May and Laurie and little Esther . . . perfect little human beings to carry our lives into the future where we could not go! “What will you produce?” Tillie asked Georgie lightly.
“Perhaps one of each, to conserve both time and effort!” Georgie always had a clever answer ready!
Josephine joined with us, but she was unusually subdued and silent. And a little piqued, I thought. She could not pretend to truly rejoice, as the rest of us were doing. But she bit back any remarks that would have been either silly or hurting.
Phoebe seemed content in the daughter she had elected to mother, and we had for a long time forgotten to remember that Esther was not really her child.
Because this was Tillie’s house, and not her father’s, we had planned a party for “the family,” which meant, in this case, Randolph and Peter. There were a few awkward moments, such as the time Tillie started to hand the baby to Randolph and then remembered his arm. The boys were uncomfortable in an element quite foreign to them: that of women and babies, whose secret activities they knew almost nothing about. But the few minutes spent together, as in the old days, felt good to us all.
I noticed that Josie and Randolph did not speak to one another and made every effort to avoid being brought too close together. So much the better, though it was a sad thing to see. So much excitement, but none of it centering around me and mine. Indeed, my own life had grown a little subdued of late. I was cautious with Eugene—cautious with one’s husband. Surely that is not a good thing to be.
Joseph Smith has sent his brother Samuel and others out to preach the Book of Mormon. They are actually scouring the countryside and the villages trying to stir people’s interest. The whole village is talking about it; the entire population appears to be insulted and incensed.
Except perhaps Georgie, who simply laughs at it. “I’ll lend you my copy to read, if you’d like, Esther.”
But I decline. When I do, if I do, I shall read it in my own way, not with her breathing down my neck.
I wonder how many, if any, invite young Samuel into their homes, feed him a meal, and let him explain his message. I wonder how many will actually pay money to purchase this book. Samuel is an admirable youth; softly-spoken, gentle, and respectful . . . It all makes no sense to me!
I suppose it was all right for Mrs. Thorn to criticize Phoebe to friends of her own age and circumstances. But it was particularly bad taste for her to criticize my best friend to me.
It happened too often. Every time occasion brought her to our house, every time we took turns and ate Sunday dinner with them. Her husband, Eugene’s father, is a worthy fellow. His hair grows in little finger curls around his forehead and neck, the way Eugene’s does. He wears a long mustache, such as Eugene is growing. But he does not have my husband’s cat eyes, or his passion and sense of romance. He is an honest, hardworking man. His wife is a hard worker, too; Eugene inherited his slight build from her. But she . . . leaves much to be desired, as far as I am concerned. I had been making sincere attempts to be warm to her, though that which took place on this particular occasion when we were together undid for the remainder of her lifetime any good foundation I may have started to lay.
I truly could not help myself. She was going on and on about Phoebe: “The girl is thin and plain, with a lackadaisical way about her that gets under my skin.” . . . “Mark you, the child has Emily’s brightness and vitality, though I should hate to guess how long that will last.” . . . “Dull, I tell you. I cannot get a word from her.” . . . “Do you not wonder what Simon sees in her? Pity he had to marry again at all.”
On and on! Until I thought my head would burst! If I had thought, I would have said it was only proper for someone to defend her. But I did not think, I just plunged ahead.
“Phoebe is one of the most tender, guileless women I know, ma’am. She may be timid and slow in her manner, but she keeps a spotless house and takes good care of your grandchild—and she is an excellent cook! Every time I show up she is singing sweet songs to the child or entertaining her with pleasant chatter. Her skills with a needle are unsurpassed in all of Palmyra. Think of it—the other girls will always be envious of the frocks Esther will wear.”
“What a recommendation you give her, my dear! But then, you have always been partial to her.”
The words were not spoken kindly; not even with impatient indulgence, but with a sharp edge that lashed at me cruelly.
“Phoebe wins friends,” I replied. “She does not need me as an advocate.”
“You forget yourself, Esther. And, after all, the child is not hers.”
“But she is—Phoebe’s marriage to Simon, and his acceptance of her as wife and as mother to his daughter, has made it so.” Mrs. Thorn gasped and put her hand to her throat, but I pretended to pay this no mind. “Love has made the child hers, Mrs. Thorn. Phoebe loves her truly—and for that you ought to be both grateful and glad.”
Silence followed my words, as though some great chasm had swallowed them. The four of us in the room stared at one another, tongue-tied. I arose, my heart thumping in my chest. “I did not mean to offend you,” I said, “and am truly sorry if I did so.” The silence snapped back again, like the jaws of a trap.
“I shall walk home, Eugene,” I said, shaking my head when he made a weak protest. “The exercise will do me good, and it will be better that way.”
No one stopped me. I walked with long strides, putting the house behind me, my feet veering of their own accord toward the quiet wooded countryside which I seldom entered now that I lived in the town. I was much in need of the restoration that only Nature, in her lack of pretense and solitude, can provide.
