Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series) (12 page)

I can’t wait to be out of her house.

Once Ruthie married the prophet, Mama wouldn’t be able to punish her or give her chores or make her watch her little sisters. No.

I’ll be the prophet’s wife, and she’ll look up to me.

“You shouldn’t talk about Mama like that,” Ruthie’s sister Susan said yesterday. She had angry lines across her forehead and a snarl on her face. “She loves us.”

“She has a strange way of showing it.” Ruthie shrugged and left the room. The last person she needed to listen to was silly little Susan. She was just a little baby. She knew nothing about their way of life, their community, or the prophet. But Ruthie would, and she would become one of the most important
women
on the compound.

“Hold still, dear.” Janine tugged the fabric of the dress and woke Ruthie from her daydream. She was standing on a circular platform that felt like a mini-stage with white cotton covering every inch of her tummy, legs, and arms.

My wedding dress.

“We need to get this just . . . right,” Janine said with a pin sticking out of her mouth. Her teeth were clenched as she spoke.

“Yes, ma’am.” Ruthie stood up, proud and tall and looked at Charlene and Loretta, the two youngest wives of the prophet, who were assigned to help her learn about the home.

“You look just beautiful, Ruthie,” Loretta said, her eyes wide as she bounced up and down. Ruthie wanted to bounce with her but she knew Janine would scold her, and she didn’t want to get pricked accidentally with a pin. Janine was leaning over the hem of the dress and placing pins across the bottom. “The prophet will be pleased, that’s for sure.”

Ruthie breathed in deeply, imagining herself at the front of the temple for all to see, promising to love and honor and serve her husband. It would be her first kiss. Her very first kiss.

Wayne Steed tried to kiss her once. His mother had brought him and his sisters and brothers over to Ruthie’s house to play a few weeks after the prophet announced she was to be his bride. Mother Sarah was supposed to be watching the children, but she snuck inside to gossip with the other mothers. And while the little ones played tag, Wayne called Ruthie behind the shed in the corner of the yard.

“Over here, Ruthie,” he said, waving her over with his hands. Wayne was a chubby boy with lots of freckles and bright red hair. He wasn’t handsome like Jordan . . . no, he was . . . What was that word Mama used to describe him? Awkward. Yes, Wayne Steed was definitely awkward. His shirts were always wrinkled and he smelled gross. Mama said he needed deodorant. Ruthie didn’t need deodorant yet, but Wayne definitely did. He stank.

Ruthie knew what he wanted, what
all
boys wanted.

Snakes, all of them.

Her mother had taught her never to be alone with a boy . . . not until they were set to marry. And she already knew who her husband would be. Ruthie didn’t have time for boys like Wayne. She was going to marry the prophet.

“Ruthie,” he called again. She walked to him, her hands on her hips, rolling her blue eyes the way Mama did when Ruthie didn’t do her chores or talked back.

“What do you want, Wayne?”

“To show you something,
c’mon
. It’s over here . . . in the dirt.” He was crouched near the fence, and she hesitated before bending down to see what on earth that boy was looking at. When she did, he lunged toward her with his hideous swollen lips, grabbing her arms with his grubby hands, smearing dirt on her favorite pink dress.

“Don’t touch me!” she’d yelled, pulling away from his grip and falling to the ground. Her knee burned, and she could feel her cheeks get hot . . . really hot. Ruthie was so angry, she wanted to hit that awful Wayne. But she knew Mama would yell at her and that she’d most likely get a spanking.

“Sorry.” He shrugged and kicked a rock. “I didn’t mean any—I mean, I . . .”

He stopped talking and looked at the ground. He put both of his hands in his pockets and looked up at Ruthie. He must have noticed all the dirt on her dress because his forehead softened and he said, “Sorry about your dress.”

“Don’t ever touch me again. Do you understand me?” Ruthie snapped. “I’m marrying the prophet, don’t you know that? You stupid boy.”

In a huff, she’d left him standing by the shed and stomped inside to tell her mother. Ruthie knew her mother would tell Wayne’s mother, and he would be in big, big trouble. And she wanted that. He deserved it. Besides, if she didn’t tell Mama what really happened, then
she’d
be in trouble for getting her dress dirty and there was
no
way she was going to get in trouble because of stupid, awkward Wayne Steed.

