It seemed an eternity; in reality, however, only a few minutes had passed. Verlan had moved to his side of the bed. He fumbled for my panties, kissed my cheek as he thrust them into my hand, wrapped his arms around me, and mumbled words of endearment. In moments he began to snore.
After a few seconds, I moved from his tight grasp. Tiptoeing out, I dashed for the bathroom. Still shaking and swallowing sobs, I sat on the toilet and heard the droplets of blood and other matter reaching the water below. Dear God! My paralyzed mind screamed for release. Had this raw, disgusting union been it? Was this the beautiful act my sister Rose Ann had smilingly, smugly told me of? It was horrid.
I sat huddled and insensate until my quivering legs began to cramp with cold, then I gingerly moved to the sink, cleaned myself, and tiptoed to our room. I crawled in next to Verlan’s sleeping form and pulled the covers up. Wide-eyed in the darkness, my private parts still burning and numb, my brain mulled over what had happened.
I had expected gentle kissing and shy fondling, rosy happiness and breathtaking exhilaration, and a dizzying, bonding rapture. How could I have been so misled? What had I done wrong?
Surely there was more! Verlan was such a warm, caring man. It had to be me. I was an ignorant child, and I’d led him to believe I was mature and ready for womanhood.
Well, it was over! The worst was behind me and there was no turning back. I was married and I had to make the best of it, and I would. I would show Verlan a warm and willing wife, and together we would build a satisfying relationship. Next time would be better. It had to be.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Verlan seemed happy to be leaving Chihuahua City and as anxious as I was to leave Dan far behind. “I’ve had enough of his nonsense,” Verlan whispered to me. “Let’s get a start on our honeymoon. We need to be alone.”
Sharon took us to the train station where we waved goodbye and boarded a train bound for the resort town of Mazatlán. From there, Verlan told me we would go by bus up the Sonora coast. First to Hermosillo, then on around the top of the peninsula, through Mexicali, and on to Tijuana.
I sat by Verlan on the train’s unpadded wooden bench and snuggled against him. Forcing away thoughts of the previous night, I determinedly nestled my hand in his and grinned up at him. We’re finally going to get to know one another, I thought. We will visit, and laugh, and feel comfortable with personal questions. We will simply erase last night and begin anew. So long as we can be friends and sweethearts, I can handle the other thing.
After the train was underway Verlan squeezed my fingers and quietly said, “Susan, sweetheart, we are going to have to be a bit discreet. You see, these people traveling with us won’t understand if they see us like this all cuddled together. They’ll figure you’re too young to be my wife, so you must be my girlfriend. See what I mean? We wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression, would we? We’re supposed to be an example to the world. We better let them think you’re my daughter. Don’t you agree?”
Wordless, I withdrew my hand, moved to the opposite seat, and stared out the window. Hurt and resentment bubbled inside me. We were married, weren’t we? What did I care what other people thought! Did their opinions count with Verlan more than mine? Verlan lounged on his bench, looked around, then opened his Book of Mormon and immediately became engrossed. He made no move to soothe my wounded feelings or speak, except once when he said, “Honey, I hope you don’t mind my taking the time to read for a while. I’ve needed time to catch up on my reading for ages so I would have an idea about how to handle certain church problems. You understand, don’t you?”
He didn’t wait for my response. Instead he dropped his eyes to the book and turned the page.
Throughout the day as he read and napped, I concentrated on controlling my anger and confusion. I determined to make the most of my trip. I’d traveled little enough, and seen few places, and the eleven-hour train ride was breathtakingly beautiful. The train ran through mountain passes and along rivers and sheer ledges. The hillsides were a gorgeous array of fall colors, with brightly plumed birds, and small furry animals darting among the underbrush. Occasionally the train chugged through gorges so deep I felt claustrophobic before we finally reached the top.
We arrived in Mazatlán after dark and took a taxi to a motel where we settled in for the night. In spite of my clumsy efforts at conversation during dinner, and although I tried acting romantic once we were in our room, our intimate time together was again painful and bewildering. The night proved to be miserable and sleepless for me.
