Mama, Sam had said, back when their mother was well.
May-ee, said Faith, and Fate, echoed Mary.
Aggie, cooed Ezekiel.
But love in the Prophet’s land was a treacherous thing, unstable as dynamite.
Beth took a breath at her mother’s door and knocked.
A wheezing whisper. “Beth? Is that you?”
Beth glanced back, and her eyes locked with Agnes’s. She hated her sister’s compassion—the way she tilted her chin, encouraging her.
Hated it and needed it, because Beth loved Agnes like the parched earth thirsts for rain. Her first word had been Aggie, too.
“Yes, Mother. It’s me.”
Beth swam through shadows to her mother’s bedside, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. There were only two other pieces of furniture in the room: a nightstand with the phone on it—for emergencies and for Father—and a dresser with an Outsider record player. The turntable was always loaded with Amazing Grace. Her mother had brought other records, but Father had broken them over his knee when Beth was five, because the lyrics were secular.
Music of the damned, Father had said. Trust me, this hurts me as much as it hurts you.
Her mother had kept the broken pieces of those tracks, and the record player balanced on their sharp, daggerlike remains. Seeing them always made Beth shiver, because they looked like an accusation.
And like regret.
Her mother hauled herself upright and patted her tangled, unwashed hair. Beth winced to see the mirror of her own glossy locks so badly neglected.
“I was pretty like you once, you know,” her mother snapped, pettish with hunger. “I had the most beautiful hair.…”
Beth’s chest ached.
Her mother used to tell stories about the Outside.
From her, Beth had heard wonders the others could never dream of: all about amusement parks and shopping malls and movie theaters. She’d learned about televangelists and soap operas, public high schools and monogamy. She’d even learned about other faiths her mother had tried before finally landing in Red Creek—the Moonies and the Hare Krishna.
These days, there were fewer stories and more hazards. She had to be careful. Her mother’s tongue, like hers, could cut like razor wire.
“Macaroni and cheese.”
Her mother stared at the steaming food, her eyes hollows.
Desperately, Beth wished for the canyon. For Cory’s warm touch and the wind in her hair. For life.
Get in and get out. No need to linger.
Her mother’s hand shot out of the dark, gripping her wrist with surprising strength.
“Mother!” she gasped.
“It’s time for you to leave this place, daughter. Time for you to run.”
Beth held her breath, shocked and afraid.
“They’ll want to marry you soon. Chances are a patriarch already has his eye on you. Don’t fool yourself that it will be some handsome boy you could come to love—the young ones never get the pretty girls, and even when they do, they turn hard fast. Like your father.” Her mother smacked her chapped lips together. She’d chewed them until they bled.
“The Outside is better, safer. Everything the Prophet taught you is a lie.”
Beth couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother speak so many words together. So many forbidden words. The Prophet would say she was a snake hissing in Beth’s ear. The Prophet would say she was a demon.
And Agnes—she’d tell her to gird herself from this spiritual threat with prayer. But suddenly, Beth couldn’t recall a single verse or psalm.
Her thoughts pitching and churning, she tried to back away.
Her mother dug her fingernails into the skin of her wrist.
“If you find some money, you can check into a motel in Holden. One of those with a little pool. Stay until you find a job.”
She let go and Beth stumbled back.
“You have roses in your cheeks,” her mother said. “Your foolish sister is already lost, but you—you can still be found.” Her tone turned black and cold as road ice. “Get out, my dear. Get out while you still can.…”
Beth fled the room like she was chased and took shelter in the arms she knew were always open to her.
“My God, your heart is pounding out of your chest!” Agnes said.
“It’s Mother.” Beth spoke into Agnes’s collar. Her sister smelled reassuringly of work—of sweat and sunshine.
“What did she say to you?” Agnes demanded.
Beth shook her head. It was too painful to tell.
The trailer had gone eerily silent.
Embracing, Beth and Agnes were like a lodestar for the other kids, who slowly came to wrap their own small arms around them. They didn’t understand all that went on in this house—not even Sam—but they soaked up its grief like sponges. Sam tucked his head against Beth’s rib cage, and Ezekiel clung to her leg. Mary and Faith cried softly, frightened to see their elder sisters upset. Their hands tugged at the waist of Beth’s dress. She repressed a vain thought—It’s my favorite, don’t tear!—then let herself be enveloped by the only people in the world who could ever know what it was like to lose a mother as they had.
Agnes’s cheek pressed against hers. They held each other like shipwreck survivors, and time melted away.
When Beth pulled back, her face was damp. “I’m still mad at you,” she whispered.
Agnes winced. “I know.”
It’s time for you to leave this place. Time for you to run.
There was so much vast life she yearned for but could never, ever have.
Because of them. Because of love.
She watched the kids scatter to their books and games, her anger cut with sadness and grief. Her feelings layered in a dizzying array of colors, like the layers of canyon rock.
“Beth, I need to talk to you. About Magda. What you said about rebellion—” Agnes began, but Father blew through the door, looking stern as a minor Abraham.
Time for prayers.
6
AGNES
A man with many wives is holiest in the eyes of the Lord.
