The 19th Wife (33 page)

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Posted by KADeeBYU (July 6)

There’s a big difference in what you’re talking about. First of all you’re taking everything out of context. Second the D&C you’re referring to, Section 132, was revised and repudiated by President Woodruff, when he released his Manifesto on October 6, 1890. What you’re not understanding is that our theology is not static. It’s an evolving, changing entity, which is wholly consistent with the way things work in life. Why should religious doctrine be static when nothing in the natural world, including Man, is static? Throughout time, in every culture, religions and theologies of all sects and creeds have always evolved. They have to. Those that don’t inevitably die out. Please don’t make the mistake of equating the Latter-day Saints of today with the Firsts. Although our faiths originate from the same doctrines, long ago we chose separate paths, which is why we now stand so far apart.

Posted by GirlNumber5 (July 7)

Huh? Either the D&Cs are the word of God or they aren’t. You can’t have it both ways, Baby.

A FRIEND IN THE NIGHT

As soon as my cell picked up a signal, I called Maureen. “Why would the Prophet want my help?”

No response.

“Maureen, what do you think?”

“I’m sorry, my granddaughter and her roommate are here visiting. We’re out on the patio and it’s hard to hear.”

“I know I probably shouldn’t call you on a Saturday. I just felt like telling someone about this.”

“And I’m glad you did. I know Mr. Heber will want to hear all about it on Monday. Or will you be back in California by then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Either way, let him know.” I heard a splash, like someone jumping in a pool. “I should go now.”

“Maureen, is everything all right?” She said everything was fine, but I could tell it wasn’t, not really.

When Elektra and I walked into A Woman Sconed, the goth girl barely looked up from her manga. “The computer’s down,” she said. “You can try the lobby of the Malibu Inn, they have a computer for guests. Just go in and pretend you’re staying there. They won’t say anything if you act cool. The day manager’s chill. Hey, where’s your brother?”

“He’s not my brother.”

“I know the feeling,” and she flipped a page.

It was that time of day when few people are around a place like the Malibu Inn. Last night’s guests had checked out and tonight’s were still on the road. The guy behind the desk said, “Can I help you?”

“I’m just going to use the computer for a second.”

“Are you staying with us?”

“Not really.”

“The computer’s for guests only.”

“Since no one’s around would you mind if I hopped on for a few minutes? I need to check my email.”

He was a neat guy, his polo tucked snugly into ironed khakis. Maybe twenty-five, yellow hair flicked up into little gelled spikes—nothing too punk, but just a tiny bit cool. “Oh, all right,” he said. “But if a guest needs to use it, you’ll have to get off.”

“Fair enough.”

The way the computer was set up, my back was to him. It was an old machine and it took a while to get a connection. I could feel the guy’s eyes on me, and just when I felt like I needed to turn around he said, “By the way, my name’s Tom. In case you need anything.”

“Thanks. Jordan here.”

At last I got into my email box. A message from Alexandra with lots of chatter about her cats and kids and a guarantee: “I make a mean macaroni.” Tons of spam, but my program filters most of it out. That’s how I ended up deleting the email from DesertMissy. I only know about it now. Had I opened it, I would’ve saved myself a lot of trouble and close to five hundred credit card bucks in gas. But let’s put that on hold.

“I thought you might want a coke.” I was so startled by the gesture, I didn’t respond. “Or a diet coke?”

“If you have one, yeah.”

“Sure, that’s what I drink, too.” The guy dropped two tokens into the coke machine. “So where’s home for you?”

“California.”

“Nice. Me, I’m originally from Provo, but I’ve been down here a while.”

He seemed to want to talk about his life and I didn’t want to talk about mine, so I let him go. “I started out in room service at the property in Cedar City. That was five years ago. Then I became a night clerk and eventually assistant manager, and then the owner transferred me down here. He set me up pretty well. You know what the crazy part is?” I couldn’t imagine. “I was planning on leaving Utah. Probably for California. Like you.”

