The 19th Wife Read online

  The next morning the Lincoln County sheriff handcuffed my mom: “You’ll have to come with me, Sister.” I don’t know who called him in, he usually didn’t get out to Mesadale. There’s a picture of her being guided into the backseat of the cruiser—the rope of her braid flat against her back as she ducks in. The paper says she didn’t resist. Tell me about it. She didn’t resist when her husband married her fifteen-year-old niece. She didn’t resist when the Prophet told her to throw me out. “No point in making a fuss”—she used to say that all the time. For years she was obedient, believing it part of her salvation. Then one day I guess she went pop! That’s how these things go, you hear about it all the time. Except because of the suppressor it was probably more like a phump! than a pop!

  Did Sister Rita do her in? Actually, it was the chat session. The Register loved the irony: VICTIM NAMES HIS MURDERER BEFORE SHE PULLS THE TRIGGER. Technically he didn’t name her, he numbered her. But really, Rita’s statement didn’t help either. It gave the sheriff enough. The next day my mom was booked and that picture was up on the Register’s home page, my mom sliding into the cruiser, her hair a heavy chain.

  That’s how I found out. I was at the library with my friend Roland. We were tooling around the web, checking out nothing in particular, then all of a sudden there it was, the story about my mom:

  WIFE #19 KILLS HUSBAND

  SIGN OF STRIFE IN RENEGADE SECT?

  In the picture she’s shackled at the wrists. Her forehead is white and glossy, reflecting a camera’s flash in the dawn, and she has a look in her eyes. How to describe it? Should I say her eyes were dark and damp, the eyes of a small snouted animal? Or will you know what I mean if I say she had the scared-shitless look of a woman busted for murder and about to spend the rest of her life in the can?

  II

  WIFE #19:

  THE RED IN THE DESERT

  WELCOME TO FLIPPIN’ UTAH

  Before I go any further there are a few things you should know. I’m twenty years old but a lot of people say I look younger. In the last six years I’ve lived almost everywhere between southern Utah and LA, five of them with Elektra. For two years we lived in and around Vegas out of a beat-up florist’s van with a bunch of hydrangeas stenciled on the side. I still have the van but now Elektra and I live in Pasadena, in a studio apartment above a garage.

  I probably should tell you a little something about Elektra, because she’s the only reason I made it, given the circumstances. She’s got rich brown hair that turns red in the sun, yellow-gold nearly electric eyes—you’d swear there were bulbs behind them—and the kind of long long legs that make people turn around and whistle. Roland likes to say she’s got the legs of a supermodel, but that’s just him. I found her in a parking lot off Industrial about a year after I was kicked out. Her snout was in a Taco Bell bag, which is pretty much what I was doing too. I don’t know what she is exactly—some sort of hound/bird-dog mix with a few drops of pit. That gives her cred with some people but I’m not into things like that. All I care is she’s my girl. For the record she came with that name tattooed to the underside of her left ear. It looks like this:

  ELEKTRA

  BITE ME!

  If you want to know what I look like I should tell you what a customer once said: You got a face like a fucking doll. That old guy, as he was paying me fifty bucks, he said, Kid, you got some fucking roses in your cheeks. I like that. In addition to the roses, I’ve got a high kinda girlish voice I used to wish was lower but I don’t bother worrying about anymore. A priest I once went to (mistake) said my eyes reminded him of the blue sea glass he found on the Jersey shore when he was a boy. I left before he could look into them any deeper. Someone else, a loser with a wife and twins, said they were like two little sapphires, little gemstones he said, then paid me to put my arm somewhere it should never go. But I don’t do that anymore. Those were my lean & teen years. Now I make a living in construction, which I’m actually pretty good at. It’s the only thing I can thank the Prophet for. I’m especially good at framing and roofing, which means I work outside a lot. Roland likes to say, “Another year in the sun, Jo-Jo, and you’ll be old like the rest of us.” He’s the only person who calls me Jo-Jo. I don’t know why he does it. My name’s Jordan. Jordan Scott.

