in the mission home. * * * I sat with Elder Ostler again after lunch. The meal and the heat made me drowsy. With nothing to read, I dozed in my chair. I was awakened by the sound of Sister Hill coming up the stairs. She was talking to someone. It sounded like... I sat up in my chair. Sister Hill appeared in the bedroom doorway. Paul Zoltowski stood behind her. "Hi," I told him. His reply was a solemn, mute wave. I was glad to see him. But what in the world was he doing at the mission home? "President called a little while ago," Sister Hill said. "He suggested the two of you might want to go out for a walk." President must have gotten Paul's name from Elder Crogan and tracked him down. I was mortified. "I'll sit with Elder Ostler," Sister Hill told me. It was a polite way to let me know that I didn't really have a choice about going for a walk with Paul. Paul and I didn't say anything to each other until we were on the sidewalk outside of the mission home. Then Paul said, "You ok?" I shrugged. I would have liked very much for Paul to put his arms around me, but I figured that wasn't going to happen on the street in broad daylight. "What's with the guy upstairs?" Paul asked. "He's severely depressed." "He looked catatonic." That was the word I'd been trying to think of earlier. I nodded. "Yeah. They're sending him home. That's why they were looking for me. Well, actually, they were looking for Elder Crogan. They needed someone to fly back with him." "You mean he's literally catatonic?" "Yeah." "God. Does that happen often?" That's a bizarre question, I thought. Then I realized I'd been talking quite casually, much as Sister Hill had done; so perhaps I'd given Paul the impression that catatonic missionaries were unsurprising. "No. I've never seen anything like it before. I mean, I guess it's not uncommon for missionaries to get depressed. But not like that." Paul looked at me, concerned. "Have you been depressed?" "Well...At times, yeah. Not lately." Not since I'd been going to Paul's place nights. Paul suggested we walk to an open-air bar a couple blocks away. I'd passed it several times during my mission, on my way to visit the mission home, though of course I'd never been inside. Paul ordered a beer. I ordered a Coke--not a beverage I was fond of, but the man who waited on us said it was the only non-alcoholic item they had. "I'm here because your president asked me to talk to you," Paul said. "I didn't give him your name. He must have gotten it from Elder Crogan." "I suspected that." "Are you in trouble?" "My supervisor's...peeved. I've created an 'incident.' She's afraid it'll be bad p.r. for the Corps. It's not the end of the world, though. I'm not likely to get shipped home because of it." Not like me. "Anyway, your president called the Peace Corps office looking for me. And then my supervisor made a bunch of phone calls until she hunted me down. And then I called the number your president left with my supervisor. And he asked me to come talk to you, to try to convince you to talk to him." I brooded silently over my Coke. "He knows," Paul said. "I mean, he didn't come out and ask if you and I had been shacking up. But he did this whole spiel about how he didn't mean to invade my privacy, but he has an obligation to ensure that his missionaries are adequately representing the Church. Observing its moral standards. He's not as thick as Crogan." I still didn't say anything. I felt as if walls were closing in on me. "I didn't tell him anything. I said this was something he needed to talk about with you. And he said that you had refused to talk with him about it." Paul paused. "I get the impression he sincerely wants to help. He's really worried that you won't talk to him." "Yeah, sure he wants to help. He wants me to confess so they'll know exactly what to disfellowship or excommunicate me for." The intensity of my anger surprised me. "Are you sure that's what'll happen if you tell him?" Paul asked. "Not a shadow of a doubt." "What'll happen if you don't tell him?" "They'll send me home anyway. They just...won't know for sure what I've done to deserve to be sent home." I exhaled sharply in a kind of rueful laugh. "I'm screwed either way. I'll still be going home dishonorably. They won't let me back into BYU. I'll be a disgrace to my family. Just...not as big of one, this way." Neither of us spoke for a while. Then Paul said, "I guess I didn't really understand before. The situation. I thought there was some way you could... keep being a missionary. But if what you say is right, then it looks like the only choice you have is whether it's better for you to go home out or not." I'd never heard anyone use the word "out" the way he had, but I understood instinctively what he meant by it. "If you did come out," Paul continued, "what would your family do? I mean, would they...throw you out on the streets?" "I don't think so." I couldn't imagine it. It was an unsettling possibility, though--one I had not contemplated. "They might try to put me in...therapy or something." "Can they institutionalize you against your will, though? Since you're not a minor?" "I have no idea." I felt the conversation had taken a surreal turn. Where had this talk about being institutionalized come from? All I'd meant was that my parents might try to prevail upon to me to see a Church psychologist. I knew my parents wouldn't be thrilled to discover they had a homosexual son, but I couldn't imagine them committing me any more than I could imagine