by Jones, Brent
Brennan realized the teen was still standing next to him. He had left Fender’s leash in the room, and didn’t want to risk setting Fender back on the ground in case he decided to bolt again. He instead shifted Fender’s weight to one arm and stuck out the other to the teen. “You found my dog and I can’t thank you enough.”
The teen extended his hand, cold and clammy, and gave Brennan’s a pump. “Hey, it’s no problem.” His words were dismissive, soft, without feeling, and he stared at the ground.
Brennan thought it had probably been years since the teen had last been praised for something. “What’s your name?”
The teen tilted his head to the side, trying to figure out why Brennan cared. “Matt.”
“Matt,” he repeated. “All right, Matt, let me give you a reward or something.”
“What, like money?”
“Yeah, I mean, he’s a sick dog, and—”
“Fender-Fender is sick?”
“Yeah, it’s his kidneys, they’re—”
“You’d better keep your money then.”
Brennan stared Matt up and down. His shoes were full of holes, his teeth were dark yellow. He didn’t appear to be in much of a position to turn down generosity. “But you found ’im.”
“Yeah, but,” Matt ran fingers through his dirty, matted hair, “you’d better spend that money on Fender-Fender. So he can get better.”
“If only it were that simple.” Brennan sighed. “There’s, ah, nothing left to be done.”
“Oh.” Matt was no older than fourteen or fifteen, but his pimply face turned stark and serious. He frowned and scratched the scar on his chin. “Then if he doesn’t have much time left, you should take him on a trip or something. Really send him off with a bang, you know?”
Brennan nodded. “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.”
Matt reached out and petted Fender on the head. “Yeah, you tell this guy you wanna go somewhere fun.” He returned his gaze to Brennan. “I hear San Francisco’s pet-friendly. You should plan a trip out there.” He took off with his hands in his pockets and head down, dragging his feet.
Brennan intended to call off the search party, but all he could do was watch as Matt disappeared into the night. It took near tragedy, but he had found some good in the world, and it came as no surprise that Fender was to blame.
Chapter 24
Brennan joined Rocco outside the motel room. He handed Rocco a cup of coffee and sat next to him on a plastic lawn chair. They drank their coffee in silence as the sun began to rise and enjoyed the cool morning breeze.
“You get any sleep?” asked Rocco.
“Not a wink.”
“Me neither.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Fender eat his breakfast?”
“Few bites. Managed to get some anti-nauseant down, too. Franky’s just taking a shower and we should be all set to go.”
“So what’s it gonna be? Should we stop in Salt Lake City or just keeping motoring on home?”
Brennan swore under his breath that Rocco used the word home facetiously, to underscore that home was somewhere different for him and Franky. But not wanting to add to the friction, he let it slide. “Let’s stop in Salt Lake City, sure.”
“Yeah?”
Brennan thought of Matt urging him to make the most of Fender’s final days. “Yeah, let’s do it. He’s got some strength left. I imagine we can find something to do outdoors where Fender’ll be allowed.” He put on his sunglasses and sipped his coffee. “Listen, Rocco . . .”
Rocco brushed it off with a flick of his hand. “Let’s not draw this out, Bee. I fucked up. I get it.”
“You should’ve told me.” He cleared his throat and thought for a second before relenting. “But I understand why you didn’t.” He turned to his friend. “Look, can I be honest with you?”
“Of course.”
“I’m scared to go home.” Brennan lowered his eyes and shrugged. “Christ, it doesn’t even feel like my home. It never did. You know, when we first left, I dreaded this trip. I wasn’t ready for change and, shit, I’m still not sure I am now. But now that we’re thousands of miles away, I don’t know if I’m ready for the change waiting for me back home.”
“You’re gonna have to face some facts sooner or later, Bee.”
“I mean, we’re on our way now . . . back east. And, ah, I’d like to give Fender a last hurrah of sorts. Make the most of the time we’ve got left. But part of that is me just being selfish. I’m not sure I want this trip to end.”
