Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2) (11 page)

Brinley

Brinley Hammond was exhausted, having been up since five that morning. She and her husband, Porter, were on a new health kick, waking up early to run. This morning they’d powered through four miles before heading back home. They were training for a half marathon later in the year, and with each morning run, her confidence was improving, and she surprised herself with her endurance.

I guess life is just full of surprises.

Almost daily, the normal everyday occurrences of her life would bring her mentally back to the compound, even if just for a moment. Running or any other form of exercise was frowned upon for women. They were expected to use all of their energy to work—cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing was the expectation. Focusing on one’s own personal health was frowned upon as it was time taken for selfish purposes.

Brinley shuddered at the thought—her run that morning, the cup of chai tea she’d balanced in one hand as she’d turned the key of her home with the other, the hair appointment she’d scheduled for the following day, and even her job as a teaching assistant—all of those things were considered sinful on the compound. And it was in those moments of reflection that she realized just how far she’d come in her new life with Porter. Her
husband
, Porter. The man she’d
chosen.

She couldn’t imagine going back to a life where her choices were irrelevant, where her desires, her dreams, her fears meant nothing at all. As the months and years passed, she was grateful that her time on the compound was becoming more of a distant memory than an open wound. She was opening herself up to new experiences and ideas, although as hard as Porter pushed, Brinley ignored his suggestions they go skydiving and bungee jumping. He’d tease her incessantly when she insisted that thrill seeking simply wasn’t for her.

“Are you kidding?” he’d say. “What do you call sneaking out of a compound to see me? You’re the ultimate thrill seeker, Brin. You’re just too modest to see it.”

Brinley would simply roll her eyes and push him gently on the arm. Deep inside, however, she knew he had a point. When she thought back to the risks she’d taken, the danger she’d endured to be with Porter, she was shocked at her own fortitude and gall. Maybe she was a thrill seeker after all. But considering she hadn’t yet flown on an airplane, she preferred to keep her feet on the ground, thank you very much.

When she entered their kitchen, Porter looked up from a sink full of dishes to greet her. His blue eyes were bright, and his blond hair was getting a little long. Perhaps she could convince him to join her at the salon for a trim. Knowing Porter, however, he’d prefer to see his barber.

“Hey, babe. Have a good day?”

Brinley entered the kitchen and placed her things on the counter before offering him a kiss. She smiled, taking in the sight of him—yellow kitchen gloves covering his hands, soapy bubbles splashing onto the Formica.

So many memories.

When Brinley had first entered Porter’s apartment back in Colorado City, this was exactly how she’d found him—hands submerged in soapy bubbles. It amazed her just how far they’d come, and how lucky she was to have a husband who didn’t mind washing dishes. Her assigned husband, Lehi Cluff, would never have dreamed of washing a dish. In fact, he probably wouldn’t know how to do it if he tried.

Brinley shook her head and took a sip of her tea. “Good. Exhausting. And you?”

“It was slow. Just drywall at the community center; they sent us home after that. So I thought I’d catch up on some stuff.”

A whiff of oregano drifted past Brinley. “Are you cooking?”

He nodded, pulling the plug on the sink before removing the gloves from his hands. “Chicken parm.”

“Mmm, my favorite.”

Ever since she’d moved in with him years ago, Porter had expressed interest in learning to cook. Even though it felt odd to teach a man to cook, over time Brinley was happy to share her knowledge in the kitchen with him. He was a natural, and after several months, she’d adjusted to Porter’s desire to share in the role of cooking. After draining days like the one she’d had that day, she was ever so grateful to be surprised with a home-cooked meal.

Brinley walked to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He followed her lead and pulled her in by the waist.

“You’re so good to me,” she said.

“I try.”

He smirked before pressing his lips to her neck and tickling her skin with his tongue. She squirmed at his touch but clutched his neck harder, urging him on as she took in his scent. She always loved the way he smelled after a day at work. She could smell the sunshine on his skin.

Their moment was interrupted by her cell phone, which rang from her purse.

“Ignore it,” Porter murmured as he moved to the other side of her neck and resumed his kisses.

But then she remembered. This wasn’t the first phone call she’d ignored since leaving the elementary school. Someone had tried to reach her while she was driving, and again when she was walking up to the house, balancing her school items and hot cup of tea. She’d assumed it was Porter, since aside from her cousin Tiffany, she didn’t receive many calls on her cell.

