The 19th Wife

by David Ebershoff

  From this stranger, a binary voice flashing in from somewhere—was he nearby or around the globe?—I was learning more about my father than I had ever known.

  damn it just occurred to me she might be your mom you never told me who your mom is. i hope i haven’t insulted you.

  So I told him who my mom was.

  holy crap that’s crazy. that was your mom? maybe i shouldn’t say anything more i mean i really don’t want to get involved.

  Albert, I wrote. You are involved. If you know which wives my dad liked to fuck, you’re very much involved.

  i guess you’re right. besides i have nothing to hide.

  I asked him if he knew anything else about the wives, was there anything else going on? I told him about the fuck chart, but it still didn’t mean anything to me.

  i don’t know about that but you know i guess there was shit going on in the wife department he was pretty excited about that. i don’t know if you know but that night he talked to your mom about their relationship i guess i’m not really sure but he said that it’d been a long time since they you know had been together and there was no point in trying to pretend they were really man and wife. i don’t know but that’s what he said which is why when i read that she had killed him i was shocked but not really surprised.

  “Hey, Jordan?” said Tom. “Isn’t it time you got going?”

  I looked at the clock on the computer. Shit. I was late for my visit to see my mom.

  An Open Letter to President Woodruff

  And Latter-day Saints Everywhere

  October 23, 1890

  I, the undersigned, stand in opposition to the recent manifesto of September 26, and approved October 6, regarding the doctrine of plural marriage. Section 132, as revealed to the Prophet Joseph Smith by our Heavenly Father, states plainly that anyone who shall not believe in this doctrine, and pursue it to his fullest extent, shall never attain Eternal Glory. I accept the truth of the Doctrine & Covenants, including Section 132, and refuse to edit God on this, or any, matter. As Brigham Young preached for more than thirty years, “To ignore it is to ignore His will.” So said he until the last day of his life thirteen years ago.

  I, the undersigned, challenge you to reverse this decision. Written in the spirit of political compromise and capitulation, rather than in the spirit of Truth and Glory, this manifesto shall send a fissure through the heart of our beloved Church, forcing Saints everywhere to choose between political expediency and Divine will.

  I, the undersigned, demand a retraction of the manifesto, and all its meaning, or face a splintering of faith never before seen among Christians in the two thousand years since the days our Lord, Jesus Christ, walked the Earth, in the company of men.

  I, the undersigned, declare openly that until the manifesto has been rescinded, and our natural rights restored, I, and all Saints everywhere, shall pursue our faith fully, as we have known it since the days of Joseph and Brigham, as we shall always know it, in these last days.

  I, the undersigned, declare myself, and all those who share my convictions stated herein, the First and True Latter-day Saints, for that is what we are.

  ELDER AARON WEBB

  & Wives

  Red Creek

  Territory of Utah

  THE CONVICTION OF JORDAN SCOTT

  “Officer Cunningham,” I said, “I’m really sorry I’m late.”

  “You know the rules.”

  “I know, ten minutes’ grace time, then that’s it, appointment canceled. But I have a really good excuse.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s just that …” But where to start? And where to end? I stood in front of the metal detector, unable to come up with an explanation for any of this.

  “Oh, what the heck. I don’t know why I like you, but I do.” She winked, and for a flash I could imagine her out of uniform, her gun and shield locked up, walking through her front door, receiving a hug from her husband and kids. I thanked her. I thanked her for everything.

  “Quit the mush, all right? OK, you know the drill: last cubicle in the row. Officer Kane’ll bring her out.”

  It was just like before: the women, the babies, the glass screen. I waited on the stool, staring into the space that my mom would soon fill, looking at the yellow receiver, thinking about how lifeless it was and how in a few minutes it would crackle with her voice.

  “Jordan,” she said. “It feels like forever.”

  “Same for me.” I told her everything that had happened, and it took a long time, and by the time I was done the wall clock said we had only a few minutes left.

  “I’m not surprised to hear about Sister Rita,” she said.

  “Why’s that?”

  She hesitated but she knew this wasn’t the time to bite her tongue. “I’m not sure if you know that I replaced her. After I married your father, he stopped—how should I put this?—seeing her.”

  “Do you mean what I think you mean?”

  Her cheeks flushed with shame. “He had his list,” she said. “His list of wives. The wives he still—you know, visited. From the day I entered that house Rita treated me like I’d stolen something from her. She wanted to turn him against me, she was always trying to catch me doing something like ignoring my housework or forgetting my prayers or sneaking you more food than your share. When you were a baby she was really hard on me. You used to cry in church, and you know how the Prophet never liked that. She used to tell your father it was because of me—that I was holding you too tight or not changing you or whatever nonsense she could think of. You know your father, he never knew much about babies, so he didn’t know what to believe. Over time I tried to be friends with her, I really tried. But all she’d do was lie to him about me.”

  “She was a total bitch.”

  Her lip crumpled. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  “Mom, I’ve seen the chart, but I can’t really figure it out. What does it all mean?”

  “It was his way of managing the wives, of keeping up.”

  “That, and Viagra.”

