Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2)

by Melissa Brown

  But I still wondered who that man was by the oak tree. Out of deference to Paul, I decided I wouldn’t pursue it. Making waves would not be a smart choice for myself or for the family, but deep inside, I knew my curiosity couldn’t be silenced for long.

  Three years later

  Chapter 8

  “Live your life as if the Prophet is standing beside you. Always.”

  —The Prophet, Clarence Black

  Aspen

  I was awakened by a cold, wet tongue lapping at the tip of my nose. Instinctively, I pushed the snout of our border collie away, rolling over with the hope of getting just a few more minutes of sleep before my alarm chimed.

  “Scout,” I muttered under my breath, “leave me be. Go wake the children.”

  “Mama . . .” An exaggerated whisper came from the door.

  “Of course.” I sighed, knowing that wherever Scout went, Jeremiah was close behind. “Good morning, sweet boy.”

  My twenty-six-month-old, the spitting image of his father, climbed with all his might until he was in my bed, and then crawled into my open arms.

  I ran my fingers through his soft blond hair, the wisps tickling my fingers. “How did you sleep?”

  Jeremiah ignored my question and played with the cuff of my nightgown. “Hungwy, Mama.”

  “You’re always ready to eat, aren’t you?”

  Jeremiah nodded, licking his lips and giggling. “Muffin?”

  To my little boy, any type of bread product was a muffin—bagel, toast, Danish, it didn’t matter. Paul and I joked that our son had the stomach of a ten-year-old boy since his hunger seemed to never be fully satisfied, and he never grew tired of “muffins.”

  “Of course.” After giving him a kiss on the forehead, I climbed from my bed, wiping the sleep from my eyes and dressing while Jeremiah chased Scout around the room. The exuberant pup yapped, and I scolded them both as we made our way to the girls’ room.

  Ruthie was already wearing her favorite pink dress, her braid reaching her waist. She was approaching puberty, and I wasn’t ready. Not at all.

  At eleven years old, she had already experienced her first crush. Unfortunately, I had to discourage her from her starry-eyed obsession with Flora and Paul’s eldest son, Jordan, because she didn’t quite understand that he was her brother, even though they were technically not connected by blood.

  Her eyes were still red from our discussion the night before when I’d spoiled her hopes of one day being assigned to Jordan . . .

  • • •

  Jordan was twenty-two years old and a handsome young man. Paul was priming him to take his first wife, and Flora was hopeful that the Prophet would assign a wife to him in the coming months.

  Ruthie, with silly dreams dancing in her head, had asked me if she could be considered for the role.

  “Sweet girl, he’s your brother.”

  She grimaced. “Not really. Paul isn’t my real father.”

  “That’s not true. When I married him, your blood changed to his. You know this.”

  I waited for Ruthie to contest the doctrine and the words of our Prophet. She’d become quite the challenge in the last two years, questioning authority and our way of life.

  Pennie had assured me that all of her daughters had gone through a similar stage, but it was unnerving just the same. I wanted my daughters to be devout followers of the Prophet, prepared to marry and serve a husband of their own, but that time simply hadn’t arrived yet.

  Though she didn’t protest my words, Ruthie threw herself against her pillow and sobbed. “But I love him.”

  “First of all,” I said sternly, determined to yank her from her foolish thoughts. “You have no idea what love is. It’s messy and ridiculous, and even grown-ups have trouble handling themselves when they’re in love. Secondly, you’re nowhere near old enough to be married.”

  She sat up with a start, rubbing her cheeks with the back of her hands. “That’s not true. Some of the girls at school are being assigned.”

  “Who?”

  “Bonnie Steed.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bonnie is fourteen years old. And even that’s young. Just enjoy being a child, Ruthie. Being a wife is hard work. In fact, it’s nothing but work.”

  She pouted, crossing her arms. “Mama, who do you think he’ll marry?”

  “Jordan?” When Ruthie nodded, I stroked her back. “Someone older, I presume. Someone who’s ready.”

  She had flung herself back against her pillow, sobbing as I’d rubbed her back while rolling my eyes. I was lucky that Heavenly Father had blessed me with four distinctive and unique children, and that Ruthie was my only child with a flare for the dramatic.

  • • •

  I was relieved to see that even though her eyes were puffy and red from her crying last night, Ruthie appeared to have pushed the Jordan nonsense from her head and was ready to start the day.

  “Good morning, Ruthie. Will you help your sisters into their clothes, please?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Thank you. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was crowded with children and sister wives scrambling for their morning meal. Pennie and JoAnna greeted me as I glanced at the day’s calendar. Paul was to join me for the first time in three years that evening. Our break from each other was coming to a close.

  It was a surprise to me when I’d viewed the calendar a week before and saw my name. Paul hadn’t communicated with me that he was ready, but he’d asked Flora to place me back into the rotation. Just another symptom of the divide between us.

  A reluctant sigh left my mouth as I stared at the paper fixed by a magnet to the large industrial-sized refrigerator.

  “Are you . . . ready?” a voice whispered next to me.

  Pennie, looking as tired as she always did, was standing beside me, fidgeting with her hands. Over the past three years, she and I had become close friends. In fact, she was my only sister wife I trusted implicitly.

