Desert Wives (9781615952267) (26 page)

His hand left my lower thigh, and a moment later, I felt fingers unbuttoning the front of my high-necked dress. For a brief second my treacherous mind gave me a vision of Dusty's face, but after a brief hesitation, I willed the vision away.

“Yes, Prophet Davis,” I whispered. I didn't have to fake the passion in my voice.

Chapter 19

Saul left for court the next morning the same time I left for school. My disgust at the weak curriculum only slightly eclipsed my self-disgust. How could I have responded to Prophet Davis's caresses, even for a moment? Certainly the man was handsome, and certainly, he knew his way around a woman's body, and certainly, it had been a long time since Dusty—that unfaithful devil—had touched me in the way Davis had. But damn!

What would have happened if I hadn't suddenly remembered the gun strapped to my other thigh and pulled out of his arms, making a fake-shy excuse? Worse yet, what would have happened if I hadn't been wearing my gun at all? Would I, like the old Sinatra song put it, have gone all the way?

I trotted across the compound amid a flock of giggling, long-skirted girls, cursing myself silently. Perhaps the stress of living at the compound had blurred the boundaries of my past and my present, sent me back to my lonely teenage years when I'd gone too far with too many high school boys just for the temporary ecstasy of feeling needed. Later, in an ASU psychology class, I'd learned sexually abused girls often became promiscuous, so I'd forgiven myself. But that was then and this was now. I was no longer a vulnerable teenager seeking acceptance in the sweaty back seats of muscle cars. I was a grown woman with better sense.

Supposedly.

I hurried to the first class. During the previous day, I'd recognized two teachers as Solomon's widows. Hester, a thin-faced woman only slightly younger than Ermaline, taught math, and Desiree, a plump teenager little older than her students, taught English. I spent the morning taking notes in case Davis checked up on me, then sought out the two teachers during recess.

We sat beneath the school yard's only tree, a struggling cottonwood whose puny branches looked like they might fall on our heads any moment. The older children stood around talking, while the younger ones played on the swings and slides. Rebecca, bless her, never once looked my way.

I broke the ice by asking about Rosalinda's baby. “Just beautiful!” And Hanna's baby? “Doing poorly.” Then, after making a few diplomatic comments about the school and expressing Davis's interest in it, I began to draw the women out. They were Solomon's widows, after all, and we'd cooked biscuits side by side.

“Given the materials you have to work with, I think you women have done a fine job,” I said, holding up the ragged textbook I'd put aside to take to Davis. “I'm just surprised that Prophet Solomon, with all his resources, didn't allot more money to the school. I mean, he seemed so concerned about every little thing here in Purity.”

Hester gave me a sour look. “I wouldn't say
every
little thing.”

Some jealousy there, perhaps? I wondered how long it had been since Solomon had visited Hester's bed. Not in years, I bet.

“Well, you know what I mean. He really cared about the compound, so I'm sure he kept an eye to the future of its young people.”

Hester shrugged, making the shoulder seam of her ill-made calico dress slip further down her arm. I wanted to tug it up, but refrained. “The only time we ever saw him was during meals and at Prayer Time. He didn't really have a lot to say to us about anything. Except God and children, of course.”

Desiree, younger and still willing to make allowances for neglectful behavior, nodded sympathetically.

“But didn't Prophet Solomon design the school's syllabus?” I asked. “What could be taught and what couldn't?”

“Sure he did,” Hester said. “Problem was, he designed it around the things he found interesting, not the skills our young people might need as they established their own families. For instance, I wanted to take some of the children into town and teach them how to shop frugally, but he wouldn't allow it. He didn't want them out of the compound, not even for a minute.”

“But Sister Hester,
God
told him the trip would be a waste of time!” Desiree protested.

That sour look again. “Everything our husband said and did originated with God.”

I wondered where Hester's cynicism came from, and then I remembered. She'd probably attended public school, maybe even gone all the way through high school. Desiree had probably dropped out when she'd married, maybe even at fourteen. Cynical or not, though, Hester was right. The best way to strong-arm people into doing anything you wanted was by convincing them you spoke for God.

