The Righteous (8 page)

After fleeing his brother and sister, Enoch had made his way to Gideon’s apartment, located just minutes away by foot. Gideon was not there, but he found Elder Kimball waiting. The man wore a suit and tie, as if he’d just come from priesthood meeting. Enoch was acutely aware of the lingering smell of vomit that hung about his own clothes.

Elder Kimball took him by the arm. “Come inside, Brother Christianson. You look like you need a blessing.”

Enoch let Elder Kimball lead him into the front room and to a chair. “I shouldn’t have talked to him,” he said, repeating the apology from his earlier phone call. “I’m sorry. I knew it. I knew there was something wrong.”

“Don’t worry, Enoch. You did the right thing in the end.”

Enoch still wrestled with doubts. “Are you sure?”

“The prophet has looked in Jacob’s soul, Enoch. There is a dark countenance resting there. He has been deceived by the Adversary. You did the right thing.”

So what? How would they turn Jacob away? Amanda Kimball was dead. Is that what they intended? Kill him?

Elder Kimball placed his hands on Enoch’s head. “Enoch Nephi Christianson,” the blessing began. “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the authority of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I lay my hands upon your head.”

The power of the priesthood flowed into Enoch’s body through Elder Kimball’s hands. Enoch had been cursed, excommunicated, and driven from Zion. Now he was restored.

On that night when Father had driven him from Harmony, Enoch had laid down on the train tracks south of Boise, Idaho. The train would come, churn his intestines into soup, pulverize his spine, and rend his spirit from his body. They had withdrawn his blessings and condemned his soul to Outer Darkness.

The night had been cool. The rail ties pushed against his back. The cold metal of the rail pressed into his cheek. The rail hummed with a distant, nervous energy. The vibrations of a train, still too distant to hear.

The depression was a black howling in his ears. A self-loathing so deep that he wanted to punish himself. He wanted to feel the pain, at least for a few seconds, as ten thousand tons of freight train ripped him to shreds. The remains would be unrecognizable, just tattered flesh and scraps of bone and clothing. He hoped the train conductor would not even see him on the tracks, or feel the slight bump as Enoch caught up in the wheels. A brutal, anonymous death.

But then a single, solitary voice had whispered through the gale in his mind
. It’s not your fault.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “It
is
my fault. I’m a worm. Lower than a worm. Stomp me, God. Destroy me. Burn my soul with everlasting fire.”

No,
the voice said. Was it fear of death that spoke? Or some pinprick of sanity.
You were chosen to fail.

It was true, wasn’t it? He’d stood no chance next to Jacob. His brother was better than him in every way.

Growing up, Jacob had been diplomatic enough not to mention his superiority, but it stared Enoch in the face every day. Jacob listened to his elders. Jacob never needed reminding to do his chores or his homework. He could beat an adult at chess and had a natural gift with the piano. He understood a new mathematical concept the first time, and had excellent spelling and handwriting. When Father wanted to show off one of his children, he always chose Jacob; the boy would never let him down. Even the younger children flocked to Jacob to hear his stories, or to follow him on adventures; he would include even the youngest and they loved him for it. Enoch, coming along just ten months later, could never reach the level of his brother. He had tried.

Enoch had not given conscious voice to these thoughts until that day fishing with Grandpa Griggs. Grandpa Griggs was working on a logging project in northern Utah. He never went anywhere without taking two or three of his grandsons or younger sons. It was Jacob and Enoch’s turn.

Jacob and Enoch had explored the forest during the day while Grandpa Griggs spent two hard weeks working at a logging camp. They’d eaten hot dogs and s’mores every night for dinner and slept in Grandpa’s Toyota Dolphin motorhome.

When the work ended, Grandpa had driven them to Mirror Lake for two days of camping and fishing. It was there that Enoch had broken his thumb. All trying to impress Grandpa Griggs.

Grandpa had brought out his prized collection of flies and taught the boys about each one: woolly buggers, zonkers, humpies, and black spinners. He taught about the different kinds of flies, and when to use each: nymphs, dry flies, wet, streamers, and so on. And then, he taught them how to cast. They started with the simple forward cast, how to false cast the fly until it was in the perfect position.

Jacob was a natural. He picked up each technique effortlessly and caught his first fish in about ten minutes. Enoch couldn’t get the stroke right. He wet his fly, then snagged it on a rock. He lost two flies and almost a third, and didn’t catch a thing. Jacob and Grandpa caught their dinner. Grandpa Griggs told Enoch not to worry, that tomorrow was another day. His muscles would learn during the night.

Yes,
Enoch thought.
But not while I sleep.

Instead, he waited until the others were asleep, then crept out of bed. He took the fishing pole and the box of flies. He picked his way down to the lakeshore, some twenty yards distant, careful to choose a place with no rocks or trees on which to snag the fly. And he practiced. And practiced some more.

He practiced through the night, casting and casting and casting by the light of the moon, and ever so gradually improving. Finally, he dropped the fly exactly where he wanted it. A few minutes later, another good cast. Before long, he was making good casts with regularity.

And at last he had it. A perfect whip, whip, whip, drop. He could duplicate it nine times out of ten.

Enoch was exhausted, his muscles quivering. If he had stopped then, he would have triumphed. The next morning, he would rise nonchalantly and take his place next to Grandpa Griggs and Jacob. He would show them what he’d learned, never mentioning the night’s labors. And he would catch fish. Lots and lots and lots of them. Monster trout from the depths of the lake that had never before been tempted by an artificial fly. He would show them.

Just a couple more casts to make sure he had it.

But his legs, tired to the point of trembling, betrayed him. He took a step on a rock to shift his position and his foot slipped. He slid sideways into the water and in his attempt to hold onto the fishing pole, caught his hand on the rock. There was a twist. A sharp pain.

