by Rosalyn Eves
“You love the stars,” Samuel says. It’s an observation, not a question.
“I used to dream of going to Vassar College and studying with Maria Mitchell, the greatest female astronomer in America,” I say. Then I clamp my mouth shut, because it’s a ridiculous dream for someone like me, and anyway I’ve promised to forget it.
Vilate Ann says, “Why would you want to go to school if you did not have to?”
“Used to?” Samuel asks, and there’s nothing mocking in his voice, only a gentle curiosity.
To Vilate Ann, I say, “I like to learn new things. I’d have gone to school in Monroe, if Mama had let me.”
I don’t answer Samuel.
We drive on a ways in silence. Just when I think Samuel has forgotten my words, he says, “I think you’d make a fine astronomer, Elizabeth Bertelsen.”
And though the breeze blowing through the desert night is cool, suddenly I’m flushed with warmth.
* * *
* * *
Late morning on the fourth day of travel, we pass through Manti. Workers swarm a hill above us, hauling masses of white stone and laying the foundation for what will be the third temple in Utah (though only the one in the south, in St. George, is finished). I can’t see anything of the building yet, but four large terrace walls rise one above another, wrapping perhaps a quarter of a mile around the hill like the walls of a castle. Someday, I’ll come here for my endowment, the promise I’ll make to God that can only be made inside a temple.
Vilate Ann perks up in her seat. “Oh, may we stop?”
Obligingly, Samuel pulls the wagon over to the side, and Vilate Ann all but climbs over me getting out of the wagon. She dances lightly up the hillside, toward the workers, and Samuel and I follow at a more sedate pace.
There’s something about this place that moves me, though I’ve never seen a temple before. A stillness, despite the busyness of the workers, a sense of roots that go deeper than the foundation walls. Or maybe it’s what the building represents: the sacrifices of people who, like me, don’t have much to offer but their faith and their labor.
By the time we reach Vilate Ann, she has cornered a young worker and is asking a million questions as the boy’s cheeks grow pinker. When she sees us approach, she waves us on, so Samuel and I continue our walk. It’s a warm day, and I’m grateful for the meager shade of my bonnet. It must be hot work, assembling the rock foundation above us, even if it’s holy.
Samuel surveys the building going on above us with a considering eye. “I wonder where they’ll get the wood for the inside of the temple.”
His father is a carpenter, the craftsman of the furniture we’re hauling to Salt Lake City. “Are you a carpenter, like your father?”
“Something like. Pa wouldn’t call my inexpert efforts carpentry, though.” A wry smile twists his mouth.
I think of Samuel’s understanding words from the night before and realize that for all his good humor and seeming openness, I don’t really know much about him. “And what do you do, when you’re not woodworking?”
“Besides tease my sisters?” He shrugs. “I read some, write some. I’m actually very ordinary—if you know my family, you know the best part of me.”
I frown. This is the second time in as many minutes that he’s dismissed himself. “Isn’t there anything else you want? Something bigger? Something just for you?”
“Like the dream you used to have, of studying astronomy?” Samuel sends me a sideways look.
I flush. Is he teasing me? I turn away, running my hand along the rough stone of the wall.
“You never said why you gave it up,” he continues.
Irritation goads me, and I swirl back to face him. “How could I hold on to a dream like that? There’s not much call for an educated farmer’s wife. Already some people think I talk too fine.” I’ve spent hours poring over newspapers and books and journals, writing out sentences that imitate the cadences of what I’ve read, trying to sound smarter, more educated—and all I’ve achieved is a reputation for snobbishness, and, if Mama is to be believed, heresy.
Samuel spreads his hands wide, palms up. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’m just looking to understand why you would give up something you want just because other people don’t think you should do it.”
“Just because I want something doesn’t make it the right thing.” I don’t like this conversation. It makes me feel prickly and defensive, like a porcupine, though what I have to defend I don’t rightly know.
“Doesn’t make it wrong, necessarily, either. If your fancy words fret folks, it’s their problem, not yours.” Samuel glances behind us. I follow his glance back to Vilate Ann, but she’s still determinedly chatting to the young workman. The boy doesn’t seem to mind the distraction.
“You never answered my question, about what you want.” I’ve revealed more about myself in this conversation than he has.
There’s a long moment where he looks at me, and I look back, and my heart begins to pound an oddly uneven rhythm. I break the gaze first, dropping my eyes to the worn toes of my shoes and fighting back a blush.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I suppose I don’t think about it much. I like my life just fine—and, well.” He stops walking, and I stop with him. He looks around, as if searching for the right words. “My parents crossed the plains with the Martin handcart company—you know, the pioneers who got caught in early winter snows. My family was lucky. They all made it through. It was before I was born, but my oldest sister talks about how she used to wake up with her braids frozen to the ground, it was so cold. And then my family got to the valley, and things were so unsettled. When I got old enough to see how my ma fretted over all of us, I guess I aimed to be someone she didn’t have to worry over.”
My insides jolt with recognition. Maybe I’m not the only one who puts aside the things they want because their family needs them.