  Things had been different between Paul and me. Once I’d revealed my pregnancy and we decided to halt our intimacy, I’d felt relief, freed from my guilt.

  But that night Paul had knocked on my door, begging for one last night in my bed, one last night of passion. His eyes were pained; he was in agony.

  Part of me wanted to please him, to satisfy his needs in the hopes of finally quenching that thirst he struggled with. But I knew that wasn’t possible. The human heart could never be quenched or fulfilled if the object of its affection was slipping away. Our intimacy would only make things worse. And so, I’d denied him. We’d talked into the night, and he seemed to finally make peace with our temporary separation.

  After Jeremiah was born, Paul had admitted to me that the distance between us was working, but that he needed more time to abolish the cravings from his heart. And I respected that decision. There were murmurs amongst the wives when I wasn’t added back into Paul’s rotation after recuperating from Jeremiah’s birth, but those were easy to ignore.

  As much as the other wives might have acted concerned about the divide between our husband and me, I knew what they were secretly thinking—my loss was their gain. With fourteen wives, Paul only had minimal private time with each wife, and if anyone was removed from the rotation for any reason, the others rejoiced in the extra time they would undoubtedly receive. It was just part of life in plural marriage.

  So their whisperings, mostly led by Sarah, the gossip of the house, left me unruffled. Admittedly, I just didn’t care. They all thought I was simply keeping sweet, trying desperately to hide my emotions, but that wasn’t true. Their opinions meant nothing to me, except for Pennie’s.

  She was my friend.

  Paul’s absence from my bed was something I adjusted easily to. After all, with a household of more than seventy people, solitude became what I welcomed at night. Occasionally, Pennie would sleep beside me and we’d talk about our day, our children, and our hopes for the future.

  One evening, she asked why
our husband didn’t visit my bedroom any longer. And despite my better judgment, my sleepiness loosened my tongue and made me vulnerable.

  To this day, she never spoke a word of my situation to the other wives, and so I let her in. She knew that I was hesitant to allow Paul back into my bed, as I had no idea what his expectations would be.

  When I turned to Pennie and nodded in answer to her whispered question, she patted my shoulder. “I’ll pray for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  A booming voice entered the kitchen. “Good morning, everyone.”

  Paul.

  He kissed each of the wives on the lips in turn, but when he reached me, he paused and placed a kiss on my cheek.

  I frowned, still feeling tension between us. It’s been three years. When will this end?

  Quickly, he turned his attention to our son perched on my hip, ruffling his hair before patting him on the top of the head.

  “Good morning, champ!”

  Paul made the rounds, greeting more than a dozen of his fifty-eight children. He really was a good man. If only he could see past his desires, I knew we could have a fulfilling marriage.

  I busied myself feeding Jeremiah, hoping that evening would bring the balance I craved in our relationship.

  • • •

  My nerves were on fire as I waited for Paul to join me in my bedroom. He was late.

  Years ago, when we spent countless nights together, he would join me only moments after saying his good-nights to the wives. But on this night, I found myself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and jumping each time I heard a noise from the hallway.

  Get a hold of yourself, Aspen. He’s your husband, for goodness’ sake.

  To calm my racing brain, I walked down the hall to find Scout curled up at the foot of Jeremiah’s toddler bed. I patted his warm belly.

  “Scout, c’mon, boy. Time to go out.”

  Scout hopped to the floor, stretched, and followed me to the sliding glass door in the kitchen. A few of the older children were reading scripture in the common area, and after opening the door for Scout to go out, I joined them.

  “Up late this evening, aren’t you?”

  Pennie’s oldest daughter, Lettie, was fifteen and eager to please every grown-up in the home. “Should I go to bed? My mother said I could read. We have a quiz tomorrow.”

  “On what?”

  “Blood atonement.”

  Unexpectedly, a grimace took hold of my face. “That’s quite the topic.”

  “Is it true, Mother Aspen? Does the Prophet still practice this? It’s terrifying.”

  Blood atonement was a long-standing doctrine in our faith. According to the Prophet’s teachings, there were certain crimes that could not be forgiven in any other way than for the accused’s blood to be spilled upon the ground in atonement. Murder and adultery were the two official crimes considered worthy of such punishment. However, the Prophet had the power to deem any crime worthy of blood atonement.

  “I’ve never known anyone to endure it, but yes.”

  Her skin turned a sickly shade of white, and I leaned over the couch to place my hand on her forearm. “If you’re a good daughter and you serve the Prophet, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Thank you, Mother Aspen.”

  I nodded and walked to the door, but Scout was nowhere to be seen.

  “That dog,” I muttered.

  “What’s the matter?” Lettie asked.

  “He must’ve wandered off again.”

  “Oh no, I distracted you. I’m sorry, I—”

  I shook my head, throwing a jacket on over my nightdress. “Don’t be silly. This dog has an authority complex. If your father is looking for me, please let him know I’m hunting down that silly dog of his.”

  “I will.”

  The cold desert air hit my face and I pulled my jacket tighter, zipping it up as I walked around the house searching for Scout, hoping to hear the jingle of his collar and tags.

