Down from the Mountain (14 page)

March

Twenty-One

The winter has been tough. It has been snow and more snow and more snow. The snow is impossible to navigate when it gets too deep, and lately it’s been so bad that even the devoted ranchers to the east and west of us haven’t plowed. That means no bead shopping, no flea markets, no fresh food.

It’s just Annie and me in the barn doing chores because Jacob is off with Ezekiel, shooting. The two are always together these days. They’re either giving shooting lessons to the reluctant mothers, cleaning guns, or strategizing about an attack. Jacob walks a little taller with self confidence, enjoying Ezekiel’s favor.

“I hope Jacob’s having fun while we do all the dirty work,” Annie complains. She’s been complaining about one thing or the other the whole time we’ve been in the barn.

“You can be thankful he’s not giving you another lesson,” I tease, remembering what a terrible shot she was in our first lesson.

“I don’t want to be good at killing,” Annie says. “Even for self-defense.” She sounds indignant. “Just because you’ve gotten pretty good at shooting doesn’t mean you should like it. No, I’d rather let the invaders shoot me dead and go straight to heaven.”

Annie’s been so crabby lately. I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s getting on my nerves. It’s hard enough to see the promise ribbon all the time and try to keep sane knowing what it means. I struggle to pretend to be happy while I dread every minute of being around Ezekiel. Annie’s moods don’t help.

She hasn’t said a word to me about the promise ceremony or marrying Ezekiel. And I’m not going to bring it up.

I notice that Bessie is restless in her stall. “Oh, Bessie, I forgot that Brother Paul wanted me to milk you guys for him.” I hurry to get the pail off its hook to start milking.

“I forgot too,” Annie says. “I’ll help milk.”

“You can’t,” I say. “Jacob has the other stool at the shooting range for some reason. Go ahead and feed the chickens. I’ll manage.”

“Tomorrow will be April first,” Annie whines. “When will it stop snowing?”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “I’m not a prophet.”

Annie looks hurt. I immediately feel a pang of regret, but I don’t follow her as she scurries out of the barn, bucket in hand, to feed the chickens. I’m as sick of this weather as she is, and I don’t want to hear about it.

It’s been three weeks since Rachel and I have been off the compound because of the heavy spring snows and ice-packed roads. I need to get out of here. I need to get back to my lessons with Trevor, earn some money, and buy beading supplies and food. I’ll scream if I have to eat one more bowl of rice.

I miss Boulder. I miss Trevor and the lessons. We have fun and laugh all the time. Plus I’m learning so many fascinating things from the computer and from our conversations. I especially miss the talks we have about what he calls “comparative religions.” What amazes me is the number of alternative religious groups that are convinced you have to be a part of their group to be saved. They differ in what they think God wants, but in other ways they are the same. Sometimes it ends in disaster, but I now understand what Trevor means when he talks about a self-fulfilling prophecy. The leader and members expect to be attacked, then do things to make that happen. Another big thing is sex. A lot of leaders believe they can and should have sex with all the women.

My eyes wander to the last stack of hay where I’ve hidden the books I borrowed from the library last time. I’m so ready for new books.

When I get discouraged or feel trapped in my situation, I move my leg, just so, and can feel the little spot on my thigh where I have wedged my most precious possession between my long underwear and skin.

My own library card.

With my real name on it.

From the first time I entered the library, I dreamed of getting my own card. But I knew it was impossible. Yet I stared at Trevor’s card each time he used it, even held it, and once, for fun, slipped it in my pocket.

The last time I was at the library, Trevor and I were sitting in a cubicle surrounded by a dozen or so other cubicles when he finally said something.

“Why don’t you get your own library card?”

“Because I can’t.” I looked away and bit the inside of my lip to contain my feelings.

“Yes, you can. Come on, we’ll go do it right now. It only takes a minute.” He took my hand and pulled.

“No!” I said way too loud. Several people from surrounding cubicles peeked out to see what was going on.

To the surprise of both of us, I burst into tears. Embarrassed, I tried to turn off the tears, but once the waterworks started, it was too late. Trevor escorted me to one of the little rooms, and I continued sobbing for some time. He rubbed my back.

“I can’t,” I repeated. “Ezekiel would kill me.”

Trevor looked puzzled. “Wait. You manage to take full-sized books home and keep those hidden, and you think you couldn’t hide a little card?”

“It’s not that.” But I didn’t have words to express what I wanted to say. I just knew that a library card was a way bigger offense than reading books.

“The scary thing,” I’d told Trevor, “is that it kind of makes me a part of the heathen world.”

He’d frowned, pretending to be offended, while his eyes showed that he wasn’t. “I really don’t think of myself as a heathen. How about we call it ‘the broader society’ instead of ‘the heathen world’?”

“The broader society.” I liked how that sounded. It didn’t make anybody wrong or bad.

“You don’t have to do this, Eva. And you don’t have to try and explain.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. But over the next few minutes I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted my own card. I loved to imagine the freedom of coming to the library on my own, without even the help of Trevor, picking out books, and with the magic of the library card, walking out with as many as I wanted. I could use any of the computers whenever I wanted. Well, not “whenever,” of course. I still had to sneak. But once here, I was free to learn.