them putting me out on the streets. Paul was unnecessarily anticipating the worst. Which made me wonder: Was I unnecessarily anticipating the worst? Why was I so afraid of telling President Hill, or my parents, the truth? Like I'd told Paul, I was screwed whether I told them the truth or not. And honestly, how long did I think I could go on refusing to tell anyone, especially my family, why I'd been sent home early from my mission? I was hit with the absurdity--the childishness--of what I'd been trying to do. I was going to have to confess. To come "out," as Paul had put it. The realization terrified me. But there was no other way. I saw that clearly now. * * * "I'm sorry you're in this mess," Paul said. "It's not your fault." Immediately after I said it, I realized that Paul hadn't actually indicated he felt it was his fault. "I think it's the right choice, though," he continued. "In the end, things'll work out." And then, because I knew I was never going to see him again, I asked him...not all the questions I'd been wanting to. I was too shy, too afraid of exposing my ignorance. But I did get him to tell me his story, which for some time afterwards would be my only non- literary model for what life could look like for someone like me. When he was done, he said, "Can I ask you something?" "Sure." "Was this your first time?" I nodded. I felt ashamed admitting it. I wondered how he could tell. Had I done something wrong--or at least clumsily? Paul was looking at the tabletop; he, too, seemed embarrassed. "So you know: I'm HIV-negative, and everything we did was safe. We really should have talked about that before we did anything. Obviously the circumstances weren't really...well, not that I would ever regard that as a valid excuse coming from anyone else." He winced. "God, I'm a hypocrite. I guess I just feel like I have a professional obligation to urge you in the future to always talk with your sexual partners- -beforehand--about safe sex. And to practice it. Not that I modelled that for you. Talking about it, I mean. The way I should have." "It's okay." There was a highly charged silence after that, and I knew it was time to say goodbye. I wanted to say something eloquent. But I knew that if I tried, I would cry, and I didn't want to do that, not in the middle of the bar. So instead I said, "I should be getting back," and we each paid for our drinks, and the window of opportunity for a sentimental leave-taking closed. * * * Back on the sidewalk, I remembered that Paul's copy of Maurice was still in my suitcase at the mission home. I asked Paul if he'd like it back. "Yes, I would," he said. I was disappointed. I'd hoped he would tell me to keep it. That he might even add: "to remember me by." We walked back to the mission home. I turned Maurice back over to Paul. I'd hadn't expected more than a farewell handshake, but he pulled me in for a hug--a brief, awkward, irreproachable, strictly friendly hug. Then he let himself out of the mission home, and I never saw him again. * * * Sister Hill told me that President Hill had left instructions that if I wanted to talk to him, he could see me at the mission office immediately. I said I'd like to talk to him. Sister Hill made a phone call, and the APs came to take me back to the mission office. I felt terrified going in, but once I got started, the confession wasn't difficult; it propelled itself forward by its own momentum. When I was done, President Hill thanked me for trusting him, which struck me as an odd thing to say. He said he knew it must have been difficult for me to tell him what I'd told him. Then he told me that what I'd done was, of course, an extremely serious matter, affecting not only my own spiritual well-being, but also the success of the Lord's work in this country. If what I'd done became public knowledge, Barrio Nuevo would have to be closed to missionaries for several years, and the Church's image would be permanently damaged. He asked me if I felt repentant. "Not really," I said - -not intending to be rude, but too depleted to feign what he wanted to see. President Hill looked at me for a moment. He asked if I considered myself to be gay. I told him yes, which was the first time in my life I'd ever admitted that to anyone. Then he lectured me. He reminded me that our Heavenly Father has ordained that the sacred powers of procreation be used only between a man and a woman within the bonds of marriage. He urged me not to believe the lie that people are born homosexual and cannot change. Through the Atonement, the Savior has the power to change men's hearts; all our weaknesses can be made strong to us if we are willing to pay the price; God will not suffer us to be tempted above that we are able to bear. My spiritual well-being was in serious jeopardy, President Hill told me. I had violated sacred covenants. He reminded me of what we learned in the temple: that Satan has power over those who do not walk up to all the covenants they make at the temple altar. I needed to work with my stake president so he could help me through the repentance process. I was entering a period of my life that would either save me or destroy me, depending on my attitude and my willingness to submit to the will of the Lord. It occurred to me that I didn't have to take this, that I could simply get up and walk out of the room. But I didn't have the guts to do something that defiant. So I sat there, crouched behind a mental wall, waiting for him to run out of ammunition. I had