The Prophet Calls

by Melanie Sumrow

  Then, the barn door flies open with a loud bang. Cold air rushes inside.

  Uncle Hyram’s eyes flick between us. “What are you two doing in here?” he asks, the vein bulging in the center of his forehead. But it’s not really a question. It’s an accusation.

  16.

  “So, this is where you’ve been going when you sneak out.” Uncle Hyram’s eyes narrow and seem to peer right through me. I struggle to keep the guilt from my face. My heart hammers inside my chest. He can’t find out about my violin.

  Channing shuffles away from me and grabs his shovel. “She was just helping me feed the horses, sir.”

  I nod quickly.

  Uncle Hyram looks doubtful as he shakes his head. “Max warned me about you two.” He keeps his gaze of blame fixed on me.

  It’s all I can do to resist squirming.

  “Now, tell me the truth,” he says. “Did this boy kiss you?”

  “What?” I ask, my voice upturned with shock. My whole body flushes hot. “No!”

  “Sir, I swear,” Channing pleads, his knuckles turning white as he squeezes the shovel. “Nothing happened.”

  “You’ve done quite enough, I think.” Uncle Hyram nods at Channing. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  I flinch, knowing what that means. Channing turns pale.

  And then Uncle Hyram turns to me. “Your mother is looking for you. I suggest you go to her.”

  But I can hardly process his words. Did he really think we were kissing? What did Uncle Max tell him that would make him think that?

  All I’ve ever been taught is that I’m supposed to remain pure for my future husband. No kissing. Nothing. I know Channing and I didn’t do anything wrong, so why is it I suddenly feel so dirty?

  “You best hurry inside,” Uncle Hyram says.

  Humiliated, I turn away from Channing and yank my coat off the hook. I run outside, the sun blinding as it rises along the snowy horizon. My eyes water. But I keep running toward the cabin. Toward Mother.

  My breath stutters as I slip on the bridge, but I manage to stay upright before crossing into the skeletal grove of trees. I have to find Mother and tell her nothing happened between Channing and me before the rumor mill starts.

  When I reach the massive log cabin, I pass the God Squad guard and throw open the front door. The bitter smell of coffee fills the air. I quickly remove my coat and stomp the snow from my boots before hurrying past the portrait of the Prophet. “Mother?” I call, moving into the kitchen, hoping to find her there helping with breakfast.

  Instead, the first person I see is the same white-blond-haired girl who slammed her door in my face the night we first arrived. She gives me a know-it-all smile as she slices a loaf of bread. “I hear your mother’s going to marry Uncle Hyram,” she says.

  What? The smile doesn’t leave her face.

  My throat tightens as I search the kitchen for Mother. This has to be another trick. If Mother marries Uncle Hyram, all of her children become his. I would have to call him “Father.” But I already have a father.

  “My father’s coming home soon,” I insist. “We’re going home to Watchful.” I nod, trying to convince myself as much as her. “Any day now, we’ll be going home.”

  The girl shrugs. “Whatever you say.” She moves on to the next loaf with her knife.

  Pearline wipes her hands on a dish towel as she approaches, her long skirt swishing side to side. “Is there a problem?”

  I’m so confused. First, I’m accused of kissing a boy for no reason. Now, I’m being told I’ll be getting a new father. “Do you know where Mother is?” I ask, my voice shaking.

  To my surprise, her face doesn’t go tight as usual. Instead, she nods, which makes me even more uneasy. “Up in her room,” Pearline says, and then returns to the cooktop to stir the grits.

  I dash through the living room and up the stairs, taking two at a time. My hands sweep across the logs as I climb. It can’t be true. Mother wouldn’t marry Uncle Hyram. She loves Father, and we’re going home.

  When I reach the third floor, I run down the hallway. “Mother?” I call as I reach our room and then stop.

  Amy is out of bed in her nightgown, wrapping shiny white cloth around Mother’s arm. Bolts of different white fabrics are spread across the bed. Someone has placed a full-length mirror in our room. Mother spots me in the mirror. “There you are,” she says with a twinkle in her eye I haven’t seen since before Baby Bill was born.

