For Time and Eternity

by Allison Pittman

  “Don’t worry.” He dragged me into a hug that could only be described as jovial. “You’ll come back to the same household you left. Just me and Kimana and the girls.”

  “Actually,” I said, my face smashed against his shirt, “I was going to take the girls with me.”

  “Even better.” He held me at arm’s length and kissed the top of my head. “They’re the next generation, growing up in a world that knows the truth. It’ll be good for them to see what we are building.”

  Chapter 14

  At the time, the four-hour trip zipping across the snow-packed land basin seemed as long as our four-month journey from Iowa. True, we had sleigh bells and songs. Rachel did her utmost to keep the girls excited and entertained as we snuggled close under the pile of bear and buffalo blankets. I could barely bring myself to join in. She had given me a good-enough teasing when I came in from the barn picking straw out of my hair, and made hooded comments about Nathan and me engaging in a proper good-bye. If my protests weren’t enough to convince her she was mistaken, Nathan’s restrained conversation when he came in later certainly painted a more accurate picture of our state of affection. When it was time for us to load up, he embraced each of the girls with a giant, warm hug before lifting them into their seat and tucking the blankets warmly about them. I, on the other hand, was given a kiss every bit as chaste as the one given to his sister, although he did take a moment to hold me close and tell me that he loved me.

  Try as I might to hold on to those final words, they paled in the shadow cast by all the others he said. His zealous desire to build our family, even if it meant marriage with another woman. His fear for his very salvation. And somehow, amid the soft clomp of hooves and jingling bells and sweet voices raised in song, I took in that fear too.

  “Faster, Aunt Rachel!” Lottie’s sweet voice, muffled by the thick woolen scarf wrapped up to her nose, piped up during the next lull in song.

  “Just for a little bit,” Rachel said, laughing. She gave a capable snap of the reins and off we went—flying. The girls squealed in delight, and I even laughed as I wiped away a soft clump of snow sent flying up from one of the horses’ hooves.

  “See?” Rachel leaned over the girls’ heads to talk closer to my ear. “This is what you all needed. To get away.”

  I tried to ignore the churning in my stomach and nodded.

  “What’s the matter?” Rachel asked. “Too fast?”

  I breathed deep the biting cold air. “Just promise to bring me back safe.”

  * * *

  The sky was tinged with purple when we came to a stop in front of the house Rachel shared with Tillman and her sister wives. It was an impressive structure by any measure, but when I thought about our modest home, it loomed even grander. Three stories tall with gables spiraling even higher, its focal point was a double front door with a set of stained-glass windows boasting an intricate beehive design. Warm light glowed from within, and before we could even climb out of the sleigh, the doors flew open and three little boys came tumbling out.

  “Aaron! Caleb! Toby!”

  Rachel’s chastisement of the boys for running out in just their shirtsleeves blended with my girls’ shouts of joy at seeing their cousins, and soon the front porch was a tangle of little arms and legs that somehow got herded through the front door and into a cozy, warm entryway.

  “There you are!” Tillman’s voice boomed from the parlor, and soon there he was among us, holding a newspaper under one arm as he wrapped the other around Rachel, giving her an affectionate kiss on her cheek. He was a man of impressive stature, broad and strong as an ox, with a square, handsome face framed with a perfectly trimmed beard. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it home before dark.”

  “We very nearly didn’t,” Rachel said, peeling off her gloves.

  “And Nathan didn’t put up a fight to keep you?”

  I smiled to match the harmless, jovial tone with which the question had been asked and said, “Just a little.”

  “Wouldn’t be anything at all if he had another wife back at the house to take care of him.”

  “Tillman.” Rachel laid a quieting hand on his arm. “You need to take the boys out and put away the team.”

  “Yes, dear,” he said, though he kept his eyes on me. For the first time I had a feeling there might be more to this impromptu visit than an opportunity for me to come into town. Still, Tillman said nothing, gathering the boys and taking them outside. Meanwhile, Melissa and Lottie and I followed Rachel into the parlor, where we stood by the roaring fire peeling off layers of coats and scarves and hats.

  “I’ll take those for you.”

  I looked over to see a young woman with raven black hair falling in ringlets down her back. Without a word, Rachel piled our things onto the girl’s outstretched arms. When she’d gone, I whispered, “That’s the new wife?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said with a bright, tight smile. Then, after a moment’s thought, she called out, “Sister Tabatha!” bringing the girl back to pop her head around the doorway.

  “Yes, Sister Rachel?”

  “The little girls will be staying in your room with you for the next few nights.”

  “Oh?” Her lips were full and pink and made the most perfect O. “Does Tillman know?”

  “I’ll tell him when he comes in.” She turned back to the fire, effectively dismissing young Tabatha, and rubbed her hands vigorously in the fire’s warmth. “That will be more fun for everybody. Perhaps the girls will let Tabatha play with their dolls.”

  I stifled a laugh and tried to ignore Melissa’s curious glance. Moments later, when Rachel declared us warm, we followed her into the kitchen, where her two other sister wives were busily clearing away supper dishes. Joanna, Aaron and Caleb’s mother, tried to maneuver from table to sink with a tenacious three-year-old daughter clinging to her skirts, while Marion managed to do twice the work with one baby balanced on her hip. Both women stopped the moment we walked in, though, and came over to greet the girls with warm hugs offered all around.

