Much of her religious fervor was also directed toward gaining approval. Deep down, she had little interest in religion. But the Church was important to the people around her and that made its teachings and approval important to her.
Women in the Church were raised to be good wives and mothers. Careers outside the home were not emphasized, but hard work in terms of providing a wholesome environment for the family was. To produce many children, enriching the Church’s blood pool, was a duty instilled into Mormon girls. That and duty to the Church.
She knew the history of the Church, could probably recite it by rote, but the impression on her was little more than what she knew about the American Revolution or other important pieces of history. It was her father and Brian who really knew Church history, and their ideas and concepts conflicted with each other.
She had been in the temple the day before, going through another ritual which young people raised as Mormons and new converts receive. It was a sort of initiation called “endowment” where the person is ritually washed, anointed with holy oil, and dressed in temple clothes, after which they watch a dramatic performance of the story of creation, learn secret passwords and handshakes, and receive a secret name.
Joseph Smith had been a Mason, and many of the endowment rituals were similar to that practiced by the Masons. The dress code was simple: white shirts and pants for the men, long white dresses for the women, and white slippers for both.
Rebecca had received her endowment into Church membership during a two-hour ceremony the day before the wedding ceremony. Brian had received his before setting off to Germany for a two-year-long “mission” to bring the word of Mormonism to people in that country. Brian, as a man, had been told the secret name that Rebecca received during the endowment ceremony. Rebecca would never know his.
Rebecca and Brian entered the “sealing” room of the temple. These special rooms were used to solemnize a marriage for eternity under the rites of the church and to seal children everlastingly to their parents.
The endowment, wedding, and other Church ceremonies were performed by male members who had been elevated to positions in the Church. Since the Church did not have a professional clergy, it relied on its male members to perform the traditional functions of a clergy. At the age of twelve, all worthy males became deacons in the Aaronic priesthood. They became teachers when they reached fourteen and priests when they reached sixteen. From there, many of them moved into the hierarchy as bishops and other positions. Women could not become clergy and African-Americans were denied admittance into Church membership.
The thought of her father having to wait outside flashed in Rebecca’s mind. She wished he was there with her. The problem had to do with who was allowed entry into the temple.
Non-Mormons and members not in good standing were not admitted into the temple. In order to gain entry into the temple and be married there, Rebecca, Brian, and the others with them had to present temple recommendation cards from their bishops. Cards were issued after an annual interview in which the member was signified as being an active member and paying the tithe demanded by the Church.
Rebecca’s father was refused admittance in the temple for the wedding because he had stopped regularly attending functions at their local church. When his wife and children questioned him about the destination of his soul, he told them, “I have faith in God, but I don’t think I need my passport to heaven stamped by mortals.”
In kinder moments, Rebecca’s mother said her husband was going through a midlife crisis. When less generous, she said he was possessed by the devil.
37
San Jose, California, 1968
“This hallway is completely out of kilter. It’s so far off the mark, it makes me dizzy to stare down it.”
Seven-year-old Marni sat in a corner of the living room and watched her father, Brian Jones, speak to the building contractor who had built their house. She ate chocolate pudding from a plastic cup as she listened.
Her father’s tone with the older man was the same one he used when speaking to her and her mother. He did not raise his voice, but there was a certain arrogance that let the listener know that he was irritated—and superior.
The contractor, an older man with a ruddy, sun-wrinkled face, shook his head. Trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, he said, “Mr. Jones, there is a one-inch variance in seven feet of hallway wall. That’s well within customary construction tolerances—”
“It isn’t in my house. This is not a tract house, it’s a custom house.” He spoke the words as if instructing a child. “If I used that sort of sloppy variance in my own work, I’d be driven out of my profession.”
An employee of the contractor, a young man with a beard and long hair, tapped the head of a hammer in the palm of his hand as her father spoke. The young man eyed her father with undisguised anger.
Her father either didn’t realize it or didn’t care that he was antagonizing the contractor and his worker. He turned his back on them and went across the living room to where Marni’s mother, Rebecca, was sitting.
Marni heard the bearded young worker say to the contractor, “That dude needs to get his nuts cracked.” The worker grinned at her and winked and then started helping his boss tear out the drywall and framing that was guilty of being an inch off over a seven-foot run.
Her four-year-old brother, Brian, Jr., was asleep on the couch beside her mother, who was heavily pregnant with her third child. Her mother was not a physically strong person and the strain of the marriage, family, and current pregnancy showed on her face. Each pregnancy had been difficult and the problems had increased with each. Brian had not been sympathetic to his wife’s pregnancy woes. “I have to go to work every day whether I feel like it or not. You have your duties like any other wife. Your problem is that you think like a loser, so you are a loser.”
Marni finished the cup of chocolate pudding and put it aside as she picked up her doll and hugged it. The spoon in the now-empty cup fell out and chocolate smeared onto the beige carpeting.
