Forsaking All Others

by Allison Pittman

  “Nonsense,” Colonel Brandon said. He turned to Private Lambert. “Coyote Tom is setting up camp just outside the city. Take the horses, and I’ll meet you there.” He took the bundle from Private Lambert and slung it over his shoulder before bowing to me in a gesture that clearly said, “Lead on.”

  The wide streets that comprised Rachel’s neighborhood and those just past it, hosting every kind of shop and boutique, were lined with lights that would blaze until midnight—at least one more hour, according to Colonel Brandon’s timepiece. Heads down, we walked swiftly and spoke very little, our silence complementing the muffled sounds around us. When we came to Temple Square, however, I brought us to a stop.

  “Normally,” I said, “this place would be a beehive. Just the way Brother Brigham likes it. Men hauling stone, climbing scaffolds. Constant, constant noise. Hammers and wagons and—”

  “Shh.” His gloved fingers came to my lips. “Listen.”

  I saw. Low-lit lanterns hanging from the scaffolds. Oxen and wagons positioned in the street. And men. Absent were the rich baritone voices raised in songs glorifying the sacrifice of their labor. Instead, nothing but muffled footsteps and the occasional whispered command.

  Colonel Brandon drew me close to his side and brought us under the eave and against the window of a print shop on the corner opposite the temple. As we watched, it soon became clear that while this late-night workforce might lack joyous tribute, they exhibited no shortage of fervent dedication. It was constant motion—dark, shadowy figures milling all around the temple’s foundation. Shovels and buckets and spades in an ever-marching brigade. One wagon being led away, and another falling in line behind. All in a perpetual silent agreement of purpose.

  “They’re burying it,” Colonel Brandon said, his voice no louder than that of a shovel stabbing soil.

  “But why? They’ve worked so hard . . .”

  “They’re hiding it so it won’t be destroyed.”

  “But who would—?”

  “We would. Or so Brigham Young seems to think.”

  Somehow, the sight of those men burying that temple struck a chord of fear in me that no enemy’s blaze ever could. Every stone in that foundation came from the quarry not far from the home I shared with Nathan. I’d seen the men toiling under the weight of them—each giving one day in ten as free labor to the church. I’d seen the great slabs lashed to the wagons, pulled by teams of eight oxen one brutal step at a time, making a journey of three days out of one that would normally take an afternoon. It was all we talked about, that temple. Its blueprints were almost as sacred as The Book of Mormon. Men and women alike devoted as much to it as to God himself. The workforce of the pharaohs of Egypt was no more enslaved than Brigham’s Saints. And to think, now, at his word, to tear down what they’d built? To create one massive, domelike grave?

  “They’ll do whatever he says.” I spoke my fear aloud.

  “Just between you and me?” Colonel Brandon tipped his head low. “He scares me, too.”

  The activity in Temple Square gave us license to be less furtive in our own movement, even if I was the only woman in sight. We moved quickly, though not so much so as to attract attention, and I continued to give directions.

  “Left at this corner. Now straight across.”

  After a time, the streets grew more narrow, and the sturdy brick structures gave way to those made of whitewashed planks. Sidewalks disappeared, and each step required a little tug out of the mud before taking the next one.

  “Definitely a change in fortune,” Colonel Brandon said. I allowed him to take my arm.

  “But no less devoted.”

  We came to one of the last streets in the ward, one lined with identical, narrow, two-story houses. Most of the windows were black, although a few boasted a low, gray light. My eyes scanned each door, but there was no way to find the correct door in this darkness. The doorposts were marked with crudely painted numbers, and I whispered the one we sought.

  “Here it is.” Colonel Brandon stood in front of the dilapidated porch, and I wondered how I could ever have missed it. Three sad little steps—the bottom one half-buried in mud—and a railing that had been detached for as long as I could remember. Winter had taken its toll on the few plants and shrubs in the front yard. In daylight, I knew the color of the clapboard exterior to be gray; it was no less so in moonlight. These windows seemed darker than the others on the street, and I knew that they were covered in thick drapery on the other side of the cold glass.

