Favorite Wife (5 page)

“What makes you think I know his plans?” I answered Debbie crossly. I glanced back toward the church where Lane and Jay were loitering. I eyed them, wondering what Lane was telling Jay. They finally joined us.

“Let me take you home, Susan,” Lane said.

“Hey, Lane,” Debbie interrupted before I could answer, “how about taking us to the show tonight? That new movie with Burt Reynolds is playing and we want to see it.” Her bright eyes made note of his hesitation as he glanced at me.

“Oh, she'll go with you,” she assured him with an airy wave of her hand. “Won't you, honey?”

“Debbie,” I snapped. “Lane's going to give me a ride home. We'll discuss it then.”

“Okay, fine. Well, let me know.” She looked after us as we walked to the pickup. Fleetingly, I felt sorry for Debbie. She seemed so lonely and misplaced. I should be a better friend to her.

We passed Esther turning into her gate, then Lane swung the pickup around the corner. As we bumped over the cattle guard, a lone woman walked down the middle of the tree-lined road ahead of us. She moved to the right and turned to stare as we drove past her, and suddenly I realized it was Estela.

“Lane!” his wife called out, her voice clear and loud through my open window. “Lane, stop!” Suddenly she was running alongside of us and she reached out and grabbed the door handle. “Stop, I said!” she screamed as the door flew open. Panicked, I began to scoot over next to Lane. Estela reached in and grabbed my arm, her eyes blazing. She yanked on me, trying to pull me out of the truck as she ran to keep up with us. Lane held on to my left arm and swore at Estela in Spanish. “Let go of her!” he shouted.

“Stop the truck!” I screamed, but Lane ignored me. The pickup careened down the bumpy road, with Estela half-dragged beside us. She hung on to my arm, her face smeared with tears. “Lane,” she sobbed, “don't do this! Please get her out of here.”

Suddenly Estela tripped. When she let go of my arm, the open pickup door hit her hard. I whirled and stared out the rear window, watching her roll over and over in the dust along the side of the road. Immediately she sat up, covered her face with her hands, and slouched forward, her shoulders shaking.

Glancing at her crumpled form in his rearview mirror while we moved on down the road, Lane shrugged. “Well, that's too bad,” he said evenly. “Maybe it'll teach her a lesson.”

I gaped at him, openmouthed. My stomach lurched. Was this the man I had daydreamed about? What if Estela had been me? Would he have left me lying there?

“Stop the truck. Right now,” I demanded.

He ignored me for a few seconds, then grudgingly pulled off the side of the road under the trees.

“Go back and see if your wife is hurt,” I said coldly as I opened the door.

Determined fingers grabbed my blouse. “Cut it out,” Lane snarled. “She's not hurt and she's got to learn. I told her before we ever got married that there would be other women. She knew I would marry again. I'm not going to let her come between us. I love you, and she's just got to accept that.”

I yanked my blouse free from his fingers. “Our marrying won't work, Lane.” Alarm replaced the anger on his face as I continued. “A marriage between us won't ever work, because I don't love you. I should have told you before,” I stepped down onto the road.

Feeling his eyes on my back, I hurried away. After a full minute the engine started up. Gears whined and shifted, and when I turned the corner, I glanced behind me. The pickup was idling next to Estela.

All I could think of during evening chores as I milked our two cows and scattered grain in the chicken feeders was Estela, huddled in a heap in the dirt. She loved her husband. She had been a good wife to him, at least as far as I knew. She had given him a beautiful son. How could he treat her that way? Shouldn't he convert her to polygamy instead of forcing it on her? Shouldn't he have helped her to realize the benefits and eternal blessings that plural marriage provided? Shouldn't she have some say about who joined her own family? The whole thing made my head ache, and I crawled into bed at twilight, grateful that none of my family had noticed my reticence. Life was so confusing. Lane and Estela filled my thoughts as I drifted off to sleep.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

T
he snakes crawling all around me were long and black, slimy and horrid. I screamed but the sound caught in my throat. A dense, enveloping fog floated about me. I wanted to run, but I couldn't move. One of the snakes wrapped itself around my ankle and crawled over my bare foot, its scales scratching my skin. I tried to scream again, knowing I was going to die. I could feel myself being sucked into the blackness inside of my mind.

I forced my eyes open. An illusive apparition hovered just over my head. Suddenly I realized that there were several of the ghost-like creatures. Two of them reached down and tried to lift me up, but my body passed right through their arms. I screamed and moaned in terror, their arms reaching for me again and again. “God,” I prayed frantically, “Oh, God, don't let them get me.”

Out of the thick mists, a human form appeared and hastened to my side. I sensed immediately that he had come to my rescue. Relief overwhelmed me! Strong arms pulled me close. Under my cheek was a rough material. It rubbed against my face and smelled clean and good, and I clung to him as we floated away, higher and higher. I looked down. Below us the ghosts were gone, but the snakes crawled and writhed together. Suddenly the man kissed my lips. “Susan,” he whispered. Startled, I raised my eyes to his face.

