Saints (53 page)

“I—never—I never tried—tried to—”

“Hush. Don’t you talk, you’re not strong enough yet. A miscarriage is every bit as hard on a woman as a birthing, sometimes. I only talked to you now because I knew you’d be fretting about what folks were thinking about you, and I had to let you know that you’ll not be held up to public shame.” Vilate stood up, leaned over and kissed Dinah’s brow. She walked to the door, saying, “If you need anything, there’s a little bell on the floor by your bed.” At the door she stopped. “I’m your friend forever, Dinah, as long as you keep still in gospel things. Because if there’s one thing I hate in all this world, it’s a hypocrite.”

Dinah lay there after Vilate left, wishing she could either sleep or get the strength to stand, to walk around, to do something, anything but lie here contemplating her future. Vilate had been kinder than Dinah had any right to expect. Not only to keep her miscarriage a secret, but to still be her friend, to care for her this way—when Vilate gave her friendship, she did not stint. But silence! To be forbidden to speak when the Spirit filled her, to keep her seat in the meeting when a few words could clarify a doctrinal point, not even to pray when the sisters gathered together—who was she in Nauvoo, if all that she did in public was to be taken away from her? And not even the child. That would have been her consolation, to have his child. Now all she could think of was Val and Honor. For Matthew I could bear children. Now John Bennett took my child away. No, that wasn’t right. Bennett didn’t do that, Bennett saved Joseph, didn’t he? It was all that running that caused the—no, no, there was something else. Something about Bennett, but she couldn’t remember. All she could do was sleep.

When she awoke again, Harriette was sitting by her.

“Awake?” Harriette asked.

“Mm.”

“His child, Dinah. And you didn’t even tell me.”

Dinah shook her head. “I didn’t tell him either,” she whispered.

Harriette’s eyes went wide.

“So many of his children have died,” Dinah whispered. Talking was a little easier now than it had been when Vilate was here.

Harriette shook her head in consternation. “Well, what do you want me to tell him? When he gets back?”

“Nothing.”

“I think he’d want to know. Why you’re sick, at least.”

“He’ll know when I bear him a living child.”

Harriette sat there, shaking her head. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, Harriette, Dinah wanted to say. Tell me I’m right. Tell me I’m a good wife, tell me I’m a good woman, tell me that God still loves me and that Vilate is wrong when she says I’m unworthy even to speak, tell me—

“Harriette,” she whispered.

“Yes, Dinah?”

Against her best intentions, Dinah started to cry. “I’m not an adulteress, Harriette.”

At once Harriette’s expression changed from judgment to compassion. “Oh, Dinah, no.” Harriette fell to her knees beside the bed and took Dinah in her arms and held her, rocked her gently as she wept. “No, Dinah, you’re the best woman in the world, you’re the best woman I know.”

She must have cried herself to sleep. She didn’t remember, only wondered when she woke again if she had made the right decision. It would be so good to have him hold her, comfort her for the loss of their child. But why add one more coffin to those that already lay in the graveyard of his memory? She was willing to bear it for him—and she did not even have to bear it alone. God, in his mercy, had given her Harriette, who knew all, and Vilate, who knew at least some of her pain. She would not be forsaken.

Then, too tired to weep, she prayed that she could conceive again, and soon. If she was truly to be Joseph’s wife, she must bear him children. That was what it meant to be his wife, wasn’t it? If she could do it for Matthew, then a just God must surely let her do it for the husband that she loved.

Before he was halfway down the stairs into the cellar, Charlie could hear Don Carlos coughing. The sound worried him. It wasn’t the cough of a man who had just breathed wrong, or caught some dust in his throat. It was a deep cough, liquid with phlegm. Then the press began its rhythmic
thump, clack, thump, clack
, as Don Carlos pulled and lifted the handle, changed paper, pulled and lifted again. As so often before, Charlie said nothing when he came in, just read the front page. Usually Don Carlos spoke first, but instead he pumped at the press handle, changed the paper, and might as well not have noticed Charlie was there at all.

“What I can’t tell,” Charlie finally said, “is whether this paper is Democrat or Whig.”

