Shortly after my victory of the stove, I took to bed with a mysterious illness similar to the one that befell me all those years before. My boarders urged me to consult a doctor. When I refused, I know they believed I was doing so because of my faith. The truth was I could not afford the call. For two weeks, I was unable to look after them, and I feared they would rightly demand a refund on their rent. Instead they became my nurses and closest friends. They tended to me, not only Mrs. Hagan but her husband and the Major as well. They took over the house, cooking and cleaning and polishing the lovely stained-glass window, and looking after James and Lorenzo.
One day during my convalescence my boarders and the Rev. and Mrs. Stratton came to speak with me. “Mrs. Young, can we have an honest word?”
I was sure they were going to fairly complain that they were paying three dollars a week to serve me. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“It’s none of our business,” said Mrs. Hagan, “but it’s impossible not to notice that your husband has abandoned you.”
Judge Hagan continued, “If you were so inclined, you might consider bringing suit against him.”
“Suit for what?”
“For divorce,” advised the Judge.
I hesitated, then said, “You have no idea what that means.”
“I think I do,” said the Judge. “Let me be your guide. You have legal rights. Any court of law will see that your husband has abandoned you and you’re entitled to be set free.”
“It’ll be a test case,” Mrs. Hagan said. “For polygamous women everywhere.”
I did not know how to perceive what they were saying. My new friends were emphasizing my legal rights while I remained concerned with my spiritual fate. “My whole life,” I said, “everyone I have ever known, everyone has told me that this is the way to Salvation. How can I leave it all behind?” I turned to the Reverend Stratton, asking for his advice.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “no one—not me, not Brigham, no one at all—can tell you what your heart has to say. You must learn to listen to yourself.”
“If I may,” said Mrs. Hagan, “with all due respect to the Reverend’s wise words, I should like to ask you a simple question: Is this what you really believe? Even now?”
To you, reasoned Reader, the answer might appear obvious, yet doubt is not the same as knowledge. On my journeys I have met people who have forsworn any belief in God and Christ, and yet they are married in a church and plan to be buried beneath a stone cross. At the great moment of death, with the eternal future undecided, few are truly prepared to defy everything they have been told to be true.
“What about my boys?”
“They’re the reason we’ve come to you like this,” said Mrs. Hagan. “Do you really want them to see their mother so abused? Do you want them thinking this is how a man treats his wife?”
It was a terrible vision—ten or fifteen years into the future, my boys as young men, greedily acquiring women. There was no reason to think they would be any different from my father, brother, and husband. Unless something changed, their fate was sealed, as was mine.
After my health had improved, and I could take up again my duties in the house, two Ward Teachers paid me a visit. They were young men of twenty or twenty-one, one thick with fatty muscle while his companion wore a dense black beard. They sat in my parlor, perched at the edge of their chairs, their air an admixture of compassion and distaste. “Sister, we’ve been sent out to evaluate the quality of your faith,” the bearded one began.
“We have a few questions,” said the other.
“First,” I said, “I have a question for you: What makes you capable of evaluating my faith?”
“Sister, don’t you understand? We’re teachers of the ward. We’ve received our ordinances.”
“Yes, I know, but what makes you capable of knowing my heart better than myself?”
They smiled weakly. I could read the mind of the thicker one: He could not wait to leave my house and discuss with anyone he met my infidelity.
The bearded one cleared his throat. “If I may begin the evaluation. Now, first of all, do you remain faithful to the Revelations of Joseph and the Prophecy of Brigham Young?”
“No.”
The men looked at each other. I doubt anyone had ever answered as such. The thicker man appeared astonished; his companion seemed pleased to meet a challenge. “I’m sure you don’t know what you’re saying,” he said. “Brother Broadhead was asking if you hold the Prophets in your heart.”
“I understand, and I do not.”
The young men looked at each other once again. Their expressions changed from surprise to irritation.