to call my stake president, back in Utah, which I had not expected. We reached him at work; I was a little surprised that President Hill had the number. I didn't have the energy to repeat my entire confession - -not realizing I'd have to face this particular shame immediately, I hadn't prepared myself--so I told the stake president only that I was being sent home for violating the law of chastity. Then I had to pass the phone to President Hill. He told the stake president he'd call again to inform him of my travel plans as soon as they were ready. The stake president must have asked for more details about who I'd transgressed with, because at one point President Hill said, "A volunteer with the Peace Corps. A male volunteer. American." The stake president spoke for a while, with President Hill interjecting an occasional "Yes," or "Right," and finally, "Call LDS Social Services. They'll be able to tell you what he needs to do." He looked directly at me while they spoke, his face clinically impassive. I resented having to listen to them "discuss my case" like this. I did not have to call my parents. I was not allowed to call my parents. This, too, I had not expected. But President Hill explained that until I reported home to my stake president and was formally released, I was still under mission rules, including the rule about not calling home. My stake president would communicate with my parents; that way, information passed through the proper channels. The stake president would make sure my parents knew to meet me at the airport. President Hill did not say--and I did not ask--whether the stake president would also tell my parents why I was coming home early. * * * That afternoon, the APs took Elder Crogan away; he would finish out what little was left of his mission with Elder Ostler's companion. I would spend the night in the mission home. Arrangements had been made for Elder Ostler and me to fly out early the next morning. I had dinner that evening with President and Sister Hill--an awkward and largely silent occasion, despite Sister Hill's efforts to make conversation. I still wasn't sure how much she knew. President Hill wasn't unfriendly, but he was visibly uncomfortable, which I could understand. This was not the kind of farewell the Hills typically gave to their outgoing missionaries. I was going home dishonorably, and for doing something that I suspected President found distasteful at the very least. After dinner, Sister Hill asked me to help her feed Elder Ostler. He didn't resist as we propped him up into more of a sitting position, but when Sister Hill brought a spoonful of soup to his lips, he refused to cooperate. He didn't shake his head or clench his teeth. He just wouldn't open his mouth. Sister Hill handed me the bowl and spoon and put her around Elder Ostler's shoulders. "Elder," she said to him, "you need to eat something." She stroked his hair. "Elder Ostler," she said, her voice very soft, "it's all right. You're going to be okay." She paused. "President Hill and I love you very much." Elder Ostler's eyes teared up. When he blinked, a single tear dropped out of one eye and dribbled down his face. After a few moments, Sister Hill motioned me to bring the spoon back to Elder Ostler's lips. He opened his mouth and let us feed him, though except for the movement of his throat as he swallowed, he remained immobile. * * * Lying in bed that night, I fantasized about sneaking out of the house, making my way by public transit out to Barrio Nuevo, and knocking one last time on Paul's door. Of course, even if I'd had the courage to do it, and even assuming I could find buses running out to Barrio Nuevo this late, I wouldn't have been able to get out of the mission home. Both the bars covering the front door and the outer gate were padlocked. This was a standard security measure; but it meant that for all practical intents and purposes, I was a prisoner. I thought about Elder Langford. It made me furious to think that he had gotten away with...whatever had gone on between him and Francia. I hadn't said anything about Elder Langford and Francia to President Hill. I hadn't told President about Elder Langford's unaccompanied late-night jaunt to the capital. Nor had I told him about Elder Crogan's habitual peccadillos-- sleeping in, getting out late, coming back early, wasting time. Maliciously, I wished now that I had. * * * Sister Hill woke me up at four in the morning. Doctor Ford was on hand to prepare Elder Ostler for the trip home. I helped dress Elder Ostler in his missionary uniform. Then I assisted President Hill and Doctor Ford in a three-man carry to get Elder Ostler downstairs and into the mission van. At the airport, we put Elder Ostler in a wheelchair. Doctor Ford gave me instructions and a list of emergency phone numbers. Sister Hill said, "Thank you, Elder Seeley. It's very good of you to take responsibility for Elder Ostler. It's a great help to us and a great service to him." President agreed. He looked a little chastened, as if he realized that he ought to have thought to say what Sister Hill had said. So, I thought bitterly. I'm not good enough to be one of your missionaries. But I'm good enough to take care of one of them. To this day, I think of Sister Hill as one of the most genuinely Christlike people I've known. I still feel a dull, knee-jerk hatred for her husband. * * * Advance arrangements had been made, so at each airport there were people waiting to help me put Elder Ostler into a