Freedom. That’s what the card represented. Freedom to learn as much as I could.

“Come on. I’m not going to be afraid anymore. I want a library card.”

Trevor had taken my hand, and together we walked to the checkout desk where Mrs. Jenkins sat smiling.

“I–I would like … Could I please get a library card?”

“It’s about time!” She beamed, pushing up the purple glasses that had slipped down on her nose. She pulled a purple pen from behind her ear and handed me a form with questions typed on it. That’s when I noticed that she was dressed from head to toe all in purple. She saw me noticing and laughed. “You seemed to have noticed. Purple is my theme for the day.”

Her rainbow-colored theme days and friendliness always made me feel good. I braved looking at the questions. But the first one tripped me up.
Name
. I didn’t want to put “Eva.” That was Ezekiel’s name for me, and I couldn’t put down my real name. I simply couldn’t!

After a minute Trevor suggested we sit at a table. “You’re whiter than a sheet,” he said once we were seated.

“I want to use my real name, but I can’t do it.”

“Of course you can! Here, just say it. I’ll write it on the form.”

Memories of getting paddled, spending hours in the corner, wearing tape over my mouth, all for referring to myself as Lily, made it impossible to say.

I pull the form back in front of me. Better to write it than say it. With unsteady hands and terrible penmanship, I scrawled out my name: Lillian Rose Wells.

The next line stopped me as well—
Address
. I didn’t remember my childhood address and certainly didn’t want to use the address of Righteous Path, so I was stuck.

“For that line, you can use my address.” Trevor said. I hesitated again at
Phone Number
, but Trevor suggested I enter “none.”

I used the real names of my parents too.

When it was finished, I handed the form to Mrs. Jenkins.

“Stand right here and smile for the camera,” she said.

Mrs. Jenkins paused before taking the picture. “Lily, you look terrified. Could you smile for your picture?”

I managed a brief smile that she captured on camera. It turned out all right as long as you don’t look too closely. The eyes show how afraid I am.

Actually it captures me perfectly where I’m at—the eyes show my fear of stepping off the Righteous Path and the consequences I’m just beginning to see. The half smile shows my hope for the possibilities in the unknown.

I look up from the cow I’m milking to see Mother Martha
in the barn.
She’s walking straight toward me.

“What are …?” I say

Before I can finish, she holds her index finger to her lips. “Eva, we have to talk.”

“What’s wrong, Mother?” I ask. But from the corner of my eye, I can see that Annie is returning with the empty feed bucket and heading straight toward us. Mother Martha must see it too, because she holds up the tin cup she’s been hiding in the folds of her skirt.

“Good morning, Mother Martha,” Annie says. Her voice is strained, and I know she is suspicious that Mother Martha and I are seeking “special time.”

“Good morning, Annie dear. How is your day going so far?” Mother Martha’s voice is steady and warm, immediately diffusing the situation. She holds the cup up so Annie can see. “Pregnancy cravings,” she says. “We’re out of milk in the kitchen.”

Annie watches as I dip Mother’s cup in the milk bucket and hand it back to her. Mother Martha drinks it down in three gulps.

She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her lips. “Thank you, girls! That’s just what I needed.”

She holds up her cup, and as she turns to leave, her shawl slips from her shoulders to the ground. I stoop to pick it up, and as I gently fold it over her shoulders, I see a blood spot as big as a grapefruit on the back of her skirt. I make sure the shawl covers it up.

“You need to be in bed, Mother,” I say.

She nods significantly and takes her leave.

“Yuck,” Annie says.

“Yuck what?” I pray that Annie didn’t see the blood spot on the back of Mother’s skirt.

“I could never drink warm milk like that.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t mind it warm.”

My head is swirling with the implications of what it means that Mother Martha is bleeding this late in her pregnancy. It takes me a while to realize that Annie is quiet. Her silence is shouting at me to apologize for my attitude earlier.

My mind is a calculator. I realize that if Annie’s mad, she’s more likely to make a big deal out of Mother Martha coming to talk to me.

“Annie, I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. I guess we’re both tired of this weather.”

“And yet
you
were the only one who was rude,” Annie says.

Her coldness is a knife. “What happened to us? How did we get so far apart?” I don’t say this to manipulate her. My shock is real.

“We’re far apart because
you’ve
changed,” Annie says, her voice as accusing as her eyes. “We used to talk about everything. Now you don’t tell me anything. You keep secrets. And I’m supposed to be your best friend! You get to do all that bead stuff while I’m in school with the same boring books and the same boring lessons. And you get to go into town twice a week. And now you’re promised to the Prophet.”

Her last statement makes me reel. “Annie,” I ask, “would you want to be promised to the Prophet?” I say it softly, careful not to betray my horror over the upcoming marriage.

“Well, no,” she says, looking as if she’s just tasted something bad. “Because I’m not old enough. But now that you’re promised, the mothers treat you like a grown-up and they still treat me like a kid. And you’re promised to the holiest man on earth so you know you’ll have one of the highest places in heaven.”

