For Time and Eternity

by Allison Pittman

  This was an image that could never exist outside of this room. There was otherworldliness to her beauty, and for a moment I forgot about who she was and what she meant to my family. To my husband.

  My husband.

  I’d seen Nathan in temple clothing once before, at our own sealing ceremony the year after we were married, but our garments were made of coarse, homespun wool. Now, here he was, also in pure white, save for the green apron tied at his waist. Sister Amanda wore one, too, representing the garments worn by the first husband and wife—Adam and Eve. I knew that story, of course, enough to know that Adam and Eve only donned clothing to hide their nakedness. Their shame. Why was it, then, that neither Nathan nor Amanda felt shame in that moment? Why was I the one standing in this unholy place wishing I could hide from God?

  Sweat broke out on my brow, calling me to instinctively lift my sleeve to wipe it. Rachel caught my eye and gave a quick, stern shake of her head, and I dropped my arm immediately. As Nathan and Amanda took their place at the altar, facing each other as they knelt on the padded benches on either side, I felt drops slide down my face, playing substitute for tears I dared not shed.

  “Brother Nathan,” the bishop intoned, “and Sister Amanda. Please join hands.”

  They did, as we had, their fifth fingers locked, hands overlapped with their first fingers pressed against the wrist of the other. I remember that grip, how Nathan had smiled and told me later that my pulse was racing like an Indian pony. I looked down and touched my own thumb to the tip of my first finger, felt rough ridges of my skin. In our years together he’d taken my hand to lift me when I’d fallen, to pull me through snowstorms, to bring me through the early pains of childbirth. Mostly, I loved the feel of his hand in mine—not in this symbolic intertwining, but when we were simply walking together, strolling without clear intent or direction. His hand would never feel the same again.

  “Brother Nathan, do you take Sister Amanda by the right hand and receive her unto yourself to be your lawful and wedded wife for time and all eternity, with a covenant and promise that you will observe and keep all the laws, rites, and ordinances pertaining to this Holy Order of Matrimony in the New and Everlasting Covenant, and this you do in the presence of God, angels, and these witnesses of your own free will and choice?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation, and with just enough of a nod of his head that the tassel of his temple cap swayed like a pendulum below his ear.

  Bishop Johansson repeated the vow, and Amanda gave the same answer, though I daresay with a good deal more enthusiasm than Nathan had displayed.

  “By virtue of the Holy Priesthood and the authority vested in me, I pronounce you, Nathan and Amanda, legally and lawfully husband and wife for time and all eternity . . .”

  Sweat now gathered at the nape of my neck, pouring down my back in rivulets, yet I felt cold—chilled in this stifling, airless room. I do not know how I remained standing, feeling neither my feet nor the floor throughout the rest of Bishop Johansson’s pronouncement.

  “. . . and I seal upon you the blessings of the holy resurrection with power to come forth in the morning of the first resurrection clothed in glory, immortality, and eternal lives . . .”

  Those words ushered in a new level of mourning. Not only was I losing my husband as I knew him for the rest of my life here on earth, but he would be no part of my eternity. Not if he believed that this man, this awful, little unkind man, had the power to bestow his salvation.

  “. . . and I seal upon you the blessings of kingdoms, thrones, principalities, powers, dominions, and exaltations, with all the blessings of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob . . .”

  I listened to the words as I never had before. I saw Nathan as I never had before. My humble, pleasing, loving husband, driven by spiritual greed. Those words, eerily familiar, the temptation offered to Christ by none other than Satan himself. What dominion did he need beyond our little home and his workshop? What exaltations besides the excited shouts of our little girls every time he entered a room? He made love to me telling me I was his blessing, that if Heavenly Father never gave him another thing, I would be enough. But for me, he would spend eternity alone. And now . . .

