The Chosen One (2 page)

I REMEMBER
sitting on my father’s lap. So small, so cute (I’ve seen the pictures that prove it). My hair was that whitish blondish color. The color that Carolina’s is now.

I wore a dress of pale blue with pink trim. And fed Father strawberries one at a time. I snuggled my head into his neck. And he laughed and kissed my face and told me how much he loved me, his Kyra.

“Kyra, Kyra Leigh, Leigh, Leigh,”
he sang.

“Kyra, Kyra Leigh, Leigh, Leigh,”
I sang back.
“Kyra Kyra me, me, me.”

And Father sang,
“Kyra Kyra you, you, you.”

_________

I LOOK OUT
the window that faces east, out over the desert. The sky’s almost black now.

Mother Sarah sits near Father, leaning against him. He pats her hand, pats my brothers in his lap. Mother Victoria keeps all the smallest children quiet by telling a story of Jesus. Mother Claire wipes down an already-clean kitchen.

Adam, my oldest brother, looks over at me like he wants to say something. Emily, who is not right in her mind and who would be the oldest sister if she were sound, wanders around the room. She touches each of us, squished in tight together, on the head. “Duck, duck, duck,” but no “goose” because there is no running or playing. We’re waiting for the Prophet.

We are waiting for God’s Anointed.

While I watch my mothers, while I gaze at my father pink-cheeked with hope, while I listen to my siblings all around me, I am struck to the center with worry. I squeeze my eyes shut. Can Adam read my mind? Is that why he looked at me that way?

I’ve doomed the family. I know it right that second. It feels like someone has dumped ice all over me. It feels I am right-at-that-moment covered with snow.

My father is pure. My mothers. My brothers and sisters. Emily for sure.

But me.

Me!

I’ve
planned to kill someone. No! not someone! I’ve planned the death of the Prophet. God’s Anointed. God’s Chosen.

And there’s more. So much more.

Without thinking, I stand. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to run. Get to my secret place so I can be alone. Get away. Maybe make them safe from my unclean thoughts. From the things I’ve done.

“Duck, duck, duck,” Emily says. She reaches for my head.

“Sit, Kyra,” Mother Claire says. She’s by the sink, ringing out the washcloth. “We’re waiting for God’s Chosen.”

“I have to go,” I say. Now Nathaniel and Laura stare at me. “I forgot something.”

“Kyra,” Father says, “whatever it is can wait.”

“No, Father,” I say. I can feel my face turning red. My sins on my cheeks. There for everyone to see. “I need to leave for now. You can tell me what happens. Prophet Childs won’t notice I’m not here.”

“Kyra,” Mother says. “Sit. Please.”

And Mother Victoria, all full of gasps, says, “He notices everything. He sees everything. He’d know if you weren’t with us.”

“Kyra Leigh,” Mother says again and her voice is soft in this room full of my family. “Be obedient to your father.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and flop back onto the sofa. Then, under my breath, where not even the closest sibling can hear me, I whisper, “God in Heaven, forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.” It becomes my chant.

I cannot curse this family

OKAY
. It’s not just the planning to kill Prophet Childs. There’s more. There’s lots more.

Squished between my sisters I try not to think of my sins but they are all in me. I know they are there.

First, there are the books.

FINDING THE LIBRARY
was an accident.

Prophet Childs would never let one of us check out books from a public library.

“We have our beliefs,” he’s said. “We have our God-given freedoms. And no one is going to take that away by brainwashing
us
with Satan’s teachings.”

Past the edge of the Compound. Past the fences. Past the river. Off our land, headed away. That’s where I was, looking off to the north and Florentin. I remember the day clear.

August 13. A late Wednesday afternoon. Hotter than fire. So hot the spit dried up in my mouth. So hot that when I stared at the empty road my eyes felt like
they
dried up, too. My work at home with my mother and with the other mothers was done—at least for a while—the quilting and helping with the laundry and working on dinner and even piano time.

So I stood there, just
stood
there, and then I heard something coming down the road behind me, the road that eventually runs in front of our Compound.

