Down from the Mountain (9 page)

Twelve

Lookout in the hayloft is the most excruciatingly boring thing ever. Especially since absolutely nothing is going on. The only thing that keeps me awake is fear that I’ll fall. I’m tempted to blow the whistle just for a little excitement.

At least I have a lot to think about.

It’s weird how everything is changing between Jacob and me just because our bodies are changing. I wonder if he really wanted to kiss
me
, or if he wanted to kiss a girl and I’m the only one on the compound near his age. And I ended up kissing him back. Does that mean I have those kinds of feelings for him or just wanted to see what it felt like?

It felt good.

The only other time I thought about kissing was when I was around that waiter, Trevor. But he’s gotta be eighteen or so—way too old for me. And maybe he thinks I’m ugly like Ezekiel does.

Then it hits me. Ezekiel was so mean to me, the way he practically sneered when he looked at my body. If he’s being mean to Jacob because he doesn’t want Jacob to like me in that way, maybe he was being mean to me for the same reason. He wants me to be ashamed of my body so I don’t take an interest in Jacob or anyone else.

It worked.

How long have I been up here? I’m bored and thirsty. I reposition myself and stick a piece of straw in my mouth to chew like I do in the summer when it’s growing fresh in the fields. I spit it out immediately because of the moldy, almost rancid taste. No wonder we don’t use this old hayloft anymore. It would poison the animals.

I don’t realize I’m hungry until I see Rachel trudging through knee-high snow with a lunch bag and thermos in hand. I’m so excited to see someone that I shout “hello” a little too enthusiastically. She understands and simply laughs at me. She brings me a peanut butter sandwich she’s made using the two end pieces, just the way I like it, and some fresh tea. This little kindness feels huge. I hug her.

“Do you have any idea when Ezekiel will be back?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I pray he comes back today so we can go to the flea market Saturday. But with this snow, he might have trouble getting up here.”

I nod, my mouth too full of peanut butter to answer in words. I’ve been praying for him to come back for several days. He gave strict instructions that no one could leave the compound while he and Mother Esther were gone, and we’ve come to a halt with beading because we’re practically out of supplies. Plus it’s fairly obvious that we’re running low on groceries from the strange meals we get lately: buttered noodles and applesauce, oatmeal for dinner, “vegetable” soup that’s little more than broth. This morning I heard we were almost out of yeast. That means bread will soon be a thing of the past unless we shop.

I take a swallow of tea to get the thick peanut butter down and finally respond. “Pray that Ezekiel hasn’t spent all our money on guns so that we can afford food and beading supplies.”

Rachel nods. “I do pray for that,” she says. The sun glistens off something shiny, and I do a double take when I realize that I’m seeing the reflection of Ezekiel’s Beemer, as he calls his BMW. The car makes its way slowly down the snow-covered road slipping here and there. Rachel dashes down the stairs and I begin to follow her without thinking.

“You can’t come down, silly. You’re still on duty.”

I sigh dramatically, but to deaf ears. “Wait, Rachel. How much time do I have up here?

She looks at her watch. “Just about two more hours. You can do it!”

Brother Paul and several of the mothers scurry to greet Ezekiel and Mother Esther. Even from here, I can tell that Ezekiel is in a bad mood because of how he bolts from the car, gives them a cursory wave, and dashes into his trailer. Mother Esther appears to be giving the women orders. She points to the trunk and backseat. The mothers begin unloading suitcases and all sorts of packages. They bring boxes into the garage and take everything else to Ezekiel’s trailer. Then everybody stands around, probably hoping for an invitation to go inside.

Brother Paul is the only one to remain inside for several minutes longer. When he finally emerges, he heads right to the silo. He waves his arms at me. “Come on down. I’m going to take your place. Ezekiel wants to see you and Mother Rachel.” His stony face tells me nothing.

I’m relieved to get out of the loft but I can’t help feeling anxiety. What could he possibly want from me? But I scramble down the ladder, grateful to get off security duty.

When I pass the disappointed women still standing hopefully around Ezekiel’s car, I find Rachel waiting for me at the trailer door. She doesn’t seem to be worried. In fact, she looks thrilled. It’s a compliment to be the first wife Ezekiel wants to see when he returns from a trip. But it sure doesn’t thrill me.

Rachel rings the doorbell and we wait. In a low voice she says, “I’ll ask Ezekiel to let us spend a full day in Boulder. Not for just the flea market and bead supplies, but to buy fabric for Mother Rebecca. The twins have outgrown their clothes, and she wants to make them new outfits for Christmas. Also we’ve got to get groceries.”

