The 19th Wife Page 3

  “At least you’re out of Mesadale.”

  She switched the receiver from her left ear to her right. “It was your birthday yesterday. I kept thinking of you all day. Isn’t it amazing how God works? I was thinking of you and you were thinking of me.”

  You know what, maybe Roland was right: I shouldn’t be here. Maybe later was later. Maybe later was never. If I left now, I could be back in Pasadena before midnight. He and I could meet for a late-night coffee and a doughnut at Winchell’s.

  “Remember how you used to love the birthday parties?” she went on. “I can picture you when you were just a little guy, waiting in line with a paper plate for a slice of cake. You were always such a good boy, Jordan, always so patient and good.”

  “To be perfectly honest, those are some of the worst memories of my life.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Those parties were for the Prophet.”

  “I know, but that’s what made it so much fun.”

  “Fun? Mom, they made us celebrate our birthdays on his. You realize how screwed up that is?”

  “I don’t know, I think it’s nice, everyone celebrating together like that.”

  I caught myself. “OK, Mom, let’s not do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Go over the past.”

  She paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Look, Mom, before I go, is there anything I can get you?”

  “You’re going?”

  “It’s a long drive home.”

  “Jordan, you can’t go now. I need your help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I need you to talk to Mr. Heber.”

  “About what?”

  “About when I can get out of here.”

  “You should probably do that yourself.”

  “I did. And he said he couldn’t say, which is unacceptable as far as I’m concerned.”

  You know how when you’re away from your mom you miss her, and the minute you see her she starts driving you crazy? Multiply that feeling by a million.

  “Mom, let me ask you this: why now?”

  “Why now what?”

  “I mean after all this time? Something must’ve happened. You always seemed so sure of everything. When you said good-bye to me that night, you told me you had to do whatever God said.”

  “That’s right. Of course I didn’t want to leave you like that, I told you that. But I knew it was God testing me. That’s what the Prophet said: BeckyLyn, this is your test, your test from God. It’s not that I didn’t love you, it’s just what God wanted for you, and for me. I thought you’d understand that.”

  “You know what I understand: it’s all bullshit. Everything about that place, starting with God, then the Prophet, then Dad. So when I read what happened with Dad, what you did, I was like thank God, she’s finally woken up.”

  “What I did? Wait a minute … Do you honestly think—do you really believe I killed your father? Oh Jordan, no. No no no no no. How could you believe such a thing?”

  “How could I believe such a thing? Mom, you’re in jail.”

  “I can understand the authorities getting it wrong, but you?”

  “Sister Rita spelled it out pretty clearly.”

  “Sister Rita?” She balled up her fist. “Just so you know: I did not kill your father. He was my husband. I was his wife. Why in heaven’s name would I kill him?”

  I could think of a million reasons. To tell the truth, it hadn’t crossed my mind that she was innocent.

  “On the Prophet’s life, I did not kill your father.”

  It’s a little weird to admit but I was disappointed by her denial.

  And I didn’t believe her, not for a second. “Then who did?”

  “I don’t know. One of the wives. But it wasn’t me.”

  “What’d your lawyer say?”

  “I don’t think he believes me. He said he had to review a lot of evidence before he could come up with a strategy. I told him, I didn’t do it, that’s your strategy. I keep telling myself this isn’t happening.” She said that again: “This isn’t happening.” She dropped her forehead into her hand to bolster herself, then looked up. “Oh Jordan, isn’t it wonderful, you being here, coming here like this.”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s a miracle.”

  “Mom.”

  “I prayed to our Heavenly Father to bring you to me and he did.”

  Here we go again. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “Jordan, don’t you see? There was a reason he made me send you away. So you could come back to help me when I needed you. We couldn’t know it at the time, but now I understand. Look: there you were in California leading I’m sure a real busy life, and you happen to read about me on the, on the, is it the web or is it the net, because I’ve heard people call it both?”

  “The web. The net. It doesn’t matter.”

  “OK, the web. And something told you to come help me. Don’t you see: if you were still in Mesadale you wouldn’t be able to help me. It was God’s plan all along. If that isn’t proof, then I don’t know what is.”

  “I’m not even going to respond to that.”

  “Then tell me: why were you looking up the local paper on that day of all days?”

  “I don’t know, every once in a while I read it online, just to see what’s going on out here, but every time I do I get depressed.”

  “See!” She pressed her fingers against the glass, the tips going flat and white. “God told you to read the web yesterday. If it hadn’t been for God—”

  “Jesus, Mom, cut the God crap. That’s not why I was online, I spend like half my life online. When are you going to be free of all of this shit?”

  “Jordan, don’t speak to me like that.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry, I just don’t believe any of that.” My throat was clamping up. “Not anymore.” I set down the receiver and wiped my eyes. Goddammit, I wasn’t supposed to crack up. That night, years ago, when the trucker dropped me off, I promised myself I would never cry again over any of it. And I didn’t, not once, until now. Now my eyes were wet and there weren’t any tissues in here, there wasn’t anything in this place, just a red plastic stool and a yellow plastic phone and a wall of glass and a dozen crying babies. Fuck me.