Catching my expression, Hester added, “Once our husband made up his mind, he never changed it. A couple of years ago when we were allowed to watch certain TV programs, he decided that purple dinosaur, Barney, had been sent by Satan to tempt children into believing that their own feelings and ideas were important. It upset him so much he drove into town for a stuffed Barney toy, and had each child in Purity tell it, ‘Satan, I renounce you.' It was all pretty silly, if you ask me, but he didn't think so. After every child renounced Satan, he made Margaret, who was only three, burn it on the trash heap. The poor little thing just sobbed and sobbed because she'd believed Barney was her birthday present. I tried to tell him he was breaking her heart, but he didn't care.”

Even Desiree looked uncomfortable at this, but true to her nature, she tried to explain it away. “Sometimes the Path of Faith is hard.”

Hester vented a bitter laugh. “One of our husband's favorite sayings. He used it to make us do things we didn't want to do and threatened us with hellfire if we defied him.”

In a flat voice, Desiree quoted someone, probably the Prophet. “A wife should be a willing servant to her husband, for he is her only pathway to God. Without her husband's guidance, she will never find Heaven.'”

Hester didn't buy it. “Maybe that's true, maybe not. He used that same argument with the Circle of Elders, too, when they wanted to take a different course than the one he'd ordered. In the end, I'm not sure they were convinced he spoke for God's interests, either.”

I had one more question. “I know the Circle is having trouble with Brother Davis, and I've got a pretty good idea how that's going to turn out, so what happened when the Circle ran afoul of Prophet Solomon?”

“They had to do what he ordered, of course,” Hester said. “After all, the Prophet is God's mouthpiece. And you don't go against God—until his mouthpiece gets assassinated, that is.”

Desiree gasped.

I almost did, too. “Sister Hester, are you telling me you think one of the Circle shot Solomon? And might now be after Davis?”

She didn't back down. “Do you really think that shot at Davis the other day came from some fool hunter? Our men handle guns better than that. I think Purity's new prophet had better watch his step and stay away from that canyon. I also think he'd be smart to chop down that mesquite grove around his house so nobody can use the cover to sneak up on him.”

Desiree looked appalled. “That's a wicked thing to say!”

Hester grunted. “Tell me that in a few months, dear, but you mark my words. Unless Davis drops his reforms, he'll never live past Christmas.” Then, as if believing she'd gone too far, she made a big show of checking her watch. “We should go back in now. Recess is over.”

As we herded the children back into the classrooms, I reflected on what I'd just learned about Solomon. Take away the religious cant, and the portrait that emerged was that of a totally self-serving man. While I'd heard no tales of outright physical cruelty on Prophet Solomon's part, he'd manipulated his wives and children, and the entire compound.

But someone had seen through him.

Just after recess it began raining steadily. While the parched kitchen gardens probably rejoiced, the rain increased the dangers of flash flooding. Saving myself about a half hour by taking Paiute Canyon's dogleg to the graveyard was no longer wise, so I decided to leave earlier than planned. As soon I as noted Desiree didn't know the difference between an adjective and an adverb, I excused myself from her English class and splashed across the muddy compound to Saul's. I borrowed a raincoat and scarf from a suspicious Ruby and, telling her I loved walking in the rain, began the slow, wet slog across the desert.

Although the nasty weather guaranteed there would be no hunters around to pry into my movements, the price for such privacy came high. The overland road to the graveyard added two miles to my journey, and before I'd even cleared the compound, mud caked my Reeboks, weighing me down. For a while, the road paralleled the canyon, so I listened to the music of water as it burbled along what was now little more than a tiny stream. How long before it turned into a torrent?

After a half hour, the road hooked east along the dogleg and began a slow, gentle climb over a ridge dotted with desert rue. Here the road became rocky. Once the road topped the ridge, I paused to look back to see Purity in all its squalid splendor. From here the houses and trailers resembled a wagon train tightly circled to ward off foes. But this appearance deceived. Purity had no foes. The established Mormon Church, after expelling the polygamists, had washed its hands of the entire problem. Beehive County's district attorney wouldn't prosecute men like Prophet Solomon or Earl Graff, and even the county sheriff returned Purity's runaways. There was nothing I could do except save one little girl: Rebecca.

