Elders

by Ryan McIlvain

  By Friday the silence had hardened again. On Saturday it seemed more impenetrable than ever, though it also seemed to float free of the elders, independent of each of them, a poisonous gas that flushed up from depths neither had anticipated or really intended. At times Elder Passos felt he could almost see it, sense it staining the air around them like squid’s ink. Sunday passed like that. Then Monday. Passos felt himself start to resent even the sound of McLeod’s breathing. He thought McLeod probably resented the sound of his too.

  At seven o’clock Tuesday morning Elder Passos stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, making sure of his privacy, though his companion was still very much asleep. Passos took out the three-by-five note cards he had prepared for his talk at zone conference that afternoon. The cards were filled to the bottom edge with tiny, tidy script. He read aloud through the first card, practicing pace and cadence. He read through the second, too, and only on the third—he looked up into the mirror for brief, meaningful eye contact—did he realize that McLeod had torn down all his Jesus pictures again. He must have done it sometime during the night. To anger me. Try to throw me off-kilter for the talk he’s watched me prepare, hour after hour, night after night. It won’t work. It won’t.

  And it didn’t. That afternoon at the conference Elder Passos mastered his concentration as he moved through the cards with a calm, unhurried, confident air, addressing the twenty or so missionaries, and of course the mission president, who had gathered in Belo Horizonte to receive instruction and edification. Passos first outlined the zone’s numbers as compared with those from two months ago at the last zone conference. They had fallen off rather precipitously, “though not alarmingly,” Passos pronounced. For consider how the new emphasis on family-centered teaching had caused retention numbers to rise mission-wide. He transitioned into the doctrine, saying, “And consider how every great move toward progress—eternal progress—encounters opposition, especially at the beginning. Consider how the Evil One tried to overwhelm the young Joseph Smith when he first prayed to His Heavenly Father aloud, in the earnestness of his soul. ‘Immediately,’ Joseph wrote, ‘I was seized upon by some power which entirely overcame me, and had such an astonishing influence over me as to bind my tongue so that I could not speak. Thick darkness gathered around me, and it seemed to me for a time as if I were doomed to sudden destruction.’ And consider, too—and this is the take-home—how the Prophet freed himself from this Enemy of All Righteousness: ‘I exerted all my powers to call upon God to deliver me …’

  “My fellow missionaries, let me be as clear as I can. Our inspired leaders have told us to focus on teaching and baptizing families, self-sustaining celestial units. This is an effort that matters, and matters everlastingly, and the Everlasting Enemy knows this. We will therefore have to work harder than ever to call on God to help us. We will have to exert ourselves more than ever to be obedient and worthy of the Lord’s helping hand. The noise of the world, indeed, can be deafening. We need shelter and protection from the world. We need a place where we can hear ourselves think, a place to present the gospel in the bright light of simple truth. And where can we find this shelter? Where do we find it? In the rules and regulations of our inspired leaders.

  “You all know the new rules to which I refer. I have communicated them to you myself, many times. They are simple and easy to follow. They are small things, truly, but truly, as the scripture says, ‘by small and simple means do great things come to pass.’ I testify that if we follow these new rules, if we focus our teaching on families, and if we call upon the Lord through the exertions of our hands and hearts, we will reap such great blessings ‘as there will not be room enough to receive them.’ This is the promise of the Lord to the prophet Malachi, and this is His promise, today, to each of us. The Lord requires of us not impossible sacrifice, remember—not inhuman feats of strength or deprivation. What does He require of us? Simple, saving obedience. Obedience, my friends: no more or less than that.”

  Two hours later Passos sat before the president in the bishop’s office. The president smiled. “That was some talk you gave.”

  “Thank you,” Passos said in English. “I worked hard on it.”

  “You sure did,” the president said, also in English. He chuckled a bit. “You went above and beyond, stole some of my thunder. Do you know that phrase? To steal someone’s thunder?”

  Elder Passos shook his head.

  “Well, that’s okay. Idioms are hard.”

