The Porcupine of Truth

by Bill Konigsberg

  I looked at my phone. I thought about sitcom mothers. They run hot, not cold. They care too much. They meddle in their kids’ business. They yell and scream or they work hard not to yell and scream even though they want to. I thought, My mom would not make a great sitcom mother. I didn’t respond. I turned my phone off again.

  The conversation bounces between our journey, and Gareth’s lack of a job, and Mr. Bailey’s exciting yet fascinating career as an accountant. Then Aisha says to Mrs. Bailey, “So what was your committee thing this morning, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “It’s a church thing. I counsel abused women,” Mrs. Bailey says, her voice taking on a more serious tone we haven’t heard before.

  Mr. Bailey, who looks a bit like a TV senator with his khaki-colored hair parted at the side, says, “I encourage Stacy to get out into the community.”

  Aisha asks, “Counsel them how?” I hear the edge, but I’m hoping Mrs. Bailey doesn’t.

  Mrs. Bailey swallows the bite of food she was chewing. “Do you know what righteous dominion is?”

  We both shake our heads no.

  “Well, in the Mormon church, men are charged with providing a righteous dominion over our families. Most Mormons are probably more like us, where Robert is the head of the household but we’re all involved. But in other homes … We have a growing problem with unrighteous dominion. Men who use neglect, or physical, emotional, or even sexual abuse, to rule their families. I counsel women who have to deal with unrighteous dominion.”

  “How do you counsel them? What do you tell them to do?” Aisha asks, that edge still in her voice. I’m guessing she thinks that Mrs. Bailey tells them to endure it. I want to kick her under the table because, well, not that the question isn’t a good one. But these are our hosts.

  Mrs. Bailey’s face is a mask of patience. “Well, it depends. Oftentimes, we’re teaching them to protect themselves. Some of these women are in danger, and we help them get themselves and their families out of harm’s way.”

  Aisha doesn’t have an answer for that one. “Cool,” I say, covering for her.

  Mrs. Bailey gives me a kind smile. “It’s a dangerous world out there. Here in the Mormon world too. Women can be victims, and they shouldn’t have to be.”

  We all go back to eating for a bit. And then Aisha starts another conversation.

  “You supported Prop Eight.”

  “What’s Prop Eight?” Mr. Bailey asks.

  “It made gay marriage in California illegal for a while. It was overturned,” Aisha says.

  “Oh,” he says, like someone just poked him in the ribs.

  “I’m a lesbian,” she says.

  “Oh,” Mr. Bailey says again. “Okay. I respect your lifestyle choice. To me it’s a sin, but that’s between you and God.”

  Aisha raises her voice. “I didn’t choose a lifestyle,” she says. “Did you choose to be Mormon?”

  The table is quiet for a bit, but we can all feel the grenade under the floor.

  “That’s not the same,” Mr. Bailey says.

  “No?” Aisha says, scooping up a forkful of potato.

  “My religion is my belief system. Yours is about who you …”

  She looks directly at him. “Who I what?”

  He shrugs. “Choose to love.”

  Aisha shakes her head. “Right. Because who wouldn’t choose to be a second-class citizen?”

  I want to disappear. I want to crawl under the table.

  “We didn’t support that,” Mr. Bailey says, frowning. “That proposition.”

  “Sure you did. The Mormon church funded most of it.”

  “We’re not the Mormon church,” he says, his frown becoming more pronounced.

  “Do you go to church? Do you give money?”

  I realize that as rude as Aisha is being, she’s right. If the Mormons gave money to an antigay cause, anyone who gave money to a Mormon church also supported it, indirectly at least.

  “You seem to think you know where I stand on issues based on my religion,” he says, his voice clipped and practiced. “Do I know where you stand on issues because you’re a lesbian?”

  “No,” Aisha says. “I guess you don’t.”

  “So maybe instead of telling me what my beliefs are, you should ask.”

