IRREANTUM

EXPLORING MORMON LITERATURE

MAGAZINE OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR MORMON LETTERS

SUMMER 2003 • $4.00

Anita Stansfield, author

Also featuring Shirley Bahlmann, Madeline Baker, Valerie Holladay,
Michele Holms, Barbara R. Hume, Bruce W. Jorgensen, Josi S.
Kilpack, Rachel Nunes, Sierra St. James, and Nancy Hoole Taylor
Poetry, reviews, literary news, and more
 E D I T O R I A
Christopher K. Bigelow . . . . . . . Managing editor
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A M L
Gideon Burton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . President
Melissa Proffit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . President-elect
Suzanne Brady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Board member
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A M L
Linda Hunter Adams . . . . . AML ANNUAL editor
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IRREANTUM (ISSN 1528-0594) is published four
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by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Summer 2003
L S T A F F
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2 IRREANTUM
 IRREANTUM
Spring 2003 • Volume 5, Number 2

C O N T E N T S

A Look at LDS Romance
Editorial
Romance: Embracing the Label,
Annette Lyon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Interviews
Anita Stansfield . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Madeline Baker,
Barbara R. Hume . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Novel Excerpts
A Gilded World, Anita Stansfield . . . . . . . . xx
Wolf Shadow, Madeline Baker . . . . . . . . . . xx
Where I Belong, Rachel Nunes . . . . . . . . . . xx
Where Fate May Lead, Michele Holms . . . . xx
What the Doctor Ordered,
Sierra St. James . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Essays
Don’t Call My Book a Bodice-Ripper! Or,
The Value of Romance Fiction,
Barbara R. Hume . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
In Defense of a Little Romance
Valerie Holladay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Sign of the Times in LDS Romance,
Josi S. Kilpack . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Story
Arm’s Length, Shirley Bahlmann . . . . . . . . . xx
Letters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
AML News . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Essays
Love Stories—That Is, a Love of Story,
Bruce W. Jorgensen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Seeking Straunge Strondes:
The Pilgrimage of Marden J. Clark,
Harlow S. Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Memoir
Mirrors in Stone,
Nancy Hoole Taylor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Poetry
What Should Have Been Said,
Dixie Partridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Earth Mother’s Tears, Bessie
Soderborg Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
You Damn Dog! Marden J. Clark . . . . . . . . . . xx
Build It Yourself, Marden J. Clark . . . . . . . . . . xx
Desert Gramarye, P. G. Karamensines . . . . . . . xx
20 in 1953, 70 Next Week, Kris Bluth . . . . . . xx
Skyline Trail, Dixie Partridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Reviews
Is Religious Faith a Brand of Insanity?
Richard Dutcher
A review of Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner
of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith . . . . . . . xx
In the Lord’s Due Time, and Not a Moment
Too Soon, Jeffrey Needle
A review of Margaret Blair Young and Darius
Aiden Gray’s The Last Mile of the Way . . . . xx

continued

IRREANTUM 3 Summer 2003

 C O N T E N T S P O E M
( c o n t . )
What Should Have Been Said
A Promise Not Worth Keeping, Eugene Woodbury
keeps crowding back
A review of Richard Paul Evans’s
like once-planted four o’clocks
The Last Promise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
fat seedlings conspicuous
Faithful and Fearless, Jerry Johnston
in the garden
A review of Silent Notes Taken . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Watching Our Neighbor, John Williams
they take more space
A review of Lewis B. Horne’s
for less blossom
House of James . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
overgrow larkspur
Natural Consequences, Katie Parker
and phlox
A review of Anita Stansfield’s
exacting no care they push through
To Love Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
season on season
A Perplexing Pilgrimage, Charlene Hirschi
mutant stems woody as trunks
A review of Judith Freeman’s
their short-lived red blooms
Red Water . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
small gashes that open
Mormon Feminist Memoir, Charlene Hirschi
to strong sun
A review of Clive Scott Chisholm’s
Following the Wrong God Home . . . . . . . . . . xx
words refused too long
Giving Voice to Important Issues,
they are like briars
Charlene Hirschi
that make the mouth
A review of Josi S. Kilpack’s
bleed
Surrounded by Strangers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
LDS Authors Don’t Want to Be “Left Behind,” —Dixie Partridge
Jeffrey Needle
A review Jessica and Richard D. Draper’s Dixie Partridge grew up on a Wyoming farm home-
The Seventh Seal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx steaded in the 1880s by her great-grandfather. She
Selected Recent Releases . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx received a degree in English from Brigham Young
University. She and her husband have lived for more
Mormon Literary Scene . . . . . . . . . xx than thirty years near the Columbia River in Wash-
ington State, where they have raised their family. Par-
AML-List Highlights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx tridge currently edits poetry for two journals. She is
seeking a publisher for her third book, Not about
Dreams. Her first, Deer in the Haystacks, came out
from Ahsahta Press in 1984. Watermark was pub-
lished by Saturday Press (New Jersey) in 1991 and
won the Eileen W. Barnes award for poetry.

Summer 2003 4 IRREANTUM

 L E T T E R S A
IRREANTUM welcomes letters to the editor about any-
thing in the magazine or related to Mormon litera-
ture. Send letters to irreantum2@cs.com, and be sure
to include your full name and hometown. Letters may
be edited for length or clarity.
Evil in Literature
I n the spring 2003 issue, in the AML-List High-
lights, we encounter once again the argument
that since there is more than enough evil in the
world around us, we do not need to seek it out in
literature.
Actually, it is precisely because there is so much
evil around us that we wisely turn to the arts (as
well as to prayer, inspiration, and scriptures) for
help. In the world, evil is chaotic, meaningless,
and, for many, even overwhelming. In the hands
and hearts of our best artists, however, evil can be
to some extent ordered, in some degree under-
stood, and yes, even in some measure disarmed of
its weapons of mass despair.
Few artists create evil in their works, any more
than the Bible creates evil when it depicts rape,
treason, idolatry, or murder. Instead, the best art
becomes one more God-given crucible for trans-
forming evil, that we may stand in the midst of the
fiery furnace we live in and have not a hair of our
heads singed.
Elouise Bell
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
IRREANTUM
M L N E W S
IRREANTUM Contest Winners
T he Association for Mormon Letters is pleased
to announce the winners of the third annual
IRREANTUM Fiction Contest. This year the judges,
led by IRREANTUM fiction editor Quinn Warnick,
considered 77 entries without knowing who the
authors were. They awarded three prizes and made
four honorable mentions. First place ($250) was
awarded to Coke Newell of Layton, Utah, for “The
Education of Little Tree Boy.” Second place ($175)
was awarded to Angela Hallstrom of White Bear
Township, Minnesota, for “Trying.” Third place
($100) was awarded to Coke Newell for “Haun’s
Mill.” Honorable mentions were awarded to, in
alphabetical order, Samuel Brown of Cambridge,
Massachusetts, for “Meek Shall Inherit”; Richard J.
Butler of Provo, Utah, for “Ramona’s Signs”; Angie
Lofthouse of Springville, Utah, for “Sacred Places”;
and Matt Toronto of New York City for “Mysteri-
ous Ways.”
Warnick said he plans to publish the three win-
ning entries in the autumn 2003 issue of IRREAN-
TUM, and he hopes to publish all or most of the
honorable mentions sometime during the next year.
Next year’s IRREANTUM Fiction Contest will be
announced early in 2004.
5 Summer 2003
 E D I T O R I A L art, or any number of other manifestations. The
Romance: Embracing the Label
By Annette Lyon, Guest Editor
I ’m the first to admit it. I have cringed at the
R-word. When I’ve sat at book signings and
people have asked if my work is romance, I have
grudgingly said, “Yes, I guess so.” And then men-
tally added, But there’s so much more to it than that.
Meaning, of course, that there’s more to the story
than kissing, swooning, and hearts aflutter. I want
to explain that my novel is about loss, grief, heal-
ing, and the love of a mother for her child.
(According to its Library of Congress categories, it’s
also about separation psychology—who knew.)
And yes, part of the story involves two people who
find each other and make their lives together as
part of that healing process.
But in avoiding the title of romance, I dis-
counted the entire genre, because contrary to the
common perception, romance is by its very nature
“so much more than that.” As Valerie Holladay and
Josi S. Kilpack’s essays in this issue show, LDS
romance writers, especially over the last several
years, have tackled subjects that cover almost every
aspect of life. The quality of the work has steadily
increased, and, as a result, today’s releases are a far
cry better than those published just ten years ago.
But if these books tackle tough topics like rape and
spouse abuse, what do they have to do with
romance? Plenty, if you consider what my college
Shakespeare professor taught my class years ago.
First he drew a circle on the board and divided it
with a horizontal line. On the top half he wrote
Love and on the bottom half he wrote Death. Then
he made what I think is one of the most accurate
statements about literature.
“All stories are about either love or death or both.”
And he’s right, although instead of dividing the
circle in half, I would have given love a bigger sec-
tion. Every story has love in it, not just the ones
labeled romance. The love could be about gaining
love, losing love, finding God’s love, loving (or hat-
ing) oneself, the fear of losing love, the love of one’s
Summer 2003
love in the story could be godly, maternal, platonic,
romantic, or something else entirely.
Love is the thread that binds all humanity, the
canvas on which the stories of our lives take shape.
And romantic love is one of the few varieties that
almost everyone can relate to. No wonder so many
people connect to romance literature.
But the circle analogy applies to the genre fur-
ther. Romantic love can be a springboard for dis-
cussing other kinds of love in literature. For example,
Rachel Ann Nunes’s novel excerpt in this issue deals
with different kinds of love in conflict with each
other, including the love of art, the love (or hate) of
one’s culture, and of course romantic love, although
only one character seems to be aware of the latter.
Granted, romantic literature isn’t for everyone,
but a look at numbers released from the Romance
Writers of America shows it clearly is for many
people. The genre accounted for over 1.5 billion
dollars in sales in 2000. It makes up 55 percent of
all paperback fiction and 18 percent of all books
sold in the United States.
The reason behind these figures is likely that, in
contrast to most genre fiction, most people can
relate directly to it. Anyone who has sat in eighth-
grade U.S. history gazing across the room at the
boy in the corner and experienced her first big
crush (I’m embarrassed to admit I liked his perm)
can understand, at least on some level, the stories
and emotions of a romance novel. As Barbara Hume
points out in her essay in this issue about what the
genre is and isn’t, almost everyone has a love story
of some kind in their past, yet not all that many of
us have solved murders, served as spies, or fought
aliens.
While the majority of LDS novels are romantic,
they differ in some ways from their national coun-
terparts. Aside from the obvious absence of steamy
bedroom scenes and the like, LDS romance novels
tend to focus less on the relationship and more on
the issues within a story. Take Rachel Ann Nunes’s
Ariana series. In the first book, the title character
doesn’t even meet her future husband until the last
third, well after she’s dealt with teenage pregnancy,
drugs, and death. Yet the novel has been billed as a
6 IRREANTUM
romance. Kerry Blair’s Closing In likewise has a
romantic storyline, but the book is just as much
about espionage. And Jennie Hansen, author of
such romantic titles as Macady and Some Sweet Day,
has admitted that she doesn’t consider herself a
romance writer—likely because her books, like the
others listed above, don’t focus solely on the
romance.
If these books
tackle tough topics like
rape and spouse abuse,
what do they have
to do with romance?
as a romance novelist publishing in the national
market. Each interview is followed by an excerpt
from a forthcoming book by the author. I found it
interesting to see how different they were in style,
subject, and even time period.
In the course of working on material for this issue,
I came to realize all over again just how powerful
love stories can be—and I was reminded that some
of the greatest literature ever written has romantic
themes, including Romeo and Juliet, Jane Eyre, Les
Miserables, A Tale of Two Cities, the poetry of John
Donne, and my personal favorite, Pride and Preju-
dice. Not too shabby company to keep, if I say so
myself.
Next time someone asks what I write, romance is
definitely something I’ll label my work with, no
cringing attached—although I might have to add,
“Of course, romance is so much more than that.”

Annette Lyon has been writing since second grade,

LDS romance novels seem to have managed to when she piled pillows on a chair to reach her mother’s
find the balance between sweet love story and real typewriter. She is the author of Lost Without You, an
issues. It’s almost as if the LDS audience intuitively LDS romance published by Covenant Communica-
gets what romance is all about—that love completes tions, and the mother of four children. She figures she
(or, in many cases, complicates) the story of our lives must have read Anne of Green Gables one too many
and isn’t the story in and of itself. Michele Holmes’s times in her teen years, as all three of her daughters
excerpt in this issue is a great example; it features an have red hair.
unlikely pairing of individuals whose lives have
been torn apart when their spouses are killed. The
love story is how they heal, but again the story is
much more complicated than that and deals with
issues like revenge, prejudice, and forgiveness.
But what would romance be without some chem-
istry? This issue’s delightful excerpt from Sierra
St. James fills this need. While reading her piece,
anyone who has ever had a crush can’t help but
laugh while feeling sorry for poor Ellie, who fum-
bles in the face of plain old physical attraction. And
Shirley Bahlmann’s romantic pioneer story in this
issue shows how sometimes truth really is stranger
than fiction when it comes to love and marriage.
This issue’s interviews show how two LDS
romance writers view their genre. The first is with
the trailblazer and reigning queen of LDS romance,
Anita Stansfield, and the other is with Madeline
Baker, who faces different challenges in her career

IRREANTUM 7 Summer 2003

 E S S A Y romance fiction. Yes, the romance hero is strong
Don’t Call My Book a Bodice-Ripper!
Or, The Value of Romance Fiction
By Barbara R. Hume
G enre fiction is, in large part, fantasy fulfillment.
That’s one reason it’s so much fun to read and
wildly enjoyable to write. A genre author who knows
how to create a fantasy that engages the imagina-
tion of his or her audience performs a great service.
Such a writer provides with each novel a few hours
of pleasure, of escape, of mind-opening new ways
of thinking, or whatever the gift is that the writer
has to offer. Effectively crafted genre fiction serves
its readers as surely as well-written literary fiction
serves its own audience.
But what is that fantasy? It differs from genre to
genre and from writer to writer. Many of us, for
example, read science fiction or fantasy in our youth
to give ourselves powerful protagonists to identify
with, heroes who could fight off a horde of alien
invaders or, more importantly, overcome the adults
who had us in their power. As we grew up, we
looked for more sophisticated types of science fic-
tion, even if the sense of wonder remained its most
appealing element for us. After all, science fiction is
a literature of ideas.
I recently spent a good deal of time reading
men’s adventure novels, techno-thrillers, and West-
erns. I wanted to learn what kind of fantasy those
books offered their mostly male readers. The con-
ventions I identified, in book after book, were these:
the hero performs one impossible deed after another,
surviving dangers that would have killed ordinary
men. They are larger than life. Heroes such as Clive
Cussler’s Dirk Pitt save civilization as we know it in
book after book. The hero’s friends often think him
dead, but he turns up alive and ready for another
adventure. Although one or more women may
become enamored of him, at the end he rides off
on his faithful horse or in his Ferrari, unburdened
with a wife.
I found this fascinating because of the ways in
which this fantasy differs from the one offered by
Summer 2003
and courageous, often handsome, and he performs
mighty deeds. But the heroine who shares in his
adventures is worthy of him; whether she initially
inspires his protective instinct or arouses in him the
desire to throttle her, he eventually realizes that he
cannot live without her. He must have her love. As
one popular romance author puts it, romance novels
“celebrate female power . . . [T]he woman . . . with
courage, intelligence, and gentleness, brings the
most dangerous creature on earth, the human male,
to his knees.”1 The ultimate goal is not to disem-
power the male but to convince him to stick around
and apply his strength to the protection of his family.
Romance novels are not about sex but about love.
What Makes a Romance Novel?
C ertain elements are necessary for a novel to be
a true romance, but that’s not to say that such
a book is fettered by a long and detailed list of
required characteristics. According to Romance
Writers of America, only two conventions mark a
romance novel. The relationship between a man
and a woman (referred to as the hero and heroine)
must be the central element of the book, rather
than a peripheral element, and the book must have
an emotionally satisfying ending. For women, who
form the large majority of romance readers, that
ending must bring the hero and heroine together at
the end of the book.
Another characteristic of romances is that the
emotional life of the characters is important. When
I wrote science fiction, I found that editors wanted
me to “take out all that emotional stuff.” But
romance readers want to know what the characters
are thinking and feeling. This emphasis on emo-
tional resonance may be one reason why the genre
is so often scorned: after all, it isn’t a guy thing.
People who are uncomfortable with emotion are
uncomfortable with this literature.
Romance writer Nadele Jacobs put it this way:
If I were writing about the value of romance,
I would want to point out how sex and love
(or lack of) are so frequently treated in literary
fiction. One reason I quit reading mainstream
8 IRREANTUM
 was the very ugly and demeaning way in
which sex is often portrayed. So it baffles me
that romance gets the bodice-ripper tag when
male-oriented fiction and mainstream fiction
are often so much more brutally graphic.
But there is something about a romance that
terrifies many a male—or intellectually oriented
female, for that matter. It isn’t sex. That, they
embrace wholeheartedly. It’s the way we write
our sex scenes, as a part of a committed rela-
tionship. It’s the emotion we put into them
that scares the heck out of some people. That
emotion reflects vulnerability, the point in
which our characters put their heart and soul
in the hands of another person. And it’s scary.
An adventure story creates risks in its plotline,
usually a threat to physical life. [But] the risk
of one’s heart is so potent that half of our pop-
ulation is too afraid to read our stories.
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
A ll right, let’s look at the various types of
romances. Of course, I realize that Sturgeon’s
2
Law applies here, as it does to all forms of fiction.
But romance is not a marginal niche. In 2001, sales
of romance fiction totaled more than $1.5 billion.
Romances comprise more than 50 percent of the
total paperback market.
The romance industry offers many different
lines, ranging from sweet and innocent to hot and
steamy. Writing styles vary, from literary to purple.
The prose is usually more lush in historicals, but
even there it isn’t usually laced with adverbs or hun-
dred-word sentences. Good writing crosses all gen-
res. In fact, breaking into the romance field has
become difficult; the quality of the writing has
risen over decades of growing popularity. (Those
who think they can make a quick buck by cranking
out a novel in a genre they do not understand or
respect are misguided.)
In terms of sexual content, romances come in
two basic categories. In the “sweet” romances, the
hero and heroine might not even kiss until the final
paragraph. The sweet lines are perfect for romance
readers who enjoy seeing a man and woman over-
come obstacles to their love without any of that
IRREANTUM
messy sex business ruining the story. And there are
plenty of those readers. One fast-growing market
niche is that of inspirational romances, stories in
which the characters have, or acquire, Christian
values. These books may present characters with
normal sexual urges, but the characters put a rein
on those urges. Many lines of romances fall into the
sweet category, including the growing number of
young adult, or teen, romances.
A romance doesn’t
need the inspirational
label in order to
demonstrate family
values, loyalty, sacrifice,
and the most admirable
qualities of love.
On the opposite tack from the sweet romances
are the “sensual” romances. These books are not
filled with unending sexual activity. There may be
a great deal of sexual tension throughout, with no
actual lovemaking until after the wedding or until
after the couple are committed to each other. In the
historicals, which I prefer, the heroine does not
sleep around. She loves the hero; she may yield to
his importunities, but to no one else. The typical
historical romance may be 400–600 pages long, with
two or three love scenes. Contemporary romances
reflect the mores of our own times, although even
there a reader can find varying levels of sensuality.
My point is that there are so many romance lines
from so many romance publishers with so many
approaches to the subject of love between man and
woman that almost anyone can find books that he
or she will enjoy. If you like beautifully written
romances with meticulously researched historical
backgrounds, try the traditional Regency romances
from Signet and Zebra. If, on the other hand, you
want to read hot, hot, hot sex, try the Temptation
9 Summer 2003
and Blaze lines from Harlequin. I’ve never read any
of those (although I’ve stared for long moments
at a few of the covers), but it’s impossible to be
involved in the romance industry without knowing
about them. By the way, Harlequin has been releas-
ing reprints of Georgette Heyer’s classic and classy
Regency-set novels. So perhaps people should stop
using the word Harlequin as an automatic term of
derision.
Romance Writers on the Value of Romance
R omance novels provide more than fantasy ful-
fillment. I asked several romance writers for
their opinions on the value of the genre. Joan Vin-
cent responded, “Regencies/ historicals helped me
battle depression and ultimately led me into writ-
ing. I’ve been told by my readers that my books help
them briefly escape troubling situations so they can
face them with renewed energy and that, since
good always prevails, my books help them cling to
a sense of hope.” Many romance writers receive
similar mail regarding novels in which characters
deal with illness, death, abuse, or other problems in
a positive way. Writers often provide helpful infor-
mation on dealing with the type of crisis they
researched for a particular novel.
Grace Kone, who writes as Blair Bancroft, told
me, “There are many fine romances out there with
true love, adventure, wonderful characterizations,
and expert research. A romance doesn’t need the
inspirational label in order to demonstrate family
values, loyalty, sacrifice, and the most admirable
qualities of love.” Kone’s novels offer a wide variety
of subjects. “I write about war and serial killers,
international trafficking in women and children.
Even my squeaky-clean Regencies contain tales of
treasure and courtesans, untimely death, mystery,
kidnapping, divided families, and revenge. I may
be a wimp, but I don’t write wimpy books.” One of
my favorite romance writers, Mary Jo Putney, writes
novels in which redemption is a powerful theme.
Authors like Putney, Mary Balogh, Carla Kelly, and
Jo Beverley provide thought-provoking substance
as well as sexy heroes and strong heroines.
Judith Laik responded by saying, “Romances
show us monogamous relationships, and the main
Summer 2003
characters are honorable and likable. If they behave
in a less-than-moral way, they always learn better
by the end of the book. And they’re always rewarded
for their endeavors with the deepest wishes of their
hearts—not always what they thought they wanted,
but with what they really needed all along. Person-
ally, one thing I most dislike about literary fiction
is how frequently the protagonists are people I
wouldn’t want to know, can’t like, and can’t iden-
tify with.”
One of the many male participants in the genre,
William Haggart, said that “romance is different
from any other genre in that it’s close to most people’s
own experience, and usually a very emotional expe-
rience at that. I’ve never solved a murder mystery,
or fought off zombie cats brought back from the
pet cemetery, or flown a spaceship to Alpha Cen-
tari. But I have been in love. Some of the events
were painful, and all were significant emotionally.
When you talk about romance, everyone is a vet-
eran and everyone has an opinion.” (This gentle-
man is, by the way, an expert on military history. If
I want to know which English regiments fought at
the Battle of Vitoria in 1813, he can tell me.)
One of my favorite Regency romance writers,
June Calvin, expressed an opinion that many romance
writers share. “It has always fascinated and sad-
dened me that the one genre devoted to the forma-
tion of the permanent pair bond, usually marriage,
is the one that is the most ridiculed. It’s a sad com-
ment on our society that finding, loving, keeping
one person for a life’s mate should be seen as silly.
Romance is really one of the most conservative
genres of all, at its core.” Along this same line,
Regency romance writer Nancy Butler pointed out
that “mysteries rise to the top, which is ironic con-
sidering they were considered the worst sort of pulp
fiction early in the twentieth century. Maybe
romances need another fifty years before they truly
get accepted by the highbrows.”
I don’t expect to be here fifty years from now.
But in the meantime, I plan to enjoy reading and
writing romances. Whatever your favorite type of
literature, I hope you benefit from it as much as I
do from mine.
10 IRREANTUM
Barbara R. Hume has taught advanced writing at P O E M
two universities and produced a lot of technical writ-
ing, marketing hype, and PR fluff. She has ghostwrit- Mother Earth’s Tears
ten books and articles in a variety of fields. She has
written a plethora of academic papers, including a Tears, Mother Earth’s
dissertation on Shakespearean comedy. She has writ- Gullies down her belly
ten science fiction, historical fiction, and several tele- She tries to repair herself
vision scripts. Since discovering the world of romance From forest fires, acid rain
literature in 1995, she has happily immersed herself
in reading and writing historical romances. She thinks She cannot endure forever
writing is the most fun there is.
Toxic chemicals
Notes Searing bombs
Rip her bowels
1. Jayne Ann Krentz, Dangerous Men and Adventurous Spew her guts
Women: Romance Writers on the Appeal of the Romance
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992), 5. She is dying
(I strongly recommend this book to anyone interested in
With puffs of smoke
the genre. It provides much more eye-opening informa-
Tremors in her bosom
tion than I have space for in this brief essay.)
2. Sturgeon’s Law refers to a remark made by science-
Belching volcanoes
fiction writer Theodore Sturgeon in response to a com-
ment that “90 percent of science fiction is crap.” His She cannot endure
answer was that “90 percent of anything is crap.”
Mother Earth is angry
Yea, furious
Spewing molten lava
Opening cracks and swallowing us

Her tears drown towns

In merciless rain
She is devastating her children
Before they destroy her
—Bessie Soderborg Clark

Bessie Soderborg Clark has known seven generations

of her family, beginning with her Mormon pioneer
great-grandfather. Bessie received her BA degree the
same day her third child (of six), Sherri, graduated
from high school. She earned her M.Ed. in educa-
tional psychology several years later. During more
than 61 years of marriage, her wanderlust took her
and Marden to every continent except Antarctica,
including the world’s northernmost city, Hammerfest,
Norway, and southernmost city, Ushuia, Chile. They
lived a year in Finland and both taught a year at
Qingdao University in the People’s Republic of China.

IRREANTUM 11 Summer 2003

 E S S A Y light, Lauren is devastated to learn that the legend of
In Defense of a Little Romance
By Valerie Holladay
I.
S ome years ago I saw Sir Laurence Olivier play
the role of a charming and courtly Frenchman
named Julian in a movie called A Little Romance.
Julian regales everyone he meets with stories of his
life—sweet, romantic, and funny stories of his days
as attaché to the embassy in Washington, D.C., and
later as ambassador to Liechtenstein for France.
Julian describes the summer he and his wife dis-
covered they were living in the villa of Robert and
Elizabeth Barrett Browning in Venice. There they
found some pages of Elizabeth’s diary telling of
how she had kissed her husband under the Bridge
of Sighs at sunset, with the bells tolling all about
them. According to legend, this would ensure that
their love would last forever, so Julian and his wife
had determined to follow their example. Since Julian’s
wife has been dead many years, this appears to have
comforted him a great deal.
Among Julian’s young friends is an American
girl, Lauren, who is living in France, and her
French boyfriend, Daniel. When Lauren learns that
her stepfather, an international businessman, has
accepted a job transfer back to America, she and
Daniel make plans to take the train to Venice, so
they can kiss under the Bridge of Sighs to seal their
love forever. They ask Julian to accompany them,
because they need an adult to cross the border;
however, they tell him only that they are going to
see Lauren’s sick mother.
Lauren and Daniel are discovered missing, and
Julian’s forgotten wallet on the train identifies him
as their companion. Julian’s past, however, is not as
romantic and glamorous as he has led his two
young friends to believe; in reality, he is a voleur à
la tire—simply put, a pickpocket. His criminal
background leads the police to believe that he has
kidnapped Lauren and Daniel, and the newspapers
carry pictures of both Lauren and Julian to put the
public on guard. When his real identity comes to
Summer 2003
the Bridge of Sighs never existed. Daniel is furious.
“It was all a bunch of lies,” Daniel accuses Julian.
The embassy, Julian’s wife, their discovery of the
Brownings, and the kiss under the Bridge of Sighs.
All lies.
“It was an attempt to bring a little romance into
my life,” Julian says quietly and with great dignity.
II.
A little romance. Does that strike anyone read-
ing this article as a bad thing? Unhealthy?
Downright wrong? Wouldn’t most people be
pleased with a little romance—although, granted,
some might prefer more than a little? And wouldn’t
most husbands and wives like a little romance in
their marriage? And if they didn’t, wouldn’t you
wonder what was wrong with them? Or perhaps
you just wouldn’t envy their marriage or their lack
of imagination.
In general, romantic is a complimentary adjec-
tive. “My date was so romantic.” “His proposal was
so romantic.” “What a romantic evening.”
And yet the term romance—the printed form—
certainly doesn’t get the same respect accorded to
its more ethereal twin, romance as a feeling, romance
as atmosphere.
The romance novel seems to have been around
almost as long as the tradition of storytelling, but
to discuss the history of narrative, the romantic tra-
dition, and the novel would take me far beyond the
simple ambitions of this essay on LDS romantic
fiction.
Suffice it to say that people, it appears, have
always loved a good story. And depending on which
histories and cultures you’ve studied, there are always
plenty of young men and women—and even not-
so-young men and women—with stars in their eyes
and hope in their hearts, ready to risk all for love.
And plenty of others who are just as content to lis-
ten to or read about their stories.
III.
F or the last ten years, I worked as an editor in
LDS publishing and in my work read many,
12 IRREANTUM
many LDS novels, a great many of them having at
least a modicum of romance. And because they are
novels written for LDS readers, these novels also
show LDS characters, lifestyles, settings, and val-
ues—a combination every bit as challenging as
humorous writing, satire, science fiction, suspense
thriller, horror, or any genre you might mention.
Who can blame an
LDS reader for seeking a
fictional companion
who is trying to be a
better person in the face
of challenges while
trying to find love and
human connections?
I’ve heard a lot of people say they could write a
romance, give themselves a pseudonym, and make
some money, but I don’t believe it’s that easy. For
every book that is published, at least fifty less-
successful novels are rejected because some element
doesn’t work. The characters aren’t compelling, the
plot doesn’t offer anything new, the writing is
forced, the LDS angle is heavy-handed. It’s inter-
esting to me that some of the novels that don’t
make it in today’s world might have been published
fifteen or twenty years ago. But today’s LDS read-
ers expect more, and the author who can create a
novel that combines gospel principles and good but
imperfect people and show them in the peculiar
and at times mystical process of falling in love—
well, an author that can achieve even some success
in doing this has my admiration.
It does seem that of all the genres, romance is
one of the most popular with its readers and the
least popular with readers of other kinds of fiction.
And when romantic fiction is combined with another
genre, LDS fiction—which is likewise popular among
IRREANTUM
some readers and despised among others—you have
a genre of fiction with double the attraction for its
readers and double the cause for complaint among
those who read neither romantic nor LDS fiction.
And yet that is the genre that continues to sell in
the LDS market. We’re seeing more romance with
suspense and mystery, and while some LDS readers
prefer the traditional romance, romantic suspense
also has its fans. Historical fiction seems to have a
limited but established place (generally in series),
but Western fiction and LDS historical fiction
appear to be even more limited. Science fiction and
fantasy with an LDS angle have not yet met with
any success to speak of, outside of the Tennis Shoes
series. Few mystery or suspense novels are available
without the romantic element, and they don’t seem
to approach the success of those with it.
So, for the moment and for the last decade or so,
LDS novelists of romantic fiction appear to be
doing something right, and I believe other in the
LDS market can learn both from individual writers
and the trend as a whole.
IV.
M y first experience with LDS fiction, as nearly
as I can recall, was in the Children’s Friend
(now simply the Friend) as I was growing up. The
New Era showcased some of Jack Weyland’s fiction,
which also managed to hit close to the mark for me
as a teenager. As the daughter of a librarian and a
reading teacher, I have always been a reader, and,
being a female reader, I read various kinds of romance
novels as a teenager. I know I read a smattering of
LDS books—although there were much fewer to
choose from—but one in particular stands out in
my mind, which I read during Christmas vacation
my first year at BYU. It was a fairly traditional LDS
romance: LDS girl meets non-LDS guy, falls in
love, decides to remain true to her faith, and in
time he joins the church. At the time I quite
enjoyed the book, but when I went back to it a few
years ago to see what I liked about it, I confess I
had difficulty even reading the first page.
But at the time, it gave me a positive reading
experience about a young LDS woman with high
moral standards, which was a first in my reading
13 Summer 2003
experience and which I badly needed. The books I
usually read showed much that was at odds with
LDS teachings, and, not having many good role
models to follow, I needed to see LDS people act-
ing on their beliefs.
Over the next ten to fifteen years, I read little
LDS fiction, but, as I look over that time period,
there really was very little to choose from. In the
1970s and ’80s, LDS publishers produced some
LDS fiction and romantic fiction, but relatively little.
Nevertheless, the books that were published are
some of the classics of Mormon literature, showing
that Mormon literature was steadily putting down
its roots.
It was in the 1990s that LDS romances became
popular, and their popularity has continued to
increase. Certainly the genre has its limitations and
imperfections, as every genre does, but I would
rather see bookstore shelves containing the LDS
romances of today than the LDS romances of thirty
years ago. However, it must be recognized that if
someone hadn’t started writing them when they did,
LDS novelists today wouldn’t have had their expe-
rience to learn from and likely would have made
the same mistakes. In fact, I am prepared to give
most LDS novelists my respect for accomplishing
something that many people only think or talk
about doing. Producing a novel is no small feat,
and it takes a great deal of courage and creativity.
The structure of today’s LDS romantic novel is
not that different, perhaps, than its predecessors. It
shows a positive relationship, or at least one grow-
ing in that direction; sometimes a polar type of
relationship to offer contrast; some conflicts to over-
come, some misunderstandings to make right; at
times a mystery to solve and some bad guys to rout;
and ultimately a satisfactory resolution. One popu-
lar LDS romance writer, Anita Stansfield, consid-
ered by many to be the founding mother of the
genre, has endeared herself to readers by promising
a happy ending, but that alone would not account
for her success. She also takes her characters through
some painful, trying, and realistic situations, which
they are, in the end, able to overcome.
I believe this framework appeals to LDS readers
who struggle daily to be better people, to raise
righteous families, to be kind and charitable, and to
Summer 2003
attempt to face valiantly a hundred other demands
both large and small. When they have the leisure to
read, they don’t want to descend with Jude the
Obscure or Tess of the D’Urbervilles to utter hope-
lessness and despair. Many of the “great” literary
writers of the past and present are not easy to read,
even for people with the inclination. Who can
blame an LDS reader for seeking a fictional com-
panion who, like her, is trying to be a better person
in the face of challenges while trying to find love
and human connections?
V.
I n the past, many LDS romantic novels offered
the same primary conflict: a member of the LDS
Church falls in love with a nonmember. The setting
may have been in the early days of the church, or it
may have been in contemporary New York City.
Jack Weyland’s Charly, Shirley Sealy’s Beyond This
Moment, and Susan Evans McCloud’s Where the
Heart Leads all use this pattern.
Anita Stansfield’s first novel, First Love and For-
ever, showed a relationship between a member and
nonmember, but there was a twist. A big twist. The
member was already married, to another member.
The nonmember was a former and still attractive
boyfriend. The book dealt with church members try-
ing to various degrees to live according to their reli-
gious beliefs. By placing her heroine in an unhappy
though temple-solemnized marriage, Anita struck a
chord with female readers. Should Emily keep
working at her temple marriage, or should she run
off with her old nonmember boyfriend Michael
Hamilton?
What individual doesn’t question at some time if
he or she made the right choice? What woman
doesn’t wonder what her life might have been if she
had chosen another road? Whose temple marriage
doesn’t have a day or two that isn’t a bit terrestrial?
While the novel’s ending left some dissatisfied,
the book and the author’s subsequent novels have
nevertheless sold more than those by any other LDS
romance writer and paved the way for more
LDS romance to come: Nancy Campbell Allen,
Michele Bell, Jennie Hansen, Beverly King, Rachel
Nunes, Alene Roberts, Sierra St. James, and many
14 IRREANTUM
others not included here. The list is impressive and
shows little sign of diminishing. New authors, like
Annette Lyon and Carole Warburton, continue to
appear and find an audience.
The range of topics is impressive. Characters
must deal with spouse abuse and intimidation, date
rape, child abandonment, infertility, adoption,
cancer, the busy-Mormon syndrome, teen gangs,
infidelity, addiction, death, and the list goes on.
What is interesting is that while some of these
issues have been dealt with in other mainstream
LDS novels before now—for instance, Carol Hoef-
fling Morris did a powerful job with infidelity in
The Broken Covenant—LDS romance writers are
incorporating “real” elements of life with the previ-
ously “fluff ” romances to create a new genre that
appeals to LDS women (or, at least, to a great many
of them).
While non-LDS romances may have misunder-
standings and mysteries, problems to solve, inheri-
tances to earn, farms to save, and so on, the LDS
novel places these situations in LDS settings and
allows LDS characters to make their decisions in
their own peculiar way. Who prays before deciding
which job to take, even when one employer is offer-
ing more money and benefits? Who chooses a hus-
band or wife based on temple worthiness? Who even
thinks about attaining perfection? Who feels that
one must repent of “sins” in order to feel good
about oneself? Who considers their relationship
with Heavenly Father to be of the utmost impor-
tance in their lives? While these choices are not
unique to LDS people, these are not issues dealt
with in most mainstream fiction.
Judging by the response of LDS readers, this
approach has been welcome.
VI.
I have a favorite-books shelf where I keep two
kinds of books: those I reread every few years and
those whose beauty and power of language leave
me breathless and I want to keep them close at
hand. In the first category are “popular” authors:
Steve Martini, Olivia Goldsmith, Jan Karon, and
Dorothy Gilman, to name a few. In the second cat-
egory are “literary” authors like Barbara Kingsolver,
IRREANTUM
Amy Tan, Ann Tyler, Jane Austen, and if I had bought
instead of borrowed The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint,
I would put Brady Udall’s book with them.
These books in the first category make no claims
to be literary; their language is straightforward and
functional. It does the job. Their characters are
interesting, if not as striking as Edgar Mint; their
pace is quick, unlike most literary novels. Their sen-
tences are simple and concrete rather than evoca-
tive, and the language is secondary to the story.
And yes, the lines of good and evil are more pre-
dictably drawn, as are the characters’ actions and,
in some ways, the story itself. I’m okay with that.
Sometimes I want my characters to be likable;
I want them to be rewarded for their goodness.
I want a story that pulls me forward rather than
demands that I work to give meaning to the story.
Some people may object to LDS romance because
of the predictable nature of the genre, the formula,
the characters drawn with broader strokes. But I
can understand why some readers prefer some pre-
dictability. For some of us, predictable is restful and
comfortable, like staying inside in your sweats on a
rainy day. These books are restful to me, and I find
the journey comfortable and comforting, particu-
larly when I don’t have the energy to involve myself
in new characters and take on their conflicts, their
burdens, their journeys.
Some people find predictability objectionable
along with overt religiosity and happy endings.
Some find profanity objectionable or too much
time in the bedroom. Whatever their definition of
the word, few people enjoy reading “objectionable”
writing (of course, there are always those perverse
personalities who delight in the objectionable or, at
least, in believing it to be so). My various book
clubs (Quality Paperback, Book-of-the-Month, etc.)
kindly warn me when I browse through their mar-
keting materials which books I might not appreci-
ate because of explicit sex, violence, or language.
I’ve been caught off guard many times in books; if
the story is good and I believe the offensive mate-
rial will be of short duration, I’ll carry on. On some
occasions, I’ve put the book aside. I’ve learned that
my tolerance level is different than that of other
people, and I’ll often recommend a book with a
15 Summer 2003
strong caveat. I’ve also learned to get more infor-
mation when books (and movies) are recommended
to me.
From time to time I have been unpleasantly
startled in my reading, and I don’t believe I startle
easily. Still, I can appreciate that many LDS readers
prefer not to find such language and scenes in their
reading material. So why not offer LDS novels with
an alternative to the nationally published stories
that follow non-LDS standards in characters’ actions
and beliefs?
And, for the moment, it seems that LDS pub-
lishers have found it worthwhile to publish books
that fit certain specific parameters, books that con-
tain a strong gospel element, characters who live
according to the gospel, and an ending that justifies
the righteous efforts of the characters.
While the attempt is made to show real people
in real relationships, their slice-of-life realism isn’t
meant to include pushing the envelope or explor-
ing humanity’s dark side. Some books are meant to
do that; LDS romances are not. They are meant
to be upbeat and inspiring, to show religious
behavior and good consequences.
T. S. Eliot said, and as an editor of LDS fiction
I found it to be true: “Mankind cannot bear too
much reality.” Or as a Peanuts character said, and I
paraphrase, “Reality as a concept is okay, but as a
way of life I find it much too confining.”
In contrast, writers will find national publishers
who can afford to look for all of the above. With
thousands of publishers, the playing field is much
larger. They can look for breadth, for stories and
characters that push the envelope. Michael Korda,
editor in chief of Simon and Schuster, says, “Ours
is an industry defiantly determined to answer the
needs of everybody who can read, however special,
strange, or odd their taste and interests may be”
(Making the List: A Cultural History of the American
Bestseller, 1900–1999, xiv).
Korda also, unknowingly, explains why romance,
including LDS romance, is disdained by literary
and social critics; it is the choosing of “‘storytellers’
over more ‘literary’ novelists, celebrities over the
unknown, ‘repeat’ authors who write a book every
year” (ix).
Summer 2003
All of this is true. But not all readers are human-
ities or English major wannabes; there is a reason
that not every university student is an English or
humanities major. They don’t want to be. And let’s
face it. Some books are hard to read. They take a lot
of concentration and effort. Personally, after a day
of working with people and language—whether
editing, writing, or rewriting—I’m more inclined
toward reading that doesn’t take a lot of work.
But just because a reader doesn’t enjoy reading
“literary” novels doesn’t mean they aren’t very bright.
They just have different tastes and preferences in
their reading. Likewise, not all writers even want to
be a Toni Morrison or Michael Ondaatje clone. In
my experience, most LDS writers are not trying to
write a book that will end up on college reading
lists or be voted into the canon of great literature.
Perhaps a few aspire to write the great Mormon
novel, but many of the writers I know simply enjoy
words and storytelling and want to offer something
uplifting to other members of the church. They just
want to tell stories they feel someone will want to
read (and someone will want to publish). That seems
like a reasonable goal to me.
VII.
Idifferent
n the LDS Church we speak of the parable of the
talents. We accept that the Lord has given us all
talents and varying quantities of talents.
We do not presume to judge what talents our
brothers and sisters have, unless they have chosen
to use them in a destructive rather than construc-
tive way. In moral choices, a destructive choice or a
constructive choice seems to be clear (to abuse
drugs or not, to be immoral or not). But in artistic
endeavors, what seems faithful and well done to
one reader may often be judged as poorly done by
another. I experienced this firsthand myself with an
essay I wrote about my mission. One reader said he
thought everyone should read it before serving a
mission; another reader was concerned that it would
prevent young people from serving missions. The
first reader found it faithful and faith promoting;
the second found it faithless and faith depriving. So
which was it? It was an individual reading experi-
ence, as many of our reading experiences are.
16 IRREANTUM
 In writing that particular essay as part of my if it had been done by someone else. But no one
master’s thesis, I had the luxury of writing it simply else stepped up to the plate. No one else made that
for myself. I found it interesting but not critical choice and then committed self and soul to it.
what people felt about it. My purpose was to make When I attended a preview of the movie Charly,
sense of a difficult experience for myself (and also one of the directors answered questions afterwards.
to convey that experience in a satisfactory way to He described how the movie’s making had been
my professors). Most writers don’t have the luxury interrupted by the bombing of the World Trade
of writing entirely for themselves; they write for Center. They had all asked themselves, should they
their audience. If they please their audience, their quit filming? But they decided to continue, since it
books sell. If not, their books don’t sell. And if a was a positive act they could contribute to the
writer’s books don’t sell, a publisher won’t publish world at that time.
them. And self-publishing, as a non-moneymaking This seems a worthy goal. To offer something
hobby, is an expensive choice, as many have learned. positive to the world. To bring a little romance into
It has been my experience that before a book is our lives. I, for one, think a little romance is a fine
published, the comment “well written” does not thing.
carry the weight with publishers that “exciting” does,
nor does “realistic” pack the weight of “inspiring.” Valerie Holladay has been involved in publishing for
After a book is published, some of us want good fifteen years, first with academic books, then LDS fic-
writing, some of us want a good feeling, and some tion and nonfiction, and currently with genealogical
of us don’t always know what we want, but we can reference materials. Her own writing has been pub-
recognize it when we find it. I think we all want lished in various journals and magazines, most
intelligent storytelling and characters, although we recently in Ancestry Magazine. She grew up reading,
have different opinions, tastes, and requirements. and one of her happiest childhood memories is riding
In one AML book review, the reviewer intimated in a bookmobile that her father drove each summer.
that the book, an LDS romantic suspense thriller, She makes her home in Pleasant Grove, Utah, with
was all right for readers who wanted to turn off the assistance of the most pampered cats on earth.
their brain for a while, but she didn't recommend
it to people who wanted a really good book. I think
that elitist type of dismissal serves neither writer
nor reader, much less the community of writers to
which we all belong
LDS writers feel keenly their responsibility to
use their talents to help others, and they enjoy
using their talents much as a pianist enjoys playing
the piano or a seamstress enjoys sewing a beautiful
dress. I may not enjoy the pianist’s choice of music
or the particular style the seamstress chose to fol-
low, but I respect their right to make their choices
and I respect the talents, however many, the Lord
has given them.
As I read a book, I might think to myself,
I would have done it this way or Why didn’t the
author do this? Some critics say things like, “That
character served no purpose” or “That subplot
didn’t contribute anything.” One reviewer said of
an LDS movie that it could have been really good

IRREANTUM 17 Summer 2003

 E S S A Y The thread of romance, however, is still a vital
Sign of the Times in LDS Romance
By Josi S. Kilpack
L DS romance novels have undergone a meta-
morphosis. The days of Missionary Matt meet-
ing Vicky Virtue, marrying in the temple, having
half a dozen kids, and only fighting over whether or
not to let their son do Scouting for Food or bap-
tisms for the dead on his twelfth birthday are a
thing of the past. For most readers, those types of
stories do not reflect reality, and readers seem to be
tired of pretending that life, even in fiction, can
ever be perfect. Each year LDS romance is present-
ing more awareness of reality, more talent, and
more creative story lines. The genre itself seems to
have realized that, both in a book and in life itself,
love is never enough. As readers, we want some
meat in our stories too, and that is exactly what we
are getting.
To understand today’s LDS romance and realize
the progress it’s made, you must understand that the
romance is only a portion of the story. These days,
LDS romance authors are writing about issues such
as infidelity, anorexia, drug addiction, sexual abuse,
excommunication, suicide, divorce, depression, rape,
terminal illness, death, unplanned pregnancy, and
pornography. Rather than telling a sweet, virtuous
story of perfect people with perfect faith who have
really bad stuff happen to them, more often than
not the stories LDS authors tell are of overcoming
sin, faithlessness, and insecurity, in addition to rising
above adversity. Through reading such stories, we
as readers have the unique opportunity to observe
someone else with values such as our own and see
how they cope with a particular situation. Hope-
fully, none of us will have to cope with all of these
problems in our own lives, but it is all but guaran-
teed that we, or someone we love, will face some of
these very issues, because we learn by overcoming
tribulation and learning is what life is all about.
Understanding the contemporary challenges being
faced in this day and age educates us and gives us
increased sympathy for those dealing with such trials.
Summer 2003
element. Most readers of LDS romance are women,
and women are all about relationships. To see a
relationship, even a fictitious one, battle the elements
of our mortal existence and survive gives us strength
in our own lives. And sometimes, beyond the thirst
for “reality” we just want a break, an escape, and
the fictitious people in a book don’t need a casserole
or a Christmas card. They don’t care whether or not
we got our visiting teaching done or if we wish we
were water skiing on Sunday morning instead of
wrestling kids to church. When we pick up a book,
we get a few hours to look into other lives and, with
a little luck, we shut the cover and realize our life
isn’t as bad as we thought. If woman-fictitious can
overcome her trials and still have the love of a good
and decent man, maybe there is hope for us after
all. We all want the same thing out of life in gen-
eral and specifically in relationships: love, accept-
ance, happiness, and peace. Romantic fiction often
serves as a reminder of those things and encourages
us to keep those goals in sight.
Thankfully, with the changes in LDS romance,
readers still don’t have to worry about being
besieged with scenes of bed-hopping Don Juans
or intricately detailed sensual moments. Current
authors have not traded plot for hot and sticky bed-
room trysts, and the gratuitous love scenes that
overwhelm many national romance novels do not
pepper the pages of LDS romance. Sex and sensu-
ality are there, but, in place of bedroom scenes,
LDS authors delve into the realms of commitment,
emotional attachments, and the true power of love.
In place of the shallow lusts of national fiction are
issues much more relevant to us as members of the
church, issues such as how hard it is to wait for sex
until marriage and the consequences affecting spirit
and membership when we don’t.
It isn’t easy for anyone to live in the Mormon
culture when they’ve broken covenants, yet reality
proves that it does happen and that sometimes
enduring the censure of fellow Saints becomes as
big a stumbling block as the sin itself. Perhaps read-
ing about the situation can help us understand the
whole scope of the church and offer support and
relief to our brothers and sisters. With this kind of
18 IRREANTUM
understanding, we can then be an asset rather than Readers of LDS romance want to read about
a roadblock for the person suffering through such people with our same standards, our same expecta-
things. tions, and our same goals, but we still want the
At church we learn of doctrine and we are taught romance, the tall, dark strangers, and the candle-
how to live, but some situations don’t show up in a light dinners. With the recent changes in LDS
lesson book. We aren’t perfect; we do have weak- romance, we no longer have to trade value for plot.
nesses, and a lot of the current trials we face aren’t The fluff is fading away, and reality is seeping into
topics that come up in casual conversation. They its place.
have no easy answers, but LDS writers are facing
these issues head on—and readers seem to appreci- Josi S. Kilpack is the third of nine children and was
ate their willingness to ask the hard questions. born and raised in Salt Lake City. Always a passion-
The fact is that life and relationships are harder ate reader, she began work on her first LDS women’s
than ever, even—in fact, perhaps especially so—for novel during bed rest associated with her third preg-
Mormons. In today’s world the traditional roles are nancy. Earning Eternity was published in 2000, and
all intertwined, and everyone, Mormons included, her second novel, Surrounded by Strangers, was
wants to know they aren’t alone in their mortal released in spring 2003 (both published by Cedar
struggles. Just because we are Mormon does not Fort). Outside of reading and writing, she enjoys trav-
mean we’ll have children of our own or we won’t eling and spending time with her four children
experience depression, abuse, or addiction. It doesn’t (although not necessarily both at the same time).
mean that we will agree on every issue, that we can’t
have our own opinions and make our own choices
within the boundaries of our beliefs. Sometimes
our individual circumstances make us feel like we
don’t belong, like we just don’t fit.
But within the pages of a good book, we get the
priceless opportunity of sharing the thoughts of
someone else, and we realize that in some ways
we are alone—no one is just like us, with our exact
trials, but it’s the gospel that binds us. It’s okay for
us to be different. It’s okay that we don’t fit the
mold because in fact there is no mold. Every mem-
ber of the church is his or her own person. The
sooner we realize that we will never be a perfectly
matched set, the sooner we can stop beating our
heads against the wall trying to become one. We’re
all heading to the same place, and we all have
obstacles that, though not identical, can be devas-
tating and make us wonder where we’re going after
all. It’s refreshing to realize that not everyone has a
testimony of the gospel at the age of eight, eight-
een, or fifty-eight years old. And sometimes, it’s in
the pages of a fictional story, through the thoughts
of a fictional character, that we realize that we are
enough, that we are okay, and that our purpose,
though not the same as a friend or neighbor, is just
as important.