“This is the third call. I should see who it is.”

Reluctantly, she pulled away from Porter and retrieved her phone from the purse. Her breath caught as she read the name on the screen.
Aspen
.

“I have to take this,” she said, taking Porter’s hand in hers as she pressed the green button to accept the call.

“Brinley? Is that you?” Aspen’s voice was panicked, not controlled and self-assured as it usually was.

“Aspen? Is everyone all right? Are the children okay?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Aspen’s voice cracked when she finally spoke, her voice rushed. “No, we’re not okay. We’re in trouble, Brinley. And I have no idea what to do.”

Brinley’s heart raced as she felt herself being pulled back to the compound she’d fought so hard to leave behind. But for Aspen she’d go back. She’d go back in a heartbeat.

“Okay, slow down. Tell me what’s going on.”

Aspen’s voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “I don’t have much time to talk. No one can know I’m calling you.”

“That’s fine, but tell me—tell me what’s happening.”

“He wants her, Brinley. The Prophet wants to take my baby.”

Brinley’s heart climbed into her chest and she squeezed Porter’s hand. “What do you mean?”

She asked the question, but she already knew. The Prophet wanted to marry Aspen’s oldest daughter, Ruthie. She couldn’t have been older than twelve.

“He
claims
that Heavenly Father revealed it. She’s to be his wife when she turns thirteen.”

The cynicism in Aspen’s voice gave Brinley pause. Her former sister wife was one of the most devout women she’d ever known. To hear her doubt the Prophet was shocking.

“And you don’t believe it?”

Aspen paused before sighing into the phone. “No, I don’t. I can’t believe I’m saying the words, but no—he’s sending me a message. He’s trying to keep me silent.”

Brinley released Porter’s hand and walked to their couch to sit down, puzzled by Aspen’s cryptic statement, feeling a familiar trepidation whenever the Prophet was mentioned.

He can’t hurt you now, Brinley. You’re free.
But Aspen wasn’t, and neither were her children.

“Keep you silent? About what?”

“I saw him,” she whispered. “He was leading Gentiles into the new temple. I saw him and he saw me, and then he threatened my Jeremiah.”

Brinley covered her mouth with her hand. Even though she was now considered an apostate, a true enemy of the faith, even she knew that the Prophet had committed one of the most heinous sins one could commit in their faith. Only the chosen could and should enter the temple.

“Threatened him how?”

“To make him disappear.”

Brinley gasped, then swallowed hard against the bile that rose in her throat. She wasn’t a mother, not yet. She and Porter had recently started a discussion of what if—what if we stopped preventing pregnancy? What if we decided to be parents?

And even though they were just discussions, Brinley found herself being oddly protective of her imaginary babies, her possible future babies. She couldn’t imagine having the life of a child threatened, especially by a man with unlimited resources and power. If the Prophet wanted your child harmed, it would be so. Brinley knew it, and she was certain Aspen did too. She could only hope that Aspen had support from her new husband.

“And your husband? Have you told him?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked again, telling Brinley that Aspen was crying. “Paul doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m lying, that I’m making it all up.”

Brinley closed her eyes, feeling protective. If Aspen’s husband had beaten her, Brinley had every intention of climbing into her car and driving to the compound right that minute to collect Aspen and the children.

“Aspen, did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Aspen?”

“Brinley, I promise. I would tell you—you
know
that. Besides, I’m not the one we should be worried about. It’s Ruthie, she’s too young. I
can’t
let him take her. I won’t.”

“Do you need a place to stay? You know you can come here. It’s small, but we’ll make do.”

“No, no. I—this is my
home
. It’s who I am; it’s what I believe. I can’t let him change that.”

“But he’s the Prophet, Aspen. No one defies the Prophet.”

“Not yet.”

Brinley was startled by those words.
Not yet.

“Think this through, okay? If the Prophet wants to marry Ruthie, that’s exactly what will happen. Unless you leave.”

“I can’t.”

Brinley understood Aspen’s way of thinking. Even after meeting Porter, it had taken Brinley months to warm to the idea that if she wanted him, she’d have to leave the compound. There was no in-between, no exceptions to be made. She had to make a choice. Deep within her gut, she knew Aspen would be faced with that same choice, but she couldn’t push her into being ready to make it.

“Okay then, what can I do? How can I help?”

