Calling Out (13 page)

I awake at dawn to find Ralf asleep on my bedroom floor using
my bathrobe as a blanket and a towel as a pillow, his hands tucked under his
chin. He must have slipped in during the night.

“Ralf,” I whisper. “Ralf.”

“Oh, hi. Sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I know I
should have asked if I could sleep in here but I didn't want
to wake you to see if it was okay. I didn't want to be a third
wheel out there.”

“It's okay,” I say. “Why don't you move up here?”

I know that he is too shy to ever make any kind of
move, and I really want the company.

“No, no. I'm fine. I have to get up soon anyway.”

“Ralf, it's not even six. And it's Saturday. Come on.”

He yawns, then scrambles up onto the bed in his jeans
and T-shirt, curls away from me on the far edge, and pulls
up the covers. I scoot over and hug his body into mine to
glean his warmth, to feel his realness, his familiar and
gentle presence. The smell of smoke and winter lingers in
his hair.

“I was having this dream where you guys were all
trying to stuff things in my suitcase when I wasn't
looking,” he says.

“That's pretty funny,” I say.

“It was more them than you. I didn't mind it really.
We were getting ready for an earthquake or something.”

Ralf extricates himself from me and the blankets and
raises himself up onto his elbows.

“Did you know that the church is so primed for
Armageddon that they've been stockpiling dried grain
under the city for thirty years?” he asks.

“Grain can last that long?”

“I don't know. Maybe they have special airtight silos.
I wouldn't doubt it if there is a whole parallel city down
there. It's pretty awesome that they're so prepared.”

“What did you do last night?” I ask.

I venture my hand to his chest but he ignores it and
falls back into the pillow. I decide to leave him alone and
inch away toward my side of the bed.

“Played rummy with my uncle,” he says. “And
watched a
Hogan's Heroes
marathon.”

I admire Ralf for his truthfulness. He never tries to
play it cool.

“Ember and Ford swung by and picked me up on the
way back from gambling. You sneaked in pretty quietly
last night.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Long night at the office?”

“Something like that,” I say.

The early sun starts to make itself known through the
blinds, filling the room with diffuse, gray light. But it's still
too much too soon and I hook my arm across my eyes.

“Do you think Ember's going to go with him?” I ask.
“With Ford?”

“I don't know. He keeps asking her, you know. He
must have asked her ten times last night. She says no
sometimes and yes sometimes but never with much conviction either way. It's a weird game they play.”

“I've gotten used to having them around,” I say.

“Man. It's sure going to suck when Ford goes,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “You could probably go down to Moab
with him if you wanted.”

“I've thought about it. But what would I do there? I
don't know so much about the river. Besides, there's this
construction job starting in a couple weeks in West Valley
City. It'll be me and a bunch of Tongans.”

I roll over to face him; his profile comes into relief
with the light. I want him to move toward me and take
over the moment.

“Ralf?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm not tired.”

“Me neither,” he says.

“So what should we do about it?”

“How about breakfast?” he says. “I'm starving.”

We drive out east into the mouth of Emigration
Canyon, and although there is considerable snow covering the benches of the valley, the roads are clear. The
morning cold dissipates as Ralf plays the Waylon Jennings
tape he took from Ford's truck. It's a sharply lit morning,
the sun gaining momentum as it rises, and blinding glints
reflect off the icy top layer of snow. Last night at the hotel
has the hazy edges of a daydream. I can barely conjure
Scott's face. Ralf watches out his window, tapping his fingers on his knees.

“Is it lonely living out there in Tooele?” I ask.

“Probably no more so than anywhere else. My
cousin's basement can be cold and depressing sometimes
but that's why I come hang out with you guys.”

“Do you think you'll ever leave here?” I ask.

“Utah? No way. It's home. I belong to it. It may seem
like everyone is conforming here but conformity is no
way the same thing as being normal. This is probably one
of the most unnormal places there is. And that's good.
Don't you think?”

We slowly gain altitude as we snake farther into the
winding canyon, around the jagged rock faces, the horse
camp, the random houses set deep within the trees. The
aspens are bare but the pines are a rich blue-green in the
frosty mist the sun hasn't yet been able to reach.

“This is what I love about Salt Lake,” I say. “Within
minutes we're here.” I point my hand in an arc across the
windshield to span the rugged beauty on all sides.

Ralf smiles and nods.

“When I was a kid, I used to feel sorry for the kids on
TV who lived in big cities,” he says. “I thought anyone
who lived there was poor and that's why they couldn't
leave. All that cement and chain-link fences. All those
locks on the doors. Graffiti. Not that I think that now. I
mean, I know that people like it there, that there's cool
stuff and all. I guess.”

“It has its charms,” I say.

“Like that McDonald guy?”

“McCallister.”

“Right, McCallister. But with or without good old
McCallister, bet you can't see an eagle in the Big Apple,” he
says, stabbing the air with his finger.

“You got me there,” I say.

Ruth's neon sign comes into view as we round the
curve of a protruding canyon wall. The old diner is
parked in the middle of the trees and granite, as if it just
got tired en route, stopped to rest and never left. For sixty
years Ruth herself cooked up breakfast for the hunters, the
travelers, the fringe, the outsiders. Although most people
who come here actually drive out from Salt Lake City,
Ruth's is decidedly un-Mormon in its feel. There's no
blond, apple-cheeked waitstaff or automatic cheer. There
is a sense that people take a respite from their lives here,
that they use time at Ruth's to regroup. We park next to a
pickup laden with rifles and hunting gear, emblazoned
with mud-and-salt-caked bumper stickers. The single legible one reads, “I love animals. They are delicious.”