IRREANTUM 19 Summer 2003

 P O E M No doubt they know already
We are here. B’wana,
Desert Gramarye They have much bad juju.

It is like the old Tarzan movies: Yes. I can see that.

White hunters find their way barred And I wonder what I have brought with me
By skulls on sticks. To ward off potent spells flung at the feet
In the first few steps of a journey.
The Park Service has erected
A pavilion on the rim. I breathe:
Beware, it says. Flash Flood. Come.
Quicksand. Flash floods. We have met many times and parted
How to Resuscitate Lightning Strike Victims Always on good terms.
One warning tells. I would like to see you again,
It pretends helpful information Old friend, Flash Flood.
But is another white skull.
Quicksand. Come.
On a sideboard, the complete caveat— We are no strangers.
A man pierced all through with sticks. You caught me by my ankles
We are loath to look on it, but do: Then retracted your claws;
It alone rates five full skulls. I remember
Your tongue’s rasp.
Thirty-five-year-old male, it says. Perhaps we shall wrestle again,
Not enough water. Mud panther,
Disoriented. Delirious. Quicksand.
Collapsed. Convulsions.
Core body temperature one-hundred-and-eight Lightning—
degrees You I am not so sure about.
In an air-conditioned ambulance. When your gray matter thunders
Expected to recover, but— And your synapses
Suffered liver and brain damage. Fire between heaven and earth,
Let me not be found in those corridors.
I don’t understand. Fall elsewhere, flash elsewhere, Lightning,
Did he recover, or didn’t he? And I will tell all
Ahh—that is not the point of the skulls. Of blue quarrels bolting cloud to cloud,
Of electrokenetic harpoons
In the old Tarzan movies Havocking lone junipers.
The skulls, the shrunken heads,
The bad juju, B’wana, Thus I shoulder my pack
They mean, this could happen. And pass by all skulls,
To you. Speaking soft words
We hope. Of relation.
The tribe that inhabits these parts—
The fierce Park Service— —P. G. Karamesines
They maintain all hearts of darkness
Beating in this wilderness.

Summer 2003 20 IRREANTUM

Author’s note: Gramarye here means “magic,” but also
I chose the word for its sense of a grammar book or
primer. This poem arose out of a trip I took in Sep-
tember 2002, when I went to a place in the desert I
have visited many times over the last twenty years. On
this visit, I found it heavily “enchanted,” one might
say, by Park Service signs. Some think this poem is
anti–U.S. Park Service. It is not, but I did feel it nec-
essary to respond to language “fencing off ” what for
me is one of the sacred places of the earth.
Patricia Gunter Karamesines’s poetry has won numer-
ous awards, including first place in BYU’s 1987
Eisteddfod Crown Competition. She has published in
literary journals and in Harvest, an anthology of con-
temporary Mormon poetry. She says, “I get worn out
writing ‘Patricia Gunter Karamesines’ at the end of
everything, so I’m shortening it to P.G. Karamesines.
Saves typing and trees.” Her first novel, yet untitled, is
due out in spring 2004 through Signature Books. The
mother of three children, she lives with her husband
Mark in Payson, Utah.
IRREANTUM
I N T E R V I E W
Anita Stansfield
A nita Stansfield began writing at the age of 16
and published her first novel 16 years later. First
Love and Forever was released in the fall of 1994,
and the book won the 1995 Best Fiction Award from
the Independent LDS Booksellers Association. In the
years since, Stansfield has become the best-selling LDS
author of romantic fiction by a huge margin. Her
novels have captivated and moved hundreds of thou-
sands of readers with their moving characters and focus
on important issues. Stansfield has been published in
Cosmopolitan magazine and has written many novels
for the worldwide market.
Stansfield is a multiple winner of the Golden Quill
from the League of Utah Writers for merit in a pub-
lished work. In 1997 she was presented with a special
award for pioneering new ground in LDS fiction, and
she is a popular public speaker. More recently, two of
her novels, The Gable Faces East and Towers of
Brierley, were given awards of excellence through Cove-
nant Communications. She currently has 23 published
books, including a collection of personal essays. Her
latest novel, A Gilded World, the fourth volume of
her Gables of Legacy series, was released in August
2003.
Born and raised in Provo, Utah, she married Vince
Stansfield in 1980. They currently live in Alpine, Utah,
and have five children, ages three to 21.
Y ou are one of the few LDS authors who can
make a living at it. How difficult is writing
full time?
Writing on deadline has definitely been more
difficult than simply writing because I want to.
Either way, writing along with being a mother is a
distinct challenge. I learned many years ago that I
just had to expect interruptions and deal with them,
or I would never get anything written. I wrote
equivalent to a full-time job many years before I
was published, so in some ways nothing has
changed except that I have to do it.
Many consider you to be the trailblazer for
LDS romantic fiction. When First Love and
21 Summer 2003
Forever came out, did you have a sense of break-
ing new ground?
Actually, I did. When I decided to write an LDS
novel with a relationship at the heart of it, I found
very little to go on as far as books and writers
already established. In talking with women who had
once been avid readers of LDS romances, I learned
that most of them had quit reading such books
because they were too idealistic, fluffy, et cetera.
So publishers had, for the most part, quit pub-
lishing them. I decided to write books that dealt with
real-life issues that could be solved through accu-
rate psychology and gospel principles. I think when
my LDS characters were faced with tough issues,
readers immediately related to them, as opposed
to reading about trite and meaningless romance. I
believe that women have an innate desire for romance
in their life, and clean romance novels are a way for
women to fill that in a positive way. But when it’s
fluffy and meaningless, it feels like simply a waste
of time.
I have been pleasantly surprised by the number
of men who read my books. I believe that having
strong and relatable male protagonists and realistic
plot lines has contributed to this.
First Love and Forever was shopped around
to many publishers before ending up at Cove-
nant. What was that process like?
Frustrating! As you know, the number of LDS
publishers is limited, and I wanted a company that
was stable and capable of putting out a quality
product. I had learned from years of writing, how-
ever, that rejection is a part of the game, and if you
believe in something you have to keep going. In the
end, timing had everything to do with it. Covenant
at one time had rejected the project, but several
months later I resubmitted it, and they bought it.
Trace how your writing inclination developed
and how you first became a published writer.
How did you come to writing in general, and to
Mormon writing?
I began writing at the age of 16, with my focus
on historical romantic fiction that I was trying to
sell to the national market. My goals stemmed a
great deal from my frustration in reading. Every
romantic novel I picked up was either trashy and
Summer 2003
obscene or fluffy and trite. Either way it was an
insult to a woman’s intelligence. I set out to write
books that had a relationship at the heart but had
powerful characters, deep, intricate plots, and real-
life issues, even if the story had larger-than-life cir-
cumstances.
After writing several such books without success
in getting published, I felt an inclination to move
to the LDS market, with strong feelings that my
experience in learning how to write a strong novel
could serve the market well. I actually wrote for
16 years before I was published, and the rejections
were innumerable. I still intend to see my non-
LDS work put out into the world, and my goals are
focused in that direction. But it takes time and dili-
gence, and I’m too busy right now just meeting the
deadlines.
You have said that you “guarantee a happy
ending.” What challenges do you face in creat-
ing realistic and believable situations while still
keeping that promise? Have you been criticized
that there is something unrealistic about always
having a happy ending? How do you respond?
My first response to people who cynically tell me
there are no happy endings in this life is, “If you’re
standing there talking to me, it isn’t over yet.”
As LDS people we believe that we will achieve
the rewards in the next life that we earn in this one.
That is the ultimate happy ending. Life is tough,
and we often don’t get what we bargain for in this
world, but we should have a perfect brightness of
hope in working past our struggles, making our lives
the best we can, and aspiring for eternal blessings.
The concept of “happy endings” gives the reader
hope. I believe that in spite of life’s challenges, we
as human beings are capable of making life good if
we can get past our baggage and get a grip. Oppo-
sition and trials happen, but you can look around
yourself and see a huge difference in the way people
handle those trials.
Also, I might have a happy ending in one book,
but in the sequel those characters are confronted
with new challenges—as it is in real life. Therefore,
a happy ending is relative in regard to certain seg-
ments of life, rather than assuming they lived hap-
pily ever after without facing another challenge.
22 IRREANTUM
 I feel that for a book to be satisfying, you have to
feel completely content and hopeful at the end. But
be careful when you open the next one!
Describe your writing process and habits:
how often you write, how you balance it with
other things, any rituals or conditions you must
have for a good writing session, and whether
you use notes, outlines, research, multiple drafts,
and so on.
I try to write every day but Sunday, but there are
days when it simply doesn’t happen, due to the
other demands of life. Normally I do a household
routine in the morning, making certain the mini-
mum is in order, getting the laundry started, and
seeing to any pressing matters with business or
family. Then I just write while I deal with inter-
ruptions and do what has to be done.
If I’m on a deadline or I’m in a creative mode, I
will write every minute I can, but it’s difficult to say
how many hours I’m getting in. Ideally I would like
to be able to write without any distraction and in
orderly surroundings. The reality is that I am a
mother, and my family is most important to me.
My office is cluttered with bills, schoolwork, et
cetera. I use a laptop to write so that it’s not used
by anyone else in the family for homework, Inter-
net, etc. I sometimes have to take the laptop and go
hide because my office has become the heart of the
home, somehow. At this time my five children
range in age from three to 21. I have one preparing
to marry, one preparing for a mission, two teen-
agers, and a toddler. It’s crazy, but I love them!
As far as the writing itself, I’m very unscientific.
I don’t outline. I just write. When ideas are coming
faster than I can put down, I open a window and
write notes to describe the scenes or circumstances
I am seeing, often with snatches of dialogue or
scene fragments. Eventually I have to put those in
order, and I will follow that as I complete the story,
but that has its challenges. Right now I have a 72-
page file of notes and scene fragments in no partic-
ular order, and I have to rearrange the entire thing
before I can go on. It’s a mess.
But I always put my priority on creativity. I never
try to create and edit at the same time. They are
two different processes and should be treated as
IRREANTUM
such; otherwise, creativity is stifled. On research, I
am a storyteller first, and I do research as necessary
to make the story accurate. The bulk of my research
is in psychology, and I often search for people who
have experienced what I’m writing about. They aren’t
going to give me textbook answers. Their experi-
ences come from the heart and soul, and that is
what will touch the readers.
My older work required many more drafts.
Some of my books have been seriously reworked
several times. Now, I am able to write a book fairly
close to submission quality right out of my head.
Once the first draft is done, I can just go back
through it once and turn it in, although the first
draft may have required a lot of reworking of cer-
tain areas as the plot developed. But it’s taken more
than twenty years of practice to be able to do that.
I’ve learned that you can’t be afraid of revision; revi-
sion makes for some of the best books.
Most fiction is a combination of the author’s
experiences, observations, and imagination. How
do those three elements work together for you?
How much is autobiographical?
I wouldn’t describe my work as autobiographical
at all, beyond the point of “If I were going through
this, I would probably handle it this way.” My story
ideas just come to me, very obviously a gift of
inspiration. If I don’t get the inspiration, I can’t
write about it. I am definitely a very observant per-
son. While my plots and characters are fiction, the
circumstances and situations are definitely based
on real life, with snatches of different things I’ve
observed. I might take a snippet from a movie, a
book, a song, what I saw in the mall, what some-
one told me in an airport, et cetera. Putting it all
together makes a new creation.
What have you learned about marketing
yourself as a writer? What other things have you
consciously done to maintain a full-time writing
career?
Through my first several releases, I put in a lot of
legwork. I did many, many book signings, called
newspapers, begged for interviews, et cetera. Sign-
ings were slow and boring, but the store managers
and employees put a face with the books and the
advertising-related sales were beneficial. Eventually
23 Summer 2003
it reached a point where the books were selling
whether I went to stores or not, so I stayed home to
write. I do a lot of Relief Society meetings and fire-
sides, which gives me the opportunity to share my
testimony through relating my experiences, and it
sells books indirectly.
I think one of the main keys to maintaining a
career is not to allow the quality of your work to
diminish. This is a challenge with deadlines amidst
life’s challenges, and I know that some of my works
definitely have more quality than others, but I do
try to be conscious of satisfying the reader as a story
evolves. If the reader starts to feel that you’re rest-
ing on your laurels, they’ll stop reading.
What’s your view of the fiction writer’s role in
the building up of Zion?
I know that this is a God-given gift, and I feel a
definite responsibility to use it the way He would
have me use it. I don’t question the source of my
inspiration; I’m simply grateful for it. The good
thing about being LDS is that we have the light
and knowledge that allows us to understand the
source of such gifts and how to keep our lives in
balance as we use them. My foundation in the
gospel keeps me from going over the edge cre-
atively. You don’t have to look very far in history to
see how creative people had very destructive lives.
I believe we are accountable for what we write
and the impact for good or ill that it may have on
those who read it. If my books strengthen testi-
monies or bear simple, quiet testimony of God’s
existence, then I’m on the right track. Even in my
books that have no LDS element, the characters
believe in God, they acknowledge His hand in their
lives, they pray, and if they sin they suffer conse-
quences. These principles are woven delicately in a
way that’s not contrived. That’s bearing testimony
of my beliefs without shoving it down the readers’
throats.
Which of your titles are you most proud of?
Which of your novels has been the hardest to
write?
What I am most proud of is not published yet.
Of the books published, it’s hard to say. They’re like
my children. You love them all for different strengths,
and you’re aware of their different weaknesses. As
Summer 2003
far as which was hardest, my answer is equally vague.
Some were difficult because of the subject matter,
some because of the grueling time and/or research
involved. Some books were extremely easy. How-
ever, looking back, the easy ones don’t stick with
me as well. A difficult writing experience creates a
more lasting impression for the writer, as well as the
reader.
Do you dabble in other forms aside from novels?
Are there any other forms you would like to try
your hand at?
Novel writing is definitely my niche, and rela-
tionship fiction is my passion! I have written many
personal essays, but it’s more out of a need to share
my experiences than actually liking it. Many people
are unaware of my book Reflections, which is non-
fiction. In it I share many experiences of mother-
hood, writing, and struggling to succeed.
What is your greatest fear as a writer? Your
greatest pleasure?
I can’t say that I have a fear as a writer. I trust in
the Lord to just make it work and keep me going.
I have concerns, and those are all related to the
publishing business and the politics involved,
which have been my greatest source of difficulty,
but if you want your work to get out there, you just
have to deal with such things.
My greatest pleasure? That’s easy! There is noth-
ing like just getting lost in the writing of a new
story. To feel that creative energy consume me and
carry me on a new adventure is simply an incom-
parable experience!
What works of Mormon literature have you
personally most enjoyed? What works of general
literature? How have these influenced you as a
writer?
I’m ashamed to admit that I’m not much of a
reader. I know that’s unusual for a writer. Frankly, I
did most of my writing while being a mother, and
I just didn’t have the time to read and write. The
good thing about that is perhaps that my work is
more original in not being influenced by other
writings. In my youth I read some, which initially
spurred me to write something better. The books
that stand out as leaving a deep impression were
Gone With the Wind and The Scarlet Pimpernel.
24 IRREANTUM
 What have been some highlights and lowlights
of reader and critical responses to your works?
For the most part, response has been very posi-
tive. I can’t count the times I’ve been told, either in
person or through a letter, how my books have
changed lives for the better and have helped people
deal with the struggles in their lives. I can’t express
my joy at such response, because I think that’s what
it’s all about.
On the negative side, there is always someone
who is unhappy with me. I’ve received occasional
letters conveying the idea that “we shouldn’t talk
about such things, or we shouldn’t talk about them
that way.” These have been difficult for me, and I
have faced them prayerfully. (I’m getting really per-
sonal now.) In my heart, while knowing I am far
from perfect, I feel very strongly about addressing
the issues that I have and in the way that I have.
I believe that the many who will benefit far out-
weigh the few who are offended. I believe a reader’s
offense is more about their personal struggles than
it is about the books. I also understand that you
can’t make everybody happy.
In writing about relationships, I feel that it’s nec-
essary to address human intimacy related to some
issues—breast cancer and rape, to name a couple.
Some people feel that we shouldn’t talk about it at
all, even though I have made every effort to discuss
it appropriately. I received one letter that accused
me of writing pornography, and in the same batch
of mail I got a letter from a woman (in reference to
the very same book) thanking me for writing a clean
historical romance that her teenagers could read.
It’s a matter of perspective.
You have joined ranks with Richard Paul
Evans in having titles pulled from the shelves of
Deseret Book. What was your reaction to that
news? How do you feel about the Deseret Book
policy in general? What has your reader response
been to the announcement?
This is touchy because I’ve been asked to be dis-
creet. I must say that I am all for a standard. Per-
sonally, I am easily offended by sex and violence
and the way it is portrayed so commonly in this
world. However, my concern comes in the way that
this particular standard appears to have been drawn
IRREANTUM
rather vaguely. I’ve heard of a number of incidents
where books have been pulled for vague implica-
tions, and meanwhile I’ve heard that characters
committing sin is allowed as long as it’s portrayed
appropriately and consequences are carried through.
Yet, some of my work that was pulled seems to
be based on that very thing, which leaves me con-
fused. I am concerned for struggling people who
have been validated by my books and how they
might feel to have those books banned. I am con-
cerned with the way the vagueness of this has
incited fanatics. The same kind of people who have
accused me of writing pornography may see this as
free license to be judgmental of many things they
don’t understand.
In talking with Rick [Richard Paul Evans] I was
appalled to hear, but related well, that people were
actually sending him hate mail and saying horrible
things. I am not going to be judgmental of Deseret
Book, their policies or reasoning. They have the right
as a business to do what they feel they have to do.
Jerry Johnston handled this issue well in the
Deseret News when he did a column on the topic
following an interview I had with him. I agree with
his stand. We’re two separate entities just trying to
do the right thing, even if we’re going about it in
different ways. We need to have mutual respect and
press forward.
According to a newspaper article, you were
asked to remove a line from one of your books
about a new husband on his honeymoon laugh-
ing and kicking the door closed. Did Covenant
make the request? What was the rationale?
The article you’re referring to was done by Asso-
ciated Press and went all over the country. I’ve had
sightings of it in several states. Again, this is touchy.
It’s always tough doing an hour-long interview
with someone who is gifted at getting you talking
and then to see what they actually end up quoting.
The quote was an insignificant part of a long
conversation.
Covenant has definitely cracked down on any
reference to intimacy. We have batted the issue back
and forth and have come to an agreeable point where
I can address the issues I feel I need to write about
without upsetting anyone. The line in question came
25 Summer 2003
up at a time when the pendulum had swung to an What is your best advice for aspiring fiction
extreme; it has now achieved more balance, which writers?
is evident in more recent publications I’ve done. Follow your heart, trust in the Lord who put
Do you ever feel inspired in your writing? those feelings into your heart and those stories into
I think I’ve already addressed that, but to clarify: your head, and never, never, never give up! Practice
yes! In spite of all I have learned about the act of and hard work make a big difference. I think the
writing well, I count on that inspiration to get my best way to keep improving is just to keep writing,
ideas and see them through. I feel that my life has keep letting people read it, keep listening to what
to be prioritized correctly in order to keep that con- they have to say, and sort out their opinions from
duit open. My house is livable but far from orderly. what you believe in your heart. Practice. Practice.
I don’t cook much, but my family members know Practice. You don’t hear a concert pianist play and
I’m there for them if they need me. If I’m looking assume this is the first time they’ve sat down at the
out for what’s important, then I feel better about piano. It’s the same for a good writer.
expecting that inspiration to come when I need it.
Do you struggle with “putting words in God’s
mouth” when it comes to answering your char-
acters’ prayers, interpreting scripture, portray-
ing miracles, and so forth? What other spiritual
challenges have you come across in your writing?
I just try to follow the Spirit on that. I’ve stud-
ied spiritual and doctrinal matters enough that I
have a feel for what’s appropriate. Sometimes I have
to call two or three bishops and ask a question and
go with what’s doctrinally accurate. When I pray
for guidance in handling the issues correctly and
try to live right (far from perfect, mind you), I simply
hope that God would use me as an appropriate
instrument to handle such things the right way.
I can relate to the writers of the Book of Mormon
in their making it clear that any mistakes are their
mistakes, not God’s.
My greatest challenge spiritually came in a book
that is yet unpublished. It is far into a series, and
while its characters become Mormons and migrate
to Utah in the 1870s, it is not written for a Mor-
mon market. As I explored Mormonism in that time
period, I found it necessary to look at many issues
that are difficult—most specifically, polygamy. In
the end I felt that it was handled appropriately in a
way that can help people understand the righteous
issues and separate them from the fanaticism that
we are reputed for. I was able to explore the emo-
tional aspects of the issue from the minds of fic-
tional characters confronted with it and how they
gained a testimony of it when it is sanctioned by
God and handled righteously.

Summer 2003 26 IRREANTUM

 N O V E L His window had remained intact but he couldn’t
E X C E R P T open it without the car on. He resisted unfastening
A Gilded World
By Anita Stansfield
Author’s note: The following excerpt is from volume
four in the Gables of Legacy series, published in
August 2003. Jess Hamilton is returning to his home
in Queensland, Australia, after going to the hospital
with Murphy, his hired hand and lifelong friend, who
has broken his leg in an accident.
J ess was surprised to find it raining—hard—when
he left the hospital. He was fairly wet by the time
he got to the Cruiser, but it was a warm rain, so he
didn’t feel chilled. Once he got off the paved roads,
he realized the visibility was horrible due to the con-
tinual wall of water pouring over the windshield.
The wipers just couldn’t go fast enough to keep up
with it. He was grateful for the familiarity of this
road that led to his home and nowhere else, but his
head began to ache from the intensity with which
he had to focus on the headlight beams in order to
stay on course. With no warning, something appeared
in front of him. Rock or an animal, alive or unmov-
ing, he couldn’t tell. But it was big. He swerved to
miss it. The next few seconds became eternal.
An unfathomable fear seized him as he watched
the beam of the headlights spin and then flip. He
had the sensation of being on an amusement park
ride as what was up became down, and down became
up. Memories of the accident that had killed Eve-
lyn’s parents and his best friend rushed through his
mind, clashing with images of the people he loved.
He heard himself scream that he wasn’t ready to
die. Then he just screamed. Glass broke, metal
creaked. Then everything became still except for
the continuing downpour. Once Jess was aware
that he was conscious and breathing, he realized he
was hanging upside down in the seatbelt. He wig-
gled his fingers and toes, then audibly thanked God
for being alive and uncrippled.
Jess definitely needed help. The window on the
passenger side had broken and rain was pouring in.
IRREANTUM
the seatbelt for fear of falling on his head and injur-
ing what wasn’t already injured.
“Phone. The phone. Where’s my phone?” He real-
ized how shaken he was by the fact that he was not
only talking to himself, but his voice was hoarse
and quivery. “Oh, God help me! Where’s my phone?”
he almost shouted, frantically feeling around him-
self for where it might have fallen. The phone beeped
to warn of a dying battery and he almost laughed
as he reached for it on the ceiling by his head. He
debated only a moment on whether he should call
home or triple zero for emergency help, knowing
he likely had only enough power to made one call.
His fingers dialed home while he prayed that one of
the women he loved would answer the phone quickly.
“Hello?” Tamra said in a half-asleep, panicked
tone.
“It’s me,” he said, his voice still shaky. “Oh, Tamra,
I love you.”
“I love you too, Jess. What’s happened?” She
sounded fully awake now.
“Now don’t panic,” he insisted. “My phone
might die here and . . . I’ve been in a little accident.
I’m all right, but I need help.”
“What happened?” she insisted. “Where are
you?” Her breathing became sharp.
“I’m okay, Tam.” The battery warning beeped
again. “Breathe deep and listen to me. Call for help.
I’m not more than ten or fifteen minutes from home,
and I don’t think I’m too far off the road, but the
rain was so bad that I’m not sure. Tell them to get
a helicopter out here and get me out of this thing,
and then you stay right there until I call you again.
Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll call them.” Again a beep. “Are you
sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. My phone’s dying. I’ve got to go.
Please don’t panic or—”
“Jess!” Tamra screamed into the phone as it went
dead.
She realized she was shaking as she frantically
pushed the button and listened for a new dial tone
before she dialed triple zero, walking toward her
mother-in-law’s room as she did. She knocked,
27 Summer 2003
then walked in and found Emily sitting in bed,
reading. Her expression of surprise turned to acute
concern as Tamra said into the phone, “My hus-
band just called me from his mobile. He said he’s
been in an accident. I think he’s stuck in the car.”
Emily sat up straight and reached for Tamra’s hand
as she sat on the edge of the bed. She answered
their questions and gave them directions to where
she guessed he was. With assurance that they would
find him, Tamra was once again left with a dead
phone in her hand.
“What did he say?” Emily demanded. Tamra did
her best to recount the phone call while she paced
the room.
Ten minutes later she rushed out of the room,
saying, “Listen for the children. I’m going to find
him.”
“He told you to stay put,” Emily said, following
after her. “I think you should. It’s pouring out there
and you’re pregnant. They can help him. You can’t.”
“But . . .” Tamra realized she was sobbing as she
pulled jeans on beneath her nightgown, then quickly
exchanged it for a sweatshirt. “What if it’s worse
than he said? What if he was only okay long enough
to call me and . . . he’s stranded . . . and what if I
never see him again and . . .”
“Okay, calm down,” Emily said, taking Tamra
by the shoulders. “Take a deep breath before you
hyperventilate. He’s going to be just fine. Just calm
down.”
“How do you know he’ll be fine?” Tamra shouted.
Emily shouted back, “Because I refuse to outlive
any more of my loved ones!”
Tamra was stunned into silence. She’d never heard
Emily use that tone of voice before. Emily stepped
back, apparently surprised by her own reaction.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said, obviously more upset
than she’d let on. Tears trickled down her face as
she said in a whisper, “Go find him. Be careful. If
it were Michael I would do the same. I’ll look after
the children.”
Tamra hugged her quickly and hurried down the
stairs, amazed at the energy she felt that had not
been with her for weeks. She pulled on her rubber
boots that always waited near the door for occasional
downpours and the inevitable mud that followed.
Summer 2003
She put on Jess’s oiled drover coat, knowing it would
keep the rain off better than anything, opting for
his flat-brimmed hat for the same reason.
Tamra drove slowly and carefully, grateful to note
that the rain was letting up a bit, but still heavy.
She began to wonder if Jess had been farther away
from home than he thought, or perhaps he’d gone
far off the road and she’d missed him. Then the head-
lights glanced off something that made her gasp.
She stomped on the brake and reminded herself to
breathe as she realized what she was looking at.
“Heaven help us,” she muttered and reminded
herself of Emily’s advice—take a deep breath before
you hyperventilate.
There before her was the vehicle Jess had been
driving—upside down. She left the Cruiser running
with the lights pointed that direction, and stumbled
through the mud toward the other vehicle, terrified
of what she might find.
J ess saw the beam of lights and sighed with relief.
He was beginning to think that help would never
come. He heard tapping on the glass beside him,
but he couldn’t see anything through the mud-
splattered window. Then he heard footsteps in the
mud near the broken window opposite him. He
looked that way as a body dropped and reached
through the open window. He expected to see the
face of a rescue worker, but it was Tamra’s voice
calling his name just before she wriggled her shoul-
ders through the broken window and took his hand
into hers.
“Jess, you’re still alive,” she said as if she truly
hadn’t expected him to be.
“But what in the world are you doing here?”
“I had to be with you,” she said, and started to
cry. She touched his face and kissed his hand. “Are
you okay, really?”
“I can feel my legs and wiggle my toes. But my
head feels horrible. I was thinking about a news
story I heard once, how a roller coaster got stuck
and these people were upside down for hours until
rescuers could get them all out. I guess it could be
worse.”
“Oh, it could,” she said, crying harder. “I love
you, Jess.”
28 IRREANTUM
 “I love you too,” he said, crying himself. “You
really shouldn’t have come out here. But I’m glad
you did.”
“So am I,” she said. “If you . . .” She hesitated.
“Did you hear that?”
“I did,” he said as the definite hum of a helicop-
ter came closer.
Once the helicopter had landed, Tamra reluctantly
eased back and hovered nervously in the rain while
they carefully pulled Jess from the wreckage. The
rain had stopped by the time they had him aboard
the helicopter, and she felt comforted by the res-
cuer’s words as he closed the door on Jess. “I think
he’s just bruised and scraped up,” the man said,
“but we want to have him checked out to be sure.”
Once the helicopter was in the air, Tamra sat in
the Cruiser and sobbed for ten minutes, then she
forced herself to calm down enough to call Emily
on her cell phone to give her a report. She could
hear Emily’s relief through the phone, and she
promised to see that all was well with the little ones
so that Tamra could be with Jess at the hospital.
She drove carefully, grateful the rain had stopped.
And she had to admit that she was grateful she no
longer needed to be there to nurse little Michael.
She’d been disappointed when the doctor suggested
she stop nursing for the sake of maintaining her health
through the pregnancy. It made sense, but it had
still saddened her. At this moment, however, she
was grateful that Emily could give Michael what he
needed, and she could be with her husband.
Tamra felt an eerie sense of déjà vu as she
approached the hospital. She’d been too focused on
her panic to think of it until now. But now she
remembered the night when she’d barely known
Jess and she had found him after he’d taken an
overdose of sleeping pills. She had called for emer-
gency assistance and had waited frantically for the
helicopter to arrive. And then she had driven to the
hospital, almost expecting to find Jess already dead.
Tamra cried an endless stream of tears as she
drove. She wiped at her eyes to see the road better,
wishing she wasn’t so hormonal and weak. She con-
templated her gratitude that Jess had survived
then—both the physical and emotional trauma he
had suffered. At the time she hadn’t known that he
IRREANTUM
would end up her husband and the father of her
children, but now she couldn’t imagine her life
without him. And she was equally grateful that he
had been spared any serious injury now. Jess was
alive and well, and it was a miracle.
Tamra knew she looked horrible when she walked
into the hospital, still wearing Jess’s long coat, hav-
ing left the hat in the car. She was guided to his
bedside by a kind nurse, and once they were alone,
she pressed her face into the pillow beside his head
and wept uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, trying to be strong
for Jess. “I cry more than any woman on the face of
the earth.”
“Well, I’ve had a few tears of my own,” Jess
admitted, then he lifted his hands to show her how
they were trembling. “I can’t stop shaking.” He
chuckled without humor. Tamra held up her own
shaking hands, and he chuckled again. “I really
thought I was dead, Tamra. I just couldn’t imagine
how I would survive accidents twice in my lifetime.
But here I am.”
Tamra saw tears leak from the corners of his eyes
into his hair. She wiped them away, then pressed
her brow to his. “I’m so grateful,” she muttered.
A few minutes later they took Jess away to do a
CT scan and make certain he didn’t have any inter-
nal injuries. Tamra waited nervously outside of radi-
ology for him, then they waited together for the
results. She was nearly asleep in a recliner near his
bed when the doctor finally appeared with the news
that Jess was a walking miracle. No internal injuries.
Not even a hairline fracture. But he suggested they
both get some rest before they headed home. Tamra
called Emily from the phone in the room to give
her the news, then she handed the phone to Jess.
When he hung up the phone, he turned to look at
Tamra. He reached a trembling hand toward her in
the same moment that hot tears rose in her eyes.
She leaned over him to embrace him tightly, then
she pressed her lips to his.
“I’m so grateful,” she said again and hugged him.
“So am I,” he said, pressing a hand through the
length of her hair. “I thought I was dead; I really did.”
“I thank God that you’re not,” she said through
her ongoing tears. “There are so many people who
29 Summer 2003
love you, Jess . . . who need you and depend on Murphy sat with his mouth open, listening. He
you. But no one loves you or needs you more than finally said, “What is it you were telling me yester-
I do.” day about opposition?”
They talked a few more minutes, then Jess Jess chuckled. “Yes, well . . . I’m living proof that
encouraged her to relax in the recliner near the bed the protection of angels is more powerful than any
and get some rest. Her exhaustion was visible and opposition we could come up against.”
he prayed she wouldn’t end up ill from this little Murphy smiled and exchanged a firm handshake
adventure. Tamra’s even breathing let him know with Jess. “Get some rest,” Jess said. “I’ll come and
that she’d fallen asleep quickly, but he knew that get you in the morning.
pregnancy made her so tired that she could sleep In the parking lot, Jess said to Tamra, “I would
practically anytime, anywhere. Staring at the ceil- prefer that you drive home.”
ing, he wished that he could do the same. As images Tamra looked startled. “You can’t start that again,”
of the accident replayed over and over through his she insisted, recalling Jess’s aversion to driving fol-
mind, he finally called the nurse and asked for lowing his last accident. And it had taken him years
something to help him sleep. to get over it.
He woke to find the room still dark. He had the “I’m not going to start that again,” Jess said. “I’m
sensation that he’d emerged from a bad dream, but just a little . . . shaky still, and . . . I would really
he couldn’t recall what it was about. He was grate- appreciate it if you’d drive home.”
ful to find himself safe and comfortable, in spite of
a growing ache in his muscles. Recalling his reasons
for being where he was, he marveled at the miracle
that he was alive and well. He turned to see Tamra
sleeping in the recliner nearby and again was struck
by how blessed he was.
Jess slipped back to sleep, mostly aided by the
medication still in his system. He woke to daylight
and met Tamra’s eyes as she reached for his hand.
“It’s nice to see you alive,” she said.
“It’s nice to be alive,” he said.
Once Jess was officially released, they phoned his
mother to let her know what was going on, then
checked on Murphy to find that he was doing well,
beyond the pain he was in; he would be ready to go
home the next day.
“Hey, is that a bruise on your face?” Murphy
asked.
Jess touched his cheek as if he might find a
smudge of dirt there, but it hurt to the touch and
he felt an unpleasant shudder go through him as he
thought of last night.
“Yeah, well . . . I had a little encounter with a
rainstorm on the way home last night, and I never
made it home.”
“We spent the night here, actually,” Tamra said
and went on to explain when Jess didn’t seem to
want to.

Summer 2003 30 IRREANTUM

 I N T E R V I E W Why did you decide to write romance novels?
Madeline Baker
Interviewed by Barbara R. Hume
N ationally published romance author Madeline
Baker also writes under the name Amanda Ash-
ley. As Madeline Baker, she writes Western romances
that often focus on the Indians as much as on the cow-
boys. As Amanda Ashley, she is a popular author of
paranormal vampire romances.
Born in California and a lifelong resident of that
state, Baker started writing “simply for the fun of it.”
After Baker first decided to attempt getting published,
she spent six years “sending out query letters, being
asked for the manuscript, being rejected. Eventually,
after 31 rejections, I sold a book. My first sale was the
third book I had written and was called Reckless
Heart. I’ve been writing ever since.” Her first publi-
cation came out in 1985, and since then she has writ-
ten 40 books and seven novellas. She writes for Leisure
Books, Signet Books, St. Martin’s Press, and Silhouette
Romance. Her books have won several awards in the
romance field. More information about her publications
is available at her website, www. madelinebaker.net.
Interviewer Barbara Hume first realized Baker
was Mormon when one of her characters remarked,
“Wickedness never was happiness.”
T ell us a little about your personal back-
ground. Are you an active Mormon? What
do you do in your ward?
I’ve been a member of the church since 1969.
I’m currently the Young Women secretary.
What are your goals, motivations, and desires
as a writer?
My goal is to write the best book I can. Motiva-
tion? I write simply because I love it, because I can’t
imagine not writing. Desires? Hmmm, to make the
top of the New York Times bestseller list.
What kinds of responses have you encountered
from readers who discovered you were LDS?
Except for my LDS friends and a few people
online, most people don’t know. I know several
women in my ward who read my books and enjoy
them very much.
IRREANTUM
Did you write other kinds of fiction before that?
What early experiences and influences shaped
you to be a writer?
I suppose I started writing them because that
was what I liked to read. I’ve never written any
other kind of work, except the odd poem now and
then. The only influence I can think of, aside from
my love of reading from a very early age (Lad:
A Dog, Nancy Drew books, The Black Stallion), is
the fact that I have a very vivid imagination.
How would you describe your books, your
purposes for writing them, and the responses
you’ve received from readers? Are any of your
books translated into other languages?
My books are love stories. Most of them are set
in the Old West because I love that period of his-
tory. I don’t know that I have a purpose for writing
them other than the fact that it’s a lot of fun and
better than watching TV.
Fan letters are very rewarding, especially the ones
from readers who say they always hated to read
until, for one reason or another, they read one of
my books, and now they read all the time. I’ve
received letters from women telling me that my
books have helped them through an illness or the
loss of a loved one or have simply provided them
with a few hours of escape from kids and house-
work. Another thing that pleases me is when I get
letters from mothers telling me they let their daugh-
ters read my books because my books don’t contain
graphic love scenes or a lot of profanity. I don’t like
to read books like that, and I don’t write them.
One of my favorite letters was from a young
Indian boy who said that reading one of my books
gave him pride in his Indian heritage. Another
reader wrote and said she was going to do her
genealogy because she wanted to learn more about
her ancestors.
My books have been translated into Chinese,
Russian, French, Italian, and Norwegian.
Why do you write Western romances? Why do
you write vampire romances? Have you written
in other subgenres or other historical periods?
I write Westerns because I’ve loved Indians ever
since I was a little girl. I’m fascinated by their culture
and beliefs. I’d been writing for about ten years,
31 Summer 2003
I think, when I wrote my first vampire book. It was
a great change of pace. I’d been getting a little burned
out on the Old West. I’ve written a couple of fan-
tasy romances as well. They were fun and different.
How much affect does being a Mormon have
on your writing? Does it influence your themes,
the kinds of characters you admire, the way you
deal with the bad guys in your stories?
It has quite a bit of influence, and more now
than when I first started writing. But what has
more of an influence is the knowledge that my
granddaughters might one day read them. One of
my daughters-in-law, a Mormon, reads all my books.
A few of my earlier books are a little rough around
the edges. I’ve toned some things down a little, but
whether it’s because my testimony grew or because
I got older, I couldn’t say!
What would you say are your favorite themes,
whether you use them deliberately or whether
they simply emerge in the writing?
I’m not conscious of any favorite themes, although
I suppose trust and redemption are ones I’ve used
several times. One of my favorite heroes is an out-
law who, after being hanged, arrives in heaven and
is given a second chance at life.
Is the writing process ever a healing thing for
you or a form of catharsis?
Sometimes it’s a good escape, but usually if I’m
really upset over something, it’s hard to write. But
when I’m in the mood and my muse is hot, I can
write anywhere, even the bowling alley!
What do your readers most respond to about
your novels?
They love my heroes, and they tell me that they
find my books very visual and that it’s easy to imag-
ine themselves in the story.
Do you use an agent? Was it hard to find a
good one?
Yes, I have an agent. He was recommended to me
by another author, and when we talked on the phone,
I liked him immediately. But finding a good agent
can be difficult, especially for an unpublished writer.
Is it difficult to make a living at what you do?
I think so. It took me five years to make what I
would consider a living wage. However, the money
was never an issue for me since my husband has
Summer 2003
always supported us. The money I make comes in
handy for the things that we couldn’t afford otherwise.
Do you receive a lot of reader response? Do you
interact much with your readers? Does your web-
site help you with that? Do you have an image of
your typical reader, or is there such a thing?
I don’t know if I receive a lot—certainly not a lot
when compared to what Nora Roberts must receive.
But I get several hundred letters a year, most of it
as e-mail these days. I always answer my mail, and
it’s very satisfying to hear that someone loved the
book I spent six months writing. I think a website
is a good thing, and I love playing with mine. I’m
not sure there’s such a thing as a typical reader. I’ve
received letters from girls under 12 and women in
their 80s. I get letters from men and women in prison
and from as far away as England, Australia, and
South Africa.
Is the Madeline Baker readership different from
the Amanda Ashley readership? Is your writing
style different for the two lines?
I’ve been told that Baker and Ashley have a dif-
ferent voice. I think that’s probably true, although
I’m not really aware of writing differently from one
genre to the other. I suppose part of it stems from
the difference in setting and time period and the
vast difference between Indians and vampires.
Christine Feehan, another top-selling writer
of vampire romance, is also LDS. Is there any
significance to this fact that you know of?
Not that I know of. She’s a really wonderful lady,
very funny, very shy, and one of the most prolific
authors I know.
A lot of Mormon writers seem to be attracted
to science fiction and fantasy. What do you think
are some of the reasons for that?
I have no idea. I know I love to write vampires
and fantasy because you can just let your imagina-
tion run wild.
Do you think it’s harder to sell a romance novel
today than a mainstream book or science fiction
and fantasy? Has your experience with national
publishers been positive, for the most part?
Right now, it’s hard to sell anything. There aren’t
as many publishing houses today as there were when
I started. There aren’t as many book distributors.
32 IRREANTUM
 Many smaller,
independent
bookstores
have been
driven out of
business.
Right now, as
near as I can
tell, chick lit
and romantic
suspense seem
to be what
publishers are
looking for,
although
Leisure Books
is starting a
new young adult line and Silhouette is said to be
looking for paranormal stories. Until recently, I
wrote only for Leisure Books, so I don’t have a lot
of experience with publishers.
How do you feel about portraying things that
are dark and gruesome? How do you feel about
the concepts of happy endings and entertainment
value in fiction?
Well, my vampire books tend to be a little dark,
though not necessarily gruesome. I guess I kind of
like exploring the dark side, but only when it’s
make believe! I like happy endings. There are so
few in real life; it’s nice to have them in books.
What will it take to get readers to respect the
romance genre? Or do you feel that this will
never happen, either because of stereotypes or
because it isn’t geared toward men?
I don’t know how you can earn the respect of
those who don’t read romances in the first place.
I’ve never really worried much about it.
Some Mormon authors believe that inspiration
plays a part in their artistic creation. Do you
ever feel that what you are writing is inspired?
I don’t know if I’d say my writing is inspired, yet
I feel that I’ve been blessed with a remarkable gift
from my Heavenly Father. I suppose, in very subtle
ways, I’ve woven what I believe into my books.
I had one of my heroines pray to her Heavenly
Father and received a letter from an LDS lady
IRREANTUM
asking if I was Mormon because of it. A fan letter
once asked, “I recently read Deeper Than the Night
by Amanda Ashley and wanted to know if the
scripture mentioned in chapter 16—‘Worlds with-
out number have I created . . . many worlds have
passed away . . . and many worlds now stand,’ etc.—
was true scripture or something you developed for
the book.” So there is definitely a connection. In
one book, through my heroine, I expressed my own
views on abortion. My editor wanted to delete it
because she said I would offend some of my read-
ers, but I asked her to leave it in, in hopes of influ-
encing any young girl who might be contemplating
an abortion.
What is your greatest fear as a writer? What is
your greatest pleasure?
Greatest fear? That the well will go dry! Greatest
pleasure? The writing itself.
Have you ever included Mormon characters
in your books? Why or why not?
Not that I recall. As for why not, I guess I never
thought of it. I’ve always wanted to write a book
about an LDS heroine in the Old West. I even
started the story, but it wouldn’t gel so I put it
aside. Perhaps I’ll finish it one of these days.
What kinds of things do you most like to
read? Who are your favorite writers?
Lately I’ve been reading a lot of romantic suspense.
Kathleen Eagle is one of my favorite authors. She’s
married to a Lakota, and she writes about Indians,
both historical and contemporary. I like Joan John-
ston, who also writes both historicals and contem-
porary. I love Jim Butcher. He writes a series about
a modern-day wizard. I like Rachel Lee.
Are you a member of a writing group? If so,
are other Mormons in it?
Yes. There are two other LDS authors besides
myself. Both are as yet unpublished.
Many of the activities a writer engages in—
for example, going to conventions, book signings,
interviews—could be classified as self-promotion
and marketing. How important a part of an
author’s work do you think those are? Are there
noneconomic benefits from these activities, such
as getting in closer touch with your readers?
33 Summer 2003
 There’s a lot of debate about self-promotion.
Most authors think it’s a smart thing to do, and I
believe it is too, even though I do very little of it.
I would say the biggest benefit is meeting readers.
Perhaps we could conclude by asking you
about current and forthcoming projects.
My upcoming book, Wolf Shadow, will be pub-
lished by Signet Books in July. This is the story of
a girl who was kidnapped by Indians and the man
her parents hire to find her. In November, my
second Silhouette Romance will be published. It’s
titled West Texas Bride and is a city-girl-meets-
cowboy love story. Next February, Zebra Books will
publish A Whisper of Eternity, my next vampire
book, which is about a vampire who follows his
ladylove throughout time.
We loved it, small as it was, but four short years,
Two children more—we had to have more room.
It took no mystic inner voice to hear:
“Just go to work and build yourself a home.”
We did again: with homeseekers group we bought
A lot in lower Oak Hill. We’d earned
Before the skills to build on larger scale
With larger problems too, as we soon learned.
A fire—Satan-set—burned heart from home
And us. But friends soon showed what friends
Are for, helped us rebuild and taught us gratitude.
A decade this one lasted before our ends,
Rough-hewn by Harlow, sanded smooth by
Krista,
Pointed, post-doctoral, toward more room—
Our skills would build us out of doctoral debt:
“Just go to work and build yourself a home.”

P O E M Instead, we built us deeper in, but built

Build It Yourself
“Just go to work and build yourself a home.”
You made it sound so easy, Lloyd, with all
Your skills and confidence: “Just find a lot,
Draw up some plans, lay out the house, then call.
With surer skills. We’ve learned too much. We’ll
come
One day to hear a soft celestial voice:
“Just go to work and build yourself a home.”
—Marden J. Clark

I’ll come and help.” We did, you did. But you

Forgot to tell: about permits—permits
To build, to wire, to plumb, to lay a sewer line;
How hard concrete can be, how fast it sets;

How I could never drive a nail or screw;

How wood can warp and wiring circuits short;
How sheetrock seldom fits nor spackle fills;
How plumbing leaks and wood once cut won’t
stretch.

But with your help and help from many more—

Both volunteered and sought—we found such
powers
To build: we finally had a home. Not big,
No fancy gables, no stately dome—but ours.