—PROPHET JEREMIAH ROLLINS
In the evening, Agnes always prayed for the same things: for Ezekiel to be cured, and for God to forgive her weakness. For strength to take care of the kids, and for her mother to be peaceful. That night she added a special word for Beth. Let no secrets come between us.
Most Red Creek children never liked sitting through prayers, but Agnes delighted in it. On her knees, she felt very near to God—or as near as any girl could be. It was like lingering in the well between the world and dreams, and she thought she could pray for hours, even days, like the Biblical prophets of old in their desert caves.
But of course, women could never be like those holy men. Not with children and chores to tend to. What a silly fantasy.
Too soon, Father dismissed them to bed.
“Good night, children,” he said curtly, his words loaded with the implication that he had far more important things to think of—manly, patriarchal things. But he had a soft spot for Agnes and remembered to give her a small, wry smile.
Their faces were alike: all square jaw, coarse skin, and large brow. Agnes thought those features became him best, but being plain had never bothered her. She could walk past the mirror for weeks without ever truly noticing the shape of the girl reflected there. Whatever worth she had was on the inside, and whatever beauty hewn, she hoped, of spirit.
The children brushed their teeth and washed their faces—one at a time, in the mildewed bathroom—while strains of “Amazing Grace” wove through the air.
Sam went rigid when the song began. Of the little kids, he remembered his mother best. Agnes worried about him. Worried about all of them. A constant pang of not enough.
At bedtime, she had a few quiet words for Ezekiel, who feared the dark. As always, she rubbed his back in circles and pointed out the glow of the crucifix night-light.
“Look what protects
you.”
“Yes, but what if—”
“No what if. Be brave. It’s time for sleep.”
He scrunched his eyes tight. Watching him try to will himself asleep, Agnes had the strong urge to swaddle him up in his blanket and rock him like an infant.
Meanwhile, the record played on.
’Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved…
She and Beth unfolded the convertible couch they shared and spread the sheets in practiced unison. Her sister seemed thoughtful, far-off.
What thoughts were going through Beth’s head, and where on earth had she been all day?
Agnes had just slipped into her nightgown when Father called from the kitchen.
“Agnes. A moment.”
Her mind sped straight into nightmares. Did Father suspect all wasn’t right? Had Ezekiel let something slip—about his medicine?
In the kitchen, Father poured himself a glass of milk. Her relief, when he gestured for her to sit, was intense. He’d want her standing for bad news.
“You’re a good girl, Agnes. An obedient daughter.”
In the bedroom, her mother’s record scratched, stuttered, then stopped.
Father cleared his throat, looking strangely unsure. “Last night, the Prophet had a revelation. About you and Matthew Jameson.”
Blood rushed into her ears, drowning out the sound of the clock ticking and the hum of the refrigerator. Surely Father couldn’t be talking about marriage, because God knew she wasn’t ready. According to Mrs. King, He wouldn’t match her with a husband until her heart was pure and clean—which it wasn’t anymore.
So what was Father talking about?
“It will be a hardship running the household without you. I hope, sometime before the wedding, that you’ll find a chance to speak with Beth. You must explain how her responsibilities will grow.”
The word echoed senselessly in her ears. Wedding… wedding… wedding…
Father took her hand in his rough one. “The Jamesons are a fine family, Agnes. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“Matthew Jameson?” she sputtered. “You mean, Cory’s father?”
“You’ll be his sixth wife. You know, that’s a very special number—six.” He spoke wistfully. “A man might be at ease in heaven, with six wives to tend him.”
The word escaped like a bubble of air. “No.”
Father’s frown split his brow like a lightning bolt. “What?”
She corrected herself. “I just mean, what if I’m not ready? Not faithful enough?”
Father relaxed. Inside, she knew, he was laughing at her.
“Anyone can see you’re the most hardworking girl in Red Creek. Matthew himself admires how you’ve taken charge since your mother’s illness. It’s no wonder God showed the Prophet your face in his dream.”
Agnes cast about for a memory of her intended but couldn’t pick him out from among the shadowy profiles of Red Creek’s patriarchs.
Unlike her family, the Jamesons were rich from their ranching, and they lived in the town’s finest house: a mansion with views of the canyon. Surely Matthew was a fine man, if God had given him all that—and the idea of marriage itself didn’t bother her. She could even imagine a blessedness in being a sixth wife, a bright shining reward for living as God willed.
And yet—
Father’s face hardened. “Agnes, are you in rebellion?”
The echo of her sister’s words set her hair on end. She looked towards the living room, where the children slept in the night-light’s amber glow.
She blurted out, “But who will take care of Ezekiel?”
Father set his glass down. “Beth.” He spoke her name darkly, like a curse. “She always was a flighty thing. But she’ll just have to learn to do as you do.”
She’ll just have to learn.
But Father didn’t know the half of it.
Could Beth handle giving Ezekiel his shots, and meeting the Outsider at midnight?
Even if Beth could, she was already fifteen. The Prophet might have a marriage revelation for her, too. And Sam, the next eldest, would be a child for a long time yet.