  My heart sinks: It’s true. My hands clench as I fight back tears. I open my mouth to speak but can’t manage to form the words. I can’t believe she’s completely giving up on Father—giving up on our family—but here she is, trying on fabrics for a wedding gown.

  “This one’s my favorite,” she says, holding up her arm. “What do you think?”

  I glance at Amy for her reaction, and I can tell she’s fighting it, too. Her hand swipes a tear from beneath her glasses. She nods weakly.

  “Oh, good,” Uncle Hyram says, barging in behind me. “You found her.”

  Amy’s eyes go wide as she scurries to cover herself with her pink robe.

  I jerk sideways, distancing myself from him as he nods to Mother. He’s going to tell her I kissed Channing before I get a chance to explain. “Did you tell her?” he asks.

  Mother smiles. “I was about to.”

  Why does she look so happy? My face goes hot. She could at least pretend to be a little less happy about this wedding. “No need,” I say, finding the words.

  Uncle Hyram’s expression turns into a question. “Did you say something?”

  I jut out my chin. “Are you deaf?” He is about a thousand years older than Mother, so probably.

  “Gentry,” Mother scolds.

  But I don’t care. I whip around to face her. “You.”

  Mother looks startled.

  “How could you?” I say, stabbing the air with my finger. “How could you give up on our family?”

  Mother smooths her skirt. “The Prophet had a revelation that I now belong to Hyram.”

  I glare at them both. He’s so old and fat. Mother’s half his age and still beautiful. I shake my head. “I don’t care what the Prophet says.”

  Mother’s expression tightens.

  Amy covers her mouth. Silent tears run down her face.

  But I can’t help it. Any hope of being reunited with our father has now vanished. Our family won’t be repaired. If Mother marries Uncle Hyram, I won’t even be reunited with Father in the next life.

  Uncle Hyram takes a step closer. “Young lady, I expect you to keep sweet in this house.”

  “I don’t care what you expect,” I say, even though I know it means a beating’s coming. “You’re not my father. You’ll never be my father.” I’m boiling over and can’t keep a lid on anymore.

  Uncle Hyram nods, smug. “The Prophet was right,” he says to Mother. “Conway has completely lost control of his children. No wonder he was banished from the priesthood, and you were sent to me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mother says, shaking her head. “She’s not usually like this.”

  “Yes, I am,” I argue. “But you make me keep my feelings hidden. All of us. And I’m sick of it!”

  Without warning, Uncle Hyram snatches my braid and yanks it firmly upward, bringing sudden, stinging tears to my eyes. “Perfect obedience produces perfect faith.” His face shines with sweat.

  I try to wrench free, but it only makes the pain worse. My hands fly to my head; his grip stays firm. He twists my braid so tight, I drop to my knees.

  Amy’s tears are no longer silent. She backs into the corner, whimpering, her eyes full of fear.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to her.

  But Uncle Hyram doesn’t let go. “Has she picked a fabric?” Uncle Hyram barks.

  Mother’s smile is gone. “Not yet,” she says and kneads her hands.

  He tosses me on the bed. I smack against the mattress, making the bolts of fabric bounce.

  “Pic
k one,” he orders.

  I cover my hair with my hands so he can’t grab it again. My gaze moves between the white cotton and taffeta, the sateen and lace. I don’t understand why he wants me to pick the fabric for Mother’s wedding dress.

  “The Prophet called,” Uncle Hyram says, his voice oily.

  Mother puts her hands together, as if in prayer. “Thanks be to God.”

  Amy’s blubbering grows louder.

  “Gentry,” he says, compelling me to look him in the eye. When I finally do, his lip curls on one side. “In one week’s time, you will become a wife.”

  17.

  No one knows who I’m supposed to marry. At least, that’s what they’re telling me. The Prophet had a revelation about my impending marriage, and that’s all I’ve been told. It doesn’t matter to me who it is. I can’t get married.

  The other girls in the kitchen stare and whisper as I take deliberate steps past them and move toward Uncle Hyram’s office. I can’t get married. I turn the corner, away from the noises of the house—cooking, cleaning, children’s cries and squabbles—and meander down the dark and narrow hallway.