Summer 2003 34 IRREANTUM

 N O V E L He turned, as though aware of her perusal. Their
E X C E R P T gazes met and she saw that his eyes were a cool gray
Wolf Shadow
By Madeline Baker
From the cover copy: Kidnapped by Sioux Indians as
a child, Teressa Bryant was raised a beloved member
of their tribe. Ten years have erased the memory of her
capture—and her birth parents. Now called Winter
Rain, she is on the verge of accepting the marriage pro-
posal of a warrior—until a handsome stranger appears,
searching for the girl with the deep blue eyes . . .
Chapter Two
W iping a wisp of hair from her brow, Winter
Rain sat back on her heels and stretched her
back. It was then that she saw the stranger ride into
camp. He wore black trousers, a dark gray shirt,
and a long black duster that was pushed back
behind the gun he wore on his hip.
At first, she thought he was a wasichu, and she
felt a quick surge of fear. Dawn Song’s older brother
had been killed in battle by the Long Knives.
Almost everyone Winter Rain knew had lost a
loved one at the hands of the wasichu. She stood
there, her heart beating wildly. Should she raise an
alarm? Was the village in danger of attack? And
then she noticed his long black hair, his dark skin,
the way he rode boldly into the camp, as though
assured of a welcome, and she realized that,
though he was a stranger to her, he must be one of
the People, to have made it this far into the village
unchallenged.
Her gaze moved over him again, more closely this
time. He had broad shoulders, high cheekbones, a
nose that was slightly crooked, a strong jaw, a gen-
erous mouth. There were fine lines at his eyes, lines
that were caused by squinting into the sun, she
thought, and not from smiling, though she couldn’t
say why she thought that. Perhaps it was his expres-
sion, which seemed closed and bitter. There was an
air of danger about him that wasn’t entirely due to
the pistol riding on his hip.
IRREANTUM
under straight black brows. An odd flutter erupted
in the pit of her stomach when his gaze met hers.
Flustered, she dropped her fleshing tool on the
ground and ducked into her mother’s lodge.
C hance stared after the girl. Unless he missed his
guess, she was the Bryants’ long lost daughter.
He had seen her a time or two when he had come
to visit his cousin in years past, but he had never
paid her any mind. She had been too young to
spark his interest before, but she had done some
growing up since he had last seen her. She had been
a girl before, but she was a young woman now. And
quite a looker at that.
He glanced around the village as he rode toward
his cousin’s lodge, nodding to men he recognized.
As always, when he returned here, he felt a sense of
coming home and he sat there a moment, watching
the activity around him.
As usual, there were dogs everywhere. Large dogs
for working, small dogs for eating. Most were black
or brown, with pointed faces and sharp ears that
resembled those of a coyote. Chance remembered
a large dog his mother had had when he’d been a
young boy. She had hooked the dog up to a travois
whenever she went to pick fruit. As she filled bags
with berries, or plums or cherries, she had piled
them on the travois.
Giving Smoke a pat on the shoulder, he handed
the mare’s reins to Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s nine year-
old son, Bear Chaser.
“Take good care of her for me,” he said, ruffling
the boy’s hair.
With a nod, Bear Chaser took the reins. “Ai,
leksi,” he replied.
“Is your father inside?”
“Ai. Go on in,” Bear Chaser said, smiling. “He
will be happy to see you.”
“Pilamaya.”
Removing his hat, Chance ran a hand through
his hair, then ducked into his cousin’s lodge. Kills-
Like-a-Hawk was the tribal medicine man. Their
mothers had been sisters. Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s mother,
Laughing Dove, lived in the village. Chance was
35 Summer 2003
still looking for the last of the four men who had
killed his.
Kills-Like-a-Hawk was sitting cross-legged on a
robe, wrapping layers of rawhide around the handle
of a skinning knife, when Chance entered the lodge.
It was a large tipi, made from 17 or 18 buffalo
hides. The beds were folded near the rear. The place
of honor was opposite the door at the back of the
lodge. There were backrests made of willow poles.
Parfleches containing food and clothing were stacked
out of the way. A water bag hung from a forked
pole near the door. Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s shield hung
from another pole at the rear of the lodge. A small
altar was located behind the fire pit. Buffalo robes,
hair side up, covered the floor. As always, the lodge
was clean and neat.
Kills-Like-a-Hawk was almost ten years older
than Chance, and wise beyond his years. He was a
tall man, with a strong blade of a nose, prominent
cheekbones, and piercing black eyes. It was said he
could foretell the future, that he could command
the wind and harness the whirlwind. There were
times when Chance believed it.
Kills-Like-a-Hawk looked up, a smile of wel-
come lighting his face when he saw Chance. His
wife, Dancing Crane, covered her mouth with her
hand to hide her surprise. She was a pretty woman,
a little on the plump side, with wide black eyes and
a ready smile.
“Hau, ciye, welcome to my lodge.” Kills-Like-a-
Hawk rose lithely to his feet and embraced his
cousin. “It has been too long since we saw you here.
Come, sit.”
Dancing Crane gave him a shy smile. “Will you
eat?”
Chance nodded. “Sounds good. Pilamaya.”
Dancing Crane went outside. Like many of the
women, she did most of her cooking outside dur-
ing the warm summer months.
Kills-Like-a-Hawk resumed his seat and Chance
dropped down across from him.
“So, my brother,” Kills-Like-a-Hawk said. “Have
you come home to stay?”
Chance shook his head. “No.”
Kills-Like-a-Hawk regarded his cousin through
knowing eyes. “You are still looking for the one who
wronged you.”
Summer 2003
Chance nodded.
“You will never find the peace you are seeking
until you put your hatred behind you.”
Chance met his cousin’s gaze. “There can be no
peace for me while he lives.”
“He is not here,” Kills-Like-a-Hawk said. “Why
have you come?”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
A slow smile spread over Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s face.
“You seek a wife here, among our people?”
“I told you before, I’m not the marryin’ kind.
This woman was captured by the People when she
was a child.”
Comprehension dawned in Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s
eyes. “You speak of Winter Rain.”
“I think so. She’s the right age, and she fits the
description.”
“Mountain Sage and Eagle Lance will not let her
go. She is their daughter now.”
“She has other parents who are anxious to see
her. They have been looking for her for ten years.”
Kills-Like-a-Hawk laid his weapon aside. “She is
one of us. You will not take Winter Rain away from
the People unless she is willing to go.”
Chance nodded. He had known he wouldn’t be
able to just ride in, grab the girl, and make a run
for it. Not if he wanted to be welcomed in the vil-
lage again. Not if he wanted to keep his cousin’s
respect. So. He would just have to convince the girl
to go with him, bribe her somehow if necessary,
maybe promise that he would bring her back here
if she didn’t want to stay with the Bryants. There
was ten thousand dollars at stake, and he needed
that money.
Later that night, lying on his back on a pile of
furs, Chance stared up at the slice of sky visible
through the smoke hole of his lodge. Before leaving
town, he had sent word to Dave Dreesen, foreman
of the Double C, that he would be gone for awhile.
He blew out a deep breath. It was good to be
among his mother’s people again. He loved the ranch
and what he had accomplished there, but this was
home. His best memories, and his worst, were tied
to this place, this land.
He smiled faintly as the lilting notes of siyotanka,
the courting flute, were carried to him on the night
36 IRREANTUM
wind. Somewhere in the dark, a warrior sat near the
lodge of his beloved, pouring out his heart through
a Lakota courting flute. And somewhere in a dark
lodge, a maiden smiled.
Lakota courtship was, of necessity, carried out
within the confines of the village, though couples
often managed to meet “by accident” when the girl
was gathering wood or water. Still, it was not safe
for a couple to venture far from the protection of
the tribe, nor did most mothers allow their daugh-
ters to wander away without a chaperone. To that
end, when a young man went courting, he took a
big blanket with him. Standing beside the girl of
his choice, he lifted the blanket over their heads,
cocooning them in a cloth world away from prying
eyes. If a girl were very popular, there might be as
many as a dozen young men waiting to spend a few
minutes alone with her.
He wondered if anyone was courting the Bryants’
daughter. He closed his eyes and her image came
quickly to mind—a body as slender as a willow,
brown hair so dark it was almost black, eyes as blue
as a robin’s egg beneath delicately arched brows, a
fine straight nose, lips that were pink and . . .
A sharp stab of desire twisted through him. Mut-
tering an oath, he shoved her image aside. Pretty or
ugly, it didn’t matter. He had ten thousand good
reasons to get her back home as soon as possible.
IRREANTUM
N O V E L
E X C E R P T
Where I Belong
By Rachel Nunes
Editor’s note: The following excerpt is from parts of
the first two chapters of Where I Belong, Nunes’s
17th novel.
Author’s note: Some time ago on AML-List, there was
a discussion about whether or not it was possible for
an active LDS person to really succeed in an artistic
career. Being a writer who is actively LDS and a
mother of six children, I have faced my own challenges
in this area. I believe my gender complicates the issue
considerably. When Dad is gone from the home, Mom
fills in. But who can take her place when her mind is
elsewhere? Thus began the seed of this novel. The main
character, Heather, is an artist who has seen her
mother give up a promising artistic talent to raise ten
children and serve in the church. She is determined
she will not sacrifice her own talent in the same man-
ner. Driven by this fear, she begins to view her religion
and her culture in a completely new light, and her tes-
timony is seriously shaken. When love presents itself,
she must search for her own truth to make a decision
she will have to live with for the rest of her life.
In the prologue, Heather moves into the house next
to Tanner’s when they are both sixteen. Though they
date others throughout high school, they become close
friends, sharing their dreams and helping each other
through high school, college, and missions. But some-
where along the way, the lines of friendship have
become blurred, and Tanner realizes shortly after
Heather returns from her mission that he has fallen in
love with his best friend.
Chapter One
H eather sat on her bed clutching a shirt that
belonged to the pile of dirty clothes she
needed to wash before leaving. Her eyes stung with
unbidden tears. She had told everybody of her
decision, everybody except Tanner. For some rea-
son she dreaded telling him.
37 Summer 2003
 She forced a laugh. What was she thinking? Tan-
ner was her best friend; he would be happy to hear
that her dreams were coming true. He knew how
much it meant for her to paint. Of course, this time
her news was different from anything she had
shared with him before. This time she was leaving
Utah for good.
Her room was oddly quiet. Ten years separated
Heather from Kathryn, the next girl in the family,
so Heather had always enjoyed a room alone. Yet
she could usually hear noise coming from the rest
of the house—noise that had often made it difficult
for her to concentrate even in the privacy of her
own room. With ten children in their family, some-
thing was always happening. Today the silence
seemed to signal that fate agreed with her plans to
leave everything and everyone behind.
Sighing, she returned to the sorting job at hand.
One pile to pass on to her younger sisters, one
smaller pile to become rags, another pile to take
with her. She removed the battered suitcases from
the top shelf in her closet. They still held stickers
from her trip to Boston last winter, but packing
them now reminded her more of leaving for her
mission.
She closed her eyes tightly as the memories of
her time in Italy rushed back. She had loved being
in a country that had inspired so many famous
painters, but what she most remembered was the
Spirit. She had known then without a doubt that
she was following the right path by holding to the
gospel and to the church.
Why couldn’t she get that feeling back now?
Part of the problem was her own attitude. She
just didn’t seem to see things the way most mem-
bers of the church saw them. Everything was either
very black or very white to them. Modest clothing,
short hair for men, best dress to church. No smok-
ing, drinking, or drugs. No extra earrings or tat-
toos. Home teaching faithfully done—never mind
that it was on the last day of the month. And if
someone dared to flout even the smallest part of
this checklist, they simply didn’t make the grade.
But Heather had learned that compliance to “the
list” was often an outward show for some members.
In her college and mission experiences, she had met
Summer 2003
people to whom she could trust her life, and yet
they were shunned because of their outward appear-
ances. She had also met some members who
appeared to be pious, but were dishonest in their
hearts and in their daily lives. How many returned
missionaries had she dated who tried to make inap-
propriate advances and then blamed their lack of
self-control on her supposed beauty? How many
of her artist friends had been swindled by “upright”
moral businessmen who stole their work in return
for peanuts?
Yes, people were flawed, not the gospel—she
believed that with all her heart. And yet, how could
so much of the so-called Mormon culture leave her
feeling this disoriented? What she needed was time
away. Time to find whatever it was she was seeking.
A loud thump sounded in the next room, which
had been used by the three boys between her and
Kathryn until Jacob went on his mission the previ-
ous year. Now only Kevin and Aaron shared the
space. Each of the other children also roomed with
another sibling: Kathryn and Alison, Brett and
Evan, Mindy and little Jane. Jacob would be home
soon from the Philippines, and Heather knew the
family would be glad to have her room. She would
have moved out and rented an apartment with
friends before now if all her money hadn’t gone for
tuition—and if the light from the large windows
hadn’t made this room so perfect for painting.
A door slammed and she heard footsteps in the
hall. “You’re such a jerk!” someone screamed.
“Not me. You’re the one who cheated!”
“Oh, yeah?”
Another argument among her siblings. They
didn’t fight more than any other family, but with so
many children there was always one disturbance
or another. One thing for sure, she couldn’t paint
here anymore. Boston was calling for more reasons
than one.
The voices faded as the boys moved down the
stairs, likely looking for a referee. Her poor mother
would have to deal with them. Heather smiled
grudgingly. Resolving arguments was something
her mother was good at. No doubt both boys would
be out cleaning the garage together in record time.
At least it was a nice day for it.
38 IRREANTUM
 Heather glanced out her window at the Wolfe
house next door. May flowers were already in full
bloom in the many flowerbeds, and rosebuds cov-
ered the white-painted wooden railings on the porch
that wrapped around one of the turrets. Tall birch
and lofty walnut trees lined the drive and were also
scattered appealingly around the yard. She loved
the Wolfe house. The turrets on the Victorian man-
sion brought to her mind an ancient castle, and
more than once she had felt a desire to paint it, but
she had always needed to finish some other project
first for school.
Urgently, she grabbed her camera from her dresser
and snapped a dozen photographs in quick succes-
sion. Then—as if appearing of its own volition—
her large sketchbook was in hand, her pencil darting
over the page. Later the developed photographs
would help her get the colors just right, but for now
she would draw the feeling of the house. Because
her own house was set at a slight angle, and the
birch and walnut trees were spaced widely apart,
she had a wonderful view of the Wolfe house—one
she never wanted to forget. That house, and espe-
cially Tanner, had meant so much to her over the
years. Of course, since purchasing his condo in
Orem, he technically no longer lived there.
Before she left, she still had to face Tanner, who
was due home from a business trip in Japan tonight.
She had considered scheduling her flight so that
she would be gone before he returned, but felt she
owed him a good-bye. Without him, the past seven
years here would have been bleak. He had taken the
place of the sister she should have had closer in age,
something her brothers had never been able to do,
and filled the role of best friend and confidant. He
had helped her locate reality when she longed only
to be in the clouds. She would miss him more than
anyone else, even two-year-old Jane. But now was
the time for her to leave—before there were no more
choices left.
T anner knew the ring was just right. The thick
band was made of woven white and yellow
gold, with one-of-a-kind etchings done by a skillful
Japanese artist. Heather would appreciate the intri-
cate design, even if her eyebrows raised at the large
IRREANTUM
diamond he’d made the jeweler put into the piece.
He couldn’t completely escape his culture; men in
America offered diamonds to their future brides,
and Heather would have the best.
With a last peek at the ring, Tanner slipped it
into its box and raised the back of his seat in prepa-
ration for landing at the Salt Lake City airport. He
couldn’t wait to see Heather tonight; he was finally
going to tell her how he felt. Since his awakening
in December, he had let five long months go by—
painful months for him.
Heather had apparently been oblivious to his inner
turmoil, which said a lot because she had always
before sensed how he felt. He decided that her intense
school schedule had put a wedge between them,
and let it ride. Now that they were both graduated,
it was time to go on with their lives. They could
have a home, a family. Heather would be a won-
derful mother—just as she was a wonderful older
sister to her many siblings. He would work, she
would paint. They would love and laugh and grow
old together.
He shook his head at his own sentimentality. He
still honestly didn’t know what response Heather
would give to his proposal, but hoped that in the
past few months since Christmas she had also expe-
rienced some of these same feelings toward him.
Though her last semester had been busy, he dis-
tinctly remembered a special night of dinner and
dancing. Holding her in his arms, he had been
completely happy.
He would have spoken that night—the feeling
had been right—but some of her artist friends had
arrived partway through the evening and invited
themselves to their table. Tanner hadn’t minded
because Heather seemed so content, and he honestly
enjoyed the company of her friends. They were tal-
ented and dedicated to their work, if not very good
at money matters or contracts, which were his forte.
Tonight there would be just the two of them,
with no distractions. Her e-mail had said that she
would go to dinner with him, and this time he had
taken steps to assure they remained alone.
Heather greeted Tanner at the front door with a
wide smile, and he felt a ripple of excitement
39 Summer 2003
at seeing her. When had her odd freckles faded, giv-
ing her complexion that smooth, finished look?
When had her straight, light brown hair gained so
many highlights? When had each soft line of her
face become so precious to him?
“Hi,” he said, grinning like a schoolboy.
“Hi.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Mom!
Tanner’s here. I’m leaving!” Before she finished
speaking, her mother had appeared in the entryway
behind her.
“Tanner, how glad I am to see you.” Karalee
held out a hand, which she had been drying with a
dishcloth.
Tanner tore his gaze from Heather’s face. “Nice
to see you, Sister Samis.”
“You have fun. But don’t get her back too late.
She has a lot to do in the morning before—”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Heather interrupted. “It’s
only dinner. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Tanner certainly had no plans to get her back
that soon, but he nodded anyway.
“Good-bye then.” Karalee shut the door behind
them as they left.
Heather gave a soft laugh. “You did the right
thing moving out when you did. As long as you live
in their house, parents will treat you like a child.”
“Mine still treat me like a child,” he told her. “And
besides, you never would have found an apartment
with good light like you have in your room. Not to
mention that you would have to work more and
paint less to pay for it. And I know you don’t love
your job at the print shop that much.”
“You’re right. It has been good here.” There was
a wistfulness in her voice that made Tanner look at
her closely, but she smiled and headed for his car.
He opened the door to his new model VW Bug.
His family teased him mercilessly about his choice—
their favorites leaned more toward brands like Lexus
and Mercedes—but he enjoyed the Blue Bug, as he
called it. In fact, he had a special fondness for all
VW Bugs. He still kept the classic one he had
rebuilt as a youth and had used throughout high
school and college.
“You haven’t been home yet?” Heather asked,
spying his suitcase in the backseat.
“Nope. Stopped at my parents’ to change, though.”
Then he added with a smile, “And to shower.”
Summer 2003
“Whew! Thank heaven for that!” They laughed
together.
Their laughter didn’t last long. Usually, they were
bursting with things to say, but today the conversa-
tion lagged almost from the beginning. Tanner won-
dered if it was just him, or if Heather was acting
strangely. Her eyes didn’t quite seem to meet his
when she spoke.
As he pulled onto Orem’s State Street, she asked,
“So where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. In fact, you have to put on this.”
He tossed her a blindfold.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” But she slipped it on.
He glanced at her and saw a slender hand steal
up, one finger hooking a piece of hair near the nape
of her neck and pulling it forward. She twisted the
lock between her thumb and forefinger—a sure sign
that she had something on her mind.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No. Uh . . . I do have a . . . Never mind—it can
wait. Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He had thought about taking her to
his condo, but at the last minute had decided to use
the company building instead. As planned, his assis-
tant, Juliet, should have everything organized,
including the meal she had ordered from a local
restaurant—probably from Village Inn where her
younger brother was the manager.
They passed Juliet as they entered the building.
Heather, of course, couldn’t see her with the blind-
fold. Tanner nodded silently at Juliet, and she gave
him the thumbs-up sign. Tanner liked the way
Heather clung to him, trusting him not to let her
bump into anything, instead of holding out her hands
to feel her way.
“We’re almost there,” he said. He put an arm
around her, appreciating how the six-inch differ-
ence in their heights seemed to be the perfect amount
for a great fit.
“Okay, wait a minute.” He opened the confer-
ence room door and helped her through. Juliet had
outdone herself with preparations, as he expected
she might do. Tasteful decorations in gold and silver
covered the candle-lit room. One end of the long
table was laid out with nice china, excepting the
plates, which had been placed in an electric warmer
on the far end. A green salad and cups of chocolate
40 IRREANTUM
mousse were on ice. Each detail had been accounted
for, from the sparkling white grape juice in the wine
glasses to the fresh warm rolls and real butter.
“Smells delicious!” Heather said. She lowered her
voice. “Are other people here? I don’t want every-
one looking at me.”
“It’s just us,” he assured her, reaching up to pull
off the blindfold.
“Oh!” Heather stared at the room. “How won-
derful! What’s it all for?”
“For us. We’re going to have dinner here.”
Undisturbed, he added silently.
Heather regarded him a moment without speak-
ing, her brow furrowed. She was obviously won-
dering why he had gone to such lengths. Unprepared
to answer that question yet, he pulled out one of
the plush, black leather executive chairs and ges-
tured for her to sit.
“Is it my birthday?” she asked suddenly, her eyes
seeming even larger and more beautiful in the can-
dlelight. “Or yours? I mean, I know I tend to forget
things like that, but I’m pretty sure your birthday is
in the same month as Thanksgiving, and I vaguely—
only vaguely, mind you—remember something
about being born in January. Although I could be
confusing that with one of my siblings, so I would
completely understand if you got the month mixed
up. If you want, I could take my pick of their birth-
days and trade.”
He grinned. “I didn’t mix up your birthday. I’m
the one who reminds you every year that you’re
even having a birthday.”
“Then what?”
He sighed inwardly. Heather knew him too well
to let this go, and she never backed down. But he
wasn’t ready yet to make his proposal. He wanted
to talk about casual things first, to break down any
barriers his two weeks away had created. He wanted
time to let the soft music set the mood, to recall
memories with her that would remind her how
much they’d meant to each other over the years.
“Well, there’s been a lot of changes in life
recently,” he hedged. Turning away from her, he
flipped on the stereo and then retrieved their plates
from the warmer. He set one in front of her, and
the other at the head of table where he was to sit.
IRREANTUM
“Hmm, let’s see, I did graduate and then . . .”
Abruptly she looked up, her face flushing. “Some-
one told you! Oh, I was saving it to tell you in per-
son—really, I was. Though for some reason I was
nervous about it.” She laughed self-consciously. To
his surprise, she jumped out of her seat and hugged
him fervently.
For a moment, he just stood there. Then at last
his arms encircled her body.
“You really are the best friend ever! Here I was
worried about how I was going to tell you about
the grant and moving to Boston, and you plan this
lovely dinner to celebrate. I knew you’d be happy
for me—it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance!”
Tanner breathed in the lilac scent of her hair.
What is she talking about? The heavy pit in his
stomach told him that something had gone dread-
fully wrong.
Chapter Two
H eather brushed Tanner’s cheek with a light kiss
as she drew away and settled again at the
table. “Truthfully, I’m glad they told you,” she said,
picking up her fork and testing the tenderness of
the chicken breast. “You were the hardest to tell
about leaving Utah—I’m going to miss you more
than anyone.”
“Why don’t you tell me all about it while we
eat?” Tanner finally recovered enough to say.
“Good idea. I’m famished.”
When they had begun their meal, Heather spoke.
“You know how I’ve been searching for just the
right job and haven’t been able to find it.”
“I thought you were going to paint.”
“Well, yeah, but I want to make a living, too.”
He nearly told her she didn’t need to make a liv-
ing, that she could paint all day if she wanted, and
he’d take care of the rest. “What about working in
a gallery here?”
She speared a green bean. “No go. Everyone I
talked to either paid too little, or wanted other quali-
fications. I would have to go into computer design
to really support myself.”
“Are your parents hinting about kicking you out?”
Her fork went still. “No, but I need to get out of
there. In fact, I need to get out of Utah altogether.
41 Summer 2003
So when my professor told Lorin and me—you
know my girlfriend Lorin—that we had the oppor-
tunity to work in Boston at a gallery and paint at
the same time, well, it was just too good to be true.
Think about it! I’ll have six months to prove myself,
and the grant is extendable after that. For basically
as long as Mr. Oldham—he’s the benefactor—likes
my progress.”
With difficulty, Tanner swallowed the bit of
chicken in his mouth. He didn’t know what to pur-
sue first—the fact that she wanted to “get out of
Utah,” or more information about the grant she
and her friend had received. He opted for the lat-
ter. “Tell me about this grant.” Under the table he
lifted the front part of his foot, balancing on his
heel, and moved it up and down nervously. It was
a habit Heather had tried to get him to break over
the years, without success.
“I thought you knew.”
“Not the details.”
“Oh.” She moved her fork toward another green
bean. “Well, it’s like this. Mr. Oldham is a rich old
guy in Boston who owns an art gallery, and he
arranged a grant program for promising artists. He
gives us room and board, art direction by Tomas
Valencia—he’s a renowned artist—painting supplies,
and a thousand dollars a month spending allowance.
As part of the deal, we have to work two hours a
day in his gallery, but then we’ll have the rest of the
day to paint. Each artist was recommended by a
university professor.”
“Does this have something to do with your trip
to Boston last Christmas?”
“It has everything to do with it. All the recom-
mended artists were invited to Boston last Decem-
ber. We students weren’t told about the grants,
because Mr. Oldham didn’t want us politicking for
the positions during our visit. We just thought we’d
been invited to see some really great paintings and
historic buildings, when actually he was choosing
from the candidates. We found out about the grants
just before graduation. It’s amazing that he chose
both Lorin and me. Can you believe it? Out of five
total, two of us are from BYU.”
“Shouldn’t there have been more notice? You
only graduated a few weeks ago. If you found out
just before that—well, it seems kind of fast.”
Summer 2003
She slipped the green bean into her mouth and
chewed silently before speaking. “Well, I think the
old guy wanted to see if we were willing to pull up
and leave on short notice. Sort of a dedication test.
But we had three weeks to decide. That was plenty.
No one turned it down, believe me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” He tried not to
feel hurt that she hadn’t shared the information
with him.
“I wasn’t sure I was going to accept. I mean, my
family’s here—my culture, my upbringing. Besides,
you were leaving for Japan, and I didn’t want to
worry you.”
“It sounds like a good opportunity.” The words
seemed to come without his permission and at
stark contrast to what his heart was feeling.
“I know, but still . . .” Heather set her fork on
the table. “It’s hard to leave Utah, but if I don’t take
this chance, I may never know what I missed.”
“You’ll miss something by going, too. Choices
always mean something is left undone.”
“I know that.” Her hazel eyes held his, begging
him to understand. She had never appeared more
beautiful and alive.
“For instance,” he continued, “I thought you were
considering going for a master’s degree.”
“I was—once. But now this is the right decision
for me. I need to find myself. I know that doesn’t
make much sense to you, Tanner. You’ve always
known what you want. But me . . .” She trailed off,
staring at her plate.
“You might be able to find yourself here, if you
give it some time.”
She shook her head, looking up again. “I don’t
know that I belong here. I don’t seem to feel like
everyone else.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the whole Mormon culture. If you com-
plete a certain checklist, you’re okay, accepted. If
not, you’re a sinner. It’s all so black and white. But
I see many shades of gray. So many people put on
one face at church and another face for the business
world. As I sit here, I can think of 15—no, 16—
artists who’ve been ripped off by Mormon business-
men who worship at the same temple I do. Maybe
it’s horrible for me to say, but sometimes it seems
my friends need to be doubly sure of a contract if
42 IRREANTUM
the producer is Mormon. Their contracts take advan-
tage of how trusting we are and make it impossible
for artists to earn a living. More and more artists
are turning to other sources to survive. I just . . .”
She frowned, and her hand slipped up to twirl a
lock of hair. “I just don’t know if I want to be a part
of a culture that condemns people for not wearing
certain clothes or for not acting a certain way, while
at the same time applauding those who hide their
much larger flaws under a suit and pious attitude.”
Tanner reached over and took her hand. “We’ve
had this discussion before, you know. People aren’t
perfect, and just because a few members of the
church aren’t what we think they should be, that
doesn’t mean the gospel’s not true.”
“I know the gospel is true.” Yet the emphatic way
she said it told him that she wasn’t as sure as she
wanted him to believe. “That’s not the problem. It’s
the Mormon culture I worry about. Take church
meetings for instance. Men must wear white
shirts and ties and dress pants—the uniform of the
priesthood. If you show up in jeans, people would
stare you right out of the chapel. Even if you wear
a blue dress shirt, you stand out. In Italy we didn’t
care so much what members wore as long as they
showed up.”
“Well, that’s a cultural difference. Members here
have understood since they were children that one
of the ways they show respect to God is to attend
church in their best clothing. Choosing something
else just because it feels more comfortable isn’t an
option because they know it’s not really appropri-
ate; yet if that something else was their only set of
clothes, it would be acceptable.”
“To Heavenly Father, you mean.” Heather rested
her elbows on the table and let her head drop into
her hands, fingers pushing into her hair. “Because
people here would stare and come to their own con-
clusions, just as they do when they see people with
no children, or only a few. Never mind the revela-
tion they may have received, or how much heartache
they may have gone through trying to conceive.”
“That goes right back to the beginning of our
argument,” he said. “People who judge others do so
because they’re human, not because they’re Mor-
mons. I think you’ll find a similar judgment every-
IRREANTUM
where you go—among people of any religion.”
A strand of her hair was dangerously close to falling
into her salad; he carefully moved it away and she
smiled her thanks.
“I guess that’s where I’m not so sure,” she said.
“I sometimes wonder if being members of the ‘true
church’ doesn’t sometimes make people think they
have the right to judge.”
Tanner grimaced. “I’m sure there are some people
who do feel that way, but not the majority. I believe
that in general the Mormon culture is positive. For
instance, what better place could you raise children
than in Utah? And if a faithful member needs help,
they get it—from money to pay their mortgage to
help moving.”
“Yes, we’re good at that, I’ll agree. Remember,
my mom’s had ten children, and I’ve seen a lot of
dinners from very kind members over the years.
The church has great resources and is able to give a
lot of support. But in the end that only covers
physical needs. What about true love and caring?
Emotional support? Receiving dinners—or taking
one to someone—has never given me that feeling.”
Tanner took a drink of his sparkling grape juice
to buy time to consider her words. “I’m not sure
I understand,” he said at last. “I think the church
gives great emotional support. I’ve always had some-
one there when I’ve needed them—teachers, guest
speakers, counselors, the bishop. I believe the church
helps people to reach their full potential in every
way.”
Heather had begun eating again, but now she
stopped. “I don’t believe that. At least I don’t see it.”
“Oh?” He felt they were finally getting down to
the real root of her trouble; the rest had just been
excuses to leave Utah.
“I’m not talking spiritually here, Tanner. I believe
the teachings of the gospel outline spiritual pro-
gression very well, but the problem is finding time
to obtain the spiritualness. With all the hours spent
serving in callings, and with all the necessary require-
ments of that checklist, people scarcely have time
to read their scriptures. Or to become really great at
something they’re good at.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she rushed
on. “Really, my feeling this way is your fault, Tanner.
43 Summer 2003
You helped me see that a rounded education is
important when all I wanted was to study art. I
appreciate that—more than you know. I’ve seen
and understood social, economical, and political
events that I would never have imagined had I not
finished my education. I’ve also seen what people
can do when they really reach for their potential.
Take you, for instance.” She pointed at him with
her fork. “You graduated early, went to work with
your dad, and now practically run an entire arm of
the business.”
“Well, I am the man’s son.”
“No, you deserve it. I’ve seen you with the employ-
ees. They respect you, the way you get things done.
You love the work and you’re good at it.”
Tanner was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He
did work hard to do a good job, but that didn’t
mean he deserved a medal—or her praise.
“Still, you could do better,” she added. “Think
about it. If you didn’t spend all that time studying
to fulfill your calling or being a good home teacher,
couldn’t you accomplish more at work? Or con-
versely, couldn’t you become closer to your Savior?”
“But working more isn’t important to me,” he
countered. “And I feel closer to the Savior when I’m
serving. Besides, I can’t work every minute. I need
a rounded life.”
She frowned and blinked rapidly, fighting tears.
“If you don’t feel it, then maybe it’s just certain
fields that suffer—like art. If a male artist can’t sup-
port his family with his painting, he has to get
another job, or his wife must work—and remem-
ber that’s a big no-no here. How then can he rise to
the top and become the artist he could be?”
At last Tanner understood where she was coming
from. “He does it slowly, and the Lord will help him.”
“But he won’t be able to accomplish all that he
could if he had time to focus.”
“Why not? I once heard a writer say that he
believed he only had to do three or four drafts of a
novel instead of ten because the Lord knew what
a busy life he led and stepped in to fill the gap.”
Tears had appeared as small beads on her eye-
lashes. She took a deep breath. “I know the Lord
helps, Tanner, but some things take precedence—
like families and callings—until we cannot rise to
Summer 2003
the top, but remain mediocre. Or maybe we don’t
do anything at all.”
There was a plea in her voice, one Tanner didn’t
understand. “Heather,” he said gently, “what’s this
all about?” It had to be more personal than she was
allowing.
I think she once
wanted to paint as
badly as I do,
but then she met
my dad and had me.
End of story.
Her face became bleak. “My mother’s pregnant
again—a few months along. She’s not really announc-
ing it yet.”
He smiled. “Well, that’s great, isn’t it? She loves
children.”
“Yes, she does,” came the quiet response. Heather
was again staring at her plate, her tears suddenly dry.
“Aren’t you happy about it? Is there something
wrong with your mom—or the baby?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong. Except that last January
my mother pulled out her art supplies from the
attic.” She looked up and smiled, catching him off
guard. “She was painting a picture of Mindy and
Jane playing in the sandbox. It was really good,
despite the fact that she hasn’t had much practice
over the years. Most people don’t even know she
paints—tell me, have you ever seen her at it? No,
you only know because I told you.”
Tanner relaxed in his chair. “But that’s great she’s
painting again. How’s it coming?”
“It’s not.” Heather’s brow furrowed and she stared
in the air at something only she could see. “She put
it away again when she became sick. The smell of
paints—she can’t take it when she’s pregnant. Besides,
the children needed her, she said. Don’t you see,
Tanner? She always puts it away. There’s always a
44 IRREANTUM
new baby or a new calling that comes first. I don’t
know how my mom can possibly reach her poten-
tial now—at least not with painting.”
“How do you know that’s what she wants?”
Tanner asked. “Maybe she doesn’t feel about it the
way you do.”
Heather met his gaze. “I’ve seen the eagerness
when she takes her supplies out, when she paints,
and I recognize the sadness and reluctance when
she stops. I’ve seen it so many times over the years,
only it’s just been since my mission that I began to
understand it all. That’s what made me look in her
high school yearbook. You should see what all the
kids wrote about her becoming a famous artist.
Even her art teacher gave her more encouragement
than I ever got from a teacher. I think she once
wanted to paint as badly as I do, but then she met
my dad and had me. End of story. Now when she’s
at an age that she might finally have the time, she
has to put it all away again.”
“There won’t always be another baby,” he said.
“Nature will take care of that. Your mother’s what,
maybe forty?”
“Forty-four.”
“See. The clock’s ticking. And besides, your par-
ents must have wanted another child.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Eventually their children will be grown.”
“Then it will be something else on the checklist.”
Heather leaned forward and grabbed his hands.
“Don’t you see, Tanner? She gave up what she
could be for her kids, my dad, the church.”
He turned his hands so that he held her delicate
ones in his. “It’s not only a one-way trip. She gained
a lot on the way. Who’s to say what was the better
role? Who’s to say she would have been happier?”
“That’s just it,” Heather said, pulling away.
“She’ll never know. But one thing is sure, she won’t
ever have time to develop her talent to what it
could have been.”
Now he was finally understanding. “But you are
not your mother, Heather. And when you get mar-
ried, you don’t need to have ten children. Hardly
anyone does that now anyway.”
“But should my mother have had to give up her
art for even one or two? How many years must she
IRREANTUM
lose to be a good Mormon?” Tears filled Heather’s
eyes.
Tanner didn’t know how to answer. He had no
idea how much sacrifice went into raising children;
he only knew it had to be worth it—and he des-
perately wanted Heather to feel the same way.
“Your mother made her own choices.”
“I know, and I must make mine. That’s why I
have to go to Boston. I have to know what’s out
there before I can decide what I want to do with the
rest of my life. I know that’s something you may
not understand; maybe we’re too different for you
to ever understand fully, but I like to think that
you can, just a little. You know me so well.”
Tanner’s jaw tightened in frustration. “I do know
you, and I suspect that there’s more to this than a
disenchantment with Mormon culture—Utah Mor-
mon culture at that—and with the choices your
mother has made. Right?”
She nodded once, slowly. “Maybe.”
Her admission was like a blow. He was so sure of
his beliefs that it hurt to think the woman he loved
might not share them to the same extent. “There
are other ways besides leaving to strengthen or find
a testimony,” he made himself say.
“This is what I need to do.”
“Okay then, I support you.” He purposely made
his voice matter-of-fact, as though his heart wasn’t
being ripped apart.
There was a silence between them. He could see
the sadness in her face, but didn’t know how to
make it leave. Taking her in his arms and propos-
ing certainly wouldn’t do that, not with everything
she’d said. The ring box sat in his pocket, heavy and
mocking. How different this night was turning out
from what he’d hoped. If Heather hadn’t appeared
so fragile, he thought he might let his resentment
show enough to let her know how hurt he really
was that he had been completely excluded from her
decision.
She picked up her fork, and so did he. The meal
went on. After a few moments of awkwardness, they
began to talk more casually about his work and
their families. Inside, Tanner’s heart felt like lead.
When at last dinner was over—a torturously
long time for him, and yet at the same time much
45 Summer 2003
too brief—he took her hand and led her to the Blue Rachel Ann Nunes (pronounced noon-esh) learn to
Bug. She was silent on the way home, and Tanner read when she was four and by seventh grade knew she
hurt too much to make small talk. He felt as though was going to be a writer. Now she is a stay-at-home
he had already lost her. mother of six, and it isn’t easy to find time to write,
When they arrived at her place, he walked her to but she will trade washing dishes or weeding the gar-
the door. The sun had set, but there was still plenty den for an hour at the computer any day! Nunes
of light reflecting over the blue sky. Tanner could writes Monday through Friday in a home office, often
hear the voices of Heather’s many siblings coming with a child on her lap. Her only rule about writing
from an open window. is to never eat chocolate at the computer. “Since I love
“I guess this is good-bye,” he said softly. writing and chocolate,” she jokes, “my family might
“Well, I was going to ask you if you could drive never see me again.” Nunes takes frequent breaks to be
me to the airport tomorrow afternoon. Mom’s sick, with her children and believes that raising them is the
and Dad’s got a meeting right at that time, so we’re most important thing she will ever do.
doing breakfast together instead of having him take Nunes enjoys camping, spending time with her
me. I could have Lorin pick me up, but I’m not family, reading, and visiting far-off places. She stayed
sure who’s taking her, or if they’d have room with in France for six months when her father was teach-
all the lug—” ing French at BYU and later served an LDS mission
He raised a finger to her lips, interrupting the to Portugal. Nunes is the author of 17 published
sudden flow of words, then pulled it quickly away. novels, including the popular Ariana series and the
“Of course I’ll take you. Be glad to.” No matter how picture book Daughter of a King, which recently won
it hurt to see her go, he wouldn’t deny himself the an IBBY (best book of the year award) from the Inde-
opportunity. “What time does your flight leave?” pendent LDS Booksellers Association. All of her books
Her mouth twisted in a half smile that hinted at have been bestsellers in the LDS market.
tears. “One-thirty. And thanks. You know, I’m going
to miss you—you’re my best friend.”
“And you’re mine.” Tanner put his hands in his
pockets, mostly to stop himself from giving her a
hug. He didn’t know if he could take that closeness
tonight. She was no longer just a friend, no matter
what her feelings were toward him.
“I’ll e-mail,” she promised. “I’m taking my lap-
top.”
“The laptop—that’s a relief,” he said lightly.
“I don’t know if I could read your handwriting if
you sent me a letter.”
She gave a low laugh. They both knew that his
handwriting was the problem, not hers. “Good-
night.”
Still facing him, she reached for the doorknob.
Panic welled up inside Tanner. Unable to let her go
without something more, he leaned toward her and
brushed a soft kiss over her lips. He caught a brief
glimpse of her beautiful hazel eyes widening before
he turned and sprinted back to the Bug. As he
drove away, she was still standing on the porch.

