Magdalene (9 page)

“Not exactly,” Mitch replied, straightening
to follow his son, ignoring the profanity. He heard it all day,
every day, especially when he went into the foundry and, moreover,
Trevor did too. Besides, this wasn’t the bishop’s house; it was the
house of a single father with a teenage son. Without a female
around, the males were bound to go feral at some point.

There were moments Mitch could barely keep
himself from dropping an f-bomb or two. It was only a point of
pride that kept him from swearing at all, ever; if he did, his
public persona might crack and that he couldn’t allow to
happen.

He entered the warm house behind Trevor and
took off his filthy winter clothes in the mudroom.

“You need to get laid,” Trevor yelled from
the kitchen.

Mitch barked a surprised laugh, and shook
his head as he threw his cleats in the laundry room, then entered
the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade out of the
refrigerator. Trevor leaned against the counter nursing his own
bottle. “That,” Mitch said after a long drink, “is true.”

The boy stared at Mitch, shocked.
“Serious?”

“I met a woman today.”

“Shit.”

“We had dinner.”

“Is she hot?”

He shrugged. “Not like you mean it, no.”

“I don’t even know what ‘hot’ is anymore,
anyway,” Trevor muttered, looking at the floor, an unhappy
expression on his face.

“What does that mean?” Mitch asked,
genuinely curious.

It took a long time for him to answer, which
was normal. Trevor usually chose his words with care. “Okay, like
Hayleigh Sitkaris.”

Mitch said nothing.

“She’s really cute. Actually, she’s
drop-dead gorgeous, but she’s so...needy.”

“Neediness comes in a lot of different
varieties,” Mitch found himself saying. “It’s not always a bad
thing.” All Hayleigh
needed
was a rabblerouser of a
boyfriend who’d stand up to her father—

“Yeah, but that’s not hot. Am I missing
something? At church, at school, there are a lot of guys who want
to go out with her, but she’s all about
me
.”

—which she apparently knew, since she kept
attempting to confide in Trevor in hopes he would take the hint—and
the job.

“Okay, so say she wasn’t needy. Would you
like her then?”

Trevor pursed his lips in thought. “I’d ask
her out.”

“Why do you think she’s needy?”

He glanced at Mitch warily. “You’ll think
I’m crazy.” Mitch shook his head, and Trevor took a deep breath.
“Her dad. He’s so awesome, right? He’s fun. He’s cool. He’s not all
about the rules all the time.” He stopped. “But there’s something
about him that’s not right. The way Hayleigh acts around him, it’s
totally different from the way she is, like, when she’s hanging
around me and Josh and Cordelia.”

Josh and Cordelia. The other two kids who
didn’t buy into Greg’s charm. Four teenagers out of thirty-eight.
They didn’t know why, either.

“Crazy, huh?”

“Not at all. But think back. Does she come
on to you? Does she act like she’s angling for anything other than
somebody to listen to her who won’t think
she’s
crazy?”

Trevor stared at the floor, silent for a
couple of seconds. “Well, yes and no,” he murmured. “It’s weird.
When Josh is around, it’s almost like she would rather be with him
than me, but— It’s like, she wants me to do something for her, but
won’t come out and say it.”

“Like...something only you can do that Josh
can’t, and if Josh could do it she wouldn’t be all about you?”

“Yeah, exactly. Weird.”

Not weird. Smart.

Josh didn’t have a trust fund he could use
to whisk Hayleigh away from her father, much less a full-time
union-wage job and his own investment portfolio to support her on.
Josh also didn’t have a father who could protect her from Greg.
Hayleigh wasn’t mercenary—she was confused and desperate to either
untangle her confusion or find an efficient, palatable way to get
away from its source.

Trevor had cash and Mitch had power.

It was more than Mitch had had when faced
with the same situation.

“You know what’s going on with her, don’t
you?” Trevor asked.

Mitch shrugged. “I have my suspicions.
Nothing concrete. It’d help if you paid attention to whatever she’s
trying to tell you. Then maybe you could pass it along to me if you
feel comfortable doing that.”

Trevor studied him a moment. “Okay,” he said
slowly. “I can do that.” He remained silent for a while, and Mitch
began to dread whatever would come out of his mouth. A long silence
like that meant Trevor was trying to decide how best to deliver bad
news.

