Deep inside, I had known from my first day in Nicaragua that I would never stay and make it my home. With each passing day my resolve to return to Colonia LeBaron deepened, and soon I was secretly biding my time until Verlan returned and my baby was born. What I would do with my life once I was back home, I wasn’t certain. Though I cherished Verlan’s wives and adored his many children, Verlan himself had become a driven, exasperating stranger. My desire and longing for him had withered completely.
Irene became my daily companion. We spent our free time reading books together and playing Scrabble and canasta, and lightly joking about how wonderful it would be to have a man around. Irene ruled the kitchen and cooking areas in the barn, and cheerfully washed mountains of laundry in the creek. I tried to be of help to her, but my small children were demanding and my pregnancy was advanced and kept me uncomfortable most of the time.
One sunny day Irene and I went for a long hike. We started up the hilly, winding dirt road, which was thickly bordered on either side by coffee bushes growing amidst the trees. Our destination was the tiny country store on the main “highway,” set among a handful of shacks, which held a few grocery items, including sodas. I’d determined that the bite and fizz of a Coke was long overdue, and Irene heartily agreed.
As we waded through the second creek, two long-skirted native women and several young children traipsed toward us. I tried not to stare at the exposed, dangling, brown breasts of these shy peasants, or at the bare display of the male, preteen’s uncovered genitals. Though I’d seen this style before on our journey here, now it was directly in front of me, and I felt myself redden with discomfort. I hastily moved on.
Not Irene though. She greeted the women and stopped to chat awhile, and since I didn’t yet comprehend much of the dialect, I rested on the creek bank and waited patiently for the chatter to cease.
Finally Irene joined me and we trudged on. “Oh, Susan, I wish you understood them better,” she exclaimed. “They’re such sweet, happy people! They don’t live very far from us, just a short walk to the West, through the jungle. The younger woman invited me to come over for coffee tomorrow. You want to?”
Having been ages since I’d tasted coffee, I was desperate for something to break the monotony. “Sure, I’ll go with you,” I agreed.
We finally reached the store, purchased two sodas and two American candy bars—which cost a small fortune—and started the long walk back home. Once we reached the creek bank, we sat down to have our treat.
As we rested, I carefully broached the subject foremost in my mind. Irene listened, then finally admitted to me her own despondence. “You’re not the only one, Susan,” she confessed. “I hate it here too. I’m sick of being a pioneer, and I’m sure it’ll be ages before Verlan can build us decent homes. I’m so tired of his long absences! He promised me that he would be spending most of his time here! But he still has a church to run—and Beverly and Ester will never come to Nicaragua. So even if he eventually moves Lillie and Elizabeth down, he’ll still have to travel back and forth. Seven days’ drive each way.” She shook her head, popped the last bite of her candy bar into her mouth, and disgustedly threw the wadded wrapper into the creek.
“Nicaragua was a dumb idea, Irene,” I said quietly. “I wanted us to get away today, because I need to tell you in private that I won’t be staying. The minute Verlan returns I’m going to ask him to take me back home. Please don’t be mad.”
She stared at me, her blue eyes suddenly wary. “Well, he won’t get here until right before your baby’s due! You’ve only been here a few months, for heaven’s sake! Can’t you at least give it a year?”
I took a sip of my soda and stared into the smoothly flowing water beneath my feet. Irene thought I was being a spoiled baby, and that my main problem was homesickness and the lack of decent living accommodations. But it went much deeper than that, and I could no longer hold my tongue.
“Has it ever occurred to you that Verlan, himself, never stays for very long in any of these remote dumps he moves us to? He comes for a short visit, and receives the very best each of us has to offer. We make special food, and wait on him hand and foot, and wash his clothes in the creek—he’s never had to stand in the cold water and rub his own knuckles raw on those rocks! And he has a willing wife to snuggle up to every night he’s home. How do you think he’d feel if he were the one sleeping alone, knowing that you, or me, were next door with another man? I just wonder how long he’d stand for it. And then within a week or so he’s off, to see another batch of wives, where they also give him the very best they have to offer. Have you ever thought about these things?”