Enoch did not cry. He did not drop the pole. But his thumb burned as he crawled from the water. Even in the moonlight he could see how it dangled helplessly. His thought, foolish even for a nine-year-old, was that he’d wrap it in a sock and they’d never notice. But he was wet from his fall, and his feet made squishy sounds as he walked back into camp. A light came on inside the motorhome. Grandpa Griggs came out a moment later with a flashlight, blinking groggily.

“Hell’s bells, Enoch,” said Grandpa Griggs as he eyed the fishing tackle and Enoch’s bedraggled appearance. “What on earth are you doing at this time of the night? You know the fish won’t bite until first dawn. That’s two hours away.”

Enoch choked back a sob. “I was trying to practice. I wanted to be better. Like Jacob.”

Grandpa had not yet seen his broken thumb. That would be just as bad, in its way, because it would bring their fishing trip to an unceremonious end. Very shortly Grandpa would see the broken thumb and they would drive the rest of the night to the hospital in Provo. Enoch would never have a chance to show how he had learned to cast.

But not yet. Now, Grandpa had one final remark, and it would cause the most serious wound Enoch would suffer on this trip. “It’s no big deal, Enoch. Jacob’s got a knack for it.” He chuckled and said, half to himself, “He’s got a knack for everything, that boy.”

It was a stumbling, unintentional remark. Grandpa had not meant to be cruel. But at that moment, Enoch understood now what had been devouring him for so many months. Jacob had a knack for everything. Enoch would always be a failure in comparison.
Always.

It was this memory that had roused Enoch from his stupor that night on the train tracks near Boise. He had been chosen to fail. It wasn’t just that he hadn’t taken to fly-fishing—he had figured it out through his own dogged determination. No, it was that rock, that fatal step that had brought him low. A chance. Only there were no chances in the universe, were there? God, yes, God himself was making him fail.

He had grown angry lying there on the tracks and thinking about the night he’d broken his thumb. Anger was not depression. It burned away the blackness and before he knew it he was on his feet and stepping back from the tracks. The train roared past. Enoch stood a few feet away, swaying in the wind kicked up by the cars.

Enoch had gone south to Las Vegas. He’d got a job in a casino, had sex with half a dozen prostitutes, and drank himself stupid. And then Elder Kimball found him.

“Forget those people,” Elder Kimball had told him. “They abandoned you. They’re not your family anymore. We are.”

The goal, Kimball had told him, was the redemption of Israel. The church had grown weak and complacent. The Lord demanded sacrifice, change, striving. Nothing less would bring about the kingdom of God on earth. The Lord had chosen an imperfect vehicle to bring about this redemption. The Lost Boys. The Outcasts.

Gideon Kimball was their leader, but there were young men from every family: Youngs, Kimballs, Gibbs, Pratts, Johnsons. And now, a Christianson.

Enoch had gladly shed his apostate lifestyle, so recently adapted, to fellowship with the other outcasts. He had remained skeptical of their goals, not to mention their methods. They kept him working at the casino; it was there that he met the men who helped him launder hundreds of thousands of dollars. Dark hints came of a murder of a gentile. Maybe more than one.

But then he’d seen the angel. A man does not see an angel and remain lukewarm.

The strangest thing about the whole incident with Grandpa Griggs, Enoch thought now as Elder Kimball spoke the words of Enoch’s blessing, was that Jacob didn’t remember any of it. Enoch had mentioned it once; Jacob had remembered the fishing trip and a trip to the hospital, but not how or why Enoch had broken his thumb. This thing, this coal-black, diamond-hard memory from his childhood, had been so unimportant to Jacob that he had completely forgotten it. Did that speak more to Enoch’s failings or to Jacob’s?

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” Elder Kimball continued. “The Lord is pleased with your faith and obedience.”

There was no greater feeling than guilt lifting from one’s shoulders. It should have been a happy moment. But he kept thinking of Jacob.

As if on cue, Elder Kimball said, “But do not be deceived by the Adversary, my son. Others, even the very elect, have been deceived. They have become his servants. Do not follow their path with doubts and contention. You will fall away. You will become truly lost.”

He meant Jacob. His brother, the servant of Satan. The problem was, Enoch didn’t believe it.

“
By their fruits, you shall know them,”
Jacob had said.

For all Jacob’s skepticism, his brother had a good heart. Enoch had not forgiven Jacob for his role in driving him from Zion, but neither could he fully blame him. It had not been maliciousness on Jacob’s part that had led to Enoch’s expulsion.

No,
he thought.
You cannot doubt. Not the Lord’s plan. Not the angel.

The angel had spoken to Enoch. Elder Kimball had led the outcasts in thirty-six hours of fasting and prayer. When their faith had proved insufficient to show them the angel, the Lord had instructed them to take a sacrament of bread and wine within the very heart of the temple. It was the first time many of them had tasted wine, as Mormons had taken water in its place for over a hundred years.

After so much fervent effort, the angel had at last appeared. A burning figure of white. Enoch had felt such a fire in his soul that he had sworn to do whatever the angel instructed, no matter how difficult it might be.

And this, this was difficult. It would be the greatest test yet of his faith.

Elder Kimball closed his blessing and removed his hands from Enoch’s head. Enoch rose to his feet. He felt almost stunned by the experience and more than a little shaky on his feet. The light was brighter in the room than he remembered and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

Elder Kimball’s eyes glowed with the spirit. Kimball was a difficult man to read, dismissed by many for his temper and often petty behavior, yet when the spirit filled him he was a giant among men. He communed with angels, and could prophesy the future. The Lord spoke through His prophet, but the actor of God’s will was this man, of that Enoch had little doubt.