Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2)

by Melissa Brown

“Aspen’s in trouble. She needs our help.”

  “She’s not the type to ask for help. What the hell is happening down there?”

  “The Prophet—she saw him leading Gentiles into the temple, and now he’s threatened her kids and wants to marry her oldest. It’s a mess.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She felt completely powerless and overwhelmed. What could she possibly do to help Aspen and her children?

  Porter looked confused. “Why didn’t he just kick her out?”

  A cynical laugh burst from Brinley’s lips. “Because she’s a woman.”

  “Good point.” Porter nodded.

  They both knew it was rare that a woman would be asked to leave the compound. Women were much too valuable to the success of the FLDS for the Prophet to kick them out. They were punished, yes, but never removed.

  “And she’s married to his brother.”

  “Oh.” Porter took a deep breath. “So, we have to help her. That’s all there is to it.”

  “She asked for a name of a police officer, someone who can help her figure this out. If that’s even possible.”

  Porter sat staring into space, his hands curled into tight fists. Brinley knew that he’d always be grateful to Aspen for rescuing her from Lehi’s wrath. Aspen had driven her to Porter when Lehi had beaten her to a pulp. Aspen had saved her life and for that, they would always be in her debt.

  He shook his head as he spoke. “I don’t know, but we have to try.”

  “Is there anyone you can call? Anyone at all?”

  “Yeah.” Porter nodded. “I think there is.”

  Chapter 14

  “Do not trust Gentiles, for they are the gateway to sin.”

  — The Prophet, Clarence Black

  Aspen

  I had a name and an address. Now I just had to put my plan into action.

  Jonathan Cooke was a police detective that Porter had met through his cousin Charlie. Porter didn’t know the man very well, but warned me Detective Cooke could be rough around the edges. He also hinted that Cooke had a history of disapproval of our way of life on the compound.

  “He may give you a hard time, but he’s good at his job,” Porter had said when he called the night before.

  I didn’t scare easily, and I was determined to work with the best I could find. If Jonathan Cooke was the best, then he couldn’t and wouldn’t intimidate me. If he could help me save my babies, nothing else mattered.

  Nothing at all.

  It was a Wednesday morning. Paul had left for work hours ago, and my sister wives had started their daily chores. Luckily, my day was light with work, and my children were occupied with scripture study and playing with their siblings.

  I just needed an excuse.

  “Flora, I’m heading into town.” I greeted my sister wife, keeping my voice and expression steady. “Do you need anything from the pharmacy?”

  Flora pursed her lips and placed her hands on her robust hips. “I just went to town yesterday, Aspen. Why didn’t you give me a list?”

  She was irritated, but that was the least of my concerns. Not even a healthy dose of guilt from Paul’s first wife would keep me from walking out that door.

  “I realized this morning that the children were out of cola syrup. Jeremiah’s stomach has been off lately, so I’m going to stock up.”

  “Don’t be silly, just grab some Pepto from my bath—”

  “No,” I snapped, perhaps a little too harshly. Flora raised one eyebrow, obviously taken aback by my not-so-calm demeanor. “Thank you, but Jeremiah can’t have Pepto. It binds him up and just makes things worse. He needs cola syrup; it’s the only thing that works.”

  “Oh,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Very well. I’ll ask JoAnna to keep an eye on your children.”

  “Thank you, Flora.”

  Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I realized that even after years of living with Brinley as my sister wife, I’d never quite understood her until that exact moment. I finally knew what it must have felt like to lie to our sister wives in order to escape to the outside world. A new level of understanding warmed my heart as I thought of Brinley and everything she went through to follow her heart.

  Just as I was following mine.

  “Aspen?”

  My fingertips had just grazed the knob of our front door as Paul called my name. Startled to my very core, I jumped, my heart pounding furiously. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and turned around. It was time to put on my mask and be impervious to my husband. He couldn’t see my nerves, my anxiety, the sweat building beneath my braid.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I have a word with you, please?”

  “Of course.” I cleared my throat and willed my heart to stop beating so rapidly. I wanted to ask him why he wasn’t at work as I’d expected, but didn’t want to draw any unnecessary suspicion my way.

  Keep sweet. Keep sweet. Keep sweet.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked, cocking his head to the side as he looked down at my purse. I never needed it unless I was leaving the compound.

  “The pharmacy. I’m all out of cola syrup.”

  “Jeremiah?” he asked, wincing.

  My reason for leaving our compound wasn’t a total lie. The excuse was true. My son’s stomach had been off lately, but we had plenty of cola syrup. The lie was in the urgency of the matter.

  “Yes.” I licked my lips, urging my dry mouth to moisten. “Was there something you needed?”

  “I, uh . . .” His forehead wrinkled while he paused. “I just wanted to say hello. We haven’t spoken much since—”

  “Since you didn’t believe me.”

  My voice was snide, but I didn’t care. Paul had turned his back on me, on us, and most of all, on our children.

  “I was hoping we could get past all that.”

  “How do you suggest we do that, Paul?”

  He sighed, scratching his head. “I don’t know. But you’ve clearly put a wall up, and I’m unable to climb it.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

  “Aspen, please.” He rolled his eyes in frustration. “We’ve been over this. You misunderstood my brother, that’s all.”

