The 19th Wife (25 page)

The women started cheering, and crying too, and dogs were barking and babies howling. The bodyguard made a sweep around the suburban again. When he was gone, I climbed out of the well. I moved slowly down the drive to the street and then away from the house. With all the other people around, I was just another kid carrying his Book of Mormon. I looked over my shoulder once. The fire was smoldering, the smoke dying. The men were hauling their equipment to their truck, the women and children were returning to the house, and the Prophet was nowhere to be found.

T
HE
C
HURCH OF
J
ESUS
C
HRIST OF
L
ATTER-DAY
S
AINTS

Church Archives

September
12, 2005

Prophet and President Gordon Hinckley

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

50 East North Temple

Salt Lake City, UT 84111

Dear President Hinckley,

I want to introduce you to a promising young scholar from BYU named Kelly Dee.

Kelly is working on her master’s thesis, a project I know will enhance our understanding of Church history. She is honest, hardworking, and devout. Yet despite these qualities, she has run into various roadblocks gaining access to certain documents in our Archives. Why? Because her subject is Ann Eliza Young, Brigham’s infamous 19th wife. In the late 1930s an LDS scholar named Charles Green tried to write an authoritative account of Ann Eliza but was thwarted by the Church at nearly every turn. I sincerely hope Kelly does not meet the same fate.

I am writing to you personally because I believe in the importance of her scholarship. Although Ann Eliza Young is no hero of mine, and there is no doubt her faulty memoir has caused considerable harm to the Latter-day Saints in general, and Brigham’s reputation in particular, nonetheless honest inquiry and critical scholarship should always be encouraged and valued. It’s central to everything we do, as members and as God’s children.

I hope you will encourage your colleagues throughout the Church to further assist Kelly with her scholarly requests. Her search for the truth can only benefit us, today and always.

Sincerely Yours,

DEB SAVIDHOFFER

Church Archivist

CONFIDENCE, MAN

I knocked on the post office delivery door. I knocked again. “Sister Karen, it’s me.”

Maureen and Johnny were playing a hand of Texas hold em. Elektra was curled up on an empty mail bag. They looked surprised to see me, like they hadn’t expected me to ever return.

“What?” I said.

“A fire?” said Maureen. “Honestly.”

“They put it out.”

“How big was it?” said Johnny.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Maureen. “We need to get going.” She stood up, swatting the dust from her ass. The back room was filled with bins of WIC checks—I could see the marbled pink paper through the envelopes’ windows. It was always a big day in Mesadale when the WIC checks arrived.

Sister Karen asked if everything was all right up at the house. I told her the Prophet had come by and what he had said to the sister wives. She frowned. “He’s not going to marry all of them.”

“That’s what he said.”

“I know, but he’s going to cherry-pick, so to speak. He’ll take the pretty ones, the young girls, and he’ll farm out the rest. It makes me sick.”

“Boys,” said Maureen, “I need to get on the road.”

“What the Prophet doesn’t seem to understand,” said Sister Karen, “is the wives talk. And they’ve been talking a whole lot lately.”

“Boys.”

“Wait a minute, Maureen.” To Sister Karen: “Talking about what?”

“Ever since your dad was killed, they’ve been splitting off into rival packs. Sister Rita’s leading some of them, and a lot of the other women are following Sister Kimberly. I can guarantee you the Prophet’s not going to marry Sister Rita. So she’s got to have all these women on her side. If she forms a group of ten or twelve, that’s ten or twelve welfare checks, and it’s hard to ignore that. But there’s no doubt the Prophet wants to marry Sister Kimberly, so a lot of the other wives are aligning themselves with her.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Maureen. “This is just crazy.”

“No crazier than some of the stuff you believe.”

Maureen flinched, like someone had touched her inappropriately.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That didn’t come out right.”

“Dude, your mouth and foot have to stop meeting like that.”

Maureen threw her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’m going out to the car. Don’t be long, I need to get home.”

“Johnny, would you go after her? Tell her I’ll be there in a sec. And stay down low in the car.” He left, and I was feeling awfully alone on this mission. But I wasn’t finished. I asked Sister Karen what she thought would happen at the house tomorrow.