  “You don’t have to talk so slow,” Passos said. “I can understand English well now. Elder McLeod and I have been practicing.”

  “I can tell. Your grammar is very good. How is Elder McLeod?”

  “He’s okay. He is difficult, but okay.”

  “He goes home after one more transfer,” the president said. “You probably knew that? Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I do appreciate the challenges you face with him, and I do notice the way you handle those challenges. You’re a good missionary, Elder Passos, a good zone leader, and I don’t mind telling you that I can always use good missionaries in the office with me.”

  “You mean assistants?” Passos said.

  The president chuckled again, and Elder Passos cringed at what he assumed had been his over-directness. In English he still lacked the nuance, the necessary euphemisms of educated speech. He formed an apology on his lips.

  “Obviously I can’t make promises,” the president said. “The Lord is the head of this mission, not me. But I don’t mind saying that I could use a good missionary like you, a resourceful missionary, as my assistant. If you can keep up the good work you’re doing with Elder McLeod for one more transfer … Do you think you can do that?”

  Elder Passos slowly nodded. The president returned the nod. He dropped his eyes—to his wristwatch?—then returned them to Passos. A formal smile, a tiny pause. Passos knew the afternoon had been long for the president. He must want to be done with his interviews. Passos couldn’t afford the lead-in; he couldn’t afford the English. He said in Portuguese, “President, may I ask one more question?”

  “Shoot,” the president said, still in English.

  “Ah, yes, ‘shoot,’ ” Passos said. “That one I do know.” The president smiled politely, waited. “Well, I wanted to ask, is it true that assistants to the president are offered scholarships—I’ve sometimes heard this around the mission—scholarships to BYU? Some of the missionaries in my zone have asked me, which is why I ask. Some of the Brazilians have asked. Many of them would like to go to BYU, of course, but it’s very expensive to travel and very difficult to get a visa. They say the scholarship helps.”

  “And are you one of those Brazilians, Elder Passos?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The president was laughing again. “I’ve never heard the rumor quite like that,” he said, “though it is true I have many contacts in Utah. My younger brother is on the admissions board at BYU. Maybe that’s how the rumor started, I don’t know. I know BYU likes foreign students, though—they like diversity—and I’ll bet a smart, resourceful missionary like you would make a smart, resourceful student. I might be able to write a recommendation to that effect, Elder. But don’t start worrying about that yet. How much time do you have left?”

  “Five months,” Passos said.

  “Well, you see my point. That’s a long time. For now just concentrate on that companion of yours. Then we’ll see what we can do for you, okay? Is there anything else?”

  “No, President. Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” President Mason said, and half rose to shake Passos’s hand. “Tell your companion to come in next, please.”

  Passos came out of the bishop’s office, caught eyes with McLeod, briefly, then nodded at the door. McLeod stood up and crossed the glowing foyer: late-afternoon sunlight pushed through the window shades, translucent pulled-down sheets that looked to McLeod like backlit flypaper. He carried some of that orange light in with him to the bishop’s office. President Mason sat a
t his desk, the picture of the risen Lord shining behind him, the president shining too, if only for a second, his face lit up like a harvest moon. He smiled and shook McLeod’s hand. Elder McLeod sat down on a chair half as big as the president’s leather recliner.

  “I liked your talk,” McLeod said, lying. He wanted to start on a positive note even if it meant a servile untruth—a Passosesque gambit. In truth the president’s zone conference address had been worse than usual, soaked straight through with his business-speak. At one point he’d interrupted himself to ask the group, and not rhetorically, “How do you say ‘deliverables’ in Portuguese?” But McLeod felt he had an end, for once, that could justify any means.

  President Mason smiled again, acknowledging McLeod’s compliment, then started into the language of the personal interview. How did he feel about his progress as a missionary, as a disciple and representative of Christ? How did he feel the Work was going? How was he coming along on the Problem? This last question was a slight deviation from the script, but McLeod didn’t let it distract him from his own: I feel better about it … It’s going better … Much better. President Mason didn’t challenge McLeod or ask any follow-ups. He shifted in his deep leather chair, creaking, shook his watch out of his shirt cuff. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Is there anything else, then?”

