“But God has blessed her with another one,” Mama said, her lips trembling with her smile. “And when will it be here?”
“Soon,” I said, as if the word would give Papa the hope that he needed.
Mama brought in a simple supper that we ate at Papa’s bedside—just bread and cheese and tea. For Papa she had a bowl of lukewarm beef broth with which she soaked cubes of bread and gently laid them on his tongue.
“Hasn’t been able to take anything solid in nearly a month,” she whispered, as if the man wasn’t inches away.
I wondered, of course, what the doctor had told her about Papa’s illness, what it was and if there was any hope for recovery, but I would not ask her within his hearing. In truth, I had only to look into his eyes to see that there was very little hope to be had.
After we’d eaten, I volunteered to take the tray into the kitchen, allowing Mama time to see to Papa’s needs. Forgoing any soap and water, I simply wiped the plates and cups clean with a towel I found exactly where I knew it would be. In the next room, Mama’s voice spoke so tenderly, quiet rejoicing at a daughter’s return. Meanwhile, I, the daughter, felt every moment of every year lived since I was last in this kitchen. I sank into the chair that had been mine every day of my young life and ran my finger along the familiar grain of the wood.
“So where are they?” Mama’s voice invaded my silence.
I didn’t look up. “Who?”
“This wonderful husband and these beautiful girls.”
“It’s a long journey, Mama. And expensive, to take the stage.”
“And you couldn’t wait until this child was born?”
“It would be too late in the fall. Too dangerous to travel, and I didn’t know how sick Papa was. I couldn’t take the chance.”
Then she was in front of me, sitting across the table, her dry, coarse hand forcing me to look at her. “You left us, Camilla, without a thought. And your father—he was so, so hurt. And bitter. I’ll never forget coming home with that first letter. Running, if you can imagine, wanting to share it with him. Wanting us to open it together, and he took it away.”
“And sent it back to me. Unopened.”
“So you sent another.”
“When Melissa was born.”
“I tried to hide that one, but it must have been written on my face because when I got back from town, he took it. And after that, he—he forbade me to even go to our post again.”
“Oh, Mama—”
“So I don’t even know how many letters you wrote.”
“Two a year. Every year. I have them now, if you want to read them. Or if you think he’d like to read them.”
She smiled. “I think that would be nice.” Then, her smile gone, “I still don’t understand why you had your change of heart, even before you knew he was ill.”
That was the moment she became not only my mother but the first Christian woman I’d encountered since leaving home. I don’t think I realized until that moment just how much hurt I had been carrying at Nathan’s betrayal, how humiliated I felt at being replaced in my husband’s bed. These seemed the burdens to be borne by a woman, yet here at the table I felt once again like a little girl. But she knew what it meant to love a man, to devote herself and her life to him, even without the promise of that love in return. When had I ever seen my father speak a soft word to her? Not once had I ever seen them engaged in an embrace that was anything other than polite. Yet she loved him; I knew she did. He’d left her, in some ways, years before I did, and he was about to leave her again.
I took a deep breath. “He took a second wife.”
Mama’s brow furrowed. “You divorced him?”
“No.”
“Then how—?”
“Another wife, Mama. A second wife, in addition to me.”
I followed her thoughts as realization dawned. Confusion, disgust, and then sadness. Not pity, but the kind of sadness a mother feels when her child hurts.
“Oh, darling.” She was up and around, my face buried in her soft bosom. “We heard about such things, and your father—just beside himself with worry. If he knew . . .”
“Please, Mama,” I pleaded, every bit the little girl, “don’t tell him.”
She held me for a while—until she felt better, at least—and then sat down again, drawing her chair close to mine so she could maintain her touch, and asked, “How does that happen?”
“It’s part of the teachings of the prophet.” I surprised myself with the utter calmness in my voice as I went on to explain the beliefs my husband held so dear. That we would continue our marriage in heaven—ours and every marriage he entered into on earth. How he, my husband, would call me from my grave, and I would spend eternity bearing his children until he himself became a god.
“And you believed all of this?”
“Some of it, a little. For a time. But then I remembered everything you taught me, Mama. I went back to my Bible; I came back to Christ. And then I came home.”
“What about your girls?”
“I want to bring them here, if I can. As soon as I can.” I told her about the danger I faced as an apostate, my fear that my daughters would grow up under those teachings. “I have to bring them far away, and I had to know that I had a home to bring them to, because I have no way—no means at all—to support us.”
Mama cradled my face in her hands. “Of course you may bring them here. Will your husband allow such a thing?”
I balled my fists. “I’ll make him understand.”
“And what about this little one?” She reached her hand to my stomach, and I felt the baby move. Our eyes met and we smiled, as if she’d felt it too.
“He doesn’t know about this baby.”
“Will you tell him?”
“Not unless he comes to me.”
“He’d better not.”
* * *
Two days later, quietly, in his sleep, Papa died.
