A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

Her attention flew from twirling her braid to looking at my face. “How did you know that?”

  I sat on the bed. “I’ve read the Bible.”

  She ducked her head and muttered again.

  “What is it, Esther?” I asked gently.

  “You be smart.”

  “Smart?”

  “Readin’ and all.”

  I blinked, then thought about the children I’d seen earlier in the day. She’d probably been born into this society, both isolated and uneducated. She was obviously old enough to become pregnant, but she’d been kept in childlike ignorance of the world. I needed her help, but I’d have to be very careful. “I’m not so smart. I bet you know something I don’t.”

  She cocked her head like an alert puppy.

  “I don’t know the name of your group.”

  “Group?”

  “Um, church?”

  “Oh. The Remnant Latter-Day Saints of Zion.”

  I nodded. “See? I didn’t know that.”

  She twisted the braid around her finger and thought about my words.

  “I bet you know the names of every single person that lives in this house also.”

  “But that’s easy.”

  “No. It’s something I don’t know. So you’re smarter than I am about that. Everyone knows some things that others don’t.”

  She nodded her head. “But Adam knows everything.”

  The name of the leader? “Tell me about Adam.”

  She let go of her hair and pointed to the bowl of soup. “You eat. Then I can leave.”

  Okay, Adam was a bad topic. I picked up the dull pencil and calendar, then turned the paper over to the blank side. Quickly I sketched the face of Jane Doe. I could see Esther’s feet out of the corner of my eye. She moved closer. Closer. The bed protested as she sat beside me. Bathing seemed to be an option, and deodorant off-limits. I breathed through my mouth and glanced at her face. She stared at the sketch with rapt attention.

  “Wow. You’re a good drawer.”

  I continued to shade the face.

  “I know her!”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  MY HEART BEAT FASTER. “WELL, NOW, SEE? YOU’RE smarter than me about something else. I don’t know her name.”

  “Mary Allen.”

  I wrote Mary Allen under the sketch and handed it to Esther. The woman furrowed her eyebrows as she studied it. “She were smart. She had books and everything.”

  I thought about the grocery store in Provo. “Did Mary Allen ever leave here?”

  “Oh sure. Sometimes all the way to Provo and Salt Lake City, even.”

  I nodded.

  “She wanted to birth the babies.”

  “That’s a noble calling. What do you want to do?”

  Esther shrugged. “I do what they say.”

  “Yes, but what do you want to do?”

  She grabbed up her braid and tugged on it slightly. Obviously the whole idea of choice was a foreign concept. “Have a live baby.”

  Live? Not healthy? Strange phrasing. Then again, the girl’s grammar was odd.

  Finally she let go of her hair and looked at me. “How did you know what she looked like?”

  I caught the past tense. “Is Mary Allen gone?”

  “She be dead.”

  Taking a deep breath, I nodded. “I know. I found her.”

  Her head whipped up. “Found her? But she be dead.”

  “After she was murdered—”

  “Mary weren’t murdered. She died birthin’. I be at her funeral.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. So maybe Mary wasn’t Jane Doe. I stood, then paced to the window. “When did Mary . . . die?”

  “Two years past.” The woman stood. “But . . .” I could see her puzzling over the information. “How come you done this?” She held up the sketch. “You be new, and Gentile.”

  “Did you see her body?”

  “Of course not. The senior wives fix her up.”

  “Senior wives? Jane?”

  “Yah. She done prepared your dinner.” She pointed at the food. “Eat. I can’t leave till ya do.”

  I hobbled closer to the girl. This young woman was my only chance. “Look, Esther. Mary Allen didn’t die in childbirth. She escaped here after having three children: Nephi, Sarah, and Benjamin. They all died.”

  “Died? I heard whisperin’, woman talk . . .”

  “What did you hear, Esther?”

  The woman looked at me. “You found her? How she be?”

  It took me a moment to work out her question. “Someone cut her throat and slashed her body.”

