Saints (49 page)

“Hush, Julia,” Joseph said mildly. He embraced his son. “I always do what the Lord tells me, Joseph. And if you always do what he tells
you
, then no matter what happens, we’ll be together in heaven forever. You’ll always be my son, and I’ll always be your father.”

Little Joseph nodded. He pulled away from his father, signifying that he was through with tears for now and no longer needed to be treated as a little child.

“Go on then, both of you,” Joseph said. Little Joseph took off at once.

“But the note,” Julia said.

Joseph picked it up and read it. “She just wants me to dedicate her new house, Julia.”

“Is it a very fine house, Papa?”

“Just a cabin, really, with a dirt floor. But the Lord can dwell in any house.”

“I know that,” she said. “I love you, Papa.” And she, too, was gone.

Joseph read the note again.

He had almost laughed at her when she first proposed to test him. In fact he had not yet lain with any of his plural wives. Not that none of them were willing. Rather the oaths themselves were so difficult for him that he felt justified in postponing the other duties of a husband. After each of his marriages he came home and clung all the tighter to Emma. I’ll obey you, Lord, he said inside himself, but I’ll not
enjoy
it.

Until Dinah Kirkham. It annoyed him that continence was her idea, and not his. He had brooded on that awhile, in between the endless series of meetings, sermons, and ministrations. He saw her rarely, but was constantly reminded of her. The sisters who had come to him for counseling now came less, and when he asked they told him, “Oh, things are much better now. Sister Dinah prayed with me. Sister Dinah found work for me. Sister Dinah brought me into the most wonderful circle of sisters, Brother Joseph, I have so much to do now that I hardly ever think of my old problems—can it be that I was ever so selfish before?” Perhaps he had heard all this before, but now that Dinah had taken vows with him, now that God had taught him Dinah’s true name, now he saw the effect she had among the Saints. In his own home, too. More than once Emma said, “I don’t know what I’d do without Sister Dinah. She understands the gospel better than most of the men in the Church. And she lives it, too. I only wish she had a husband worthy of her, instead of that scoundrel off in Manchester, depriving her of her children. A proper husband cares for his wife,” and Emma launched into a sermon on the duties a man owed a woman that left Joseph speechless at the irony: Was Emma teaching him how to deceive her?

That was the worst of it. The secret vows with plural wives were one thing, he could justify concealing that from Emma because she was not yet ready to live the principle of celestial marriage. But with her still doubting, if he consummated any of those vows it would more than smack of adultery to her. And yet Emma herself kept Dinah always on his mind. Dinah, the woman who, more than any other except Emma, loved his work and knew how to be part of it.

Of all the women God had given him, Dinah was the one he longed to take; yet she was the only one who still withheld herself from him. He told himself that he was glad of it, that it would be wrong for him to use the Principle for his own pleasure, that her very beauty and goodness were a snare to him. But still he saw her briefly in his own home, in the company of women, and he longed for her; he felt her in the city like the warm electric air before a storm, and he walked restless through his days, waiting for the lightning of her, and it wouldn’t strike.

Until today. And his hand trembled as he held the note.

The wedding was fine. Hundreds of people came. Most were there in hopes that Brother Joseph would say something remarkable in his wedding sermon, and the Prophet obliged them, introducing the remarkable idea that if they only understood what God meant marriages to be, they’d grieve at ceremonies that part the couple at death. “They’re a sign,” he said, “that we’ve forgotten that God intends our best actions to last forever.” Only a few hearers knew, as Dinah did, that he was trying to prepare the Saints gradually for the doctrine of celestial marriage.

The sermon ended by four o’clock in the afternoon, and within a few minutes Joseph had the wedding party in the house with the chairs pushed back and the table taken out of doors, so that those inside could dance while those outside finished off the food in fifteen minutes. Joseph was circulating from group to group, as always, when he came face to face with Dinah at the serving table. She was lithe and beautiful in her blue-flowered dress. He smiled and took a plate of cake from her hand. Yes, he wanted to say to her, but dared not speak. Do I dare come to you tonight? Even as he asked the question, he watched her as she laughed with her brother’s guests, watched her greeting the shy ones, the ones who knew no one, the many hundreds of women who had come to the wedding only for love of Dinah, saw how she had bound them all together in webs of need and service, and he knew that he would go to her tonight, despite his doubts about his own motive in loving her, despite the danger of being seen and known, even if it delivered him into the hands of his enemies.

Inside the house there was no fiddler and no band—the couples danced to clapped hands. Charlie stepped solemnly through the quadrille, his eyes on Sally, admiring her apparent unconcern, the way she laughed and joked with all and still, annoyingly, flirted and looked beautiful. Too many men lined up for their congratulatory kiss, and Sally accommodated them all. Except John Bennett—just as he arrived at the head of the line, Sally excused herself abruptly and went into the bedroom, as if to adjust something in her clothing.

Bennett took it as a joke. “It’s a good thing for you, Charlie, that your wife won’t get a taste for
my
kisses. I have it on good authority that they’re irresistible.” There was a good round of laughter, and Charlie almost forgot the incident.

By dark most of the guests had already left; John Kirkham dismissed the others, and Clintons and Kirkhams shared a wedding supper. Charlie had decided to live the Word of Wisdom only three weeks before, and so John Kirkham and Sally’s father had no help from him in finishing a bottle of claret that Brother Clinton had been saving for the first wedding in the family. Anna, Dinah, Harriette, and Mother Clinton quickly cleaned up and put away, and by nine o’clock Charlie and Sally were alone, with only the last distant strains of their fathers’ lung-bursting song to keep them company.

