she said, “I guess I do have a concern then. You’ve been teaching how Joseph Smith was a modern prophet, how he was the vessel for restoring the pure church of Christ. How could he do that if he was—and please don’t take offense at this, Elder—but how could he do that if he himself was impure?”
Elder McLeod felt his face betray a grimace. He wished for Passos. He nodded, said, “Well, look, I think, first, that an impure vessel can still bear a pure message. I think …” He trailed off. “Or I don’t know. Maybe I should let Elder Passos answer this question.”
“No,” Josefina said. “Please. I want to know what you think.”
“Well,” McLeod said, “I guess I don’t know what the missionary answer would be. I can just say that, whatever Joseph Smithwas or wasn’t, I can say that I was raised in the Mormon Church, and I think I had a very happy childhood … I mean, we spend a lot of time in these lessons learning the doctrine—of course—but the heart of the church, for me at least … it’s that, but it isn’t, you know? And like I said, we should get Passos’s opinion. What’s taking him so long anyway? We should ask him when he gets back.”
“That’s okay,” Josefina said. She gave a tight, quick smile. “I think I know what you mean. And maybe Elder Passos wouldn’t be so happy to hear that Leandro and I were reading a pamphlet like that. Maybe that could stay between us?” She looked away from McLeod in the direction of the bathroom, then down at the empty coffee table in front of her.
“I haven’t even offered you anything!” she said suddenly, standing up. “How terrible of me! I’m afraid I don’t have any snacks, but can I get you something to drink? Juice? Water?”
McLeod felt breathless under the weight of Josefina’s confidence. He wanted to reassure her that her secret,
their
secret, would be safe with him. Instead he said, “Water,” and he barely got the word out.
Josefina smiled and turned toward the kitchen. She gave her back to McLeod. He looked down.
Elder Passos stood over the sink in Josefina’s bathroom, running the water. He looked up from the envelope he held in his hand and caught a glimpse of himself in the cloudy mirror: heavy-lidded, drawn, wax-yellow, as if the last dozen hours had aged him a dozen years. The immediate thought had occurred to him just as he entered Josefina’s house: he needed to check on his little brother, needed to be sure, and sure enough: the envelope showed a Morro Verde postmark, at ten fifteen on the previous Friday. A school hour on a school day, exactly as he’d feared. He rubbed and rubbed his thumb over the pink circular time stamp, slightly raised, Braille-like. He knew Nana usually sent her letters with Tiago to mail on his way to school, in Fortuna, clear on the other side of town. Who had sent it from the closer post in Morro Verde? Had Tiago skipped school that day? Since when did Tiago skip school? First his grandmother twists her ankle, and now his star-student brother plays truant? Could his middle brother have delivered the letter? Passos doubted it. Felipe was not the errands type. He had his own day school to go to, besides, and it wasn’t in Morro Verde. Unless he’d changed schools without telling Passos or his old school had changed schedule. He knew some of the votechs taught upperclassmen in the evenings. If Felipe ever wrote him, of course, he’d have a better idea, but Felipe wasn’t the writing type either.
When was the last time Tiago had sent him a letter? Not for awhile—at least a month. Elder Passos wondered if the advent of the teenage years made everyone less mindful, or just a loud unrepresentative few. What had Passos been like at thirteen? He couldn’t access it any longer, not really. But he knew he had started at the city middle school that year, the same middle school Tiago now went to. He’d started taking his studies more seriously, excelling in his marks,
Elder McLeod felt his face betray a grimace. He wished for Passos. He nodded, said, “Well, look, I think, first, that an impure vessel can still bear a pure message. I think …” He trailed off. “Or I don’t know. Maybe I should let Elder Passos answer this question.”
“No,” Josefina said. “Please. I want to know what you think.”
“Well,” McLeod said, “I guess I don’t know what the missionary answer would be. I can just say that, whatever Joseph Smithwas or wasn’t, I can say that I was raised in the Mormon Church, and I think I had a very happy childhood … I mean, we spend a lot of time in these lessons learning the doctrine—of course—but the heart of the church, for me at least … it’s that, but it isn’t, you know? And like I said, we should get Passos’s opinion. What’s taking him so long anyway? We should ask him when he gets back.”
“That’s okay,” Josefina said. She gave a tight, quick smile. “I think I know what you mean. And maybe Elder Passos wouldn’t be so happy to hear that Leandro and I were reading a pamphlet like that. Maybe that could stay between us?” She looked away from McLeod in the direction of the bathroom, then down at the empty coffee table in front of her.
“I haven’t even offered you anything!” she said suddenly, standing up. “How terrible of me! I’m afraid I don’t have any snacks, but can I get you something to drink? Juice? Water?”
McLeod felt breathless under the weight of Josefina’s confidence. He wanted to reassure her that her secret,
their
secret, would be safe with him. Instead he said, “Water,” and he barely got the word out.
Josefina smiled and turned toward the kitchen. She gave her back to McLeod. He looked down.
Elder Passos stood over the sink in Josefina’s bathroom, running the water. He looked up from the envelope he held in his hand and caught a glimpse of himself in the cloudy mirror: heavy-lidded, drawn, wax-yellow, as if the last dozen hours had aged him a dozen years. The immediate thought had occurred to him just as he entered Josefina’s house: he needed to check on his little brother, needed to be sure, and sure enough: the envelope showed a Morro Verde postmark, at ten fifteen on the previous Friday. A school hour on a school day, exactly as he’d feared. He rubbed and rubbed his thumb over the pink circular time stamp, slightly raised, Braille-like. He knew Nana usually sent her letters with Tiago to mail on his way to school, in Fortuna, clear on the other side of town. Who had sent it from the closer post in Morro Verde? Had Tiago skipped school that day? Since when did Tiago skip school? First his grandmother twists her ankle, and now his star-student brother plays truant? Could his middle brother have delivered the letter? Passos doubted it. Felipe was not the errands type. He had his own day school to go to, besides, and it wasn’t in Morro Verde. Unless he’d changed schools without telling Passos or his old school had changed schedule. He knew some of the votechs taught upperclassmen in the evenings. If Felipe ever wrote him, of course, he’d have a better idea, but Felipe wasn’t the writing type either.
When was the last time Tiago had sent him a letter? Not for awhile—at least a month. Elder Passos wondered if the advent of the teenage years made everyone less mindful, or just a loud unrepresentative few. What had Passos been like at thirteen? He couldn’t access it any longer, not really. But he knew he had started at the city middle school that year, the same middle school Tiago now went to. He’d started taking his studies more seriously, excelling in his marks,
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