by Laura Stone
“Right.” It felt useless to Adam.
They headed to Las Ramblas, a combination park and open market where the old Roman parts of Barcelona blended with the new, so they could meet with some of the other elders at the Font de Canaletes, a wrought-iron drinking fountain built in the nineteenth century. They cut down a side street in the Ramblas to avoid walking past a stretch of bars and passed a sunken garden that had lush plantings encircling it.
His hands in his pockets, Christensen stopped and whistled, looking around at the old, ornate buildings with a few modern structures here and there.
“You okay?” Adam asked.
“Yeah.” He shot Adam a bewildered grin. “Sometimes I just get reminded that freaking Romans walked here. Like, right here,” he said, hopping a little.
Adam couldn’t help but laugh.
“Dude. It’s just… History, you know? My town in California is a hundred years old, if that. This place is like, thousands.”
“Yeah.” Adam jerked his head toward the area they were headed. “One time, my family went camping in the Arizona strip down west of Kanab and there were T-Rex footprints in the ground. The Navajo guide on our hike said they used to have one with a claw still in the ground, but some people sneaked out there at night and stole it.”
Christensen stopped. “Whoa. That sucks. But a T-Rex? Okay, that’s way cooler than Roman soldiers.”
They merged onto a raised walkway. Below them, rounded terra-cotta tombs dotted the gravel bed with a few plants dotted here and there. A sign stated it was a Roman necropolis from the second and third centuries. “I don’t know. This is pretty amazing.”
They met with the others a few minutes later and took the all-important drink of water from the Font de Canaletes, water that tourists were told that, when drunk, would ensure they would return to Barcelona.
One of the missionaries was in town from Huesca on splits—where missionary companions are “split” up to ensure no one was alone—teamed for the day with Sorensen and LaSalle while his companion took care of some business with the Mission President. The new guy was an eighteen-year-old kid from Nephi, Utah named Eli Smith.
“No relation,” Elder Smith said after introductions. “Well, not direct, at least. They’re all down in St. George and Gunlock,” he added when shaking Adam’s hand. “So I heard that one of the city guys took a faceful of chewing tobacco? I’d say this was a heck of a lot better,” he said, nodding at some college girls in tank tops. The girls noticed them and tossed their dark hair over their bare shoulders, smiling and laughing as they walked past the group. One even waved and giggled at Sorensen, who flushed deep red before turning away.
“Well, I don’t know about it being tobacco,” Christensen said, lowering his voice, “but one of our guys did get spit at. And that would be Guymon.”
LaSalle groaned, “Of course it was Ketchup.”
Smith made a disgusted face.
“That reaction is about right,” LaSalle said.
Christensen let out a frustrated noise. “He’s kind of a jackhole, Guymon. Sorensen here had him as a greenie. I got stuck with him for a few weeks. Every time I try to give the dude a chance, he’ll just bork it up. I try, but…”
Sorensen rolled his eyes. “Dudes, you don’t even know. Ketchup told me once he felt his ‘heritage and strength of spirit’ would bring the flock to him. Total moron.”
Smith nodded and laughed, but was approached by an elderly couple with a request to take their photograph in front of the Font de Canaletes. The couple pulled in some of the boys, treating them like a landmark or tourist attraction. Sorensen mugged for the camera and dragged Christensen to pose the way he was, taking a huge gulp of the water that sprayed from the brass nozzle mounted on the side of the giant iron fountain.
Adam watched, thinking about what Guymon had told Sorensen. The thing was, Adam had been taught that his was also a noble heritage as a descendant of the Prophet Brigham Young, the Mormon Church’s second prophet and President, and that the righteous would feel his presence.
At least he’d never been spat on, he thought, as the older man kindly shook his head no at the pamphlet Adam held out.
* * *
P-Day rolled around again, and instead of meeting up in the park or traveling out of the city to hike, all the missionaries were coming to their apartment to get much-needed haircuts. Christensen apparently was the designated barber for their district. Adam busied himself straightening their books when a buzz suddenly twanged. He turned to see Christensen testing a set of clippers.