Sally sat at the table, her hands folded, looking sweet and calm and determinedly virginal. Charlie had a notion that she wouldn’t like it if he seemed too eager to get her into bed, so he made several abortive attempts to converse about the Prophet’s sermon. Sally only smiled and answered with small words. It was impossible to get a conversation going. He was getting desperate when she reached out a hand and took his across the table. “Aren’t you tired, Charlie? I am.”

Gratefully Charlie admitted to a little weariness.

Sally grinned at him. “Oh, not
too
sleepy, I hope!”

Charlie wondered if he was blushing as he led her to the bedroom. They stood a moment at the door, and Charlie noticed that the room was not quite as he had left it. There was a Bible on the bed. Charlie walked to it and opened it at the ribbon. He as quickly shut it again. But Sally immediately took it from him and opened it and started to read.

“‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.’”

“I didn’t know it was there,” Charlie said.

“Harriette put it there. Of all the poems Harriette loves, she loves this one best of all.”

Charlie didn’t know what to think. Harriette and the Song of Songs did not belong in the same thought.

“Do you want to hear my favorite part, Charlie?”

He did.

“‘My beloved spake and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, and rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my fair one, and come away.’”

“Too bad it’s still so wintry outside,” Charlie said lamely.

“It isn’t in here,” Sally said. “Do you want to hear Harriette’s favorite part?”

It annoyed Charlie that Harriette had managed still to be present, looking on, even now. But he nodded, to be polite.

“‘I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night. I have put off my coat; how shall I put it on? I have washed my feet; how shall I defile them? I rose up to open my beloved; and my hands dropped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock. I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake; I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.’”

“That’s sad,” Charlie said.

Sally shrugged. “Harriette is sad a good deal of the time. I think she likes it.”

“I don’t.” He took the book from her and turned away, reading aloud, making fun of the scripture a little. Of himself a little. “Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah.”

“Who’s Tirzah?”

“I’ll never tell. Thou art comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners.”

“I do believe you’re afraid of me.”

He turned to her. “A little.” He remembered his mother saying, Be gentle with her, go slowly.

She was holding the room’s only candle. She smiled at him and blew it out. “Will I be less frightening in the dark?”

He could hear the swishing of cloth as she undressed; his own fingers were cold and trembled at the buttons of his vest. He finally got it off, and his boots, and his shirt, but by then the sound of her clothing had already ceased; too quickly he heard her climb onto the bed. “Are you still there, Charlie?” she asked.

“I’m—having trouble with the buttons in the dark.”

“Which buttons, Charlie?”

“My, uh—pants.”

“Maybe if I help you it will go faster,” she suggested. She was right.

Harriette insisted on walking Dinah home from the wedding supper. It was not in Dinah’s plan. Not tonight, anyway. What if he came, saw that Dinah had a visitor, and decided that he must have misunderstood her message? Or worse, what if he did not realize she had company until too late? I must be as careful as an adulteress, thought Dinah. I must be sure no tongues carry the tale to Emma.

And yet she could not refuse Harriette, not tonight, not with Harriette’s younger sister being bedded by a husband, and Harriette still uncourted. Not fair, thought Dinah. No one sees, not even most women, no one sees that Harriette is worth ten of Sally, though Sally is better than most. It’s bad enough that men can see no more of a woman than the arrangement of her face or the way hips and breasts ride on her—surely women should see more. Yet we judge each other, not as sisters, but as rivals.

“Since you’re so silent, Dinah, shall I tell you what you’re thinking?”

Dinah smiled, then let herself chuckle aloud because in the darkness a smile would not be seen.

“You’re wondering how you’ll get rid of me before he comes.”

Dinah’s chuckle died. She could think of nothing to say that would be neither a lie nor a confession.

“Don’t be afraid, Dinah. I don’t know who it is. But I know that you’re no adulteress, and your secret is safe with me. I came tonight because I thought it was time you knew that you need not bear this burden alone.”

“A moment ago,” Dinah said softly, “I was thinking that women should be sisters, and not rivals.”

“That’s easy for me—I’ve never been a rival to any woman.”

“How did you know?”

“You told me.”

“I!”

“Don’t be afraid. You’ve told all of Nauvoo, but I think no one will understand but me.”

Told all Nauvoo—impossible. And then she remembered the few little poems she had posted anonymously to the
Times and Seasons
. Don Carlos had printed them. Yet those poems had said nothing of her secret husband.

“I knew at once that the poems were yours.”

“How?”

“Because you were the only literate woman I know who did not praise them.”

“Perhaps I merely had good taste.”

“And because when I stood inside those poems to see the world the poet’s way, I knew I was looking outward through your eyes.”

“When
I
read them over, they seem as though a stranger wrote them.”

“That’s because your poems know you better than your own mind does. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t tell you before because I was afraid you’d stop publishing them if your name was known.”

“I may do just that.”

“But then I realized that there are two sad women in this world. There’s the woman who can tell no one her inmost thoughts, because she is afraid. And there’s the woman who is even more afraid, and so she does not even tell her inmost thoughts to herself, and instead publishes them for strangers because she knows they will not understand.”

They followed the path that slanted across the face of Temple Hill. It was treacherous going, and the moonlight made deceptive shadows. Dinah took Harriette’s offered hand.

“Two women like that ought to know each other,” Harriette said.

Yes, Dinah said silently. Yet, afraid still, she said nothing aloud. They walked in silence for a few moments, struggling up the hillside with their hoops encumbering. Then Harriette began to recite Dinah’s most recently published poem.