The 19th Wife (40 page)

I am sorry. After that I had to take a walk. I meant to return to the typewriter in a few minutes, but I went down to my bench. The dolphins did not come today. Just as glorious as their arrival is the swiftness with which they disappear. The mystery of it! If I did not record my impressions of them in my letters and shamefully spotty diary, even I would wonder if they existed at all. They are creatures of the dream. There are times when I miss her terribly. My mother, I mean. She was a brave fool. I love her for that, and so much else.

I see no reason to recount for you the legal wrangling that took place between July and November of that year. It is all rather dull, isn’t it: the back-and-forths, the petitions, the claims, the what-have-yous, the lawyers’ verbiage as thick as sludge. When I discussed it with Rosemary I told her it was like any divorce case, only grimier by a magnitude of 1,000. One other difference, of course: although the case was about money (when are they not?), it was cloaked in the language of God. (Can I share a sacrilegious thought? When I think about such things—a husband declaring, in deposition, that his wife will be turned away from Heaven—I wish the dolphins were given the responsibility of turning our minds to God, not the clergy. Strike me down, but they have meant more to me than any man of cloth.)

Two things I recall from my child’s vantage. Brigham sent, via an agent, an offer to my mother. This was a few days after we arrived at the Walker House. He must have realized she was determined to carry out as public a divorce as possible. He offered—I believe it was—$20,000, to, as they say, disappear. In
The 19th Wife
my mother insists she was indignant at the offer and dismissed it at once. That is not my recollection. Tempted by the large sum, she lingered over it, consulting with her advisers. Both Judge Hagan and Major Pond told her it was not enough. “Twenty thousand dollars is enough to take care of my boys,” my mother said. She looked to me as she said this. My memory of it is as clear as if it occurred this morning. Or right now.

Not long after this (it could have been the same afternoon), my mother and Judge Hagan had a disagreement. We were alone in the suite, and they behaved as if I were not present or did not understand them. As payment for his legal services, Judge Hagan wanted 50% of my mother’s future settlement. My mother rightly objected. “You’re robbing me,” she said. “I need every penny for James and Lorenzo.”

They settled on 20%, but I know thereafter my mother never fully trusted Judge Hagan again. As time passed, it became clear he was more interested in his own gain and notoriety than saving my mother from Brigham’s wrath.

By the end of July, my mother had formally filed suit against the Prophet of the Latter-day Saints. To them—the Saints, I mean—it was no less an affront than serving papers to Christ. (I once read in the newspaper of a man from West Texas who, disappointed that his patch of dirt was not an oil field, filed suit against the Lord. Bureaucracy pondered the case for eleven days.)

On the subject of irony, Brigham responded with an unexpected legal maneuver. Via his lawyers he claimed my mother was not his legal wife for the simple reason that he was already married. At the time there was a dual justice system in Utah—Brigham’s and the American code of law. They lay atop one another in a not always natural fit. Some matters were brought before the Church, others before the courts. Brigham chose to use the federal laws for his counterattack. The courts, of course, did not (and do not) recognize polygamy. Therefore my mother was not married to Brigham, never had been his wife, and hence had no valid claims to his property. (Do you ever consider, Professor Green, how the law can be both magnificent and idiotic?) In essence, he made legal claim that he had never married my mother.

I don’t know what my mother thought when she learned of Brigham’s tactics. I know that would provide fresh detail for your book, but I’m afraid she never spoke to me directly about it. Was she “mad as Hades”? Professor Green, are you married? If you are, then you have learned the futility of guessing a woman’s mind. And isn’t that one of woman’s 1,001 delights? She is not predictable. The moment you believe you can anticipate her, she will prove you wrong. Rosemary was like that. She used to say, “Don’t tell me what’s on my mind.” If there is any constancy, it’s that men are fools.

That’s where I stopped yesterday. It was afternoon. No sign of the dolphins. Have they already moved south? They do not migrate as regularly as the whales. You cannot turn your calendar by them. Although they are gone, I will not be surprised if they return tomorrow or next week. Then again, if I were not to see them for many months, that too would not surprise me. Do you know what I miss most about Rosemary? Simply knowing she was there.

