For Time and Eternity (15 page)

“I want you to think about your home—your cozy little house with Nathan and the girls. Now look around you here.”

I didn’t have to. It struck me today just as it had every time I’d come to visit Evangeline. Her home always seemed so silent and bleak and gray. Bad enough back when her father had lain in the bedroom upstairs, incoherent after his stroke. How much more now that she lived here alone, squirreling away her fuel and waiting for the next charity basket to stock her pantry.

“What are you asking?”

“At least it would be somebody you know. Somebody you already love as a sister.”

The impact of what Rachel was suggesting burned more bitter than the tea. “I—I couldn’t.”

“Nobody’s ever going to marry her.” She spoke quickly, furtively, her eyes darting to the kitchen door.

“Why not? She’s young—”

Rachel snorted.

“What? She’s my age,” I said, though as I thought about having had three children—even with one of them buried—I felt anything but young. “And she’s such a Saint.” With that, I hoisted my cup of tea, making a toast.

“Too much, really. I think most men would consider her a threat to their spiritual authority. Face it—” she scooted closer—“she’s going to live alone, die alone, and then get married by proxy to some old coot trying to increase his eternal family.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Don’t believe what?” My back was to the kitchen door, so I hadn’t seen or heard Evangeline’s approach.

“Same old argument,” Rachel said, surprising me with the ease of her lie. “To tea or not to tea.”

I giggled despite myself and was relieved to see that Evangeline smiled too. She slipped back into her chair and slid a worn leather-covered Bible across the table. “Here, you read, Camilla.”

I tried to block out Rachel’s insinuation, stalling for time as I took one more sip of my drink before setting my cup down and running my fingers across the delicate tooling on the cover. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was my father’s. From before he joined the church.”

I had no idea what to read, where to turn. We read from
The Book of Mormon
every night in our home—always Nathan, his voice filling our little sitting room, wrapping us up in sacred words. In truth, I must confess, there were nights I wasn’t sure which text he was reading from. Joseph Smith’s words seemed to be so carefully crafted to match those of Paul or Moses or David. But today, I would know.

“This is the Word of God,” I said, more to myself than to the others. “What do you want me to read?”

Rachel merely shrugged, but Evangeline drummed her fingers on the table, deep in thought.

“Shall I just flip open to a page?” I suggested.

“Something from the Psalms,” Evangeline said. “That’s all Papa ever wanted to hear when he was sick, and it would be nice to hear somebody else reading them for a change.”

“No,” Rachel said, pulling the Bible to her. “I’ll read.” She began immediately to thumb through the pages, backward and forward, until finally seeming satisfied. “‘Now it came to pass,’” she read, “‘in the days when the judges ruled, that there was a famine in the land.’”

At first what she read was little more than a list of unfamiliar names—the very passages that so frustrated me as a child. But then, one came along that I recognized: Ruth.

And she continued on, about the death of Naomi’s husband and sons and these three women left alone. How Orpah returned to her people, but Ruth . . .

“‘. . . whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. . . .’”

The very same words Nathan had said to me one long-ago afternoon; rather, the words he had enticed me to say. At the time they’d seemed so romantic, so full of the promise of a life built together. Hearing them now, though, the romance was stripped away. These were the words spoken from one woman to another. Words of survival. A chill raced across me, and I looked to the nearly empty wood box next to Evangeline’s stove. Then I looked at Evangeline herself, her narrow, catlike eyes now wide as she took in the story of this woman given the chance at a new life with a man willing to take her into his home.

At points during the story, Rachel lifted one perfectly arched brow and looked at me over the book. By the time she came to the final verse, my tea had grown cold, half of it untouched in the cup.

“Such a beautiful story,” Evangeline said.

“Isn’t it?” Rachel closed the Bible carefully and slid it across the table. “What do you think, Camilla?”

I knew what she wanted me to say. Nathan had been her Naomi, arranging her marriage and securing her future. Now she wanted him to play the role of Boaz, giving shelter and a home to our own redheaded Ruth. But I steeled myself against such an appeal.

