Thumbsucker (30 page)

“That tickle?”

I nodded.

“Did you take drugs?” she said. “Before you converted, I mean.”

“I took a lot of drugs.”

“What were they like?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“The drug.”

Opal yawned and opened my hand. She traced an index finger along the branched lines in my palm. She licked my neck. Her strokes started short and gradually grew longer, until she was licking me from ear to collar-bone. I felt my artery pulsing against her tongue tip. I felt my chest heat up inside my shirt. Opal slid a hand between the buttons and did something technical to one of my nipples.

“Unbuckle your belt,” she said. “I want to touch you there.”

I hesitated, and Opal said, “You need me. It’s fine that you need me. Unbuckle.”

I did as she said. Cool air blew through my zipper, followed by the warm grip of Opal’s fist. My skin was numb and rubbery at first, but soon I began to respond. My shoulders fell. Opal worked her cheeks to juice her mouth up, then lowered her head. She pushed her hair aside. The last thing I saw before I shut my eyes was Opal’s hand slipping under her own waistband.

Her efficiency charmed me. The act was tidy, polished. It left me feeling shiny, spiffied up.

Afterward, Opal said, “No more drugs—you promise? I tasted them in my mouth. They taste like chemicals.”

I kissed her hair, her forehead. “That felt perfect. I want to do more with you. When can we do more?”

Suddenly, Opal seemed shy. She hid her face from
me. She plucked a handful of grass and let it fall. “Maybe never. I don’t know. It’s tricky.”

“Why?” I said. “We can switch around next time.”

“I’d like that. I’m sorry. I just don’t know,” she said.

“The drug thing?”

Opal shook her head and sighed.

“Why?”

“Because other people need me, too.”

The stairs at Carthage Jail were narrow, so Elder Tinsdale divided us into groups before we went inside. He lowered one hand like a railway-crossing arm between my chest and Opal’s back, and she went on ahead. She didn’t look back. She’d been friendly to me that morning but not quite warm, and I wondered if she was testing me, somehow, or if I seemed different to her in the light. As requested, I’d thrown out my Ritalin at breakfast and now I was in a state of nervous self-monitoring, waiting to see if my symptoms would return: the toe-tapping, the yakking, the antsiness.

Opal’s group, which included Orrin, filed out of the jail as mine filed in. Orrin was shaking his head. He looked disgusted. “Smith was a Mason,” I heard him telling Opal. “When they shot him, he gave the Masonic cry for help. Why does the church have to keep things such a
secret
?”

“I’m sure they have their reasons,” Opal said.

Upstairs, in the jail cell, Elder Tinsdale dramatized the Prophet’s martyrdom. “The mob burst in
here
,” he said. “Joseph Smith was
here
. They chased him to this window over
here
.” He invited us to gather at the window and gaze at an old stone well some distance below, where the assassins had propped the Prophet’s body. “Allow me to give a personal testimony. Standing here, on this spot of blood and horror, I know the gospel is true. I feel its power. I ask you to quiet your minds and share this knowledge.”

Someone sneezed, and then the group fell silent.

“That warmth in the pit of your stomachs—do you feel it?”

“Yes,” a girl said.

“Do you feel it, Justin?
Justin?
”

I looked up, startled. “Not yet,” I answered truthfully.

“Give it time. Be still and concentrate.”

I feared that my foot might start tapping, but it didn’t. Amazingly, I managed to clear my mind, and for me this was a miracle in itself. Slowly, I grew aware of a low tingling that might have been the Holy Ghost, withdrawal, or a feeling left over from my night with Opal. I chose for it to be the Holy Ghost.

“What’s happening?” Elder Tinsdale said.

“I feel it.”

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

“I am. I feel it.”

My testimony, despite its hesitancy, made me an instant
hero. I’d scored big. On the way downstairs the group congratulated me. Girls hugged me and boys slapped my back. “Good work,” one said. I felt lifted up, admired, wanted. I’d attracted a fan club, a cheering section When someone thrust a stick of gum at me and I bit down on it, the taste transported me. It was the taste of knowing that I belonged.

The bus drivers revved their engines and opened their doors. Elder Tinsdale called us to attention. “You’ll notice we’ve changed the seating, so check for name tags. Kids who didn’t have windows should have windows now. What’s more, this should give you a chance to make new friends.”

As I made my way down the aisle my spirits fell. I didn’t see my name tag anywhere. A kid named Tim Kriss had taken Orrin’s old seat, and Orrin was in mine, across from Opal. She hadn’t moved. When I passed her, she looked down and turned a page in her Book of Mormon. I felt a spike of anger. My forehead tensed. The headache that I’d been waiting for materialized.

Finally, I found my place—in the very last row, a three-seater by the bathroom. I sat down. Beside me was Sister Helms, the chaperon.

“We thought you might be more comfortable back here. We noticed you had to go a lot,” she said.

“That was my medication. I’m off it now.”

“Medication for what?” said Sister Helms.

The headache intensified, spreading down my neck.
My breathing sped up, but it seemed to yield less oxygen. I was falling apart. I couldn’t concentrate.

“You’re grinding your teeth,” Sister Helms said. “Settle down.”

“I am settled down. I’m completely calm.”

Sister Helms nodded and moved over a seat.

We parked in the Garden of Eden’s parking lot, next to the outdoor toilets and the garbage cans. We’d stopped at a Burger King that afternoon and everyone had trash to throw away. Kids stretched and yawned and took deep breaths, then walked in circles, working out their leg cramps. It was evening, and cool, with a breeze that riffled my hair and sent me back to the bus for a jacket. I spied the bus driver’s Camels on the dashboard and snatched the whole pack, as well as his matches. What I really needed was some aspirin, but Mormons viewed pills with suspicion, no matter what kind, and even if I found the courage to ask for some I doubted that anyone would admit to having any.

