Salt Lake City, 1957

Abstract

Sunday morning in Salt Lake City, whenfaithful Mormons flock to worshipat neighborhood wards, my father'ssecret psychiatric patients slip insidethe back door of 508 East South Temple,for fifty-five-minute appointments.A nurse impersonator, I greet them,steer them into the doctor's office,return to Atlas Shrugged. We mightargue in the car, but on arrival my fatherand I team up. He exchanges his suitjacket for a white coat, ducks outfor a smoke, while I pull patient chartsfrom the wall of alphabetized folders.There's the homosexual bishop,the alcoholic Relief Society president,the man who pees on his wife. I alignthe waiting room magazines, feed the fish,flush a dead one, and replace the Kleenex.Everybody knows the drill. No one arrives early,no one stays late. Crossing paths with a friend,neighbor, or relative, means questioningwhy some problems require morethan prayer or a patriarchal blessing.