For Time and Eternity

by Allison Pittman

  “Blasphemy?”

  “The word of the prophet is a direct word from Heavenly Father. You know that. And if he commands us to build our families, if he urges our men to take several wives, if he—”

  “Tells us not to drink hot beverages?”

  The challenge hung in the air, unanswered, while Rachel took a moment to compose a response.

  “That was wrong of me,” she said finally. “To be such a poor example. When I was supposed to . . . help.”

  “But don’t you see? How can we grant one man the power to make decisions over the most trivial matters as well as those that govern how we live our very lives? If you can disregard one doctrine, why not another?”

  “Some doctrines are more important than others.”

  “But none of this is from God!” There, I’d said it, and far too loudly for the circumstances because the look of utter horror on Rachel’s face caused me to clamp my hand—too late—over my mouth and glance over my shoulder to the door I fully expected to be replaced with Tillman’s looming figure.

  “Watch what you say.” The edge of warning was impossible to mistake.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Listen, I don’t much care one way or another.” She’d been looking past my shoulder at the door behind me too but stared deep into my eyes once she was satisfied that her husband wasn’t about to batter it down. “I simply want peace in my home. Now—” she cocked her head and smiled—“let’s get in bed and get to sleep before the fire burns out. Shall I say an evening prayer for us?”

  “If you like.”

  We joined hands and bowed our heads. My eyes shut tight, so tight that I could see shadows of the fire dancing within my darkness.

  “Heavenly Father, thank you for my husband and the life we have built together. I lift my sister Camilla up to you, that she will have peace in her heart . . .”

  Whatever else Rachel may have prayed is lost to me, as my mind filled with words of my own petition. Spare me from this life. Give me strength. Help me, Lord, to make a home that is pleasing to you.

  Later, I lay on my back, hands behind my head, listening to the last cracklings of the fire. We’d nothing left to say to each other, but the silence between us was not uncomfortable. Then, a small sound. At first I attributed it to the sound of a house full of people moving into sleep. But it became clearer, familiar. Unwelcome. Tillman had built an impressive home for his family, but there was no disputing the thinness of his walls. Apparently he’d chosen to exercise his rights as a husband, regardless of the fact that he had a guest under his roof.

  It was my intention to ignore the noise coming from down the hall—feign sleep, if need be. But Rachel chose to distract me with conversation instead.

  “Do you love Nathan?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you die for him?”

  I’d never considered such a thing before, but I knew the answer. “Yes.”

  “Then you’re ready. See, that’s what you have to do. A little of me died the first time Tillman brought home another woman. And a little bit of me dies every time—”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “You have to. You’re his salvation. Joseph Smith was his savior in life, giving him direction. Your job is to save him in the next one. Without you, he doesn’t have the promise of an eternal family.”

  “He has me.”

  “It’s not enough. One woman, one wife. Marriage to you alone will never get him to the highest level of heaven.”

  “Somewhere, deep down, you know as well as I do that no person can determine another’s salvation. I have no say in where Nathan will spend eternity.”

  “Then you just love him in this life. Give him what he wants now. Let him have the hope that he’ll have you to love in the next one.”

  * * *

  The next day, as we were clearing away the lunch dishes, Lottie’s voice carried clear through the house.

  “It’s Papa! Papa! He’s come to take us home!”

  I heard Melissa’s echoing squeal and felt my own heart flutter. I clutched the serving platter I was drying to my chest, just to keep me still. It wasn’t a matter of fear, though I surely wasn’t the same woman who had arrived here three days ago. It was, in fact, anticipation. The same little thrill I got every time I was about to see Nathan when we’d spent days apart. After putting away the dish, I wiped my hands on my apron and walked out of the kitchen, shouting an admonition to the girls not to run through Aunt Rachel’s pretty house. I was summarily ignored as four eager feet stomped through the front hall and the front door flew open. Melissa and Lottie ran outside without their coats, a fact that seemed insignificant when I emerged onto the front porch. The afternoon sun bore down, and the air sat breezeless and dry. If I’d stood still long enough, I might have been tricked into thinking it was springtime. But I didn’t stand still. Not for long. Nathan had climbed down from the wagon and stood beside it, holding Lottie in the crook of one arm while Melissa stood with her arms wrapped around his waist.