Her father had been speaking to her mother about plans for the backyard when he saw the offending spoon on the carpet.
“Rebecca! Your daughter has stained the new carpet.”
Her mother hurried off of the couch and across the room, her husband’s words hammering at her.
“You have to learn to run an organized household and train your children to act properly and not like spoiled little animals!”
Marni wanted to scream at him, “Leave her alone,” but was too afraid. Coming toward her, her mother looked so overwhelmed, Marni began to cry.
Two years later, Marni’s grandmother came from Utah to stay with the family and help out when Rebecca was pregnant with her fourth child. Marni was now nine years old, her brother, Brian, Jr., was six, sister, Sarah, almost two. The most recent pregnancy had been a surprise. When it came, Rebecca had not recovered from the difficulties she had experienced from her past pregnancies. She needed a break but her duties dictated otherwise.
“It’s all in your mind,” Rebecca’s mother told her.
Rebecca, breast-feeding Sarah, nodded numbly. It was a phrase she had heard often from Brian. Her facial features exposed the strain and toll life had piled on her.
Marni and her brother sat on the floor nearby and played with a puzzle their grandmother had brought them as the two women talked.
“I know, Mother, I know.” It wouldn’t do any good to tell her mother that it didn’t matter if the sickness was in her head or her big toe—she was depressed and felt emotionally and physically battered from the daily routine that many women found they could take in stride. A neighbor woman had suggested she see a psychiatrist. When Rebecca posed the idea to Brian, he had gone ballistic. He asked his mother-in-law to pay a visit and help get Rebecca’s mind thinking straight.
“You don’t need to see a psychiatrist,” her mother said. “You just have to tell yourself that you must do your duty to your husband and your children and
then simply do it. You come from strong stock. There’s no excuse for your house to be a mess, and look at you, you haven’t washed your hair in days. How do you expect your husband to respect you and treat your properly if you can’t respect yourself?”
Sometimes Rebecca thought it would have been better if her mother had been the one who married Brian instead of her. Her mother was the perfect Mormon wife Brian wanted—hardworking, uncomplaining, orderly, with a respect for the authority of her husband and the Church. The Mormon way of life was a wholesome one, with a vital family life filled with children who were raised to be strong and healthy.
The only thing wrong with their family was her inability to do what was expected of her. And that was no more than what was expected from other Mormon women. She knew she was a failure and hated herself for it. But as she tried harder and harder to live up to her husband’s expectations, she found herself failing more and more, falling behind in her housework, barely able to attend Church functions. She had no desire to do anything.
She hadn’t wanted another child. And she knew that the growth of the family would not end with the termination of her current pregnancy. Brian wanted six children—a number he said would satisfy him that they had fulfilled their obligation to their Church.
“I don’t understand you, Rebecca. Your sisters are all happy and their families are all doing well. Your husband is more successful than either of theirs, yet you let yourself go and sit around the house feeling sorry for yourself. You remind me more and more of your father.”
Her father was no longer a part of their life. Brian considered her father’s lax attitudes about the Church and life in general a bad influence on Rebecca and forbade her from communicating with him.
“No wonder your husband has complaints about you. Look at the way your older sisters handle their families, their children are constantly taking part in Church activities that your sisters organize.”
“I go to church, Mother.”
“You show up at church, but Brian says you go there like a zombie. You don’t participate, organize any events, and when you’ve been appointed to monitor a function, you do it with such little enthusiasm that the other people lose patience with you.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” Rebecca said.
Marni looked up from the puzzle as her grandmother denigrated her mother. Rebecca’s face and eyes had become blank. All of the tension in her appeared to have flowed into her hands which were twisting a baby diaper.
Marni had stayed with her grandparents on her father’s side in Utah the previous summer. While there, she had seen her grandfather wring the neck of a chicken for the supper pot. As she watched her mother, it reminded her of her grandfather and the chicken.
38
San Jose, 1971
“You can’t do anything right!”
Marni sat on the couch in the living room and watched her parents in the kitchen as her father yelled at her mother. Marni’s knees shook. She wanted to cry at these times when her father shouted at her mother, but her father told her a ten-year-old doesn’t cry. But the baby laying on the table beside her mother didn’t know the rules and cried as her father’s voice raised. Brian, Jr. and Sarah were on the living-room floor watching cartoons on television.
“You spend every minute of your day in this house and you still can’t get anything right. You can’t shop, cook, care for your children, or do the things to make my life easier.”
There was no expression on her mother’s face. Her features were dull, her eyes dark and hollow and lifeless. She kneaded dough as her husband scolded her. She squeezed the dough over and over, her knuckles white. The baby had not stopped crying.
