“Then why the sadness?” he asked. “This is a joyous occasion, is it not? Your brother is married now.”
“It should’ve been me,” she muttered under her breath.
“Ruthie,” I snapped.
“Ah.” The Prophet nodded. “Your time will come, Miss Ruthie. Believe me, your time will come. Now, run along and mind your siblings. I’d like to have a word with your mother.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ruthie ran into the house and I was forced to face the Prophet alone. There was no safety net for this conversation, so I had to be brave and handle it myself. My stomach flipped in anticipation as we stood in silence.
The Prophet linked his hands behind his back, tilting his head a bit as he studied me. “The cake is delicious. Did you make it?”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, but no, Sarah is the baker of the family. I do make a delicious roast chicken.”
“I should like to try it sometime.”
“I’d be honored.”
Another pause, and my heart raced. There had to be a reason for this conversation. Perhaps he would explain his actions, although the chances of that were slim. The Prophet answered to no one. Who was I to think he’d feel any obligation to explain himself to me?
Get a grip, Aspen. You’re nothing special, just a woman, like any other on this compound.
“My mother is certainly taken with you.”
“Thank you. I like her very much.”
The Prophet stared back at the bench where Jorjina was watching birds chirping from the tree above her. “Well, she always has liked Paul’s wives.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, wondering if I’d misunderstood his last statement.
“How’s your dog?” he asked, clearing his throat. When he turned his attention back toward me, his face hardened.
“Scout?” I asked, my throat dry. “He’s fine. He’s off playing with Jeremiah, I’m sure. They’re attached at the hip.” I attempted to divert the conversation in another direction, but I failed.
“Yes, your boy seems rather attached, doesn’t he?”
“They’re the best of friends.”
“You know, I was surprised to see the dog off the grounds of his home. Is he allowed to roam?”
“No, sir, he normally stays in our yard. Someone left the gate open and he just got out, I guess.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I’ve asked my sister wives to double-check that they always lock the gate, so it shouldn’t happen again.”
Please understand what I’m saying. Please don’t punish my family for what I saw . . . what I think I saw.
“I should hope so. It would be a shame if he wandered away; it seems your little boy would surely follow. You said yourself they’re attached at the hip.” He tipped his head forward and raised both eyebrows. “Am I making myself clear?”
Jeremiah? No! Don’t you touch my baby!
I swallowed hard as sweat popped out on my forehead, my neck, my hands. The Prophet was threatening me, threatening to harm my little boy. In sheer panic, I gave the only answer I could possibly offer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He clasped his hands together. “Now, I believe I’ll have another slice of cake.”
He stared at me, waiting for me to serve him. I was nothing if not perceptive to expectations. The Prophet had threatened me, and then demanded dessert. His eyes were dull and lifeless, as if threatening to harm my child was just another part of his daily role as Prophet.
In that moment, something shifted within me. If the Prophet felt the need to threaten me, to threaten the life of my youngest child, then he was up to no good. This became quite clear.
And at that realization, I grew angry. Furious.
For weeks, I’d hoped that I was wrong, that I misunderstood. But I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if I’d misinterpreted what I’d witnessed, then there would be no need for the warning that had just taken place.
So I harnessed my bravery within, took a breath, and looked him square in the eye. “Of course, dogs do have minds of their own, don’t they?”
The Prophet’s jaw tensed and his Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed. “I suppose they do.”
“We try to control him, but he’s just an animal, after all.”
The Prophet stared at me in silence.
“I’ll get that cake for you,” I said with a nod, and went to retrieve a plate with the largest piece I could find as my heart pounded furiously in my chest.
As I walked back to join him, I felt strong, powerful. I’d called his bluff and gotten away with it.
Or had I? Panic replaced my confidence as my heart continued to thump so hard within me that I felt my lungs could deflate completely. The pressure within my chest was almost unbearable.
What on earth did I just do? Have I put my baby at risk? What kind of mother am I?
Apologize, Aspen. Repent! Make things right!
I returned to the Prophet, placed the plate in his hands, and opened my mouth to speak. Before I could utter a single syllable, he gripped the plate with one hand and my forearm with the other. He squeezed hard, painfully, and I gasped.
“Watch your step, Aspen. Your life can change in an instant.”
“Yes, sir.” I looked around the yard to see Paul watching my interaction with his brother. A concerned and confused look crossed his handsome face as he studied me.
Keep sweet. Keep sweet. Keep sweet.
“If you’ll excuse me, I should join Paul and my sister wives.”
“Of course.” The Prophet nodded, releasing my arm and turning his attention to the cake on his plate. He glanced down and smiled. “Ah, a corner piece. My favorite.”
He plunged his fork into the thick icing and placed the large bite of cake in his mouth, such a carefree action considering the tension that loomed between us just seconds before. While I required every ounce of strength within me to join my husband and appear unruffled, the Prophet had no trouble going about his business and enjoying his dessert.
A disturbing thought came to me as I walked to join Paul. Perhaps I don’t know the Prophet at all.
I’d spent the last twenty-six years of my life studying his word, following his laws and worshipping him in his position in our community as the mouthpiece of God. To be threatened by him was surreal, and I struggled to reconcile what I thought I knew about this man with the reality that faced me now.
