Forsaking All Others

by Allison Pittman

  “I should like to have a long talk with you sometime, young lady,” he said when given the opportunity to corner me in the parlor. “I feel you have much to teach me.”

  I smiled at the compliment. “I don’t claim to know very much. Only what I have read in the Scriptures.”

  “I mean about them, their teachings. Is it, after all, so very different from what we as Christians believe?”

  For a fleeting moment I felt such pity for this man, a man of God, to have even the slightest hint of doubt. “One wouldn’t think so, at first,” I said by way of sparing his pride.

  “And so it is a movement birthed in deception.”

  “I can think of no better description.”

  “May I ask, then, what it was that brought you back to the truth?”

  “The Holy Spirit,” I answered without hesitation. “God never left me.”

  Thankfully, our friends had mercy on us and our house was empty just after noon. Mama and I were both walking dead on our feet, and it was Reverend Harris’s wife who finally shooed the last of our guests out the front door.

  While we were at the graveside service, helpful neighbors had come into our home, sweeping it from top to bottom and organizing the gifts of food that had been brought. This, of course, proved a great help during the time of reception, but it wasn’t until Mama and I found ourselves once again alone that we realized the greatest favor of all. The room that had served as a place of sickness for so long had itself been renewed—scrubbed clean, with fresh, light curtains hanging in the place of those meant to block out the sun. A new, plump tick sat on the bed, covered with a thick, luxurious-looking quilt. Nothing in the world had ever looked so inviting. The countless sad hours piled on top of each other, and in one motion, Mama and I dropped down on top of it.

  Side by side we rested, holding hands, cooled by the afternoon breeze coming through the open window.

  “When you was very little,” she said, speaking to the ceiling, “I would put you down for an afternoon nap in here. And I would tell your father, ‘Oops! I just heard the baby cry,’ and then I’d sneak in here and lie down beside you. You was always fast asleep, but I’d pretend you needed me, just to get some rest for myself.”

  “I do the same with my girls.” My mind filled with visions of those long, snowbound days when we might cuddle and rest for an entire afternoon.

  Mama squeezed my hand. “I can’t wait for you to bring them home.”

  “They’ll love it here. Lottie especially. She loves cows. She might prove to be a better hand than I ever was.”

  I paused, giving Mama time to respond with something—maybe a reassurance that I’d always done the best I could or even a joke about just how inept I was at dairy farming—but all I heard was a low, whistling snore. Her grip went lax, and I turned on my side to look at her. Lying down, her face smoothed back to the one I knew as a child. Never beautiful, but familiar. I curled up beside her, drawing my knees as close as I could to my body, and after a few minutes wondering if I wasn’t actually too tired to sleep, found myself slipping into sweet, safe darkness.

  We slept until morning—late morning, actually. I awoke with such a pressing need, I worried I would not make it out across the yard in time. I threw myself off the bed, leaving Mama in a fit of childish giggles, and flung open our front door. The sight of the man on the other side nearly made me lose my battle with the morning’s necessities. Not that he was frightening, just unexpected, and this sight of him with his hand raised midknock made me think that perhaps it was he who woke us.

  “Good morning.” He actually tipped his hat, revealing a head full of thick, ash-gray, close-cropped hair. “Is Mrs. Deardon at home?”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, ushering him in. I yelled, “Mama!” over my shoulder before excusing myself and, as dignified as I could, blustering past him. I made sure the door was firmly closed behind me before tearing out for the privy.

  Later, relieved, I walked back into the house to see Mama and our guest sitting at the table, an open portfolio in front of them and the kettle hissing on the stove.

  “So that is you, Miss Camilla. I thought I’d heard that you were back, but one can never take too much stock in rumors; at least I’ve always thought so.”

  I looked at him harder.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” He held out his hand. “Michael Bostwick. My son, Michael Junior, was your schoolmate.”