“I need a name.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone who can help me figure out what the Prophet is doing, if he’s breaking any laws.”

And then Brinley realized what Aspen was planning. It was risky—probably the most reckless thing she could imagine.

“You want to take down the Prophet, don’t you?”

Aspen’s response made goose bumps rise on Brinley’s arms. “Maybe if I have proof, Paul will listen. Gentiles in the temple, Brinley. He’s not the man I thought he was. And I
won’t
let him control me . . . or my children.”

“Let me see what I can do. Porter knows a couple of guys on the force. Maybe there’s someone who can help.”

“Thank you. I have to go.”

“Of course. I’ll call you when I have some information.”

With trembling hands, Brinley ended the call and merely sat, staring ahead in a daze. Porter moved from the recliner to sit beside her on the couch, and when he reached out to grasp her shoulder, shaking her from her stupor, she startled. She hadn’t even realized that he’d had followed her into the living room.

“Brin, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Aspen’s in trouble. She needs our help.”

“She’s not the type to ask for help. What the hell is happening down there?”

“The Prophet—she saw him leading Gentiles into the temple, and now he’s threatened her kids and wants to marry her oldest. It’s a mess.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She felt completely powerless and overwhelmed. What could she possibly do to help Aspen and her children?

Porter looked confused. “Why didn’t he just kick her out?”

A cynical laugh burst from Brinley’s lips. “Because she’s a woman.”

“Good point.” Porter nodded.

They both knew it was rare that a woman would be asked to leave the compound. Women were much too valuable to the success of the FLDS for the Prophet to kick them out. They were punished, yes, but never removed.

“
And
she’s married to his brother.”

“Oh.” Porter took a deep breath. “So, we have to help her. That’s all there is to it.”

“She asked for a name of a police officer, someone who can help her figure this out. If that’s even possible.”

Porter sat staring into space, his hands curled into tight fists. Brinley knew that he’d always be grateful to Aspen for rescuing her from Lehi’s wrath. Aspen had driven her to Porter when Lehi had beaten her to a pulp. Aspen had saved her life and for that, they would always be in her debt.

He shook his head as he spoke. “I don’t know, but we have to try.”

“Is there anyone you can call? Anyone at all?”

“Yeah.” Porter nodded. “I think there is.”

“Do not trust Gentiles, for they are the gateway to sin.”

— The Prophet, Clarence Black

Aspen

I had a name and an address. Now I just had to put my plan into action.

Jonathan Cooke was a police detective that Porter had met through his cousin Charlie. Porter didn’t know the man very well, but warned me Detective Cooke could be rough around the edges. He also hinted that Cooke had a history of disapproval of our way of life on the compound.

“He may give you a hard time, but he’s good at his job,” Porter had said when he called the night before.

I didn’t scare easily, and I was determined to work with the best I could find. If Jonathan Cooke was the best, then he couldn’t and
wouldn’t
intimidate me. If he could help me save my babies, nothing else mattered.

Nothing at all.

It was a Wednesday morning. Paul had left for work hours ago, and my sister wives had started their daily chores. Luckily, my day was light with work, and my children were occupied with scripture study and playing with their siblings.

I just needed an excuse.

“Flora, I’m heading into town.” I greeted my sister wife, keeping my voice and expression steady. “Do you need anything from the pharmacy?”

Flora pursed her lips and placed her hands on her robust hips. “I just went to town yesterday, Aspen. Why didn’t you give me a list?”

She was irritated, but that was the least of my concerns. Not even a healthy dose of guilt from Paul’s first wife would keep me from walking out that door.

“I realized this morning that the children were out of cola syrup. Jeremiah’s stomach has been off lately, so I’m going to stock up.”

“Don’t be silly, just grab some Pepto from my bath—”

“No,” I snapped, perhaps a little too harshly. Flora raised one eyebrow, obviously taken aback by my not-so-calm demeanor. “Thank you, but Jeremiah can’t have Pepto. It binds him up and just makes things worse. He needs cola syrup; it’s the only thing that works.”

“Oh,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Very well. I’ll ask JoAnna to keep an eye on your children.”

“Thank you, Flora.”

Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I realized that even after years of living with Brinley as my sister wife, I’d never quite understood her until that exact moment. I finally knew what it must have felt like to lie to our sister wives in order to escape to the outside world. A new level of understanding warmed my heart as I thought of Brinley and everything she went through to follow her heart.