“Beautiful, indeed.” I gulped the rest of my now-cold tea and wiped a sleeve across my mouth in a most unladylike manner. “I should get back to the girls.”

If Evangeline wanted to have company for the rest of the afternoon, she made no show of it. Within minutes Rachel and I were escorted to her narrow front door, where we repeated the same ritual of hugs and quick, dry kisses with which we had greeted each other. This time, though, Evangeline held me a little tighter, and I, her.

“I’m going to be all right, Camilla,” she whispered in my ear. “There is a plan. We are all in the hands of Heavenly Father.”

“I know,” I said, but I knew then that her plan would never be my plan. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if her God was my God.

Chapter 15

My visit to Salt Lake City lasted three more days, most of which I spent in various charitable pursuits. Several of the families in Rachel’s ward were well-off and mindful of their responsibility to less-fortunate Saints. They put together housewarming kits to be presented to those families who would be arriving at the end of summer; many of their afternoons were spent piecing together quilts, cutting and hemming sheets and towels, or knitting socks and scarves. So many women in so many parlors, sometimes twenty of us in one room. Most of them were sister wives—some literally so, as they were sisters married to the same man. Children climbed in and around us. Daughters as young as twelve years old joined in both the task and the conversation. It occurred to me each day that I felt full and safe. Cushioned on all sides from loneliness and melancholy. Hours would fly by and I wouldn’t give a single thought to anything beyond the next amusing story or bit of gossip.

Rachel didn’t say another word about Evangeline becoming a second wife to Nathan, and neither did I. The matter sat between us like an uneasy, unspoken truce. It occurred to me after spending so much time in Rachel’s world that the subject of one man having multiple wives was hardly a topic worthy of any discussion. It was such common practice, we’d just as well discuss whether or not dogs should bark or birds should fly.

On the last night of my visit, after Tillman leaned through the door to give Rachel a swift peck on the cheek, I asked her if she still loved him.

“As much as I ever did.”

And then another question—one that had been nagging at me since my arrival. “Does it bother you, then? to think of him sharing a bed with another woman?”

“Is that why you’re so reluctant to agree to Nathan taking a second wife? because of what will happen in bed? Tell me, Camilla, is the marriage bed the all-consuming center of your marriage?”

“Of course not.” I was glad of the dark room to hide my blush.

“A marriage is work. Building a home and building a family.”

“But if you knew—right from the start—that Tillman would take several different wives, would you still have married him?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“But if you
did
.”

“When my brother arranged this marriage for me, he was doing the best he knew to do. He found the strongest man of faith—”

“But if you knew what that faith meant, Rachel—what it would ask of you—would you . . . ?” I couldn’t go on because we both knew that I wasn’t asking about her marriage to Tillman anymore.

“Are you asking whether or not I would join the church?” Her voice dropped to a whisper so low, the sounds barely registered.

I nodded slowly, feeling my own fear spread within me. “I need to know—because lately . . . How do I explain?”

“Like an unsettling in your spirit.” She took my hands and together we knelt before the fire. “Like everything that Joseph Smith said is just—”

“Wrong.”

We finished the sentence together, but Rachel’s voice lilted up, asking a question, while I gave an emphatic statement. If I’d been hoping for a sympathetic ear—and the impromptu tea party the other day surely gave me such hope—I was sorely mistaken. I watched her beautiful face turn to steel before my eyes, her changing nature reminding me of Nathan, in no comforting way.

“No. Do you hear me?”

“But—”

“Do not speak blasphemy against this church, Camilla.”

“Blasphemy?”

“The word of the prophet is a direct word from Heavenly Father. You know that. And if he commands us to build our families, if he urges our men to take several wives, if he—”

“Tells us not to drink hot beverages?”

The challenge hung in the air, unanswered, while Rachel took a moment to compose a response.

“That was wrong of me,” she said finally. “To be such a poor example. When I was supposed to . . . help.”

“But don’t you see? How can we grant one man the power to make decisions over the most trivial matters as well as those that govern how we live our very lives? If you can disregard one doctrine, why not another?”

