Wife Number Seven

Chapter 15

Every spare minute I had was spent pushing the little plastic keys of the phone Porter gave me. Porter called it texting, but I called it freedom. Even if it was only the tiniest of slivers, it felt glorious. Each morning when I awoke, I ran to my closet, turned on the phone, and read the latest message from Porter.

This morning, however, I couldn’t enjoy my new morning ritual.

Lehi was in my bed, fast asleep and snoring, his nose whistling with each exhale.

The defiant part of me wanted to tiptoe across my small room, open the closet door, and crouch down to read my latest text. But smart and cautious Brinley won that fight. I had to be patient. Soon Lehi’s alarm clock would chime and rattle him awake. He’d be out the door without even saying good morning.

Despite the fact that Lehi slept in each of the wives’ bedrooms, all his personal belongings were kept in Leandra’s large walk-in closet. Since we shared one large residence, there was no need for him to leave fresh clothing or toiletries in each wife’s bedroom—all he had to do was walk down the hall and Leandra would provide him with whatever he needed to start his day.

Aspen was convinced it was Leandra’s determination to maintain control that kept Lehi in this routine. Her cryptic words alluded to some great secret kept between Lehi and his first wife. When I became curious, when I pressed her for more information, a wicked curl of a smile appeared on Aspen’s lips and she’d simply said, “Don’t worry about it. But I’m on to him.”

On to him? She had me intrigued. Did Lehi have secrets? Of course he did; didn’t we all?

I, myself, was relieved that he didn’t take up any sort of residence in my space. It kept my secrets where they belonged—hidden from his domineering eyes.

Ding dong. Ding dong.

Lehi groaned, then swung his arm like a pendulum to slap the sound from the clock. I stayed quiet as he sat up.

“Wake up.” He yawned. “Today’s the day. Jorjina is expecting you, as is the prophet.”

Jorjina Black was the mother of our prophet. Before that day, I knew next to nothing about her. When I was younger, she would parade through our compound, her nose pushed up toward the clouds. She was our royalty, the queen who bore the prophet, blessing us with his guidance and wisdom in our time on this earth.

But as she aged, we saw less of Jorjina—and most of us forgot about her. I, however, was about to become more than reacquainted with the woman. I was chosen to care for her and would do so to the best of my ability.

“We’ll leave in one hour. Can you be ready by then?” Lehi ran his fingers through his disheveled morning hair, turning to look me in the eye. I could smell the foul odor of his breath when he turned my way to speak. Desperately trying to be inconspicuous, I held my breath and nodded, biting my bottom lip.

“All right then.” He stood, stretched his arms toward the ceiling, and left the room.

Exhaling a large blast of air, I ran to my closet and turned on the phone, thrilled to see a couple of texts from Porter.

P: I hope today goes okay. Be strong, they can smell fear. ;) I miss you like crazy.

P: Oh, and flip off the prophet for me. I hate that a*shole.

A giggle left my mouth as I texted back.

B: What does flip off mean?

I rose to my feet and stood with my back to the wall as I stared down at the small screen, hoping I’d get a response. I didn’t have much time to wait as I needed to bathe and prepare myself for Jorjina Black’s company.

P: I have so much to teach you, Brin.

I rolled my eyes, but a smile bloomed on my face. He was right; he had a lot to teach me. And the more we talked, texted, and saw each other, the more willing I became. With each passing day, it was getting easier to imagine myself in the outside world . . . no long hair, no braid, no long dresses with long underwear beneath.

Freedom.

Could I do it? I wasn’t sure.

But I was warming up to the idea. The voice in my head had started out as disjointed whispers, so unconnected that they didn’t make any sense. But those whispers were coming together, becoming more cohesive, clearer and louder in my head than ever before.

From a whisper to a scream.

I was waiting for the scream.

? ? ?

Dust collected on my already dirty sneakers as Lehi and I walked to the new home that had been constructed for Jorjina Black.

“Remember what an honor this is,” he told me.

“I will.”

“At all times,” he said pointedly.

I nodded my head in submission, focusing on the dust covering my shoes.

“The prophet will give you specific instructions. You must obey them, no matter what.”

I frowned in confusion. Of all of Lehi’s wives, I knew I was one of the more submissive women in our home. What would make him think I would disobey any directions given to me by Jorjina or the prophet?

As I pondered the meaning behind Lehi’s words, I almost missed the eyes on me.

Almost.

