A Song for Issy Bradley (31 page)

She has been saving ten pounds a week for nearly two years. She buys cheap, store-brand groceries and secondhand clothes, cuts out coupons, and takes down hems. And it’s been worth it to feel the cylinder of cash growing and to know it is there, should she need it.

When Ian first told her about tithing, it seemed like a nice idea. Typical Ian, she thought, thinking of others before himself, giving away ten percent of his income to the Church. It didn’t matter so much when they first got married, they managed, and every time something unexpected happened—a tax rebate, a bargain, the donation of secondhand furniture from Ian’s parents—he said the windows of heaven had been opened, and it felt like that in the beginning.

She assumed the donations would be flexible after they had children, that it would be OK to pilfer a bit back, when necessary, to pay for new shoes, the car battery, or a broken-down washing machine. But it wasn’t; they couldn’t go to the Temple if they didn’t pay tithing. Not because of the money, Ian explained, the Church didn’t need their money; it was to do with obedience.
“Will a man rob God? But ye say wherein have we robbed ye? In tithes and offerings.”
She didn’t want to steal from God, did she? She thought about it and said she wasn’t sure whether keeping something that belonged to you was the same as stealing. He assured her it was, and although he explained it very patiently, he looked worried and she was scared he might be wondering if he’d made a mistake in marrying her, so she said she was happy to pay tithing, but perhaps they could cut back on their other offerings: Fast Offering, the Humanitarian Fund, the Mission Fund, the Perpetual Education Fund, and the Book of Mormon Fund. However, it turned out that these were also nonnegotiable. The prophet had asked Church members to be
generous
and Ian was determined to be obedient, and very generous.

If Ian found the money he’d say something. He’d probably ask why on earth she was hiding so much cash in the house; he wouldn’t be confrontational, he’s never confrontational.

“Guess when I last had my hair cut,” she said during the summer holiday.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“Two years ago.”

“Good grief, Claire, I’ve never said you can’t get your hair done. Go, if you want.”

“It costs fifty pounds.”

“Well, you don’t need it done, it looks fine to me.”

“I’m going gray, see? Here and here.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She gets so much a week. It’s the way Ian’s mum and dad did it and it worked for them. Ian would be bewildered and hurt by her hoarding; he’d want to know exactly what she intends to do with the money, a question even she can’t answer. Sometimes she imagines spending every last penny on herself—booking the personal shopper in Debenhams, coming away with bags of clothes, new earrings, a tinted moisturizer, and a brand-name mascara that doesn’t clog her eyelashes. Other times she pictures the money growing exponentially over the course of several years until there’s enough to pay for double-glazed windows or a proper holiday.

One of the children must have helped themselves. Jacob wouldn’t dream of it. Alma might, but he has no reason to rummage through her drawers. It has to be Zipporah, she thinks as she shuffles up the stairs. Zipporah’s bed is also unmade, but the curtains are open. Claire roots through the drawers and wardrobe. She shuffles papers and lifts books from the desk
—Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights
—her own old editions; she remembers feeling deeply invested in each denouement and wishing, in the way of teenage girls, for a similarly passionate and extraordinary life.

Her hands are trembling as she heads back down the stairs. Over the years she has heard other mothers chatting in the playground about what they would do if they won the lottery. She can’t play, of course, but the roll of money has sat in her drawer like a ticket to
something
.

There are dishes in the kitchen sink and crumbs on the floor. A cup of tea, that’s what she’d like: a cup of tea in a mug to cradle and sip. It’s been more than seventeen years since she’s had tea; just one cup would be enough to disqualify her from the Temple. She used to drink tea with her mum in the mornings before school, usually in the kitchen, once she was dressed and ready, but sometimes, for a treat, Mum would wake her with a cup and she’d drink it while Mum sat on the end of the bed and talked to her about school. They did a lot together after Dad left, especially in the beginning when it
seemed like they were just passing time until he came back, measuring out the wait in cozy chats and cups of tea.