Just as I was following mine.

“Aspen?”

My fingertips had just grazed the knob of our front door as Paul called my name. Startled to my very core, I jumped, my heart pounding furiously. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and turned around. It was time to put on my mask and be impervious to my husband. He couldn’t see my nerves, my anxiety, the sweat building beneath my braid.

“Yes?”

“Can I have a word with you, please?”

“Of course.” I cleared my throat and willed my heart to stop beating so rapidly. I wanted to ask him why he wasn’t at work as I’d expected, but didn’t want to draw any unnecessary suspicion my way.

Keep sweet. Keep sweet. Keep sweet.

“Where are you off to?” he asked, cocking his head to the side as he looked down at my purse. I never needed it unless I was leaving the compound.

“The pharmacy. I’m all out of cola syrup.”

“Jeremiah?” he asked, wincing.

My reason for leaving our compound wasn’t a total lie. The excuse was true. My son’s stomach had been off lately, but we had plenty of cola syrup. The lie was in the urgency of the matter.

“Yes.” I licked my lips, urging my dry mouth to moisten. “Was there something you needed?”

“I, uh . . .” His forehead wrinkled while he paused. “I just wanted to say hello. We haven’t spoken much since—”

“Since you didn’t believe me.”

My voice was snide, but I didn’t care. Paul had turned his back on me, on us, and most of all, on our children.

“I was hoping we could get past all that.”

“How do you suggest we do that, Paul?”

He sighed, scratching his head. “I don’t know. But you’ve clearly put a wall up, and I’m unable to climb it.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“Aspen, please.” He rolled his eyes in frustration. “We’ve been over this. You misunderstood my brother, that’s all.”

“I misunderstood
nothing
. And I’m not the one who removed me from your rotation. That was your choice, Paul,
your
choice.”

“Perhaps that was a mistake.”

He stepped toward me and reached toward my shoulder but I retreated, my back slamming against the door. Paul’s mouth dropped open and we stood in silence until he spoke in a low whisper.

“What happened to us?”

I looked away, breaking eye contact. I couldn’t let him affect my resolve. I was going to meet with Detective Cooke, and no one was going to stop me.

“Aspen, look at me.”

I swallowed hard, my eyes finally reaching his after several moments.

“We have to fix this.”

“I’ll care for you,” I said stiffly. “I’ll care for you and raise your children. I’ll perform all duties expected of me in this household.”

He closed the space between us, his eyes glistening. His hand grazed my cheek. “Aspen,
please
.”

“You built the wall. You stacked those bricks and threw me over the side, never looking back. I went to you for support. I needed you, Paul, I needed you desperately. I didn’t build that wall, so please don’t pretend that I did.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared into my eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then that makes two of us. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the store before lunchtime. I’ll be needed in the kitchen this afternoon.”

Looking away, he cleared his throat. “Of course.”

As soon as I placed my hand back on the doorknob, he said my name yet again. I turned to lock eyes with my husband.

“I’ll ask Flora to add you back into the rotation.” He paused, tipping his head to me. “If that’s agreeable to you.”

My stomach was in knots. I had no desire to share Paul’s bed after his betrayal, but deep down, I knew the choice was never really mine.

“All right.”

I turned, opened the door, and left our home without looking back.

• • •

I’d never encountered a police officer in my lifetime. In our community, the only law enforcement that existed was the Prophet. If someone committed a crime on our compound, the Prophet would choose the punishment. Men lost their wives, their children.

On occasion, a man would come home from work to find the locks had been changed and his possessions were loaded into his truck, courtesy of the Prophet and the men of the priesthood. This meant only one thing, that he was to leave and never return as he was no longer welcome.

Young men like Porter were dropped on random street corners, expected to function in the outside world. And if they refused to go, the men of the community would escort them out. But no one was sent to jail. Ever.

The Prophet didn’t believe in that type of justice. If you were unfit to be a part of the chosen, you were forced to leave, and that was that. To the Prophet, and to the rest of us in his community, that was the only justice that mattered. Being a part of the chosen.

Women, however, were treated differently. We were needed, necessary, essential. Women weren’t asked to leave as we were desperately needed for the role of wife and mother. In fact, I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that my audacious and bold attitude toward the Prophet wasn’t fueled by my knowledge of that fact.