I’m afraid even your question about myself—was I ever excommunicated from the Church?—I am unable to answer. You probably have the resources to research that. In any event, whether or not through clerical error or grand scheme I am technically still a member of the Latter-day Saints matters none to me. I do not say that to offend you. I should think I would offend you more if I did not write in full honesty, especially on the subject of faith. In my adulthood I flirted with the Episcopals. Rosemary was a Catholic, although she disagreed with nearly everything they proclaimed. What do I consider myself now? A man attempting to be good. In this endeavor I have no use for church and steeple. If another man does, I only wish he finds what he needs.

I have just now reread your letter. Did Brigham really treat my mother as she describes in
The 19th Wife
? Did she truly want to end polygamy or was she more interested in destroying Brigham? What was her final fate? I wish I could tell you where to turn to answer these questions, but I’m in the dark like you. On the last one—what happened to her?—I suppose in writing this letter, I am subconsciously encouraging you to dig around her story so that one day you may come to me and explain the mystery of her disappearance. How I wish I had even a clue to guide you in your search.

I think at this juncture it would be best if I jumped to November 1873. (I can hear Rosemary now, reminding me to get to the point!) My memories of the flight are clear and sure. I doubt I have given you any insight thus far, but concerning that long night I might be able to pull up a few fresh scraps. But first let me tell you how my mother’s career as a public lecturer formed. During our confinement at the Walker House, while Judge Hagan and the others worked up my mother’s legal strategy, Major Pond began to plot a different sort of path for her. At the time she was in a precarious financial position. Although future income seemed likely, at the present moment her purse was empty. Gilbert supplemented, but my mother had legitimate concern over how she would house and feed my brother and me. She never expressed this in my presence, but any child of an impoverished household can tell you when the coins are few. I offered her my two gold coins, but she told me to keep them, folding them up in my palm.

My mother’s national notoriety was such that a number of promoters telegraphed with offers of representation. These men believed there was such interest in my mother’s account that she would be a viable member on the lecture circuit. For the most part my mother ignored the appeals. She was truly interested in her legal situation and restoring her family, not in expanding her fortune. When Barnum wrote offering a substantial sum, her attention sat up for the first time. “Is it for real?” she asked Major Pond. “All this money?” (I never learned the sum, but I understand that a few years before he offered to send Brigham on the road for a fee of $100,000. One can assume Barnum’s number for the 19th wife was in this range.)

In rapid response Major Pond, former Union soldier, irritable reporter, conferred upon himself a new profession: lecture agent. “I can get you more,” he said. He realized my mother’s story was gold. He instructed her to prepare some lectures concerning her experiences. In her writings and commentary she has shrilly denied she began to speak publicly of her ordeals for profit. She claims she solely took to the lecture podium as part of her crusade to demolish polygamy from the United States. On the subject of mammon, she said repeatedly she simply was trying to ensure a roof and food for her boys. As they say: True, but. I loved my mother, but God bless her—she loved her jewels.

I remember the days in early November when she worked at the writing table near the stove. Typically my mother was restless with energy, unable to sit for long. She was always moving about a room, rearranging her skirts and cuffs, turning her rings, patting down her hair. She spoke quickly, sometimes, I fear, without thinking over her words. She was not a born writer. For nearly a week she agonized at the writing table, drafting a sentence or two, standing up, moving to the window, pulling back the shade, sighing with exasperation, and returning to her chair. It was a melodramatic reenactment of what the writer endures to produce a page. (I should know: two days have passed since I began this letter, Professor Green!)

Eventually she wrote three lectures concerning her experiences married to the Prophet and an insider’s view of Brigham’s harem; the general conditions of polygamy; and the politics of the Mormon Church. Do I need to tell you which became her most popular?

In a trial run, the Major arranged a lecture in the parlors of the Walker House, inviting nearly every Gentile in the Territory. Hundreds, perhaps even 1,000, showed up. I was not allowed to attend the event, but from the suite’s window I watched the river of people flow into the hotel. I waited alone in our rooms while my mother spoke downstairs. For more than an hour there wasn’t a sound in the hotel other than my mother’s clear soprano. I will confess I felt abandoned that night. I do not share this with you to wallow in an old hurt but simply to relay the feelings of a child. Eventually a great roar overtook the hotel. They were applauding my mother, cheering her name, pleading for more. Thereafter Major Pond began to plan my mother’s triumph on America’s stage.