  “Ah yes,” I said, barely able to recollect a soft, round-faced boy who even as a child wasn’t nearly as handsome as the distinguished gentleman now in our kitchen.

  “Mr. Bostwick’s son is at Harvard,” Mama said, offering an oddly unnecessary bit of news.

  “Law school.” He puffed with pride. “Like his father.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” I said, unconvinced.

  “I’m here to go over the details of your father’s will. Oh, pardon me—so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  The hissing kettle begged for my attention, and I busied myself making tea while Mr. Bostwick settled into his place at the table.

  “You need to join us, Camilla,” Mama said. “This concerns you as much as it does me.”

  “Very well,” I said, stalling. Something about Mama’s cool, calm demeanor unnerved me. It was as if every minute of the past few days—the past few months, maybe, with Papa’s illness and death—had led up to this moment. I poured each of us a steaming mug of tea and found a bowl full of assorted muffins left over from yesterday’s meal. Mr. Bostwick looked over the selection with a critical eye, finally choosing a perfectly rounded specimen. He brought his tea to his lips, sniffed, blew, and slurped before setting the mug down in front of him.

  “Now,” he said, “you’ll be happy to know that I have a buyer for the farm.”

  “You’re selling the farm?” Nothing—not one word—had been said about this as even a possibility, let alone a plan, but from the look of relief on Mama’s face, it was clear this came as no surprise.

  “It’s what your papa wanted,” she said. “And me, too. I can’t run it on my own. Don’t want to even if I could.”

  “Who’s buying it?” I tried to picture strangers sitting at our table, cooking at Mama’s stove. But then, I’d abandoned this home long ago. Perhaps I had no right to question.

  “Nobody you know.” Mr. Bostwick shuffled through papers as he talked. “A family moving into the community. Cousins of the Lindgrens, I believe.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mama said, recapturing his attention. “How soon can they be here?”

  “Mama, where are we going to live?”

  The we seemed to have caught her attention, and I instantly regretted my selfishness. Of course she’d had no way to know of my arrival or my plans. Still, I was here now, and pregnant, and if nothing else, she needed a roof over her head. Like her, I turned to Mr. Bostwick.

  “You have options.” He found more papers to shuffle. “Mr. Deardon—God rest his soul—owned a building in town that he currently rents to, well, me. My office is downstairs, and since my wife’s passing, I live in the apartment above. You would be perfectly within your legal rights to evict me from the living quarters, if you would like to occupy those for yourselves. But I would appreciate some notice—”

  “I have no plans to evict you from your home, Mr. Bostwick,” Mama said.

  “Which I appreciate,” he said, lifting his mug of tea in tribute. “Not to mention that my continued tenancy will provide a modest income. Now, your husband—your father, Miss Camilla—also owned the adjoining lot, which is currently vacant, and a smaller piece of land right on the edge of town, just behind the school.”

  My head swam with all of this. “How long has he owned these properties?”

  More paper shuffling, but it was Mama who provided the answer. “He was always a good businessman. I knew about the lots in town, but not about the other.”

  “It was purchased about six years ago.” He looked up
at me. “Maybe soon after you left?”

  “So you’d have a place to come home to,” Mama said softly. “Do you think, Mr. Bostwick, with the sale of the farm and the lot next to your building we’d be able to build a house on that land?”

  “Mama, I don’t want to be a financial burden to you.”

  “Now wait,” Mr. Bostwick said, “you have an inheritance of your own coming to you.”

  “I do?” I wrung my hands as I always did when I was nervous, especially worrying the place where my fingers had been amputated. I caught Mr. Bostwick’s eyes staring, a hint of discomfort in them, and I stopped, bringing them to rest in my lap.

  “The will was last updated six months ago. Just after Mr. Deardon’s health took a turn for the worse.” He now gave a look across the table to Mama that almost endeared him. “From the sale of the farm, if the final price allows, he wants five hundred dollars to go to you directly, Camilla, and one hundred dollars to any grandchildren known or unknown.”