  McLeod realized his mistake. Late in the afternoon of a long day, late into the lineup of missionary interviews, the president was too tired to probe on his own. “Well,” McLeod said, stalling for time. He said the word again, through a quavering sigh (“Well …”), letting the tone of his voice begin the disclosure.

  The president leaned back in his chair, showing a knowing half smile. He laced his hands together in his prayerlike way, rested them on the desk, said, “What’s in that ‘well,’ Elder? I know that ‘well’ very well.”

  “Well, I don’t think the Work’s going that great, actually,” McLeod said.

  “Work harder then, Elder. Apply the principles that I covered today, that your senior companion talked about as well. The Lord will reward your obedience.”

  “I haven’t stopped masturbating either.”

  “When was the last time it happened?”

  “Last night.”

  “Follow ‘The Guide to Self-Control,’ Elder. Pray. Take short, cold showers. Wear blue jeans at night if that helps. Follow the Guide.”

  “I haven’t spoken to Elder Passos in two weeks. I want a new companion in the next transfer. I need one.”

  President Mason lifted his eyebrows. “Two weeks. Wow.” He let out a chuckle. “The best I ever managed was a day and a half of the silent treatment. I never had the patience for it. Well, how is your companionship scripture study going? How about companionship prayer?”

  “You don’t understand, President. We haven’t talked at all. Anything that involves talking to each other, we avoid.”

  “Literal silence?” President Mason said.

  “Literal silence.”

  “And why didn’t your senior companion tell me about any of this?”

  “You’d have to ask him that.”

  The president’s eyebrows furrowed, his face darkened over. He gestured for McLeod to go on.

  Which he very much did. He had come prepared. He catalogued every offense, every trespass, every passive aggression of the last month, of the entire companionship. It wasn’t just the anti-American jabs, the anti-Americanism in general; it was everything, everywhere; it was as pervasive as God. The belligerent big-bellied man in the first lesson. I did not say I disagree with him, Passos said. Or the pastor with the red convertible—purchased, they’d both assumed, with tithe money—and McLeod’s harmless comment to lay not up treasures. Tell that to your countrymen, Passos said. McLeod felt like he lived on a minefield. He walked down the street and the Brazilians did double takes—blond hair, blue eyes, must be American, right?—and Hey, Bin Laden! Hooray, Bin Laden! Tell your president this, tell your president that! As if McLeod could just get him on the phone, just dial in to the White House and say President! Urgent memo from the third world! McLeod could count on something like that every day now—he could practically set his watch to it—and he could tell that his companion enjoyed it. He smiled sometimes. He laughed! Only it wasn’t even laughter—it was this amused little smirk he always did. The son of a bitch was a walking smirk!

  President Mason put a hand up. “I’m sure your companion would give a different version of things.”

  “I’m sure he would,” McLeod said. “I’m sure he’d lie. The son of a bitch is a walking lie!”

  “Watch your language, Elder. And listen. Listen. I understand what you’re saying. I’ve experienced some of it myself. But you can’t let it get to you so much. And you can’t feed into it either. This isn’t the third world. This is the vineyard the Lord has called you to work in. Right?” The president paused, leaning forward. He lowered his voice. “Elder McLeod, are you praying for the success of your companionship? Are you praying for a testimony? Are you doing the simple things the Lord asks of you? Are you doing the things I asked of you?”

  Elder McLeod sighed a long, quavering sigh, and this one unaffected. “I need a new companion, President. Please. I don’t think I could take another transfer with him.”

