by M. Mabie
My father beckoned. “Abraham, repeat after me.”
I wasn’t paying any attention to the words, but suppose I said what was expected of one getting banded.
Then he looked to Myra, but she still didn’t break eye contact with me. My mouth went dry.
“Myra, repeat after me. Abraham is my band holder.”
“Abraham is my band holder.” Her voice was as loud as I’ve ever heard it, and it sounded pretty and robust, not weak at all. There was a musical quality to it, like a Joni Mitchell song I liked. The one with the line about being frightened by the devil, but stronger when closer to those who weren’t.
If Myra was nervous, I couldn’t tell, and I liked it. Probably, too much because as she recited her vows to me with such intention, my chest pounded, and my body prickled.
Obviously, my feelings were merely due to left-over brainwashing. The scene was that of one I’d been promised in my younger years. A young bride and the respect that came with matrimonial banding, but it wasn’t real. She didn’t mean the things she was saying, and I hadn’t either.
But, however false the vows, somehow in that room, on that day, listening to her swear herself to me, it was convincingly real.
Of course, she had to repeat the pledge to make it believable, just as I had, but the depth of her voice—the sound of her speaking so confidently—flipped switches inside me. Shameful triggers I thought I’d buried loomed. I was only a man, but on top of that, it had been pounded in my head that I was to one day be a leader. That I’d have a family for my God, and those teachings, no matter how hard I’d tried to unlearn them, were re-manifested by hearing such power-giving words from her mouth.
“I am yours for now and forever. I am like this band and tethered to you, as you are my connection to God. You hold the key to my salvation, and I will earn it,” she promised with peach lips which made the lines she delivered nearly sweet in the air.
My mind was playing tricks on me. Heeding such authoritarian ideals should have made me ill.
They didn’t.
My thoughts were in free-fall. I enjoyed watching her recite things that were unjust and unfair. Against my will and without permission from my morality, I was involuntarily excited.
“You, my band holder, are the lord of my body and home, as is our Pastor to the church, and our God over us all. I will obey, accept, and submit to you, and only you, with a thankful heart. Pleasing you, I please the Lord.”
It was a show.
A lie.
A falsity.
But, damn, it was stimulating. My responses to the scene—to her— were real, no matter how much I wanted to deny them. The sight of someone handing over that much power—pretend or not—was exquisite.
Chin high, voice clear, eyes ablaze, she was hypnotizing me into believing it. It was easy to understand why men in Lancaster didn’t often leave, and how simply young men were lured in. How they accepted their place in the hierarchy in exchange for a woman who’d commit herself to them was dangerously tempting.
Watching her swear herself to me spread poison through my veins. Cinched a choking tightness in my chest. Woke a monster. And proved part of me had never really left.
“I will never refute you. Loving only you, I will be a vessel for you to grow your heavenly family and a willing servant to the kingdom. Amen.”
It was so wrong. Everything about it.
The fact I was in Lancaster at all was horrifying, but what I was experiencing in front of a woman I barely knew was shameful.
I hated that I wasn’t thoroughly repulsed by the vows. By her performance. Hated it because it was wrong, and I liked how it felt. Hated that suddenly there was this urge to take her and mark her with my body. I hated myself, and, in that moment, I wasn’t any better than the rest of them.
That need for dominance lived inside me too.
But I would not act on it. I would not abuse that power.
No one would ever have to know because I had self-control. I was free of the shackles that bound them. I knew the outside world wasn’t what the elders wanted everyone to believe, and that the end was most likely not as near as they claimed.
So I wouldn’t surrender to the residual darkness inside me. I would do what I said I would.
The right thing. I would protect her, even from myself.
I’d help Myra escape a life of oppression, and I wouldn’t take advantage of the situation for my own selfishness. It was wrong to force someone into submission. And although she didn’t have much choice in our fake marriage either, I wouldn’t be the kind of man who’d get off on it, even privately in my own thoughts.
I diverted my gaze, hoping to halt my perversions before they got out of hand. I hadn’t expected how strongly I’d be affected. How I’d be possessed by the ritual.
The rings were held out to us, and before there could be anything more to the ceremony, I took mine and slipped it back on my right hand where I knew they’d expect me to. Myra did the same with a smile.
“By the power vested in me, by our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, let this union be unbroken. Abraham William Hathaway, claim and kiss your wife.” His tone was all challenge, and he wore a clever grin, but I wouldn’t back down.
I’d give the Legacies just enough to satisfy them without assaulting her.
I’d be chaste.
That was the plan.
Until I looked at her.
Blinking slowly, her lips parted as she took a deep breath. Lovely.
Despite her modest clothes and lack of secular wedding apparel, she looked like a bride waiting to be kissed by a man, her groom. She was watching and waiting on me, which thrummed a chord inside my chest, and my limbs vibrated toward her.
Reality slipped through my fingers.
Suddenly my palms framed her bare face, and I put my mouth on her in a way that I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t help the instinctive response I had to claim her.