“Dad, I don’t want to go to BYU.”

Mitch released a long whoosh of air. Was
that all? “Okay.” Easy enough. “I didn’t go to BYU and I never
expected you to. Where do you want to go?”

“NYU.”

Mitch would rather he go farther away from
home so he could feel truly independent, but it was Trevor’s money,
Trevor’s decision.

“And I don’t want to go on a mission.”

Mitch had expected that a year ago. “Why
not?” he asked, but he already knew. Trevor had spent a lot of time
with Sebastian over the last few years. Even though Mitch had known
the consequences of letting an impressionable teenager loose with a
libertine like Sebastian, Mitch had needed help desperately.

Sebastian was willing to step in where
Mina’s parents wouldn’t, Mitch’s parents couldn’t, and this—

“I don’t think I believe any of it, much
less enough to preach it for two years.”

—was the result.

Mitch had gambled his son’s religious
training and lost.

“Déjà vu all over again,” he said under his
breath, remembering the late nights, the arguments, the
anguish
of watching his best friend lose his faith, hurt,
angry, bewildered, and, ultimately, alone in a mire of doubt. Mitch
certainly wasn’t going down the “pray about it and you’ll know it’s
true” route again. That rarely worked anyway.

“What? No objections?”

“What am I supposed to say to that, Trevor?
You’ve always been expected to be a man, and you’ve grown into a
fine one, so I trust you’re capable of making your own
decisions.”

“I don’t want to embarrass you in front of
the ward.”

Mitch laughed. “I haven’t been embarrassed
about anything since I came home from my mission early.”

“Aw, c’mon, Dad. You were sick.”

That was the story, anyway.

I’ve been hearing things about you, Elder
Taight, Elder Hollander. The stock exchange? The Louvre? You’re not
here for the sightseeing, Elders. You’re here to work.

Have you seen our baptism numbers,
President?

Yes, Elder Hollander, I have. Impressive,
certainly, but I simply can’t ignore you two breaking the rules. I
know you two spent your last P-day in La Rive Gauche.

It was a P-day, President. Preparation day.
That was part of our preparation.

Don’t get smart alecky with me, Elder
Taight. I always knew you were trouble. And where are you getting
all the money I know you’ve been spending? You can’t afford half
the food that’s in your apartment.

No, Elders Hollander and Taight weren’t
blameless.

Sebastian had indeed dragged Mitch to the
stock exchange and museums on the sly, taught him about money and
art and philosophy, encouraged Mitch’s taste for subversive books
at the tiny bookselling stalls they found on their explorations of
Paris. Mitch ate well on Sebastian’s dime and didn’t beat his feet
to death walking everywhere because Sebastian made sure they had
the money to use the subway and, if they were desperate enough to
risk being found out, a taxi. Sebastian had taught him what it felt
like not to pinch every penny because he had to, and Mitch was only
too eager to take the mental and emotional respite his renegade
companion offered.

But they also worked hard and had the
numbers to prove it. It should have been enough.

You two need to figure out if you’re here to
work or if you’re here to mess around.

But President, we’re the second-highest
baptizing companionship in the mission.

I heard
you
the first time, Elder
Hollander, but you’re not listening to
me
. It doesn’t excuse
either of you. You and Elder Taight here, birds of a feather,
shirking your duty. I’m sure your parents are very proud, but
then...the
Church
is paying for your missions, right?
Because your
parents
can’t? So they don’t have any real
investment in how you do here. Weak, both of you.

The mission president’s insults had stunned
Mitch into silence, but not his companion.

Oh, fuck you, President. You wouldn’t know
weak if it crawled up your ass and died.

Elder Taight! Your language!

Maybe you should worry less about my
language and my food and my going to the stock exchange, and more
about your two lily-white
rich
zone leaders out fucking
every pretty girl they can find. That’s against mission rules too,
right? I never hear about
them
getting called on the carpet.
Put our stats up against any other companionship in the mission and
you’ll see who’s fucking around and who’s not. C’mon, Elder. Let’s
go back to tracting, like we’re
supposed
to. Like we
were
doing when we got hauled in here. Totally bogus.