“Some doctrines are more important than others.”

“But none of this is from God!” There, I’d said it, and far too loudly for the circumstances because the look of utter horror on Rachel’s face caused me to clamp my hand—too late—over my mouth and glance over my shoulder to the door I fully expected to be replaced with Tillman’s looming figure.

“Watch what you say.” The edge of warning was impossible to mistake.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Listen, I don’t much care one way or another.” She’d been looking past my shoulder at the door behind me too but stared deep into my eyes once she was satisfied that her husband wasn’t about to batter it down. “I simply want peace in my home. Now—” she cocked her head and smiled—“let’s get in bed and get to sleep before the fire burns out. Shall I say an evening prayer for us?”

“If you like.”

We joined hands and bowed our heads. My eyes shut tight, so tight that I could see shadows of the fire dancing within my darkness.

“Heavenly Father, thank you for my husband and the life we have built together. I lift my sister Camilla up to you, that she will have peace in her heart . . .”

Whatever else Rachel may have prayed is lost to me, as my mind filled with words of my own petition.
Spare me from this life. Give me strength. Help me, Lord, to make a home that is pleasing to you.

Later, I lay on my back, hands behind my head, listening to the last cracklings of the fire. We’d nothing left to say to each other, but the silence between us was not uncomfortable. Then, a small sound. At first I attributed it to the sound of a house full of people moving into sleep. But it became clearer, familiar. Unwelcome. Tillman had built an impressive home for his family, but there was no disputing the thinness of his walls. Apparently he’d chosen to exercise his rights as a husband, regardless of the fact that he had a guest under his roof.

It was my intention to ignore the noise coming from down the hall—feign sleep, if need be. But Rachel chose to distract me with conversation instead.

“Do you love Nathan?”

“Of course.”

“Would you die for him?”

I’d never considered such a thing before, but I knew the answer. “Yes.”

“Then you’re ready. See, that’s what you have to do. A little of me died the first time Tillman brought home another woman. And a little bit of me dies every time—”

“I can’t do it.”

“You have to. You’re his salvation. Joseph Smith was his savior in life, giving him direction. Your job is to save him in the next one. Without you, he doesn’t have the promise of an eternal family.”

“He has me.”

“It’s not enough. One woman, one wife. Marriage to you alone will never get him to the highest level of heaven.”

“Somewhere, deep down, you know as well as I do that no person can determine another’s salvation. I have no say in where Nathan will spend eternity.”

“Then you just love him in this life. Give him what he wants now. Let him have the hope that he’ll have you to love in the next one.”

* * *

The next day, as we were clearing away the lunch dishes, Lottie’s voice carried clear through the house.

“It’s Papa! Papa! He’s come to take us home!”

I heard Melissa’s echoing squeal and felt my own heart flutter. I clutched the serving platter I was drying to my chest, just to keep me still. It wasn’t a matter of fear, though I surely wasn’t the same woman who had arrived here three days ago. It was, in fact, anticipation. The same little thrill I got every time I was about to see Nathan when we’d spent days apart. After putting away the dish, I wiped my hands on my apron and walked out of the kitchen, shouting an admonition to the girls not to run through Aunt Rachel’s pretty house. I was summarily ignored as four eager feet stomped through the front hall and the front door flew open. Melissa and Lottie ran outside without their coats, a fact that seemed insignificant when I emerged onto the front porch. The afternoon sun bore down, and the air sat breezeless and dry. If I’d stood still long enough, I might have been tricked into thinking it was springtime. But I didn’t stand still. Not for long. Nathan had climbed down from the wagon and stood beside it, holding Lottie in the crook of one arm while Melissa stood with her arms wrapped around his waist.

He looked up from kissing the top of Melissa’s head, and his eyes found mine. He wore his butter-colored buckskin jacket and the wide-brimmed hat decorated with a band of woven straw. He took the hat off when he saw me and slowly lowered Lottie to the ground. At that moment, only one thought rang in my head.

He is mine.

