“Or any man,” I said. “It’s not as if Mormons invented the patriarchy.”
Naomi nodded to acknowledge this. “But my father was never abusive when I was a kid. I don’t want to get him in trouble for nothing. But I know something is really wrong with Talitha, and I need to figure out what it is and how I can help her before Kenneth and I start our new life together. I can’t just leave her behind in distress.”
“Surely you’d be in a better position to get her to open about it than I would.” I said.
Naomi looked up and shook her head again. “She’s spent her whole life being told not to talk about things at home, even with me. I’m afraid I’m missing something basic because I’m too used to the patterns of their daily life. I can’t bear the thought of not doing something to help her.” She put a hand to her heart. “So when Kenneth told me about everything you’ve done to help people, it just seemed like—well, to be honest, it seemed like the hand of God in my life.” She took a shuddering breath and I could see tears shining in her eyes. She looked at me with a direct and vulnerable expression.
My heart pinched and I couldn’t help but feel an urgent desire to help. She was a young woman asking for my help on behalf of her vulnerable younger sister. How could I say no? I hadn’t been able to save my stillborn daughter, Georgia, over twenty years ago, and whenever I heard about a vulnerable young girl, I couldn’t help but want to help her in Georgia’s place.
Naomi went on, “And I have to tell you that I had almost come to stop believing in God at all. But if I fell in love with Kenneth in part because God wanted you in my life, then I’m going to use you. I need to know if Talitha is okay. It’s the only way I can marry Kenneth and pursue my career without constantly looking back and worrying about her. And about everyone else.”
Kurt made a “hmmm” noise, but otherwise did not make a comment about the wisdom of my getting involved in Naomi’s family drama.
The waitress brought our meats on heaped platters that looked far too big for us to actually consume everything in one meal. We all gamely started skewering meat and cooking it anyway. When I’d taken my first too-hot bite and then gulped water to cool down my mouth, I put down my skewer to let it cool.
“I still don’t understand what you think I can do,” I said to Naomi.
She hadn’t eaten anything on her skewer yet; she was too busy fiddling with it. “Well, I was thinking that maybe if you went to visit them, you’d see things with a more objective eye than I can. And maybe you can get people to talk to you when they won’t talk to me. I don’t know.”
It seemed equally likely that I would see nothing more than Naomi could. But she sounded desperate and I wanted to help her. I liked her already, and I sympathized enormously with her desire to help her younger sister. What did I have to lose?
“Visit them?” Kurt asked, around a bite of his own meat. “Just show up on the doorstep and announce herself?”
Naomi made a negative gesture with her hand. “My father has already said he wants to invite you two up to the house to meet the families. He’ll expect Kenneth and me to be there, too. But if I delay for a bit and tell him I have to do some studying, that might give you enough time to see things without my interpretation coloring it all.” She looked directly at me at this.
“We’d be up there by ourselves?” said Kurt dubiously.
Did he think that polygamous cooties were going to get on him?
Naomi turned to him, flushed. “My father will probably make you listen to a lecture on the history of polygamy and why it’s God’s holiest path.”
“You mean, he’s going to try to convert us,” said Kurt darkly.
“Not convert, exactly,” Kenneth explained. “Believe me, I’ve already heard the spiel. It’s annoying to listen through the whole thing, but he can take no for an answer. You just let him talk about it and then tell him you feel differently and that will be that.”
Clearly Kenneth had lived through it. I was sure Kurt and I could do the same. After all, he and I both knew about how sacred polygamy had been in the early days of the church. We also knew it had been rejected by every prophet since Wilford Woodruff, so it wasn’t as if we were going to change our minds about its current practice.
“I’ll see what I can see,” I said.
“Thank you so much,” said Naomi, letting out a long breath.
“How old is Talitha?” I asked, starting to gather information.
“Ten,” Naomi said. “And she’s my aunt’s daughter, not my mother’s.”