  Aisha doesn’t respond. She just grips her fork tight. Mr. Bailey doesn’t know what she’s been through, and I wish I could find a way to tell him to lay off, to let this all go. But I can’t.

  “I have nothing against gay people,” he says. “And I don’t have a strong opinion about gay marriage. All people should be equal.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Aisha says, her lips tense. “Tell your damn leaders.”

  I stand up. “Can you excuse us for a second?”

  “Hey,” she says to me. “You don’t have righteous dominion over me. I can say what the hell I want.”

  “You’re right,” I say, my head buzzing. “But it’s rude. These people are our hosts.”

  Aisha takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “I can’t ever do anything right.” She looks up at them. “I’m sorry. I apologize. Can I be excused?”

  Mr. Bailey nods, and Aisha just about runs back to her room. I sit back down, but I don’t pick up my fork. I can’t. Earlier I chose hanging with Gareth over her. I can’t do it to her twice in a row.

  I give a weak smile. “I’m going to have to —”

  “Sure,” Mrs. Bailey says. “We understand.”

  I go to Aisha’s room and close the door behind me. She’s on the bed, propped up, a pillow on the headboard behind her. She’s staring into space.

  “I guess I should have seen this coming when they started with a prayer,” I say. “Sorry.”

  She doesn’t look at me, but she also doesn’t seem about to explode, either. I sit down next to her, pick up a pillow, and put it behind me as I lean back.

  “You know, I didn’t even mind the prayer,” she says, her voice soft.

  “Me neither. I was surprised, but I didn’t hate it.”

  “It’s the rest of it. They’re so nice, and they’re so perfect, and yet.”

  I wait for her to finish. “Yet what?”

  Her eyes are rimmed in pink. “This place is melting me.”

  I don’t know what that means, but I nod and I put my hand on her arm.

  “Wyoming melted you, and Utah is melting me.”

  “Walking wounded,” I say.

  Aisha nods, hard. “Right?” she says, turning toward me now. “I’m so mad, because. These people. They’re like my family was.” The tears are beginning to fall now. “My dad was always good to me, great to me. And then this thing. He couldn’t hack it. He saw it as his failure, and he’s not so good with failure. The religion thing, that made it easy for him not to deal with it. The church told him I needed fixing, so instead of working on accepting me as I’ve always been, he gives me an ultimatum. Be someone else, or be gone.

  “So I’m sitting there looking at the smiling Baileys, and it hurts. I woke up one night at the zoo and it was raining, and I was alone out there. My dad decided it was better for me to sleep out in the fucking rain than to love me as I was. That hurts, Carson. It hurts bad.”

  I don’t say anything. I just hug her. She hugs me back, and we lie down and look at each other. Her head is turned to the side, and her tears zip across her cheeks like they’re climbing a mountain and then falling off a ledge.

  “It’s the hypocrisy. They preach love, but they’re selling fear. I hate that so much.”

  “I hate it too,” I say.

  “Do you? Because you don’t always seem to get it.”

  “I hate that it hurts you.”

  She squeezes my arm. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” I say back.

  “For what?”

  I say, “For saving my life.”

  She averts her eyes. “I didn’t save your life.”

  “You kind of did. Before you, I never had any of this — friends, advent
ure. You saved my life because I never knew what life could be.”

  She covers her eyes with her hands. “That may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.”

  We lie there facing each other for a little while longer, until her eyes dry and suddenly we’re just two happy kids on an adventure, looking at each other. Her eyes are playful, and kind, and they love me. Even if she doesn’t love me like a boyfriend, it’s more than I ever could have hoped for.

  “So do we go back out to those awful people?” she asks.

  “They’re not awful.”

  She whispers, “I know. Come on. I’ll make nice.”

  We do go back to dinner. Aisha apologizes again, and Mr. Bailey surprises me by spending ten minutes explaining that they’re liberal Mormons, actually, and they don’t agree with every position of the church, and take his wife, for instance, her work, and Aisha nods and nods until her neck gets tired. I drift off listening to the sounds of it, happy for the moment because there’s harmony, even if it’s awkward turtle harmony.

