The Lonely Polygamist

by Brady Udall

  Though Golden outweighed him by seventy pounds and was fifteen years his junior, Ted was not at all averse to giving Golden the occasional shove, ripping blueprints or building specs out of his hands, or jabbing his finger into the big man’s chest as if trying to draw blood. It didn’t matter if incidents like these happened in private or in front of an entire framing crew, Golden did what he always did when someone pushed or elbowed or attempted to punch him (all of which seemed to happen with disturbing regularity, ever since he was a boy): he smiled politely and removed himself from harm’s way, as if in apology for the offense of being at once large and sweet-natured.

  All of it—Ted Leo and the job itself and the stress of keeping it a secret and the pressure of supporting a family, the very size and complexity of which he could no longer fully encompass in his head—all of it was bearing on him with such an inexorable weight that the notion occurred to him, once or twice each day, that he might be losing his mind.

  Which was why, back in Virgin, he had stopped Uncle Chick after sacrament meeting on a Sunday afternoon, asked him if he had a moment.

  “I got moments, but fewer every day,” Uncle Chick said. “Let me help the girls get Dad loaded up and on his way and then I’ll be with you.”

  They decided to go for a drive, and Uncle Chick eased up to the hearse, touching the hood with both hands. He gave the roof of the car a smart slap. “You want me to take the wheel?”

  Golden chuckled, as he had the last dozen times Uncle Chick had made the same joke. Over the past couple of years Uncle Chick’s eyesight had been going steadily downhill due to a degenerative eye condition that made him legally blind. He wore spectacles with smoked lenses that helped a little, and got by the rest of the way on touch, memory, and sheer cussedness.

  They took the old state highway that followed the Virgin River, the sun so high in the sky it seemed to be invisible, a wall of dust kicked up by rising low-pressure winds, purple and solid, toward the west. Cooter, who had been penned up in the back of the hearse during the three-hour service, sat between them, vibrating with nervous energy and occasionally attempting a trial lick at one of Uncle Chick’s nicked and battered hands.

  “Don’t know why you’d keep a dog in your vehicle,” Uncle Chick said. “Smells like a pig’s lunch in here.”

  He rolled down the window and stuck his nose out, the moving air lifting his stiff, Brylcreemed hair like a lid. “There, now I can think a little. Aside from the gassy dog, I’m glad we can talk. You haven’t been around much.”

  “Work,” Golden said. “It’s bad.”

  Uncle Chick nodded approvingly. “Course it’s bad. It always is.” Uncle Chick preached a single philosophy that guided his own life and the congregation he was responsible for: Whenever you have to choose between the easy way and the hard, choose the hard, and things will end up all right. It was a simple but surprisingly effective way to live, Golden had discovered, but it didn’t allow for a whole lot of sympathy or brotherly compassion. Things are going terribly for you? Well, great, congratulations: you must be on the right track.

  “I got something I been meaning to talk to you about,” Uncle Chick said. “Maybe you seen it coming, but it’s time I brought it up. Maureen Sinkfoyle.”

  Golden couldn’t help it: he groaned and let go of the steering wheel to grind his knuckles into his eyes. He had seen it coming, had taken the time and initiative to worry about it, but then six dozen other worries had crowded his mind and he’d promptly forgotten about it. Maureen, a buxom and not-unattractive woman with a voice that sounded like tearing sheet metal, was one of the ex-wives of the now-notorious Richard Sinkfoyle, who eight months ago had abandoned his three wives and twelve children to take up with some sort of new age fortune-teller he’d met on one of his sales trips to California. The other two wives, both younger and still of childbearing age, had married into other families, but Maureen, who had two teenage boys, both of whom were certified vandals and hell-raisers, lived in a trailer out by Cut Creek, surviving on welfare and the good graces of the Church. As one of a handful of faithful, middle-aged priesthood holders with anything close to financial security in these difficult economic times, Golden knew he was a leading candidate to take in Maureen and her boys. Maureen herself had been making her case in her own subtle ways over the last few months. She had dropped off gifts of sheet cake and canned peaches at Old House, was known to be spending a lot of time with Nola and Rose at the hair academy—surely in an effort to secure tactical allies for her cause—and had occasionally engaged in what was, by Church standards, blatant flirting: significant looks in sacrament meetings, occasional phone calls to his office, asking for help with her hinky furnace or a priesthood blessing for one of her accident-prone boys. In short, he should have been anticipating this; he should have had a defense ready.

