by Laura Stone
PRAISE FOR LAURA STONE
BITTER SPRINGS
“Highly recommended… Bitter Springs is a wonderful depiction of a lost period of gay life and history in the rural West of the 1800s.”
—American Library Association, GLBT Roundtable
“Stone deftly mixes yearning and hot passion with sweet tenderness and a love of nature in this engrossing and deep coming-of-age love story.”
—ALA Booklist
“Readers will savor this sweet, loving historical.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Compelling and deeply satisfying…the representation of ethnic, racial, cultural and sexual diversity in an Old West setting is both refreshing and historically accurate.”
—RT Book Reviews Magazine
The Bones of You
“By the time the book ended I was in love with the characters to the point I couldn’t let them go.”
—USA Today
“Stone’s sensitive debut… plays the relationship with restraint, letting it unfold slowly and organically.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Their beautiful love story will bring plenty of laughter, and even a few tears, as these men grab hold of their rare second chance. It was appreciated that neither man was willing to give up his dreams because that wouldn’t have felt true to the love they have shared since boarding school.”
—RT Book Reviews Magazine
And It Came to Pass
Copyright © 2017 Laura Stone
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-15-3 (trade)
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-35-1 (ebook)
Published by Interlude Press
http://interludepress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Cover Photography by T.I. Stills Photography
Photoshoot Direction/On-Site Consulting by Carrie Pack
Book and Cover Design by CB Messer
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Interlude Press, New York
To T.J. and B.F. I'm sorry you can't come out yet, but I understand. To Laura B: thanks for setting the example and for being hilarious while doing it.
Contents
Author's Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author's Note
My great-great grandfather, Thomas Featherstone, was converted by the second wave of LDS missionaries to England in the mid-1840s. He kept a journal detailing his conversion and oceanic trip to the United States to join the Saints leaving Missouri for Salt Lake City. Sections of his journals are now stored online at BYU's Mormon Migration domain. Thomas was one of the first people publicly called to polygamy in Salt Lake and had twelve wives sealed to him—only three were living at the time of their sealing. The other nine were sealed to him after their deaths. His tombstone—which he shares with two of his wives—is in American Fork, Utah.
His family multiplied and spread all over Salt Lake and Utah Valley, with most of them concentrated in Lehi, American Fork, and Santaquin. My father, the thirteenth of fifteen children on their sprawling Lehi farm, moved away after marrying my mother, a native of Dallas. The vast majority of my family still lives in Utah near Salt Lake City. It's a large family, as those old Mormon families tend to be. My cousin, Vaughn J. Featherstone, is one of the General Authorities (second-tier leaders of the Mormon Church) and was president of the San Antonio mission for years and years. My uncle gave seed money to start Day-Timer Day Planners®, the pet project of FranklinCovey®. Less prestigious cousins opened (and then closed) the 49th Street Galleria, a family-fun center in Murray, Utah. Other uncles and aunts work for the Church in official capacities at their ranches, tune their pianos, paint their churches and stake centers, write their hymns, and volunteer in their temples and genealogy efforts, actions many other Mormons do, as well. And all of us, at some point, sold both Melaleuca and Nu Skin.
I was "born in the covenant," as it's called when parents are sealed in the temple for time and all eternity. I grew up extremely devout. I loved being Mormon. Growing up, I usually held a leadership position in Young Women's, and when I went "back home" to Utah for college, was called as a Gospel Doctrine teacher for years. I served in the Young Women's Presidency, was co-director for YW Camp, taught in the Primary, and am well-trained in the arts of canning, quilting, and managing food storage and can make four different kinds of sparkling punch on the fly. I know that the missing 5th can from the ingredient list of 5 Can Casserole is my attitude. "I 'Can' Do It."
My three children were all blessed in the Church, but none ultimately were baptized. I began backing away from the Church before they were old enough. My family—all 130+ first cousins, 70+ second cousins, etc.—are all still actively Mormon. (And a handful are quietly polygamist, too, but we only have them out once a year for the big family BBQ and try not to comment too much about it, as it's not seen as polite party talk.) Now that all three of my children have come out as LGBT, I'm grateful I did not saddle them with a faith that does not want them. The Proclamation of the Family as well as the Handbook all LDS priesthood leaders receive upon their calling makes this very clear.
No religion can claim a monolithic adherence to its tenets and beliefs, and Mormons are not exempt from that. Utah Mormons aren't the same as Californian Mormons or other Mission-Field members. There are, of course, similarities among all of us, but some Mormons refuse any soda with caffeine, while others shrug and drink the Barq's. (Most Mormons can tell you how much caffeine is in any beverage, however. We're all quite adept at knowing this.)
