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Show in my father's house/ 178 and Sunday meetings. My father also preferred Isaac for prayers, for blessing the sacrament, for talks. But Saul was the question-asker, always wondering why this idea did not fit with this one, until my father, in irritation, declared that only a "wicked and adulterous generation" would ask for signs. On the playground, Saul was our champion, our leader. But in the meeting hall, Isaac was the example we should follow. I remembered the two of them wrestling on the livingroom rug, grunting and giggling, smiles and grimaces interwoven. Whatever rivalry existed between them was good-natured, I knew that. And I knew that I would never want to choose between them as my father had done. The next day Saul came home from basketball practice ahead of Isaac. He said nothing and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. Isaac came in a moment later, kissing my mother as she came through the hall. "I guess Saul told you," he said, his voice gentle. My mother's eyes widened. "The election. It was today." Isaac nodded and looked over my mother's head at Aunt Helga. I watched them, my eyes darting from one face to another. "Who won?" I blurted. "Why, Saul did. You mean he hasn't told you?" My mother shrieked and ran to the kitchen. "Not really," Aunt Helga murmured. And then, her chin lifted, she said, "It must be because all the girls know you're going with Sharon. And Saul isn't going with anyone. All the girls must have voted for him." Her voice became surer, more resonant as she spoke. |