  He looked up from kissing the top of Melissa’s head, and his eyes found mine. He wore his butter-colored buckskin jacket and the wide-brimmed hat decorated with a band of woven straw. He took the hat off when he saw me and slowly lowered Lottie to the ground. At that moment, only one thought rang in my head.

  He is mine.

  There was something precious about that moment—something as weak and temporary as the snow that was in danger of disappearing all around me. That day, when I walked into his arms, when he lowered his head and kissed me, when he held me tight and whispered in my hair how very much he loved me, how very much he missed me, I knew. My heart was full to bursting with love as much as it ever had been. And as much as it ever would be.

  “Take me home,” I said, breathing in the smell of him.

  “That’s my favorite thing to do.” I looked up and he was smiling that devilish grin. “How soon will you be ready?”

  “We packed this morning.”

  Before we would start the drive home, however, Nathan had business to attend to.

  “I’ve brought six to present,” he said, slapping the side of the wagon filled with half a dozen canvas-draped structures. By then Rachel and Tillman had joined us outside, and Rachel draped a welcome shawl across my shoulders before greeting her brother with a bear-size hug. Tillman shook his hand and peered into the wagon’s bed.

  “Trying again, Nate?”

  “Look at this.” Nathan climbed into the wagon and, with theatrical flair, untied the twine holding the canvas and lifted it, revealing the secret underneath. Anybody passing by might think we were all giving far too much attention to an ordinary wooden chair, but I knew that, for Nathan, what one person would deem a simple chair was actually a work of art—a carefully crafted piece, the result of countless hours in his workshop at the back of our barn. And this one was particularly beautiful. It was, at first glance, a simple, armless wooden chair with three wide slats across the back. Closer inspection, though, showed that each of the three slats had a slight slope rising from the top and creating the effect of a beehive shape. The beehive design was repeated on top of the spires on either side of the chair’s back, and at the top of each leg. All of this was stained to a rich honey color.

  “Oh, Nate,” Rachel said, reaching one hand out to touch it. “If Brigham doesn’t want this . . .”

  “It’s beautiful work,” Tillman said, rocking back on his heels.

  “Go ahead.” Nathan handed the chair over to him. “Have a seat in it.”

  Obliging, Tillman set the chair on the ground and made quite a show of settling his weight on the seat. “Very nice,” he said, shifting his position this way and that.

  “Not as intricate as the last,” Nathan said. “None of the scrolling. Solid wood seat—much sturdier than the woven leather.”

  “It’s beautiful, darling,” I said, my heart filled with the same pride I saw in his eyes.

  “The others a
re a variation on the same design. I have an appointment to meet with him at one o’clock—”

  “With Brigham?” Tillman stood and handed the chair up to Nathan.

  “More likely with one of his associates.”

  I could tell he envied Tillman’s easy use of the prophet’s name.

  “Well, if your meeting is at one o’clock,” Rachel said, consulting the little watch pinned to her bodice, “you’d better hurry. I suppose we can keep Camilla and the girls entertained for another hour.”

  “I think they should go with me,” Nathan said. “I’d like to show them the temple.”

  Melissa and Lottie obviously agreed, as they jumped up and down in place, clapping their hands in delight.

  “Not much more than a pile of stones right now,” Tillman said.

  “Maybe so.” Nathan finished securing the canvas around the chair once again before swinging himself over the side of the wagon and landing with a slight bounce beside me. “But I want my girls to see it. So when they’re grown women and they come to worship, they’ll remember.”

