Sea of Memory

PROLOGUE

There is a sea in our minds. One of much depth and much darkness. We stay on the surface where it’s safe. But we can’t always stay on the surface as much as we’d like. There comes a time when we must dive to face what lies down in the depths of our mind. Where we face all the choices we’ve made in our lives. The easy ones that lie more towards the top. Like what you choose to eat for dinner or what to wear. In other words, the ones that don’t matter. But the further you go; you face the tougher choices. The ones you lay awake at night thinking of, the ones you question. They look out at you from their small caves with knowing eyes. They watch you sink; they watch as you go deeper and deeper into the depths. You go into the dark. Down here, the hardest choices live. The ones that may have hurt other people or caused a major life difference. You may feel scared of those choices. But me? Like you, they scare me, too. But there is one choice that lays down near the bottom like an old friend. It lays there with open arms, welcoming me. The monster that I know is my friend. I don’t fear it, and I don’t shy away from it. Because for me, that choice was easy. Yet, it still haunts me. That monster, that choice, that lies on the ocean floor of my mind, was the choice to kill my dad.

#

It wasn’t only me that killed him. My brother, Lehi, helped. We killed him twenty years ago. Back in 2002. My dad was quite the religious man, and he raised my brother and I to be the same. Despite that, I haven’t stepped foot in any church since I was eighteen.

We were Mormon and our dad was the bishop of our ward, the head honcho, you’d say. If you are unfamiliar with the Mormon church, you could really just call my dad a pastor or priest, though it isn’t really that either. What he was, more than anything, was the guy that helped you. Financial problems? Well, let’s go into my office and talk about it. Oh, you’re turning twelve? Are you ready to take on the priesthood? Well, come on in and let’s talk!

To the outside world, the town, the church, people knew him as a good, godly man. He put on a face that fit so damn well. One that looked like God in the flesh. But I’ll tell you this, and I’ll show you as we go on as I put my pen to paper. My dad was not a godly man.

#

I searched for answers to why he was the way he was. Thinking maybe that would put things to rest. That once I understood my dad, that I could leave him in the past. There weren’t many people to hunt down. Those from the town I grew up in all saw him as a man from God, so that was out. I wanted someone that spent a lot of personal time with him. There really aren’t a lot of those. He never really had any friends in high school—one girlfriend, but that only lasted for a couple of months. She only told me he was a weird man, that he took the church stuff a little too far.

“Always talking about the Book of Mormon like it was the only thing that mattered,” she had told me.

The only person who spent a lot of one-on-one time with him was his missionary partner. My dad never really talked about his mission, but he had mentioned his partner. The search took me longer than I care to admit, but I found him. Luckily, he never moved from Provo, so it only took some digging through some church phone books. I called him, explained who I was and asked if I could meet with him, maybe get lunch or something. He agreed, but I heard the reluctance in his voice. As if I had opened a piece of the past, he would’ve rather kept closed.

I lived in Nevada, close to Vegas, so the drive to Provo wasn’t exactly one that thrilled me. I had to leave really early on a Saturday morning to get there on time. We met at a small restaurant, and when I pulled in, feeling tired and worn out from the drive, he was already outside waiting for me, and looking like he regretted agreeing to this. I felt sorry, but I had to do this.

I shook his hand, and we went inside. He was quiet and seemed like he wished he was anywhere but here. I felt the same. He wanted to forget my dad and live his own life, and here I was racking him back up.

We ordered and once we got our drinks and had some small talk, I asked, “Did you like my dad?” Not the best question, but I was never one for bringing up serious topics so easily.

He glanced at me, down at his root beer, then back up. “He was something, that’s for sure.”

“How so?”

He met my eyes, looking as if he might get up and leave, then said. “Do you love your dad? Or maybe I should ask, did?”

“No, I don’t.”

He nodded. “I figured as much. The man stayed away from people. I didn’t get that luxury. He… he was an evil man. I think you know that, Nephi. I can see it in your eyes.”

I said nothing. Only looked down slightly. Yes, I knew. Of course, I did. Why else was I here?

“He didn’t care for me much. Probably because I was too close to him. He couldn’t be alone. That meant being careful, except, after a while, he stopped. Said he loved the church, the Book of Mormon, the whole nine yards, but… I don’t think I ever truly believed him. It was something in his eyes when he said it.” He took a sip of his root beer, then turned his eyes down at the table. I could see he didn’t want to keep talking. He wanted to let this stay where it belonged—the past.

“Do you really want to know any of this, Nephi?”

