Burned Page 3

  hold, tug hard, and allow

  them to enter heaven.

  As I sat through that sacrament

  meeting, observing those women

  smile and nod and kowtow,

  my warped little mind

  wondered if any of them ever

  dreamed about really hot guys.

  Somehow, I Couldn’t Reconcile

  Any of the LDS viewpoint

  with a “wake up, tingly all

  over, and bathed in a cool

  sheen of sweat” kind of dream.

  I considered talking to Jackie

  about it. We were really each

  other’s best friends.

  What else could we be?

  Thick as mud, Mom always

  said, and why not?

  We shared siblings,

  cohabited a double bed,

  confided concerns,

  divvied responsibilities.

  Traded secrets.

  Plotted the future.

  Besides, who else

  but my closest sister

  could understand

  the uncertainty of our lives?

  Still, I was pretty sure

  she couldn’t relate

  to spicy dreams about

  Justin Proud.

  Mom was out. Jackie

  was out. I tried to

  think of a friend who

  might understand.

  Oh Yes

  I had a few friends,

  upstanding Mormon girls all.

  Becca and Emily

  lived just around the corner.

  We’d known each other

  since primary, and

  before too many sisters

  made it nearly impossible,

  we used to play together.

  In grade school we walked

  to the bus together, sat as if glued

  together, giggled together.

  Confided hopes and dreams.

  But our moms knew each

  other, our dads held

  church callings together.

  Once things at the Von Stratten

  house started to dive south,

  I didn’t dare talk to Becca

  or Emily about them.

  Once baby detail fell more

  and more to me, I didn’t

  have time for outside activities.

  Becca played outstanding

  soccer. Emily sang outstanding

  soprano. I was an outstanding

  diaper-changing machine.

  So we’d chat a bit at church,

  walk to class together,

  discuss a hunk du jour,

  without believing he might

  ever belong to any of us.

  Sometimes we’d go to church

  activities together, but in

  the final analysis, we had

  very little in common.

  Not like Jackie and me,

  who had almost everything

  in common and no secret

  worth keeping from each

  other. At least not then.

  But Neither Becca

  Nor Emily could possibly

  answer my questions about

  maintaining all manner of decency

  while a person dreams.

  So I decided to pose the question in seminary.

  Wait. Do you know about seminary?

  See, come high school, Latter-Day

  teenagers spend an hour each weekday

  morning, before the first bell rings,

  being reminded of Who We Are.

  We met at Brother Prior’s house.

  Dad drove me on his way to work.

  Afterward, I could walk to school

  with other good Mormon kids,

  the “right kind” to have as friends.

  Brother Prior repeated scriptures,

  though we’d heard them a thousand

  times already. It was his job to reinforce

  our values and keep our testimony strong.

  He did not encourage hard questions.

  Once, after one of Dad’s really bad

  Saturday nights left Mom too battered to chance

  Sunday services, I arrived at Brother Prior’s

  on Monday morning, weighted heavily.

  I didn’t hear more than a select few words:

  respect…

  expect…

  require…

  Finally, I jumped up. “Excuse me,

  Brother Prior, but is it okay for a man to…”

  Nine of my peers turned and I caught

  something strange in their eyes,

  something…

  knowing.

  Did They Know

  About Dad and his deepening

  relationship with Johnnie

  Walker Black scotch whiskey?

  How, despite the church’s

  prohibition of all things alcoholic,

  he only drank more and more?

  Did they know why Mom rarely

  left the house and often wore

  dark glasses to services?

  How she never said a word,

  and neither did we, though

  we knew we really should?

  How, no matter what happened

  the night before, the next day Mom

  and Dad would be tandem in bed?

  How Jackie and I would get up,

  straighten up, dress the little ones

  and take them outside to play?

  Did they know how maybe once

  a year Dad would confess to

  the bishop, promise to do better?

  Or how every time he fell

  back off the wagon his rage

  only seemed to grow deeper?

  I tried to find answers in their

  eyes. But all I found behind

  their blinks were blank walls.

  I couldn’t cough out the rest

  of my question. Instead I decided

  to look like a total dolt.

