Desert Gothic

Mormons in Heat

13 6 Mormons in Heat He that knoweth not good from evil is blameless. —Alma 29:5, the Book of Mormon Sunlight flashes off chrome fenders, hitting Eli’s eyes, blinding him. Eight motorcycles enlarge in the rearview mirror. Hot this morning, and warming up. “More highway company,” Eli says to Sutton, or to the steering wheel—whichever. This latest cache of sightseeing brochures is simply hypnotizing his partner. Sutton holds one by the edges, handling it like a delicate specimen. Splashed across another glossy pamphlet are different types of cacti. “Forget about those, Sutton. Pay attention,” Eli says. “You might learn something.” As the bikes approach, down goes Eli’s window. He wants to M o r m o n s i n H e a t 137 side-glance that fine Harley craftsmanship. He wants to inhale, for a moment, the freedom. “Chicks on motorcycles,” Eli says, clenching the steering wheel. He can almost smell the armpits. Leading the charge is a woman wearing square gunner’s goggles . Eli clocks her at fifty, maybe fifty-five years old. Her cheeks are as red as her flapping bandana, cinched tightly around her skull, and she commands with her chin, which she holds high, with attitude. She veers into the oncoming lane, and Eli marvels at her glistening biceps. “Elder Sutton,” Eli says. “I am experiencing a vision.” Sutton doesn’t say anything, not that the kid would. Eli sets his jaw. Why can’t he appreciate this impromptu, middle-ofnowhere , wet T-shirt contest? The woman’s custom-made turquoise low-rider has high, wide handlebars, and along with a rib-tight T-shirt, she and her companions wear sleeveless leather vests with cartoonish beavers on the back. Over the beaver’s crazed, bloodshot eyes and squared buckteeth is the group’s name, stitched in white: The Beaver Rockets. When the last rider thunders past, she opens her throttle and her muffler explodes. Eli’s eardrums palpitate. The women soon disappear into the shimmering highway, and again the desert is quiet, cleansed. “Now that’s the work of God,” Eli says. A bead of sweat disappears into Sutton’s thin, wordless lips. If the kid has anything to say about what went down the previous night, in Eureka, he’s saving it for the Celestial Kingdom. “She was eighteen,” Eli says, stating his case. “So just stop with your dumb look.” And there is, always, a look. Sutton has a sharp, lordly nose that goes up whenever he’s disappointed. Eli, recalling what happened, grows tense and aroused. Desert daughters love opening their legs. He’s learned that. He was two nights in Eureka when he met Emily, Emily Something-orOther . The girl was a threat to any man with functioning testes : strawberry-flavored, bee-stung lips and a stomach as firm as 13 8 M o r m o n s i n H e a t watermelon rind. Last night, he fast-talked the girl out of a pair of rose-print panties. Then, this morning, shocked to realize his bareback, condomless mistake, he unleashed an incoherent but firm speech, insisting that she ingest six blue, oval, morning-after pills. Quite lucky, he lied to the pretty young stranger, he just so happened to work in pharmaceuticals. “Guilty as charged,” Eli says. “She was my Achilles. I admit it. Can we drop it?” The missionaries flew out of Eureka, coursing along the furnace of Pancake Range. After a wrong turn back on 375, the so-called Extraterrestrial Highway, Eli flipped a U and decided on 95 instead . He’s aiming for distance, after all. Highway 95 is as flat and coppery as a penny. Near Goldfield Summit, Eli stops to refuel at a highway gas shack. Prolonged drives make his muscles feel itchy and needled. He scours the trunk for his racquetball, something to squeeze. With all these Books of Mormon they ferry around, there’s hardly space for luggage. A canister of motor oil has leaked all over one box. And, thanks to Sutton, the trunk is also filthy with brochures. Hundreds of them! Sutton collects and actually reads the stupid things, front to back. Eli’s come across one from every county, an advertisement for Virginia City’s Suicide Table, maps of isolated ghost towns. They’ve never been to Pyramid Lake or the Area 51 Mountaintop Lookout, and, Eli decides, they never will. “Seen my racquetball?” Eli says, tapping Sutton’s window. He mimes...