by Cate Quinn
Mrs. Nelson’s face is pale, washed out, eyes dull. I feel really, really bad for her.
She mutters something to Rachel that I don’t hear and walks off all proud and stately, but she has this weird expression on her face that ruins it. Like a sneer.
I lick my wrist, where red juice has run down it.
I’m wondering about that when I notice Rachel is walking toward the coffin with this really strange look on her face.
Like she’s remembering something.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tina, Sister-Wife
Braxton. I kissed Braxton.
I can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back but doesn’t look embarrassed or awkward. “Let’s forget that happened,” he says in a kind voice.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I…”
“You’re grieving. I know.” He smiles. His arms are still on my shoulders. “It’s not easy for you, and I know my family makes it harder. ’Specially my mom,” he says, looking very sincere. “You gotta ignore that, okay? She’s going through a process.”
I wipe the edges of my eyes where makeup is probably running. “Is your mom being meaner that usual? I hadn’t noticed.”
Truth is, I don’t really mind Blake’s mom. It’s Rachel whose skin she gets under. Rachel thinks Adelaide is always tryin’ to outdo her. But I don’t think that’s true. Rachel has a lot of rage she doesn’t let out.
Blake once let it slip his mom was dirt-poor growing up. If you ask me, Adelaide joined the Nelsons’ all-American family and tried to edit out her past. Hence showing up to every event like one of those dress-up dolls. Barbie does homemaker, Barbie does church, Barbie does funeral. I get that. The need to fit in somewhere you don’t belong. You see a lot of it in Vegas.
Braxton laughs softly. “Far as Mom’s concerned, she spent her whole life raisin’ Blake, and now he might not be at her side in heaven. She’ll come around. It’s somethin’ she’s goin’ through. We’re all going to the celestials together, right?”
Tears come, and I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Also, I think she’s very concerned right now that one of us brothers is gonna be seduced into the plural lifestyle, what with all you gorgeous widows.” He smiles. Braxton has a nice mouth, despite the scar.
Hope beats in my heart. “So you’re not planning on converting and marryin’ your brother’s wives,” I say, tilting my head.
Something passes over Braxton’s face. Something I can’t quite read.
“Not in my style of the religion.” He tries to say it casual, like a throwaway remark. But his voice comes out all throaty. “Blake was the rule-breaker.”
“You sound sad about it.”
He smiles.
“Well. Maybe. Maybe I’ll get a sign from God one day. Maybe Sukie will.”
“Is this a sign? Us? Here?”
Something in Braxton sorta shifts. Like he’s teetering.
“You know,” I say in a low voice. “If Blake used to beat up on you, this is your chance to get your own back.”
I kinda mean it as a joke. But then Braxton’s lips hit mine, and it’s like whoooaaa.
Everything seems to light up. Before I really know what’s happening, my hands are all over him.
“Wait,” whispers Braxton, but he’s saying it into my mouth as we’re kissing.
“It’s not adultery if we’re planning on marrying,” I say. “We’re not doin’ anything that counts.”
Blake told me that, once upon a time.
“Stop.” Braxton tries to move me gently away.
“No.” I pull him close. “I miss him so much. Just give me this one moment. Please. Lemme me pretend he’s still here. If there is a God, he wouldn’t say no to that.”
Braxton is tryin’ to steady his breathing. “You’re grieving,” he says. “We both are. This is… It’s a temptation.”
I take his hands and put them on my throat. “Squeeze your hands around my neck,” I say, tugging at his clothes. “Pretend like you’re choking me.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rachel, First Wife
Everything is reverberating around in my brain. I can still feel the pinch on my arm where Mrs. Nelson gripped it.
A memory is clawing at me. I’m back on the Homestead in a long dress and heavy boots, helpless, terror swelling. The earth beneath my feet is yellow. Flat scree rock, like in an old riverbed.
It was a game of dare we played. Something scary was on the other side, on the toffee-colored ground.
“That’s the part where we’re never allowed to go.” It’s a child’s voice, scratchy but familiar. I don’t want to think about who that voice belonged to.
I notice that somehow, I’ve walked myself right up to the coffin without meaning to at all. I can make out the reddish top of Blake’s hair. Part of his face. It’s been heavily made up and doesn’t look anything like him.
The funeral director moves forward to close the coffin. Blake’s face vanishes. Then, just in that moment, a terrible scene rushes up from nowhere.
A dark-haired girl lies on a white bed, moaning, head tilted back in abandon. Blake is removing her panties, kissing her stomach, running a finger along her belly. The other naked women crowd in, watching, touching one another.
One is different from the rest. Older, my age maybe, very long blond hair. She turns to look at me, and fear hits me square on. The blond lady whispers in Blake’s ear, looking in my direction.
“You need to get her out of here,” she hisses, her face twisted in contempt.
I’m so shocked by the force of the image that I feel unsteady on my feet.
“By the power of Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “By the power of Jesus Christ, I command you to leave me alone!”
The image slips away. My eyes are screwed tight, and my breath is coming fast. It’s as though I’m in a kind of bubble. My skin is cold, and my heart is beating out of my chest. I feel like I’m going to die.