  “. . . and I say unto you: be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth that you may have joy and rejoicing in the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. All these blessings, together with all the blessings appertaining unto the New and Everlasting Covenant, I seal upon you by virtue of the Holy Priesthood, through your faithfulness, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  The room echoed, “Amen,” but I chose to breathe instead. If my voice was missed, no one seemed to notice. Nathan and Amanda stood, and she shakily lifted the veil from her face.

  “And now,” Bishop Johansson said, “Sister Amanda Fox, you were given a new name at the time of your Endowment, the name that will be written in the Lamb’s Book of Life, the name that you will answer to throughout eternity. You must whisper your name into the ear of your husband, that he may call you to him at the time of resurrection, when you will continue to keep your vows unto each other in celestial marriage.”

  Amanda moved toward Nathan and placed her right hand on his shoulder. Then, cupping her hand around his ear, she leaned in to whisper. It was the most intimate moment between them I’d ever witnessed, and I loathed the instinct that brought his hand to her waist to steady her.

  When she pulled away, they stood, motionless, staring into each other’s eyes. In a tone completely indifferent to the moment, Bishop Johansson said, “You may kiss her if you like.”

  Sometimes I think if I’d only looked away at that moment, I might have been able to bear a life sentence of plural marriage. It was, after all, only for this lifetime, and there was no reason to think the Lord could not bring me comfort in the midst of this pain. But the sight of his lips touched to hers—sweet and chaste as the kiss might have been—brought my heart around a corner to a new, dark place. I wanted to believe this was their first kiss, that my husband had respected the boundaries of our marriage to that extent. And if it were, I well knew just how Amanda felt at that moment. That first kiss. The tantalizing combination of joy and fear fluttering between her stomach and her spine. I’d felt it just the same. Not only in our first kiss, but with nearly every embrace. Brief as this moment was, my mind raced through it, seeing every kiss, feeling every touch. I brought every moment of our love to the surface, wishing I could somehow take them in my hands, wad them up, and hurl them at his feet.

  But then, they were my treasures, because I loved him. From the moment he met me at the crossroad until the moment he kissed his new wife, I loved him. In truth, I love him still, that being the one burden the Lord has refused to lift from me. As I watched them draw apart from each other, her lips newly christened by his, I realized they did not vow to love each other. They were lawful and wedded, for time and eternity, according to the ordinances of Joseph Smith’s church, and I was not so naive as to think that they did not, but I knew Nathan could not love her as he did me. He might someday, but for now, no. Amanda did not rescue him. She was not his salvation, as he had once claimed I was.

  There I was in borrowed robes, deep in the center of a pagan temple, witness to words spoken by an unholy priest, and yet clearly the Lord was speaking to me.

  Listen. Think.

  When I married Nathan, I’d vowed to join my life to his under a mantle of false teachings, binding me to this church as much as to him. It wasn’t until I heard my husband bind himself to another that I could finally be set free.

  O Lord . . . He drew me in, even in that place, even at that moment.

  I longed to get away, be alone, find a quiet place to devote my spirit to the Lord and listen for his voice, but I was swept away by the hand of Rachel, back to the room where we stepped out of our temple dresses. I turned my face from the sourness of mine, folded it, and laid it on a bench for some sister Saint to retrieve and, I hoped, launder.

  “It will get ea
sier.” Rachel turned so I could button up the back of her dress. “Pretty soon, she’ll just be like a part of you.”

  “She’ll never be a part of me.” I slipped the last little piece of round, painted wood through its hole and smoothed the back of Rachel’s dress. “She is his wife.”

  “And your sister wife.”

  “No.” I stepped into my skirt and slipped my arms through the sleeves of the bodice. “She is nothing to me.”

  And neither is he. Though I dared not speak such a sentiment aloud. I wasn’t sure myself what it meant. I only knew that, over the course of this ceremony, Nathan had once and for all been displaced as the center of my life. His home would not forever be my home. His god would never be my god. I was bound to him by the law, and I still loved him, but that love was swiftly becoming something akin to nostalgia—a passion relegated to the girl I was long ago. I would live my life as a bride of Christ alone.

