The Bishop's Wife (19 page)

As I worked on the computer, there was another knock on the front door. It was Brad Ferris, Gwen's husband.

“Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry, but Kurt's at work. Do you want me to call his cell phone? Is there an emergency?”

“I—she isn't—I came alone this time—because—” Brad was nervous. He took a deep breath. “I was hoping to talk to you, Sister Wallheim,” he got out. “About something private.”

“Me?” I said, surprised. I had thought nothing could surprise me anymore.

“If you don't mind,” Brad said. “It's about Gwen, but it's woman stuff. I thought you might be able to help me understand it better than the bishop.”

I looked around the front room, but decided we were too likely to be interrupted there, either by Samuel, who would be home from school soon, or by someone else coming to see me. So, feeling a little odd, I led Brad Ferris into Kurt's office and hoped that Kurt wouldn't feel I'd invaded his private space.

I sat behind Kurt's desk and Brad sat in the couch, as before. I didn't close the door all the way, which was ridiculous, since no one else was in the house. But Kurt was so cautious about being alone with other women, even when he was counseling them, that some of the same nervousness had rubbed off on me. Kurt's chair made me feel strangely small, but I tried to suppress that thought and sit up as tall as I could.

“What can I do for you?” I asked Brad Ferris.

“I feel like I've made too big a deal of this,” he said. His voice was shaky and I realized that was because his whole body was shaking. Small-boned and hardly five foot six, he couldn't be more than twenty-six years old, Adam's age. His hands looked like they had been rubbed raw with wringing. Was he getting ready to confess something to me?

“I was hoping that you could give me some advice,” he said finally. “About Gwen.”

“What kind of advice?” I hoped suddenly that this wasn't a question about female sex organs. For all I wished that Mormons talked more openly about sex, I didn't want to give Brad advice about pleasing his wife in bed. I could direct him to a few books, however, if that was what he needed. I scanned the room for Kurt's laptop. Good, he'd left it to the side of the desk, and I was pretty sure I knew the password. I could print out a list of suggestions and then Brad Ferris would be on his way.

“I want to know how to make her feel as special as she really is.”

Relief. This was not about sex, then. “Special in what way?” I asked, feeling a sudden sympathy for Kurt.

His hands flew all over the place. “She has had such a hard life and I want to make her feel how happy I am that she got through all of it, that she made it to me. I want to make her feel wonderful. I want her to wake up in the morning and stop thinking about all the mistakes she made, and think instead of all the possibilities.” He captured his hands, and then his head started bobbing. “I—I
want her to think about how much better a place the world is because she's in it. I want her to see how happy she makes me and to believe that matters.”

I stared at him, shrinking back in Kurt's chair. I could feel tears rising in my eyes. All he wanted was to do what I thought all men should want to do for their wives, and which few managed to do, even once in a while. He wanted to counteract the message so many women heard “the world” telling them, that they were worthless, and that they should just be content to be no more than vessels to please men.

“What's the thing that is causing Gwen the most pain right now?” I asked.

His hands were free again, and made wide, sweeping ovals. “I think sometimes that it feels to her like her whole life is weighing on her, like everything that has happened to her, and everything she has done wrong … like it's all happening right now.”

“That sounds like depression. Or possibly anxiety,” I said. “Is she seeing a therapist?”

“She was seeing a therapist before, but not now. And yes, she is still on medication. But sometimes the medication isn't enough. Sometimes—she feels like this is all her own fault, and she doesn't even deserve to have medication. Or me. Or happiness. So she pushes it away.”

“I see,” I said, not sure I saw at all. Was this a clinical matter, about Gwen's mental health? Or was he asking me for tools to manage his own relationship? I wasn't an expert on medications for depression and I was sure Kurt wouldn't appreciate me dispensing medical advice in any case. He sent members of the ward to doctors if he sensed they needed that kind of care. So I decided I would deal with relationship issues. That was what I was good at. “Have you tried writing her notes telling her how much you love her? Sometimes writing something down makes it feel more real, more permanent than just saying it. And then she would have it to look at even when you're not there.”