“Neither,” said Don Carlos. He took a moment’s pause before continuing—without the customary joke, Charlie wondered for a moment if Don Carlos could be angry. “This paper hates everybody.”

Charlie laughed more than the joke deserved, perhaps because from the look on Don Carlos’s face, he wasn’t joking.

“You ought to do something about that cold,” Charlie said.

“I am,” Don Carlos answered. “I’m coughing my guts out. What can I do for you?”

Charlie was flustered. Don Carlos had never acted so unfriendly, not even when they were strangers. “I don’t want you to do anything for me. I just wanted to talk.”

“Talk then.”
Thump, clack
.

“I just came to tell you—Brother Joseph asked me to clerk for him. Bookkeeping, some, and letters.”

“I know.” The printed paper clattered as Don Carlos set it aside. His arm brushed Charlie’s waist, but if Don Carlos noticed it, he gave no sign.

For the first time it occurred to Charlie that Don Carlos might not be happy for him. That Don Carlos was angry
because
Joseph had asked him to be his clerk. “No great honor, really,” Charlie said. “He only asked me because he couldn’t afford to pay as many men as he needs, and he doesn’t have to pay me a wage.”

Clack. Don Carlos leaned on the upright handle, turned and faced Charlie. “Did you come to gloat?” he asked.

“Gloat!”

“
You’re
the one with the independent income.
You’re
the one who can spell and add and subtract.
You’re
the one whose wife doesn’t have to wonder whether the baby she’s expecting is going to have enough to eat.”
Thump
.

“You already printed that sheet.”

Don Carlos lifted the handle. The paper was a blur of ink, completely unreadable. “Look what you made me do.”

“I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“It’s not you, I’m mad at Joseph. I’m his brother, aren’t I?”

“You’re not a bookkeeper, that’s all.”

“I can do my ciphering.” Thump. “I’m not mad at him, either.” Clack. “I spent all day today bullying people into buying more advertising.”

“Good!”

“I sold fifty dollars’ worth. All on credit, but I can
do
it. I got up at five o’clock. The damn chickens weren’t even up yet. I set all the type before nine. I didn’t even come home for dinner. Near walked my butt off.”

Charlie tried a joke. “You’re right, it’s half gone.”

“Shut up, Charlie.” Don Carlos tore up the overprinted sheet. “I hated it. Do
you
have to work like that? No. You have your soapmakers and your candlemakers and your wheel wrights but how often do you ever have to go ream out a hub yourself?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“So where’s my two-thousand-dollar loan from Flint-heart Ullery? I’m Joseph’s own
brother
, ain’t I? Oh, never mind. I had it out with Joseph yesterday, when he told me about you. He laid it out plain as a plow track. Charlie Kirkham is serious. Charlie Kirkham gets things done. Charlie Kirkham has already made himself near rich with his little homestead factory, at least compared to other folk here, and you haven’t even got the
Times and Seasons
breaking even yet.
You
tell me why you have a right to compare yourself to Charlie Kirkham and expect to get treated the same as him.”

“Don Carlos, I’m sorry.”

“It’s just time I grew up. That’s all. I’ve been playing around the way I did when I was ten. My whole life I’ve been a little kid.” He looked hard at Charlie. “You were never a little kid at all. I had to teach you how.”

“I know.”

“So now I’m trying to learn how to be a grown-up. My wife is very impressed with me the last few days, I’ve been so dependable. Damn dull, though. Stuck in this cellar all night. The place is so damp that I have to store the paper upstairs, carry it down every time I print. One good thing, though. I can leave the ink open, and it won’t dry out.” Don Carlos laughed.

Charlie tried to laugh, too. Don Carlos knew at once that it was forced. “I guess I’ve kind of wrecked things, haven’t I? I guess we’re kind of through playing, aren’t we?”

Charlie wanted to put his hand on Don Carlos’s shoulder, but he figured it would be too patronizing or affectionate or just silly somehow. So he didn’t, just said, “I never had a friend but you, Don Carlos.”

