Forsaking All Others

by Allison Pittman

  “I can,” I said, feeling an odd sense of pride in the fact that it was my own feet holding me up. “I have legal grounds. Adultery. You’ve taken two wives while married to me, and your prophet is no longer the law of the land. Polygamy is illegal, whether he wants to admit it or not. You know as well as I do that I’m a complication he would rather not face. In fact, why don’t you discuss it with him? I dare you. Tell him the wife he wanted you to believe was dead is alive and well and ready to fight for her children. All of them—including the secret son she stole away.”

  His face changed at this as anger dissolved with his grip. “A son?”

  I instantly regretted letting this bit of truth slip, but I gave my foot a little stamp, determined not to lose the ground I’d gained. “Yes. A little boy. And he’ll be forever your son just as Lottie and Melissa will be your daughters. But I won’t be your wife. Your home won’t be with us.” My eyes took a long, final look at the dark corners of Evangeline’s shabby parlor. “You’ve already made your choice.”

  And then, he changed. There was a moment, years ago, as I held our first son through his short hours of life, when Nathan had sat by my side, his entire body straining against itself as if he could take on the power of the Lord and snatch the inevitable fate from God’s holy hands. Then, after our tiny baby took his last breath, Nathan seemed to take his first—his body soft and fluid like an empty shirt on a line. He’d been defeated by death, but he walked away from the battle somewhat relieved.

  Now, in this moment, I saw him set down the same shield. If I could have peeked under his skin, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a mass of broken bones, with only the miracle of pride holding him upright. He seemed to shrink before me, the fight leaving his eyes as they became more level with mine. A power beyond my own brought my forever-wounded hand up to touch his cheek as my heart refused to let me fully enjoy the victory of the moment.

  “All I ever wanted,” he said, his voice as hollow as the body from which it came, “was a family.”

  “I know,” I said, allowing pity to summon tears but calling on the Lord to hold them at bay. “I tried to give that to you, but it wasn’t enough.”

  “Tell me, Camilla, did you ever believe? When you were baptized the day before our wedding—all of our teachings . . . were you ever a true believer?”

  My hand still touched his face, and I felt the slightest quiver from under his skin. I moved my thumb to graze his lip before taking it away, knowing this would have to suffice as our final kiss.

  “I believed in you, Nathan. I believed in you before I loved you.”

  “And now?”

  What could I tell him? That the strong, vibrant, passionate man who lured me away from my home with a smile and a few vague promises now presented himself as nothing more than a pathetic, empty shell? “Now I understand the danger of believing in a man. I don’t want our children to make the same mistake.”

  He crossed his arms, and the outline of his muscles showed through the fabric of his shirt. Only I would know to look for the twitch at the corner of his jaw signaling a renewed strength. Slowly, his stance grew as that disassembled skeleton within him found its form, and there was no hint of defeat in his voice when he said, “I won’t fight you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, relieved just the same.

  “I’m not going to drag my faith and our family through that kind of humiliation.”

  “I understand.”

  “Now I think she should go.”

  I whirled around to see Evangeline standing in the dark shadows at the foot of the stairs. I had no idea how long she’d been there or how much she’d heard. If Nathan knew, he certainly gave no indication; neither did he seem surprised now.

  “We can’t send her out into the night.” Nathan spoke without acknowledging Evangeline’s presence with even the slightest glance.

  “No.” I’d slipped my gloves on and was in the midst of securing my hat, eager for escape. “The hotel isn’t far.”

  “See?” Evangeline said, slowly making her way into the light. “She can take care of herself.” By now she was at my shoulder and I could feel her breath on the back of my ear as she offered to show me out.

  Unwilling to ignite an argument, I allowed Evangeline to take my elbow and lead me to the front door.

  “Wait,” Nathan called out. “Tomorrow’s the Sabbath.”

  “A lot she cares about that,” Evangeline muttered.

  I said nothing, only turned back to Nathan. “What do you mean?”