  I can’t get married. My heart beats inside my throat as I reach the closed door at the end of the hallway. I raise my trembling hand to knock.

  I could barely look at Uncle Hyram last night when he was sealed to Mother for all time and eternity. I couldn’t understand why she was so happy or how she could look so beautiful in her lacy white dress with her hair—like spun gold—woven in a braided crown. How could Mother smile at him or let her cheeks flush pink when he touched her hand? Didn’t she love Father anymore? Did the pronouncement of the Prophet really change her heart to where she loved Uncle Hyram instead? He is so old. Even now, the thought makes my stomach clench. My hand falls to my side.

  The door flies open, and Channing bumps into me but manages to keep hold of the stack of wood in his arms. “Oh, sorry,” he says, his cheeks reddening.

  The last time I was this close to him was four days ago in the barn. When Uncle Hyram accused us of kissing.

  The back of my neck goes hot. I slip sideways to give him room to maneuver the narrow hall with his load. But he moves the same direction and knocks against me, dropping the logs.

  I jump back.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says again. He looks as nervous as I feel.

  “Close the door,” Uncle Hyram orders.

  Channing reaches for the knob. “Yes, sir.”

  I step into the threshold, blocking him. “No, please.”

  The wrinkles on Uncle Hyram’s face smooth in surprise and then quickly crease with annoyance. “I’m busy.”

  Channing squats to pick up the wood behind me, one log at a time.

  I wish he’d hurry. I don’t want him to hear this.

  “Close the door,” Uncle Hyram insists.

  I swallow hard. “Father,” I say, forcing the word from my lips, “I’ve come to apologize.”

  Uncle Hyram’s expression softens. “Then, do come in,” he says, waving me into his office. “Shut the door behind you.”

  I turn to the door as Channing stands, his arms full again. I’m sorry, he mouths, looking like he wants to say more.

  Sorry for what? Sorry about my mother and Uncle Hyram? Sorry about my upcoming marriage? Or sorry for something I don’t even know about yet? I hug my arms around my body.

  “Are you coming?” Uncle Hyram says, and I suddenly remember why I’m here. I softly close the door on Channing.

  With a deep breath, I try to focus: I can’t get married.

  “Have a seat,” Uncle Hyram says, gesturing to a pair of straight-back wooden chairs that face his desk.

  I sit in the closest one and shift, and shift again, but it’s no use. It’s as uncomfortable as it looks.

  “Who has joined us, Hyram?” a familiar voice says.

  My eyes flash to the picture of the Prophet on the wall behind Uncle Hyram’s desk. My pulse skyrockets. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

  “It’s Gentry Whittier,” Uncle Hyram says, using my new last name.

  I want to correct him, but I want to get out of here even more. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t—I can come back later.” I stand with my hand on the chair to keep from falling.

  “No need, child,” the Prophet says from the speakerphone. “We’ve spoken before, as I recall.”

  My hand squeezes the top of the chair.

  “Anything you can say to Hyram, you can say to me.”

  Uncle Hyram nods to the chair, and I drop into the hard seat once more. I was nervous enough coming to the bishop of Waiting, but now the Prophet? He’s the leader of our church—God on earth—and I’m going to tell him his revelation about me is wrong?

  “You were saying?” Uncle Hyram prompts, resting his arms on his rounded belly.

  I wipe my palms against my skirt. “Um, yes. Uh, I wanted to say I’m sorry about the other night. I was just, uh, surprised and—anyway, I’m sorry.”

  “Very well,” Uncle Hyram says. “If that’s all.” He stands like he’s ready to get rid of me.

  I clutch the arms of the chair. I can’t get married.

  Uncle Hyram returns to his seat. “Is there something else?”

  I nod. Come on. Just say it. This is my chance. “I think—I think there’s been a mistake.”

  “What kind of mistake?” the Prophet prods.

  Uncle Hyram’s expression tightens.

  I shift in the chair; it’s still no use. “It’s just I’m only thirteen,” I say and then pause, expecting them to respond with something like they had no idea I was so young and, that had they only known, this never would’ve happened. But there’s only silence.