“I think I understand.”
“You do?”
Rocco nodded and took a deep breath. “Ever heard someone say home is where the heart is?”
“Sure.”
“Tell you the truth, I’ve never really been clear on what it means. But maybe it just means you can never go home.” He tapped Brennan’s chest. “Home is right here. And no matter how far you run from it, it’ll always catch up with you. It’ll always be right there, waiting.”
Brennan stared at the ground, drank more coffee, and debated how to respond.
Rocco narrowed his eyes. “What’s the deal with the booze? You gonna keep drinking?”
“Maybe.” He touched his tattoo, thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Probably not. I don’t know. I felt so angry last night, I just . . .”
“You can only control you, Bee. You made a promise, and I think you should keep that promise. It’s who you are.”
He lowered his voice. “Just can’t believe she was stepping out on me.”
“Forgiveness ain’t an easy thing, Bee. It takes time, like everything else.”
“Why should I forgive her at all?”
“What good’s it gonna do you to stay angry? Besides, we all could use a little forgiveness, couldn’t we?”
“I guess so. Sometimes I think the hardest people to forgive are ourselves.”
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when the men approached downtown Salt Lake City. Brennan put down his window and stared at majestic mountain ranges in every direction. He and Fender lingered there together, noses outside the car, inhaling crisp mountain air and surveying the sharp peaks.
Rocco glanced in the rearview. “It’s nice, huh?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Well, I booked us a room at the Econo Lodge. How much you wanna bet the room won’t be nearly as nice to look at as this?”
“Carpet’s probably stained with evidence from four or five reruns of Cold Case Files.”
Franky cackled and turned to Rocco. “Where’re we headed, anyway?”
“You know what, guys? I’m sorry. I booked the room, but didn’t get a chance to look up much of anything to do before we got here. I actually don’t know much about Salt Lake City, ’cept that it’s home to tons of Mormons.”
“Oh, like Tom Cruise?”
“No. He’s a Scientologist.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Whether you believe in Planet Xenu or Planet Kolob, I guess.” Rocco parked on the street next to a large map for tourists at the edge of the sidewalk.
Brennan got out and traced the You Are Here marker to what seemed like the nearest point of interest—Temple Square. “Mormon Central,” he said, tapping his finger. “Wanna check it out?”
“Sure,” said Rocco. “You know, Mormons didn’t consider blacks real human beings until 1978.”
“I know. We watched that documentary together, dude.”
“What documentary?” asked Franky.
“Just something we watched for shits and giggles one night on Netflix,” said Brennan. “Mormons believe a whole bunch of crazy shit, like The Garden of Eden being in Missouri.” He looked at Rocco. “Think it’s just as racist today?”
“Let’s go find out.”
They walked down a street labeled South Temple. Tall buildings, commercial and enterprising, gave downtown the look and feel of a booming metropolis, even though almost every building appeared to bear some religious significance. T
hey passed the Joseph Smith Memorial Building and approached a twenty-five foot monument—a bronze statue of a man hoisted atop a huge stone pillar.
“The Brig-ham,” Franky sounded out in the inscription, “Young Monument.” Standing as close to it as he was, Franky had to crane his neck to see the top. He pulled his phone from his pocket and took a few steps back. “Was this guy like Captain Mormon himself or something?”
Rocco pointed to two other bronze figures at the base of the monument. The first appeared to be a Native American man, the other was some kind of European fur trader facing the opposite direction. “Yeah, he was Captain Mormon all right.”
“Brigham Young was a carpenter,” said Brennan. “A painter, too, and a polygamist, which were all the qualifications you needed back then to become the president of the church.”
Franky snapped a photo of the monument and took another step backward, almost colliding with a woman on the sidewalk. She coughed and all three men turned around. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” She had a long face, thin lips, gray eyes, a big nose, and her mouth hung open as though something had scared her. “Are you LDS?”