  “Scout! Here, boy!” I shouted into the darkness as I walked to the front of the house.

  The dog was nowhere to be found.

  I passed through our open front gate, frustrated that someone had forgotten to lock it before retiring for the evening. Scout could be anywhere!

  The night was dark, save for a few lights that beamed above the newly constructed temple. The Prophet had held steady in not welcoming Paul back as foreman. He’d hired another man of the priesthood, and eventually Paul had made peace with that decision when the Prophet assigned him to oversee the new community supply center.

  For years, the Prophet had advocated that our community taxes be pooled together so we could shop from a supply center rather than leaving the compound to visit stores. Most of our community was in favor of such a place where wives could purchase food, toiletries, and other essential items at a discounted price.

  Paul was asked to build this center, along with the warehouse that would store all of the supplies. He was thrilled, and I was relieved that my influence on him hadn’t cost our family the income we so desperately needed, as the Prophet paid Paul the same salary as he’d earned as a foreman. No harm, no foul.

  I approached the beckoning light of the temple. It was a massive building with three stories and over sixty thousand square feet. No one other than the construction workers had set foot in it yet, as the unveiling was scheduled for later in the year.

  We were all eager to commence worship there on Sunday mornings, but it was rumored that the Prophet was planning for community recreation rooms to be constructed on the other two floors of the building. I was interested to see what activities would be available for the children, especially during the winter months when everyone grew stir crazy.

  Scout was crouched next to a tree, doing his business. I shook my head as I approached the dog, realizing in my haste to find him, I’d forgotten to bring a plastic bag.

  When he finished, I grabbed him by the collar, making a mental note of his location so that I could clean it in the morning.

  I crouched down and looked him in the eyes. “You silly dog. Why can’t you stay in your yard, huh?”

  Scout licked my nose, and I giggled despite my irritation at being out in the middle of the night.

  “C’mon, boy, let’s go home.”

  Scout and I were walking back toward the house when I heard voices coming from the temple. One was instantly recognizable. The Prophet.

  What on earth is he doing here in the middle of the night?

  Looking down at my attire, I panicked at the thought of the Prophet seeing me in my nightclothes. I lifted Scout into my arms and hustled to the nearest tree, hoping the Prophet would pass with his companion and I could slink away without being seen.

  But then I saw him, the man I’d first seen three years ago by the oak tree. The face of pure evil that had invaded my nightmares ever since. I’d remember that face, that stocky build and hanging belly.

  He and four other men were walking with the Prophet.

  “I’m sure you’ll find the product to your liking,” the Prophet said, opening the door to the temple.

  The product? What on earth was he talking about?

  I searched the faces of the men, not recognizing any of them. Two were dressed in torn jeans and leather jackets, articles of clothing deemed unacceptable in our community. When the Prophet opened the door to the temple, the men walked through it.

  No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t!

  The Prophet was welcoming outsiders into our holy temple! The temple that, aside from the workers of the project, no one had been allowed to enter. And yet outsiders, Gentiles, were entering our sacred place of worship.

  No, this can’t be happening!

  Once the double doors had slammed shut behind them, I placed Scout on the ground. He yelped as I accidentally stepped on his paw. Adrenaline shot through me and I looked around, hoping no one had seen me.

  And then I saw him. The Prophet, standing at the temple’s entrance, his eyes
locked with mine.

  Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

  I stood, waiting for him to break the silence, to ask me why I was wandering about at night. But he said nothing. He simply pursed his lips, opened the doors once again, and disappeared inside the temple.

  My heart leaped into my throat as I hustled Scout along and closed the front gate of our home. Crazed, nonsensical thoughts scrambled through my brain as I attempted to process what I’d just witnessed.

  Our Prophet, the man I’d trusted and revered since birth, the one who spoke of Gentiles and how they should never be trusted, the one who encouraged us to stay within the confines of our community in order to avoid being tainted by the evil lurking within their hearts, was not only allowing Gentiles into our community, but he was holding the door of our holy temple open for them, allowing them into the heart of our compound, into the soul of our faith.

  Once inside, I stripped myself of the jacket and hung it back on the coat rack near the sliding glass door. Scout bounded down the hall, returning to Jeremiah’s bed, no doubt.

  I reached my bedroom door and stopped cold as I heard Paul humming on the other side, knowing that I couldn’t tell him what I’d just witnessed. I couldn’t jeopardize the peace we’d worked so hard to achieve in our marriage. The last time I’d come to him in fear, it had nearly destroyed us.

  No, I had to keep this secret to myself. I had to maintain the status quo with Paul and the other wives. Willing my pulse to slow to a normal rate, I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Hi,” Paul said, looking sheepish.

  My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. I’d decided that he was the most handsome when his shyness overtook his charm.

  “Hello.” I brushed a hand over my nightdress, attempting to remain calm.

  “It’s . . . it’s been a while.”

  “Yes,” I replied with a nod.

  “I’m surprised you weren’t in bed already.”

  “Oh.” I motioned back to the door. “Scout had to do his business.”

  “Ah, he’s quite the handful, huh? At least he makes Jeremiah happy.”