Summer 2003 46 IRREANTUM

 N O V E L was the very least she deserved. Rebekah swallowed
E X C E R P T uneasily, wondering what else he held in store for
Where Fate May Lead
By Michele Holmes
Editor’s note: The following excerpt is from an unpub-
lished novel.
Author’s note: In the summer of 1117, Rebekah
Moorleigh Rothstol begins the perilous journey from
northern England to the Scottish highlands. Recently
widowed, she is still reeling from her own narrow
escape from death and the loss of her infant daughter.
Determined to find the man she believes responsible
for her sorrow, Rebekah poses as a servant and lives
among the Kendrich clan, searching for their Laird,
Jacob Kendrich.
Jacob is wary of the strange Englishwoman and
wisely hides his identity from her. He has good reason
to distrust the English, as his own English cousin,
Gilbert Rothstol, murdered both Jacob’s parents and
his wife two years earlier. But as the summer turns to
fall and Jacob and Rebekah discover each other’s past,
they also learn that fate has led them to one another
to heal old wounds and learn to love again.
Chapter Thirty-Four
R ebekah took a deep breath, gathered her courage
and began the walk that led from the safety of
the kitchens to the great hall, where an uncertain
fate awaited. She paused in the doorway, taking in
the scene before her. The hall was filled to over-
flowing tonight—apparently the Laird wanted every-
one to have a chance to express their welcome to
the visiting priest.
A nudge from behind started Rebekah moving
again. She was first in a long procession of servants
bearing the evening meal to the waiting crowd.
Rebekah balanced the heavy crock and thought
wistfully of the many years she had been served by
others. ’Twas strange to be on this side, though she
did not begrudge Laird Kendrich requiring her
to serve at his table. To be humbled before him
IRREANTUM
her.
All day she had begged Mary to let her stay in
the kitchens—or at the least to attend elsewhere,
but Mary had insisted that Laird Kendrich wished
Rebekah’s service at his table this night. Rebekah
had argued, protesting that she was ill. Her fever
had returned that afternoon—indeed, she had not
felt well all day. But her complaints had fallen on
deaf ears, for Mary had only increased her work-
load and made it clear that Rebekah would not be
relieved from her tasks tonight.
Rebekah approached the first table and felt a
trickle of sweat down the back of her neck. A
moment later she shivered violently, nearly spilling
the stew. She righted the crock and continued,
knowing that each step brought her closer to meet-
ing Laird Kendrich, that there was naught she
could do to avoid it.
She stepped carefully, further bothered that the
gown Mary had found for her was too long and
pooled on the ground as she walked. ’Twould not
do to trip and fall now. The last thing she wished
was to draw attention to herself. With a little luck,
she hoped to simply ladle the stew and be dismissed.
Rebekah passed the first three tables and came to
the dais. Boldly, she raised her head as she mounted
the steps.
“I find the idea of a chapel here most interesting.
’Twould be a great example for the other clans as
well.” It was the priest talking, animatedly address-
ing the man at his left.
With a will of their own, Rebekah’s eyes riveted
to the end of the table to the man who had killed
her husband and caused her baby’s death. She saw—
Hadrian. Startled, Rebekah looked at him. Was
that not the Laird’s seat he sat in, she wondered.
Hadrian turned his gaze from the priest to her, and
the look of surprise on his face told Rebekah that
he, at least, had not anticipated her presence tonight.
Rebekah walked the length of the table and
stood before him, favoring him with a smile, so
relieved was she to find that Laird Kendrich was
not present after all. She had heard the rumors that
he was not pleased by the priest’s visit. Perhaps he
47 Summer 2003
so despised the church and God that he had refused
to dine with the man and had sent Hadrian in his
place.
Rebekah dipped the ladle in the stew and bent to
serve it.
“Rebekah,” Hadrian whispered sharply. “Stand
up.”
Rebekah stood and stared at him, perplexed by
his command.
“Your gown is not decent. Do you wish to offend
Father Luthais?” Hadrian inclined his head toward
the priest.
“’Tis borrowed,” Rebekah said, blushing furiously
as she covered the low neckline with her hand. “Mary
insisted I wear it. ’Twas all she could find that was
clean. Would you prefer someone else to serve?”
“Aye.” Hadrian nodded. “That would be best.”
“As you wish,” Rebekah murmured and set the
steaming crock in front of him, careful not to bend
over as she did so. She turned away and walked
toward the steps.
“Here, lass,” a man called, reaching out and grab-
bing her arm. “Pour me some ale,” he demanded,
shoving a pitcher into Rebekah’s hands. She clutched
the jug to her chest before it could spill. But instead
of obeying the man’s order, she glanced back at
Hadrian, noting his grim expression.
“Leave her be, Arthur,” Hadrian ordered.
“She is naught but a serving wench, Laird,” Arthur
protested. “Will ye not let us have a bit of fun?” He
snaked his arm around Rebekah’s waist, drawing
her close.
Rebekah twisted out of his grasp and looked at
Hadrian.
“Laird?” she whispered as she took a step toward
him.
He did not answer.
Rebekah took yet another step. “Are you not
Hadrian?” She held her breath, awaiting his answer.
Surely there was some mistake—some misunder-
standing with the man he called Arthur.
The conversation at the head of the table faded
away as the men turned their attention to the drama
unfolding between the Laird and the Englishwoman.
Her eyes caught Hadrian’s. We are closer than
brothers. His words echoed in her memory.
Summer 2003
At last he spoke. “I am Jacob, Laird of the
Kendrich clan.”
Rebekah’s eyes burned, and she shook her head,
not wanting to believe. He had lied. These many
weeks, nearly an entire summer she had searched
for Jacob Kendrich, and she had known him the
whole time.
Noting the fury in her eyes, the man beside her
whistled.
“I warned you ’twas a fool idea, Jacob,” Alec said,
leaning far away from him, lest Rebekah should
decide to dump the contents of the pitcher on his
head.
Rebekah’s fingers began to tremble. She remem-
bered her first meeting with Hadrian—no, Jacob,
she corrected herself. She remembered the way she
had defied him and the wager she’d won afterwards.
She remembered the long ride home from the loch
and the way they had argued, how he had ulti-
mately listened to her. She remembered the feel of
his hands on her waist and the wisdom of his pun-
ishment when he’d forced her to kill the geese. This
man could not be Laird Kendrich. She had fought
with him, confided in him, criticized him.
Dear God. What was she doing? What right had
she to be angry when . . . this man had every right
to slay her. And no doubt ’twas what he’d planned
all along. He was Gilbert’s cousin, was he not? He’d
had weeks to toy with her, and like a cat with a
mouse, he was now ready for the kill.
Rebekah could not move, nor could she pull her
eyes from Jacob’s. Her heart beat wildly beneath the
loose gown, and Rebekah was sure he could see
it. And like Gilbert, Jacob would delight in seeing
her fear.
Jacob watched panic leap to Rebekah’s eyes on
the heels of myriad other emotions that had flashed
there. He had not expected that she would be
afraid of him, and he was surprised at the tense,
wounded look in her eyes.
Jacob felt guilt as heavily as if someone had placed
it over him in the form of the thickest armor. He
continued to stare at Rebekah, unsure what he
should say.
Several drops of ale splashed over the side of the
pitcher and fell at her feet, and Jacob realized that
48 IRREANTUM
her hands were trembling. All of her was trembling.
He started to rise then stopped, realizing that he
was only terrifying her more.
“Rebekah,” he said, reaching a hand out to
steady her.
At the sound of her name, Rebekah’s paralysis was
broken. She gave a cry of alarm, then turned and fled.
She rushed from the dais and was halfway through
the hall before she felt the dizziness returning.
“Nay,” she cried. “Not now.” But it was too late,
and the world closed in black around her.
R ebekah woke slowly, her hands pressing into a
thick mattress as her eyes worked to bring the
canopy above into focus. She sat upright, and in
one wide sweep her eyes took in the heavy brocaded
curtains, the large chest by the wall and the boots
and armor resting beside it. A knot of fear twisted
in her stomach. She was in Laird Kendrich’s chamber.
She was in his bed.
Rebekah shoved the covers aside and slid to the
ground. She stood, forgetting her earlier dizziness.
Her head spun, her foot twisted in the sheets, and
she lurched forward, falling flat on her face. Her
eyes watered at the sudden pain, but she was up in
a moment and stumbled for the door, pausing only
as her trembling fingers reached for the iron ring.
Had he locked her in? She grasped the ring and
pulled. The enormous door opened easily, but she
held her breath and peered warily into the hall,
searching for guards.
There were none—the entire upper corridor was
deserted. Not willing to believe her good fortune
was other than a trick, Rebekah slipped through
the half-open doorway, walking cautiously toward
the wide stairs that led to the great hall below. Her
steps were silent, and she found herself grateful that
Mary had confiscated her boots and given her the
soft leather slippers she now wore.
She crept closer to the stairs, staying hidden in
the shadows as best she could. Below, the conversa-
tion of the crowd echoed around the cavernous
room and up to the high ceiling. Rebekah reached
the window seat where she’d hidden only two days
earlier. She climbed into it and stood on tiptoe,
craning her neck for a better view of the hall.
IRREANTUM
The head table remained on the dais where she
and the other servants had placed it earlier that
evening. Rebekah noted the priest and several of
Laird Kendrich’s men were still seated, but the tall,
straight-backed chair at the head of the table was
noticeably vacant.
Jacob Kendrich was not there.
How many times
had Gilbert toyed with
her this very way only
to—she would not
let it happen again.
Rebekah looked around the hall, searching for
any sign of the Laird. The unease she’d felt only
moments before returned with force. Where is he?
Possibilities flooded her imagination. This very
minute he might be preparing a noose for her neck
or sharpening the blade that would end her life.
Perhaps he was busy planning the spectacular scene
where her confession and death would play out
before all seated below.
She would not wait to find out. But how could
she leave? ’Twould be impossible to remain unno-
ticed should she descend the stairs and try to make
her way through the throng of people scattered
throughout the hall. Rebekah climbed from the
window seat, looking anxiously toward the guest
chamber, wondering if it was empty. Had anyone
traveled with the priest? Her only option for escape
was by way of that room.
Rebekah took a step toward the chamber, then
hesitated, realizing that she could not just rush into
the night without so much as a dirk to protect her
or a cloak to keep her warm. She recalled the boar
that she and Lonny had encountered on the moun-
tain and knew that she would never make it though
one night in the wilds of the highlands unprepared.
Rebekah retraced her steps, hurrying past the
wide stairs and down the deserted corridor. She
49 Summer 2003
placed her foot on the first of the narrow, twisted
stairs leading to the servants’ tower room. The pas-
sage was dark, but she dared not light a candle.
Gathering her skirts, she began her ascent, one
hand placed against the cool stone of the wall to
guide her as she climbed the winding steps.
The passage turned yet again, and Rebekah
counted the twentieth step. She was almost there.
Then it would take her but a moment to . . .
Rebekah froze as she heard the door above swing
open and light flooded the passageway. She pressed
herself flat against the wall, clutching a hand over
her chest to quiet her pounding heart.
Every one of the women was busy serving the
crowd below or working in the kitchens. Footsteps
sounded on the stairs—heavy, booted footsteps.
Rebekah whirled around and retreated down the
stairway.
Her pursuer drew closer. Rebekah began to run,
her long skirt forgotten as she blindly stumbled on.
Her outstretched hand missed the wall just as her
foot caught the hem of her gown. Rebekah screamed
as her head collided with the stone, and she felt
herself plunging down the darkened stairway.
A hand grabbed her elbow, and she screamed
louder as she felt herself being pulled back up the
steps.
“Let me go,” she cried, her slippered feet kicking
ineffectively at her captor.
“I would gladly do so, did I not fear you’d plunge
to your death. Be still, Rebekah.” Jacob’s stern voice
and his tightened grip had the desired effect.
Rebekah ceased her struggling, but not before she’d
drawn away from him as far as possible.
“That’s better,” Jacob said, his tone gentler. “Come
up here into the light so I can see what you’ve done
to yourself now.” He guided her toward the lit
torch at the top of the stairs.
“What I’ve done?”
Jacob chuckled. “If your temper is still intact,
then I know you’ll be all right.” He pulled her into
the light. “Though you’ve a wicked scratch.” He
raised his hand, and Rebekah flinched.
Jacob hesitated, then lightly drew his fingers from
her temple down the side of her face. “’Tis not
deep. You’ll have no scar.”
Summer 2003
Rebekah shut her eyes against his touch. How
many times had Gilbert toyed with her this very
way only to—she would not let it happen again.
Her eyes snapped open, and she turned her face
away from him.
“I find it amazing that you have such difficulty
with stairs when you are so adept at climbing down
trees,” Jacob teased.
Rebekah looked at him again, her eyes sparkling
with a mixture of anger and fright. So he knew
about that too. Well, let him punish her for it along
with everything else. She was tired and sick and nearly
beyond caring. “What do you want?” she asked.
“At the moment, only to keep you from further
harm.”
“What were you doing before that—why are you
here?”
“’Tis my castle, is it not?” Jacob said, then frowned,
instantly regretting the words.
“It would appear so, Laird Kendrich.” Rebekah
spat the name out bitterly. “Nevertheless, I doubt it
is your practice to frequent the servants’ chamber.”
Jacob smiled. “’Tis not. But again, I had only your
best interests at heart. I was searching for garments
to replace the ones you’re wearing. It would seem
that you’ve managed to get yourself drenched yet
again.” He looked pointedly at her bodice where
most of the ale had spilled. “A rather peculiar habit
of yours,” he continued, a gleam in his eye. “What
is this—three times now? First the loch, then the
washtub and now a pitcher of ale.”
Rebekah narrowed her eyes at him. “What do
you know of—”
“All of it,” Jacob interrupted. His smile deepened
as he remembered Rebekah’s struggles to rise from
the tub. “And I know that you made Jenny laugh that
day, then later took her on a terrifying ride—though
that is a subject for another time. Right now I wish
only to see that you are given some dry clothes.”
“’Tis your fault I am drenched and nearly fell
down the stairs. The time at the loch was also your
doing. That I am even here is your fault. All of my
miseries—”
“Wait,” Jacob said, putting his finger to her lips.
He spoke softly, hoping to prevent the tears gath-
ered at the corners of her eyes from overflowing.
50 IRREANTUM
“I cannot see how all of your miseries came to be
just because I did not tell you who I was.” He
moved his hand to her chin, gently forcing her to
look at him. “But if it is so, then I am truly sorry. I
saw tonight how distraught you were when it you
discovered that I am Laird. I apologize for my
deception.”
Rebekah pressed back farther into the wall, though
her eyes did not leave Jacob’s. She was stunned by
his apology. Stunned, but not deceived. Whatever
kindness he showed her now, the worse would be
her punishment later. ’Twas a pattern all too familiar.
“Why did you lie to me?” she asked at last.
“I wanted to discover your identity before reveal-
ing mine. That you appeared out of nowhere, and that
you exhibited such strong feelings of hatred toward
me seemed good cause to warrant my caution.”
“I see,” Rebekah murmured. She pulled her eyes
from his and looked at the floor, feeling her heart-
beat quicken as she waited for him to speak the
punishment for her betrayal.
“However,” Jacob paused. “I have not yet dis-
covered who you are, and ’twas purely an unfortu-
nate accident that tonight you came to know me as
Laird Kendrich.”
Rebekah pressed her hands against the wall for
support and swallowed the sigh of relief she longed
to let out. He does not know, she thought jubilantly.
He does not know that I was married to the man
who wrought such destruction on his family and
his clan.
Jacob studied her, noting her visible relief. “But
be assured, Rebekah, that later we will talk, and you
will provide truthful answers to all of my questions.”
Rebekah shuddered, her fear returning.
“You’re cold,” Jacob said, and bent to retrieve a
plaid from the top step. “I found naught for you to
wear but your threadbare cloak and this plaid.” He
unfolded the cloth and handed it to her.
Rebekah did not take it. “You could just leave
me to freeze,” she suggested quietly.
“The secrets you hold canna be so bad,” Jacob said.
Rebekah did not reply.
“Or perhaps they are,” Jacob continued, watch-
ing her closely. “But for now I should prefer to keep
you alive and well. A spilled pitcher of ale does not
IRREANTUM
merit such punishment. And as I recall, that is far
less than what you wasted on the horses.”
Jacob reached for Rebekah’s arm and pulled her
away from the wall. “Come here. I’ll help you. You’re
shivering too much to fasten it properly.” He turned
her away from him and draped the plaid over her
shoulders, then wrapped it securely around her.
“This will have to do. Though you should have
told me you’d such a need for clothing. I would have
provided for you as I do for all those on my lands.”
Rebekah raised her chin a notch. “I do not wish
to be provided for.”
“Then at the very least I will settle our wager.
I owe you a gown, do I not?”
Rebekah nodded, completely confused by his
kind offer. Why should he bestow clothing if he
still had suspicions about her? She pulled the plaid
tighter.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“I’m going to return to the banquet. That’s another
bad habit of yours—interrupting my meals.” Jacob
held his arm out to her. “Come, I’ll take you back
downstairs. We’ll find someone to tend your cut,
and you can rest awhile.”
“In your bed?” Rebekah asked, tensing as she
realized she still had no weapon with which to
defend herself.
“Aye,” Jacob said, reaching for her arm since she
had declined to take his. “’Tis the only one avail-
able. Father Luthais has already installed himself in
the guest chamber, and after you fainted I wasna
about to carry you all the way up here.”
Rebekah frowned at him, unconvinced.
“Remind me next time,” Jacob said wryly, “to
leave you lying on the floor.” He tugged at her arm.
“Mind your skirts this time,” he ordered and began
descending the stairs.
Rebekah followed, panic increasing with each step.
She could not go into his chamber again. Some-
how, she must find a few moments alone to make
her escape before he learned that Gilbert had been
her husband.
When they reached the landing, the raucous
sounds of the crowd drifted up to them. Jacob did
not release her hand, but drew her toward the wide
stair. He looked down, grimacing.
51 Summer 2003
 “I shall be lucky if there is anything left for me,”
he said, casting her an accusing glance.
“Then ’twould seem you are justly punished for
your own deception,” Rebekah remarked as she
withdrew her hand from his grasp.
“Perhaps so,” Jacob said, looking at her so
intently that Rebekah visibly trembled again. “You
are still cold,” he observed. “Go and lie down, and
I will send someone to tend you.”
“I am fine,” Rebekah said, holding her head up
proudly. “I am ready to return to the kitchens.” She
moved past him toward the stairs.
“Your head still bleeds, and you are flushed with
fever.”
“It is of no import.”
“To me it is,” Jacob said earnestly. “Why will
you not go and rest?”
“In your bed? Need you ask?”
“I’ve told you—” he began.
“What men speak and what men do are oft
entirely different.”
“Rebekah, let me explain—”
“There is naught to explain. I am your servant
and as such am expected to serve you in whatever
way you deem. But I won’t. I should rather feel the
pierce of your blade through my heart than to—”
“Then we are equal in our thoughts,” Jacob said
with quiet anger. “For I have no intention of touch-
ing you. Come with me,” he ordered. Crossing the
corridor to his chamber, he pushed the heavy door
open and entered, without bothering to see if she
followed. Moving to the chest, he thrust his armor
aside and opened the lid of the trunk.
Rebekah stood in the doorway, unsure why she’d
felt compelled to heed his command. She watched
him rifle through the trunk until at last it seemed
he had found the item he searched for. He looked
up at her.
“A moment, Rebekah,” he said gruffly, “and I
think you’ll understand.” He bent his head rever-
ently, the fabric clutched tight in his fist. He hadn’t
held Elena’s gown for months—not since the night
before he’d left for England, seeking Gilbert. He
was not certain what possessed him to show it to
Rebekah now. There was no reason for him to prove
his motives to her.
Summer 2003
Jacob gathered the gown to him, pressing his
face into the fabric, wishing that time had not
erased Elena’s fragrance. Slowly, he stood and faced
Rebekah.
“I was married,” he said, simply. “This is all I
have left of Elena and our child.” He thrust the
bundle toward Rebekah, but she did not reach to
take it.
Jacob stood, looking at the gown a moment
more, then gently placed it back into the trunk and
shut the lid. “I have not laid with another woman
since Elena’s death, nor do I plan to now.” In two
steps he crossed the room and stood before Rebekah.
“Do you know why the priest is here tonight?”
he asked.
Rebekah shook her head.
“He has come for a wedding—my wedding to
the daughter of Laird McCairn. This is the fourth
wedding that Father Luthais has traveled to per-
form, and I have canceled them all, including the
one that was supposed to take place this week.” He
looked at Rebekah steadily, but she did not move
or speak. She knew not what to say.
“Do you know why I have broken each betrothal?”
Jacob asked.
Again Rebekah shook her head.
“Because I cannot bear the thought of taking
another woman to wife. I cannot bear the thought
of lying with another, when Elena was so brutally
taken from me and lays cold beneath the earth.
I cannot bear it!” Jacob raged so violently that
Rebekah flinched and jumped out of reach.
Jacob advanced on her, grabbing her shoulders
in a rough grip. “If I cannot take a wife—a Scottish
wife whose ties would strengthen our clan—then how
is it you think that I could lay with you, who are
one of them, who is English? How could I do such
a thing?” Jacob demanded, shaking her forcefully.
“I don’t know,” Rebekah sobbed, the tears that
had gathered earlier finally spilling down her cheeks
in a torrential rush. “I don’t know.”
“I could not, Rebekah. I would not,” Jacob said.
His grip loosened, but he did not release her. “Against
my better judgment I have offered you my home—
even my bed to rest upon. I have born your unex-
plained intrusion into our clan with great patience
52 IRREANTUM
and even kindness, with the hope that you would
tell me why you are here. I’ve done all of this,
knowing that you are one of them, that you come
from the country whose men have wrought such
sorrow here. But I have felt—I have believed—at
times that I was right in giving you a chance, that
there was something different about you, something
redeemable . . . But I see that I was wrong. You are
English, and when I find out who you really are,
you shall pay for that sin along with your others.”
Rebekah choked back her sobs and gave him a
mutinous look.
Jacob released her abruptly. “Be gone.”
Rebekah stumbled backwards, then turned and
fled, and Jacob felt his anger leave with her. He
watched her run down the stairs and saw not an
enemy but only a scared young woman who had
sought to protect her virtue.
His appetite for the banquet gone, Jacob closed
the door to his chamber and availed himself the use
of his bed. He closed his eyes, turning his face into
the pillow. It smelled of lavender. He inhaled deeply,
thinking to dream of Elena, but the only visions
that came to him were of a woman with auburn
hair and haunting green eyes filled with tears.
Tears he had caused.
Michele Holmes has known she was destined to write
since the fourth grade, when her parents were called
because a teacher thought she had plagiarized a
report. Instead of being upset, Michele was delighted
that her teacher thought so highly of her writing.
Now grown up, Michele is married to her high
school sweetheart, Dixon, and they are the parents of
four active children, all of whom need rides, food, or
band-aids the moment Michele sits down at the com-
puter. After five years, she has recently finished writ-
ing her first novel and is hopeful the next one will not
take quite so long.
IRREANTUM
N O V E L
E X C E R P T
What the Doctor Ordered
By Sierra St. James
Editor’s note: The following excerpt is from a forth-
coming novel.
Author’s note: Aunt Bertie’s family worries that her
eccentricity may be the symptom of a medical problem.
Her niece, Ellie, goes to spend the summer with her to
reassure the family that the elderly woman is fine. But
when Bertie has a fall that lands her in the ER, Ellie’s
parents are convinced a nursing home is necessary. Ellie
thinks that if John Flynn—their new home teacher
and the ER doctor—would just talk to Ellie’s parents
on the phone, everything would be fine.
The home teachers come over to paint the patio,
and while Bertie and John’s companion are picking up
the paint from the hardware store, Ellie has her chance
to convince John to talk with her parents.
E llie took a piece of sandpaper from the package.
How was she going to bring up the subject?
Could you do me a favor, John? You see, my parents
are both humorless and heartless, and they want to
put Aunt Bertie away . . .
While Ellie clipped the paper onto the electric
sander, John walked around, surveying the patio. He
rubbed a thumb against a patch of peeling white paint
on the banister. “This isn’t a lead-based paint, is it?”
“What?”
“Lead-based paint is poisonous. We wouldn’t want
to sand it and breathe in the fumes.” He leaned closer
to the banister, his blond head bent in concentra-
tion. “Do you know if this patio was painted before
the seventies?”
Ellie shrugged. “My grandpa built the patio about
fifteen years ago.”
“It should be okay then.” John walked over to
the stairs, stepping down them with a heavy gait.
“What are you doing?” Ellie asked.
He turned and stomped back up the stairs, each
footstep making a sharp smacking sound. “I’m checking
53 Summer 2003
to see if the floor needs any repairs. Sometimes these
older patios have wood damage. Water rot, termites.
That sort of thing. I wouldn’t want Bertie to step
through the floor.”
His footsteps smacked down the stairs again. This
time as he strode up she noticed the way his leg
muscles filled out his worn blue jeans.
She probably shouldn’t pay attention to those
types of details.
She waited for him to quit stomping, then said,
“Do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Think like a doctor. I mean, are you going check
the ladder to see if it’s sturdy, and then insist I don’t
step on the top rung?”
“You mean the rung with the warning label that
says, ‘Absolutely, positively, if you value your life,
do not step on this rung’?”
“Yes, that one.”
He crossed his arms across his chest.
She probably also shouldn’t pay attention to the
way his arm muscles flexed when he did that.
“Do you know how many people I’ve seen in the
ER who’ve fallen off ladders?” he asked.
“You see, you’re doing it again.”
He grunted, then walked across the patio, appar-
ently satisfied that it was safe. “People pay me a lot
of money to give them advice, but if it makes you
feel any better, I won’t charge you for any of the
instructions I give you today.”
He held out his hand for the sander, but she
didn’t give it to him. As soon as he turned it on, it
would be too noisy to talk. Instead she ran her
hand through her hair, then fiddled with the sander
cord. “Actually, I was hoping to get some of your
advice today. It’s about Bertie. And my parents.”
But that was the wrong place to start. She needed
to go back a decade and a half ago. Back to Grand-
pa Baxter. “You see, Bertie’s father had Alzheimer’s.
Grandma Baxter took care of him until he started
getting up in the middle of the night and fiddling
with things. He’d leave the water running, or the
stove turned on. She had to hide the car keys so he
wouldn’t drive off. Everyone was worried he’d hurt
himself. They sent him to a nursing home.”
Summer 2003
Ellie looked down at her hand. The sander’s cord
was tangled around her fingers. She hadn’t even real-
ized she’d been twisting it as she spoke, and now
she tried to shake her hand free of it. “I suppose
you’ve been to nursing homes before.”
“In med school they have you do a rotation in
geriatrics.”
“Then you know what horrible places nursing
homes are.”
“They’re not all horrible. Many of them are lov-
ing and caring places.”
“They aren’t real homes. They’re where you put
people to forget about them.”
He shook his head. “The only people who do
that are those who don’t care about their families
to begin.”
“My parents don’t care. Not really. Not like I do.
And they . . .” Somehow she couldn’t bring herself
to say it. How could she admit what her parents
were discussing?
He finished the sentence for her. “They think
Bertie should live in a home?”
“Because she fell, and because they don’t under-
stand her. They think since she’s eccentric there must
be something wrong with her mind. But if you could
talk to my parents, if you could reassure them that
she’s really all right, then they’d stop worrying.”
He took the sander from her hand, unwrapping
the cord from where she’d rewrapped it around her
finger. “You’re going to cut off your blood circula-
tion if you keep doing that.”
“You’ll talk to them, won’t you?”
“Ellie.” He drew out the word, making it sound
like a sigh.
“Why can’t you?”
“I’m not sure Bertie is all right. She acted strangely
when she came in to the ER, and she refused to have
any of the tests I recommended to rule out prob-
lems. If I recall right, you discouraged her from fol-
lowing my recommendations.”
Ellie held out both of her hands in front of her,
pleading with him. “She got the month right. She
told you it was June and not December.”
“Ellie.”
“You’re in her ward. You ought to know by now
that she’s always been different.”
54 IRREANTUM
 “Yes, but Ellie, I’m not sure that’s a reassuring
indicator of good mental health.”
“Fine. Be that way.” She went over to the chair
where the rolls of tape sat. She ripped open the pack-
age, pulled off a section, and then realized she didn’t
know where to put it. Exactly what were they tap-
ing? Weren’t they painting everything? She wasn’t
going to ask him about it. She’d just walk around
the patio until she found something to put tape on.
She went to the back section of the patio and
looked from the floor to the banister.
“It’s for the electrical outlets, door, and window
frames,” he said.
“I knew that.” She walked to the door and ran
the tape along the top to protect it from stray paint.
She waited to hear the sound of the sander going,
but didn’t. Instead, she heard his footsteps and then
he stood next to her.
“Ellie, what if something really is wrong with
your aunt—a tumor, maybe? Wouldn’t you want
her to get help? What’s the harm in having a few
tests to make sure she’s well?”
Ellie didn’t answer, just ran another piece of tape
across the top of the door.
“If she has a history of Alzheimer’s then it’s
imperative she be checked for that. Early preven-
tion can make a world of difference.”
Still no answer.
“I can schedule a neurological exam and mem-
ory and cognitive tests here, but I’d also like her to
have an MRI in Spokane. Can you drive her there?”
“And exactly how am I supposed to tell her about
these appointments? ‘By the way, Aunt Bertie, your
home teacher and your family all think you’re crazy.
We’re taking you in to see what’s wrong with you.’”
Ellie ripped off the last piece of tape and attached
it to the door with shaky hands. “I’m not doing it.
There’s nothing wrong with her. I’ve always been
eccentric, too, and no one thinks I have Alzheimer’s.”
“Ellie.”
“Stop Ellie-ing me.”
“You’re not thinking about what’s best for Bertie.”
“Yes I am. She’s fine.” There was no cure for
Alzheimer’s, so she had to be fine. Ellie refused to
think of Bertie as just another doorway in a cav-
ernous hallway, the smell of bedpans and alcohol
IRREANTUM
everywhere. The smell of death everywhere. She
wouldn’t see Bertie propped up in bed, being spoon-
fed by someone who didn’t care about her, who
didn’t know how wonderful she was. “She doesn’t
forget things,” Ellie added, as though this was proof.
“She always knows who I am.”
“Does she have mood swings?”
“No.”
“Difficulty speaking?”
“No.”
“Problems with incontinence?”
“That’s not something we discuss on a regular
basis, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Any odd or inappropriate behavior—like put-
ting on her clothes backwards?”
“Of course not.” Bertie didn’t do that. There
were other things, though, that John was not going
to understand. The Christmas tree in the living
room, for example.
Ellie glanced over at the windows in the front of
the house. The drapes were drawn, they were always
drawn, but through the crack in the curtains, she
could see the outline of pine needles.
“Maybe I’m just worrying too much,” John said.
“But that’s my job. And now that I’m Bertie’s home
teacher, it’s my job to keep an eye on her.”
“Of course. I’m sure once you get to know her
better, you’ll realize that she’s just fine.” Ellie picked
up one of the drop cloths from the patio, walked to
the window, and held the canvas against it. “Per-
fectly normal.”
She leaned against the window, clutching the
drop cloth with one hand while she struggled to get
tape off the roll with the other.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I just washed this window. I don’t want to get
paint splatters on it.”
“We’ll use a brush around the trim. The window
should be fine.”
“You never can be too careful.” She tore off two
large pieces of tape and stuck them to the cloth,
smacking them on the window to make sure they’d
stick. Then she tentatively stepped back from the
window, watching it. The drop cloth stayed attached
to the window for a moment. Then the weight
pulled it to the floor.
55 Summer 2003
 Ellie picked up the heavy fabric from the patio
and held it back over the window, her arms stretched
out like a criminal being frisked. She felt John’s
stare but didn’t move. And still didn’t move. The
tape still lay on the floor. She peered at it over her
shoulder, then at John. He was watching her, his
head cocked, the sander still lifeless in his hand.
She smiled over at him. “Can you hand me the
tape?”
He walked slowly to the window and picked up
the tape but didn’t hand it to her. He stood close
to her, first looking at the window, and then at her.
“I don’t think the tape is sturdy enough to hold
that up.”
“It’ll work if I just put on more tape.”
“The drop cloth is too big. How are we going to
paint underneath the window?”
“Oh. Um. I’ll fold the drop cloth up so it doesn’t
cover that part.”
Then, while trying to hold the drop cloth
against the window, Ellie bent down, grabbed the
bottom of the material, and tried to fold it up. One
arm stretched up, the other stretched down, and
she lifted one of her legs for balance. She knew she
looked like she was playing a game of wall Twister,
but now that she’d drawn John’s attention to the
window she didn’t dare let him see inside. After sev-
eral maneuverings, she managed to fold the drop
cloth up away from the bottom of the window. Her
hair had fallen into her face, and she blew little
puffs of breath to keep it out of her eyes.
She glanced over her shoulder. He was still stand-
ing in the same place, watching her with his head
cocked.
“The tape?” she asked sweetly.
“Don’t you think you’re worrying just a little too
much about keeping the window clean?”
She puffed her hair away again. “I didn’t give you
a bad time when you were stomping around the
patio checking for termites.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have. Please give it to me.”
He handed her the roll, but didn’t move away.
She gripped the tape with one hand, while hold-
ing the drop cloth up with another, and tried to get
the end of the tape off the roll with her teeth. It had
Summer 2003
worked last time, but this time it stayed stubbornly
in place.
She tried again.
And again.
All the while John stood a few inches away from
her, watching.
“I . . .” She couldn’t
think of anything to
say with him standing
two inches away.
Come a little closer
and ask again.
She gnawed at the tape for quite a while before
it finally gave way. Then she held the end between
her teeth and tried to rip a piece off. Instead of rip-
ping, it just unraveled more, so that a long strip of
tape connected her to the roll. She held it up like a
giant piece of spaghetti, in an attempt to keep it
from folding over and sticking to itself.
John’s laughter erupted behind her.
Teeth still clenched on the tape, she said, “If you
were a gentleman, you’d help me with thith.”
“Fine. All you had to do was ask.” Instead of tak-
ing the tape from her hands, he stepped closer to
her, then reached around her so that he was hold-
ing up both corners of the drop cloth, and she was
nearly in an embrace.
“Um. Thanks.”
His chest brushed against her back. She could
feel his breath against her cheek. What had she been
doing? Oh yes, the tape.
Using two hands she ripped off several pieces of
tape and attached them from the cloth to the win-
dow. Then she put more tape on. And more. When
she ran out of room on the top she put some along
the side. It wasn’t because she liked the feel of his
arms around her. She just wanted to be really sure
the drop cloth stayed put.
56 IRREANTUM
 She put some tape along the bottom of the win-
dow too.
“There,” she said at last. “That should keep paint
splatters off it.”
He took his hands from the corner of the drop
cloth, and they both watched it.
It didn’t move.
They didn’t move either. Ellie’s gaze was on the
window, but her mind remained on the fact that
John was standing so close behind her that she could
smell the scent of his soap—or was it aftershave?
Whatever it was, he smelled clean, like the air after
a rainstorm.
“It looks like the tape will hold this time,” he
said. “In fact, you may never be able to scrape that
drop cloth off the window again.”
“Right. Well. I guess we’d better get on with the
sanding then.”
“I’ll do the sanding. You can tape off the rest of
the trim, but try to save the tape—we only have a
few rolls left.”
She took the tape and left him without saying
another word. As she taped, she listened to the sander
without looking at him. She refused to look at him.
He might be gorgeous, and he might smell like
rainwater, and he might have really great biceps—
after all, she couldn’t help but notice those during
the taping incident—but that didn’t mean she was
attracted to him. She wasn’t.
He wouldn’t help her defend Bertie to her par-
ents, which meant he was awful, so she wasn’t
attracted to him, and she wasn’t going to waste even
one moment staring at him.
She glanced over at him, but it wasn’t staring, so
it didn’t count. He was kneeling on the lowest step
to the patio, sanding the stairs. In the sunlight his
blond hair shone until it looked white. Like an
angel. An angel who wouldn’t help her when she’d
asked him to.
She finished with the tape and picked up a jar of
wood filler for the nicks and holes in the banister.
The noise of the sander filled the air with its shrill
vibration. It moved up the stairs and back onto the
patio. But she didn’t look. At last the sander quit.
“I think I’ve taken care of all the peeling paint,
but I’d better clean up the mess before we paint
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over it.” He walked toward the front door. “Does
Bertie keep her broom in the kitchen?”
The kitchen? Going to the kitchen would take
him right past the Christmas tree, the stockings, and
a wooden reindeer Bertie had dragged in from her
garage and was in the process of repainting.
“No!” Ellie dropped the jar of wood filler and
sprinted to the door. “I mean, you don’t know where
she keeps the broom. I’ll get it.”
Ellie slipped through the door, careful not to open
it far enough that John could get a view inside. She
ran to the kitchen, grabbed the broom from the
kitchen closet, and ran back outside. “Here . . .”
She handed the broom to John breathlessly.
“Thanks. Does she have a dustpan?”
“Oh. A dustpan. Just a second.” Ellie once again
opened the door a sliver, shimmied in, and fled to
the kitchen. She retrieved the dustpan, then ran
back to the patio and gave it to John with a smile.
He took it and swept up shards of peeling paint
and dust that had fallen onto the patio. Ellie picked
up the jar of wood filler from where she’d dropped
it and tried to remember where on the banister
she’d left off filling.
“I’m done now,” John said. “I’ll put the broom
away.”
The jar dropped to the patio again. “No, I’ll do it!”
She dashed back to John and held her hand out
for the broom. He kept his grip on it and eyed her
suspiciously.
She smiled and grabbed hold of the handle, brush-
ing her fingertips against his. “I know where Bertie
keeps it. You know how particular women are about
their kitchens.”
His eyes remained narrow but he relinquished
the broom to her. He watched her with his arms
folded as she opened the door a crack and went
through.
When she returned to the patio he was still stand-
ing there, arms folded.
She ignored him and went back to the banister.
She picked up the jar of filler, this time tentatively,
waiting for his next request. A few moments later it
came.
“It’s getting hot out here. Do you mind if I go
inside for a drink?”
57 Summer 2003
 “Yes.” She placed the jar down, and strolled instead
of running back to him. “I mean, what kind of host-
ess would I be if I made you get your own water?
I’ll bring out glasses for both of us.”
“What are you hiding inside?”
“Nothing. Don’t be silly,” she tried to laugh. It
came out sounding more like a gurgle.
“What are you going to do when either Brother
Cromwell or I ask to use the bathroom? That will
be a little harder to bring outside for us, won’t it?”
She smiled back at him to show she wasn’t flus-
tered. “It’s just that the house is a mess. It would
embarrass Bertie to know you’d been inside.”
“I’m a bachelor. I’m used to messes. I don’t mind.”
“It’s no trouble.”
From inside, the faint sound of a phone ringing
drifted out onto the patio. For a moment Ellie turned
to go answer it, then stopped. Her parents had said
they’d call to talk to John but she was not about to
let them do that now. She let the phone ring. It was
easier to not answer it than to come up with some
excuse why they couldn’t talk to him. Besides, if
John heard her saying things like, “Sorry, he’s busy
and can’t come to the phone right now,” it would
be an invitation for him to not only come inside,
but for him to tell her parents about all the neuro-
logical tests he wanted Bertie to have.
“Are you going to get that?” John asked.
“Get what?”
“The phone.”
She shrugged. “I don’t hear the phone.”
“Do you have a hearing problem?”
“No, but you might. How often do you experi-
ence ringing in your ears?”
He took a step toward the door, and she stepped
in front of him, blocking his way. “Ellie, if you’re
trying to prove your aunt’s sanity by acting crazier
in contrast, it won’t work.”
She held one arm out to block the door. “The
phone is for Aunt Bertie, and she’s not home. Who-
ever is calling will just have to call back.”
“Have you ever heard of taking messages?”
The phone stopped ringing. “Too late,” Ellie said.
“Let’s get back to work.”
Instead of retreating, he took a step closer to her.
She backed away and felt the door against her shoul-
Summer 2003
der blades. She put her hand behind her on the
doorknob as though he might try to push her out
of the way and go inside anyway.
“Do you know how frustrating it is trying to rea-
son with you?” he asked.
“My parents have told me on occasion.”
He took a step closer, so close it felt like he was
touching her even though he wasn’t. “I’m not the
bad guy, you know. I don’t drive a padded wagon
and sneak into people’s houses to put them in
straight jackets. I’m trying to help your aunt. Why
won’t you let me help?”
He did look trustworthy, standing so close that
she could see the sincerity in his eyes. At least she
thought it was sincerity. Actually he was so close
she was getting too distracted by all those other
things about him to see much of the sincerity.
He had a great jaw line. The kind you wanted to
reach out and touch. His eyes were cool blue, like
he belonged somewhere far away in the sky. And he
had such broad shoulders. If he hugged her she’d be
lost in them.
What had she been looking for? Oh yes, sincerity.
He slid his hand behind her back, putting it over
her hand on the doorknob. “Are you going to let
me in?”
“I . . .” She couldn’t think of anything to say with
him standing two inches away. Come a little closer
and ask again.
A creak on the steps saved her from answering.
Ellie looked over to see Aunt Bertie and Brother
Cromwell coming up the walk. Bertie clutched hold
of the banister with one hand and with the other
held a new paintbrush. Her purse swung against
her side as she took each step. Brother Cromwell
peered over the top of a five-gallon drum of paint
that he lugged up the stairs. Ellie hadn’t even heard
them drive up.
“None of those public displays of affection on
my patio,” Bertie said, waving the paintbrush in
their direction. “I don’t want the neighbors talking.
They’re all incurable gossips. They’re still going on
about that time I slept outside on a lawn chair.”
She humphed as though the memory burnt. “It was
a hot night and my pajamas were very modest.
They had no reason to call the ambulance. If I was
58 IRREANTUM
really going to die somewhere, it wouldn’t be on
my lawn chair wearing pajamas. How tacky.” She
motioned for Brother Cromwell to set the paint
down by the banister, then turned back to Ellie and
John. “So anyway, if you’re going to kiss you’d best
do it in private.”
“We weren’t going to kiss,” Ellie said.
“I was trying to go inside and Ellie wouldn’t let
me,” John said.
“I explained to him that we hadn’t had a chance
to clean up this morning, and it would embarrass
us to have people inside,” Ellie said.
Bertie collapsed into the sole chair that hadn’t
been moved off the patio. “Oh that. You don’t need
to worry about the house, dear.” She opened her
purse, took out a piece of paper and waved it in John’s
direction. “Here. Read this.”
He stepped over and took it from her hand. “One
hundred reasons not to clean,” he read aloud. “Num-
ber one: God made dust mites too. They have a
right to live.”
Bertie shut her eyes and nodded as he read on,
his voice unemotional. “Number two: You don’t
have to worry about seasonal center pieces if there’s
always clutter in the middle of your table. Number
three: Dirt is organic and therefore healthy.”
He turned the paper over in his hands. “You
titled it one hundred but you’ve only numbered to
sixty-eight.”
“I’m still working on it—oh, I just thought of
another one.” Bertie held up one hand as though
printing the words on a marquee. “Mold. If it’s
good enough for blue cheese, why not let it grow in
the bottom of your fridge?”
Brother Cromwell chuckled. John didn’t.
Ellie snatched the paper from his hand, folding
it back up and sticking it into her pocket. In a low
voice, so only he could hear, she said, “This is just
one of Aunt Bertie’s games—something to do because
she doesn’t want to watch Wheel of Fortune reruns.
It’s just a little cluttered inside, but other than that,
perfectly normal.”
He nodded, appraising her and making the silence
stretch out until Ellie had to look away. To Bertie
he said, “Before we get started painting, do you mind
if I use your bathroom?”
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“Of course not,” she called from her chair. “It’s
down the hallway—the first door past the plastic
Santa.”
J ohn didn’t mention the Christmas tree when he
returned. He just smiled and watched Bertie a lot.
Brother Cromwell loaded the paint sprayer to
paint the floor and roof, while John and Ellie took
brushes to the banister. Bertie tried to help with the
trim, but John insisted she stay off her ankle. He
shooed her onto the patio chairs they’d moved under
the pine tree, and Bertie sat there in the shade, call-
ing things up to them every once in awhile.
“I still think we should have gone with magenta.
Think of all the neighbors would have to talk about
then.”
They were almost done with the banister before
John spoke to Bertie again. “How are you holding
up?” he called down to her, as though sitting in the
shade in a lawn chair was a strenuous activity that
needed a doctor’s observation.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Your ankle is okay?”
“Just fine.”
“How’s your head? Have you had any symptoms
since your fall?”
“No.”
He stopped and leaned on the part of the banis-
ter that wasn’t painted, closer to Bertie so she could
see he was giving her his full attention. “You know,
sometimes symptoms don’t show up until later.
I’d really feel better if we knew everything was
fine. I’d like you to come back to the hospital for
some tests.”
“I’m fine. I’ve had worse falls than that one I took
last week without any head injuries.”
“You’ve had other falls? All the more reason to
come and be checked out.”
“You’re acting like you think something is wrong
with me.”
“A doctor worries about his patients. Come to
the hospital. Ellie can drive you.”
Bertie chuckled, her shoulders softly jiggling up
and down as she lay on the lawn chair. “I under-
stand now. You’re looking for an excuse for Ellie to
come visit you. Well, she doesn’t need to drag me
59 Summer 2003
along to see you. She can go on her own. She has
my permission.”
“No, I just think that it would be better if—”
John didn’t finish his sentence. Ellie had just run
her paintbrush along his back.
“I’m so sorry,” Ellie said, still holding the brush
out like it was a weapon. “Did I get a little paint on
you? I’ll have to be more careful.”
John arched his back and pulled at his T-shirt.
“A little? It’s running down my jeans.”
“Yes, and it’s getting on your shoes, too. I hope
they weren’t expensive.” She handed him a rag, and
he wiped at his jeans and shirt while he glared at her.
“You can go clean up in the bathroom,” she said
sweetly. “Don’t worry about making a mess. We
have sixty-nine reasons not to clean.”
Janette Rallison lives in Chandler, Arizona, with her
husband, five children, two cats, and a dog (although
she threatens to get rid of the cats on a daily basis). She
writes LDS romances under the name of Sierra
St. James and young adult novels under the name of
Janette Rallison. Her books include Deep Blue Eyes
and Other Lies, Dakota’s Revenge, Trial of the Heart,
Masquerade, Playing the Field, and, coming in
October, All’s Fair in Love, War, and High School.
Summer 2003
P O E M
Skyline Trail
This high, summer’s a season of trillium,
mornings of color, scent, and sky.
The ridge holds hikers as various—
all manner of hat, shirt, and shoe.
Behind us a teen with bleached
orange hair, jeans ripped at low side-seams,
protests to his parents . . . something about
one trail like all the rest.
As we top the ridge, in the silence near us
his camera is raised, the click/whir
of the shutter constant until someone
offers him juice from a pack.
He puts boredom back onto his face
and they start on.
There’s a jitter of time
on this mountain: first summer
of our empty nest, and I’m startled
to identify with the teen. . . . Adolescence
is so complicated a word.
How many times do we go through it?
He trails them down—reloading film—
as classic as any genus or species
on the mountain, carrying images
from the paisley hillsides, the close-ups
he won’t yet allow family and friends.
And what we notice adds to the lore
we’ve enlarged since our childhoods.
Part of how we’ll move on.
—Dixie Partridge
60 IRREANTUM
 S T O R Y “Elise,” Mr. Braithwaite called, as I scribbled my
Arm’s Length
By Shirley Bahlmann
Editor’s note: This story is from Shirley Bahlmann’s
forthcoming book, Even Love Is Odd: True Old Fash-
ioned Stories of Love and Romance, the third vol-
ume in her Odd series of pioneer stories, the first two
volumes of which were published by Cedar Fort.
F or twenty-five years my grandfather’s warning
had served me well. “Clive,” he’d said to me as
he leaned forward in his big armchair by the fire.
“The only reason us married men are married is
because we couldn’t run fast enough. Keep those
women at arm’s length.”
Being a sheepherder made it easy to take Grand-
pa’s advice to heart. I remained a contented bache-
lor until that fateful day when I first saw Elise
Roberts. After that, it was like she had a sheep’s
crook around my neck, dragging my thoughts
around with her.
It happened on my supply run into town. I wasn’t
looking for love or trouble, when the shop door
opened and a brown-eyed girl with freckles sprin-
kled across the tops of her cheeks came sashaying
in. Her brown hair was shot through with dusky
red lights as warm as campfire embers. Her hair was
pinned up on her head, but one section had escaped,
trailing over her shoulder like shining filaments of
fishing line. When she turned her head to talk to
the pale blonde girl beside her, the curl at the end
of the errant strand moved against her bodice like
bait on a hook. The lure was irresistible. I wanted
this girl wrapped in my arms instead of at arm’s
length. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as she wan-
dered over to the dry goods, exclaiming to her friend
over the red calico fabric.
I saw Mr. Braithwaite grinning around his mous-
tache when I finally forced myself to turn around.
He pushed the supply slip across the counter for
me to sign. I could feel my face heat up, and longed
to get out of there. At the same time, I dreaded the
thought of leaving.
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name. I began piling cans and sacks of sugar and
flour into my canvas bag.
“Yes?” A voice as soft and fresh as wind through
the aspen leaves caressed my ears. Without any will
of my own, I turned to see brown eyes regarding
me with what I both hoped and feared was an
interested gleam.
“I’ve got some new yellow gingham I didn’t put
out yet. Do you want to see it?” Mr. Braithwaite said.
The dusting of freckles lifted as a heart-stopping
smile spread across Elise’s face. “I surely would,”
she answered Mr. Braithwaite while looking at me.
“Would you excuse us, Clive?” Mr. Braithwaite
said. I nodded mutely.
“Excuse me, Clive,” Elise said boldly, tossing me
a glance out of the corners of her eyes as she brushed
past me much closer than she needed to. I watched
her follow Mr. Braithwaite into the storage room.
A smell like sunflowers billowed out behind her,
and I breathed it in, holding it as long as I could,
willing it to seep into my insides and become a part
of me.
Elise’s face stayed with me all the way back to the
sheep camp, her face and that long reddish brown
curl with a crook on the end like a beckoning fin-
ger urging me closer. I didn’t even notice Jeff until
I practically rode my horse on top of him. “What’s
wrong with you?” he yelled as he jumped back in
alarm.
I focused on his sunburned face, the lines beside
his mouth dark with dirt, his head tipped sideways
in curiosity as his shapeless hat brim fluttered in the
canyon breeze. “Nothin’,” I answered innocently.
Jeff searched my face. “Looks like you went and
dipped your tongue into the sugar bag,” he mused.
“You better not have, though, or else I won’t save
you any when I go for supplies next month.”
My heart jerked away from its dreamy thoughts
of Elise and jumped up in defense. “You can’t go,”
I blurted, without even thinking.
Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “It’s my turn,” he said slowly.
My mind cast about for some logical answer to
deflect his statement. “You can have the next two
turns in a row,” I said. “I’ve got to go back next
month.”
61 Summer 2003
 “Why?” Jeff asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’ve just got to,” I said stupidly.
“What’s wrong?” Jeff said.
I grasped at the straw he’d extended me. “Med-
ical reasons,” I said. “Heart problems.”
“You’re too young,” Jeff countered, his face a
mask of disbelief.
“Tell that to my heart,” I said.
Jeff didn’t give in right away. When it became
clear to him that I was not myself, he began to relent.
He’d catch me staring into space with a faraway look
in my eye. I’d forget things that used to come auto-
matically to me, and I didn’t eat as much as I used
to. I daydreamed a lot, imagining Elise beside me,
looking out over the flocks and snuggling together
on the bluffs at the end of the day as we watched
the sunset together. The month between supply runs
became tortuously long, seeming to last a year.
When the magical day came, Jeff was so worried
about my heart that he practically insisted that I go.
As I climbed up on my horse, he said, “Clive, is there
a cure?”
“I hope so,” I answered as I turned the horse to
the trail and hurried him down the mountain. I made
a beeline for Braithwaite’s store, so intent on my
destination that I wasn’t looking to either side as I
rode into town.
“Hello, Clive.” The feminine voice was unmis-
takable.
I reined in and my poor horse stopped so sud-
denly he almost sat down. I patted his neck in apol-
ogy as I stared into the yard beside the Claridge
Hotel. Elise was holding a pair of long underwear
in one hand and a clothespin in the other. She stood
underneath a clothesline, a white apron covering
her red calico dress. Her smoldery red hair was piled
haphazardly on her head with several long, damp
tendrils trailing down her back and over her shoulders.
She flung the long johns over the line and swayed
toward me. “I haven’t seen you for a long time,” she
said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Herding sheep,” I replied, counting myself lucky
that my tongue didn’t twist itself into a knot.
“All by yourself?” Elise asked, looking up at me
from underneath her lashes.
“With Jeff,” I answered.
Summer 2003
“And who’s Jeff?” Elise put her elbows up on the
pole fence and rested her face on both of her palms.
“Is Jeff the loyal and faithful sheep dog?”
“No, he’s a guy,” I said.
“Are you married?” Elise asked, tipping her head
sideways onto one palm as she raised the other to
shade her eyes from the sun.
My heart jumped at the question. “No, ma’am,”
I answered quickly.
“Climb on down, would you?” Elise said. “The
sun’s in my eyes when I look up at you like this.”
I got down off my horse and moved over to the
fence. Elise smelled faintly of sweet, dried hay.
“Do you want to be married?” Elise asked sud-
denly, her brown eyes so dark I couldn’t see where
the pupil ended and the iris began. My heart jumped
into my throat, blocking my ability to speak. Elise
put both forearms flat on top of the pole fence,
leaning forward on them until her face was close
enough to kiss. “Do you want to marry me?” she
asked softly.
I heard an echo of Grandfather’s voice saying
“Run!” just before I heard myself say yes. My mouth
touched Elise’s and my heart melted into my toes.
When we broke apart, I saw Elise smiling up at me,
and thought I’d never be happier. My arms were
aching to hold her when a sudden thought struck
me. “What about your parents?” I asked. “They aren’t
going to let you marry a sheepherder just down off
the mountain that you’ve only seen twice.”
Elise’s smile turned mischievous. “I’m an orphan,”
she said, “and I do know you. I asked Mr. Braith-
waite about you, and Mrs. Siddons.”
“My schoolteacher?” I said, my mouth open wide
enough for a flock of sheep to fit into.
“And Mr. Hewlitt, and Mr. Bonacre. Henry and
Ethel Carson had something to say about you,
too.” Elise was positively glowing.
“You must have talked to the whole town,” I said,
rubbing my forehead and thinking hard if there
was anything bad that any of those people might
have said.
Elise shrugged her shoulders and the tendrils of
hair shifted languidly on her red calico sleeves.
“Once I saw you, I wanted to know all about you.
I couldn’t find you anywhere, or else I would have
62 IRREANTUM
asked you,” she said simply. I didn’t know how to
argue with that.
“Once I get supplies, I have to head on back to
camp,” I said.
“How long will it take to get supplies?” she asked.
I gazed toward the mountains and tried to look
wise. “Well, I’ll stay over tonight so I’m not head-
ing back in the dark. There are wild animals on the
prowl up there after dark.” I glanced at Elise to see
if she was impressed. She was. “I imagine it will
take me a couple of hours to round up what I need.
I’ll stay overnight in town, then head back at first
light.” I knew tomorrow would come too soon, but
it was the best I could do.
“Where will you stay?” Elise asked.
I shrugged. “They usually let me sleep in the
hayloft at the stable.”
“Stay in the hotel tonight,” Elise said, smiling
until her freckles begged to be kissed.
I rubbed one of my ears as it grew warm. I hoped
my face wasn’t following suit. “Don’t know that I
have the means for that right now,” I said.
“Oh, you won’t have to pay,” Elise said. “Bert
and Sally Johnson run the place. I work for them,
you see, and they’ll be happy to let us have a room
for our wedding night. It will be their gift to me.”
My eyes about left my head as I stared at Elise.
“Our wedding night?” I said. “Tonight?”
Elise wet her lips with her tongue before she
answered. “You said yourself that you wanted to
marry me. Why wait? You’re leaving tomorrow, and
I want to go with you.” Her slightly parted lips were
soft and full, and her heated brown eyes searched
my face before she said softly, “You haven’t changed
your mind, have you?”
My thoughts raced. I’d never seriously entertained
the thought of getting married at all. Sheep herding
was a solitary occupation. If I did get married, I’d
imagined long talks with the parents, evenings on a
porch swing, and supervised walks. I’d never thought
of marrying someone after two meetings, but after
all, why not? Who was to say the long way was the
right way? Elise was all I’d thought about day and
night in the sheep camp. Thoughts of her had
entwined themselves around my life like ivy on a
garden wall. She must have had similar feelings,
IRREANTUM
since she had talked to everyone who ever knew
me. It was flattering that in spite of all she’d heard,
she still wanted to marry me. And I wanted to
marry her. What difference did it make if we got
married today or next year?
I focused on Elise’s face. Her bottom lip was thrust
slightly forward, the corners of her mouth turned
down as her eyes regarded me solemnly. I put my
finger under her chin and said, “No, I haven’t changed
my mind. Do you think the Johnsons would throw
in a hot bath along with the room?” Although my
voice was casual, my heart was beating wildly.
“Yes!” Elise threw her arms around my neck, pulled
me across the pole fence, and kissed my cheek.
Then she turned and ran for the hotel. The long
johns on the clothesline waited patiently for some-
one to come and hang them straight. I climbed back
on my horse and rode to the store, feeling as though
my horse was walking on a cushiony cloud.
“What’s wrong with you, Clive?” Mr. Braith-
waite asked me right off.
“I’m getting married,” I said, the words sound-
ing strange, yet exhilarating.
Mr. Braithwaite raised his hand to his mouth
and rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. “Elise?” he
asked.
The sound of her name put a catch in my heart.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Well, you could do worse,” he said. “She’s a
spunky girl. Don’t you go abusing her heart.”
I wasn’t used to the stern look in his eye. “No,
sir,” I said stoutly.
Mr. Braithwaite smiled. “I had a feeling about
you two. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. Before long, the sup-
plies were all gathered and piled on the counter.
Mr. Braithwaite reached out to the shelf behind
him and picked up a paper-wrapped square. He set
it on top of the supply stack. Puzzled, I looked at
him, then the paper square, then back at him.
“Soap,” he said.
I checked the list in my hand. “I don’t think . . .”
I began, but Mr. Braithwaite interrupted me.
“Wedding gift,” he said, and winked. My face
got uncomfortably hot, and I rubbed a spot on my
jaw that didn’t even itch.
63 Summer 2003
 “Thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to
say.
I secured the supplies on my horse, and headed
for the hotel. As I pulled into the yard, I noticed
that someone had hung Mr. Long Johns straight
and proper, and the laundry basket had been taken
in. Heart beating hard, I got my horse settled in the
barn, had a hot bath with the soap from Mr. Braith-
waite, then got dressed in my extra shirt that I kept
rolled up in my saddle blanket. I found my way to
the parlor. A thin man watched me enter, scruti-
nizing my progress through a pair of small, round
glasses straddling the bridge of his nose. He put his
hand out toward me. “Clive?” I nodded. “Bert John-
son,” he introduced himself. He cleared his throat.
“Elise is like family,” he said. Then he clasped his
hands behind his back and stared down at the floor
for a moment. He raised his head and looked me in
the eye. “You take care of her,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I said solemnly. I hadn’t planned to do
anything different. I wouldn’t dare, with Mr. Braith-
waite and Mr. Johnson to answer to. I swallowed
hard as a lump of uncertainty rose in my throat.
Was I doing the right thing?
Female voices sounded in the hall behind me.
Elise and a pudgy woman with a tearful smile and
hair the color of dirt came bustling into the room.
I assumed that the woman was Sally Johnson, but I
didn’t give her more than a fleeting thought. Elise
had on a dress of sunny white and yellow gingham.
The full skirt was gathered in at the waist, and the
bodice fitted her like my favorite old glove molded
itself to my hand. Her hair was pinned up proper,
with no naughty strands escaping to brush the sides
of her face or dance unchecked down her back. Her
smile was warm and shy, and my uncertainty melted
off me like snow in a room with a fireplace going
full blast.
After the preacher married us in a simple cere-
mony punctuated by Mrs. Johnson’s sniffles, we
had a chicken dinner prepared by Mrs. Johnson
that I’m sure was good, but I don’t remember it
very well. Afterward, Elise and I made our way up
to our room and closed the door behind us.
I felt mighty proud the next morning riding out
of town with my pretty wife on the horse behind
Summer 2003
me. Her arms were wrapped around my waist as
snug as a belt, but they felt much better than any
belt I’d ever worn. At times Elise exclaimed about
the scenery, or an animal that she saw scuttle into
the undergrowth. When she wasn’t talking, she laid
her head on my back and snuggled in like she was
meant to be there.
As we pulled into camp, Jeff hailed me. “Clive!
What’d the doc say? Are you all right?”
“I’m cured,” I said, twisting around to take Elise’s
arm and help her slide down the side of the horse.
“This is the best medicine anyone ever prescribed
for me.”
Elise found her balance on the ground and
giggled, “Oh, Clive!”
Jeff stared as though he’d forgotten how to blink.
“This is Elise,” I said as I dismounted.
Elise did a little curtsy thing and said, “Pleased
to meet you.”
“Clive! Are you crazy? You can’t bring a girl up
here!” Jeff hollered.
“This girl is my wife,” I answered smugly, pleased
in some perverse way to see the shock ripple across
Jeff ’s face as his mouth went slack. “Where are your
manners?” I chided Jeff as I put my arm protectively
around Elise. “You should at least greet her before
you shout at me.”
Jeff whipped his hat off. “Sorry, ma’am,” he
mumbled to Elise as his ears and cheekbones col-
ored as red as sunburn. Plopping his hat back on
his head, he said with more control in his voice,
“Why didn’t you tell me, Clive?”
“I didn’t know myself,” I said reasonably. “It was
Elise’s idea, and it seemed like a good one.”
“Well, I never,” Jeff said, but forgot to say what
it was he’d nevered.
We made arrangements for Jeff to sleep in a tent,
and Elise and I took over the camp wagon. We
bunked together on a bed, which was unfortu-
nately not as big as the one at the hotel. Elise wasn’t
used to the aspen pole base, either. She piled blan-
kets over the mattress until she couldn’t feel the
poles anymore. Her bed at the hotel had been sup-
ported by crisscrossed ropes with some give in
them. The aspen poles were straight and stiff and
tied together with rawhide.
64 IRREANTUM
 Things went along just fine for a week or so.
Elise sat by me on the bluff overlooking the sheep
and the sunset after she’d cooked us some mighty
good supper, a lot better than Jeff or I ever grubbed
up. Every night Elise snuggled with me on our
aspen pole bed, nestling in the hollow of my shoul-
der, her arm thrown across my chest, her hair tick-
ling my chin, and I wondered at my good fortune.
Yet after I started bunking with Elise, I found
that I wasn’t getting the sleep I was used to. I woke
up several times in the night, but not because of
coyotes howling or a warning bark from the sheep
dogs. I wasn’t used to someone else in my bed. Some-
times my arm would go to sleep, all numb and life-
less from Elise’s head lying on it too long. Sometimes
I’d roll over and find Elise in my way. Sometimes
her hair would get in my face and give me night-
mares of suffocating in my horse’s mane. I was rev-
eling in the closeness of my affectionate wife, but
suffering from lack of sleep.
I had to do something, but I didn’t want to hurt
Elise’s feelings. After all, she needed a place to sleep
too, and I’d rather have her for a bunkmate than
Jeff. I pondered on the matter some, until I finally
hit on a solution that I hoped would work.
I began one afternoon when Elise was down at
the river washing clothes. I didn’t want her to see
what I was doing and think it was because I didn’t
love her. I flung back the covers and mattress on our
bed, exposing the aspen poles. Taking my pocket-
knife, I cut the leather thongs that bound the poles.
With some new leather strips, I pulled in the two
center poles, cinching them as tightly as Elise held
me in the night. I wrapped and tied the new leather
thongs around the rest of the poles, adjusting the
spacing to compensate for the new arrangement.
When I heard footsteps outside, I barely had time
to fling the mattress and blankets back into place
before Elise pushed a wicker basket into the small
camp wagon ahead of her. She stopped when she
saw me, a delighted smile spreading across her face.
“Clive! I thought you’d be out with the sheep!”
A niggle of guilt in my stomach made me
squirm. “I’d better go take my turn from Jeff,”
I said. “I just wanted to see what we were havin’
for supper.”
IRREANTUM
“Mutton,” Elise said, setting down the basket and
moving over in front of me. She wrapped her arms
around my waist and pressed her freckled cheek
against my shirt. I couldn’t help but wrap my arms
around her. She lifted her face to smile at me, and
I lowered my face to kiss her.
That night, after Elise fell asleep, the slight ridge
formed by the two poles in the middle of our bed
made her roll over against the wagon’s wall. I slept
soundly, dreaming of little freckle-faced girls and
dusky red-haired boys running and playing under-
neath a clothesline full of long johns.
According to James Jacobs of Ogden, Utah, an unnamed
sheepherder got married in the early 1900s. He took
his new bride to sheep camp with him so they could
enjoy a honeymoon while he earned a salary at the same
time. Used to sleeping alone, the sheepherder had a
hard time getting a good night’s rest in the arms of his
new bride. He solved the problem by tightening the
aspen poles in the center of the bed, thus creating a
ridge that rolled his affectionate wife over to her own
side of the mattress after she fell asleep at night.
Shirley Bahlmann has always had a fascination for the
olden days, which developed into time spent research-
ing and the discovery of pioneer stories just too good to
be hidden away in dusty file folders. Since writing her
first novel at the age of ten, Shirley has married, had
six sons, and published five books, with more on the
way. Her website is at www.shirleybahlmann.com.
65 Summer 2003
 E S S A Y history and criticism, theory and context, special-
Love Stories—
That Is, a Love of Story1
By Bruce W. Jorgensen
T he ground I trust and hope to stand on here is
this: we are here for no better reason than we
simply love stories. Reading and writing, and dis-
cussing reading and writing, can be regarded as
trivial, servile, or even sinister. What readers and
writers do is trivial, in the language of those who
say, “That’s nice, dear, but what will you do with
it?” and by those who regard poems and stories as
they do sofa art or cream cheese frosting.
Trivializing the literary arts is sinister in the lan-
guage of those who fear the work of verbal imagi-
nation because it allies itself with our life in the body
and in the world of matter and time, the life of our
frailty and trouble, our badness and goodness, our
wrong and right. Such people, like Socrates in Plato’s
Republic,2 suffer from what I call contamination
anxiety, which sometimes reaches dangerously viru-
lent levels.
That literature, reading, and writing are trivial,
servile, and sinister is not the whole truth of the mat-
ter, nor the larger if still partial truth that the love
of stories may discover. Rainer Maria Rilke wrote
in Letter 4 of his Letters to a Young Poet: “Works of
art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so
little to be reached as with criticism. Only love can
grasp and hold and be just toward them.”3 That is
to say that fear or suspicion will never reach and grasp
and mete justice to works of art; which will not
trouble fear or suspicion, because they would rather
keep works of art out of reach. Rilke states directly
that criticism cannot decipher the essence of art—
though criticism is the name for the critic’s method,
and theory the means of artistic interpretation.
The number one professional cliché about English
teachers and students: we spoil poems and stories,
fact or fiction, when we analyze them; we murder
when we dissect and discuss. Many have passed that
way, and all from time to time live in that partial
truth. English teachers try to equip students with
Summer 2003
ized jargon and concepts for discussing what hap-
pens when we read, hoping all the time that these
tools will help construct our love for literature more
than destroy it.
As I move toward the core of what I want to say,
I mean to talk plain if I can, though I may just be
blowing insulation into the spaces of your minds. It
is my belief that lectures and classes, not to men-
tion reviews, critical articles, Masterplots and Cliff ’s
Notes, may all be prophylactics, or devices of intel-
lectual and imaginative contraception, that quite
literally prevent conception, that prevent the ger-
minal word from entering the matter unorganized
of our minds, and ordering and begetting some-
thing new there.
For over a decade in my beginning creative writing
classes, one piece of required reading was Walker
Percy’s essay “Loss of the Creature,” which warns us
that “the citizen of Huxley’s Brave New World who
stumbles across a volume of Shakespeare in some
vine-grown ruins and squats on a potsherd to read
it is in a fairer way of getting at a sonnet than the
Harvard sophomore taking English Poetry II.” The
“educational package,” as Percy calls it, gets in the way
of the “immediate encounter with being,” the “sov-
ereign encounter of the person with the sight that
enlivens the mind and gladdens the heart.”4
I n the world there are only two stories: somebody
takes a trip, and a stranger comes to town.5 Let
one of these stories stand for the occasion and act
of reading. I want to suggest in a concrete sense
that to take the imperative “love stories” is hos-
pitably to let them in, to say “well-come” and then
to sit down and listen.6 Sir Philip Sidney in his
“Apologie for Poetrie” understood, he took it as a
given, if I am right to discern that shadowy figure
of the wanderer at the door in his famous clause
about the poet: “With a tale forsooth he commeth
unto you: with a tale which holdeth children from
play, and old men from the chimney-corner.”7
Reading is entertainment, an enter-tain-ment in
which guest and host hold something between them:
I entertain this storyteller who then entertains me.
But those in whom contamination anxiety rages may
66 IRREANTUM
never know what we hold between us, for in fear
and suspicion they may never have “applied [their]
hearts to understand” (Mos. 12.27).
Time now to see if we can fold our hearts nearer
to a few stories.
I begin with a scene, a guest/host scene as it hap-
pens, from the biblical story of Joseph. Joseph is
the host, his brothers the guests. They are unaware
that Joseph plays the game of Gyges, as in the tale
Plato’s half-brother Glaucon uses to argue with
Socrates about justice in Book 2 of the Republic.
Joseph has no magic ring of invisibility, but he is
effectively invisible to his brothers; the nature and
aim of his game are not clear. What is clear is that
he means to keep the upper hand, that he intends
to play the unknown knower.
But the act of personal human knowing, in this
scene at least, will not allow that: if I will know, I
will be known.8 As it happens, Judah told the ver-
sion of the story he could bear:
My lord asked his servants, saying, Have ye a
father, or a brother? And we said unto my lord,
We have a father, an old man, and a child of
his old age, a little one; and his brother is dead,
and he alone is left of his mother, and his
father loveth him. And thou saidst unto thy
servants, Bring him down unto me, that I may
set mine eyes upon him. And we said unto my
lord, The lad cannot leave his father: for if he
should leave his father, his father would die.
And thou saidst unto thy servants, Except your
youngest brother come down with you, ye
shall see my face no more. And it came to pass
when we came up unto thy servant my father,
we told him the words of my lord. And our
father said, Go again, and buy us a little food.
And we said, We cannot go down: if our
youngest brother be with us, then will we go
down; for we may not see the man’s face,
except our youngest brother be with us. And
thy servant my father said unto us, Ye know
that my wife bare me two sons: And one went
out from me, and I said, Surely he is torn in
pieces; and I saw him not since: And if ye take
this also from me, and mischief befall him, ye
IRREANTUM
shall bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to
the grave. Now therefore when I come to thy
servant my father, and the lad be not with us;
seeing that his life is bound up with the lad’s
life; It shall come to pass, when he seeth that
the lad is not with us, that he will die: and thy
servants shall bring down the gray hairs of
thy servant our father with sorrow to the grave.
For thy servant became surety for the lad unto
my father, saying, If I bring him not unto
thee, then I shall bear the blame to my father
for ever. Now therefore I pray thee, let thy ser-
vant abide instead of the lad a bondman to my
lord; and let the lad go up with his brethren.
For how shall I go up to my father, and the lad
be not with me? lest peradventure I see the evil
that shall come on my father. (Gen. 44:19–34)
The game is up: no more control, no more domin-
ion; the unknown knower will be known, and these
men shall see the face of their brother.
Then Joseph could not refrain himself before
all them that stood by him; and he cried,
Cause every man to go out from me. And
there stood no man with him, while Joseph
made himself known unto his brethren. And
he wept aloud: and the Egyptians and the
house of Pharaoh heard. And Joseph said unto
his brethren, I am Joseph; doth my father yet
live? And his brethren could not answer him;
for they were troubled at his presence. And
Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to
me, I pray you. And they came near. And he
said, I am Joseph your brother, whom ye sold
into Egypt. Now therefore be not grieved, nor
angry with yourselves. (Gen. 45:1–5)
Now, Joseph, not his coat, is torn in pieces and
he weeps aloud, and must answer, free to love them
perhaps for the first time in his life, “I am Joseph your
brother.” And what of us, its readers, you and me?
Read aloud, the voices on the page rend the heart.
They are not merely “on the page” or “in the mind’s
eye or ear” alone, but in the reader’s body here and
now—I am Judah and you are Joseph and we shall
never be quite what we were before.
67 Summer 2003