“Maybe one day.”

“I mean, St. George isn’t exactly the dream location for a single gay guy.”

Was I being hit on in the lobby of the Malibu Inn?

“LDS?” he said.

“Sort of,” I said. “But not anymore.”

“Yeah, me too. I was kicked out when I was twenty. What about you? Did they kick you out or did you quit before they could do it?”

“I was definitely kicked out.”

“I know, I was so shocked because I wasn’t even really out to myself.” The guy stopped, as if all the thoughts about his past were pressing inside his head. Then his eyes returned to the present moment. “What’re you doing later on? Want to get together or something? I’m off at six.” I tried to make an excuse, but I came up blank. “Meet me here around seven. Room 112. We’ll go out.”

“You live here?”

“Yeah, they put me up. It’s not as nice as it sounds.” Tom appeared so cleanhearted and gentle that I felt something stir in my chest, and I was shocked by the sentiment. I’m definitely not a romantic kind of guy. The last time I had a date was never.

“Awesome. I’m really looking forward to it. Now I should get back to work. They start rolling in about now.” On cue, a dusty motor home pulled into the Malibu’s portico.

I was headed over to the pool when I saw Mr. Heber’s Lexus in his office lot. I had to ring twice before he came to the door. He looked surprised to see me. Surprised to see anyone. He was in a pair of golf shorts and bare feet, and his reading glasses up on his head. “I’m sorry to disturb you on Saturday,” I said, “but I saw your car.”

“That’s all right. I try to sneak in here for a few hours on the weekend to get ahead.” While he led me back to his office, I told him about Alton and the Prophet. “What do you think?”

“I want you to be careful, Jordan.”

“Do you think I should talk to him?”

“That might be hard to do.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was going to tell you this on Monday. The Prophet’s now officially a wanted man. The feds finally got off their duffs and put out a warrant for his arrest. He’s wanted on sexual assault on a minor, conspiracy to commit sexual assault on a minor, and racketeering. They went out to Mesadale last night.”

“He’s in jail?”

“They couldn’t find him.”

“Couldn’t find him? He was right there yesterday afternoon.”

“I’m sure he was, but no one’s talking. Here, let me show you.” Mr. Heber turned his monitor and got onto the FBI’s site. On the Wanted by the FBI page, there was a grainy picture of the Prophet. He wasn’t on the Most Wanted list, but he was a Featured Fugitive, and his picture was right beneath Osama bin Laden’s.

“That’s an old picture,” I said.

“It’s all they got.” He clicked on it and brought up the Prophet’s rap sheet.

DESCRIPTION

DATE OF BIRTH USED:
August 19 1936 or December 25 1941 or December 25 1946

PLACE OF BIRTH:
Unknown

HEIGHT:
5'7" or 5'9"

WEIGHT:
145–155 pounds

OCCUPATION:
Unknown

SCARS OR MARKS:
None known

HAIR:
Brown/light brown or gray

EYES:
Blue or gray

SEX:
Male

RACE:
White

REMARKS:
Suspect may be residing in or around Mesadale, Utah; also has ties to Arizona, Nevada, Texas, Idaho, and northern Mexico

SHOULD BE CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS

“Why now?”

“I told you, things’ve been heating up. Your dad’s murder was probably the catalyst. I think they finally realized this is about a lot more than a man sleeping with a bunch of women. Anyway, Jordan, it could all be very good news for your mom.”

This seemed like as good a time as any to tell Heber about my visit to the house. I didn’t go into details like the fire. “But I managed to get down to his den, and I found this.”

I handed him the fuck chart disguised as the Book of Mormon. Mr. Heber fanned through it, stopped to read something, fanned some more. “I already have it. They found it during the search on his hard drive.” He dug around in a file and pulled a stack of papers to compare the two copies, flipping between the pages.

“You mean I went through all that to get something you already have?”

“You really should’ve talked to me first.” He kept on flipping between the two charts, matching up the tables and the notations. Then something caught his attention. “Wait a minute, you might have the latest version. Let me make a copy.”

