Then your brother announces that this is a testimony meeting, which is where the members take turns standing in front of the congregation and saying, evidently, whatever comes to mind. The first Moroni tells us that this week he was sprayed seven times by the same skunk. This leads naturally to a lecture about the state of politics in this country, which your brother swiftly derails.
“Remember what we talked about, Moroni.” He taps his nose and activates his dimples.
Moroni drums his fingers on the pulpit, says, “Hmm,” out loud so we all know he’s thinking about it, then ominously concludes, “I think the skunk was a Liberal.”
After the first Moroni and the second Moroni, a few of the children are pushed to the front. Soon everyone has spoken except me. The entire congregation sits in silence. The clock grows heavy with the weight of our eyes.
“No one has to get up,” your brother says encouragingly, bouncing on his heels.
I want to leave, but if I stand, they will think I’m volunteering to talk. I don’t have any idea what to say. Apart from not knowing what these people actually believe, I don’t have a lot to say about God. I don’t think you did either, although you never talked about it specifically, never wanted to get “political” or be “too earnest.” But I think we know better than to believe in some divinity overseeing everything. If there was a God, there wouldn’t be Murder, She Spoke. There wouldn’t be Laci Peterson’s fetus washing up the day before her own headless, badly decomposed body appeared on a shore in San Francisco. There wouldn’t be three Oklahoma Girl Scouts raped and murdered on an overnight camping trip. Even just sitting here, in a too warm, too clean room, pretending there is a God we are all praising, makes me kind of angry, if you want to know the truth. It makes me think about how the patriarchy was preserved for thousands of years because organized religion gave men magical powers and made women their servants, and now here we are in a world where women disappear and men run congregations.
But everyone is watching me. And I am supposed to blend in, to make alliances. I am supposed to be brave, and most of all, I am supposed to do something, so I stand, and when my knees sway but don’t buckle, I let them take me to the front.
I cling to the edges of the pulpit, suddenly seasick, like I can feel the road that took me here still swaying between either temple.
“Um, obviously I’m new.” A polite titter. “I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for welcoming me to your church. I’ve never been to such a small church before. It’s neat.” Apparently, I am auditioning for their friendship in the fifties. “I look forward to getting to know all of you better.” I hope that’s enough, and I move toward my seat. I have left out the part about my faith in God, but I didn’t accuse a skunk of Liberalism, so I feel like I’m ahead of the curve.
“Tell us where you’re from!” shouts a Moroni.
“Visalia.”
This unbalances them enough to get me back to my seat, but then the Moroni presses on. “What brings you here?”
You, I think. I am looking for a woman just like me who disappeared. Her parents think she’s dead, but don’t care to confirm it. Her brother has electric dimples. Her coworker knew her well, but not well enough to wonder where she went.
Thankfully your brother stands. “Let’s save questions for after the service,” he cautions, although there is still half an hour and no one left to speak.
He unbuttons the top button of his coat. He brings out his Bible and he sets it on the pulpit. He turns on his dimples and then he shares the story of the prodigal son. He speaks engagingly, as if he had planned to speak all along, like he knew I would be here, like he chose this story specifically to tell me it’s not too late for me.
“‘My son, the father said, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”
He takes us to the bottom of the hour; then we sing again and pray, and then the first session ends. I have one hour to quiz the police, one hour before I need to head back to the ranch.
I stand at my seat as the others turn to face me. I want to get out as quickly as possible, but the two women form a wall.
Your brother, the ambassador, is moving toward me. “Welcome. Welcome. What brings you out here?” The entire congregation, all fourteen of them, press in and I’m surrounded. The clock ticks weakly on the wall.
I debate lying, but the community is too close; it will cross wires. “I’m working at a ranch.”
Your brother’s shoulders lift. “Which ranch?”
“Fountain Creek.”
The congregation freezes, holds its pause for five, four, three . . . then shivers and splits apart, like your home is a way to break up a crowd.
Your brother wipes a finger over his brow. “Aha!” he says like he’s discovered something. His wife steps in beside him.
“I’m Clementine.” She offers a hand with thin, collapsible bones. “I hope you’re okay out there.” She speaks casually but her words are odd.
“I just started.”
She nods like that adds up. “We have our women’s group now, next door. I teach the young women, but you’re welcome to come with me if you want.” I only see two “young women,” and they are her daughters, your nieces. They step in beside her so your brother’s family all stand in a perfect row. Your nieces share your brother’s DNA. They are so beautiful, I feel sad that they are living where no one can see them, but then I remind myself their beauty is theirs, that a woman’s beauty doesn’t have to be shared.
Everyone is very eager for me to stay, which I didn’t anticipate. I imagined myself going unnoticed, like I do everywhere else. Instead Clementine’s eyes glow with a soft thrill, as if she can will me into friendship. Instead your nieces smile and shyly curl their necks to giggle over their hands at me. There are so few people out here, it creates a hunger for human contact like I have never seen, but all I want right now is to be alone, under my own control.
“Actually—I’m sorry—I have to run a few errands. Just while I’m in town. I have to do a few things.” I stop, realizing the more I explain, the less likely it sounds. Why can’t I run my errands an hour from now? And the funny thing is, I know I can. Your mother has warned me about town, but she hasn’t forbidden me from going there; she hasn’t threatened me, but still I feel like I must follow her advice. She is not a woman to be crossed. I need to stay on her good side.
Finally, the two women shuffle out of the aisle, and I seize my opening, rushing to the door. “I’ll be right back!” I shout stupidly.
A random Moroni steps in front of me. “You been here long?”