I nod. “And he said I’d have seven years of bad luck.”
Taviana’s eyes light up and she laughs, hard, which I find reassuring. Clearly she doesn’t believe I’ve been cursed. Dimples appear in her delicate, doll-like face, which is so different than the faces in our family. Except for Nanette, we tend to have broad foreheads, round cheeks and large blue eyes. When Taviana arrived, her dark hair was cropped short, and even though she’s since let it grow out, it’s still not nearly as long as ours, which has never been cut.
“Was it a mirror you broke?” she asks, turning back to the clothesline.
“No, why?”
“There’s an old saying that if you break a mirror, you’ll have seven years of bad luck.”
“You will?”
She shrugs. “It’s just an old saying.”
“What other old sayings are there?”
“My mom had plenty. She said you’d have bad luck if you opened an umbrella in the house or if a black cat crossed your path. Walking under a ladder was also bad, unless, of course, you crossed your fingers.”
“Did your mom believe these things?”
“She seemed to.”
“And did you? Before you came here?”
She thinks about that. “Let’s just say I didn’t take any chances. I didn’t walk under ladders or open umbrellas in the house.”
We resume hanging the laundry. “So who was this Gentile boy?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I saw this, this beautiful...” I shake my head, unable to find the right words. “This beautiful stone tower on the beach by the river.” I’m getting excited just thinking about it again. “The stones were balanced on top of one another, but not like building blocks. These were balanced in such an interesting way, like on their pointed ends, and you’d swear they’d topple over, but they didn’t.”
“I remember seeing some of those on a beach once,” Taviana muses. “They’re like works of art, but so...so fragile. And the builder has to just leave them there, to whatever may happen, like to people who—”
“Who destroy them!” I say, interrupting her. “I thought that maybe the stones were cemented together, so I lifted the top one off.”
“Oh no!” she says.
“Oh yes. The whole tower collapsed.”
“Oops.”
“I hadn’t seen anyone nearby, but suddenly this...this person—he was older than me but not a man—he was just standing there, behind me. He said that for breaking it I would have seven years of bad luck.”
“You have been cursed!” Taviana declares.
“I have?”
She laughs again. “We don’t believe in curses, Celeste.”
“You’re right.” I hand her the last dress in the basket. “But still. I felt terrible.”
“It goes with the territory,” she says. “If he’s going to build his art on a public beach, he has to know that it won’t last.”
“But it was so...so amazing,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to break it.”
“Get over it, Celeste,” she tells me.
Get over it. I like these strange expressions Taviana has. I’m going to remember that one.
“And by the way,” she adds. “I have a message for you.”
“You do?”
“Yep. Guess who it’s from?”
My mind is blank. “I have no idea.”
“I’ll give you a hint. He’s cute. He has brown hair and a really nice smile.”
I feel my skin burn. Can it be? I gather up the laundry basket and the clothes-pegs, hoping she won’t notice my skin.
“I have no idea,” I tell her.
“Really?” she asks, looking sly.
“Taviana. Just tell me what the message is.”
“Okay,” she teases. “The message is he says hello.”
“Who is ‘he’?” I push the back door open and enter the house, pretending not to be too interested in her message.
“C’mon,” she says. “Give me your top three guesses.”
“Taviana!” I say. “I have no idea.”
“Okay,” she says. “Another hint.” She’s whispering now because there are so many people about. “It’s another guy, older than you, but not a man.”
I glare at her. We’re immersed in family noise again, multiple conversations, sister wives barking commands at older children, crying and commotion all around us.
“Celeste!” my sister Rebecca squeals. She has seen me come in, has run over and wrapped her chubby four-year-old arms around my legs. “Can you play with me now? Please?”
I stroke her soft hair. Rebecca and I share the same mother and the same birthday, so I think of us as having a special connection. She seems to think so too, always coming to me for things before she goes to one of the mothers or even Nanette. “What do you want to do?” I ask her.
“Let’s color pictures,” she says.
“Good idea.” I glance back at Taviana, irritated with her silly game. She makes eye contact with me, and there’s a little smile on her lips. She mouths the word I’ve hoped all along she’ll say. “Jon.”
I take Rebecca’s hand in mine and guide her to the shelf in the living room where the coloring books with pictures of bible stories are stored. I don’t look back at Taviana. I can’t let her see how happy I am.
Chapter Four
Nanette
“Celeste,” I whisper in the dark. “Why did Father take you to Springdale?”
I’ve been waiting all day to speak with her alone. When I came in from the garden this afternoon, I saw her playing with Rebecca, and she looked...different. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and the two of them were giggling and whispering in each other’s ears. Giggling is not something Celeste does. We peeled potatoes and scrubbed vegetables together before dinner, but there were too many people in the kitchen to have a private conversation. Still, even while scraping carrots, I noticed that her frown was gone, and she even offered to feed the babies. Something good must have happened.
Celeste flips over to face me in our bed. She doesn’t answer right away, so I prod a little more. “You seemed so happy all evening.”
Now she sighs. “Daddy just told me that I’ll soon be assigned to a husband.”
“You already knew that.”