The Prophet had sent people from our community—that fact wasn’t lost on me. But those people deserved it. They’d stepped out of line, disrespected our way of life, refused to follow the rules.
They weren’t defenseless two-year-old babies . . .
“What was that about?” Paul whispered in my ear as I joined him and two of his other brothers.
“Oh, nothing. He was just . . . checking on us. You know, in general.”
Paul’s expression fell. “I see.”
He knew I was lying, and my stomach churned. I didn’t lie. Well, not often. I’d once lied on Brinley’s behalf to our witch of a sister wife, Leandra. But stretching the truth was not something I engaged in unless utterly necessary, and this fit the bill. I’d made a choice not to tell Paul about Scout’s escape from the yard and what I’d observed at the temple. I couldn’t jeopardize his relationship with the Prophet, not again. I’d lied to protect, not to harm.
But something in the pit of my stomach told me that the Prophet and I didn’t have that in common. He was telling lies, keeping secrets, and betraying his people. I knew it in every fiber of my being. But aside from what I’d witnessed weeks before, I had nothing to go on. I knew I had to be careful, to keep sweet, and to maintain normalcy.
For Jeremiah’s sake.
But that didn’t mean I would stop trying to find the truth, no matter how long it might take. I just had to be smart, calculating, and discreet.
I glanced back at Jorjina, still cozy on our bench, and smiled, knowing that a friendship with her had the potential to feed
my soul and to protect Jeremiah. If Jorjina had any influence at all over the Prophet, and my past knowledge of her involvement with Brinley indicated that she did, her friendship could serve as protection for me and for my little boy.
My thoughts drifted back to Brinley and to her life outside our community. And then I remembered.
“Will you excuse me?” I asked Paul before searching the yard for Jeremiah.
“Come on, sweetheart. It’s time for your nap.” I took my son by the hand and slipped into the house.
My heart still pounded as I entered my room, locking the door behind me. I placed Jeremiah on the bed and instructed him to get under the covers. He tipped his head to the side in confusion. He’d never taken a nap in my room before.
“This is a special nap, sweet boy. You get to be in here with Mama. Isn’t that fun?”
Jeremiah nodded, frosting smeared across his cheeks. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Now, lay down, sweetheart. Mama will be right here when you wake up.”
Jeremiah yawned and placed his head on the pillow. I stroked his hair with trembling fingertips, willing myself to calm. Willing my body to settle.
Once he’d drifted to sleep, I opened the top drawer of my dresser and pushed past my undergarments to find the reason for our trip to my bedroom. The phone Porter had given me three years ago sat at the back of the oak drawer along with a charger I’d purchased at the local drugstore before my marriage to Paul. Just in case.
I plugged the phone into the wall and paced the room, waiting to see if it would work.
Please, please, please work.
Moments later, the screen brightened and the phone chimed.
It works!
Quickly, I scanned to find the telephone number Porter had mentioned years before. It was still there. I sat, holding the phone in my trembling hands.
An alert flashed. Three new text messages. Tears formed in my eyes as I read them.
The first was sent just days after I moved to Paul’s home, three years ago.
Brinley: Aspen? Are you reading this? Hello?
The next was sent a few months later.
Brinley: Just checking. I miss you, Aspen. Please write me if you see this. I’m hoping you’re safe . . . and well. Hug your girls for me.
The last was sent just a few days ago. That meant the phone number still worked! Thank you, Heavenly Father!
Brinley: Okay, even though Porter insists you threw this away years ago, I have to reach out just one more time. Porter and I are married now! I know you’ve probably thrown this away, but I had to share my news. I needed you to know that I’m happy. I’m so happy, Aspen. The future is bright, so very bright, indeed. I miss you and think of you often.
I clutched the phone to my chest, tears streaming down my face as I wished I had checked the phone sooner. I was so caught up in my own reassignment that I hadn’t considered the possibility of Brinley reaching out to me through this device.
Shame on you, Aspen.
My fingers shook as I answered her final text.
Aspen: Hello, sweet Brinley. Was reminiscing with Jorjina Black about you just today. She is my new mother-in-law and misses you as much as I do. I apologize for not replying sooner; I’ve been adjusting to my new life as the wife of Paul Black, brother of the Prophet. We have a son—his name is Jeremiah and he owns my heart. Sending you and Porter much love and best wishes.
I knew my response wasn’t nearly enough. I wanted to call her, to hear her soft voice, to offer her congratulations on her marriage to Porter. But I couldn’t. I was once again too consumed by my own situation. I was in no state to reconnect with her.
Besides, what would I say? What would I ask? I’d abandoned her when she tried again and again to reach out to me through these text messages. If I called her now, it would be for my own selfish gain, not to congratulate her on her happiness. No, that would be unacceptable.
And even if she could forgive me for that, as I know sweet and kind Brinley would, what could she possibly offer me in this confusing and unclear situation?
Nothing. My heart sank as I realized the honest truth.
She was living her life . . . a life that suited her, away from our community, away from the compound. And I was happy for her, possibly for the first time.
