The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (18 page)

In the privacy of my cubicle, I
labored on
th
is
tedious process
of c
ross-searching
Medal of Honor recipients,
dates of death,
and wives’ name
s
and status. When a
match popped up, I pulled
up
the personal file
on my screen
and saved it to the floppy dis
k
. The
pension
records
went back only to the beginning of World War II
, but I assumed
all previous
honorees and their wives were all dead
.
M
y regular work
wasn’t very demanding, and
I kept
working on
the Medal of Honor
list
on
and
off for the rest of the week. But on
Thursday
, a familiar date appeared
in my search
:
February 28, 1991.

I knew this date!

I sa
t back and shut my eyes
against the sudden
inferno of memories—
the hail of bullets from behind the Arab women,
the Red Cross team
sprawled
on the road
in bloodied white coats,
my
own
body perforated and bleeding,
the chopper
appearing over the school like a guardi
a
n angel
.

I attempted to
chase
off
the
storm of
memories
, but
failed
.
I could see the dark-eyed captain
giving me a quick salute before
he
slipp
ed
in behind the wheel
. I saw
the
fuel
tanker, its rear on fire
as it roared away, up the street,
far enough to
blow up without
incinerating
us. I
imagined
the captain
burning
inside th
e driver’s
cabin
and
wondered
: Had
he
felt the explosion,
or was
he
knocked
unconscious
before realizing that
it was his time to die
? Had
he
seen
his uniform ignite into flames
,
or
had he
died
not knowing
that he
had
saved our lives
? Had the blast blinded him, or
had he seen
for himself
that
his sacred Jewish under
garment
had
failed to protect him
?

Chapter 21

“
What the hell! B
en!” Keera hurried down the stairs
and started pulling aside curtains and opening windows
. “Are you crazy?”

The
sudden yelling tore Ben off the
small
screen, and h
e stood up, watching Keera
go around the living room and kitchen area until she was done opening all the windows. He was still standing there, disoriented, when she came over to him, tore the cigarette from his hand, a
nd went to the sink where
she
dropped
the burning stub
in the drain hole and ran the
waste disposal unit
long enough to liquefy a whole watermelon.

“I’m going to kill you!” She waved her hands in the air as if spreading the smoke would help. “How can you do this to me?”

He shuddered in the sudden cold. “I didn’t
mean it
, d
idn’t notice I was—
”

“
D
idn’t notice lighting up a cigarette? Inside our home? After all your promises?”

He shook his head.

She pulled the throw-blanket off the sofa and wrapped herself.
“Did you notice buying
this Marlboro
?”

“I’ve had it since
—
”

“Since you promised to quit?”

“I did quit.”

“
Okay, Mr. Reporter. Let’s review the facts.
”

“It wasn’t a conscious thing.
I was reading and—
”

“A burning cigarett
e appeared between your fingers?” Keera pantomimed drawing from a joint
. “Have you switched to writing fiction?”

Ben dropped back into the easy chair while she
went to the powder room and came out with a can of flowery aerosol, which she started to spray around.

“It’s going to smell like a bathroom here.”

“Better than
a nightclub
.” She looked at her watch. “It’s
one
thirty
in the morning!”

“I said I’m sorry.
I’ve kept what’s left of the last pack in my
camera
bag
since I quit. Never touched it in all those months
.
”

She sat next to him. “You really didn’t notice lighting up?”

“I swear.”
He took her hand. “
Why would I do it here, knowing how you hate it
?
I’m not suicidal.
”

“Good point.” She looked at the
iPhone
in his hand. “
Still reading?
What’s going on?”

He sighed. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Tell me.”

“Tomorrow.
G
o to sleep.”
He grabbed the Marlboro pack from the coffee table
and tossed it in the garbage
. “
There
. It’s over. Promise.”

They
held each other.

Keera slipped her hands under his shirt.

He pulled them out and led her to the stairs. “
Don’t you have to be in the hospital at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning?
”

She purred, making him laugh.

Chapter 22

Z.H. Journal Entry # 9
:

On Thursday
, the
evening
before Veterans Day
, I
drove
to Bishop Morgan
’s
home
and gave him a
floppy disk containing the
two lists
. O
ne
list had
over
a
thousand
names
,
but the
second
list was
much
short
er, containing the names
of the heroes who
had
won more than one Medal of Honor.
He
asked if the
two
list
s in total
included all the
names of
Medal of Honor recipients
since 1917
, and I nodded. He
held
my hand between his hands
and recited
a
lengthy
blessing for
my
good healt
h and joy in
my
growing family
, as well as success in my government job, my service to the church, and my relationship with God
.

I went home
feeling terrible
despite the B
ishop’s blessings, which I had earned through deceit
,
born of my need to cover up my even worse sin—
failing to do what he had told me to do, which was like disobeying God.

Our youngest
, Maxine,
was colicky
,
the other
s
were
suffering
a
winter cold,
and Palmyra was too tired and irate to
hear about
my agonizing turmoil
over
the sin
s
of lying and disobedience
I had knowingly committed.

That night, s
leep came only after I took an extra
pill
. B
ut sometime during the night
,
I awoke to find Palmyra shaking my shoulder. She said that I had been yelling incoherently.
Paul
and
Gilead
appeared in
our bedroom door in their pajamas
, their eyes
wid
e
. I apologized, explaining that I must have been dreaming about the war. We calmed them down
, gave them each a dose of bubblegum Motrin, and put them back to sleep.

Having drenched myself with sweat, I too
k a shower and returned to bed.

Palmyra was nursing
Maxine
in the rocking chair
. She asked me what was wrong.

I
told her
that
I had
disobeyed the bishop’s instructions and
had
lied to him about it.

She was as loving and as understanding as any good
Mormon
wife would be,
but also
clear in her
desire
that
I
c
onfess to Bishop Morgan
,
repent
,
and
obtain
absolution
.

In the morning, as I was eating br
eakfast with the children, Palmy
ra asked when I would be calling Bishop Morgan. My response, that I wasn’t going to confess, shocked her.
She pulled me away from the kitchen table and whispered urgently
, “
You must talk to Bishop Morgan! Disobedience is a terrible sin!
”
I explained that it would be a bigger sin to betray the Marine
c
aptain who had saved my life not once, but twice.
Whatever level of afterlife his soul was
occupying
, I knew he
surely would not accept the
Mormon Gospel
, and th
erefore his posthumous baptism
w
ould be a needless insult to his memory and his soul
.
I didn’t think God wanted me to do it.

Palmyra wasn’t convin
ced. “God wants you to obey Bishop Morgan
!
”
S
he wip
ed
away
tears.
“That’s the truth!”

A
couple of
hour
s
later,
while
I was
already at the Department of Veterans Affairs, busy on
a crossword puzzle at my desk, a hand-delivered envelop
e
arrived
from Nibberworth
Investment
Bank.
Inside was the
floppy
disk I had given to Bishop Morgan
the previous night
.
He had scribbled a note on the disk in
his
familiar,
tidy handwriting:

Brother
Zachariah,

God
sympathize
s
w
ith
your
righteous
dilemma
and good intentions
.

However, y
our heart knows th
is:
Lies + Disobedience = Sin.

The l
ist
must include ALL Medal of Honor
recipients.

Joseph S. Morgan, IV

My body started trembling
. Exposure as a fa
llen
Saint
who
had disobeyed and
lied to his bishop was an offense that could lead to
p
unishment, or even a trial
and
excommunication, resulting in loss of m
y family and all my friends
, not to mention my eternal salvation
.