“Listen, Sister,” the fat one began. “What you’re saying could get you in a lot of trouble, not just with God and in Heaven, but with Brigham and everyone else. You need to be more careful. I’m going to have to report everything you say to the Bishop.”
“Gentlemen, I’ll do it myself, thank you.” I told the men that their religion had betrayed me, their Prophet had abandoned me, their system of conjugality all but destroyed my family. “Tell me then, yes, please tell me, how am I supposed to love this religion? Perhaps it has brought you personally nothing but joy, and perhaps you, too, and your families and everyone you know. Perhaps you’ve profited under this system, found yourself nourished and enriched both physically and spiritually. In that case, I can understand your fervor and your desire to share it. But, Brothers, please try, for a moment try and see what it has done to me. If you do, you might understand why my faith is crumbling, even as we speak here now.”
The heavy man’s expression lifted, as if he had just arrived at a very good idea. “I know what you need. You need your faith restored. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll get you re-baptized. You’ll go through the ceremony again and your heart will be cleansed and your disbelief will be washed away.”
I argued for some time that I did not care for any more ceremonies, but the men would not relent. They warned me of my lonely fate and the chill of an eternity without the love of God. “On your deathbed, Sister, you will regret this day. On your deathbed, I guarantee it, you will hear my voice.”
“I have no idea what will happen after I die,” I said, “yet I know one thing for sure: Neither do you.”
After this, I never again tried to believe in the Latter-day Saints. My faith had been emptied out like a can. When I told my mother, she said, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Mother, I do.”
“You’ll lose everything.”
“I already have.”
THE 19TH WIFE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Apostate Wife
My escape from Mormondom began with six men and a moving van. They dismantled my house and hauled the load to auction. One man asked if he should pry the stained-glass window from its casement. I told him to leave it for the next wife, and the one after her.
When the house was empty I sat on the porch with my boys to tell them about the great adventure we were embarking on.
“Like the Pioneers?” said James.
“Yes, something like that. And like all adventures, there will be difficult times. And now is going to be one of those. I need both of you to be brave and not cry even if you feel like crying.” I was sending James, my eldest, to live with my father and his wives until I was settled. When I told him this, his eyes flickered with sorrow. He fought back his tears as best he could, but then the brave boy broke down.
“I promise we’ll be together again very soon.”
“Why does Lorenzo get to stay with you and I don’t?”
The truth was I could not face my coming ordeal alone. I needed one of my boys with me, yet even one was probably more than I would be able to care for over the coming days. James begged me not to leave him. He wept on my breast until Judge and Mrs. Hagan drove him away.
I was so distressed by his departure that I considered canceling my scheme. Then little Lorenzo squeezed my ha
nd. “Where are we going?” he asked. His warm fingers reminded me why I had chosen this path to freedom, and why I could not turn back.
When it was dark Lorenzo and I set out for a walk through the neighborhood, pretending to be on a stroll, nodding at the neighbors. I carried nothing extraordinary with me, giving no one any reason to believe I was fleeing. While walking we met up with the Reverend and Mrs. Stratton. Lorenzo jumped up and down at the sight of them, for he loved them like a fond uncle and aunt. They fell in with us in a most natural way, and we moved about at a casual pace, noticing the summer vines on a trellis and the yellow pom-poms in a bed of marigolds. With little effort, and no apparent intention, we meandered downtown, then wandered about until we were standing before the Walker House, the Gentile hotel. I told Lorenzo we would spend the night inside.
“Why can’t we sleep in our house?”
“You saw the men take away the furniture.”
“Why can’t they bring it back?”
Sometimes with children it is impossible to catch up with their logic. Their questions are always sharp and full of perception, exposing the twisted thinking of the mature man’s world. “They can’t bring it back because I’ve sold it. We have left that house for good. One day we’ll have a new house, but for now we’ll live here.”
Thus we entered the Gentile hotel.
On our first night in the Walker House I warned Lorenzo to remain silent. “No one is to know we’re here.”
