What Was I Thinking?

By Elizabeth Petty Bentley

When strangers found out Bruce was a Mormon, often their first question was, “So, how many wives do you have?”
“Four . . . but only one at a time, same as you.” And if they still weren’t able to find their tongue, he might add, “And twelve children.”
Then if they didn’t say, “What were you thinking?” they usually tried to recover by joking, “What’s Thanksgiving like at your house?”
“A whole lot of pies.”

Sometimes funny, sometimes poignant, Bruce and Chloë’s story will leave you pondering the possibilities of love and family and eternity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Parables
• Release date: Oct 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005944247

Elizabeth Petty Bentley

Beth lives in Walkersville, Maryland. She is thankful for her many children, children-in-law, step-children, foster children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and is happily engaged in family history research. She’s the ward Primary pianist and director of the stake family history center. She’s the owner and editor of Parables, which publishes realistic LDS-themed fiction.

Book preview

What Was I Thinking?

by

Elizabeth Petty Bentley

Published by Parables at Smashwords

© 2020 Elizabeth Petty Bentley

ISBN: 978-1-63649-790-7 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-00594-424-7 (ebook)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover design: Lisa Rector

PARABLES

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Amy and Nathan

Other Titles by Elizabeth Petty Bentley

The Fly on the Rose

Temple has no intention of remarrying after the messy civil divorce that left her without custody of her two girls. Then she meets Q, who doesn’t understand that a civil divorce hasn’t abrogated her religious vows. She decides he doesn’t need to know, since he’s not of her fait. She thinks he doesn’t need to know about her daughters either. She couldn’t be more mistaken.

In a Dry Land

Libby is a born caretaker—although not by choice. Her parents bred her specifically to care for her severely retarded older sister when they are gone. But at only nineteen, Libby is already Mama to Baby. Unfortunately, Libby has convinced herself that no one will ever want to marry her, with a thirty-year-old Baby. Clearly Mick wouldn’t.

Mick loves Libby and admires her compassion. He’s even willing to take on responsibility for Baby. But he hesitates to ask Libby to marry him because she seems more in love with the idea of marriage than with him. How can he know she’s not marrying him out of desperation?

A Wandering Star

Alyssa and Nolan are about to be married when Nolan’s best friend, Zeke, arrives. He’s an enigmatic figure, rumored to be excommunicated and to have failed to complete his mission for the Church. Alyssa sensibly marries Nolan, who is good-looking, devout, sensitive, and loving, but conventional. Unfortunately, being married in the temple doesn’t help Alyssa put aside her attraction to Zeke

The Sins of the Mothers

Tamar never made any secret that her goal is to break her mother’s heart, now that she has sufficiently ruined her mother’s life.

Joyce knows Tamar is damaged, and Hollis tells her she should cut Tamar loose and stop letting Tamar torment her. But Joyce has her own secrets.

Will the baby Tamar’s carrying bring mother and daughter together or only drive them farther apart?

What Friends Are For

Zoë hasn’t seen Lara since high school. When she drops in for what she thinks is a duty visit, she is quickly sucked into trying to break up what she sees as Lara’s disastrous marriage, while at the same time envying Lara her many friends and her home and children.

Lara chafes at Zoë’s interference, while wishing she could have Zoë’s freedom and footloose lifestyle.

A Plentiful Rain

When Ellis falls for the wrong sister, it takes him a while to figure out which is the right one for him. But when he does, she rejects him, and he has to first discover the right inside himself, before he can be right for anyone else.

A Fruitful Vine

Vida’s eighth child is finally in kindergarten when she discovers another is on the way. Conflicted doesn’t begin to describe her feelings. And when she starts to descend into what her fix-it husband labels denial, her marriage grows increasingly fragile, and her frightened husband and children fear for her sanity.

Unseen Wounds

Rae and Fitch, both doctors, decided before they married that having children wasn’t for them. But when Rae turns thirty-three, she finds that a career simply isn’t enough. She wants a child. Fitch, however, is perfectly content and sees no reason to turn his whole life upside-down. And his wife’s longing soon triggers an irrational jealousy that threatens to drive her away altogether.

