His Right Hand

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  “So what did you do?” I asked.

  “He told me sometimes that he needed to repent. But he never said about what.” She was wringing her hands, and now I could see signs that she had run her sharp fingernails up her arms, probably before I had come. Those lines might scar.

  “Emma, whatever happened between you, I’m sure Carl loved you. You have to believe in that. You’re married eternally.”

  Emma shook her head again and again. “I know there were women in the ward who looked at him lustfully.”

  I stopped myself from asking which women. I was not going to encourage her jealous fantasies now.

  Emma started gathering up the letters, crumpling them into a ball rather than placing them back in their individual envelopes. “Just take them, please! Burn them! I never want to see them again.”

  “Of course,” I said. “That’s a fine plan.” And if they were evidence in the murder? If they might lead the police to the right suspect? I would deal with that myself.

  When I had all the letters collected, I looked around the bedroom. “Is there anything else here you want me to take? Should I help you go through Carl’s things, before I leave?”

  It was one of the most difficult parts of dealing with a death. I’d come home from the hospital after Georgia was born, only to see the crib and all the pink baby things I’d bought for her in the months I was pregnant, so excited for the girl I thought was coming. I boxed them all up and Kurt did something with them. He never told me what. I never asked. It was too painful to reopen.

  “No,” said Emma, the word bursting out of her with force. “I’m not ready for that yet. I need to keep his things here for now. It’s all I have left.”

  “All right. If that is what you want.”

  She took a breath, shook herself, and seemed to calm down.

  “I’ll leave now and let you have some peace,” I said, tucking the letters under one arm.

  “Promise me you’ll burn the letters,” Emma said. “I can’t bear the thought of anyone seeing them. Especially Kurt.”

  “I’ll burn them,” I lied, and took a breath of relief when I stepped out of the house.

  When I got home, I put the letters in a dresser drawer before I decided what to do with them. Why had Emma called me to ask me to burn the letters for her? Was she helpless again or was it an act? If it was an act, what was the point of it? My head spun with theories that made no sense, and I decided to wait to do anything.

  Samuel was in his room, so I went to check on him. He was reading scriptures.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “Meh,” he said. He had tucked his arms closer to his sides, as if he were afraid of what I was going to say to him. It hurt me to see him like this.

  “Have you and your father talked again?”

  Samuel shook his head.

  “He just needs some time to readjust.” I sat down on his bed and put a hand on his ankle. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and rock him to sleep, but obviously that wasn’t going to work at this point.

  “I wish he would just talk to me, and see I’m the same person I always was. I’m still trying to be good. I’m still trying to do what Jesus would have me do.” He nodded to the scriptures. “I pray every morning and every night.”

  I wanted to cry. “I don’t think I can push him about this,” I said. “It wouldn’t help.” Neither would pushing Samuel into saying he’d go on a mission to please Kurt.

  “No, I know. We’ll work it out. I don’t want you to do anything. It’s just hard waiting sometimes.”

  “Can I hug you?” I asked. We hugged for a long while, and then I tiptoed out and let him get back to his reading.

  This would work out. It had to. The people involved were too good for it not to. I was just impatient about the time frame. I always was.

  I went into my room and read scriptures, too. Unfortunately, one of the first was the story of the Prodigal Son, which made me cry. I didn’t want Samuel forced to live with pigs before he came home and his father realized how much he had been missed.

  When Kurt got home, I told him, “I think we need to watch Emma Ashby carefully.” That was all that had come out of my trying to figure out what to do about the letters. I didn’t bring up Samuel, and I thought I deserved an award for that. Closed Mouth of the Year.

  “We are already watching Emma carefully. Everyone in the ward.”

  “I know, but I’m worried about her. That she might do something . . .”

  “Like what?” asked Kurt, his eyes crinkling in real concern.

  “I don’t know. Something terrible.”

  “You think she’s suicidal? Did she say something to you today about that?”

  I shook my head. “Not like that. But she’s—brittle. I don’t know how good of a mother she can be to her children in this state.” After the condition I’d found her in at her house that day, I worried about all of them.

  “But she needs them. And they need her. Surely the worst thing for the family would be to be separated at a time like this. They are all hurting right now. We can’t just tell them they’re not doing it right.” This was a gentle reminder of what I had been like after Georgia had died. I’d been able to handle mundane tasks, like doing the dishes and keeping the house tidy. But I’d had trouble speaking to anyone about anything real. My anger, my grief, my thoughts about Georgia. For years, I spoke only about schedules with the kids. Had I been a good mother then? No. Likely I had forgotten plenty of things, too. I had been in a fog of pain and sorrow.

  I thought about the letters, but I didn’t feel like I could talk about them to Kurt. “She thinks Carl wasn’t who he was pretending to be,” I said.

  Kurt laughed harshly at that, and I realized why. But I had not been referring to his transgenderism. I saw Carl as a man and Emma as a woman, and the problems in their marriage as typical between the two sexes.

