Heller (36 page)

“Our husband
tells me that I don’t understand religious matters and I need
further instruction. I may even have to have more instruction
tonight.” She shook her head sadly, her voice catching in a sob.
“Why am I so stupid that I can’t understand what he says? I
hate
further instruction with him!”

“Hush!”
admonished Mary nervously. “Our husband may hear! He is only in the
next room. You must be a good woman and listen to him carefully. He
is very wise in such matters and only wishes for you to be a
righteous and obedient wife.”

“I
am
obedient! I do
everything
he tells me to. Even when to me it
seems unpleasant and . . . very sinful.”

Mary clapped
her hands and enthused, “But that’s wonderful, Sarah! You are
starting to understand the sinful nature of relations. And our
husband is showing you the way by making you experience very sinful
relations. That helps you to understand.”

Sarah nodded,
but still was unconvinced. “Perhaps if I stop struggling so much,
he may think of me as being more obedient.”

“Possibly,”
chimed in Elizabeth. “But remember that our husband maintains that
it is virtuous for a woman to struggle against relations, and that
her ultimate submission is very pleasing to God as a sign of her
obedience to her husband. Our husband is always particularly
pleased when there is a struggle at the beginning of
relations.”

They all
contemplated this and agreed that it was true. I was sickened
listening to them. I went to my bag and pulled out the boots I’d
borrowed off Niq, pulling them on slowly. Should I do anything? Say
anything? They were all adults and presumably all the women had
been willing to join the polygamous family knowing what it
entailed. Who was I to judge the way they lived? I always tried not
to judge other people. None of them looked unhappy in their life.
They were fed, housed and clothed and maybe they were truly
contented. I had no way of really knowing. I pushed these thoughts
out of my brain and decided to just concentrate on the job at hand.
Ultimately, their personal affairs were none of my business.

There was a
knock on the door, and Pastor Peachey stepped into the room
carrying a very large and old Bible.

“Evening
prayer time, wives,” he announced, scrutinising me in my wifely
outfit. Again that strange look that I didn’t care for passed
across his face. The women fussed around arranging chairs in a
circle. There weren’t enough to go around and a couple of the wives
subjected themselves to sitting on the floor, next to his chair. I
sat apart on one of the beds, arms crossed, watching them in a
detached way. I wasn’t going to pretend to be religious for their
sakes, and it would be nothing but hypocritical for me to join in
their prayer group.

Of course
Pastor Peachey led the prayers, which consisted of an extremely
lengthy reading from the Bible. That was followed by an even
lengthier sermon on the sinful nature of relations, which appeared
to be a favourite topic of his. I noticed Sarah straining to listen
to every word and nuance, her lips moving as she tried to memorise
what he was saying.

Afterwards, he
questioned them all closely on what they had just heard. Poor
little Sarah received the bulk of his admonishments, despite the
fact that Hannah clearly had no clue about anything at all, not
giving a single correct answer to any of his questions. In fact, I
could have offered smarter and more cogent answers than she did and
I wasn’t even listening properly. It looked as though Sarah was up
for further instruction from her husband again that night and she
didn’t look thrilled by the prospect.

The women and
I dined very simply that evening on peanut butter sandwiches made
with oily home-brand peanut butter on cheap white bread, potato
chips, horrible tasteless apples and tap water. I noticed that the
Pastor went back to his room to eat, not partaking of our ‘feast’.
I suspected he was going to order room service for himself,
probably a juicy steak and sides, leaving his wives to eat like
preschoolers. I heartily loathed him more and more every
minute.

I discovered
that ‘doing the Lord’s work and serving their husband’ meant hours
of embroidery for the women each day. They turned plain pieces of
linen and cotton into beautiful works of art on tablecloths,
napkins, place mats, pillowcases and any other piece of
haberdashery on which they could embroider. After we finished our
humble dinner, they unpacked their embroidery equipment and busily
started sewing. Their skill was breathtaking. Mary was particularly
talented, dipping her needle in and out of the material faster than
I could see. She was creating an exquisitely stunning floral border
to a tablecloth, a riot of flowers in gorgeous colours bursting
through a creeping emerald vine of leaves. It was simply
spectacular. Being completely useless at arts and crafts myself, I
couldn’t praise them enough and insisted that they show me every
piece they were each currently working on. They blushed at my
effusive acclaim, but smiled into their laps, quietly pleased with
themselves.