Burt Jameson stood on the porch of the house he and his crew were constructing. He clutched the railing, his knuckles white as he stared in our direction, a pained expression on his unshaven face. New creases in his forehead and bracketing his mouth telegraphed his sorrow and despair. He wasn’t far away but I couldn’t acknowledge him, no matter how much I wanted to ease his pain, to beg him to move on as Rebecca clearly had with her new husband.

But I couldn’t.

When we approached his building site, Lehi pushed his shoulders back and stiffened. From the corner of my eye, I could see Lehi deliberately lift his chin. And for the first time in three years, he took my hand in his, and turned his head toward Burt. Burt’s mouth opened in response, then he turned away, walking back to his crew and his work.

My throat turned dry as I stared at Lehi’s clammy hand clutching my fingers, and I wondered what he knew. Was he simply reminding Burt of his control over his wives? Or was there more to that display of possession?

Lehi maintained his grasp on my hand even as we approached Jorjina’s grandiose home in the center of the compound. The prophet had spared no expense on the residence of his mother. Lush gardens surrounded the thin brick walkway that led to the elegant French doors on the front porch. I’d never seen a home with such a fancy entryway. Apparently, when your son was the prophet, you could have whatever you liked.

A young man scrubbed at the beveled glass of the doors, making them shine. I couldn’t help but wonder how he had come to deserve the honor of scrubbing Jorjina’s windows. Cynical thoughts such as these were popping up more and more.

The whispers were growing louder.

“Good morning, Elder Cluff,” he said, bowing his head slightly and stepping back to give us access to the doorbell. Lehi didn’t respond to the boy, he simply cleared his throat and pressed his finger to the button.

The prophet opened the door and met us with an expressionless face. He looked older since I had seen him last—wrinkles had formed at the creases of his dark eyes, and his hair seemed thinner. He was not a tall man; in fact, Lehi towered over him in height.

Yet the prophet’s willowy frame belied the power he carried in our community. The irony of his appearance was not lost on me.

Since marrying Lehi, my interactions with the prophet had been limited. I was accustomed to hearing his sermons each morning over the loudspeakers, but it had been quite some time since he’d visited the Cluff household. And I suspected Lehi preferred it that way. Visits from the prophet usually meant trouble for a man or his wives.

Like Burt and Rebecca.

The prophet didn’t smile, but greeted us from the door. His voice was a soft monotone, lacking emotion. “Welcome. Mother has been expecting you.”

“Thank you for this honor,” Lehi said, tipping his head slowly to the prophet in deference.

The prophet watched as Lehi finished the gesture. The way he stared at Lehi made me shift with discomfort; it was a look of entitlement, of expectation, and it made goose bumps rise beneath the fabric of my sleeves. Yes, I knew that our prophet was God placed on earth. I knew he owned our people, that he was our direct link to Heavenly Father and to heaven, but still something stirred in my belly that unsettled me.

The prophet took Lehi’s outstretched hand and silently studied his eyes. When the prophet shook a person’s hand, he could see their spirit. He knew if they’d sinned. He knew if there was light, or darkness, in their eyes. That was what my mother had always told me, anyway, and I’d believed.

I clasped my hands together in dread. Secretly, I hoped he wouldn’t touch my hand. If the prophet knew my sins—what I’d done, the thoughts I’d had about our faith, our community, our way of life—I’d most certainly become an apostate. My disobedience against the prophet and his teachings would give me the title worse than death. I’d be sent away, like Porter, never to return. I’d never see my mother or my sisters, Jessa and Winnie.

“Brinley, you look well.” The prophet’s eyes devoured me, starting at the top of my coifed hair and skimming across the subtle rise of my breasts beneath my dress, inspecting me all the way down to my sneaker-covered feet. The goosebumps on my skin remained raised at attention.

Keep sweet, keep sweet, keep sweet.

Knowing I needed to respond, I murmured, “Thank you.”

His hand reached for mine and my breath caught. I forced a smile for him and my hand went limp, squeezed between the fingers of the prophet. He paused, hesitating, his hand still gripping mine as he peered into my eyes, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly.

What does he see?

“As I’m sure you know,” he murmured as he dropped my hand, turning to walk down a long hallway filled with photos of himself, “my mother is ill. She’s having trouble knowing what is real and what is not. My father passed away years ago, and she’s remained faithful to his memory. But this means she is alone, and I cannot be here with her. The people need me.”