Author’s Note

Each chapter begins in the present time and quickly moves into Bruce’s memory of some past event. After the first few chapters, these memories aren’t necessarily in chronological order. The context should make the time clear, but a table at the end shows the actual dates of each chapter’s flashback, with the approximate ages of those involved, just in case. There’s also a complete, alphabetical list of the novel’s characters, with their birth and marriage dates and their relationships to Bruce, for reference, if needed.

 1 

Bruce couldn’t sleep. By the dim under-bed light he watched Chloë breathe. He hadn’t been able to rouse her enough to eat more than a few spoonfuls of hospital food at dinnertime, but she didn’t seem to be in any pain, and her wrinkled hand was still warm in his. A monitor alarm down the hall had gone from simply irritating to downright alarming, but even though Bruce could no longer feel his fingers, he didn’t want to let go, even to get up and close the door.

He tried to block it all out by recalling the first time he ever held Chloë’s hand—at a stake dance in Bennington, Vermont, some fifty-five years earlier, in 1964. He’d come home from his mission exactly three days earlier. He immediately made his report to the high council, so he was officially released to do whatever he wanted. But readjusting to civilian life wasn’t proving easy.

His mother practically had to force him out of the house on Saturday night, leaving him floundering with time on his hands. He couldn’t think of anywhere to go except to church. But nothing was happening at his home ward in Springfield, and anyway, he wasn’t really looking forward to being embarrassed by a swarm of well-meaning welcome-homers whose names he’d probably forgotten—or never knew.

Thank goodness he was still plugged in to the singles grapevine.

He picked a dance far outside his home stake. He wouldn’t be expected to know anyone there. His last mission companion had predicted that Bruce would be married inside a month of returning home. Bruce laughed at the absurd idea. He couldn’t visualize himself ever asking a woman to marry him. It was all he could do to ask one to dance, and the only reason he was comfortable doing that much was because everyone was pretty much on the same level during the helpful instruction beforehand and because his MIA leader had shamed the guys into turning out for all the stake things and dancing every dance. Their leader said not being asked onto the floor was positively crushing to the young women. If nothing else, the young men could think of it as a service project.

Bruce quickly learned to enjoy dancing: holding a woman in his arms, inhaling her aroma, feeling her breath. And asking for a dance was very low risk. A wallflower virtually never refused a request. And once Bruce had honed his approach, even most of the pickier girls didn’t turn him down.

But dancing was as close as he’d ever gotten to a romantic interaction. He’d never found the nerve to ask anyone out on an actual date-date, where he might reasonably be expected to hold up his end of a conversation beyond So. What ward are you from? He’d rather give a hundred sacrament meeting talks. At least then he didn’t have to respond to questions.

Bruce slid into the church hall and surveyed the women from the safety of the refreshment table. He wasn’t surprised to find, despite the presence of so many choices, a definite hesitance on his own part to discard the rigorous rules of his mission experience. Like a starving man faced with a smorgasbord, he hardly knew where to start.

But he had to start somewhere, if only to prove to himself that he’d graduated from being told what to do pretty much every minute of every day.

Fortunately anonymity was on his side.

Then Chloë glided through the far door and caught Bruce’s eye.

She was quite a bit taller than average and evidently not at all reluctant to add an extra couple of inches with heels. She had a slender waist, and her pale yellow dress swayed enticingly about her calves. She was more than just pretty but not drop-dead gorgeous or Bruce would have been entirely intimidated. Her face was round and her nose was broad, making her seem heavier than she actually was. She had kind eyes but a puzzled expression that was probably unconscious.

Bruce could relate. People always said that, except when he smiled, his knit forehead made him look perpetually impatient.

Genetics.

He made a conscious effort to wear a pleasant smile as much as possible. But try as he might, he couldn’t seem to still his restless eyes for long.