I marvel, still, at God’s timing. His grace. One more day of indecision, a day of rain, a broken wheel, or an injured horse—any or all of those things, and my father would not have died in peace. As it was, I never told him about Nathan’s plural marriage, nor the danger I faced, nor the blasphemous teachings that were the milk of my daughters’ faith. For all he knew, I’d come back solely to see him, and that settled well with me.
As his strength would allow, I continued to tell him funny stories—silly games Nathan played with the girls or funny things they said. I told him about Kimana, the Indian woman who shared our home, and about her deep, abiding knowledge of God as Creator. I recounted legends, making my eyes wide and round, changing my voice to match her flat native tone. I described the beauty of the Great Salt Lake—the inland ocean with the foaming shore and the violet sky. In short, I gathered every pleasant moment I could conjure and found myself overwhelmed with how many I had.
“God has been good to me, Papa.” They were the last words I ever said to him.
Since Papa’s illness, Mama’d kept on a crew of six hired men to run the farm, and that morning she sent one of them into town to fetch the doctor.
“I know it won’t do no good,” she said, “but I just figure he should know.”
People who do not know my family—specifically who do not know my mother—might think it odd to see the woman who had just lost her husband of over thirty years so detached at his departing. She shed few tears, and those she did were wiped away quickly, not soon to be replaced. If anything, her manner became more brusque, her lips set in a permanent, thin frown, like all of this was just a bother. But ours had never been a house filled with joy, and if tears are the counterpart to laughter, it is little wonder that both were scarce within our walls.
That very afternoon, Dr. Davis walked across the street to tell Elias Dobbins, who served as our town’s coroner, mortician, and sometimes barber, and the two of them came out together in Dobbins’s wagon, bringing a casket and other necessities to prepare Papa for his viewing. I’d known Dr. Davis si
nce I was a child, of course, but Dobbins had moved to town just a few years ago. Still, a flicker of recognition crossed his face when Mama introduced me, and he greeted me with “Oh, you’re the daughter.”
The smattering of friends and neighbors who heard the news and came out to offer condolences met me with some measure of the same. Of course they knew my story—most of them knew me—and each new visit seemed to be as much about seeing the wayward daughter as an outpouring of sympathy. Thank goodness my pregnancy could still be concealed by a full skirt. That would be another test of the community’s goodwill, one that I would happily save for another day. One by one the women came, bearing loaves of bread or pies or platters of sliced meat. They set their offerings on the table and went straight to my mother, taking her in an awkward embrace dictated by Christian duty, and then they came to me.
“How awful you had to come home to such tragedy.”
“Thank God you made it back in time to see him before he passed.”
I could see in their eyes they would much prefer a story about how I’d come to be here for my father’s funeral rather than some dull tale about his last hours on earth. But I only smiled as warmly as I could manage and thanked them for their loving concern.
Between visits, the day charged on with custom and efficiency. The furniture in our parlor was pushed back against the walls, making an open area in the middle of the room where people could gather in sight of the casket, which was set up on Dobbins’s tall, narrow table in front of the cold fireplace. Meanwhile, the bed Papa died in was stripped—one of the women took the bedding home to wash—and the very mattress and pillows removed. By evening I would hardly have known this was the same room. The curtains were open, as were the windows, and the sour smell of disease was already drifting away.
Just as people had trickled in throughout the day, so they left with the onset of darkness. Many had offered to stay the night, sitting up with Mama in the parlor, but the obvious relief in their eyes when Mama turned them down belied the sincerity of their offers.
We stood in the yard watching the last of our company leave. Mama’s hand took mine, and I think we both loathed the idea of going back inside, but there was not much else we could do. Silently, we turned and walked through the front door, finding ourselves in a kitchen full of more food than had ever been in this house.
“Are you hungry?” Mama asked.
“Starving, actually.”
She assembled a plate of food for me, a smaller one for herself, and we took our places at the table. I dove in, shaking with fatigue as I took those first bites, but Mama simply sat, her hands in her lap, staring at the center of the table.
“I did love him, you know.”
“I know you did, Mama.”
“It wasn’t easy, always. He made it almost impossible sometimes . . . but you know that.”
We ate in silence after that. I cleaned my plate down to the crumbs while Mama barely picked at her food.
“I’m going in to sit with him,” she said at last, when she could no longer keep up the pretense of eating. Leaving her full plate on the table, something I’d never imagined her capable of doing, she stood, squared her shoulders, and stared at the door leading into the parlor.
I stood too and said, “I’ll go in with you.”
We left the lamp on the table, as the parlor had its own glow coming from a dozen or more candles throughout the room. Mama went straight to the casket and I followed. We stood side by side looking at the masklike face of my father.
“He hated being sick,” Mama said. “He wouldn’t admit it at first, that anything was wrong. Just kept workin’ and workin’. Then one day he couldn’t even get himself out the door.”
“He’s not sick now. Just think about it. He’s with the Lord, full of such peace and joy.”
“If he is, it’s because God’s put him to work doin’ somethin’. Can’t see him happy any other way.”
