by Rose Beecham
The state transportation honchos had recently renumbered it to the less satanic 491 after extensive lobbying by the Ute casino board, the neighboring Navajo, and the state of New Mexico. Locals said the authorities weren’t moved by the guys in suits or the lure of fancy lunches. They’d just gotten sick of replacing all the stolen highway signs.
The change hadn’t caught on yet, or maybe it just wasn’t that easy to transform the “number of the beast” to something innocuous. Even the small chapel run by the Trucking Troubadours for Christ failed to instill peace of mind among either tourists or locals. It was a known fact in these parts that the accident rate for the triple-six was twice the national average. Which said it all about who ruled in this wasteland, at least that was the inference.
Jude had laughed off the superstitions when she’d first arrived in the Four Corners, but every time she drove this route a strange unease crept over her. She wanted to dismiss the grim menace of the place as mere imagining, but as she stared out across the stark, khaki vista of volcanic cones and stunted mesas, she was overwhelmed with gloom.
It had been madness to move all the way out here, she decided. No matter how much distance she put between herself and the past, it would always come crawling after her. She could feel that ghost presence now, unsettling the orderly world she was trying to create for herself. Leave me alone, she thought. I can’t do this anymore.
*
Eddie House had a photograph of the girl he’d picked up that day after the Bear Dance. She was small and slender with long mousy hair and haunted gray eyes. He had also kept a few of the notes she’d written him. The hand was childish and the writer could not spell. Jude guessed she hadn’t seen much schooling.
“Did she ever communicate about the loss of her tongue?” she asked.
House drew a slip of paper from the pile. It said: I did not keep sweet. He spoke slowly and softly, his eyes lowered. “There were things she wanted to forget. But she could not escape from them, even in her sleep.”
“What exactly was the nature of your relationship with her?”
“I gave her a home.”
Jude glanced around the living area. There had to be six dogs, and the large gray one at House’s feet looked like a wolf. One of its hind legs was missing and its tawny eyes tracked Jude’s every move. Eddie House also had a few injured wild birds in lofty enclosures along the front path to his home. He was a man with a weakness for strays, she gathered.
“So you and she weren’t in…an intimate situation.” Catching a look of affront, she added quickly, “I’m sorry. It’s a routine question.”
“She was a child,” House said with dignity. “She needed a parent.”
“Any idea about her family?”
“No.”
“And she never wrote her name on a piece of paper for you? Not even her first name?”
“She was afraid.”
“That’s why you didn’t talk to the police?”
“Yes.”
Which explained why she was unidentified. After she’d killed herself, the police had tried to trace her so a death certificate could be issued. The case was left open. The girl had been buried by House, under the name Poppy Dolores. She liked the flower, he explained, and he had found her near Dolores, hence the last name. She was nineteen. At least that was what she had told House in one of her notes.
“What makes you think she was from Utah?” Jude asked.
House referred her to a note that read: I come from Utah. He added, “I knew it the first time I saw her.”
“Why was that?”
“She was mistreated.” Perhaps sensing he’d lost her on the math, he said. “An old prejudice, Detective. Utah holds bitter memories for my people.”
“The forced march?” Jude referred to the shameful episode in 1881, when the Colorado Ute were evicted from their lands and marched 350 miles to a reservation in Utah. All who had weakened along the way were shot. Women. Children. Old people.
“There are many reasons. Did you know, a greater proportion of our people served in the Second World War than the white men of Utah, but still we couldn’t vote?”
“I think I’d have a problem with that,” Jude acknowledged.
Given the ugly history their races shared, she was amazed that any Native American could tolerate being in the same room as a white person. However, Eddie House had been welcoming and hospitable, if somewhat reserved in his manner. Since living in the Southwest, she’d found that the Native Americans she encountered had quite different body language from most other people she came in contact with, and they did not seem especially talkative.
It was hard to pick Eddie House’s age. Around fifty, perhaps older. His hair was silver-white and dead straight, his face lined but not heavily wrinkled. He wore a thin leather thong around his head. From one of the ties hung several tiny beads of turquoise and coral, a piece of bone, and an unusual banded cream and brown feather.
“Is there anything at all she ever shared with you about her life?” Jude sifted through the other notes. Most were single lines. One stood out. No one will help us. She handed it to House. “Do you know what she meant by this?”
“She had bad dreams. One night, I made her a milk drink and she gave me that note. It was not long before she took her life.”
“I’m very sorry.”
He acknowledged her sympathy with a tranquil smile. “There is no death. Only a change of worlds.”
“Chief Seattle?”
“Yes.” For the first time in their discussion, his dark brown eyes rested on her squarely. After a lengthy scrutiny, he rose from his chair and said, “Walk with me.”
He led her into an airy bedroom overlooking the ochre prairie toward the Mesa Verde, the three-legged wolf at his heel. From the top drawer of a simple pine cabinet, he took a neatly folded stack of garments and handed them to her. “She was wearing these the day I found her.”