Christmas is only three weeks away. We don’t give presents but we do celebrate. Anyone who has outgrown or worn out an article of clothing will have it replaced before the Christmas service.

When Mother Esther lets us in, Ezekiel is pacing back and forth in the living room.

“Sit,” he commands.

We make room on the sofa by moving a few packages and sit.

“It’s good to have you home,” Rachel says.

I smile at him but say nothing.

“Mother Esther and I were able to get all the guns and ammunition we need to protect Righteous Path.”

A hot flash of anger makes me want to be bold. I want to ask him if he spent our food money on guns, but I hide my feelings by lowering my head.

When I look up, I see that his face is sunken and pale. His eyes are dull, and even his eyebrows have turned white. If this is because of the possible intruder, his reaction is certainly overblown. I wonder if Ezekiel has a reason I don’t know about that makes this information so alarming.

He’s still pacing back and forth between the living room and dining room. “I want you two to keep going into Boulder to sell your jewelry and do the shopping, but you can’t wear Righteous Path clothes. They make you look conspicuous.”

Rachel and I look at each other, confused.

“If you were to wear Righteous Path clothing, someone could follow you home. Besides me, you will be the only ones to leave here until we’re certain that we’re safe. I want you to be alert and careful when you’re in town. You cannot bring attention to the compound.”

I’m careful to hide my relief and enthusiasm underneath a somber nod. It’s not just selling jewelry and buying supplies; it’s the idea of learning everything I can about the outside world and the enemy, who’s scary and fascinating at the same time.

He digs through the packages and pulls out two green plastic bags. He hands one to each of us. “Mother Esther did some shopping at the Goodwill and found these.”

Rachel and I exchange shocked looks. She pulls out a navy-blue, button-down sweater from her bag and a skirt in the same color. These really are street clothes. She nods—a carefully disciplined lack of emotion on her face—and reaches into the bag once again. As she takes out a pair of feminine-looking shoes, also in navy, I have to wonder what Mother Esther was thinking when she chose them. The shoes have heels! Small heels, but heels. Finally she pulls out a white blouse that has little ruffles going down the front.

“Thank you,” Rachel says. Her cheeks redden when her eyes meet Ezekiel’s. Mother Esther has come into the room and nods to each of us.

Ezekiel looks away as if the whole thing is an embarrassment.

I can’t wait to open my bag. Regular clothes! I’ll look like any other girl in Boulder.

Mother Esther repeats what we’ve been told by Ezekiel. “You’ll only be wearing these clothes when you go to town, of course.” Rachel and I both nod.

Finally it’s my turn. I reach into my bag. The skirt is like Rachel’s only in a burnt orange, and instead of a sweater, they’ve bought me a short burnt-orange jacket. The blouse is a bronze color and, like Rachel’s, has soft ruffles down the front. My shoes are flat and a disappointing black.

“They’re called loafers,” Ezekiel says. He pulls the matchstick he’s been chewing out of his mouth and replaces it with a fresh one that he takes from his shirt pocket. He drops the old one into a bowl on the coffee table and resumes pacing.

“Go try this stuff on in my bedroom.”

“Can you believe it?” Rachel whispers when we get to the bedroom. But I’m too busy gaping. Ezekiel’s bedroom is three times the size of mine. The walls are painted two shades of green. Three walls are painted a medium shade of green, and the wall with the bed against it is a darker green. I’ve never seen a king-sized bed before but I’ve heard the women talking, and it’s every bit as large as they’ve said. I count nine pillows in varying shades of green and burgundy, just like the bedspread. His dresser takes up most of one wall with the largest mirror above it that I’ve ever seen. On each side of the bed sits a little table with a lamp on it. Ezekiel’s cell phone and Bible are on the right side, so I imagine that’s where he sleeps.

But I don’t want to think about where he sleeps or anything else that may happen in that bed.

By the time I start changing my clothes, Rachel is almost dressed and looking in the mirror. She bends her arm so that her hand touches her hip, then pushes the hip out. I giggle, then clap a hand over my mouth to stifle myself.

“Shhhh!” she says. “We can’t let Ezekiel hear us laugh.”

I nod. “You look great,” I whisper.

“So do you. Look,” she says and pushes me in front of the mirror.

I don’t know the person wearing these clothes. The burnt orange brings out my green eyes. The bronze blouse seems to make my auburn hair shine more. I think I might actually look pretty.

God forgive me for my vanity
, I quickly pray.