  “Blood atonement,” Esther whispered through her hand. Her other hand cradled her bulging stomach. “No.”

  “What did you hear? What did the women talk about?”

  “If’n you can’t birth live babies, the Lord be angry with ya. You be cursed.”

  “I doubt very much that the Lord had anything to do with Mary’s murder. She must have known what was in store for her. She ran for her life. When she left, she took something, something important.”

  Esther’s gaze drifted to the photograph of Joseph Smith. “But that not be true. She don’t drive. None of us drive. No . . .” She waved her hands in the air.

  “Driver’s license?”

  “That be it. She’d be caught.”

  “Maybe she had help. I don’t know how she got away.” I touched her on the arm. “She was going to school. She was happy.” I held my breath, hoping my words would sink in.

  Esther absently rubbed her pregnant belly, then slowly reached for the sketch lying on the bed. She stared at the drawing for a long time, then carefully folded it and placed it in a hidden pocket before looking at me. “The soup be bad.”

  Aynslee woke from her nap. She hadn’t planned to sleep, but when Beth darkened the room and curled up on the other bed, Aynslee lay down and drifted off. The next thing she knew, Beth was taking a shower.

  Winston lay next to her, his head on a pillow. Aynslee scratched his ear, and he sighed. He loved her. Her eyes filled with tears and she hugged him. “Winston,” she whispered. “What am I going to do?” She thought about her escape from the school and her heart beat faster. She’d been free.

  “The day really got away from us, didn’t it? We’ll take Winston out for a walk, then go to dinner.” Beth emerged from the bathroom. “Tomorrow we’ll go back to the dog park, then go shopping. Bellevue has some great stores.”

  “Okay.” Aynslee thought about her meager clothing jammed in the backpack. Maybe . . . maybe she could get some really different clothes, maybe stuff to change her appearance. How far was Bellevue from Seattle? She could even disguise herself in the changing room and escape from a back room or something. She’d seen a show on television where someone did that.

  I carefully picked up the bowl of soup and transported it to the closet where I dumped the contents into the bedpan. Esther accepted the now-empty dish, nodded her head once, then left. After slowly counting to ten, I peeped through the keyhole. I couldn’t see out, which meant the key was still in place. Thank you, Esther.

  Picking up a page from the calendar, I slipped it under the door below the doorknob. Now I needed some way to push out the key. I folded a second page of the calendar to form a long, thin rod. It took several pokes to jiggle the key loose. The clank of it striking the paper seemed loud. Quickly I slipped the paper back under the door and snatched the key.

  If the soup contained something to either kill me or knock me out, Jane would come and check soon. I tugged and pulled at the quilt on the bed so that, with the poor lighting, someone might think I was sleeping.

  Light faded quickly as the sun set. I unlocked and opened the door a crack, listened, then peeked. A long hall stretched in both directions, with shut doors on both sides. A window at one end provided scant illumination of the blank walls and austere oak floor. I’d have to go barefoot as Jane hadn’t brought me shoes, but my feet were pretty tough. The chemo damage actually
made it easier to go without shoes.

  Locking the door behind me, I tucked the key into my pocket. That would slow Jane down a bit until she found another key.

  I slipped toward the window. Stairs opened to my right. I could barely make out the first few steps. Gripping the handrail, I felt my way down. Occasionally the step would let out a tiny squeak or groan, and I’d freeze. The house was unnaturally silent considering all the children I’d seen enter this morning.

  Maybe the house was empty.

  I reached the second floor. Another window, another hall, another set of doors. Ahead, yet more stairs. And voices. A bouncing, flickering light illuminated the bottom of the stairwell. I ducked out of sight. Footsteps. No place to hide. Please, please.

  Two young, female voices, speaking softly. “. . . so I told her it wasn’t my turn.”

  “What did she say?”

  I reached for the nearest door.

  “She said I had to do it anyway . . .” The light reached the hall. A hand, holding a candle, appeared.