  “Don’t be crude, Jordan. Not with me. I know everyone thinks we’ve lost our minds. The gals in here, they never use my name, they call me Nineteen. They make all sorts of cracks about orgies and whatnot. They have no idea who we are, they don’t understand—they don’t want to. I know the whole world thinks we’re crazy or delusional or what have you. I’m sure a lot of people think I should be locked up. But I don’t care. I don’t care what anyone thinks about me. Except you. I don’t know how I’ll hold up if you start saying I’m crazy, too.” The tip of her nose darkened and she turned to ask Officer Kane for a tissue.

  “I didn’t mean to make fun of you,” I said.

  She nodded. “I know.” And then, sniffing, “Jordan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think I’ll get out of here?”

  I thought about it for a minute. “You might.”

  “If I do, it’s all because of you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, it’s because you believed me.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “No,” she said. “That’s the reason. It all boils down to that.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There’s still a lot we don’t understand.”

  “I know, but we’ll figure it out.”

  Was she right? To have so much faith? In me?

  “Mom, let me ask you a question: Did Dad ever talk about his list?”

  She took her time before answering, wiping up her face. “Only a little. I know there was a point for some of the wives when he decided he no longer wanted to be married to them, in that way, I mean, and he would tell them, just so it was clear, you know, expectations and all. From then on he always treated those wives a little different from the rest. We always knew when one wife was taken off the list—it was usually right before he married a new one—and when that happened we would look around and figure out who he was, well, not visiting as much.”


  “I had no idea it was so methodical.”

  “We never talked about it with the kids. It would break their hearts.”

  “Mom, what about you? Were you still on the list?”

  She looked to the ceiling, the tears pooling in her eyes. “I never thought I’d have to talk to my own son about this.”

  “You don’t have to. I understand.”

  “He no longer wanted to see me.”

  “It’s OK,” I said.

  “I wish that were true. But now I’m worried about what’s going to happen to me.”

  “I know, but I’m working on that.”

  “No, not in here, or in court, but after I’m gone. Oh, Jordan—I’m so afraid of going to heaven without him. I’m afraid he won’t be waiting for me there.”

  My mom, on the other side of the glass—she didn’t have an ally in the world.

  “That night,” she said. “He told me that night. That’s why I was down in the basement. He asked to see me. He asked me to come very late, so there wouldn’t be any talk among the sister wives. But Rita saw me leave the basement. He was about to get married. He said the Prophet had granted him a new bride and he was going to marry her the next day. And so he told me that I could live the rest of my life in the house, but I was no longer his wife in that way.”

  “I thought he had married someone that morning.”

  “This was someone else. Someone the Prophet wanted him to take.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And so he kicked you out of his bed.”

  She nodded slowly, as if she were just comprehending it now.

  “Why didn’t you tell Mr. Heber any of this?”

  “I’m not a fool, I know how this looks. Everyone’s going to think that was my reason for killing him. Except I didn’t kill him. And no one believes me. Except you.”

  Then I saw it, everything, the numbers falling into place like lotto balls. “How many wives did he have?”

  “Total? Between twenty and twenty-five, but I can’t be sure. He never said. The Prophet told them never to say because when the battle came, our enemies would use the numbers against us. We each had our number, and we had a rough idea of where we fell on the list, but if you tried to add them up, it never made sense. There were gaps, and sometimes a wife would come and stay a year and then leave, and sometimes you’d get this feeling you were no longer the number you thought you were. It went like that, but the Prophet always said when we got to heaven we’d know.”

  She stopped. Her face cleared and her eyes dried out. She saw it, too. “That must be it.”

  It was all clear. Clear as the inch and a half slab of glass between us.

  “You were no longer his nineteenth wife.”

  I called Tom. “He was about to marry some girl.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “According to polygamy’s wacky math, my mom wasn’t his nineteenth wife anymore. Someone else was about to become number nineteen.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “She didn’t count anymore!” The connection was bad and getting worse. “If he wasn’t screwing them, he didn’t count them.”

  “He didn’t what them?”

  “The girl he was about to marry—that’s who killed him!” I knew I had only a few more seconds before we lost the signal. “I’m almost there!”

  “Where?”

  “I feel like I’m five feet away from the answer.”

  The signal became good again and I could hear Tom breathing. “Maybe you should back off now. Let the cops take over.”

  “Not when I’m this close.”

  “At least go to Mr. Heber.”

  “He’ll only slow things down.”

  “Jordan, I don’t like this anymore. You’re about to bump into a killer.”

  “Please don’t worry about me.”

  “Too late.”

  “You know who knows the answer?”

  “Who?” His voice was getting smaller.

  “The Prophet.”

  “Jordan, I want you to come home.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  “If something happens to you, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive you.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Don’t put that shit on me. It’s not like we’re—”

  The call broke. A lost signal or did he hang up? I drove on to Mesadale, wondering if I’d ever know.

  At the turnoff a guard in a pickup motioned for me to stop. “What brings you out here?”

  “I need to go to the post office.”

  “Why here?”

  “I need to pay my electric bill,” I lied. “It needs to be postmarked today.”