As Ruthie stood on that platform, she was proud of herself for avoiding Wayne’s silly little kiss. She wanted to be pure, perfect for the prophet. And that’s exactly how she would be.

“Turn towards the mirror, dear,” Janine said, and Ruthie did as she was told, turning to face the mirror and gasping at the beauty of her dress. Janine smiled. “You like it?”

“Oh yes, very much.”

Ruthie’s fingers grazed the delicate scalloped collar that rested just below her neck. The embroidered flowers were her favorite part, centered on each side of the collar. The sleeves were a little poofier than the standard dresses Mama made, but Ruthie liked that. She liked that it was extra fancy, extra special. She would treasure this dress forever.

“Well, good, it’s a tradition. Every wife of Clarence has worn this dress.”

“The same one?” she asked, horrified. She didn’t want to wear someone else’s dress on her wedding day!

Gross!

Ruthie realized just how many women had worn the dress before her. Thirty-seven other women had that dress hanging from their shoulders. Thirty-seven of them stood hand in hand with the prophet as they took their vows. Her mouth felt dry as she held back tears.

But I’m the youngest . . . by far the youngest, so that makes me special. I am special, I am special, I am special.

“No, not the exact same. Don’t be silly. The same pattern, the same detail; it’s what Clarence prefers.”

“Oh,” Ruthie said, releasing the breath she didn’t even know she was holding. She swallowed hard and wiped the moisture from her right eye, hoping Janine wouldn’t notice. Luckily, Janine was focused on the hem of the dress again and didn’t see. But Loretta did.

“Are you okay?” Loretta asked with a strange giggle.

“Uh-huh.” Ruthie nodded with a large fake smile, using the mirror to make eye contact with Loretta. “Just thinking about my wedding day. It’ll be the best day ever.”

Both girls looked at each other and then back at the mirror, back at Ruthie. They nodded, but their smiles weren’t as broad as Ruthie’s. Were they jealous? Sad? She couldn’t tell. She wasn’t about to waste any time worrying about
them
. She was the one getting married. It would be her day . . . and Loretta and Charlene and even Mama would have to deal with it.

“All right, dear,” Janie said, rising to her feet and unzipping the back of the dress. “It’s time for you to take this off and head home. You can stop in the kitchen for a treat if you’re hungry.”

At least Janine is happy for me. I always did like the prophet’s first wife.

Once Ruthie returned to her pale green dress and visited the kitchen for a super-large chocolate chip cookie, she reluctantly made her way back home, hoping that Mama was busy with the little ones so she wouldn’t notice Ruthie had been gone for almost two hours.

No such luck.

When Ruthie closed the gate behind her, the first words she heard were, “Your mother’s looking for you.”

Mother Pennie was knitting on the front steps of the house, staring at Ruthie as if she already knew where she’d been, which was impossible. Mother Pennie was clueless.

Of all of the other mothers in the house, Mother Pennie was the one Ruthie respected the least. She was too soft, too kind, too sweet. If Mama taught Ruthie anything, it was that wives like that were kicked around, used, taken advantage of. Mama was tough; she stuck up for herself and she didn’t allow other wives to affect her. Mother Pennie was the total opposite of Ruthie’s mother. She was weak . . . even though Ruthie was only eleven, there was no way she’d be like that when she married the prophet. She’d be the thirty-eighth wife, and she’d be proud of it. Ruthie would show respect to the older wives, but wouldn’t let them walk all over her, not like Pennie.

“Thank you, Mother Pennie,” Ruthie muttered, looking down at her feet. But that wasn’t what she wanted to say. She wanted to roll her eyes, to kick the dirt, and tell Mother Pennie to mind her own children and leave her alone. But Ruthie knew better.

Mama was sitting in Ruthie’s bedroom with Susan and Beatrice, playing with blocks. As soon as Mama saw her, she pressed a finger over her mouth to “shh” and pointed to her sleeping brother in his bed. Ruthie nodded and waited in the hallway. Mama hopped to her feet and met her outside the door.

