The Mormon Candidate - a Novel

by Avraham Azrieli

  It was a plausible theory, but Ben hoped that Zachariah had taken precautions against losing the floppy disk. The answer, Ben hoped, would be in the journal.

  Chapter 24

  Z.H. Journal Entry # 10:

  The ceremony at our magnificent Washington DC Temple took place in the afternoon of Veterans Day. Only the necessary few Saints were allowed to attend and witness. My job was to load the floppy disk into the computer and make sure that each name was displayed and called by the temple worker in charge of the ritual.

  Bishop Morgan climbed into the baptismal bath, a huge container made of white marble and resting on twelve giant oxen, also white, which symbolized the twelve tribes of Israel.

  The temple worker, standing in the water next to the bishop, watched the auxiliary computer screen set up next to the baptismal bath. When I clicked on the first name, it appeared before the temple worker, who recited the prayer and declared, “For and on behalf of Lieutenant Darrin Farley, as a proxy and stand in, you are now being baptized to the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He then pushed Bishop Morgan backward, immersing him completely in the water, and pulled him back up.

  Only then, seeing the glowing joy on Bishop Morgan’s face, did I realize how this whole thing amounted to much more than providing a spiritual rite for dead heroes. With each successive hero’s name and dunking, Bishop Morgan’s expression became more elated until he was echoing the temple worker’s declarations at the top of his voice and falling back into the water for the repeated immersion with a joy that seemed to heat up the lukewarm water in the baptismal bath. I watched him while my fingers hit the keys, going down the list. I wondered whether Joe Morgan somehow felt that he was uniting with their souls, infusing himself with their virtues, and acquiring their courage.

  There were nineteen men who received the Medal of Honor twice, and I heard their names one by one as the temple worker declared each one.

  Dread came over me as the dates on the left side of my screen approached 1991. I had avoided looking at the captain’s name when I had copied and pasted his information from the VA pension records to the list on the floppy disk. His wife was still alive, so I had no need to deal with her information. And now, as the blinking curser reached that line, I averted my eyes, clicked on it, and quickly covered my ears to block out the temple worker’s voice as he declared the captain’s name, followed by Bishop Morgan’s cheerful repetition before his face disappeared underwater.

  Bishop Morgan was helped out of the water and down the few steps to the floor. Standing there in his dripping temple undergarments, he turned to face the twelve oxen. His athletic body straightened up, and he saluted. This was not part of the ceremony, and everyone watched him in silence. After a long moment, Bishop Morgan turned and left.

  No one paid attention to me, sitting at the computer, deflated and guilty. And what I did next, while instinctive and without a second thought, in time turned out to be a lot more fateful than anyone could have imagined. I ejected the floppy disk, which contained the lists of heroes and was etched with Bishop Morgan’s handwritten note, and took it.

  I spent the afternoon driving around aimlessly, too confused and angry to go home. As twilight descended on the suburbs of Washington, I passed by a motorcycle shop – Ironman Cycles of Gaithersburg. A ramp out front propped up a Harley Davidson painted in the colors of the American flag. I got out of my car and went over to look at it up close. A cardboard sign on the seat said: Reserved for a Veteran!

  There were many flags raised that day all around the nation’s capital, but for some reason, that stars-and-stripes Harley Davidson made me all choked up. I stood in attention and saluted. Then I went in and bought it.

  Chapter 25

  There was another journal entry, but Ben needed a break. He felt that the purchase of a Harley Davidson was a turning point in the story. Zachariah Hinckley had been transformed by the heroes’ posthumous baptizing ceremony, not just from a car driver to a motorcycle rider, but from a devout LDS family man, a good son, husband, and father, to a man possessed by an urge to get away from where he had been until then—physically, mentally, maybe even spiritually.

  Ben made sure that the journal was safely saved on his iPhone. Sitting back in his chair, the adrenaline rush slowly subsiding, he was overwhelmed by a craving for a smoke. For a moment he considered fishing the remains of his cigarettes out of the trash. Instead, he stepped back out to the balcony. A few deep breaths and stretching his arms sideways, as if he were nailed to a cross, somehow staunched the urge. He went back inside and locked the glass doors.