  I took hold of the railing, thought better of it, and put my foot on the bottom step. “You need to go now,” I said, reaching for my things.

  He held them back. “I’m not leaving you alone out here.”

  “And I don’t want to have to explain who you are. Go down the street a little, if it makes you feel better.”

  “Just who is it that lives here?”

  “A friend.”

  “And this friend . . .”

  “She’ll take me in. I know it.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “This is the door God has led me to. If he chooses to close it, well, I’ll pray about the next one.”

  “Here.” He took the bundle off his back and handed it to me before reaching into his pocket. From it, he withdrew three candle stubs. “I have night patrols in the city on a regular basis. From now on they’ll sweep down to this street. Promise me, if you ever have any problem—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Colonel Brandon opened the sack, dropped the candle stubs in, retied it, and continued as if I hadn’t said a word. “If there’s ever a time when you don’t feel safe, put these candles in the window, and I’ll send someone to fetch you back.”

  “Back to where?”

  “Back to me.”

  The moment hung between us like so many stars. Standing on the porch step, I was eye level with him for the first time. Stripped of his uniform and stature, he became just a man. A kind one at that, with his plain woolen cap and soft brown eyes. A man who wanted to protect me, shield me from harm, take me away. And in this I felt the fresh pangs of a new danger. A threat delivered not by his hand but from within my own heart.

  “You mean, back to Fort Bridger?” My voice held no malice, but still he recoiled.

  “Yes, yes. Of course. Or to your home. Whatever you choose.”

  I reached out my right hand and took a firm grip of his shoulder. “Thank you, Colonel Brandon. I shall never forget your kindness.”

  The moment I released him, he took on a soldier’s stance and touched his cap. “Farewell, Mrs. Fox.”

  We turned our backs to each other and went our separate ways—he down the street and I up the two remaining steps to the wooden door. I knocked twice, and when there was no answer, I took off my glove and knocked again. As I waited, I allowed myself a glimpse up and down the street, but there was no sign of Colonel Brandon, though simply knowing he was within earshot gave me some comfort.

  I had turned and raised my fist to knock again when the rough metal doorknob turned, and with painstaking caution, the door eased open, revealing a small wedge of a pale face and one narrowed green eye.

  “Camilla?” My name was spoken in that familiar voice—as if the letters were being dragged across burlap.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I said, and the door opened wider. “Hello, Evangeline.”

  Chapter 8

  She wore a yellowed nightgown underneath an enormous gray shawl. Standing in her dark doorway, she seemed little more than a shadow herself. Her skin was pale beneath its carpet of freckles, and her hair—the color of sunset—sprang from beneath a flannel cap in a mass of thick, coarse curls. Eventually, her thin, pinched face broke into a smile, revealing small, crowded teeth, and she flung the door open wide.

  “Come in! Come in!”

  I did, and we were immediately in each other’s arms, embracing as we always did, as if ages had passed since we last saw each other. This time, however, such sentiment was warranted, as
we hadn’t seen each other since before my husband’s second marriage. We were almost the same age, Evangeline Moss and I, but as I held her in my arms that night, she felt infinitely older. There was a frail, brittle quality to her body, like she could snap beneath my touch, but when I attempted to pull away, she clutched me tighter.

  “Oh, when I said my prayers tonight to Heavenly Father, I felt something in my spirit that you would come to see me.”

  “Really?” I disengaged myself carefully and stepped back. Her entire upper arm—sleeve and shawl and all—fit comfortably within my encircling fingers. “Well, then, maybe we could go inside. You must be freezing out here.”

  “Of course. And you too, I suppose, although you’re wearing a cloak and hood and everything, but still . . .”

  She chatted nervously, giving me time to turn and send a final wave to where I assumed Colonel Brandon was watching. And then we were inside.

  Truthfully, air on this side of Evangeline’s door was not much warmer than that in the street. The only light came from a single candle sitting on a small table just inside.

  “Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m afraid the parlor’s not very tidy.”

