Black Widows

by Cate Quinn

  I shrug rather than answer. I’m more interested in staring out the window.

  The ranch was supposed to be a place we could all feel safe. Be ourselves. On account of the Utah law against adultery.

  “One husband, three wives, right?” tries the male officer. “You were the youngest?”

  I don’t say much, so they stop eventually. I figure they’ve already seen the wedding pictures in any case. The first shows Rachel with her blond hair flicked out at the bottom, arm in arm with Blake like she’s won a prize. She was skinnier then, but not by much. Then Blake a few years later, his red hair a few shades darker, grinning down at me like he knew something I didn’t. Rachel hovering behind us with a possessive hand on the cream jacket Blake wore to all three of his weddings. Then the last picture of all three of us. Tina, face made up like she’s ready to shoot for Playboy. Rachel with this weird dead look in her eyes. Me looking relieved.

  On the drive back to the city, the police have been asking me all kinds of questions about Blake. About his sales job for the canning-machine company. Why he’s on the road so much.

  The lady officer found me wandering a mile or so from the ranch. I think I hoped to have some kind of revelation, like Jerome in the wilds of Syria. But I didn’t get too far. My legs got tired.

  It grows on you, the desert. I hated it at first. All those yawning miles of nothing. Having to bathe using a cup and a bucket of water. Measuring out all your heat and lights so you don’t blow the generator.

  After our wedding, Blake drove me out of Salt Lake City and over to the ranch. I felt as though more and more little pieces of me were falling away with every mile we rode deeper into desert.

  Coming from the city, it was unbelievable to find all this land out here just empty.

  “There’s nothing here at all,” I told Blake. “It’s deserted.”

  He winked at me. “Guess that’s why they call it the desert, huh?”

  I folded my arms and pressed my face to the window, watching the yellow and tan landscape flash by. If you watched it long enough, it made your eyes go funny. Everything got pixelated like on an old computer game. Nothing for your eyes to grab ahold of. Just the same huge mountains, layered rock like pumpkin pie, yellow-orange sand, and fluffy tufts of pale-green grass flying by, zoom, zoom, zoom.

  “You can be your own person out here,” Blake told me. “No laws to bother you. Nothing but mountain, sand, and sky for a hundred miles in each direction.”

  I think what he really meant was I could be his own person.

  What made the journey worse was Blake being so proud, like he’d built it himself. Kept pointing out the lumpy red rocks, mountains, circling birds of prey. I swear if the car door had been unlocked, I would have popped the door and run all the way back to Salt Lake City. One of the first things I did when we arrived at the ranch was go touch one of those little poufs of grass. I figured it would be soft, like a little cushion, but it wasn’t. The blades spiked my fingers.

  Blake told me there was no cell-phone reception and the landline was restricted use, since it was expensive. If I wanted to make a call, he’d drive me to a nearby town called Tucknott. Or I could give him a letter to mail. Rachel sent a lot of letters, apparently, to brothers and sisters scattered all over.

  “Rachel doesn’t see her family,” he told me. “But it’s a great comfort to her to write.”

  I never thought to ask why Rachel didn’t see her relations. Guess it was sinking in that I had no one to write to. No one to call. I’d made my bed. Now I had to lie in it. I only found out later that Rachel had been lying about who she was.

  In fact I did try to telephone my mother soon after I got married, but as soon as she heard my voice, she hung up. It was right after the wedding night. I still shudder at that. Don’t laugh, okay? But at the age of eighteen, I didn’t know. Swear to God and hope to die. I had no idea what husbands and wives did together in bedrooms. It was quite a shock when I found out, yes siree.

  But you know the second-hardest thing about being wifey number two? You’ll find it funny when I tell you.

  Matter of fact, the biggest adjustment was the food. Lordy, lordy, that woman is a bad cook. I wasn’t raised on Mormon cuisine. I grew up in the part of town where immigrant families live. We ate pasta and meatballs.