“Ezekiel is right—no one would ever guess that we’re members of Righteous Path. But these aren’t exactly the kind of clothes teens are wearing on the streets of Boulder either,” I say.

“The word is ‘dowdy,’” Rachel says. “Thank goodness anything goes in Boulder, and at least we won’t be dressed exactly alike.”

“You look so retro,” I say, imitating the lady in the bead store. I still don’t know what “retro” means.

A sharp knock on the door pulls me out of my reverie. It’s Mother Esther.

“These were left in the car.” The package contains two pairs of tights, one for each of us. She looks us up and down. “Well, it works. You two certainly look common. Come show Ezekiel. Don’t worry about the stockings now.”

Ezekiel quickly looks us up and down, scowls, and motions us to go away. “They’re fine for the heathen world. But I can’t bear seeing you two look like sluts. Take them off!”

Rachel and I practically stumble over each other racing to the bedroom to change. This time I’m too ashamed to look in the mirror. I cannot unbutton the blouse fast enough, and it’s a relief to get back into my everyday clothes.

“Much better,” Ezekiel says. “Now, you’ll keep your heathen clothes in my garage. You’ll change there when you go into town so the others won’t have to see you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” we both say.

“Rachel, I need the rest of the money you took in at the flea market.”

“No!” I blurt. Too late, I realize what I’ve done. “Sir, forgive me. It’s just that we gave you everything except the money we need to buy more supplies.”

The look on his face makes me cringe. He is so furious that I expect him to hit me. I’m the one holding the money, so I reach inside my skirt pocket and pull out the wad of bills.

He grabs it from my hand and points his right index finger less than an inch from my nose. The sulfur smell makes me a little sick to my stomach.

“
You
do not decide how money is distributed.
You
decide nothing!”

My knees buckle and I find myself unintentionally back on the couch.

When he finishes counting the money, he swings around to face Rachel. “
You
are entrusted with the money, not her.” I feel like scum again.

“You made a lot last time,” he says. “Good job.” Again he directs the compliment to Rachel as if I don’t exist. My stomach lurches and I’m afraid I might throw up.

“So how are supplies? Are you completely out?”

“We’re down to practically nothing, but we do have a few pieces we made from scraps while you were gone.”

“Buy inexpensive supplies to keep your costs down, then sell high.” He hands some bills to Rachel. “Be creative, Rachel. And remember that it is
you
I’ve put in charge.”

As we walk out, he glares at me again. I shudder at the thought that he’s holding a grudge.

Thirteen

“Eva, are you asleep?” Annie asks.

“Yes,” I say, wishing it was true. I’m wide-awake, worried about the Community Concerns Meeting tomorrow. Ezekiel is so mad at me. He could punish me for trying to control the jewelry money. But if he stops to realize that I’m the reason we made so much, maybe he’ll let it go.
Please, God.

I didn’t tell Annie what happened. If she got worried, that could trigger an asthma attack. But more likely she wouldn’t be sympathetic because everyone knows I need to learn my place and not speak in boldness.

Annie giggles. “Well, if you wake up, I have something to say.”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“I’ve been thinking about the Community Concerns Meeting tomorrow.”

“Me too.”

“I’m worried,” Annie says. “I think Ezekiel may know about Jacob. How he feels about you.”

Volts of anxiety practically electrocute me. I sit straight up. “What are you talking about?”

Annie sits up too. “Eva, Jacob’s smitten with you. Can’t you tell?”

“What makes you say that?” I bite the inside of my lip so hard that I can taste blood.

“He follows you around. Sometimes he looks at you like he adores you or something.”

“Oh no!” It’s all I can manage to say. I take a moment to think.

“I can’t believe how you tune in to stuff like that. I just figured out that he liked me.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Do you think anyone else has noticed?”

“That’s what I’m worried about. If someone reports him, or Ezekiel knows, it will be really bad for Jacob. For you too. Do you like Jacob, Eva?”

The light from the waxing moon surrounds Annie’s face and softens her so that she looks angelic. Her eyes are wide and innocent as she waits for me to respond.

I sit up straighter and make my voice strong. “No. Not like a boyfriend. Jacob is my friend—that’s it.”

It’s true. I’ve thought about it a lot since the hayloft, and I realize that I liked being kissed but I’m not interested in Jacob.

“Good,” she says. “I didn’t think so. I never see you look at him in that way. I couldn’t stand it if you liked him. If you did, I’d never get any time with you. Now maybe I’ll get some sleep.”

“Right,” I say. “Get some sleep.”