  When I head off to my room for the night, I read more of my grandfather’s journal. I’ve never gotten to know anyone this way before, just from their writing. And it’s weird, because it’s kind of like seeing myself in the future. It’s like I’m finding me in another person. I flip through pages and pages with the header “Russ’s Book of Puns,” because I don’t feel like reading puns tonight. I stop at one of the final pages with writing on it.

  It takes me several seconds to close the page. His boy, so needy? Wow. My dad is, isn’t he? Like that night when he thought I was his dad. And what does Russ mean, he needs a pass? Like it’ll be a sin? Does he mean leaving? Is he asking for a pass in case he leaves?

  I can’t wait to meet my grandfather and find out.

  WHEN I WAKE up in the morning and creep into the hallway, Aisha’s door is open slightly, and I peer in. She’s asleep on her side, her right arm splayed above her head and her left one clutching a pillow to her chest. Her head rests on her lavender pillowcase that she brought in from her car. Her hair billows around it as if it has expanded overnight. Infinite fine little wisps of Aisha, curling into themselves.

  I feel as if I’m seeing something gentle and elusive. Secretive. Aisha’s sleeping hair.

  The floor creaks beneath me, and Aisha wakes up and sees me. “What are you doing?” she grumbles.

  I don’t say anything for a few seconds. “Watching you sleep.”

  “Can you stop?”

  “Crabby,” I say. “Crab shack. Crab apples.”

  “Not a morning person,” she says, stretching her arms up above her head. “I’m not a person of the morning.”

  I laugh, because she’s repeating my words from a few days ago, back in Montana.

  Just like at the Leffs, we leave with more stuff than we had when we arrived. Gareth gives me a couple of pairs of his old shorts, just in case we aren’t heading right back to Billings after meeting Mrs. Clancy. I thank him and tell him I’ll send them back, but he tells me not to worry about it. Mrs. Bailey gives Aisha another pair of shorts, which Aisha at first refuses but then gratefully accepts.

  “So what’s the plan for the day?” Mr. Bailey asks as Aisha loads the car. Mrs. Bailey stands next to him.

  “Gonna go to Temple Square to meet this woman who knew my grandfather, I guess,” I say. “Have absolutely no idea beyond that.”

  “Oh, you’ll love Temple Square!” Mrs. Bailey says.

  “And if you need to stay longer, you’re welcome,” Mr. Bailey says, and I think, Really? After the dinner fiasco, you’d have us stay longer? I smile at him, and maybe that thought comes through, because he smiles back in a way that seems to say, Yeah. Even though.

  The Baileys hug me, and then they face Aisha. Mr. Bailey asks, “Is it okay if I hug you?” Aisha nods, and then I get to watch the world’s most awkward good-bye hug.

  “Stop by later, dude,” Gareth says. It’s seven thirty in the morning and his breath already smells like beer. This time, I really don’t want one.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, but I know we won’t. We wave good-bye, and I can tell Aisha feels extremely relieved to be out of there. I get why she feels that way, but I don’t need to feel the same way. It’s nice that we don’t have to agree on everything.

  We park a block south of the Temple, and as we walk to the gate, I notice that it’s painfully clean here. The buildings are made of a sparkly white stone, maybe marble. Not just the tall and imposing Temple; all the buildings surrounding it too. Fountains of white with pristine turquoise waters spill over angels and cherubs and swans. Every few minutes someone pushes a cart along, sweeping up any litter, and as a result, the sidewalks sparkle as well.

  “You could probably feed all the people in Rwanda for ten years with what it cost to build this shit,” Aisha mutters, and I nod.

