As I splashed my face with cold water, my sister Leigh Ann, Sister Cora’s daughter, came in and quickly stripped off her long cotton nightgown and her sacred undergarments. Standing naked in the chilly bathroom, Leigh Ann’s pale skin erupted in goose bumps and her teeth chattered. She rinsed the white night dress and the sacred undergarments out in the sink. I saw a dark red stain begin to bleed in the cold water and disappear down the drain.
“Did your cycle come again?” I whispered. Leigh Ann had started her cycle a few months earlier, just before turning fifteen. This morning she looked pale and sick with dark circles under her eyes.
She nodded. “It came in the middle of the night and I couldn’t find the cotton pads so I bled all over my nightgown and my undergarments. If my mom sees it she’ll whip me for sure!”
Leigh Ann scrubbed the stains with bar soap. I helped her until we had washed the stain out completely. Leigh Ann let out a sigh of relief and giggled when she saw her reflection in the mirror. “Look at me, standing here buck naked, freezing cold, washing like a crazy woman!”
“How does it feel this time?” I asked.
Leigh Ann suffered terrible cramps each time her cycle came; last month she had even thrown up while we were peeling potatoes and Sister Cora had gotten after her with the switch for that, raising angry red welts on her legs.
“It hurts something awful. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the baptism of the dead today.” She sighed.
Leigh Ann went to make up her bed and tidy her room and I put on my own fresh undergarments. I carefully inspected the undergarment I had removed to be washed and saw with dismay that it was close to worn out, the seams fraying and the white cotton faded to a pale gray. I would ask her mother for help in removing the sacred symbols from the breasts, navel, and knees so that it could be burned, as is required for the destruction of all holy relics. In my new, crisp undergarment, I felt safe, knowing I was protected from bullets, fire, knives, and all manner of evil—and more importantly, from Satan, the destroyer. I laid out my white temple garments to put on after bread making since there would be no school today.
After completing my chores, I went to the temple with my sisters. I prayed fervently for the newly baptized, watching as the saints lined up for the soul saving. Everyone emerged wet from head to toe after immersion on the baptismal font. I was the proxy for two Catholic women named Mary Williams and Collette McCann, now baptized in death as Latter Day Saints. Afterward, I raced home to retrieve the fresh bread to take to Mrs. Norton before going to help Mr. Battle at the store.
At home I found Sister Cora alone in the kitchen. I wrapped up the bread in an embroidered cloth and was ready to leave when she said, “I saw the Hilliards at the baptisms this morning. That Joseph John seems like a fine young man.”
“Yes, he is. He’s quite a good student, too,” I said.
“I hear he goes to the public school over in Moab. His father says the boy wants to be an engineer.”
“That’s right, Sister Cora.”
“It seems you know quite a bit about it.” Sister Cora glanced sideways at me and I regretted having said anything at all. “Well, he’s a handsome boy,” she continued. “I’m sure that when he’s out in the big world away from our little paradise here in Pineridge he’ll find some Gentile girl. It always happens that way with the ones who leave the community.”
I did my best to hide it but Sister Cora’s words cut me to the quick. She might as well have slapped me. Of course Joseph John would be meeting college girls next year, girls who wore modern clothes and drove cars. Girls who listened to poplar radio music and read newspapers. I knew there was a different world outside the limestone walls that held us safe in the community. He was exposed to those things in public high school each day, but he came home to our life in Pineridge every afternoon. Next year it would be different, he would live at the university. Joseph John would be part of the outside world and I would be part of the one he left behind. Even if we were married already, he might come to regret it.
I hated how my voice sounded rubbery and thick when I asked, “Do you really think so, Sister Cora?”
Sister Cora smiled and nodded, clearly satisfied with herself. Then she took the loaf of bread from my hands, inspecting the cloth that covered it. “It’s wasteful to give that fine embroidery to the Nortons. We don’t even know how long they’ll last here in the community,” she admonished.