Irene sighed. “Of course I’ve thought about it. Millions of times. But, Susan, that’s just the way things are—and we have to accept it. Verlan has his own crosses to bear, don’t think he doesn’t! He has our huge family to support, and all the problems of the church on his shoulders, not to mention trying to keep so many wives happy! How would you like those challenges?”
“I wouldn’t!” I flared. “But he doesn’t support his families, his big boys do that for him. And he’s brought most of his other problems upon himself! He didn’t have to marry so many women; he’s done that because he’s greedy and he’s never satisfied! Oh, he moans around about how he wants to make us happy, and he always says he plans to spend more time with us, but then he turns around and marries more women! Now, I’m sorry, Irene, but that’s just plain selfish and stupid, and I can’t go along with it.”
She was staring hard at me, her blue eyes flashing fiery missiles in my direction. “So, what are you telling me? Are you saying you’re leaving here or leaving Verlan?”
I fidgeted, my hands trembling as I held on to my soda bottle. “I don’t know,” I finally moaned. “I don’t know what I’m doing! But I’ve been studying the Scriptures for a long time now, trying to come to grips with things, and they just don’t make sense. One book says one thing, and the others say something else. The Doctrine and Covenants says that if women don’t accept all the wives their husband takes, they’ll be destroyed. But the Book of Mormon in the second chapter of Jacob says polygamy is wickedness and an abomination in the sight of God. He warns all men against it. He calls it, committing whoredoms, and He says for men not to lead women astray and not to break their tender hearts.”
Irene was silent, her wild, red hair sticking out around her face as she stared at the stream. I continued my tirade. “I’ve also found several places in the New Testament where it says elders in God’s Church should be the husbands of but one wife. First Peter, chapter seven, says that a man’s wife, wife—not wives—is his partner, and she inherits with him the gift of life. So, which do we believe, that one place in the Doctrine and Covenants that commands Joseph Smith’s wife Emma to accept polygamy or be destroyed, or all the other places, in all the other scriptures, that condemn it?”
Irene jumped up and started walking. I followed her, noting her stiff back and quick, angry steps. “You can interpret the Scriptures any way you like,” she shot at me when I caught up to her. “Keep searching and twisting, and you can make them say anything you want. You’ve been looking for a way out, and you think you’ve found one! But you’re just being rebellious, Susan! You’ve lost your faith, and if you continue with this, you’ll be giving up your eternal blessings. Joseph Smith’s revelation is what you should believe, and Joel’s testimony, and you should stop feeling sorry for yourself!”
We continued our swift march home in bristling silence. Irene led the way across the stream and up the little hill, and she entered the barn without another word. I walked around to my own little shack, where Lucy’s daughter had taken my children. I thanked her and sent her home, then threw myself on my bed next to my napping babies and quietly sobbed myself to sleep.
“Hallo!” Irene called out to the native woman when we walked into the clearing around her ragged-looking bamboo hut, built ag
ainst a low rock cliff. The woman immediately appeared at the doorway, a tiny, naked boy clutching her skirt. Two other children scurried outside to stare at us. One was a skinny boy of seven or eight who was naked from the waist down. The other child was a small girl with a ragged dress on, whose black hair was a mass of snarls around her thin face. The woman was grinning widely at us; the gap of her missing tooth was partially covered by her brown hand. She immediately waved us inside the gloomy interior of her hut and had us sit on large rocks. These primitive seats circled the larger, flat-surfaced rock that was her table.
I gingerly sat and peered around me. The children were standing in the sunlit doorway, and seemed reluctant to come inside. They stared at us, their eyes huge and round and unblinking, and I smiled and motioned for them to join us but they ignored me. Soon they moved away, out into the yard.