  I’m telling you all this because people always get me wrong. I know what they see—hustler, twink, whatever. But I’m not some precious stone or some fucking doll. I’m just a guy who got totally screwed when he was fourteen and by all odds should be in jail or dead or both but actually is managing just fine. That’s it. That’s all you need to know.

  Oh, and this: once I was at the library in line checking out a book on the history of God and this finger tapped me on the shoulder: “What is someone like you doing with a book like that?” That’s how Roland and I met. We don’t have much in common except we hang out at the library a lot. It’s a nice library, the Pasadena Public. I’ve never seen them bother anyone who doesn’t have a place to go. Once the librarian, Sue, once she even let Elektra into the children’s room to meet the kids. She liked that—Elektra, I mean. But this story isn’t about Sue and it’s not about Roland or Elektra and it isn’t even really about me. It’s about my mom, and I guess my dad, and about this bullshit Prophet who I used to believe could speak to God. I know, can you believe it? Unfortunately it’s all true.

  I was at the library when I saw that picture on the Register’s home page. “Oh my God, Roland,” I said. “That’s my mom.” He was too busy studying last month’s Vogue to hear me. “Roland, look.” I had to kick him to get his attention. “My mom.”

  “Who? What?” Then he looked up. “Oh my God. Your mom? Really? How’d she get on the home page?”

  “It says she killed my dad.”

  “She what?” He leaned into the screen for a closer look and his eyebrows shot up. “Oh honey, you told me it was bad out there, but you didn’t mention that awful braid.” He said something about my mom’s Little House on the Prairie dress, but I stopped listening. That picture—I can’t explain it. I couldn’t look away.

  “Jo-Jo.… Jordan? You all right?”

  “Where do you think they’re taking her?”

  “Well, let’s find out.” Roland scooted over and began googling. “What’s the name of the county out there in Utah?”

  “Lincoln. Why?”

  “Lincoln County … Utah … corrections …” He typed gently, as if protecting a manicure. “Uh-huh, this looks right.… OK, Jo-Jo, I think we’re going to find her. Give it a sec.” He clicked the mouse. “Yep, this is it: inmate inquiry. Her name?”

  “BeckyLyn, capital B, capital L, no space.”

  He pursed his lips, like he’d heard something tacky. “All righty, let’s see what we can find. Capital B”—click click click—“capital L. Scott, like the tissue. OK, just give it a second: there she is!”

  And there she was, not her picture, but her name on a list of inmates:

  He clicked her booking number and an hourglass turned on the screen. Then it came up: Inmate Information for BeckyLyn Scott. “Remember, Jordan, no one looks good in a mug shot. I’m speaking only from experience.”

  He was right. She was in a mustard jumpsuit, standing before a board that measured her height in inches (62) and centimeters (157). Her complexion was gray and cloudy. Her eyes pleaded from their sockets. “It’s her,” I said.

  “Let’s see her profile.” Roland clicked the screen. Her right profile showed the hard tendons in her throat, her left revealed an ear as small as a shell. But it was the first shot that did me. That’s how she looked the last time I saw her. Like she was in a trance.

  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” said Roland, “but I see a resemblance.”

  I hope you know what I’m talking about when I say every once in a while, not very often, I know exactly what I’m supposed to do with my life, even if I can’t explain why. The trick is to tune in for it, like scanning the radio for a favorite song.

/>   “I’m going to Utah,” I said.

  You should’ve seen Roland’s face: “You’re going to Utah? Now?”

  “She’s my mom.”

  “I thought you said you’d never go back there.”

  “I need to see her.”

  “After what she did to you?”

  Right before we looked at the Register’s home page, Roland had been checking out this diet website with a banner that kept flashing LATER IS NOW! So cheesy, I know, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. It was Sunday afternoon, I just got paid, I had a lame job installing a vanity on Monday I could get out of, and Elektra was always up for a road trip. “Later is now,” I said.