I turned my back on Purity and crossed the ridge to find the Paiute already waiting for me.

Tony Lomahguahu, hunkered under a huge black umbrella, looked thoroughly miserable. “I sure hope this is important, Miss Jones. I left a warm fire back at the house.”

“It's important.” The weather was too foul for pleasantries, so I started right in. “Mr. Lomahguahu, I know something's very wrong in Purity, but I simply don't know enough about these people and their history to figure it out. Will you help me?”

Lomahguahu stared at me for a moment, silent. The wind, stronger here, lifted wisps of his thick gray hair. I waited.

Finally, he said, “Have you lived in the noise of the city for so long that you have forgotten how to listen?”

I bit my lip to keep back the churlish answer that sprang to my lips: listen to what? Rain slapping against mud?

But I didn't want to alienate him. “I'm not sure I ever knew how to listen. That's why I've come to you. Something doesn't add up here, and it's probably connected to the Prophet's death.” I pointed toward the graves of Martha Royal's children. “You said ‘Listen to the children.' Well, one of the women has lost too many, I think, for it to be a coincidence. Is that what you were hinting at?”

The Paiute glanced at the sky, where a thin blue line appeared on the western horizon. It broadened as we watched. The rain would end soon, but the canyon would remain dangerous for days. Good. That would keep Davis away from it, and maybe he'd live long enough to put those reforms into action.

“Mr. Lomahguahu? Did you hear my question?”

His face hinted at impatience when he finally answered. “You believe this woman may have something to do with her children's deaths, but how would the Paiute know anything about that? We lead our lives, the people of Purity lead theirs. Little passes between us. But I can say this. If you cannot listen, then you must
look.
All the information you need is there. But like so many white people, you are blind. In your
busyness,
you have forgotten how to use your eyes.”

With that, he got up and without another word, walked back toward the Paiute reservation.

I would have chased after him but I knew better. He'd discharged his debt to Jimmy's people, and now he was through with me. He'd not wanted to become involved with the polygamy mess in the first place, and after everything I'd seen during the past couple of weeks, I couldn't blame him.

The rain stopped. In no hurry to repeat my long hike over the ridge and back down the soggy road, I spent the next hour wandering through the cemetery. The oldest graves, high on the ridge and silhouetted against the sky, were those of the area's pioneers, polygamists even then. Below them, marching toward the present, I found graves with the same names recurring. Royal. Corbett. Leonard. Waldman. Graff. Heaton. As I studied the markers, I began to see a pattern. In the 1800s and at the beginning of the nineteenth century, young women didn't live long. Many were buried with infants, signaling they'd died in childbirth. These sad deaths diminished in the 1930s, probably because of better prenatal care. Young women's deaths dropped sharply again in the 1970s, which, if I remembered correctly, heralded the advent of Purity's clinic, proof that it did some good.

Then in the 1980s, though, the incidence of infant and child deaths began to rise again. Dramatically. For the past five years, the number of dead children had escalated alarmingly, illustrating that Martha was far from the only woman who'd lost several babies.

Or murdered them.

I remembered Andrea Yates, the overwhelmed Texas mother who'd drowned her five children in the family bathtub. Were these rows and rows of dead children the desperate acts of women like her, whose bodies and minds had been pushed beyond their resources? Were the women all covering up for each other? And had Prophet Solomon, like myself, finally figured out what the women were doing?

And had one of them killed him to keep him silent?

Then I remembered Hanna, the battered-looking woman who'd barely been able to limp her way across Ermaline's kitchen. She'd recently given birth to a baby everyone described as frail. Were the women merely setting the scene for another infanticide?

I set out for Purity as quickly as my mud-encrusted feet would allow.

When I arrived back at the compound the streets were almost deserted. Cautious, I went around to the clinic's back door, which was almost hidden from sight behind a collection of outbuildings. Good. If I was right, my discovery would put me in grave danger, not from the compound's men, but from its women.