We spent the night in that parlor, sitting together on the sofa, leaning against each other, dozing on and off until the dawn. Mama was adamant that Papa be buried that next day, but not on our property. We were due to arrive at our small church cemetery by nine o’clock in the morning for a short ceremony, followed by a gathering at our home.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I realized I had nothing suitable to wear to a funeral of any kind—not even a small gathering of people who were virtually strangers to me. To my humble relief, Mrs. Dobbins arrived early the next morning with a simple black dress for me.
“Elias mentioned your . . . circumstances,” she said.
I thanked her and went into my parents’ stripped room to change. Mother was already dressed in a simple, sturdy black frock that she had begun sewing the first day Papa couldn’t get out of bed.
In the meantime, Elias Dobbins and the hired hands transferred Papa’s casket to Dobbins’s wagon and headed for the cemetery. Mama and I were driven in our neighbor’s carryall. We arrived to find some dozen mourners, though it was their presence more than their demeanor that would classify them as such. Nobody wept, though it did warm my heart to see how sweetly my mother was received. At some point it occurred to me that I might have better served my father by staying home today, as I could not escape the curious sidelong glances of those gathered under the pretense of paying respect to the man being lowered into the ground.
It wasn’t until Reverend Harris stood at the head of the grave and cleared his throat that the eyes and attention of those gathered turned to the circumstances at hand. The minute he began to speak, I was transported back to my childhood, when I’d spent every Sunday morning of my life in a wooden pew listening to men who sounded just like this. This morning, like all of those, the pastor’s voice held so little life, such a lack of passion, that I found my mind wandering even at my own father’s funeral. I know he quoted Scripture after Scripture: the vanity of life spoken of in Ecclesiastes and the reminder that we had come from dust and to dust would return.
I wanted to scream. All around me heads nodded in solemn agreement. Meaninglessness and dust. But my father’s life had not been meaningless. He loved his work, loved his farm, loved his family, and though his stern nature masked his passion, loved his Lord. He was not dust. His body, yes, was now an empty shell—it had nearly become such the moment he fell ill. But he himself was beautifully restored. Healed. Why couldn’t Reverend Harris speak of that?
I had fled this church, run from these teachings, chasing the light in Nathan Fox’s eyes—a light I didn’t see in a single person gathered here. I thought about the promises given to the Mormons. No good Saint ever considered himself as meaningless dust. His work on earth bought him glory hereafter. He would be glorified, blessed with wives and children, himself a god. None of it true, but all of it enticing. Why, then, at the funeral of a good Christian man must we dwell on the emptiness of life? Who would trade deity for dust?
My hands clenched into fists at my side, and God himself held my mouth shut. Somehow, above the arguments whirling in my head, I heard Reverend Harris speak my name. Torn from my silent tirade, I looked to him, questioning.
“I have one more Scripture I would share on your behalf.”
It was, as far as I can recall, the first time he had ever spoken to me directly.
“I should like to read the words of our Lord from the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John.” The pages of his Bible rustled in the spring breeze as he read the familiar words: “‘Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know.’”
He closed his Bible, holding the place with one finger, making the book an extension of himself. “Camilla, Ruth, let not your hearts be troubled.” Then, to those gathered, “Our friend and neighbor Arle
n Deardon has been received unto Christ. Even now, he resides in the house of our Lord, in a place prepared for him. Such a place is prepared for all of us. Jesus Christ has said it is so.”
This time when the heads nodded, I joined them, privately humbled at my criticism of Reverend Harris’s message.
“There are those,” he continued, looking at me again, “who would have you believe that the hereafter is a mystery, and they would seek to solve that mystery by creating their own vision. But we must be ever vigilant to seek only the truth in Scripture. Jesus promises to give us what we long for every day. A home. After life’s long journey, we are given a home. What more could man want?”
The question hung between us, but I felt no accusation. Only questioning, as if he needed confirmation. Silently I held out my hand, requesting his Bible, which, after a brief raising of his eyebrows in surprise, he handed to me.
Carefully, I took the book, keeping the same passage marked with my own finger. “May I continue?” I asked, startled at the strength of my own voice.
“Of course,” Reverend Harris said, his eyes full of knowing.
“‘Thomas saith unto him, Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way? Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.’”
I was given no chorus of agreement, which I attribute to the crowd’s shock at having a woman—a recently heretical woman—read Scripture at the funeral of a good Christian man. It was my mother who responded first, saying, “Amen.”
Gently, Reverend Harris retrieved his Bible from me. “I would hope that thus is the testimony of all gathered here.”
At that, a subdued amen tumbled through the crowd, my own affirmation a choked whisper.
“Then it would seem,” he continued, “that we gather today to acknowledge another homecoming as well. Just as Arlen Deardon is welcomed to his mansion in heaven, so is his daughter welcomed into our lives. Let us gather together in rejoicing.”
Chapter 22
The rest of the day following Papa’s service was an endless round of curiosity veiled as sympathy, much like the previous day, though the presence of Reverend Harris proved to be a comfort in the end.
Forsaking All Others Page 21