This novel reflects either direct experiences from my life or from the life of loved ones. There are some quirks of behavior that are idiosynchratic. The doctrine, however, is all straight from the source. Mormon culture and Mormonism are a closely looped Venn diagram of thought, in other words.
Chapter One
“[Sacrifice] helps us become worthy to live in the presence of God [. . .] We must also believe that we will receive the promised reward.” (Fifth Missionary Discussion, 1986 Missionary Discourses, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints)
“Thou wast chosen before thou wast born.” (Abraham 3:23, Pearl of Great Price)
Barcelona, Spain: LDS Mission Field
Adam Young sat quietly in the car’s backseat as his finger absentmindedly traced over the embossed gold outline of his name in the lower corner of his worn, leather-bound quadruple set of scriptures. He’d been traveling for just over fourteen hours, from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah to the Salt Lake City airport to his final stop, Barcelona, Spain.
He was rumpled and achy from sitting in a cramped space. His stomach had been in knots for the past few hours, and it wasn’t from the lack of food on the flight. He should be halfway to passed out. Jet-lagged or not, there was no way he would fall asleep in the car. He was too energized by being somewhere new, seeing a new country, new people, heck, even new plants and trees—anything that wasn’t th
e oppressively familiar look of his hometown, Provo.
There were palm trees. Actual palm trees like in Las Vegas, but these weren’t the thin, reedy palm trees of the desert. One stood tall and wide in a grassy circle near the entrance to the airport, surrounded by a group of trees he’d never seen. As they pulled out of the airport proper, he couldn’t see much of the city beyond the distant skyscrapers, but it already felt huge. Even the air was different: brighter, livelier. Probably because they were close to the ocean…
In Provo most of the greenery was confined to the mountains that backed the town, leaving the populated areas filled with not much more than cement and power lines, though some trees and plantings crept out of their sidewalk planters here and there. To make it worse, Provo was usually hit by an inversion in the winter that created a pocket of polluted air over the whole of the Utah Valley, leaving the already bland urban areas grey and dank for weeks. Here, though, buildings were bright and colorful; a breeze had blown through the car window when he’d momentarily opened it. A pollution haze hung over the skyscrapers, but the city—what he could see from the car at least—still seemed different to him, wilder, somehow. Provo was so orderly, so typical with its strip malls and chain businesses on every street.
He sat back, mouth gaping, awestruck by the strange beauty of this new city he would be calling home for the next two years. One tall building looked as if it had plants growing all down the side. He flashed to the drawings of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in his LDS Church-issued Bible study guide from his childhood. He rolled the window back up and felt guilty as the Mission President glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He hadn’t been told he could roll the window down, after all. He folded his hands neatly over his scriptures and turned his body to gain the best view.
The strangeness of this city coupled with the excitement of travel went a long way to calm his anxiety about serving a mission. It had slowly built up over the past month and a half of mission and Spanish language training back home at the MTC, as those in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or LDS Church, called the Missionary Training Center. His anxiety about serving—about being a complete success as a missionary—had been building for most of his life.
“All right back there, Elder Young?” the President asked, chuckling at the name as Adam nodded.
“Elder” was the official title of his new priesthood office, and it mingled ironically with his last name. He knew he’d take flak for that unfortunate title for the entire two years of service, service that started in earnest today. His stomach twisted again as if he was going to be sick. He was just nervous. Serving a mission was a big deal. His family and the Church had put a lot of expectations on his shoulders. There were souls in the world whose eternal salvation depended on him finding them and baptizing them, saving them from eternal damnation. He wished he’d kept the window rolled down.
His Mission President, engrossed in conversation with the driver, another Church member, didn’t pay him much attention, but Adam didn’t mind. The view just beginning to present itself was fascinating and beautiful and unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he’d barely seen more than the airport’s entrance, for crying out loud. As they moved into the city, he wanted to press his face against the glass; he wanted to get out and walk around.
Barcelona was a long way away from the cinderblock retaining walls and bland, square houses of Provo. Everything so far looked vibrant, color-drenched and visually busy. Tiny scooters, oblivious to traffic or safety it seemed, zipped among the cars on the main road. Horns honked constantly. The sidewalks were packed with people, bicycles and scooter drivers taking any opportunity to keep moving. Even skateboards weren’t allowed on most city sidewalks back in Provo. He tried to picture the guy, clad in only board shorts and a helmet for Pete’s sake, who was passing them so closely on a turquoise scooter that his shoulder almost hit the side-view mirror, zipping up State Street to weave between all the monster SUVs and the moms pushing triple strollers on the sidewalks. He laughed to himself.
“Whoa,” Adam murmured, smiling as he caught sight of the ocean. The water was an almost-unimaginable blue, so different from the often-smelly grey-green-brown of the Great Salt Lake, the only major body of water close to where he’d grown up. He could see long piers reaching out into the choppy water and wished it wasn’t a mission rule that they weren’t allowed to swim.