I raised my eyebrows. I didn’t really know where that came from, but it also made little sense to me. Of course, I did! What other reason did I have for driving five hours?

“I do. It’s important.”

“Why? He’s dead. What good does this do you?”

I shrugged. “I need to know.”

He took a deep breath. “I try my best to be a good man. For my wife, my kids, for everyone. Your dad wasn’t like that. I’ve met Mormon men who only do church work because they feel like they have to, not because they want to. I feel for them, and I pray for them. But your dad? No, he wasn’t like that. Because he wanted to do church work. But his reasoning wasn’t one of good intentions.

“The first incident that confirmed my thoughts was about two weeks into our mission. We were on the more dangerous side of L.A. We came to a small rundown house. I felt pretty nervous, but not him—not the feral dog that he was. We walked up to a house that had an overgrown lawn, chipped paint, and a broken-down fence in the yard. A sad sight, really. I knocked, and a young black lady holding a baby answered. And let me tell you, she was beautiful. At that moment, I wanted to help her. Not only because she was beautiful (I was nineteen, and that was part of it) but because she had a young baby, and you could see in her eyes that she was struggling. The bags under her eyes, the way her mouth sagged at the sight of us. Inside, there was a dirty floor, a house that was nowhere near clean. She needed help, and I wanted to give it.

“’Can I help you?’ she asked. Probably thinking that we are some salesmen or something. Your dad started with the pitch. ‘Have you heard the word of Jesus Christ?’ Something like that. He never quite did it by the book. The lady shakes her head, confused. Here were two white boys, dressed up with bike helmets on and if we weren’t salesmen, then what were we? I’m sure it looked like a joke. He looks at her and smiles. ‘Would you like to hear the word? I promise it’ll bring you peace and a good life.’ She only stared at him, looking even more confused.

“’Is this a church thing? I don’t practice. I’m a Christian but…’ she trailed off. Sounding as if she didn’t know where she was going with it.

“’Give us five minutes, that’s all I ask,’ your dad said. She looked at us for a moment, stepped back slightly, and let us in.

“She sat us down in the small living room. We opened our scriptures and started with the whole eternal life, God loves you, that whole thing. She actually seemed interested after a minute. At first, I thought we could turn her to the way of Joseph Smith, of the Book of Mormon, but then your dad put his arm on her shoulders. I felt baffled, and I knew it was wrong, but I said nothing. I was young, I had no backbone, no voice. I wish I did. But I think it was also the quickness of it. Here we were, not even there for ten minutes, and he is putting her hand on her. Slowly, he rubbed her shoulder. She looked, well, bewildered, but said nothing. She turned to his hand, eyes slightly wide and shocked. I wonder what went through her head at this point. She wasn’t stupid. But she knew the circumstances for what they were. Here she was, a single mother, no income, no help. And here is a chance to help her child. The sadness in her eyes broke my heart. He kept rubbing, talking about God and his love and how he would help her get back on her feet. He moved his hand farther down, near her breast, and she scooted away. She knew the situation but would not let him get any farther. He took his hand back, glanced at me, then at her and said, ‘We should get going. How about we come back and start you on this glorious path?’ He talked like a salesman, not like any other missionary I ever heard. She nodded and said fine. We said a few more things and left. The second that door closed behind us; his smile faded to something vacant. As we walked down the walkway, he said something I will never forget. ‘Stupid slutty nigger.’”

He blushed and cast his eyes down to his food. “I’m sorry about my language. I don’t like to say such things, but that was what he said. I turned to him, shocked. He didn’t look at me; I don’t even think he knew I was there. The rest of the day went fine, but what he said kept going off in my head. I grew up here in Provo. I’ve heard people curse and say bad things. None of it ever rang as cruel to me. Just people who didn’t know any better. But the way he said that sounded honest and cruel.”

His hand went to his food, and he picked at the burger. His root beer was almost gone.

“I only saw that girl a few more times. At her baptism and when she bared her testimony. Normally, we would’ve gone to see her together, to explain things, to convert her, you could say. But I never did. He went on his own. Never told me when, only showed up one day and told me she was ready for baptism. I knew better than to ask him any follow-up questions. I’m sure when he visited with her, they did very little scripture studying. At her baptism, I saw see she looked confused, and was not sure what was going on. She was doing it for her child, that was all. I still pray for her. I don’t know where she is now, but I pray. She didn’t deserve what he did to her.