“Listen to me,” Father said sternly. “Your union with a good man could change everything for this family. As you know, God never saw fit to give me another wife, because of our family’s bad history—and I don’t just mean your mother.”
Agnes felt nauseated. But she was also curious. Father had never confided in her before. “Is it—something to do with you? Your family?”
Father lowered his voice. “Yes. My grandmother was Sarah Shiner, the founding Prophet’s second wife. His favorite wife, for a time. But she slid hard into rebellion. Eventually, she ran from him. Ran Outside.”
Agnes had never heard of anyone running from Red Creek before.
“She ran of her own free will?”
Father nodded. “And doomed her children unto the third and fourth generations. Sarah Shiner’s been the curse on our family for a long time, but I’ve kept myself righteous, and God sees that. If you marry an esteemed patriarch like Matthew Jameson, God and the Prophet will know we’ve been redeemed.”
Agnes’s mind spun, absorbing this story—which seemed to raise as many questions as it answered. For some reason, her mind wandered to the forest at the meadow’s edge, the boundary she was forbidden to cross.
When the Prophet’s grandfather first came to Red Creek, before farms were built and fields cleared, the faithful were trappers, catching small animals and skinning them for pelts. Rumor had it that traps still littered the forest floor—rusted iron ready to snap at a touch. If you stumbled on one hidden beneath a pile of leaves, it would break your leg in a single, vicious bite.
Family curses. Ancient history.
Agnes felt like she was slowly bleeding to death in the cool, familiar kitchen.
“When’s the wedding?”
She couldn’t quite bring herself to say my wedding.
“Matthew’s willing to marry you next Sunday.”
She gripped the table until her bad knuckle throbbed.
Sunday. So soon, when what she needed was time.
“Father.” She swallowed. “I have a favor to ask.”
His eyes narrowed. Her Outsider mother must’ve begged favors in the past—a newspaper to read, a forbidden pill for a headache—before she’d given up trying.
“What is it?”
“Beth isn’t responsible. I need time to prepare her.”
God forgive me.
His voice deepened. “Is there something I should know about your sister?”
A trap.
Hastily, so Father wouldn’t drag her from bed that very minute, Agnes shook her head. Then for the first time in her memory, she lied to a man of God.
“Beth can’t run the household alone. She doesn’t know where the kids are in their lessons, or how to starch collars. Just today she burned the crackers, and that’s four dollars up in smoke.”
In fact, Agnes had burned the crackers. Left alone with her chores, she’d been rushed.
“She can’t learn those things in a week?”
Agnes shook her head again, fighting a strange pain—the lies, ripping at her insides. A week was plenty of time to learn to starch collars and bake crackers. But Father himself didn’t know the first thing about how the household worked, let alone that Beth had been pulling her weight—more or less, depending on her mood—for years.
With Ezekiel’s life on the line, Agnes would snatch any wedge.
“There’s more to it. We have schedules to follow, timetables for gardening. I don’t think Beth even knows how much of our food is grown.”
Agnes sensed Father getting bored. His duty done, he wanted nothing more than to pour himself another glass of milk, unbutton his own starched collar, and go to bed.
“And how long will it take for you to teach her all that?”
She grasped at straws. “A month? Two?”
He drummed his fingers against t
he table. “God’s will, once revealed, should be done quickly. It’ll look like you’re resisting. And how does that reflect on me?”
God forgive me, but I need more time.
Agnes whittled her voice small. “Mr. Jameson admires how I look after the children. With Mother sick, don’t you think he’ll understand I must help them?”
“This is a mess of your own making.” He scowled, near anger now. “You should’ve prepared her better.”
It was dangerous to press him, but she had to try. “We can’t have even a little time?”
Father slapped the table. “You’re a special girl, Agnes, but you’re not that special!”
Unstoppable tears burst from her chest, surprising them both.
Agnes had lived in harmony with Red Creek’s ways her entire life, and she’d never thrown a tantrum when the Laws cinched too tight. But Ezekiel’s illness had thrown her off balance, and she couldn’t marshal her strength in time.
The words went round and round like her mother’s record on its turntable: He’s going to die, Ezekiel’s going to die, God’s going to take him and he’s going to die.…
“I’ve been a horrible sister,” she said through her hands.
Father looked disgusted, like he’d do anything to stop this tearful, female drama.
“Enough,” he said at last. “I can’t make any promises. But I’ll talk to Matthew. Now clean yourself up and go to bed.”
Agnes stood shakily and did as she was told.
7
BETH
Resist not, want not.
—PROPHET JACOB ROLLINS
Beth heard every word about Agnes’s upcoming marriage—and terror engulfed her.
She’d known marriage was the ultimate fate of every girl. But she’d built a fortress around the idea that Agnes could be married, cordoning it off with bricks and stone.
What she overheard left her trembling and repentant. All her anger evaporated at the thought that she and the kids might lose the true head of their household, the one who’d mothered all of them.
Beth gripped the bedsheets. Losing her sister and being left to raise her siblings alone… it felt like the end of the world.
Agnes at the End of the World Page 4