You’re not going to die.
For a euphoric moment, I think God is reassuring me. Then I realize someone is speaking to me. A soft little voice.
“Rachel?”
I open my eyes to see Emily standing next to me, a plate of my home-baked sugar cookies in her hand. “You need to let go of the casket,” she whispers. “They’re all looking at you funny. You were saying some strange things.”
I look down to see my fingers are grasped tight on the closed white-gold lid. All around, Blake’s relatives are staring. I have a sudden picture of how I must have looked, the widow of a murdered husband, muttering incantations over her husband’s remains.
I must have looked guilty.
“I say things without meaning, too, sometimes,” Emily says conspiratorially. “My momma always said it was the spirit visiting.”
I nod, tears rising.
What did I remember?
“I really am sorry,” I manage, “for pushing you. I just got so mad. Seeing that birth certificate… It reminded me of things I wanted to forget.”
“It’s okay,” says Emily. “Ribs heal real fast. I can hardly feel it anymore.”
It’s been barely a week since the anniversary night, so I don’t believe her, but I can’t bring myself to say anything else. The terror I felt in that white bedroom still spikes at me. A dark place, Swirling evil.
The images are gone, but the feeling of it remains like an aftershock, lurking at the edge of my conscience.
Blake in that white bed.
I’m dimly aware that Blake’s mom is looking toward me, but my body has broken free of my control.
My fingers are tingling and my chest hurts. I feel as though I’m losing my mind.
This has happened to you before, says a strange voice in my head. Don’t you remember?
A ri
pple of consternation passes through the congregation like a wave. The air is filled with whispers. At first, I think I must have said something just awful. Then I notice heads begin to turn, one by one, toward the door.
“Rachel,” Emily hisses. “The police are here.”
I follow her gaze. Officer Brewer and several other policemen I don’t recognize are gathered at the back. Sweat prickles at my hairline. Something about the public setting, the children all over… What happens next is in slow motion. I see the police walk into the building. They only look around momentarily before Brewer’s eyes land on me. She points, says something to her colleague. Then they both stride in my direction.
I have often wondered how I might respond to being arrested. It was the specter that haunted, first my childhood, then my marriage.
“Mrs. Nelson.” Brewer’s eyes are alive with sympathy as she reaches me. “We tried to call.”
“Is it about the autopsy?” I whisper, even though I know it isn’t.
“I’m very sorry to show up here. We wanted you to come in of your own accord.” She takes a breath. “Rachel Nelson, we’re arresting you on suspicion of murder.”
She explains she needs to use the handcuffs. It’s part of the procedure. I see Emily with a look of pure fear on her face. Everything hits me in a rush.
“Wait,” I mumble as Brewer begins leading me slowly out of the building, a gentle hand on my lower back. “Who will take care of Emily and Tina?”
“I really didn’t want to have to arrest you here, Mrs. Nelson,” says Brewer. “Truly, I am very regretful. Let’s hope we can get this all fixed up and get you home soon.” But I notice the pressure on the small of my back increases.
As I’m led handcuffed from the church, I see Mrs. Nelson standing at the front, watching me, a victorious look on her face.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emily, Sister-Wife
The police lead Rachel out, and I sit there with my mouth hanging open.
I look around for Tina, thinking she would know what to do, but I can’t see her anywhere. Everyone is muttering with one another and looking over in the direction of where Rachel left.
Bishop Young is frozen to the spot halfway to the pulpit, like he doesn’t know whether he can go ahead without the deceased’s wife.
Then Mrs. Nelson walks real quietly toward the lectern and slips the handwritten speech from Bishop Young’s hand as she goes. She lifts her veil over the black pillbox hat and begins reading.
I kinda want to laugh. I mean to say, it reminds me of a movie or something. Mrs. Nelson all dressed like President Kennedy’s wife, and Bishop Young too frightened to make a scene and stop her. Grief is like that. You’re not allowed to interrupt.
Looks as though Mrs. Nelson overestimated her ability to do public speaking, though, because the words all come out in this thin, reedy voice, and her eyes are, like, glued to the page, like she’s scared to look up. She gets stuck a couple of times and has to revisit the page, her hands shaking.
I get the impression Mrs. Nelson was thinking she’d give this big, moving speech on account of being so heartbroken, but it isn’t working out how she wanted.
“As a young boy, Blake was a keen Boy Scout,” she quavers. “Then during his mission to Mexico, Blake broke the record for converting souls.”
I’m staring at her. Because it isn’t right. Blake never even completed his missionary trip. Rachel let slip the last straw was when his bunkmate started rubbing his thingy all the time when he thought everyone was asleep.
I hear a door open at the side of the chapel and see Tina and Braxton sort of spill out of the room where they keep the spare chairs, looking all red-faced. I guess they must have lost track of time in there and not realized the speeches had started. They both look very flustered.
Braxton goes to sit with Sukie, but she twists away from him like she’s real mad.
Tina slides in beside me. “We can leave after this speech, right?” She’s breathing fast and smooths her hair away from her face.
Maybe she doesn’t know Rachel has been arrested.