The group formed a circle in the parking lot to listen to Elder Tinsdale’s lecture. Orrin and Opal seemed to be avoiding me. They stood at Elder Tinsdale’s side, shoulders identically hunched against the chill, and gazed intently at his moving lips. Orrin’s face had lost its pinched expression. He’d pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and there was a bright smudge of mustard on his chin. Opal licked a finger and wiped it off for him.

I felt a twitch of betrayal. My hands made fists. I couldn’t believe how quickly she’d moved on, how easily she’d shifted her devotion. To forget her, I turned my attention to Elder Tinsdale, but I found what he was saying hard to swallow. I had ideas about the Garden of Eden, particularly concerning its location. I pictured it in the Middle East somewhere, covered in sand, an unmarked, windswept ruin. I pictured dry riverbeds, mountainous horizons—not an ordinary Missouri valley covered in brush and grass and knotty hardwoods. Still, Elder Tinsdale assured us that it was true: God had breathed life into Adam on this spot, and it was here that Jesus Christ himself would someday return and gather the elect—a hundred and forty-four thousand faithful saints who would follow him, carrying tools, to Independence, and break the ground for his everlasting temple.

Elder Tinsdale concluded his talk with yet another personal testimony. Next to me, Tim Kriss had started shaking. Sister Helms reached over and patted his hand. Even more palpably than in the jail cell, deep waves of feeling were surging through the group—though not, this time, through me. A boy cried, “Father!” A girl began to bawl. Our basketball team’s star center hugged himself and gently rocked from side to side, eyes shut. Even Orrin seemed moderately uplifted; he tilted his face back to catch the setting sun while Opal, serene as ever, stood by him, smiling.

Elder Tinsdale brought order to the scene by instructing
us to wander as we saw fit along the footpaths that led from the parking lot into the surrounding woods and fields. “Find somewhere peaceful to sit and pray and meditate. In forty-five minutes the buses will honk their horns.”

My plan was to go off alone to smoke a cigarette, but when I saw Opal and Orrin leave the group and sneak off together through a stand of sumac I decided to follow them. They held hands as they walked. Their steps were light and synchronized. I hung back, downwind, and lit a Camel, toying with the idea of tossing the match into the dry brush along the path. To burn down the Garden of Eden would be a feat, and I was surprised it hadn’t been tried already. Orrin and Opal were out of sight by then. I had an idea about what they planned to do together, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted or needed to see it.

I dropped the match on the ground and stamped it out, crediting myself with a good deed simply for having avoided an evil one. My thoughts had grown scattered, and when I closed my eyes and tried to pray I forgot what I was asking for halfway through. “Heavenly Father, preserve my family. Heal my antsiness. Guide my future mission.” I opened my eyes and started down the path again, following Orrin and Opal in spite of myself.

I heard them before I saw them. Someone was sobbing—great snuffling, rattling sobs. Opal’s voice said, “Okay, okay, I’m stopping.” I stepped around the bush
and looked below me. Orrin was sitting on his spread-out jacket with his Levi’s pushed down around his knees. Opal was beside him, kneeling, her open shirt revealing a shiny pink bra. Orrin kept slapping his hands against his cheeks, the way men do when applying aftershave. His eyes were wet red messes. He muttered the antisex incantation over and over.

“She’s cut, she’s hurt, she’s bleeding …”

The scene made me angry and a little sick, but I couldn’t stop looking. Opal grabbed Orrin’s wrists, but he resisted. “Off me. Let me be. Get off,” he said. Opal relented and started buttoning her shirt.

“She’s bleeding, she has a wound …”

“Shut up with that.”

Orrin worked his pants up over his legs and fiddled with his belt. He’d held the line against something, he’d beaten temptation, but instead of respecting him for it I felt contempt. He was everything he pretended not to be: programmed, afraid, intimidated, weak. His skepticism, which I’d admired, was fake, which made me suspect his goodness was also fake. And though Opal’s idea of saintliness disturbed me, at least she had the courage to see it through. Orrin’s faith in God embarrassed him, while Opal’s, which seemed more real to me, confused her.

I respected confusion. Confusion I understood.

I crouched in the weeds and waited for them to go. Opal stood up and stepped into her sandals while Orrin sat on his jacket and hung his head. I could see his white
underpants through his open zipper. My headache, which had receded for a moment, returned with new strength. I noticed my knees were trembling.

Orrin raised his face. “Come back. Don’t go. Maybe I did the wrong thing.”

“Of course you didn’t. You
never
do the wrong thing.”

“I’ll pray for you.”

Opal gave Orrin the finger and walked away. I waited, then followed her. I rehearsed my innocent face. I took a side path that cut across the path Opal was on. I got ahead of her. I tried to look pleased and surprised when she approached me.

“Hi. I was meditating.”

“Good for you,” said Opal. She tried to step past me, but I kept up with her.

“Incredible place. Inspiring. I felt the spirit again.” My words ran together.

Opal walked faster. “Go away. Stop bugging me.”

“I miss you. I want to talk. Let’s talk. Wait up. Isn’t this place incredible? What’s wrong?”

Opal halted and spun around and faced me. The wings of her nostrils were pink and flared and wet. “I mean it, back off. I’m tired of clingy guys. I’m tired of being everybody’s mother.”