  “Anywhere I can sit down.” The day’s ride and recent walk were beginning to take their toll.

  “Parlor, then, but you must excuse the mess.” She picked up the candle, and only the long shadows on the wall indicated that we were not merely two friends visiting. We talked about the weather—the welcome break from snow and the pleasure of a mild winter afternoon. “So I’m surprised you didn’t bring the girls with you to visit.”

  And that’s when I realized—Evangeline had no idea that I’d left my husband, that I’d been in hiding for nearly a month, that this was no ordinary call. But the lateness of the hour, the fatigue I felt clear to my very bones kept my conversation from plunging to anything deeper than polite replies to Evangeline’s chitchat. I balanced on the side of truth, saying I knew the girls were safe and sound at home, and I simply wanted to get away for a while.

  “It’s getting a little crowded at our house,” I said, forcing a lighthearted tone.

  “I can imagine.”

  But I wondered if she could. I’d known Evangeline almost as long as I’d known Nathan. We’d traveled together in the same emigrant party and become as close as sisters during the journey. Her mother died of fever on the trail, and it was I who’d brushed and braided the woman’s hair to prepare her for the grave. Days after we arrived in the valley, Mr. Moss suffered a terrible stroke and Evangeline devoted herself to his care for the six long years it took him to die. Her younger brothers lit out for England the minute they were old enough to serve as missionaries for the church, leaving Evangeline utterly alone.

  As the candle’s flame slowly filled the room with light, I began to see why she would be so reluctant to entertain a guest in her parlor. There never had been anything posh about her furnishings, and from what I could tell, she had the same threadbare sofa she’d always had, though there did seem to be a new addition of two upholstered chairs. I couldn’t be sure, however, because on this night the furniture wasn’t even visible. In fact, very little about the room would identify it as a front parlor. The floor was littered with blankets spilling down from what I knew to be a lovely floral-print sofa hidden underneath. Dresses and stockings draped over the matching chairs, and the short-legged oak table in the center was littered with assorted dishes. Even in this dim light I could see they were dirty.

  “I mostly stay down here during the winter months,” she said, moving piles aside. “It saves on fuel if I only light one stove.”

  “Very frugal of you.” I dropped my bundle on the floor next to the newly exposed chair before dropping myself down into it. From what I could see behind the cold grate, this room had known very little warmth.

  “I’d offer you something to eat, but the fire’s already out.”

  “That’s fine.” It took all my grace to ignore the rumbling in my stomach.

  “Maybe a slice of bread? And I have a jar of pumpkin butter—” she drummed her fingertips together and glanced side to side—“but it’s late and one really shouldn’t go to sleep on a full stomach. Bad for the digestion. Unless you’re going to be leaving right away? Are you?”

  It was the first question she’d asked of me since my arrival, and her utter lack of curiosity tore at my heart. Was she so lonely that the midnight visit of a friend prompted nothing more than an apology for a messy parlor? Her credulity swathed me in guilt. Short of those in ministry and my own husband, Evangeline was the most fervently dedicated Saint I knew, and had she any clue about the state of my faith, she never would have deigned to offer me bread and pumpkin butter. Still, though the darkness and cold outside were only marginally less inviting than those within her walls, I chose to hold my tongue. There’d be time enough for truth in the morning.

  * * *

  It certainly wasn’t the worst place I’d ever slept. Wagon beds, barn floors, even hard ground under a star-filled sky—all at one time had served as substitutes for a feather-filled mattress. But in terms of ironlike discomfort, nothing compared to stretching out on a threadbare quilt spread over the solid plank floors of Evangeline’s parlor. I couldn’t give my makeshift bed full credit for my sleeplessness. My left hand throbbed with cold, like a thin steel blade thrust clear to my elbow, and Evangeline’s distinctive snore—an endless succession of three short whistles—robbed me of any sense of peace. Sometime just before dawn, the cold and the noise and the pain surrendered to my exhaustion, and my eyes dropped down to the back of my head, smothered in sleep.