“My mother thought it would be nice to bring a little something to welcome them,” I replied, still trying to shake from my head the image of Joseph John surrounded by Gentile girls in blue jeans.
Sister Cora snapped back at me, “Giving them the bread and butter of our labors is enough. Your mother is too free with everything, it seems.”
I know better than to respond when Sister Cora is in one of her moods. Sometimes she sinks into a black humor so quickly that I have no idea it has happened until I see her coming at me with the switch. Still, I felt my anger rise. I was tired of Sister Cora’s snide remarks about my mother; I knew it was the result of her jealousy that my father preferred Mama to her. I hoped that Daddy would visit Mama again that evening, just so I could see the frustration on Sister Cora’s face.
Keep sweet, I told myself, walking out the door and leaving Sister Cora and her ill temper behind me. I carried the bread still wrapped in the towel Mama had intended. I would follow her directions; after all, she was my mother, not Sister Cora.
A few minutes later I was at the door of the old DeLory house. When Mrs. Norton answered, I swallowed my surprise to see her in pants and a plain shirt with a pair of flat tennis shoes on her feet. How did she expect to join our community if she didn’t even dress like us?
I handed her the loaf of bread and the butter. “I helped my mother make the bread this morning. She churned the butter last night.”
“Oh, I haven’t made bread in years and I’ve never churned butter! I used to bake with my mother when I was a little girl but it’s been a while. You’ll have to give me the recipe,” Mrs. Norton said, ushering me in. Her house was filled with boxes and other moving supplies.
“I can do that, I make fourteen loaves with my mother every day before school.”
“Fourteen loaves every day? Is it for the bakery?”
“Oh, no. It’s for our family. My father has seven wives and twenty-nine children. We eat a lot of bread.”
“I suppose you must,” Mrs. Norton remarked. “What do you do for fun at your age in Pineridge?”
I stared at her. “Fun?”
“Sure, fun. When I was your age in Salt Lake, my sister and I used to go to the local swimming pool with our friends. Sometimes we’d go to the matinee movies downtown on Saturday.”
I didn’t know how to reply. We work all day. God has a purpose and a plan for us that do not involve idle play. And there are no movie houses or swimming pools in Pineridge. Sometimes we’re allowed to splash around in the wash after a summer storm, but we still wear our long dresses in the water. And none of us would be allowed to socialize with boys without adult supervision. I thought again of Joseph John with those Gentile girls at college.
“Mrs. Norton, did you go swimming or to the movies with boys?”
“Sure we did. It wasn’t as if anything happened. After all, we were all good Mormon kids. We didn’t even have Coca-Cola to drink. And please call me Brenda. Mrs. Norton makes me sound like Jack’s mother!”
She smiled at me and I did my best to smile back to be polite. I was taught to call grown-ups by Mister and Missus or Brother and Sister, but if she wanted me to call her Brenda, I would try.
“I’ve never had a Coca-Cola either,” I said.
Brenda led me into the kitchen where there were boxes of dishes and all kinds of appliances that we don’t use at home. “I know we’re not supposed to drink caffeine or alcohol or any of that and I agree that those things can poison the body. But I will admit that I have snuck a Coke once in a while. Not with my husband arou
nd, of course.”
I was stunned. “And?”
She leaned in close. “And it is so good I can see why it is a sin! Cold and sweet, with a little kick to it. Sometimes the bubbles go down just the right way and it’s like nothing else!”
I tried to cover my surprise. I couldn’t imagine ever breaking the rules that way. “I have a couple of cans stashed away here, if you ever get the urge to try!”
I couldn’t believe what she was saying, putting temptation so squarely in my path. In my house we never broke any of the covenants. I was certain that my parents and the other sister wives had never had a drop of alcohol or caffeine or anything else prohibited. What was Mrs. Norton thinking, bringing Coca-Cola into Pineridge and offering it to me? What if I tattled on her like Wendy Callers? Or if the prophet found out? She had to be a lot more careful if she was going to join the Brotherhood of the Lord. You couldn’t just say or do whatever you wanted. Maybe she truly was a spy like Sister Emily suspected.