“Oh, he’ll definitely marry some of them, but the question is what will happen to the others. Already one’s disappeared.”

“Who?”

“Sister Sherry. You probably don’t know her. She was recently reassigned to your dad. She was married to Brother Eric, but he was excommunicated for challenging the Prophet on some matters. He had four wives; the Prophet took the youngest and split up the others. That’s how Sherry landed with your dad. But she’s been missing for a few days now.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“I don’t know. She could’ve run off, but I don’t know.” She looked at me, deciding something. “I shouldn’t be doing this.” She opened a drawer, lifted out an organizing tray, and held it above her head. An envelope was taped to the bottom of the tray. “After Brother Eric was excommunicated, Sister Sherry came in here and gave me this. She said if anything ever happened to her, I should contact this address.” She removed the envelope from the bottom of the tray and opened it. On a piece of paper was an address in Denver. No name, no phone, just 43 Atwood Street, Denver.

“You think Sherry went there?”

“She might have. I don’t know, Jordan, but I just have a feeling she might know something about what’s going on. Why don’t I write her address down for you.”

“Never mind, I got it memorized. I should be going.”

Sister Karen stuck her head out the delivery door to scan for trouble. “It’s clear.” Elektra and I ran to the car and lay down on the backseat. I told Maureen to drive out the way we came. “Just play it cool.” Johnny wanted to chat but I told him to shut up until we were on the highway. Maureen drove down the red dirt road and I could see the dust rise behind us. The car shook and rocks shot up and clinked against the underside of the car.

When we got to the highway, the car stilled and the only sound was the lull of the wheels turning against the pavement. “Do you see any cars?” I said.

“No one.”

“Ahead or behind you?”

“No one.”

“Johnny, it’s OK.” And we both sat up.

“Man, that was awesome.”

I changed out of Mr. Heber’s clothes. “I’ll get these cleaned,” I said.

“I’ll take care of it.” We argued over that, but Maureen said, “Jordan, it’s fine.”

I told them about what Sister Karen had said, about Sister Sherry disappearing to Denver.

“Denver,” said Johnny. “I was there a few months ago. Not bad.”

“She thinks this wife might know something.”

“Why would she think that?” said Johnny.

“That’s just it: she doesn’t think that. She wants me to drive all the way to Denver to talk to someone who isn’t there.”

“Dude, what’re you talking about?”

“We can’t trust her.”

“Sister Karen? But she just helped us like big-time.”

“I know, but she wants us out of town. Something’s about to happen and she doesn’t want me anywhere near Mesadale when it does.”

“You’re sounding paranoid.”

“I don’t care.”

“Dude, have you been watching
24
?”

It was late afternoon and the sun was hitting the car at a low angle. Everything ahead of us was yellow and gold. Sometimes when you’re driving down a back road in Utah, you think if there is a God, then he probably had something to do with all of this. It’s just that fucking beautiful.

“Maureen,” I said, “who’s that?”

“Who?”

I pointed at the souvenir hanging from her rearview mirror. On one side it said
ZION
, 2006, and on the other was a picture of two young women standing in front of the famous lone tree, the pine bending atop a mesa of stacked red sandstone. I’m sure you’ve seen it. One of the most famous trees in the world.

“That’s my granddaughter, Jess, and her best friend.”

“They look nice,” said Johnny. “How old are they?”

“Twenty-three?”

“They married?” said Johnny.

“Oh no, they’re up in grad school. They take their educations very seriously.” I asked what they were studying. “Jess is getting her master’s in nutrition,” she said. “And Kelly—Kelly, she’s studying history, I think it is.”

“History?”

“Snooze,” said Johnny.

“So what’d you find up at the house?” said Maureen.

“My dad’s fuck chart.”

“His what?”

“Oh, my God,” said Johnny. “You found his fuck chart? Let me see.” He grabbed it and started flipping through it. “Yup, that’s what this is.”

“Jordan,” said Maureen, “what is that?”

“I guess the more polite term is a marriage management notebook. He used it to keep track of the time he spent with each wife, when he ate with whom, how much time he spent talking with each, that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, and who he fucked and when.”

“Johnny.”

“Dude, am I telling the truth or what?”

