Date: Fri, 17 Jan 2003 13:50:13 -0700
From: lrglmear <lrglmear@attbi.com>
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.


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