And here comes the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels, rolling along, headed toward Florentin. Kicking up red dust behind it.

Why, as it got closer, a shiver went right down my arms even though it had to be a million degrees standing out there in the desert sun. The library on wheels went clunking past, coming from the south, and the man driving, clean-shaven face, ball cap pulled down low on his forehead, he nodded at me.

My heart just about leapt through the bones of my chest.

I gave the driver a look, squint-eyed because of the sun
and
his nod. Who did he think he was, nodding at me like that? I stared him right in the eye, even though the Prophet would have said it was a sin to look a Gentile in the face.

But seeing that van—that nodding driver—did something to me. I don’t know what. Or why.

The next day, same time, I went there again. Rushing through chores and piano practice and helping the mothers. Past the Compound. Past the fences. Past the river. Off our land. A good long ways away. I waited and waited. No truck.

So the next day and the next and the next, until a week had passed, and here comes the truck, rolling along
again
. Wednesday afternoon. Same man driving. He nodded.
Again
.

My heart thumped. I squinted. Looked him dead in the eye.

Third week he stopped.

Dust billowed up around us. I could taste the dirt. Crunched sand.

He rolled down the window. “You want a library card,” he said, adjusting the ball cap he wore. It wasn’t even a question.

And I nodded, like he’d done to me these past weeks.

“You can take four books out at a time,” he said when I inched my way into the truck, cooled by fans and air-conditioning.

I’d never seen so many books. Never. The sight made my eyes water. I mean, tear right up.

“Four?” I said. There was that sand on my tongue, gritting between my back teeth.

“Four.”

I eyed the man. Eyed the books. Stood still, my heart thumping.

“Maybe just one,” I said.

“You could start with this,” he said and handed me something from a basket near his feet. “A girl just your age turned it in on my last stop. She said she loved it.
I
loved it myself.”

His last stop? Another girl?
He’d
read this book?

I took the novel from him and glanced at the cover.
Bridge to Terabithia
.

I was there just a minute and I only took the one. One, I knew, would be easier to hide.

But oh, how my life changed with his stopping. My life changed when I started reading. I was different with these sinful words.

Who was this Katherine Paterson? Who was this Jesse and Leslie? People the writer knew? I could hardly read this book fast enough.

And when I did

when I got to the end

when I got to the end and

Leslie died

and Jesse was left alone without his best friend

I cried so hard that coming in from my hiding place, my tree, the book stashed in the branches, high in the prickles, Mother Victoria said, “Where have you been, Kyra? I needed help making bread.” Then she looked at my face and said, her voice all worried, “Honey, what happened?”

I couldn’t tell her a thing. Not about Leslie or May Belle or Jesse all alone. I couldn’t tell Mother Victoria a thing about drowning or running or painting.

Instead, I threw my arms around her waist and said, my head on her shoulder, crying my eyeballs out, “I love you so much, Mother Victoria.”

Then I set out delivering bread to my other mothers and to Sister Allred, who just had a baby, half-crying the whole way.

MY SINS
.

A plan. Books. And a boy.

There’s a boy.

Oh, I am carrying the weight of what I have done. But no one seems to notice.

Mariah reaches for me. I look the other way. I’m too nervous to hold Mariah, baby Mariah.

I grip Laura’s hand and try not to think of what I’ve done. Keep my prayer chant going.

Everyone whispers together, all dressed up on a Tuesday evening, hair smoothed with water or in braids.

Mariah, quiet, holds her hands to me still.

I get to my feet again.

“Kyra?” Father says.

Mother Sarah looks at me. “Are you feeling okay, honey?”

“I want to . . .” I stop mid-sentence. I want to what? Leave? Stay? Run? Hide? “I was thinking about playing the piano,” I say. A big, fat lie. One more sin added to all that I carry.

Laura tugs on my hand and I sit down beside her again.

THERE ARE JUST
a few places in the whole Compound with pianos.