The back of the hut appeared to be a large indentation in the cliff face—sort of a shallow cave, which added enough room to the hut’s interior for the family’s harvested corn. I stared in wonder at the dried and shucked ears of their food supply. The ears had been stacked, row on top of perfectly neat, crisscrossed row, and woven into a solid, flat-surfaced rectangle about four feet high. On top of this display of workmanship were several empty gunny sacks. The rope stitching had been ripped out of these, and now the opened, rough sacks were the family’s covers against the chilly night air. This shocking fact became apparent when the woman laid her naked toddler down on the queen-mattress-sized, lumpy bed of corn, and covered him up with a sack.
As the woman jabbered to Irene, she ground coffee beans between two rocks, poured them into a container of water, and set the concoction to boil over her open fire pit. I tore my eyes away from the family “bed” and examined the rest of her smoky hut. Not a stick of actual furniture was here, only the rock “table and chairs” and the corn “bed,” the fire pit, and odds and ends against one wall. I had seen poverty before in some of the Mexicans’ houses around Colonia LeBaron, but nothing compared to this. Yet our hostess was so bubbly and full of laughter, and although I didn’t understand much of what she was talking about, I was certain she loved life and considered herself blessed.
She poured the coffee into actual glass cups, and handed us each one. I didn’t see any sugar, and I wanted to ask for some, but Irene read my eyes and shook her head. I carefully sipped.
The brew was thick, and so stout I couldn’t help but make a face—not like any coffee I’d ever tasted. But I continued to sip at it, hoping the boiled water had killed any germs. I glanced again at the boy on the corn, and wondered how often he peed in the bed.
I tried hard to follow the conversation but finally gave up. The dialect was foreign to me, and delivered at an incredible speed. Irene, too, was having difficulty with some of it but was enjoying herself anyway. We finished our coffee, then Irene stood up and announced that the woman was now coming to our house for a visit.
The native children stayed behind and stared after us as Irene led the way. The woman’s bare feet padded softly on the trail, her breasts swinging a bit as she walked. I wondered what our kids would think of her and I hoped they were still in class up at Charlotte’s house. Lucy was watching our smaller kids, but they were old enough to notice a half-naked woman. Well, they’d probably seen bare breasts before, and if they hadn’t, they might as well get used to it.
The peasant woman followed Irene into the barn, with me right on her heels. Suddenly she came to a startled halt.
“Aaay!” She exclaimed. Her eyes darting in all directions, she slowly walked on in and stopped next to Irene’s double bed.
Sit down, Irene motioned to her; then Irene sat down herself. The woman stared at the bed and touched it with her palm. She gently pushed in, and her eyes widened with amazement. She pushed at the mattress again, and finally turned and sat, then bounced up and down, her face ecstatic with joy.
She rattled off excited questions to Irene, who laughed and answered her. Suddenly the woman’s eyes lit up even brighter. “Oooh,” she exclaimed, pointing at the dirt floor next to the bed.
Puzzled, Irene and I both stared. A lavender-colored, cardboard Kotex box, its sides decorated with the picture of a big white rose, sat at Irene’s bedside. The top had been cut out, and Irene was using the empty box for a trash container.
“Ooh, so beautiful!” The woman gasped, picking it up. She examined the box and ran her fingers tenderly over the white flower. Enthralled, she jabbered away.
Irene’s eyes met mine. We both fought startled grins. Then Irene gently took the box from the woman’s hands and hurried with it to the kitchen, where she emptied the trash into the stove. She hastened back, the box outstretched.
“Would you like to have it?” she offered.
“Ooh, no, no.” The woman shrank back, her arguments becoming weaker as Irene insisted. Finally she accepted Irene’s gift and clutched it tightly as we showed her through the rest of the house.
She touched the soft, blond hair of our babies, and stood at the piano while I played her a tune. She examined our cookstove and our log table, her eyes moving excitedly about. She stayed for an hour and drank a glass of milk and ate fresh wheat bread and honey. Lucy wrapped up a loaf of bread for her to take home. Irene and I selected several items from our kids’ clothing, and put them in a sack for her. She seemed excited about all her loot, but nothing impressed her as much as Irene’s first gift. With her beautiful Kotex box safely under one arm and her sack of goods clutched in her other hand, our neighbor lady finally went home to her children.