  “I misunderstood nothing. And I’m not the one who removed me from your rotation. That was your choice, Paul, your choice.”

  “Perhaps that was a mistake.”

  He stepped toward me and reached toward my shoulder but I retreated, my back slamming against the door. Paul’s mouth dropped open and we stood in silence until he spoke in a low whisper.

  “What happened to us?”

  I looked away, breaking eye contact. I couldn’t let him affect my resolve. I was going to meet with Detective Cooke, and no one was going to stop me.

  “Aspen, look at me.”

  I swallowed hard, my eyes finally reaching his after several moments.

  “We have to fix this.”

  “I’ll care for you,” I said stiffly. “I’ll care for you and raise your children. I’ll perform all duties expected of me in this household.”

  He closed the space between us, his eyes glistening. His hand grazed my cheek. “Aspen, please.”

  “You built the wall. You stacked those bricks and threw me over the side, never looking back. I went to you for support. I needed you, Paul, I needed you desperately. I didn’t build that wall, so please don’t pretend that I did.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared into my eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then that makes two of us. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the store before lunchtime. I’ll be needed in the kitchen this afternoon.”

  Looking away, he cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  As soon as I placed my hand back on the doorknob, he said my name yet again. I turned to lock eyes with my husband.

  “I’ll ask Flora to add you back into the rotation.” He paused, tipping his head to me. “If that’s agreeable to you.”

  My stomach was in knots. I had no desire to
share Paul’s bed after his betrayal, but deep down, I knew the choice was never really mine.

  “All right.”

  I turned, opened the door, and left our home without looking back.

  • • •

  I’d never encountered a police officer in my lifetime. In our community, the only law enforcement that existed was the Prophet. If someone committed a crime on our compound, the Prophet would choose the punishment. Men lost their wives, their children.

  On occasion, a man would come home from work to find the locks had been changed and his possessions were loaded into his truck, courtesy of the Prophet and the men of the priesthood. This meant only one thing, that he was to leave and never return as he was no longer welcome.

  Young men like Porter were dropped on random street corners, expected to function in the outside world. And if they refused to go, the men of the community would escort them out. But no one was sent to jail. Ever.

  The Prophet didn’t believe in that type of justice. If you were unfit to be a part of the chosen, you were forced to leave, and that was that. To the Prophet, and to the rest of us in his community, that was the only justice that mattered. Being a part of the chosen.

  Women, however, were treated differently. We were needed, necessary, essential. Women weren’t asked to leave as we were desperately needed for the role of wife and mother. In fact, I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that my audacious and bold attitude toward the Prophet wasn’t fueled by my knowledge of that fact.

  Was I facing punishment, embarrassment, and shame? Of course. But I wouldn’t be asked to leave. Not ever. I was too valuable as a commodity, and I intended to exploit that status as much as I possibly could.

  Unlike my former sister wife, Brinley, I didn’t enjoy venturing into the outside world. In fact, this was my first trip to the pharmacy in months.

  Gentiles made me uncomfortable. The women made me blush with their oftentimes brazen appearances. Painted faces, lack of modesty, and exposed brassieres made my eyes widen and my mind race. Did they have no self-respect? And the men were just as odd. Ink drawn on their arms, scruffy facial hair, and no manners whatsoever.

  No shame was to be found in the outside world, and it made me anxious. It made me want to bow my head in prayer, to pray for their souls, for their afterlife that would surely end in agony and flames.

  But if I was honest with myself, I was also mortified by their stares. They looked at me as if I was a mutant that crawled out from the dry canyons. They scoffed at my hair, rolled their eyes at my dress, and took pictures of me with their cell phones. I could think of nothing worse than being surrounded by Gentiles in their natural environment, one in which they could judge me for my appearance. One in which they could deny that I was part of the chosen, that they in fact were the ones immersing themselves in sin.

  As much as I despised entering their world, I would endure much worse to save my children. And so I ignored the stares and snickers as I stepped into the police station, an old building constructed of faded brown bricks just blocks away from my alibi, the pharmacy.

  The building was large, and the lobby eerily silent. Once I opened the double doors to the station, however, my ears were assaulted by the sound of ringing phones, fingers clicking on keyboards, and voices deep in discussion. How did anyone concentrate in such a noisy environment?

  An older woman with hair shorter than Paul’s and dressed in policeman’s garb sat behind a desk near the entrance.

  A woman police officer? I was stunned at the sight of her.

  She ignored me, which unfortunately I was accustomed to when visiting the outside world. I’d been ignored by countless people at the pharmacy and grocery store, so it was no surprise when she pretended not to see me. She did, in fact, see me, I was sure of it, but she kept her gaze on the computer in front of her.

  Loudly, I cleared my throat to draw her attention. But still, her focus remained on the computer screen.

  Tap, tap, tap. My fingernails drummed impatiently on the countertop, but the woman with the masculine haircut made no attempt to greet me.

  Why would a woman want to appear like this? Do men find such a haircut attractive? In our community, such a style would be a disgrace.

  Finally, I’d had enough of her rejection. I cleared my throat and spoke with confidence. “Excuse me.”