Prophet Childs has a concert grand in his front room. I’ve seen it myself. Right through the plate-glass window. Pure white and shiny, that piano is. It
has
to be a concert grand. I bet a body could see her face in the shine of that thing. He lives in a brick house, so big it casts a long shadow on the lawn when the sun starts to set. The Apostles have houses and pianos, too. Not only does being an Apostle mean blessings from God, but blessings from the land, too. That’s what they’ve told us, and it seems that’s true.

There’re three pianos in the Temple, though I’ve only played the one in congregation room when Sister Georgia is ill. The final two pianos sit in the Fellowship Hall. One is an old Kawai. It’s my favorite.

It was there, on a Sunday morning after meetings that I wandered up to that piano and started playing
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star
. Just like that. Like I was born with the song stuck in my head. I was almost four.

“Listen to her,” Mother Sarah said. She ran right up to me, swooped me close, and said, “Did you hear her playing that song?”

Sister Georgia, who taught music lessons outside the Compound a long time ago, before she felt she was called to be a part of The Chosen, teaches anyone who wants to learn. My mother didn’t even hesitate when I plunked out that first song ten years ago. She marched me right up to Sister Georgia and said, “My Kyra is musical. She needs teaching.”

And I said, “I do.”

Music carries me away. Has since I was little. I can feel notes under my skin. Feel music in my muscles. Sometimes I even dream in Mozart or Beethoven scores. In the dreams, people speak out black musical notes, not words. And I understand every bit of it, exactly what they’re saying, when I dream.

“
NO PIANO NOW
, Kyra,” Father says. And right when he says that there’s a tap at the door.

“They’re here,” Margaret says and Mother Sarah says, “Coming to see us,” and sits up straighter. She is pale and in the light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling I can see her face is damp with sweat. She must feel awful.

Father sets Trevor and Foster on the floor and goes to the door. Quick, I pray one more time. “Please, dear Jesus. Please.”

Everyone is silent.

The only sound is Father’s church shoes on the floor as he walks over to open the front door. The room has grown hot with our being together.

“Ow,” Laura says.

“Sorry,” I say, realizing that I’m squeezing her hand too hard. I let go.

Please, please, Jesus. I’ll believe. I’ll be good if you choose my father. I’ll never think of killing anyone again. I swear it. I can’t quite say anything about the reading and there’s no time to think anything more than Joshua’s name
.

Father opens the door.

“Prophet Childs,” he says. “Brother Fields. Brother Stephens. Welcome. Oh!” Father’s voice sounds full of smiles. “Hyrum, I didn’t see you back there. Come on in.”

The four men move into the room. We offer our Prophet the comfortable chair and he takes it. Mother Victoria moves to the floor and sits near his feet. The other brethren, including my uncle, settle into the kitchen chairs.

“Brother Carlson,” Prophet Childs says. He is thin as a tree, tall with eyes so dark they look black. His brown hair is slicked back from his forehead, the comb lines visible. He smiles at us all. Lifts his hands to us. “Look at this family. Look at your heritage to the Lord, Brother Carlson.”

My father nods, beaming.

“Beautiful family,” the Prophet says. “Your older boys are honorable young men.” He nods. “The older girls are . . .” He stops. He’s looking at Emily. Our wonderful Emily. Right then I see her the way our Prophet must. I see her wide face, her slanted eyes, her smile that’s almost glowing. She looks at him with so much love I cannot understand how he cannot love her back. But I know he doesn’t. I’ve heard him say he doesn’t. I’ve heard him condemn her.

And I know what they do to those who are not whole.

“
SINNERS ARE SICK
. Sinners are not complete. Sinners do not please God and are cursed,” he has said in meetings.

Some of the congregation cheers. Some sing,
“Amen.”
Some are quiet.
Our
family is quiet.

“The unwhole won’t meet God,” he says. “Those who are lacking here,” tapping his head, “or here,” tapping his eyes, “or here,” tapping his heart, “do not qualify for the kingdom.”

I know it happens. It’s all part of the New Cleansing and mothers don’t talk of it much. The New Cleansing is part of what’s quiet around here.

Sister Janie Abbott had two baby boys. Tiny things. Not more than a pound or two. One died after an hour. But the one like Emily, he lived awhile.