The 19th Wife

by David Ebershoff

  Each time I replied, “I do.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me how many Mrs. Youngs there are? Why is it a secret?” He is an intelligent man, but not so intelligent to realize he is most likely the thousandth person to inquire on the matter. Why this never-ending speculation over how many wives? Why do visitors to Great Salt Lake stand outside the Lion House, and the Beehive House, too, counting windows and doors, attempting to estimate the number of spouses therein. Surely they must know it is a futile exercise—one cannot know how many sleep inside a house by counting the dormers! Yet they do, I see them outside the wall every day. One, two, three, four, five, their moving lips say. Next they wonder if I keep two wives in one bed. Or perhaps three, a rude man suggests to his friend. They share a debased laugh, a putrid guffaw, one that degrades the very idea of woman and her dignity. Next they wonder how I can manage my conjugal duties with so many wives waiting her turn. Their interest in the number of wives is always prurient. If, on the other hand, it were spiritual and came as a true inquiry into the will of God, I would explain my household to them, count up the wives to show the abundance of our faith. Yet I see no point when it will only feed the imagination of the profane.

  The good Saints know why I do not announce the number of wives. Wife is an inadequate term, for each woman plays a different role in my life, just as each person plays a different role in all our lives. For lack of a more precise term, we label them all wives, but they are not all wives. Indeed some are my mates and mothers of my children. Yet others are more like affectionate aunts. Others are intellectual friends, with whom I can debate and discuss all matters. Others still are, indeed, the keepers of the house, the kitchen, the children. Others remind me, in their distance, of neighbors to whom one might wave across a wall. Others still are very old and retired in their rocking chairs. They find comfort in knowing I shall provide them with a bed and meals for the rest of their days. Only a few are like a wife in the common sense, none more so than Amelia. She is all of this, and more, but imagine the uproar—among my women and the public at large—were I to so publicly dissect the ranks within my household. I shall not subject these good women to that, and therefore I do not answer the question how many wives. I must admit to the smallest pleasure it gives me—how this numerical mystery irritates the world!

  Sometimes, also, I permit the hypocrisy to bemuse me. In the evening, when I am with Amelia, or my sons, or other friends, and the business of the day is done, and we can sit by a fire, and loosen the laces in our shoes, I allow myself to chuckle, like when I have been told a fine irony. These indignant Gentiles, lamenting the nature of my household, having never known it in person, tolerate in their midst a broader range of crimes—drunkenness, infanticide, neglect of the elderly, prostitution—crimes that are all but unknown in Deseret. Let’s ponder the latter. I have seen the whore at work—the painted lips, the exposed bosom, the voice darkened by whiskey and tobacco. She is an unnatural sight, in defiance of God’s grace and the beauty of man given to us by Adam. Yet visit any Gentile city at dusk, or thereafter, and stroll the streets. You shall find one lady after the next vying for her spot on the corner. Or enter a tavern, where drink is deified, and you will find a woman prepared to spill her breasts onto the counter for a dollar, or less. In my younger days, when I saw Gentile whores on the street, I thought back in time. I imagined them as little girls in their Sunday dresses, with white collars and straw bonnets. I envisioned their mothers brushing their flaxen hair, kissing their smooth brows, and praying to our Father to protect them. Then I saw them now, before me, in the dim corners of the Gentile city—the whore with her nest of false curls permitting any man with a coin to paw her parts, to reach beneath her skirts in search of the desecrated hollow raked over by a thousand men. Where is the outrage among the Gentile crusaders? Why do they not demand an end to her whoredom? Only hypocrisy can explain it, and withered reasoning.

  Each time my enemies attack me as America’s foremost adulterer, they fail to admit an important matter to the debate. Their society is rife with adultery, yet among the Saints, this sin remains mostly unknown. To my mind, adultery is worst among the sins, with the exception of murder, for the one act corrodes many souls. The practice of plural marriage has eliminated adultery from our society, freeing us of its ill effects. I look to King David with many sacred wives. He was a good and devout man, but when he stole Uriah’s wife, snatching her from the heart of her husband, he became an adulterer, and in God’s eyes he had committed sin. Worse still, his selfish act—prompted by the other sins of greed, vanity, and lust—forced her to become an adulteress. Thus the sinner created a second sinner. This is not right.