And before Bruce could gather the courage to skirt the basketball court-slash-dance floor to get a closer look and further evaluate his chances, some toothy-grin bozo was on Bruce’s choice like a jackal on a partridge. Bruce was left cursing himself for being too slow, too shy, too self-conscious. He could only wait and hope she’d give the other guy the heave-ho.

Bruce had no doubt that she eventually would. The interloper was obviously not yet old enough to go on a mission and half an inch shorter than her, but she was still being polite when Bruce sidled up to her and waited.

Then he realized he wasn’t the only one waiting. Two others—a buzz-cut with cowboy boots and a linebacker-type with bad skin—evidently weren’t inclined to be as patient, or as reluctant, as he was. Plus they seemed to know the first jackal.

Chloë backed up a step as they closed in. She nearly fell into one of the chairs lining the gym walls. But she caught herself and stood her ground. I’m sorry. Could one of you get me some punch?

You go, said the grin to the linebacker.

Why me?

I’ll go, said the boots, reaching for her hand. Bruce would have sworn he was aiming to kiss it, but the young woman used it to swipe at her already perfect, shoulder-length black hair.

Thank you so much, she said, with a sincerity that made Bruce chuckle because her thanks were clearly not for the anticipated drink but for the reduction in the pack.

Bruce decided to step in.

Or at least start the process of leaning in.

He had no illusions. He knew he could be caricaturized just as easily as the other three. He was acutely conscious that his eyebrows were practically straight across and parallel with the floor, making his eyes seem all the more shadowed. Worst of all, one young woman had called him shifty-eyed, looking everywhere but at her. He’d worked hard at overcoming his early training that staring was presumptuous and impudent. He told himself that looking directly at someone made him seem self-assured and resolute. Bold in the best sense of the word. His mission had helped him gain some control over his fears, especially his fear of meeting new people, but even in the short time since his return home, old habits had resurfaced. He reminded himself that at least his skin was clear and his teeth were straight.

His mother kept trying to convince him he was quite a few notches above average, but she was, after all, his mother.

He extended his hand and steeled himself to look deliberately at the woman in yellow long enough to say, Dance?

Even if he wasn’t a great dancer, he was a confident one—perhaps because conversation while slow dancing mostly precluded gazing fecklessly into someone else’s eyes.

Bruce almost broke eye contact, watching her probe his own windows to the soul—first one and then the other—and wander across his wrinkled forehead, then explore the rest of his face and finally settle on his lips, as if with a kiss.

Her examination felt interminable to Bruce, but in reality it occurred in only seconds, barely long enough for him to muster an even brighter smile to offset his impatience—real or perceived. Then she took his hand and allowed him to extract her from among the predators.

She didn’t speak as he led her onto the floor, and he was too distracted by the warmth of her hand to utter another word.

A few feet short of the center of the room, he finally forced himself to turn and draw her close. His mind raced with improbable thoughts of fainting right there in her arms. Or else saying something utterly inappropriate, like, May I touch your hair? or Does your father own a shotgun? or If only our bishops were here, we could get our recommends tonight and be at the temple in the morning.

He shook himself, glad that no one could read his thoughts.

After a silent eternity, she startled Bruce with Where did you serve?

What? Bruce missed a beat but quickly recovered. How? I mean . . .

The haircut gave you away, she said. Combined with the start of a beard.

Bruce had worked hard at shaping his three-days’ growth into a goatee he hoped would soon look very Paul Stookey-ish. What was I thinking? Instead, he evidently came across as working overtime at not looking like a missionary. Would you believe Patagonia? he asked.

She pulled away and looked into his eyes. No. I don’t think I would.

I never could fool you, he said, rotating and drawing her swiftly back into the safety of close contact.

She generously rewarded his lame joke with a little chuckle. Never? I don’t even know your name. She had a dazzling smile.

Would you believe New York?

That’s your name? She sounded more amused than annoyed.

Amused was good. You can call me that if you like.

You don’t sound like a New York. You sound more like a Virginia.

