The 19th Wife

by David Ebershoff

  This sermon, long remembered by many, and reprinted before, had good effect in quieting Brigham’s critics. It armed his defenders with rhetoric to respond to the many questions about polygamy. It caused many people, whose curiosity was natural, to feel profane for wondering about such things. It transferred the misdeed from Brigham to his opponents. By the end of the sermon, these powerful words had erased the question—Brother Brigham, indeed, how many wives do you have?—from the minds of thousands of Saints.

  As for me, these fine words would have done much to buttress my eroding faith—were half of them true.

  THE 19TH WIFE

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  My Awakening

  After more than three years at Forest Farm, an agent from the Church rode out one day to notify my mother and me our services were no longer needed and a wagon would come for our belongings in the morning. I did not know this man. He was one of the many polished, eager youths who worked for the Church administration. He told me I was being transferred to a new house in the city, while my mother was being sent home.

  “Home?” said my mother. “What home?”

  The boy read through a letter but could not come up with an answer. “Your home, I presume.”

  “Don’t presume anything, my boy.”

  The boy’s face shone with the youthful dew that no one misses until it is gone. I did not know what he was thinking, what his ambitions were, how deep his faith, but I could imagine he hoped for wealth and a large enough house for many wives. Why should he not? Certainly many men in Deseret remained true and loyal to their first and only wife. The average man’s family life was no different from that of the average man’s in Babylon. But among the leaders of the Church and the leaders of the Territory, who were one and the same, among the men who controlled industry and land resources and deeds to water, who ranked in the militia and the police services, who managed the supply of goods and protected the routes between settlements, among the men who administered the post and the judges who ruled from the bench—among these men, plural marriage was common and admired. Of course this boy, who was already serving Brigham in such intimate capacity, would want the same for himself. I told him I would be ready in the morning.

  The next day the boys and I settled into a large, handsome, Gothic-style house of beige adobe located near the Temple. The house’s most remarkable feature was a splendid stained-glass window depicting a golden beehive surrounded by sego lillies and opulent fruit. (Ever since my apostasy, the window has become a recognizable attraction to the curious visitors of Deseret, for many people hope to catch a glimpse of my former abode, and the unique window confirms that, indeed, I once lived within.) In fairness to Brigham, I must admit this new house was ample, clean, and in many ways appealing; and, most important, it was mine. I hesitate to complain about this fine dwelling except that two inadequacies burdened my days there. One, my mother was not permitted to live with me. Brigham claimed he could no longer afford supporting her, which had hardly amounted to anything at all.

  The second inadequacy was a lack of a well, forcing me to draw water from my neighbors. I tried to distribute my borrowings equally among them. I would take James and Lorenzo with me, so we could draw as much water at one time. I was always ashamed when I knocked on the doors, pail in hand, humiliated by every force that had brought me to this moment of begging before my boys.

  When Brigham visited the cottage for the first time, he announced he was bearing bad news. “I’m afraid my revenues are no longer what they were,” he said. “We’re all scaling back. I’m going to have to cut your allowance.”

  “Cut it? By how much?”

  “I’m afraid we’re cutting your allowance entirely.”

  “You’re giving me nothing?”

  “Not nothing. You’ll live in this house without rent and you can still collect your rations at the store.”

  Here I must honor the promise I made at the outset of this book. I swore that I would not withhold the details the Reader is most keenly interested in. In my experiences as lecturess, no matter the venue, no matter who sits in the audience before me, always the same questions arise. They are difficult questions to pose before your peers, but eventually a brave soul, typically a woman, ventures forth. Then there is great relief in the hall as everyone’s mutual curiosity is satisfied. Never have I told my story without someone inquiring about the conjugal relations between Brigham and myself. I will sate your curiosity now by telling you those relations ceased between me and Brigham sometime in my third year at Forest Farm.

  I now realized a great cost attached itself to this revised arrangement. Once Brigham had removed me from the farm I was merely, like so many plural wives no longer on the schedule, a financial burden. “How am I to feed my boys?” I asked.

  “Start a garden. Hire out your needle. Take in some laundry.”

  “Take in some laundry! I have to walk up and down the street with bucket in hand begging for water. You don’t know—no, you can’t know—what it’s like for me to have to ask for water. These people, these kind people, don’t have the heart to turn me away. But they work hard too. The well is only so deep. Why should they have to share their water with me?”

  “Because they are Saints and they would do well to remember who brought them here.” His hideous anger spilled over. It squeezed out of him in perspiration and ire and a dire loathing of everything before him. The Prophet was reduced to a bilious, fat, old man. He blew out of the cottage. I could not know then he would never visit again.

  To ease my financial duress, I decided to take in boarders. Ever since the completion of the railroad a few years earlier, Gentiles had been arriving in Deseret in numbers never seen before. There was an inadequate number of hotels to house them, and quickly there became a custom of Saints renting out rooms to these new visitors and residents. It was an odd evolution for our isolated Territory—Saints who had never known the outside world suddenly were sharing a home with Babylonian strangers. Of course, every Saint in Deseret had been raised on stories of depravity among the Gentiles: They worship falsely, they fornicate loosely, they eat their young! Although I did not believe every tale, they had left me with a general impression that I could never trust a Gentile. In the end, my empty purse over-ruled my superstitions and I placed an advertisement in the Daily Tribune.