  “I won’t meet with your attorney friend tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” I said, feeling the first flutters of distrust. “Monday morning then?”

  His smile, to anyone who didn’t know him, was genuine. “Monday, first thing.”

  At that, my little redheaded warden renewed her grip on my arm and sped our steps to the door. She opened it with a flourish, ushering in the night air that seemed much colder than before I entered this house.

  I was bracing myself lest she attempt to literally kick me out into the street when she stood to her tiptoes and pulled my ear close.

  “Sorry we don’t have a barn to offer you, but we do rent a stable in the livery on the corner. You can sleep there if you like.”

  Odd how, after feeling so victorious only moments ago, one word from this little woman could bring about such shame. Did she know? She must have—how I’d slept in our own barn back home those first nights after Nathan returned with a new wife. How triumphant she must have felt, displacing me from my husband’s bed. I heard the click of the front door and turned to see the parlor window go dark. In fact, every house was dark, and I took just a moment to get my bearings. Bad enough to be wandering the streets of Salt Lake City at night without wandering in the wrong direction.

  The wind blew against my face, bringing with it a bit of misting rain, and suddenly the few blocks between me and the Hotel Deseret seemed an insurmountable journey. Still, in all these years I’d learned there was no such thing, so I braced myself for the first step, stopping after a hundred or so when I found myself outside the livery. I knew it well. The place stood on four lots, with a wide yard surrounding all sides. At the back, those wealthy enough to own them paid a small fee to store their wagons or buggies or other such conveyances in an enormous building. Two longer buildings ran along either side of the property. Before embarking on their missionary career, Evangeline’s own brothers worked here, mucking the evenly spaced stalls and caring for the horses lodged within.

  Though I was certain Evangeline had no charitable motive in whispering this place into my mind, the warmth and the shelter it offered beckoned me now in an irresistible way.

  Mindless of any sort of consequence, I contorted my body to fit between the wide-spaced railings of the fence surrounding the property, stepped into the yard, and made my way directly across it to the nearest barn. Thankful for the saintly love that invited such trust, I opened the unlocked door, instinctively patting the wall along its frame until my fingers found the shape of a square tin lamp and a box of matches.

  Though the horses hadn’t acknowledged my entrance, stamps and snorts rippled down the line at the sudden, sulfurous spark that filled the barn until I could get the flame safely subdued within the punched walls of the tin lamp. I blew out the match and, when it was cool to the touch, let it drop to the hard-packed dirt floor.

  The room was long and narrow. My steps were muted as I made my way past the stalls that lined the right side of the room. The sweet smell of fresh hay spoke well of the horses’ care, and I saw no fear in their large brown eyes as, one by one, I held up the lamp to shine its speckled light. Finally, six stalls down, I saw her. Even in the low light I recognized the burnished blonde of her well-curried coat. Wishing I had an apple or carrot or any such treat, I reached my hand and allowed Honey to nuzzle against it.

  “Hello, old friend.”

  I suppose the idea began the minute Evangeline joked about my bedding down here
for the night, but it took full form when I turned to see the saddle and tack hanging opposite the stall. Later I would have time to regret my impulsive decision, as I had regretted so many of them in my lifetime. But at that moment, my choice seemed inevitable.

  “Monday, first thing,” he’d said, with a smile that wasn’t all there. All of a sudden, everything he’d said—his gracious admission of defeat, his show of compassion for my soul, his promise of Monday morning—all of it was so clearly tainted by the man I knew him to be. Nathan’s intentions weren’t clear, but if Rachel’s household of four wives and countless children could disappear, who was to say that Nathan couldn’t spirit away his own family while Mr. Bostwick and I bided our time at the Hotel Deseret. My own experience taught me that lives could be ripped away in the span of a night. I dared not wait until Monday morning. I dared not wait until dawn.