“What?” I said, confused.
Naomi sighed. “My father is married to my mother, Rebecca, and to my mother’s younger sister, Sarah. So technically, Talitha is only my half-sister and my cousin, but we grew up in the same house and I’ve always thought of her as my baby sister.”
I cringed at the thought of two sisters being married to the same man. It wasn’t incest exactly, but it seemed too close to it for my tastes. Still, I knew that it had happened fairly often in the history of the church. If a man made one sister happy, people seemed to think he could make another sister happy. And the two sisters would already know how to live with each other, right?
“I see. Well, as long as you’re not expecting a trained investigator or anything,” I said.
“I understand and I want you to know how much I appreciate your willingness to help,” Naomi said, smiling tremulously. “Talitha is so bright, so gentle and innocent. Sometimes I think she’s who I would have been if I hadn’t had all that pressure on me as the oldest. I want the best things in the world for her.”
“You sound like a wonderful older sister,” I said.
“You haven’t met Talitha yet,” said Naomi, her smile widening. “She’s the wonderful one.”
After that, we focused on eating, and even ordered a chocolate dessert course. I have to admit, it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time, reaching over people, nearly burning myself, and trying all the different combinations of meat. Even Kurt seemed to loosen up, at least for a few minutes. And yes, we did eat all of it.
Afterwards, Kurt and Kenneth argued over the bill, each trying to pay. We women didn’t bother with more small talk. Naomi said she’d call her father and tell him we were waiting for an official invitation.
Kurt and I drove home in silence, except for one remark from Kurt: “I just wish you weren’t getting encouragement to meddle in other people’s business, again.”
“They’re practically family, now that Kenneth is marrying Naomi.” And wasn’t that my job, to take care of family, as a woman and a mother? “Besides, I feel that God is calling me to do this,” I added. It was the one thing Kurt wouldn’t contradict me on, if I said that I felt inspired to do something by God. And I did feel a warmth in my chest at the thought of this little girl, which I was sure was the Spirit telling me to look after her.
“All right, but please be careful,” he said. And then after a moment, “You know I love you eternally, Linda.”
I sighed. “I love you, too.” It had been too long since we’d both said that.
Chapter 4
I wrote a letter to Samuel the next day, opening as usual with some inspirational copied-and-pasted pieces from the “Mormons Building Bridges” Facebook group, which was a safe place for LGBTQ Mormons and their allies to talk online. I also found a new essay up on the Huffington Post by Mitch Mayne, who was a personal hero of Samuel’s. Mitch was an openly gay man who had served in his ward’s bishopric in California. I’d never met him, but all his writings I’d read seemed not just progressive, but spiritually inspired.
After that, I gave a quick report about baby Carla and Joseph and Willow, about Adam and Marie, and about Zachary. I was pretty sure my other sons wrote to Samuel, but not as regularly as I did, so it was my job to fill in the gaps and make sure that Samuel’s relationship with his brothers didn’t fall apart whi
le he was on his mission.
I took a break to shower and get dressed for the day, then came back to attempt a fair and honest account of our dinner with Naomi and Kenneth, omitting the part about her worrying that her sister was being abused. I also refrained from talking about how strained things still were between his parents because of the new policy. When he was at home, Samuel had been intuitive enough to sense things like that anyway, but I didn’t want him to feel like I was asking him to take on responsibility for any of this.
I always sent real paper letters to our missionary sons, though many parents, including Kurt, used email. Samuel wrote back to both of us on “P-day,” his preparation day, which was every Tuesday. He went to the public library in Boston and used the computer there, since he wasn’t allowed to have access to one in his own apartment, according to his mission president’s rules. Some missions had more computer access than Samuel’s, but for him it was P-days only. Missionaries were also restricted from calling home except on Christmas and Mother’s Day, or if there was a death in the family and they got special permission.
