Heller

by JD Nixon

  Of course Pastor Peachey led the prayers, which consisted of an extremely lengthy reading from the Bible. That was followed by an even lengthier sermon on the sinful nature of relations, which appeared to be a favourite topic of his. I noticed Sarah straining to listen to every word and nuance, her lips moving as she tried to memorise what he was saying.

  Afterwards, he questioned them all closely on what they had just heard. Poor little Sarah received the bulk of his admonishments, despite the fact that Hannah clearly had no clue about anything at all, not giving a single correct answer to any of his questions. In fact, I could have offered smarter and more cogent answers than she did and I wasn’t even listening properly. It looked as though Sarah was up for further instruction from her husband again that night and she didn’t look thrilled by the prospect.

  Chapter 27

  The women and I dined very simply that evening on peanut butter sandwiches made with oily home-brand peanut butter on cheap white bread, potato chips, horrible tasteless apples and tap water. I noticed that the Pastor went back to his room to eat, not partaking of our ‘feast’. I suspected he was going to order room service for himself, probably a juicy steak and sides, leaving his wives to eat like preschoolers. I heartily loathed him more and more every minute.

  I discovered that ‘doing the Lord’s work and serving their husband’ meant hours of embroidery for the women each day. They turned plain pieces of linen and cotton into beautiful works of art on tablecloths, napkins, place mats, pillowcases and any other piece of haberdashery on which they could embroider. After we finished our humble dinner, they unpacked their embroidery equipment and busily started sewing. Their skill was breathtaking. Mary was particularly talented, dipping her needle in and out of the material faster than I could see. She was creating an exquisitely stunning floral border to a tablecloth, a riot of flowers in gorgeous colours bursting through a creeping emerald vine of leaves. It was simply spectacular. Being completely useless at arts and crafts myself, I couldn’t praise them enough and insisted that they show me every piece they were each currently working on. They blushed at my effusive acclaim, but smiled into their laps, quietly pleased with themselves.

  Mary explained that they sold their work at local markets, and with a modest pride stated that their work was much in demand, which I could readily believe given the quality of the workmanship. The money earned by their embroidery constituted the family’s main income, the Pastor contributing only an insignificant amount through his writings and lectures. Martha, the ‘head wife’ and Mary were allowed by the Pastor to take on some small personal side jobs. They might embroider a skirt, a blouse or a wedding dress for someone, for example, keeping any profits they made for themselves to buy little treats. This was how Mary was able to afford to make her special dress that I now had the pleasure of wearing. I gathered that treats were rare in the life of the Peachey wives, and that Martha and Mary were given this liberty by the Pastor as an honour for their senior wifely roles.

  Rebecca piped up to tell me that both women were very kind and thoughtful though and often bought little treats for the other four wives or their multitude of children with their precious money. Mary gave her a small, self-effacing smile and she smiled back fondly. I was surprised by how much affection there was between the wives. I guess if I’d given polygamy a second’s thought before I met the Peachey family, I would have imagined a lot of bitchiness and one-upmanship taking place, but these wives were supportive of each other and generally harmonious in their relationship. They genuinely appeared to love each other.

  Eventually poor Sarah received the summons to go to the Pastor’s room for the night. She packed her meagre things hurriedly. I was told that the Pastor didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  “Where’s the conjugal nightgown?” she asked in a panic. There was a flurry in the room as the wives frantically searched for it. I would have helpfully joined in the search, but I had no idea what they were talking about. Finally Elizabeth waved it over her head. It had accidently fallen down the back of one of the beds.

  “What is it?” I asked her curiously.

  “It’s the conjugal nightgown that we must wear when we share our husband’s bed for the night,” Elizabeth said, holding it up for me to see. It was a thin, filmy floor-length nightgown that left little to the imagination, being completely see-through. It was incredibly revealing.

  “You wear that? Just that?” I asked incredulously.

  “We all do. Whoever shares our husband’s bed for the night must wear it. It is his wish,” said Mary.