  Chapter 30

  I reined Honey to a stop at the edge of the thicket. Beyond the trees, the church house of Cottonwood Canyon sat in the clearing, bathed in the sunlight of this damp spring morning. We’d ridden all night after a brief stop at the Hotel Deseret, where I left a note for Mr. Bostwick. The clerk, more irritated at my return than at having been roused from sleep, had flatly refused either to allow me to go upstairs or to fetch Mr. Bostwick down to me. He did, however, produce a sheet of stationery and a pencil before turning his head to allow me a bit of privacy as I wrote.

  The message was short. Only that I’d taken it upon myself to ride out to Cottonwood Canyon and that he would find Nathan at the address I’d given him.

  The clerk had provided no envelope, and I’ve no doubt his eyes glanced over my words long before Mr. Bostwick’s did. But I didn’t care, as long as the message was delivered at dawn.

  Then, the ride. Sometimes at a breakneck pace with my body bent to Honey’s neck, trusting her thundering hooves to navigate the hard-packed road, other times at a slow, easy gait while I sat tall and slack in the saddle, rocked by her steps. All night I’d heard only the sound of her hooves accompanying the prayers in my head. Now, as I held her still at the edge of the church house clearing, I could hear the voices of the people I’d once called my neighbors—my brothers and sisters—strong and unified, raised in song.

  Come, all ye saints of Zion, and let us praise the Lord;

  His ransomed are returning, according to his word.

  I smiled, wondering if they would sing so lustily, knowing just who among them was returning—a fallen Saint on a stolen horse, here to snatch her children. Almost as quickly as the smile twitched across my lips, though, doubt swelled within me. I was coming home now as one resurrected. My daughters and I had spent more than a year mourning each other, but I’d done so with the luxury of hope.

  The saddle leather creaked as I swung myself to the ground, rearranging my skirts upon landing. I led Honey to the edge of the trees before loosely looping the reins around a branch. I stepped into the clearing just as the Saints in the church house launched into the second verse of the hymn, calling the dispersed people of Judah to gather in the latter days. I remembered singing that song and the flushed, fervent faces of those singing around me. Nathan always sang with an impassioned marching motion, and my own foot never failed to tap. Even now the tune strained to be hummed into the morning air.

  I took my first steps into the clearing, looking back over my shoulder as I’d done since the first miles Honey and I took together. If Mr. Bostwick remained true to our plan, he and Nathan had already encountered each other, and no doubt both were unhappy with my rash behavior. Sabbath or not, I trusted Mr. Bostwick to plead my case. Moreover, I knew he would buy me time. I could only pray it would be enough.

  I wasn’t alone in the clearing; scattered families were making their way to the church house. Inside, the congregation implored Israel to rejoice, as God would encounter them wherever they were found. Somehow, God kept them from finding me, as I moved along the building in full view, yet attracting no attention. While I wouldn’t go inside, having left once before with a vow never to return, I would hazard a peek through a window once the Saints were settled, just to see my girls.

  But I would need no such opportunity, for as I came to the front of the building, just at the corner, there they were, just cresting the swell of land at the edge of the churchyard.

  “Come on, girls. We’re late.” It was the first time I’d seen my husband’s second wife, Amanda, since the day before I left this place, but she looked like she’d lived a decade within the year. Her hair was still black as a raven’s wing, but the sheen that brought it close to blue was gone. Gone, too, was the elaborate styling of braids and loops. Instead, she looked like any other of her pioneer sisters, with long locks unceremoniously secured at the back of her head, framing a face that had gone from porcelain perfection to being simply pale. Shadows lurked below her eyes, and the figure I’d once envied in its fashionable dress had settled within serviceable calico.

  With her head turned to look behind, I had the smallest fraction of a second to duck around the corner, yet I remained frozen. My daughters were behind those skirts, but before I could see them, I’d have to get through my scowling sister wife.

  And she’d seen me.

  Never had I considered Amanda a person to be feared, and I think it was the expression of sickened terror on her face that made me feel like I’d seen a phantom reflected in a looking glass. Immediately I stepped back, pulling the hood more closely around my face. Still I could see them, if only through my narrowed, secret view. Melissa first—oh, Melissa. Her hair was darker than I remembered, or perhaps she was simply destined to leave her blonde locks to her childhood.

