The Wedding Dress (31 page)

“Rebecca, there's the evidence,” Cora said earnestly. “I've heard Jedediah Grant say so himself that the gospel the apostles are preaching, as it is written in the Book of Mormon, agrees with the gospel written in the Bible; and he proves it.”

“How?”

“He says himself that he's seen the sick healed and the deaf made to hear and so on—just like in the Bible. Isn't that proof enough?”

“Well, I guess so.”

“It'd make you an apostate if you were to say you don't believe just because it's written up a little different in the Bible.”

“But if there's disagreement, if we're accepting something different than the Bible, well—”

Slowly Cora said, “I'd rather believe like they're teaching us. It makes sense to think God'd give us another chance after the first two have failed.”

“I don't know enough about the second one to say it's failed. We're taking Brother Brigham's word that it's failed.”

“And the Prophet's word, and the apostles and all the others who've testified to its being right. Besides, how'd you prove otherwise?”

“I don't know. But it seems like if a person were meaning to prove it, and if God's willing, then He'd make it pretty plain.”

“You're forgetting faith. You know the Prophet taught that to doubt means you don't have any faith. Don't throw away your faith, Rebecca.”

Later, when Rebecca returned to her cabin, she looked at the Book lying on the table. “I have a feeling,” she said slowly, “that I'm about to throw away my faith. But then, it really isn't much of a faith, is it?”

It was a glorious day, bright and warm. The high-blown winds touched only the tops of the tallest pines, wafting their perfume down the streets of Pinto.

Rebecca discarded her sunbonnet, rolled her sleeves high and loosened the button at the waist of her dress. “Dear little beets and turnips and carrots, I'll thin you for my supper this evening. Then I'll break up the ground so these tumbling clouds can pour water on you.”

“And do you talk to the chickens and the cow too?”

“Andrew, I didn't hear you!” His arms were hard and eager.

“Oh, that's a nice little round stomach you're getting. I've ridden since sunup; come fix me some breakfast.” He turned toward the chicken run and poked at the red hen under the bush. “Is there an egg yet?”

“Oh, leave her,” Rebecca chuckled. “I've some in the house.” She led the way, wondering and hoping. “You'll stay for a time?”

“A bit. After I eat, we'll talk.” A heaviness settled on her. She tried to ignore her uneasiness as she cracked eggs into the sizzling skillet.

She sliced a thick cut from the bread and put it on his plate beside the smear of butter. “The brick oven is working fine,” she reported. “When the berries ripen, I'll try my hand at a pie. Cora found a raspberry patch above the road to the foundry.”

“How's the ironworks doing now?”

“Poorly,” she said as she dished up the eggs. “Practically everything the Saints have set their hands to do is failing. Another couple of years of this and we'll all starve. The crops failed, they can't grow cotton or forge iron, the floods get us or else it's the drought. They can't manufacture sugar or produce decent paper.”

Andrew finished his eggs and shoved his chair aside. She saw the frown on his face. “Andrew, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be cantankerous. I mean to keep my ‘whys' to myself. We see each other so seldom, and then I ruin it all.”

“I intend to remedy that.” He took a deep breath and faced her across the table. “I've been taking stock of my life. A man of my position and means is going to have to take some action to pull it all together.” He paused, and Rebecca searched his face. “Brother Brigham has called some of us in for a conference.”

“The Legion?” she asked, thinking of the unrest and the call to strengthen the military arm of the Saints. “Is it the fuss with Washington?”

“Yes,” he answered shortly and added, “Also, I'm going to be married to Alma Whitehead. I'll be bringing her back here, and then I plan to move you both—as well as Priscilla—to Fort Harmony. I'm building a larger home.”

Slowly Rebecca began to understand. Stone cold, she asked, “And you intend us all to live there together in one big house?”

“Yes. Several of the others are doing the same thing. It allows for spending more time at home and less on the road. I expect in the next year that Brother Brigham will completely relieve me of my duties and allow me to be a full-time farmer.”

“And we four wives will keep your house and line up for a kiss or a good word from you. Well, I'll not go,” she said abruptly.