Why, I wondered as I lay next to Verlan’s snoring form, was he so abrupt? Was it because he considered sex for procreation purposes only and not an act of love? While I was certain Verlan desired me, it just didn’t compare to the intense love and need I felt for him. Why couldn’t he treat me with gentleness? He must be afraid that behaving the least bit sensual was displeasing to God. Oh, I had so much to learn about him! Even conversation had become a struggle.
At breakfast the next morning I quickly agreed that we should forget the sightseeing in Mazatlán and leave immediately for Ensenada.
By mid-morning a taxi dropped us off at the bus station. Shifting my suitcase to my other hand, I looked around for a place to sit, while Verlan bought our bus tickets. I spied a vacant spot on a bench next to an old Mexican gentleman and, picking up my bag, I lugged my things to the bench. The old man obligingly scooted over and moved his suitcase to make more room.
“Gracias, Señor,” I murmured as I sat beside him. Scrunching up his lined old face, he gave me a toothless smile and winked his faded brown eyes. He looked jolly and happy and seemed like a sweet old man. I wanted to put my head on his shoulder and tell him my troubles.
I looked in Verlan’s direction as he stood in line for our bus tickets, and I sighed again. Within me burned the desire to be a good wife. How could I accomplish this? What was lacking in our relationship? I realized he had lots to think about, the problem of Dan and Ervil, the church work, other wives, and children to care for. At this point I was truly grateful that we had decided to cut our honeymoon short. I couldn’t take any more strain, as I had for the past three days.
He hurried toward me waving the tickets triumphantly. “Okay, it’s all set, and the bus is ready to pull out. Let’s go.”
I smiled and said goodbye to the old man and followed Verlan to the bus. The huge bus was different from the old wrecks I had ridden in Chihuahua. It was shiny and new with gray tinted windows, and it glistened like silver in the bright sunshine.
Strutting in front of the bus was our little Mexican driver. Dressed in a starched gray uniform with a matching chauffeur’s cap, his crisp black hair curled jauntily over his collar. A handlebar mustache drooped around full lips. He rattled off Spanish in a commanding voice as he directed the loading of our luggage. “No-no, Chico! Do it right, do it right! Watch how you handle people’s belongings!” he shouted. The young boy doing the work cast resentful glances at him and continued to toss luggage into the compartment.
When all was loaded, the driver skipped up the bus steps and settled into his seat, then motioned for his passengers to board. I walked up the steps and held out my ticket. But instead of taking it from my hand, the man leaned his arms on the steering wheel, lazily allowing his gaze to travel from my new shoes to the tip of my head and then down again. The look was impudent and suggestive, and I haughtily dropped my ticket on the floor and stepped past him.
Cocky little rooster! I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see an angry glare in my husband’s eyes. But he was oblivious to the driver’s lustful leers. He scanned the loft above us for a spot to stow my overnight bag. “Would you mind if I sat by the window?” he asked. “I’ll have better light to read by.”
Why wasn’t I surprised? I settled in my aisle seat and glared at the Book of Mormon, which Verlan has hastened to pull from his jacket
pocket. I wanted to swipe it from his hands and toss it out the window. How could he be so insensitive? How could he not care if other men came on to me? Didn’t I matter as much as his old book?
Making certain boxes and bags were stowed properly, the driver hustled down the aisle. He grinned at me, and I almost laughed. His two front teeth were capped in silver, and gleamed like the mirrored sunglasses perched upon his thin nose. Like a brazen, silver robot in his starched gray uniform, he swaggered to his seat and backed the bus from its berth. Suddenly we were barreling through the streets of Mazatlán, swaying around corners and darting through traffic. Verlan’s book crashed to the floor and slid down the aisle, gliding over the slick metal surface, and into the swinging, open door of the restroom. A smug feeling of satisfaction passed through me. His book was exactly where it belonged during our honeymoon.