  She’d always been my serious girl, and that hadn’t changed. When Amanda moved aside, Melissa stepped forward, her eyes lifted up to the church house door as if waiting for a miracle to emerge.

  “Go on in,” Sister Amanda said, tinged with impatience. She opened the door and gave an imaginary little swat to hurry Melissa along, but my daughter needed no encouragement. The congregation was singing the fourth verse of the hymn, and the clear, sweet voice of my child joined them.

  Tho wicked men and devils exert their pow’r, ’tis vain,

  Since he who is eternal has said you shall obtain.

  Already, before I’d even had a chance to touch her, I stung from her rejection, but I could not dwell on that defeat, as I looked over to see my Lottie coming up behind. Never—not since her first step—had this child ever moved without seeming to spring up from within. Now she walked as if temple stones were strapped to her boots.

  “Come on, come on,” Amanda urged, snapping her fingers. Lottie, however, would not hurry. Her blonde hair was plaited and pinned to make two rings fastened with bows, and her dress was clean and starched, but her downcast face belied such prettiness. Once she reached the bottom step, Amanda took hold of her sleeve and, heedless of Lottie’s little yelp, yanked her across the threshold. The gesture lit a fire in me and I lunged for Sister Amanda myself, but she deflected my grasp and held me at bay saying, “Go sit with your sister. I’ll be in directly,” as if she had little more to do than dispose of a fly on the wall.

  The moment the girls were safely inside, however, she spun around, her face a chalky white save for two strawberry-red spots on her cheeks. “So you’re alive, are you?”

  Such an odd question. Light-headed from the shock of seeing my little girls after a long, sleepless night, I found myself without any clever response and said simply, “I am.”

  She stomped around to the back of the church house and I followed, compelled by the grip she had on my sleeve.

  “I knew it,” she said, her chapped hands clenched into fists. “Nothing that man ever told me turned out to be true. Told me you’d been dragged away in the middle of the night. ‘Atonement by blood,’ he said, lest I ever take it in my head to follow your steps. Oh, he was broken up and sad about it for a while. Talked you up like a saint. A real one, like the Catholics. Every night filli
ng your girls’ heads with stories, telling how they look like you. ‘Image of your mother,’ he’d say.”

  When she quoted Nathan, her face transformed to the very image of him, and I almost laughed at her talent.

  “But then he stopped. He changed. Married himself that horrible woman in town and left me out here with that Indian woman and three children—”

  Her voice was shrill, and the accent of her homeland, England, became more pronounced.

  Now it was I who touched her sleeve, calming her as best I could. “I’m so sorry,” I said, not sure if I was apologizing for leaving, for coming back, or for the months in between.

  Suddenly she was crying, and she wiped both her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her dress—something the woman I’d known before would never do. “Not your fault. You got away. I just can’t understand why in heaven’s name you’d ever come back.”

  Her words carried the weight of confession. Both of us knew the danger of discontentment, but we stood in that instant free from its burden—she for the moment, at least. It was like a yoke lifted from both our necks. Never in our months together as sister wives had we shared such a moment of kinship, and we silently granted each other permission to give in to cautious laughter.

  “Now tell me,” she said as the last giggle faded, “what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come for my girls.” For the first time, my mission held a ring of joy.

  “What you saw—I know I seemed a bit short with them, but it was the shock of seeing you—”

  “I understand,” I said, though I doubted it was the first they’d seen of her temper. “Do you—will they be happy to see me?”

  “Oh, sister—” tears sprang to her eyes again—“little Lottie prays every night for Jesus to keep you safe. Then Melissa chastises her, saying you’re in the grave waiting for Papa to call you to heaven, and Lottie just cries and cries. I never know what to say, but Kimana tells them that Jesus can keep you safe wherever you are, and that gives them some comfort, but still—”