  My first night at the ranch, Rachel served mystery-can soup for starters, some mashed potato from a packet with bone-dry meat for main, and a kind of green Jell-O and cream construction for dessert. Jesus on high, what a mess.

  It was only at the end of the meal when Blake muttered something about it being a fine feast and he was proud she’d gone to the effort that I realized. This was her idea of a banquet.

  The police car corners onto the freeway, headed to Salt Lake City. I draw a breath to see it. The green road signs, the giant mountains in the background, not flat-topped and shades of brown like the desert ones but gray and peaked. In the winter, the city mountains are frosted white with snow, but my favorite time is the spring thaw when the dark parts show through. It looks exactly like someone tipped a pitcher of milk over the top.

  I watch as pale, square-windowed buildings rise up, thicker and more crowded together as we reach the middle of the city.

  There’s a sports field with a neat red-and-white sign proclaiming: No Sunday Play.

  We drive through a back street, near where I grew up. I catch a glimpse of Caputo’s Italian deli downtown where my momma would sometimes buy cheese and tomato sauce from jumbled-up shelves of bright labels.

  “You okay, Mrs. Nelson?”

  I notice I’m touching my fingers to the glass. Slowly, I curl back my fist. “I’m fine,” I say. “I was raised here is all.”

  It occurs to me I would have been too nervous to eat on my wedding night, even if Rachel had been a good cook. The look she gave me when I came home! I honestly thought she was going to kill me right there on the beige vinyl floor, my blood soaking into her awful homespun knotty rug.

  It was like she’d only just figured out what Blake and I would be doing in the bedroom.

  A flashing blade of realization slices suddenly through all the other thoughts.

  I will never have to do that again.

  There’s a strange noise, and at first, I think there’s some animal sound coming from the police radio. A goat or a piglet. And then I realize it’s me. I’m laughing.

  He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.

  Chapter Four

  Rachel, First Wife

  Tina tried to come with me to see him in the morgue, God forgive her. She really did. But she nearly passed out when we started down that dark corridor with its stench of chemicals. It wouldn’t have been right to put her through it. Tina has had a tough enough life as it is.

  So it fell to me. The hard stuff always does.

  I’d managed to grab some regular clothes before they drove me to the station. T-shirt and jeans a little snug around the waist nowadays if I’m honest. I unbraided my hair, let it fall down my back. I saw them puzzling over me, the way people do. With loose hair, you can see the blond highlights, home-dyed but nicer than the kitchen-sink hairdresser a lot of Church moms resort to.

  Officer Brewer stops at a small room. “We’ll take a break here,” she explains. “I’ll explain what you can expect, going inside the morgue.”

  She pauses, and I know what she’s thinking. I still haven’t asked how Blake died. The old fear of police has kicked in. I was raised never to talk to authorities. And I mean never.

  I swallow and take a seat. It’s a hard-walled little room, not unlike the one I grew up in. There’s a fake-leather couch, like someone has tried to make the room look comfortable. The lighting is harsh.

  “That’s a nasty set of bruises you have there.” Brewer is looking at my forearm. Five dark marks. I pull down my sleeve.

  “You
’re college-educated?” asks Brewer.

  I’m wondering how she knows that. Then I realize I’m wearing my old Brigham Young University shirt. The school logo is picked out on the arm.

  “Yes, ma’am.” My eyes keep glancing up to the door.

  “You don’t see a great number of graduates in polygamous marriages,” she observes.

  Makes sense, I guess. They found me in a prairie dress, barefoot on the ranch. They probably think I’m one of those cult victims.

  “Maybe the smart ones stay away from the police,” I say.

  My voice comes out small and cold. I’m struck by how much like my mother I sound. That blank-faced woman, raising children in a cellar. I remember thinking the same thing the first time Blake brought Emily home. We talked, and she’d seemed so shy and humble. I thought I could help her. Bring her out of herself and into God’s love. I imagined us all friends together. The bedroom aspect, I had decided, would be gracefully undiscussed. River water, flowing prettily around a rock.