He arranged her debut in Denver. But there was still the risk of traveling out of Utah. Judge Hagan worried Brigham might not let her depart the Territory; or worse, might send a pack of Danites after her carriage. I do not know on what basis this opinion was formed, but everyone believed it, and suddenly the mood in the suite had changed. (I’m sure you will recall that the investigation of the Mountain Meadows massacre had resumed at this time, and there was much speculation in Brigham’s role in those terrible murders. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know when I say many people believed he ordered the killings, or at least condoned them. This speculation no doubt colored her perception of the dangers she faced.)

An air of busy planning overtook the suite. Allies came and went, secret methods of escape were proposed and dismissed. After a few days, a plan was settled on. My mother, Major Pond, Judge Hagan, and the Strattons swore themselves to secrecy. At the time I had no idea what the secret was, but soon it went into implementation. Whenever a guest came to visit, my mother sent him off with one or two items concealed in his coat: a pair of shoes, a hat, a notebook, her hair oil. Item by item, my mother decamped.

Once I realized my mother was planning to depart, I burst into tears. “I don’t want you to leave me,” I told her. I expected her to say, “I’m taking you with me.” She did not. She rubbed my back while saying, “I have to go.”

Again I expected her to add, “I’ll return for you.” But she did not offer any assurances over our future. I cannot tell you why she behaved as she did at this moment. I like to think she was not so indifferent to my feelings. Yet I doubt there has been a moment in my life when I felt so uncertain of my place in the world as then. I lay awake at night with a sickened heart.

In the morning she said, “If I tell you a secret you have to promise to keep it. Tonight I will leave here for dinner with the Strattons. Later, your uncle Gilbert will come for you. You must do whatever he says. If he tells you to be quiet, you mustn’t make a noise. If he tells you to hide in a box, you must fold yourself up like a cat.”

In the evening she dressed for dinner as she might on any evening. Gilbert arrived, but he acted as if something were wrong. He gave me a peppermint stick, but became annoyed with my questions. “Lorenzo,” said my mother, “remember what we discussed?”

When the Strattons called I began to cry. My mother had become preoccupied with her escape, and thus no longer had the capacity to comfort me. It was Gilbert who held me as she departed the suite. In
The 19th Wife
she writes there was no time for kisses and good-byes. “I was already a fugitive, there wasn’t a minute to spare!” No time for love? My goodness, I hope there’s never such a time on my clock.

For about an hour my uncle and I looked at each other. He was never comfortable around children. He asked about my toy horse, but when I told him its name I sensed his interest was not real. Children can tell. I do not fault Gilbert for this. His life in plural marriage—two wives and eighteen children—had eaten away at the love in his soul. Gilbert was a good man; he tried to love his family. Whoever said love is a pie was correct, at least in the polygamous family; there is a finite number of slices to pass out. Eventually I lay down on a blanket and fell asleep.

I do not know what time he woke me, perhaps ten o’clock. The room was dark and I was very tired. Gilbert helped me into my coat and shoes and led me down the servants’ stairs into the Walker House kitchen. A large woman in a wide apron was plunging her arms into a sink of hot soapy water. She barely looked up as we passed. At the door there was a tall round basket of the kind I once saw an Indian woman use to haul maize from a field. Gilbert told me to climb in. “I’m going to carry you out to the carriage. Once we’re inside you can get out. It will be only a minute. But you can’t be seen leaving.”

I climbed into the basket, crouching with my knees to my chest. Gilbert set the lid on top. Light came through the basket and my vision was like that of a medieval knight peeping out through his mail. I could see the woman at the sink. She never once stopped washing the dishes. Gilbert heaved me up, and I felt a sway in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to cry out and beg to be released, but I told myself to stay still for the sake of my mother. The driver helped Gilbert set the basket on the carriage floor. When the door was closed, he lifted the lid.