Samuel had spent Christmas and New Year’s last year at the Missionary Training Center in Provo. He had been open about his sexuality with the mission president when he’d introduced himself on arrival in Boston, and with his trainer and his companion when they met and started serving together. So far, he claimed there hadn’t been any problems, but I wasn’t sure if I was hearing the whole story. Missionaries were instructed to write positive letters home, so if he was being harassed, I might never know of it. I couldn’t help but think of Kenneth’s companion Elder Ellison as I wrote, and prayed silently that if Samuel began to feel depressed, he’d get help.
I’d sent four of my five sons on missions now (my second oldest, Joseph, hadn’t gone), and as a mother I always worried about my sons dying in a car crash or bike accident, getting held up at a grocery store or kidnapped (though that happens less in the United States), or having a sudden allergic reaction to something they’d never tasted before. You felt so disconnected, far worse than when you were just sending them off to college, where you got to talk to them or even visit whenever you wanted.
The church quoted statistics that proved that missionaries were safer than any other population of young men and women the same age, but somehow that didn’t help me. The newspapers in Utah were always reporting on missionaries who died serving the Lord. It wasn’t something that a mother’s fervent prayer could stop.
Writing helped me feel just a little more connected, but I wanted to do more. I imagined that if I could just bake something delicious for Samuel, it would help him somehow—all my prayers for his safety packaged up in flour and sugar form. I wasn’t sure how well my baked goods would travel to Boston, but we would find out. I put on my apron and got to work.
I didn’t bake lemon Danishes often because they took a lot of time. But the work made me feel better—or maybe it was just a distraction from the pain of an empty house and a suddenly difficult marriage.
I kneaded until I felt the rich, sweet dough start to form a soft ball in my hands, then let it be. For Danishes, you don’t want to work the dough to death. Next, I grated lemons for zest, then squeezed them. Juicing the lemons, I discovered the hard way that I had a tiny cut on my left hand that I hadn’t noticed before. I rinsed my hands and patted them with a towel. The cut wasn’t even big enough to bother putting a Band-Aid on, so I left it and moved on to boiling water for the lemon sauce. When the lemon sauce was finished, I put plastic wrap over the top to prevent a skin from forming, then let it sit in the refrigerator to cool.
The dough wasn’t quite ready yet, so I put in a load of laundry and did some light cleaning in the upstairs bathroom. After that, I came back down and got started on rolling the Danishes out. After I put the trays in the oven, I went downstairs to our storage room and found a box that would survive the US Postal Service. I brought it back up, along with some pieces of foam for padding.
When the timer beeped and the Danishes came out of the oven, they were perfect, just the tips golden brown. I stood over them, breathing in the scent of butter and lemon. I couldn’t resist plucking a couple from the batch and eating them right then, when they were still hot and gooey. They fell apart in my fingers before I even got them to my mouth. I groaned with pleasure as the deliciousness burned my tongue.
I resisted eating a third until they had cooled down a little more, and this time I poured myself a glass of milk. This wasn’t what I’d planned for lunch today, but it had fruit, grains, and milk—three food groups, right? All I needed was some spinach on the side and it would be a well-balanced meal.
When they had cooled completely, I packed them in Tupperware, then in paper towels. Finally, I headed to the post office with my care package, the letter inside. I knew it cost me more to send my Danishes than it would have for Samuel to buy some from a bakery in Boston. But these were from home and filled with more than calories. They were made with a mother’s love, and as much as possible, I hoped that was a bulwark against life’s storms.
Chapter 5
Naomi came to the family dinner the end of June and was received well by everyone. Willow and Marie joked with her and told her a few ribald family stories that I studiously ignored. I found out Naomi hated chicken breast and always asked for the drumstick on Thanksgiving, which would be useful for me to know in the future, since I usually just put those in soup. Adam found a connection with a friend of a friend who had gone to college with Naomi at the U. And Naomi was very good with baby Carla, who spit up on her. Only Kurt seemed less than ebullient, but he was at least kind and welcoming.