  She rolled her eyes before turning them on me. Narrowing her gaze, she laughed under her breath, focusing her attention on my hair as she chomped on the gum in her mouth like cud.

  Disgusting.

  “Yeah?” she sneered.

  I read her name tag. “Hello, Marcy. I’m here to see Detective Cooke.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Adrenaline pumped through me. I hadn’t thought to call him ahead of time, but the idea of walking out of that building without seeing him was unacceptable. I had to see him.

  “Do I need one?”

  “Um,” she huffed. “It’s encouraged, yes.”

  “The matter is urgent. May I speak to him please?”

  She sighed and grabbed the receiver of the phone in front of her. After pressing a couple of buttons, she huffed into it, “You have a visitor.” She paused as she listened. “No, it’s no one you know. At least, I don’t think so. She says it’s urgent.”

  There was another pause. Those pauses made my stomach churn.

  She plopped the phone back into its cradle. “Down the hall, second door on the right.”

  Sweet relief.

  Quickly, I made my way down the hall, pausing before knocking on the closed door.

  “It’s open,” he yelled from inside the moment my knuckles made contact with the wood.

  “Detective Cooke?” I asked, peering at the man behind the desk.

  He wasn’t dressed like the other policemen in starched blue uniforms; he was simply wearing a white oxford shirt and tie. The shirt was wrinkled, however, and I assumed his wife could use instruction on properly starching her husband’s clothing. He was older, most likely closer to my husband’s age than mine. His hair was tousled and brown, and sticking up in several different directions as if he’d just woken up. Dark scruff covered his jaw, and large-rimmed glasses sat on his slim nose.

  When my eyes met his, I knew I was unwelcome. He closed them tightly and tilted his head back, sighing with exasperation.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Really?” he said to the ceiling, his voice gruff, impatient.

  Chewing on my bottom lip, I said, “I’m sorry?”

  “Naw, it’s nothing.” He shook his head. “Fate is just a catty little bitch, isn’t she?”

  I grimaced at his lewd vocabulary. Part of me wanted to run from his office before he could utter another syllable. But then I remembered Ruthie.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “My name is Aspen Black, and I’m a friend of Porter Hammond. He said you could help me.”

  “Ah, Porter.” He nodded, pursing his lips. “Good man. I assume you know his wife, since she was a . . . uh . . .”

  “A polygamist?” I asked, unashamed. I was proud of our way of life, of the choices I’d made to remain true to my faith.

  He narrowed his eyes before leaning back in his leather chair. “Yeah, that. I wasn’t sure what term you folks preferred these days. Didn’t want to get my head bitten off.”

  “Detective, it’s no secret that I’m a member of the FLDS. We don’t need to dance around that topic.”

  “Very well.” He nodded, balancing a pencil between his fingertips as he gazed curiously at me. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need help, but I’m not sure how to begin. You see, my children—”

  “Ah, I see. You know, I don’t think I’m your guy.” He rose from his seat and walked to the door.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know how to get you out of there, but I’m sure there are plenty of people who can.”

  “But I—”

&nb
sp; “You don’t have to be afraid.” He opened the door. “There’s a whole underground railroad thing happening. I just read an article a few weeks ago—”

  “Underground what?”

  “Railroad. You know, like in the Civil War . . . with the slaves.”

  He tipped his head forward, urging me to understand the reference, but I didn’t. I stood staring at him blankly. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Oh, I forgot.” He snickered. “You people don’t read.”

  Irritation crashed through me and I stood up straighter, crossing my arms in defiance. “Excuse me, but I read just fine, thank you very much. I just don’t know much about railroads.”

  A wicked grin crossed his face as he stroked his chin with his fingertips. He closed the door and walked back to his seat, still smiling. He looked mischievous, like Jeremiah when he stole a cookie from the pantry.

  Finally, he spoke. “You’re not like the others, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you look like them, of course, like you stumbled off the set of Little House on the Prairie. But they’re timid, shy, soft-spoken. And you, you have cojones. I like it.”

  “I don’t know that word.”

  Was he even speaking English? Little house on a prairie? Our house was large, and there were no prairies in our part of the state. What on earth was this man talking about?

  “That’s probably for the best.” He winked. “It’s not very . . . holy, if you know what I mean.”

  His attitude infuriated me. This meeting was not going at all like I’d hoped, and I didn’t have time for such nonsense. I could feel my cheeks growing hot in annoyance.

  “I can see you’re having fun at my expense, Detective Cooke, but can you please just listen for one minute? I don’t have a lot of time; they think I’m at the pharmacy.”

  “Fine, fine.” He laughed, plopping himself back into his chair and raising his feet to rest on the corner of his desk. “Sorry, yes. Please tell me why you’re here.”

  “It’s the Prophet. I think he’s up to no good.”

  “The Prophet?” he repeated with one eyebrow raised. “The head honcho?”

  “The man in charge, yes,” I said, feeling like Detective Cooke and I were speaking different languages. His slang was causing my mind to race, and I yearned for the familiarity and safety of my home. I wanted to be understood. “I saw him leading men into the temple. Men who didn’t belong.”