The Chosen One

by Carol Lynch Williams

  Lots of people stopped by to watch when the fence went up. Families in cars and old couples and the reporters. They all stared as the men and boys dug holes and mixed concrete and set the chain-link fence at the front of our property. Week after week they came, begging for interviews. They were met with the God Squad, guns on their hips, black suits, no matter the weather.

  “When you see them, with their all-seeing eyes, with those cameras, you run,” Prophet Childs told us during meetings. “They are Satan, here to try and steal you from us. To take babies from their mothers’ breasts. To teach you the ways of the world. To lead you all to hell.”

  I cried when Prophet Childs warned us.

  “Father, they want to take us from you.” And Father would hold me, pet my face, pull Laura onto his lap, kiss our cheeks. “They can’t take you away,” he said. “I’m here.”

  I had seen the men and women, coming close to the fence, filming. So I ran.

  “Laura!” I screamed for her. Grabbed at her, grabbed at Emily to bring her along, and ran away from the cameras. For a while we couldn’t go outside without the eyes of the world, all those cameras, watching. I quit walking, quit going to my tree.

  And I dreamed. Of Satan, with black horns on his head and eyes red as fire.

  “Mother,” I cried out more than once in the night.

  “What, Kyra?”

  “Satan’s in my room. In the closet.”

  “He’s not,” she’d say, and turn on the light to show me.

  Another night. “He’s under my bed.”

  Another. “I saw him at the window.”

  “I’m here,” Mother said every time. “I’m here. You’re safe. No one’s taking you away from me.”

  “WE HAVE TO HURRY,” Mother Claire says when we sit down for lunch in Applebee’s. “We have to get you home in time for your meeting with Brother Hyrum.”

  “Please,” I say, my voice sounding sharp. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Watch your tone,” she says.

  Laura lets out a sigh.

  I am sure Mother Claire’s words have ruined my appetite until the waitress sets a plate of chicken and shrimp in front of me. This food is so delicious I can hardly stand it.

  “No wonder you wanted to come here,” I say to Mother Victoria and she smiles so big I can see her back teeth.

  The five of us, plus Mariah in a high chair, sit at a round table. It’s the first time, I realize, that I’ve seen our mothers all sitting at the same time, not including church services.

  “You’re laughing and smiling,” Laura says to them.

  They look at us, then at each other, and they grin.

  “I don’t want to marry Uncle Hyrum,” I say. I blurt this out right as a waitress passes with a pitcher of water.

  Mother Sarah, her belly hidden by the table, says, “Not now, Kyra.”

  Mother Victoria holds her finger to her lips.

  “We do what God says,” Mother Claire says. And I know she does because she let my uncle discipline her baby.

  “I don’t want to,” I say.

  Laura is quiet, looking at her broccoli and noodles. She’s chosen something Asian to eat.

  “If I can’t tell you three, who do I tell? Father can’t change it.” My voice grows quiet and I say what disgusts me. “I don’t want to have my uncle’s babies. I don’t even want him touching me.”

  “Kyra!” Laura says, her voice shocked.

  “We don’t speak of that,” Mother says. Her face turns pink. “That is sacred. Never meant for anyone but a husband and his wife.”

  Panic rises in my chest. I grip my fork. “I don’t want to,” I say. “I don’t care if we don’t talk about it. Father was young when you married him, Mother Claire. And still young when you married him, Mother.”

  Mother Claire looks away, over my head.

  “And Uncle Hyrum is Father’s oldest brother. He’s . . . he’s . . .”

  “Horrible,” Laura says. “It’s not fair.”

  I hear laughter from another table. Do they know now? I don’t care if they do.

  “You’ll learn,” Mother Claire says.

  “I won’t,” I say. Then I look all my mothers right in their eyes. “I won’t do it.”

  The happy feeling at the table is gone.

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” Mother Victoria says. But her voice isn’t strong like Mother Claire’s would be if she’d said this.

  I shake my head.

  I will not do it, I think.