“Is it true that there is temptation everywhere on the outside?” I asked. “The prophet says that people are living in great sin, that the Gentiles are destined to perdition. He said that even the Seed of Cain are allowed into the mainstream Mormon temples!”
Mrs. Norton looked at me, pressing her lips together, like she had words there, trying to get out. Then she said, “On the outside, people no longer refer to blacks as the Seed of Cain, Alva. That is an old belief from another time, when there was a great deal of prejudice and discrimination in the church.”
“But they are descendants of the Lamanintes, they are evil. That is why God cursed them with black skin!” I exclaimed.
“I don’t think that’s true, Alva. And most of the LDS Church doesn’t think that either. There are even African-American saints. I used to share an office with a wonderful black girl at the bank in Salt Lake who was LDS.”
Brenda had been friendly, and even shared an office, with a Seed of Cain! I didn’t know what to say or think, but I knew she needed some advice.
“You better not mention that to anyone here in Pineridge, Brenda. That could cause you some big problems. And you’re going to have to get some proper dresses, too. You can’t wear those modern clothes here if you want to fit in.”
She sighed. “I figured as much. Perhaps you can help me? I don’t sew that well either.”
“If my mother gives me permission. It would have to be after I finish my home chores.”
“Thank you. Now I have a question for you, Alva. How does plural marriage really work? Is it true what Cora said? That all the wives get along well and everyone is happy?”
I didn’t know what to say and pretended I was busy with a loose button on my sleeve. In the Brotherhood we answered a higher call, to keep the spiritual laws of plural marriage even if they were against the laws of the state. If Sister Emily was right and Brenda was a spy, it would be dangerous to talk about The Principle with her. But if she was genuine and really wanted to fit in, wasn’t it my responsibility to help her?
I looked at her carefully. She had a nervous smile that made me feel sorry for her. If she were a spy, I didn’t think she would have been so reckless as to tell me about the Coca-Cola. More likely she just had no idea how things worked and she needed help, like Mama said. And I needed to ask her about life in Provo, about BYU, so I would have some idea what to expect when Joseph John went there in the fall. No one else in Pineridge could tell me. She clearly needed my help and I needed something from her, too. I knew I should tell her the truth.
“Well, sometimes there are disagreements. Some wives are jealous of others. It can be hard for a man to meet his obligations to spread his seed among many wives, as the Lord commanded.”
Her eyes got a funny look in them. “I was just wondering …,” she started to say but stopped when the front door opened and her husband stepped inside. Jack Norton was tall and stocky with short, sandy brown hair and blue eyes.
“Hi, honey, this is Alva. She’s Eldon Ray Merrill’s daughter.”
“Nice to meet you, Alva,” he said, shaking my hand firmly. He smiled but something in it made me uncomfortable. His teeth were big and square and his lips slid over them too easily, like a crocodile. He put his arm around Brenda’s shoulder and continued, “You’ll see my wife here might need a little fashion help! And a few cooking lessons too!”
Brenda laughed, but again I noticed that her eyes didn’t match her smile. “Alva is going to help me with some of those things. She makes fourteen loaves of bread every day before school; can you believe it?”
“Well, that’s why we’re here. The industriousness of the fundamentalist way of life is what we were missing,” Mr. Norton said.
I didn’t want to stay any longer and I was due at the store. “Mr. Battle must be waiting for me,” I said, moving to the door.
“You’ll come back again soon, won’t you Alva? I so enjoyed visiting with you,” Brenda said.
“Of course. I’ll come by real soon.”
“We’d sure like that,” Mr. Norton said with the same crocodile smile, holding the door for me.
Out on the street, I turned to wave to the Nortons, who stood on the front porch watching me go. I hadn’t had the chance to ask her about BYU, but maybe next time I would. I wasn’t so nervous now about visiting with her. It was a good thing they had joined the Brotherhood; she needed a little guidance but she seemed as nice as pie.
