Black Widows

by Cate Quinn

  Sukie glances in the direction of the open casket. She looks so sad. I send up a little prayer to give me better thoughts.

  “You’ll tell him for me, won’t you?” Sukie puts a hand on my arm. “When you see him up there?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I’ll do that.”

  Sukie hesitates, then her next words come out in a rush. “I want you to know… What everyone is saying, I don’t believe it. Not for a second.”

  I feel completely blindsided.

  “What… Um. What is everyone saying?”

  She blinks really fast, birdlike, toys with a strand of hair, then looks down to address the little boy holding her hand. “Go play with your sisters, honey,” she says, releasing her grip. He runs off to the far side of the church.

  “I’m so sorry…” she begins. Her voice breaks and she swallows. “Listen. They’re all such gossips. People are working up theories about the mystery blond Blake had lunch with.”

  “They’re still talking about that, huh?” I keep my voice perfectly neutral. Tucknott’s worst gossip had made a trip to Salt Lake City for a skein of rayon sewing thread and just happened to see Blake through the window of the diner.

  Sukie jiggles the baby some more. “Some people got nothing better to do,” she says. “You gotta ignore ’em.”

  “Most likely it was a work meeting or something of that nature. Plenty of women got careers nowadays,” I say.

  Yeah, right. A work meeting in Kirker’s Diner. Blake’s courting eatery of choice.

  Sukie nods emphatically. I look around. People seem to be avoiding my gaze.

  “Folk here think Blake was courting some blond?” I deduce.

  “Well, not everybody. But people leap to conclusions, you know. Leastways, they do in Tucknott.”

  It has suddenly dawned on me that Sukie is the only person to come within ten feet of me at this community gathering. Even as a plurally married pariah, I would have expected a little sympathy. A few words. People here know me, after all—I’m the first wife. Guess it doesn’t take a genius to work out what people have concluded.

  I’ve been deliberately not paying any mind to the rumors about Blake and his mysterious lunch. Best to act like it’s all above my notice. But I allow it the tiniest corner—just a flash of daylight in my mind. And just like that, there she is. A picture of the blond lady at Kirker’s Diner, who of course I never met or saw.

  Her hair is styled like very devout girls have it, brushed up high into a towering quiff and braided very long down her back, almost to her waist. She wears a green prairie dress, buttoned to the neck and falling to her ankles. Somehow, I also know what she looks like with no clothes on.

  The strangest thing isn’t that I have an image of the mysterious blond. It’s where I remember her. Because it’s not a memory. She’s from the dream I have.

  I’m in a grave. Blake and the blond woman are standing over me. They’re burying me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tina, Sister-Wife

  I knew, of course. About the fourth wife.

  I mean to say, I didn’t know. Like, Blake hadn’t told me. But I think deep down, I’d figured it. He always talked about this vision, ’bout a farm and four wives. I just didn’t think it would all happen so quickly.

  That’s why I’ve locked myself away in the room with all the chairs to cry my eyes out.

  There’s a soft knock at the door, and I’m praying to God it’s not weird old Bishop Young when Braxton Nelson walks in. I kinda sag with relief.

  “Hey.” He closes the door behind him. “My sisters said you could probably use some help. How’s it goin’ back here?”

  “I’ve been better.” I smile at him.

  The Nelson boys all look alike. Braxton is like a younger version of Blake. Red hair, freckles. His face isn’t as classically handsome as his older brother. It’s a little narrower, quirkier maybe. In some ways more attractive. He has the same blond eyelashes and pretty blue eyes. His top lip has a twisted scar running right through it that always made me think of him as kind of a pirate.

  I’ve always liked Braxton and his wife, Sukie. I met ’em a couple of times at barbecues. They were the only ones from Blake’s family who didn’t shun us.

  “You shouldn’t worry about what people are saying,” he says.

  I smile at that because I never do. “Why, what are they sayin’?”