Her lips were soft like velvet and felt bigger than they’d looked. She didn’t move but merely opened herself more to me. Then she passed a tiny whimpering sound into my mouth and snapped me out of it.
What was I doing?
I had no right to do that. I had no license to wield my impulses wherever I wanted.
I had to get out of Lancaster.
24
Myra
I hadn’t been kissed until I was kissed by Abraham.
It was overwhelming and glorious. And even though I’d kissed Jacob at the other banding ceremony, which was more of a peck, I doubted I’d done a very good job when I kissed Abraham. I hoped he wasn’t too disappointed and that he was eager to help me learn what he wanted, what he liked, and how I could please him.
I very much looked forward to it.
Being banded to Abraham was immediately different. It was powerful. He was my blessing, and I’d treat him as such.
He’d pulled his mouth away from mine, and I allowed him to gaze into me because now he could look all he wanted. It wasn’t scandalous or wrong. I was his, and that belonging was both instant and final.
Soon the men in the room were congratulating him and patting him on the shoulder. My brothers were the first to approach, but they fell back to allow Legacy members the chance to offer their well wishes. Abraham was tight-lipped with them, not candid like he’d been with me that morning, and he almost seemed uncomfortable. I understood that, Legacies sometimes made me uneasy too.
Standing beside Abraham, I gave him my hand to hold, hoping it would lessen his nerves. A wife should always find ways to comfort, and as I’d always been told, I naturally found ways to do so even if it was a bold move in the company of others. Slowly he studied at our paired palms and then straightened, assuming the stature he’d had when we came in together.
His grip was as tight as his brow, but I was accepting maybe that was just his way.
He was my husband. My true band holder. And I knew it was true because it felt so different from when I was
banded to Jacob. It felt like the right path. Felt like life was about to begin, just as the Father had promised.
“Son,” Pastor Hathaway said to Abraham when the room was almost cleared. “I’d like to speak with you. I know you’re probably eager to—” He grinned, seeing our hands, and licked his lips. “—reflect and receive God’s gift, but there are a few details we need to handle first before you take her home tonight. Judge Forsythe made a few calls, and he’ll be right back with your marriage license.”
“And Myra’s assets.”
I had assets? I wasn’t sure what those might be, but hopefully, they would please Abraham. If there was anything I possessed that would be of use to him, I’d gladly offer it.
Pastor rubbed his hand over his jaw and then waved at the last two Legacies as they left the large formal room. “See you tomorrow morning for service,” he said as they walked into the hall.
He sauntered around Abraham and stopped in front of me. The buttons on his suit coat were monogrammed. WBH. W.B. Using his full name’s initials, W.B. Hathaway just like his books.
“Myra, God’s given you a new husband. You are here to bring him closer to God, in all ways. You’ll do that won’t you?” His fingers pinched my chin and lifted my face, and Abraham’s tight grip on my hand became nearly painful as his father spoke. “You won’t waste time moving your band now. You’ll be a good helpmeet to Abraham because of the mercy God’s shown you with, another chance to pass The Gates when the time comes. We know how near it is, don’t we?”
Talk of the Gates always made me anxious. I always had a hard time picturing God with such wrath for the non-believers. But hoping it would satisfy Pastor’s need for conversation with me, I nodded.
My chin slipped from Pastor Hathaway’s fingers as Abraham pulled me toward him until our sides were touching. My shoulder against his ribs, half of my body tucked into his, he stepped between me and his father.
“Abraham, it’ll be a few months before things are settled with insurance, the house, and the rest Myra’s assets, but to get you started—let’s call it seed money—I’ll write you a check.”
“I want it all,” Abraham demanded.
Pastor pulled a leather checkbook from the breast pocket of his jacket and slapped Abraham on the arm with it and laughed. “Even after all this time, you are my son. Aren’t you?”
My husband shook my hand free of his and stepped away.
“It’s her money.”
Pastor bent over the desk, and then I heard paper ripping from his book of checks. “Thirty for now.” Mr. Hathaway said and folded the paper, handing it to Abraham as Judge Forsythe returned to the room.
Thirty dollars wasn’t much at all, but I supposed it was better than nothing and I’d do my best to earn my keep with Abraham.
“One marriage certificate. If I do say so myself, this might be the fastest I’ve ever had one drawn up. Praise God, Neal was in the office and got right to it for you.” He quickly walked to the front where we were. “Just a few signatures, and it’s state official. I’ll have them processed myself on Monday.” He held the manila envelope against his pot belly and pulled the sheet of paper from it, passing it to Pastor. “I had Neal go ahead and sign as Abraham’s witness, and I signed for Myra’s. Pastor, you know where to put your name.”
When the men were finished writing their names on the document, they turned to me. Abraham handed me the heavy blue pin with shiny gold accents. I took it and went to the old wooden desk, unsure of what to write. My maiden name? My old married name, then again wasn’t that the same thing? I was a Hathaway. Times two.
Pen to paper, I paused not wanting to mess up.
Abraham leaned close to my ear and my senses flooded with his warm, rustic scent. “Are you okay? You don’t have to do anything you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
I wanted to sign on the line. “Myra Hathaway?”