  “…Never mind. I forgot

  what I was going to say.

  It wasn’t important, anyway.”

  Later, However

  My cowardice came back to haunt me,

  wrapped in Mom’s muffled screams.

  And now, the dream thing preyed on my mind.

  I’d never been so impressed by a dream.

  I mean, it wasn’t a nightmare, not at all.

  But its honesty ran chills down my spine.

  Was it really something I wanted, deep down?

  Would I rot in the grave because I wanted it?

  So I stood up and dared to ask Brother Prior,

  “Are we responsible for our dreams?”

  Serena’s jaw dropped. Marla giggled.

  Mike and Trevor poked each other.

  Brother Prior looked completely perplexed.

  I’m sure I don’t know what

  you mean, Pattyn. Let’s get back

  to our scriptures, shall we?

  Maybe It Was the “Shall”

  Maybe it was just his obnoxious tone,

  but I decided not to let it drop.

  “But are we? I mean, if we dream,

  let’s say, about killing someone,

  will God hold us responsible?”

  Did you dream about

  killing someone?

  “No…” I fixed my eyes on his.

  “…but I did dream about sex.”

  The girls gasped. The boys laughed.

  Brother Prior turned the color

  of Mom’s rhubarb-cherry pie.

  Uh. Um. Well, that’s fairly

  normal for someone your age.

  “What do you mean, ‘fairly’?

  And how does God feel about it?”

  I was center stage, everyone

  waiting to see what came next.

  But for once I didn’t care.

  Uh. Um. Well, I can’t really

  speak for God, Pa
ttyn.

  “Really?” Then what, exactly,

  was I sitting there for?

  Journal Entry, March 23

  Brother Prior is an idiot. And I’m

  supposed to swallow his garbage

  like it doesn’t even taste bad.

  Well, it stinks! Ask him about

  Joseph Smith, he can recite

  an entire oral history.

  Ask him about dreams,

  he pretends like he

  doesn’t have them.

  Ask him about God…

  I’m not sure he even believes

  God exists.

  Do I?

  Does Mom?

  Does Dad? I mean, really?

  I know his past haunts him.

  But if he truly believes

  he and God are brothers,

  meant to live together

  in the Great Beyond,

  can’t he ask for a hand,

  a way to silence his ghosts,

  without Johnnie WB?

  Or is his drinking sin

  enough to make his Heavenly

  Sibling turn His back?

  The Next Day in Chemistry Lab

  Mr. Trotter partnered

  me with Tiffany Grant.

  Her style was low-ride

  jeans, belly-baring tops

  and designer tennis shoes.

  Oh good, she cooed. I get

  the smart one. Guess I won’t

  start any fires today.

  Tiffany and Bunsen

  burners were incompatible.

  One time she singed the ends

  of her perfect hazelnut hair.

  My life was in danger!

  Tiffany poured water

  into a beaker. You light

  the burner, Pat.

  Pat? That’s what you did

  to a dog’s head. Part of me

  wanted to say something

  nasty. The cautious part won

  out. “Please call me Pattyn.”

  That’s actually a pretty name.

  Her carrot-colored fingernails

  tapped against the counter.

  Actually? As I added salt

  to the beaker, Mr. Trotter

  stepped out of the room.

  Not two minutes later, guess

  who walked through the door?

  Justin Sauntered Over

  Totally

  defining the word

  “saunter.” For

  one completely

  insane

  minute, I forgot

  about my lab

  partner and actually

  thought

  he was coming

  over to talk to me.

  A fine, prickly

  mist

  of sweat broke

  out all over my body,

  chilled by a jolt of

  reality.

  Justin barely glanced

  at me before turning

  to Tiffany.

  Hey, gorgeous.

  Still on for Saturday?

  Zap!

  I was

  nobody. So

  why would I think

  he wanted to talk to me?

  And why wouldn’t he want

  to talk to Tiffany, who had

  everything I would never have:

  beauty, money, confidence (okay, conceit)?

  Justin

  slid his arm

  around her tiny

  waist, walked his long

  fingers along her exposed

  skin. I couldn’t keep from watching

  out of the corner of one eye, jealousy

  seeping from my pores, sourdough perfume.