  The first person to reply was Major James Burton Pond, formerly of the Third Wisconsin Cavalry, ally of John Brown, and now a reporter for the Tribune itself. He arrived at my house in full uniform, with a silver-handled sword. “Is the room still free?”

  “It’s three dollars a week,” I said. “Board included. Washing is extra. You must like children. I have two boys, James, who’s nine, and Lorenzo, who’s eight. They’re good boys, but they are boys and can make noise. You’re free to congregate here or on the porch, but not in the kitchen or the dining room. Visitors should be out by ten, and if you—”

  I stopped talking, for Major Pond was regarding me queerly. “Is something wrong?”

  “Are you really a Mrs. Young?”

  I told him his information was correct.

  “Why on earth are you letting out your rooms?”

  “Because I have spare rooms and no income. I’d rather take in boarders than deprive my sons.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Would you like to see the room or not, Major Pond?”

  Judge Albert Hagan, the old Confederate colonel, wise man of legal affairs, and mineral attorney, and Mrs. Hagan became my next boarders. Judge Hagan lived mostly in California, but his expertise in mining law brought him to Salt Lake for extended periods. He seemed to me, at least at first, a gentle, fluffy-haired soul, with a cautious mouth buried in a cottony beard. Mrs. Hagan was, in my estimation, the most suitable creature for her husband: She was ample in every sense, including a plentiful bosom atop an abundant heart. The nature of their relationship was a revelation. Judge Hagan never once failed to thank his wife, praise her intellige
nce, or appreciate her presence. Ten times a day he said, “I’m the luckiest man in the world,” and lay his hand upon her soft behind.

  Thus my house was transformed in less than a week. It was by coincidence and circumstances of the time, but in no part by design, that my three boarders were Gentiles.

  In the evenings Judge Hagan and his wife, along with Major Pond, liked to gather on my porch for conversation. They invited friends and acquaintances, intelligent, lively men—lawyers, journalists, historians, and other reasoned Gentiles—who typically brought their equally bright and lively wives. These women, most of them wearing their hair in the loose (and prohibited) waterfall style, knew as much about any topic as their husbands. Almost every night outside my parlor window, a seminar of ideas and philosophy was conducted. “Have you any thoughts on the Modocs?” Judge Hagan would begin, initiating a long engagement of opinion, agreements, and disagreements. Everyone would participate, the women’s estimation of all matters listened to with equivalent respect.

  Each night I worked in the kitchen while listening in. I have always hated washing dishes, but never more so during these evenings when the water and the clinking cutlery obscured an important word in the dialogue I took to propping the window with a block of wood so that the ideas could travel to the kitchen more clearly. I longed to join my boarders but knew I could not.

  One night Judge Hagan said, “The more I learn of polygamy, the more I despise it. I admire Brigham a good deal, but he’s got to be careful with this thing. Everyone knows it’s the wild wick that burns down the house.”

  “More than anything,” said Mrs. Hagan, “I think about the children.”

  “Has anyone,” asked Judge Hagan, “ever met a partner in a polygamatic marriage, man or woman, who was happy? I mean truly happy?”

  “What do you mean by happy?” said Major Pond.

  “What does he mean by happy?” said Mrs. Hagan. “He means happy. Happy: cheerful, glad, fortunate, hopeful. Happy.”

  “I’m only asking, Mrs. Hagan. I’m not supporting. They of course believe this is their ticket to Heaven. Now if you believed that, I mean truly believed that, I mean believed it as much as you believed the sun will rise tomorrow and the sky will be blue, then wouldn’t you be happy, even if a few extra wives caused some inconvenience or indignity in this present life?”

  “I have an idea,” said Mrs. Hagan. “Let’s not speculate, not when we have Mrs. Young as an expert witness.”

  In a matter of seconds she was in the kitchen, begging me to join the conversation. I told her there were dishes and a late loaf in the oven, but Mrs. Hagan would not relent.

  In addition to the Judge and his wife and Major Pond, that evening there was the Rev. Mr. Stratton, a Methodist. He was the first representative of a foreign religion I had ever known. All my life Brigham, the Apostles, the Bishops, the Elders—everyone in a position to know—had told me that I must mind my purse and person around Gentiles. “But a reverend, a preacher, a man of their cloth, he is the devil in our land,” I had been warned since I was a child.

  And now the Rev. Stratton was rising from his rocker to shake my hand. “Will you join us, Mrs. Young?” The group regarded me with gentle curiosity. I longed to open up, to tell them all I had seen. At the same time, I felt a lingering duty to defend my faith. “It’s all rather complicated,” I said. “There are many sides to the debate.”

  “Don’t feel obliged,” said Mrs. Hagan.

  “It’s quite rude of us,” said Rev. Stratton. “Why, it’s none of our business at all.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Hagan. “We didn’t mean to make a specimen of you.”

  I accepted their apologies and left their company, although I longed to tell them all I knew.