  “It’s not very modest, is it?”

  “Our husband says that it reveals a woman for the sinful creature that she is. And that is his wish,” she repeated.

  I rolled my eyes in disbelief and watched as Sarah scurried to go next door. I stripped out of my horrid dress and unplaited my hair, waiting patiently for my turn in the shower. I checked my phone while I waited. A missed call from Heller. I rang him back.

  “Having fun, my sweet?”

  “An absolute ball.” And I couldn’t have forced one more drop of sarcasm into that response if I’d used a shoehorn.

  “Any trouble so far?”

  “No. We’ve had a very quiet day.”

  “You’re not tempted to join the family?”

  “No fucking way!” Heads turned in my direction in alarm at the profanity. I mouthed ‘sorry’ to them.

  He chuckled. “You sound very sure about that.”

  “I am.”

  “But remember what I said about minding your language, please.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Look, I gotta run. It’s my turn in the bathroom.”

  “Sweet dreams, Matilda.”

  I hung up, had a quick and cold shower, all the hot water used up already. I changed into my singlet top and boxer short pyjama set and retired at the extraordinarily late hour for them of nine o’clock.

  I had a very uncomfortable sleep that night. The lounge was full of lumps and springs and I couldn’t find a restful position. One of the women snored loudly, the air-conditioner was making a strange pinging noise and the tap was dripping in the bathroom and no amount of turning the faucet could make it stop. It was just one of those nights you have to endure and I spent it trying to deduce why Heller used a fake name. Witness protection? Former spy who’d been burned? Assassin who hit the wrong target? Con man on the lam? Father avoiding child support? Bankrupt who needed a fresh start? Bigamist whose wives were on to him? When you started pondering, it was easy to think of loads of reasons why someone might need a fake name. None of them were particularly appealing though, and I wondered what his story was. Maybe I’d find out one day. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t. Daniel didn’t know and he’d lived with Heller for years.

  I was glad when dawn came. The women rose very early and we breakfasted on more peanut butter sandwiches, accompanied this time by a cup of tea each from the hotel room’s complimentary stock, making five cups of tea from only four teabags. Sarah returned from the Pastor’s room and immediately headed into the shower, eyes downcast. No sooner had she come out then the Pastor arrived for morning prayers. The women had all dressed as soon as they rose, but I sat in my pyjamas still, slowly brushing my hair in front of the mirror while he led the women in another lengthy prayer session. His eyes kept crossing to me in the mirror the entire time he was in the room, that odd, unsettling expression on his face again.

  That day the Pastor singled out Hannah for correction and requested that she attend his room for further instruction at eleven. Sarah appeared mightily relieved and Hannah’s face held a mix of proud apprehension. The day passed slowly. The women read their Bibles, discussed the Bible, discussed their husband’s sermons or did more stitch work, conversing in low voices. I was bored out of my brain. Battling overpowering ennui, I picked up the nearest Bible and flipped through its pages, noting that all the passages relating to fornication, begetting and wanton women had been underlined. I gently placed the book back down
where I found it.

  Just before Hannah was due to attend for further instruction, I rang the Pastor in his room. “Would you mind if I escorted your wives to the park across the road for some exercise? A walk would be very beneficial for us all.” I thought quickly. “And very godly, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

  He wasn’t pleased, but knowing that he would be occupied with Hannah for some time he reluctantly agreed, with the strict proviso that we could roam no further than the park. I didn’t care – it was a big park and we could manage a decent walk within its boundaries. The women were overjoyed when I told them, all except poor Hannah who had to make her farewells to join her husband.

  “Sorry Hannah,” I consoled, patting her arm sympathetically.

  There was no chance of me wearing the ugly dress in public, so I slipped on a pair of jeans and chose between a couple of t-shirts that were the only other clothes I had bought to wear besides my original suit. I escorted the women down in the lift and we had an enjoyable stroll around the park, soaking up the sunshine and fresh air. They were enchanted with the flora and the small amount of fauna we saw, educating me in return on the different types of plants and animals native to their part of the world. As we ambled through the park, two Heller’s men in their distinctive uniform approached from the opposite direction, probably heading out to lunch from their assignment.