  I opened the door and plunged into the room.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  I WASN’T ALONE. THE ROOM WAS ONYX BLACK, but a faint rustling sound to my right made my neck prickle. I crouched, feeling around for furniture—or someone sneaking up to clobber me.

  My nose wrinkled from the onslaught of odors from a chamber pot, dirty clothing, mold, and dirt.

  “Is it dinnertime?” The female voice cracked with age.

  “Um . . . soon. Jane’s . . . preparing it.” I slowly stood.

  More stirring of fabric on fabric. “I don’t recognize your voice.”

  Great. She could start screaming for help anytime. “I’m Gwen.”

  “Gwen? Gwen. I don’t . . . Are you the new one?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  The old woman chuckled. “I knew Adam would find a replacement.”

  I could hardly admit I didn’t know who Adam was. Or who she was. “Mmm.” I opened the door a sliver. No sounds from the hall. I quietly shut the door and waited for my vision to adjust to the dark. “How are you feeling?”

  “The same. But I’m not one to complain. Not at all. A lot of old people like to talk about their aches and pains, but not me. I could make your hair stand on end if you knew the half of it.”

  “I’m sorry.” I opened my eyes. A faint rectangle of a window against the far wall glowed. Next to it stood an old-fashioned wheelchair. At least the woman wouldn’t be leaping on me if I said the wrong thing. Of course, she could have a bell or another way to notify someone.

  “No, my days are drawing to an end. I’m not sorry. I had my time, had the children, never complained. It was hard but I kept my peace.”

  “I’m sure you did.” The floor was sticky under my feet.

  “It’s your time now. Time to have children, be a wife.” She was silent for a beat. “But being a new bride, you must have questions. All the new brides used to come to me and talk. It helped them, you see. But they don’t come anymore. I’m not complaining, you understand. But you’ll come back and see me, won’t you?”

  “I know I’ll have many questions, yes.” An oversize oak dresser with an oval mirror filled the wall next to me, the surface cluttered with dirty dishes and bottles of medication. I touched the doorknob. “Who takes care of you?”

  “Mostly Jane. When she remembers. I know she’s very busy, so I don’t say anything.”

  I could just make out mold growing on a plate.

  “Are you still there?” she asked.

  “Sorry, just thinking.”

  “I miss teaching the young ones. It was my calling. You’ll come if you have questions on scripture? I love to talk about the word. I received the second anointing, you know. Not that I’m boasting, you understand, but as a queen and priestess, I can guide you.”

  This is how they treat their queens and priestesses?

  “Come anytime. I don’t sleep much these days—”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “Jane never whimpered. Not once, even after all they did to her. She was my role model.”

  “Was? Not anymore?” Was she confused, or was it me?

  “She died. Oh. I see.” The mattress springs pinged. “I’m talking about Jane Baker Smith. Mother Smith,” the old woman whispered. “She was eighty-three when the Lord took her home. Her burning for the Truth blazed until the day she died.” More rustling, then a sigh. “Adam has her fire, her vision. He is the fountain of Truth. He will bring vengeance and set in order the house of God!”

  I made an effort to shut my mouth. That was creepy. Okay, okay. I’d take a chance. “Adam is the one mighty and strong with the scepter of power.”

  Silence.

  Did I blow it? Was she going to start yelling now?

  “Of course,” the old woman said. “You’re blessed to be sealed to him.”

  I could do without that kind of blessing. Right now I needed more of a “live long and prosper.”

  “Well, I need to get going—”

  “What’s today?”

  “Uh . . . the day or the date?”

  “Date.”

  I did a quick calculation in my head. “The ninth. September ninth.”

  The woman made a strange cackling noise. It took me a moment to figure out she was laughing. “Soon. So very soon. You’ve prepared? Read the section?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Section . . . uh . . .”

  “Sixty-four, child, sixty-four.”

  “I’ll go reread it right now. Uh, I’m new and get so turned around in this big ole house. Where—”

  “The stairs are on your right outside my door. When you reach the bottom, the front door is straight ahead. Unless I’m mistaken, prayers and scripture study are going on right now. I used to lead prayers, you know, but not now. Not for a long time now.” She gave a heavy sigh.