  After leaving a note for Keera on the inside of the front door, where she wouldn’t miss it in the morning, he went upstairs, undressed, and slipped into bed, scooting close to Keera until his body spooned hers and his face rested on the pillow by her nape. She stirred but didn’t wake up, her breathing slow and peaceful.

  Gradually his own breathing calmed to match hers, the tension in his muscles loosened, and the rapid slideshow in his mind went from Zachariah Hinckley’s life and death to something less defined, flashes of sights, of trees and farmhouses, viewed through the framed face shield of his motorcycle helmet.

  Part II:

  The Ghost

  Chapter 26

  Keera woke up at six. She slipped out of Ben’s embrace and stood beside the bed for a moment, watching him sleep. His hair covered most of his face, and he snored lightly. She pulled the blanket off his shoulder and kissed the tattoo—a football helmet protecting a bottle of Bud Light.

  A half hour later, she was downstairs, dressed and ready for her twenty-five-minute commute. The coffeemaker had started automatically, and she poured herself a cup, adding a few drops of milk for color.

  About to leave, Keera found a yellow Post-it note stuck to the inside of the front door. Written in Ben’s familiar cursive, it said:

  To: Hopelessly romantic

  From: Cynic w/ potential

  Message: Zachariah didn’t say, “Palmyra!”

  Keera laughed. She was intrigued. If not his wife’s name, what was Zachariah’s last word? Did he provide an answer in the personal journal that Ben was reading?

  She took a fresh Post-it note and scribbled:

  To: Cynic w. potential

  From: Hopelessly romantic

  Message: Did he say, “Nosy reporter! Buzz out of my private journal!”?

  It was cold in the garage, especially when the door rolled up and a puff of outside air ruffled the pile of newspaper in the recycle bin. The Mustang took a couple of tries to start, and Keera revved up while setting the radio to NPR. She glanced in the mirror and backed out of the garage, hitting something that made a lot of noise.

  “What was that?” She stopped the car and got out.

  Behind the Mustang, she found a portable basketball hoop on its side. She recognized it as belonging to the neighbors at the other end of the six-unit townhome building. It was odd. Who would roll a basketball hoop all the way over here and leave it by the garage door?

  Checking her car, Keera found a small dent in the rear bumper, not very noticeable beside all the other dents and scrapes she had accumulated over the years.

  There was no sound of anyone waking up, especially not Ben, who could sleep through a thunderstorm. None of the neighbors were out, and Keera had no time to spare. She dragged the fallen basketball hoop out of the way and got back in her car.

  Ben found the yellow Post-it note stuck to the coffeemaker and laughed. He drank his coffee while watching the news. Starting with CNN, he switched at every commercial break to another channel—NBC, CBS, FOX, and back to CNN.

  Every development in the economy, international affairs, and even sports, circled back to the coming elections: Will it help Joe Morgan win the White House, becoming the first Mormon president?

  In a segment about elections paraphernalia, the F
OX News anchor showed a photo of a bumper sticker that said: President Joe Mormon!

  “We asked the Morgan campaign,” said the anchor, “about the twisting of the candidate’s last name to send such a sectarian message, a jab of prejudice masquerading as humor. A spokesman for the candidate replied that Governor Morgan feels that the only test of faith for a presidential candidate should be whether he believes in American exceptionalism.”

  Chapter 27

  Z.H. Journal Entry # 11:

  My VA therapists always reminded me that the best cure was the human ability to forget. It was the most important capability we possessed, they explained, the mental mechanism that files away painful memories. In the two decades since my injury, I’ve become very good at tucking away the year of blood and gore in Kuwait, the year of multiple surgeries and physical therapy at Bethesda Naval Hospital, and the years of trying to fit my deformed self into a square life of a husband, a father, and a breadwinner in a government job that was becoming less meaningful every year.