wheelchair and to take us to our next gate. Our layovers were long, though, and it was after ten p.m. when we finally landed in Salt Lake City. A man in a suit came on board, introducing himself to me as Brother Something-or-other from the Missionary Department. With him were two younger men dressed like nurses or paramedics. They set to work strapping Elder Ostler into a heavy duty wheelchair and hooking him up to an IV. The man from the Missionary Department told me, "You're done here, Elder Seeley. Thank you." His manner struck me as sour, which made me wonder if he knew not only my name but also why I'd been sent home. My parents were waiting for me when I came off the plane. My mother cried a little, though she was more poised than I'd imagined she would be. My father gave me an overly emphatic hug, no doubt hoping to convey unconditional love. But he didn't say much. "We love you," my mother told me. "We're going to do whatever we need to to help you through this. President Lindstrom"--the stake president--"gave us a number to call. The Church has professionals who work with this." So they knew. Or at least it had been explained to them in the Church's terms. It was a relief not to have to tell them myself. At the same time, I felt as if I'd been stripped naked in front of them. We lived in South Jordan. In the car, on the freeway, my mother told me that they'd "explained the situation" to my married sister, Liz. However, my teenaged brother Chris knew only that I was coming home early; they hadn't told him the reason. "He didn't come to the airport because he had to work tonight, and he'll probably be in bed when we get in home. But we need to figure out what we're going to tell him." "We don't have to tell him anything," my father said. His voice had a sharp edge. "Tim is home because of personal difficulties. I still don't understand why you had to tell Liz. Tim was having emotional difficulties. It's stress. It doesn't mean...what you're all making it out to mean." My father glanced in the rearview mirror, looking for confirmation from me, I guessed. I looked quickly away. A very tense silence fell over the car. After a while, my mother told me that I needed to call President Lindstrom in the morning. He would formally release me from missionary service and tell me "what needed to happen next." She meant Church discipline, of course. I looked out the window at the broad field of mercury lights that was the Salt Lake valley. I'd defied Elder Crogan and President Hill, at least at first. Could I find the courage to defy my parents and the stake president--to refuse to participate in the Church's disciplinary process? I had no desire to call the stake president tomorrow. I had no desire to walk into church this Sunday to face everyone's studiously non-judgmental greetings while they fished for rumors about my return behind my back. I had no desire to try to explain myself to the high council during a church court. I certainly had no desire to meet with the "professionals" the stake president had referred my parents to. I wanted to find a job and get my own apartment. I needed to figure out what to do about school, since I wouldn't be returning to BYU. And I wanted to figure out how to meet other gay people in Utah. * * * My room looked exactly as I'd left it. It made me feel as I were in one of those stories where someone stumbles into another world and then, after fantastic adventures, returns to find that no time at all has passed. I took off my suit coat and sat on the edge of my bed. I eased myself wearily onto my back, my feet still planted on the floor. I was hungry. My mother had offered to heat me up leftovers from dinner; but I couldn't bear to spend any more time with my parents, so I'd told her I was fine, and they'd gone to bed. At this very moment, my mother was probably kneeling by her bed upstairs, in her nightgown, praying for me. I looked up to see Chris standing in my bedroom doorway, blinking sleepily. "Welcome home," he said. I made a "Hey" noise in reply. Chris looked ganglier than when I'd left, and his voice was deeper. "You OK?" I felt an impulse to tell him--to come out. But my nerve failed me. I retreated to euphemism: "I broke the law of chastity." He nodded. "I figured that's probably what it was. I need to get back to bed. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?" "Sure." I asked Chris to turn off my light as he withdrew. I stretched out on top of the bed, fully clothed--white shirt, tie, shoes, everything except my suit coat and missionary badge, which hung over the back of my desk chair. I put my arms down by my side and looked up towards the ceiling, the way Elder Ostler had done. I paid attention to my breathing, the slight whining sound the air made as it passed in and out of my nostrils. I thought it would be nice to be in Elder Ostler's shoes right now, cloistered in a hospital room somewhere, cared for by solicitous hands, sheltered from choices and their consequences. The future loomed in front of me, as dark and empty as the space between me and the ceiling. It was empty, but it was mine. It was up to me to decide how to fill that space. This was the burden I had chosen to bear. Still, I couldn't help but wish that I was back in Barrio Nuevo, with Paul. I wished I didn't have to lie in the dark alone. ------------------------------------------------------ Send feedback to the author at lrglmear@attbi.com. ------------------------------------------------------