  “I’m sorry we missed supper,” Rachel said, holding her arms out to Marion’s baby. The child held out two chubby arms and gurgled with joy at being handed over.

  “It’s venison stew,” Marion said. Now freed from the baby, she smoothed her apron and came over to offer me a tentative embrace. “Joanna’s specialty. It’s delicious.”

  I took my arms from around Marion’s girth, thinking that her figure bore testament to the deliciousness of Joanna’s cooking. Indeed, the kitchen smelled wonderful, and I realized that neither I nor the girls had eaten since breakfast.

  Joanna staggered back to the stove, clingy toddler in tow. She wore her hair in one thick braid down her back, though at the moment it seemed there was just as much out as in. She stirred the contents of the large iron pot, saying, “There’s bread in the keeper and molasses cookies for after,” before ladling great, steaming portions into white porcelain bowls and carrying them to the enormous butcher-block table.

  “Now, Joanna,” Rachel said sweetly, running her hand over the baby’s fine, soft hair, “we have guests. Don’t you think it would be more fitting to serve us in the dining room?”

  I detected the slightest slumping of Joanna’s shoulders as she reached the ladle again into the pot.

  “I’ll set the table,” Marion said quickly, gathering up the bowl and heading through a second door. “And perhaps you’ll have your cookies later in the parlor?”

  “That would be perfect,” Rachel said, practically cooing to the baby. “It’s been a rather difficult day.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, Rachel and I sat on the edge of her bed while I ran a brush through her hair. It was still as lush as it had been the day I met her, and I could tell that it would curl into little tufts just like Nathan’s if cut short enough to be given the chance. A fire glowed behind an ornate grate, and long-handled bed warmers waited on the hearth. Across the hall, my daughters were nestled in with young Tabatha, wh
o’d seemed eager to pull the covers up to their chins and tell stories into the night. Every now and then, the sound of a giggle seeped under the door, punctuating the rhythm of the boar bristles against my palm.

  “They sound like they’re having fun,” I said, dividing Rachel’s hair into three sections to plait.

  “Tabatha’s a sweet girl.” Rachel held a small mirror up to her face, and our eyes connected in the glass.

  “You treat them like servants, you know.”

  “I have a position in the household. The first wife. If I’m not careful, they’ll run right over me. Run me out of my own house.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “It happens all the time. So be careful.”

  I took the piece of ribbon Rachel handed over her shoulder and tied it around the end of the braid. Then we both stood, wrapped towels around the handles, and took the bed warmers from the hearth to run them along the length and breadth of the feather mattress before climbing inside.

  There was a light rapping on the door and Tillman’s voice came through.

  “Good night, Rachel, dear.”

  “Good night, darling.”

  No such salutation was granted to me, but I did hear him say the same to Tabatha across the way, and then, moments later, down the hall, I heard the sound of a closing door. In the light of the dying fire I lay among the feathers, mentally counting the number of bedrooms in the house. Rachel must have read my mind because she interrupted my calculations and said, “He’ll sleep with Joanna tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  “For a while he had his own room, and we each shared a room with our children when we weren’t . . . But when Marion came along, we just gave one room over to the boys and, well, it’s easier.”

  “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s the way of things.”

  “I don’t see how you can bear it. The thought of Nathan in another woman’s bed . . .”

  “There are worse hardships, you know.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Watch yourself, and you won’t have to imagine.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow and turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”

  “You won’t be able to stop him, Camilla. If his spirit is telling him to take another wife, that’s exactly what he’s going to do.”

  “How do you even know—?”

  “When he was here last fall—before the baby—he talked to Tillman.”

  I doubt I would have felt much more betrayed if he’d actually come home with a second wife in tow. Words failed me as I clutched the sheet in my hand. Rachel must have taken my gesture as a precursor to a violent blow, because she sat up and scooted away.

  “Now, wait just a minute.” She held up her own hand in defense. “He only talked to Tillman after he’d talked with Brigham.”

  “Brigham Young?” How strange to hear the revered name of the prophet dropped so casually in conversation.

  “Yes. When Nathan met with him about the—”

  “The chairs.”

  “Right. The chairs. Apparently Brigham asked him about his family.”

  “He didn’t tell me any of this. Why would he not tell me?”

  “He’s a man,” she said, finally relaxing against the headboard. I followed her lead. “What man wants to admit failure?”

  My thoughts went back to that afternoon, the tightness in Nathan’s face and the fight for control in his voice. “He didn’t like the design for the temple chairs” he’d said, and I thought he’d carried the burden of rejection.

  “Are you saying our family is a failure?”

  Rachel reached out a reassuring hand and patted my arm. “Of course I don’t believe that. And neither does Nathan. But he doesn’t have the luxury of seeing life through his own eyes. He’s measuring himself by the words of the prophets.”

  We remained silent for a while as the room grew darker and darker. As the final shadows disappeared, I whispered, “Rachel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To show you.”