“The bellman knows we’re here.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t know our actual names. We are in hiding, do you understand what that means?”
He nodded. “It means you don’t want Brigham to know where you are.”
Since beginning my preparations to flee, I had been too preoccupied to ponder my fate. Now the fullness of it seemed to be pressing at the door of Suite No. 412. In abandoning my husband, I had given up almost everything I had ever known. I was sleepless that night, alert to every sound in the hall. Several times I heard footsteps pass my door, my heart quickening until they retreated down the corridor. Once, around three in the morning, I heard the sound of a man moving carefully down the hall. Whoever he was, he walked deliberately as if he wanted to go undetected. They were big feet, I could tell, in clumsy country boots. Soon they were standing at my door.
I lay still, holding Lorenzo so firmly I still cannot believe he did not awaken in my arms. I heard the man breathing on the other side of our door. He stood there for some time. His breath was the sound of a man hesitating, or praying, before committing a dangerous act. I grew certain it was one of Brigham’s Danites, come to assassinate me. I imagined the cold animal black in his eyes. I was too frightened to move. I awaited the rattle of the knob and the turn of the stolen key.
Then at some point the man was gone.
I cannot tell you if I imagined an assassin at my door; or if in fact a killer had not been able to carry out his religious duty. I recalled Brigham’s black ghost, the presence he left behind in a room. Was that what I had perceived? Had he come for me? Oh, sober-minded Reader! Never sneer at such fantasies. In the quiet of your mind, when the deep night is at its blackest, are you always so certain of what is real?
“Mrs. Young?… Mrs. Young? Are you in there?”
I sat up in bed. The mantel clock said it was a little past ten. Next to me Lorenzo stared up from the pillow. Two small, dark crescents of fatigue had appeared beneath his eyes.
“It’s me, Mrs. Hagan.”
When I admitted her, she had a hurried, anxious look, yet before stating the purpose of her visit she gave Lorenzo a steaming sweet bun. The boy took the treat to the corner and sat with it between his crossed legs. He pretended he was not listening, yet his ears, I know, were pricked.
“It’s out,” said Mrs. Hagan. “Your apostasy. Everyone knows.”
Mrs. Hagan handed over the Daily Tribune, the Territory’s leading Gentile paper, where Major Pond worked. Immediately I saw that its editors, all strangers, had become my friends. The lead editorial praised my fortitude and chastised Brigham for his indifference and hypocrisy. There were a number of items about my apostasy, including a satirical cartoon with the caption “Brother Brigham is forlorn—his last rib has deserted his bed and board.”
“Did Brigham’s papers learn of it?” I asked.
Mrs. Hagan hesitated, and I wrested the Mormon papers from her. I was not surprised to see my name denounced in his press, but I could not have anticipated the lies and false accusations. If you were to gather all your news exclusively from Brigham’s papers, as most Saints do, you would believe I was woven of such dishonest fabric I might try to convince you to dig up your mother’s coffin to hand over her wedding band.
To this day I do not know how my story got out, but the dissemination was so thorough and in such detail that Americans everywhere woke up to my tale. I would later learn I was on the front page of the papers in San Francisco, Saint Louis, and New York. The farther from Mormondom, the more lurid and scandal-loving was the reporting.
“Momma, look.”
“Lorenzo, please. Get away from the window.”
But the boy would not listen. He was peeling back the shade to look outside. I went to pull him away, but then I saw the crowd below. Some five hundred had gathered, jostling and shoving and trying to enter the hotel. The manager held his arms up, trying to bring order to the street.
“They’re here for you,” said Mrs. Hagan.
“Who are they?”
“Reporters, sympathizers, denouncers, everyone.”
The truth comes both instantly and in a slow, steady seep. I was feeling it creep through me—a profound understanding of what I would be facing for some time to come. I could hardly move, and Mrs. Hagan had to help me dress.
