The 19th Wife Read online

  We passed the turnoff to Mesadale and looked at the big houses in the distance. I thought of all the kids—the rashy infants, the scabby toddlers, the hungry boys and girls, the lonely teens, each desperate for love. I thought of my mom.

  “Thank God we’re out of there,” said Johnny.

  “I just wish I could help all the other kids.”

  “A lot more girls are escaping. At night, they just disappear.”

  “That must piss off the Prophet.”

  “There was this one girl, totally hot, maybe like fifteen, he was about to marry her but then she took off.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  In Kanab I parked about a block from the Mega Bite. Johnny was going to try to talk to 5. “Act like you recognize her from Mesadale. Tell her you ran away too. Then ask her when she left. I want to find out if she’s lying. Here’s two dollars.”

  “Two dollars?”

  I gave him another three bucks and he rolled his eyes. “Give me a half hour.” He hopped down from the van. He looked so sure of himself, so pleased to be able to help, that for the first time I worried how I’d get rid of him. While I waited I opened my map of California. In the folds I keep my cash. I had $192 and a credit card with something like $280 left on it. Gas was killing me. After four days in Utah, the only thing I knew for sure was I needed to get back to Pasadena in time for that nursery job. I called Roland but got voice mail. “I won’t be here much longer,” I said.

  “Here’s the deal,” said Johnny, climbing back into the van. “She lied to you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I went in, ordered a ham and cheese—thanks for the money, by the way—and said, ‘You look familiar.’ She sort of looked at me like, Do I know you? So I said, ‘You’re from Mesadale.’ See, the good thing about being a kid is I wasn’t going to freak her out. She said, ‘Yeah,’ and I said, ‘Me too.’ So I go, ‘Wait a minute, I recognize you. You’re one of Brother Scott’s daughters, right? I recognize you from church.’ She just nodded and got a little uneasy, like maybe someone had sent me, which of course someone did send me, but she didn’t know that, and so I go, ‘Don’t worry, I’m on the run too.’ Then I go, ‘So were you there when he was killed?’ You know what she said? She goes, ‘Yeah, I was trying to get my mom to leave, I knew something bad was about to happen, but she wouldn’t come with me. Now I have no idea what’s going to happen to her.’ ” Johnny stopped, obviously happy with himself. “So how about that for a lead!”

  “You’ve seen too many bad cop movies.”

  “Just doing what you couldn’t.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where we headed now?”

  “Put your seat belt on.”

  “What? Now you’re my mom?”

  We stopped at a taco stand and then drove out to an empty trailhead. While we ate the sun set, and the desert went from pink to red to blue to black. The moon wasn’t up yet and it was very dark in the van, and the white taco bags were the only thing I could see. Elektra was asleep on the futon, and everything was very quiet except for the wind. I thought Johnny had fallen asleep when he said, “I’ve done it.”

  “Done what?”

  “You know. With a guy.”

  “What?”

  “In Vegas. A couple of times. I was down to my last buck.” It was too dark to see his face. “I didn’t like it.”

  “That’s OK.”

  “I don’t think I’m a homo.”

  “I don’t think so either.”

  “But if I was, I think I’d like you.”

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  “Jordan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want to do that anymore.”

  “You won’t have to.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Because I’d really rather be nailing a chick.”

  “You’re the crudest person I know.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then we talked about all the stuff we had lived through. “Remember how the Prophet would say you could get a girl pregnant just by looking at her when you were horny?” Johnny threw back his head like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “The best part is,” he said, “I totally believed him. Man, I thought I’d knocked up every chick in town.” We laughed and laughed about all the wacky crap we once believed. What else is there to do? Then we stopped laughing and were quiet for some time.

  “Johnny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re going back tonight.”

  He said nothing.

  “You up for it?”

  He still said nothing. And then, “If you are.”

  IN OUR HOUSE

  A Poem

  By Lydia Taft Webb

  In our house, Thou will find

  Loving Sisters, true and kind.

  Spouses living righteously

  United by the words of Thee.

  Numbers two, three, four, and five

  The more souls gathered, the more alive!

  We pray together, hand-in-hand,

  Loving Thou and our husband,

  For ’tis Thy will and Thy Command,

  Together we shall enter Thy Holy Land!

  —1853

  Lydia Taft Webb, loyal second wife of Chauncey Webb, wrote this poem as an expression of her belief in celestial marriage. Two decades later, when the Saints began to face outside pressure to abandon polygamy, the verse was set to music and sung defiantly by plural wives throughout Deseret. The song remains a popular hymn among the Firsts and other twenty-first-century polygamists.

  THE GUN ON THE SCREEN

  As we drove into Mesadale, Johnny kept scanning the road. “So far so good. I don’t think anyone’s noticed us.” On one of the side roads we passed a house roofed in plywood and tarp, with two horses hitched to a post out front. “That’s my house,” he said. “Such a shithole.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “What do you think?” And then, “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Being this close to home.”