“Yes, of course,” Lehi replied. The prophet shot a glance at Lehi, then brought his attention back to me.

“I will need you to care for her each day, and make sure she doesn’t wander into the outside world. Last week she was discovered in town sitting beneath a tree, singing to herself. We’d searched the compound for hours, but were unable to find her. She gave me quite the fright.” Despite the emotion laden in his words, the prophet’s expression remained blank as he spoke of his mother going missing.

“She sleeps quite a bit, but will need reminders to eat and to use the bathroom. I’ll need you to cook her breakfast and dinner. She sleeps through lunchtime. I’ll provide groceries and necessities for her and will have them delivered every week.”

I nodded as he listed several other chores needed in the household, then he paused when we heard the creaking of the stairs. A tiny woman, no taller than five feet, appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes were heavy from sleep, her gray hair tousled but still styled in the expected braid. She walked slowly to the kitchen where we stood.

“Get out,” she snapped, glowering at me. I flinched, not expecting that reaction from her.

“Mother, enough.” The prophet’s voice raised slightly, but I assumed it was only to assist her in hearing him.

“I’m fully capable of taking care of myself, Clarence,” she snapped, and the prophet seemed to cringe at hearing his name.

I’d never known the prophet’s first name. To me, he’d only been known as “the prophet.”

“I raised nine boys, I don’t need a nursemaid.” She brushed past me and retrieved a glass from the cabinet. Her fingers barely reached the cabinet’s knob when she raised onto the tips of her toes to choose a glass. She filled it with water at the tap and stood, staring out the window above her sink. “Besides, the last one you brought here was deplorable. Absolutely deplorable. Head completely in the clouds. And she burned my eggs. What proper wife doesn’t know how to fry a simple egg?”

There had been others?

Quickly, I glanced at Lehi, wondering why that hadn’t been mentioned. I was under the impression that Jorjina Black’s need for a caregiver was a new one. I hadn’t realized this was a merry-go-round that she and her son were starting and stopping, each time opening a spot for a new rider. I envisioned the prophet welcoming the rider as Jorjina attempted to push them off the ride once it began. Could I withstand her push? Was I being tested?

When I heard my name leave the prophet’s lips, I snapped back to attention.

“She’ll be here with you each day. She’ll cook and clean and help you with anything you may need.”

“Yes, I know how this goes, son.” His mother didn’t bother to turn her body or her eyes to the prophet. She sipped her water and stared out the window.

The prophet looked to me, his eyebrows raised with expectation.

Nervously I cleared my throat, then said, “Mrs. Black, I’m happy to be here,” to which she merely grunted in response.

The brave part of me made the decision to join her at the sink. Without a word I helped myself to a glass, filled it with water, and stood next to the frail woman. She recoiled slightly when my arm brushed hers, and I took a small step away to give her the space she required.

But then I took a sip of my water and looked out the window to see two small birds sitting on a branch just outside the kitchen. I smiled when I realized that Jorjina was simply studying them, watching them as they chirped and took tiny hops across the branch. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one so fascinated by these creatures. Creatures who, to me, represented freedom in all its glory.

Perhaps we both yearned to fly free.

After a moment watching the birds, her face softened. Mrs. Black turned to me and her lips pulled into a half smile.

“You can stay.”

Those three words gave me the acceptance I craved in that moment. I’d been given this honor, and intended to fulfill all the expectations that were placed on me.

“Can you cook eggs?”

I scanned her face, noting she looked tired. The woman had to be at least eighty-five years old. She seemed frail and shrunken, with liver spots prominent on the pale skin of her hands. My heart reached out to her as I wondered what lay beneath that question, so I spoke with confidence, willing Jorjina Black to give me a chance.

“Yes, ma’am. They’re one of my specialties.”

“Good.” She took another sip of water. “I miss eggs.”

Her tone made me smile. The frankness in this woman’s speech made her different from the other women in our community. I sensed resistance from her in complete opposition to the submission that was expected from women of our faith. But she was the prophet’s mother, and with that came privileges the rest of us couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Jorjina Black didn’t need to keep sweet. She didn’t need to keep herself composed or well-mannered. And there was a freedom to that.

She’d lived her life. She’d raised her sons. She’d raised our prophet. She had no need to seek anyone’s approval or opinion.

I wasn’t looking for a new mother figure or even a friend. I just wanted to do my job, and do it well. Little did I know that this tiny woman would quickly become one of the most important people in my life.