There was something precious about that moment—something as weak and temporary as the snow that was in danger of disappearing all around me. That day, when I walked into his arms, when he lowered his head and kissed me, when he held me tight and whispered in my hair how very much he loved me, how very much he missed me, I knew. My heart was full to bursting with love as much as it ever had been. And as much as it ever would be.

“Take me home,” I said, breathing in the smell of him.

“That’s my favorite thing to do.” I looked up and he was smiling that devilish grin. “How soon will you be ready?”

“We packed this morning.”

Before we would start the drive home, however, Nathan had business to attend to.

“I’ve brought six to present,” he said, slapping the side of the wagon filled with half a dozen canvas-draped structures. By then Rachel and Tillman had joined us outside, and Rachel draped a welcome shawl across my shoulders before greeting her brother with a bear-size hug. Tillman shook his hand and peered into the wagon’s bed.

“Trying again, Nate?”

“Look at this.” Nathan climbed into the wagon and, with theatrical flair, untied the twine holding the canvas and lifted it, revealing the secret underneath. Anybody passing by might think we were all giving far too much attention to an ordinary wooden chair, but I knew that, for Nathan, what one person would deem a simple chair was actually a work of art—a carefully crafted piece, the result of countless hours in his workshop at the back of our barn. And this one was particularly beautiful. It was, at first glance, a simple, armless wooden chair with three wide slats across the back. Closer inspection, though, showed that each of the three slats had a slight slope rising from the top and creating the effect of a beehive shape. The beehive design was repeated on top of the spires on either side of the chair’s back, and at the top of each leg. All of this was stained to a rich honey color.

“Oh, Nate,” Rachel said, reaching one hand out to touch it. “If Brigham doesn’t want this . . .”

“It’s beautiful work,” Tillman said, rocking back on his heels.

“Go ahead.” Nathan handed the chair over to him. “Have a seat in it.”

Obliging, Tillman set the chair on the ground and made quite a show of settling his weight on the seat. “Very nice,” he said, shifting his position this way and that.

“Not as intricate as the last,” Nathan said. “None of the scrolling. Solid wood seat—much sturdier than the woven leather.”

“It’s beautiful, darling,” I said, my heart filled with the same pride I saw in his eyes.

“The others are a variation on the same design. I have an appointment to meet with him at one o’clock—”

“With Brigham?” Tillman stood and handed the chair up to Nathan.

“More likely with one of his associates.”

I could tell he envied Tillman’s easy use of the prophet’s name.

“Well, if your meeting is at one o’clock,” Rachel said, consulting the little watch pinned to her bodice, “you’d better hurry. I suppose we can keep Camilla and the girls entertained for another hour.”

“I think they should go with me,” Nathan said. “I’d like to show them the temple.”

Melissa and Lottie obviously agreed, as they jumped up and down in place, clapping their hands in delight.

“Not much more than a pile of stones right now,” Tillman said.

“Maybe so.” Nathan finished securing the canvas around the chair once again before swinging himself over the side of the wagon and landing with a slight bounce beside me. “But I want my girls to see it. So when they’re grown women and they come to worship, they’ll remember.”

He put his arm around my shoulder, drawing me companionably close. I resisted the urge to freeze in his embrace. I didn’t want to see the temple, and I certainly didn’t want to see Brigham Young, no matter how remote the possibility. But I knew what this meant to my husband. Those bundles of canvas in the back of the wagon represented his life’s work, and he wanted to share that with me. So I tucked myself under his arm and lifted my cheek to his kiss, saying, “Of course, darling.”

Rachel called into the house for Marion to fetch down our bags.

It took some stern talking to convince the girls that no, they could not sit in Papa’s chairs during the drive to Temple Square. My argument, that at the first jostle they could fall over—and possibly out—met with pouting protest. It wasn’t until Nathan turned in his seat and reminded them that those chairs had been crafted for the elders and apostles of the church, to sit in the frontmost rows of Heavenly Father’s sacred temple, that they uttered a halfhearted, “Yes, sir,” and sat on their bottoms.