by Carys Bray
She didn’t join the family for dinner. She didn’t wash the dishes or bring the laundry in off the line; she lay in bed rehearsing years of tentative, often reluctant, obedience and pondered the dimensions of a proportionate punishment.
“CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR eternal marriage! Now you can get on with the things that really matter.” Although she laughed at the note that accompanied Ian’s parents’ baby-quilt wedding gift, Claire was pregnant before finals. Swept away by everyone’s happiness, she read baby magazines and allowed the older sisters to fuss and stroke her belly in the church corridors, listening as they offered unsolicited advice about breastfeeding and suitable baby names.
Ian’s parents were at the hospital within an hour of Zipporah’s birth. “You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you?” his mum cooed as she held her first grandchild. “Yes you are! And you’d like a little brother, wouldn’t you? Yes you would!”
“Give us a chance, Mum,” Ian laughed.
People at church began asking Claire when she was going to have “the next one” before Zipporah was three months old and she didn’t mind because she thought it would be a good idea to have two children quite close together.
When Alma was born, Ian’s mum was ecstatic. “Hello, future missionary,” she said as she held him in the hospital. “You’d like a little brother too, wouldn’t you? Yes you would!”
That was when Claire realized she wasn’t going to get away with just the two.
Alma was busy blowing the roof off her life with his noisy toddler tantrums when Ian’s mum asked whether she had started trying for “number three.” Claire explained that she didn’t want any more and Ian’s mum said, “I’d have had at least half a dozen if I’d been able … I always think it’s a shame when women don’t throw themselves into motherhood. After all, it’s what they’ll be doing for Eternity. They may as well get the hang of it now.”
“I’m not sure I want to keep reproducing for Eternity,” Claire confided. “I don’t think it’s my thing. I mean, I love the children, but I don’t want to do this forever.”
“But it’s exactly what you’ll be doing! You’ll be populating whole worlds—not by yourself, of course; Ian’s other wives will help.”
“His other wives?”
“In the Celestial Kingdom.”
“There’ll be other wives?”
“Of course. Polygamy is eternal—just because we don’t practice it now doesn’t mean we don’t believe in it. It’s in Mormon Doctrine. We gave you a copy before you got married. Where is it? I’ll show you.”
Claire fetched the book and listened as Ian’s mum read aloud from the section that dealt with the Ennobling and Exalting Principle of Plural Marriage. She learned that the Holy Practice would commence again after the Second Coming and she felt nauseated for the remainder of the afternoon.
“It’s just the way it is, Claire,” Ian said when he got home from work. “It was that way in the Old Testament and it’s that way in nature. You won’t mind in the Celestial Kingdom, you’ll be perfect, so you won’t feel jealous. It’s silly worrying about it now.”
“You said polygamy was in the past. I asked you about it before I joined the Church and that’s what you said.”
“It is in the past.”
“You said it all ended more than a hundred years ago.”
“It did.”
“You didn’t tell me the truth.”
“I answered the question you asked.”
She thought about it for days, humbly at first, and then with growing indignation. She couldn’t believe in it, but that wasn’t enough, she wanted to stop him believing in it too. She bought unauthorized underwear that exposed her thighs and belly and wore it before bed so he could enjoy removing it. She did things she had previously heard him describe as “immoral” and “impure.” He was startled, but she quashed his objections. She maintained a heightened level of attentiveness for several weeks until life caught up with her and she couldn’t muster the enthusiasm for perpetual sexual acrobatics, no matter how eternally binding. She resolved not to think about polygamy and retreated to their familiar, hokey-pokey sex that was nice because it was comfortable, and she knew all the words and moves by heart.
Not long after, Ian asked about having another child. The decision was mostly hers, he said, but the Lord would show her the way. The Lord kept quiet, giving Claire the impression that He wasn’t especially bothered. Ian was. He explained his theory that “replicating” was the best way to describe the creation of two children; “multiplying and replenishing” required three or more. She agreed to have another, deriving a secret glee from her body’s refusal when nothing happened. Ian was patient. “The Lord’s time isn’t our time,” he said. But his mum wouldn’t leave it alone, she tugged and worried at it like a dog on the end of a shoe. She gave advice about ovulation and offered to babysit Zipporah and Alma overnight, if it would help. Eventually, once Alma had started school and Claire had begun to daydream about part-time jobs and separate bank accounts, she got pregnant again.
Not long after Jacob was born, Ian’s mum started to say things like, “Three is an awkward number,” and, “Alma’s got that middle-child problem, hasn’t he?”
Claire prayed about it and made a deal: “One last time, but I want a girl.” As she lay on the bed in the scanning room, it felt as if her whole life hinged on the revelation of the baby’s sex. She knew she wasn’t like the other women at church; she didn’t have spiritual experiences, unless she counted the way she felt when she walked on the beach. She never knew what to say in Testimony Meetings; she couldn’t muster tearful declarations and statements of absolute truth like Sister Stevens: “We were on vacation in Disneyland and I couldn’t stop crying because we have the gospel—we were the happiest people in the happiest place on Earth.” She couldn’t speak like Sister Campbell either: “I know the Church is the only true Church on the face of the Earth. I know Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know we have a living prophet who converses daily with Jesus Christ and leads the Church by revelation.” Whenever possible, she avoided bearing testimony, and on the occasions when she was compelled to as the Bishop’s wife, she simply stated that joining the Church had made her feel a part of something good. The sonographer said, “You’re having a little girl,” and Claire felt like Hannah in the Old Testament, as if she had prayed Issy into existence.