  “Hey!” they hailed me and we slapped hands in the traditional high-five Heller’s greeting.

  “On a job?” one queried, looking curiously at my charges.

  “Yep. I’m mother hen today, taking the chicks for a walk.” They smiled.

  “Lovely day for it.”

  “Sure is. Anyway, gotta get these lovelies back to the coop. Have a good one, guys.”

  We slapped hands again and went our separate ways, the whole mundane exchange leaving me with a warm glow of happiness. They had been friendly and treated me like just another colleague, so maybe not all the men thought I was sleeping with the Boss. Or if they did think that, it didn’t bother them enough to feel that I was getting any special treatment. It struck me then just how badly I wanted to be considered part of the Heller’s team.

  I ushered the women back to the hotel. They didn’t seem to notice the nosy looks their appearance elicited, or just didn’t care. It was hard to tell. Safely returned to their room, they chatted excitedly about their outing to Hannah who arrived back not long after we had. She struggled bravely to be happy for the others’ opportunity to stretch their legs, but bitter disappointment was stamped on her face.

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and it wasn’t long before Pastor Peachey arrived once more for the evening prayer session. He gave me that creepy look again, taking in my jeans and loose hair. I sat on the bed and stared at him intently during the whole session. Let him see what it was like, for once, I thought nastily. He didn’t enjoy the scrutiny, judging by the number of times his eyes shifted over to me.

  He was out of sorts that evening. All the women got a blast for not concentrating and not thinking about the scriptures properly, even though it was him who constantly lost his train of thought or place in the Bible. I thought he was very hard on them and it was a subdued little group of women who readied themselves for the evening lecture. Reluctantly, I pulled the dress back over my head and had my hair plaited again.

  When it came close to the start of the lecture, the Pastor knocked on our door and like a group of obedient schoolgirls we all walked the few floors down to the hotel’s large conference hall. I felt curious eyes on us as we made our way there and was mortified to be thought part of this weird family. I wanted to walk to one side, but what was the real use of that? I was dressed like one of his wives, and everyone would think of me as one of them anyway. I hoped I didn’t run into anybody I knew.

  The other five women kept their eyes lowered modestly, only peeking up on occasion to take in the faded baroque extravagance of the conference hall. It had been built lavishly in less economically rational times, but like the hotel in general, had a general air of squalor and neglect about it.

  The wives and I stood in a line at one side of the hall. They stood uniformly, their hands clasped in front of them, chattering quietly to each other. I stood in the middle, towering over them in height, arms crossed, one foot in front of the other, hip cocked, eyes suspicious and a strong expression of contempt on my face. I looked pissed off and menacing, exactly the type of woman you would run a million miles from if you were a polygamist. And how do I know how I appeared just then? Because some dropkick of a photographer took a shot at that exact moment that ended up in the next day’s newspaper under the headline, Beauties and the Beast, which was neither accurate nor witty. I really should have done what I wanted at the time and smashed that camera over his head. I strode towards him in an intimidating way, and he ran off without taking another shot, which is presumably how that truly awful photo ended up in the newspaper instead. Never mind, I told myself, nobody read that trashy little tabloid anyway.

  There were a surprisingly large amount of attendees at the lecture. God, how many boring, ugly, middle-aged sexual perverts were interested in multiple wives in this city anyway, I thought derisively. It seemed like an outlandish number of them to me. I made it my personal duty that evening to individually glare at each one of them, until they turned away from my reproving gaze, squirming in embarrassment.