“I guess it was a reminder.”
“So, are you excited?”
“No, Nanette. I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just not. I’m not ready. We’ve talked about this.”
“When will you be ready?”
She hesitates. “Maybe never.”
“Celeste! That’s blasphemy.”
“Nanette,” Celeste whispers. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be with boys your own age?”
“No.”
“I wonder about it,” she says.
“Shh!” I tell her, and I cringe. I don’t want to hear this, especially from my own sister.
She ignores me. “And I wonder what it would be like to select my own husband, someone I love.”
I cover my ears with my hands. How can she say these things? “No more!” I tell her. “You know as I do that we must practice purity.” A surge of anger rips through me. I struggle to keep my voice quiet, yet I must remind her of what she knows so well. “You’ll never attain eternal life if you keep thinking those thoughts,” I whisper into her face. She flips away and pulls the covers over her head. I yank them back off and continue. “Accepting the hand of the Lord in deciding our marriages is the most sacred principle of all, and plural marriage is the only way to salvation!” I feel like I’m the Prophet himself, standing at the pulpit. Passion surges through me as I consider my next point.
Celeste groans noisily, pulling the blankets back over her head, and then one of our little sisters in another bed begins to whine. That sets off a whole chorus of whimpering and crying, so I swallow my anger, climb out of our bed and go to them one at a time, stroking their heads, shushing them. Celeste doesn’t
get up to help, and her back is still turned to me when I finally return to bed. Tonight I’m glad for that. I turn my back to her too.
I GO THROUGH the motions of helping get everyone ready for church service in the morning, but today it’s a huge effort. Lying awake last night, I was troubled by thoughts about both Taviana and Celeste, and today my heart and head are weary. I know I should report Celeste’s impure thoughts to Father, as well as Taviana’s behavior with the apostates, but I don’t want either of them to be punished. And yet, how else will they be saved? Taviana, I think, will be okay. She was once a Gentile, she didn’t know better, but she is learning, and she mostly tries hard to fit in. I truly believe we have saved her. Celeste, on the other hand, has been born and raised in The Movement. Where do her impure thoughts come from? Why does she challenge the sacred principles? She’s just making herself miserable, and now she’s making me miserable too, and scared, worrying about what will become of her.
My father, his four wives and all their children fill up the last three pews in the church. I generally spend the service focused on keeping the younger children quiet, but today I’m startled when the Prophet begins to speak earnestly about plural marriage. It’s as if he heard our conversation last night, and I glance at Celeste to see if she is also amazed at the coincidence. But Celeste appears preoccupied, and I see her glancing about the sanctuary, as if she’s looking for someone.
“Fathers and Mothers,” the Prophet bellows over the noise of fussy babies, “from the time your daughter can crawl, you must teach her that she does not belong to you but to the Prophet and the man the Prophet will assign her to in marriage. Only these men, and I mean men, not boys, can take your daughters to the highest degree of the celestial kingdom where they will be queens and priestesses.”
I think about the Prophet’s twenty-six wives and more than ninety children, who make up a large chunk of our community. He has a lot of daughters to teach this lesson to.
Now he takes a deep breath, and his intense hawklike eyes scan the congregation. “When the Lord assigns me a new wife,” he roars, “I take her into my bedroom, I remove all her clothes and I seize any worldly possessions she has arrived with. I then dress her in clothes that I have had prepared for her and send everything else back to her mother and father. My wife then knows that she belongs only to me for all eternity, and she no longer has connections to her mother and father. This is the only way a man can achieve oneness in his kingdom.” His fist slams the pulpit.
The Prophet continues his impassioned sermon, but my mind wanders. I visualize standing there alone with him, his hands undressing me, one garment at a time. My heart races, and my palms feel sticky. I don’t know if this is because the image frightens me or excites me. Maybe both.
As soon as the service is over, I see Celeste slip out the front door. I hope she has listened carefully and is feeling remorseful. I help my mother steer the children downstairs to the playroom for the social hour. Then I settle Mother in a chair beside Uncle Jeremy’s wife, Colleen, who is also heavy with child. When I’m sure she’s comfortable, I hurry over to the table where my assignment is to ladle out juice.
It’s a warm morning and the mugs of juice disappear as fast as I can fill them. When the initial rush has ended, I take a small break and wipe my hands on my apron. Looking up, I notice Martin Nielsson standing by the table, watching me. He has become a regular Sunday morning visitor at my table.
“Hello, Nanette,” he says.
“Hello, Mr. Nielsson.” I lower my eyes and busy myself with wiping up the spills on the table.
“It was an especially inspiring service today, wasn’t it?”
I nod but don’t say anything. It’s unusual for an elder to strike up a conversation with a child outside of his own family, especially a girl child, and I haven’t yet figured out how to respond to this man.
“You’re looking so grown-up today, Nanette,” he says.
I have even less idea how to respond to that. I busy myself filling more mugs with juice.
“How old are you now, child?” he asks.
“Thirteen.”
“Ahh. Not long before the Prophet will be awaiting guidance from the Lord to determine who you will belong to forevermore.”
