She turned, eyes clouded with grief and guilt.
“You really didn’t come here to tell me you killed Stephen?” I asked.
“What? No.” Her expression fluttered from shock to hurt. “No, I told you from the beginning, I didn’t kill him. Why would I ask you to stay to find out the truth if I’d done it myself?”
“Maybe because you were trying to point me in the wrong direction. Keep me busy as long as you could and make sure Kenneth and I were implicated in the cover up so we wouldn’t call the police when we found out the truth.” Which was why she’d felt free to tell me tonight. Except that she hadn’t told me that at all.
“No. I didn’t kill him. It wasn’t even the same knife that I used, though I checked to make sure. I don’t know why I did that,” she said dully.
Did I believe her still or not? In any case, I didn’t stop her from leaving, and narrowly avoided beaning myself on the upper bunk again as I climbed back in. I wasn’t ready to leave, though I wasn’t sure any more if that was about finding out who was the murderer or about not wanting to go home to Kurt as embarrassed as I felt right now. I hadn’t realized how compromised my point of view had become since my arrival here. I had been so sympathetic to Rebecca from the beginning. Naomi wanted me to come because she thought she was too close to the inside to see objectively, but wasn’t I now in the same place?
I finally went to sleep and dreamed of paintings burning. I didn’t think it was anything like Joanna’s apparently very real prophetic gift, but when I woke in the middle of the night, I wished desperately Kurt were there to curl around me and assure me that it had only been a dream. I’d go home tomorrow, I promised myself. And then I’d say whatever needed to be said to Kurt to make things right again.
But I was destined not to get much sleep that night—again. In the wee hours, I jerked awake to the sound of the bedroom door opening again, and my name being called.
It was Naomi, who was carrying a large black bag. She was white-lipped with tension.
“I need your help,” she said. “Carolyn’s gone into labor and she won’t go to the hospital.”
“Isn’t she early?” I tried to think what day it was. Wednesday?
“Yes, eight weeks early.” Naomi’s voice was strained—and maybe even a little afraid.
“You’re going to deliver her at home?” In Utah it was still legal to deliver at home. Whether it was sane to do so was another question.
“If you’ll help me,” she said. She waited for me to get up, which I did, throwing on a robe over my nightgown. Then she motioned for me to follow her to the stairs and out the back door.
She explained further as we crossed the yard. “Dad usually delivered the wives at home because he had all the equipment here. And last time Carolyn went to the hospital, it turned out badly for her. She seems to think that it was because she wasn’t faithful enough.”
“I don’t have any training,” I said nervously.
“You’re sensible and steady,” said Naomi, her face unclear in the dim light of the morning. “That’s what I need. I helped my father deliver enough times that I think unless there’s something drastically wrong, it should be fine.”
It sunk in now that she could have asked her mother or any of the other wives to help, but she hadn’t. She’d asked me. I felt touched at the gesture, and a little nervous about making sure she didn’t end up regretting her choice.
“Why wouldn’t your father just deliver all his wives at the hospital? Wouldn’t that make more sense, when he already had privileges there? It would have just been routine.”
Naomi shook her head, looking at the ground instead of at me, minding her step over the uneven soil. “He always said that the pioneers delivered their babies at home and that was good enough for them. If there was a problem, he’d go in, but that only happened a couple of times.”
Control again, I thought. He wanted even more control than he’d have in a hospital. It was more than a little frightening.
“What about Dr. Benallie? Would she be willing to come and help?” I asked as we moved across the yard, Naomi moving with the confidence that came from growing up here and me struggling to follow on the uneven ground. I checked my watch and saw it was just past 4 a.m., and there was a bit of light behind the mountains, signaling an early summer dawn.
“Dr. Benallie?” Naomi said, and shook her head with a short laugh. “No.”
“But she came when—” I didn’t finish.
“She’s on probation at the hospital. Part of a settlement for a malpractice suit.”
So maybe her medical license was already in jeopardy and it hadn’t felt like as much of a risk to falsify the death certificate for Stephen?