Mary explained
that they sold their work at local markets, and with a modest pride
stated that their work was much in demand, which I could readily
believe given the quality of the workmanship. The money earned by
their embroidery constituted the family’s main income, the Pastor
contributing only an insignificant amount through his writings and
lectures. Martha, the ‘head wife’ and Mary were allowed by the
Pastor to take on some small personal side jobs. They might
embroider a skirt, a blouse or a wedding dress for someone, for
example, keeping any profits they made for themselves to buy little
treats. This was how Mary was able to afford to make her special
dress that I now had the pleasure of wearing. I gathered that
treats were rare in the life of the Peachey wives, and that Martha
and Mary were given this liberty by the Pastor as an honour for
their senior wifely roles.

Rebecca piped
up to tell me that both women were very kind and thoughtful though
and often bought little treats for the other four wives or their
multitude of children with their precious money. Mary gave her a
small, self-effacing smile and she smiled back fondly. I was
surprised by how much affection there was between the wives. I
guess if I’d given polygamy a second’s thought before I met the
Peachey family, I would have imagined a lot of bitchiness and
one-upmanship taking place, but these wives were supportive of each
other and generally harmonious in their relationship. They
genuinely appeared to love each other.

Eventually
poor Sarah received the summons to go to the Pastor’s room for the
night. She packed her meagre things hurriedly. I was told that the
Pastor didn’t like to be kept waiting.

“Where’s the
conjugal nightgown?” she asked in a panic. There was a flurry in
the room as the wives frantically searched for it. I would have
helpfully joined in the search, but I had no idea what they were
talking about. Finally Elizabeth waved it over her head. It had
accidently fallen down the back of one of the beds.

“What is it?”
I asked her curiously.

“It’s the
conjugal nightgown that we must wear when we share our husband’s
bed for the night,” Elizabeth said, holding it up for me to see. It
was a thin, filmy floor-length nightgown that left little to the
imagination, being completely see-through. It was incredibly
revealing.

“You wear
that? Just that?” I asked incredulously.

“We all do.
Whoever shares our husband’s bed for the night must wear it. It is
his wish,” said Mary.

“It’s not very
modest, is it?”

“Our husband
says that it reveals a woman for the sinful creature that she is.
And that is his wish,” she repeated.

I rolled my
eyes in disbelief and watched as Sarah scurried to go next door. I
stripped out of my horrid dress and unplaited my hair, waiting
patiently for my turn in the shower. I checked my phone while I
waited. A missed call from Heller. I rang him back.

“Having fun,
my sweet?”

“An absolute
ball.” And I couldn’t have forced one more drop of sarcasm into
that response if I’d used a shoehorn.

“Any trouble
so far?”

“No. We’ve had
a very quiet day.”

“You’re not
tempted to join the family?”

“No fucking
way!” Heads turned in my direction in alarm at the profanity. I
mouthed ‘sorry’ to them.

He chuckled.
“You sound very sure about that.”

“I am.”

“But remember
what I said about minding your language, please.”

“Yeah, yeah.
Look, I gotta run. It’s my turn in the bathroom.”

“Sweet dreams,
Matilda.”

I hung up, had
a quick and cold shower, all the hot water used up already. I
changed into my singlet top and boxer short pyjama set and retired
at the extraordinarily late hour for them of nine o’clock.

