Saints (48 page)

Harriette seemed to loom over the wedding like a gargoyle. She never did anything; Charlie just felt her watching, constantly. Sally didn’t notice it, of course. Harriette had been watching
her
all her life. On the morning of the wedding he tried to broach the subject.

“Oh, that again,” Sally said.

“Again? I’ve never mentioned it before.”

“You don’t have to mention it. You keep watching Harriette all the time, with this silly little frown in your forehead. Honestly, if I didn’t know you and Harriette better, I’d say there was something dishonest going on.”

That turned the conversation to protestations of love and eternal fidelity, which always left Charlie exhausted, and yet eager to give Sally more tangible proof of his devotion. Tonight, he reminded himself; be patient. And then he grew ashamed of his indecorous lust; a true Saint would have nothing but holy feelings for his wife, he knew.

True Saint or not, however, Joseph Smith had volunteered to perform the ceremony himself, which immediately turned the wedding into an Event. People practically begged for invitations. Charlie was level-headed enough to know that it wasn’t because he was so well-loved. The spring weather was good enough that at the last minute they resolved to have the wedding outdoors; Charlie had a platform built and they inserted a notice in the
Times and Seasons
, throwing open the wedding to anyone who wanted to come.

“That rather dilutes the thrill of getting an invitation, doesn’t it?” Don Carlos commented.

“Good,” Charlie answered. “Then only our
real
friends will come after all.”

“They’re both going fishing.
I
may not even come. I only serve as best man at the most exclusive weddings.”

“Or any wedding that has free food.”

“The truth is, Charlie, I’m the best man at every wedding I go to. If I weren’t already married, the girls would never leave me alone. That’s why I’m so rarely invited to weddings. Brides keep changing their minds after seeing me.”

“Sally’s already seen you, and she still wants me.”

“Fine with me. I’d never marry a woman who can’t pronounce her
r
’s.”

Charlie took his bath at John’s and Anna’s house, not so much because he didn’t want to fetch the bath himself as because Anna had pleaded with him to give her one last chance to perform that service for her son. He thought it was an odd thing for her to be nostalgic about; soon enough he discovered that it wasn’t nostalgia at all. She wanted to give him a bath so he couldn’t stand up and run away while she told him some things she thought he needed to hear.

He was naked and lathered up in the tub, feeling more than a little silly, when his mother, instead of scrubbing his back, walked around to the front of the tub and stared at him until he wondered whether she could see through the suds. “I think Sally’s going-to be pleased with what she sees tonight,” Mother said at last.

Suddenly he wished he were dressed. “What a thing to say, Mother.”

“Don’t get shy with me, Charlie. I cleaned your diapers, you know.”

“Not recently.”

“Well, whether you like it or not, I have some words to say to you. There’s two types of men in the world, Charlie. There’s the type that takes and the type that gives. You’re a giver, if I know you at all, Charlie. I want you to know that you’d better be generous with your Sally, and at night as well as in the daytime.”

“The water’s getting cold.”

“It’s still steaming. I had this same talk with Robert years ago, and he got just as silly as you, but it’s good advice. There’s men who hop into bed and please themselves, and not a care for the woman at all. Some of them even believe a woman takes no joy from love, and in fact they make their own belief come true by acting like animals. Your sister Dinah was married to such a man, poor ignorant Matthew, who was as far from understanding women as ever a man could be. But when a husband is a gentle lover, Charlie, and takes thought for what makes a woman feel loved, then his wife will always be eager to take him into her bed. You’re blushing, Charlie.”

“The water’s hot, that’s all.”

“I know this is the sort of talk a man should have with his son, but your father and I agreed that you’d probably not take it kindly from him. Mind what I tell you. Be kind to Sally and she’ll never be tired of you and always forgive you if you hurt her, and she’ll love you more than she loves her children or her parents or God himself, if you treat her right.”

“I’ll treat her right, Mother. How about scrubbing my back before the soap dries on?”

Anna laughed all the way to the fire to fetch more water, and Charlie scrubbed viciously at his face with the harsh washcloth, embarrassed but still a little eased in his mind, knowing better what Sally might expect from him. Of course, Mother wasn’t Sally. Mother could never have been so hot for kissing as Sally Clinton.

Dinah tore open the letter there in the store. Decorum mattered little, for the return address was Robert’s house in Manchester. Ever since her first letter, so many months ago, all her letters to Val and Honor had gone to Robert’s house, in confidence that Robert would find a way to let the children know that she was writing to them. And here, at last, was word from them.

The first thing she found in the envelope was the earliest of her letters to Val. It had been opened and read, but she knew at once that Val had never seen it. She stood and read her own words to her son, the love she had desperately tried to put into ink, knowing now that her effort had been useless.

“Are you all right, Sister Dinah?”

Yes, she assured the clerk, and thank you for the letter, and good day to you. She fled the store, hurried around behind it to the large room that she used as her school. There she found the letter in the envelope. It was in Robert’s hand, rushed and scribbled, and it was brief and to the point.

She sat at her table and wished she could weep. Or better, wished she could go to Charlie and tell him. In his clumsy way he’d have some wisdom for her. In his rage against Robert he would make her forgive him by his sheer immoderation. But today was Charlie’s wedding day, and so today she could not go to him. Nor tomorrow, nor the next day, and for the first time Dinah realized that with Charlie married she would be almost entirely alone. Mother was no help anymore. Here in America she was more like a daughter than a mother, caring little for the future; all was in the hands of God, for her. Dinah had no one, now that Charlie was marrying. Not parents, not brother, not children, not husband. There was no one to go to, no one to tell.