But Samuel is still talking—slowly, as if he’s puzzling something out. “I suppose I’d like to travel some. Meet new people and see new places. I’ll be going on to Denver after I drop off our load in Salt Lake, to talk to a furniture maker there about some new tools and techniques coming from back east, like machine joinery and wood graining. Pa says I can go so long as the furniture we sell in Salt Lake fetches enough.”
As we angle past the wall, hot light refracts against it, nearly blinding me. I blink. I didn’t know Samuel was going on to Denver. “Will you see the eclipse?”
He shrugs. “If I’m still there. It’d be something to see, wouldn’t it? Will you see it, where you’re going?”
Something to see? The shimmering heat around us feels heavy, as though I might swim through it. After a moment, I manage, “Only part. Cheyenne will miss totality.” I remind myself of my promise to fit myself more neatly to the mold Mama expects of me. But the bitter taste in my mouth lingers.
He does have the grace to look chagrined. “I’m sorry for that. I know it means more to you than me.”
I nod a terse acknowledgment. Then something occurs to me. “Wait—if you’re going to Denver, are you going by way of the railroad?”
“I plan to.”
“Then why are we only going as far as Salt Lake City together?”
“Why, Miss Bertelsen, I didn’t know you cared so much for my company!”
I resist the urge to smack him.
Maybe he reads my irritation in my face, because he adds, “I’ve got some work to do for my brother first, and your pa said that it was important you get to Wyoming as soon as possible.”
My fingers clench at my sides. He’s right. Rebekka. In the pleasure of seeing this new place, in talking, I’ve lost sight of the urgency behind this journey. I can’t let myself forget again. “We should go,” I say, and Samuel turns us back toward Vilate Ann.
* * *
* * *
&nb
sp; We reach the town of Moroni late Friday afternoon and Nephi on Saturday: all these small towns scattered across Utah with names drawn from the Book of Mormon. I wonder what names these places bore before the Mormons came.
We spend our Sabbath in Nephi, attending the local ward services in the morning with the widow who lent us beds the night before. The sky is overcast as we walk toward the ward building, a welcome coolness after the heat of the preceding days. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
Someone has planted lavender in a field near the town, and the tips bleed purple across the horizon. I stand for a moment, moved by the juxtaposition of color against the dark band of the sky and mountains. So often I go through the world without seeing, but then suddenly I am caught, transfixed and wordless, by some trick of light or nature or God. It’s this sense, of the world being so much bigger, of it revealing its secrets in bits and spurts, that keeps pulling me back to church, when there is so much I still do not know or understand. So much I question.
There is some confusion when we arrive at church and are taken for a family—a young man with two plural wives.
“This is my brother,” Vilate Ann says, laughing, but after a sly look at me she does not clarify that I am not Samuel’s wife. In the rush to find seats before the service starts, there’s no chance to correct the misunderstanding.
Periodically through the sermon, I catch myself imagining what it might be like to marry someone like Samuel instead of Brother Yergensen, to settle fully into the life Mama wants for me, the life Rebekka chose. Then I refold my arms, irritated at letting my mind wander—and because the idea does not distress me as much as it might have a week ago.
It begins to sprinkle on our way back to the widow’s home. Samuel holds out his hand, catching the raindrops on his palm. “I hope the rain doesn’t turn the roads to mud.”
My stomach tightens. Muddy roads mean waiting for dry weather—and delaying my arrival at Rebekka’s. “It’s only sprinkling,” I say, trying to speak evenly. “Surely that won’t affect the roads much, as dry as it has been.”
Vilate Ann huffs, “I’d rather not travel in the wet. I don’t want to take cold just before we get to Salt Lake City. It’s my first time to see the city!”
“Oh, but Elizabeth makes a habit of swimming fully dressed. She might enjoy the experience of traveling in wet clothing.” Samuel darts a quick glance at me, his eyes shining.
A wave of residual embarrassment washes over me. “I do not,” I say crossly, memory following quickly on the heels of my mortification.
Last summer, Mama was feeling poorly, some aching in her joints, and Sister Larsen thought the local hot springs might do her good. We waited until evening, when the sun overhead was not so unbearable. That close to solstice, the evenings were long and full of light. We wore our oldest dresses, as we did not have proper bathing suits, then drove to Mr. Cooper’s homestead. Mr. Cooper had built a wooden box to house the spring, and charged a small fee for its use, open alternating days for men and women. We paid the fee, then climbed the steps to the pool and settled into the warm water. The only other woman there was Sister Willard, Samuel’s ma.
I thought the water was marvelous, like a full-body hug, but Mama was not so keen on it. After only a couple of minutes, she complained that the water drew the mosquitoes and the heat made her aches flare instead of subside.
I helped Mama out and followed her to the small hut Mr. Cooper had built for changing, thinking to help her out of her wet things. But once I’d unbuttoned the back of her dress, she shooed me out.
Still dripping, I began walking up the road, rubbing my arms and hoping the exercise would warm me. And that, of course, was when I encountered Samuel, who had come to fetch his mother.
I looked like a drowned rat.
Samuel, dry and comfortable, couldn’t quite hold back his laughter when he saw me. But rather than let me retreat in humiliation, as any gentleman would have done, he tried to make conversation.