Was I facing punishment, embarrassment, and shame? Of course. But I wouldn’t be asked to leave. Not ever. I was too valuable as a commodity, and I intended to exploit that status as much as I possibly could.

Unlike my former sister wife, Brinley, I didn’t enjoy venturing into the outside world. In fact, this was my first trip to the pharmacy in months.

Gentiles made me uncomfortable. The women made me blush with their oftentimes brazen appearances. Painted faces, lack of modesty, and exposed brassieres made my eyes widen and my mind race. Did they have no self-respect? And the men were just as odd. Ink drawn on their arms, scruffy facial hair, and no manners whatsoever.

No shame was to be found in the outside world, and it made me anxious. It made me want to bow my head in prayer, to pray for their souls, for their afterlife that would surely end in agony and flames.

But if I was honest with myself, I was also mortified by their stares. They looked at me as if I was a mutant that crawled out from the dry canyons. They scoffed at my hair, rolled their eyes at my dress, and took pictures of me with their cell phones. I could think of nothing worse than being surrounded by Gentiles in their natural environment, one in which they could judge me for my appearance. One in which they could deny that I was part of the chosen, that they in fact were the ones immersing themselves in sin.

As much as I despised entering their world, I would endure much worse to save my children. And so I ignored the stares and snickers as I stepped into the police station, an old building constructed of faded brown bricks just blocks away from my alibi, the pharmacy.

The building was large, and the lobby eerily silent. Once I opened the double doors to the station, however, my ears were assaulted by the sound of ringing phones, fingers clicking on keyboards, and voices deep in discussion. How did anyone concentrate in such a noisy environment?

An older woman with hair shorter than Paul’s and dressed in policeman’s garb sat behind a desk near the entrance.

A woman police officer?
I was stunned at the sight of her.

She ignored me, which unfortunately I was accustomed to when visiting the outside world. I’d been ignored by countless people at the pharmacy and grocery store, so it was no surprise when she pretended not to see me. She did, in fact, see me, I was sure of it, but she kept her gaze on the computer in front of her.

Loudly, I cleared my throat to draw her attention. But still, her focus remained on the computer screen.

Tap, tap, tap.
My fingernails drummed impatiently on the countertop, but the woman with the masculine haircut made no attempt to greet me.

Why would a woman want to appear like this? Do men find such a haircut attractive? In our community, such a style would be a disgrace.

Finally, I’d had enough of her rejection. I cleared my throat and spoke with confidence. “Excuse me.”

She rolled her eyes before turning them on me. Narrowing her gaze, she laughed under her breath, focusing her attention on my hair as she chomped on the gum in her mouth like cud.

Disgusting.

“Yeah?” she sneered.

I read her name tag. “Hello, Marcy. I’m here to see Detective Cooke.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Adrenaline pumped through me. I hadn’t thought to call him ahead of time, but the idea of walking out of that building without seeing him was unacceptable. I
had
to see him.

“Do I need one?”

“Um,” she huffed. “It’s encouraged, yes.”

“The matter is urgent. May I speak to him please?”

She sighed and grabbed the receiver of the phone in front of her. After pressing a couple of buttons, she huffed into it, “You have a visitor.” She paused as she listened. “No, it’s no one you know. At least, I don’t think so. She says it’s urgent.”

There was another pause. Those pauses made my stomach churn.

She plopped the phone back into its cradle. “Down the hall, second door on the right.”

Sweet relief.

Quickly, I made my way down the hall, pausing before knocking on the closed door.

“It’s open,” he yelled from inside the moment my knuckles made contact with the wood.

“Detective Cooke?” I asked, peering at the man behind the desk.

He wasn’t dressed like the other policemen in starched blue uniforms; he was simply wearing a white oxford shirt and tie. The shirt was wrinkled, however, and I assumed his wife could use instruction on properly starching her husband’s clothing. He was older, most likely closer to my husband’s age than mine. His hair was tousled and brown, and sticking up in several different directions as if he’d just woken up. Dark scruff covered his jaw, and large-rimmed glasses sat on his slim nose.

When my eyes met his, I knew I was unwelcome. He closed them tightly and tilted his head back, sighing with exasperation.

“Oh, for God’s sake.
Really
?” he said to the ceiling, his voice gruff, impatient.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I said, “I’m sorry?”

“Naw, it’s nothing.” He shook his head. “Fate is just a catty little bitch, isn’t she?”