  “Oh my.” Once again my hands twisted upon themselves. I looked at Mama. “Did he know?”

  She shook her head. “We always hoped, from the day you left nearly, that you’d come back.”

  “But with children?”

  “Left that up to God, of course,” Mama said. “We just wanted our own child home.”

  Mr. Bostwick took a pinch of muffin and pointed at my stomach. “Looks like you’ve got a hundred-dollar bun in that oven.”

  In other circumstances, his familiarity might have been taken for impropriety at best and lasciviousness at worst. But I merely gave myself a pat. “So it would seem.”

  Mr. Bostwick scrutinized the document in front of him. “It appears Mr. Deardon was quite clear that this money is to go to you, Camilla. And your children, should you have any. Set up in a trust in your name so your husband would be excluded.” He looked at me over the rim of his glasses. “Is there a husband?”

  “I am married, yes. And I have two daughters. Papa didn’t know, exactly, about the children. And my husband . . . well, he doesn’t know about any of this.”

  This brought a new posture to Mr. Bostwick. He sat up straighter and addressed me with almost-protective attention. “Do you mean he has abandoned you?”

  “I have left my husband.”

  “Divorced?”

  “No.”

  “Intend to divorce?”

  “As the Lord leads, Mr. Bostwick. I cannot make any decisions outside of his guidance.”

  “Of course, of course. Couldn’t have it any other way. Now—” he looked about the room, even under the table—“these children?”

  “They are in Utah. With their father.”

  “And are we waiting to see what the Lord has to say about that?”

  “No.” I reached across the table and took Mama’s hand. “Of that I have no question. I need to bring them here.”

  “Well, then.” He brightened, then dug into his leather satchel and produced a pad of paper and a small box containing an inkwell and pen. “I think it’s a good thing you met a lawyer today.”

  “There’s one other thing. The circumstances under which I left were . . . unusual. It’s likely that my husband believes me to be dead, and it’s certain he knows nothing of the child I’m carrying now.”

  “So the first order of business will be to convince the man that you’re alive? Not to worry, my girl. I wouldn’t be much of a lawyer if I couldn’t do that.”

  “But not just yet,” I said, willing his pen to stop in midair. “I don’t want him to come and fetch me home.”

  Chapter 23

  Strange how, with just a few words on a page, a few strokes of a pen, my life took on a shape I never would have envisioned. Mama and I spent the rest of that summer giving life to those words.

  We sold the dairy farm, though the new owners allowed us to continue to live there while we hired men to build a new house for us on the land at the edge of town. Twice a day, in the cool of the morning and evening, Mama and I walked to what would be our new home—not only to measure the progress but for our own general health. Mama had spent months taking care of Papa, and the freedom to simply walk out of the house for an undetermined errand was one she hadn’t enjoyed when he was healthy and alive. We would walk and talk, my body growing stronger with each step, while the words we exchanged bonded together and grew to fill a longing I’d never before recognized. I’d grown up without her. True, my mother was in our home all my childhood years, but moments like those we now shared had been nonexistent.

  I didn’t intend to enter a summerlong correspondence, but when I wrote to tell Colonel Brandon of my father’s passing, he responded with such sympathy I felt compelled to write again, reassuring him of our restored state. With each letter he expressed more and more interest in the progress of our new home and the sale of our old one. Soon those details became too mundane even for me. Abandoning my journal, I wrote to him of some of the smallest things, like finding a beautiful pair of silk shoes in the back of Mama’s armoire, though, as I wrote, “when either of us will ever have the opportunity to wear them remains a mystery.”

  In every letter, Colonel Brandon inquired of my health, to which I answered, “I am very tired much of the time, doing little more than cook and eat and nap between walks with Mama. I both hate and love to sleep because my dreams are filled with Lottie and Melissa. I see them and hear them, and for those hours they are as close to me as the child I carry.”