  He put his arm around my shoulder, drawing me companionably close. I resisted the urge to freeze in his embrace. I didn’t want to see the temple, and I certainly didn’t want to see Brigham Young, no matter how remote the possibility. But I knew what this meant to my husband. Those bundles of canvas in the back of the wagon represented his life’s work, and he wanted to share that with me. So I tucked myself under his arm and lifted my cheek to his kiss, saying, “Of course, darling.”

  Rachel called into the house for Marion to fetch down our bags.

  It took some stern talking to convince the girls that no, they could not sit in Papa’s chairs during the drive to Temple Square. My argument, that at the first jostle they could fall over—and possibly out—met with pouting protest. It wasn’t until Nathan turned in his seat and reminded them that those chairs had been crafted for the elders and apostles of the church, to sit in the frontmost rows of Heavenly Father’s sacred temple, that they uttered a halfhearted, “Yes, sir,” and sat on their bottoms.

  We hadn’t had any new snow for days, and the afternoons had been warm enough to melt much of what had been on the ground, leaving overturned lumps mixed with mud. A mess to be sure, but an early harbinger of spring, a hint of warmer days to come. I couldn’t wait to get back home, where I could close my eyes and breathe deep the sweetness of moist, cool air—that which came before the world surged green with new life. Perhaps Nathan and I could have a new life started of our own. I scooted closer and slid my arm through his.

  “I missed you, Millie,” he said. “But did you have a nice visit?”

  “Mm-hm. But busy.”

  “Did you visit Sister Evangeline?”

  “Just for one afternoon.”

  “And how is she?”

  “Hard to say for sure. You know how she’s always joking.”

  “Aunt Rachel says Auntie Evangeline needs to get married or she’s going to end up a charity case until the day she dies.”

  “Melissa!” I twisted in my seat to look into her mischievous blue eyes.

  Nathan laughed. “That sister of mine has always had a way with words.”

  “A talent I hope our daughter doesn’t inherit.”

  By then we had arrived at the hub of activity in the heart of the new Zion. Blinding white stone, its brightness the envy of the snow, hewn and fit perfectly together. As close as we were, it was impossible to take in the whole building in one glance. The entire structure was intersected with scaffolding, and the music of men’s voices raised in song rang through the sound of hammers and saws and pulleys.

  “Look, girls,” Nathan said, bringing the team to a halt. “Those walls? That’s what comes from the quarry. Imagine, just a few months ago, that wall was just part of a big rock until we dug it out and brought it here to smooth and square it off.”

  “Can we go inside?” Lottie was stretched so far over the wagon bed’s wall that Nathan reached back to grab her.

  “There is no inside right now,” he said, lifting her up and over into his lap. “And I’ll be an old, old man before there is.”

  “We’re lucky,” I said. “We get to enjoy these very stones in their real temple.”

  “What do you mean, ‘their real temple’?”

  “Back home. In the quarry. Where they’re part of God’s creation. There’s more of God in the side of any mountain than in any temple built by man. The Bible says our very body is a temple. All of this—” I gestured to the construction in front of us—“is simply—”

  “Our way of showing our devotion to Heavenly Father.”

  I could sense Nathan’s disapproval and opted to say nothing more, but I couldn’t quell the distaste I felt for the scene. So much work; so much sacrifice. Building this temple, the same way men like Tillman were building their families, and what did they have on the inside? Or Evangeline, with her heart so devoted and her life so empty.

  “I just meant that we’re lucky. To have so much.”

  Seeming satisfied with my response, he settled Lottie on the seat between us and climbed down from the wagon. Once he was on the ground, he took off his jacket, revealing his nicest green wool shirt and leather suspenders. He also lifted his hat and quickly ran his fingers through his hair before replacing it.