Mitch had walked out of the mission
president’s office nauseated, ashamed of whatever weakness that had
made him sit there and take it. His transfer orders had arrived the
next day, as had Sebastian’s. No, the mission president couldn’t
let a companionship like Elders Taight and Hollander exist; their
hard work made everybody else look bad.

Just like working for the government. I’m
blowing this popsicle stand and going to Spain. Come with me and we
can see Europe like it’s supposed to be seen.

No, I have to do this. I want to make my
parents proud.

Proud? Of what? Bending over? This is
shooting fish in a barrel, and
we’re
the fish.

My brother didn’t have these problems.
Your cousins aren’t having these problems. It’s just
this
mission.

So what? It doesn’t change
our
situation.

My dad says when you’re going through heck,
keep going.

Yeah, Mitch, you know what? There’s this
thing called strategic retreat. Why are you letting a prick like
that judge us worthy or not?
He’s
the one with the problem,
not you. Not me. We’re doing what we came here to do, what we said
we’d do. That’s all the Lord cares about. You can’t tell me you
believe the Lord depends on that asshole to tell him whether we’re
worthy or not.

I don’t. I can deal with it.

Mitch had been assigned to Elder Snow, and
he didn’t think it was a coincidence that Elder Snow was considered
the “cleaner” of the mission. An extraordinarily high number of
missionaries who were assigned with Elder Snow went home early.

Mitch’s weary disappointment that a quarter
of the mission’s elders were partying grew to anger, then rage,
under Elder Snow’s abuse.

The guy never slept. He kept the lights on
and made noise so Mitch couldn’t sleep, taunted him relentlessly,
ate all the food, and stole what little money Mitch had.

Turn the other cheek. Turn the other cheek
turn theothercheekturntheotherche—

Elder Hollander, did you hear me? Oh, no
wonder you’re such a retard. Just a steel worker, like your old
man. Do you even know how to read?

What would Jesus do? What would Jesus do
what wouldjesusdowhatwo—

It
was
true that after two months
with Elder Snow, Mitch had grown ulcers so severe he should’ve been
in the hospital, but that wouldn’t have gotten him sent home.

Always keep your cool, Son. Honorable men
let it roll off their backs.

It was the day Mitch had managed to slip his
jailer and find a street vendor a few blocks away where he’d spent
the last of his stipend on a crêpe filled with cheese and sausage
that sealed his fate. Mitch had watched in horror as Elder Snow
snatched the crêpe out of his hands and tossed it in the Seine with
a victorious smirk.

Mitch had thrown the first punch.

And the second.

And the third, fourth, and fifth until Elder
Snow was curled up on the concrete, protecting his head, sobbing
and pleading for mercy.

The mission president hadn’t been any
happier with Elder Snow (for having botched the job) than he was
with Elder Hollander (for not groveling for mercy from Elder Snow).
But Mitch had a weapon: his journal, loaded with every detail of
the mission and his tenure with Elder Snow. He would not bend over
one more time.

President, you send me home with a
dishonorable release, and I’ll make sure the General Authorities
hear about this mission.

You can’t threaten me.

Try me.

Mitch knew that if he hadn’t been so ill, so
emaciated and clearly exhausted, President Bates would’ve called
his bluff—but all Mitch had to do was drop his journal in the mail
to Salt Lake and head to the hospital. Mitch had backed the man
into a corner until he’d agreed to a medical release.

It was easy for people to buy that. Mitch’s
father had taken one look at him and driven him straight from the
airport to the hospital, where Mitch had spent a couple of
weeks.

Yo, Elder. Did you hear about President
Bates?

Sebastian, you’re calling me from
Europe?

Yeah. They reorganized the mission just
after you left, and sent Bates home. Apparently, you and I weren’t
the only ones kicking some ass and getting kicked back. It’s a big
scandal.

That had twisted the knife even deeper.

Not even Sebastian knew the real reason why
Mitch had come home early. Sebastian would have crowed and praised
him, but Mitch didn’t want praise. He was ashamed. Ashamed for
letting Elder Snow get under his skin, for cracking, for losing
control. And if Mitch had had a little more faith—in himself, in
the Lord—if he’d waited it out...