“Yes, you will,” he replied mildly as he picked up his hat. “You'll go if I have to hog-tie you and throw you into the wagon with the chickens and bed quilts.” He lifted her chin, and his lips were hard against hers, demanding. “I'll prove my kingdom will work on this earth. Rebecca, think. If you can't live peacefully here, what'll your quarreling be for all eternity?”

For all eternity. She watched him go. Now the day was flat. She moved restlessly about, trying to recapture her enthusiasm for the garden.

For all eternity. The futility of it all crashed in upon her. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes as she chopped listlessly at the weeds. “Why must it be that men don't have it in them to be satisfied? Oh, why must the principle be? Seems all those places in the Bible where it talks about being good to one's wife is really going against the grain of the Prophet's teaching.”

In the days that followed, heading toward that day Andrew would return with his new wife, Rebecca's thoughts lined up with questions and ideas, which she rejected as quickly as they came.

There was no way to escape Andrew's plans.

Cora came. “Hear tell Andrew's moving you back to Fort Harmony.” She nodded. Cora continued, “Hear tell he's bringing another wife. That got you down?”

“I suppose. More than anything, even more than being lonely, I'm dreading the move in with the other wives. Cora, how do I obey when every part's screaming about it?”

Cora's eyes were thoughtful as she studied Rebecca's face. Her voice was dull. “You just hang on and pray the dear Lord will give you strength. Life's not easy, but you can make it tolerable. The Prophet promised us that we have it within ourselves to live the holy life. Just make up your mind to it.”

“Oh, Cora, I've made up my mind to it a thousand times, and every time I fall flat on my face. I don't know how other women handle it, but I know me. It's easier to hate than to love. No matter how much talking I do to myself, I'll never be convinced that it's within me to be different than I am right now.”

Cora turned away, and Rebecca was surprised to see the thin shoulders sagging. “Becky, you're no different. I suppose the rest of us just don't have it in us to be so honest. But we try. There's got to be virtue in trying. Every night I pray the Lord will give me strength just to keep a smile on my face and my lip tight against all I want to say. To fail means to end up as crazy as Patty Smith or as mean as Edna or Margaret. The Mister tells me this disposition is the reason women are inferior to men so that they can't have the priesthood. We never get above the meanness of just living.”

“And there's no hope.”

“There's no hope on this earth except our striving toward being holy.”

It was nearly sundown, and Rebecca was limp with fatigue. From the depths of her walk with despair, she had risen on the full wings of pride. As the day for Andrew's arrival drew nearer, she vowed, “I'll not be pitied.”

She had looked around the untidy cabin with its pile of ashes and dirty clothing, and proclaimed, “I'll be a good Mormon wife. Andrew'll not be able to find fault and, least of all, that other one.”

She had thrown herself into housecleaning—sweeping, shining, airing, scooping up the ash—and baking bread. Now as she pulled weeds beside the path to the gate, she discovered the cow was gone. She looked at the gently swinging gate while dismay filled her heart.

She flew out to the road. “Law, no, Miz Jacobson,” old Hank scratched his head. “No cow's come past here. I've been on this stump since noon.” She was off down the street.

Noon? She must have grazed her way up the hill to the line of trees. Rebecca turned to look. Already the sun was gilding the treetops with gold dust. There was a touch of night chill in the air. Bunching her skirt in two hands, she started up the slope, striding as rapidly as her pregnancy would allow. She needn't be reminded that with night shadows and Indians, loose cows weren't in the habit of coming home.

At the top of the hill she could see the shadows were already filling the hollows. “Bossy!” she exclaimed as she spotted the cow across the ravine. “It's a good thing you're brown and white like a crazy quilt.”

The cow was still eating her way up the far slope. It was nearly dark by the time Rebecca reached the placid cow, now contentedly chewing her cud as she waited under a pine. With relief, Rebecca slipped the rope over the cow's head and pressed her face against the bovine cheek. “Now hurry. Your condition can't slow you down more than mine can, and I'm running all the way home.” Rebecca's soothing words were pure bravo; her heart pounded out her fear and her legs trembled with exhaustion.

She led the cow along the slope, peering through the shadows for an easier way to cross the ravine. It wasn't long until Rebecca realized the slope was becoming steeper and the shadows more threatening.