  “Oh, you know, there’s that rumor goin’ around that Blake was seen out with a woman. I don’t believe it personally. My brother might have interpreted the Book of Mormon different from the rest of us, but he would never have committed adultery. That’s a straight ticket to hell.”

  “Bishop Young told you that?” I remember I saw Bishop Young deep in conversation with Braxton, all serious like he was tellin’ him something real important.

  Braxton pushes a hand through his red hair, embarrassed. “Not exactly.” His eyes lift to mine. “He’s more concerned about my soul, you know, on account of it being traditional in polygamy, if a man dies, the brother marries his wives.”

  He has cute dimples when he smiles. It’s the first time I noticed it.

  “How is your dad taking things?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know.” Braxton has a distant look. “He’s a strange old bird. Thinks the only way to God’s grace is to work your fingers to the bone and frown a lot while you’re doin’ it.”

  He manages a smile but only just.

  “I think Dad’s heart is broken but he can’t show it,” he adds. “Blake and he never really patched things up after the failed mission. Then Blake joined in with that touchy-feely church at college, and you know how Dad is about any suggestion a husband and wife might have fun.”

  I nod, though the truth is I don’t know, because Mr. Nelson and I have never spoken. All I really know is he keeps a calendar all filled out in tiny writing, allocating slots for everything, including his children and wife. According to Blake, the only time Mr. Nelson ever broke his schedule was to drive to Salt Lake City after his decade-old hobnail boots had finally worn out. The only store still carrying his brand was a vintage store selling to hipster kids, and Blake painted a real funny picture of Mr. Nelson in his scratchy overalls, glaring at the espresso-sipping young’uns.

  At the time, Blake was laughing about it, but now as I think about it, I guess it must have been hurtful, too, that Papa Nelson wouldn’t take five minutes for a root beer with his sons but threw out the timetable for footwear.

  “What about you?” I ask Braxton. “You okay?”

  “Well, I’ll miss him for sure until I join him up there, God willing,” he says. “Never met anyone more committed to God’s word. You know he used to beat up on me a lot when we were kids for not singin’ the hymns right?”

  Braxton smiles. His teeth are a little crooked, but in a nice way. Guess only Blake qualified for braces in their family.

  “No, he didn’t!” Though I can well imagine Blake rough and tumbling, keeping his kid brothers in line. I recollect him telling me once how hard it was for his mom with all the children. How he tried to help out.

  “Yeah.” Braxton nods at the memory. “We worked it out though. Mainly, I got bigger.” He shows the crooked teeth again. “’Course he had his own beliefs when he married Rachel.” An uncomfortable look flits across his face. “Blake always was a maverick. More open to a joyful interpretation of God’s will than he was raised to. We all admired his bravery. Imagine we’ll have some long conversations ’bout that when we meet up again.”

  His conviction floors me. I thought maybe he didn’t like Blake so much. Now I realize he believes with all his heart he’ll see him again.

  “You know…” I toss a little dark hair over my shoulder. “I don’t even know what to wear in front of your family. I wore something Blake woulda liked. Likely it’s not modest enough.” I toy with a
bra strap, smiling up at him.

  He takes in my tight black dress, low-cut at the front.

  “I like it.” He smiles.

  The way he says it, I know. Same as I always know with men.

  “It’s hard,” I say. “I miss him so much. I know everyone here thinks I’ll see him again, but I wasn’t brought up like that, you know? It’s harder for me to see it.”

  I start to cry. Braxton puts his arms around me, and I sob onto his shoulder. It’s strange. He doesn’t smell like Blake or feel like Blake. Something about that is really wrong and really right too.

  I take a shuddery kinda breath. Wipe my eyes again. “You look like him,” I say. “Shame I didn’t meet you before.”

  A rush of grief hits me like a wall. All I can think is I can’t handle it. I have to put it somewhere else. I look into Braxton’s eyes. I never realized how much they were like Blake’s. I tilt my head up, just a little, like a question.

  Could we?