“Susan! Susan, wake up.” My mother's voice was calling to me from far away, like an echo. Her hand was firm on my shoulder—shaking me. I tried to open my eyes, but they were too heavy. She shook me again. “Come on, honey, wake up. Wake up.”

Her anxious face peered down at me, the tail of her long, gray braid tickling my cheek. I could smell the Noxema on her skin. She had on the flannel nightgown Dad had given her for Christmas. “You about scared me to death,” she said. “You must have had a mighty bad dream.”

Blinking, I sat up and looked around my lamp-lit bedroom. My mind felt hazy. Out the window between the open curtains, I could see the black sky. Blackness . . . the nightmare filled with twisting, crawling snakes and satanic power rushed over me, and I buried my face against Mom's shoulder and sobbed.

“Honey, everything's okay! You just had a bad dream. It's over now. It's all over.”

Her arms felt so safe around me, so real and good. I shook my head again, trying to block out the vision.

“Oh, Mom, it was so awful!” The words tumbled out as she gently rubbed my back. “There were all these huge sna—snakes, and such evil spirits, and they were grabbing at me, and trying to take me to hell. Oh, Mama!” I pulled away from her arms and rubbed my eyes hard.

“Now, now, sweetie, it's over.” Her voice sounded tired as she patted me. “Did you eat some of Maria's enchiladas for supper? Sauce so hot it would give anyone nightmares. I didn't eat much of them. Maria saw me scrape my plate into the dog dish, and she felt bad.”

In frustration I threw the covers back, stood up, and walked around my bedroom. The cement floor felt cold under my feet. The curtains at the open window billowed in and out. Everything around me was normal, even the long, flickering shadows that the coal oil lamp cast against the wall. But the depth of fear the nightmare had left me with was totally out of the ordinary. Then suddenly I remembered the man.

The scent of him came sharply back into focus. I had smelled that mixture of soap and aftershave before, and somehow the scent clung to me. Impulsively I picked up the skirt of my nightgown and inhaled. Nothing. Just the smell of the yellow bar soap Mom melted to do the wash. It didn't even smell good. I stared at the twinkling stars out the window, so distant in the blackness of the sky. What was happening to me? I felt bereft, so hollow inside.

Mom yawned and stretched. “Come back to bed. Do you want a glass of water?”

I turned from the window and searched her face, desperate for her to understand that this was no ordinary dream. Something significant had happened. I didn't understand it, and my brain whirled with confusion.

“Mama,” I slowly walked back and sat down beside her. “You'll probably laugh, but that was the most real dream I've ever had. A man came and saved me from hell. He kissed me.”

I could almost see the wheels of her mind turn. She eyed me in grave, thoughtful appraisal. Reaching for my hand, she absently stroked it. “Who was the man?”

I hesitated. Would she think I was crazy? Would she chuckle, as we did behind Maria's back at the long, colorful dreams she related to us almost every morning over breakfast? She would probably shrug it off and tell me to stop eating chili at night.

“Was it Lane?”

“No!” I shuddered. A lightning image of Estela rolling in the dirt flashed through my mind. I shook my head, wishing I had kept my mouth shut. Sometimes I spoke before I thought; it was one of my most irritating habits. I needed to think about this, to make sure of what this was all about before opening a door to something I might regret later.

Sensing my reluctance, Mom quickly said, “Susan, dear, you tell me when you're ready. Only remember, as a woman of the church, you have the right to personal revelation about whom you should marry. I'm sure your sister Rose Ann told you about the dream she had about Harv. But, then again, what you had could just be a plain old bad dream. You're so young, honey. Sometimes I think you're trying to grow up too fast. Believe me, being a grownup isn't all it's cracked up to be. I wish you'd concentrate on enjoying your youth.”

She hugged me and started to pick up the lamp, then, thinking better of it, turned the wick down and left it where it was. “You might like the light for a while,” she said gently. “But try to go back to sleep. It'll be milking time soon.”

I settled under the covers, laced my fingers behind my head, and stared at the water stains on the plaster ceiling. I tried to concentrate on the dream, but the details had begun to evaporate. Something about snakes and evil spirits, and the horrible feeling that I was headed for hell. Then Verlan LeBaron had rescued me. Was any of this because of what had happened with Lane and Estela? Or was this an honest-to-goodness revelation, the kind the ladies in the church whispered about?

I thought about Rose Ann. A few months ago she'd told me in one of her big-sister talks about the revelation she'd had about Harvard. She had cried in remembrance of it, and told me if I prayed, God would give me a revelation of my own. “It's your right,” she'd insisted. “It's such a blessing to know that you've married the man God has picked out to be your husband through eternity. It carries you through the hard times. Believe me, I know. Susan, you need to get on your knees and ask the Lord.”