  Chapter 19

  Kurt and Samuel came down for waffles on Saturday morning, and for a few minutes, things seemed like they were back to normal between them, each teasing the other about the amount of syrup he used. But then Samuel announced he had to go to work, and Kurt said he had to mow the lawn, which had been Samuel’s job for years. I think Samuel was offended, and he left without another word. Kurt didn’t give me a chance to say anything to him. He spent all day on the yard.

  On Sunday, I looked around for Emma Ashby during Relief Society, but I didn’t see her. The Relief Society lesson was about chastity. I was glad that Emma wasn’t there for that.

  In Sunday School, Grant Rhodes was unusually quiet, especially considering the fact that the lesson was about the final days of Joseph Smith’s life before the martyrdom at Carthage. The teacher, Brad Ferris, was standing up in front of everyone with all the printed materials for the lessons in his hands, trying to be as orthodox as possible.

  The official story was that Joseph Smith was a righteous prophet and that Nauvoo had become so successful a city that those living in surrounding areas were jealous and determined to kill Joseph. I’d heard Grant Rhodes insist that it all had to do with Joseph’s secret polygamous teachings coming to light and the mob attacking him because of a sense of moral righteousness.

  Near the end of the lesson, we had a second hymn, unusual in Sunday School, “Praise to the Man,” and then read at the end from Doctrine and Covenants 135, about the fact that Joseph Smith “has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it” because his work had brought back the true church, the true priesthood, and temple work, and had translated the Book of Mormon.

  But Brad’s lesson was virtually uninterrupted. The only time members raised their hands to speak was to read scriptures he asked for or to share their own testimonies about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. We opened by singing the song “A Poor Wayfaring Man of
Grief,” which was the prophet’s favorite hymn and which Hyrum, his brother, had sung the morning of the martydom at the jail.

  Mormons don’t worship Joseph Smith, as some outsiders think or claim, but sometimes the admiration of him skirts close to worship.

  As soon as sacrament meeting started, I noticed the entire Stake Presidency on the stand to Kurt’s right. We sang “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet,” had an opening prayer, and then, when it was time to make announcements, President Frost stood and said that he had some changes to make in our bishopric.

  I had known this would happen at some point, but I admit I was surprised they had come to a decision so soon.

  “You all have heard of the tragic loss of our beloved Carl Ashby in the bishopric.” President Frost was a very large man, over six feet in height and probably more than three hundred pounds. His face was fleshy but kind. “He was a worthy priesthood holder and we can all feel a measure of happiness in the surety that he will be waiting for his family in heaven and watching over and protecting them though he is unseen.”

  I’d had no idea that President Frost was so good an actor. If I hadn’t known how he felt about the man, I would have believed his every word. But I noticed the way that he avoided looking at me or Verity deRyke—the two people in the audience who knew the truth. I also noticed Kurt shift uncomfortably in his seat, though Tom deRyke seemed less bothered.

  President Frost said a few more words about how God means for His work to proceed, and that everything was always in place to make sure the work itself did not stop, because it was a great work meant to bless the lives of all of the children of men.

  Nothing to explain the reordinations that Kurt had said they would have to do. But as far as I knew, he hadn’t done any yet. Was Kurt delaying to show just the tiniest bit of rebellion? Or was President Frost not following up because he had the smallest sense that he was wrong?

  “After much prayer and fasting, and consultation with the leaders, a new member of the bishopric has been chosen. He named Brad Ferris and then asked the congregation to sustain him. And we’d like to ask Brother Ferris now to come up and bear his testimony to the ward. We would also ask his wife to come to the stand and share a brief testimony as well, if she is up to it.”

  I was somewhat surprised but pleased when Brad Ferris was then called to take Carl Ashby’s place in the bishopric. He had done a good job for the past few months as the adult Sunday School teacher, but he was only in his twenties, and still had to be made a high priest before he could be added to the bishopric.

  There are several levels of priesthood within the Mormon church. Young men receive the Aaronic priesthood at age twelve, and move up through the offices of that priesthood—deacon, teacher, and finally priest—until age eighteen. Those with the Aaronic Priesthood are allowed to bless and pass the sacrament in our Sunday meetings, to collect offerings from church members, and as priests to baptize. Then, at age eighteen or nineteen, if they are worthy, they are given the Melchizedek priesthood, which has its own series of offices, from elder, which is what Brad Ferris was, to high priest, and patriarch.

  Brad Ferris was a man I had been very impressed with in the last year. By getting to know his wife, Gwen, I had learned a bit about Brad and about their marriage, and from what I had heard, I couldn’t imagine a better man to be in a position of leadership. My eyes grew moist as I watched Brad and Gwen walk together to the podium. They held hands, and it seemed to me that Gwen Ferris shone, holding her chin high.

  Brad was not a tall or imposing man, but as he stood at the podium, there was a force in him. His voice commanded the whole room. “I am humbled and honored by this calling. I know that God wants me to accept it and that He expects great things of me. I hope that I am worthy of doing what needs to be done.”