“He’s worse than Tijuana taxicab drivers, and they’re the worst I’ve ever seen!” Verlan gritted out as he clung to the back of the seat in front of him. He motioned to the front of the bus where a long rosary hanging over the rearview mirror swayed. On the wall nearby was an oval miniature of the Mother Mary. “Now we know why he has his saints and beads hanging around. He’s counting on them to save us all! We’ll be lucky to get to Hermosillo in one piece.”
Soon we were on the highway. Verlan scooted past me to retrieve his book, and I glanced around, my gaze stopping on the rearview mirror up front. Staring at me from the mirror were the driver’s black eyes. He’d removed his glasses and arranged the mirror so that he could watch me. I hastily looked away.
Verlan climbed over my legs and settled into the plush maroon seat with a sigh. “At least it’s not wet,” he scowled, examining his book. “It’s a wonder, too, the shape that restroom is in.” He opened it, found his place, pushed the button to recline his seat, and was once again preoccupied.
I looked at him. His expressive eyes followed the lines on the page, fascinated. The wind from the open window had blown his hair on his forehead, and he appeared young and handsome. I wanted to touch him, but I knew he would frown. He’d been very strict about any show of affection in public. I didn’t begin to understand why. It was our time alone before the rest of the family could have a claim on him. We couldn’t act like sweethearts or even like a couple because the strangers around us might not understand. I wished I had the nerve to tell him how lonely and unhappy, how hurt I felt at his various forms of neglect. I’d even practiced the words. I’d run through them in my mind repeatedly. “Verlan,” I would say softly, “I want with all my heart to please you. I want to make you happy. But I want you to pay attention to me. Can’t you please put your book away and let’s just talk together as man and wife? As friends?” But the words would catch every time I tried. My throbbing pulse would slowly return to normal, and I would wipe my wet palms in cowardly despair. I just couldn’t do it.
My gaze roamed the bus in misery as our time alone ticked away. There were those flirting black eyes in the mirror again, bold and voracious as they swept over me. Suddenly the prominent eyebrows raised twice in suggestion, the full lips pursed, and the conceited man blew me a kiss. I gasped in repulsion. I wished I had a wedding ring! I would flaunt it in “Mr. Hot Shot’s” face. Of course, with the kind of person he seemed to be, it probably wouldn’t matter. Men of the world were so wicked.
Verlan turned a page and cleared his throat. I looked at my left hand and tried to imagine what it would look like with a wedding ring. Verlan had told me he would buy one soon. I wondered if it would make me feel any more married.
We finally careened into Hermosillo, screeching and swaying into the enormous bus station. Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, was our first big city on the sixteen-hour trip to Ensenada. It was nearly midnight, and once we exited the bus, Verlan stretched his legs, arched his back, then walked to the ticket window and conversed with the agent. “Well, come on,” he said in a discouraged voice as he walked back to me. “We may as well go get something to eat. The first bus heading to Mexicali doesn’t leave until 4:00 a.m. I’m hungry. Let’s find a taco.”
I trotted obediently after him. The dark street was deserted, and Verlan’s long strides made it difficult for me to keep his pace. My pride, my understanding of male chivalry, and mostly, my romantic ideas of love—were being shattered. As the frustrating, last days of my honeymoon were nearing, I thought of Verlan’s wives and children who would be expecting a radiant bride. I would need to conceal my hurt feelings and my confusion. I had made my own bed, as my dad would say. I couldn’t have them see a whimpering, homesick little girl. I hoped with time, things would improve. Meanwhile, I would have his children to become reacquainted with. Verlan would be away most of the time, and presently, the thought was a relief.
The taco shop was quaint. The smells of fried corn tortillas and fresh, spicy salsa reminded me of my favorite little restaurant back home, and a wave of homesickness overcame me. Verlan led me to a table and ordered tacos. Feeling numb, I ate in silence. He hadn’t bothered to ask me what I wanted for supper. Instead he ordered for me as if I were a child! Yes, I was only fifteen, but he had thought me old enough to wed, hadn’t he? Surely I was old enough to be respected. He had selected my shoes and my food. I had to find the courage to stop it. He needed to understand that I had my personal opinions and preferences, and a perfectly good brain. I had to get the courage to tell him.