  We find the Tabernacle building, which is in the southern part of the square next to the main Temple. It’s a cream-white oval almost the size of a football stadium, with velvet ropes cordoning off the entrances. It makes me remember the Porcupine of Truth and the velvet ropes that separate those who die from Des Moines. I think about saying something, but I’m not sure Aisha is in the mood. Instead I say, “It’s just too clean.”

  She nods. “Do Mormons even pee?”

  “How would you figure that out? Feed one water and keep him in captivity?”

  The front entrance isn’t clear to us, so we circle the building clockwise, keeping an eye out for Lois Clancy. As we get to the final part of our lap, I spot an elderly woman sitting on a bench under a tree. She’s wearing a beige floppy hat and a maroon jacket, and the black handbag on her lap looks too big for her small body.

  I hurry over to her. “Mrs. Clancy?” I ask.

  She smiles and puts her hand up in front of her mouth as if she’s shocked. “You’re Russ’s grandson.” She speaks slowly, as if her brain works at about one-fifth the speed of mine. “I didn’t get a good look at you the other night.”

  “Yes.” I stand in front of her and let her look at me.

  Her smile is warm and genuine. She shakes her head. “Well, you do look like him,” she says. “Isn’t that something. All these years later.”

  I introduce her to Aisha, then we both sit down.

  “I’m so terribly sorry about the other night,” she says.

  I realize she doesn’t know that we heard her husband say that thing about black lesbians through the door. I look at Aisha, but she seems fine. “It’s okay,” I say, wanting to get past the awkward stuff and on to any information. “I hear you might have something for me?”

  She nods and clutches her purse, and I get the sense that maybe I’m going too fast for her. “Your grandfather and I came here once and sat for hours. Such a pretty spot. We both loved choir music. Such a good man, that Russ.”

  “What can you tell me about him? I found a letter he sent my dad last year, and I have no idea where he is. My dad is sick, and I’m trying to reunite them before —”

  “Oh dear,” she says.

  “So do you know where he is?”

  “I don’t, dear. I must say I’m surprised —”

  “What? What are you surprised about?”

  She tightens her lips and looks down at her purse, which she slowly opens. She pulls out a slate-gray hardcover book. The title reads Alcoholics Anonymous.

  “This is really all I have. I wanted to keep Russ’s anonymity,” she says, “but maybe in this case, it’s okay to break it.”

  My heart pounds. “What? Please, tell me.”

  “Your grandfather was in Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “Okay. I know about AA,” I say.

  “He stayed with us for two weeks. I took him to his first meeting. I’ve been in the program now fifty-five years. We had a lot of good talks. Your grandfather was such a kind man.”

  My throat catches. “Was?”

  She waves
it away. “Oh, I don’t mean that. I have no idea where he is. I lost touch with Russ about eighteen months after he stayed here. He didn’t answer three letters in a row, so I stopped writing.”

  “Do you still have his address?”

  She slowly shakes her head. “I’m sorry. That was many years ago.”

  “That’s too bad,” I say.

  “We wrote back and forth all the time. He was a good friend for the year I knew him.”

  “Can you tell me about him?”

  She is quiet for a long moment. “Hard life.”

  “Could you say more about that?”

  Again, it’s like we’re having an interview on TV and there’s a tape delay.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I’m old-fashioned, maybe. I feel like there are things friends say to each other that shouldn’t ever get repeated.” She closes her eyes and bows her head. “Proverbs twenty-six twenty: ‘Without wood a fire goes out; without gossip a quarrel dies down.’ ”

  She opens her eyes and smiles at us. I glance at Aisha and we share a look that could kill an old lady.

  “But you might know something that could help us find him,” I say.

  “The book is all I have for you. I can tell you that he was a good man, and he was never anything other than kind to me. Or my husband, who was not always kind to him.” She motions toward the book. “He sent me this a year after we met. Go on. Open it.”

  On the inside front cover, there’s an inscription. I recognize the shaky handwriting.

  She says, “It’s the AA Big Book. Russ sent it to me from San Francisco on his first AA birthday. That’s the anniversary of his first year in the program.”