  “You look very handsome,” I said, sounding more like a proud parent than a supportive wife. My little attempt at humor did nothing to lighten the moment, however, and he simply rubbed his hands together and looked around, seeming lost. That’s when a man dressed in an impeccable black wool suit came upon us. He was a stranger to me, but he looked like any other powerful Mormon in the basin—white hair, thick jowls covered with wiry whiskers, narrowed blue eyes encased in soft folds. He and Nathan were obviously well acquainted because he took Nathan’s hand, offering a friendly greeting.

  “What have you got for us this time?” He looked up into the wagon. “Besides your lovely family, I assume.”

  “My wife, Camilla,” Nathan said. “And my daughters, Melissa and Lottie. This is Bishop Johansson.”

  I nodded. “Good afternoon.”

  Bishop Johansson did little more than acknowledge my presence before turning his attention back to Nathan. “Show me.”

  “Show him the beehive one, Papa!”

  For the second time that afternoon I found myself turned around, hushing Melissa. Nathan barely gave her a glance. Still, he lowered the wagon’s tailgate and lifted out the same chair he’d shown us earlier. Somehow, here in sight of this massive structure, the chair seemed significantly diminished.

  “You know,” Bishop Johansson said, slowly circling the chair, “we are getting so many new European converts. One man who just arrived last summer from Brussels is a fifth-generation craftsman. A true artist.”

  I could not have felt the sting of his words more strongly if he’d slapped my face with them. I didn’t turn to look at Nathan, but I knew him well enough to know the expression on his face. His eyes would be bright, his jaw set, his lips such that the top would seem to be swallowed by the bottom.

  “Our papa’s an artist. He makes furniture for everybody.”

  This time I did not hush Melissa’s outburst but silently reached my hand back to find her shoulder and give it a quieting pat.

  “Of course he is,” Bishop Johansson said. “But we are dealing with matters of great importance here.”

  “I understand completely,” Nathan said, and I knew he’d taken a deep breath and put on a big smile. “Perhaps I’ll leave these with you for you to consider—”

  “I’ll make a sketch.” The older man reached into his breast pocket and produced a small notebook and pencil. “I’ll share it with Brother Brigham at the next opportunity, and we’ll send word to you of his opinion.”

  “Fair enough.” Nathan held his arms up and summoned Lottie to climb down into them. “In the meantime, I’ll take my girls—all three of them—for a little stroll.”


  Without questioning, I gathered my skirt and allowed Nathan to hand me down from the wagon’s seat.

  I waited until we were out of earshot before asking what he thought of the bishop’s reaction.

  “He thinks I’m a fool. I could design the throne of heaven and he wouldn’t care.”

  We walked the expanse of the temple’s foundation; we could fit the whole of what we claimed as our property within its midst. If I thought the tour would soften the blow of the bishop’s opinion, I was mistaken. By the time we returned to the wagon, the man was gone, having abandoned the wagon full of Nathan’s handiwork to the street. His judgment could not have been more pronounced.

  “That’s it,” Nathan said. “Let’s go home.”

  * * *

  Another long ride. Our conversation slogged every bit as much as our wagon’s wheels. Not even the girls’ enthusiastic recap of the week’s events could elicit much more than a preoccupied grunt from their father.

  “This is pretty slow going. You must have left home in the middle of the night to have arrived so early.”

  “I woke up in the middle of the night missing you.” No light hint of romance in his reply.

  “I missed you, too.”

  “Nonsense. There are a dozen people living in that house.”

  I hazarded a quick kiss on his shoulder. “But none of them are you.”

  Silence for at least another mile.

  “Would you like to stay with her for the summer?”

  “No,” I said, uneasy with his question. He never asked questions unless he had an idea of the answer he wanted to hear. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Because I don’t know if I want you and the girls to be alone.”

  My uneasiness dug deeper. “Where would you be?”

  “I had a chance to talk with Tillman today—just for a moment when you were getting the girls ready. There’s a company coming in from England, due to land in New Orleans. They want to hire men who can give them a swift, safe passage.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “There is if you have money for new wagons—and you’re not one of a hundred of them.”