She opens the fridge then closes it; she doesn’t want to eat. Every so often she gives in and grabs a cookie, but when she thinks of Issy lying under the mulching, autumn-heavy soil, each bite feels like a betrayal. Her stomach growls and she ignores it. There is something intoxicating about the subjugation of the self. She feels it every month on Fast Sundays when her brain, high in the nutrient-free atmosphere at the summit of her body, becomes airy, almost weightless; by the time she has gone twenty-four hours without food or water it feels as if she could step outside herself and float all the way up to heaven. She feels similarly buoyant whenever she is required to be obedient to an incomprehensible commandment; there is something horribly appealing about the idea that someone—God, the prophet, Ian—knows exactly what is best and if she obeys their dictates with exactness everything will work out. She has practiced obedience as a precaution up to this point, as a means of ensuring everything will turn out all right in the end. But things can never turn out right now. The children will traverse life without their little sister. Issy will miss everything: She won’t be an auntie or a wife or a mother. The fact that they will be reunited sometime within the next hundred years doesn’t make everything better, no matter what Ian thinks.

She trundles back up to Issy’s room, climbs into the bottom bunk, and wraps herself in Issy’s covers. She is empty and exhausted; sleep comes easily.

She dreams she is on the beach with Issy. It is sunny and windy, always windy. The tide is out and the beach is spattered by leftover saltwater puddles that appear to be racing toward the pier as the wind blows. The parts of the beach that aren’t puddled are muddy, rippled by the tide and spliced with razor shells. Issy is wearing wellies. Her dark hair is blowing in the breeze. Claire is watching her bend down to examine the shells when the wind whips up, the sunlight
switches off, and she can hear the sudden roar of the sea. She looks away from Issy to the horizon. The sea usually slinks in on its belly, but it’s approaching at speed, standing on roiling hind legs, a skyscraping bulwark of water. She grabs Issy’s hand and tries to drag her away. There’s no high ground and the gooey sand sucks at their wellies. “Run, Issy, run!” she shouts, even though she knows it’s hopeless and she is already anticipating the slam of the water and the tearing apart of their hands.

Claire is woken, sweating and panicked, by a knock at the bedroom door. She catches her breath, hoping whoever it is will go away, but Zipporah steps in, flushed and rosy-cold from the walk back from town.

“Mum, can I talk to you?”

Claire’s throat is gluey, unaccustomed to words, and her heart is pounding. She swallows and explores the dry lining of her mouth with her tongue, which feels fat and sticky.

“I’ve done something …” Zipporah closes the door behind her and leans against it.

Claire coughs, swallows again, and her heart begins to slow.

“… something wrong. I’ve prayed, but I can’t, I can’t stop thinking about it.” Zipporah taps the door with nervous fingers.

“I know.” The words come out like a growl. She has slipped so far inside herself that it’s hard to return to the surface and speak.

“How?”

“You must think I’m stupid.” Her voice scuffs the back of her throat and she coughs again.

“Of course I don’t. I didn’t mean to, I was, I just wanted—”

“I would
never
have done such a thing.” She coughs again as she pictures Zipporah putting the washing away, rummaging through the drawers, finding the money, and pocketing it. She imagines her walking around town with Lauren,
spending
the money that has been so assiduously saved.

Zipporah tucks her hair behind her ears and bites her lip. “I
wanted to ask whether you—you say
never
but I wondered if in the past you might have …”

“I had too much respect for my mother.”

“I didn’t mean to do it. If you’d come to the wedding activity with me, I wouldn’t have—”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve.” Sweat is cooling on her forehead; she wipes her face with the blankets and turns away.

“Mum! I’m trying to talk to you.”

The door slams and Claire stares at the wall. She wonders how much of the money is left. The initial shock of its loss is wearing off and she finds she cannot care as much as she did; there are bigger losses to bear.
“Lay not up for yourselves treasure on earth
”—her treasure is in heaven, she had no choice in the laying up of it, and now her heart is there also. She examines a little hole in the wallpaper where Issy must have picked the woodchip and she traces it, running her fingers over the ghost prints of Issy’s fingers.

W
HEN SHE WAKES
again it’s dark outside, she is bone tired and doesn’t remember dreaming. Zipporah’s voice floats up the stairs, wisping under the door, alternating with another—breathy, high, and anxious: Sister Valentine.

“… Bishop Bradley?… talk to your mum …”

Zipporah says, “No,” and then something about the Andersons; perhaps Brother Anderson is in the hospital again and Ian has gone to visit him.

