engagement stone 1

        Swaddled in humid air, Leah abided her moist bed, up in the studio apartment above the landlady's garage. An aspen branch scraped the shingles like a crone whittling scrimshaw. The glow worm in her belly turned and turned again. She bled. With a lightness of being she drifted toward the window. She saw the driveway below and the street lamp. Beyond and far away the Wasach Mountains stood mute beneath the cold moon. Somehow she felt able to fly.
        A knock on her door.
        "Leah, are you all right?" It was Aine McCready of the Relief Society.
        "Yes, Ma'am. I'm fine. Come in, please."
        The door opened and a Black Irish woman wearing a pleated saffron gown stepped inside. She surveyed the room, with its cream-painted tongue-and-groove walls, all in one green eyeblink.
         Leah turned from the window and motioned with her hand. "Come."
         "Oh, my young dear! Look at your bed!"
         The sheet Leah had been lying on resembled the Shroud of Turin.
   

                                                                              *


         The Indian pounded its way to Bountiful. The lake stink troubled Artie. Marsh bacteria smelled like eggs gone bad. He sped like a ghost rider in the gypsum moonlight. Picturing Leah in his mind.
         Reading the writings of Parley P. Pratt, I'll bet.
         Ever so devoted to the Prophet Joseph Smith, Parley P. Pratt introduced to the colliers of industrial England the Book of Mormon. Artie loved the Book of Mormon. Ever since she showed him Alma 52:9 and explained why her hometown was named Bountiful.


                                                                                      *


        Artie motored on. Heart full of grace.
        In his leather pocket was the engagement stone.
        Tonight! Tonight! Tonight!