“You were right the first time, old dear. It's back we go. Hurry now. If you were fresh, I'd stop for a sup of milk.” She was still whispering, all too conscious of her fatigue and the heavy, strange darkness surrounding her.

Was that a twig snapping? Rebecca froze, pressing against the cow, straining to hear. She dared not breathe as she waited for the next sound. The silence was unbroken, but when Rebecca moved again the darkness was complete. She fumbled for each step.

Continuing down the slope, she searched for footing as she tugged at the rope. Now the cow stopped and set her feet. Rebecca's frustration broke in a strangled sob as she pulled at the cow.

“Mormonee lost?”

Only at that moment did Rebecca recognize the scent of horse and Indian surrounding her. “Oh, please help me!” she cried. Her heart was sinking as her mind informed her: darkness, cow, Indian. They all added up to disaster.

“Mormonee lost.” Now the two words were a statement, and she was beginning to guess she was hearing the extent of the Indian's vocabulary.

“Yes, yes!” she cried. “I'm from Pinto.”

“Pinto.” There was satisfaction in his voice. She heard a rustle in the darkness, and then strong hands were about her. She was swinging through the air, and the rope fell from her limp hands. No matter. It was all black space.

Through her fainting senses she grew aware of the warm horse beneath her. There was a mild protesting moo from Bossy. Now the Indian was in front of her on the horse, and they were moving through the dark night.

It had seemed forever—the darkness, the horse, and the silence—when through her numbness she heard a dog bark. Now she saw the shadows of buildings. They were entering Pinto from the far edge of town.

Quietly, the Indian pony walked the length of town with the reluctant cow plodding behind. Not a flicker of light shone. The houses were like roosting chickens, tucked in upon themselves, unknowing, uncaring as Rebecca passed through the streets on the back of an Indian pony.

Captured, rescued. Her world was upside down. Security was insecurity. Threat was safety, and Rebecca was defenseless. While her body was still numb, her mind was moving through strange corridors of thought. Looking at the houses, she thought:
They are unaware of this moment, this threat. He could steal our cows to feed his hungry people; instead, he is returning one cow and one frightened woman. I am totally defenseless before him, before the whole world. There's no hope. I'm in bondage through this poor weak body. How desperately I needed him.

At her doorstep he lifted her down and led the cow to her pen. Still in the dream where surely all of life must be upside down, with chairs on the ceiling and the creek running uphill, she lighted the lamp and faced the bronze man across her table. He was looking at her hair, and she touched the mass that was tumbling down her back, remembering the stories. But his eyes stilled her racing heart. There was curiosity and a gentle peace in the dark depths.

She lifted the freshly baked bread and held it out. “How can I thank you?” she said, knowing he didn't understand. “Your kindness leaves me without defense. I would know how to fight, but to accept your kindness leaves me forever obligated.”

Tiny lines crinkled around his eyes. Again he looked at her hair. Now he accepted the bread and gravely bowed his head. He left, carrying the bread as if it were a long-lost treasure.

She sat down before the cold fireplace and in stunned silence watched the sun lift above the hills.

It was while the sky was still pink with dawn and Rebecca was still in the rocking chair that Andrew came. He walked into her cabin leading a pretty girl with bouncy curls and big blue eyes.

Awkwardly Rebecca lifted herself from the chair, feeling every aching muscle and the clumsy swelling that was pushing at the seams of her coarse dress. She smoothed her tumbled hair, still aware of the scent of the Indian's horse.

Now there was Andrew and his new bride outlined against her night terrors. Her chin came up. She refused to see the timid hand extended and the thundercloud frown on Andrew's face. She saw only the patch of sky and cloud beyond.

“Andrew, I'm not prepared to entertain you and your bride right now.” She knew her voice was high and singsong with tension. She suffered his startled glance without answering it. “You will take your bride and leave. Perhaps later, when you have built your handsome house, then I'll discuss moving. I've spent the night chasing the wandering cow you should have been seeking. I've ridden behind an Indian who delivered me from the wilds and has been my protector this night. I think he's turned my life upside down. You will excuse me.” She crossed the room and, like a felled log, tumbled across the bed.