  Tiffany

  pretended to be

  offended. “Stop it,

  Justin. Everybody’s

  watching. And what if Mr.

  Trotter comes back right now?”

  But she didn’t try to move his hand

  and in fact, curled tighter against his torso.

  Zap!

  I was nobody.

  Someday, would

  another nobody slide his

  arm around my substantial waist,

  walk his hand up under my homemade

  blouse? And would I draw back into the curve

  of him, close my eyes, and take pleasure in his heat?

  Daydreams Bite

  At least in chemistry lab.

  As my body broke out

  in a bone-chilling sweat,

  Mr. Trotter snuck up behind me.

  Don’t add the oil yet, Pattyn.

  Pay attention!

  I jumped, knocking over

  the beaker of salt water,

  with an oil float.

  Exxon Valdez in miniature!

  I’m surprised, Pattyn.

  Usually you’re so careful.

  Usually I wasn’t confronted

  by sex dreams in the flesh;

  living, breathing sex dreams,

  with a Tiffany twist.

  Clean up your mess. Then

  perhaps you’d better start over.

  I turned to apologize to my lab

  partner, but she and Justin

  had slipped out the door, no doubt

  before Mr. Trotter returned.

  Timing is everything.

  Timing Was Poor

  The next afternoon—Friday

  afternoon. Mom asked me

  to run out back to the storage

  shed to get a jar of spaghetti sauce

  from our stash of emergency supplies.

  Imagine, storing enough

  food and water to nurture a family

  of nine for a year, “when the shit

  hit the fan and it all came crashing down.”

  Another Latter-Day Saints edict.

  Dad’s aged Subaru was already

  parked out back. Some Fridays he

  got off early from his job, working

  security at the state legislature.

  He saw it as a decent occupation,

  which paid the bills

  and provided insurance and retirement.

  I saw it as kind of boring most

  of the time, with the odd takedown

  to provide a rush of adrenaline

  and a blush of importance.

  Anyway, somewhere between stacks

  of batteries, boxes of bullets,

  and countless cans

  of tuna, Spam, and beans

  was Dad’s stash of Johnnie WB.

  Weeknights, he’d duck outside

  for an after-dinner belt. Just enough

  to allow sleep. But come Friday

  afternoon, he’d head straight for his

  good buddy Johnnie. They partied hearty.

  And the party had already started.

  As I Approached the Shed

  I heard his voice, thick

  as caramel on his tongue.

  Leave me alone. I

  can’t help you now.

  Part of me wanted to run.

  Part of me had to listen.

  Goddammit, Molly,

  go away. Please.

  Molly. His first wife.

  The true love of his life.

  I miss Dwight too,

  you know I do.

  Dwight, who carried soldier

  in his genes.

  I couldn’t tell him not

  to go, could I?

  Their first son, killed in a

  firefight in Somalia.

  What’s that? Fuck Douglas,

  the friggin’ fag.

  Their second son, until he

  came out of the closet.

  No, dammit. No son of mine

  will take it from another man.

  So he told him never to show

  his face nearby again.

  But you didn’t have to do

  what you did!

  One son dead, the other

  shunned, Molly folded.

&
nbsp; Don’t you know how

  much I miss you?

  Put a .357 into her mouth,

  pulled the trigger.

  Oh God, Molly,

  please stop crying.

  The Long Pause

  Told

  me it

  wasn’t

  Molly who

  was sobbing.

  I’d never heard

  my father cry

  before.

  How

  many

  times

  had I tried

  my best to hate

  that complicated

  man. But this

  tiny piece

  of me

  kept

  thinking

  back to another,

  happier time, when

  Mom loved Dad.

  And me. And

  Dad loved

  Mom.

  And

  me. At

  least as much

  as he could with

  that dead, cold space

  growing inside him,

  that place no

  amount

  of love

  could

  ever settle into.

  That impenetrable

  arctic land where his

  ghosts had carried

  his heart.

  I Sort of Remember

  Crawling up into Daddy’s lap,

  when Dad was still

  Daddy,

  nodding my head against

  his chest, soaking in

  the comfort of his heat,