I had a very
uncomfortable sleep that night. The lounge was full of lumps and
springs and I couldn’t find a restful position. One of the women
snored loudly, the air-conditioner was making a strange pinging
noise and the tap was dripping in the bathroom and no amount of
turning the faucet could make it stop. It was just one of those
nights you have to endure and I spent it trying to deduce why
Heller used a fake name. Witness protection? Former spy who’d been
burned? Assassin who hit the wrong target? Con man on the lam?
Father avoiding child support? Bankrupt who needed a fresh start?
Bigamist whose wives were on to him? When you started pondering, it
was easy to think of loads of reasons why someone might need a fake
name. None of them were particularly appealing though, and I
wondered what his story was. Maybe I’d find out one day. Then
again, maybe I wouldn’t. Daniel didn’t know and he’d lived with
Heller for years.

I was glad
when dawn came. The women rose very early and we breakfasted on
more peanut butter sandwiches, accompanied this time by a cup of
tea each from the hotel room’s complimentary stock, making five
cups of tea from only four teabags. Sarah returned from the
Pastor’s room and immediately headed into the shower, eyes
downcast. No sooner had she come out then the Pastor arrived for
morning prayers. The women had all dressed as soon as they rose,
but I sat in my pyjamas still, slowly brushing my hair in front of
the mirror while he led the women in another lengthy prayer
session. His eyes kept crossing to me in the mirror the entire time
he was in the room, that odd, unsettling expression on his face
again.

That day the
Pastor singled out Hannah for correction and requested that she
attend his room for further instruction at eleven. Sarah appeared
mightily relieved and Hannah’s face held a mix of proud
apprehension. The day passed slowly. The women read their Bibles,
discussed the Bible, discussed their husband’s sermons or did more
stitch work, conversing in low voices. I was bored out of my brain.
Battling overpowering ennui, I picked up the nearest Bible and
flipped through its pages, noting that all the passages relating to
fornication, begetting and wanton women had been underlined. I
gently placed the book back down where I found it.

Just before
Hannah was due to attend for further instruction, I rang the Pastor
in his room. “Would you mind if I escorted your wives to the park
across the road for some exercise? A walk would be very beneficial
for us all.” I thought quickly. “And very godly, as I’m sure you’d
agree.”

He wasn’t
pleased, but knowing that he would be occupied with Hannah for some
time he reluctantly agreed, with the strict proviso that we could
roam no further than the park. I didn’t care – it was a big park
and we could manage a decent walk within its boundaries. The women
were overjoyed when I told them, all except poor Hannah who had to
make her farewells to join her husband.

“Sorry
Hannah,” I consoled, patting her arm sympathetically.

There was no
chance of me wearing the ugly dress in public, so I slipped on a
pair of jeans and chose between a couple of t-shirts that were the
only other clothes I had bought to wear besides my original suit. I
escorted the women down in the lift and we had an enjoyable stroll
around the park, soaking up the sunshine and fresh air. They were
enchanted with the flora and the small amount of fauna we saw,
educating me in return on the different types of plants and animals
native to their part of the world. As we ambled through the park,
two
Heller’s
men in their distinctive uniform approached
from the opposite direction, probably heading out to lunch from
their assignment.

“Hey!” they
hailed me and we slapped hands in the traditional high-five
Heller’s
greeting.

“On a job?”
one queried, looking curiously at my charges.

“Yep. I’m
mother hen today, taking the chicks for a walk.” They smiled.

“Lovely day
for it.”

“Sure is.
Anyway, gotta get these lovelies back to the coop. Have a good one,
guys.”

We slapped
hands again and went our separate ways, the whole mundane exchange
leaving me with a warm glow of happiness. They had been friendly
and treated me like just another colleague, so maybe not all the
men thought I was sleeping with the Boss. Or if they did think
that, it didn’t bother them enough to feel that I was getting any
special treatment. It struck me then just how badly I wanted to be
considered part of the
Heller’s
team.

I ushered the
women back to the hotel. They didn’t seem to notice the nosy looks
their appearance elicited, or just didn’t care. It was hard to
tell. Safely returned to their room, they chatted excitedly about
their outing to Hannah who arrived back not long after we had. She
struggled bravely to be happy for the others’ opportunity to
stretch their legs, but bitter disappointment was stamped on her
face.