  “I should be going.”

  “Jordan, no. I need your help.”

  I took a second to think about what that might mean. “I’ll see if I can make an appointment with your lawyer.” Then I hung up. Through the glass I saw her mouth, One more thing. I picked up the receiver. “Yeah?”

  “I’m very sorry for doing that. I didn’t have a choice. I only hope you can understand that now.”

  “You don’t need to say anything else.”

  “You need to know it’s the only reason I would’ve done that to you.”

  “Mom, look, fine. It was a long time ago.”

  “I like to think you could hear my prayers. I guess you don’t like talking about things like that anymore, but it’s true. The only way I could sleep at night was knowing you could hear me pray for you.” Her mouth darkened and puckered and she set down the receiver to cry. The officer behind her offered a packet of tissues. I could see my mom say thanks and Officer Kane say no problem, you take your time. She was on the heavy side, her uniform tight on her thighs, and was about as threatening as the senior citizen who greets you at Wal-Mart.

  My mom picked up the phone again. “You’ll help me, right? I know you’ll help me.”

  I told her I’d see what I could do. She nodded. Then we hung up. For a while I didn’t move and she didn’t move, except for her hands, they trembled on the counter. Then they settled down, lying there small and white behind the glass, like a tiny pair of unclaimed gloves.

  THE 19TH WIFE

  AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY

  MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

  When I first heard of the enslaved state of the women of Utah, I, like many Americans, questioned the v
eracity of these tales. Surely the profane stories, the recollections of abuse and neglect, and the rage of the apostates speaking out against their Church and its leaders were exaggerations; or at least aberrations from the norm. In my years, I have met and corresponded with several members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or Mormons—for many have stood forthright and firm in their opposition to slavery. My Mormon friends have impressed me as straightforward and sincere, rational and informed, a people who value education and industry as much as religious duty. Their greatest passion, it seemed, was their desire to pursue their religion in liberty. In my mind, the tales of conjugal debasement could not be reconciled with the Saints I knew, both by face and in the letter. The enmity the Mormons have engendered among so many, it seemed to me, came from a general ignorance of their customs, and a public fear of their private rites. I, for one, have long felt that we, as Americans, should let the Mormons practice their faith in peace.

  Yet for some time now the stories have continued to blow forth from that desert region, like the livid Sirocco, from one plural wife after the next, and many gentlemen too, each reinforcing a prevailing impression of marital bondage for so many women of Deseret. Was it possible these stories were true?

  I first encountered Mrs. Brigham Young in February of this year, 1874, when she lectured at Boston’s Tremont Temple. Her simple presentation, and her natural appeal, convinced me that she had little to gain, and much to suffer, by speaking of polygamy so frankly. It became clear that she would have much preferred a private life with her sons to the one she was leading as crusader, informer, and, now with this volume, author. Her life as a daughter of polygamy, and a wife of polygamy, had exposed her to many variations of this cruel institution, and she felt compelled to reveal it for what it was. It was also clear to me that she had no choice in the matter. Her opposition to polygamy had become her new faith, its abolition her salvation.

  By the conclusion of our first meeting, and now upon reading her memoirs, I have become convinced that polygamy must meet the same final defeat slavery met a decade ago. Both are relics of Barbarism. We were right to conquer slavery first, but now with its eradication, we must set our sights on its twin. Many people call this the Mormon Question, just as, for many years, slavery was called the Southern Question. In fact it is a question concerning all of us, as a nation and a people. Our response to the moral and spiritual enslavement of Utah’s women and children will define us in the years to come. Should you possess any doubts about the true debasement of the plural wife, or her child, I recommend the story that follows herein.

  —Hartford, September 1874

  THE CHURCH, YOUR DAD, THE HOUSE, HIS WIVES

  I found Mr. Heber’s name on a door between a dermatologist and a podiatrist. Inside I met a blue blur bustling around watering the ferns. “You must be Jordan. I’m Maureen. Mr. Heber’s a little backlogged this afternoon—you have no idea what our afternoons are like when he’s been in court—but I know he’s really glad you called.” Then she stopped. “Wait a minute! Who. Is. This?”

  “Elektra. I hope you don’t mind. It’s too hot to leave her in the van.”

  “Of course it is!” She squatted with the agility of a gymnast to kiss Elektra on the snout.

  My first impression of Maureen was Mormon Grandma. This was not an especially fond thought. It’s not that I actively dislike Mormons, it’s just that they actively dislike me. Maureen was tall and sturdy, definitely some pioneer stock in her big-boneness. She wore her hair up in an airy mass of curls, the effect of a once-a-week beauty parlor visit. Her outfit was all royal blue, slacks, matching blouse, and a cape of a sweater buttoned at the throat.

  “Mr. Heber shouldn’t be long, he’s just finishing a call, I’ll let you know the minute he gets off.” She hurried back to her desk while I flipped through a copy of Ensign. It took about a second to find the article on, and I’m quoting here, defeating same-gender attraction. Eye roll, please. I swapped the magazine for Us Weekly. While I read about Hollywood bumps, Maureen typed up five letters, took seven messages, and worked her way to the bottom of a to-file basket. “Oh me,” she said a bit wearily. Then a light on the phone console went out and she started back up again. “Ooops, he’s off. Come on, let’s get in there before he gets back on.”

