“That’s right.” I rose to my feet and extended my hand, not expecting him to accept the gesture.
“Paul, I can explain,” Aspen began, stepping in front of me. Panic emanated through her voice, but he wouldn’t make eye contact with her. He towered over her, and she raised herself to her tiptoes to attempt to close the space between them. Her voice grew desperate. It pained me to hear that need in her voice—the need for him to believe her, to understand. She cared for her husband more than I wanted to realize.
“Please, just listen to me, Paul,” she continued, pulling on his sleeve.
Paul walked past his wife, pushing her to the side gently with his arm as he moved to stand opposite me, my arm still extended. To my shock and surprise, he accepted my gesture and shook my hand. I glanced at Aspen, who froze, her mouth agape again.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, placing both hands on my hips, exposing my badge, unsure of his intentions. It was important to remain professional even if Aspen’s husband wanted to make things personal. Did he know I’d confessed my feelings to her? Did she tell him? I couldn’t figure out why the brother of the prophet was standing in my office shaking my hand, but I sure as hell wanted to find out.
“I want you to put Clarence Black in jail for the rest of his natural life.” Venom dripped from his words. He was furious.
Every cell in my brain radiated with shock and awe. Was I hearing him properly? Was Paul Black standing in my office and swearing allegiance against his brother?
What the fuck is happening?
I tipped my head forward in disbelief. Aspen’s mouth still hung open in shock, her skin pale, her eyes wide in total consternation.
“What?” Aspen blurted out. I glanced at her before narrowing my sights on the man in front of me.
“Excuse me?” I asked, my brow furrowed. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
Paul stood tall, an interesting mixture of anger and calm. “You heard me just fine. Let’s take that son of a bitch down.”
Chapter 16
(Three days ago)
I couldn’t stop staring at those lips. They were the same as they always were—plump, pink, enticing. It didn’t matter that she was currently punishing our oldest daughter for her entitled attitude. I didn’t care that her hands were placed on her hips as she scolded. I ignored the rolling of her eyes as she spoke to Ruthie. No, all I could see were her lips.
And I hated myself for it.
I could feel myself softening toward Aspen over the past few weeks. And even though I knew some of that was undeniably the sexual attraction I had toward her, I also knew there was more to it. Her personality: she was this fierce, protective, and tough woman who stood her ground and fought for herself. And as much as I tried to reel her in and condition her to be more like my other thirteen wives (passive, submissive, and void of opinions), I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t admit that a large portion of my attraction to her was in that tough outer shell, that fiery personality. Aspen was a true individual—which was rare in our community.
Since I’d done the unthinkable and essentially disowned her as my wife, I’d been filled with a deep, nagging regret. My outburst was said in anger, in the heat of the moment. I was hurt, betrayed, and furious. She’d put her trust in a police officer instead of me. How was I supposed to react?
As time went on, I found myself replaying our discussions over and over. Rehashing our arguments in my mind, and little moments that had slipped my mind earlier came barging back with a vengeance. Aspen had begged me to believe her when she made the outlandish claims against our prophet. I, of course, would hear nothing of it. And even though I knew I acted accordingly—in a way to show deference to my brother and to continue to support my family—a small part of me knew she was right.
Unfortunately that small part of me could get myself kicked off the compound. Clarence said it himself. And I couldn’t have that. I had fourteen wives and almost sixty children to feed. And Clarence made things abundantly clear when I attempted to ask him about the gentile Aspen saw in the field, the man with the leather face. Any and all questions were not welcome and should see themselves out the door. My brother was a man of his word. He didn’t make threats; he made commitments, promises. And he kept them all. So when he threatened to take away everything I held dear, I had to listen. I had to stop the questions.
Aspen never forgave me for that, and her lack of forgiveness was the seed that grew into an abundance of resentment on my part. All my other wives understood it was unacceptable to question the prophet. Why on earth couldn’t she? Why did she have to make things so darn difficult?
“Papa, please tell her she’s wrong,” Ruthie said with hands on hips, her head tilted to the side.
“Listen to your mother. You need to help prepare the supper just like everyone else,” I said. Aspen offered a small, respectful smile, and Ruthie stomped toward the kitchen sink. “And keep sweet.”
Ruthie kept her eyes straight ahead and away from us. Aspen shook her head, a few small hairs hung above her forehead.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “She doesn’t really listen to me these days.”
“Well, she’s not married yet,” I said with a comforting smile, but Aspen’s forehead fell.
You moron. Why did you have to mention the marriage?
Ruthie was set to marry Clarence in a few short weeks. In fact, I was pretty sure the girl had a calendar in her room where she was eagerly counting down the days. Little Susan mentioned it to me over breakfast one morning and a knot formed in my stomach.
Initially, I’d supported the match, knowing I had no choice. However, as we approached the date and I could tell Ruthie’s ideas of marriage were nothing but castles in the sky, I worried for her. I worried that she was in for a very unsettling dose of reality the moment she said “I do” at the new temple.
I wanted to apologize to Aspen as we stood awkwardly in the kitchen together. I opened my mouth to do that but was interrupted by the clearing of a throat. Flora. That woman always knew exactly when to interrupt any interaction I had with my fourteenth wife. With a sigh, I walked away to join the little ones in the parlor as we waited to be called to dinner.