  The next day the Rev. Stratton sent his card and an invitation to call upon him and Mrs. Stratton any time. For two weeks I kept the card in my pocket, fingering it as I went about my work, rubbing the embossing so many times that it had begun to wear away by the time I decided to pay them a visit.

  The Strattons lived several blocks away, in a new neighborhood where Gentiles clustered, a foreign land I had never visited before. I left the boys with Mrs. Hagan and walked to the Strattons, taking a circuitous route, careful to note anyone who might be spying on me. My relations with Brigham had deteriorated to such a state it was possible to imagine him trying to blackmail me with evidence of betrayal. A walk that should take no more than twenty minutes took nearly an hour, as I zigzagged through the neighborhood and finally arrived at the Strattons’ gate.

  Mrs. Stratton shared her husband’s dual nature of seeming both youthful and wise. Her posture was so erect I never once saw her sit back in her chair. This was remarkable given that my visit, originally planned for twenty minutes, lasted almost four hours. I had not intended to unload all my grief to these strangers, but the Rev. Mr. Stratton broke away my reserve when he said, “Mrs. Young, you should know, my wife and I, we already consider ourselves your friends.”

  There was no reason for the Strattons to make such a declaration—Except, is this not how Man is meant to treat his fellow creature? I was too weary to be skeptical, too raw to protect myself further, and too depleted, in every sense, to lose anything more. “I don’t know where to begin,” I said. Rev. and Mrs. Stratton said nothing further. They were not going to pry, nor even, as some do, pretend they were satisfied with nothing said when in fact they craved every detail. “I hardly know what’s happened.”

  “Everything in time,” said Mrs. Stratton.

  Thus I began to tell my story. It was the first time I had pieced it together even for myself. The afternoon slipped into evening. The plate of cookies turned into a platter of strips of ham and beef. It grew dark and I continued talking. Mrs. Stratton brought the astral lamp from the hall. A yellow radiance reached out just far enough to encircle us, and I carried on until the end of my tale.

  THE 19TH WIFE

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Battle of the Stove

  Emboldened by my new friends, sometime in June 1873 I went to see Brigham. I had to wait on line outside the Beehive House along with all the other curious visitors, the men conducting business with the Church, and the hundreds of pilgrims. I considered running up and down the line and telling the faithful the truth about my husband. What would the pilgrims think if they knew how Brigham’s wives lived behind this very wall they leaned against now? Would they crave to rub the hem of his coat, or take home a sheet of paper from his wastebasket as a relic, if they understood the truth?

  Yet I had a more practical matter to discuss with Brigham. I wanted a new stove.

  “A new what?”

  “A stove.”

  “What’s wrong with the one you have?”

  “It’s fine for one or two people, but I’m now running a boarding house. I need to cook for twice as many as the kitchen’s meant for, and I need a new stove. These people pay three dollars a week for room and board and what can I tell them when their supper isn’t ready?”

  “I don’t care what you tell them, but I’ll tell you, I can’t afford a new stove. Do you have any idea how much they cost?”

  “I do. I’ve picked one out. It can be delivered in four weeks.”

  Our argument continued for some time until Brigham said, “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  “You won’t think about it. You will give me a check now so I can place the order.”

  “Madame, you are not the treasurer of this household.”

  “Sir, I am your wife and you will provide for my most basic needs.”

  Brigham opened an accounting book and in a great show of irritation scratched out a check. “I always thought you of all people would understand what it meant to be my wife.”

  I left the Beehive House for the last time. Outside, one of Brigham’s aides announced to the expectant pilgrims, “The President will meet no more visitors today.” At least a hundred stood on the veranda and down the steps into the street. The
y cried about waiting for hours and needing the Prophet’s advice. “Go home,” said the aide. “Come back tomorrow, but go home.” The man retreated into the Beehive and shut the door.

  Even after the pilgrims were gone, I lingered outside my husband’s house. A pair of Brigham’s daughters, two of the Big Ten in fashionable mushroom hats, passed me on their way to the Lion House. I had shared several meals with these girls, and sat with them in the parlor on Sunday nights. Now they did not recognize me.

  Dusk arrived, and still I remained at Brigham’s gate. I do not know why I lingered, but I felt an urgent need to witness his household one final time. As dusk descended, one of Brigham’s wives, I do not know who, moved through the Beehive House illuminating the lamps, the golden light filling one window and then the next. I saw Brigham pass from his office to his upstairs parlor, where Amelia was waiting with two of his sons. The parlor’s large window allowed me to view a portion of their evening. Amelia leaned against the piano in a silver gown, the diamonds bright at the base of her throat. Brigham kissed her neck, then moved to look out the window as if to examine the night sky. For some time he stood motionless behind the glass. His eyes looked tired in their pouches of flesh. His beard was white and frayed. He looked, to me, like an old man worried about his fate. He gazed out, with an aurora of lamplight behind him, not at me but into his future, I believe. At one point he winced, a small shock of something running through him, his thick body flinching almost imperceptibly. It was a tiny jolt; no one in the parlor perceived it. Then it passed and Brigham returned to his family. Although I have no more evidence than this, I am certain that night I witnessed my husband looking into his heart and regretting what he found.