“The rest of our mission was more or less the same. He stopped hiding it from me. We would still go out on our daily trips, but soon, his language, his hiding, just stopped. He would curse all the time; he would try to fight with people if they got in our way. One time even tried biking down a car that cut us off. When he came back, he said, He wanted to cut their cocks off. Soon, he would bring girls home. I don’t know where he found them, and he’d sleep with them in his room, then kick them out after. He’d come to me and tell me that if I ever told anyone about it, he’d kill me. I told myself he was joking, that he wasn’t serious. But I knew better. I was young, but not stupid.”

He looked up at me as a tear slipped down his cheek. “When I heard your dad died, it was like this weight fell off my back. Knowing that he was gone; knowing he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore made me feel lighter. I said I try to be a good man, and the shame I feel for that is great. But I also know it’s good. That the world is better with him gone. Is that wrong?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know what kind of hell he put you boys through. But I’m glad you made it out alive.”

I said nothing to that. Only picked at my food. I didn’t make it out alive. That was the thing. Neither did my brother. The only one that did was my dad. He still lives in me and in my nightmares.

CHAPTER 1

All of what I’ll tell you, well, most of it, was twenty years ago. I’m thirty-two now and I live in a small town called Desert Lake, in Nevada where I now sit at my desk, with a small portable fan blowing on me to keep the temperature slightly cooler as I write this in a small spiral notebook. I moved here when I was nineteen, to get away from Utah, though I’m only an hour or so away from the Utah border. I’m single, no kids, no close friends. All my family is gone. My mother died when I was seven from lung cancer, brother from suicide, and dad from our hands. After we killed him, we moved in with our grandparents. It was hard for them; they were too old to raise kids. I think that was partly the reason my granddad only made it to seventy-one. The stress my brother put on him and my grandmother, with all the drugs and sex, most likely sped his life up. For my grandmother, she made it a little longer, but only eight years.

I had driven out for my grandmother’s funeral a few days before and now was back home. I was on my couch with a glass of scotch in my hand, thinking whatever thoughts were floating around in my head, when my phone rang, starting my journey back into my past.

I looked at my phone, not recognizing the number, but answered it anyway.

I said hello, and a voice replied, asking, “Is this Nephi Tuck?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“I’m your grandmother’s lawyer, Ron White. We met before her funeral. Do you remember?”

“Yes. Is there something I can do for you?” I felt confused as hell. We had settled everything in her will already, so what more could he need?

“No, just one more item on the will that concerns you and your brother… Lehi? That right?”

“Yes, but he died about ten years ago.” Died? That didn’t feel like the best way to put it. A shotgun to the head felt better.

“Yes, I think you mentioned that when we met earlier. I’m sorry, so many clients. I’m sorry about your loss. Both of them.”

I said thank you and asked what he wanted.

“Well, the last item is about a house in Almon, Utah.”

At once, a memory of me hitting my brother with my dad’s belt flashed through my mind as my dad screamed at me to hit harder. Another of the shed in the backyard where we sat naked in the November air. So many memories that I thought I had buried. Now they rose in my mind like the undead.

“Nephi? You there?”

I shook my head. “Yes, sorry. Zoned out for a second. Why wasn’t this brought up when we met before? Why now?”

“Well, it was per your grandmother’s instructions. I guess she wanted some time to pass before I brought this to your attention.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I only met with her a few times, and she was a peculiar woman. I can say this, I’ve never had such a request. Honestly, not sure if it’s logical.”

I sat there silently. Was this even legal? It didn’t sound legal. Did I care that much, though? No, because really it was my grandma who was the one doing it. Not like I could sue her or give her a piece of my mind unless I grabbed a Ouija board.

“Do I need to sign any papers or anything? Sounds like something I’d have to.”

“Yes, but as of right now, no. With the house sitting dormant for so long, it’s really no rush. I’m only calling to let you know it’s yours.”

“Well, thanks, I guess,” I said, angry, confused, and, well, lost. None of this made sense, but that didn’t matter all that much. It was what it was. My grandmother was a persuasive woman. She could talk the police into letting her smuggle a pound of cocaine. But I was mad. Because the flood gates were now open, and the past now flooded in.

He said, you’re welcome and hung up. The house that I had pushed from my memory, the life I once lived was coming back in a hot rush.

I stared at my glass of scotch and thought of my dad putting a kitchen knife to my throat as I sat nude on his lap. So, why shouldn’t I slice your sinning throat, hm? Give me one good reason.

Then I looked down at my hand that was still holding the phone. Criss cross scars covered it. Jesus, God, I didn’t want to think of all that.