  * * *

  Rachel and Tillman hosted a wedding luncheon in their home, and I could only imagine the amount of barking Rachel must have done before we left in order to have everything laid out by the time we returned. Nonetheless, we returned from the Endowment House to find the Cranes’ house transformed. Guests—strangers to me—milled about the front parlor and sitting room. Conspicuously absent was Evangeline.

  “I invited her,” Rachel told me in the midst of the guests’ arrivals, “but she wouldn’t come. Weddings make her a little sad, I guess.”

  Thin white paper, cut into strips and looped into chains (probably by the hands of the children), hung about the room. Vases of flowers sat atop every available space, including a prominent arrangement on the mantel. Just where Rachel found flowers in October in Utah remained a mystery that bore testimony to the power that came with being in favor with the prophet.

  Being somewhat an honored guest, I was not allowed into the kitchen, but Melissa and Lottie snuck in and came back reporting trays upon trays of food: platters of shaved meat, tiny sandwiches, cookies, cakes, and all manner of treats.

  “And a wonderful red punch in a big glass bowl,” Melissa concluded, her eyes as big as the dipper, I supposed.

  “Your aunt Rachel certainly knows how to host a celebration.”

  I blended into the crowd—or out of the crowd—as much as possible. Nobody seemed to notice; they weren’t here to see me. Most were friends of Tillman’s, but there were quite a few men whom Nathan had met on his forays into Salt Lake City when he delivered temple blocks. Elder Justus and his wife were the only guests who made the drive in from Cottonwood, but I overheard Sister June tell Amanda that she had organized a small reception to follow the next day’s church meeting.

  “Oh, how lovely!” Amanda’s enthusiasm heralded a much larger affair than would be offered. I’d attended dozens of our ward’s receptions. We were not, by nature, a festive people. Their mood would be much better suited to my state of mind, but this was one reception I would not attend. I could tolerate humiliation among strangers I would never see again, but not among those with whom I had to share my day-to-day life.

  I sought Rachel out in the kitchen, where she supervised the carving of an enormous turkey. “Smaller slices, Marion. See if we can’t set back enough for our own supper tonight.” She caught my eye and crossed the room to wrap her arms around me. “This’ll be over soon. And then you’ll just go home and see that it’s not nearly as awful as you think it’s going to be.”

  Marion huffed at the statement. “Not easy being the one coming in, either.”

  “Well, that’s one reason to hold out and wait to be somebody’s first wife, isn’t it?” Rachel’s words sliced as sharp as the knife Marion wielded.

  “Why do you think Brother Nathan locked her down the minute she stepped off the boat? If she’d come into this place an unclaimed woman, she could have had her pick.”

  “Stop being such a gossip, Marion,” Rachel said, placing herself between the two of us. “Have a little bit of respect.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m fine. But I did want to talk to you.”

  Rachel shot one more scathing look at Marion before looping her arm through mine and leading me out the kitchen door and into the backyard. I filled myself with the blast of cool, crisp air and smiled at the myriad of children who had escaped the stuffiness of adults to build and destroy mountains of leaves. Melissa and Lottie were among them, playing with an enviable sense of abandon.

  I folded my arms close against me. “What is she like?”

  “Sister Amanda?”

  “I’ve barely had a chance to meet her. She’s been here for the past few weeks; you know her so much better than I do. What do you know?”

  There was a wood-slat bench on the back porch. Rachel backed her way to it, sat down, and patted the seat next to her. I followed.

  “She’s nice.”

  “That much I hoped.”

  “She’s a strong believer. Much more so than her father, according to her. I think he’s immune to all that fire that comes with a new convert.”

  “Nathan’s never lost that fire.”

  “No, no, he hasn’t. I guess in that way . . .”

  “She’s a perfect mate?”

