Chapter 21
Jorjina was furious.
And panicked.
For just a moment, she knew the girl could see through her—see the truth. But not all of it. Not nearly all of it. Nevertheless, she worried that the damage was done. That she’d tipped her hand in a moment of vulnerability. She wanted to reassure her, to help her understand. To assure her that she had no intention of turning her back on Brinley for her son’s benefit.
Those days were done.
For four years, Jorjina had been forced to play a part in a ruse against the women of the compound. Each time a new helper would be assigned to her, Clarence would sit his mother down and explain the conflict at hand—what information was needed, what secrets were demanded. And for four years, she’d played her role.
But not anymore.
She was done being a pawn, done playing a part in the twisted games of her son. Done manipulating the innocent lives of those around her.
Heavenly Father did not condone manipulation. Their god did not want her to lie, to exploit, to expose the weaknesses of others. In no way did her son’s methods exemplify the role of a true prophet.
Her husband had been different. Walter Black was a true prophet, a leader who loved the members of their community and stayed true to his word, no matter the consequences to himself. He believed in the goodness of his people, in the path to celestial heaven. He walked the walk and talked the talk.
He was truly a good man. A man you could believe in, a man you could follow through the gates of Heavenly Father.
Clarence, however, was an entirely different story.
Even at the age of seven, Clarence showed signs of being selfish, manipulative, and untrustworthy. Jorjina remembered the lies he told on a daily basis, all self-serving, of course. He’d lie to his siblings and about them. He’d lie to make himself look better in his father’s eyes. And no matter the punishment, no matter how red his little bottom became from the spankings Jorjina was forced to give him, he never repented. He never learned his lesson.
He felt entitled to his lies, to his abhorrent behavior . . . after all, he was the oldest son of the prophet. And at an early age, the very bright boy had learned that he would, in time, take over that role for his father. In time, the entire compound of ten thousand residents would be under his advisement, under his control.
When Clarence turned twelve years old, Jorjina discovered that he’d been stealing from not only his parents, but from the other sister wives and children as well. While completing routine house cleaning, Jorjina had decided to rearrange the storage in her sons’ bedroom. Clarence shared a room with two of his younger brothers, but had claimed the majority of the closet as his own. When Jorjina accidentally dropped a pair of socks on the floor of the closet, the lid of a large shoebox was nudged open, and her eyes widened in disbelief.
When she knelt down and opened the box fully, she discovered hundreds of dollars in cash, house keys, watches, prayer books, and several small diaries stolen from his sisters. Jorjina was aghast at the selfish and sneaky behavior of her son. The thought of him becoming prophet ran chills down her spine. And so she confronted Walter.
“He can’t be your successor. He just can’t.” She held the open box for Walter to inspect. After sifting through the stolen belongings, he closed his eyes tightly and sighed.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done. He’s the oldest. It’s the way of our community. My hands are tied.”
“What about Paul? He’s a good boy. Or Joseph . . . either one of them would be adequate for the job.”
Walter’s forehead wrinkled in consternation. Jorjina knew he agreed with her, that Clarence was not capable of truly leading the people of their faith. But he expected her to keep sweet, to force her emotions down below the surface. He told her that when the time came, he would confer with Heavenly Father and make the proper decision.
Ten years later, however, he died suddenly without ever telling his sons, or Jorjina, who his successor would be.
In accordance with tradition, Clarence had assumed the role of prophet a mere two minutes after his father was pronounced dead at the local hospital. Jorjina had wailed as she clutched her husband, taken entirely too soon. But when she looked up at Clarence, tears clouding her eyes, she didn’t see any sign that her son was in mourning. Instead she saw a twitch of satisfaction in his expression. It didn’t surprise her, but it sickened her just the same.
That was more than ten years prior to the present day in her kitchen, where the young Brinley had turned a ghostly pale and closed herself off to Jorjina. Her heart ached, knowing that the friendship she had attempted to build with the girl was in jeopardy, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could say to make Brinley trust her intentions.
None of the other young women had recognized, or even suspected, that the prophet was using Jorjina to learn their secrets. After several weeks, each of them had become comfortable enough to entrust Jorjina with their deepest private thoughts and emotions. And each time, it pained Jorjina to then share that information with her son.
Luckily, many instances were minor—nothing to cause a reassignment or discipline of any kind. Because of this, Jorjina and the prophet had been able to continue the underground method of retrieving information about families in question. She thought for sure when Burt Jameson’s wife, the girl who constantly burned her eggs, was reassigned to the Cluff household, that this job of hers would come to a screeching halt. She’d assumed that Rebecca would inform her new sister wives that Jorjina was, in fact, the person who had revealed her secrets to the prophet. But that hadn’t happened.
Rebecca, a tall woman with a full head of auburn hair, had been kind and well-intentioned with Jorjina, and they’d built a friendship on the surface. For some reason, Jorjina never felt fully comfortable with Elder Jameson’s third wife. But regardless of that, she’d done her best to fulfill her duties to her son by encouraging Rebecca to share the details of her life while they walked through the vacant park on a lonely Wednesday afternoon. Rebecca had arrived that morning with bloodshot eyes, her vulnerability hanging from her sleeve. Over the years, Jorjina had developed quite the “poker face,” as her late husband had called it. Rebecca, however, had none.
That day, Jorjina knew the time had come for her to learn the secrets of the Jameson household. And so she pushed for Rebecca to confide in her. She made no promises of keeping said secrets; she couldn’t handle telling outright lies. But she attempted to make Rebecca as comfortable as possible as they walked through the park, the sun shining brightly above them as they made their way along a winding path.