  My faith helped me make peace with life. As a Latter-day Saint, I was taught that my mortal existence was temporary. To earn my place in the most exalted Celestial Kingdom, I must serve righteously as a Saint, as a man of the priesthood, and as the head of my growing family. We’ve always participated in all the ward’s activities, and Palmyra has served as a leader in the Relief Society—the LDS women’s organization dedicated to supporting the all-male priesthood through charitable work for needy Mormons and Gentiles.

  Our children made us proud as they stood up to speak at testimony time, especially Gilead, who at three years old brought tears to everyone’s eyes when he recited for the first time the foundational testimony of the LDS church with a few cute variations: “I know…I know…that Jesus…he told our Prophet…Mister Smith…to be good…because we…we are the only…only only only…true church…because we are saints.”

  Shortly after the Medal of Honor baptizing ceremony, Bishop Morgan was called to serve as Stake President and passed the ward’s bishop mantle to a friendly CPA named Canaan Linder, whose wife Nora had grown up with Palmyra. We became close friends, and Brother Linder called on me to serve as leader of the church’s Boy Scout troop, which over the succeeding years gave me the opportunity to spend time with my boys and officiate at each one’s Eagle Scout Award ceremony. As the years passed, I rarely thought of the heroes’ posthumous baptizing.

  Meanwhile, Joe Morgan’s prestige grew within the church’s national leadership. As the CEO of an investment bank listed on the stock exchange, his income was a matter of public record and of many Saints’ admiration, as ours was a faith that encouraged material success. But his financial and ecclesiastical prominence did not diminish his friendliness. We still saw him, Emma, and their growing children at ward meetings and attended his occasional religious lectures. But even those contacts declined when he made a surprising decision to quit an immensely successful business career in favor of political office.

  Joe Morgan’s run for governor as a Republican in the mostly Democratic state of Maryland was a long shot, but he won on a businesslike platform against a Democratic incumbent with a closet full of skeletons. Four years later, however, the Democrats nominated a strong candidate and Morgan declined to run for a second term in Maryland. Instead, he decided to seek the GOP nomination for president of the United States. He lost the primaries to a senator, who in turn lost the general elections to the Democratic candidate.

  Over the years, my peaceful existence gave the illusion of a secure existence, both present and future, for me, Palmyra, and our children. In addition to Paul, Gilead, and Maxine, we had Anderson in 1997, Lynne in 1999, Michael in 2000, Martha in 2002, and Deborah in 2004. My beautiful children filled my life with light, which fought a continuous match against the recurring dark moods that preyed on my mind. Nothing could totally cure the chronic aches of my physical injuries and the mental pain of battlefield trauma, but advancements in prescription drugs for physical pain and mental distress helped maintain the illusion of normalcy, and my Harley Davidson took me into the hills of western Maryland whenever I needed to get away.

  There was no reason for me to doubt that my righteous obedience entitled me to what every Saint expects after old age and natural death: Palmyra and I would continue our eternal marriage in the next phase of existence, immortal in the heavenly Celestial Kingdom, procreating as a god-father and a god-mother for eternity, while I no longer had to spend five days a week at the Department of Veterans Affairs.

  But then, last year, Joe Morgan announced his intention to seek the GOP nomination again, and my life took an unexpected turn for the worse.

  At first I dismissed his second run as a symbolic act, another futile challenge to GOP conservative voters to get over their prejudice and give a Mormon candidate a chance to win the primaries.

  But despite my doubts, and in defiance of all the TV talking heads’ predictions, Joe Morgan used his impressive record as a business leader to establish himself as a credible hope for pulling the country out of its prolonged recession. It also helped that our leaders in Salt Lake City had invested many millions over the past couple of years in wonderful “I am a Mormon” TV commercials that featured wholesome brothers and sisters in their regular, all-American jobs, homes, and sports activities, to show that we are just like everybody else and not some odd cultists, as our detractors have always claimed.