  Brad bowed his head for a moment, then continued with some passion, “I know that Christ lives and that He stands with us through every trial in this life. He knows us as His brothers and sisters. He whispers to us when we need whispers and He nudges us when we need a nudge. Sometimes He might even push us, though he never forces us. He waits patiently, and sometimes He weeps with us when we face the consequences of a wrong choice. But He is always with us and wants the best for us.” Brad took a shuddering breath and looked across at President Frost.

  “I know the Book of Mormon is true, and I know that Joseph Smith restored the only true church on this earth. I know that Thomas S. Monson is now the prophet and mouthpiece of God and that he holds all the keys of the priesthood which can bless our lives.”

  He swallowed hard and sniffled. Though there was a box of Kleenex by the podium every Sunday, I rarely saw men reach for it. Women often did.

  “I thank my wife, Gwen, for all that she has taught me, both by example and by her words. Without her, I would never have known God’s love, because her love for me is as pure and true as His. And I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  He sat down, but I could tell by the looks between Kurt and President Frost that he had not taken as much time as they’d expected. Well, good for him for being concise. I thought he had said everything that needed to be said, nothing that shouldn’t be said, and had bared his soul. Could anyone doubt that he was going to be a stalwart member of the bishopric?

  As Gwen Ferris took the stand, there was a scuffling sound in the back of the chapel. I turned and saw that Emma Ashby was walking out, her head bowed, her feet moving swiftly.

  I regretted not hearing Gwen’s testimony, but I felt it was more important to go after Emma, whom I hadn’t even realized was there. I hurried down the hallway, past the restrooms and the Primary room where another ward was starting their meetings, then out the back doors.

  “Emma?” I caught her arm at her car.

  “I need to go home,” she said.

  “This doesn’t mean Carl won’t be missed,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “But we needed someone in that position.”

  “I know,” she said again.

  “Please, don’t be hurt by this.”

  “I miss him,” she said. “So much.” Her face was a curtain of tears.

  “Do you want me to bring William and Alice home after sacrament meeting is over?” I asked, assuming they were still inside, though I hadn’t seen them.

  “They wouldn’t come to church today,” she said. “I threatened them with no allowance for a year, and told William that his father would be ashamed of him. But they said they were too tired and too sad. Can you imagine how Carl would feel? Everything he taught them, and they’re at home when they should be at church.”

  I thought that maybe they were wiser than Emma was, coming when she was this emotionally distraught. “Just give them a chance to grieve,” I said.

  “They should grieve here. They know where they belong.”

  Did they? Did she?

  I reached to put my arms around her, but she shook her head and got into the car.

  I watched her drive off, and wished I had been able to do something more. I would have to work harder, for her sake, and for the whole ward. We all needed the healing of knowing what had happened, and why.

  Chapter 20

  Monday morning at about 10 a.m., Detective Gore appeared on my doorstep.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, a bit taken aback.

  “I’d like to come in and talk to you about Mrs. Ashby,” she said.

  I felt like I had stepped into a retelling of “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Mine was thumping furiously and I was sure that Detective Gore must have heard it. It was all I could do not to run immediately to the letters and hand them over.

  “Come in,” I said, opening the door wide.

  “I’m sure this must be difficult for you. A murder in your own neighborhood,” she said as she came inside and followed me to the front room. I led her to the couch by th
e piano and sat opposite her, under the window.

  There was a bitter undertone in her voice that made me wonder how she felt about living in Utah, where Mormons had for so long deliberately excluded African-Americans from our religion. The church had stopped conversion efforts of the whole race in the 1800s under the direction of Brigham Young. Because of his racism, it had become entrenched as part of the doctrine that “Negroes” could not enjoy the full blessings of church membership, including temple work and priesthood, until the 1978 revelation changing the long-held practice. Some said that it was because they had been the least valiant in the war in heaven between Lucifer and Jesus Christ, though that theory had recently been publicly rejected by the highest levels of the church.

  “There was another murder in our neighborhood not long ago,” I said. “Carrie Helm. Do you remember that?”

  “Carrie Helm was here?” said Detective Gore, eyes widening. “I’ve been following that case.” In fact, the sentencing portion of the trial wasn’t finished, though the guilty verdict was. “I hadn’t realized it was so close. I wasn’t in Draper then. I was up in Salt Lake City until last month.”

  I decided it would be arrogant of me to say that I was the one who had solved the case for the police. That hadn’t been publicized and I wasn’t eager for the spotlight now. Besides, the more I thought about what I had done then, the less I thought of myself as a hero. I had been stupid. Untrained, blundering, and ignorant.

  Which was possibly just as true of me now. Maybe I was just nosy at heart, and had nothing else to do with my time but muck around in other people’s business.

  “Carrie lived just down the street,” I said, gesturing out the window behind me. “Though her husband and daughter have moved now.” Because of me and how badly I handled things with them.

  “Did you know her husband and her parents?” she asked me.

  I felt pinned like a butterfly on a board. Was she silently accusing me, as I had so often accused myself, of being utterly blind when it came to the true character of those surrounding Carrie? Well, no one could think worse of me than I thought of myself. “Not her parents, but obviously, I wished I had known more about her relationship with her husband,” I admitted. “And her past.”