  As she led me down a corridor, I said her hair looked nice. “Thank you! Just got it set this morning.” From her smile I could tell it’d been a while since anyone had paid her a compliment. Roland says every woman needs a gay guy in her life: “Honey, we’re the only ones who bother to notice a perm.”

  At the end of the hall Maureen hipped open an office door. “Here we are.”

  I know it’s not fair, but my first impression of Mr. Heber was Mormon Asshole. His first impression of me probably was Beyond Redemption, so we were even. He was about seventy-five, a drift of snowy hair, and watery, untrustable eyes. On the wall several pictures showed him teeing off on golf courses around the world.

  “Jordan Scott, it’s a pleasure. I can’t tell you how pleased I was when you called. Surprised, yes, but pleased even so.” I apologized for bringing Elektra into his office. “Too hot to leave her in the car. Believe me, I understand. My wife won’t leave our Yorkie in the wagon for five minutes. Now, Jordan, first I want to tell you how sorry I am about your mom. And your dad. And all of this. If there’s ever anything I can do—for you, I mean—I hope you’ll let me know.” I’m going to spare you my mental commentary that was sidebarring this conversation, but you can probably guess I was liking this guy less and less.

  “Can you tell me what’s going to happen to my mom?” I said.

  “My goodness, straight to business, a man after my own heart. All righty, have a seat. Now I understand you were just out at the jail. Tell me, how’d you find her?”

  “Pretty upset. And confused. She doesn’t seem to understand what’s going on.”

  “I’m doing my best to figure that out myself.”

  “Did the paper get the story right?”

  “As far as I can tell. Here, look at this, it just came in.” He waved a file folder. “It’s the ballistics report. Her latent prints showed up on the Big Boy. They found others, but they found a lot of hers.”

  “In other words, she’s in deep shit.”

  “Your words, not mine. But yes.” He came around from behind the desk to sit on the corner near me. “It’s pretty screwed up out there in Mesadale, isn’t it?”

  “Look, Mr. Heber, I don’t really feel like going into all that. Just tell me what’s going to happen to her. And you don’t need to sugarcoat it. She and I—we’re not very close.”

  “I got that impression. I understand you left a while back. A lost boy, is that right?”

  I hate that name, but that’s what they call us, the boys the Prophet kicks out. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “I’m sure these past few years haven’t been easy.”

  “Yeah, they pretty much sucked, but you know what, things are fine now.”

  “Do you mind telling me what happened? When you were excommunicated?”

  “I don’t really know what that has to do with my mom being in jail.”

  “I understand if it’s hard to talk about.”

  “It’s not hard, it’s just it doesn’t seem relevant to why I’m here.”

  Mr. Heber squeezed my knee. “Jordan, we’re on the same team here, OK? We’re going to have to trust each other. Eventually this will come up. A prosecutor’s going to ask, if your mom could leave you like that, when you were just a boy, then perhaps she’s also capable of killing your dad.”

  “It’s a lot more complicated than that.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  And that’s how Mr. Heber got me to tell him the story of my mom dragging me out of bed and driving me down the highway and telling me to get out. “The Prophet made her do it.”

  “Your dad didn’t try to stop her?”

  “My dad. He was probably in the ba
sement getting high.”

  “What prompted this?”

  “It was pretty lame.” I couldn’t believe I was telling Heber all this—I almost never talk about it—but there I went. “I was holding hands with one of my stepsisters, this girl named Queenie. That wasn’t her real name, but that’s what I called her. We weren’t doing anything, but out there boys and girls aren’t supposed to hang out like that. We were just talking one day and I don’t know why, I just took her hand. My dad saw us and he reported it to the Prophet. And that was it. I mean it’s true, yeah, my mom left me there and everything, but in Mesadale they tell you all this stuff, like you’ll go to hell if you don’t do what the Prophet wants. And they believe it, she believes it. Fuck—excuse me—frick, I used to believe it. So one night, boom, she dumps me on the road, fast-forward six years, and here I am.”

  Mr. Heber and Maureen were silent. It’s hard to know what to say after you hear a story like that. Then they figured it out. They both said how sorry they were. That’s what people always say, Gee, I’m awfully sorry. I hate that. Look at Heber and Maureen: their eyes were full of the one thing I didn’t want. How did this turn into a pity party?

  “Just your regular run-of-the-mill polygamist boo-hoo tragedy,” I said. Most people assume I was kicked out because I was gay. But I was fourteen, a late bloomer. I didn’t know what gay was. Roland likes to read the columns in the women’s magazines. He says I was holding Queenie’s hand for reverse psychology reasons. I don’t think so. I took her hand because she was my friend and I felt alone.

  “Listen, the only reason I’m here is to find out what’s going to happen to my mom. She’s on her own and she needs someone to explain to her the truth. So go ahead and tell me what she’s looking at. It’s life, isn’t it? Maybe a little less with parole?”