I bite my lip to avoid blurting out how much I question these beliefs. I think about how Trevor reacted when I told him what it meant spiritually to be promised to the Prophet. He’d swallowed hard and looked away. I asked what he was thinking, though I wasn’t looking forward to the answer.

“I’m thinking that if you refuse to marry Ezekiel, you are damned to eternal hell, but if you marry him you’re assured of the highest place in heaven.”

“Yes,” I told him.

“That sure gives him a lot of power.”

I had shrugged. “If you believe he is who he says he is, then you figure he’s following God’s will.” But even as I said it, I could feel cracks in my beliefs regarding Ezekiel.

Now I tell Annie that I’m glad we’re talking again. “Let’s try to get our friendship back on track.” She lets me hug her.

Bessie starts shifting her weight and mooing. She should have been done milking a while ago. I stroke her body and plunk back down on the stool to finish.

Annie laughs. “We can talk more tonight,” she says. She gives me a little wave and walks backward toward the front of the barn. “I’ll do the sweeping, then we can brush the horses together.”

I lean my head against the cow’s warm body as I continue to milk. The familiar smells of sweet milk, pungent manure, and hay make me feel safe for the moment. Annie and I will be all right, I think, as long as we keep talking. But Mother Martha. Did she let that shawl slip on purpose so I’d see that her pregnancy was in trouble? Was she warning me? Because if that baby isn’t born healthy, all hell will break loose.

Twenty-Two

I’m grateful that it is me and not Annie who brings the fresh milk to the kitchen, because when I get to the refrigerator, I discover a pitcher half-full. Mother Martha is clearly desperate to talk to me. I rack my brains all day to find a way to be alone with her, but she is never alone, and any ideas I come up with would put us both in danger.

I reluctantly get ready for bed at the usual time. For a minute I actually think about trying to sneak out to Mother’s room after Annie falls asleep, but she’s a light sleeper and after her threat on Christmas, it’s not worth the risk. I beg God to provide me with an opportunity to speak with Mother tomorrow.

Annie releases her braids and reaches for her brush to comb out her hair. I manage to get the brush first and begin brushing it for her.

“It’s been a while,” Annie says. Her face is somber, her voice wistful.

“I know,” I say. I let myself enjoy the ritual that we’ve had for years. I’ve been afraid to relax with Annie, afraid I might say or do something that would reveal how much I’ve changed.

A too-familiar crackling sound emanates from Annie’s lungs and my heart sinks. Another asthma attack.

“Oh, Annie,” I say. I try to rub her back to calm her but she wriggles away.

“Don’t!” she says.

Stunned, I back away. She’s never refused my help before.

“This is punishment,” she says. “God”—she wheezes—“is punishing … me … for … my sins.”

“Annie, don’t say that. You’re going to make it much worse.”

She looks at me like I’m a stranger. “
No!
You don’t say that. God
is
punishing me,” she says. “Of course … He is. Are you … questioning Prophet … Ezekiel?”

“I think that if you put those thoughts out of your mind—”

“You
are
questioning Ezekiel.”

“Annie, I just want you to calm yourself so the attack can go away.”

“Maybe it’s … suppose … ed to be … bad,” Annie says.

I’m silent. Helpless. Anything I say to comfort her she’ll see as going against Ezekiel. Annie no longer trusts me. There’s nothing I can do about it.

“I con…fess my sin”—she sucks in as much breath as she can—“of jealousy. I’m jealous … because … you and … Jacob are treated … like … adults … now.”

“Okay,” I say, “I forgive you.” Her breathing gets more jagged, and I pray she’ll stop talking because it only makes the asthma worse. I want to cry. “And I’m sure that God forgives you too.”

“You … don’t know that,” Annie snaps. “You’re not a prophet.”

Tears sting my eyes. “Of course I’m not. Annie, I’m sorry if I sounded like I was putting on airs.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. He’s marrying you, and you’re a … fake,” Annie says. “You act … all … sweet, but … you don’t want … marriage. You don’t … believe … in him … like I do.”

“It’s about obedience, Annie. I’m finally learning obedience. I guess that looks fakey to you.”

Oh, how easy it is to lie when the consequences of not lying are too great to handle.

“Really?” Annie asks. Her face begins to relax.

“Really,” I reassure her. I look right into her eyes as if I’m the same trustworthy person she’s always known. I have reached a new low.

Annie’s always been religious, but she’s become zealous lately. She continues to struggle to breathe for some time. For once I stay silent. There are no stories that will help her right now, no words of comfort that she’d believe. Little by little, her breathing returns to normal. I’m almost asleep when she decides to start a conversation.

“I’m thinking about the baby prophet,” she says. “I want to be ready. I want my heart to be pure, my thoughts too. I want to atone for my sins so that I’m worthy to be in the baby’s presence. Do you think I’m grown up enough to be his nanny?”

Her devotion is sweet and simple. I want to reassure her, but with all the other women whose arms are hungry to hold a baby, I doubt she has a chance. I say the only safe thing I can think of. “I’d be thrilled if Prophet Ezekiel chose you for the honor.”

When Annie finally goes to sleep, she’s wearing a smile. And when I wake up hours later to use the bathroom, she’s still smiling.

Oh, to be so certain about everything.