Adam, or Elder Young as he should now refer to himself, was officially a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He’d grown up singing the Mormon indoctrination hymns “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission” and “Called to Serve.” On more Sundays than he could count, he’d listened to the tearful, emotional services for older boys and a few girls in his home ward, what the LDS Church called the geographically-bound congregation similar to a Catholic parish, as they left their families and friends to serve the Lord on their missions. In his Priesthood meetings, he’d nodded along, as was expected when he and all the other boys in church were told of the vast importance of mission work, of how the Church and their fellow man’s eternal salvation depended on it, of how he was expected to choose to serve. The Church itself proudly stated that their number one priority on Earth was mission work. He could also remember the judgmental tone in his parents’ voices when they discussed those members who didn’t choose rightly, who didn’t serve. “Selfish,” his father had always said.
“You’re quiet back there,” the Mission President said, catching Adam’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Tired?”
“A little,” Adam answered. “Mostly it’s just…” He nodded out the window. “Overwhelmed by it, I guess?”
“It’s a beautiful country. Beautiful people, too. Family-oriented, like we are. These should be two of the best years of your life, son.”
Adam smiled weakly and sank back into his seat as the two men up front continued their discussion about all the transfers happening in various districts. He pushed his fist into his churning belly and strained to see the ocean as they wove through traffic.
All of his life, his friends, family, and church leaders had spoken of how amazing this moment would be, how life-changing this experience was for those who answered the call to serve. His friends had been laser-focused on how much they were looking forward to becoming missionaries; Adam had always smiled and nodded, but never with the same zeal. Over and over returned missionaries spoke with passion about how they were overcome with emotion the first time they heard the thousands of missionaries at the MTC singing “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission” in unison. For Adam, that experience had just been a reminder that there was something wrong with him, because instead of feeling overwhelmed with the Spirit, he’d felt like a failure for not.
Serving a mission was something he was expected to do, so he would do it. He’d never felt all fired-up as he’d been told he would. It was more like a chore, something he had to cross off his “True Blue Mormon” list like attending Sunday School as well as Seminary—Mormon religious training at his local high school—becoming a Boy Scout and getting his Eagle rank. It was going to be a huge disruption to his college years, not to mention potentially jeopardizing his athletic scholarship if he became sick on his mission.
Why wasn’t he excited? After all, he’d grown up watching his three older brothers and sister serve, had seen their glowing, happy faces when they’d come home, had heard all the stories about how changed they were, had watched his parents seem proud and satisfied as each of Adam’s older siblings followed the practically pre-ordained course for all Mormon youth, particularly the boys.
“Elder, you’re what, nineteen?”
Adam blinked himself out of his thoughts and nodded. “Turned nineteen a few months back. I, um, I didn’t feel ready to put in my call at eighteen.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” the Mission President said, pointing out a sign to their driver. “I know Heavenly Father guided the leaders into lo
wering the age, but I’d rather have you kids out here when you feel ready. Then again,” he laughed, “You don’t want to push it off too much! Some of those guys might get too cozy at home not serving if we didn’t crack the whip, eh?”
Adam gave him an answering smile and hoped it didn’t reveal how close that had been to Adam’s pre-mission life.
“Were you in school, son?”
“Yes,” Adam answered. “University of Utah.” He’d put the second half of his sophomore year at the U on hold to devote two years to the Church, and that meant his athletic scholarship for football, as well.
“Uh oh,” the Mission President chuckled. “Cougar here. Proud graduate of Brigham Young University.”
“That’s okay,” Adam said, grinning. “I’m the only Ute in my family. They all went to BYU, too.”
“Turncoat, huh?”
“Scholarship.”
“Oh, is that right? Academic? Wait, those shoulders…” The Mission President twisted in his seat and smirked. “Young, right. I think I’ve seen you play. Didn’t we kick your butt last season?”
Adam grinned. This he could do. Talking sports wasn’t personal. “No, sir. We beat the Y forty-three to twenty-one.”
“Hmm. I think we had to play our second string quarterback that game. Lots of injuries on our side.” He scowled at Adam, then winked. “Well, out here, ‘football’ means something completely different.”
The driver spoke, his lisping accent indicating his Castilian heritage. “You need to decide if you’re Real Madrid or Barcelona.” He pronounced the ‘c’ in Barcelona with a ‘th’ sound. “Everyone has a team, and there are enough Real Madrid fans here that it’s not as easy to assume.”
“Good point, Rodrigo. Elder, you think people back home get excited about BYU versus the U games, you haven’t seen anything like fútbol games in Europe. The whole city tuned into the World Cup. An entire family could be divided by someone defecting to support the other team. You’re lucky your family didn’t disown you not going to the Lord’s University.”