After Issy was born, Claire caught Ian’s eye in the hospital. “No more,” she mouthed and he nodded and said he loved her hugely, more than she could imagine. But love isn’t measured by size or weight; she learned that after Issy was born. Love is measured in ways. It isn’t a case of more and less. It’s this way and that way, gladly and carefully, freely and gratefully. That’s how it was with her last baby: her lovely, make-the-most-of-it child. Each of Issy’s firsts was also a last: a joy and a relief, a beginning and an ending, all of Claire’s own choosing.
IAN RETURNED A few hours later with food on a tray. He stood in the doorway and cleared his throat. “Will you get up now?”
She pulled the covers over her head and mumbled, “I don’t think so,” into the duvet.
“Are you going to get up tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong, Claire?”
She tugged the covers down a little so she could see him. He’d removed his tie, undone his top button, and his shirt was partially untucked; he looked forsaken, like an unmade bed.
“You didn’t even come down for Family Home Evening. What’s happened today? Has something upset you?”
Of course she was upset, but the upset was sharper than Issy’s returned PE uniform, less fathomable than the prophet’s story, and heavier than the weight she’d felt in her chest when she woke that morning.
“Jacob needs to go to bed.” He stepped into the room and placed the tray on the floor, as if he might tempt her out like an animal. He’d folded a piece of kitchen towel in half to make a napkin and put a rose from one of the sympa
thy bouquets in a glass of water. He sat down in front of the wardrobe, his knees pointed straight at the ceiling, and his trousers rode up past the tops of his socks.
“I know it’s difficult. But you, you’ve got to—”
“It’s not the kind of sadness that just dries up.”
“I know … but will you get out of bed, please?”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t either, in the mornings, it’s … I think one day it won’t be such an effort. I know it’s going to get better, it’s just going to take some time.” He stretched his legs out in front of him; his feet almost reached the bed, there were holes in the heels of each of his socks, and she felt glad his mother was on the other side of the Irish Sea. “I’m sorry about the glasses. Do you need a blessing? I’ll phone President Carmichael and ask him to come and assist. I know it’s Monday, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
She couldn’t talk past the sudden lump in her throat. She thought about the little business cards in the pocket of his suit jacket, tracing his Priesthood Line of Authority: “Ian James Bradley ordained a High Priest by Ronald Bradley, Ronald Bradley ordained a High Priest by James Poulter,” and on, and on, until it reached Brigham Young, then Joseph Smith and Peter, James, and John, who came back to Earth in 1829 to restore the priesthood, and finally back to Jesus Christ. Ian had the cards made specially, so the men he ordained could verify the source of their authority to bless and bind on earth and in heaven. All that power, passed down by the laying on of hands like a sacred Midas touch. It should work—she’d thought about it a lot since the blessing in the hospital; unworthiness on Ian’s or Issy’s part would affect the outcome of a blessing and invalidate the promises made, but they were both eminently worthy. Lack of faith may also cause failure and her own lack was a fact; from the moment they arrived at the hospital she hadn’t believed in anything except the evidence of her eyes. She wished she could go back in time to sit next to Issy’s bed and say, “I do believe, I do, I do!” like one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. But even as the thought took hold, she couldn’t imagine having enough faith to support the magic of healing.
“I don’t want a blessing,” she said. “It won’t help. It won’t work.”
“You don’t mean that.”
She considered telling him that she did mean it but pulled the covers back over her head instead.
“I don’t know what else to do to make it better,” he said. And then he got up off the floor and went downstairs to tell Jacob to go up to bed.
CLAIRE REALIZES SHE is crying. She used to know when she was about to cry, but it’s not like that anymore. There’s no anticipation, no winding mechanism. She is full of tears and every so often they just slop out. They drip onto her hands and onto the balled-up pieces of Sister Anderson’s letter. It’s only when she gives the pieces a further scrunch that she notices the envelope, propped next to the pile of sympathy cards. Ian has dotted the “i” in her name with a heart like she used to when they first met. She tears it open, embarrassed for him and his stupid, ineffectual optimism. Inside she finds an article from the online version of Ensign magazine that he must have printed off specially. Several sentences have been highlighted.
“Mother, Do Not Mourn,” she reads. The story is about a bishop’s son who was run over by a freight train. “The boy’s mother felt no relief from sorrow during the funeral and continued mourning after the burial.” She reads this sentence several times, partly because Ian has colored it bright yellow but also in an attempt to grasp its significance. Are funerals supposed to relieve sorrow? Is burial meant to signify the end of mourning? Is Ian implying that she is not following the correct pattern of grief? She reads on, warming to the boy’s mother. “The boy’s mother lay on her bed in a state of mourning.” This part of the story has also been highlighted, so she reads it again. It’s a realistic detail and it makes her feel slightly more charitable toward Ian, who probably stayed up late, looking for helpful stories in the Ensign archive. The feeling doesn’t last long.