  “Has Beverly talked to you about it?” Golden said. He did have a single line of defense, and it was a good one. Beverly did not like Maureen, did not like the way she displayed her large bust with snug-fitting dresses, did not think highly of the way she, the matriarch of the family, hadn’t so much as put up a fight to keep her husband from running off with a ditzy blond twenty-five-year-old slut. Beverly had arranged Golden’s marriage to Nola—and by extension to Rose—and more or less forced him to marry Trish. So her vote was the one that truly counted, in marriage and just about everything else.

  Uncle Chick snorted. “No, she hasn’t said a word about it to me. It’s not up to her. It’s up to you and nobody else.”

  “It’s never been up to me,” Golden said, unable to hide the resentment in his voice. “Not since the day I got here.”

  Uncle Chick seemed to accept this mild rebuke. He nodded, his milky gaze fixed on some point out the passenger window where a cloud of blackbirds lifted off a stand of Russian olives. “All right. You’re correct. And it shouldn’t be up to you. It’s up to God, when it comes down to it, every time. God ain’t going to wait forever on this, and neither is Maureen. She’s a good woman who knows a good man when she sees one.”

  “Don’t forget she married Richard,” Golden said.

  “Yes, she did, poor thing. We all thought pretty highly of that damned fool, too, until he gave us all sorts a reasons to think otherwise.”

  Brother Sinkfoyle would be forever reviled in the Church because he’d done the unthinkable: he’d taken the easy way out. And what did he have to show for it? A cute blonde at his side, a life of peace and quiet in the carefree California sunshine. It was hard for Golden not to feel jealous.

  “Anyway, forget about that jackass and take this one to the Lord. Difficult times we’re in, I know. But somebody’s got to step up, and I’m getting too old.”

  Golden looked over at Uncle Chick, who was busy working a handkerchief out of his vest pocket. The old man gave off an aroma of leather and horse liniment, mingled with a minty old-fashioned cologne that he referred to as “dog water.” It was a smell that had never changed in the twenty-plus years Golden had known him, and now that Uncle Chick’s eyes were failing and arthritis was twisting his fingers into swollen hooks, Golden had to face the idea that Chick might not be around forever. Ever since his own father had died, had up and run out on him one final time, Uncle Chick had been there to offer advice and encouragement, to take an interest in Golden in a way his father never had. He watched the old man honk lustily into his handkerchief and felt his throat tighten with anticipatory grief.

  Uncle Chick put his hand on Golden’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. His voice was soft and rough. “I know what you’ve suffered these past few years, how hard your losses have been on you. But there comes a time when you have to move forward, to take care of what you got.”

  His losses. These he didn’t talk about, not with his wives, not with Uncle Chick. He knew there was something in him that needed to talk them out, but he didn’t have the necessary vocabulary, much less the courage. So he set his jaw and stared out the windshield until the building silence
required Uncle Chick to speak.

  “We’re all waiting on you, that’s all. I’d do anything for you, any of us would.”

  Not yet ready to speak, Golden acknowledged this with a nod. His eyes had gotten a little moist, which was not helping matters.

  He knew he was a disappointment to Uncle Chick, and to just about everyone else who knew him, for that matter. It had not always been this way. There had been a time when he was widely considered a success: a prosperous businessman, a good husband and provider, a pillar of the church. Now it was clear to Golden—as it was, no doubt, to a good many others—that this had all been a mirage, an illusion fabricated, in part, by Beverly, who managed the family and its everyday affairs with the exactitude and logistical expertise of a field marshal, and by his own father, who had left Golden a profitable business as well as a small inheritance to get him through the lean times, and by Uncle Chick himself, who, after Royal’s death, took Golden under his wing, installed him, at the green age of thirty-four, into the Council of the Twelve as one of the apostles of the church.