It was Bruce’s turn to be amused. He hadn’t realized he’d picked up any accent. Maryland, actually. I served in Maryland. Pronounced ‘Mare-lin’ by the natives. Or ‘Merlin,’ if you’re from Bawlmer. His tongue seemed to have a mind of its own.

Bawlmer?

Baltimore.

Ah. I see, she said.

Bruce, he said, trying to restore some semblance of normalcy to the conversation. My name’s Bruce. But even his name felt strange on his lips, after being called Elder Evans for the past two years, but he didn’t want to make their conversation all about him.

Last name? she insisted.

Evans. Bruce Evans. We’re Welsh. Welsh? He sounded like he was trying too hard to make his vanilla name sound exotic.

I think I’ll call you ‘Merlin,’ for Maryland, she said, surprising him by going with it. Merlin was Welsh, wasn’t he? Magical. Wise. Inscrutable.

Inscrutable? Wow. That was a word he hadn’t heard anyone use out loud in quite a while. And what should I call you?

Call me anything you like, she said. My name’s Chloë. Last name: Pachis, which is Greek for ‘fat.’

He didn’t know what to say to ‘fat,’ so he said, With a diaeresis?

What?

He cringed inside, but since she seemed more curious than turned off by his nerdiness, he plunged on. "Two dots over the e, like an umlaut. It tells you to pronounce the vowel. Otherwise you’d just be Clo."

"And with one, you’d be Brucey."

You’re quick, he said.

You too, she said, allowing him to breathe a little easier.

The dance music wound down, and Bruce slowly twirled Chloë in a final flourish—nothing too extreme, but agile enough to show her he knew his way around the dance floor. The hem of her skirt wafted gently before coming to rest, and Bruce suddenly didn’t want to let Chloë go. He’s headed this way, Bruce improvised.

He? He who? She glanced around, clearly confused.

Don’t look.

She stopped and fixed her eyes on Bruce, discomfiting him but not derailing him.

The guy you sent to get some punch. He seems determined. Actually the lecher was hovering over somebody new with his tongue hanging down to the floor.

We could go outside, Chloë suggested.



The brisk New England air was enough to bring Bruce to his senses. It wasn’t as if they’d made their way to some secluded balcony overlooking a countryside they could both gaze off into. They were on the sidewalk next to the parking lot, which was even more brightly lit than the gym, and stragglers were still pushing past them, finding their way inside.

Bruce was suddenly presented with the possibility of having to carry on a face-to-face conversation.

I should go and get that drink you wanted, he offered.

Chloë laughed. You believed me? Was I that good an actress?

"No . . . I mean yes . . . I mean I knew you were just trying to get rid of the guy, but I don’t think he did."

And now you want to use the same excuse to make a quick exit, yourself.

No! Every thought in his head must have been written on his forehead. She kept glancing up there, and Bruce instinctively raised his hand to the spot. It came away damp. He was making such a fool of himself. I mean . . . well, if it was an excuse, it wouldn’t be much of one, since I’d eventually have to come back with the drink, wouldn’t I?

She smiled again, and the room seemed to light up. Not if somebody else came along and lassoed me onto the dance floor again.

Is that what I did? Lasso you? Bruce couldn’t bear to look at her any longer. He was so ashamed of himself.

I didn’t mean that in a bad way, she said. You rescued me.

Or took advantage, he thought. I’m no rescuer. I’m no different from those other guys.

Don’t say that. Look at me. I can take care of myself. I chose you, not one of them.

But all Bruce heard was Look at me. People were always saying that to him. The demand sent a shiver up his spine and momentarily took him back to when he was five, toeing the carpet while his father berated him for leaving his trike in the driveway and for tracking mud in the house and for tossing his coat on the floor and for holding himself because he’d waited until the very, very last minute before heading to the bathroom. And then his father said he couldn’t stand to look at Bruce and sent him running.

But at Chloë’s command, Bruce locked eyes with her anyway.

She sighed. I wouldn’t have accepted your offer if I didn’t want to. Plus it turns out you’re a better dancer than I had any right to expect. So there!