Only I hadn't prayed. Oh, I really believed God answered prayer. He had answered the prophet Joseph Smith's when he prayed in the grove of trees and asked which church was the True Church on the earth. And then there was the wonderful story about our Prophet Joel. I heard him tell it one Sunday. The story had given me goose bumps, and from then on I was convinced as never before that Joel was a true prophet of God.

“Before my father, Dayer LeBaron, died,” Joel had said, “he laid his hands on my head and bestowed upon me the Mantle of the Priesthood that Joseph Smith held. Joseph Smith had passed the Mantle to my great-grandfather in secret, and he passed it down to my father, who gave it to me. Two years later I went to Salt Lake to legally incorporate the church as God had directed me to do. Only I lacked knowledge of organization. So I went up onto a mountain by Salt Lake and asked God for directions. After I prayed for a time, heavenly messengers appeared to me and counseled me.”

I vividly remembered Joel's talk that day. I had listened to him carefully, thrilled at his testimony. And from then on I personally believed in his mission. Yes, I believed in answered prayer. But I hadn't felt ready to pray about a husband, and if the truth were told, I didn't feel righteous enough to expect an answer. I thought about some of the other girls, who were so obedient and submissive to the leaders that they trusted them completely to guide their lives and place them in the families where they would do the most good. And then there was I, headstrong and self-pleasing. I wanted to have fun and be happy, and I wanted to marry the most romantic guy I could find. For a daughter of the True Church, that was definitely not the proper attitude. Maybe that was why God had sent the dream. He wanted me to wake up and realize how far from being righteous I really was. Maybe I needed to do an evaluation of myself and just see where I really stood on the scale of righteousness.

I shifted uncomfortably on my pillow and forced my mind backward over the highlights of my life. I had been baptized when I was eight, down at the springs, the crystal-clear swimming hole ten miles away, where most of the baptizing was done. I remembered Saul Singleton, a boy a year older than me, telling me that all my sins had been washed down the stream, and I was now clean enough to go to heaven. “But you can't even tell the tiniest little lie now,” he'd informed me, “or you'll never make it. You only get to have your sins washed away once, and then you have to pay for your own. And if you never do anything good, you end up in hell. So watch it!”

If that were all true, I was going to have to change my behavior and my attitude. I thought about all the times in Sunday school and church when I had read my novels through the whole meetings, hiding them behind my open Bible. Uncomfortably, I remembered night after night reading until I fell asleep instead of taking time to pray. I thought about my nasty, judgmental attitude where certain people were concerned and how I'd made fun of them to my friends. I had been hateful and disrespectful to my mother lots of times. I must behave myself, take life seriously, buckle down, and do what was expected of me if I wanted to go to heaven, which I did, of course.

Little fingers of excitement tickled at my skin as I thought about Verlan LeBaron. That was the part of the dream that was the most vivid. He'd had his arms around me, and he had kissed me, his lips clinging firmly to mine. In my dream I'd wanted to melt into him and hold on forever. I had felt so safe, so wildly happy. Strange how I remembered the feeling so well. How could it be that I could picture this man so clearly when I hardly knew him? Was God letting me know that he was my husband-to-be?

I felt hot and sticky under the covers, and I kicked them back and turned onto my side. So, what now? Was I just supposed to wait around until something happened? What if nothing did? Or what if years went by, with me afraid to go on with my life, afraid to have a boyfriend, to kiss anyone else for fear of being untrue. I couldn't let that happen! I had to have answers.

I sighed with frustration, my mind reeling. There was only one thing I could do unless I was willing to patiently wait and see what happened. I needed to talk to someone about this, someone who knew how to interpret dreams. And there was only one person I trusted to do it. Grandma LeBaron!

Maud LeBaron, whom most of the colony kids called “Grandma,” was my piano teacher, but she was more than that. She was a wonderful friend, and many an hour had passed with her talking to me about her life, about how God had spoken to her in dreams. She had to be the most righteous woman in the church, especially as she was Verlan's and the Prophet Joel's mother. I would tell Grandma my dream while I was at my piano lesson tomorrow, and she would be able to tell me what it meant.

With that settled, I pulled the covers back up around my shoulders against the chilly morning air and drifted into a restless sleep.

Grandma's house was one of two oven-baked, red brick homes the colony boasted of. Its bright color stood out among the brown adobe houses everyone else had and seemed to me to show stability and wealth. I knocked on the door, my blood racing.

Grandma's delicate, lined face broke into a smile when she swung the door open. Her tiny body was covered in a silky, cornflower-blue dress. As usual, her mousy hair was twisted into a bun and pinned at the nape of her neck, with little escaping tendrils curling softly about her face. The slippers on her feet slid across the tile floor as she gingerly moved on arthritic hips. Grandma always made me feel like a valued guest, as though she especially appreciated the opportunity of giving me piano lessons. I knew she received little, if anything for her efforts, but she enjoyed teaching and considered it her way of serving God. She filled her days by teaching piano to half the kids in the colony.