Jude unfolded what passed for high fashion in certain parts of the Southwest—white socks, black shoes, a long-sleeved, high-necked, ankle-length pastel gray dress with an over-sized white collar and matching sash. Women in this type of getup could sometimes be seen in Cortez, shopping with their husbands, Mormon fundamentalists from Utah who had recently started buying land in Montezuma County.
“May I take these?” she asked.
“She won’t miss them.”
“Will you?”
“I have this.” He indicated the leather thong at his temple.
“She made that?”
“She was learning crafts for the market.”
“It’s lovely. What kind of feather is that?”
“Mexican spotted owl. I was healing one while Poppy was here. He comes back sometimes and leaves a dead rabbit at my door.”
Jude smiled. “Like he’s thanking you.”
“We have an understanding. I divide the rabbit and cook my part. Then we eat together.”
Jude floundered for something to say that didn’t sound patronizing. “That’s amazing. So he’s quite tame?”
“No.” He didn’t expand on this pronouncement, instead returning to the subject. “I think she could have learned to make pottery. She had patient hands.”
Jude refolded Poppy’s clothes. “Let me tell you something, Mr. House. I believe Poppy may be connected in some way to the murder I’m investigating. Darlene Huntsberger? Do you know her?”
He shook his head.
“I’m going to catch the person who did it. I think he may have hurt Poppy too. And when I do, I promise you, he’ll pay for his crimes.”
A faraway look softened House’s features and he extended a hand to stroke the wolf’s mane. “I would find that satisfying.”
Chapter Four
Naoma Epperson tucked her index finger beneath the chin of the girl standing before her. “Are you ready to be sweet?”
Bold dark eyes blinked at her from a fine-boned face. Naoma could almost swear she glimpsed defiance in their expression. Imp
atiently, she flicked a glance toward the junior wife standing a few feet away.
Summer was staring at the floor. One of her hands rested on her heavily pregnant belly and her face was as pasty pale as the bread dough rising on the kitchen counter.
“Did you speak with your sister?” Naoma demanded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Naoma dropped the silent girl’s chin and shook her slightly by the shoulder. “Seems like she still doesn’t understand the honor being given her.”
Adeline Fleming was fourteen and thin for her age, barely a sign of breast or hips. It was beyond Naoma why her husband wished to elevate a girl so lacking in womanly attractions to spiritual wifehood. But it was not Nathaniel’s place to question the prophet’s commands, as absurd as some of them seemed. Neither was it hers.
“I won’t marry Mr. Epperson,” Adeline said. “He’s old.”
Naoma was so outraged by this ungrateful pronouncement, she cuffed the impudent girl across the face. “How dare you speak in that manner about a member of the priesthood. Do you forget you are under the master’s roof?”
Summer rushed forward and took her sister’s arm. “I’ll deal with her, Sister.”
“You are both trying my patience,” Naoma warned. “Do you want to be cast out of this family?”
Summer shook her head emphatically. “No, Sister. I beg your forgiveness.”
“Bake the bread and teach your sister to conduct herself in the appropriate manner. You have two days before the master returns from his business in Texas and she is to be sealed to him immediately.”
Naoma left the room, aggravated. She’d had a feeling that girl was trouble ever since she’d walked in the door a week earlier. The new prophet had awarded her to Nathaniel, whose loyalty had also earned him the promise that he would soon be appointed first counselor. Adeline could consider herself fortunate that not only would she be married to one of the most powerful men in the High Priesthood, she would also be living with her older sister. Had she not been assigned to Nathaniel, her parents had planned to marry her to one of her uncles, a man of lower status in the church who had recently spoken out of turn. Two of his wives had been taken from him as a consequence and given to a cousin of the prophet. Adeline, like most young girls, had no idea how much worse her situation could be.
Naoma paused in the long corridor that led to her private sitting room, yelling at one of the laziest wives in their family. Yet again Fawn Dew’s simple-minded son had fouled the hallway. The only reason Naoma put up with him was that he was a Downs. They were worth more money from the state.
“It’s not his fault, you old bitch,” Fawn Dew yelled back.
Naoma ached to beat the impertinence out of her, but she would have to bide her time. Fawn Dew was the prophet’s daughter and Nathaniel’s current favorite, and no one would cross her while she had more of his pillow than any other wife. The smart-mouthed little slut’s day in the sun would pass, as they always did, and when that time came, Naoma would have her revenge. Anticipation of this pleasure helped her keep her temper.
Patience and self-discipline had served her well in her thirty years of marriage. At first, she’d been too stupid to do anything but accept her lot in silence, hurt and angry when her husband brought a second wife into their home just before Naoma gave birth to their first child. For ten miserable years she had suffered humiliation and insult from a procession of wives who thought they had replaced her in her husband’s esteem as well as his bed. She had been little more than a slave, waiting on those glorified harlots and their revolting brats until the day came when the household was in so much chaos Nathaniel took her to task.