Hammers pounded in my ears, and I did my best to ignore the noise as I mashed potatoes for supper. Lucy worked next to me, chopping vegetables for a salad. She dashed outside for a moment to check on the beef roast in the outdoor oven, then she came in again and finished the salad. The special family dinner that Verlan had ordered was almost ready, and we worked silently, the air between us thick with tension.
Never before had Lucy been irritated with me, at least that I knew of. But she was today, and I didn’t blame her. The nails being hammered into my new house out back gave her every reason.
Verlan had been home for the past three days, and after I’d had my say to him and informed him that he was to take me home immediately, his answer to my troubled state of mind was to build me a house before Lucy and Irene got one. Hence, I’d become an outcast among the wives, and according to Irene, a “spoiled rotten” one, at that. According to Irene’s scathing accusation, our husband’s pampering me left little doubt, at least in her mind, that “Susan is obviously Verlan’s favorite wife.”
The potatoes squashed through the long-handled masher, already creamy and perfectly smooth, but I couldn’t let them go yet. I mashed harder, stirred and mashed some more, crushing my anger into the bottom of the pan. Finally I pushed the pan away, grabbed Forrest out of the high chair, and stormed out the door.
I didn’t want to fight with Lucy. She wasn’t good at fighting back, at least not out loud. Oh, how had I ever gotten myself into this mess? I didn’t want a new house—all I wanted was to go home!
I wandered around the yard, looking for my other children. Melanie, Jeannette, and even James were busy with Irene and Lucy’s kids, down by the creek making mud pies. With Forrest in tow, I waddled down, and I scolded one and all for playing so close to the creek. Jeannette’s mouth had mud around it, and I snapped, “Quit eating the pies, dammit, Jeannette! They’re just for play!”
Then I made all the children come up to get ready for supper, and I puffed my way back up the hill, with kids running all around me. I was out of breath before I reached the barn, and my huge stomach felt hard as a basketball. Only two and a half weeks before you’re due, I chided myself. You shouldn’t be walking up and down this hill. Well, Irene had spent most of the afternoon up at Charlotte’s house holding a powwow with her, and someone had to be in charge of the children.
The subject under discussion between my two sister-wives was doubtless my own selfishness . . .
Somehow I had to find a way to get through to Verlan. I couldn’t bear the thought of giving birth here in this horrid jungle, so far away from a doctor. Having my other children here was bad enough—poor little Jeannette had a huge boil on her neck—but having a newborn living in these conditions was unthinkable! And I couldn’t imagine washing out diapers for two children in the creek. Forrest wasn’t even close to being potty trained yet.
My face flamed again at the memory of Irene’s angry words to Verlan two days ago. As he and Lucy were driving out of the yard, making the rush trip to Matagalpa to buy the lumber for my house, she’d shouted, “So that’s it, huh! The squeaky wheel gets the grease! Whatever it takes to keep your favorite little wife happy!”
“Irene, just stop it! Get control of yourself!” Verlan roared back. Shaking his head, he floored the gas pedal and the truck bounced on down the hill.
I stared at Irene’s red face, my fists clenched. “I don’t even want the damn house, Irene!” I yelled. “Who would want a stupid house here in the jungle? Not me; you’re welcome to it! I told Verlan to build you one instead, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, right,” she sneered. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know what you’re doing and how you’re manipulating him. He’s so afraid you’ll leave him that he can’t concentrate on the rest of us! That’s all I’ve heard out of his mouth since he’s been home! ‘I’ve got to spend more time with Susan! How can I make Susan happy?’” she mimicked sarcastically. She shook her head, turned on her heel, and marched back toward Charlotte’s.
Irene was being forced into alliance with her archenemy Charlotte, over me. I stared at her retreating back, my hands shaking with anger. This was all so unbelievable; so sad. What was even sadder was the fact that for the past three days, Verlan had been treating me with more tenderness and passion and respect than ever before. After my angry showdown with him, I’d insisted that I wanted to go home immediately. He’d hardly even argued with me. Instead, he spent part of Charlotte’s night with me in my shack.
Favorite Wife Page 51