  I dreamed of my daughters during those short hours. Our little home sat in the middle of a shallow basin, and whenever we came back from a church meeting or the trading post, they would run ahead, drop at the top of the swelling hill, and roll to the bottom—over and over again—while Nathan and I strolled, hand in hand, wrapped in their laughter. My dream captured such a scene, so real that I could feel Nathan’s fingers intertwined in mine. I awoke to find my own fingers laced across my heart and my daughters’ names caught in my throat. Oh, how I didn’t want to open my eyes, not while my mind echoed with Lottie’s sweet laughter, but soon enough another voice invaded, and I felt a twiglike grip on my shoulder.

  “Good morning, sunshine!” Her voice was as close to singing as it could ever be. “I see you’re a late sleeper, too. I usually don’t get up until I absolutely have to. Sometimes it’s nine or ten o’clock.”

  “Ten o’clock?” I struggled to my elbows and sat up.

  “Relax. It’s just past nine. But you must have needed your sleep. Here, I’ll help you up.”

  Evangeline stood above me, her hands extended down. Without giving it a thought, I reached up to grasp them.

  “Camilla! Your hand—what happened?”

  “Oh, that.” Even then I knew I was in for a lifetime of explanation, but I was not compelled to give my friend the entire story that morning. “Frostbite.”

  “Oh, how terrible. I hope Nathan wasn’t affected the same way.”

  “Nathan’s fine.” I was steadily on my feet by now and, short as I was, nearly a head taller.

  “He wasn’t out with you?”

  “No.”

  “You were out alone?”

  “Yes.” Already I longed for the girl from last night who seemed never to ask a single question.

  “And so what did he use? I mean, was it Nathan? Or a doctor? Was it a knife? Or I’ve heard sometimes toes can be snapped off with your bare hands. But not fingers. Although yours are small—”

  “Evangeline, please. This was not the most pleasant experience of my life, and I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh.” She sulked then, just as my daughter Melissa did whenever she couldn’t have her own way.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, squeezing one of her hands with my whole one. “It’s just that we haven’t seen each other fo
r ages. Surely there are more pleasant things to talk about.”

  Immediately she was beaming again. “Of course. You must be half-starved by now. Come into the kitchen.”

  I followed her into the small, gray room just past the stairway. Here, finally, a small fire in the stove waged battle against the icy room, and I took to it like a moth, alternately blowing on my hands and holding them out toward it.

  “You know,” Evangeline said with pride, “Brother Brigham himself set my fuel allowance for the winter. I went straight to him and said, ‘Just because I live alone doesn’t mean I need to freeze in my own bed.’ He’s really the kindest man I’ve ever met. So generous. He says I’m to stay in this house until my situation changes.”

  Had there been some way to capture the tone of her voice, the room would have transformed to a desert at high noon in July.

  “That is quite generous of him.” The coolness behind my own words did not daunt her in the least.

  “And I happen to know that he personally sees to it that his wives send their mending and washing to me so I can earn a little.”

  “Enough to pay a tithe, no doubt.”

  “As we all should,” she said, suddenly quite serious. “These are dark times we’re facing. But you might not realize, living as far away as you do. And now that we have this bright new day, you can tell me what brings you into Salt Lake City.”

  “I don’t wish to be rude,” I said, inching away from the stove, “but perhaps we could have a little breakfast first?”

  Evangeline slapped her palm against her forehead. “There, see how I am? I’ll get to talking and then I’m likely to forget my own head. You, you’re the guest. Sit.”

  I obeyed, though it was difficult to relax in the wake of her nervous preparations. First on the table was a pitcher of milk brought over by a generous neighbor. It was, I could feel, still warm, and I longed to drink great gulps of it, knowing full well I’d not have the cup of coffee I’d grown so used to having in the morning.

  Evangeline reached inside a larder and sliced two thin strips of bacon, which she set to sizzling in a large pan. She apologized for not having any eggs—they would have to wait until her next Ladies’ Aid basket arrived. She did, however, produce a loaf of bread from which she cut two lacy-thin slices. These she threaded onto a long metal fork and placed inside the oven to toast.