“Look at these children, they’re all a mess, you can’t even take care of them, they’re filthy, you feed them junk, and put them in front of the TV for it to raise them. If I had known what a loser you were, I would never have married you. I’m going up in my career and instead of you helping, I have to keep dragging you along. Even your mother and sisters can’t understand you. My mother says I should take a belt to you, that if you’re going to act like a child, you should be disciplined as a child. If you don’t get yourself together and start acting as a mature, responsible adult, I’m going to send you back to your mother to be trained as a wife and mother!”
Her father left the house, slamming the front door behind him.
“Milk,” three-year-old Sarah said.
Marni got up and went into the kitchen to get her little sister milk. At ten years old, Marni was taking care of her younger brother and Sarah. Her mother had become less and less attentive toward them. She knew her mother was also inattentive toward her new baby. When the baby cried, Marni would tell her mother it was time to breast-feed. Her mother was listless and would spend hours staring blankly at the TV. More and more often she heard her mother talking to herself, mumbling about what a bad mother and wife she was. As her mother’s mumbling became more frequent, Marni understood less and less of it. Sometimes it sounded like her mother was talking to someone beside herself, someone who was telling her to do things that her mother didn’t want to do.
Marni took the carton of milk from the refrigerator and poured a glass for Sarah. She put the carton back in the refrigerator and turned to go back into the living room.
Her mother was still sitting at the table. She had stopped kneading the dough and was doing something with the baby now. Marni caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to look.
Her mother’s hands were around the throat of the baby. She was wringing its neck. Her mother let go of the baby and it dropped to the floor. It lay still, lifeless. Marni saw her mother staring at her with eyes no longer dull but feverish. Her mother stood up and reached for her. Marni screamed. She dropped the glass in her hand and ran.
PART 6
AFRICA
39
Gomez, the mine’s delivery driver, took me into Lurema to ransom a generator that had been diverted from a Luanda shipment to the mine. Buying the generator from the police, who were probably the original thieves, was much cheaper than ordering a new one and waiting weeks for it to come. It probably wouldn’t have managed to get through the second time, anyway.
Sometimes I shook my head and asked Cross how the country functioned with everything so messed up. The answer was always the same—it didn’t.
The Blue Lady was up and running with me at the helm, although it seemed like each day God kicked the hurdles up a notch to make me jump a little higher. I was learning some of the rhythm of dealing with the people. Back in the States, everything operated off the clock. One o’clock meant one o’clock or a few minutes either way. Time took on an entirely different meaning in equatorial Africa. The people, commerce, and transportation were not all cogs geared into the same giant time machine that ran the Western world. There were many different ideas about what an appointment set for one o’clock might mean. An appointment at one o’clock didn’t even mean that it was to happen on the day previously arranged.
Overall, I was feeling good about myself. My acquaintances in New York—ex-acquaintances—would have laid odds that I would have walked away from running the mine or failed at it because it just wasn’t fun. It wasn’t fun, but it was a challenge, and as Cross said, it put bread on the table. I enjoyed the challenge, there was nothing like a mine flood or cave-in to get your adrenaline pumping, but my nights were boring—and lonely. And horny. There was no way in hell I’d touch a woman in a country where AIDS was epidemic. Hell, there was so much AIDS around, Cross claimed a guy had to be careful even practicing the sin of Onan.
The jeep was dodging potholes near a UN aid compound when I spotted a woman leaning up against a tree near the river and did a double take.
“Pull over,” I told Gomez.
She turned when she heard my footsteps approaching.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe it, the Playboy of the Western World, in Angola.” Marni clapped her hands. “And in work clo
thes. Or are those soiled khakis a new type of leisure suit?”
I held up the palms of my hands. “Calluses, too.”
“From golf clubs?”
“In Angola? Where the sand traps are quicksand? And you get eaten by a lion if you go into the rough to look for your ball?”
I gave her a hug. “It’s good to see you. I can’t tell you how—how—”
“How what?” she asked.
“How horny I am.”
That got her laughing.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Distributing food and medical supplies. At least, the portion of it that doesn’t get stolen and ends up on the black market. Sometimes I forget who I’m working for—the relief agency or the local thieves. What are you doing here?”
“Buying back equipment from the police who stole it.”
That got us both laughing.
A line of jeeps came by and a horn honked. Colonel Jomba grinned and waved with his swagger stick as he went by in his chauffeur-driven jeep with its skull hood ornament.
Marni shuddered. “The man’s a monster. We pay him under the table to see that our food trucks don’t get robbed. And then we pay him for return of the stuff when they do get robbed. Do you know him?”
“Vaguely.” The colonel looked like a very happy man. He ought to be—he took half of Eduardo’s nest egg. You can bet Jomba considered it an extra bonus that didn’t need to be reported to his UNITA bosses.
“One of our aid workers is actually dating him.”
I shrugged and kept my face blank. Considering the barbed-wire necklace and head horns, what he might have tattooed where the sun doesn’t shine wasn’t even imaginable.
Marni studied my face, taking my jaw and moving my face side to side. “Hmmm. You’ve changed.”
Heat of Passion Page 20