His face lit up. I had never seen anyone look at me like that before, certainly not my children, not even Kurt. “Thank you! I'll do that. Write her letters.” He nodded to himself, as if etching these words into his head. “Anything else?”

I felt a sense of power. I knew the downsides to being the bishop, but now I began to understand the upsides, too. Not only did people look at you like you were an angel of God, but you could actually help them to be happy. So long as you didn't give them really stupid advice. How well did I know Gwen Ferris, anyway? How much did I know about what was really going on between her and her husband? I could give general advice, though. And I knew that when I felt overwhelmed, sometimes Kurt putting a hand on my back or shoulder did wonders.

“Touch her,” I said. “Not just kisses, and not necessarily sexually. But just casually, remind her that you are there. Touch the back of her neck or her back. Touch her legs while she is sitting next to you. Reassure her. Remind her that you love her. Make her feel surrounded by love, protected by it.”

“Sometimes she doesn't like to be touched,” said Brad. “She doesn't like to be surprised. She jumps.”

What was this? It shouldn't be surprising to be touched by your husband of five years. “Maybe you should just make sure she knows it's coming,” I said. “Let her come to expect it.” As soon as I said it, I wondered if I was off the mark. Did she have personal space issues? Or was there something darker going on here?

“Okay. I'll do that. Thank you so much. And maybe I can talk to you again later?” he asked.

“Sure. If you'd like to.” Although I was thinking that I would very much like to talk to Gwen Ferris again myself. I needed to know if I had given her husband the worst possible advice or not. I needed to know more about everything here.

Brad Ferris stood up and moved to the door.

I got out of Kurt's chair more slowly.

I had to wait until Kurt got home and we'd had dinner to tell him what had happened with Brad Ferris and what advice I had given him.

“Was I completely wrong?”

“No,” said Kurt. “But—”

“But what?”

He just shook his head. “I don't know. They haven't told me everything yet. I can see how they are with each other. I can see they are good for each other. And you know about how they've wanted to have children?”

I nodded.

“But there's something else there that they're not ready to talk about yet.”

“You could send them to a therapist, you know.” Why hadn't he already done that?

“I know, but I don't think that's the right thing in this case. I've prayed and prayed about it, and I think that for whatever reason, they need me personally to sit and listen to them.”

I nodded again and hoped he and I had both done the right things by the Ferrises. There were times when you hoped that God really did use you as His tool to help others, because you were pretty sure you couldn't do it yourself.

In the midst of getting ready for Tobias Torstensen's funeral Friday morning, Kurt had a visitor. It was Jared Helm's father, Alex, who looked as angry when I opened the door as Carrie's parents, the Westons, had looked when they came to see Kurt.

Kurt had hoped to spend several hours reviewing his notes on Tobias's life. Samuel was outside dealing with a few things in the yard that needed taking care of. A fallen tree that had to be cut down. A dam of leaves that hadn't been raked up before it started to snow. And as always, putting out salt on the ice so that it melted quickly and no one slipped.

I knocked on Kurt's door and told him Alex was here to see him. But he said, “Just a minute.” I showed Alex Helm into the kitchen, where he sat at a stool and looked around. His expression made me think he was making a snap judgment of me based on the dust on my cabinets and the scuff marks on the wall by the outside door. I immediately disliked the man.

But I was struck by how much Alex looked like his son. Or rather, the reverse. It wasn't just in his features; they had the same mannerisms, the same useless hand motions when talking. And they had the same frozen look in their eyes when they were angry. The first time I'd seen it in Jared, I'd thought it was fear. But now that
I'd seen it in his father, who was more voluble, I knew it was just banked anger, simmering not far below the surface.

Kurt came in after we'd made a few aborted attempts at small talk, and he took Alex Helm into his office.