  I wonder if Ann Eliza has illuminated this truth to her reader. Opening her book at random, I find this declaration: “Brigham leads the Church, and all of Utah, as a tyrant rules from his throne. He will not tolerate dissent or open opinion, for in his claim to be Prophet of God he believes there is no truth except that which he has spoken.” My goodness, am I really such? I laugh over her depiction, for I’ve heard it before, and will do so again.

  I must say, Ann Eliza always proved insightful. Behind her denunciation, she has illuminated one of the most troublesome aspects of my leadership. There is, and, to my mind, always will be, the problem of balancing the Truth, as I know it, with the rights of man, in which I believe. How to reconcile this problem? I know my faith to be the true faith of God, and Joseph His first Prophet since Christ, and myself after him, yet I cannot force belief upon others—or can I? Is this not my task, my mission? How to solve this quandary of religious duty? If we are right, and our faith is the true expression of God’s will, to what extent should I enforce that will? This is not merely a practical question of conversion and missionary work, but a theological question concerning divine duty. I have pondered it for many years, without full resolution. In my heart I know we are right, and Joseph has brought us the Truth, and now I am to carry it forth. In my heart I know I am to bring it to all the lands with the force of God, and His wrath, too, for Truth can never respect falsehoods and lies. But it is not always feasible to do so. Is it a failing when I tell my Brethren to respect the Methodist, the Episcopal, the Jew? Am I failing God? I cannot know. I must accept it as one of our Heavenly Father’s many mysteries, its answer unknowable until our last day.

  Just now I have returned from the window. I am certain men have gathered out there, for they are closer, maybe a hundred yards from the Warden’s house. I can see the flash in their horses’ eyes. I hear the hoofs stomping on the snow. I can see the orange embers of burning tobacco which tells me, then, these are not my men. When the mob attacked the jailhouse in Carthage, two hundred men had painted their faces black to mask their identities. The men out there—they are using the black of night as a mask. I respect them less, and fear them less—for a camouflaged enemy is a cowardly enemy. Stand in the daylight and fight for what you believe! I will grant Ann Eliza this—she has taken her shot at me from a stage where I can see her.

  Often I think back to my old friend and enemy E. L. T. Harrison and his well-argued words against me in The Utah Magazine. Among men’s mental powers, I have always had a special fondness for logic. I remember Harrison’s words of dissent as if they were on a page before me now. “I believe in the right to discuss freely, provided I do it respectfully and moderately, any measure or principle that may be presented. I do not believe I have the right to be rabid in regard to my use of vindictive language, but provided I am temperate—provided I accord to others the same privilege I do myself, I believe that men should be guided entirely by their own light and intelligence. I do not believe in the principle of implicit obedience, unconditional obedience without the judgment being convinced. If it is apostasy to differ with Brigham on some points, I am an apostate because I honestly differ with him. I do protest that I differ in a spirit of love and due regard for him.” How to reconcile his views and mine, when I know mine to be the wisdom of our Father, and his to be the
sincere but misguided inclinations of a good man? Liberty, I know, rests nowhere but in Truth. Freedom—always in Truth! Must I, then, for the sake of Liberty, respect Harrison’s thoughtful but defiant judgments? Ignore them? Condemn them? How can I guide others in the principles of Truth if I do not condemn these opinions? Oh! were He to tell me with all certainty my course. Yet I have come to know that wrestling with this question shall be my fate while on Earth. I only pray that when I kneel before Him in the Heavenly Kingdom He shall tell me I have acted wisely.