“Am I what now?” Franky asked.
“A Latter-day Saint, Franky.” Rocco laughed. “She’s asking if you’re Mormon.” He said it as though the woman couldn’t hear him translating for her.
“Oh.” Franky’s face burned bright red. He blinked at her. “No, ma’am, I don’t think I’m a saint of any sort, and I assure you I don’t know much about being no Mormon neither.”
She remained steadfast, wore the same frightened look, and clutched a thick navy book against her chest. “I’m Sariah,” she said. She pointed to a tag pinned to the collar of her blouse, which was buttoned up to her throat. She gave the men a modest curtsy. She looked to be about eighteen or nineteen and wore a skirt that drooped to her ankles. “I’m guessing you gentlemen aren’t from around here?”
“We’re visiting,” said Rocco.
“Ah, well, welcome to Temple Square.” She smiled for the first time, chin up, shoulders back, perfect posture and proud. “Would you like to learn more about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”
“Sure,” said Brennan, “but only under one condition.” He stuck out his hand.
“What’s that?” Sariah accepted his hand and gave it a wimpy shake.
He pointed to the thick book she cradled against her heart. “Can you hook us up with some free literature? Maybe show us around a bit?”
Sariah grinned and bobbed her head, trembling with nervous excitement.
Rocco placed a hand on Brennan’s shoulder. “Excuse us, miss, would you? I just need a second with my friend.”
Sariah nodded and took half a step back. She looked up at Brigham Young with reverence, admiration, wide-eyed wonder, as though she hadn’t seen his monument hundreds of times before.
“What’re you doing, Bee?” Rocco whispered.
“Making this girl’s day. If they keep score, she’s gonna earn herself seven hundred Mormon points today.”
“Feeling charitable, huh?”
“I guess.”
“By pretending you’re some wannabe Bible bitch?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I just . . .” Brennan sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and continued, “I guess we could all use a little forgiveness, right? I mean, we’re already here, what’s it gonna hurt to learn about her faith? Just part of the Utah experience, isn’t it? Think of it as a history lesson.”
“A history lesson,” Rocco repeated, shaking his head. “You mean a made up history lesson.”
Franky was busy with his phone. “Hey, you guys, I was just Googling about how being Mormon works.” He spoke loudly and without discretion. “Did you know these guys have to wear special magical underpants?”
Brennan glanced over his shoulder. It appeared Sariah had caught that remark. She gave Franky a dirty look, her lips pursed and her scraggly eyebrows tightened. He turned back to his friends. “Those are called temple garments, Franky.”
“Oh, good,” said Rocco. “Maybe we can pick up some matching pairs in the gift shop.”
“Dude,” said Brennan, “you told me to find the good in the world. You told me I need to embrace this new beginning. Well, I say we’re here in Salt Lake City, and we oughtta listen to what this girl has to say. Learn something about her beliefs.”
“Oh, Lord, Bee, you never cease to amaze . . .” Rocco heard sprinkling sounds near his feet and caught Fender urinating on the monument.
“Oh . . .” Brennan scuttled after Fender, relocating him to some nearby grass. “Oh, fuck, shit, I’m sorry, Sariah.”
He expected her to scold him for his unintended use of profanity, but she was unmoved, her face having reverted to its usual blend of shock and terror. “Have you gentlemen been to the Beehive House yet?” she asked.
Rocco scrunched his forehead. “The Beehive House?”
“Yes, that’s where Brigham Young lived, and he—”
“That guy lives there?” Franky pointed to the monument.
“He used to.”
“What happened?”
Rocco laughed and gave Franky a shove. “He died, Franky, like damn near a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“A hundred and thirty-nine, to be exact, but who’s counting?” Sariah snorted at her own quip before nodding at Rocco. “Sounds like you know your history, sir.”