“… Family Home Evening tonight … shouldn’t have come but … need to speak to your mum …”

Zipporah makes excuses. Claire can’t distinguish every word, but she can hear her voice rising as she attempts to deter Sister Valentine.

“No, I don’t think Mum would—you can’t …”

There are footsteps on the stairs and Sister Valentine clearly asks, “Have you repented?” Claire can’t make out Zipporah’s murmured
reply but if she has confessed to stealing the money she must be sorry, which is something.

“Mum.” Zipporah knocks. “Mum, it’s Sister Valentine.” She opens the door and Sister Valentine squeezes past her.

“Oh, Sister Bradley, I’m so sorry to disturb you, I really am, and on a Monday night. I know you’ll be having Family Home Evening when Bishop Bradley gets back, so I won’t stay long.” She steps farther into the room. “I’m so sorry you aren’t well. You look terrible. Do you mind if I—can I just talk to you for a moment? It’s all right, Zipporah, you can leave us to chat.”

Sister Valentine sits on the floor next to the bed, so close Claire can see the jam-packed pores of her nose.

“That’s better, I can see you properly now. I’m wondering, what—what exactly is wrong? We haven’t seen you at church for weeks. Is it serious? Only, I had—I had a dream, and then I heard you were ill and I wanted to come and see you, because of the dream.”

It’s hard to keep up with Sister Valentine. There are too many words all at once and Claire can’t be bothered to make the effort to decipher their meaning.

“I dreamed I was getting married, in the Temple.”

Sister Valentine is so close that Claire can hear the assembly of her words, the way they are dipped in spit before she speaks them.

“I never imagined I’d be one of
those
women—nearly thirty and not married. I’ve tried. I go to the Single Adult activities but the men are old, or—I don’t mean to be rude—a little bit strange. There aren’t many single men in the Church in their thirties. I don’t want you to think I’m fussy about age—I wouldn’t mind an older man, but there aren’t many in their forties or fifties either.”

A little globe of spit flies out of Sister Valentine’s mouth and lands on Claire’s cheek. She wants to wipe it away, but that would be rude. She can feel it drying on her skin as she looks up at the bunk above her. Thirteen wooden slats alternate with exposed slices of the underside of Jacob’s mattress. She wonders what exactly Sister
Valentine dreamed—she hasn’t even been to the Temple yet, she is probably imagining it all wrong, just like she did.

“… and when Bishop and Brother Stevens came Home Teaching, they agreed it was probably a sign that I’m going to get married in the Temple.”

No one told Claire about the Temple before she went. They told her irrelevant, subjective things—“It was so
special,”
“It was the best day of my life”—but they didn’t tell her anything important. No one said she would have to take all her clothes off. The old ladies who worked there seemed to float along the corridors in their floor-length white dresses and slippers, every step silenced by thick carpets. They handed her a sort of sheet to wear with a hole in the middle for her head. She sat in a small cubicle, legs crossed and shivering, while an elderly stranger lifted the sheet to dab oil onto her bare stomach and chest while muttering a series of blessings. The words were beautiful but Claire couldn’t listen with her whole self because she wanted her clothes back. Afterward, when it was time for the marriage part of the ceremony, her short-sleeved wedding dress was deemed inappropriate and she had to hold out her bare arms while the whispering old ladies covered them with temporary sleeves; they wrapped a triangle of material around her neck to conceal her collarbones and throat, and when she finally knelt across the altar with Ian she was wearing several extra layers—robes, an apron, and a special veil that tied under her chin with a length of ribbon. There was no exchange of rings, they made no promises or vows to each other, and there were different words for men and women: Ian
“received”
her and she agreed to
“give herself to him,”
which bothered her for weeks afterward. She couldn’t talk to anyone about it because what happened in the Temple was too sacred to discuss, so she wrote a polite letter to the prophet, asking if he wouldn’t mind explaining. The letter was returned opened and unanswered to Ian’s dad, who was the Bishop at the time. “The brethren are busy men,” he said. “Some things can’t be
told;
they have to be
learned
, line upon line, precept upon precept.” She apologized.
It was silly to get caught up in the details; it was the promise of Eternity that was important.