  I awoke from such a dream one afternoon and walked into the kitchen to find Mr. Bostwick at our table with his usual folio of papers scattered about. His presence was not unusual, as he always seemed to have one trivial legal matter or another that warranted an invitation for Sunday dinner or Tuesday supper or Friday evening pie. I met this visit with an unusual pang, however, as it was the first time I hadn’t greeted him at the door to usher him in like any other guest. He was simply here, at our table, with Mama bustling about offering fresh cream for his cobbler. Only the smattering of documents made this anything other than a family gathering, as it seemed clear I was the only one not at ease.

  “Darling,” Mama said, “I was just about to wake you. Mr. Bostwick has some good news.”

  The man’s eyes were closed in an expression of pure enjoyment as blueberry cobbler and cream trickled from the corner of his mouth to be caught expertly by his handkerchief lest it stain his expensive suit.

  I smiled despite myself, wondering what his esteemed colleagues would think of the sight. “Does he?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Indeed.” With obvious regret he laid his fork to rest on the plate. “I’ve been in contact with a judge in Salt Lake City, and there should be no impediment to your success in suing for divorce and gaining custody of your children.” He offered a wink to my ever-expanding stomach. “All of them.”

  “Well . . . ,” I said. It was, of course, the freedom I had longed for, but to hear it condensed into such simple, legal terms belied the hidden complexities. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “With Brigham Young no longer in political power, it is. The new governor is quite sympathetic to the cases of the polygamous wives, calling the legitimacy of their unions into question.”

  “But I’m a first wife. Legal in every respect.”

  Mr. Bostwick waved me off, giving in to the lure of the cobbler and forking another bite into his mouth. He spoke and chewed at the same time. “Giving you the claim of adultery and alienation. A few days in court, a few weeks to process, and you and your daughters could be back here before the first snow.”

  “Back?” Mama set a small plate of bread and butter and cheese in front of me—my customary afternoon snack. “What do you mean back? She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Mama, if it means getting my girls—”

  “What it means is having that baby out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “The baby’s not due until November. We could be back by then. Isn’t that what you said, Mr. Bostwick?
”

  “With a private stage and ideal proceedings, yes.” Though, in light of my mother’s scrutiny, he seemed far less convinced.

  “Just what do you mean by ideal?” Mama might not have been an educated woman, but this question was not asked in ignorance. She joined us at the table but kept her eyes trained on me as Mr. Bostwick gave his answer.

  “Given that Mr. Fox does not protest the divorce.”

  “You said I had legal grounds.”

  “You do. But the wonderful thing about the law, my girl, is that there are two sides to every story. Still, I’m certain we’ll prevail.”

  “Even if she’s standing right there? Belly full of his child?”

  Mama’s bluntness took me aback, but I was even more struck by her intuition. My mother had never met Nathan Fox, yet she seemed to possess an understanding of him that, in this instance, far exceeded my own.

  “She’s right,” I whispered, barely loud enough to break through Mr. Bostwick’s legal rebuttal. “This child might be a son. He’d never give that up without a fight.”

  Mr. Bostwick’s volume took our kitchen for a courtroom. “Does he not have that other woman to give him sons?”

  “He doesn’t love that other woman,” Mama said with a gentleness that seemed to deflate the man’s bluster.

  “Well, then—” Mr. Bostwick began to listlessly shuffle his papers—“I suppose I shall go on my own and file the case on your behalf. Truly, your presence is only a formality. I daresay I shall be no temptation for the lovelorn Mr. Fox. And I’ve no legal obligation to disclose the details of your delicate condition.”

  Mama looked triumphant, but I could not share in her victory. “What about my daughters?”

  “I will establish proof that you have a home and means of support. Your absence will not alter the fact that you have every right to gain custody.”

  “But how—?”

  His square, heavy hand patted mine in a gesture I’m sure was meant to be reassuring. “I’ll bring them to you safe and sound; rest easy.”