“My mom sent me a new pair just before you got here,” he said, switching it off. “She knows I like to keep it neat. Since then, everyone bugs me to cut their hair when we have the chance,” he shrugged. “Saves on bucks.”
LaSalle brought over the new companion for Elder Smith, a greenie fresh from the MTC.
“Fellas, this here is Elder May in town from the Vic.” That was what they all called the outskirts of the Mission’s territory, a place rich with refugees and immigrants from Ghana, Morocco and Nigeria. “Let’s show him the Spanish love, okay?”
A round of handshakes, ¿Como estas?, and the typical discussion of family trees revealed that May, who hailed from a central Utah town, Richfield, and Sorensen were third cousins. Sorensen proclaimed his new-found cousin to be his “protégé” and said no one should mess with him.
“Oh, wait! Did your mom send you jars of peanut butter, B?” Sorensen asked.
Christensen laughed and laid out a towel on the counter. “Yeah, and she told me not to touch one of them because it was for you. Man, quit working your mojo on my mom. She can’t help but want to feed you jerks.”
Young flushed thinking about the package of deodorant—the same kind Christensen used—several Skor candy bars, and a personalized and very motherly note from Sister Christensen’s monthly care package that she’d sent to him that week.
Dear Adam,
We feel so blessed to have you in our lives as Brandon’s companion. You’ve been such a source of comfort for him. He talks about your strength of spirit to us all the time. It’s so important that you boys and girls out there have mission companions who you can trust with your thoughts and feelings. Make sure you boys lean on each other so you can have the strength to get the job done out there. We’re so proud of you and keep you in our prayers and hearts.
Keep up the good work!
Sister Sandra, aka, Mission Mom
Somehow knowing Sorensen also got packages from Sister Christensen made his feel less special. But then, she hadn’t sent it to him with a note, thought the jealous, mother-starved part of him. He immediately felt ashamed. Sandra Christensen was obviously a mother hen who liked to tuck strays under her wings. She was being generous. Young shouldn’t feel jealous. That was ridiculous.
“Whatever, man,” Sorensen said. “I can’t help it if your mom enjoys getting letters from your friends, especially when it ends up with me getting stuff.”
“Dude, you’re writing letters to my mother?”
“Uh, she loves it? Chill? I sent her a thank you note for the peanut butter cookies you shared with us. Ease up.” Sorensen threw open the cabinet doors rooting around for his jar. “And I may have mentioned how hard it was to find my favorite kind out here. Ah, yes! Crunchy…” He found the plastic jar, ripped the lid off and jammed his finger in, swiped out a blob and plugged his mouth with it. “Ohhhhh,” he moaned around his finger. “If your mom wasn’t married, bro…”
“Okay, that’s definitely crossing a line.” Christensen crossed his arms and frowned. “Dude, you’re so nasty! Get a frickin’ spoon, Elder.”
Sorensen grabbed a spoon, scooped out another huge dollop, and licked the peanut butter like a lollipop. Then, he whipped off his shirt and his white, silken sacred undergarments, spun a chair on one leg and straddled it.
“
I believe I get firsts this time, gentlemen. Short on the sides, and as much of a faux-hawk that you think I can get away with, B.”
Young was scandalized at Sorensen being bare-chested in front of everyone, but tried to keep his face neutral. They weren’t supposed to be… That wasn’t okay. When preparing for his mission, he’d gone through the temple and had taken his Endowments—a covenant to the Church marked by special white garments he promised to wear at all times, save when showering or for some sports, as a sign he would honor his commitment to Heavenly Father. He’d taken that covenant very seriously and only took off his own garments just before stepping into the shower and he put a fresh pair on as soon as he was dry.
Garments were considered to be sacred. Their whiteness symbolized both physical and spiritual purity. The embroidered markings over the nipples and navel as well as the one just above the right knee symbolized the compass and square and the level, respectively, and were taboo to speak of outside the temple. “Sacred, not secret,” he’d been taught. Nothing was to come between his skin and his garments. In fact, women wore their bras over their G’s—which is what most Mormons called them.