  For a time, there were even whispers among some of the members that Golden Richards was the One Mighty and Strong, the man who, according to scriptural prophecy, was to be delivered from on high to set in order the house of God. The polygamists of the Virgin Valley, along with Mormon fundamentalists of all stripes, had been waiting a long time for the One Mighty and Strong. At the turn of the century the official Mormon church had bowed to political pressure and renounced the sacred and fundamental practice of plural marriage, and yet had inexplicably prospered, spreading to all the nations of the world and producing famous politicians and athletes—not to mention the charming and toothy Donny and Marie—while the hardscrabble little fundamentalist groups were reviled by their neighbors, scorned by the larger public, and so harassed by law enforcement that many had taken refuge in Canada and Mexico. Still, they waited in the shadows, building their compounds so far out in the desert no one could find them, meeting in garages and barns and basements, safeguarding the only thing of worth they owned: their pearl of great price, the Principle, which would one day transform the world and bring about the Second Coming of Christ.

  These were a people who had every reason to hope for a champion, someone who could redeem their suffering and deliver them from bondage. And for the polygamists of the Virgin Valley, it seemed that Golden Richards just might be the one.

  It did not hurt at all that he was a craggy six-foot-six, blond and blue-eyed, and named Golden. Nobody was expecting the One Mighty and Strong to be a short and pudgy fellow by the name of Irv.

  Golden had an especially good recollection of the day, nearly ten years ago, that established him as an official candidate for the office of divine emancipator. It was a snowy Sunday just before Christmas, and in the middle of the afternoon sacrament service a green Buick Skylark pulled up outside the church, revving its engine. A man wearing a well-oiled pompadour and white undershirt got out of the passenger side and began to stalk the periphery of the small church house, barking out biblical nonsense and clapping his chest with great force, like an irate gorilla.

  The congregation murmured and Uncle Chick stopped his sermon to have a look out the window. He stepped back from the pulpit, spoke in a low voice to the prophet, and then motioned all the apostles in attendance—only six on that day—to the back room.

  “Well, we knew he’d show up sooner than later, and here he is,” Uncle Chick said.

  Golden, always a little behind and trying to catch up, said, “Who is it?”

  “Ervil LeBaron,” said Apostle Barrett, peering out the window. “Look at him. Nutty as they come. And I think that’s his brother driving.”

  Golden had heard the name. The LeBarons were an infamous bunch: violent, scheming, and backward, they gave their fellow polygamists a bad name, which was saying something. When they weren’t attacking or killing their enemies, who included the Mexican and American governments, the Mormon church, other polygamist clans, and pretty much anyone else who declined to bow before their claims of divine and absolute authority, they were attacking and killing each other. Ervil would eventually become the most notorious LeBaron of all for sending one of his wives—chosen because she was the prettiest of the lot—to murder an influential and beloved polygamist leader in Salt Lake City.

  “He’s been making the rounds, trying to get everybody to pledge obedience to him and his people,” said Apostle Coombs, loosening his tie. “Up to Manti, Jonas Silber told me, they had to run him off with shotguns. Anybody got a shotgun?”

  “No, no shotguns,” said Uncle Chick. “That’s the last thing we need.”

  Outside, Ervil LeBaron was barking out scriptural condemnations at an astonishing rate, calling the folks watching from the windows a perverse and stiff-necked people, going on at length about abominations and whoredoms and bilious cankers on the holy church of God. He was getting hoarse, and a little impatient, if the tone of his voice was any indication.

  “Got my thirty-ought-six in my Chevy,” said Apostle Throckmorten. “Might take me a minute to find some shells, though.”

  “Am I talking to myself here?” asked Uncle Chick. “No shooting. My cripes. He’s not carrying a firearm. He’s a bully, here to intimidate. So we’ll just send him on his way.”

  He turned to Golden, gave him a long measuring look, seemed to settle on something. “I got an axe handle in the back of my Ford out front. I want you to go get it and invite this gentleman to peddle his papers elsewhere.”

