Forsaking All Others (11 page)

“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.

“Helps to melt the butter,” she said, giving the yellow ball in the middle of the table a convincing pat.

“No pumpkin butter?” My eyes went to the jar full of the orange stuff sitting on the shelf above the sink.

“Oh, I thought we’d save that for a treat with supper. If you’re going to be here for supper. You will, won’t you?”

“I will now,” I said, and she laughed, clapping her hands with girlish glee. Once again, her joy ripped at my heart, and I wondered just how long two people could live with an unspoken falsehood between them. Soon enough, though, I had a slice of bacon on the plate in front of me and a thin slice of toast so crispy the sound of my chewing drowned out whatever conversation came from the other side of the table. In between bites, I drank my fill of warm, fresh milk, and tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I thought of my girls sharing the same treat at home.

However, a meal can last only so long, especially one so meager. As we both swiped a finger across our plates to swab up our crumbs, Evangeline asked, “Why are you here, Camilla?”

My finger was actually in my mouth at the time, allowing me a few seconds of grace to phrase my response. “I want to stay here for a while. With you, if that’s all right.”

“Why? Did Nathan send you away?”

“No,” I answered, a little too quickly. The hunger in her question startled me, though it shouldn’t have. Evangeline had loved Nathan longer than I’d even known him, and her affections hadn’t altered after all these years.

She appeared unconvinced. “I can understand how he’d want a little time alone with his new wife.”

“They’ve been married four months.”

“So did
she
send you here?”

“Sister Amanda does not tell me what to do. If anything—” I stopped myself, knowing that giving in to my temper would lead me to reveal more than I wanted. “It’s just . . . all of us, in that small house. Like I said last night—we get so crowded.”

“You usually stay with Rachel when you come into town.”

I forced a casual laugh. “Well, Rachel’s house would hardly be the place for someone looking for solitude.”

“I see.” She stood abruptly, snatching my plate right out from under me. “So you figured poor old Evangeline needs the company, right? Never mind all the times
I
might like to have company, or even be a guest in someone’s home when it’s not time for a funeral.” She dropped the dishes in the sink basin and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Camilla. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—”

“It’s all right.” I rose and placed my arm across her bony shoulders. “Remember, you were supposed to be there for the baby’s dedication. I would have spared you the funeral had it been in my power.”

“But doesn’t it give you great joy to know that your little boy has returned to Heavenly Father?”

I carefully chose my words. “I know he’s in the arms of Jesus, and yes, that gives me comfort.”

Evangeline pulled away and poured warm water from the kettle into the washing tub. Our simple fare didn’t call for soap.

“I’ll never have a baby of my own, you know.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said, bringing our cups from the table. “You’re still a young woman—we both are. And I know you’ll find a husband sometime. Soon, in fact. As soon as you like.”

“You don’t understand.” She looked for all the world like a woman poised on the point of confession, like she was holding a hundred secrets at bay. I didn’t pry, having secrets of my own. Something told me that an ill-placed word might burst the dam of undesirable confession built up between us. Instead, I quietly helped her with the quick task of tidying up the kitchen, keeping my own story stopped up at the top of my throat.

“I won’t make you sleep on the parlor floor tonight,” Evangeline said, running a dry towel over the clean table. “You’re welcome to one of the rooms upstairs, for as long as you want.”

I placed the clean plates on the shelf. “I won’t be a bother.”

“You can take a bed warmer up with you. If you go to sleep real fast, you’ll be warm enough.”

“I’ll be fine, Evangeline. Remember, I live in the same winter as you.”

“And I won’t ask you about anything, unless you want to tell me. About why you’re here, I mean.”

“You’re a good friend. And that’s all I need right now.”

Seeming satisfied with both my answer and her kitchen, Evangeline led me back into her parlor. She stopped in the doorway, planting her hands on her narrow hips. “Well, it looks like we have a harder row to hoe in here, don’t we?”

“I’ve seen worse.” I picked up the tray of dishes from the small table and headed back to the kitchen, thankful we hadn’t tossed out the wash water. It felt good, having something to do. I shaved soap into the water and set the dishes to soak. I pictured Evangeline eating alone by the dim light of her parlor stove, steps away from where she would bed down for the night. Her situation made her every bit as much a prisoner as I’d ever been, yet there didn’t seem to be any hope for her release in sight.

By the time I returned to the parlor, she had folded up most of the bedding and placed it in a large wicker basket that she stashed behind the sofa. I opened the drapes, ushering in the morning sun, and the flooding light instantly transformed the room, giving it a cheeriness neither of us could echo.

“You can take your things upstairs,” Evangeline said, nodding toward my little bundle sitting on the high-backed chair. “Any room you like.”

“Don’t you want to come with me?”

She shook her head. “I don’t go upstairs very often anymore. I keep thinking I should take in a boarder or two. I guess I’ll practice with you.”

Her weak smile reassured me that her last statement was a joke, though I knew if I’d offered any sum of money, she would have snatched it from my hand.

I picked up my bag and mounted the narrow stairway, twisting around the narrow turn. The second floor had an unusual frigid mustiness, like an attic. From earlier visits I knew the far bedroom was that where Brother Moss had lain, motionless, until he took his final breath. Drawing my own shuddering one, I knew I could never stay in there. Just to my left was the boys’ room—both of its narrow beds stripped clean of linens, though the walls were still littered with drawings. Curiosity drew me in, and I stepped around, observing the childish yet sincere sketches of Mormon heroes. Samuel the Lamanite facing a sea of arrows; Ammon bearing a mighty sword. These men—these figments of Joseph Smith’s imagination—took precedence over the heroes of God’s holy Word. Little wonder their images were left intact, while every other personal belonging was tucked away in bureau drawers.