  Then Blake and Emily came back from their wedding. I hadn’t prepared myself for how he would look at her. God forgive me, I’d cooked a feast for my new sister, made her bed, put fresh flowers in her room. I’d planned to stand, hug her warmly, tell her how welcome she was, how loved I meant to make her. Then I saw Blake’s eyes. Wolf eyes. And my mind froze on a single thought.

  He never looked at me like that.

  The husband I thought I knew so well had changed into a predator. A slavering animal thing. My embrace turned stilted, the kind words ashes in my mouth. And Emily, the second wife I’d invited into our home, had looked actively frightened by whatever she saw in my face.

  I realize Officer Brewer is talking.

  “Identification is a formality,” she says quietly. “His body will be covered. I’ll draw back the sheet enough to see his face. Just nod when you’ve seen enough, and the sheet will then be replaced.”

  I want to laugh. It doesn’t seem real.

  “A quick look at the face is all we need. We’ve already made a positive ID based on the contents of Mr. Nelson’s wallet. Given the circumstances, if you’re unable to identify him, we’ll use a DNA match.”

  “The circumstances?”

  “Mrs. Nelson. You need to be prepared for what you’re about to see. I’m afraid your husband… There’s been some damage. To the body.”

  Tears well up. My Blake. So gentle and so good.

  “We think your husband’s death may have been suicide,” she continues gently. “But we’re not ruling out other possibilities.”

  It’s like the floor beneath me has vanished and I’m tumbling into the void. I’m seized with a sudden animal urge to slap her face.

  “My husband is a member of the Church,” I say.

  Her expression doesn’t change.

  “Taking the life God gave you is a sin,” I add pointedly, wondering how stupid she can be.

  Brewer nods calmly.

  “You don’t believe he would have committed suicide?” she asks.

  I speak very clearly. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  “Would there be any reason for someone to harm Mr. Nelson?”

  For a full five seconds, this doesn’t make any sense. Then I understand.

  “You think my husband could have been murdered?” My voice comes out all throaty. Like the words can’t get past the grief. “Everybody loved Blake. Who would want to hurt him?”

  Brewer exchanges glances with her officers. And even as I say the words, I know they’re not exactly true. Everybody loved Blake. Except his wives.

  Sometimes, we hated him.

  Chapter Five

  Rachel, First Wife

  “Please be prepared, Mrs. Nelson. I’m afraid it isn’t a pretty sight. You’re certain you don’t want someone with you? A relative…”

  “Better we get it over with,” I say, and I mutter a little prayer under my breath, asking for strength. I don’t scare easily, seeing the things I’ve seen. Though there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.

  “The way he died,” continues Brewer, “has an effect on the facial features. There’s some coloration, distortion. You might find the remains really look nothing like the person you remember.”

  Remains. I guess police have to use language like that. Distance themselves.

  I’m moving like a sleepwalker, one foot in front of the other.

  You’d think I’d be reluctant. But it’s actually the opposite. I’m eager to see him. It’s the strangest thing. The feeling is so strong, it’s almost reminiscent of our college days when I would hope to bump into him in the corridor. That first year as a student. I get a tingle on my skin just thinking about it.

  Brigham Young University was my first real encounter with the outside world—the place we’d all been warned against, growing up on the Homestead.

  It was the first time I had ever seen a building more than two stories high or technology beyond farm equipment.

  These were things whispered of or glimpsed in the contraband magazines my sisters used to smuggle home. Buildings crisp with glass. Wide paved sidewalks set with pretty flower beds.

  More striking than my modern surroundings, though, was the fact that I was alone. The way I was raised, we girls were never outdoors unaccompanied, not for a second.

  Yet there I was, walking around wherever I pleased, probably with my mouth open. There were beautiful snowcapped mountains in the middle distance, like a grounding force. I honestly felt if it hadn’t been for those mountains, I might have floated away.