I wondered if Aspen would agree to speak with me about the future of our marriage. I didn’t want to remain strangers who shared children. Heavenly Father wouldn’t approve of such a union, even though I knew it was more common in our community than anyone cared to admit. I was drawn to her, I appreciated her, and frankly, I missed having her in my presence. I made the decision right then and there to speak to her.
Eventually.
A gentle nudging roused me from my sleep. It took a moment for my eyes to focus and for me to realize where exactly I was.
Green curtains, striped wallpaper, decorative owl trinkets.
Sarah’s room.
“Papa,” the voice said through tears. “Papa, wake up.”
“What is it, son? It’s the middle of the night.” I glanced at the clock. One thirty in the morning. My seventeen-year-old, Isaac, was standing at the foot of the bed, something he’d done since he was only three years old. If he had a nightmare, he didn’t cry from his bed; he’d walk into his mother’s room in silence and wait to be heard. He’d sniff loudly or cough. But this time he said my name. Just hearing it made a chill run down my spine. Something was wrong—very wrong. Without hesitation I turned on the light, and Sarah woke with a start. Once my eyes adjusted to the harsh light of the room, I gasped.
“What happened?” I asked, ripping off the covers.
“Isaac, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Sarah asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Unfortunately we’d both grown so used to Isaac standing at the foot of the bed, that her sense of urgency was muted, dulled, no longer accommodating to her oldest boy. And she must still have been asleep when he called my name. When she saw me hurtle myself from the bed and run to him, however, Sarah woke up completely. He was covered in scrapes, cuts, and forming bruis
es.
“It hurts,” he said, choking on his tears.
“What on earth happened to you?”
“I said no,” he said over and over again. Sarah turned on her light and joined us at the foot of the bed, putting her arm around Isaac and guiding him to sit on top of the mattress. When he attempted to sit, he screeched, jumping back to his feet.
“I have to stand. Don’t make me sit. I have to stand.”
Isaac was a unique child—that’s the way Sarah always described him. At a very young age, we knew he was different from our other children. He was an early talker but didn’t quite like to make eye contact. Before he could tie his shoes, he was using advanced words his older siblings didn’t understand. He was fascinated by trains, even though he’d never been a passenger on one. He could tell you almost anything you wanted to know about anything having to do with a locomotive. He was our mini professor. Emotionally, Isaac was a little behind. He didn’t care to be hugged and would sometimes rock himself back and forth when hurt. There were a handful of boys like him on our compound, and Sarah went to great lengths to make sure he was able to spend time with them as much as possible.
When he was younger, she would spend countless hours obsessing about his differences from our other children. “He’s different,” she’d say when the other wives would complain that he wasn’t behaving as expected or only wanted to discuss trains instead of other topics. And my response was always, “And what does that mean? How can we help him?” For years, her answer was, “I don’t know.” Finally one day, I replied, “We just need to love him, Sarah. Just love him.” So that’s exactly what we did. We gave Isaac our love in the way he was most comfortable and aside from his lack of physical affection, he was one of our most loving children. And tonight, he was seeking our love and comfort after a major injury—we just had no idea what had happened.
“Isaac, sweetheart, slow down,” Sarah said. “Where were you?”
“Scout . . . Scout got out. Ruthie left the gate open again. This is the sixth time she’s done that this year.” It amazed me that despite how beaten and battered he appeared, and how emotional he was, he could still remember the details. Isaac always remembered the details.
“Did you fall? How did you get so many bruises?”
“He, he told me he needed to speak to me. He brought me to the temple.”
“Who?” I demanded. “Who brought you to the temple?”
But I knew my son. Once he started a story, it was difficult to stop him. For lack of a better word, he was like a speeding train—full steam ahead. My questions would have to wait.
“It was dark . . . and someone kicked me. Here.” He pointed to his stomach. “And it was hard to breathe. So hard.”
“Oh my word.” Sarah clutched her hand over her mouth.
“Did you see who kicked you?” I asked, even though I knew his brain was already too far ahead of me to answer. He was my son, and I had to ask the questions even if they were never answered. I had to protect my son.
“They did it again and again and then I fell asleep.”
“You fell asleep?” Sarah asked, her eyes pained. Confusion hung in the room like a fog as Sarah and I attempted to piece together the puzzle Isaac configured.
“And then it hurt . . . so bad, Mama. So, so bad it woke me up.” Isaac closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands, no longer looking at us.
“Where, sweetheart? Where did it hurt?”
Still hanging his head, he pointed to his backside. “He pulled my pants down . . . my underpants too.”
Sarah gasped, closing her eyes tight and clutching her mouth with her hand. “No.”
My stomach dropped to my knees.
“Who did this?” I pressed, my voice raised, placing one hand on his shoulder, but he said nothing. He kept his eyes shut and shook his head.
“He’ll kill me. He said he’d kill me.”
“C’mon, Isaac, I’ll protect you. But I can’t do that unless I know who did this.”
Isaac opened his eyes, bloodshot and swollen. He shook his head. “I don’t want to die, Papa.”