“Well, now you’ve got Joseph.” Don Carlos turned back to the press and squared his shoulders to his work with a finality that said the interview was over. “Joseph’s the best friend a man could have. You’ve just traded your mule for a racing horse.”

“Didn’t have a trade in mind.”

Thump. Clack. Thump. Clack. Charlie gave up and went outside.

Joseph spent all morning counseling with a man who had just been excommunicated for adultery and wife-beating and he was worn out by the time Charlie slipped in with the morning mail. Charlie walked quietly and quickly, laid down the letters within easy reach but not where they would demand immediate attention. Deftly he slid one letter a few inches toward Joseph and said, “From Hyrum,” then began immediately to leave. Joseph pretended not to be paying attention, but he reveled in the luxury of having an efficient yet unobtrusive clerk. I wish I’d had an English clerk years ago, thought Joseph. But he knew that Charlie wasn’t just English. It was one thing to be deft with papers; it was quite another thing to understand money. And Charlie understood money. If I’d had
him
back in Kirtland our bank might not have failed and the Church might be prosperous today. But Charlie was only a little boy back then. It takes the Lord time to raise up the men and women who can help me. Women who can help me. Dinah.

Thinking about Dinah wouldn’t do. He couldn’t spend his days thinking about his wives. Though the truth was that Dinah was the only one who tempted him to reverie.

He was startled to realize that Charlie was waiting at the door.

“Charlie?”

“Brother Joseph, do you have a moment?”

It was hard to pretend he was busy when he had been leaning back with his eyes closed. “Yes.”

“It’s Don Carlos.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s a little jealous of you but it’ll pass.”

“I’m worried about him. He isn’t well. But to please you he’s near killing himself with work.”

“A little work won’t kill him.”

Charlie’s voice grew insistent. “I’m telling you that I know him better than anyone, and he isn’t
strong
right now. He’d die if he thought it would please you.”

Joseph looked at Charlie and nodded. “It wouldn’t please me, Charlie. But I’m glad if he’s trying to do something. Even if it is out of envy. Even if I know perfectly well that just like a dozen times before he’ll get tired of it and go back to just getting by. I’m also glad that you love him, Charlie, because so do I, more than I probably ought to, more than is probably good for him.”

Charlie nodded and started to leave.

“Brother Charlie,” Joseph said. “Would you mind staying while I read Hyrum’s letter? I’ll want to send an answer to him right away.”

Charlie busied himself getting pen and ink and paper while Joseph opened Hyrum’s letter.

“By the way,” Charlie said, “Mayor Bennett is downstairs.”

“Oh? What’s he doing?”

“Sucking on a tomato.”

Joseph laughed. Bennett had been trying to get the Saints to grow tomatoes, so of course he had to go around eating them to remind people. “One thing about Bennett. Whatever he’s selling, he buys himself.”

Then Joseph started to read, and by coincidence Hyrum was writing about Bennett, too. Joseph had heard enough nonsense from Hyrum against John Bennett; he skipped down the letter to find where the interesting things began. But the interesting things were still about Bennett. The whole letter was about Bennett. And it wasn’t just vague suspicions now.

“Charlie, would you be willing to go down and invite Mayor Bennett up to my office?”

Charlie got up.

“No, wait. Is anyone else down there?”

“Brother Sidney’s holding a meeting in the parlor.”

“I’ll go down.” With Charlie following after, Joseph went briskly down the stairs. Sidney’s meeting was droning on. They could do with a little excitement. So Joseph stopped in plain view of both the parlor and the drawing room, and in his loudest voice addressed John Bennett before he could finish his greeting.

“John Bennett, where’s your wife?”

If there was one thing Joseph Smith did well, it was bringing off an effect. With that single loud question he turned Charlie and Sidney and everyone in the meeting into joint accusers of John Bennett, and Bennett, half-standing with a dripping tomato in his hand, was as cornered as a coon in a dogpack.

Only now, with all the people watching, did Joseph begin to let himself get angry. No sense wasting anger to no use. Now there was a use.

“I’m waiting for an answer,
Mayor
Bennett.”