  “Oh please, later is later. Besides, I thought we were going to celebrate your birthday.”

  “Next year.”

  “Jo-Jo, what’s gotten into you?”

  “Look at her—her eyes, I mean. I need to see her. I’ll be gone a day, two max.”

  “Sweetie, before you get in that van of yours and drive all the way to Utah, can I remind you of two small but highly relevant facts? One—and I’m sorry to put it like this—your mom dumped you on the highway in the middle of the night when you were—what?—fourteen. Not a nice thing. And two, she just popped off your dad. Are you really sure a family reunion’s such a good idea?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going.” And then, “Want to come?”

  “Oh, no thanks, honey, I’m going to hell in my next life. I see no point in dropping in early.”

  Outside of Barstow I called the jail. Turns out there’s a twenty-four-hour rule, so I couldn’t see my mom until the next afternoon. I tried to talk the officer into a morning visit, but she cut me off: “It’s not going to happen, all right?” She went over the visiting rules, no interaction with other inmates, that sort of stuff, and how I couldn’t bring anything into the jail except my clothes. “That means no jewelry, earrings, or body rings of any kind. If you weren’t born with it, don’t bring it.”

  “What about my dog?”

  I don’t know why I said that but it’s a good thing I did, because by chance she was a dog person. She asked me what I had and I told her about Elektra. “Sounds like a beauty,” she said, then went on to describe her own pair of corgis. “If you have any questions, you can call me back, I’ll give you my direct. But I have to warn you: your mom has the right to refuse your visit and she doesn’t have to give a reason. If that happens, I’ll give you a ring.”

  I kept driving east on 15, looking at my phone to see if Officer Cunningham had called while I was out of signal. Somewhere past Vegas, Elektra became anxious, trembling and whimpering in my ear. I let her out to pee but that wasn’t it. She’s really good at picking up how I feel even before I know how I feel. She climbed into my lap and draped her head over my shoulder. I stroked her with one hand while steering with the other and I realized I was a little bit scared.

  When I reached the Utah Welcome Center there was a message on my phone. I feared it might be Officer Cunningham telling me my mom didn’t want to see me, but it was Roland checking in. “Honey, if it gets bad out there, promise me you’ll come home, all right?”

  The next day at the county jail I handed over my ID to Officer Cunningham. “Where’s Elektra?”

  Quick version of a long story: I met this goth girl at an internet café who agreed to watch her, and right about now she was probably eating cookies on a couch. I could tell the officer thought less of me for leaving my dog with a stranger, but it was 115 outside and around here you need to look hard for a scrap of shade.

  Officer Cunningham passed me through the metal detector, punched something into her terminal, frowned, punched something else. “OK, here’s the drill,” she said. “Your mom’s still on secure visits, which is never any fun. Go on through the door to the left, you’re in the cubicle at the end. Officer Kane will bring her out in a few.”

  The cubicles looked like a row of phone booths, the kind you sit in. A small stool with a round red plastic seat. A yellow phone receiver mounted to the left partition. The room was pretty crowded, several women waving pacifiers and squeaky toys in a vain effort to keep their babies from exploding into tears. Visits were limited to two people but babies under one didn’t count. It seemed everyone had brought as many infants as they could carry. A sign on the wall said, MOTHERS: KEEP YOUR CHILDREN UNDER CONTROL!

  As if.

  I waited on my stool, staring through the thick glass screen. In my reflection I saw the red patches in my cheeks. My eyes looked small and dark—they were my mom’s eyes, anyone could see that.