  “And?” Uncle Hyram asks, his voice impatient.

  “And I don’t think getting married is right for me.”

  Uncle Hyram’s eyes narrow. “Marriage is God’s will, spoken through the Prophet.”

  I scoot to the front of my chair. “Um, I don’t mean not ever. Just not right now.”

  “And you think that’s your choice?” Uncle Hyram presses his large hands against his desk. His broad knuckles are turning white. “Are you questioning the Prophet’s revelation?”

  My heart hammers inside my chest. How can I answer without defying everything I’ve been taught to believe?

  “Have you prayed about it?” the Prophet asks, his voice still calm.

  I quickly nod, and it’s true. I’ve prayed lots and lots. I’ve prayed He won’t make me do this.

  “Because this is God’s calling for your life,” the Prophet adds. “Your entire purpose is to please your future husband.”

  My heart sinks.

  “You don’t want to be alone for all eternity, do you?”

  I shake my head and quickly answer, “No.” The thought of losing what’s left of my family is unbearable. I’ve already lost so much.

  Uncle Hyram smiles and pushes back from his desk before putting his feet up. He crosses one boot over the other. On the bottom, one of his boots has “Keep” stitched across the sole. The other says “Sweet.”

  I shudder. “I just don’t feel like now’s the time,” I plead. “If I could wait a few more years.”

  The Prophet clears his throat. “This is your mission, Gentry. You must open yourself to my revelation. Your eternal salvation depends on it.”

  So why does it feel like a punishment?

  Uncle Hyram crosses and uncrosses his boots. “You should know if you choose to defy the Prophet, you will no longer be welcome to stay here in Waiting.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Where would I go?”

  “You’ll be an apostate,” the Prophet adds. “No longer chosen or worthy of the celestial kingdom.”

  I squirm, feeling the trap closing in on me. If I stay, I have to get married. If I refuse to get married, I can’t stay. I’ll have nowhere to go. Nowhere to live. No Amy.

  “God has chosen this path for you,” Uncle Hyram adds, and suddenly I remember Tanner’s words: The Prophe
t’s rewarding his yes-men with all the wives. I glance at the red folds of skin above Uncle Hyram’s collar. My stomach twists in disgust. What if it’s him? What if the Prophet says I’m supposed to marry him? It wouldn’t be the first time a young girl married a much older man. Just look at Meryl.

  “Can you at least tell me who I’m supposed to marry?” I ask, bumbling over my own words. “Maybe if you could tell me who it is, this would be easier.”

  “Easier?” The Prophet’s laughter rings through the phone. Uncle Hyram chuckles, too.

  I grip the arms of the chair.

  “Patience, child. It will all be revealed,” the Prophet says.

  Uncle Hyram gives a nod. “Thanks be to God.”

  ***

  There’s a line of plates along the countertop. When Mother and I reach the last one, she portions a scoop of fried potatoes from her pan. I follow close behind and dip my spoon into the bottom of an oversize can of peaches, until the top of the can is almost to my elbow, and scoop out a slice. It plops and dribbles juice across the final plate, wetting the potatoes.

  “Almost dinnertime?” Uncle Hyram asks as he approaches, brushing Mother’s hip with his hand.

  I swallow hard.

  She sets the pan in the sink. “Almost,” Mother answers as he kisses her on the cheek.

  “Here,” I say, shoving the giant peach can against Mother, making her stumble backward. “I’m going to help Amy.”

  In the next room, my sister carries the silverware in a basket and gives each place at the table a knife, fork, and spoon, precisely situating each one in its proper spot before adjusting to make sure each setting is perfectly straight. She’s not even halfway finished.

  “Need any help?” I ask.

  “No,” Amy says. “I’ve got it.”

  Uncle Hyram finishes washing his hands, and I know he’s going to want to get started with dinner soon.

  “You sure?” I ask.

  Amy nods, concentrating on lining up the spoon. Mother nears Amy, reaching into the basket. “Here, let me help.”

  My sister jerks the basket away.

  “She wants to do it,” I say, blocking Mother’s second attempt to reach for the silverware.