So she only read both letters, over and over, realizing that it had now been nearly a year, and as far as Val and Honor knew, their mother had not made the slightest effort to communicate with them. As far as they knew, she did not love them or think of them or even care whether they lived or died. And she knew, from the darkest places in her memory, exactly how much pain that belief would cause. Except, of course, that the wrong parent had stayed with them. It was the weakling father that they had, not the strong mother that had remained with Robert, Dinah, and Charlie so many years before.

Strong mother? Dinah examined herself, unweeping as she was, and realized that indeed she was strong. But not a mother. Not by any pretense a mother now. With no contact with her children, with no hope of budging Robert once he was certain he was right, she was strong but not a mother. She pressed her fists into her belly until she could not press harder. Not until I am dead are Val and Honor mine again. And in this life, how many years childless because Matthew will not let me have my children? What is this womb for, then? Why am I a woman if for God’s sake I have lost all hope of bearing?

And now, when she thought perhaps she might be able to cry away the pain, the door burst open and two children burst in. Julia and little Joseph, Joseph’s and Emma’s eldest children. Ten-year-old Julia was the adopted daughter, taken into their home as an infant to replace Emma’s twins who had died the day they were born. She was quick-witted and had a way of lording it over the other children without their ever seeming to notice. Her Ladyship, Dinah privately called her. And eight-year-old Joseph Smith III, the first of Emma’s natural-born children to live more than a day, he was his father’s pride, like a little shadow of the Prophet, with his sweetness and his cleverness, but none of his strength. They did not see at first that Dinah was there. Instead they ran straight for the bookshelf at the back of the classroom, where Webster’s dictionary always lay. “See!” Julia shouted. “
Luxurious
does
not
have a G.”

Little Joseph looked at the offending page in bitter silence. Finally he flipped the dictionary closed in disdain and said, “Well, it
should
.”

Dinah could not help herself. She laughed aloud. They whirled around and looked at her in guilty fear. “It’s all right,” Dinah said. “It’s all right if you come in when there’s no school.” And yet she was not glad the children were there. She did not want to see Joseph’s children today. Did not want to see anyone’s children, for that matter, but least of all Joseph’s. For they were another reminder to her that she was the only one sacrificing in this plural marriage of duty they had contracted. He had children who adored him, had them any time he liked. He came sometimes to meet them after school. Dinah was always jealous of the way he tousled little Joseph’s hair and tickled Julia’s ribs, resentful of the easy way he had with Hyrum’s children, with all children, so that they worshiped him, every one.

“We thought you were at Brother Charlie’s wedding, Sister Handy,” Julia said.

“Or at your new house,” little Joseph added. “Mama said you weren’t holding school today because you had to move into your new house.”

“I just had—some work to do,” Dinah said.

“Oh,” Julia said. But the girl did not believe her, Dinah knew.

“Is that why you’re so sad?” little Joseph asked. “’Cause you have to work today?”

Dinah smiled. “No.”

“We just wanted to look up a word,” little Joseph explained.

“I know.”

“She
heard
us, stupid,” Julia said.

“He is
not
stupid,” Dinah said. “That is not a polite word, Julia.”

“Sorry, Sister Handy.”

“If you have any other business, you’d best attend to it,” Dinah said. “I need to lock up.”

“No, we’re through,” Julia said.

Little Joseph continued to scrutinize Dinah’s face. “You look like somebody just died.”

“No,” Dinah said; and then, as if it were an easy thing to say, she said, “I just learned that my children in England haven’t been getting my letters. And never will.”

“Why not?” asked little Joseph.

“Because some men have decided not to let them.”

Little Joseph took that easily, but Julia’s eyes were wide. “Do you still love them?”

Dinah nodded.

“They’ll be all right,” Julia said. “When Papa was in jail in Missouri, and we thought all the time he was going to be killed, we just prayed for them to let him go, and they did, even though they were the wickedest men in the world.”

Seeing the two of them there, concerned about her, trying to comfort her, Dinah realized that she wanted them. Wanted Joseph’s children to be hers. And more: she wanted Joseph himself, wanted him to come like the answer to prayer, light in a dark place, and take her grief from her. What stupid sacrifice is this, that keeps me childless when I could have children, that keeps me lonely when I could have a husband?

“Julia,” Dinah said, “could you deliver a note to your father?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said.

So Dinah quickly wrote to him, folded the paper twice, and gave it to Julia. “It’s not really important, but if you could give it to him today—”

“Oh, yes, Sister Handy,” Julia said.

Little Joseph lifted his cap. “Good day, Sister Handy.”

“Luxurious,” Dinah said.

“L-U-X-U-R-I-U-S.”

“I-O-U-S,” Dinah corrected him.

“Yes, ma’am.” And they scurried off into the spring afternoon.

Joseph Smith was alone in the upstairs bedroom, dressing in his best for the wedding, when Julia burst into the room shouting, “Oh, Papa, she’s like the heroine of a story.”

She was holding out a note, and Joseph took it. “Who is?” he asked.

“Sister Handy. Oh, Papa, they don’t even let her children read her
letters
. When you were in jail I would have
died
if they hadn’t given me your letters.”

Little Joseph walked soberly into the room.

“Well,” Joseph said, “another visitor, too.”

“He came with me,” Julia said. “We went down to the school and there she was. She sent that note.”

Plainly Julia wanted him to read it. But little Joseph had such a glum expression that his father could not put off asking what was wrong.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me the truth, Joseph.”

Little Joseph shrugged. Then, turning sideways and looking at the wall, he said, “Papa, if the Lord told you to go away and leave us, would you go?”

Joseph set down the note and took his son by the shoulders. “Son, if the Lord told me to do it, I would. But it would break my heart.”

The boy burst into tears.

“Well, for silly,” said Julia. “Papa isn’t leaving.”