  “Except it’s not home anymore,” I said. “Not anymore.”

  Queenie’s house was quiet, and the patrol car—just as I’d hoped—was gone. We were walking up the driveway when the garage door began to roll up, revealing a pair of feet. “Get in here!”

  We ducked in, and the door started rolling back down.

  Queenie’s nightdress cut off at the knee, and she obviously wasn’t wearing her sacred underwear. She could get publicly flogged for looking like that. Or raped. Or excommunicated. Or all three.

  “I need your help,” I said.

  “Who’s this?”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “A friend?” Then she figured it out. “Oh shit, Jordan, you’re going to ruin everything.”

  “Calm down. Hiram’s out, right?”

  “Yes, but his new wife’s in there.”

  “New wife?”

  “They were sealed yesterday. The Prophet had had enough of his monogamy. He said it sent the wrong signal. Hiram had no choice.”

  “Romantic. How old is she?”

  “Old. Like nineteen.”

  “Barely legal,” I said. “Dude, you’ve seen those dvds?”

  “Not now, Johnny.”

  “You’re going to have to leave,” said Queenie.

  “I need you to find something out from your husband.”

  “Shhhh. Be quiet. She’s a hawk. She already hates me.”

  I wished Queenie would just say fuck this and climb in the van with me and take off, but in real life people don’t do that as often as you might think.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you think I’m crazy. I’m not like you, I can’t just leave.”

  “I didn’t just leave.”

  “You know what I mean. Besides, now’s not a goo
d time.”

  “Why not?”

  Then it hit me: she was pregnant. How could I be so slow? “How far along?”

  “Three months. I’m sure I’ll be on bedrest soon. Last time I was on my back for like six months.”

  “Listen, that’s real nice and everything,” said Johnny, “but you got anything to eat?”

  “You guys need to go.”

  “I know, but I’m starving over here.”

  “Wait right here,” she said. “And don’t make any noise.”

  While we waited Johnny checked out Alton’s guns. Flintlock pistols, a couple of snipers, a pump-action shotgun, a boy’s rifle, and an antique revolver with a gold cylinder. “If things get bad,” said Johnny, “at least I’ve got my knife.”

  “You and your knife.”

  Queenie returned with a muffin and a glass of milk and Johnny downed them like he hadn’t eaten in a week.

  “Queenie, I need to ask you a question,” I said. “Do you know anything about the police report?”

  “Hiram doesn’t talk to me about things like that.”

  “Can you ask him why the investigation isn’t complete?”

  “He’ll wonder why I’m asking. And with her around, it’s going to be even harder.”

  “Try.”

  “What should I tell him when he asks why I want to know?”

  “Tell him a lot of people are talking about it, like the sister wives down at the co-op. They’re wondering and they asked you.”

  She was thinking about it. “Even if he does tell me, how am I going to tell you?”

  “Can you call my cell?”

  “He’ll know.”

  “Do you have email?” She and Johnny looked at me like, what a stupid question.

  “Then leave a note at the post office with Sister Karen.”

  Queenie was very still. I knew she’d do it. “How much time do you need?” I said.

  “Till tomorrow. Now you better go. She’s going to wonder why I’m out here. And be careful. Do me a favor, Jordan, don’t come back. I love you, but you’re about to cause a lot of trouble.”

  The road back to the highway was deserted. The houses were lit up, but there was no one in sight. “I don’t think anyone’s seen us,” I said.

  Johnny turned to look back at the town retreating behind us. “I wonder why we came up with the bad, bad luck to be born here.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know what my mom said when we said good-bye?”

  “What?”

  “See you in heaven.” He snorted. “Heaven my ass.”

  “You know what my mom said? One day you’ll understand.”

  That’s when a jacked pickup pulled out from the brush and started following us. It sped in close, and a row of lights on the roof rack came on, filling the van with silver-blue light. “Shit,” said Johnny. Elektra started barking at the window in the back door.

  “Can you see who it is?” I said.

  “Not with those lights.”

  The truck revved closer, then pulled back, then drove up on my rear again. Everything around us was black except for the hard lights on the roof rack. “I guess someone saw us,” I said.

  “Man, we are so screwed.”

  “Hang on.” I swerved around on the road, throwing up a cloud of red dust. The truck slowed, giving me some space. “He’s just playing with us,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “No.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “Could be anyone.”

  “You think it’s the Prophet?”

  “No. I don’t know.” I slammed on the brakes. Elektra flew off the futon, and the truck swerved off the road into the sagebrush. His lights were on the desert now, and it was like the brightest moon had risen over the scrub and the sand. “Can you see anyone now?”

  “Just one guy.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “An asshole.”

  In my rearview I watched the truck back out of the sagebrush. Its monster wheels turned in the sand, spitting it out behind. The truck pushed itself over a ridge of sand at the side of the road and righted itself back into place. The lights were now pointing ahead on the road again, but we were out of their range. When we reached the highway I said, “We’re OK.”