  It had been a nail-biting experience for all of us to watch Joe Morgan as he slugged through the mudslinging of the primaries, fought last-minute challenges at the convention, and emerged as a winner, capturing the GOP nomination for the presidency.

  We watched his acceptance speech on a large-screen TV set up in the ward house, and when the Republican Convention in Florida erupted into cheers and balloons, here in Silver Spring everyone jumped with joy. There were hugs and prayers all around as if it wasn’t just Joe Morgan being chosen to lead, but our True Church was finally becoming mainstream. This legitimacy, for us Saints, was not a goal in and of itself, but a giant step toward the ultimate goal set by Prophet Joseph Smith—who himself had run for US president—to win recognition by all Christians that ours was the only True Church.

  While everyone was celebrating, a force of terrible distress gripped me. I slipped away and walked home, leaving our car for Palmyra and the kids.

  The floppy disk had spent all these years in the drawer of my nightstand. I slipped it into the inside pocket of my riding jacket.

  It was chilly, but I took my stars-and-stripes Harley Davidson out of the garage and rode it to a solitary park near the Potomac River. Too distraught, I neglected to lower the kickstand, and the motorcycle fell over. When I picked it up, the left side was muddied, soiling the American flag.

  I walked into the woods and stood there among tree trunks, chirpy birds, and tiny raindrops. Tremors passed through me, fear that a great wrong was about to happen because of my failure. It wasn’t the baptizing of the dead. I had no doubts about our duty to try and save all souls, here and in the afterlife. My distress had been triggered by Morgan’s presidential candidacy.

  But why?

  I recalled the expression of elation on Morgan’s face as he stood in the baptismal bath all those years back. He was ecstatic. He seemed to believe that the ritual imbibed him with special powers, that it prepared him for a divine destiny. And now, with Morgan becoming the GOP presidential nominee, I realized how being baptized in proxy for the most courageous men in American history had fueled his conviction that he was destined to reach the top—to become the commander in chief. This misguided certainty, which had radiated from his wet face back then, had been the engine of his ambition ever since. And it was my fault, for I had stolen the veterans’ names for him.

  I fell to my knees and cried for God to guide me.

  And then I heard the voice, the same voice I had heard so many years earlier, blessing my enlistment in t
he Marine Corps. Now it was telling me that Brother Morgan must announce proudly his faith in the restored True Church and reveal his service as proxy in baptizing the fallen heroes who had won the Medal of Honor multiple times.

  Perhaps I should have realized, based on my past experience, what dire consequences might result from obeying a revelation, but what choice did I have?

  I returned to the Harley and took off for Florida. I stopped near Richmond, Virginia, to refuel and check Morgan’s campaign Internet site. He was on his way to Jacksonville, Florida, for his first event as the GOP nominee, demonstrating the importance of the Sunshine State in the battle for the White House. I called Palmyra to let her know that I would be away for some time and hung up before she could ask anything. Ducking behind the windshield, I sped south on I-95 while light rain began to fall.

  Chapter 28

  Ben put down the iPhone. The mention of the dropped Harley Davidson had bothered him, and now he realized why: The mysterious imprint left by the kickstand of the white Ducati near the Camp David Scenic Overlook.

  In his closet-sized study was a wall of shelves. He pulled out the Album of Modern European Motorcycles.

  His own bike, a 2011 R1200GS, was featured at the front of the BMW chapter, which came first, followed by Moto Guzzi, Triumph, and Ducati. He browsed the Ducati models. Only the Monster 848 was photographed in white, and it was impossible to tell whether it was a standard color or a custom paint chosen by the photographer.

  The large photo was taken from the side, but a few smaller photos were taken from all angles. With a magnifying glass, Ben peered at a photo taken from the rear. In the lower-left section, ahead of the rear wheel, the bottom plate of the kickstand stuck out slightly. He turned on his camera and flipped through the photo archive to find the images of the depression left by the kickstand on the dirt-and-weeds path near the overlook. Beside the winding line along the middle, the depression mark seemed larger and the shape was oval, not round like the standard plate.