“My sister, Celeste, she will be married first,” I say. Now I find the courage to look directly at him, and I notice the crinkles around his light blue eyes and the gray streaks that run through his hair. He must be about the same age as Daddy, but much, much more handsome.
“Ah yes. Celeste.” He looks about the room. “And where is Celeste today?”
“She’s here somewhere,” I tell him, hoping that I’m not telling a lie.
“And how about Taviana? Will she become a wife to someone soon?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think the Prophet has decided what to do with her.”
“Yes, she is an unusual case.”
I can feel him studying me some more. “You have grown very lovely, Nanette,” he says.
My face burns.
“Well then, I’ll be seeing you around,” he says, bowing slightly. He turns and walks away. I watch as he gathers up his five wives and their children. He seems kind and gentle, joking with the children, putting his arm around each wife in turn as he steers the group toward the door.
Is he wondering what it would be like to have me as a celestial wife? I feel an odd pang inside. I will miss living with my mother and Daddy and my brothers and sisters, but I’m ready to make that leap from child to wife. I long to sleep in the arms of the man God chooses for me, and I want to feel the stirring of a baby deep inside. Perhaps I should speak to Daddy, convince him that I am ready to serve God by being an obedient wife. Maybe the Prophet can make an exception and listen to God’s direction for me at the same time he listens for Celeste.
Celeste. How can she not see the beauty in celestial marriage? She is even named for it.
Mr. Nielsson has finished gathering his family and is trailing out the door behind them. He turns at the last moment and glances at me once more. Our eyes meet, and he smiles. I return the smile but abruptly turn away as I remember the image the Prophet described during this morning’s sermon, the image of him undressing his new wives in his bedroom. A bead of sweat tickles as it meanders down my back. I look up one more time and find Mr. Nielsson still studying me.
Please God. Assign me to Mr. Nielsson.
AT SCHOOL ON Monday, I spend the day assisting Sarah Waring, our teacher, with the first-grade children. In small groups I have them print the letters of the alphabet on the chalkboard, and then I listen to them recite short passages from the children’s version of The Book. Sarah doesn’t feel I need to study any further, yet it is the law that I remain in school for another year, so I mostly help with the teaching. This arrangement suits me just fine.
Celeste has finished the required amount of schooling and now stays home each day and works alongside our mother and Taviana. Taviana mostly helps with the babies, and Celeste does laundry, gardening and kitchen work. Mother is having a difficult time with her current pregnancy, so Taviana will remain with us until Mother is better, or until after the baby has been born. Then Jacob may assign her to another family or perhaps even to a husband. No one knows for sure.
I think about Taviana and the boys from the other night. Sometimes she seems so close to reverting to her old ways, yet I know she likes it here and wants to stay. I wonder if it’s because Celeste has spent so much time with her that she is questioning our traditions. That is something else I could talk to Daddy about.
At three o’clock, Celeste meets me at the school to take the children to the playground. We haven’t spoken to each other since she shared her impure thoughts in bed the other night, and now she lags behind as I lead the children toward the play area. I notice that she’s not making eye contact with me, which is fine. I’m still angry with her too. She will bring shame on Father and our entire family if she continues thinking as she does.
&n
bsp; As we pass the Nielsson compound, I see that the usual pack of Nielsson boys are working on fence repairs again, but today they seem more orderly, more focused. I take a closer look and notice that Mr. Nielsson is working alongside them. Seeing him gives me a start, and I find myself checking that my apron is straight and that my hair hasn’t tugged free of its braid. When he sees us passing, he rests for a moment, wipes his brow with a handkerchief that he pulls from a back pocket, and gives a little wave in our direction. I swallow my excitement, nod my head and carry on with the children, trying not to read too much into this encounter. I glance back at Celeste, wondering if she’s noticed Mr. Nielsson’s gesture, and see that she too is smiling, but not in the direction of Mr. Nielsson, who is standing near the barn, but at the boys who are closer to the road.
I believe I will have to talk to Daddy about her after all.
WHEN THE DISHES are done and the smallest children have been settled, I slip out the back door and begin my search for Daddy, hoping that neither Deborah or Lena see me. I know he often goes to the barn in the evenings. He has converted it into an automotive shop. We’re discouraged from disturbing him, but I think this time I need to make an exception. The coast seems to be clear. I cross the yard, and as I enter the cool darkness of the barn, I hear him humming in a room that was once the tack room but is now his office. I knock softly at the door, not wanting to startle him. He looks up from the papers he is sorting and is surprised to see me. “Nanette,” he says. “Is something the matter? Is your mother...?”
“Everything’s fine, Daddy,” I assure him. “Mother is resting, and Taviana is watching the children.”
“Oh,” he says, clearly puzzled but relieved at the same time. “Then what is it?”
“I was wondering if...if I could talk to you for a few minutes,” I say.
“Certainly, Nanette.” He leans back in his chair and folds his hands across his ample stomach. “What is it you wish to talk about?”
“Um, two things.” I clear my throat. “First of all...” Oh no. Even though I’ve rehearsed the words I want to say to him all afternoon, my mind is suddenly blank and my mouth is dry.
Sister Wife Page 3