“Good evening, Miss Bertelsen. Are you here for the springs?” Samuel asked. “My mother finds the waters soothing.”
A bead of water rolled from my hairline and dripped off my nose. “No,” I said. “I always walk about in soaking clothes.”
“Naturally,” he said, grinning. Clearly, he did not believe me. He reached out to gently flick water from the tip of my nose. “The waterlogged look suits you. You should do it more often.”
I don’t remember what I said, only that my whole body burned with shame as I hurried up the road to find Mama.
I come back to the present with a jolt, to find Vilate Ann staring at me with wide eyes, and Samuel’s eyes narrowed at me in amusement. “Are you never serious?” I ask, lingering mortification making my voice sharper than I mean it to be.
“I was born to speak all mirth and no matter,” Samuel says, his lips twitching again.
I didn’t expect Samuel to know Shakespeare, and surprise robs me of some of my annoyance. I respond with a twist on Benedict’s line to Beatrice. “Should I call you my dear Lord Disdain, then?”
Samuel catches my hand and kisses my knuckles like some old-fashioned courtier. “You may call me what you please.” He pauses, and I mistrust the twinkle in his eye. “Only don’t call me late for dinner.”
A drop of rain splashes on my nose. Vilate Ann groans. “Samuel.”
Lightning flashes near the western mountains. A few moments later, thunder rolls through the valley. Samuel picks up his pace. “If we hurry, we might be able to get out in front of the storm. I’d rather not get stuck here.”
I hasten after him, ignoring Vilate Ann’s plaintive “Must we?”
Within only a few minutes, we’ve packed up our trunks and settled everything under an oiled fabric, to keep the water off the furniture. I open my carpetbag, spreading it across my lap and Vilate Ann’s.
We rattle along the road for some time. The wind picks up, sending the rain sideways into our faces. I tip my head down, so the brim of my bonnet catches some of the water, and Vilate Ann pulls the carpet up against her chest. “I knew this was a bad idea,” she mutters, but neither Samuel nor I respond, and she subsides into silence. So much for getting ahead of the storm.
Despite the rain, we make decent progress. Somewhere just past Mona, as the road angles east around the mountain, we hit trouble. Rainwater gullies across the road: a fast-moving, churning brown ribbon.
Samuel urges the horses slowly through the water. It doesn’t appear to be deep, but the horses are nervous and Samuel murmurs soothingly to them. Vilate Ann clutches my arm. A sudden surge of water shifts the entire wagon, and one of the horses bucks against his harness. I catch my breath.
Samuel climbs down to lead the horses through, and after a few tense minutes, we’re past the water. I release my breath slowly, but don’t relax until Samuel has climbed back into the wagon. His trousers are soaked nearly to the knee.
We drive on in silence for a few moments more, and then, with a sickening lurch, the wagon stops. Samuel clucks at the horses, but all their pulling against the harness doesn’t budge us.
Once again, Samuel climbs down. He inspects the side of the wagon and, unexpectedly, begins to laugh. “We are well and truly stuck.”
“Can you get us out?” I ask, dismayed, starting to calculate how long this will set us back.
“Not without help,” he says. “Are you offering?”
I don’t relish sliding through the mud when I’m already damp, but I don’t want to be stuck either. I clamber down from the wagon seat and sidle around the wagon to Samuel, the wet ground slurping at my boots as I go. It’s bad—the left wheel has sunk nearly to the axle.
Samuel calls up to Vilate Ann to take the reins and lead the horses forward. Then the two of us settle behind the wagon. “One, two, three, push!” Samuel says.
We both push, throwing our w
eight against the backboard. The wagon rocks forward a fraction, but the wheel doesn’t move.
We try again.
And again.
I’m beginning to sweat beneath my damp clothes. I set my shoulder against the board and we push a fourth time. The wagon budges a few inches. After our earlier failures, the movement catches me off guard, and my feet slide out from beneath me. I land on my hands and knees in the mud.
Samuel surveys me. “Elizabeth Bertelsen—a stick-in-the-mud if ever I saw one.” Then he holds out his hand.
I ignore Samuel’s proffered hand and pull myself up using the wagon to brace myself. My left foot slips sideways, but though my stomach falls, this time I do not fall with it. “Is everything a joke with you?”
He pulls his hand back. There’s a smear of mud across his knuckles. “I thought some humor would help—you’re so serious about everything.”
“At least I care,” I say, stung.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, putting his shoulder against the back of the wagon and pushing.
Vilate Ann hollers, “Is everything all right?”
Neither of us answer her.
To Samuel, I say, “Better to care about something than nothing, as you do.”
“Is that what you think? That I don’t care about anything?”
Arguing with Samuel is like trying to catch rainwater in a sieve. For some reason, his refusal to get upset only makes me more so. “I’ll bet your family was happy to send you away for this journey—such a care-for-nobody ass who likes to think he’s funny.” I’m not even sure if what I’m saying is true.
The tips of Samuel’s ears turn pink. He shoves fruitlessly against the wagon. “And you think you’re so much better than me? A girl who wants the stars but is too afraid to do anything about it?”
“At least I have dreams. At least I don’t just drift through my life in order to keep the peace.”
