My head rests against the Greyhounds cool, dark window. Sitting next to me is Scott Harkin, the one boy nobody else will sit with. A little too Eagle Scout to be hip. I guess that makes me the one girl nobody wants to sit with, probably because I’m a year younger than everyone else and, at twelve, that’s an eternity.
Eternity is what this trip is all about. Turning twelve means that I can finally go on the yearly youth trip to San Francisco to be baptized for the dead. Technically speaking, the bus is headed for Oakland but, being from Podunk, Oregon, it’s the same to me. The window shutters rhythmically, calming my nerves. In the seat in front of me, Colleen and John share a light blanket, seemingly asleep. Having spent time with John behind the church after Mutual, I know first hand they’re faking it, but I try to keep my thoughts pure, in preparation for tomorrow’s sacred ritual, before drifting to sleep.
The bus rounds a tight turn, grinding up the narrow road to the temple. A sudden lurch, combined with light piercing the window, jolts me awake. Scott’s head hangs toward the aisle, mouth open, drooling. He snorts in surprise, but continues sleeping, as do John and Colleen. Only chaperones move in anticipation of arrival. A final sweep swings the bus into an empty parking lot. It stops. The door hisses open.
Sister Hunter claps her hands several times, chiming, “Wake up! Wake up! Stay seated, please. We’re here!” Scott Harkin bolts upright, his eagerness Mr. Goody Two-Shoes personified. Excited, I sit up, but try to look somewhat uninterested, taking my clue from Colleen. It wouldn’t do to be lumped in with Scott. At least my last name’s not in the same part of the alphabet as his, I muse, so I won’t be stuck next to him when we line up for prayer, later. That will be Colleen Hanse’s fate, I think, smiling inwardly. Instantly I regret giving in to the unkindness. Today I will be pure so the spirit can work through me for those who have moved on.
Shoving my clothes back into the crumpled grocery bag at my feet, I check for the $10 bill tucked in my pocket. Still there. I hop off the bus, along with the other kids from church, staying well away from the older crowd who know the ropes. I’m the only newbie this year, so I practice coolness and invisibility. Tricky, but achievable, I think, not wanting to jinx it.
Colleen leans against the bus, hips jutted forward, head hung in boredom. John stands with the guys, a faded scout pack slung nonchalantly over his shoulder. I catch the way his eyes comb Colleen, who has moved to stand with her older sister, Val. Not for the first time, I wish I had an older sister or brother around. Mine are all grown with kids of their own. They all live out of state.
Sister Hunter breaks the reverie with crisp orders to line up, girls on the right, boys on the left. I think about right and left. Isn’t right the equivalent of goodness and left the equivalent of evil? Brother Parker said something about that in his talk during Sacrament meeting a few weeks ago. The notion strikes me as funny when the group splits up, girls to the side of goodness and boys to the side of evil. Mom’s constant mantra is to beware the evil of men, which I take literally.
Sixteen girls – ducklings – trail behind Sister Hunter as she waddles through the celestial landscape. My favorite temple is actually the one in Salt Lake City, and I hope to go there someday. Today, however, I have to settle for this one in Oakland. It’s ugly: clean, modern lines, golden spire. The outdoor lights click off as our girl group pads through the side door, frosted glass forbidding a preview. I’m the second-to-last person, followed by Sister McKay, who’s supposedly distantly related to the prophet. He’s dead now, and she looks like she should be. I’m aware of her labored bad breath, bringing up the rear like a pack mule. She checks to make sure the door latches securely us. The hair on my neck stands up, probably from the unexpected punch of air conditioning.
Once across the threshold, there’s no need to imagine what heaven must be like. No fluffy clouds, harps, and flying angel mumbo-jumbo. It’s clean. Ordered. Cream-colored carpet sweeps the floor. Endless sterile corridors harbor secret rooms. Light drifts. It’s heaven, so naturally there will be a sense of light, but not a source, just like the hallway we’re in. A door to the right opens inward. Another doorway on the right leads into a frigid changing room. I follow, compliant.