“Walk with me,” she hissed. Ruthie hated when Mama used that tone—it was like a mean whisper that always made her stomach twist. Right in that moment, she wished she
did
have a mother like Pennie . . . because with a mother like Aspen, you couldn’t get away with anything. Not even a quick trip to the prophet’s home on a Tuesday morning.

“Where have you been?” she asked when they reached her bedroom. Her mother closed the door behind them and studied Ruthie, looking at her from head to toe. “You disappeared after breakfast. You were supposed to help Mother Flora with mopping.”

Ruthie opened her mouth to speak but said nothing. She couldn’t decide if she should tell the truth. It was getting harder and harder to mention the prophet in Mama’s presence. On the other hand, she almost always knew when Ruthie was lying. Punishments were so much worse whenever lying was involved. And frankly, having a bar of soap on the end of her tongue was something she really didn’t want to do . . . again.

“Speak, child.”

“I forgot about the floors. I’ll apologize to Mother Flora.”

Mama relaxed her forehead a little bit, but her hands stayed on her hips.

“That’s a start,” she said. Her voice was almost normal, no more hissing. “But where did you go? You know you’re supposed to get permission before you leave. And none of the other mothers had any idea where you’d gone.”

Ruthie swallowed hard, prepared to answer.

“Well?” Mama demanded, her voice raised.

Ruthie flinched but answered. “Janine needed me.”

Mama opened her mouth and narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me? You’re not married yet, girl. You don’t run errands for that woman. No. And why didn’t she ask my permission? Why didn’t I know about this?”

“She sent Loretta, the youngest wife. She came to the door this morning when you were feeding Jeremiah.”

“And what was so important that she sent another sister wife to summon you?” Mama’s words were covered in sarcasm, something they were normally expected to avoid. But Mama was unique, different. Always had been.

“She needed my measurements.”

Ruthie didn’t have to finish the sentence. Mama knew what she was talking about. Her face turned pale as she stared at Ruthie. She whispered under her breath, “It’s starting.”

Unlike other times when Mama was angry and irritated whenever Ruthie’s upcoming wedding was mentioned, she seemed sad. And it broke Ruthie’s heart. She loved Mama, despite her bad attitude toward the prophet. Ruthie wondered if it would end once she saw how happy her daughter was as his wife.

I can only hope . . .

“Mama, please, it’s the most beautiful dress,
really
it is. I would have asked you to come with me, but I knew . . . I knew you wouldn’t want me to go.”

“Of course I wouldn’t want you to go!” she yelled. Ruthie hated it when Mama yelled because all she wanted to do was yell right back. And then she’d get in trouble for her terrible attitude. “That man will never have you in his clutches, do you hear me? Never!”

“One month, four days, thirteen hours,” Ruthie spat.

Mama closed the space between them, her nose almost touching Ruthie’s forehead. “What did you just say?”

She was hissing again.

“One month, four days, thirteen hours.”

Mama looked like she was going to be sick. “You’re
counting down
the days? Have you lost your mind?”

“Why shouldn’t I count? I’m excited . . . so excited I can hardly sleep at night. And the dress, it has scalloping and flowers. And it’s only for me. I’m the
only
one who will ever wear it. And the house—it smells like cookies and cakes and blueberry pie. It’s the most wonderful place in the
whole
world.”

“Bite your tongue, girl,” Mama snarled. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. None.”

“I’m smarter than you think I am, Mama.” Ruthie stared her in the eye, waiting to be slapped or for Mama to continue her verbal lashings, but instead, she watched as Mama cried. Mama
never
cried.

Mama fell to the floor, hanging her head in her hands, and Ruthie’s heart tore in half.

“Mama?” Ruthie crouched down and placed one hand on Mama’s shoulder. She didn’t move.

“Just go,” she said, her voice so choked up by her tears that it was difficult for Ruthie to understand. “Leave me be. Please.”

And so Ruthie left her mother huddled on the floor of her bedroom, soaking her dress with tears. The old Ruthie would have laid on the floor next to her until she pulled herself together. But she just couldn’t do it. She was too upset, too hurt, too confused to do that. And even though the sight of her made Ruthie’s eyes burn with tears, she had to leave the room . . . quietly closing the door behind her.

Chapter 11