  Ever.

  __________

  THREE WEEKS AFTER my first kiss with Joshua, the Prophet spoke of marriage during a special meeting for preteens and teens.

  “Woman,” he said, “woman is made for man.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I looked right at Joshua, my face flaming. He glanced at me, a small smile on his lips, then turned back to the Prophet.

  “This is from God,” Prophet Childs said. “This is prophecy. Girls, you are to be a subservient partner to your husband. You and your sister wives will raise a mighty generation of your own children unto the Lord.”

  I looked at Laura. She had tears in her eyes. She’s so devoted. So good.

  The room was hot. My tights felt like they were strangling my waist. I must have put them on crooked.

  “There are men here just for you,” Prophet Childs said.

  I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t look at Joshua. Opened them again.

  “And here’s the best thing.” Prophet Childs smiled. He smiled and his whole face lit up. His eyes shone in the bright lights of the room.

  “Brother Arnold. Brother Bennion. Brothers Hunter, Marshall, and Cox. All these good men, and several others, can give a life to you young girls who are nearing the age for marriage. A life that will exalt you here on earth”—Prophet Childs pointed at the wooden floor—“and in the life to come.” He pointed at the ceiling.

  “Boys, they are your example to follow. Like Jesus.”

  The Prophet took in a breath. “Girls, you will obey. God has thus spoken.”

  BY THE TIME we get home I just have enough time to shower. “Come talk to me,” I say to Laura.

  She sits on the toilet while I undress behind the shower curtain and throw my clothes over.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to do it,” I say.

  “I wish I could go with you,” she says. “Stay with you.”

  “Marry him, too?” I say through the hot water. It’s almost funny to be able to tease her like this.

  “Never,” she says. “I hope that never happens to me.”

  I peer out behind the curtain. “Me, too.” And I mean it. “Me, too.”

  Sometimes, two or three sisters will marry the same husband, one after the other. Brother Nelson, one of the God Squad, married all five of Brother Hennessy’s daughters. When Brother Hennessy said something about it, he was told to leave the Compound and to never come back. He had to leave. Without any of his family. They all stayed behind.

  _________

  “HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW, Kyra?” Uncle Hyrum asks. His thin hands work at a napkin he holds at the table.

  “Thirteen,” I say. Mother Claire braided my hair so tight for this meeting, this date, that I feel tears threatening to leak from my eyes. My knees are weak and I’m sitting. What would happen if I stood right now?

  Uncle Hyrum nods. “That’s good,” he says.

  Aunt Melissa places a plate in front of him. The food is piled high. The room fills with the smell of baked chicken. But Aunt Melissa sure doesn’t look like she cares. Her mouth is thin, like someone took a red pen and made a line where her lips should be.

  She goes back to the kitchen and brings out my plate. She sets it before me.

  “Thank you,” I say, but she doesn’t answer.

  There’s a chicken leg and a chicken wing on the flowered plate. The pile of mashed potatoes is the size of a fifty-cent piece. The ear of corn is missing so many kernels I know it should go to the pigs and not me
.

  I try to catch Aunt Melissa’s stare. I want to say to her, “I don’t want to do this any more than you want me to,” but I can’t.

  She goes to the kitchen and comes back again with a platter full of bread.

  “I have the place where we’ll stay,” Uncle Hyrum says as Aunt Melissa fills the table with food. Uncle Hyrum’s house is huge and roomy. And he has a piano, too.

  He reaches for my hand, but I move away. Still he grabs me, his grip tight. I make a fist. My stomach clenches.

  “We’ll be wed in just a few weeks.”

  I want to say, “Joshua’s going to change this. He’s going to make it right.” I want to scream, “I’ll never marry you.” I want to stand up and run fast as I can away from here, from him. Instead, I stare at the bones in his hand. Black hair grows from the knuckles. Does Father have black hair like that?

  I keep my mouth shut. Maybe my mouth is the same almost-line that Aunt Melissa’s is. Maybe we are all-the-sudden twins.