  President Mason said, “Okay, Elder. Elder McLeod? Look at me. I’m up here.” McLeod looked into the president’s round large face, even rounder and larger at this distance. The man half bowed his head; he spoke at a near whisper. “I think I can work something out, all right? I’ll have to ask the Lord first, of course. He is the head of this mission, not me. I testify of that. But I’ll try to work something out. Now,” he said, “let me tell you a story. When I was a missionary, I served with an Elder Donson. We didn’t get along for a number of reasons, none of which were political, but of course it was still a problem. One morning I woke up and he’d shined my shoes. It was a dusty area and we did a lot of walking. He’d shined my shoes and I knew it and yet I didn’t say a word about it, and neither did he. The next morning I got up early and shined his shoes. Then the next day he did mine, and the next I did his, and so on. It went on like that for more than a week. Something had changed. We both felt it. We both felt grateful for it. We were never bosom buddies—don’t misunderstand me—but now we could work together. We could concentrate on the Work. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Elder McLeod understood but he didn’t care. He didn’t have to now. He and Passos rode the bus back to Carinha in the same silence, stark and heavy and imperious. At a few moments that night, granted, and during the next several days, McLeod thought he might have sensed the silence softening, lifting. At a few moments he felt his companion’s eyes on him, though he couldn’t be sure if they implored him or bored into him. Perhaps Passos wanted to regain McLeod’s goodwill in regards to his parents’ basement. Perhaps he wanted to make his peace before transfers, play conciliator on the eve of his ascension to the assistantship, which he’d all but clinched with his ass-kissing performance at the zone conference. Or maybe he just wanted McLeod to look at him as he broke into one last smirk. In any case, McLeod never returned the gaze.

  On the following Tuesday night, Transfers Eve, McLeod trailed his senior companion to the pay phone nearest their apartment. It had been nearly three weeks of silence and by now the elders had perfected their system for communicating at each other on matters of logistical import. McLeod had first used the system on the Monday after their silence began, calling to inform Rose (and, more to the point, Maurilho) that they wouldn’t be coming to their house for lunch. “Something’s come up,” McLeod said in a loud, flat voice. Rose had merely asked, “Are you sure?” The week after that she merely sighed, and so on.

  Elder Passos used the system less frequently, since as the senior companion he already exercised the prerogative to call the shots more or less as he pleased. But now, as McLeod stood beside him at the pay phone, it became clear from Passos’s voice that he intended McLeod to hear e
very word of his conversation. Passos spoke at full volume into the receiver: “Elder Tierney, is that you? … Fine, fine. I’m ready when you are … Yes, of course. At your convenience. Thank you.” He hung up the phone and waited.

  Elder McLeod had only witnessed this particular process once before: on the eve of the last transfers, standing not far from where he stood now, overhearing Passos’s conversation with the assistants. Prior to that, he had always been on the blind end of the zone leaders’ calls, the information hot in their hands, the thrill of a power trip in their voices. You’re going here, or there—get packing. You’re getting a new companion—make sure the place is ready for company. And sometimes—nothing. No change at all. The next day a P-Day like any other. The sense of anticlimax, the leadenness, as if syrup ran in the veins. But was that really worse, McLeod thought, than the feeling of being jerked around like a pawn on God’s chessboard? Transferred missionaries barely had enough time to pack their things and get a few hours’ rest before they were due the next morning at the local rodoviária. No goodbyes to the people they’d befriended or taught, those fireworks already fading in the dark. No sense of a proper resolve at the end of three months, six months, more—no period to end on, only a dash. The irreducible strangeness of the mission.

  And strange, too, that in McLeod’s present circumstance, where he felt sure that one or both of them would be transferred, he could have made the time to say goodbye to friends and investigators, except that he had none to say goodbye to anymore. No more Josefina. No more Maurilho. Rose and Rômulo: collateral losses. And no more Passos, of course. What shoots of friendship had grown up between them had long since withered and returned to the ground. The thought of Dr. Seuss, or his nickname, or any of the things they’d joked about, laughed about, practiced English on—it all made Elder McLeod cringe. The very sight of Elder Passos, the peripheral blur of him, raised McLeod’s hackles in a way he could no longer control; it had hardened into reflex. Such that now, as McLeod waited along with his companion for Elder Tierney’s return call, he actually stood a few feet behind the pay phone’s blue plastic shell. All he saw of Passos were his legs.