  Braxton doesn’t say anything, but he’s looking right back at me, and his chest is rising and falling as though he’s breathing a little harder than usual. I feel like I’m on a ledge, and staying balanced is this difficult endless thing, and I’m so freakin’ tired of it.

  I could just let myself drop.

  Before I really know what’s happening, I’m pulling Braxton toward me and we’re kissing.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rachel, First Wife

  The coffin is at the back. I guess Emily must have chosen all the fixtures and fittings. I would have thought, left to her own devices, she’d choose something unsuitable. All shining brass and huge flower sprays. But in actual fact, it’s far less gaudy than I might have expected. Tasteful, even.

  The phone the police gave me rings for the third time since I got to church. Withheld number. I silence it and put it back in my purse. Safest to ignore the call. I have a bad feeling it’s the police with news of the forensics.

  I look across to check Blake’s folks are still huddled near the coffin. I notice Blake’s mom working her way up the aisle, fancy funeral clothes accentuating how she’s bird-thin from regular fasting and a diet of graham crackers and Mountain Dew. That part of Mormonism skipped us Homestead folk. I guess our mothers thought we were all hungry enough without adding religious starvation to the brouhaha.

  When I first met Blake’s mom, she just took my breath away. The mothers I knew growing up were sad and hard-faced, in long dresses and hair whipped into crown shapes. Adelaide Nelson was this perfect housewife, like something out of a movie, all hair-spray highlights, snow-white slacks, and capri sandals, despite four grown-up children. Blake had painted a picture of her as real strict, so she wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I guess Blake’s idea of strict and mine were worlds apart.

  I remember thinking how lucky Blake’s dad was. Mr. Hunter Nelson was a peculiar man, ten years older than his wife and wedded to the workings of his store cash register. The kind of man who always knows how much change is in his pocket, right down to nickels, dimes, and cents. I only ever heard him make one joke, so well worn that none of his family even reacted. About how Adelaide’s family had virtually sold her to him, and if he’d known how much she was going to cost, he’d have kept his pickup truck. Blake talked about their marriage like it was an eternal tight-lipped tug-of-war over a single dollar bill.

  At first, I thought it was strange that Mr. Nelson barely seemed to notice Adelaide. After getting to know her better, I understood why. Being in her radar meant being in the firing line. Blake’s mom had planned his life out for him the day he was born. And she was darned if he was going to mess with her plans. Guess now Blake’s gone, poor Braxton is next in line.

  Blake’s mom flips her veil back as she nears. Everything on her face is small and neat—chin, eyes, forehead. None of her children have inherited her features. They take after Blake’s silent dad, with his horsey face, even the girls. She walks very erect, head held high.

  My phone starts ringing again. It’s on silent now, but I can feel the buzz in my purse.

  Leave me alone!

  I leave it to finish ringing and try to stay composed for Mrs. Nelson, who is almost on me now.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Nelson.” I try for a smile, but it won’t come. “We all loved Blake very much.”

  She keeps right on walking, and for a moment, I think she means to pass me by without a word. Then she comes in very close.

  “I won’t shed tears,” she says. “I know he is in heaven. God wouldn’t want me to be ungrateful. I…I have prayed and prayed for God to take this anger out of my heart. Anger at the person who did this. Who harmed my Blake.”

  Her hand closes on my forearm. “I want them to burn in hell,” she says. Her eyes seem to be searching mine, like she’s looking for something. Her fingers tighten hard enough to hurt.

  I’m so surprised I step back slightly, but her grip locks, pinching the skin.

  There’s a horrible smile on her face, made ghastly by the lipstick.

  She leans in very close, and the loud floral of her perfume makes my eyes swim.

  “I know…” she hisses. Her voice breaks, and she pulls back, looking around to see if anyone has witnessed her display of emotion. “I know you did it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Emily, Sister-Wife

  My job is to give out pineapple sugar cookies. Three per guest. But it’s hard because everyone is trying to pretend I don’t exist. That’s the problem with plural marriages. No one really knows how to greet you or anything.

