The Wedding Dress (19 page)

“No, sir.”

“Then why do you delay?”

Her back stiffened. “Sir, I do not believe that the kind Father in heaven would cut anybody out of His kingdom for being unmarried.”

“But can you prove to me that He wouldn't cut out everybody for disobeying His commands?” There was no answer. More gently he said, “We're all called upon to make sacrifices and forget our own wishes in order to be holy people. I have explained that the promise of the priesthood is only to men. If a woman wants to make it to the highest of the heavenlies, she's going to have to do it through the good graces of her husband. In other words, as the Prophet was fond of saying—if he doesn't see fit to take you to heaven, well, you won't make it.”

The words were out before she could stop them. “But the Bible says that in Christ we are neither male nor female; we are all one. I want to be a priest; then I won't have to be married.”

“Young lady, are you toying with apostate ideas?” She wilted. Quietly and firmly he said, “You know what that means. It's hell and damnation without a doubt if you carry on in that manner. Now, let's get these problems out in the open and turn your mind around so that you can follow like a good little girl.”

She sucked in her breath, but the words exploded in a torrent. “There's so much that contradicts. Why do we drink water in the sacrament?”

There was a second of stunned silence, and then Brother Brigham cleared his throat. “We do it to honor the sacrificial death of Jesus Christ. Read it for yourself in the Bible; since you've determined to do all that study do some that will instruct your mind properly.”

“But Jesus called it the cup of the new testament in His blood. That means covenant, doesn't it? The church leaders said, and they were reading the Prophet's revelations, that all the old covenants had been abolished because they didn't work and that only the new and everlasting covenant was in effect. If that's so, then why do I have to go to church and drink water out of a chipped fruit jar and eat soggy bread to celebrate something that doesn't work?” Brother Brigham was getting to his feet. Rebecca turned and flung herself out of the room.

The morning sun was still making pink smears in the sky when Rebecca let herself into the schoolhouse. She started a fire and then went to her blackboard. As she swished down the aisle between the crude desks and benches, she couldn't help the tingle of excitement and pride of ownership. True, the blackboard was only black paint carefully layered into smoothness on planed lumber, but it helped make her feel like a real schoolmarm. Besides, she must admit, it was so much fun to fill the board with her careful penmanship.

She had nearly finished placing the morning's lesson on the board when the door behind her creaked. “Mercy,” she murmured, “I didn't know I was that slow.”

“You aren't, I'm early,” trilled a voice behind her. Rebecca turned quickly. This wasn't a student. She was very obviously a schoolteacher, and Rebecca didn't recognize her. She set down her armful of books and removed her shawl.

“I'm the new teacher. I understand you are moving. I didn't expect to find you here today.”

“Moving,” Rebecca repeated stupidly. “No, you're mistaken.”

“Brother Brigham gave me your post since you'll be going south.”

“Brother Brigham,” Rebecca repeated. Her hands were limp at her sides. “Then there's not much sense in fighting it,” she whispered. “His word is law.”

Cedar City was set in a broad, long valley. The fort with spindly new-planted trees stood alone in the flatness of sagebrush and sand. Beyond the fort the land bunched into rolling hills studded with the evergreens for which the town was named.

Even in October the air was warm and dry. Dust devils still sprouted across the barren flatlands.

“Whatever possessed Brother Brigham to settle a place like this is beyond me,” complained Sister Morgan. She was tall and spare, as weathered as the country that surrounded her. Her mouth was a thin, grim line and her eyes spoke more often than her lips. Rebecca watched her move around the tiny cabin that was a part of the fort.

“Wasn't it because of the iron?” Rebecca asked. She was still a stranger in this town and this home. She didn't know what to do with her hands or when to sit instead of helping out.

The woman snorted. “That's a losing proposition. They've been at it for a year now, and we're no closer to getting started than before. There's coal to dig and haul. That furnace is putting out, but I don't know what you'd call the stuff it's putting out. Oh, well, if we get a handful of nails, I suppose that's better'n nothing.” She turned abruptly. “I suspect you'll produce more good.”

Rebecca blinked, “What do you mean?”

“Getting the kids out of the house and giving them something to do.”

Rebecca thought of the little log shanty just outside the fort. “I understand you've been having problems with the Indians.”

She nodded. “You'll be safe in the daylight. Just keep that hair bundled up. They seem partial to towheads.” She paused to knit a few stitches and said, “Miz Tomkin's little girl was bothered something fierce. Finally the Indians run off with her. Her pa caught up with them. Poor tyke, scared to death, hanging to that Indian pony. All they were interested in was her purty hair. Her pa cut off a braid and passed it to the Indians, and they were happy. That's how come she wears her hair cut off up to her ears. Aren't taking no more chances.”