  “Show me what?”

  “That really, darling, it’s not so bad.”

  * * *

  The next morning I awoke to an empty bed and a full agenda. Downstairs, the kitchen was a bustle of breakfast making with all four women deftly dodging the antics of six rambunctious children.

  “Boys! If you’re late for school again, your father will have you cutting a switch when you get home.”

  It was Joanna who issued the warning, and the three boys took it to heart, shoveling last bites of biscuit into their mouths before tearing out. To my surprise, Rachel wore a plain day dress covered by a blue apron and stood at the stove, stirring a large skillet of sausage gravy.

  “You slept late, Mama!” Melissa and Lottie ran and hugged my legs. I bent to give each a kiss on top of their heads.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I spoke to Rachel, who was lifting a plate down from the cupboard. “I could have helped.”

  “Consider yourself on holiday,” she said, her smile as bright as the morning sun streaming through the window. “We’re certainly able to put breakfast together.”

  Sitting at the kitchen table with a heaping plate of eggs, biscuits, and gravy before me, I saw neither the haughtiness nor the subservience of the previous evening. The four women jostled each other good-naturedly, handing both chores and children off to each other with equal ease. Their low laughter added to the warmth from the cookstove, and I wrapped myself in it, pushing away thoughts of long, quiet evenings with only Kimana’s dark-eyed silence for conversation.

  While Marion and Tabatha finished the dishes, Joanna took the baby and ushered my girls and the toddler upstairs to wash up and get ready for a day at the market. Rachel, meanwhile, took a large, square basket from a hook on the wall and began to pack it with loaves of bread wrapped in clean tea towels, jars of jam, and a ball of butter.

  “We’ll take this to Evangeline,” she said. “And some of those cookies from last night.” She continued rummaging through the cupboards, taking out all kinds of jars and packages and sacks cinched with ribbon, moving with a sense of purpose that defied the watchful eyes of her sister wives.

  When all was tucked in and covered with a cheerful square of bright red flannel, she took my plate—scraped clean—over to the washbasin and summoned me to follow her into the front parlor, where she had “just a few things to tend to.”

  The full light of day showcased the parlor in all its splendor. Lush red upholstery on the sofa and high-backed chairs, raised red velvet on the wallpaper, intricate floral design on the carpet. I stood at the window and looked out to the well-groomed, busy street. Each of the homes probably had a parlor just like this one. Households just like this one, and I thought, This is what Nathan wants.

  Rachel sat behind me at a small mahogany writing desk, her pen filling the room with a scratching noise as she composed a note on a piece of thick, cream-colored stationery.

  “Do you have anything to post?” she asked. “The mail’s running next week.”

  I’d composed a letter to my parents, telling them of both the impending birth of our third child and the sad news of losing him so soon. Perhaps if they knew about my unhappiness—if they could picture their daughter so far away and lost and hurting—their own hearts might soften toward me.

  “It’s upstairs,” I said, letting the lace curtain drop against the glass.

  * * *

  Walking along the sidewalks of Salt Lake City with Rachel felt like being an attendant to a queen. She held her head high and regal, dipping it to say good morning to every third person we passed. I was right beside her, and occasionally the return greetings were extended to me, but for the most part I was more like a rumpled shadow, half a step behind, carrying the regal basket packed for the poor.

  I never ceased to be amazed at the changes in the city each time I visited. More streets, more stores, more peop
le. On that day I noticed women shopping in pairs—or even threes or fours—with passels of children in tow. Sister wives, I thought, and I scrutinized each one, looking to see if I could recognize any spark of friendship or affection. Most wore an eerily identical serene expression, like a polite mask they’d wear to church instead of to a dry goods store.

  By the time we arrived at Evangeline’s home, my nose felt as frozen as the smile on my face, though we’d probably walked less than a mile. The houses on this street were markedly different from those where Rachel lived. No picket fences or wide walkways here. These were simple, unadorned one- or two-story buildings, constructed with an unsettling uniformity. Of course I’d visited Evangeline before, when her father was alive, but those visits had been in the spring and summer, when window boxes planted with bright flowers lent a cheerful air to these modest structures. Now, in the end-of-winter bleakness, they appeared uninviting. When we reached number seventy-one, I noticed Rachel’s deep breath and squared shoulders before she raised her leather-gloved hand to rap smartly on the door.

  Even given reports of Evangeline’s dire circumstances, nothing prepared me for the girl who opened the door to us. I say girl because that’s how Evangeline always remained in my mind, even though we were the same age. Perhaps it was because she’d been so devoted to caring for her father and younger brothers that she’d forgone the responsibilities of marriage and children. Or maybe her looks—bright red hair and freckles—gave her an aura of perpetual youth. Whatever the case, Evangeline had always been some form of the cheerful, exuberant girl I’d met in the clearing by the river all those years ago.

  Until today.

  Every last drop of that girl was gone, soaked up by something within, drying her up until only this shell with a shock of unruly red foam remained. Her face was drawn to a point, her lips cracked at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes darted between the two of us in momentary feral fear before she stretched her face into a thin, tight smile and opened her door wide.