  My eyes drift over to Blake’s mom, in her stylish funeral outfit. Blake once told me Mrs. Nelson never, ever asked for anything, but you always knew what she wanted just the same. I always hoped to learn how to do that. You caught a glance of Mr. Nelson sometimes, sort of surprised and thoughtful, like he knew he’d been tricked but couldn’t figure out how.

  Mrs. Nelson always looks real lovely, like she knows just what to wear at any occasion. I think Blake wished his wives could be that glamorous. Closest he got was Tina, who has kinda slutty glamour, despite her exotic dark hair and tan skin. Adelaide wrote us off after Tina. Guess she was the final straw. She and Mr. Nelson never visited the ranch. Adelaide and Blake had this weirdly formal lunch together a few times a year, on neutral territory in a pancake house just outside Tucknott—like there’d been a divorce with scheduled visits.

  Adelaide Nelson is corralling Blake’s brothers and sisters now—two of each—and I catch snatches of what she’s saying.

  “Brigham, you always did dress the nicest. Can’t you teach Braxton a thing or two ’bout fashion? Lordy, Braxton. A check shirt to your own brother’s funeral—people will think I raised you that way…”

  I let my eyes settle on the two brothers, neither of whom has looked at me.

  Adelaide’s attention is now on the sisters. She’s praising one for her food, exclaiming loudly how she always was the best cook, and her older sister never could match it.

  I’m hit by the strangest feeling. I don’t know how I couldn’t have seen it before.

  That’s what Blake used to do. With us.

  I pick a cookie off my napkin and crunch it between my teeth. Bishop Young arrives next to Adelaide, his face all nodding in sympathy. He kinda looks as though he’s been pumped full of air, all puffy cheeks and neck and fingers, topped with a swish of clean white hair, like the snowy cap of a mountain. I’m trying to avoid him, ’cause he does his creepy double-handed shake, like he owns you or something. Blake and I visited with him for marriage counseling, and I have outright hated Bishop Young’s guts ever since.

  Adelaide passes Bishop Young some handwritten pages, which I guess must be the funeral speech. Mr. Nelson spoke to Rachel on the telephone about it. I didn’t hear what was said, only Rachel hung up looking all white-faced and said Blake’s dad didn’t
want us to contribute. Didn’t think it would be appropriate. Tina looked kinda mad, like maybe she thought Rachel shoulda stood up for herself.

  I head for the food table at the back where a lot of unfamiliar people are putting dishes down. Food you would never see at a Catholic funeral, like cold mac and cheese with cubed Spam in it, potato salad sculpted into a beehive shape, and this pretend dessert that is actually round pasta mixed with cream. Also about a million square feet of tray-baked cake.

  Back when I was a waitress at the diner, Blake took me to a few church functions. One of the jokes I made was What’s with all the sheet cake? Catholic cakes I grew up with being towering tiers and multilayers and all. I told Blake right out I didn’t understand why anyone would make a flat cake.

  Blake had taken a knife right there and then and cut three big pieces of frosted sheet cake, then layered them up to make one giant piece.

  Big enough for ya? I remember thinking Blake could solve any problem. You didn’t get men like him in Salt Lake City. One time, our generator broke down, and Blake climbed right on top and fixed it with these oily spare parts that had been lying around on the ground. He was that kind of person. You just knew he could take care of you.

  I used to like hearing Blake’s stories too. How fire would sweep the earth and we’d be lifted up. Though you never knew which way it would go, since sometimes he’d just talk on and on about Bible things until your ears hurt.

  I pick up the cake knife. There’s a big bowl of brightly colored punch, with cartons of premix Hawaiian Punch stacked behind in case it runs low. Someone has arranged them in neat rows. Rachel, most likely.

  I stab the blade into the foil top of the carton. Red liquid spills out, like blood.

  That’s when I hear Rachel talking in this weird polite voice. I turn to see Mrs. Nelson has crossed the room and is holding Rachel’s arm.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Nelson,” Rachel says. “We all loved Blake very much.”

  Rachel used to use that voice with Blake too. Never with us though.