W hat occurs here while reading this scriptural
account happens with secular texts as well.
In the tale, or Breton lai, of a great twelfth-century
writer at whose personal and historical identity we
can only guess, beyond her own declaration, “Marie
is my name, I am of France,” she wrote her lais (or
“lays” if you English-ize the spelling) in octosyllabic
verse around A.D. 1170. It is fair enough to call her
one of the creators of the Western literary tradition
of Courtly Love, perhaps even to call her, as John
Fowles does, “the first woman novelist of our era”
and (but for the exception of Murasaki Shikibu in
early eleventh-century Japan) the author of “the first
indisputably feminine view of the human comedy
expressed through art.”9
The patient hearing
of a tale engages both
characters and readers
into realms of love
they might not have
otherwise empathized.
Her work seems to have become popular enough
in her own time to be scathed by the fearful and
suspicious. A monk named Denis Piramus about
1180 wrote that “the lays are accustomed to please
the ladies: they listen to them joyfully and willingly,
for they are just what they desire.” Marie herself is
a better critic of Courtly Love stories, perhaps
because in her lais she applied her heart to under-
stand them. What many of her lais show over and
over is how the systematized “triangular desire”10 of
Courtly Love leads to violence and death (e.g. the
“triangle” of a lord’s lady loved by a knight: Arthur-
Guinevere-Lancelot; Mark-Isolde-Tristan). Marie’s
stories risk an unstable and potentially explosive
fusion of Celtic romance and Christian morality.
In one tale, Eliduc, the longest and the last of the
set (in the Harley manuscript, the sole one in which
Summer 2003
it appears), Marie reaches out with an astonishing
literary transcendence of that inherent triangular
tension. Eliduc, a good knight, long and well mar-
ried, must leave his lord because of the envious
slander of other vassals. He sails to England and
there wins a war for a local king and thus the atten-
tion and love of the king’s daughter. He also comes
to love the maiden, while not disclosing to her his
prior marriage. As author, Marie seems to have con-
structed an insoluble and potentially tragic love tri-
angle. Not to mention an inversion of the standard
triangle of Courtly Love, which often sets an unmar-
ried knight in rivalry with a married one over the
second one’s wife.
Eventually, when Eliduc sails with the maiden
for Brittany and is beset by a fierce storm near the
coast, one of the sailors shouts out his secret and
Eliduc promptly knocks the man overboard. The
maiden falls into a deathlike swoon. Upon landing,
Eliduc carries the king’s daughter to a forest her-
mitage near his home and lays her before the altar,
where he secretly visits her body to mourn and pray
for her soul. Disturbed by his frequent absences,
Eliduc’s wife learns from a spy that he has been vis-
iting the forest retreat. When Eliduc is summoned
to court, she herself visits the hermitage.
When she entered the chapel and saw the bed
of the maiden who was like a new rose, she
raised the coverlet and saw the body so slen-
der, the long arms, the white hands, fingers,
slim, long, and full. Then she knew why her
husband had grieved. She called the servant
and showed him the marvel: ‘Do you see this
woman,’ she said, ‘who in beauty resembles a
gem? This is my husband’s beloved for whom
he laments so, and, in faith, it is no wonder
when such a beautiful woman has perished.
Either pity or love will prevent me from ever
knowing joy again.’ She began to weep and
lament the damsel. (124)
Then, a weasel runs out from under the altar and
the servant strikes and kills it. A second weasel comes
and tries to rouse it, then runs into the woods, returns
with a bright red flower, and places the flower in
the mouth of the first weasel. It recovers. Urged by
68 IRREANTUM
Eliduc’s wife, the servant strikes the weasel again
so the flower falls from its mouth as both weasels
escape. The lady then puts the flower in the maiden’s
mouth.
After a short while she revived and breathed.
Then she spoke and opened her eyes: ‘God,’
she said, ‘I have slept so long!’ When the lady
heard her speak, she began to thank God and
asked her who she was. The girl said, ‘Lady,
I was born in Logres, the daughter of a king
of that country. I deeply loved a knight, Eliduc,
the good soldier, who took me away with him.
He sinned when he tricked me, for he has a
wife and never told me or even gave any indi-
cation of this, and so, when I heard about
his wife, my grief caused me to faint. He has
wickedly left me forlorn in another land and
has betrayed me. I do not know what to think.
She who trusts a man is extremely foolish.’
(124–25)
Eliduc’s wife—for the moment another unknown
knower—knows enough to remedy the deception.
She will risk the truth:
‘Fair one,’ the lady replied, ‘nothing on earth
could make him joyful, you may be assured of
that, for he thinks you are dead and is terribly
distressed. He has come to look at you every
day, but I assume he found you in a swoon.
Truly, I am his wife and my heart grieves for
him. [. . .] I am overjoyed that you are alive
and shall take you with me and return you to
your beloved. I shall set him free completely and
take the veil.’ The lady comforted the girl. (125)
She does as she says and asks Eliduc’s permission
to take the veil, becomes a nun and serves God
in an abbey. Eliduc and the maiden marry, living
“together for many a day and the love between
them was perfect. They distributed great alms and
great wealth until such time as they themselves
turned to God” (125). Then Eliduc builds a church,
endows the church with most of his land, and joins
its holy order “to serve almighty God.”
He placed his dear wife together with his first
one and the latter received her as her sister [. . .].
IRREANTUM
They prayed that God might show their beloved
His sweet mercy and Eliduc in turn prayed for
them, sending his messenger to see how they
fared and how their spirits were. Each one strove
to love God in good faith and they came to a
good end thanks to God, the true divine. (126)
We may judge that Eliduc gets far better than he
deserves. But what I want to suggest is that the
patient hearing of a tale engages both characters
and readers into realms of love they might not have
otherwise empathized. Paradoxically, we have moved
from an unfaithful triangular desire to a repentant
triangular holiness. For Marie only Godly love,
or charity, has a chance of solving the triangular
problem of Courtly Love. The only “true divine” is
not Amor but God.
“You don’t know about me, without you have
read a book called by the name of ‘The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer,’ but that ain’t no
matter.” So begins Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,
which ranks as one of the greatest first-person nar-
rations in American literature, up there with Emer-
son, Thoreau, Whitman, and Dickinson. We may
not know much about Huck without we have read
Tom Sawyer, but that ain’t no matter: we know
Huck through his voice by the time we end that
first sentence. If I read silently or aloud, Huck’s
voice reverberates within my mind. And in the
jargon of an irreverent teen, I begin to understand
why Huckleberry Finn was promptly banned in
Boston’s Concord Public Library,11 why his voice is
censored annually: it might not merely contami-
nate your grammar, but also your morals.
Imagine Mark Twain’s turning the telling of a
story over to a teller modeled on the town hooli-
gan. American fiction has never gotten over this
character, or his pubescent but courageous voice.
Socrates himself would have blanched at this unfit
character, a risk of “virtue” to our very souls.
When Huck Finn is safely discussed as a “moral”
book, my guess is somebody soon quotes “You can’t
pray a lie—I found that out.” Huck discovers this
maxim in chapter 31 when Jim is being held in
Arkansas. He feels “the plain hand of Providence
69 Summer 2003
slapping [him] in the face” while attempting to
pray “and see if I couldn’t try to quit being the kind
of boy I was, and be better.”
So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn’t
come. Why wouldn’t they? It warn’t no use
to hide it from Him. Nor from me, neither.
I knowed very well why they wouldn’t come.
It was because my heart warn’t right; it was
because I warn’t square; it was because I was
playing double. I was letting on to give up sin,
but away inside of me I was holding on to the
biggest one of all. I was trying to make my
mouth say I would do the right thing and the
clean thing, and go and write to that nigger’s
owner and tell where he was; but deep down
in me I knowed it was a lie—and He knowed
it. You can’t pray a lie—I found that out.
As readers, we already found that out from King
Claudius in Hamlet: “My words fly up, my thoughts
remain below: words without thoughts never to
heaven go” (3.3.97–99).
And alas, Huck doesn’t come to rest there. Respon-
sibly, in chapter 31 he writes Miss Watson that
letter—and “it was astonishing, the way I felt light
as a feather, right straight off,” just from deciding
to do it.
I felt good and all washed clean of sin for
the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and
I knowed I could pray now. But I didn’t do it
straight off, but laid the paper down and set
there thinking—thinking how good it was all
this happened so, and how near I come to being
lost and going to hell. And went on thinking.
And got to thinking over our trip down the
river; and I see Jim before me, all the time, in
the day, and in the night-time, sometimes
moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a float-
ing along, talking, and singing, and laughing.
But somehow I couldn’t seem to strike no
places to harden me against him, but only the
other kind. I’d see him standing my watch on
top of his’n, stead of calling me, so I could go
on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when
I come back out of the fog; and when I come
to him again in the swamp, up there where
Summer 2003
the feud was; and such-like times; and would
always call me honey, and pet me, and do
everything he could think of for me, and how
good he always was; and at last I struck the
time I saved him by telling the men we had
small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and
said I was the best friend old Jim ever had
in the world, and the only one he’s got now;
and then I happened to look around, and see
that paper.
It was a close place. I took it up, and held
it in my hand. I was a trembling, because I’d
got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and
I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of hold-
ing my breath, and then says to myself:
“All right, then, I’ll go to hell”—and tore
it up.
It was awful thoughts, and awful words,
but they was said. And I let them stay said;
and never thought no more about reforming.
I shoved the whole thing out of my head; and
said I would take up wickedness again, which
was in my line, being brung up to it, and the
other warn’t. And for a starter, I would go to
work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if
I could think up anything worse, I would do
that, too; because as long as I was in, and in
for good, I might as well go the whole hog.
This is another passage, or story, that if read
aloud may rend the heart. But as readers we’re too
far on the safe side, as Mark Twain was on the safe
side of Emancipation when he wrote it; we’re too
“easy and comfortable” in our surety that Huck is
right, that the Negroes should be free, that the Chris-
tian defense of Southern chattel slavery is wrong.
Reading that aloud, though, I come a lot nearer to
the “close place” where Huck lives and makes his
“just personal” tragic choice in the surety that he is
damned forever. Huck’s decision is not the triumph
of a better principle, of any principle at all; it leaps
beyond Kant’s categorical imperative that makes, in
Kierkegaard’s estimation, the individual higher than
the universal12; it leaps, as Nietzsche said, some-
where “the other side of Good and Evil.”13 Huck
70 IRREANTUM
chooses no “higher law,” no ideal universal Good:
he chooses some one: “I see Jim.” I’m trying to move
us nearer to Huck’s “close place,” but all this is so
much insulation from the agony and terrible release
of that imagined act. Read it again yourself, aloud
if you can bear it, and ponder why we are sometimes
fearful and suspicious of stories. We fear being bro-
ken open to the core. We fear where story and love
may bear us.
Inarrator-hero,
move now to the ending of Chekhov’s ninety-
page novella My Life. Misail Alekseich, the
gets and loses nine different govern-
ment jobs, undergoes a terribly funny falling out
with his father, works for a housepainter, then as a
railroad telegrapher, then attempts farming, mar-
riage, and the improvement of the peasants, more
or less failing at all of them.
At last Misail goes to work again for the house-
painter, nicknamed Radish. Along the way, his sis-
ter Kleopatra falls in love with a married army
doctor, Blagovo, whose sister Anyuta is quietly
devoted to Misail throughout the story. Kleopatra
becomes pregnant by Dr. Blagovo and lives with
Misail in Radish’s house, where Anyuta secretly
sends them bread and where Dr. Blagovo futilely
attends to Kleopatra’s health. Misail’s father at last
disowns both his children—“you good-for-noth-
ing” and “your shameless sister”—and Misail “stag-
ger[s] through the streets [. . .] with crowds of boys
following [him] and shouting: ‘Better-than-noth-
ing! Better-than-nothing!’” (303).
In the story’s twentieth and last chapter, we real-
ize Kleopatra has died in childbirth; Misail has not
spoken of this event, and his silence reveals his sor-
row more keenly than words ever could. He carries
on life as a laborer, and the story ends so quietly
that only a reader who has fully welcomed, who has
fully entertained the tale, only the most alert child,
the most intent old man from the chimney corner
can hear it:
On weekdays I am busy from morning till
night. And on holidays in fine weather I take
my tiny niece in my arms (my sister expected
a boy, but gave birth to a girl) and slowly walk
to the cemetery, where I stand or sit for a long
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time looking at the grave that is so dear to me;
and I tell the little girl that her mother lies there.
Sometimes I find Anyuta Blagovo at the
grave. We greet each other and stand in silence,
or talk of Kleopatra, of her child, of how sad
life is in this world. Then, leaving the ceme-
tery, we walk in silence, and she purposely
slackens her pace in order to prolong her walk
with me. The child, gay and happy, squinting
in the bright sunlight, laughingly stretches out
her arms to her, and we both stop and caress
the dear little girl.
When we reach the town, flushed and agi-
tated, Anyuta Blagovo says good-bye to me
and sedately, austerely, walks on alone. And
looking at her, no one she passes would think
she had just been walking by my side and
fondling the child. (305)
Simply put, there is good reason to love a story.
Thus far, my major examples—Judah’s speech to
the unknown Joseph, the lady’s discovery of the
beloved maiden in Eliduc, Huck Finn’s decision,
Misail’s colloquy with his niece and Anyuta at his
sister’s grave—all involve the telling and hearing of
a story. Finally, a scene of marital love from Eudora
Welty’s great novel Losing Battles. Jack Renfro, who
has escaped prison shortly before his parole date in
order not to miss the annual family reunion, which
may be the last one for Granny Vaughn, lies on the
front porch of the house with his wife Gloria,
the outsider he has brought into the family. The
Miss Julia Mortimer mentioned in this dialogue is
the lifelong spinster schoolteacher of the commu-
nity, who has died on the day of the reunion.
Jack speaks to Gloria:
“The whole reunion couldn’t help but love
you—the prettiest one of ’em, and still look-
ing just like a bride.”
“They didn’t hesitate to wash my face in
their sticky watermelon juice!”
“Poor face,” he said tenderly, drawing his
hand down her cheek, turning her face to his.
“What they said was we’d been too loving
before we got married!”
71 Summer 2003
 “And if we hadn’t, I’d like ’em to tell me when
we’d had another chance at it!” he burst out.
“They tried making me your cousin, and
almost did.”
“Be my cousin,” he begged. “I want you
for my cousin. My wife, my children’s mother,
and my cousin and everything.”
“Jack, I’ll be your wife with all my heart,
and that’s enough for anybody, even you. I’m
here to be nobody but myself, Mrs. Gloria
Renfro, and have nothing to do with the old
dead past. And don’t ever try to change me,”
she cautioned him.
“I know this much: I don’t aim to get lone-
some no more. Once you do, it’s too easy to
stay that way,” said Jack.
“I’ll keep you from it,” she vowed.
“And you’d better.”
“Jack, the way I love you, I have to hate
everybody else.”
“Possum!” he said. “I ain’t asking you to
deprive others.”
“I want to.”
“Spare ’em a little bit of something else,”
he pleaded.
“Maybe I’ll learn after a long time to pity
’em instead.”
“They’ll take it a good deal harder!” he cried.
She drew still closer to him.
“Don’t pity anybody you could love,” whis-
pered Jack.
“I can think of one I can safely pity.”
“Uncle Nathan? Love him.”
“Miss Julia.”
“I know she hated to breathe her last,” he
said slowly. “As much as you and me would.”
He took her hand.
“Are you trying to say you could do better
than pity her?” Gloria asked him. “You never
laid eyes on her.”
Summer 2003
“I reckon I even love her,” Jack said. “I heard
her story.”
“She stands for all I gave up to marry you.
I’d give her up again tonight. And give up all
your family too,” she whispered, and felt him
quiver.
“Don’t give anybody up.” He stroked her.
“Or leave anybody out. Me and you both left
her out today, and I’m ashamed for us.”14
To hear a story, then, to receive it emotionally, is
a preliminary act of love, an opening gesture at the
threshold that may open onto wider love. But then
we all knew that, we who have heard or read a story
and began to know and love the guest who always
stands at the door and knocks, the poor wayfaring
man we welcomed not knowing it was we who
might at last be his guests.
As readers and writers we may engage in some
semblance of triviality as we absorb in our hearts
the text of a book, as we engage some endearing
satisfaction with a discourse of literary characters,
plot, conflict, and a denouement. But somewhere
within this literary transaction, between writer and
reader, we are indebted to the teller, and telling, of
a story.
Bruce W. Jorgensen holds advanced degrees from Cor-
nell and has taught literature and creative writing at
BYU since 1975. He has published poems, short fic-
tion, reviews, interviews, and essays in Dialogue, Sun-
stone, Carolina Quarterly, Ensign, Modern Fiction
Studies, Western American Literature, BYU Studies,
Literature and Belief, High Plains Literary Review,
Wasatch Review, This People, Ellipsis, and Black
Ridge Review. He is currently working on studies of
Reynolds Price, Gina Berriault, the Book of Mormon,
Alice Munro, and “minimalist” American short fic-
tion of the 1980s, as well as tinkering on his own
poems and fiction. He lives with his wife in Provo and
particularly enjoys doting on his newest grandson, Noah.
He walks a German pinscher named Min every evening
and means to read a lot of Tolstoy this summer.
72 IRREANTUM
Notes
1. Originally given at the English Awards Banquet,
Brigham Young University, March 31, 1992 (my wed-
ding anniversary, as it happened). Because it was written
to be spoken and meant as (in Wallace Stevens’s phrase)
the cry of its occasion, I’ve not tried to strip away every
trace of that occasion, though here it is addressed to a
different and somewhat wider (if not also larger) audi-
ence. In the present venue, my “we” should often be
taken as dual (I and you, my reader) and my “here”
should nearly always be taken as the occasion of your
reading these pages. I urge you to read the long quoted
texts aloud.
2. See the discussion of poetic mimesis or “imitation”
in Books 2, 3, and 10 of the Republic. I discussed Socrates’
argument at some length in my Association for Mormon
Letters presidential address (1991), “To Tell and Hear
Stories: Let the Stranger Say,” in Sunstone 16.5 (July 1993):
40–50; Association for Mormon Letters Annual 1994,
1:19–33; abridged in Eugene England and Lavina F.
Anderson, eds., Tending the Garden (Salt Lake City: Sig-
nature, 1996): 49–68. This banquet-speech was in fact
the next thing I had to say after that.
3. Trans. M. D. Herter Norton (New York: Norton,
1954): 29.
4. In The Message in the Bottle (New York: Farrar,
1975): 52–3, 56–7.
5. At last, in a battered and wrinkled pocket notebook,
I’ve found documentation for this profound aperçu. It
was said in a novel workshop at the Writers@Work sum-
mer conference in Park City, Utah, June 23, 1987, by the
writer Ron Carlson. I wrote: “Quotes John Gardner:
Only two novels: a stranger comes to town; somebody
goes on a journey.” (I like my own more monosyllabic
misremembered version slightly better, and of course I
can’t vouch for the absolute verbatim accuracy of my
notebook entry.) Distressingly, so far my re-scannings of
John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction and On Becoming a
Novelist have not confirmed my report of Carlson’s attri-
bution of the remark. Anyway, I’ve not yet found a story,
long or short, that his two categories won’t describe. And
in fact I now think that “a stranger comes to town; some-
body takes a trip” might as well be taken as summing up
the fundamental form of all human experience: either it
comes into us, or we go out into it. I doubt Heidegger or
Levinas could put it more elegantly and simply.
6. My thinking about this idea, which I had worked at
over years of teaching, was immensely enhanced by my
IRREANTUM
participation in a faculty seminar at BYU in 1990–91
studying the work of Emmanuel Levinas, who also uses
the ancient language of hospitality, as when he announces
the project of Totality and Infinity (trans. Alphonso
Lingis [Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP, 1969]): “This book
will present subjectivity as welcoming the Other, as hos-
pitality” (27). I should mention here, too, that the first
deliberate note I wrote toward this speech (before I’d
been asked to give it) was prompted by a faculty group
discussion of the second chapter of Edith Wyschogrod’s
Saints and Postmodernism (Chicago: U of Chicago P,
1990): her treatment of “Saintly Influence” (which is
often mediated to us by stories of saints’ lives and deeds)
made me reflect again on my reading of stories about
altruistic action. One of Wyschogrod’s main arguments is
that moral education works better by direct personal
influence, example, or story than by rule or precept.
7. Written about 1582–3, published in 1595 as The
Defence of Poesie. I quote from the text reprinted in The
Great Critics, ed. James Harry Smith and Edd Winfield
Parks, 3rd edition (New York: Norton, 1951): 206–7.
8. In Persons in Relation (New York: Harper, 1961;
London: Faber, 1970), the Scottish philosopher John
Macmurray wrote that “all knowledge of persons is by
revelation” (169). I don’t recall him saying that all per-
sonal revelation is reciprocal, but in my experience, that
is the case, and it is surely part of what we mean by
“love.”
9. John Fowles, foreword to The Lais of Marie de
France, trans. Robert Hanning and Joan Ferrante (New
York: Dutton, 1978): ix. The few facts about Marie and
her work alluded to here can be learned from Hanning
and Ferrante’s introduction to their translation, or from
that of Glyn S. Burgess and Keith Busby, The Lais of
Marie de France (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1986),
which is my source for the quotations which follow, both
by Denis Piramus (11) and Marie herself (124–26).
10. Besides the “eternal triangle” that seems to have
been invented for Western literary tradition in the
twelfth century, I allude here to Rene Girard’s discussion
of “triangular” or “mimetic” desire as presented in his
Deceit, Desire, and the Novel, trans. Yvonne Freccero (Bal-
timore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1966), which is far more
intricate, elaborate, and subtle than I have space even to
suggest. On the subject of “romance,” one of the best
sources is still Denis de Rougemont’s Love in the Western
World (rev. ed., New York: Pantheon, 1956; Harper,
1974). Anne Carson discusses a different kind of
73 Summer 2003
“romantic” or erotic “triangulation” in her Eros the Bit- Although she doesn’t explicitly think so anymore
tersweet (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1986; Normal, IL: it still feels
Dalkey, 1998), beginning especially in the chapter titled nice to be naked
“Ruse” (12–17); anyone interested in thinking about without having to arch her back and tilt her head
“love” or “romance” should also read Carson’s elegant
short book. without needing some extra money
11. A good source for material on this is the Norton and winding up in a coffee table book
Critical Edition, second edition, ed. Sculley Bradley et al
forty years later with Bettie Page on the cover.
(New York: Norton, 1977): 285–86.
12. See “Problem II” in his Fear and Trembling, trans.
Walter Lowrie (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1941, 1954): She does enjoy coming up with little sayings
78–91; esp. “The paradox of faith is this, that the indi- or epigrams or what have you.
vidual is higher than the universal” (80).
13. Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil appeared in The camera may love you,
1886, Huckleberry Finn in 1884 (in England) and 1885 but it’ll never be monogamous
(in America). Nietzsche might almost be commenting on
this moment in Huck Finn when he says, “What is done or
out of love always happens beyond good and evil”
(Aphorism 153). See Beyond Good and Evil, trans. Mari- There’s more to being a pioneer
anne Cowan (South Bend: Gateway, 1955): 86. than crossing the plains;
14. Eudora Welty, Losing Battles (New York: Random, you have to know when to say,
1970): 361–62. “This Is the Place.”
—Kris Bluth

Kris Bluth has a BA in English from the University of

P O
20 in 1953, 70 Next Week
She finishes up in the shower
while her husband cooks breakfast.
The Very Best
of Sting and the Police is on
the portable CD player.
Oregon and works at a nonprofit agency that provides
vocational and transit assistance for people with dis-
E M abilities. He was married last year in the Portland
Temple to Debbie, which also gave him a stepson
named Porter. He’s currently in the Seventh Ward,
Eugene Oregon Stake, where he teaches in the elders
quorum.

A T-shirt and khakis

are hanging on the doorknob.

After scrubbing her hair dry

(She cut it short in 1978
and hasn’t missed a strand of it since),
she uses the towel to sop up the steam
evaporating off of the mirror.

Summer 2003 74 IRREANTUM

 M E M O I R
Mirrors in Stone
By Nancy Hoole Taylor
N ever would I have believed it possible to miss
a place where I have never been before, until
now. Finding anything untouched is rare. I know
this. Yet I stare down at thin, black contour lines on
a map marking the river canyon, Escalante. A place
at one time so remote it stayed unbroken by trails
long after the secrets of an archaic people were left
upon soft walls. Inlaid in the earth’s surface, the deep
canyon, precipitous cliffs, and swift river kept this
section of country inaccessible and distant. Until
1872 the Escalante River had not been mapped,
remaining for the most part unknown. It was then
that this unknown river, the last unexplored river in
the continental United States, was named.
My flat palm irons out folds and creases in the
paper. Along its left edge I locate Birch and North
Creeks. These two creeks run off the Aquarius
Plateau, forming the headwaters of the Escalante
River. My finger tracing a thin blue line, I follow
each curve and turn, continuing down the long
stretches where I know the river slows. Now I scan
several buttes and mesas in the west, noting the
wide contour lines growing closer as the river nears.
East of the river, approaching the Circle Cliffs,
there are notably fewer flat surfaces. Here the ter-
rain turns rugged and sheer.
Following the charted river with my finger, I pass
intermittent lines delineating seasonal streams dis-
patched from the northwest’s high country. These
countless streams and creeks make their way over
and through stone, all leading toward the same
channel. Further down on the map, not far past
Coyote Gulch, the blue line begins to broaden.
Here, in the lower Escalante, the river begins to
spread beyond its bounds, flooding back on itself
into narrow side canyons. At the end of Clear
Creek, I read the name Cathedral in the Desert;
underneath in parentheses is written “submerged.”
Before the construction of the Glen Canyon
Dam and the formation of Lake Powell, one could
IRREANTUM
follow the stream bottom up Clear Creek, coming
gradually to a rock wall with an opening at first
unseen. Walking through the notch you could turn
and enter a place where vaulting walls stood high
around, a slit opening up to the sky. On the far side
water once spilled from rock, emptying into a pool
encircled by green moss-carpeted sandbars. Further
down, where the Escalante once coalesced into the
murky flows of the Colorado River, an entire canyon
lies beneath water. This map still shows the south-
ern course of the Escalante River where it met the
Colorado, flowing on through Glen Canyon.
I open a book and lay it next to the map. Black
and white photographs of Glen Canyon send a
cold rush down the back of my neck. Photographer
Tad Nichols, an early Colorado River runner, began
photographing this canyon in the mid twentieth
century, documenting a place few had ever gone.
I once believed that the loss of a great place could
not happen easily. There were some, though, who
knew differently. River runner Ken Sleight and nat-
uralist Edward Abbey were among many who
fought to preserve Glen Canyon.
Tad Nichols and two close friends, Katie Lee and
Frank Wright, guided the river for over a decade
and expressed their love of place through simple
stories, music, and photographs. Prior to the rising
floodwaters, they climbed through narrow passages
and waded across frigid pools. During their last
months on the Colorado, before the massive gates
closed on the dam, Tad, Katie, and Frank still
named side canyons, exploring each one until
routes became impassable.
What impresses me most is Katie, Frank, and
Tad’s courage to love a place they knew they were
losing. Never tiring, they wrote about the sounds
along the Colorado at night, about seasonal water-
falls spilling from Wingate cliffs and pieces of sky
bursting between open cracks.
Today, my understanding of this place comes
through story, song, and photograph, or simply
by reading a name: Music Temple, Cottonwood
Gulch, Hidden Passage, Tapestry Wall, and canyons
Wishbone, Twilight, and Labyrinth. For me, sto-
ries, photos, music, and memories are all that
are left.
75 Summer 2003
 In a strange metaphysical way I borrow loss from
those who knew Glen Canyon because of the love
I have for Escalante, a place I’ve known since child-
hood. In my mind, Escalante mirrors Glen Canyon.
I think of Navajo and Wingate Sandstone, match-
less in color and texture. On Kayenta terraces I stare
up at Escalante’s cliffs, confident the sun settled
into stone upon Glen Canyon’s walls in just the
same way. Cliff swallows must have twirled across
canyon spires and open rocks that windowed the
sky, just as they do here, now. In the steep-walled
canyons, was there a hiss of river drifting high, fad-
ing into a sound I now hear as song? I cannot help
but ask: After the walls cooled in the evening, did
the light stay upon the Colorado River beneath as
it does upon the Escalante? I think about this often,
especially when there is talk about worth of place.
In the West the land is thirsty. Sometimes the
dry air evaporates rain before it touches the soil. We
choose to live here, placing great agricultural and
energy demands upon the limited water supply and
fragile ecosystem. Simply, what some fail to under-
stand is that the worth of a place is measured dif-
ferently in river canyons; not by what you can
extract from the rock or divert from a river, but by
light, color, and intricate patterns carved into
stone. Aesthetic value is measured by how a few
rivers, birthed by the water of mountains, plateaus,
and drainages, bring ribbons of green foliage to red
and brown desert canyons. You find worth in the
way seeds release in perfect order following the
spring snowmelt, where Fremont cottonwoods
grow old shading the desert floor, and coyote wil-
lows lace among the water birch. Significance is
measured in the river’s motion as it washes over
stone now smooth, in how its flow breaks before
quickening over boulders and uprooted trees.
Illogically, worth of a natural place is told by the
beating of your heart. Not by the minerals extorted
from a hole in the side of a mountain.
The loss of such a place like Glen Canyon has
untold effects. Beauty is obscured with mural walls
now buried in water. Seeps in remote slot canyons
gave life to hanging gardens of maidenhair ferns
and columbine, but they have disappeared. I feel an
intrinsic loss because what could have taken place
Summer 2003
inside of us never does; for this reason alone I hike
the river-carved canyons of Escalante. Once a place
of distant buttes, rock towers, and imposing walls,
I am now drawn to this winding oasis of desert
river and pictographs on stone.
Escalante’s topographic map discloses much
about this place: the number of river miles to an
arch, the relief elevation between the Kaiparowits
Plateau and the canyon floor, the names and loca-
tions of springs and dry and slot canyons. But maps
cannot discern or confess all. Maps do not know
the history of a place. Under Escalante cliffs human
feelings run deep. Emotion? Appreciation? Some-
thing rises in my throat when I utter its name:
Escalante. Quiet natural rhythms and the height
and color spectrum of stone map the Escalante.
And I know that without touching brushed stone
or sensing these quiet rhythms, admiring rock
monoliths or feeling the cold sting of the river,
something within me would cease being. Emotion
becomes inexpressible and immovable. Yet it is
everything.
For me, it is risky to emote in this way—to har-
bor feelings of admiration, respect, and utter
thankfulness—and I often hesitate being left to
interpret the power of this pathos. Still, I want to
gasp in the intensity of the rising cliffs, to become
part of the isolation of desert river canyons until
the feeling burns inside of me. To live passionately,
even in loss of what will hurt me the most; I want
to feel deeply without it destroying me.
What happens here is what is rare—in places less
seen, less spoken of—and for me I wonder, after all,
how to tell it. What I find is captured among a
multiplicity of hues without names and stone
rinsed with light. For a hundred and twenty-five
miles it is the song of the river I hear rising.
Nancy Hoole Taylor is a native Utahn who has loved
Southern Utah since her childhood. She lives in Salt
Lake City with her husband and two daughters and
is a volunteer educator for Hawkwatch International
and a freelance writer.
76 IRREANTUM
 E S S A Y Built far enough to move into. It took a few
Seeking Straunge Strondes:
The Pilgrimage of Marden J. Clark
By Harlow S. Clark, IRREANTUM Poetry Editor
Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
—Geoffrey Chaucer
T his year Aprilles shoures came late, around the
first of May, so it is fitting that Marden J. Clark
(born July 13, 1916) took his pilgrimage, and his
pilgrimage took him, on May 15, 2003.
Marden began his autobiography, Awake at Four,
“I wonder at what point along the way Odysseus
realized that he was on an epic quest.” Marden’s
was more an epic pilgrimage. He never blinded an
inhospitable host, and though nearly eaten by a
sow as a baby, he never dallied with the sow-keeper.
Perhaps he listened to the siren song, holding
firmly to the iron mast. But mostly what he did,
like the Canterbury pilgrims, was to walk and swap
stories with fellow and sister travelers.
Bessie first, walking him over the Hollywood
hills in 1942 to put herself into labor with their
first child, Diane. Dennis, Sherri, Kevin, and Har-
low followed, and in 1960, the year Diane and
Sherri dumped the cookbook into the Thanksgiv-
ing gravy (their mother being in the hospital to
be delivered of Krista), they moved into a home
Marden had built in the lower foothills a mile east
of BYU.
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years to finish everything. I remember the Shop-
Smith set up in the living room, four or five feet
long, and shaped a bit like a gymnastic horse with
two sets of parallel bars running the length to move
the saw up and down for cutting various sizes.
(Dennis showed me years later that one end was
hinged and you could stand the bars up on end and
use the motor as a drill press.) It was the third or
fourth he had built, on advice from Bessie’s
brother, Lloyd, “Just go to work and build yourself
a home.”
Because the Wasatch fault runs a block east of
the house, there is still a large section of undevel-
oped foothills nearby, where Marden and Bessie
walked and toured the developing upper foothills.
About 10 years later Agda and Leroy Harlow
moved in up the street and were soon walking the
foothills with Marden and Bessie. Only coincidence
in our names. My parents simply wanted an unusual
name, and Google tells me there are only six other
Harlow Clarks. I heard about one over Memorial
Day weekend when a woman at church in Challis,
Idaho, said she had a cousin by that name down in
Oakley, near Almo, where my cousin Gary Steed
bred potatoes, who had been (of course) this woman’s
daughter’s bishop at Ricks College.
Got home and took the car into the shop. “Har-
low Clark. Isn’t that the name of the guy who
stopped us in Oakley? We were out TPing some-
one’s house and he was having a meeting inside and
saw it and he was a firefighter and had red lights on
his car so he jumped in and chased us with his
lights flashing. We thought we were goners. If we’d
been older than 16 we might have realized it wasn’t
a police car and not stopped.”
But I digress. Of course, digression is what makes
a pilgrimage interesting. Dante’s wouldn’t have been
nearly so entertaining without the lion she-wolf
and leopard forcing a digression. (Were there not
10 leopards? Where are the nine?)
Digressions make travel and long talks across the
foothills with friends worthwhile. “Bessie Boule-
vards,” Marden called the dusty mountain roads he
took at Bessie’s whim. After retiring they traveled.
The Holy Land and the Book of Mormon lands
77 Summer 2003
(what pilgrims could resist?), Africa, India, and
China, where they taught a year at the University of
Qing Dao under invitation from BYU’s Kennedy
Center for International Relations. Every continent
except Antarctica, which they saw from shipboard
in Patagonia.
And once while they were away, LeRoy Harlow
tramped off on his own pilgrimage and Marden
and Bessie’s walking contracted, and as Agda’s Parkin-
son’s got worse they lost another traveler. They still
climbed Squaw Peak on their 49th anniversary, but
Marden had started to slow down, and by their
60th they would walk a couple of blocks to Briar,
down the hill, around the block, back up the hill,
back home.
And even those walks shortened, like David Lyon’s
nearly blind walks across the street. Colonel Lyon
came to Provo in the late ’60s, his last Army assign-
ment, to set up BYU’s ROTC program. “Mother
was worried,” Michael Lyon told me, “because he
had a very strong personality and so did Ernest
Wilkinson.” On retirement Colonel Lyon joined
BYU’s administration in public relations, where,
his son Phillip told me, it was once his duty to tell
Ezra Taft Benson, another very strong personality,
that a politician he very much wanted to speak at
BYU would not be invited.
David Lyon was a staunch Republican, Marden
Clark a committed lukewarm Democrat who
offended his neighbor by using the phrase “hoopla
at the County Courthouse” in a newspaper column
describing his youthful indifference to Decoration
Day in Morgan, Utah.
Marden wrote another column the next week,
about a family whose Memorial Day tradition was
placing a rosebud floating in a plastic cup on each
grave in the children’s section of the Provo ceme-
tery. And he brought the column around to his
offense. “His gentle chastising, together with his
appreciation for the rest of [last week’s] column,
made me re-live what those celebrations had really
meant. David helped change my past as well as my
present.”
The two had a lot of past in common, though
they never met before the Lyons moved in, and they
celebrated that common past one day in the parking
Summer 2003
lot after church. Springtime or summer, probably
April after rain. Why else would they both start
reciting the prologue to the Canterbury Tales in
Middle English, remembered 40 years since high
school? And they shared a few words lamenting
what the younger generation was missing by not
having those words in memory, or the memory of
having committed them to memory.
And one day David Lyon suffered a stroke, as his
wife Cherie had about 10 years earlier. She recov-
ered some speech, the word beautiful, and could
sing, and continued to bless her family for several
years. Michael said at her funeral that she had
recovered the most important word, as her life was
given to creating beauty.
David’s stroke was more serious, and when I heard
about it I should have been more diligent to ask
about his health. As with Agda, my parents forgot
to tell me he had died until after the funeral.
Finally a few months later, I sought Michael out
and apologized for not having said something earlier.
“It’s all right,” he said. I told him the story of our
fathers reciting Chaucer. “You’ve given me a great
gift,” he said. Imagine that. A story a gift. Words
about people reciting words, a gift. Insubstantial
words, sound that fades almost instantly, a gift that
can travel through time, surviving the death of the
means that transmitted it. Imagine.
Marden had many stories to tell, and, as we trav-
eled from Finland to England in the summer of
1971 after his time as a Fulbright (he loved the
connotations of that word) professor at the Univer-
sity of Oulu, Krista and I fought for the seat behind
the driver’s in the VW Vanagon we had picked up
in Westfalia nine months earlier.
Odysseus, Agamemnon, the Gods found breath
from his mouth as we drove up Mount Olympus,
climbed the Acropolis, visited Mycenae.
Marden spent much of his last nine years writing
a religion column for the Provo Daily Herald, telling
stories about people he met on his walks, about
family, and sunsets and dreams and our national
leopards.
And sometimes he talked about his literary pil-
grimages. As a critic Marden also told stories. He
could do complex analysis but preferred to write
78 IRREANTUM
for a general audience. A literary pilgrim, his model
for organizing literature was Dante Alighieri’s tour
of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven. Like Virgil guiding
Dante safely through Hell and up to Mount Pur-
gatory, so art and literature could guide us safely
through Hell and into the presence of our Beatrice.
In “November 22, 1963—And After,” Marden
wrote:
Dante rode Virgil’s back down those mighty
haunches
Through the ice past zero gravity of being
And began the purgatorial climb.
We might make the same journey
I rode those haunches past my own zero gravity of
being, but, as he slowed and became a very old man
(younger than several uncles who lived to be 99
and 100-plus), Marden’s mighty haunches became
less able to bear, and he needed a back to rest on.
“Help, I’ve lost my column.” I could count on a
Tuesday afternoon call as he organized his Matter
Unorganized. He had forgotten how to make
WordPerfect do something simple like bold a word
or had inadvertently dragged a directory into
another directory while trying to retrieve a file. “Do
I have e-mail?” he asked several times after having
used it for several years to send his column to the
Herald.
“Don’t be impatient with me,” he said once.
Mostly it was the frustration of trying to explain
over the phone something I could do in seconds in
person. And the pain of seeing a brilliant mind
remember how to write but lose grasp of the com-
plex programs that replaced typewriter, stamp, and
envelope.
Bessie never has grasped the idea of a computer,
but she loves to write. She showed me a rejection
slip from the Improvement Era for some doggerel
she wrote in the late ’30s, before Marden. Perhaps
we owe his writing to a blind date. He didn’t set out
to be a writer. Went down to Los Angeles during
the war and trained as a draftsman at Lockheed.
Took his family back home to Morgan after the
war, didn’t want to spend his life bent over a draft-
ing table. Bessie didn’t want him to spend his life
on the farm, felt his mind was too good for that.
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He slept one night in the warehouse and decided
she was right; he’d try graduate school for a year.
In April 1962 his father called one night while
he was correcting papers. “Don’t be alarmed, but
Mother may be dying.”
I tried to go back the to the papers I was read-
ing, but couldn’t make myself stay with them.
Instead, I took a piece of lined paper and began
writing (even using the red pencil that made
all those markings on the papers):
You’re just joking, I told her,
No human bones, these that stick
Like talons grasping at my sympathy.
Whether Marden would have written, then
revised, “Late on Mother’s Day” if Bessie hadn’t
prodded him back to school years earlier I don’t
know, but that prodding points to another differ-
ence between Odysseus’s epic quest and Marden’s
pilgrimage. Bessie was no Penelope, patiently weav-
ing by day and unweaving by night to fend off
impatient suitors, and Marden’s quest was not to
return to her. They set out together.
When Bessie finished her degree in the late ’60s
(all the kids in school by then) and earned a mas-
ter’s in the early ’70s, she didn’t study writing or lit-
erature. She told me once that faculty wives of her
generation didn’t study the subjects their husbands
taught, fearing if they did poorly it would reflect
poorly on their husbands, and if they did well,
“Marden helped her.”
So she never had the formal training in writing
and literature Marden or his students had. But she
never lost the desire to write and has started pub-
lishing. The poem in this issue, “Mother Earth’s
Tears,” is one Marden helped her tighten up a little.
He liked the way the line “She cannot endure for-
ever” comments on the stanza before and intro-
duces the next stanza, which starts like a list of
what she cannot endure and becomes a sentence
about why she cannot endure forever.
She has other writing to weave, and I hope she
doesn’t finish it any too soon.
I have also included a poem Marden finished a
few months before his death, “You Damn Dog.” He
79 Summer 2003
had started it about three years earlier, remembering bowels be full of compassion, and he said that
a family gathering with three of Bessie’s brothers, anciently the bowels were thought to be the seat of
who had suffered strokes and other indignities, compassion, like the heart is now.
arranged conversationally in their wheelchairs. The what-if game is tempting to play. What if
The dog just kept barking we had known sooner? But we didn’t. Krista told
while you three sat silent me he was talking to his brothers-in-law in the doc-
facing each other, none of you tor’s office a few days before he died. “What are
quite mobile in limb they saying?”
or mouth. “You damn dog,” he said, commonsensically.
Smiling.
The conversational arrangement of wheelchairs,
mirroring everyone else’s conversation, struck Mar-
den as funny, especially when the “fine diorama”
broke into speech:
A fine diorama, Alvin, out of which
you suddenly erupt:
“Shut up, you damn dog!”
He had told Agda the story, and she said—and I
can hear a frosty note in her voice—“I don’t find
that funny at all.” He told me he couldn’t get the
poem right and wouldn’t finish it. But in February
or March I found it finished on his computer, the
file dated February 7, 2003, and suggested minor
changes.
If the Clark humor is a little odd, the Clark
manner of death is outright ironic. Right at the
height of the lunar eclipse, as half the kids were
driving down State Street and I-15 to the hospital.
Dennis’s wife, Valerie, said it was unfortunate there
were poets in the family who would find that image,
and the comparison to Sam Clemens leaving with
Halley’s Comet, irresistible.
But there is a different image for me. He was sick
for a week, got sick when Bessie got a bad foot pain,
infected, and ended up on the floor. He couldn’t
pick her up, tried dragging her across the floor on
a rug to the bathroom. Called for help. “When I
saw that woman on the floor . . .” he told Donna
and me on the way home from the hospital.
We heard a lot at the memorial about Marden’s
compassion. So it seems deeply fitting that the pain
he developed after we got home, which we thought
was a stress reaction (the doctors did too), was an
obstructed bowel, swallowed in a hernia. I had asked
him once why the scriptures talk about letting your