So there? Okay. Then do you want to dance some more?

What, right now? Out here?

His gaze drifted over her shoulder to the hedge on the far side of the lot. Why not? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her following his gaze.

Over there? Her voice was tinged with suspicion.

No. Of course not. I was just kind of spacing . . . thinking. Desperately thinking of what to say next that wouldn’t sound totally absurd. I’m sorry. I kind of have a habit of looking off. It’s more than just wanting to be aware of my surroundings. Movement often catches my attention. Or I’m looking nowhere in particular when I’m thinking. Might as well get it out there straightaway, apologize once, and not have to keep making excuses. I’m sorry.

No need to be sorry, she said. Do you have autism?

What? No. I mean I don’t think so. He had no idea what autism was, but it didn’t sound good. She made it sound like a disease. For just a split-second, he wondered if maybe he could find out more and use it as an excuse. No. It’s just a . . . nervous thing. Except that he did it even when he wasn’t nervous.

Well, you certainly don’t have to be nervous around me, she said. I’m not judging you. And even if I was, I’m from way over in Albany.

He looked down at his shoes. So I’m free to make a dang fool of myself, knowing we’ll probably never run into each other ever again?

"Isn’t that the whole idea? We show up here as fresh faces, and everybody wants to meet us, and it feels good for a while to be the center of attention because back home everybody knows everything about everybody, and it’d be like dancing with your brother. I mean your actual brother."

The last thing Bruce wanted was to be either the center of attention or her brother. I guess I never thought of it that way.

No? She seemed surprised. Hardly anybody dates in their own ward.

Actually—he hesitated to admit it—I’ve never dated anyone. I mean, not one-on-one.

Never? Never ever? Then she checked herself. That’s not a criticism or anything. Just the opposite—I admire your dedication. To your mission, I mean.

Hardly. I didn’t do it on purpose. He looked to the side, and she again turned and followed his gaze, as if some oddity had caught his attention. There was nothing to see, of course, and he was embarrassed, as always.

But Chloë laughed. Isn’t that funny, she said, we’re like . . . conditioned or something. If one person looks up, everybody does, to see what’s so interesting up there.

Bruce didn’t find it funny at all. He found it humiliating, and most people quickly became irritated by his quirk, as if he’d purposely played a childish trick on them. I didn’t mean to . . .

No. It suits you, Merlin. Doesn’t every magician use misdirection?

Is that what it is?

She smiled her disarming smile again. Derailing me from getting too personal. People hate that in me, but it’s like I can’t seem to help myself. Just ignore me if I do it again. Anyway we’re never going to see each other after tonight, right? She tossed her head, and Bruce thought that would be the last of it.

But before he could stop himself, he said, I’d hate to think . . . I mean I’d be sorry if this was the end. Can’t we at least have one more dance.

She raised an eyebrow. "In spite of me asking if you were autistic, for goodness sake? It’s like when you learn a new word and just have to try it out."

Bruce shrugged off her self-criticism. I already forgot that. He looked at her fist, angled defiantly on her hip.

She followed his gaze and dropped her hand, but when Bruce stretched out his own hand to her, she relaxed and accepted it.

This is a mistake, she said, but when Bruce asked, A mistake? How? she just shook her head and let him lead her inside, where they danced until Chloë said her feet hurt. Then they sat, and Chloë talked and didn’t once object that Bruce mostly listened and hardly looked at her at all as she prattled on about Primary and early childhood education classes and her part-time job at a nursery school, and only looked where Bruce was looking once in all that time.

Finally the DJ announced the last dance, and Bruce had one more chance to hold Chloë in his arms before the closing prayer signaled that it was nearly eleven thirty and time for everyone to pack it in before the Sabbath.

Can I drive you home? Bruce blurted.

Drive me? All the way to Albany? She seemed confused. It’s not like I’ve been drinking. And I have my own car. How would you get yourself home afterward?