Not a minute after I was clothed, and my hair prepared in a beaded net, did a knock come to the door. “Mrs. Young, it’s me, Judge Hagan.” At once the Judge’s presence helped settle me. “Now that the cat’s out of the bag,” he reported, “I want you to know I’ll be filing the divorce papers very soon.”
“When can we leave Utah?”
“There’s a mood out there,” he said. “I’m not sure it’s safe. You’re best staying here for the time being. Here, I brought you this.” The Judge handed me an envelope. I recognized the writing at once. There was no one I wanted to hear from more.
My Dear Child:
I would have come to deliver this message in person, but I dare not enter the Gentile Hotel which you now call home. I know you have suffered in your marriage, and that your husband has failed in many ways. It has pained me to witness this. I too know the hardships of our unique institution; often I have prayed for a relief to its strains; often I have contemplated quitting my own marital duties. Yet I am certain, as certain as I am of anything, that plural marriage will open the door to Heaven, and that my sufferings here on Earth are my path to Glory. My child, ponder your words and deeds, for they shall last far longer than your physical self. Be certain, my child, that I cannot know you in your present state.
Your Mother,
ELIZABETH C. WEBB
“Mother?” Lorenzo set his little hand on my knee, reviving me from the letter. “Mother, what’s wrong?” He climbed into my arms, his breath warm from the sweet bun. I held him for some time, an hour, perhaps, pitying myself. I wish I could claim I faced my first day of apostasy with courage and certainty. Yet in truth, I had never felt more afraid.
XVI
MY MOTHER’S FLIGHT
From the Desk of
Lorenzo Dee, Eng.
Baden-Baden-by-the-Sea Calif.
August 2, 1939
Professor Charles Green
Brigham Young University
Joseph Smith Building
Provo
Dear Professor Green,
How on earth did you find me? It has been a long time since I have had any contact with Utah, so my hat is off to you, Professor. Yet I am afraid I cannot answer your questions abo
ut my mother. I am not invoking my right to privacy, although I cherish it. No, I’m simply too poorly equipped to tell you what you would like to know. For example, when you ask, did Ann Eliza ever discuss her divorce with any of Brigham’s other wives? My answer is: I have no idea. I understand why you ask—what a nugget such a conversation would be for your proposed narrative. But please remember, in 1873 I was eight years old. The events you are asking about took place when I was so young I do not trust my memory of them; or, at the very best, my memories are more like memories that time, skillful decorator that she is, has embroidered into something beautiful yet not wholly true. For your purposes, this simply will not do.
I should apologize for not writing sooner, but over the past few weeks a number of matters have kept me from my desk, including the white-sided dolphins which have taken to appearing in the cove in the afternoons. It seems that every time I sit down to answer the mail I look out and see their pewter-tipped snouts in the surf. It’s such a sight of uncomplicated joy, as you can imagine, that I hurry outside and down the path. Several years ago I built a viewing bench on the bluff. I conceived of it as a reading spot, but I can never get any reading done, what with the ocean and the sun and the dolphins in the waves. I go down there for twenty minutes and find I’ve lost the afternoon.
For some time I considered ignoring your letter. You are asking about so many events which have been recorded before. Newspaper accounts, the documents from the trial, the Church’s repudiations, and of course my mother’s book. The stories about her marriage to Brigham have been told and retold and disputed and dismissed by so many interested parties, I cannot imagine there’s anything left to say. I am sorry to be so discouraging.
I must admit I was shocked when you pointed out that September next will be the 50th anniversary of President Woodruff’s manifesto renouncing polygamy. It feels even longer ago—almost ancient in its distance from us today; and, at the same time, it feels like last night’s dream. My mother, I know, took great pride in the Church’s change of mind, perhaps too much. I’ll leave it to you and the other historians to determine her role in bringing about its reversal. Certainly she played some. Certainly she cannot accept full credit. The truth lies somewhere in between, but isn’t that always the case?
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