But sleep for me is even more elusive than before. Now I realize that Jacob’s been acting obvious about his feelings for me. I pray that no one else has noticed or there’ll be hell to pay.

When it’s finally time for Community Concerns, I’m so frazzled that I almost don’t care what happens. Anything has to be better than all this nervousness.

Before the meeting starts, I take a minute to look around the little chapel. Everyone seems tense, and they divert their eyes when anyone looks at them. This is the way it is when Ezekiel’s in a bad place—fear tramples any loving feeling.

We begin by saying a prayer for each member to be honest and courageously examine their faults. When the prayer is over, Ezekiel asks for confessions.

I know that I have to confess my impertinence with Reverend Ezekiel, but I can’t seem to find my voice. To my horror, he looks right at me. He shifts from one leg to the other. I stand up before he calls me out.

“I confess that I was impertinent with Reverend Ezekiel yesterday.” My legs are jelly but I keep my face flat, free from emotion. I hardly recognize my scared little-girl voice.

Oh dear God, please don’t let him beat me.
I did the right thing; I confessed. Surely he’ll take that into consideration.

“Come up here, Eva,” he says.

My Jell-O legs somehow make it to the pulpit.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to the only chair. His voice is almost gentle, much to my relief. The only sound in the room is the old chair creaking as I sit down.

“Eva, tell the congregation what you said to me that was impertinent.”

I want to say something, explain, make him understand, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I try again and again but my voice remains frozen.

A loud thud startles me into jumping, and I land crumpled on my knees. He hits the podium with a closed fist for a second time. My head jerks in the direction of the thud. The source of the noise must have been his fist hitting the podium. It is still clenched. I’m pulled into the vast darkness that his eyes have become, swallowed by his rage. This is the rage that he poured over the traitors who walked away during the big trial. It’s the rage that he drowned Jacob in when he beat him so hard. It’s the hatred that envelops him when he talks about the evil government and the fate of the Branch Davidians.

If my feet would only work, I’d run. But every cell inside me is frozen, as if the witch of Narnia has me under her spell.

“I hope that woke you up, Eva. Now explain what you did,” he demands.

To my amazement, my body actually obeys and I am able to scooch back onto the chair. When I start to talk, I squeak like Mother Rose. “I said no to Reverend Ezekiel when he said he was going to keep all the money from our jewelry sales.”

The shock is audible. Even Annie lets out a little gasp. That stings.

“I didn’t mean it like it sounds. It’s just … we needed money and …” From the looks I get I can see it’s pointless to try and defend myself.

“Are you hearing this?” Ezekiel says to the group. “Eva wants to tell
me
how Righteous Path funds should be used.”

Several of the mothers shake their heads or “tsk” in response.

I sink into the reality that he’s right. They’re all right. I’m willful. I’m impulsive. As scared as I am, I know that I deserve to be punished. My eyes inadvertently wander to the paddle on the wall. I’m betting that it will be at least as bad as the one Jacob got.

“We must help Eva learn obedience. We must help her finally surrender to God as her Lord and to me as God’s chosen minister.”

Dear God, help me to bear this.
I struggle to breathe.

“Did you bring what I asked, Mother Esther?”

She nods, stone faced and sad eyed. “It’s on the podium.”

My heart is beating faster than I knew it could. Ezekiel returns to the podium and picks up a pair of scissors. When he holds it out for everyone to see, I feel faint.

I cover my head with my arms as if I can protect myself this way.

One of the women, probably Martha, starts to cry. Others whisper; someone moans.

“No, please!” I beg. “I’ll be good. I’ll be obedient. I’ll take anything else for punishment.”

“Say yes, Eva. Yes to this punishment. Show us that you are willing to learn obedience. Show God that you will say yes to His will, that you will be submissive.”

He grabs a handful of hair. I’m sobbing. “Please …”

“Say yes to obedience, Eva.” He yanks my hair hard.

“I’ll change. I promise!”

He cuts a handful of hair close to my scalp. My shoulders heave with sobs. My hair. Not my hair. But it makes no difference. He keeps cutting.

“Yes!” I scream, praying that the word will make him stop. It doesn’t.

“Say it again,” he demands.

Long waves of auburn hair—my hair—cover the floor in front of me. “Yes!” I scream. My head feels naked. “Yes, I’ll obey. Yes, I’ll submit.” All of the energy drains from my body. I go limp. Ugly now. So ugly. I want to hide.

He returns the scissors to the podium and admonishes Mother Martha for her interference by crying so loudly.

