The Lonely Polygamist

by Brady Udall

  In this single bright moment, surrounded by his loved ones, his new home being raised in a racket of hammering and shouts, the air imprinted with the scent of hot sawdust, he is ready to believe that anything is possible.

  He can’t help himself; before he turns back he steals a look across the heads of family and friends, finds Huila near the back standing by the propane tank. He can’t be sure, but she appears to be holding Nestor’s hand. They both smile broadly, her son clutching his mother’s leg, the weathered old uncle looking around, an expression on his face that says, These are some very strange people. Huila is wearing the peasant dress he first saw her in, the one decorated with yellow pineapples and bananas in rough yarn, and he knows that for all the undeserved bounty of his life, she will always be there, at the edge of his vision, to remind him of all the things he can never have.

  Uncle Chick asks the wives to come forward and take their place next to the bride: Trish closest to Maureen, then Rose-of-Sharon, Nola, and Beverly at the end.

  Now that Trish is standing, the slight rounding of her belly is obvious. After that first night months ago, until her morning sickness (which seemed to peak during evening hours) got the better of her, they’d had sex with some regularity on the Barge’s smelly decks, healing sex, tired sex, sex whose only purpose, it seemed, was to make the world and everything in it disappear. Though she was never enthusiastic about it, Golden insisted they use the condoms he had purchased, in a moment of abject embarrassment, from the old bald druggist in St. George. Now the sight of his young wife, flushed at the cheeks, radiant with the new life inside her, he can only accept as a miracle, a divine rebuke to his selfish desires.

  Both Rose and Nola have a different look to them as well, Rose with her hair in a simple bun, her skin tanned from a summer spent mostly outside, away from the hubbub of construction, herding kids and working in the family garden, and Nola, who has shed a good fifteen pounds since finding out that it would be Maureen Sinkfoyle joining the family (she has let it be known that her new life’s goal is to be “only the second tubbiest wife in the Richards clan”). And there is Beverly, at the end of the line, a flash of new gray at her temples, coughing quietly into her fist. A month ago, after she had succeeded in her campaign to ensure that Maureen would be Golden’s fifth wife, she informed him in the most matter-of-fact way that she had been to see the doctor, who told her what she had suspected for quite a while: she had inoperable lung cancer, almost certainly contracted from exposure to radioactive fallout. She would not seek treatment, which had little chance of helping anyway, and her only request of him was that he keep this news a secret for as long as she asked. She would spend the rest of her time tutoring Maureen and making peace with the other wives, to ensure that once she was gone the Richards family would soldier forward in harmony and righteousness until the promised day, on the other side of the veil, when they would be joined together again.

  From the back of the house there is the sharp whine of a power saw followed by some good-natured cursing in Spanish, and one of the redheaded Sinkfoyle brothers (both of whom will be adding their number to the ranks of the Richards family any moment now) makes an off-color joke under his breath that draws a few titters from the crowd. Uncle Chick barks out a cough of warning and turns to address the wives. He asks them if they are ready to stand as Sarah of old and sacrifice their personal desires to the greater glory of God and His kingdom. To each one in turn he asks, “Do you, willingly and of your own accord, give this good sister to this man in marriage for time and all eternity?” and each one, with only a slight hesitation, nods, says, “I do.”

  At this point of the ceremony, it is up to Trish, as the last wife, to deliver the bride. She takes Maureen’s wrist, but doesn’t seem to possess the strength to lift it. A muscle in her jaw flares and, in a single, insistent motion, she places Maureen’s right hand in Golden’s and covers them both with her own. The other wives step forward to do the same and as they huddle close, breathing the same air, Golden hopes to meet their eyes, to assure them of his love for them, his good intentions, but he can see only a series of wet, flesh-colored blurs, and the moment is lost when Uncle Chick, by the power vested in him by no one but the true and living God, pronounces them man and wives. They step back, and for those in attendance it is difficult to say if the tears they discreetly knuckle from their eyes are tears of sorrow or joy.

  The groom is instructed to kiss the bride, and Maureen tugs Golden down by his tie and mashes her face into his. The crowd exhales a sigh of relief and the Richards children, prodded by the several old church ladies who value politeness and decorum above all else, step uncertainly forward to offer their congratulations. Under a wide western sky they gather round, father, mothers and children, the whole mob of them shaking hands, giving kisses and exaggerated hugs, as if hoping to convince themselves, once and for all, that they are that most wondrous and impossible of things: one big happy family.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While I tried to defer to geography and history whenever possible, in this book they have been employed opportunistically; where they didn’t serve the story, they were blissfully ignored.

  I’d like to offer my thanks to these people and organizations:

  The families in Utah and Arizona for their generosity and insight, for allowing me into their lives.

  My editor, Jill Bialosky, for taking on this book and under difficult circumstances, and to all the good people at Norton who have helped along the way.

  Francis Geffard, editor at Albin Michel, for his knowledge and appreciation of the American West, and his support of my work.

  Peter Rudy and Aaron Cohen, friends and first readers, whose advice and criticism made this a better book.

  Matt Crosby, whose sharp eye and editorial instincts saved the day.

  Colorado Art Ranch and the Retreat at Railroad Ranch, for providing time and beautiful places in which to write.

  Raye C. Ringholz, author of Uranium Frenzy: Saga of the Nuclear West, and Carole Gallagher, author of American Ground Zero: The Secret Nuclear War, for their work on American nuclear testing and its victims.

  Dorothy Allred Solomon, whose memoir, Daughter of the Saints, is the best account of polygamy ever written.

  And to three people in particular, my deepest gratitude:

  Carol Houck Smith, who didn’t get to see this book into print, but whose influence lives on every page.

  Nicole Aragi, for so many things: advice, humor, perspective, friendship, support.

  Kate, for strength and sweetness, for being there every step of the way.