I should have said I could follow you home. Just to make sure you got there safe. It’s late. You’re tired.

Absolutely not!

Oh. He hung his head. I’m sorry. That was brash.

Chloë took his hand in both of hers. No, it’s not that.

But Bruce couldn’t help explaining himself. I didn’t mean all the way to your front door. But at least off the highway. Driving can be so . . . hypnotic. It’s not safe.

And what about you? she asked. "Driving from here to Albany and then back to Springfield—you wouldn’t get home till nearly dawn. That’s what’s not safe. I’m fine. I had a nap this afternoon, knowing I’d be out late."

You’re right. I’m sorry. I sound like a masher.

She flashed him yet another smile. Or I could phone you from home.

You’re asking for my number? Bruce couldn’t believe she’d offered, but his suddenly sucking in air could have sounded like he was criticizing her or something.

She hesitated, and Bruce thoroughly expected her to retract the offer. I guess I am, she said. Is that really forward of me?

Not at all. He could finally breathe. But surely she had to know that anybody could get anybody else’s number from somebody who knew somebody. The church was so small.

Then I’ll ring once, hang up, and ring once again.

Perfect, Bruce said. I’ll ring you back to let you know I heard.

"So now you want my number?" she asked with a teasing smile.

 2 

Bruce couldn’t sleep. He imagined that Chloë’s every labored breath could be her final one. This was her second bout with pneumonia in as many years. She’d barely pulled through the first time. At her age and with her underlying congestive heart failure, it was potentially deadly.

Her last words to him that evening had been, You look tired, Merlin. You should go home and get some sleep. She was always thinking of someone other than herself.

He hadn’t argued with her. He just brushed his teeth, turned off the TV, and pretended to turn in. He held her hand until she drifted off.

He would have held her hand all night, but Faith came in a little before eight.

You should go home, Dad. Get some rest, she said, so much like her mother.

"I’m resting here. I’m doing nothing but resting."

So at least lean back and close your eyes, she insisted, pulling up a chair for herself. I’ll stay up and wake you if anything changes.

But . . .

You know what a night owl I am, she said. Plus I can nap at will, same as Mom. I got a couple hours’ sleep this afternoon.

Reassured, Bruce leaned back as he was told, but even as his eyes seemed to have a will of their own and didn’t open again, he didn’t let go of Chloë’s hand.

Bruce recalled his first conversation with Chloë. He didn’t suspect at the time that it would be about having Faith—about having children.

Bruce met up with Chloë for the second time, two weeks after the Bennington dance, at a concert put on by the Nashua Stake—orchestra and chorus and some solos and ensembles. It wasn’t a singles event, so plenty of young children were in attendance. There was a nursery for infants and preschoolers, but the atmosphere was still nothing like a concert hall. Not only did fidgety youngsters present a constant background of thumps, page-turning, and whispers, but the chapel’s interior, built to dampen the usual Sunday restlessness of fifty to a hundred children, also dampened the music in unanticipated ways that kept the sounds from blending and filling the space as it would elsewhere. And the performance was amateurish, at best, with some downright embarrassing solo attempts.

Nevertheless, the audience was enthusiastic. Bruce and Chloë couldn’t help but join in, encouraging the participants who were brave enough to put on the entertainment. Bruce was especially excited and nervous about seeing Chloë again. Afterward he took her out for a late supper at a restaurant with two Michelin stars. He hoped she’d be impressed.

Are you glad you came? he asked, around the oversized menus they’d been given.

Absolutely. How did you even know the concert was going on? She smiled, but she didn’t look at him, allowing him the luxury of not having to look back at her across the small table. She hadn’t looked him straight in the eye all evening. He had no way of knowing whether she was mocking him or being considerate of his feelings. He chose to believe the latter. On the phone, close to a dozen times in the past two weeks, she’d also let him get away with revealing almost nothing about himself, despite having said that prying was practically her sport of choice.

I know some people, he said. The singles had a network so they could coordinate events in the region. Finding out about regular ward and stake activities throughout the rest of