  After I was kicked out (they call it excommunicated, but whatever), I honestly thought I’d never see her again, and I have to say I didn’t really care. I was mad, starting with God, then the Prophet, but my mom was next up on the list. I’m still mad at him—God, I mean—because my mom tossed me on the highway at two A.M. in his name. Trust me: that can mess you up. Instead of bawling about it, I vowed never to think about any of them again. You have to remember I was fourteen. I’d never left Mesadale. I knew jack about the world. In my backpack I had a sweatshirt, some sacred underwear (don’t ask), and seventeen bucks. In my pockets: nada. In all fairness my mom took a risk slipping me the money, but it didn’t feel like much at the time. I was real lucky that trucker hauling bedding picked me up after about an hour. He could’ve wanted a blow job or something, but really all he wanted was to talk about his wife. She had recently died in a fire and he couldn’t keep the memories to himself. I rode with him to St. George. Together we watched the sunrise behind us in the sideviews. You ever see the sun come up over the Utah desert? Imagine the coals of hell burning in the clouds. “Man, check that out,” the driver said at one point. “It’s like God took a torch to the whole fucking sky.”

  On the other side of the glass, a corrections officer escorted my mom to the stool. Our eyes met, and it was like following your gaze in a mirror. Wherever I looked she looked. At the stool, at the wall clock, at the phone.

  She looked more or less the same—the tough jaw, the small snout of a nose—but they’d cut her hair into a dense ugly shrub. I’d never seen her with a haircut. She could tell I was staring at it because she touched it, as if she were wearing a wig about to slip off. What else can I tell you about her? She was fourteen when she married my dad, which means she’s now thirty-five. Her voice is small and girlish, kinda like mine. She has those same roses in her cheeks. What else? For the record, she’s my dad’s niece and his first cousin. Which makes me … oh, you figure it out.

  “Jordan? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “My goodness, look at you: you’re all grown up.”

  “I heard about Dad.”

  “It’s a tragedy.”

  “It sounds like a mess.”

  “I knew you’d come to see me. I’ve been praying for it.”

  I stopped, holding down a little rage. “Mom. Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Yes, Jordan. Yes, it is.” She was leaning in very close to the glass, her face done up in the pink and blue of irrational excitement.

  “Look, Mom, can you tell me what happened?”

  She sat back, the color wiped from her face. “I have no idea.”

  In the next cubicle a baby was gagging on sobs and tears. The baby’s mom or aunt or whoever kept saying it’s all right, everything’s going to be all right—which in this case was a total lie.

  “Was it how Sister Rita described it?”

  “Why, what’d she say?”

  As I recapped Rita’s statement, my mom’s eyes filled with tears. “It wasn’t like that,” she said. “That’s just not the way it was.”

  “Then what happened?”

  She hesitated, as if gathering up the memory. “You’ve never seen so much blood. I saw them take him out on the stretcher. That’s when I knew—” But a sob got the better of her, and she couldn’t finish. “Jordan, I know everything’s been hard
on you. Us saying good-bye like that. And now you seeing me like this. I never thought it would be like this. I always thought, well, I just thought—” Her voice cut off and she pressed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  When she calmed herself down she said, “Tell me what you’ve been doing all this time, where you’ve been, where you live. Are you married? Maybe you’re a father yourself? I want to know if your life’s at all like I imagined.”

  Call me crazy, but it seems to me if you throw out your only son because some con man Prophet told you to, well, it just seems to me you really don’t have a right to know what comes after. “It’s a long story,” I said. “I live in California and everything’s fine.”

  “Are you on your own?”

  I told her about Elektra, and that seemed to brighten her up. “But Mom, that’s not why I’m here. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “All I know is there was some sort of hearing this morning. It only lasted a few minutes. I told Mr. Heber—”

  “Who’s Mr. Heber?”

  “The lawyer they gave me. I told him I wanted to speak to the judge, but he said it wasn’t the right time, just tell him your name. They were talking about bail, the judge didn’t want to set any and Mr. Heber said that wasn’t fair and he won, but it doesn’t matter. Where am I going to come up with a million dollars? Then they brought me back here.”