The group stands silent, waiting, except Colleen. She smacks her gum and wears disinterest like a shroud. Sister Hunter’s head snaps around. She marches on Colleen, flat hand raised. I stand stock still, expecting the graying chaperone to slap the bejesus out of the girl, but Colleen simply bows her head and spits her gum into the passing palm. Sister Hunter disappears around a corner, not breaking stride. Colleen smiles her pleasure, until she catches me my eye. Scowling, she turns away.
A woman with blue-white hair stands behind a counter, handing each girl a snowy gown and a pair of white anklets. “Do not remove your bra or panties,” she repeats to each of us, her voice cracking the silence. Quietly, I begin to undress, jerking the baptismal gown over my head and arranging it around my knees before slipping off my jeans. Girls around me are in various stages of undress. They all have one thing in common, though. Bikini underwear. When I asked mom for bikini underwear she glared and called me a hussy, a tramp. Even hip huggers, which would have been only borderline embarrassing, were out. Nope, it’s good ol’ Sears tricot briefs for me. White, at that. Luckily, no one seems to notice my undressing strategy, so my underwear remain hidden. I tug on the socks. Smoothing my hair back into a ponytail, I yank the rubber band around and around, stalling for time.
It’s a peculiar notion, time. My twelve years isn’t even a blink of God’s eye. There’s something about the group of girls standing ready, whitewashed, that makes me feel part of an ancient and time-honored fellowship. The faithful. We walk, single file, through another door, another corridor. A wisp of chlorine greets us as we wind our line around a grand golden tub, bigger than any cattle trough I’ve ever seen. It rests on the back of twelve life-size oxen. Golden, the charmless creatures cast an expectant glare over us, restrained.
Looking up, I glimpse John’s head over the crest of the pool. The Elder performing the ceremony glances at the list of the dead scrolling down the teleprompter screen. Pushing him beneath the surface, he names John a proxy for the next soul on the list. Wash, rinse, repeat. After several dunkings, John climbs from the font and leaves through a side door. Soaking white pants cling to him, highlighting every seam and ridge of his tighty-whities. Embarrassed, I look down, aware of my thoughts.
Time passes slowly, the only sound the low drone of the Elder’s voice and the water closing over and releasing proxies. The line inches forward and finally Sister McKay nudges me lightly. “Go on up, now,” she whispers.
I leave the cool marble wall, grasp the handrail, fight queasiness. At the top, I’m forced to look up to get my bearings, and I see the Elder’s wizened hand reaching for mine. Shouldn’t his eyes be kind and welcoming? They have the same glazed look of disinterest as Colleen’s, and the reality of being a worker bee hits home. Just one of thousands. Am I significant?
Reluctantly, I take the hand and follow instructions. The Elder drips impatience while his shirt drips water. I struggle to stand the way I’ve been taught, unsure if I grasp my left wrist with my right hand or my right wrist with my left hand. With a sigh, he takes charge, positioning me so I don’t block the monitor. As the rite begins, I’m taken back – offended – when he mispronounces my name. Seconds pass before he pushes me back toward the water. My knees lock and my feet pop up, but he expertly taps the back of my knees after that, and I fall obediently into the water. Wash, rinse, repeat. I don’t know how many times I go under, but I wish he’d get my name right, at least once. Leaving the pool, I realize that everyone can see my granny underwear.
Outside, my hair begins to dry in the warm breeze that skittles across the Oakland hills. Sitting on the sparkling sidewalk, I mindlessly eat my sandwich. Pimento and cheese on whole wheat bread. Finding a water fountain to down the crumbs, I guzzle water greedily, mindlessly. “Get a move on,” snarls a voice behind me. His hands squeeze my back pockets. It’s just the two of us, hidden from view behind the fountain. John grinds himself against me, holding my hips momentarily. Jerking up, I hit my lip on the spigot. Blood seeps from my split lip as I stumble back. He lets me fall, drinks, and saunters toward the waiting bus.
The breeze turns chill. Humiliation and anger rise in my throat, and the futility of this trip washes over me. On the ride home, Scott and I watch between the seats in front of us. Once again, John and Colleen have pulled the thin blanket over them to hide, but don’t realize how much we can see.
So much for pure thoughts.