Summer 2003 80 IRREANTUM

 P O E M R E V I E W S

You Damn Dog! Is Religious Faith a Brand of

The dog just kept barking Insanity?
while you three sat silent A review of Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner of
facing each other, none of you Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith (Doubleday, 2003)
quite mobile in limb Reviewed by Richard Dutcher
or mouth. Most of the family
there: brothers, sister and spouses,
children, grandchildren, all
gathered around the backyard
K rakauer’s book is very well written. Com-
pelling. The author knows how to put words
together. I read the first few pages, which instantly
barbecue pit you built years before hooked me, and I finished the book within
in love, Lloyd. 48 hours. Most books sit on my bedside table for
weeks, begging to be finished.
Still the barking, still you three It was clear from the author’s overview of early
mute, the rest of us talking Mormon history that he did his research. Or (at
small talk of family and love. least) Michael Quinn did his research, and Krakauer
A fine diorama, Alvin, out of which read Quinn. The book reminded me of Capote’s In
you suddenly erupt, Cold Blood. Both accounts horrified and saddened
jump up, me. At the point in Under the Banner of Heaven
fist raised like Liberty’s torch: where Krakauer describes the Lafferty murders,
“Shut up, you damn dog!” I put the book aside for several hours and felt the
need to pray, play with my kids, kiss my wife, admire
I tell the story hoping for laughs, the mountainside. I wanted to weep for the victims.
but mute listeners see no humor— So the writing was emotionally effective. I was
only pathos. And worse: duly horrified. Krakauer succeeds in making Mor-
stony disapproval mon fundamentalists look like homicidal, incestu-
at my attempt to make a joke. ous lunatics. He also makes mainstream Mormons
look like closet lunatics, and he makes religious
I still laugh folk in general look like potential lunatics. But I
I wish I had been the one to break guess that’s one of the main questions the book
the spell: grapples with: Is religious faith a brand of insanity?
“Shut up, you damn dog!” Perhaps, as a person with religious faith, I am espe-
cially sensitive to the question.
—Marden J. Clark Yes is the answer Mr. Krakauer certainly suggests
(without actually committing to), and yes is the
Teacher, mentor, bishop, parent, child, friend—Mar-
conclusion many readers will adopt after reading
den Clark has the reciprocal relations of those nouns
this book. As well-written and high-profile as it is,
all over the world. As a writer he has many readers, it really seems to me to be nothing more than the
though perhaps his largest readership came from the latest sensational anti-Mormon, anti-faith exposé.
newspaper column he wrote for almost eight years, Some problems (and, admittedly, I knew very
“Matter Unorganized.” He used to play around with little of the Lafferty murders before reading this book):
an image of birth as tearful good-bye to people on one 1. There is very little treatment of Allen Lafferty
side of the veil and joyful hello to those on the other. (the widower) after the murders. How did he deal
Apparently death is the same way, and it is our turn with this? Is he still LDS? Does he have any opinion
to miss him.