Verlan swallowed the last of his food and cleared his throat. “By the way,” he said, “I called Charlotte from the bus station. She’ll pick us up at the Tijuana bus stop. She’s taking an extra day off from school so that she can take us right on down to Ensenada. I did tell you, didn’t I, that she lives in San Diego and teaches preschool? She drives home to Ensenada every weekend to see her kids. Lucy’s taking care of both hers and Charlotte’s right now. It’s quite a handful for Lucy—you can imagine. Fourteen kids under one roof. I’m sure she would appreciate any help you can give her.”
As he said this, I remembered Franny’s words.“You’ll be stuck tending all the other wives’ kids, Susan,” she had said. “A free babysitter.” It sounded as though Franny was right.
As we hastened back up the street, I thought of Charlotte. I knew she was Verlan’s first wife, and I remembered her from my childhood, when I’d played with four of Verlan’s children. Three of them were Charlotte’s. I felt ill at ease at the thought of meeting her again. I’d learned through the years that Verlan’s first wife had a profound influence over him. How would she react to me? Would she be as warm and welcoming as Irene had been? Charlotte had obviously accepted Verlan’s four other wives—surely she would do the same for me. She must be a firm believer in the principle of polygamy, especially being married to the President of the Twelve.
Taking a determined breath, I boldly took hold of Verlan’s arm. I knew I was being rebellious, but I had to begin somewhere showing him I had a mind of my own. My heart pounded as I waited for him to unwind my fingers. To my surprise, Verlan tucked my hand beneath his arm and covered it with his. He slowed his stride to mine and grinned at me in the darkness. Suddenly stopping, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me, gently, then passionately, as he had at Grandma’s prior to our marriage. The hurt and rejection I had felt over the past two days crumbled. The stored-up tears released and coursed their way down my cheeks. I was glad it was dark so he couldn’t see my face. I couldn’t understand his change, but he had, and that’s what mattered.
We entered the bus station, which smelled of stale urine and tobacco. The worst odors were emitting from the restroom, and Verlan led me to an empty corner at the opposite end of the station, past tired travelers, who lounged on the hard benches with their boxes and bags piled near them. He sat close to me on the bench, his legs stretched in front of him.
Exhausted, he leaned back against the wall. I snuggled my head against his shoulder, and again he made no move to protest. He was so warm, and his
shoulder was like a soft pillow. I drifted into a peaceful slumber.
In the midst of the night, the announcement came for boarding our bus. I sank onto the soft seat, and before we were out of the city I was asleep again, my head resting on Verlan’s chest.
It was daylight when I opened my eyes. Verlan was shaking me. “Susan, we’re here. Come on. Get your things.”
The passengers were retrieving suitcases from the loft above. One of the gentlemen that had sat behind us was standing in front of me, blocking me from the aisle. His rancid body odor was overpowering. It brought sharply to mind my own appearance having slept in my clothes all night. And Charlotte was meeting the bus! I frantically searched my purse for my mirror and comb and quickly combed my hair. Then I rubbed at the red lines creased into the side of my face from where it had rested on the seat.
“Are you coming?” Verlan stuck his head back inside the bus doorway and motioned for me to join him. I sighed with frustration. I didn’t want Charlotte to see me this way, but it was too late to do anything about it. I walked down the bus steps, trying to smooth out my wrinkled blouse and Levi’s. The bright morning sun shone in my eyes as I stepped down onto the pavement. I blinked, momentarily blinded.
Verlan grabbed my arm to steady me and said, “Susan, you remember Charlotte.”
She stood before me in the shade of the bus depot. Her brown eyes looked right through me as she said, “Hello. How are you?” in a voice so cold it reminded me of a Utah winter. I mumbled a “Hello,” and looked her up and down. Charlotte wore a pea-green polyester dress that reached the middle of her calves and a pair of shoes that looked suspiciously like the new ones Verlan had selected for me. She stood rigidly as Verlan leaned to kiss her, and turned her face so that his lips landed on her cheek. Deliberately turning her back to us, she busied herself searching her purse for her car keys.
Favorite Wife Page 17