Earlier I’d noticed how good Mother Martha looked today. She had color in her face, and if it weren’t for the big bump of a tummy, she could have been her old self, healthy and happy. Now all the color is gone, and she shakes as she looks at me and mouths the words, “I love you.”

Ezekiel lifts my chin and forces me to look at him. His eyes are softer now that his anger is spent, but they hold no kindness. “Let the shame of this help you change. I believe you are capable of becoming the obedient girl you’re called to be.”

His words turn a switch in me. I lower my eyes, not out of the shame he wants me to feel, but because of the risk that my anger will show.

Sometime during the night when I finally drift into sleep, Mother Martha awakens me with a kiss on the forehead. She places a finger over her mouth and motions me to follow her. We go into the bathroom where we can have a bit of privacy. She holds me as I sit on the side of the bathtub. I bury my head against her big tummy, and she rocks me back and forth.

For a time I feel safe and loved in her arms. When I finally pull away, I see that her eyes are red and puffy as if she too has been crying all night.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She repeats it over and over. “I should have … I never should have …” She doesn’t finish either thought, and I haven’t the energy to try to figure out what she’s saying. Her hands stroke the nubs of hair on my head, and another wave of grief brings me literally to my knees.

Again she rocks me. I don’t want her to ever stop but she finally straightens up, gives her head a little shake as if to wake herself up, and takes a comb out of her pocket.

“You know, I used to be good at doing hair. If you’ll let me, I can shape it up for you, even it out some.”

I shrug my shoulders. Most of my hair feels one or two inches long, but a few shoulder-length strands remain. I must look totally ridiculous. I wonder how she thinks she’s going to do anything to make it look better.

She pulls small sewing scissors out of her pocket and motions for me to sit on the toilet lid. She snips and combs, snips and combs. My almost-bald head is cold without hair. When she’s finished, she suggests I look in the mirror. I shake my head. The thought makes me feel like I might throw up.

“Think of the girls you see in town,” she says, wearing a faint smile. “Don’t you think some of them look good with short haircuts?”

I do, actually, but I never dreamed I would wear mine short.

She takes my hand and nods toward the mirror. I look down, but she raises my chin and holds firm. Finally I draw enough courage from her determination to play peek-a-boo with my reflection. In several quick glances, I see that the hair on the top of my head sticks up straight, like the twins’ cowlick. The sides and back are a bit longer, maybe three inches.

Just when I think I’m all cried out, tears spring to my eyes all over again.

“I’m so ugly!”

Mother turns my face toward hers so that I have to look right at her. “No, Eva, that’s the thing. You’re not ugly. You’re beautiful. It would be a strange-looking haircut for most people but it looks exotic on you.”

I look but I can’t see what she’s talking about. My eyes are red. My cheeks are blotchy. My neck seems too long. And with the chopped hair, I look like a boy.

“I used to have a picture of me when I was about your age. I had a short haircut too. People would tell me that I was beautiful and I couldn’t see it either. But looking at you, I finally see what they were seeing. You’ve got big, expressive eyes, and look at your eyelashes. They’re long and beautiful, as if you’re wearing mascara.”

I hug my mother again and think about how brave she is to have slipped out of her trailer to come to me tonight.

“I didn’t think you thought about things like beauty,” I say.

Mother gets a faraway look in her eyes. She kisses me on the forehead. “You’re beautiful,” she says, as if it’s final.

She leaves then, as quietly as she came.

The first morning light filters through my bedroom window when I finally return to bed. Ezekiel can make me say yes when I mean no, I think. He can make me submissive and obedient, but he can’t control everything. He can’t control my thoughts or memories. Like my book,
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.
He burned it, but it will always remain in my heart. I can’t hold it or read the words again, but the story is a part of me.

I picture Narnia and Aslan the Lion. He’s come back to Narnia and winter is giving way to a beautiful spring. He’s so big, so strong, so beautiful. In his eyes I see how much he loves. His love is so gigantic that it swallows me up. And when he looks at me, I feel like I’m somebody.

The scene changes in a flash. Aslan is sprawled on a slab, his beautiful mane shorn, sadness blocking out the light that usually fills his eyes. Nearby, the White Witch is laughing her haughty laugh, reeling in her success at bringing him down.

I run to him and hold him. I try to return some of the love he gives so freely. He touches my head with a soft paw and weeps. He is not weeping for his own naked head, but for mine. I know this. I can feel it.

It’s all so real—brighter than a dream, more perfect than reality. I feel loved. And I finally fall asleep, nestled next to him.