  The guy was an elder, silver hair buzzed down, red shiny lips. He fidgeted with his ammo vest, poking his finger in and out of an empty cartridge slot. “You tell Sister Karen hello.”

  I drove up the dirt road. Along the way I passed a couple of trucks parked in the dirt. Inside each a man was waiting, his left leg dangling out the open door. The trucks’ gun racks were empty, which meant those guns were out somewhere being cradled. I expected one of the trucks to pull out in front of me, blocking the road, and then a team rushing from the brush. A little paranoid, I know, but something was happening even if I couldn’t tell you what it was.

  It was late afternoon, the sun burning the face of Mt. Jerusalem. Everywhere the red rocks were glowing and the mesas out in the direction of Arizona looked like they might combust. The Prophet used to talk a lot about the Apocalypse. “Any day now,” he’d say. “Any day.” I always imagined it would come at this time of day at this time of year, when the sun floods the desert and the thermometer keeps going up and you forget what it’s like to be cold.

  When I reached town there were Firsts everywhere. Men walking up the street, and some women, and a few couples, I mean real couples, one man, one wife, maybe with a kid. Except for the prairie dresses, it looked like a busy afternoon in Anytown, USA, women shopping, kids playing, men bitching at the fence.

  Sister Karen was at the counter, closing up her station. “I heard you need a stamp. I’ve got to close up in seven minutes”—she pointed to the wall clock—“so we don’t have much time. What can I get you?”

  “Actually, I don’t really need—”

  She tipped her chin to the security camera in the corner. “I’ve got some new stamps in. Here, you might like the superheroes and action figures.” She showed me a sheet: Plastic Man contorting himself, Flash in a skimpy bodysuit, Superman ripping off his clothes. “If you want five, that would be … let me total that up real quick for you.” On a scrap of paper she wrote if you whisper the camera can’t pick up your voice.

  “I need to see the Prophet.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “I know, but I need to see him.”

  “I have no idea where he is.” And then in a regular voice: “Or do you want to see the American flags?” Sister Karen sorted through her stamp sheets. “Mind telling me why you need to see him?” she said under her breath. I began the whole story, but she interrupted. “You need to be out of here in less than four minutes, so make it short.”

  I told her my theory and she said, “You need to be very careful, Jordan. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here.”

  The door opened. “Sister Karen, you closing up?” It was the old fucker who’d been guarding the road.

  “Right about now, Brother.” She punched up my bill, her face straight. After I left the post office, she pulled a folding metal wall across the lobby, locking it into place. The brother stood on the slab of white concrete outside the post office, kicking the dirt from his heel, eyeing me and the road. Someone was driving into town; you could see the cloud rolling up our way.

  “You expecting someone?” I said.

  “This is not the day to mess around.”

  “Have a good one.”

  I sat in the back of the van for a while, thinking it all out. One of
Johnny’s t-shirts was wadded up on the futon. It smelled like feet. I kicked it into a garbage bag but then took it back out. I’d wash it at the laundromat and send it up to him. With a note. First I’d need to figure out what to say.

  There was a knock on the side of the van. Then again. The van is such a tin can it sounded like a wooden spoon gonging a baking pan. I was sure it was the old brother, and I was sure it was a good idea to ignore him until I knew what I was going to say.

  “Jordan?” But it wasn’t the old guy’s voice. “You in there?” A dog barked.

  “Elektra?”

  “Jordan?”

  Elektra started scratching at the side of the van. Then Joey joined in, a gentle howl.

  “Tom?”

  “Jordan?”

  “Elektra!”

  “Tom!”

  He stuck his head through the driver’s window. “You all right?” The dogs shoved past him, leaping into the back, attacking with kisses from both sides. “We’re here to help,” said Tom. “And don’t even try to say you don’t need it.”

  “Who’s taking care of the Malibu?”

  “The assistant manager. It’s no big deal.”

  But it was a big deal. I was about to solve a murder, and now here were Tom and the dogs. I had a crazy image of the three of them bound and gagged in a warehouse somewhere, and I’d have to rescue them. Unlikely, I know, but I kept thinking about it and it was so clear in my mind it was as if it had already happened. “We need to be careful,” I said.

  “What we really need is for this whole thing to be over.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Alton’s patrol car was in front of Queenie’s house, the sun glinting on the lightbar. “Is that good or bad?” said Tom.

  “Good. I think.”

  We leashed up the dogs and headed to Queenie’s front door. God, look at us: the gay couple out with their dogs. Except we were in the polygamy capital of America with a murderer on the loose, a Prophet on the run, and a bunch of wives freaking out. If it weren’t so serious, it would be a joke, or a skit on Saturday Night Live. I know some gay people think polygamy and gay marriage are part of the same stay-out-of-my-bedroom political argument, and I’m generally a live-and-let-live kind of guy, but it’s all different when there are kids, and sure, anyone should have the right to sleep with whoever, and marry whoever—this is America, after all—but you can’t do whatever you want when you’ve got kids. You can’t do whatever you want to kids. Have I said that before? I’m sorry. Political loudmouths are such a drag.