  It took me a full ten minutes to go for the first time through the sliding doors of the main building. I thought there might be a trick to making them glide apart and spent a good deal of time watching the other students as they strode confidently in and out. Eventually, I snuck in as close as I dared to a girl in a long dress and sort of folded myself in among the beehive of students running back and forth to class.

  In the wide vestibule, there were machines that vended drinks when you put coins in. I’d seen these at the police station, after the Homestead was raided, and had been told such things were evil. Devices to take your money.

  Summoning my courage, I decided to take a step toward independence and buy myself a soda.

  As part of my rehabilitation into the community, the State of Utah had given me a new outfit from the local thrift store and thirty dollars in box-fresh bills. I had them in my faux-leather purse, alongside the state-sponsor papers that I carried like an amulet. As if someone might retract my scholarship at any point if I couldn’t produce them on demand.

  I reached inside and took out a newly minted five and approached the backlit image of a Diet Coke with all the little buttons by it. I wasn’t sure what to do next. I was pretty sure the vending machine would decide what beverage I needed. That had been my experience of life so far. Nothing happened.

  Then I heard a voice.

  “Not sure what soda ya want?” It was a pleasant, low voice, slightly concerned. As though my choice of what to drink that day really mattered.

  “I never used one of these machines before,” I admitted, twirling hair around my finger in a way Blake would later tell me was the reason he asked me out on our first date.

  That first time I saw him, I can’t say it was thunderbolts from the sky. He had nice eyes. A very deep blue, and long lashes, unusual in a man. Girlish almost. His hair was true strawberry blond. It got a little rustier with age. He had freckles too. The kind you get when your skin is too fair to be in the sun much, but you’ve been raised outdoors.

  “Oh, you’re from the farm, too, huh?” He moved closer, and I could smell his laundry-fresh clothes. At first, I assumed he knew about my awful past, and crashing shame hit me.

  “Yeah, lot of us grew up in the country and such.” He smiled then, and
I saw he had dimples in his sun-freckled face. “You’re used to the ones that only take coins. Lemme help ya there.” He moved me out of the way and frowned at the machine. Then he looked at me.

  “I think you look like a cream-soda girl,” he decided.

  Then he took a dollar note out of his pocket and slid it into the slot.

  His self-confidence took my breath away. I felt my heart flutter as he reached down and extracted the cold can. He pressed it into my hand. It was icy, but I didn’t feel it.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He gave a little bow of his head and put out his hand. “My pleasure. My name is Blake.”

  “I’m Rachel.” It was the first time I’d used my new name to introduce myself to a stranger. I liked the way it sounded.

  “Well, Rachel, hope I’ll be seein’ ya around.” He winked. Then he was gone. I popped up the pull tab and drank a little. He was right, I thought. I was a cream-soda girl.

  Back then, I wondered if I would ever see him again.

  I never thought I’d be seeing him laid out in a morgue under a blue sheet.

  “Take your time, Mrs. Nelson,” says Brewer. “Just let us know when you’re ready.”

  I feel a lump swell into my throat and stay there. The hump of blue-green fabric is in front of me now, with all its telltale undulations.

  Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

  I don’t want to do it. I wonder if I can change my mind. If someone else can look for me.

  Then I remember Tina and Emily. I have to do this for them. Neither has the state of mind to cope. A bitterness bubbles up.

  I had the right husband…and the wrong wives.

  If only different people had come into the marriage. People more like me. We could have gotten along. Shared things.

  Tina and I are so unalike. She will tell anyone anything. The way I was raised, that isn’t right. You don’t walk around with everything hanging out. Private things are private. And Emily, oh my heck. Well, she just straight-out lies. When I first met her in the diner where she worked, I thought Emily was just model-gorgeous. Like someone out of a movie or something, with those huge aquamarine eyes and that wispy blond hair. The glamour fades pretty fast once you get to know her. Now I think of Emily as a funny-looking kid.