It was probably the only time she had ever been completely honest with her husband. She had told him it was not her fault that his wives thought they had him wrapped around their little fingers. He had made his own bed and could not hold her responsible. She pointed out that any man who allowed his junior wives to show no respect to the senior wife was disobeying God and the prophet, and that everyone outside of their home had noticed he was making a joke of himself. Other men, higher than him in the prophet’s esteem, ran their homes according to Sarah’s law. Hadn’t he wondered why he was not promoted in the church?
She had offered him a deal. She would manage a well-ordered compound with wives and children who behaved themselves. In exchange, he would meet certain conditions. Alternatively, he could continue to live in a zoo and Naoma would no longer compensate for the lazy harlots he kept adding to the household. They could fight over the chores among themselves. It was his choice.
Nathaniel responded by asking what she wanted him to do, and in that moment, Naoma had understood exactly how to survive the hellish life God had condemned her to lead. If she could give her husband what he needed and wanted—relative tranquility and unlimited access to young women—she would have as much power as any woman living the Principle could hope for.
That evening, Nathaniel had lined up his wives and children and instructed them that his home would now be run according to Sarah’s law. That meant they would obey Naoma in all things because she was his blessed wife, the mother of his firstborn. She would determine who was sent to his bed, and any wife who did not keep herself sweet would be deprived of this honor. If anyone failed to show Naoma the respect to which she was entitled, that wife or child would be severely punished.
Naoma had duly delivered on her promise. Wives who misunderstood their situation soon found themselves carrying out the filthiest chores, wearing the oldest garments, and begging her for mercy. Children who cried and made demands discovered their behavior had painful consequences.
Unlike some first wives, Naoma was thrilled that her husband had ceased sharing her bed. Sometimes she thought she must have reached a spiritual plane where she no longer needed the physical attentions of a man. But the truth was, that side of marriage had always repelled her and child-bearing was an affliction she was happy to forgo. Her sole concern was to ensure that Nathaniel would never elevate any other wife above her. To secure her position, she allowed him his favorites for a time, but when it seemed he could be developing a special respect for one of them, she would ensure her conniving sister-wife did something to disgrace him.
Nathaniel seldom pushed his luck. They both knew their accord made it easy for him to have exactly what he wanted: a place in the prophet’s inner circle, community prestige, the toadying obedience of his family, a steady diet of sex with docile young girls. And, of course, freedom from the financial burden of caring for his ever-expanding family. Naoma saw to it that the government shouldered that load, just as the prophet instructed.
*
“You can’t speak to Sister Naoma that way,” Summer hissed as she marched her sister toward the hen house.
Adeline had always been difficult. Even when they were small children, she was the first to get in trouble and the last to run from a fight. Finally, the problem became so serious, their mother couldn’t manage her—not with fourteen other children to take care of. So Adeline had been sent to their aunt’s home in Salt Lake City, supposedly so Aunt Chastity, who was not blessed with children, could teach her how to behave. A terrible thing had occurred some time during the three years she’d spent there. Aunt Chastity had fallen under the influence of Satan and had allowed Adeline to watch television and attend the public school. Out among the heathen of Babylon, she had acquired wrongful thinking. And her clothes!
Their parents had discovered the disaster after Summer’s oldest brother called on Aunt Chastity and found Adeline dancing to devilish music and wearing shameless attire. Naturally, when they heard the news, they rushed to the city to save her from corruption. Aunt Chastity had been shunned ever since and the family no longer spoke of her as a relative. She was Mrs. Young, even if her husband had divorced her for her wicked conduct.
A week ago, the Flemings had arrived at the Gathering for Zion Ranch with the good news that Adeline had been chosen to be the master’s fifteenth wi
fe. They’d made Summer’s duty clear. It was her job to make sure that her sister forgot the evil ways she had learned among the apostates and kept herself sweet. So far, Summer wasn’t having much success.
“He’s an old ugly man,” Adeline said. “I am not marrying him, and no one can make me.”
“They can too.” Summer clasped her belly as the baby kicked. Surely it would be a boy, wriggling about so much. The thought dulled her excitement about her first child. In the Epperson family, girls were more highly prized, and mothers had to let go of their sons sooner.
“I’ll be out of here before they get a chance,” Adeline said. “I’m going back to Aunt Chastity. She wants me to go to college.”
“College is a dangerous place for decent women,” Summer said.
“That’s bullshit. If I go to college I can get a good job and live in Salt Lake. All my friends are there. They’ll be going to BYU.”
“What’s BYU?”
Adeline rolled her eyes. “Duh! Brigham Young University. It’s a good school. I want to be a veterinarian. That’s a doctor for animals.”
Summer had never heard of such a ridiculous thing. “Don’t speak of these ideas to anyone,” she warned. “You’ll get us both in terrible trouble.”
“If that old man comes near me, it won’t be me that’s in trouble. It’ll be him, because I’ll go to the police. He’ll end up in jail, just like the man that kidnapped Elizabeth Smart.”
Fear made Summer’s skin damp and cold. She grabbed Adeline’s arm. “Please don’t say such things. Wives who go to the police are brought back. The master is very angry if that happens.”