IRREANTUM 81 Summer 2003

on his brothers’ mental state? Does he struggle with
guilt?
2. There is very little treatment of Ron and Dan
Lafferty (the murderers) before their introduction
to fundamentalism. Krakauer briefly gives us the
impression that they were warm, normal people (as
if fundamentalism itself is the disease that causes
them to turn into murderous psychos). I have a hard
time believing that there wasn’t evidence of their
mental illnesses before their acceptance of funda-
mentalism. Maybe the author believes that their faith
in mainstream Mormonism is sufficient evidence
of mental imbalance. Surely the trial documents
included witness testimony of strange behavior and
beliefs in earlier life.
3. Also, there was very little treatment of the Laf-
ferty boys’ mother. The author made her a fasci-
nating character without attempting to explain her.
To me, her behavior causes suspicion that perhaps
all was not right in the Lafferty home when the
boys were growing up. The early home life was left
virtually unexplored.
4. There seemed to be no “control” family, no
normal polygamists who weren’t raping their chil-
dren or killing people or having wacky “revelations.”
The few nonvillainous polygamists are introduced
after the author has already established polygamy as
deranged. Krakauer appears to be dramatizing only
the sensational episodes and thereby painting all
fundamentalists, and all Mormons, with a very
broad brush.
Surely there must be many polygamist families
(perhaps even a majority) who are living happy,
peaceful, spiritually rich lives. I believe most readers
will conclude after Under the Banner of Heaven that
all polygamous men want to molest their 12-year-
old daughters and slit the throats of anyone who
interferes with their religious beliefs.
Interestingly, the murdered woman, Brenda Laf-
ferty, is portrayed as courageous, strong, and sane.
And yet she was a Mormon. The rest of the book
would lead one to believe that she was practically
the only Mormon with these qualities. But then
again, she was the victim in the story. In modern
American journalism, it seems that we all fall into
three categories: heroes, villains, and victims.
Summer 2003
5. The author’s approach to LDS history seems
to be to pull out all the sensational episodes: polyg-
amy, Mountain Meadows, blood atonement, post-
manifesto polygamy, Samuel Smith’s “suspicious
death,” et cetera, et cetera. If it were less well writ-
ten and authored by a less-respected author, we
could easily dismiss it as the National Inquirer’s
Encyclopedic History of Mormonism.
The book rings an alarm and points a finger at
potentially dangerous people in our society. It points
an unfriendly finger at Mormon fundamentalists
and, less directly but most certainly, at the main-
stream Mormons standing close by.
I’m concerned that Under the Banner of Heaven
will further fuel an anti-religious sentiment in our
culture. True, some of our politicians and even
our president present themselves as men with reli-
gious faith, yet I detect a change in the wind. Per-
haps it’s because I’m in the entertainment industry,
where anti-religious bigotry is blatantly apparent.
Soon, religious people may become the only group
of people in America who, in our evolving sense of
political correctness, will be deserving of prejudice,
public mocking, and persecution.
Perhaps I’m taking it too seriously. It’s just a
book, after all. But, then again, so was Mein Kampf.
I find that the more I think about this book, the
less I respect it. (Side note: I had the same experi-
ence with the Academy Award–winning film Amer-
ican Beauty. Immediately after seeing the film, I
liked it. Then it started to unravel in my mind.
Three days later, I hated it.)
In many ways, Krakauer’s book had an unex-
pected effect on me (and surely not the author’s
intended effect). I felt compassion for the funda-
mentalists. They are surely the victims of misrepre-
sentation here. Krakauer’s fundamentalist villains
are so villainous. Polygamist lifestyles and belief
systems are revealed as so reprehensible. I simply
cannot believe it. These people are being attacked.
And I don’t like to see anyone being attacked.
Granted, they are an easy target. They are unpop-
ular and few in number. Who is going to stand up
and defend the polygamists?
One final thought: Is a writer from mainstream
American culture really someone who should be
82 IRREANTUM
casting stones at Mormon culture? The author
writes from within a society that is up to its eyeballs
in incest, child porn, teen pregnancy and abortion,
divorce, serial murderers—need I go on? The pot is
calling the kettle black (as my grandma used to
say).
Perhaps the author should turn his attention to
his own hometown. Boulder isn’t all that far from
Littleton, come to think of it. What he finds in his
own backyard might horrify him more than any-
thing he found in Colorado City.
In the Lord’s Due Time, and Not a
Moment Too Soon
A review of Margaret Blair Young and Darius Aidan
Gray’s The Last Mile of the Way, Standing on the
Promises, Book 3 (Bookcraft, 2003)
Reviewed by Jeffrey Needle
(Note: I could not write this review without using a
word generally deemed offensive. I elected to include
the word because the context would make little sense
without it.)
E very morning I wake up and take a good look
at myself in the mirror, wondering what the
new day will bring. Essentially retired, I have the time
to explore the nooks and crannies of life, poking
my nose into things that interest me, sometimes
coming away rather surprised.
But I’m not often appalled. Having finished The
Last Mile of the Way, having spent the last evening
devouring the final 100 pages, I feel as if I’ve been
pulled through an emotional wringer. I’m not sure
I like the feeling, but like a potion, I suppose it’s
good for the soul.
Readers of this trilogy’s first two volumes will
recall that this series chronicles the experience of
blacks in early Mormonism. Rich in flavor, unspar-
ing in detail, eminently readable, the earlier vol-
umes were a wonderful survey of how these good
people were treated, not just by the church but by
the larger American society. It remains a sin, a blot
on the American character, that we allowed this
treatment to last as long as it did.
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When emancipation finally came in the 1860s,
it appeared that the promise of freedom was to be
fulfilled. But this was not to be so; racial strife, dis-
crimination, and hatred survived emancipation
and, in fact, festered like an open wound. A shame,
a disgrace.
While we acknowledge this problem in the larger
American society, one would have hoped that
Christ’s church would behave better. Those who
accepted the restored gospel should have known, if
only from the Book of Mormon, that all are alike
unto God, no matter the color of their skin. Alas,
this was not to be the case. And such is the shame
of Mormonism’s past.
To be fair, racism has been rampant in the United
States for generations. I can’t think of a time when
minorities were treated fairly. Even to this day, racism
rears its ugly head, manifesting in acts of unspeak-
able cruelty and violence. The recent death of
James Byrd, who was dragged to his death from the
rear bumper of a vehicle, demonstrates that racism
is not a problem of the past at all. We have not
overcome.
The Last Mile of the Way brings us very much to
the present day and brings closure to the lives of
so many folks we met in the first two volumes. We
are introduced into the world of one of its authors,
Darius Gray. I should mention that I’ve known
Margaret Young for several years but only met
Darius once. My immediate impression was of a
happy, fulfilled, committed man, dedicated to the
church and to its Genesis Group, which he headed
until recently.
I could not have known the depth of his experi-
ence, the rough road he had to travel in order to get
where he is today. If it seems a bit egocentric to
focus so largely on one of the authors and his fam-
ily, I came to understand Darius’s life as symbolic
of the larger black Mormon experience. It’s been a
battle, it is still a battle, and it is likely to remain
a battle.
One of the surprises of this book is the involve-
ment of men who would later become General
Authorities. No less than Spencer W. Kimball and
Gordon B. Hinckley, among many others, show them-
selves as part of the larger story of the development
83 Summer 2003
of black involvement in the church. Each demon-
strated a concern, and in many cases a genuine love,
for their brothers and sisters; some would play a
role in the formation of the Genesis Group and,
finally, in the lifting of the priesthood ban.
But this is no good-times story. Expect to be
uncomfortable while reading the narrative. With
each chapter, I found myself asking, “How much
can any person take? How much courage did it
require to stand up against the radical racism of
one’s fellow church members? How easy would it
have been to just give up?”
Indeed. When Darius first arrived at BYU as a
young undergrad, he found he was one of only two
black students. And the other student didn’t stay for
long. After all, how often do you have to hear “Go
back where you belong, nigger!” before you decide
to throw in the towel and seek friendlier company?
And how many times must a black family sit in
sacrament meeting and be refused the sacrament,
simply because of their skin color? How many indig-
nities must one endure for the sake of the gospel?
And why aren’t believers in the gospel behaving any
better?
The authors leave it to the reader to come up
with the answers to these questions. The narrative
is tantamount to a frontal attack on one’s sensibili-
ties. It presents a Mormonism that many will not
recognize. And it will cause many a reader to look
deeply into one’s soul to determine whether he or
she is part of the problem or part of the solution, as
the old saying goes.
This book differs from the previous two in an
important way: while the first two volumes are
anecdotal and self-contained, this third volume has
a clear direction, a destination. From the outset—
in fact, from the title itself—we learn that we, and
the characters, are on “the last mile of the way.”
There is a clear destination in sight, an end to a
long and tiresome journey. That end is an end to
the priesthood ban, the opening of the blessings of
priesthood to all worthy males. (But no females . . .)
With each step, you can just feel the confidence
of some of the characters and the frustration of oth-
ers who are impatient for the change. Some want to
rush the Lord; some think the Brethren just aren’t
Summer 2003
trying hard enough. But, as you know, the change
did come, and the blessings were given. It was a
great day indeed.
I am going to say this as clearly as I can: Every
member of the church should read this book. Period.
You don’t need the first two books in order to under-
stand this volume, but they help. This book is so
important because, sadly, the problem of racism
has not disappeared. The church still deals with the
problem and tries to move its membership in a
righteous and just direction. But, as with the larger
American society, the task is difficult.
Readers will gain an appreciation for the enor-
mous sacrifices made by people of color in early
Mormonism; for the almost unbelievable humilia-
tion and persecution they had to endure as mem-
bers of the church; for the strength and courage
they demonstrated in looking beyond their envi-
ronment, keeping their eyes on the real goal; for the
strong sense of family and friendship that kept
them faithful and true; for their commitment to
overcoming the covert and overt hatred they felt as
they made their faith journeys.
There are lessons to be learned here, inspiration
to be gleaned. I read the book in just three sittings.
It’s really that good. Be prepared to learn, to smile,
and to be very, very disturbed. But please, read
this book.
Jeff Needle lives in Southern California with his books
and his computer and spends far too much time read-
ing. He won the 2001 AML award for review, and
his reviews have appeared in IRREANTUM and on
AML-List. A self-described Jewish Gentile, he remains
on the outskirts of Zion despite the elders’ best efforts
to get him under the water.
A Promise Not Worth Keeping
A review of Richard Paul Evans’s The Last Promise
(Dutton, 2002)
Reviewed by Eugene Woodbury
W hen Deseret Book CEO Sheri Dew announced
the store’s revised buying guidelines late last
year—and specifically that Richard Paul Evans’s
84 IRREANTUM
latest novel, The Last Promise, hadn’t made the
cut—my immediate reaction was to snort in deri-
sion. A bunch of sanctimonious, neo-Victorian
fussbudgets trying to micromanage our moral and
aesthetic lives, under the guise of what Dew had
the audacity to claim was a “business decision.”
Then I read the book.
Deseret Book may indeed be run by a bunch of
sanctimonious, neo-Victorian fussbudgets whose
recently discovered principles in this case only gave
a bad book much free publicity. But they are right
to insist that The Last Promise does not deserve the
imprimatur of any institution even peripherally
related to the church.
The overwrought title is itself ultimately ger-
mane to nothing. The “last promise” (indeed, not
made until the last 40 pages of the book) is quickly
broken, which I suppose should be read to mean
that this is the last promise people like this should
make to anybody. The book is, in fact, a category
romance of sub-par quality. I hasten to add that I
have nothing against category romances—an unjustly
slighted genre, I believe—just against bad writing
in general and especially pretentious bad writing.
If nothing else, The Last Promise will quickly
exhaust any fondness you might have had for the
epigram-as-chapter-heading style.
Delving into a subject Evans knew something
about might have clarified in his mind what was
worth promising in the first place. Eliana, our hero-
ine, is ostensibly “a devout Catholic,” though by all
indications what the author knows about Catholics
he picked up on the Vatican tour. He keeps his pro-
tagonist away from any actual worship, keeps her
from breathing a word to any actual priest, because
“the priest at the small church near the villa used
copious amounts of incense in his worship,” and
the incense gives her son asthma. Alas, “she had
tried other churches in the area and found them all
to be the same” (10).
Convenient, that.
The only discernable point to this bit of biogra-
phical background is to enable her to marry the
scion of an Italian winery without turning the whole
thing into a comedy. Straining credulity further,
Evans has her growing up in Vernal, Utah. You would
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think that a Catholic growing up in Utah would
have something to say about the plentitude of Mor-
mons there and the inevitable clash of small-town
religious cultures. Nope. You would not know from
reading the book that any Mormons live in Utah.
Thus do the incongruities gush forth.
It would not have been an insurmountable prob-
lem had Evans played around more with the obvi-
ous subtext, analogizing the non-Mormon in Utah
to the fish-out-of-water American in Italy. Instead,
he shies from the intriguing dramatic possibilities
and resorts to hackneyed story devices that are old
by category romance standards.
To sum up: Impossibly beautiful wife (Eliana)
is trapped in a loveless marriage to philandering
rogue of a husband (Maurizio). One day a hand-
some American expatriate with a mysterious past
(Ross) rents a flat in the family villa. But when you
get right down to it, it’s no different than those silly
French farces about the wife who discovers her hus-
band is cheating on her and gets even by cheating
on him with the houseguests. Except that Evans’s
version is not even indecently humorous.
Okay, Evans can’t actually have them sleeping
together. No, wait, they do sleep together, the loop-
hole being that they only “sleep.” Evans has claimed
that the snogging going on when they are awake is
“not adultery.” Yes, and Bill Clinton did not have
“sex” with that woman and didn’t inhale either. If it
is facile to assert (as I do) that the explicit descrip-
tion of sexual behavior is, ipso facto, immoral, then
it is equally facile to argue that a narrative somehow
garners a patina of respectability solely because of
its lack of explicit content.
At any rate, I wasn’t aware that copulation alone
defined adultery. Stranger still, given Evans’s protes-
tations, are his several references to the Vestal Virgins,
remembered for the gristly fate that awaited them
if they fell from “virginal grace.” In a climactic scene
(221), Eliana interrupts Ross’s museum tour group
before an exhibit of The Vestals and asks in a loud voice
if it was “worth it” to these women to break their
vows, considering the penalties that awaited them.
To which Ross answers, “I guess only the Vestals
could say. But apparently eighteen of them thought
so.” Now, exactly how are we supposed to read that?
85 Summer 2003
 Evans rationalizes this morally muddy relation-
ship with he-hit-me-first logic. Short version: If
your husband is a jerk, it’s okay to get emotionally
involved with another man. Fifteen billion times
we are reminded of what a louse Maurizio is. The
narrative from his point of view exists only to damn
his character with cheap shots and borderline
ethnic slurs.
Our first introduction to the Italian male (not
Maurizio) consists of the following: “Just then a
man, shirtless, maybe in his later fifties with a belly
hanging over his swimsuit and a cigar clamped
between his front teeth, stopped in front of her
chair.”
Feel swept off your feet yet? Eliana later helpfully
explains that “the Italian men regard a lone woman
the same way they would a bill on the sidewalk.”
And Evans (in authorial voice) confirms that “it
was true” (4). True or not, it’s not the point. I’m
reminded of the Dilbert strip in which one of Dil-
bert’s colleagues confides to Dogbert, “I criticize my
coworkers to make myself look smart.” To which
Dogbert replies, “Apparently it isn’t working . . . .
Oh, remind me to add nuts to my grocery list.”
Evans thinks this is a workable strategy. So we
are further reminded that none of the wives of
Maurizio’s friends “expected their husbands’ help in
domestic matters” (15). The marriage counselor
Eliana to whom drags her husband sides with him
and tells her that it’s all her problem (16). And the
husband of Eliana’s sister-in-law, Anna, “left her for
a young Swiss woman she discovered he had been
having an affair with for more than seven years” (53).
Ross, in contrast, is described by every Italian
woman he encounters as bello, and a hotel recep-
tionist he’s known for about five minutes offers to
sleep with him (200). “We’d have fun,” she tells
him (202).
Oh, and Maurizio is the world’s worst father ever.
It is simply not enough that he be immature, irre-
sponsible, or a workaholic. We are supposed to believe
that the man is utterly indifferent to his son’s exis-
tence, that he “never inquires about his son’s health”
(13), has “no idea how to take care of his own son’s
basic needs” (15), and uses him as a pawn to keep
his wife a kept woman.
Summer 2003
We are supposed to believe as well that the son,
in turn, should deny all the incalculables of human
nature and transfer all his affection, at the drop of
the proverbial hat, to a complete stranger. By
page 116 we find Eliana telling Ross, “[Alessio] was
so upset that he missed you the last time. I had to
promise him that he could stay up until you came.”
And by the end of the novel, Maurizio is confessing
to Eliana, “He’s not really my son . . . . He doesn’t
call me father . . . . He hates me” (261).
Of the six impossible things I’m willing to believe
before breakfast, this isn’t one of them. But, gee,
doesn’t it make divorce the easy next step to take.
Still, Evans must reduce Maurizio to wife-beating
status to make the case compelling enough. The
literary ends do not justify the means. While Mau-
rizio is undoubtedly a jerk, the thesis of “My hus-
band is a jerk” is a thin and unrewarding source of
conflict. This is not to say that infidelity or bad par-
enting should be lightly excused, but it’s not like
he’s smuggling drugs or harboring terrorists. The
man has tact, if nothing else. He doesn’t bring it
home, like, ahem, his stupid wife. And why, your
grandmother would ask, should he change his
behavior when he can have his cake and get the
milk for free?
All Eliana has to say in her defense is that she
married “too young.” Too young—she was in col-
lege. So she went to the store one day to pick up a
rich, handsome, Italian husband, and, darn, if she’d
waited a day or two she could have gotten a better
model, and on sale to boot.
Were she a conservative John Paul II American
Catholic, that would have made things interesting.
But the obvious contention, “I can’t divorce you
because I’m Catholic,” is never raised. Instead, she
stays in the marriage, we are told, because she’s afraid
she would lose custody of her child, a child whose
existence is exploited by Evans for all manner of
shoddy story conveniences. (When in doubt, send
the sick kid to the ER.) It is a valid concern—the
reasons sound fairly convincing once you accept
the Maurizio-as-monster caricature—but such a
concern should lead to the weighing of freedom
and happiness and the making of deals with your
own personal devils.
86 IRREANTUM
 Even as compromised a woman as Hillary Clin-
ton reportedly whacked Bill with an ashtray on
occasion and then went out and made a life for her-
self. Sure, her not-yet-erstwhile husband being
President of the United States sure helped. Call it
metaphysical alimony. And Eliana is hardly a single
mother struggling to survive on scant child support
payments. In exchange for her husband’s money,
she lives a comfortable, almost royal (no kidding,
Evans makes her by marriage a de jure countess), if
dilatory existence.
She does nothing to change the state of her life,
a curious contrast with Birdman-of-Alcatraz Ross.
That’s the sinkhole the book crumbles into and
never crawls out of: she’s boring. No wonder her
husband never comes home to a beautiful but dull
woman who mopes and sighs and makes dinners he
won’t eat, dabbles at paintings no one will see, and
spends an awful lot of time doing laundry for three
people (a glaring lapse: a man of Maurizio’s stature
and resources, if for no other reason than sheer van-
ity, would hire help for these menial tasks).
Early on in one of Evans’s many head-hopping
digressions, we are treated to Maurizio’s thoughts.
In a passage that feels like the author was respond-
ing to an editor’s suggestion that he try to show the
husband’s side of things, the reader is rewarded
with several hundred words of the man’s stream-of-
consciousness, detailing his coping strategy in this
dysfunctional relationship:
American women are crazy, [Maurizio]
thought. She works all day to make me a meal,
then sulks through it. [. . .]
Eliana would sulk for a while, then she’d
blow, inevitably launching into a tirade about
how little time he spent at home or why he
hadn’t bothered to call her. [. . .] Either way,
[she] didn’t have the stomach for conflict that
he had. She would go off for a while, then
come back and be civil—be a good wife.
Always the same foolishness, he thought. If
she wants me home so much, why does she make
it so damn miserable to come home? (31–32)
Why, indeed? But having raised these charges,
Evans never effectively counters them. He tells us
IRREANTUM
only that Eliana “blamed herself for not seeing it
coming,” and then reverses himself a page later,
asserting that she “felt the victim of a marital bait
and switch” (16). Victim turns out to be her pri-
mary occupation.
Based on the themes of her general conference
addresses, I can believe that this is what raised Sheri
Dew’s hackles most of all. Evans is climbing on his
best-seller soapbox to preach a medieval theme I’ve
encountered in other Mormon romances, that of
the great wheel of fate. Climb aboard at the wrong
instance, and your life is doomed until it rolls
around and rights itself. We are supposed to admire
the protagonist merely for hanging on and letting
go when the sunny side of life shows up, like a stop
on a Disneyland amusement ride.
Had Evans eliminated the implied infidelity busi-
ness from the start, he would then have had to
address this problem with human agency. Were
Eliana already divorced, for example, but in the
interest of her sickly child living in her ex’s villa and
growing dependent on his largess, while he
depended on the free child care and the warm
hearth to come home to—and were it not strongly
implied that, despite his travails, Ross still had
bucks in the bank—this would have forced her to
make a decision of her own volition, not wait for
heaven to smile upon her, the ball to drop into the
right slot at the roulette table.
To write the story right, though, you would have
to have some insights into why the Hillarys end up
with the Bills in the first place. I’m not convinced
that Evans has a clue. And we’re not necessarily
talking about deep psychology. As Slate’s Dear Pru-
dence advice columnist advised a reader in a simi-
lar quandary, the quandary that Eliana apparently
blew through without a second thought: “My dear,
when it comes to making a judgment about a man’s
character, what else is there besides his past? It is
through one’s history that you learn about judg-
ments, morals, and choices.”
Judgments, morals, and hard choices are the last
things on anybody’s mind in The Last Promise.
Which is why Evans can’t begin the book without
first rationalizing his choice of subject matter,
though here he does demonstrate some talent in
87 Summer 2003
composition. Evans introduces himself in a self-
deprecating account of the famous author nobody’s
heard of bumbling around Italy with his family.
One day he’s relaxing poolside at a country club
outside Florence and is told this story by a gor-
geous, sunbathing woman with whom he strikes up
a conversation.
Unfortunately, this promising narrative voice is
soon drowned out by the drone of a loquacious,
self-important guy who’s got you cornered on a
five-hour bus trip and is convinced that you are
dying to hear his profoundly superficial life story.
But who only convinces you that this is the last
time you’re riding this particular bus anywhere,
thank you very much.
Eugene Woodbury was a finalist in the 2000 and
2002 Utah Original Writing Competitions, juvenile
book and novel categories, and received Sunstone’s
2002 Brookie and D.K. Brown Moonstone Award for
short fiction. His stories and essays have been pub-
lished in Cricket, The New Era, Clubhouse, and
The American Gardener. He lives in Orem, Utah,
where he works for Microsoft and spends (too much
of ) his free time designing his website, www.eugene
woodbury.com.
Faithful and Fearless
A review of Silent Notes Taken: Personal Essays by
Mormon New Yorkers (Mormon Arts and Letters,
2003)
Reviewed by Jerry Johnston
N ot long ago, in one of those literary “turf-bat-
tles in a teapot,” Tom Wolfe came down with
both feet on academic writers. He found them too
timid, too haughty, and completely irrelevant. John
Updike’s retort to Wolfe was one of the most mem-
orable. In effect, Updike said the world of literature
was a very large world and, to him, there seemed to
be plenty of room for everyone.
After reading Silent Notes Taken, one sees the
same is true for LDS writing.
In a nutshell, Silent Notes is a collection of
18 nonfiction pieces from an LDS writers group
headed up by Glen Nelson. The essays spring from
Summer 2003
several genres—from memoirs and journal entries,
reviews, eulogies. It will not be everyone’s cup of
tea—pot or no pot. Just the word essays in the title,
in fact, should be enough to put most LDS readers
off their lunch.
And the first sentence of several pieces will keep
a good many others at bay. “The day Paul Banham
lectured about the Debussy opera based on the
Maeterlinck play, Pelleas and Melisande,” Joanne
Rowland begins in her triptych tribute to Paul Ban-
ham, “there were more furrowed brows than usual
on the students in the Survey of Western Music
course.” James W. Lucas jumps out with “Current
science views the existence of the universe as
improbable and the existence of humans as even
more improbable” in “On Believing in Nothing or
Something.” And Glen Nelson’s plea, “Where is
the Mormon Montmartre? The LDS Lapin Agile?
Or the church’s Cedar Tavern?” will have many
stalwart readers asking, “Where’s the door?” In
short, if a little learning is a dangerous thing, some-
times a lot of learning can be downright lethal.
Still, it is also obvious this collection was never
meant for general consumption. And if a whiff of
intellectual grandstanding and self-congratulation
does show through from time to time, there is also
much written in earnest here. These are bona fide
thinkers who have stubbornly refused to sell out
their hearts. They remain on the ledge as the world
chants for them to jump. And that, in itself, should
prompt our admiration. Besides, readers who hang
with the book will find many subtle rewards. Most
of the essays are multi-layered. Like Proust, Glen
Nelson bites into a sugary treat and is spirited back
to the past—not his own past, but the past of
writer James Joyce. The parallels between expatriate
writers living in Paris and this little cadre of New
York Mormons soon emerge, with readers left to
decide if the comparison is real or simply wishful
thinking.
Tucked inside all these thought patterns, one
will also find moments of high-minded whimsy.
Adriana Velez is probably the most accessible of the
lot. Her essays “Boys” and “Chocolate” read like
magazine work. And the heart-breaking prose of
Raquel Cook—especially in the essay “Dancing
88 IRREANTUM
Naked”—is worth the full cover price by itself.
Well-wrought pieces by Luisa Perkins, Kent S.
Larsen II, Astride S. Timinez, and Claudia Bush-
man and several pencil sketches by Stephen Moore
round out the collection.
Putting the book aside, I remembered what
Clifton Jolley—the Mormon maverick—had to say.
If you’re going to associate yourself with Jesus, he
said, you better be ready to wear a big, red clown
nose. That kind of honesty and willingness to be
vulnerable keeps Silent Notes Taken from drifting
into dilettantism and keeps its writers from coming
across as remote.
The book will leave diligent readers both enriched
and charmed. I can’t speak for Tom Wolfe, but I’m
betting John Updike would appreciate it.
Jerry Johnston is an editorial writer and religion
columnist for the Deseret Morning News. His latest
book is Dear Hearts and Gentle People, a collection
of his columns.
Watching Our Neighbor
A review of Lewis B. Horne’s House of James (Sig-
nature, 2001)
Reviewed by John Williams
O pening Lewis B. Horne’s anthology of short
stories House of James is a bit like cracking a
safe, scattering the valuables around the room, and
peering brazenly at the contents, suddenly exposed.
In each of the stories, the characters are so real, gen-
uine, and sensitively rendered that one gets the feel-
ing he or she might actually be doing something
wrong by gazing upon so many intimate episodes
of everyday Mormon and Jack-Mormon life. In fact,
the structure of Horne’s stories seems to invite such
a reading, creating scenes that implicitly draw atten-
tion to the reader’s nosy position as silent, though
perhaps not entirely innocent, witness. In “Seeing
Strangers,” for example, Horne portrays the sexual
tension of two Mormon youth, Fred and Lissie,
driven as much by curiosity as hormonal desire,
thwarted suddenly by the realization that their
actions are being observed by two “pairs of eyes in
the window.”
IRREANTUM
As told through Fred’s eyes, Lissie’s house is empty,
of course. The parents have gone, and the two are
there, with all the fear, desire, and trembling of a
first sexual encounter. “I murmured her name, dip-
ping my face into her throat, hiding it in her hair.
I held her tightly, the erotic promise of this moment,
this afternoon, suddenly real—without contamina-
tion—as she placed her hands over mine.” It is at
this point, however, that Horne’s readers, if they
haven’t already, become a bit uncomfortable: “Then
cutting through warmth came Lissie’s suddenly stiff-
ening cry: ‘No!’ Alarm pulled her free of me. It took
a moment to realize her exclamation was not thrown
at me but at the two pairs of eyes in the window.
How long the Cluff girls had been there, I don’t know.
Why I hadn’t drawn the curtains, I don’t know.” How
long had we as readers been watching? I don’t know.
Why didn’t Fred keep this entire intimate scene a
secret? I don’t know. But it is entirely appropriate
that Horne chose this story to introduce his anthol-
ogy, because in nearly every story readers are taken
into the deepest, most personal aspects of his char-
acter’s lives and allowed to observe with the invested
distance of a voyeur. No one likes voyeurs, of course,
and none of Horne’s stories are explicit enough to
really merit the term, but there is a kind of guilty
pleasure associated with delving into these charac-
ters’ lives, learning who they are, where they hurt,
and why they feel the way they feel.
In “The Ordinary” we meet Maxine, who has
taken up residence in Provo in an apartment com-
plex where her next-door neighbor is a hippie,
someone “from that garish and eccentric world she
saw on television.” Drummer is messy, has a strange
accent, and seems entirely indifferent to how much
of his life the outside world observes. He leaves his
door open. Walking by each evening, Maxine, shy
and curious, strains to see inside his place. We know
this because Maxine has been keeping a journal,
faithfully jotting down the details of Drummer’s
door each night: “His door was half open today.
I don’t believe he’s changed the sheets on his bed—his
mattress—for over three weeks. Another time: He
must be gone. His door is shut.” Eventually, Maxine’s
guilty, secret pleasure turns into panic when three
of her journals end up missing from her apartment.
89 Summer 2003
She feels, like Lissie before her, suddenly exposed,
vulnerable, and embarrassed. The police are called
in to investigate, and Maxine speculates that Drum-
mer himself has taken them. But Horne is smarter
than to have these journals turn up in the end. They
remain hidden, stolen by someone, and we never
find out by whom—though, as Horne’s readers, we
can’t help asking if perhaps we are the guilty ones.
Why are Horne’s stories so caught up with the
feelings of desire and violation that result from
curiosity and surveillance? I don’t know, but I do
think Horne’s characters are compelling enough to
make us ask that question, which might be, after
all, a rather healthy question for a culture so caught
up in “watching” our neighbors. To read The House
of James is to discover secrets, and as talented and
relatively unknown as Horne is in Mormon cul-
ture, he might be one of Mormon literature’s best
kept secrets.
John Williams is a Ph.D. student in comparative
literature at UC Irvine. He is Brooke’s husband and
Miles’s dad
Natural Consequences
A review of Anita Stansfield’s To Love Again (Cove-
nant, 1998)
Reviewed by Katie Parker
A lthough this book was first published five years
ago, it is worth revisiting because it was
recently removed from the shelves of Deseret Book.
In To Love Again we follow the story of Janna
and Colin, the happy couple who got together in
Return to Love. In case you missed that book, Janna
and Colin were high school sweethearts, but they
did something once that landed them in the bishop’s
office. Janna became pregnant, but she kept this
secret from Colin so that he could still serve a mis-
sion. Colin does so, remaining unaware that he has
a son. Janna, meanwhile, marries a physically abu-
sive man. After several years, she finally has the
courage to leave. She flees with her son to Colin’s
house because it seems like a safe place. Eventually
the two of them reconcile and marry, and live hap-
pily ever after . . . until the next book.
Summer 2003
This book, To Love Again, begins at their honey-
moon, but their happily-ever-after soon proves to
be more difficult than they’d dreamed possible. You
see, Janna was abused by her father as a youth, and
a chance encounter with him sets off some awful
feelings within her. Soon she’s verbally and emo-
tionally abusive to Colin, and the harder he tries to
help her feel better, the worse she gets. She’s also
hideously depressed, and Colin finds life with her
more and more difficult. Eventually he commits
adultery, and that, of course, sets off a whole new
set of problems to overcome. Believe it or not,
Colin and Janna do eventually reconcile their dif-
ferences, but getting there is not easy.
Things I like about this story and Stansfield’s
books in general:
There are real issues going on here. There’s abuse,
healing from abuse, mistrust, adultery, the whole
works. People who want the fluffy side of life aren’t
going to find it here. Or are they? More on that later.
Stansfield depicts the workings of the Spirit. Very
few LDS writers portray that as effectively as she
does. In all of her books, God is almost like another
character. He’s very real, always in the background,
but his influence is never far. Even in the characters’
darkest hours, God always comes through for them,
sometimes in ways they least expect it.
Problems with this book:
The issues are real, but ultimately everything has
to work out. That’s a stipulation at the beginning.
Stansfield herself has said on television commercials,
“I guarantee a happy ending.” So, no matter what
else happens, when you pick up the book you know
that the characters will live happily ever after. The
point of reading the book is to take the journey to
that ending, not to speculate on the outcome.
In a way, I like that. Who wants to read through
an entire depressing book in which the protagonist
loses and eventually wilts away to nothing? Maybe
that’s real life, but it sure isn’t fun to read about.
Overcoming obstacles and truly achieving happi-
ness really happen, too. People come away inspired
by stories like these.
On the other hand, not every problem in life has
a happy ending that can fit with it. Since it’s fiction,
and romantic religious fiction at that, readers can
90 IRREANTUM
often allow for a few little miracles to help solve
problems without feeling that the credibility of the
story is too strained.
But there’s still a difference between solving prob-
lems realistically and solving them unrealistically.
Latter-day Saint fiction is notorious for unrealistic
solutions. Just for an example, I recall a scene in a
Jack Weyland book (Kimberly) in which a man and
woman divorce after years of marriage. The children
experience a range of emotions, including despair.
The junior-high-aged girl contemplates suicide for
all of about two pages. Then she looks outside and
sees the beautiful world and decides that life is
worth living after all. The problem is solved, but
the simple solution certainly does not address the
pain that truly suicidal people feel.
But Stansfield comes a lot closer to realistic situ-
ations than Weyland does in this scene. (Weyland
himself has been known to come closer than that in
many cases.) While there are miracles in this book,
they don’t drive much of the action of the book. For
example, Janna experiences depression that doesn’t
go away just because people pray for her or because
the world is beautiful. Colin, frustrated by his
depressed wife who has turned hateful and abusive,
finds himself turning to another woman for accept-
ance. While it’s repeatedly made clear that this
doesn’t excuse Colin’s actions, it’s a realistic thing to
happen under the circumstances. And separation
and possible divorce are realistic things to happen
after that. Colin’s excommunication and deepening
despair are also realistic consequences. It’s refresh-
ing to see LDS fiction that admits these realities,
unpleasant as they are. They’re as much a part of
life as conversion and temple marriage. We may like
to think that Latter-day Saints are immune to such
problems, but this is sadly not the case; they are likely
much more widespread than many of us realize.
So what about the story isn’t realistic? Unfortu-
nately, it’s the happy ending. I wouldn’t say that it’s
an easy ending, since it does take a long, torturous
path to get them there. Given that the ending must
be happy, the road there is fairly believable. But
once Janna has finally overcome the demons from
her past and feels that she can still accept Colin
after what he’s done, and once Colin finally quali-
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fies for rebaptism and has to face the fact that Janna
might not choose to take him back, their reunion
is much smoother than I would realistically expect.
Colin’s character has to carry quite a bit of the
non-realism. Of course, he does fit the mold of the
bigger-than-life hero of any romance novel. He’s
sensitive, as we see in scene after scene where he
sheds tears over Janna, the state of his family, and
his own sins. (In fact, he may be a bit too sensitive.
He sure cries an awful lot, and occasionally he does
things like clap his hand over his mouth when he
hears surprising news. He must have been written
by a woman.) He’s also incredibly patient. When
Janna treats him like dirt, month after month, he
continues on in the marriage and tries to do every-
thing he can for her, including sending her flowers
every week while they’re living apart. His love for
her is still strong. When she’s finally ready, after a
breakdown and months of counseling, he takes her
back easily. He’s upset by her behavior, but he never
stops loving her. It’s a great example of something
we should aspire to, but how many people can
really put up with months of torture from another
human and still love them and be willing to have a
working marriage relationship with them? I would
at least expect some rebuilding time, some time of
“We’re trying but let’s not get too close because I’m
not sure I can trust you yet.” Or I’d just plain
expect a divorce. True love can die, after all, espe-
cially if someone kills it with abuse.
What might make the story more realistic? The
reunion could be more difficult, for starters. Another
possibility would be that they simply don’t make it.
This could be a depressing story, but it could also
be written as a hopeful one. Perhaps we could see
them come to peace with the fact that their relation-
ship can never be the same. After all the hurt that
these two have caused each other, I could even believe
that God might help them heal and move on.
Or would he? I’m sure that some folks out there
would feel the same way. I’m also sure that some
folks would never dream of it. Why would God
ever tell a couple to divorce? The idea just doesn’t
fit with some people’s view of things. I would ven-
ture to guess that these are the same readers who
thrive on solutions coming through miracles.
91 Summer 2003
 With its happy ending that comes in just that
way, To Love Again is probably more for those read-
ers than it is for people who want a truly realistic
story. Those readers like to dabble in reading about
worldly problems, but they like to end in a safe
place. However, those people don’t like to be thrust
into worldly problems and dragged through them.
They like to observe them from a safe distance.
This is where the book seems to lose its audience.
The customer reviews on deseretbook.com were
interesting, at least until the book and its reviews
were removed from the website. While most cus-
tomer reviewers of Stansfield’s books rave about the
emotional intensity, real life problems and solu-
tions, and high quality of her writing, two of the
three reviews of this book were somewhat negative.
Admittedly, two is a small number to base any
sweeping judgments on, but they are nonetheless
interesting. This quote from one of them says it all:
“This book left me feeling bothered and troubled,
and left behind it an obvious lack of the Spirit in
my home for several days.” This sort of material is
something that many readers of LDS fiction just
aren’t looking for.
What’s wrong with the book? Well, for one thing,
it actually shows some of the outbursts between
Janna and Colin. They even use the word hell
repeatedly. The dialogue is often quite believable,
and the friction between the two is pretty realistic.
Sometimes one of them tries to be kind, but the
other one, anticipating caustic behavior, behaves
caustically. Then the first one reacts negatively. And
on it goes. Janna becomes more withdrawn, and
neglects her duties around the home and in caring
for the family. Colin tries to take up the slack, and
tries to initiate kind behavior, but Janna becomes
only more sullen.
Then there’s the adultery. Yes, this is a Latter-day
Saint novel in which the hero commits adultery.
Lily, the other woman, is from the office, and Colin
isn’t even remotely interested in her until a series of
events brings them together. She’s a nonmember
going through a divorce, and he politely tries to
comfort her and then finds himself telling her
about his problems. He gives her rides home when
her car doesn’t work, and comes into her apartment
Summer 2003
to fix things for her. It all starts innocently, except
for the constant warning sirens going off in Colin’s
mind that he ignores.
The part that I had the most trouble with is the
scene where they actually do it (ahem). It’s quite
clear that Colin is troubled and feels hopeless about
his situation at home. And it’s also quite clear that
Lily likes his company and appreciates him in a
way that Janna doesn’t seem to. This is all believ-
able. Lily initiates the physical contact, which is
also believable. What I didn’t quite buy was that
Colin feels so hopeless that his covenants and stan-
dards just cease to matter instantly. I can buy the
hopeless part, but he hadn’t been questioning his
testimony, or lusting after Lily, or anything like
that. Wouldn’t something jar him into reality before
he goes all the way the first time he really thinks
about it?
Besides which, he doesn’t even find Lily particu-
larly attractive. He doesn’t love her. Even through
all of Janna’s emotional abuse, he loves her, deeply.
He hasn’t considered getting intimate with Lily. It
just happens. Given Colin’s moral fiber throughout
the rest of the book, this just didn’t quite ring true
with me. He knows that married men shouldn’t be
alone with a woman to whom they aren’t married,
which is a fine rule to follow, but which he pro-
ceeds to break. But just breaking this rule does not
mean that the two people will end up in bed together.
However, what follows the act is pretty real.
Afterwards, Colin lets himself realize what he’s done,
and ends up crying in Lily’s arms for an hour. Then
he has to go home and face Janna. He confesses to
her almost immediately, and she responds by throw-
ing him out of the house. And then Lily refuses to
disappear. She wants to expand their relationship.
And from what she knows about Colin’s home sit-
uation, she can’t fathom why he won’t comply. This
is all handled quite well, and shows some conse-
quences of Colin’s transgression that he hadn’t even
considered.
In spite of the realistic depictions of the situation,
this book also has plenty of examples of sloppy
writing. The book begins with a multi-page infor-
mation dump to catch the reader up on what hap-
pened in Return to Love. Then we see Janna and
92 IRREANTUM
Colin on their honeymoon, and then at the birth
of their next child. The object, of course, is to show
how happy they are and how much they love each
other. But, since nothing happens of substance, it’s
about as interesting as watching someone cook a
box of macaroni and cheese. The story at this point
is all cheese and no substance. (Fake cheese, at
that.) Things eventually get more interesting, but it
takes longer than it should to get there.
Another example of poor writing is the intro-
duction of Hilary Smith as Janna’s good friend. She
appears from nowhere, and their entire relationship
is described in a paragraph. Her friendship is sup-
posed to mean a lot to Janna, but apparently not
enough to give her any more space than that. She
makes one other similar appearance, and that’s it
for her. What was the point of even introducing her
as a character? Actually, anyone who does a bit of
homework will discover that one of Stansfield’s
next books is about Hilary and her trials and
romance. Most, if not all, of Stansfield’s main char-
acters are tied to main characters in another story,
so the stories are all interrelated in some way, and
occasionally you’ll hear news in books about other
characters. For instance, in the third book of Emily
and Michael Hamilton’s trilogy, the First Love series,
they befriend Sean, who is studying to become a
counselor. Sean’s romance is covered in By Love and
Grace. There, Sean counsels a youth who has been
sexually abused by her father. This is Janna, who
goes on to become the heroine in Return to Love
and To Love Again. Janna and Colin’s daughter
Mallory grows up and has her own trials and
romance in For Love Alone. And on it goes. This
was simply Hilary’s entrance into the series. But it’s
a pretty poor one.
But those things aside, a problem with this book
is that it’s too edgy for some of the folks who read
to be uplifted. And it’s also too unrealistic and pos-
itive for those who like “real” material. The appear-
ance of sloppy writing doesn’t help the cause for
either side. In the end, the book can only really
appeal to those from either camp who are willing to
overlook the parts they don’t like—either the edgi-
ness, or the contrived happy ending. Even some
diehard Stansfield fans don’t like this one. On the
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other hand, I think this one is now one of my
favorite Stansfield offerings.
But, frankly, I don’t understand why Deseret
Book has banned it. According to the letter from
Sheri Dew, President and CEO of Deseret Book,
sent to many Utah customers in December: “Many
customers have asked if we will continue to carry
books . . . that explore the classic conflict between
good and evil (and thus deal with everything form
adultery to abuse). Of course we will. But we will
stock only those that clearly distinguish between
right and wrong and that show the honest conse-
quences of individual choices.”
If this book doesn’t do that, what books do?
I’ve been racking my brains trying to think of
other reasons why Deseret Book might pull this
one from its shelves. Perhaps there is some little
thing that they didn’t like, such as the use of the
word hell. Or maybe they didn’t like the fact that
both Colin and Janna date other people during
their separation, while they are legally still married
to each other. The book never says that this is
wrong for them to do. Or perhaps they didn’t like
the scene where Janna finally comes back to Colin.
The couple is still legally married, but they’ve lived
separate lives for months, and they immediately
hop into bed together as soon as Janna comes back.
Or might Deseret Book disagree with the idea that
Colin was prodded to his adulterous act by abuse
from Janna? Did that seem to excuse his actions
somehow, even though the book goes to great lengths
to explain that this was no excuse? Like it or not,
that’s still a very realistic possible consequence to
Janna’s behavior.
Could Deseret Book be bowing to the pressure
of negative reviews, such as those on their website?
Maybe this book isn’t for everyone, but much of it
is very real. Right or wrong, these things happen.
Not everything in life brings warm fuzzies. But the
ultimate resolution of this book is full of hope. Yes,
it’s a long, terrible road back. But with patience,
persistence, repentance, and forgiveness, it can be
traveled.
Another thought. The letter from Sheri Dew states
that the books they carry must “show the honest
consequences of individual choices” (italics added).
93 Summer 2003
Perhaps the powers that be at Deseret Book felt that
the consequences for this couple weren’t honest.
After all, Janna was abusive and Colin was unfaith-
ful, and they still got back together. I suppose it
could happen, but the more likely consequence is
for the marriage to fail altogether. Could that be
the problem? Does it seem that this book promotes
the idea that it’s okay to mess around or abuse your
spouse because you can fix things in the end?
Although the happy ending may not be realistic,
the book goes out of its way many times to stress
the difficulty of reconciliation. Stansfield doesn’t
make it easy for them, and emphasizes that things
would have been much better for them both if
Colin hadn’t fallen in the first place. She does about
as much as she could to make it realistic and still
get Janna and Colin back together.
What’s the problem, then? Could it be just that
the book’s not selling?
A few months ago I was one of the more vocal
folks on AML-List in support of Deseret Book’s
decision to remove certain books from their shelves.
In theory, I still support this policy. They should be
able to cater to the people they see as their cus-
tomers. In carrying this out, I’d expect them to come
down on books with explicit sex scenes, as well as
those in which the characters have inappropriate
relationships outside of marriage with no apparent
ill consequences. But I’m alarmed that the axe has
fallen on a book like this in which the consequences
are clearly shown as devastating. Maybe that’s just
not good enough.
I don’t believe that Deseret Book ever intended
to place banned labels on anything. They just want
their decisions to be reflected quietly by the absence
of anything “icky” on their shelves. Customers are
supposed to notice the high caliber of literature
they find there, not fret over what’s not in the store.
I’m sure that many of them will do exactly that.
This is a fine goal for a bookstore, but defining
where to draw the line is difficult. There will be
some unbargained-for consequences.
Just like Colin faced with Lily . . .
Katie Parker graduated with a B.A. from the Univer-
sity of Oklahoma. She currently lives in Salt Lake
Summer 2003
City with her husband and son, where she works as an
editor. Her work has appeared in The New Era and
Westview.
A Perplexing Pilgrimage
A review of Clive Scott Chisholm’s Following the
Wrong God Home: Footloose in an American
Dream (University of Oklahoma Press, 2003)
Reviewed by Charlene Hirschi
S cott Chisholm has said several times that his
new book, Following the Wrong God Home, is
not anti-Mormon. After reading it, I have to agree
with him. The problem is, I know what it isn’t but
I’m not quite sure what it is. Just when I think I’ve
figured it out, he changes direction, and I’m left
wondering, “Exactly who is this Chisholm fellow,
and what does he hope to accomplish with this
book?” When he says that Joseph Smith “remains
an enigma” and he quotes Joshua Adams, who
wrote, “If the reader does not know just what to
make of Joseph Smith, I cannot help him out of the
difficulty. I stand myself helpless before the puz-
zle,” it pretty well sums up what I’ve been thinking
about Chisholm.
In 1985, Canadian Scott Chisholm left his home
in New York to embark on a three-month hike
across the United States, following the Mormon
Trail to Salt Lake City. He identifies frustration
with his life and profession, and hoping to “jump-
start my life again” is the impetus for his journey.
Although he claims his reasons for “trailing the
Mormons . . . seemed murky,” it is really no coin-
cidence that the Mormon Trail was his choice.
Considering that Chisholm was reared in Canada
as a member of the Reorganized LDS Church, it
occurs to me that he was actually in search of his
roots. But, of course, they were not really his roots.
His people were not the ones who followed this
trail. They were the ones who stayed behind.
Chisholm is an outsider by religion and nation-
ality, and the premise of his book is that the Amer-
ican Dream does not exist and that, of all those
who tried to capture the illusionary dream, the Mor-
mons were probably among the least successful. He
intersperses the story of his travels, the people he
94 IRREANTUM
meets, and the country he encounters with passages
from journals recounting the Mormon Trail experi-
ence. Often the connection between his experience
and what his predecessors experienced are obvious;
at other times they are more tenuous.
Chisholm proves himself to be a master of sim-
ile: “The classroom smell . . . vaulted me four
decades back when a wide-eyed son-of-a-barber
was tutored by a formidable woman who clings to
my psyche like burrs on a woolen shirt.” At times
his irreverence can be jolting, but in places his prose
rises to heights of eloquence, none more so than
the night of his epiphany on the banks of the
Sweetwater in Wyoming:
Cold and implacable, a spellbinding space
filled me as constellations eased across the sky’s
rim. I drifted into them or them into me with
clarity only the awareness of immensities can
bring . . . For me, alone on the Sweetwater,
something . . . lifted and, with it, the blind-
ness to what I’d crossed: I disappeared into the
strangely benevolent cosmos. Dreaming was
impossible. To imagine, yes. To understand,
in eons, perhaps, but to dream, no—not with
new suns being born and old suns dying out,
the starbursts of their beginnings and endings
telescoped across space in billions of light
years. I was never so wide awake.
On the other hand, his cynicism toward and
criticism of his adopted country and the people he
has chosen to live among most of his adult life are
disconcerting and confusing. Throughout his trek,
people are kind and accepting, inviting him to stay
for dinner and join in their family activities. With
few exceptions, he repays them by mocking them
or, worse, presenting them as buffoons. For example,
in the following passage he repays a benefactor with
an assessment of her motivation using words that are
emotionally laden, prejudicial, and condescending:
“Enjoying yourself?” Kathleen asked, look-
ing at me with a knot of concern in her eyes.
“You betcha,” I replied.
Kathleen’s simple question struck me as des-
perately ‘American,’ as if a cloying uncertainty
IRREANTUM
lingered in her mind, not about my experi-
ence in Genoa, but about her experience of
Dreamland.
His continual carping on the American Dream and
Brigham Young soon become tiresome, but in the
next breath he can say something profound, con-
ciliatory, or even complimentary.
Some Mormons will be offended by this book,
as will some American patriots. I wasn’t offended—
I just don’t always agree with his interpretations.
But he says nothing that hasn’t been said before
about Mormons, Joseph Smith, or Brigham Young.
He even manages to say a few nice things, here and
there. But, I was disappointed in his scholarship.
He claims to have used 3,500 books, plus numerous
journals and diaries, to research this book (I have
reason to doubt that he did), but without apology
he refuses to use citations. He writes, “I make no
pretense about being a historian.” By simply nam-
ing a few of the books and journals in “A Note on
Sources,” he expects his reader to be satisfied. I was
not. He puts words in Brigham Young’s mouth that
I want to confirm for myself. He makes claims about
Emma Smith that I cannot verify without knowing
the source. It is sometimes confusing whose experi-
ence he is recounting. The implication is that they
are Mormon, but a close reading makes me think
otherwise. He grumbles about Mormon scholarship
and weaseling, but within a page, and not for the
first time, he does it himself when he reports that
“perhaps another visit from Hickman [whom
Chisholm calls the notorious Mormon enforcer] . . .
persuaded” Jim Bridger to sell Fort Bridger to the
Mormons, but he offers no evidence of any such
visit.
Chisholm hides behind his claim that his genre
is creative nonfiction and not a historical docu-
ment. However, for those who do not know the
difference, it certainly is quasi-historical, and many
people will pick it up and read it as history, regard-
less of his disclaimer. His definition of creative
nonfiction is broader than mine, and Following the
Wrong God Home seems to expose the limitations of
this genre. I have no problem with the re-creation
of dialogue and scene when the experience is the
author’s own, but when the author chooses to
95 Summer 2003
include material borrowed from another source, it
needs to be attributed to that source to avoid con-
fusion and misinterpretation.
Yes, Scott Chisholm and his book left me per-
plexed. But Following the Wrong God Home is an
interesting read, and many will be fascinated with
his experiences and writing style. They will even
enjoy it and find it hard to put down—as I did.
Charlene Hirschi’s book review column, “Regional
Reads,” appears monthly in Cache Magazine. She
teaches writing at Utah State University and is cur-
rently state president of the League of Utah Writers.
Giving Voice to Important Issues
A review of Josi S. Kilpack’s Surrounded by Strangers
(Bonneville Books, 2003)
Reviewed by Charlene Hirschi
W ho would guess that little Willard, Utah,
would be home to such a talented writer as
Josi Kilpack? A first time reader of her work, I am
impressed with her ability to tell a spellbinding
story and create characters that evoke deep caring
on the part of the reader and with her social con-
sciousness in following up her story with author’s
notes that explain the real-world circumstances sur-
rounding her novel.
Surrounded by Strangers deals with sexual abuse
and a mother’s flight to protect her children from
the abuser. When Gloria Stanton learns that her
husband has abused their young daughter, she does
everything right, or so she thinks. Placing faith in
the judicial system and her LDS belief that right
always prevails, she is blindsided when the court
awards joint custody of the children in spite of tes-
timony that should have precluded such a ruling.
With the aid of an underground network that assists
women in abusive circumstances to adopt new iden-
tities, Gloria changes her name to Pamela, leaves
affluent circumstances in Salt Lake, and begins life
on the run as a waitress in a small Arkansas town.
With evidence mounting that she is about to be
found by both the FBI and her ex-husband, she is
forced to take flight again. Bryan, an LDS friend
Summer 2003
who has no knowledge of her past, comes to her aid
after her car breaks down. During the course of the
next few hours, Brian accidentally discovers that
she is wanted by the police, and after an angry con-
frontation he decides to at least help her make
connection with the underground safe house in
Little Rock. Over the course of the story, Bryan’s
involvement escalates to the point that there is no
turning back for him either.
This is a story of romance, faith, and suspense
that pulls the reader into the story. What is hap-
pening to the characters seems real and important.
As one reviewer writes, “It was so real that I nearly
included the character in my prayers at night.”
Surrounded by Strangers will ring true with all
caring parents and demonstrates that under certain
circumstances right and wrong are often not as
black and white as we may think. Always under-
standing that at some point she will have to accept
the consequences of her actions, Gloria, a.k.a. Pamela,
continually prays, “Please, Lord, don’t let me forget
I’m doing the right thing.”
This book caught my immediate attention because
it deals with social issues not often addressed in
LDS literature. Kilpack show a maturity of writing
style that is sometimes missing in this genre. Thanks
to small Utah publishers like Cedar Fort’s Bonneville
Books, real-life issues as faced by today’s society,
including members of the LDS Church, are finding
voice.
LDS Authors Don’t Want to Be
“Left Behind”
A review of Jessica and Richard D. Draper’s Seventh
Seal: A Novel of the Last Days (Covenant, 2003)
Reviewed by Jeffrey Needle
I f you’re planning to read this book, don’t read
this review. I give away the entire plot.
The world of Christian publishing has been
rocked by the unprecedented success of the Left
Behind series of end-time novels by Tim LaHaye
and Jerry Jenkins. The series is now about a dozen
volumes, and there’s no sign that they’ll be letting
up any time soon. There’s now a children’s edition,
96 IRREANTUM
several have been filmed, and advance orders for each
new volume are breaking sales records for Christian
books.
As the first-listed author, LaHaye is thought by
some to be the one who wrote the books. It’s actu-
ally Jenkins, a professional ghostwriter, who does
the writing. LaHaye just checks the theology to
ensure doctrinal soundness (from their point of
view). The success of the series is marked by large
displays known as “Left Behind Headquarters,” sta-
tioned in larger Christian bookstores, and the
opening of the Tim LaHaye School of Prophecy at
Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University. No kidding.
The Drapers are likewise listed as coauthors of
the present volume, but more honestly the writer
(Jessica) is listed first, while the expert on prophecy
(Richard) is listed second. I appreciate this proper
credit being given.
Seventh Seal is yet another attempt by a Mormon
author to avoid being “left behind” in the flood of
end-time novels showing up in the bookstores. Of
course, this book presents the story from a Mormon
perspective. Draper is presented as an authority on
prophecy and can thus be expected to see that the
book is in line with official church teaching.
Why is the LaHaye/Jenkins series so popular? To
be fair, Jenkins is a very good writer. His situations
are compelling and coherent, and his theology is
consistent, in line with the fundamentalist, dispen-
sationalist point of view. Even with a faulty prem-
ise, a well-written book can carry a reader’s interest.
At 499 pages, Seventh Seal needs to be written
well. We shall soon see whether this is so.
There are several storylines presented in this book.
The first involves a giant pharmaceutical research
firm known as MedaGen. It has been swallowing
up other pharmaceutical firms in an effort to gain
a monopoly in the industry. Supported by a Sena-
tor Garlick, who has his own agenda (and doesn’t
mind cutting ethical corners), they buy up a firm
that employs Chris Galen, a brilliant scientist work-
ing on a cure for diabetes.
The day after the takeover, Chris shows up for
work, logs onto his computer with his username
(ChrisG), and is told he has to change his password
immediately. He does so, is logged in, and discovers
IRREANTUM
that he has access to someone else’s files. That some-
one else is Gregor Christoff. Galen’s username has
been changed to GalenC; Christoff ’s username is
now ChrisG. (Get it?) To Chris’s surprise, Christoff
is working on a super-secret project developing a
cure-all drug, called AllSafe, that will benefit all
mankind. The problem with the drug is that it
requires constant booster shots, an incredible
chance for this company to make a huge profit,
since they are the only ones who manufacture the
vaccine and the boosters. But they aren’t planning
on telling anyone about the need for booster shots.
And the evil Senator Garlick is complicit in mak-
ing vaccination mandatory for all citizens!
Human tests on the vaccine are conducted, and
the subjects from whom the booster shots are with-
held die a terrible death, their immune systems
completely breaking down. Chris, a good Mor-
mon, can’t let this pass by. He comes home to his
wife, Merry, and explains what he’s discovered, and
they determine to expose the nefarious plot.
Now, if you think that Galen’s access to “top
secret” files was too easy, you’re right. It is just pre-
posterous to think that computer security in a large,
ambitious, and rather paranoid firm could be that
weak. With the takeover, the authors make a point
of extolling the new security measures: cameras,
armed guards, etc. They’re leaving nothing to chance.
The idea that the system just let him in to see the
files, when the company knew that any disclosure
of these files could ruin their plans for world con-
quest, is ridiculous.
When Chris is killed in an auto accident, Merry
has to carry on the work. Using deceit, she obtains
employment at MedaGen. She uses an assumed
name and a truncated résumé. She uses her posi-
tion to gain access to the sensitive files so that she
can expose the plot. When one of her supervisors
learns that she’s actually the late Chris Galen’s wife,
she flees the city with her infant daughter, making
her way to Salt Lake City to enlist the help of the
church in exposing the plot.
(Church headquarters, by the way, has been
moved to Independence, Missouri. I never quite
figured out why some leadership remained in Salt
Lake City. The impression I had gotten was that
97 Summer 2003
they had pretty well cleared out. But this is just a
minor bit of inexplicable information; I decided to
let it pass.)
But let’s move on to another storyline. It seems
that gangs are taking over the country, roving
about, selling drugs, and killing their competition.
A young man named Dove and his older brother
Benny are caught up in the trade. But Dove wants
to better his life, so he’s going to school, and several
gang members are going to school with him. They’ve
commandeered a local taco shop as their headquar-
ters, and there they eat mole, do homework, and
plot murders, protection schemes, and drug sales.
The gang turns on Dove and his brother Benny,
and they kill Benny, but they only maim Dove.
Some local Mormon Native Americans rescue him.
He reads the Book of Mormon, is baptized, and
goes out in the spirit of Captain Moroni to battle
the bad guys.
Who are the bad guys? The worst of them is the
General. He has developed biological weapons and
is using them to wipe out entire populations along
the Mexican-American border. (The story, by the
way, takes place in San Diego and environs.) His
chief assistant, a fellow named Slick, is a really evil
fellow. Dove and his compatriots must find some
way to stop the General, and they must go through
Slick to get to him. Ultimately they meet on the
battlefield, but more about that later.
Interwoven throughout the book are letters of a
Nigerian man to his son who is serving a mission
in Japan. I counted about 40 pages of these letters.
Each one reads like a conference talk, but one filled
with prophetic warnings and what was intended to
sound like a solid understanding of end-time dan-
gers. I found several of these letters to be somewhat
odious, and it was never explained why the writer’s
ethnicity mattered.
The Galen and Dove stories are the central threads.
There are several others, but they are unimportant
to the storyline. In keeping with the Seventh Seal
theme, however, there are plenty of earthquakes
and other natural disasters that cause unrelated
havoc around the world.
The first third or so of this book is, well, just
dreadful. Happily, the writing gets better as the
Summer 2003
book moves on, only to fall completely apart at
the end.
In some places, the writing is just so overwrought
that it becomes nearly unreadable. Consider the
following, from an early portion of the book:
Sure enough, the mercenary femme was shoot-
ing at Rose out of her own pile of industrial
debris, her assets bouncing in a way calculated
to distract her opponents, and returned fire with
two howitzer-sized hand cannons. The barrel
disappeared into independent atoms, and
Cesare’s ego went down in a burst of crimson
glop that completely obscured his vision. (69)
I don’t know where to begin commenting on
such prose. Writers will sometimes fish for modify-
ing words that will enhance their nouns and verbs.
And often they will pad their writing with verbiage
that seems to them flowery and articulate. Some-
times they make good choices; sometimes they don’t.
And when a writer lives to modify every noun and
every verb, you eventually run out of adjectives
and adverbs. You simply run out of ways of saying
the same thing, and so you resort to awkward and
misguided writing.
I was glad to see that the authors decided to give
up their endless quest for modifiers as the book
went on and chose to focus on character and plot.
The writing becomes more spare, more precise.
And, in fact, the book becomes an enjoyable read,
with plenty of suspense and some surprises. But
how many readers will hang on long enough to dis-
cover that there is something worth reading further
on? Frankly, if I weren’t reading the book for
review, I would never have finished it.
Two larger problems plague this book, and they
are worth noting.
First, there is a (barely disguised) conservative
Republican agenda, a contempt for what might be
termed the political left (and even for the political
middle) and an embracing of the political right.
The Drapers thus deliver something of a political
tract that is better left to political writers. Draper
has one of her characters, the Nigerian fellow who
writes to his missionary son, saying the following:
“Too many people equate legal with moral. The
98 IRREANTUM
result is a society that plays word games (as the
modern damnable proverb says, “It depends on
what the meaning of ‘is’ is”) and thereby feels
moral” (118).
A gratuitous swipe at Bill Clinton? “Damnable
proverb”? Sure, why not. As long as you’re blaming
all the ills of our society on liberals and the Whore
of Babylon (as this father does), you may as well
sweep as many of the wicked ones into your net as
possible.
Later, again in the context of one of these letters,
the authors take another swipe at the left:
According to all we hear, it [AllSafe] guaran-
tees complete safety against any and all infec-
tions. The “porn industry” and other immoral
elements of society are rallying behind it. The
religious gay community (yes, there is one),
answering the charge that AIDS was God’s
curse against their perversion, is boasting that
AllSafe is the divine sign that God accepts
their lifestyle. (363–64)
That any person living in the present, no less the
future, should find a community of gay Christians
to be surprising is just astonishing. To group them
with the “porn industry” and other “immoral ele-
ments of society” will surely cause offense among
some Latter-day Saints.
There is no denying that there is a political
agenda interwoven throughout the book.
The second problem is the Drapers’ tendency to
minimize, mock, and treat with contempt those
who are unlike them. Typical is the following. The
context is a series of protests being held against the
church at its new headquarters in Jackson County,
Missouri: “Another protest replaced the Christian
political rally; the signs were the same, the slogans
on the signs changed. ‘The Mormons are pouring
money into illegal political pressure!’ a gay rights
protester snarled. The triangle tattoo on his fore-
head distorted as he scowled” (158).
If you’re detecting a homophobic bent to the
book, you’re right. And when you’re reduced to
depicting gay rights protesters as having triangle
tattoos on their heads, then, well, your credibility,
in my opinion, is gone.
IRREANTUM
But let’s move on. At several points, the plot
choices are simply inexplicable. A few examples:
When Merry Galen reaches Salt Lake City, she
reports to a General Authority, gets the wheels
moving to expose the dangers of AllSafe, and then
wants nothing more than to rest. During the past
few weeks, she has been relentlessly pursued by the
murderous minions of MedaGen, who have access
to an enormous amount of personal information,
including Merry’s friends, the places she frequents,
her phone and credit card records, etc. When the
church offers to secure an apartment for her, she
opts to stay with her in-laws, who live in Provo.
What? Does she really think the super-sleuths at
MedaGen don’t know where the in-laws live? Does
she think they won’t look there first? Oddly, no one
tells her this is a really bad idea.
Our friend Dove, who has been baptized and is
now out fighting the bad guys, captures the baddest
of the guys, the aforementioned Slick, who has a
direct link to the General, the mastermind behind
the whole nefarious biological weapons plot. (It isn’t
apparent that there is any intersection between
the Dove story and the Galen plotline. At least I
couldn’t find one, other than the implied evil
that undergirds the bad people who populate this
book.)
Dove is reluctant to outright kill Slick. And so
he offers Slick a deal: If he will just stop doing bad
things and go back to the General and tell him to
stop doing bad things too, he’ll let him go. Huh?
Frankly, I don’t know what to say. Happily, Slick
makes one last attempt to kill Dove, and Dove ends
up blowing him away. All’s well that ends well.
There is, of course, a lot of moral ambiguity in
this book. Take Merry Galen. She lies to get her
job, steals information from the computer, etc. While
the authors are quick to condemn, among others,
alcohol and coffee drinkers, they stand silent at the
incredible moral laxness of some of the main char-
acters. Dove, newly baptized, goes forth to assem-
ble an army of killers and arsonists. What’s going
on here? One of Merry’s friends has a daughter who
is an accomplished liar and manages to fend off an
attack by some MedaGen goons. Her ability to lie
in times of crisis is lauded.
99 Summer 2003
 The great tragedy of this book is the lost oppor-
tunity. I mentioned LaHaye and Jenkins earlier.
Jenkins is a good writer; the books sell well. There
are lengthy segments of this book that are written
very well. Some of the action scenes are gripping
and suspenseful. And once the Drapers decide to
put aside their conservative religious and political
agenda, they put together an exciting story. But
I can’t see the sense in wading through nearly
500 pages to get to the good writing.
I express a (cautious) hope that the Drapers give
it another try. And I would offer the following
advice:
1. Tone down the moralizing and demeaning ref-
erences to people who are not like you. They are
unworthy of good Mormon literature. There are
any number of fine authors within the LDS com-
munity who have proven that you can discuss these
issues and maintain some credibility in the process.
Your own extreme right-wing bias makes your
argument less credible.
2. Avoid having so many storylines; they’re just
too confusing, too difficult to follow. You intro-
duce so many characters at the beginning of the
book that the reader has a great deal of trouble
remembering who’s who. If you must populate your
books with so many characters, at least give the
reader a list of characters.
3. Be sensitive to plot turns that cause the reader
to wonder about the intelligence of the characters.
Some of the situations are just too facile to be
believable.
I really can’t recommend this book. I’m sorry
about that. The Drapers seem well intentioned, and
I wish them well in their future endeavors.
Selected Recent Releases
Liz Adair. The Lodger and After Goliath
(Deseret, $13.95 each). Times have been hard in
Lincoln County, Nevada, since the mines closed, so
Spider Latham feels lucky to land a steady job as
deputy sheriff. Little does he know what challenges
lie in store. In The Lodger, Spider’s first week on the
job finds him unearthing a body from a ravine and
storing it as an unwelcome guest in the rafters of
Summer 2003 100
his barn. Foul play is evident, but who is the mys-
tery victim? And what brought her to Spider’s
stretch of territory? A property dispute between
two brothers takes a deadly turn in After Goliath.
Money and fame may have bought prestige for
country music star Rocky Ridge when he moved
his family back to Panaca from Las Vegas, but they
can’t keep him from being murdered. Can Spider
find the killer before he becomes a victim himself?
James Dashner. A Door in the Woods (Cedar
Fort, $12.95). This is book one of the Jimmy
Fincher saga. What begins as a summer-day climb
up his favorite tree quickly takes an ugly turn for
poor Jimmy Fincher, as he witnesses something
that turns his perception of reality upside-down.
When the perpetrator of the act notices Jimmy in
the tree, adventures ensue. The next month of
Fincher’s life includes an ancient legend come to
life, a conspiracy of madmen decades old, strange
portals to other worlds, villains named everything
from Raspy to Shadow Ka—and behind it all is the
old wooden door in the forest by Jimmy’s home.
There, something wondrous awaits.
Blake, Reed. A Paiute Wind (Cedar Fort,
$14.95). In the Mormon and Indian settlements in
the harsh country between the Colorado and Virgin
Rivers, where conflicts, robberies, and hard times
are the rule. Charles Chadwick finds himself in the
middle, struggling against his Indian background
and pulled by both sides in his battle to establish
his own identity.
Draper, Jessica, and Richard Draper. Seventh
Seal (Covenant, $16.95). A trio of gigantic earth-
quakes has devastated cities all over the world, and
conflicts between Latter-day Saints and other major
groups have reached their breaking points since the
Mormons moved their headquarters to Independ-
ence, Missouri. Now one of the Twelve Apostles is
missing. The end of the Sixth Seal is at hand, and
the forces of evil are mounting a great offensive.
Amidst the turmoil, Merry Galen uncovers the truth
about a vaccine that promises to end infectious dis-
eases—but only at a horrific cost. Now Merry must
try to escape from those who would silence her and