  She gave me a sidelong glance and a smile to match. “Well, aren’t you singing a different tune?”

  “Somewhat.” Though I wasn’t sure exactly what that tune was, nor how I could ever explain my heart to her. I picked at my skirt, focusing on the deep blues and grays of its fabric, keeping my eyes engaged there so she couldn’t see the depth of my request. “I was wondering, Rachel, if I—if the girls and I, actually—could stay here with you for a little while.”

  “You mean, while Nathan and Amanda settle in?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’d have to talk with Tillman, but I’m sure it would be all right. Was this Nathan’s idea?”

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t even know I’m asking you.”

  The pause before her next question took on greater meaning when I heard the tinge of suspicion in her voice. “For how long? A week? two?”

  “Maybe longer.” I dared not look at her. Words came to my tongue as they came to my head, announcing the very formation of ideas. “Maybe until the spring.”

  She made a small sound, like “Hm.” I looked straight ahead, watching the children as they filled their arms with leaves and, laughing, tossed them into the air, creating great crispy showers of brown, red, and orange. Lottie tried valiantly to start a game of tag, but the older children refused to chase her, leaving her to simply run from one to another proclaiming, “You’re it! You’re it!”

  “What happens in the spring, Camilla?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you going to leave him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper—unnecessary, seeing as the children were so involved in their play. “Are you thinking you’ll divorce him?”

  I turned to find her placid face looking straight at me. “No. I would never seek a divorce. I married him in good faith. I think, in some way, we will always be married in God’s eyes—”

  “In some way?”

  “—and in the eyes of the law, of course. But, Rachel, I just can’t—”

  “I’ve warned you about this, Sister. This is our life. This is Heavenly Father’s plan.” She held a hand up to stop my protest. “You cannot let your jealousy interfere with what your husband, what the prophet, what God himself bids you to do.” She leaned closer. “And even if you did, do you honestly think I would shelter an apostate in my home? an apostate who betrayed my brother?”

  “Didn’t he betray me?”

  “No. He complied with the teachings of his church. Your church too, I might add. Say what you will now, but I was there at your baptism. And your wedding. And your sealing.” Her voice softened. “I know it’s hard, and maybe it is best that you stay here for a couple of weeks. But then you need to go home, Camilla. I’ll
drive you there myself. You’ll see.” Smiling now, she reached over and squeezed my knee. “She’s a sweet girl, really. Simple, but sweet. You’ll enjoy having another woman to talk to during those long winter days. Let her tell you all about London. Make it a history lesson for the girls.”

  Though hardly convinced, she did manage to coax a weak smile from me.

  Just then the back door burst open, and Marion flew out.

  “He’s here!”

  Rachel twisted in her seat. “Who?”

  “Brother Brigham.” Marion clasped her hands in glee. “The prophet himself!”

  “Relax, girl,” Rachel said, standing. “This isn’t the first time the man has been to the house.”

  “I know, but it’s always so exciting.” She pointed at me. “And he says he wants to see you.”

  “Me?” I couldn’t imagine.

  “Brother Nathan said his first wife was every bit as lovely as his new bride, and Brother Brigham said, ‘Now, that I’d like to see.’”

  She laughed, and I gave her the benefit of my doubt that she knew just how malicious she sounded, but Rachel extended no such grace.

  “You know, Marion, you really are an idiot sometimes. I’d call you cruel, but I don’t know that you’re bright enough to deserve it.” She added, behind her hand, “Prophet he may be, but the man loves a free lunch.”

  By now the children had caught on about our special visitor, and they rushed past us into the house. Our efforts to get them to move quietly and slowly went unheeded. Whatever else I might think of him, however, he was known to be a kind man who loved children, and by the time I found my way to the front parlor, he was surrounded by them. He sat in the leather wingback chair by the window, welcoming them with extended arms. Only my Lottie hung back, looking on with her wide, green eyes, thumb firmly planted in her mouth.