“You’re not going to die, I promise you.”
“But he said—”
“I know what he said, but I’ll never let that happen. Do you understand me?”
Sarah chimed in, still rubbing his back. “Sweetheart, we have to know who did this to you. I know you’re scared, I am too. But please tell your father who it was.”
Isaac sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve and said matter-of-factly, “Uncle Clarence.”
“What?” I roared, taking two steps back. I was shocked, bewildered. “Uncle Clarence hurt you? At the temple?”
Aspen’s accusations of gentiles at the temple came flooding through my brain. She was right . . . about all of it. She was right.
“Not just him. But I don’t know the other men. They don’t live here.”
“What did your uncle say?”
“He said that if I told you, he’d kill me. And that I deserved it—that I’m not good enough to live on this compound. That I’m retarded and stupid and he’s tired of you making excuses for me.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“Paul!” Sarah recoiled from my choice of words. I didn’t care. My brother abused my son, and I could think of dozens of more colorful terms to use for him.
Isaac ignored our outburst and continued. “He told me I’d be gone in forty-eight hours. Is that true, Mama? Are you going to send me away?”
“No, of course not,” Sarah said, closing her eyes tight to prevent tears. I could feel my own threatening to come to the surface, but my rage kept them at bay. “Paul?”
“No, we won’t send you away.” I looked to Sarah. “Take him to the washroom, get him . . .” I swallowed hard, again keeping my tears at bay. “Get him cleaned up.”
“I don’t know if I—”
“Please, Sarah,” I whispered.
“Papa?”
“Yes, son.”
“I want you. Mama shouldn’t see me there. It’s not proper, remember?”
Isaac knew every rule in our household backward and forward. And he knew that once they reached a certain age, the boys were not to be naked in front of any of their mothers or sisters. The same was true for the girls. Once they reached the age of seven, I was forbidden from assisting with baths or seeing them in any sort of compromising position. That was to be handled by the mothers. No exceptions.
My stomach churned, but I forced my lips into a comforting smile. “Of course. Come with me, son.”
“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” Sarah said, her voice cracking with emotion. I knew as soon as we left the room she would collapse onto the bed and sob.
“No, I’ll get it, thanks,” I said. Then with pursed lips, I gave her a nod, knowing she needed a moment to herself to come to grips with her emotions. Aside from Aspen, she was the most emotional of my wives. Normally I brushed off her sensitive ways, but not this time. No, this time she had every right to scream, cry, and punch pillows if she was inclined.
I wanted to punch a hole in my brother’s face. I wanted to choke the last breath from his body. I wanted to make him suffer.
An hour later, Isaac was cleaned up, showered, and in fresh pajamas. The ibuprofen I’d given him to help the pain and swelling was easing its way into his system, and he was relaxed enough to go to sleep. I sat next to him, brushing the hair from his droopy eyes.
“Go to sleep, my boy. Papa’s here.”
He yawned and attempted to widen his eyes, obviously fighting sleep. “Don’t go, Papa.”
Isaac was the first of my children to put himself to bed. Even at age five he had no interest in snuggling or listening to stories like his siblings did. He was independent from the get-go. But not tonight. Tonight he needed me, and I had no intention of going anywhere.
“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep, all right?” I asked. “How does that sound?”
“Good.” He ya
wned again. “Papa?”
“Yes, son.”
“Thank you for believing me.” His words, like always, were matter of fact, but I knew they spoke volumes.
I sat, mouth agape as I stared down at his pale, bruised face. My honest little professor who always said exactly what was on his mind. Aspen once said he had lacked a filter, and I teased that she didn’t either. The two of them were quite the pair.
“Of course I believed you. You’re my son and I love you.”
But I didn’t believe Aspen. I should have believed her. If I had, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. They were coming. As my son’s breathing evened out, tears streamed down my cheeks. I lowered myself to the floor and rested my elbows on the bed.
“Heavenly Father, help me to protect this boy. Help me do the right thing. Give me the knowledge and the wisdom to resist my anger, to resist the urge to kill my brother. Because I want to, Lord. I want to get in my truck and drive to his house. I want to strangle him, beat him to a pulp.” I sniffed, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. “Give me the strength, Heavenly Father, I’m begging you. Please give me the strength to do it the right way. Give me the wisdom, please, Lord. I’m just a man . . . a weak man. Please help me retaliate in the proper way. Show me the way, Heavenly Father. Please show me the way.”
And then, I hung my head and sobbed. I cried for Isaac, for Aspen, and Ruthie. I cried for every child who was dragged into that temple, because in my gut I knew there had to be others. There had to be. Clarence didn’t do things just once. No. And Aspen saw the gentiles walking into the temple months before this night. I cried for all the other victims of our so-called prophet. I didn’t cry out of fear. No. My fear was extinguished the moment my son confessed the name of his attacker.
It was time to make Clarence Black pay. I just had to figure out how.
Chapter 17
I imagine there are moments in everyone’s life that feel too surreal to process—too heartbreaking, too gut wrenching to accept they are, in fact, reality. When my eyes opened after a few short hours of sleep, I had one of those moments.
Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series) Page 13