  Pastor Peachey was introduced by a local advocate of polygamy, Robert Rigby, a boring, ugly, middle-aged sexual pervert. He was on the news on a regular basis, staging repeated one-man pickets in front of Parliament House trying to persuade the legislators to make polygamy legal in this state. He was a lunatic and a joke and I don’t know what his long-suffering wife of thirty-five years thought of his continual attempts to legally bring young brides into their marriage bed, but she should have chopped his knob off years ago and saved the rest of us from his dull diatribes.

  The Pastor spoke for two long, long hours, during which I made absolutely no attempt to hide my gigantic yawns. The wives and I were sitting down by then, but still segregated at the side of the hall, so that everyone could observe us with pity, or longing, depending on your viewpoint. Mostly longing I suspected, casting my eyes scathingly over the assorted bunch of weirdos and perverts gathered together. The wives were hanging on their husband’s every word, except Hannah who looked as though she was singing quietly to herself.

  Pastor Peachey finished his speech with another lengthy section of scripture that sounded as though it was also about wanton women and sinful relations. He was a one-note band, that man. There was tumultuous applause, some of the perverts even jumping to their feet in acclamation. The Pastor stayed behind to chat to attendees and to answer questions about his beliefs and lifestyle, which he was more than happy to do.

  I took the opportunity to hustle the wives back to their hotel room. In the hallway of our floor we were accosted by three very drunk guys who evidently mistook us for a bunch of coy strippers. They deliberately blocked our progress in that aggressive way drunken guys have, thinking that they’re being flirty and playful, when they’re actually being quite menacing. One of them, a drop-dead gorgeous man with wavy golden hair and stunning gold eyes, his handsome face loose and rubbery with the alcohol, grabbed Hannah around the waist and tried to kiss her. She screamed loudly and swatted at him ineffectually with her hands. I sighed, my stock of patience all used up by the tedium of the lecture.

  I started off nicely, pulling Hannah gently away from his busy hands. “Look guys, we’ve had a long night and we just want to go to bed, so if you don’t mind . . .”

  Golden Guy turned his attention on me. “We wanna go to bed too, sweetheart,” he slurred and leered, advancing towards me. “Six of you, three of us. Would be fun. Good time had by all. Guaran-fucking-teed.”

  “Do we look like whores to you?” I asked him scornfully, trying to dodge his groping hands.

  “You look like girls who need a good fuck.�
�� The wives shrieked in horror at the suggestion, but he certainly had my measure – I was in dire need of a good one. “And we’re the men for the job,” he boasted, swaying as he stood there, sweeping his hand to include his equally inebriated mates – a lanky, freckly man and a stout, balding man. I was less sure about that. He leaned forward, blinking, trying to focus his eyes on me. “You’re pretty.”

  “Yeah, pretty pissed off that you won’t get out the way.” I tried to push past him, but despite his drunkenness, he stood his ground firmly, a buddy behind each shoulder. I was fondly thinking of my capsicum spray right about then, but my handbag was back in the room.

  “Last time,” I said, looking up into his beautiful eyes. Why are the good-looking ones always the biggest jerks? “Out of the way, sunshine.”

  “Gimme a kiss first, pretty girl.” His hand shot out and grabbed my butt, having a good feel. “Mmm, nice and tight. Bet you’re hot in the sack.”

  That whole exchange riled me for two reasons: one, I hate people (men) presuming they can touch me without my permission, and two, as I said before, I really hate being called a girl. I didn’t bother reasoning with him any further, but just quickly fisted my hand and forcefully punched him in the neck, right in his Adam’s apple. It was one of the manoeuvres Tysen had taught me because it doesn’t require a great deal of skill to perform and it’s very painful for the assaulted. While he was distracted by that unpleasant experience, I took him by surprise by ramming against him hard with all my force, unbalancing him in his drunkenness. He went down heavily, taking down his buddies at the same time like bowling pins, them being too dull-witted by the booze to get out of the way.

  “Ladies, quickly!” I suggested with urgency and we all hurried down the hallway, half-running, half-walking, towards our room. I ushered them ahead of me so that I was last in the line to step over the struggling bodies on the floor, attempting to disentangle themselves from each other.