I knew in my gut that this wasn’t the time to reach out to my former sister wife. But as I stared at the screen through blurry eyes, reading her messages again and again, a feeling formed within me that even though the time hadn’t arrived, it was looming somewhere in the future.
I just had to wait for a sign.
I placed the phone back in my top drawer and lay down beside Jeremiah, wrapping my arms around him as he slept.
“I’ll do anything to protect you, sweet boy,” I whispered against his soft hair. “Anything.”
Chapter 11
“The greatest destiny for a woman is to become a faithful, obedient wife.”
—The Prophet, Clarence Black
Aspen
Each week, thousands of us poured into the old temple to listen to the words of our Prophet and hear announcements given by him and other members of the priesthood. Following the services, the wives of the Prophet treated the community to tea and cookies in the field next to the temple. Children could run and play with their friends while the adults of our community were allowed to socialize with one another for hours before returning to our homes.
I’d never missed a service or post-service gathering. Sunday morning congregation was, for the majority of my life, my favorite part of the week. The Prophet’s words were my solace, my comfort, my peace. Each week, I drank them in like a soothing cup of tea.
But today, they were a harsh pill to swallow, a pill you had to force down with several ounces of water in an effort not to choke it back up. To say I was skeptical would be a gigantic understatement.
For days since Jordan and Bethany’s wedding, Paul had sensed a difference in me. He repeatedly asked what was wrong, but I kept sweet and told him I was fine. I couldn’t let him see my distrust of the Prophet, and I certainly couldn’t avoid services on this pleasant Sunday morning. If I did, he would know.
And so I dressed in my favorite shade of lilac and asked Pennie to braid my hair as I braided Ruthie’s in preparation for congregation. After gathering the other children, Paul and I walked a mile to the old temple with the rest of the family.
We found our seats and prepared for the Prophet’s sermon. I sat stiffly, wanting to take the microphone and announce the Prophet’s threats to the people of my community. But I’d be foolish to even attempt such a stunt. No one would believe me, and my children and I would be banished by day’s end.
Keep sweet. Keep sweet. Keep sweet.
“Good morning, my children,” the Prophet said to the congregants. “It’s glorious to see so many fresh, smiling faces on this lovely day. I’ll begin by giving an update on our new temple. I’ll ask the new foreman, Rodney Steed, to deliver the update.”
The congregation applauded, but I cringed as a portly man with gray hair and a hunched posture climbed to the podium and stood beside the Prophet. I turned to see Paul looking down at his lap, ashamed to not be the one standing next to his brother.
“Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to inform everyone that our temple will be ready in just six months. We thank you for your patience. This is a grand endeavor, and one that has had several . . . setbacks. But we’re on track and our team will complete the project very soon.”
“Excellent.” The Prophet retrieved the microphone from Rodney, who left the podium. “This morning, I want to talk about loyalty. We all must strive to be at our most loyal. Loyal to our Prophet, to our faith, and to our community.”
I shifted in my seat as the Prophet scanned the congregation, his gaze landing meaningfully on me.
“Being loyal to your family is not enough. No, you need to strive to put Heavenly Father first, and thus you must trust in the Prophet, for I am the only one to deliver you
r salvation. Remember that, my children.”
Jeremiah yanked on my sleeve. “Hungwy, Mama.”
I closed my eyes, sighed, and retrieved a sleeve of crackers from my pocket. This child was always hungry. Since he’d turned two years old, I’d made a habit of bringing snacks for him during services. When I didn’t, it was harder to control my spirited boy. Thank goodness my daughters were poised, sitting quietly and attentively.
“Shhh,” I said, passing him the crackers one by one.
Jeremiah munched as the rest of us listened to the Prophet continue with his sermon on loyalty. I was absolutely certain that I had been the inspiration behind this particular topic. Just months ago, the idea of a sermon having been written as an homage to myself for my devotion to the church would have pleased me immensely. But this was nothing to be proud of, nothing to celebrate or revel in. He was sending me a message. A strong one.
“Now, our next topic is blessings. As you all know, Heavenly Father has blessed me with thirty-seven wives. Thirty-seven loyal, selfless, and caring women. I honor and treasure them each and every day. Heavenly Father has been revealing unions to me in the past few months. Congratulations once again to Jordan Black and his new wife, Bethany.”
The congregation offered a round of applause. I turned to see Jordan and Bethany holding hands but looking uncomfortable at the attention.
“It’s been a while since our Lord has given me a blessing, however. And so I prayed, and I asked him again and again, ‘Lord, how can I better serve you? What can I do?’ And last night, Heavenly Father answered my prayers. Let us thank him for his grace.”
“Thank you, Heavenly Father,” the congregation said in unison, but I said nothing.
Again, the Prophet’s eyes found mine. He raised one silver eyebrow and smiled wickedly, tipping his head toward me.
Oh no.
“The Lord revealed that I am to have a new wife. Ruthie, the daughter of Aspen and Paul Black, is not old enough to marry yet, this is true. But Heavenly Father was clear in his revelation. Ruthie, will you join me up front, dear child?”
Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2) Page 8