Their constant presence again the skin was a steady reminder of those sacred temple vows to honor Heavenly Father, and in turn, it was believed that the garments were capable of providing literal protection from evil and harm. Every Mormon had a story of someone they knew whose lives were saved by the protection of their holy G’s. His own father had recounted a story of an engine backfire on base that blasted the mechanics with gasoline-fueled fire. The only person who had come out unscathed, relatively speaking, was one of the men who was also LDS. He had second- and third-degree burns on all skin not covered by his G’s. That skin—his shoulders, chest and back, all the way to his knees—had been spared completely.
No one just took them off.
Young looked around at the other guys and registered that no one else seemed to care, not even the greenie. No one seemed to think this was a massive breach in mission protocol, let alone something sinful or dangerous. In fact, Elder May was teaching Romney how to do a complicated handshake involving snaps and chest bumps, and the others were pilfering the contents of Young and Christensen’s meager pantry.
“Who’s next?” Christensen asked, slapping at a laughing Sorensen’s neck with a dish towel.
Guymon whistled and jerked his thumb like the jerk he was and stood waiting for Sorensen to vacate the chair.
“Buzz it all off? Stripe down the middle? Draw a smiley face in there?” Christensen said, snapping the clippers on and off quickly while waggling his eyebrows.
“No,” Guymon huffed. “Neat. Clean up the back and sides. Come on, don’t be dumb.”
Christensen rolled his eyes when Guymon sat, then winked at Young. “I think Sister Cook said she liked a guy with a buzz cut, though…”
Guymon ducked and slapped at Christensen’s hand.
“What does Randilyn like?” Christensen pressed. “Friar Tuck bald spot on top, right?”
“Cut it out, Brandon! Just make it neat.”
“Yo, I’m next,” Romney said, leaving it to the rest of the increasingly loud and rambunctious group to figure out the rest of the order.
Young kept finding ways to skip his turn. He washed the lunch dishes after telling Elder May not to worry about pitching in. He read a short letter from his mother in which she passive-aggressively wondered if he’d been made District Leader yet and then asked him to pray for his father who had just gotten another “very important calling” in the Church. As Elder Gardener nodded toward the chair, Young shook his head. “No, it’s okay. You go ahead. I need to write back.”
He pulled out his stationery and replied to her, asked for details on his dad’s new calling and spent several paragraphs detailing the wonderful architecture in the city, from the rounded rooflines that almost appeared thatched to the ancient buildings still standing after hundreds of years offset by modern glass and steel art museums.
After that, he reorganized the bookshelf holding all of their teaching materials and scriptures—anything to keep busy and to keep his eyes from studying the other boys in the room too intently. Guyman hadn’t put his shirt back on, and his pasty, slightly sunken bare chest was disconcertingly eye-catching for its unattractiveness.
The clippers’ buzz stopped. Elder Smith bent at the waist and shook his head, knocking a few clumps of shorn brown hair to the tiled floor. He checked himself in the mission-provided mirror that hung near the front door with the words “Can you see HIS image in your countenance?” on a bold yellow-painted plaque below.
“We promised to help move boxes at the library in exchange for a discussion, so we’re off,” Sorensen said. “Thanks for the cut, B.” He and Christensen performed a weird series of hand bumps and finger snaps, ending in a giant bear hug.
“Two weeks left, LaSalle,” Christensen said, pushing LaSalle back with a friendly hand to LaSalle’s freshly shaved head. “If I don’t see you before you head out, you better write.”
“Will do, man! Later, guys!”
“That’s our cue, too,” Elder Romney said, nodding at his companion, Larsen. “We’re scoping out a potential spot at Ciutadella Park near the zoo.”
“Yeah?” Guyman said, pulling his shirt over his head—he hadn’t bothered unbuttoning it and Adam couldn’t help but notice how rumpled and messy he looked.
