Salt Lake City, 1957

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 Atlas Shrugged. We mightargue car, but on arrival fatherand team up. He exchanges his suitjacket for a white coat, ducks outfor smoke, while pull patient chartsfrom wall alphabetized folders.There's homosexual bishop,the alcoholic Relief Society president,the man who pees wife. alignthe waiting room magazines, feed fish,flush dead one, and replace Kleenex.Everybody knows drill. No one arrives early,no stays late. Crossing paths with friend,neighbor, or relative, means questioningwhy some problems require morethan prayer patriarchal blessing.