  Golden blinked. “Axe handle?”

  “Right, nice hickory one, up front by the hay bale.”

  Was this a joke? Golden registered the mood of his fellow apostles, who appeared to have about as much confidence in this plan as he did. He said, “Me?”

  “There’s that movie where that southern deputy fella goes around beating up the hillbilly riffraff with a axe handle,” offered Apostle Lambson, nodding. “Worked pretty good for him.”

  “You’re a servant of God, remember that,” said Uncle Chick. “Pay attention, let the Spirit guide you. Now go. We’ve got a service to finish up.”

  Like a bride left at the altar, Golden walked the center aisle alone, head bowed, every eye in the congregation following his progress. He made it a point not to let his gaze wander to the left, where his wives and children sat. Outside, the air was cold, sharp. He went to Uncle Chick’s pickup, found the axe handle. New snow, frozen overnight, crackled under each step. Ervil LeBaron fell quiet as Golden approached. He stretched out his arms as if waiting for the big man to walk into them.

  “Every knee shall bow!” he barked hoarsely, his face a deep, chapped red, his eyes shining with wonder at the truth and power of his perceptions. “And every tongue confess!”

  “Please, you need to go,” Golden said, stepping forward. He had to concentrate to hold the man’s gaze and could barely hear himself over the thump of blood in his ears. “We’re trying to have our services here.”

  Ervil LeBaron moved a half step back but continued to carry on with his nonsense. He pulled a large sheaf of parchment paper from his jeans pocket, claiming he was not leaving until everyone within the sound of his voice put their name to it. Golden stood in the snow, bewildered, waiting for a prompting from the Holy Spirit, some guiding voice that would tell him what to do. But the only thing he could hear was Ervil LeBaron popping himself on the chest and shouting about everlasting burnings and the blood of the lamb.

  He knew one thing: he could not hit this man. Intimidated by his own size, he had always kept himself from everything but the mildest gestures; right now he doubted he could so much as raise the axe handle in a threatening manner. While he reviewed his options, trying not to think about the crowd watching from the church windows, his gaze fell on the car, which had obviously been well cared-for. Even though it was several years old, it had been freshly painted a glittering, medieval green, and appointed with swirling white pinstripes along the fenders and door panels. T
he engine rumbled and the brake lights blinked on and off. Golden ducked his head to get a look at the smirking driver, who was obviously impatient to be on his way.

  This was a man, he thought, who didn’t want to get involved. This was a man happy to let his brother do the dirty work while he waited safely behind the wheel. Golden stared for a few seconds at the throbbing passenger-side brake light and then, with a quick, almost surreptitious motion, gave it a slight chop with the axe handle. The glass housing broke with a tinkling crunch, leaving a mosaic of bright red shards in the snow.

  Golden had to admit: that had felt pretty good. The thought occurred to him that maybe he could do this.

  “My car!” shouted the driver. “He hit my car!”

  Ervil LeBaron fell quiet. Golden stepped up to address the remaining brake light and by the time the driver understood what was happening it was too late. He’d just gotten it into gear, the tires starting to spin, when Golden took a swing like somebody who knew his way around a baseball bat, and nearly separated the whole assembly from the body of the car.

  The driver screamed as if he himself were being bodily assaulted. The car started forward with Golden close behind. Ervil LeBaron had grabbed his arm by this time, hanging on like a man trying to board a moving trolley and shouting some decidedly unbiblical phrases into his ear, but Golden was not going to be denied: he wanted to know what it would feel like to put a nice clean dent in the lid of the car’s trunk, and it turned out to feel very, very good.

  The car spurted forward and then slowed, the driver giving his brother one last chance to jump in before abandoning him once and for all. Ervil, it appeared, had a choice: he could accept the humiliation of retreat or be left here in the cold with a whole congregation of extremely unsympathetic people and one unpredictable giant and his axe handle. He chose retreat, but as the car roared off, he hung on to the still-open door, bellowing for all to hear that, like the Son of Man in the fullness of times, he would be back.