“Oh, I do, miss.” Rocco glared at Brennan. He leaned in and whispered, “How’s that for a history lesson? Kiss my black ass.”
“Well,” said Brennan, “the Beehive House sounds like a nice place to start, Sariah. Lead the way.”
She frowned. “I, uh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see your dog at first, and, uh, dogs aren’t allowed inside. But, uh . . .” She stalled, trying to figure out how to hang on to her new recruits. “What I can do is give you each a copy—” She slid a backpack off her shoulders, “—of The Book of Mormon, and I’ll give each of you my phone number. That way you can call any time of the day or night if you have—”
“How old are you, miss?” asked Rocco, accepting a book from her.
“I’ll be eighteen next week, sir.”
“You’re seventeen?”
She blushed and nodded.
“That’s okay, miss, you don’t need to write down your phone number for me.”
Franky rifled through the pages of his copy, disappointed not to find pictures. “What’s this?”
“The Book of Mormon is, uh, an additional w-witness of Jesus Christ, sir, as recorded by J-Joseph Smith, the p-prophet and founder of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Be honest,” said Rocco. “Do you practice that line in the mirror?”
Before she could answer, Franky asked, “You mean you guys actually saw Jesus? Like for real? Answer this question for me and my buddy. We’ve been having this debate for years. Was Jesus black or white?”
Sariah twisted her thin lips in discomfort and shook her head, unsure how to respond.
“See, Rocco? No one knows. I keep telling you if Jesus had been black, the Bible would’ve said so.” He turned his attention back to Sariah, holding out his phone for her to see it. “It also says here, ma’am, that Mormons love green Jell-O and hate caffeine. Is that true?”
She nodded a little, still uncertain, and took a step back, clutching The Book of Mormon tight to her chest. She scuffed the toe of her shoe back and forth, making her discomfort evident to the three men surrounding her.
“You seem so damn happy, though. If you don’t drink Starbucks, where do you get all that energy?”
“I’m h-high on the Spirit, sir, f-filled with purpose and love b-by Heavenly Father.”
Franky, interpreting her response as a joke, laughed out loud.
“Listen, miss, uh, Sariah, we appreciate your time. Thanks for the wonderful gift.” Rocco said wonderful, but it came out sounding more like worthless. “We’ll be sure to read it, and if we have questions, we’ll jump on the inter
net like regular people do.”
The permanent look of shock slipped from her face, as did her perfect posture, and she sulked in her plain and freshly pressed garments.
“In the meantime, though, with this little guy . . .” Rocco pointed to Fender. “We’re just gonna tour the Temple Square grounds if that’s all right. The outdoor parts.”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Sariah said, her tone weak and subdued. “I’ll be around if you gentlemen have more questions.”
The three men walked through Temple Square, adjusting their pace to insert distance between themselves and a pair of male missionaries. The pair were outfitted alike in white dress shirts with short sleeves, pocket protectors, and dark ties. The trio watched the two missionaries corner a couple in plain clothes and say, “Excuse me, but are you LDS?”
“Everywhere you go,” said Rocco, “someone’s asking, ‘Are you LDS?’ These guys are relentless.”
“Looks like there’s lots of famous Mormon people, too,” said Franky, still immersed in his phone. “Katherine Heigl, Donny and Marie, Aaron Eckhart—although he kinda denies it—and some dancing violinist chick on YouTube . . .” He prattled on but his friends stopped listening.
The three men found a place to sit next to Salt Lake Temple. Fender curled up at Brennan’s feet, exhausted from the exploration.
“Amazing,” said Rocco.
“What?” asked Brennan. “The architecture?”
“No, this place.” He gave his tongue a thoughtful click. “I mean, whatever happened to the separation of church and state? We’re downtown in a city of almost two hundred thousand, and all of it belongs to the church.”
“Hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“I don’t get you sometimes, Bee.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said the other night you don’t even pray anymore. And now I swear you wanna sign up for a new religion.”