“Myra Hathaway,” he answered. And then said quieter, “For now.”
25
Abe
“I’ll file the marriage certificate,” I said to my father and slipped it into the large envelope. I didn’t trust them to do it. If push came to shove about Myra’s money, I wanted that document on my side.
Her side.
“Oh then, the address is right there, Abraham,” the Judge instructed. “You’ll get it back from them in a month or so.” He rubbed his stomach. “If that’s all you need from me, mother has a roast on, and I’m ready for a sample.”
My father’s brow rose on one side, his eyes locked on me, but I didn’t care what he thought. He offered Mr. Forsythe a handshake. “Thank you. See you tomorrow.” After a nod to me, the judge left as fast as his legs could carry him out the door.
I wasn’t under his thumb, and neither was Myra now.
Before I lost it, I unfolded the check to slide it in with the other document. It was written out to Abraham Hathaway. Predictable, but something caught my eye.
“You said thirty. This says twenty.”
His wicked smile spoke first, and then he recited out loud, “But ye say, Wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings.”
His expression slipped when I replied with scripture, “The Saints are to pay one-tenth.”
His grin waned. “You’re no Saint, son. Thirty percent is fair. All things belong to God.” His attention found Myra. “Soon we’ll have a reception for you. After your bands are moved, and maybe there will be another check by then.”
Myra smiled, ear to ear, and then my father did too.
“There won’t be a reception,” echoed from me, through the empty room. Myra’s eyes found the floor. “We’re leaving. Fairview is a long drive.”
“Fairview?” he contended.
“That’s where we live.”
As I walked away, I ushered Myra out ahead of me. With her hands at her sides, she headed for the doors.
“You’re leaving without seeing your mother? On your wedding day?”
Myra paused without even seeing that I had stopped.
I hadn’t thought of my mother not being there, but also it wasn’t real, and I was ready to leave. Still, she wouldn’t understand and, when it was possible, I avoided making things more difficult for my mom. But that was none of my father’s business, so without answering, I lightly pressed my palm against Myra’s back.
I was in a rush to leave. To drive away from that day. To get back to reality where I wasn’t taunted with ugly urges and plagued with such dark fantasies because they were there. Vividly spoiling my mind and rotting me all over again from the inside out.
I wasn’t like them, and I’d never be like my father. I had a moral compass that pointed me in the opposite direction of them, and straight back to my cabin.
I drove quickly to Myra’s house, and she rode silently. Of course, she was quiet though. Her whole world was changing.
Leaving the only place she’d ever known and all her family.
With a man who was a stranger.
Conveniently married.
Her head had to be spinning.
“You okay?”
26
Myra
I was better than okay.
I nodded.
“Myra, is that a yes?” We pulled into Jacob’s house, and he put his truck in park. “You can speak, you know. I know a lot is going on and you’re probably scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I replied, starting forward. It was a new wife’s job to learn her husband’s preferences. If he liked to talk, I was going to enjoy that, although I wasn’t sure how much I could keep up in conversation. I usually only spoke about things I knew. Sewing. Gardening. Housekeeping. Children. So naturally, I mostly only spoke to women.
Jacob and I only had a handful of conversations, and we’d lived together for a short time.
Men weren’t concerned with the same things. I’d have to figure out some topics that would be enjoyable for him to chat about with me.
“Well, that’s
good. I don’t want to stay in Lancaster any longer than I have to. I’m sure you’ll have things to bring with you, but I need to get gas and say hello to my mother before we head out. Can you go inside and pack your things? I’ll come back and load them for you.”
I didn’t have much and really hadn’t unpacked all my things anyway. I wonder if that was another sign God had been giving me. I’d never settled in.
He knew.
And now I was like Ruth in the Bible, about to travel to a foreign homeland and start a new life.
“It won’t take long. Thank you.”
If he wanted to get on the road, I didn’t want to waste any time. So I opened the door to the truck and briskly walked up the path to the porch. There wasn’t much inside that really belonged to me, and after bringing the laundry in from the line and writing Mrs. Catherine a letter to go with the quilt I’d left for her when Abraham returned less than an hour later, I was ready.
27
Abe
She didn’t cry when we left Lancaster. For me, it was a sign that I wasn’t ruining her life. But after hours on the road, the cab of the truck felt warm and tight with silence. And not knowing what kind of music she liked, assuming she didn’t have any grasp of popular songs or mainstream recording artists, I left the radio off. In case she had something to say, I didn’t want to miss her shy voice.
Talking to people never came easily to me, but not knowing what she was thinking had begun to rot a hole in my solitude because I wanted her to talk to me.
Didn’t she have questions?
Her eyes, like they had for the entirety of the ride, were pinned to the windshield and her window. With her thick hair over her shoulder, I couldn’t read her face.
Was she frightened? I was a perfect stranger.
Sad? Would she be homesick and suffer?
Maybe she was relieved. Freed and liberated, but deep down I suspected it hadn’t hit her yet. It had taken months for it to crash down on me.