Shuddering, I moved on to Evangeline’s own room, though I didn’t like to think I was keeping her from sleeping in her own bed. Still, she’d stated her preference strongly enough, and I stepped over the threshold pleased at what I saw. A cheerful log-cabin-pattern quilt was spread across what looked like a soft bed with soft pillows piled against a white iron headboard. The curtains were drawn, but I pushed them aside to reveal a view of the now-bustling street below. The braided rug on the floor was well worn, and a thin layer of dust lay across the surface of the desk and dresser, but otherwise the room was clean and tidy.

I had few enough belongings to stow away. I wore my only dress, though I had a few underthings and stockings to stash in the bottom drawer. My Bible was given a new home on the table next to the bed and finally, the three stubs of candle Colonel Brandon had given me with his rather dire instruction. At the moment, standing in a pool of sunlight, I could not imagine what terror could befall me that I would need to summon his soldiers in the night. Then again, there was a time I never would have imagined myself anywhere but in the loving arms of my husband. And before that, in the protective custody of my father. So with just a hint of ceremony, I lined the three candles—each wide enough to stand without the benefit of a holder—along the windowsill. Just seeing them there gave me an added layer of comfort, and out of curiosity, I hazarded a glance out the window to see if I could get a glimpse of one of the men sent to patrol.

But no. No mounted soldier in uniform astride a noble horse. No collection of young men gathered to stand at attention. I pressed my head closer to the glass. How would I know what to look for in a military patrol? Colonel Brandon had donned civilian garb to bring me here; it stood to reason any troops he sent out would be similarly dressed.

Then, just as I was about to step away, I noticed a man standing across the street and two houses down. On this crisp winter morning, he alone stood perfectly still. All about him, men and women bustled about their business. Men hauled handcarts full of wood; women walked in groups of two or three, lost in conversation; children wove themselves throughout, running late toward the sound of the school bell ringing in the distance.

But this man—he wore a dark-blue wool overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. In fact, I might not have seen his eyes at all, save for the fact that his head was tilted straight up, and he was looking right at me.

Chapter 9

We settled into a routine like two maiden aunts who had spent a lifetime watching life pass them by. Each meal—no matter how meager—became its own ceremony as we prepared, ate, and cleared away the same few dishes over and over. One pot of soup fueled an entire day’s conversation as we sat quietly at our tasks, commenting on its delicious aroma. Indeed it was, with shreds of sausage, chunks of potato, and a generous stir-in of butter and cream just before we ate.

Still, during those first days, I experienced a hunger like I hadn’t known since the final miles on the wagon trail to Zion. Evangeline lived solely on the charity of the Saints, and her allotted groceries seemed barely enough to meet her needs, let alone to share with her secretly apostate friend. We ate twice a day—a midmorning breakfast and supper one hour after sundown. Hunger became a constant companion, a cavernous voice that could not be silenced. At first, it literally sang out from within me with echoing, growling calls. But as a crying child will eventually settle into silence, so its clamor died away to be heard by my ears only.

With the hunger came fatigue, and I began to see how Evangeline, unwed and alone, spent her days. I assumed she took more trouble with her housewifery having a guest, but no single chore demanded more than an hour’s labor, and then we devoted afternoons to any sort of task that required us to move nothing more than a needle. I helped with the bits of sewing and mending Evangeline did for some of the wealthier women in her ward, hoping my efforts would contribute to my keep.

“I’m usually invited to somebody’s home for dinner after the Sunday meeting,” Evangeline said as we wiped our dishes dry on Saturday night—a redundant act, really. We’d eaten the remnants of the sausage-and-potato soup, wiping the bowl with the shared heel of a loaf of bread. Dessert was a shared peppermint stick. “I’m sure if you’re right there with me, you’d be invited along, too. Everybody always has plenty.”

I focused on the task at hand, carefully choosing my reply. “I wasn’t planning to go to meeting.”

“Not go?” She made no attempt to hide her suspicion. “Why in the world would you not go? Now more than ever it’s so important for us to remain strong in our faith. And especially you, being so far away from your family . . .”

“That’s just it.” I took the dishes and placed them on the shelf. “I don’t want to explain why I’m here. I don’t want people to think I’m discontent. Or disobedient.”

“But aren’t you? Discontent, I mean.”

Her question came from a place of hunger no amount of food could fill.

“I know it must be hard for you to understand. It’s not easy for me, either. And I’m so grateful to you for opening your home to me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure how I feel about opening my home to someone who doesn’t want to go to church.”

I had the distinct feeling we were circling each other, like two cats who had just discovered each other’s presence in the room. All these days, all these hours, Evangeline hadn’t asked me a single word about why I wasn’t in my own home. The tepid explanation I’d given that first night seemed still to satisfy her.

“It would be hard for me, too, to go to meeting without the girls. I miss them so much.” Here, the catch in my voice had nothing to do with subterfuge. The next morning, Amanda would be arranging the girls’ hair in their special Sunday morning curls and taking their little hands as they walked into the church house. She would sit next to Nathan on our family’s bench. Lottie’s soft little head would fall against her shoulder as Elder Justus’s sermon ran too long. I can still feel the weight of it—an ache that brings comfort rather than pain.

“And Nathan?”

“Of course,” I said, still caught up in reverie. “I miss what we had as a family.”

“Well,” she said, sounding short of being totally convinced, “at least you can come with me to do a little marketing.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that, sister. You know I have nothing—nothing at all to contribute.”

She deflected my protest with a wave of her fragile hand. “It’s such a treat for me to have company. I hardly ever get to be a hostess. Besides, it’s what Heavenly Father calls us to do. You’re giving me a chance to be something.”