  “Soon, Kyra,” Uncle Hyrum says, “you’ll be a part of this eternal family. And we’ll live together in glory forever.”

  Aunt Melissa puts out a pitcher of milk. Then she stands back, staring off over the top of my head. She’s old and her face is wrinkled. I used to think she was nice. Before tonight, I mean.

  “Let us pray,” Uncle Hyrum says. It’s just the three of us in the room.

  Joshua, I think. Joshua.

  _________

  AFTER DINNER, Uncle Hyrum says he’ll walk me home.

  “I can go alone,” I say. “It’s not that far.”

  “Kyra,” he says. His voice is sharp.

  His house is beautiful. The kitchen has five refrigerators. The granite countertops gleam. There are windows everywhere. The house is silent, though I know people must be here. Where is everyone?

  We walk past a living room that has pale green carpet in it. A huge fireplace takes up one wall.

  “This is how an Apostle lives,” Uncle Hyrum says. “God does bless the righteous. And those who are saved and chosen for them.”

  I say nothing.

  Out the door we go. It’s late evening, and the sky is heavy with low clouds. Uncle Hyrum turns and points to a bay window on the second floor. “That’s our wedding room, Kyra,” he says and tries to take my hand again.

  “Oh,” I say. I quicken my step, avoiding him, and head toward home.

  “Take it slow,” Uncle Hyrum says. “We have plenty of time.” He grabs my arm, links us together.

  I fight the urge to run screaming all the way to my family. I can’t see the world around me, I feel so sick. I trip once, and Uncle Hyrum keeps me from falling flat on my face. “A little klutzy, are you? Well, it’s a good thing I’m here.”

  He clears his throat. “There’s no need to be scared of me, Kyra. I’m a good husband. I’ll keep real good care of you. You’ll have the nicest things.”

  “Okay,” I say. My heart feels like it’s trying to escape.

  “Good.” In the light of the Temple, I see Uncle Hyrum smile. There must be something good about him. There must. Look how Aunt Melissa seems to love him.

  “I take real excellent care of my wives,” Uncle Hyrum says when we get to my front porch. He pulls me close to him. His arms are like steel rods. “I’m gentle with the new ones.”

  “What are you doing?” I say. Fear rises right up my throat.

  “No use in fighting me, Kyra,” Uncle Hyrum says, breathing potato breath on me. “No matter what, I’ll get my way.”

  I struggle. His arms tighten. He’s a head taller than me. And much too close. This is not a thing what it feels like when Joshua holds me near.

  “It’s God’s law that I have you.”

  “No,” I say. “Mother! Not now. Not yet.”

  “Kiss me good night.”

  “No!” I push hard against Uncle Hyrum.

  Then Father is there.

  “You’re not married to her yet, Hyrum,” he says and reaches his hand to me.

  My uncle releases his hold, straightens his shirt. “Fighting won’t do anything but make it worse. Fighting won’t do anything but make it harder. Tell her that, Richard.”

  WAS FATHER THAT WAY to my mother the first night he slept with her? Did he force his love on her? Did she fight him?

  Oh, how am I ever going to do this?

  WHEN EVERYONE IS ASLEEP, I drop to my knees and claw under the bed. My fingertips feel greasy and no matter how many times I wash them I can’t lose the feeling. It’s like the chicken is stuck there and will never go away.

  There’s a backpack under my bed, an old orange one. I’m going to pack it up with stuff and I’m leaving. If Joshua’s talk with the Prophet didn’t work out, I’m leaving.

  Bill did it.

  I can, too.

  “Kyra?” Laura leans up in bed.

  “What?” I don’t mean to be so loud, but she’s scared me. There it is! I’ve found the backpack.

  Laura peers over at me. “How was it?”

  For a moment I think of Uncle Hyrum walking me to our front door. Of Father . . . Father rescuing me.

  “Awful,” I say. My voice is a whisper. “Worse than anything you can think.” I’m still on my knees. I wipe my fingers on the sheet.