  I have faced such opposition since the Gladdenites, for there is no more ferocious enemy than he who comes from within. Apostasy is inevitable to holding firm to one’s belief. That a few believers will fall away is the by-product of unbending faith. If this were not the case, if I never lost a follower, I would wonder if I had bent, unbeknownst to myself, to popular opinion. My duty, I know, is to lead. I cannot offer an array of options. I must offer a long but narrow path to Salvation, and guide the Saints down it. Were that path wide and varied, it would lead nowhere; and I will then have failed both God and man. I cannot go forth into the next life, with the knowledge I will meet Joseph there, without knowing I have made every effort to promote and preserve his wisdom on all matters, including plural marriage. How have I come here? It is by this.

  Outside, beyond the adobe walls, the men are moving in. I see them—the last of the moonlight burns on their muzzles, it illuminates the hatred in their eyes. I see them, crouching, sneaking forward, preparing their siege. And so it has come to this. Is this now my hour? Did Joseph see his enemies in the Illinois brush before they stormed the stone jailhouse? Did he see the blue-white of their seething eyes? How have I come here indeed! If they are to take me, they are to take me while preoccupied with the work of God.

  This, then, has been my second mistake, and its effects are more dangerous than my first. I was wrong to let my attorneys persuade me to claim I have only one wife. They convinced me that in declaring Ann Eliza and all my other wives social harlots, the matter would fall away. Their tactics are legal, with no concern for the theological or moral. I am to blame for accepting their counsel. This, I know, has been my gravest error, for in following their advice, I renounced my faith. I know the force of my leadership has come from always standing firm before friend and foe. What did the Saints everywhere think when they heard me, via the legal brief, dismiss our most sacred institution? Calling the good sisters of the Lion House social harlots? I am ashamed to think of the turmoil I have unleashed in their hearts. And what of God? He who has given me wisdom for many years? I turned to lawyers for answers, not Him! Consider it! The loss of faith! Oh, Joseph! Joseph! How great is your capacity to forgive?

  Now I must speak to the guard. “Officer O’Conner!” I call, rapping on the door. “Officer O’Conner!” My ear tells me the young man is asleep. The men outside the walls have anticipated this. Ambush relies on the element of surprise. The young guard, Willard’s unknown twin, will awaken to a rifle in his face. He will unlock my door while the assassin presses his gun to his temple. The poor boy—he knew nothing of what it meant to protect me. “Officer O’Conner!” How he sleeps! His mind must be free of worry. For me, I have no resource but prayer.

  I do not know how long I have been on my knees now. These words here I write from the floor, putting down the pen between prayers. The candle burns low, the soft wax folding over the candlestick. Just now I have looked out the window. I see the men. The siege is about to begin. In Carthage, Joseph had a six-shooter smuggled in by a friend to defend himself. He fired all his shots before succumbing to the assassin’s ball. I have nothing but my pen and my prayers. With these, I will hold out as long as I can.

  But, look—on the horizon! A sliver of light! Not yet pink. Silver and blue. A minute ago all was dark, now a crevice of light, and with each breath of man it expands. In the time it has taken to write those words, the light has grown. Now beyond the black mountains I see a wash of blue. With it I can see the horses and the men. There must be two hundred—no, three hundred out there on the roads. They have blockaded the road to the mill, and the other to the factory. When will they attack? Do they wish to see my face in the clear light of dawn? If so, they are not cowards. They are fearless—the most dangerous enemy. Come! I say. Attack! I shall stand before you and never relent!

  I have returned now to my knees to ask our Dear Heavenly Father for forgiveness, for I have turned away from Your wisdom. I am not afraid for my life, but I fear dying by the assassin’s ball while having renounced You. Grant me another day on Earth to return to Your path. Bring me the wisdom to know the course I must take. I believe, as I have always believed, in the doctrine of plural marriage as You revealed it to Joseph, as You have confirmed it to me. Your word is the word of God, and always shall be. I will go forth and affirm its Truth, if only You will grant me another day.