We leaned against the copier, waiting for it to warm up. “There’s something that’s been bugging me about all this,” Mr. Heber said.

“What’s that?”

“How many wives did your dad actually have?”

“I don’t know, twenty-five-ish. But they never tell you that. I think it’s a way to keep everything confused. You know, the more confused you are, the less likely you are to realize you’re being screwed.”

“What’s interesting about this marriage management notebook is, if we can believe it—and I think we can—it looks like he had twenty-seven wives.” The copier was ready, and he lifted the lid.

“I know this is going to sound screwy,” I said, “but if the law doesn’t recognize these marriages, then how can it be polygamy in the eyes of the law? It’s sort of a chicken-egg situation.”

“It’s an old dilemma. Goes back to the nineteenth century and Brigham. It’s probably why the feds left Mesadale alone for so long. You can see why they’re going after the Prophet for racketeering and the stuff with the underage girls. They can get him on that.”

“If they catch him.”

“The thing about men like the Prophet is they need a stage. They need to tell people what to do. That kind of man can’t stay in hiding forever. When he’s all alone in a basement or an attic or wherever, he can’t run from the truth about himself. He’ll come out,” said Mr. Heber. “They always do. And when he does, they’ll catch him and then it’s welcome to the clink.”

“And my mom?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Any luck?”

“To tell the truth, I’m afraid not.”

Tom opened the door to Room 112 and a snowy-faced golden retriever lumbered off the bed. He was a gentle old guy with a white muzzle and a plumed tail. He lifted his paw to scratch my thigh. “That means he likes you,” said Tom.

“What’s his name?”

“Gosling’s Joseph Manna from Heaven.”

“What?”

“But everyone calls him Joey.”

“He looks like a good boy.”

“He is. When I got kicked out I took Joey with me. He’s literally the only thing I have from home. I’m lucky Mr. Saluja lets me keep him here, I mean I’ve had him since I was eleven. Oh, my gosh, I just realized: I don’t even know if you like dogs.”

“If I like dogs? Hang on a sec.” I went out to fetch Elektra from the van. She sensed something was up and switched into a higher gear of spaz, straining on her leash and barking, preparing for a big entrance. She dog-sledded me across the parking lot and exploded into Room 112 in a whirl of canine chaos. You know how dogs get so excited they can’t decide what to do? Elektra jumped on the bed, off the bed, back on the bed, slurped out of Joey’s water bowl, ran over to Tom with water running out of her jowls, leaped into the air to kiss him, then back to the bowl, back to the bed, and back to Tom’s feet, back to the bed, and so on. “Sorry, she’s a little nuts at first.”

“I never met a dog I didn’t love.” Joey, on the other hand, wasn’t so interested in Elektra. He scooted over to the far side of the bed and lay down with his snout on his paws.

“What do you feel like doing tonight?” said Tom. “Want to catch a movie?” He was still getting dressed, tucking his shirt into his pants and looping his belt. It was weird to think he lived in a motel room, but I guess no weirder than living out of a van. He started looking up the movie times on his laptop. He was sitting and I leaned over from behind. Turns out he’s the kind of guy who wears cologne, which I usually hate, but on him it was sorta nice. Cinnamon and cedar. Maybe some lemon and smoke.

“Don’t hate me if it’s lame,” he said, “but I kinda want to see that movie about the retarded kid and the missing dad.”

We got ready to leave, filling the dog bowls with water and telling them to be good, and there was a tiny moment when we looked at each other. We were thinking the same thing, we could kiss and fuck right now and skip the movie. But I don’t know, it didn’t seem like the right thing to do, which totally isn’t like me. Anyway, outside in the parking lot there was a little tussle over who should drive—he thought my van looked cool, but I didn’t want him in my van because, well, I was living out of it and that’s probably not the best information to reveal on a first date. In the end I won and we drove to the cineplex in his tidy Toyota.