The second week in July, on Sunday night, Kurt fielded the actual phone call from Stephen Carter, Naomi’s father, who invited us over to his family compound. After he’d hung up, I asked him what the man was like, but Kurt said, “I only talked to him on the phone. How would I know?”
“You can tell things from a person’s voice,” I insisted.
“Well, all I could tell was that he was well educated,” said Kurt. But we already knew that.
I texted Kenneth, who said that he and Naomi wouldn’t be coming for dinner, but they’d drive up and join us the next morning. “Did you understand that Stephen expects us to stay overnight?” I asked Kurt with raised eyebrows.
“We’ll see,” said Kurt, who was usually unfailingly polite in social situations, but clearly felt pushed to the limit here.
If we didn’t stay overnight, I wondered if there would be any chance to find out what I needed about Talitha.
I packed bags for both of us Sunday night, while Kurt was still busy at the church. Since it was summer, it was convenient for Kurt to take some time off from his accounting business (Mormon bishop is a lay position, and doesn’t pay the bills.) On Monday morning we headed out.
There was no Googling the address—the Carters lived off the map. At least the frustration Kurt felt at taking wrong turns made the drive less quiet than most of the time we’d been spending together lately. He didn’t curse, but he came close a couple of times, eventually pulling over and asking for the instructions he’d scrawled down during his phone call with Stephen Carter. I handed them over because I couldn’t read his handwriting. After heading north again on I-215, we finally took the correct exit, then a series of turns in the foothills behind the commercial section of town. The roads were narrow and potholed, and Kurt checked the directions twice more before stopping the truck in front of a gated complex.
“Is this it?” I said.
Kurt grunted in response.
There was no name emblazoned on the gate and no mailbox to be seen.
With all the pine trees that hadn’t been cleared here, I could only make out one building on the property, though I assumed there were five houses somewhere in there, one for each wife. The large house looked some thirty years old. I didn’t know when the fence had been erected. The iron gat
e looked ancient and a little rusty, and there was a padlock on it rather than an electronic keypad.
Kurt got out of the car and yanked on the gate, but it didn’t budge. But while he was getting back in the truck, a boy who looked about eight years old, very blond and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved blue-and-white checked shirt, appeared at the gate. He used a key on the padlock, opened the gate for us, waited solemnly and silently for us to drive through, then locked it again, and ran down a hill and out of sight.
Looking back at the gate and the thick metal fencing around it, I noticed how difficult it would be to get out if we didn’t have permission, and I wondered how many people had keys. Was this one of the ways Stephen Carter made sure his wives and children remained under his control? I shivered at the thought and wondered why we were here, after all.
Naomi, I reminded myself. And little Talitha, who might be in danger.
The sound of gravel from the unpaved road hitting the underside of Kurt’s truck reminded me of visiting my uncle’s old farm in Idaho with my parents and brothers back when I was a little girl. Though I could see the Salt Lake Temple from here, this place was more wilderness than city, with native scrub oak and pine huddling together near a small stream that ran down the mountainside and leading eventually to either the Jordan River or the Great Salt Lake.
The big boulders that were usually removed from cultivated lawns had been left intact here, and I imagined that these ten or twelve acres looked very much like they had when the pioneers had first come into the valley in the 1840s and ’50s. There were no sprinklers on the lawn, no flower gardens or ornamental bushes, though I thought I could see a large vegetable garden as we wound around the gravel road toward the big house.
It was three stories with white pillars in front, and it looked like it could use a new coat of paint. The western wing had been built more recently and seemed tacked on. On the rest of the property, I made out only two buildings to the north and what looked like a shed a little to the south of the main house, but the terrain hadn’t been leveled, so other buildings might have been discreetly concealed by nature. The fence around the gate had seemed to cover any access points, and I assumed it ran around the property lines, even if I couldn’t track it fully.
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