It was impossible to keep from sighing over the schoolhouse. Not even black paint graced the wall. A small stone fireplace provided warmth, and one window added light. The benches were crude and the floor packed earth. It was back to shingles and charcoal; even slates were not to be had. She was grateful for the small pile of books she had been allowed to bring from Great Salt Lake City.

At Christmas, Rebecca received a letter from Joshua. This Christmas was shared with the Morgans at the fort, and the luxury of plum pudding and new ribbons was substituted with sage hen roasted on a spit and cornmeal pudding with molasses. Rebecca was introduced to piñon nuts bartered from the Indians; and she decided, after the task of shelling them, they were hardly worth the effort.

It was after the children had received their handmade wooden toys that Brother Morgan gave the letter to Rebecca. It had been written in the early spring. Now she understood why it had been such a long time since she had heard from him. He had suffered a broken leg in an accident high in the mountains. The compound fracture had produced a fever that had kept him only semiconscious for weeks and totally useless for months.

His letter reflected a weakness and hopelessness that deeply touched Rebecca, and for moments, while she held the letter tight against her, she contemplated the journey she would make to find him. But it was winter. She watched the snow fall, knowing her dream was folly. She returned to the letter and read, “Before the autumn is over I hope to find you in Great Salt Lake City.” She stared out at the snow and slowly crumpled the letter.

The spring of 1853, Rebecca dismissed school early. Every hand was needed in the fields, and even the smallest child could carry rock. During the winter, progress had been made at the foundry, and more buildings had been erected around the fort.

In March only snow shadows remained under the sage when more Saints began to move into the valley. Some of the new members of the community were Welsh, and their expertise at the foundry lifted the hearts of the discouraged workers.

In the week before Rebecca's twenty-second birthday, Mrs. Morgan announced her intention of going to Pinto. “Pinto!” exclaimed Rebecca. “That's where the Wrights are.”

Mrs. Morgan nodded, “There's about fifteen families there now. My sister's there and I want to go visit before the Indians move back into the hills.”

“I'd love to see Cora again.”

“No reason you can't. We'll take horses and be there before supper.”

It was well into the morning when Rebecca and Mrs. Morgan set out for Pinto, but Rebecca was still uneasy. “Don't the Indians scare you?” she asked.

She shrugged. “Brother Brigham ordered the lot of us to get out of here a year ago. People only stayed away a few months. We need land for farming; there's sure none around the foundry. It's in the mountains.”

They reached the end of the valley and began to climb into the foothills. Rebecca discovered the soil of the cedar-studded hills was red. Sister Morgan pointed, saying, “That's suppose to mean there's iron. At first I expected it to produce red turnips.”

It was past noon when Sister Morgan slowed her horse and waved across the little mountain valley. “That's Iron Town.” She pointed out the beehive-shaped coke oven and the quarried stone buildings surrounding it. “Doesn't look like much's going on today. On good days the smoke fills the valley.”

The town of Pinto was a cluster of log and adobe huts sprinkled in the hollow between the hills. When they stopped for directions at the first house, their ways parted. Rebecca turned down the valley, and Sister Morgan continued on.

As she rode, Rebecca could see the sparse sunbonneted figure moving along the slash of raw soil with hoe in hand. For a second there was a lump in her throat, and then she could call, “Cora, Cora Wright!”

They hugged like long-parted sisters before stepping back to study faces and then hug again. Cora was very thin, but the lines of strain on her face had eased. She gave the reason as she led the way to the house. “Mrs. Wright died this winter.” She dismissed the matter with a shrug. “Didn't guess you were around here.”

“I sent word with Brother Allen. Said he'd tell your husband. Probably forgot.”

The house was snug and dark and tiny. Three pairs of eyes stared up at Rebecca from the middle of a quilt-covered bed. “This is Mattie.” Cora lifted her.

“And Joseph is four now.” Rebecca touched the thin child with the serious face. “I may get to teach your youngsters yet.”

Cora lowered the child to the bed and asked, “You still teaching? I was expecting you to tell me you'd followed a man out here. After that announcement last summer, I don't know how Brother Brigham has missed seeing you married off.”

“You mean the principle sermon? There was a regular marriage mill, mostly older men picking up on the young girls. They say some of the apostles have lines of young ladies forming outside their offices, just waiting to add their names to the apostles'.”

“From the way you're sounding,” Cora said as she went to stir up the fire and pull a pot into the heat, “I'd just guess you aren't about to get in line.”

“I like teaching.” Reluctant to pull at the bones of contention, she paused before saying, “Still seems there's got to be some way for people to get to the highest glory without marriage. I can't forget David Fullmister.”

Rebecca spent three days with Cora and her family. Cora admitted, even while she still gloried in being free of the strain of Bessie, that Mr. Wright was looking around for a way to build up his family again.