  “And I can find this prayer and scripture study . . .”

  “Downstairs. Third door down the hall. You’ll come back to see me, won’t you?”

  The loneliness in her question made my voice waver. “Lord willing, ma’am. I’ll go now and check on your dinner, then join the others for prayers.” I slipped from the room. No voices carried up from the ground floor. I paused at the top step. I didn’t relish the idea of simply walking out the front door, but wandering around the house looking for another exit could introduce me to a hostile remnant clan member, one that would actually notice I wasn’t wearing a long dress and braids.

  The steps creaked and rasped under my weight. I tried to breathe quietly, listening for any sign of alarm at my presence. The stairwell was jet-black. At least I’d see someone carrying a candle long before they’d see me.

  The rail ended and I stumbled forward. Bottom of the stairs. Front door straight ahead. Arms outstretched, I moved forward.

  Ca-clack! Golden light outlined a door in front of me, widening. I bolted to the hinged side of the opening.

  I pressed against the wall as a windup lantern illuminated the hallway. The door swung toward me. A grubby hand emerged, holding the light. “Do you think there’ll be any dinner left?” Leather boots clunked on the bare flooring. A slender figure entered, silhouetted in the blue-white illumination.

  “Don’t know.” A second man followed, blocking the light for a moment. Without looking, he reached for the edge of the door, catching it in midswing, and flipped it shut.

  They thumped forward, leaving dusty footprints on the bare floor. In the dim, receding light I could see the tattered and filthy bottoms of their overalls.

  “Did you see that car?” the front man asked, glancing at his companion.

  “Yeah. Neat.” They disappeared around a corner.

  Car? That sounded promising. I shot out the door.

  I paused for a moment on the small porch to get my bearings. Ahead of me, white sheets slapped each other as they dried on the rows of clotheslines. Apparently whatever was going on made the women forget to
bring in the wash. Crisp mountain air brought the scent of pine. And millions of stars and a crescent moon dappled the deep-navy sky.

  Voices, and bobbing lights, came from both directions toward me. I sprinted across the road and dove behind a dirt berm.

  A group of men and boys, shoulders slumped, trudged up the road from the right. Golden light from their lanterns glinted off sweat-cut rivulets running down the grimy faces. Only the half dozen younger boys talked with each other in low voices. “Can’t wait to get some sleep . . .”

  “. . . I’ve worked since seven this morning . . .”

  “. . . got out and kissed the ground . . .”

  A second cluster of men passed them, heading in the opposite direction. The younger ones sparred with each other: pushing, dodging, mock-punching. “. . . can you believe . . .”

  “. . . Adam said . . .”

  The tired ones were going home to bed, so I’d need to follow the fresh shift of men.

  I tried unsuccessfully to wet my lips. I probably shouldn’t have emptied the glass in the room.

  I waited until croaking frogs, trilling crickets, and gently flapping laundry replaced the murmuring and chattering men, then stood. The bobbing lanterns of the fresh troupe of men winked out as they rounded a curve in the road.

  The pregnant woman’s words came to me. “Women can’t drive. They’re not allowed to have a driver’s license.” So being female appeared to be a liability.

  I turned to the clothes still clipped to the clothesline. Going more by feel than sight, I moved down the hanging overalls until I found a pair near my size. I did the same for a shirt. The last row of clothing looked like long underwear. These must be the holy garments Beth talked about. I’d stick with my own panties. Taking refuge between the hanging sheets, I stripped, shivering in the cool night air.

  My specially constructed bra held prostheses I’d nicknamed Lucy and Ethel. Without them I was flatter than a boy. I removed my wig and rubbed my scalp. My fuzz was only a bit shorter than the young men’s closely shorn hair. I never thought I’d be grateful for removable parts.

  My pockets contained some cash from when I’d met with Deputy Howell—could that have only been yesterday?—I couldn’t see how much I had in the dark.