I did my best to shake off the odd feeling I had when I met Jack Norton. He was a good, God-fearing man. Daddy had said so the night before. I resolved to pray for a gentle and willing heart when it came to helping Brenda and to be cleansed of any doubt.
CHAPTER FOUR
AT THE PINERIDGE STORE, I MANNED THE CASH register, taking money and scrip while Mr. Battle directed the stockroom boys in filling the shelves. It made me proud, knowing that I was considered responsible enough to have a real job. Mr. Battle’s eyes were getting bad and he needed more help with the accounts each week. We had deliveries from Moab, and some from as far away as Salt Lake, to keep the shelves stocked with the items our community needed.
Lately Mr. Battle had been showing me how to hide some of the profits and make it seem as if the store were always operating at a loss, thereby paying fewer taxes. I knew there was no shame in this. In Pineridge there are many ways to avoid paying taxes to the corrupt federal government that has persecuted us for so many years. It is a fine and honorable thing to bleed the beast, as we call it. But today there would be no bookkeeping. I hadn’t been at the store an hour when Leigh Ann came running through the doorway, breathless.
“Alva, you have to come home right now. The prophet has called all council member families to a special meeting at his compound!”
Mr. Battle looked up and waved me away with a shaky, liver-spotted hand. “You go on, Alva Jane. If the prophet is having council members at his house, it’s something big!” he said.
I took off my work smock and followed Leigh Ann. The prophet regularly called community gatherings to address issues that he felt needed to be dealt with collectively by the saints. Last year, he had assembled everyone to announce that he had received a revelation from God that the people of Pineridge were too covetous and materialistic. He’d had all of our belongings confiscated and stored in a grain silo, only to be returned piece by piece over time as we demonstrated our devotion. It had been a trial to cook and clean without utensils, to get by with one dress and sit on the floor with no furniture, but it had been necessary to prove our worthiness to the Lord. But a meeting of just the council families? And Leigh Ann and I were to be included? That was not usual. I hurried behind her.
“What is it? A revelation?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. The sister wives have been talking all afternoon, whispering and shaking their heads. I think someone did something bad.”
Back at home I saw that Leigh Ann was right; the sister wives were gathered in the kitchen, murmuring among themselves. “What’s happened, Mam
a?” I asked.
My mother didn’t have a chance to answer before Sister Emily stepped in. “Don’t be asking questions that don’t concern you. Let it be enough that you’re included in a council family meeting rather than left at home to watch the children.”
I didn’t let her bother me; she was often so rude and abrupt. Besides, she was right: The important thing was that Leigh Ann and I were being included in a gathering—inside the prophet’s private home, no less. Just last year we would have stayed home to read scripture with the younger kids. It meant that we were old enough to be taken seriously.
Walking in a group with Leigh Ann and the sister wives, I saw the other council families heading toward the prophet’s imposing compound. It was three stories high with quarters on the left and right, shaped like an L. We took our place in the line of people filing in and I looked up at the carvings on the temple next door with the All-Seeing Eye of God above each tower, and the five-pointed stars of the priesthood set into the limestone.
I love the temple, it is so beautiful. At the base of each buttress are the earth stones, the footstools of the Lord, and above them the moonstones, sunstones, and cloud stones. The clasped right hands carved into the exterior walls of the temple represent the right hands of fellowship cited in Galatians and Jeremiah. Its splendor is a true testament to God’s greatness.
Mixed in the crowd of council families, I felt as if the air was alive with electricity. When we reached the front of the line, we were greeted by several of the prophet’s wives, who led us down a stairway to a large, plain room filled with folding chairs facing a raised platform area where my father and the other council members stood.
I tried to catch Daddy’s eye, but his face was serious and he seemed to look right through me. He stood next to the prophet’s brother, Wade Barton, who looked as thick and solid as the brick incinerator out behind our house. His dark hair lay in a dense patch across his head, and his eyes were heavy-lidded like the geckos that ran and hid under the desert rocks. He rubbed his fingers against his palms as if he had an itch. Looking at him made me nervous.
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