“Get your own spot, dude,” Larsen said, shaking his head.
The remaining boys gathered their things and shouted goodbyes until it was just Adam and Christensen. Christensen reached behind his head and pulled his shirt and G’s off in one fluid motion; the muscles in his back and flanks rippled. Then he turned the clippers on and stood in front of the mirror to clean up his sideburns.
“Hey, come catch the back for me,” he said quietly, pulling the guard off the clippers. “Make sure it’s squared off, okay?”
Adam took the vibrating clippers; his insides buzzed to match. Christensen straddled a chair with his arms folded over the back and his forehead resting on his arms. Adam took in the breadth of Christensen’s shoulders, the visible musculature, the tawny brown skin, and was hit with an ache so deep in his chest it took his breath away. He wanted to touch that smooth expanse of skin, to feel its warmth against his palm, and he blanched. He absolutely should not have such thoughts.
He forced himself to calm the heck down, gently laid a hand on Christensen’s broad shoulder and pushed away the memory of how Christensen’s body shook when he touched himself in the dark. Instead, Adam squared his shoulders and did as he’d been asked: squared off Christensen’s nape.
Christensen stood and looked at the finished job in the mirror. “Could you get back behind my ears? I never get that right.”
Nothing bad had happened when Adam touched his companion’s bare skin. Registering how warm he was or how firm he felt under Adam’s hand didn’t cause the floor to split open or demons to pour out to cast him down with the Sons of Perdition. He almost laughed out loud at himself, at how ridiculous that sounded. He had half-expected to be struck down, to hear the angry voice of God chastising him for being in the room with someone who had covenanted to wear sacred garments but wasn’t, for not being disgusted at touching a half-naked male standing in front of him.
For wanting to touch, wanting it so badly.
Emboldened, he stood with shaking hands behind Christensen, who tilted his head down, exposing the taut skin behind his ear. With a bracing breath, Adam leaned forward, cupped Christensen’s face and made a few, slow strokes with the tool, forcing himself to focus on how the vibrating comb caught the hair follicles instead of how a muscle in Christensen’s jaw jumped at Adam’s touch. When he finished, Adam softly blew at the fallen hairs on the skin stretched over the tendon in Christensen’s neck, so close he could feel the heat of his companion’s body. He immediately snapped off the clippers
and stepped back to keep from falling into Christensen’s body.
Christensen turned and gave him a steady look, then said, “Your turn.”
“What? Um, no, I’m good.”
“Your hair’s touching your ears. You want people to think you’re some kind of granola-eating hippie who follows jam bands? Come on, Elder. I promise I won’t jack your hair up, Scout’s honor.”
“Yeah, okay.” Adam straddled the chair, same as the others, but kept his P-Day T-shirt on.
“We already did laundry today, Adam. You’re gonna get your shirt covered in hair. What gives? You got a third nipple? Poodle tattoo over your heart? You’re not supposed to be allowed to go on a mission if you have tattoos.”
Adam barked out a nervous laugh. “What? No. I don’t— All right, all right. Don’t go shaving designs or anything. No mullets or racing stripes.” He pulled his shirt and garments off in one motion, leaving his arms bound by the fabric; he covered his chest with his arms and bunched clothing. If he didn’t take it all the way off, he wouldn’t be breaking his covenant.
“You do have a third nipple, don’t you?” Christensen laughed, then tugged at the cloth, pulling Adam’s arms free. Adam watched as his last protective barrier was dropped on the sofa. His breath turned shallow, and his heart raced.
Christensen made a point of checking out his chest and abs. “Nope, no conjoined twin, either. What gives, man? Are you… what, shy? You shouldn’t be. You’re fit as heck. How the heck did you deal with the locker room, dude?”
I didn’t want anyone in the locker room to touch me back, Adam thought.
As Christensen walked behind Adam to switch on the clippers, Adam shivered, closed his eyes and tried to stop the repetitive battle between thoughts of how this was wrong versus how desperately he wanted Christensen to get on with it. He wanted something to happen.