Joseph watched Bennett decide whether to lie or confess. It made him angrier, for Joseph had thought Bennett the sort of man who didn’t have to decide. He had believed in John Bennett, and right now, in this moment of hesitation, Bennett was unraveling Joseph’s trust. Plainly everything that Hyrum said was true. It would be—Joseph had never known Hyrum to tell a lie in his life except when Joseph asked him to.

Bennett’s decision was made. It would be confession. Tears came into his eyes and he stood straight, poised to take his punishment manfully. “I see my youthful mistakes have come back to haunt me.”

“Your wife, Mayor Bennett.”

“I don’t know where she is,” Bennett said. The crowd murmured; it was well known till now that Bennett was a bachelor.

“Do you care?” Joseph asked.

“I hope—with all my heart that she is well.”

“And your children, Mr. Bennett?”

“How are they? If you know, it’s cruel of you not to tell me.”

Suddenly Joseph roared at him. “How dare you speak to me of cruelty! There is nothing lower in the world than a man who gives his oath to a woman, fathers children on her, then abandons her to fend for herself, without money, without friends, while you have lacked for neither. There are animals who eat their own young—that is the species you belong to, Mr. Bennett.”

Bennett withered, but his abject posture came a little too late, went a little too far to be believed, though Joseph realized that even ten minutes ago he would have believed it. Now that the lie was known, Joseph could plainly see that he was a habitual liar. No wonder Emma mistrusted him. No wonder Hyrum hated him. But so many times my friends have been hated, I have been hated for no reason but envy. I thought it was envy again. I thought God told me this man was true.

“Am I not to have a chance to justify myself?” asked Bennett.

“Justify?”

“Can’t we suppose that some of the blame at least belongs to the wife?”

Joseph reached out his hand and slapped Bennett across the face—not hard, just enough to silence him, to humiliate him. “Don’t make me despise you more than I already do,” Joseph said. “Any word you speak against that good and injured woman is a lie, and doubles your guilt before the Lord. Do you think Hyrum and William did not verify that she was blameless before they wrote to me? Where you lived in Ohio it was public knowledge that you were an adulterer repeatedly, and she forgave you time and again before at last
you
left
her
. I owe you my life, John Bennett, but you make me ashamed of it.”

That was enough. Here was where the scene should end. Let the word of this spread through Nauvoo, let Bennett have time to reveal himself through what he chose to do. Joseph turned to leave. Not upstairs, but out of the house, so he could close a door on John Bennett.

But Bennett wouldn’t let the door close. He followed Joseph onto the porch and then fell to his knees, crying out as if in agony. “Oh, Joseph, I’ve wanted to confess it to you all along, but I hadn’t the courage, you must know how I long for your forgiveness, for the Lord to—”

Joseph was furious. Bennett had broken the effect. He was crying his confession on the public street, and the initiative was taken from Joseph. It would be Bennett who was talked about now, Bennett at the heart of the story. Only now did Joseph realize that Bennett was his match in managing events. Well, Bennett, I will not let you turn this to advantage.

“Get him out of my sight and hearing before he adds blasphemy to his other sins!” Joseph cried.

At once the men from the meeting began to manhandle Bennett toward the street. He was spraying tears and spittle on them all as he writhed and wept and cried aloud in grief. Joseph stood clear of the scene, folded his arms and watched, letting nothing distract him. A few men came up to him and tried to ask questions, but Joseph ignored them, kept his eyes on Bennett. As long as Joseph held perfectly still, he would be stronger than Bennett in the way people saw this event. If he broke and talked to someone, he would immediately disappear into the crowd of onlookers, and it would all be Bennett’s story.

Yet even as Joseph thought of this as a contest between him and Bennett, he could not help but wonder if Bennett’s repentance might be real. He had been too long in the habit of trusting Bennett’s advice, trusting Bennett’s version of what was happening. Hadn’t Bennett been right, time and again, when Joseph’s other, more naive advisers had been wrong? Hadn’t Bennett given his all to the Church, loyally? Before Bennett was out of sight, Joseph found himself hoping that somehow Bennett would bring it off, that somehow Bennett would make it possible for Joseph to trust him again.