Strange, I pondered, how less than a mile’s distance can make such a difference. On one end are houses crammed together along city streets, where vehicles pass noisily all through the day. On the other are cultivated fields and open pastures, blackbirds and blue jays, and little rivulets that sing a tune to the sky. On one end there is the constant bustle of commerce, the constant press of social expectations. On the other is peace, and the flagrant, generous displays of beauty to enchant the heart and relax the mind. No wonder I sometimes feel ill at ease, with nerves jangled.
I stayed longer than I should have; but how difficult it was for me to turn away and go home. Eugene was there when I arrived. He looked up as I entered, but his gaze did not seek mine. I took off my hat and shawl and hung them on the peg behind the door.
“Eugene.” I perched on the edge of the chair that was nearest him. “I should like very much to—”
“Let us not talk of it, Esther. We will only quarrel—since we do not agree on the matter—”
“I do not wish to quarrel with you.”
“Then let us leave it alone.” He turned back to his newspaper, circling certain items and making notes in the margins.
“Why is there so much of late upon which we do not agree, Eugene? It did not used to be so.”
He made no reply. After a few moments I rose and walked out of the parlor and into my own silent room.
Sooner or later, Josephine always goes too far and brings a crisis of one sort or another to pass.
The first picnic of June is always an occasion of sorts. Josie asked Alexander to take her; and, the truth is, he should have said yes. But he told her he had too much work at the mill waiting for him.
“All you ever do is work,” she flew back at him. “Work has made you an old man before your time.”
He may have winced at her words, but he made no reply to them; and nothing incenses Josie more than being ignored. “Why did you take a wife at all, much less a young and pretty one, if you had no intention to give her any pleasure?”
“My intention was to give her a good name and a good home, to give her my love and protection.”
Pretty words that incensed her yet further. “You used to spoil me and treat me a little,” she complained. “In the beginning you were not like this!”
“In the beginning you were not a disobe
dient wife who made of me a laughingstock—a wife who could not be trusted.”
He had never spoken to her that way before. “I will go by myself,” she declared.
“You will do no such thing. I have put up with enough, and more. I forbid it, Josephine.”
She flounced out of the room; always a pretty woman’s last defense. When the day for the picnic arrived she dressed up in all her finery. I know—for I drove out to the mill to collect some of the wild roots that grow by the stream. She came out all smiles and looking dazzlingly beautiful. But Alexander was waiting for her.
“This time you will do as I have told you, Josephine. Go back to your room.”
She stomped her foot. She was not ready to give up yet. “I am not a child, that you can order me about so!”
“You are worse than a child. Do as I say, or I will see to the matter myself.”
She did not look at me, but I saw her brown eyes cloud with tears. She took one step forward, then another. Alexander swooped her up in his arms, draped her across his shoulder like a fifty-pound sack of flour, and carried her into the house.
I did not wait to see what happened. My plants forgotten, I turned the light wagon around and headed back to Palmyra. I spoke of the matter to no one, not one single soul. I felt ashamed. The cloud of their misery hung over me for the rest of the day and lay down with me that night.
Two days later I returned to complete my errand. I saw no one about the place, so I headed down past the mill trace to where the water pools out and the tall ferns and reeds and water weeds grow. When I had my basket nearly full of dripping specimens I heard footsteps come up behind me.
“I’ll heft that onto the wagon bed for you, Esther.”
I turned round slowly. Alexander stood meekly awaiting my pleasure, but I felt suddenly red-hot and unable to make my mouth work to give him reply. After a moment he lifted the tall basket and set it on the cushion of papers I had laid out for it.
“Thank you,” I managed.
He nodded and helped me up to the wagon seat. “Will you stop at the house for a few moments?”
“Where is Josephine?”
“Oh, she is inside. She will remain there long enough to learn her lesson, heaven willing.”
A terrible image of her thrust in a little cramped room, without light or food, sprang up before me. I shuddered. “I don’t believe I have time for a visit today. Give her my love, will you? I’ll return on Tuesday, my visiting day, with a treat for her—will you tell her?”
He nodded, slapped the horse on the rump, and sent us along our way. I fancied I saw Josephine’s face staring out of every window as I drove, without stopping, past the big, quiet house.
“Joseph Smith has been arrested.” It was Eugene who told me; and I sensed that he did so with a certain quiet satisfaction to which he would never admit.
“Who told you that?”
“It’s common knowledge, Esther. I’m surprised you’ve not heard it already. It seems he and his followers have been disturbing the peace with their meetings—with holding baptisms at all hours.”
“You know that is not true!”
“No matter. He was finally arrested outside Colesville for disorderly conduct—and for setting the country in an uproar by preaching the Book of Mormon.”
“That is ridiculous, and you know it.”
“Some people do not think so. Can you see now, Esther, why I have asked you to be careful?”
“No! I cannot see why. You ought to be able to put it away from you and ignore it—there was a time you would have defended him, Eugene!”
“Perhaps there was.” His narrow, sensitive face was so somber, his very muscles sagging, his expression distressed and confused.