  Thus I prayed. I have been on my knees for so long they are sore from the boards. Outside, dawn’s arrival is now irreversible. The colors fill the sky. The mountains are lit, the valley is lit, the river runs in its canyon, carrying chips of morning ice. If the assault is to come, it is to come now. Why do the men wait? What is their hesitation? I will check the window. I will show them my face. I will give them their target. I will let them know I am here.

  Dear Heavenly Father! The men on the roads! They are packing up! I can see them rolling blankets, saddling horses, storing guns. I can see them turning the carriages around. Who are they? Why did they not attack? How often does life prove itself unknowable? How many mysteries can the heart bear? I only know this is the mercy of the Lord! I know it, I recognize it, I feel the warmth on my skin. The men are leaving! They are leaving! My enemies have quit.

  “Officer O’Conner! Officer O’Conner! Wake up! Tell the Warden I want to return to court! Call the Marshal! Call Judge McKean! I admit to my error!” I shall inform Judge McKean I accept his orders. I will pay Ann Eliza’s fees. I will grant her a rightful divorce. Her demands are just. She has been my wife. For five years she was my wife. How true she is, she has been my wife! The women of the Lion House—God has granted each to me as a full wife!

  I will go forth now and declare to the Saints everywhere, and to the world, too, that these are my wives! And that by accepting all my women as my wives, and declaring my conjugal duties to them, as so prescribed by the court of law, I am declaring, and you, Dear Gentiles, are accepting, our right to celestial marriage. My admission of husbandly duty to Ann Eliza, and my monthly check of alimony, will be an early declaration of responsibility to her, and to all my women, as you have demanded it. Americans everywhere, make no mistake: this is our right! Your laws, which are our laws, have declared this so.

  Yet I do not expect you to accept the plural wife now, even though your laws have forced me to publicly accept her. I do not expect your leaders in Washington to readily accept my right, and the rights of the Saints, to our beliefs. I do not expect to come to agreement today, or tomorrow, or any time soon, on this matter that is of nuisance to you, but of eternal importance to us. No! This shall be our last battle, for you have made it clear that we can never agree, and I shall make it clear that the Saints of Deseret shall never relent. We will defy the authorities, the army, even the great General, President Grant! If we must, we will take up arms to fight in the name of God. I can only hope my new resolve will inspire the Saints to fight for this principle until the end of time. He who abandons it is not a Saint, as I now understand, for God has spoken. His words are clear.

  The desert sun now pours through the window, warm on the writing desk. How I long to be home among my women! The sacred practice of celestial marriage is not my will, or Joseph’s will, but the will of God. And so the Truth has come to pass. It is as clear as the morning outside. Through Revelation, God has spoken, and we must obey. Saints of Zion—be not afraid! We know the wisdom of the Lord! Now go forth and defend it until our Last Day!

  XX

  WIFE #19:

 
THE CONVICTION OF JORDAN SCOTT

  ENDING IT ALL

  I checked the food court, the gadget store, the men’s room. I spent more than an hour looking for Johnny in the mall. The last place to search was the LDS bookstore. I asked a clerk unloading a carton of books if he’d seen a kid hanging around. The guy didn’t recognize Johnny from my description but said he’d keep an eye out.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What’s that?”

  “What, this?” The clerk looked at the book in his hand. There was a modelly gay-looking guy on the jacket. Its title: Overcoming Same-Gender Attraction. The clerk had already unloaded a dozen copies onto a table and there were another dozen in the box.

  “Yeah, that. What is it?”

  “It’s, uh, I don’t know.” The guy flipped the book over and started reading the copy. “I guess it’s something for parents who think their kid’s gay or something.”

  “I know what it is.”

  The clerk looked at me like, Huh?

  “You sell a lot of these?”

  “Excuse me?” We were probably the same age, could’ve been born on the same day, two young men from opposite ends of the state, opposite ends of the world, really.

  “Do you sell a lot of these?”

  “That’s not really, I mean, I can’t really—” But he pulled his wits together, as if he’d been trained to deal with nut jobs. “Sir, is there something I can help you with?”