  “Why?”

  I can see my sister, my best friend, leaning toward me. Her hair is loose and has fallen over her shoulders. I love her so much I’d do just about anything to save her. Gazing at my sister, with just the hall night-light coming into our room, words spin through my head.

  Why are we here? How did we get here? How do we get out of here?

  What have our father and mother done to us?

  It’s this last sentence that sticks right in my lungs. After a minute, I climb up next to Laura.

  “Roll over,” I say, “and I’ll scrooch up next to your back.”

  She does. I slip my arms around her. She’s warm and thin and bony. She’s just a baby. When will she have to get married?

  “What happened?” she asks.

  I can’t answer right away. Then I pull in a deep breath. “When he tried to kiss me good night, I put my hands up.”

  “He tried to kiss you?”

  “I wouldn’t let him.”

  Now Laura says, “I wouldn’t let him kiss me, either, if you want to know.”

  We say nothing. Outside a steady wind blows across the desert. I can smell the shampoo in Laura’s hair. I can smell my own sweat.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Laura says. She lowers her voice. “I don’t want to marry an old man either. Especially if he was my uncle.” She pauses. “If we could, I’d choose for myself.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, then nod and say, “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

  Sisters, I know, are supposed to be together till the end. I press my lips to the back of Laura’s head in a kiss good night. I try to sleep.

  I REMEMBER HOLDING LAURA. Mother’s telling me the story keeps the memory alive, like it is my own. We were both so small. Mother sat near us, helping me support this new baby’s head. Someone snapped a picture of us, the three of us together.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” my mother said. Her voice was sweet against the side of my face.

  “No,” I said.

  And Laura wasn’t. Her face was red and squishy. Her hands curled up into fists. When she opened her eyes, there was no color at all.

  Mother Sarah laughed. “Oh, Kyra,” she said.

  _________

  I DON’T WANT to leave my family.

  This is the first thing I think when I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling the next morning.

  I don’t want to leave my family.

  This is the first thing I think at breakfast.

  Carolina is grumpy. But when she sees me she comes running straight into my arms. I kiss her face over and over.

  Margaret hums something from church. She dances a bit as she sets the table. Then she hugs me tight, too.

  Laura stare
s, like she wants to pat away my sadness the way she does with all Father’s babies.

  I don’t want to leave my family.

  Maybe I will never think anything else.

  I have no choice. In less than a month, I leave this home to join with Uncle Hyrum’s family. In less than a month, I’ll never sleep beside my sister again.

  But if I run . . .

  Mother and Father are in their room. I can hear them talking. What is he telling her?

  The house smells of oatmeal with brown sugar sprinkled on it. The room is cool from night. The early morning sun has colored the sky in the east a pale blue.

  I want to scream. I want to scream and run to Prophet Childs. I want to tell him, “Leave me with my family. Leave me with my mother and my sisters. Leave me home.”

  But what would he say?

  God’s will be done.

  That’s it.

  I know it.

  HOW CAN I go to Uncle Hyrum?

  Kiss his greasy lips?

  Taste the chicken?

  Let his hands touch my body?

  There is so little time left for me.

  How can I do this?

  I’ve got to get away.

  AFTER BREAKFAST, I pull out the sewing machine. We clear the table and set up there. “Let’s cut out the pattern in the living room,” Mother says. She folds the fabric in half, lays it on the floor.

  I think of the beautiful green carpet in Uncle Hyrum’s house. Here, the carpet is old and so worn at the front door and near the bedroom doors that you can almost see to the pad below.

  “Do we have to do this today?” I ask.

  “Just the cutting,” Mother says. Then she puts her arms around me. And without a word, all three of my sisters fall into the hug, too.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Mother says. Her voice is like a prayer. The baby in her belly gives me a kick.

  “I don’t want Kyra to leave,” Margaret says.

  “Me either,” says Carolina and she bursts into loud tears.

  “Me either,” says Laura.