“Why not now?” I pressed—and I shouldn’t have. “Anyone whose good opinion is worth having would respect you for standing against such men and such underhanded measures.”
He looked back at me sadly. “You do not understand, Esther—you will not understand.”
“I would if I could!” I cried.
But he was shaking his head at me. “Leave it alone, dear little firebrand of mine, leave it alone.”
I know he meant to be tender, but my ire was up. “Why is there becoming a list of things we must ‘leave alone’—things that divide us, Eugene? One is too many—but the list keeps growing.”
“I suppose life is like that,” he said.
“That is no answer!”
“I have no other answer for you.” He turned away from me. “I am going to bed.”
He picked up the candle, expecting me to follow him. But I stood in the darkness a while. There was a time, I realized, with a recognition that was painful, that I wanted nothing more than to be part of this man—to immerse myself in him, to do anything necessary to build a unity with him—to achieve the fabled oneness of man and wife. Now . . . now! It frightened me to realize that my inner self was still lonely, still solitary, still incapable—perhaps even unwilling—to make certain kinds of concessions, to relinquish something essential which I could not begin to define.
Perhaps his mocking response was, indeed, the only answer. Life is like that. Perhaps there are some things one cannot even hope to explain.
“It was not at all the way people are telling it.” Georgie sat in my kitchen with her feet to the fire, her black eyes snapping with the indignation she felt. “It was the troublemakers themselves who did those things of which they accuse him.”
I sighed inwardly. “What do you mean?”
“Near the home of Mr. Knight, Joseph and the others had dammed up the stream in order to form a pool where they could perform baptisms. But during the night a party of men tore it out, and then gathered the following day with hopes to lay their hands upon the Prophet, but his friends prevented them.”
“Is that what people call him—the Prophet?”
“He is a prophet, Esther.” Those dark eyes bore into mine with incredible fervor.
“Go on.”
“They returned during a meeting and arrested him—they did not care on what charge! Why, even the constable admitted that their design was to get him away from his friends!”
“Did they succeed?”
“No. For the constable saw what manner of man Joseph is. When the constable’s wagon was surrounded on the road by McMaster’s men, he whipped up the horse and drove out of their reach. Joseph was acquitted at the trial the following day—twice acquitted, for his enemies kept trumping up new charges against him.”
“It sounds like a farce, Georgie. Really. Why should grown men behave so?”
“Indeed! It is hard to conceive of, isn’t it? A Mr. Reid, one of the men acquired to defend him, said that not one blemish or spot was found against Joseph’s character. But the men were so angry in their defeat they threatened to tar and feather him. He had to be protected and then helped to escape—can you even imagine it, Esther?”
I could not. It made me ill to so much as think of it. My own impressions of Joseph came back to me: his gentle nature, his kindness, his concern for others.
That night when we were alone together I asked Eugene if he would bring home a copy of this Book of Mormon for me. “I should like to see for myself what it says,” I explained.
“That is not the best of ideas, Esther.”
“Best of ideas? It is nothing to make a fuss about—I want to see what it is, Eugene, that is causing people to make such a fuss.”
“We haven’t the money to purchase a copy.”
“Very well. Ask Mr. Grandin to lend you one. Just overnight—I’ll make certain you have it to return in the morning.”
“I would rather not do that.”
I counted to ten. I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had upset me! “Never mind, then. I shall just ask Georgie to lend me hers, as she has offered to do.”
Eugene put down his newspaper. “Esther, come here,” he said. I went to stand by his chair. “What is it about this Mormonite issue that
you keep getting caught up in it?”
“Really, my dear. I am far from ‘caught up in it.’ I am curious, even interested—”
“Because of Georgie.”
“Partly. But not altogether.”
“I do not want you to get mixed up in it. After a time the whole thing will blow over, and we shall be better off if we keep our distance.”
“Those are fine words, but I do not know why you are speaking them. What difference would it make for me to read a little bit in this book—to show a little sympathy toward people who are friends of mine and have been misjudged and misused?”
“What difference would it make if you did not?”
There was a vehemence to Eugene’s tone that wounded me. I did up the supper dishes in silence—thinking of half a dozen different things I might have said to him, every one brilliant and convincing. But I kept them all to myself. Nor did I attempt to discourse with him upon any other subject that night.
It was late when the knock came, a rat-a-tat eager pattern. Eugene was already in bed. Reluctantly I rose from my cozy spot beside the fire and opened the door just a crack.
“It is I,” came a whispered hiss. “Randolph. Please open up.”
What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into? I am afraid that was my first thought. But his features did not confirm it. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour,” he said, “but I wished to come under cover of darkness, and, more important, return the same way.”
I stood waiting, wondering to what his strange sentence referred. “Is someone in trouble?” I ventured.
“You might say so.” He sat down at the table, and I automatically put a glass of buttermilk and my last slice of pie before him. “I do not wish to upset you—”
“Well, you are certainly failing at that!”
“You are right. I must out with it at once. It concerns your sister—but she is all right now,” he hastened to add.
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