He was. That’s why all the boys called them fuck charts. Almost every man kept one and there was nothing the boys of Mesadale liked to do more than find one and read it. On my dad’s chart there were a lot of indecipherable notations, letters and numbers and squiggly marks.

“That’s code, dude. Code for what the women like under the sheets. You can’t expect a man to remember all that.”

“Oh please,” I said. “As if he cared.”

“I’m telling you. My dad had one just like this, and we cracked the code.”

“Jordan,” said Maureen, “you realize it’s stolen. We can’t use stolen evidence.”

“I know,” I said. But actually I didn’t know that. “Even if there’s some important information in it?”

“It gets automatically thrown out.”

“No exceptions? Because this has something really useful.”

“No exceptions.”

Well, that sucked, because on the last page my dad had made a note that on the night he was killed he spent an hour alone with Sister Rita in her room.

Maureen dropped us in the parking lot of A Woman Sconed. When I said good-bye, she simply held up her hand. I guess she was still hurt by that stupid thing I said about her faith back in the post office. That’s the thing about religion: people believe what they believe. Never mind if it makes no sense to you. They say the best thing to do is not talk about it. But that’s pretty hard around here. That’s pretty hard when everyone’s always talking about it—especially when they exclude you.

It was Friday evening, and by Monday morning I needed to be back in Pasadena. I didn’t know when I’d see Maureen next. I tried to thank her for all her help, but she stopped me. “I’ll tell Mr. Heber you’ll be in touch with him about the notebook.” She pulled out, the stuffed penguins swaying as she turned out of the lot.

“You really messed that up,” said Johnny.

“Would you shut up for once?”

He climbed into the van. “Don’t blame this one on me.”

I sat on my rear bumper and called Roland. I listened to his line ring and ring. Voice mail. “Yeah, hey, it’s me. Things have been a little intense lately. Anyway, I’ll be home soon, maybe even tomorrow. Anyway, if you get—” But I lost the signal and left the rest of my message on a dead line.

I left Elektra with the goth girl, and Johnny and I drove over to the swimming pool. We both needed a bath, and I needed to think about where I was. After jumping in the water, Johnny sidled up to two teenage girls catching the last rays of sun on a patch of grass. “You let me know if you ladies need some help applying that suntan lotion, all right?”

“Fuck off.”

“Asshole.”

“Nice to meet you too, ladies.”

“Loser.” The girl who said this was lying on her back in a strawberry bikini. Her downy thighs glistened in oil. It was apparent why Johnny wasn’t ready to give up.

“Let me start over. I’m Johnny, and despite my first impression, I’m actually a nice guy.”

It was enough to get the second girl to smile. She set down her paperback mystery and said, “I’m Jen. And this is Laura.”

Johnny seized the opening: he sat on a tiny corner of Jen’s towel. Fifteen minutes later, he was sharing half of it. They were laughing, and once Johnny pointed in my direction and the girls looked over at me with profound curiosity. The wind had shifted and their voices were no longer clear, but I caught a few scraps of conversation, including, “He’s pretty OK.” And then, “But I love his dog.”

And so that’s where I was: sitting on the lip of a public pool, my legs hanging in the water. My mom was still in jail, Maureen was pissed, Johnny was ignoring me, Elektra was off getting a sugar high, and who knows what Roland was up to. And my dad was still dead. It was Friday evening. If I was going to make that nursery job on Monday, I needed to wrap things up.

“Yo, Jordan! Get over here!”

Johnny introduced me to the girls as “the dude I was telling you about.” And then, his voice dropping: “Listen, dude. We’re going to head back to Jen’s house. I’ll catch you later.”

“What do you mean,
later
?”

“As in, later. As in, not now. Dude, chill.”

“Where will I
catch
you?”

“Man, what’s your problem today?”

The low sun speckled on the water. All around kids were running and dive-bombing into the pool. A gang of teenage boys was sharing a pack of Marlboros. Two old ladies were wading in the shallow end. “Nothing’s my problem.”

“So I’ll give you a call.” He rolled over, exposing his narrow back. He was thin and strong, and his shoulder blades sharpened as he reached for a sip from Jen’s Coke. In another life, Johnny would’ve been a high school wrestler with a so-so GPA. Now he was just a sweet little con.