“You know you can talk to me, dear,” Jorjina had said. Rebecca bit down on her lower lip and Jorjina knew she wanted to talk, to release her pent-up frustrations and emotions.
“It’s just, well, my sister wives dislike me.”
“How could they dislike you? You’re such a sweet girl,” Jorjina said sweetly.
Rebecca shook her head abruptly. “They do, and it’s my fault. It’s completely my fault. I ruined their family the moment the prophet pronounced us man and wife.”
Jorjina had taken Rebecca’s hand in hers and stopped walking. “Talk to me, dear. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
It wasn’t a lie, not technically, anyway, but it felt like one. A wave of guilt rolled through Jorjina. She didn’t want to do this anymore. Destroying lives was not her chosen path in life.
“Burt and I . . . we have this . . . connection. It’s magical, when we’re together. I’m sure that sounds ridiculous, but—”
“No, not at all. Walter and I had the same thing. He was taken with me, and I enjoyed that. I cherished it.”
“I do too. But my sister wives, they won’t talk to me, they won’t look at me. I’ve been married to Burt for twelve years, and I feel like I’ll never truly be part of the family.”
“Is it that bad?”
Rebecca shrugged her shoulders. “The worst part is . . .” She hesitated before wiping her misty eyes. “That I feel like his mistress.”
“Bite your tongue, girl,” Jorjina had said with wide eyes. She hadn’t expected anything as serious as this.
“It’s true, I do. Yes, we’re married. Yes, I was revealed to the prophet as the third wife, but what he feels for me, he doesn’t feel for them.”
“Has he told you this?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And how do you know he doesn’t say this to all of you, as a way of making you feel special?”
Jorjina knew of men in their community who told little white lies to their wives, “secretly” revealing them to be his favorite in order to keep them all content within the confines of their plural marriage.
“I know because . . . because, the other wives have accused me of stealing his time, stealing him away from them, from their hearts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He doesn’t want to sleep with them anymore. He makes excuses, tells them he’s tired or not feeling well.”
“Oh, that does sound serious.”
“They’re angry, they both want more children. They feel cheated out of their life’s purpose.”
“Does Burt understand that what he’s doing is wrong?” Jorjina pressed, needing to get all the pertinent information before reporting back to Clarence.
“He doesn’t care. He says I’m the only one who matters to him. He’s even mentioned leaving the compound . . . just us and our boys.”
“Oh my.” Jorjina’s jaw dropped. Clarence had suspected favoritism, but defection? No. Even Clarence would be surprised when Jorjina divulged the secrets of the Jameson household.
Rebecca pressed her hand to her mouth. Jorjina changed tactics, suspecting that Rebecca knew she’d told her too many of their secrets.
“It’s all right, dear,” she’d whispered to Rebecca. “Let’s go back to my house. I’ll let you sit in my armchair. You can rest your head, rest your thoughts.”
“Oh, okay,” Rebecca muttered, hanging her head.
Within days, Rebecca had been reassigned to the Cluff household. Since then, Jorjina had been plagued with guilt and remorse. She wished that she had misdirected Clarence’s suspicions. But she felt it would have been only a matter of time before one or both of Rebecca’s sister wives reported Burt to the prophet.
Jorjina had enjoyed a few peaceful months with no helper to speak of. She’d been able to lounge on her back patio, listening to the birds sing from the wall of the compound. She’d hoped that Clarence’s conniving ways would catch up to him, that no more helpers would be assigned to her home.
But on a day when she least expected it, Clarence informed her of a new helper. And in a moment of irony, that new helper was one of the very sister wives she’d assumed would be aware of her underhanded behavior. A wife of Lehi Cluff.
But Brinley knew nothing of Rebecca’s earlier position as her helper. And not only that, the two women had bonded . . . truly bonded. Jorjina genuinely liked the seventh wife of Lehi Cluff, despite the fact that she despised Brinley’s husband.
Lehi reminded Jorjina of her son, Clarence. Both were selfish, narrow minded, and expected their wives to be completely subservient to them in every possible way.
Walter hadn’t been like that. Despite being the most powerful man in their compound, Walter was interested in the opinions of his wives. Each week, they’d have extensive family meetings where he not only welcomed his wives to offer him feedback on the household, but he demanded that if they were too intimidated to share during the meetings, that they made time to tell him one-on-one. He knew he couldn’t make them all happy at once, but he did his very best to maintain harmony in his household. The happiness of his wives, his children, his family meant something to him.
Once he had passed away, she realized just how lucky she had been to have such a considerate husband. Now she was surrounded by men like Clarence, like Lehi, who had no appreciation for their wives or children.
Men who did not deserve sweet and gracious young women like Brinley.
Jorjina saw something in Brinley—something she wanted to encourage, to nurture. She wanted to give Brinley every opportunity to explore the world on her own terms. Never before had Jorjina offered to allow a helper to have a daily break. That was specifically something she had offered to her newest helper. She could only imagine how unappreciated Brinley was by Lehi Cluff. And although it was against the doctrine she held so dear, she was tempted to encourage Brinley to leave the compound, to leave the religion, the faith.
Jorjina was old. She’d lived her life, but when she spent time with Brinley she was reminded of just how many young women were sacrificing theirs. And she cared too much for Brinley to lose decades of her life to a man who didn’t appreciate her.
She wanted to help her. But after her slipup in the kitchen, she wasn’t sure that could ever happen.
Brinley no longer trusted her. And she had no idea how to regain that trust.
But she was determined to do her very best to do just that . . . Clarence be damned.