The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (15 page)

Meanwhile Palmy
ra took care of
Paul
and
,
after I
started
coming home for weekends,
became
preg
nant again.

T
hrough it all, not only
did
Palmy
ra’s immediate family help
us
, but
all the
members of
the
Silver Spring
Ward
stepped forward
to support us
in every respect
. Brothers and sisters we barely knew began to bring over
home-cooked
meals,
provide
transportation and childcare
, and pay our bills
. They took
Palm
y
ra and
Paul
o
n trips to the museums in DC and on vacations
to Florida
.
And they set up a hospital rotation
. After every one of my
numerous surgeries
, I found
a ward member sitting by my bed
, smiling at me, squeezing my arm with affectionate encouragement
.
Even my mental ups and downs at
the hospital
did not scare them, or the hellish months of forcing my legs to carry my weight again, or when nightmares left me trembling from horror and in a cold sweat.
It was during those awful months of physical pain and mental agony that I truly understood why
we,
the
Mormons, call each other brother and sister.

A year later
I was
honorably
discharged
from
the
service
and
moved back into our small apartment
. Ou
r
second child,
Martha
, arrived
without a hitch, and
I
started taking computer
science
classes
at
the University of
Maryland in
College Park.
I was finally back to normal life, enjoying my wife and adorable children.
My pain level was manageable,
I
worked out to regain stre
ng
th
,
and my mind grew calmer.
Having earned top grades in my first term, I registered for a full load as a regular student, aiming to graduate in less than three years.

Meanwhile, like all men in
the Mormon C
hurch, I resumed my priesthood duties, taking part in ward activities, such as teaching, officiating at
children’s
baptisms, and ministering to families in distress.

Once a week, I volunteered at the
Washington
DC Mormon Temple, serving as a proxy in receiving endowments for the dead—the second part of the sacred process
of baptizing into the church
. The first part—the
immersion in the great
baptism
al bath
—was usually
assigned to
young men who had enough stamina to
submerge
repeatedly as proxy
for the dead, whose names were called by the officiating Saint
. The
lists
were
prepared by church investigators
—experts
who
roamed the world to find and
extract identities of deceased
persons who had been deprived of knowledge of the True Church during their
mortal
lives
on
E
arth
. At that time, in the early nineties,
the
Lord rewarded
our
efforts
with
discover
i
es of
hundreds of thousands of
Holocaust victims’ names
in neglected records.
It
gave me a wonderful feeling
to help save those
poor
souls through baptism
s
and ordinances so that they could
accept the Gospel of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the afterlife and
win
admi
ssion
to the Celestial Kingdom of God
.

Studying full-time
at the university was especially rewarding. It
gave me structure
, which
I had
gotten used to in the Marines and, before that, during my New York mission. I enjoyed
the mental
and intellectual
focus
, which
substitute
d
for the distressing memories that continued to haunt me. It also helped to be
surrounded by young men and women who had not experi
enced war, who had not felt the stunning punch of a nearby explosion or smelled the nauseating stench of rotting human flesh.

But
during a family dinner at my in-laws, Palmyra’s dad
took me aside and suggested that I
drop out of school
and
take a full-time
job.
He
had already taken the liberty
of asking
a
colleague
at the US Attorney General
’s
Office
to
contact a
Saint
who
held a high position at the US Department of Veterans Affairs, where a job
had
opened in
the records division
that
“involved computers.”

Because
my father-in-law
presented th
is
as merely
an opportunity for m
e to
consider, I
declined
for the simple reason that studying computer science had been my aspiration even before enlisting in the Marine Corps, and now that the government was paying
my tuition
, there was every re
ason for me to stay the course.

When I told Palmyra about the conversation
and my decision to stay in school
, she surprised me by
urging me to reconsider
. A
well-paying job with
full benefits was a good idea in her opinion,
while
she
took care of our home and kids
. “You’re smart,” she said, “you can fig
ure out computers by yourself.”

I spent a whole evening explaining to her my desire to
earn a c
ollege
degree, not only for the knowledge and the pleasures of learning and discovering, but also for the credibility and status that a degree would confer. I
went to sleep assuming the issue was
laid to rest
.

A
couple of
weeks
later,
the wife of our
new
bishop invited
Palmy
ra
,
me
,
and
our
two kids
to
dinner
at their home.

Bishop Morgan
, who had taken over the volunteer bishop position from my father
-
in
-
law (who in turn rose to State President of our region),
lived
near us in Silver Spring.
He was selected for the
lay leader
ship
by
the
church authorities
after proving himself as a devout S
aint and a successful businessma
n
.
As part of his responsibilities, the bishop met with each family in his ward a few time
s
each
year to take stock of our spiritual and communal lives
and verify that we tithe to the church ten
percent of our earnings, as required.
We assume
d
this was the purpose of the dinner invitation.

The house was unlike anything we’
d
seen before—a massive redbrick residence, surrounded by lush grounds and tall trees.
With Christmas approaching,
the long driveway
was li
ned
with
candle-like lights
.

Joseph
Morgan was a charming man
, about
forty
-five
,
with a blond wife and six beautiful children. I knew he was a business
executive in a large investment bank
, but had no idea he was so
wealthy
.

We began dinner with a prayer of than
ks, which the bishop concluded:
“We are especially grateful that
B
rother Zachariah has recovered from his wounds and
has resumed civilian life with grace and success
. We pray that his
life
continue
s
to be blessed
with great joy in his
celestial
marriage,
his
children, and h
is work for the True C
hurch, as he continues to progress spiritually in the priesthood
toward exaltation
.”

After dinner,
the women cleaned up
,
and
he
invited
me into the library
.
A glass-fronted wall of shelves held precious volumes, a collection of classic books that the bishop’s grandfather had started to accumulate a century ago. Bishop Morgan pointed out a section that included first editions of all of Joseph Smith’s works, autographed by the prophet himself with personal dedications to family members and close supporters.

We
sat in oversized leather chairs
before an unlit fireplace
,
sipped
hot
cider
,
and discussed the
recent
election of
Bill Clinton, the young governor of Arkansas
, as president
. Bishop Morgan spoke with indignation about the Democratic Party’s audacity in
pitting
the
pot-smoking, draft-dodging
,
serial
womaniz
ing
Clinton
against
the
incumbent president
.
W
e both agreed that
the American public ha
d
lost its moral compass, electing Clinton in lieu of
the
more
experienced Bush
—
a former CIA
d
irector and
v
ice
p
resident,
who
se
first term
had
included throwing the Iraqis out of
Kuwait
after forming an unprecedented international coalition. “
I am confident
,” Bishop Morgan declared, “
that
Bill Clinton
’s presidency will prove to be the
absolute
worst
presidency
in American history
!”

From this dire prediction about Clinton’s future, Bishop Morgan
switched to discussing my future
. “The C
hurch
needs
you,” he said, “to take th
e
job at Veterans Affairs.”

His words felt like a body blow. A bishop
has the final word on
all the affairs of the ward
and its members
, including family and private matters
. H
e
determine
s
who deserves to hold a
Temple Recommend
Card enabling entry and participation
in the sacred rituals
, appoints
all the ward clergy and leadership
staff,
arbitrates marital and family disputes,
and disciplines those who
sin against the C
hurch
or fellow Saints
in words
,
deeds
, or disobedience
.
In
other words, he speaks for the C
hurch and, therefore, he speaks for God.