“And the woman who will be my new wife,” the Prophet continued, “who will serve God through me, who will bear beautiful children of light, is our own dear Minnow.” A smile bloomed under his big, gray beard.
I didn’t understand at first. I was too conscious of other things, like my hands chapped from scrubbing clothes on a washboard, the purple smoke burying into my sinuses, and the image of Jude’s face that I couldn’t shake out of my eyes no matter how hard I tried.
The Prophet approached me.
“What do you say to this, Minnow?” he asked. “Do you not rejoice?”
“No,” I said, my voice traveling.
He placed his hand on my shoulder, his thumb tracing the strap of my undergarments.
“Does it not please you, Minnow, to know you will be servant to God’s chosen messenger? That you will bear the children of God’s chosen messenger?”
I searched the crowd but no one would catch my eye. No one but my mother. She stood at the other end of the courtyard. From beneath her bonnet, I could see a strand of the simple blond hair I didn’t inherit and the dead eyes I’d grown used to, not registering any of the unfolding events. Silent, impassive.
“I don’t want to marry you,” I whispered.
The Prophet smiled as though I’d made a joke. And it was a joke. There was no choice. I’d be forced to marry him whether I wanted to or not.
“I am sure you will feel differently when your belly is round with a child of God.”
I breathed a sharp breath and, without thinking, slapped him hard across his bearded cheek. Everyone gasped, including me. I held my hands together over my open mouth and took a quick step back.
His fingers found his reddening face. I could practically see the plans forming inside his head, the tortures, the punishments marching into formation like soldiers, hot pokers and stocks and cleverly tied rope.
He took one step toward me, then another, until all he had to do was lean forward to place his lips near my ear.
“You will be my wife,” he whispered.
He straightened and looked for my father. “Take her to the maidenhood room where she shall be sequestered until our wedding day, praise God.”
Chapter 20
Dr. Wilson holds his hands on either side of his face. He hasn’t written any of this down, just listened. It occurs to me that he may have heard this story before.
“What did your father do?” he asks.
“I told you not to interrupt.”
He dips his head. “Sorry.”
I exhale and stare at the black paint peeling away from the frame of my bunk. “What do you think he did? He followed the Prophet’s orders.”
“Yes, but how did he appear?”
“Just . . . the same as always. Like he’d had his insides ripped out and the Prophet’s hand thrust up in his body cavity, like a puppet.”
“Stunning visual,” he says. “How do you feel about your father now?”
“I hate him,” I say without pausing.
His head tips to the side.
“What?” I demand. “You think I shouldn’t?”
“No,” he says. “I think you should be angry if you’re angry. But it’s also true that hate has a way of hurting you more than the person you’re hating.”
He pulls a pad of Post-its from his bag and writes something down. He reaches over and sticks it to the wall behind my bunk.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Starting your affirmation wall.”
I stare at the letters on the Post-it. I can make out a general sense of words, but can’t understand the entire sentence. “What’s it say?”
“Anger is a kind of murder you commit in your heart.”
If this is true, I’m a daily murderer. My heart is more full of blood than I ever imagined.
“Have you talked to your father since the fire?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I saw him on the news at his trial.”
“He will almost certainly be convicted on all charges. He’ll be in prison for a long time.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me? I don’t care what happens to him.”
“I don’t blame you. He’d be a difficult person to have as a father. I interviewed him a couple of weeks ago.”
I blink.
“Did he say anything interesting?” I ask. “A revelation that the Lord is reborn in a chicken nugget, maybe?”
He smiles. “He mostly wanted to quote the Book of Prophecies at me. I got a lesson in the rather interesting Kevinian theory of astronomy, and he showed me dozens of journals filled with scrawl he says was written by the angel Zachari. He thinks his prison food is poisoned. And two days ago he was thrown out the courtroom for disruption.”
“What’d he do?”
“While the judge was reading the charges, he started shouting in tongues and writhing on the floor.”
“What an act.”
“It won’t help his case.”
I want to ask, Can you get the death penalty for killing because you’re told to? How does the legal system prosecute someone under the influence of faith, someone who kills because God wants a little death sometimes?
“He did say one thing I found interesting,” Dr. Wilson says. “He had a message for you.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”