“Mrs. Nelson is telling total lies,” I hiss. “And she hasn’t even mentioned us. Your lipstick is smudged,” I add.
“Thanks.” Tina wipes her mouth. “Well, that’s to be expected from Momma Nelson, right? She never did like us.”
Tina settles back on her hard chair and swivels her head toward the pulpit, but I kind of get the impression her attention is elsewhere. Every so often, she sneaks a glance in Braxton’s direction. He isn’t looking at her though. He’s staring straight ahead, like his head is clamped in place, turning the wedding ring on his finger.
“His proudest accomplishment was working in the Holy Temple,” Adelaide Nelson continues.
I’m squirming around in my chair now. I can hardly stand it. Blake worked as a canning-machine salesman. And he was so bad at getting his commission that he even had to take a second job as a janitor, for Pete’s sake. At least half of the family money came from Tina, since she worked freelance for a realty firm in the city.
“He had two jobs,” she adds, “despite his other commitments.”
Her eyes seek me out. Mrs. Nelson never did agree with Blake’s fundamentalist choices.
You’re the reason why my boy might not get to heaven.
“But he was always smiling, always upbeat.”
My mouth drops open. Because this just isn’t Blake. She’s painting our husband like some smiling Boy Scout, when he wasn’t like that at all. I mean to say, Blake was a lot of fun, and he did things that made us laugh. Crazy things, too, like the time he hired a tractor he could barely even drive and craned our new roof into place. But there were also times he wouldn’t even get off the couch. Like life had just paralyzed him.
“He never let anything get him down,” continues Mrs. Nelson.
I turn to Tina. “This isn’t right,” I hiss.
A few people turn around to look at me. Tina pats my hand like I’m a dog.
“He wasn’t like that,” I tell Tina, not bothering to keep my voice down now.
From her position up front, Mrs. Nelson shoots me a look like I need to pipe down, then goes right on talking about her perfect boy.
“No!” I stand up. The plate of sugar cookies falls onto the ribbed carpet. I can feel Tina pulling at my arm, trying to get me to sit down, but I tug out of her grip and stand.
Mrs. Nelson is glaring at me again, her hands gripping the podium like claws.
Most people have turned to look in my direction now, but I don’t care.
“That’s not right,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rachel, First Wife
Brewer has brought me into a different room this time. It has a machine that I guess is for recording, and she unwraps a silver DVD and pushes it in.
The door behind her opens, and a chubby young man enters, balancing a messy stack of papers and a tray of drinks—two that look to be coffee and one filled with some kind of chocolate drink and topped with whipped cream. I think he could perhaps be good-looking in the right circumstances, though not handsome. He’s broad shouldered and tall, but his light-blond hair almost blends into the unhealthy pallor of his yellow-tinged skin. The extra weight hangs on his large frame like uncooked dough, and there’s a sheen of sweat to his forehead as though he’s run here.
Brewer looks up in slight annoyance.
“Sorry I’m late.” The young man places the cardboard tray of cups jerkily on the table, and dark liquid splashes from the top of one. “Thought we could all use coffee.” As he extracts the files from under his arm, several loose papers fall free, and he bends to pick them up.
By the time he retrieves them and pushes them untidily back into the pile, Brewer is shaking her head in amazement. “Would your time have been better spent ordering your papers?” she s
uggests.
The man grins, pulls out the chocolate-cream drink, and slurps a loud tug on the thick straw. “Nope,” he says, seating himself, chunky limbs sprawled.
“This is Officer Malone,” says Brewer wearily, waving a hand toward her blond companion and working a paper cup from the tray. “He’s from New York,” she adds as if this explains everything.
Malone gives me a disarming smile and lifts a drink free to pass it to me.
“I don’t drink…” I begin.
“It’s the chicory kind,” he interrupts good-naturedly, pushing it toward me. “I noticed you had a can at your ranch, and we had the same brand in the back of the cupboard, so…”
My heart picks up. They searched the ranch?
Out loud, I say “Thank you” in a quiet voice and take the coffee.
Officer Brewer shoots him an outright glower, but it seems to bounce right off him. She coughs again and shuffles papers.
“I imagine you want to know why police were at your home,” she begins.
I feel my mouth twist. “Most likely,” I say slowly, “you were taking DNA and fingerprints to match the body you found.”
Brewer hesitates. “No,” she says. “Identification of the victim was really very straightforward. There was no reason to suggest the body belonged to anyone other than your husband. And you were able to identify him.”
“I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain from the face,” I stammer. “It was so swollen…”
I swallow, the image rushing back up at me. The deep purple lips and protruding tongue.
Brewer nods in sympathy, closing her eyes for just a little too long.
“You’re a smart lady, Rachel,” she says. She regards her papers. “You won a college scholarship. Always top of the class. We’ve asked around, and teachers said you were a model student. They tell us your local bishop had so much faith in your abilities that he paid part of your living costs from his own checkbook. So I guess you’re smart enough to know that no one could have gotten out in that desert, dressed a dead body in your husband’s clothes, and put his wallet and ID in his pocket, right?”