“While the mother lay on the bed, her dead son appeared to her. He told his mother not to cry. He said that he was all right and assured her that his death was an accident. ‘Tell Father that all is well with me, and I want you not to mourn anymore.’ ”
So that’s his point. Nearly three weeks of mourning is enough. Time to move on. She scrunches the paper into a ball. Other people’s stories are suffocating her, she is sick of their assurances, their miraculous interventions and happy endings. She stuffs the balled-up papers in the trash bin and shuffles up the stairs.
The room smells of musky, unwashed woman. She picks a furry white bear out of Issy’s toy box and gets into the bed. She holds the teddy up to her nose and waits. She isn’t expecting much, she’s not a greedy person. All she wants is a small sign, an ounce of reassurance that Issy still exists somewhere outside of memory.
She is still waiting several hours later, and when the front door opens and voices fill the hall, she tugs the covers over her head and goes to sleep.
– 12 –
Happy Is the Man That Findeth Wisdom
Ian presses “enter” in the darkness of the twilight house.
My wife won’t get out of bed, she’s always down …
Is my wife lazy? She won’t get out of bed …
My husband won’t grow up. He stays in bed …
Why won’t my wife sleep with me?…
My dog won’t get out of my bed …
He clicks on a couple of pages that seem relevant but they’re written by people whose wives are suffering from depression. He decides to search the Ensign archive instead and types “emotional problems.” The first page of results isn’t any help:
Fortifying the Home from Evil
Women Are Incredible!
Temple Worship
He finds what he needs on page 2: “Solving Emotional Problems in the Lord’s Own Way.” He grabs a pencil from the pot next to the computer and makes notes as he reads.
—If you have a miserable day (or several in a row) stand and face them.
—Things will get better.
—Counseling = spiritually destructive techniques.
—Do not delve, analyze, or dissect. Harder to put something back together than to take it to pieces.
—Solve problems the Lord’s way.
He folds the piece of paper and stuffs it in his trouser pocket as the computer shuts down. The house hums its night noises and he clasps his hands together and says a quick prayer. He listens past the night noises, following the line of his radius from perimeter to center, and there, right in the middle of himself, where things are very quiet, he discovers a verse from Hebrews: “For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.”
He stands, pushes the chair back quietly, and tiptoes up the stairs and along the landing, feeling his way to the bedroom, which is dimly lit by the streetlight outside. He takes his clothes off, hangs them on the half-open wardrobe door, and stands at the side of the bed for a moment, a ghostly figure in the yellow gloom, covered from neck to knee by Temple garments. The blankets are rumpled and a quick flick of the duvet exposes Jacob, his little body spread wide in the fling of sleep. Ian is suddenly aware of the way his love for his youngest son fills him from his toes all the way to the back of his throat and he knows if he, with all of his imperfections, can love like this, it is impossible to imagine how much Heavenly Father, who is perfect, must love His children.
After he has straightened and tucked the duvet around Jacob, Ian kneels beside the bed. He folds his arms, closes his eyes, and begins his evening prayer. The worn carpet is scratchy against his knees. He shifts and settles, taking care not to rest his whole weight on his heels in order to avoid the pins and needles that frequently accompany long prayers.
“Please bless Claire,” he murmurs. “Bless her with …” He searches for the right word. “Bless her with patience and …”
He pauses as he tries
to calculate exactly what it is that Claire needs.
THE FIRST MORNING without her was the worst. Ian waited until seven-thirty before he went into Jacob’s room.
“Are you going to get up?”
She was lying on Issy’s bunk with her head under the covers. He was pretty certain she heard him, but she didn’t respond. He waited, hoping she might say something, give some sort of approximation of the likely duration of her leave, and although he felt like pulling her out of the bed, he didn’t; he’d learned his lesson and he had the pieces of Issy’s glasses wrapped in a handkerchief in his drawer as a reminder of his miscalculation.
There were clean, ironed shirts that first morning because Claire had taken care of them on the weekend, but there was a basket full of dirty washing in the bathroom from the previous day and, because he suspected that Claire was going to ignore it, he delegated the laundry to Zipporah. He supervised the breakfast and hurried everyone up, not even thinking about packed lunches until he popped into the kitchen to snatch his sandwiches off the side where Claire usually left them. The bread box was empty so he grabbed a loaf from the freezer. He slapped jam between pairs of stiff slices and tossed them at the children. Once Alma and Zipporah were on their way, he hustled Jacob into the car and dropped him off at the primary school’s Early Drop-off Club before driving across town to work.
It would have been more convenient for Zipporah and Alma to attend his school but Claire had been keen for that not to happen. “They need to be by themselves sometimes,” she’d said. “We’re always with them, at home, at church. Let them make their own way through high school.” And he’d acquiesced because she didn’t usually express strong feelings and it felt nice to let her have a say.