  “What if he follows us?”

  “He won’t. He can only pull that shit in Mesadale.”

  “I hope he doesn’t take it out on my mom.”

  “He wasn’t looking for you.”

  Driving back to St. George, I was trying to think things through, but Johnny kept yakking on about his mom and stepdad, how they’d screwed up his whole life.

  “You want to know how my mom ended up with my stepdad?”

  “Not really.”

  “We were living up near Brigham City, my mom and me, I mean. All of a sudden one day when I was five she just throws my crap in the car and drives us down here. I was like, ‘Is this a vacation?’ And she goes, ‘You’ll get used to it.’ We moved right in with my stepdad. I’m not sure how they met, but I guess it was through the mail or the internet or something. I remember the first time I saw him I was thinking, Is that someone’s grandpa? He was old even then. Skinny, with all that old-man skin and that old-man smell. He said, ‘I think you’ll like it here.’ I just looked at him and said, ‘I doubt it.’ You know what he did? He smacked my ear. It was the first time anyone ever hit me, and I just looked over at my mom like, ‘Are you going to let him do that?’ I mean, I was so certain she’d drive us home that very minute, but she only said, ‘Johnny, you got to listen to your dad.’ That was when I knew she was a goner, except when you’re five you don’t really know what that means. All I knew was my mom wasn’t my mom anymore, something had happened to her, and they told me if I did anything to piss the old guy off, God would take it out on her.”

  “It’s the same story,” I said. “Over and over.”

  “Man, I wish my mom would go and blow his fucking heart out too.”

  “My mom didn’t kill my dad.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what I mean.”

  By the time we got back to St. George almost everything was closed, but the lights were still on at A Woman Sconed. The goth girl was leaning on the bagel bar, watching tv. She looked like she’d had the dullest night of her life. “Finally a customer I actually like,” she said. While Elektra and Johnny begged for cookies, I jumped on the computer to check email.

  “Any word from the chicks?” said Johnny.

  I clicked the mouse. “Looks like there’s something from Alexandra.”

  “Dude, she wants you. Open it.”

  It was real nice to meet you Jordan. Im sorry about your dad. But guess what. I found his pic in my computer. We only chatted for a little bit so even if I did remember more of it Im sure it wouldn’t be of much use. But here’s the pic he sent me. I thought you might want it.

  I opened the attached picture and slowly, from top to bottom, it appeared on the screen. There he was, with this message: As you can see I like my guns!

  “Shit,” said Johnny. “He used that to pick up chicks?”

  My dad was standing in the basement in a cheap wine-colored tie, his arm around a woman whose face had been scratched out so lazily you could tell it was my mom. They were holding a rifle between them, the way a couple of fishermen would pose with their catch. There’s one good thing about growing up off the grid: I know my guns. The gun on the screen was the Big Boy. And fitted to its muzzle was a suppressor as fat as a can of Mountain Dew.

  IX

  ZION

  THE 19TH WIFE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My Youth in Deseret

  Now, with your permission, I will tell the stories of my youth in the Utah Territory and how those years, the 1850s, led me to my fate as Brigham’s wife. In the autumn of 1848, when I was four years old, we settled in Great Salt Lake City, a new settlement overlooking a silver saline sea. When my family arrived in this forsaken
land, we were a wretched lot in possession of little more than our wagons and oxen, a milking cow, and the clothes encrusted to our backs. No doubt you have seen many daguerreotypes of the Westward-ho family: the bearded father in suspenders, the mother in an apron (she always thinner than her brood), the children with dark half-moons of exhaustion beneath their eyes. This is who we were, any American family waging everything on the West. Except, to this historic image, you must add Sister Lydia and her child, Diantha. To the untrained eye she would look like a widowed aunt, but by now my Dear Reader knows the secrets of the Mormon clan.

  In our first year in Deseret, we were so busy digging, clearing, building, and sowing there was little time for misery. In order to represent the fullest form of honesty, I must confess that those early years in Zion were among the happiest my family has known. We, each newly arrived Saint, were set upon a purpose: to build a home while establishing a colony where we could be free in our beliefs. This is a noble cause, one that can inspire even the tiniest of hearts, such as mine was at the time, and return doubting minds to course. My father, ever industrious, set up a new wagonry and very soon his forges blazed. My mother, who never spent a day in school, was asked by the Prophet himself to teach one day a week in the Zion school house. (I won’t expend ink by digressing into Brother Brigham’s curious effort to establish the Deseret Alphabet, made up of thirty-eight mostly new characters which gave the Saints a secretive method of writing English. This alphabet was briefly forced upon the children of Zion, myself included. For a short time my mother, in obeying her spiritual leaders, had to teach it at the blackboard, all the while knowing it was useless backslang.)