warn the world as forces that may destroy mankind
are set in motion.
IRREANTUM
 Galli, Guy Morgan. Lifted Up (Covenant,
$14.95). King Herod ordered the deaths of every
male infant under the age of two. The Christ child
escaped. Many others did not. Simon, a young
father, is enslaved for trying to prevent Roman sol-
diers from executing Herod’s evil order. After thirty
years of imprisonment, Simon must face the demons
that still torment his soul as he struggles to under-
stand how the birth of the Messiah could result in
the death of his son. As Simon leads a crusade against
the authority of Rome—fighting for the freedoms
of his loved ones—he is unable to know that his
epic journey is leading him toward one of history’s
greatest moments.
Gilchrist, Jeri. Out of Nowhere (Covenant,
$14.95). Ashlyn Lawrence, a small-town police detec-
tive, works to solve cases that have gone cold. But
she begins to question her choices when the dash-
ing Tyler O’Bryan is appointed as her new captain.
As Ashlyn fights her deepening feelings for Tyler,
she is threatened by a succession of anonymous
messages that suggest a connection between present
events and the tragedy of her past. Perhaps now she
can finally discover the reason behind her brother’s
mysterious death—but it could cost her life. In
both mortal and spiritual danger, she finds she must
rely on much more than her own strength.
Green, Betsy Brannon. Don’t Close Your Eyes
(Covenant, $14.95). In the quiet town of Eureka,
Georgia, a woman is murdered. On that same night,
Helen Tyler arrives in town. She’s a kind, soft-spo-
ken woman who owns a handgun and refuses to
give out her telephone number. Matt Clevenger,
the county sheriff, finds a white Bible on the end of
the murdered woman’s bed and learns that another
body was found in exactly the same way just two
weeks earlier. With little more than this scant but
bizarre evidence, Matt must uncover the secret
identity of a killer. Helen Tyler must hide a secret
past. Together, they embark on a terrifying journey
that will change both of their lives forever.
Hansen, Jennie. Breaking Point (Covenant,
$14.95). When an aging mountain dam disinte-
grates, what should have been the last campout of
the summer quickly turns into what could be the
last campout of people’s lives—and a group of
IRREANTUM 101
strangers is compelled to forge new bonds of trust
or be destroyed. But as life-threatening as the rap-
idly rising water is, there are forces in the canyon
that are even more terrifying. A story of friendship,
love, and suspense, showing how the challenge of
survival leads to choices that can uncover eternity’s
greatest treasures.
Jarvis, Sharon Downing. The Fairhaven
Chronicles #1: A Fresh Start in Fairhaven
(Deseret Book, $13.95). Jim Shepherd is as sur-
prised as anyone by the call to serve as bishop of the
newly formed Fairhaven Ward. He’s pictured bish-
ops as spiritual giants and inspired administrators,
not as ordinary grocers. His immediate challenge is
to bring together the diverse memberships of the
new ward. In his new flock are Ida Lou Reams, the
uncertain but warm-hearted Relief Society presi-
dent; Tashia Jones, an eleven-year-old black girl
who comes alone to sacrament meeting; Ralph and
Linda Jernigan, whose behavior would be humor-
ous if it weren’t so bizarre; and an assortment of
other characters who all manage to find a place in
Bishop Shepherd’s heart.
King, Beverly. Unlikely Match (Covenant,
$14.95). After countless rejection letters, Maggie
Summers, an aspiring writer, is on the verge of pub-
lishing her first manuscript. But just as her dream
is about to come true, Maggie is forced to care for
a relative’s children. David Rosenberg, a local Jew-
ish doctor, encourages Maggie to follow her dream
and helps her care for her family. With David’s help,
Maggie believes she just might be able to get her
life and dream back on track. But an unexpected
love starts to grow between them, which tears Mag-
gie’s very soul. Knowing that their different faiths
prevent them from making a life together, Maggie
faces more than losing her dream; she risks losing
the only man who has ever truly loved her.
Norton, Tamara. Molly Married? (Cedar Fort,
$12.95). Molly Chambers, the spirited strawberry
blond, is back. And so is Brandon Mace—from a
mission in Texas. After two years as a devoted pen
pal, Molly has dreams of a bright future that includes
attending BYU–Idaho, rooming with her cousin
Shannon, and falling in love with Brandon, the guy
who has made her heart flutter since high school.
Summer 2003
But college life throws Molly numerous twists: feel-
ings of jealousy toward her beautiful roommate
Elena, comical encounters with the always unan-
nounced but ever-diligent home-teachers Ernie
and Bart, and the joys of ballroom dancing with
Gordon the goofball. Will college life ever settle
down enough for Molly to find the true love she
has been seeking?
Nunes, Rachael. A Heartbeat Away (Cedar
Fort, $14.95). When their young daughter, Kristin,
is kidnapped, Gary and Angie Marshall struggle to
make sense of the unthinkable. As their hopes slowly
dwindle, they are left with a glaring uncertainty
that damages their marriage and their relationships
with their oldest daughter, Meghan. Meanwhile,
Kristin is having new experiences of her own. Her
first assignment in her new existence is to heal the
hearts of her family. But how can she get them to
let her go so they can all find happiness? Or can
there ever be healing after such a devastating trial?
Looming above them all is the question of who
committed the crime. Is it their beloved uncle, a
neighbor, or someone else entirely? Time is run-
ning out. As she blames herself for Kristin’s disap-
pearance, Meghan turns down a road that can only
lead to more unhappiness. Kristin must find a way
to help her sister find healing—and perhaps love.
Poulson, Clair. Conflict of Interest (Covenant,
$14.95). Law student Rob Sterling is an innocent
man accused of murder. The court has appointed
one of the state’s most successful criminal lawyers
to represent him. Ambitious and arrogant, defense
attorney Dan Smathers will do whatever it takes to
protect his own interests, even if it means sentenc-
ing an unsuspecting Rob to prison—or even death.
But he hasn’t taken into account the unwavering
loyalty of Rob’s best friend, Raul, or the personal
integrity of Haley Gordon, the rising-star prosecu-
tor assigned to the case.
Pratt, James Michael. Dad: The Man Who
Lied to Save the Planet (Deseret, $15.95). Recall-
ing his growing-up years in Los Angeles following
World War II, Pratt describes twelve lessons he
learned from observing his father, an unpretentious
and uneducated man who acquired little of this
world’s wealth but who lived an honorable life.
Summer 2003 102
“For some, these twelve virtues may seem antiquated,
out of date, or hopelessly provincial,” writes Pratt.
“I don’t see it that way. What my father practiced
and conveyed to me were principles that made it
possible for children to grow up in a stable, two-
parent home, where there was a widely accepted
code of decency, honesty, honor, and patriotism.”
Ritter, John H. Cruz de la Cruz: The Boy
Who Saved Baseball (Penguin Putnam, $17.99).
Tom Gallagher finds himself in a tight spot. The
fate of Dillontown rests on the outcome of one
baseball game, winner take all. If only he could get
Dante Del Gato—the greatest hitter to ever play
the game—to coach the team. But Del Gato hasn’t
spoken to folks in years, not after walking away from
the game in disgrace just before his team played in
its first World Series. Tom has one more hope: Cruz
de la Cruz, the mysterious boy who just rode into
town claiming to know the secrets of both hitting
and Del Gato. Ritter’s novel celebrates the game of
baseball, playing larger-than-life games with hero-
ism, redemption, and the making of a legend.
Setzer, Lee Ann. Gathered: A Novel of Ruth
(Cedar Fort, $14.95). Ruth thought her life was
over. Widowed and penniless, she despaired of any-
thing better than poverty and grief, whether in
Moab or among her dead husband’s people. Fol-
lowing her mother-in-law back to Bayt-Lahm
would be less lonely. Ten years among the people of
Jacob’s Street had taught her the forms of their law.
Yet Bayt-Lahm turned out to be more than a sleepy
village and its Lord more than the voiceless, pow-
erless statues of Moab’s gods. At least one man in
Bayt-Lahm had honor and virtue beyond measure.
The widower Boaz taught Ruth, and all who met
him, what loving the Lord could really mean.
Could she bring him to love her, as well?
Siddoway, Richard. Degrees of Glory (Cedar
Fort, $7.95). Based on D&C 76. Why did one-
third of the Host of Heaven decide to follow Satan?
Why would anyone want to live in Outer Dark-
ness? Who will be living in each of the other king-
doms? Will they be happy there? What challenges
will they continue to have? A fictional traveler visits
these various destinations, meets the residents, and
sees how they live.
IRREANTUM
 Smith, Robert Farrell. Never Can Say Good-
bye (Deseret, $13.95). August, Sally, and Ryan
have never met, but they have a few things in com-
mon: Each has undergone a life-changing tragedy.
Each is searching for a way to start over, a place of
healing or forgetfulness or new chances. And they
all find themselves, independently, drawn to the
unlikely town of Seven Pines, Montana. Will it be
a refuge with the answers they seek, or will the
town’s own mysterious tragedy raise more questions
in their minds?
Taylor, Lorraine. Last Words (Covenant,
$14.95). After spending his entire life aching for
his mother’s love, Cap Martin is suffering from her
bitter dying words: “How I hate you.” He has little
reason to believe it isn’t true. As a boy, Cap wrestled
with an uncertain future at the hands of his brutal,
alcoholic father. As a man, he has established his
place in the world with the help of Lara, the
woman he loves. Together, they have endured fam-
ily tragedy more than once. But Cap’s newfound
spiritual knowledge only reinforces his desire to
understand his mother. A story of ordinary people
learning to deal with loss and heartache and mov-
ing toward understanding and forgiveness.
Twain, Mark, and Lee Nelson. Huck Finn and
Tom Sawyer among the Indians (Cedar Fort,
$18.95). In 1885 Mark Twain began this sequel in
which Huck, Tom, and Jim head west on the trail
of two girls kidnapped by Sioux warriors, learning
the hard way that “book Injuns and real Injuns
ain’t the same.” Fifteen thousand words into the
work, just as Huck and Tom are about to try to
rescue the girls, Twain stopped in the middle of a
sentence, never to go back. Lee Nelson approached
the copyright holders and received permission to
finish the story.
Wadsworth, Amy Maida. Shadow of Doubt
(Covenant, $14.95). Lia Tucker is married with
three young children. While she toils away at home
with their children, her husband Jon is often con-
sumed by his challenging career as a university
professor. Meanwhile Lia feels unappreciated, unat-
tractive, and lonely. So when Derek, an old flame,
reminds her of what might have been, she ques-
tions the course she has taken in her life. Although
IRREANTUM 103
Lia thinks the situation is under control, Derek’s
manipulative and desperate actions soon reveal that
there is a part of him that is darker than anything
she could have imagined. Can Lia rely on the love
of her husband Jon to see her safely out of harm’s
way—even though she’s kept secrets from him?
Yates, Dan. Lack of Evidence (Covenant,
$14.95). Derrick Beatty has come home to Arizona
to solve the mystery of his father’s disappearance.
But he never would have returned to his P.I. job if
he had known that Reggie Mandel, his former part-
ner, was still at the agency. Though Derrick had
always adored Reggie, it seemed she could never
return his love—especially when she accepted
another man’s engagement ring. As buried secrets
begin to surface, the reluctant partners soon dis-
cover there is more to the Samuel Beatty case, and
to Derrick’s hot-tempered brother Corbin, than
meets the eye. In a manner similar to their search
for clues in an abandoned gold mine, Derrick and
Reggie fumble through unspoken darkness as they
each attempt to uncover the other’s true feelings.
Young, Margaret Blair, and Darius Gray. The
Last Mile of the Way (Deseret, $21.95). In book
three of the Standing on the Promises trilogy, the
black Saints come full circle as Aidan Gray looks
down Parley Street in Nauvoo, where Elijah Abel
and Jane Manning James walked more than 160
years earlier. Here we meet Ab Howell, Monroe
Fleming, Ruffin Bridgeforth, and more African-
American Latter-day Saints who laid a lasting foun-
dation of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and His
gospel.
Summer 2003
 M O R M O N
L I T E R A R Y
S C E N E
Compiled by Christopher Bigelow
Books
• Ann Cannon’s young-adult novel Charlotte’s
Rose (Wendy Lamb Books/Random House Chil-
dren’s Books) was named as a children’s literature
finalist in the PEN Center USA Literary Awards for
2003. According to the organization, “PEN USA’s
annual awards program, established in 1982, is a
unique regional competition that rewards writers in
ten categories, from playwrights to journalists to
novelists and poets, and celebrates the written word
in all forms. Distinguished panels of judges, com-
prised of writers, editors, and journalists, selected
this year’s winners and finalists from more than
500 entries; Los Angeles Times editor Susan Brenne-
man served as chair of judges. Each winner receives
a $1,000 cash prize and is honored at a gala awards
ceremony that will be held in Los Angeles at the
Millennium Biltmore Hotel on October 20, 2003.”
For more information, visit www.penusa.org/03pen
winners.htm. Cannon, a former AML president,
received a 2002 AML award for Charlotte’s Rose.
• Reviewing The Last Mile of the Way, the final
volume in the Standing on the Promises trilogy by
Margaret Blair Young and Darius Aidan Gray,
Deseret Morning News reviewer Dennis Lythgoe
wrote: “This novel is unusually true to the history
it represents, including the real names of the black
families who joined the LDS Church over the years
and participated in the trek west. The authors have
amassed an impressive bibliography of historical
sources, including books about Utah history, inter-
views with descendants of black Mormon pioneers,
letters, and journal articles. Even though the authors
have written fiction, they have based it as firmly as
possible in actual history, probably more than any
other historical novel I have ever seen. They even
use the actual dialect characteristic of many blacks
during the 1900s, nicknamed ‘flat talk.’ The book
contains footnotes at the end of each chapter, citing
Summer 2003 104
the works used and the people interviewed. The most
important contribution the authors make is to cap-
ture the cultural and emotional difficulty that many
black Mormons felt because the LDS Church
priesthood was denied to black males until 1978.”
• Former Deseret Book editor Tim Robinson is
ghostwriting an autobiography of Salt Lake Olympic
boss and current Massachusetts governor Mitt
Romney. Tentatively titled Turnaround: Crisis,
Leadership and the Olympic Games, the book will be
spun “as a kind of lay management book,” said
Robinson, who is Romney’s nephew. According to
the Deseret Morning News, “The story, Robinson
said, ‘is how he was able to take an organization
that was basically a laughingstock internationally
and pull off Games that were successful’ using the
same management principles that made him a
wealthy businessman in Boston. Such key prin-
ciples as the need to ‘cherish your detractors’ and
‘lower expectations’ will be detailed for readers in
an attempt to broaden the audience for the book.”
Represented by the William Morris Agency, Rom-
ney is seeking to publish in spring 2004 in antici-
pation of the Summer Games in Athens, Greece.
• Cedar Fort part-owner and Storm Testament
author Lee Nelson has written and published Huck
Finn and Tom Sawyer among the Indians
(Council Press), a “finished” version of a novel frag-
ment left behind by Mark Twain. Twain’s original
portion makes up the novel’s first 56 pages, and
Nelson’s addition runs about four times that long.
Calling the book “faith-promoting drivel,” Salt
Lake Tribune reviewer Martin Naparsteck wrote:
“He has not finished Twain’s incomplete novel;
rather, he has written a separate novel in which he
misrepresents Twain’s world view, alters the charac-
ters of Huck and the slave Jim to the point of gross
distortion, and concocts a plot that, if he believed
in truth in advertising, should have led him to reti-
tle the book Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer Among the
Mormons.” Naparsteck continues, “The portrayals
of Hickman and Rockwell and the constant praise
for Brigham Young (who does not appear in the
novel) make Nelson’s part of the novel seem church-
sanctioned. Tom Sawyer reads and enjoys the Book
of Mormon. Although most of the story takes place
IRREANTUM
in 1857–58, during the so-called Mormon War,
there is not a single mention of the 1857 Mountain
Meadows Massacre.”
• Best-selling adventure author Jon Krakauer’s
new book, Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story
of Violent Faith (Doubleday), drew mixed-to-
positive reviews nationwide and provoked an LDS
Church spokesman to call it “a decidedly one-sided
and negative view of Mormon history.” Neverthe-
less, the book sold more than 9,600 copies in the
Salt Lake area, according to Nielsen BookScan.
Built on the premise that “the underbelly” of Mor-
monism is revealed through Utah’s mid-1980s Laf-
ferty murders, “Krakauer’s thesis is that because
religious devotion leads to extremism and violence,
all religious devotion is wrong-headed and danger-
ous,” wrote Dennis Lythgoe in the Deseret Morning
News. LDS Church spokesman Mike Otterson
wrote: “The result is a full-frontal assault on the
veracity of the modern church. This book is not
history, and Krakauer is no historian. He is a story-
teller who cuts corners to make the story sound
good. He finds sufficient zealots and extremists in
the past 150 years to help him tell his story, and by
extrapolation tars every Mormon with the same
brush. And so Krakauer unwittingly puts himself
in the same camp as those who believe every Ger-
man is a Nazi, every Japanese a fanatic, and every
Arab a terrorist.” A New York Times book reviewer
wrote: “It would have been nice to see some of reli-
gion’s upside. Something must explain the vibrancy
of mainstream Mormonism, and I doubt it’s just
the dark energy of residual authoritarianism.”
• Calling Dorothy Allred Solomon’s Predators,
Prey, and Other Kinfolk: Growing Up in Polyg-
amy (W. W. Norton) “probably the best book ever
written about polygamy,” Salt Lake Tribune
reviewer Martin Naparsteck wrote: “It is neither an
apologia for polygamy nor an exposé. It refuses to
adopt the ‘all these sister wives were very happy
together’ defense or the ‘polygamy is just an excuse
for child rape’ condemnation. It is a psychological
study about how polygamy shapes those trapped in
it, even willingly.” AML-List reviewer Jeffrey Needle
wrote: “Anyone wanting a glimpse inside a mini-
mally functional polygamous household will find a
IRREANTUM 105
wealth of information here. And while the author
is clearly distancing herself from the lifestyle, she
pulls together her memories in a compelling and
dramatic way, bringing you into the family as a dis-
tant relative.”
Film
• LDSFilm.com reported that Christian Vuissa
has been chosen to direct Eat, Drink and Get Mar-
ried, a feature-length adaptation of Robert Smith’s
comedic LDS novel Baptists at Our Barbecue, the
story of a young man whose arrival in a small New
Mexico town disrupts the population’s balance
between Mormons and Baptists. “Christian Vuissa’s
upbringing as a Catholic in Austria may seem far
removed from the rural Southwestern culture of
feuding Baptists and Latter-day Saints,” wrote
Preston Hunter. “If anybody has any reservations
about Vuissa’s abilities to help a feature film of this
type, or if anybody is tempted to conclude ‘not
another lame LDS movie idea,’ I would invite
them to watch [Vuissa’s short films] Roots & Wings
or Unfolding. Anybody who does so will be left
speechless. Vuissa’s films have exhibited unique
commitment to excellence. His first feature film,
based on Smith’s wonderfully fun novel, will easily
rival and quite possibly surpass anything that has
gone before it.”
• Christian Vuissa’s new short film Unfolding
“is about a teenager named Lila who finds a con-
nection with her father, despite the fact that as long
as she can remember he has suffered from a mental
disease (probably early onset Alzheimer’s) which
leaves him seemingly healthy on the outside but
essentially unresponsive to his surroundings and
incapable of talking to anybody,” according to
LDSFilm.com reviewer Preston Hunter. “If you
love a good story, uplifting ideas, superb and entirely
natural acting, compelling images, and magnificent
music perfectly supporting the film, you will find
all of it here. What is wonderful about Unfolding is
that in addition to excelling in an artistic and cine-
matic sense, it is also morally excellent and truly
inspiring.” Hunter continued: “It may appeal to a
broad general audience, but it has less appeal to
Summer 2003
a specifically Latter-day Saint audience. Perhaps the
film’s biggest drawback is that its basic themes are
not unique or even unusual: learning about one’s
parents and dealing with mental illness.” Unfolding
is currently being sold only by LDSVideoStore.com.
• Some LDS filmmakers are planning a series of
reality documentaries about Mormon romance,
titled For Time and All Eternity. The series is
planned to include four interview-based 30-minute
episodes: “Single, Mormon, and Searching for the
One,” “The Lord Works in Mysterious Ways,”
“LDS Divorce: When the Bubble Bursts,” and “For
Time and All Eternity.” Release is slated for spring
2004. For more information, visit aumfilm.org/
time_eternity.
• LDS television writer Ernest Ferrin Wallen-
gren recently passed away from Lou Gehrig’s dis-
ease. His Hollywood writing credits included The
Waltons, Touched by an Angel, Little House on the
Prairie, Eight Is Enough, Falcon Crest, Knight Rider,
and Diagnosis Murder. Wallengren was an executive
producer and writer for the first season of Bay-
watch, but he left the series after a short time. “He
thought the show was too T&A and was too trashy
and didn’t feel comfortable writing it sometimes,”
his brother recalled. Born in 1952 in Heber City,
Utah, Wallengren served an LDS mission in Cen-
tral America and attended the University of Utah.
• Another LDS missionary film is nearing com-
pletion, according to Salt Lake TV reporter Carole
Mikita. Written, directed, and produced by Scott
Anderson, The Best Two Years of My Life is based
on his early-1980s play of the same name, which in
turn was based on his experiences as a missionary in
Holland. According to actor Kirby Heyborne, “It’s
not just about the LDS nuances. It’s about rela-
tionships, it’s about people trying to live together
and get along and the struggles that they go
through.” Filmed in Holland and Utah, the film is
scheduled for release in spring 2004.
• BYU graduates Jason Faller and Andrew
Black are making an updated LDS version of Jane
Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Calling the classic
story “kind of like Star Wars for women,” Faller said
he expects the film will appeal to fans of the book
everywhere. According to the Deseret Morning News,
Summer 2003 106
“The setting is Utah’s frenzied dating scene instead
of the English countryside, and the girls are five
BYU roommates rather than sisters. The story fol-
lows Elizabeth, whose resolve to remain single until
she graduates is tested by two courtiers: Wickham,
a smooth-talking playboy, and Darcy, a sensible
businessman.” For more information, visit pride
andprejudice.net.
• Richard Dutcher told the Deseret Morning
News that he must raise 10 million more dollars
before he can make The Prophet, his film about
Joseph Smith’s life starring Val Kilmer as Joseph and
F. Murray Abraham as Illinois governor Thomas
Ford. One reason for the lack of funding is that
Dutcher’s last film, Brigham City, did not succeed
financially with the Mormon audience. “Apparently
they were uncomfortable with the mix of toned-
down violence and their religion,” wrote Doug
Robinson. “They might not be ready for the juxta-
position of sacrament meetings and bloody may-
hem. Some see Dutcher as an ‘edgy’ filmmaker,
which makes investors nervous.” Another challenge
is that “the idea of putting the life of Joseph Smith
on the big screen, which at first seems an obvious
subject for LDS movie audiences, makes Mormons
uncomfortable. Especially potential LDS investors.
Every one of them has asked [Dutcher] how he
would handle the subject of polygamy. How about
the failed banking venture? ‘Once you go in-depth
enough to understand these things, they’re not a
big deal,’ Dutcher says. ‘Unfortunately, people hear
just a little about these things and it scares them.’”
Meanwhile, Dutcher has turned his attention to
making God’s Army II.
• BYU motion-picture archives curator James
D’Arc played a major role in Fox Home Entertain-
ment’s recent DVD release of the 1940 film Brigham
Young, including preparing much of the DVD’s
supplementary material. Before the big-budget
Brigham Young, Mormon-related movies sported
titles such as Trapped by the Mormons, Marriage or
Death, and A Victim of the Mormons. This movie,
however, was a “watershed film as far as the image
of the Mormons,” said D’Arc. “Gone was the
image of Joseph Smith as a wild-eyed fanatic.
Instead, he was portrayed as almost Lincolnesque.”
IRREANTUM
The portrayal of Brigham Young “invites compari-
son to FDR leading America out of chaos into hope,
promise, prosperity, and peace. He was a character
that even nonmembers could see as a credible,
admirable, courageous leader.” D’Arc noted that
the director took considerable dramatic license with
the film. “A lot that is pictured did not happen. But
a lot did. And his overall aim was true. In the end,
you understand where the Mormons came from
and why they did what they did.”
• A film titled Latter Days was selected to head-
line the Philadelphia International Gay and Lesbian
Film Festival in July. The story of a gay man who
seduces an LDS missionary, the film “is the direc-
torial debut of C. Jay Cox, best known as the screen-
writer who wrote last year’s hit movie Sweet Home
Alabama,” according to LDSFilm.com. The film
“features Latter-day Saint main characters but was
not made by Latter-day Saint actors or filmmakers.”
• Following are several news snippets from LDS
Film.com: New Jersey–based LDS filmmaker Jeff
Profitt announced the video premier of his feature-
length film Blue Collar Actor; more information is
available at BlueCollarActor.com. The box-office
total for The R.M. was expected to overtake The
Single Ward’s total of $1,250,798 in late August.
A trailer for 15-year-old LDS filmmaker Colin
Liddle’s low-budget film The MoMos, about five
LDS teenagers and their non-member friend who
is interested in the church, is available at themomos
.suddenlaunch.com. In December HBO will broad-
cast a six-hour miniseries based on Tony Kushner’s
Pulitzer-winning play Angels in America; actors
portraying Mormon characters will include Mary-
Louise Parker as Harper Pitt, Meryl Streep as Han-
nah Pitt, and Patrick Wilson as Joe Pitt.
• LDSFilm.com released a master list of films
featuring characters who are either identified as Mor-
mon in the film or based on a real-life Mormon
person. The following list is ranked from highest to
lowest box-office gross and includes the release year:
Ocean’s Eleven (2001), Rain Man (1988), Deep
Impact (1998), Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
(1969), Donnie Brasco (1997), Paint Your Wagon
(1969), Punch-Drunk Love (2002), Somewhere in
Time (1980), Panther (1995), The Other Side of
IRREANTUM 107
Heaven (2001), Covered Wagon (1923), Messenger
of Death (1988), Heavenly Creatures (1995), God’s
Army (2000), Brigham Young (1940), Goodbye Lover
(1999), The Singles Ward (2002), The R.M. (2003),
Wagonmaster (1950), Brigham City (2001), Jack
Weyland’s Charly (2002), Orgazmo (1998), The
Cremaster Cycle (2003), SLC Punk! (1999), and
Handcart (2002). Other major theatrical releases
featuring LDS main characters but for which box
office figures were not available include Melvin and
Howard, Ocean’s Eleven (1960), The Great Brain,
Goin’ Coconuts, Out of Step, and Advise and Consent.
Drama
• The Nauvoo Theatrical Society, a Utah
County organization devoted to Mormon drama,
has turned over its Center Street Theatre in Orem
to another theater group and is planning to resume
productions this autumn in Springville’s Villa Play-
house Theatre. “We welcome them heartily,” said
Marilyn Brown, who, along with her husband, owns
the Villa Playhouse and the smaller Little Brown
Theatre across the street. “They will add a great
deal to the Springville theater arts scene. I realize
they would rather have gone to a more populated
area. But Springville will love them and welcome
them with open arms. My husband and I are forced
to become snowbirds this next winter because of
health issues, so the appearance of the Nauvoo
group is a great blessing!”
• Regarding a production of Farley Family
Reunion at the Provo Theatre Company, a Deseret
Morning News writer reported that James Arring-
ton’s 30-year-old one-man phenomenon is “still
funny and entertaining, largely because Arrington
hasn’t allowed it to become stale. He adds new
pieces and the occasional new character just often
enough to keep it interesting. Yet, blessedly, the
favorites remain. Farley Family Reunion has inexpli-
cably become a Utah tradition, one honed on the
peculiarities of both the LDS culture and the typi-
cal dysfunctional American family.”
• The Salt Lake Acting Company’s 25th-anniver-
sary production of Saturday’s Voyeur is “full of tal-
ent, but offensive,” according to the Deseret
Summer 2003
Morning News. “Going back to its roots, this new
production dips into several tasteless ‘Mormon-
bashing’ elements of show’s formative years—back
in the late 1970s, when it was mostly seen as an
antidote to Saturday’s Warrior (a production which
does, indeed, lend itself to lampooning).” The
reviewer continued: “Several segments should have
been dumped. Newcomers to the area may be thor-
oughly confused by some of the old political and
social commentary. The Joe Waldholtz–Enid
Greene ‘Phatman of the Opera’ bit was hilarious—
in 1996. But now it’s stretched way out of propor-
tion, including the addition of a blimp-size
daughter. There are certainly some recent news
events that are fair game for satire—the relentless
brouhaha over the Main Street Plaza . . . Deseret
Book’s nauseating ‘What matters to you, matters to
us’ advertising blitz . . . the Nordstrom guessing
game. But why haul out last season’s disgustingly
crude Vagina Monologues send-up? It was bad
before and just as bad now. Then there are ‘The
Homos and the Momos Can’t Be Friends’ (clever
but tasteless lyrics to ‘The Farmers and the Cow-
boys’ from Oklahoma!) and an embarrassing song-
and-dance segment called ‘The Jew Game’ (some
sort of ‘un-baptizing’ ritual to eradicate Jewish
names from LDS temple records). At least SLAC
didn’t resort to dragging out the elders dancing
around in faux garments.”
Miscellany
• The Dialogue Foundation announced the
appointment of a new editorial team that will pro-
duce Dialogue: A Journal of Mormon Thought
for a five-year term beginning in 2004. Karen Mar-
guerite Moloney will serve as editor, with well-
known Backslider author Levi S. Peterson as
associate editor. Other personnel will include Tim
Archer as book review editor, Karen Rosenbaum as
fiction editor, Lisa Bickmore as poetry editor, and
Linda Sillitoe as personal essay editor. Submissions
and queries may be sent to the new editors at
dialoguemss@aol.com. The magazine’s website is
www.dialoguejournal.com, where a free sample issue
may be requested.
Summer 2003 108
A M L - L I S T
H I G H L I G H T S
Compiled by Marny K. Parkin
A ML-List provides an ongoing forum for
broad-ranging conversation and a stimulating
exchange of opinions related to LDS literature.
Discussion during February, March, and April
included topics such as passion in art, packaging of
fiction, surprise endings, video rights and the Mona
Lisa, defining aesthetics, wanting to be Jews, movie
music, artists’ personal lives, and miracles in litera-
ture. Read on for a sampling of the sentiment on
some other interesting topics. If you find yourself
champing to chime in, send an e-mail message to
majordomo@lists.xmission.com that reads: subscribe
aml-list. A confirmation request will be sent to your
e-mail address; follow the directions to complete
your subscription. AML-List is moderated by
Jonathan Langford.
The Fictional Mormon Male
Richard Dutcher (March 15): A thought
occurred to me today while reading Curtis Taylor’s
novel, The Dinner Club. I was about 80 or 85 pages
into this well-written book when I realized that I
was once again witnessing an interesting phenome-
non in male-written LDS fiction. Perhaps it has been
identified earlier and given a proper name by the
academics, but I simply call it the “Woman/boy”
model.
In this model, our fictional females are far more
powerful than our males. The females, regardless of
their age, are interesting, quirky, intelligent, beauti-
ful. They are confident, mature, and spiritually sen-
sitive. They are Women.
These Women, however, are often joined to males
who are socially awkward, spiritually insecure, obe-
dient, bland, and basically weak. They are boys, no
matter how old they are.
The Women drive the stories. The boys follow
after them. In fact, in order to get the Woman, the
boy often takes whatever course and makes what-
ever decision is demanded of him by the Woman.
IRREANTUM
 A few quick examples:
Although I’m only at page 85 in The Dinner
Club, Curtis writes of a teenaged boy who becomes
interested in the LDS Church because of a beauti-
ful, quirky, powerful, independent teenaged Woman.
He joins the church, marries the Woman, and
settles into a fairly ordinary domestic relationship.
Later, when the relationship starts to go south, the
Woman clearly emerges as the more powerful per-
sonality. The boy, who now has the body of a man,
waits subserviently for the Woman to make her
decision. I’m not even a third of the way through
the novel, so the pattern may fall apart, but I doubt
our male hero will turn into John Wayne in the
next 200 pages.
Also, in Jack Weyland’s Charly, we have similar
representations: a powerful, quirky, intellectually
independent Woman linked with a weak, awkward,
spiritually immature boy.
In the church film Testaments we again see a self-
confident, beautiful, curious Woman who, for some
reason, is attracted to an immature and goofy boy.
I saw similar characters and relationships in Kels
Goodman’s movie, Handcart. The model is also
present in Singles Ward and, to a more subtle degree,
in The Other Side of Heaven. Strong, idealized
Women with weak, flawed men.
I wonder how entrenched this model has become
in our storytelling. I have read very little popular
LDS fiction. Is this a common charac-
ter/relationship model?
Do these fictional expressions reveal something
in our beliefs and in our personal relationships?
Has the Mormon male been neutered?
Do Mormon men equate passivity with
spirituality?
What do the writings of these domesticated male
Mormons reveal about their attitudes toward
women, sex, domesticity, patriarchy?
Gae Lyn Henderson (March 17): Probably
because men have the priesthood they are irrevoca-
bly linked to hierarchy and the power structure.
The women escape that to some degree and can
therefore be curious, quirky, and interesting. How-
ever, how often do the women become “converted”
over to blandness by the end of the book? I’m
IRREANTUM 109
thinking of Testaments, where an exciting woman
becomes an appropriate woman. In Margaret Young’s
Salvador, the protagonist Julie escapes the domi-
neering apostates but plans to go back to Utah and
become a mother.
Or another theory might be that men are bio-
logically programmed to “spread their seed around”
and women are programmed to create a nest and
settle down. If, and I say if, that is true, then reli-
gion is in some ways always the domain of woman,
despite the priesthood, because it protects her
interests. Therefore, the males in Mormon culture
are neutered in a way because they have to succumb
to a system that is not to their biological advantage.
Joseph Smith tried to fix this problem, but of
course we latter-day Mormons are not nearly as
sexually liberated as he was. Not to say that I think
polygamy was fair for women, far from it. But
some of the women in Joseph’s time had more than
one husband—they had their first and regular hus-
band, and then they (under prophetic instruction)
had Joseph.
Of course, if in the story the woman is spiritu-
ally strong and the man is weak, then it is playing
into the gender stereotyping that has been around
for ages—that women are somehow more pure and
that poor, weak males can’t help themselves because
their sex drives are so much stronger.
Kim Madsen (March 17): You raise an interest-
ing question about Woman/boy relationships,
though. That type of relationship was certainly the
case in John Bennion’s Falling toward Heaven.
So I sit here wondering if it’s because men who
write are more sensitive than the ordinary macho
male, and maybe they are more interested in explor-
ing the tender places of the male psyche—what
keeps men stunted emotionally or why Johnny can’t
talk about his feelings.
Perhaps male writers, being the logic driven and
problem-solving half of the human race, try too
hard to profile the reading public, which all the
experts say is mostly female. Perhaps they sculpt
their characters into what they think women want
to see; to market to an audience instead of giving
voice to a truth they feel inside. (I have a hard time
believing that’s the case with Bennion’s work, though.)
Summer 2003
 Come to think about it, another interesting thing
to note is that those novels written by men that do
have a strong male presence are generally told from
the point of view of a teenager or young boy. Is
there something about the clearness of vision of the
young that allows a male writer to cut through the
haze of machismo to stab at the guts of how people
are? I think of all the adjectives you used to describe
Women: “interesting, quirky, intelligent, beauti-
ful . . . confident, mature, and spiritually sensitive.”
Most of those could apply to Edgar Mint of Brady
Udall’s creation, but when we meet him he’s liter-
ally a boy. We’d have to leave out beautiful (if you
mean physically), confident, and mature . . . at least
until the end of the book. But the magic of The
Miracle Life of Edgar Mint is experiencing life with
this interesting, quirky, intelligent, spiritually sensi-
tive boy until he finds his confidence and maturity.
I had a hard time remembering in the book that he
has sustained physical deformity to the head—the
beauty of his spirit translated to beauty of physical
self for me. By the end of the novel I envisioned
him like Eric Schweig playing the silent and gorgeous
Uncas in the 1992 version of Last of the Mohicans.
So how about it—can anyone come up with a
male-written LDS novel that has a strong Man/
Woman relationship from the get go?
Jacob Proffitt (March 18): One of the effects of
the gospel is to mix the genders. The gospel teaches
men to acquire feminine attributes (love, compas-
sion, mercy), and it also teaches women to acquire
male attributes (leadership/hierarchical relationships,
nonconsensus communication, decisive action). As
you can see, it’s a lot more obvious that men are
acquiring feminine attributes. Also, I see an impor-
tant difference between the sexes. It is still all right
for women to have their feminine traits. I don’t
think it is all that acceptable for men to maintain
their masculine traits. [. . .]
[Has the Mormon male been neutered?] Literar-
ily, possibly. I’m not sure they have in reality,
though. There’s a big difference between LDS males
in stories and LDS males in situ. We’re still a pretty
rough bunch if you find us in our native habitat.
The reasons for this could be intriguing. I have
noticed, for example, a certain contempt for “tradi-
tional” men among our artists. Whether it is Orson
Summer 2003 110
Scott Card decrying basketball or a group of men
who find it fun to spend a Saturday doing nothing
but talk, you have to admit that we’re not terribly
in touch with our peers who are busy building each
others’ houses or pounding each other on the court.
Take our women artists as a contrast—they’re still a
part of the feminine community at least to all out-
ward appearances and in their proclivities for activity.
Weston Rook (March 18): I think we have
focused on building up the women of the church
and ignored the spiritual needs of the men. Add to
this the fact that our current American culture likes
to portray all husbands and fathers as goofy, bungling
doofuses who could never even function without
their strong, intelligent, competent wives (notice
how men are depicted in almost every sitcom, com-
mercial, and comedy), and you have a combination
that truly has neutered the Mormon male.
But here is the thing . . . I always end up with
the same sort of weak male characters in my own
writings. Why? Because it just feels true. Our cul-
ture has shown us these images for enough years
that it has become the reality. (Or vice versa?)
Sure, I have visions of me sitting down at my
computer and pounding out masculine tales while
shouting out the manly prose just like Vincent
D’Onofrio as Bob Howard violently writing stories
of Conan the Barbarian in the movie The Whole
Wide World, but that’s just not the world I see
around me. [. . .] I come from a family of very
strong women. So I write what I see.
Willard Boyd Gardner (March 18): I’m that
way—just like the neutered male you described.
I’m sure it has something to do with the unques-
tioned respect I was taught to have for women,
Mom and everyone else.
As a result, fictional expressions of the “strong
woman” creep into my writing (okay, they stomp
into my writing wearing big, noisy boots). In fact,
my tendency to write strong women has been so
noticeable that I’m currently writing a story in which
the female is a little messed up and the male (still
relaxed and somewhat passive) is very much on the
ball. What happens? The main character, the male
in this case, has to make an emotional journey of a
different kind. I can no longer rely on the old stand-
by of bringing the main character from “goofball”
IRREANTUM
to “real manhood” with the aid of a strong female
role model, and I am forced to change the quest, so
to speak. What a wonderful thing to have to do—
especially since I like to write mindless thrillers.
Ultimately, this has led to a much stronger story.
But in answer to your question, I wonder if strong
male Mormon characters are somewhat dangerous
because they reveal something about our “Mor-
mon” reputation that we don’t want to confess—or
more aptly put, that we don’t want to reinforce.
I don’t believe the Mormon male has been neutered,
and you probably don’t either. I do believe that the
Mormon male character suffers from self-imposed
exile. Could it be that we subconsciously fight
against our patriarchic reputation (real or imag-
ined) using weak male literary characters? What an
awful thought.
Ronda W. Knudsen (March 17): Oh, I hate,
abhor, find disgusting these types of models. My
22-year-old son, returned missionary, came home
yesterday from his singles ward. He was livid. He
said that the Sunday School teacher, apparently a
wife of one of the bishopric, talked about how men
and women are so different, how men are so insen-
sitive, have only one thing in mind (and it wasn’t
food), and how they will do just about anything to
manipulate a woman to get what they want. She
said this is usually by doing something the man
thinks the woman wants. She also talked about
how socially and emotionally inept men are and
how women need to learn how to manipulate men
to get what they want! All of this in Sunday School
class—aren’t we supposed to be studying the New
Testament in SS?
I’m finishing up my thesis right now, looking at
LDS women within the culture and their relation-
ships with their children. As I’ve studied women’s
roles within the LDS culture, I’ve discovered that
there is this tendency to almost dumb down men,
as in: “Well, men need the priesthood because they
wouldn’t be nurturers without it”; “Men have to
have the control in the church to be forced to be
leaders; women automatically know these things”;
“Men, can’t count on them for anything; don’t ask
one to be in charge of a ward party; we’ll all be out
bailing hay rather than doing anything civilized”;
etc. It’s men and women who are saying these things.
IRREANTUM 111
What are we saying about ourselves, our spouses,
our brothers and sisters, our culture, and what are
we saying to others, when we make statements such
as this? Can’t both sexes be strong, be independent,
be emotional, be appreciated? Why do we always
have to put down one sex to make the other look
good? Why does one have to look bad, weak, stupid
in order for the other to look strong, good, smart?
In writing this type of stuff in novels, LDS liter-
ature, often/usually purchased and read by women,
are we using models from our culture for these posi-
tions or are we modeling our culture after these
characters?
OK, I could go on and on. I’m worried, though,
by what is being portrayed and what is being lived.
Are they the same? Should they be the same? What
does this say about our culture?
Clark Goble (March 18): It is also self-refuting.
After all, if the priesthood was given to men to teach
them this, then the stories seem to suggest that it
was in vain, i.e., that men can’t learn it. Yet if they
can learn it and the priesthood is an aid, then clearly
it is wrong to assume men aren’t emotionally and
socially developed.
There are all sorts of stereotypes of this sort. Far
too many are repeated and retaught in our literature.
There was an infamous book from the late ’70s
called Amazing Womanhood (or something like that).
Basically it was a how-to manual for women to
manipulate men. It was before my time, so I don’t
know how widespread its acceptance was. How-
ever, basically the women were taught to act weak,
praise the man, and provide often faked opportu-
nities for the men to serve them in a kind of
knightly way. Laughable to modern ears. However,
I had some friends who described reading the book
and trying it as a lark. Worked on every man they
saw at BYU.
Perhaps that just says something about Mormon
culture fitting into stereotypes. Perhaps it says
something about the lessons our literature teaches.
Perhaps it suggests that there is something funda-
mental in our natures that lets such manipulation
work. But it is distasteful.
By the same measure we all are aware of men
who have exactly the same skills. In the terminol-
ogy I was familiar with, we called them “players.”
Summer 2003
They acted sensitive and nurturing but were just
manipulating women to either make out with them
or worse. But they had skills most men didn’t. And
most women seemed to fall for it.
When you see how successful these manipulative
people are, it does make one cynical. When you see
how unable most people are at achieving what
some want, you also get cynical. Heaven knows I’ve
been cynical myself more than once. <Grin> But
moving from such cynicism to overgeneralizations
and, worse, overgeneralizations that emphasize
expecting the worst from people, is horrible. When
we expect only the lowest common denominator,
that is what we get.
Marvin Payne (March 19): It was Fascinating
Womanhood, appeared in the mid-’60s, and had a
very practical purpose (wedding an obvious literary
tie-in with a less obvious culinary tie-in). I found
my copy of Fascinating Womanhood (I’m older than
you are) to be a good thing in which to place tor-
tillas just after they’ve come out of the hot oil. The
pages soaked up most of the oil, and there were lots
of pages. If some of the ink ever came off on the
tortillas and you couldn’t avoid reading, the words
(and, you might project, the ideas they represent)
would appear on the tortillas backwards, making
the whole message entirely acceptable.
Jonathan, I think more posts here should focus
on the practical applications of literature.
Conservative Literary Theory
Jonathan Langford (March 22): There’s no
inherent advantage to liberal or conservative in any
of these areas [where politics intersect with Mor-
mon letters]. Most of the politically based literary
criticism of the last 40 years or so has been left-
wing in orientation (e.g., Marxist), and it’s actually
rather difficult to conduct certain types of literary
criticism without taking an explicitly left-wing
political approach (from my observations).
Jacob Proffitt (March 25): Oooo. Cool observa-
tion. I mean, it’s so blindingly true that I’m shocked
I didn’t notice that before. Why isn’t there a,
I dunno, Smithian literary criticism (as in Adam
Smith, not Joseph)? I think it might be inherently
harder to do conservative literary theory because
Summer 2003 112
conservative theory doesn’t fracture or focus very
well, i.e., liberal politics can be rendered down to
feminist, Marxist, or ecological studies. All rela-
tively distinct, though broadly related to or influ-
enced by liberal ideology. So what would a
conservative look at?
Good question, and one I’ll have to think about.
Nothing comes immediately to mind, though I’m
sure something can be done. It’s hard to apply an
individualist or free-market outlook on literature.
Some of that may be because traditionally criticism
is a function of limiting or focusing on certain ele-
ments of a work. Conservatism (as I practice it any-
way) tends to be more amorphous and less
targeted. It’s more of a leave-me-alone, leave-oth-
ers-alone, property-rights matter, swing others to
your cause one at a time one-on-one kind of phi-
losophy. It’s a bit more trusting of individuals in
chaotic circumstances and a lot less cohesive than
the liberal counterpart.
And I reject the idea that traditional or classical
literary theory is conservative. Conservatism isn’t
about blind adherence to tradition and/or follow-
ing historical precedence. It is about core values
and applying important traditional principles to
new and emerging circumstances. It is about stretch-
ing known systems and values to cover emerging
changes (whereas liberal theory tends to view changes
as the demise of known systems and values).
Eric Russell (March 26): Yes, it is a good ques-
tion. And one that I’ve been struggling with for
some time now. Current literary theory is so liberal
it’s actually become boring. I’m currently attempt-
ing to create a systematic method for reading texts
based on conservative social principles, and psy-
chology is one way I think this is possible.
Terry Warner, who wrote Bonds that Make Us
Free, developed a powerful, socially conservative per-
spective on behavior that’s now being used as a sort
of self-help program in various ways. But I think
his ideas can be focused down to a point where they
could be used to do some really strong readings.
I think there’s a lot more out there. Anyone else
have any ideas towards a conservative literary theory?
R.W. Rasband (March 28): I’m not sure there
can be such a thing as “conservative literary theory”
IRREANTUM
because many conservatives dislike being placed
in ideological straitjackets. They are contrarian by
nature and approach things from an eclectic per-
spective rather than a single overarching political
worldview. There are some conservative critics
worth reading. Joseph Epstein has published sev-
eral witty collections of literary essays, like Partial
Payments. Thomas Mallon’s In Fact is a fine survey
of recent fiction (he also writes historical novels).
James Wolcott, who writes for the New Yorker and
Vanity Fair, was kicked off the Village Voice for
being too nice to Reagan. Christopher Hitchens is
excellent on writers and their lives. Kenneth S. Lynn
wrote a wonderful book of essays, The Airline to
Seattle, and his icon-busting biography Hemingway.
Czeslaw Milosz’s The Captive Mind is a penetrat-
ing study of intellectual life under totalitarianism.
I would dare claim George Orwell as a neoconser-
vative; his essays are priceless. John Updike can be
bracingly politically incorrect in his reviews. Tom
Wolfe virtually invented modern conservative liter-
ary criticism. There are the forgotten critics of the
early 20th century who were swept away by the New
Deal: Paul Elmer More, Irving Babbitt, and above
them all H. L. Mencken. Gore Vidal, of all people,
is absolutely devastating on literary theory in his essays.
I know these guys are all white males, many of
them dead. But you have to start someplace. What
they have in common is a preference for free agency
over control. For responsibility rather than extrem-
ism. For the individual over mindless conformism
to society. For real, private diversity rather than
publicly imposed popular blandness.
Eric Samuelsen (March 31): I’m very interested
in this question of conservative literary theory,
though I’ve felt constrained from joining this
thread because, well, I’m not a conservative. Here’s
where I see conservative literary theory right now,
though I think it’s not what you’re thinking of; it’s
actually more a fundamentalist literary theory. It’s a
theory based on the notion that there exits an
absolute one-on-one correlation between what one
reads and what one does. I think of William
Bennett, for example, and the Book of Virtues. The
theory there seems to be that there exist certain
canonized texts, “classics,” which are called classics
IRREANTUM 113
because they clearly and unmistakably set out for
us certain absolute moral principles. Read the text,
apply its moral to your life, and you’re a better per-
son, and we’re a better society. And most contem-
porary literature doesn’t have that, so it’s best
dismissed as exemplifying “moral relativism.”
Okay, I’m setting up Bennett as a straw man,
and attacking his book (which I’ve not read all the
way through, though I have started reading it a
couple of times) and conservative theory along with
it, and that’s not a nice thing to do. But guys like
Michael Medved are just that boneheaded, and
when he comes to speak at BYU, he’s SRO in our
biggest house.
Now, let me also acknowledge of course that
there’s a lot of boneheaded Marxist, Marxist femi-
nist, radical feminist, radical lesbian feminist, post-
colonialist, Marxist post-colonialist, and radical
lesbian Marxist post-colonialist feminist criticism
floating around the academy these days. I yield to
no one in my admiration for the infinite ability of
academics to write idiotically. But that criticism, a
lot of the bad stuff, comes out of the same place
that Bennett seems to me to be coming from. I see
it all the time in professional organizations I belong
to: papers that point out that David Mamet is clearly
a sexist pig because he doesn’t write very interesting
female characters anyway, and besides he wrote
Oleanna, a play in which a professor gets fired
because of a false accusation by a feminist student,
so he’s a bad guy, so we can’t let our students read
him or they’re going to catch that oh-so-virulent
sexist pig virus. I’m not kidding; I’ve heard papers
that bad. But the point is, they’re coming from the
same critical stance really that Bennett is, at least in
my probably reductive and simplistic opinion.
Point in part is, for a lotta folks, when you write
“conservative literary theory” they read “reactionary
fundamentalist literary theory.” I mean, conser-
vatism is in part cultural, a reaction against certain
presumably retrograde cultural trends that can eas-
ily (and not always inaccurately) be demonized as
“anti-family.” We see it a lot in film criticism or
television criticism. In Mormon cultural circles,
there’s a lot of anti-TV rhetoric and a lot of anti-
Hollywood rhetoric; it even surfaced here, on
Summer 2003
AML-List, when we got into the R-rated movie
thread (which believe me I don’t want restarted).
Like it or not, that rhetoric is usually labeled “con-
servative.” Bill Bennett is usually labeled a “conser-
vative cultural critic.”
If y’all don’t want to go there, and I sense you
don’t, you need to clarify that position. There are
actual ideas behind the ideology that we call polit-
ical conservatism. Those ideas could well provide
the philosophical basis for literary criticism. So
who are you citing? “Liberal” criticism, I gather, is
the stuff derived from Derrida and Foucault and
Althuzzer and them thar guys. Real philosophers,
whose ideas have very broad implications and
applications, which is why post-modern and post-
structuralist ideas permeate every part of the acad-
emy. So who are your guys? Camille Paglia, maybe?
She’s a self-declared pagan and lesbian, but she
loathes Foucault and is not an uninteresting thinker.
Levinas? But be careful there, we lefties have already
claimed him.
Fred Pinnegar (March 31): Politically based lit-
erary criticism mostly involves selecting texts for
analysis that reflect one’s ideological perspective or
analyzing a text to reveal the ideological undercur-
rents of it. Obviously, in this regard, some texts are
going to be more fruitful to analyze than others.
For example, Gilman’s Yellow Wallpaper and Chopin’s
Awakening lend themselves nicely to feminist inter-
pretations, but not much else. As my wife says, the
secret to looking good in a hat is never put on a hat
you don’t look good in.
The so-called classics of literature, on the other
hand, are open to a large variety of interpretive tra-
jectories. For example, when I teach critical theory
I sometimes use just one primary text, usually
something like WS’s King Lear or Hamlet, and
approach it from a dozen different directions.
Conservative literary criticism would come under
the rubric of moral and philosophical criticism. To
be sure, as Jacob pointed out, there is a lot more lib-
eral and leftist criticism around than conservative,
but only because the profession (of teaching and ana-
lyzing literature) is infested with leftists and liberals.
Now you would think that this would not be so
in the LDS community, which is generally perceived
as being dominated by a conservative political
Summer 2003 114
ideology, but unfortunately the literary enterprise is
a beach where many LDS liberals and leftists wash
ashore, having been shipwrecked elsewhere.
Jacob said that conservative theory “doesn’t frac-
ture or focus very well.” Actually, it does, and those
lines are mostly religious, since traditional religion
is generally a conservative political force. This is why
you can talk about an LDS, Catholic, Protestant,
and Jewish critical perspective. The central ques-
tion asked by the reader or critic is “What does this
text say to the LDS reader?” “What religious or
social values does it reinforce or challenge?”
Finally, concerning Marxist criticism, we should
be aware that it is interested in looking at economic
and social issues on the theoretical lines suggested
by Karl Marx, and in this regard it is not the same
thing as advocating the political movement which
has come to be known historically as communism.
Therefore, we can have BYU professors like Dan
Muhlestein and Mike Austin who do Marxist criti-
cism with no sense of ideological disjunct.
Justin Halverson (March 31): I don’t know
exactly how this would be classified, but in the dis-
sertation I’m gearing up to write I’m going to try to
make a case for a “return with difference” to a more
conservative (read: less deconstructionist, less ironic)
mode of reading and writing literature, especially in
(Caribbean and Latino) border cultures of the Amer-
icas. A return, in that I want to reassert the human-
ity in literature (against, say, the move toward the
cyber/post-human in the most extreme branches of
cultural studies) but with a difference (i.e., not just
a resurrection of New Criticism or religious essen-
tialism). I’m still just working out the broad strokes
of what this might look like (read: I don’t quite have
a thesis yet), but my aim (though I’m rather sur-
prised to admit it) would be considered conserva-
tive, I’d think.
Validity of Memory
Kari Heber (February 12): There has been a fair
bit of research and subsequent press given to the
accuracy of memory, particularly in a few criminal
cases where a conviction was made on the basis of
eye-witness identification, only to be proven wrong
by DNA evidence many years later.
IRREANTUM
 From a literary standpoint, what do all of you
writers feel about writing based on memory? Par-
ticularly, as a reader (and definitely a nonwriter)
how much should I believe when I read any form
of literature that is primarily based on someone’s
memory of events? Or should it even matter since
what they are relating is their perception, whether
factually accurate or not?
Kim Madsen (February 17): I think you hit the
nail on the head with your last comment, Kari—
wherein lies the danger for historians. All research
and objectivity are ultimately filtered through some-
body’s perceptions, which makes it inherently sub-
jective. All a really good historian can do is try to
present all sides of the equation. In literature (fiction),
on the other hand, part of the reason I want to read
something is to see through the author’s worldview.
In that case it works in the author’s favor.
I recall sitting in a workshop being led by Judith
Freeman (The Chinchilla Farm, recently Red Waters).
She expressed mild disdain and confusion at why
people would ask her what parts of her book
(Chinchilla Farm) were “true” and which parts were
fictionalized. Since the entire story is published as
fiction, it should be taken as such, enriched per-
haps by the author’s experiences in life. This whole
thing about taking bits of life and infusing them
into your writing is always a tough one for writers
and might lose them as many friends and family
members as it gains them fans. It’s part of what
makes writing good, though. To me, that would be
worth the risk of offending someone.
Jongiorgi Enos (March 5): Here’s a theory: All
writing is fiction. [. . .]
Here’s another theory: All good fiction is true.
It begs the question: What is truth?
I suppose if we are asking if memory in and of
itself is sufficient to recreate an accurate representa-
tion of reality, the question becomes: is “reality”
truth? Or is truth a more nebulous concept sur-
rounding and erupting from experience. Then, we
are forced to ask, what is “reality”? Is memory ever
actually “real”? Is experience of any kind, even in
the moment, actually real? Which brings us to Kari
Heber’s final question: “Should it even matter [how
accurate literature is when it is based on someone’s
IRREANTUM 115
memory], since what they are relating is their per-
ception, whether factually accurate or not?”
Heber’s question is very astute and thought-
provoking.
If writing, in any genre, fiction or nonfiction, is
a quest for the attainment or the understanding of
some form of truth (objective, subjective, experien-
tial, didactic—whatever), then the nature of lan-
guage itself, and how the brain establishes memory,
coordinates its retrieval through the various sym-
bolic methods such as sensory memory, language
memory, emotional memory, etc., any question
about memory and art eventually takes us into the
physiology of the brain and the philosophy of con-
sciousness, two huge and fascinating topics which
tend to animate scientists more than artists, but
apply to the artist just as well. [. . .]
Nonfiction in the form of memoir is certainly
different than objective history. Journalists and
scholars have a more difficult issue as they approach
this blurry line of demarcation than do what I shall
call “nonfictionists,” writers of what might be
defined by this list a “belletristic” (a term which got
a lot of flack recently!—I don’t want to get into
that, but stick to the nature of memory). [. . .]
Now, if I as a nonfiction writer am attempting to
convey the Truth of the childhood house, especially
if I am attempting to write the truth from the per-
spective of the child, trying to put the reader into
the mind and life and memory of the child (his
Truth), then I must expand the house. I must make
it as big as it was in memory. Now, that house, the
childhood one, is not actually true, is it? Small “t”
this time: factually accurate truth. But it is perfectly
accurate to the child. And that, for the sake of art,
for the sake of the function of literature in our lives,
is the Truth. Now, if I’m writing the straight history
or dry biography, I have to say the house was so big
and no more: truth. But nonfiction allows us to
explore subjectively accurate fiction, which is True
(capital “T”), as far as human perception and expe-
rience go.
We all know memory is inherently faulty when
it comes to factual accuracy. But this is the way we
human beings are wired (to steal Eric’s line!). And the
more that I learn about the brain, the more I realize
Summer 2003
that it is absolutely essential that it is so. Memory
must not be so dryly accurate, and it must be deeply
intermeshed with the experience of emotion, or we
would not survive. We cannot be Vulcans; truly,
it would kill us. And if I am correct and memory
and emotion are inextricably bound, then suddenly
we, as artists, have our reason for being, and per-
haps our fictions are more important (or at least as
important) in the life of the soul as any factual
experience (which is absolutely subjective anyway).
It is also interesting to note, among those authors
such as Norman Mailer, who really do carry tape
recorders around with them and really do offer us
long, verbatim transcriptions of interviews, phone
conversations, letters, etc., how very often they are
infinitely more powerful and moving as writers (and
therefore more effective?) when they break from
that form and more freely “interpret” the events.
I’m thinking of Harlot’s Ghost, for example, a Mailer
tome of about 800 pages of transcription and
200 pages of pure fiction: the fiction sings and is
masterful; the other is snores-ville.
Then, of course, there is the issue of language
itself, and the symbolic conveyance of ideas. Jepson
cites some wonderful examples from the Book of
Mormon to make his points, so I’ll continue the
same. BOM writers complain about the clumsiness
of their language in conveying ideas, saying that
their written symbols are more difficult and less
able to convey emotion, spirit (accuracy?) than
their speech. Mormon notes that for the brother of
Jared (writing in Adamic, I suppose), his writing
was as powerful as speech, to the overwhelming of
a man to read them.
The difference is not just their choice of words,
not just their choosing of which facts to include,
which to ignore, what dramatic license to take.
This is a factor of the actual medium of communi-
cation, the physical symbolic structure of the lan-
guage involved.
So where does truth and memory come into play
there? Is a love scene in French more true than one
in German? Of course the Book of Mormon is
true, but its writers wanted it to be Truer, and
couldn’t get it with the tools they had, so it will
have to do.
Summer 2003 116
The tools we have (memory, language) are inher-
ently faulty and are impossibly inaccurate for the
conveyance of factual reality, which, it might also
be argued, is subjective anyway and can never be
shared.
What can be shared, however, is a sufficiently con-
gruent approach to a common ground of reality,
that both speaker and listener (reader and writer)
are edified.
I would propose that this can be accomplished
by the act of writing that achieves that Truth with
the capital T, regardless of its actual accuracy. Bel-
letristic nonfiction has different goals than history
and, to truly achieve its desired effect, must engage
every tool in the writer’s arsenal, which will include
dramatic license (Hemingway called it “lying”!) and
the use of memory, which is in and of itself a sub-
jective falsehood.
So, as Heber concluded, or at least suggests with
his question, perhaps it does not matter.
I know when I write nonfiction, I use memory;
I also use notes, journals, interviews with others who
were there, etc. But when it comes down to the
writing, I just let it flow. This is about experience
and emotion, the fluid river of memory itself, and
readers know that it is not exactly true, but they are
looking for a different Truth. If they experience
something, in reading, that is recognizable to them,
a shared common ground in the field of memory,
that childhood house, for example, which, the
moment Twain mentions it, we all know what he is
talking about, then that is real, and it genuinely
does not matter that it is factually accurate or not.
In my memoirs (I write a new installment annu-
ally of somewhere between 15,000 and 30,000 words)
I am saying, sometimes literally, always metaphori-
cally, that these are my memories, not that this
is the absolute truth. I certainly edit and abridge,
share perceptions, mistakes, misunderstandings,
emotions, none of which are objectively factual,
but I certainly consider them True (or at least some
portion of the overriding Truth). And I think that
audiences understand that.
Memory is not designed to be factually accurate,
and we, as humans, are not designed to receive fac-
tual accuracy with the same degree or condition of
IRREANTUM
common perception. In a way, everything we do is
from memory. Even if we have notes, tapes, tran-
scripts, video, the act of putting any of this into
writing shapes it, shifts it, devolves it into the realm
of memory where it is digested, converted, spit out,
reabsorbed, redigested, reconverted, each phase or
pass or exchange acting as a filter on reality, a muta-
ble cone or wave of reality that becomes subjecti-
fied regardless of accuracy or fact. In the end, it
must be memory, for that is all there is.
So, my thoughts come full circle. I believe the
act of writing something automatically removes it
from the arena of factual experience and places it in
the domain of subjective experience, and therefore:
all writing is a kind of fiction.
And yet, all really good fiction (be it disguised as
memoir, belletristic biography, nonfiction, essay,
editorial, etc., or not) is, by its quest, by its achieve-
ment of some connection with some portion of its
audience, by its frankness, by its discoveries, by its
hard-to-define quality which makes it work (at least
for some) as “art”: then it has found Truth, or some
portion thereof, and the details of faulty memory
have no relevance.
So we must seek Truth in memoir, and we must
seek Truth in fiction. As an act of transforming ethe-
real experience into the medium of writing, both
memoir and fiction are fiction. But if you do it
well: both of them are True.
International Mormon Literature
Justin Halverson (April 10): Three recent
threads on this post are trying to make a connec-
tion in my mind: (1) John Williams’s question about
the availability of works by “liberal” Mormon authors
to international communities; (2) the recurrent ques-
tion of why the literature produced by Mormons
and that produced by Jews (or, depending on the
post, Catholics) is so disparate in quantity or breadth
of intercultural acclaim/recognition (despite what-
ever “similarities” seem to exist between the cultures);
and (3) the personal reading lists that have been
shared. I think that many of the explanations offered
in response to the first two questions were really
convincing. And I have very much enjoyed the
IRREANTUM 117
reading lists—the sheer number of books I haven’t
read (or even heard of ) is humbling and inspiring.
Oddly enough, though, I only remember seeing
one or two books by non-American (read: non-
U.S. or Canadian) authors. I’m probably oversensi-
tive to this, and probably making too much of it,
but I wonder if the absence of works by authors
from other cultures is one reason that Mormon lit-
erature is not as broadly accepted (or, I would
argue, as rich or cross-culturally appealing) as, say,
Jewish or Catholic literatures.
I’m not saying that diversity for diversity’s sake is
what makes the difference (in fact, I think it makes
no difference at all). (I also suspect that we are read-
ing more stuff from outside our own North Ameri-
can cultural sphere than made it onto our lists—
the frequent mention of Asian religion and philos-
ophy, for example, would suggest this.)
It seems, though, that Mormon literature is still
largely a North American (minus Mexico) phenom-
enon. I don’t know—are there writers outside the
U.S. and Canada doing “Mormon” literature? And
does the absence of works from other cultures on
our own collective reading list indicate that we are
still too inwardly focused (maybe even too narcissis-
tic) as a culture to be palatable to (not to mention
worth the time of ) those outside our worldview?
Jason Covell (April 22): You know, I’m a history
buff, and when I think about the history of the
church in the 19th century, I’m struck by the sheer
numbers of European (largely English) Saints mak-
ing up the total membership of the church. I don’t
have any of the sources right on me, but I know the
membership was heavily tilted towards Britain for a
certain number of years. Out of all the implications
of this, I can’t help wonder about the numbers of
stories about the English Saints that still have not been
told widely—or at least that are not known by me.
And I have to say, most of the stories of these
people, when they are told, are done so from a decid-
edly American perspective. Please don’t misunder-
stand me. This is not a rip on Americans or U.S.
Mormons generally. It’s just that the way stories
(especially national narratives) are told differ very
significantly between the Anglo-Saxon nations.
Speaking from an Australian perspective (which also
Summer 2003
brings some cultural proximity to English tradi-
tions), I am acutely aware of these differences. Par-
ticularly in comparison to Australian and English
narratives, there many American narratives that
bring out a unique whiff of . . . triumphalism?
manifest destiny? an allegiance to underlying
American myths and types? I’m searching for the
right phrase or shade of meaning without wanting
to demean or disparage. I particularly don’t want to
engage in debate with anyone who feels I am
attacking the United States. I’m not. I’m just trying
to talk about differences, not better or worse.
Let me get to the point: I want to read and
watch Mormon history told from an English per-
spective (yes, Australian, too, but I’ll come to that).
I want to see Ken Loach, or his Mormon equiva-
lent, do an historical drama about the working class
and middle class converts in 19th century Britain.
I want to see this done from an English perspective.
Everyone knows how well the English do period
drama—and that’s everything from the tasteful
Jane Austen pieces to the sordid, harrowing recre-
ations of life in the coalmines or dark satanic mills
of the industrial revolution. I want to see that.
Whether sentimental or not (there’s plenty of room
for both), I want to see how it was for the converts
themselves. Because what happened to them is a
window into a major, major part of English history.
I mean, a handful of these Mormon “apostles” and
wild-eyed preachers came over to Lancashire
and other parts and converted whole parishes, had
thousands of people under their spell, hoodwinked
them into buying a patch of blue sky in the
unknown American West and abandoning every-
thing they had to do so? What a story! There’s class
warfare, religious fanatics, sex, the scent of revolu-
tion . . . what’s not to like?
I’m tantalised by the snippets from Dickens,
Ruskin, Disraeli, and all the other commentators
on the English scene who observed this phenome-
non and had their say. This was Dickens’s “pick and
flour of England.” Yet most failed to comprehend
what was really taking place. And with all the best
will in the world, I don’t think American story-
tellers can quite do the tale justice, either. Ameri-
cans, born onto American soil, nourished with
Summer 2003 118
American heroism and history, have never quite
been able to tell the stories of the English the way
the English themselves can. I could go on a lot
longer, pulling out ideas that promise to unravel
marvelously . . . but I’d love to hear what others
think. [. . .]
And another side note. I can’t let myself pontifi-
cate on Americans without allowing myself a little
navel-gazing as well. I really want to tell Australian
stories, especially about the early days of the
church, although for now I’m mostly wanting
detail or substance to make a real go at it. I made
an effort to bolster (or gauge) interest in Australian
Mormon history when I produced the ward
newsletter a while back and wrote a series of little
articles covering the church in Australia between
1840 and 1900. From the comments I got, pre-
cisely no one in the ward even read them. So that
didn’t bode especially well.
More generally, though, I’ve often tried to explain
what I see as the essential differences between the
U.S. and Australia. A few Americans I’ve spoken to
assume that we’re a lot like them because, well,
we’re both vast countries with big sweeping plains
settled by English-speaking pioneers (who both did
fairly brutal things to the local inhabitants, too).
But that’s where the similarities end. I like to gen-
eralise (vice that it is) and enjoy making the point
that America was settled by Puritans while Australia
was settled by people getting away from Puritans.
Hence the widespread irreligiosity of Australians
and irreverence towards authority. Well, that’s the
generalisation, for all it’s worth.
But there is in the Australian character a love for
a certain kind of myth which differs greatly from
the American versions: the comedian and satirist
Barry Humphries (better known as Dame Edna
Everidge) once made the little barb that the only
true rhyme for “Australia” is “failure.” And it is
quite true that a love of stories about failure is a
part of the national psyche. We eat up tales about
explorers who never made it, who died, who went
mad. Settlers who were conquered by the bush, not
the other way around. Battles lost, hopes dashed.
Tall men brought low. [. . .]
IRREANTUM
 Anyway, I’d love to hear what others think. And I love your idea. I’m not a big fan of pioneer
to the Mormon Ken Loach (or whoever else you stuff, or of the mid-19th century in general. But
are), get to work! the kinds of social history you’re talking about are
Jacob Proffitt (April 22): If you manage to write fascinating! My people came to America from Eng-
a truly Australian Mormon history, I wouldn’t be at land in the 1600s—for all I know, they could’ve
all surprised if you found a huge audience in the been transported felons turned out of Newgate. Or
States. A couple reasons. First, those Mormons who they could have been an illegitimate branch of a
read have mostly read the usual stuff that so many noble house and therefore an embarrassment. Or
others outside the States seem to concentrate on they could have wanted the opportunity to own
(core doctrinal works that they feel obligated to land rather than work it for someone else. But
read but don’t think of much except to think that whatever the circumstances were, I will always
they wouldn’t want to read other LDS works before value my British heritage.
reading, say, Jesus the Christ). Second, they have the
disposable income. Third, they love church history.
Fourth, we’ve had a couple of years now of market
bombardment stressing our worldwide member-
ship and cultivating a taste for outside experiences.
Barbara Hume (April 23): As a decided Anglo-
phile, I love this concept. For example, I recently
read a book titled something like The American
Revolution through British Eyes. It was interesting
and eye-opening. I was put into the midst of people
who were seriously depressed rather than elated by
Cornwallis’s surrender. I saw the infighting among
English generals more concerned with their own
wealth and glory than with the needs of the English
government. I saw great bravery on their side as
well as ours, and I came to conclude that they lost
the war more than we won it. And the whole Major
Andre thing made me cry, it was so wrong.
I also correspond with people who live in Eng-
land, Australia, and South Africa. This is again eye-
opening. And it makes me understand how much
we are, as you say, steeped in our own mythology.
For example, an Australian lad said to me, “Why
are you determined to have things your own way?
Why don’t you just accept and go along with what
your leaders tell you? After all, God gave them to
you.” A remnant of the divine right of kings
notion, still extant? I told him that I refuse to
blame God for foisting Bill Clinton on us, and he
was shocked. But that and subsequent conversa-
tions pointed out to me that Americans talk about
their rights, and Brits talk about their duties.
Enlightening. I keep learning over and over again
that my worldview is not universal.

IRREANTUM 119 Summer 2003

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