I sat on a chair in the kitchen, thinking about Tobias Torstensen and whatever was in his garden. Occasionally, the sound of the voices in the other room was loud enough to disturb my thoughts. I didn't hear much, but what I did hear made it clear that Alex Helm thought that his son had been wronged, that his daughter-in-law was crazy, and that the whole ward had a debt to pay for not seeing Jared's needs earlier and helping him. He seemed to think we all should have taken Carrie Helm out of the home and sent her to a mental institution, that we should be giving interviews to the press about how wonderful his son was.

I guess every father has a right to defend his son, but I felt for Kurt. I would have told Alex Helm to get out and never come back. But Kurt had always been more diplomatic. I suppose that's why he's the bishop and I'm not, although the fact that I'm a woman doesn't help, either.

When Alex Helm came out of Kurt's office at last, I looked up from my book, checked my watch and realized he had been in there almost two hours.

Kurt gestured to me, and I came over. Alex Helm seemed to have calmed down a little. Another one of Kurt's talents.

“Mr. Helm will be staying with Jared and Kelly for the next few weeks,” said Kurt. “With the press camped outside his house day after day, Jared needs someone to give him a break from childcare.”

“Wouldn't it be good for Kelly to get out, too?” I asked. I had ached every time I'd thought of her in the week since I saw her last, and yet it seemed wrong that I felt so much for this child who wasn't mine. “Kelly is such a wonderful little girl,” I said, the word catching in my throat.

I caught Kurt staring at me in surprise. I guess he hadn't realized how much I felt for Kelly. Maybe I hadn't, either.

“She's a wonderful child because her father has made an effort to teach her right from wrong. Her mother never did any of that. She would let that child do whatever she wanted. Indulged her too much, like she indulged herself. And Jared put up with it because he loved her. I always warned him that nothing good would come of it, and now I'm proven right. Indulgence and evil always go hand in hand.” Alex Helm was only a couple of inches taller than I was, but he lifted his head and had taken several steps toward me before Kurt stepped forward and the older man backed off.

“Children do need to be corrected,” said Kurt. “And in this day and age, sometimes parents forget that.” I knew what he was doing, agreeing verbally with Alex Helm to lessen the tension of the conversation, but it still frustrated me to hear him take that man's side.

“But not physically hurt,” I said. “Using the right tone and showing love is all that most children need.”

“You have no right to tell my son how to raise his daughter, so long as his method of discipline is reasonable and timely,” said Alex Helm. “That's what the state law says. So long as he doesn't use a belt or any other weapon but his own hand and he isn't excessive.”

Reasonable and timely? What was this awful man's idea of reasonable? The idea of Kelly being struck made me ill. I had to put a hand up to the wall to steady myself. She was the kind of child who spoke what she thought when she thought it, and she believed she would be listened to. If she was around this man for very long, what would happen to that open part of her?

“Of course we don't mean to overstep our bounds,” Kurt was saying. “And of course Jared is doing a good job as a father. We don't question that. Only that he might be stressed.”

I knew Kurt was trying to be conciliatory, but I was not in the mood for it at the moment. I burst out with, “Well, I think Christ taught clearly that children were to be lovingly corrected, gently and kindly, and that those who hurt children would regret it.” With millstones round their necks, no less.

“It isn't hurting a child to grab her as she runs into the street into oncoming traffic, or to slap her hand when she reaches for a hot plate on the stove,” said Alex Helm. He looked at me with barely concealed disgust.

“As long as you give her a hug afterward so she knows that you still love her, even if she makes mistakes,” I said.

“Giving love too soon after correction can lead children to forget the correction,” said Alex Helm. “And little girls in particular have a tendency to believe that they can avoid the consequences of anything by sweet-talking the men around them.”

Little girls? I'd met plenty of Mormons who thought girls were less capable than boys at doing certain tasks, and that girls—and women—should be restricted to a certain sphere. But this sexism was so blatant and unapologetic that it shook me.