We're ahead of the morning rush. The only customers
are a group of camouflaged hunters hunched over their
coffee at a table in the far corner, shoveling eggs into their
mouths between periodic comments. As soon as we sit,
the waiter, a scruffy guy Ford has pointed out as an offseason river guide, appears with coffee and I give myself
over to the promising smells of bacon and biscuits.
Prickly warmth darts around my body, and then it settles
like a blanket around my shoulders. Feeling soothed and
languorous, I almost tell Ralf what I was really doing last
night. In this light it seems merely exotic. But a quick look
at his childlike bed-head and his wrinkled flannel shirt
and I decide against it. I know he would be disappointed
to the core.

“Did you know that the church keeps track of inactive
members?” he asks.

I welcome the resumption of our Mormon dialogue,
as if we'd been talking about it all along.

“‘Inactive' meaning ‘not Mormon anymore'?”

“Mormon but not churchgoing. Jack Mormon. Like
me. No matter where I happen to be living, even the time
I went to live in the Ozarks, every few months I'll answer
the phone and some smiley guy will say, ‘Brother Lundgren?' It's really quite amazing. The FBI should get in on
that action.”

“I wouldn't like that at all. I like the idea of being
where no one can find me. That it's possible to slip away
if I wanted to, without explanation, to do things no one
knows about but me.”

“Really? I think it's reassuring to know someone
always knows were I am. It gives me credibility or something. It means I exist in a larger context. Anyway, it's not
like you can get rid of them just because they don't know
where you are. And it's not like McCallister doesn't keep
tabs on you anyway.”

The river guide returns and we order enough pancakes and bacon and hash browns for four, and then Ralf
enacts the Mormon sales pitch he used while on his mission in Amsterdam. I take in every word, watch the
expressions on his face, encourage him to talk and talk.
The longer I keep it going, the more time I have in this
fragile, contented haze. He tells me about the still, small
voice of the Lord as revealed to Joseph Smith, and how
Mormons are taught to listen for it, to develop their own
relationship with God. When the food arrives, I take small
bites and chew slowly, trying to keep the regret about last
night from taking hold, shoving those thoughts to the
periphery. Plied with coffee, Ralf goes and goes. I missed
the segue but he is now talking about the church's recent
anti-sin campaigns.

“Last year they proposed a bill in the state legislature
that would have outlawed public ashtrays,” Ralf says, “so
kids couldn't scrounge for butts. And up in Bountiful? All
the magazines, even, like, the women's fashion ones, are
covered up except for the titles. As if just the sight of a
beautiful woman will incite impure thoughts. Which I
suppose may be the case but you can't regulate thoughts
and behavior in that way. That's where church leaders go
wrong. Moral micromanagement turns people off.”

The hunters pass behind me, their boots squeaking
on the linoleum floor.

“That's just beautiful,” I hear one of them say in an
all-too-familiar voice.

I turn as they leave, just in time to see longish ashblond hair escaping from underneath a baseball cap. Scott
slaps one of the guys on the back and laughs as they push
through the front door and disappear into the morning
glare. He didn't see me. The feeling of getting away with it
bubbles up in me and transforms into a heady giddiness.

But then the door opens and Scott ducks back in. I
quickly look down but it doesn't matter because he looks
past me. I don't register. A ponytail and a different context
is all the disguise I need. He grabs his vest off the back of
the chair and exits once again.

My heart slows to normal. I made Scott happy and
then I disappeared.

“Are you going to eat that piece of bacon?” Ralf asks.

“It's all yours,” I say.

I slather raspberry jam onto a biscuit. I feel powerful
with expanded possibilities.

McCallister calls as I am draped across Ember on the
couch, my feet in her lap. It was daytime when we
arranged ourselves; no one bothered to turn on the lights
as it sank into dusk.

“So how was it?” McCallister asks.

“How was what?” I ask, my pulse quickening.
“Your date.”

“Oh. Fine. It was okay.”

“Are you going to see this mystery guy again?”
“Probably not,” I say.

McCallister lets my evasiveness go without comment.

A salt truck rumbles outside and swallows his words. “What?” I ask.

“Maria has decided to paint the apartment in varying shades of red. What do
you think about that?” he asks. “Do you think it's some kind of statement?”

“We won't be able to hang out like this if I go to

Moab,” Ember says.

“What?” McCallister asks.

“That's Ember,” I say.

“You haven't answered my question,” he says. “Here's a question,” I say. “How
come you call me so much when another woman is painting your walls?” “Go Jane,”
Ember says, squeezing my foot. “Because we're friends,” McCallister says, his
voice wounded and whiny at the same time. “Friends talk, they ask advice, they
laugh together. Are you saying we're not friends?”

I don't say anything.

“I don't like talking to you when other people are around,” he says.

My toughness recedes. The thought of his calling my
bluff, withdrawing from me, leaves me feeling frightened
and ill-equipped.

“I think red might look all right,” I say, backing down.
“I don't think it has to mean you're losing your identity or
anything.”

“But it might make me look sallow,” he says.
“What's he saying?” Ember asks.

“Something about his complexion,” I say.

“He's such a girl,” she says.

“What?” McCallister asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Okay. I guess red it is. Might spice it up a bit in here.

I'll call you later, Jane. I like it better when I get you all to myself,”
he says.

“Don't pout,” I say. I hang up and let the phone fall to the carpet. It's all
the way dark. I sit up next to Ember.

“I have something to tell you,” I say. Ember's eyes glow in the streetlight
shining through the window.

“Meet the newest Utah escort.”

“Jane!” she says, grasping my hands between hers.
“We're so the same.”

When I look up, it takes me a moment to notice Ford
leaning in the doorway in the dark. I don't know how long
he's been there but by his crossed arms and the slight
shaking of his head, I know he has heard enough.

Nikyla, sitting on the arm of one of the office love seats,
has the bulb of a lamp aimed at Diamond's face and is plucking her eyebrows
for her.