Forsaking All Others (12 page)

“Oh, darling, you are something—a wonderful friend.”

“Like it says in the seventh chapter of Moroni, ‘Wherefore, my beloved brethren, if ye have not charity, ye are nothing, for charity never faileth.’ See? I’m nothing. Nobody. But now Heavenly Father has given me an opportunity to be something. I don’t have much, but all I have is yours, for as long as you need to stay.”

I barely managed to choke out a thank-you before hugging her close to me. It pained me to see her deem herself so worthless. Moreover, to see how she’d committed the words of Joseph Smith’s false teachings to her heart, twisting even those that could be good. I chastised myself for every grumbling thought that came along with my grumbling stomach, and as I held her birdlike frame, I asked the Lord to forgive me, too. Yet it was her devotion to the church that compelled me to withhold the truth of my circumstances a little longer. If her conscience were ever forced to choose between following her faith or sheltering a friend, the Saints would indeed emerge victorious.

Still, I begged off accompanying her, claiming the onset of a headache—not an entire ruse, as I seemed to always have one humming just behind my eyes. I did, however, wrap her muffler around her throat with distinctly maternal affection and joked that the basket over her arm, when full, would likely cause her to topple over on the way home. Once she was ready, I watched at the door to see her safely down the steps.

And there he was. The same man I’d seen that first morning, standing just as he was that day—across the street and at the corner. I hadn’t seen him since that day, but his face was so seared into my memory as to make him unmistakable. Same blue coat, same low-brimmed hat. I noticed that his beard seemed to emerge from an almost-starlike cleft in his chin. His eyes tracked straight over to Evangeline’s open door. It was too late to call her back. What explanation would I give if I could? Instead, sucking back a scream, I slammed the door closed, throwing my back against it. Despite the inevitable chill in the room, beads of sweat formed on my brow, and my breath came in short, stinging spurts.

“Lord, protect me.”

My prayer squeaked out from the top of my throat, and I’ll admit to being hard-pressed to know just what I was asking protection
from
. After all, perhaps he was one of the soldiers Colonel Brandon had said he would send to patrol.

“A soldier . . . a soldier . . .” Simply saying so out loud gave a sense of comfort. I tried to recall his face from among all I’d seen during my stay at Fort Bridger but found no memory of his features. Certainly, though, I had not had a chance to see them all. Still, I’d found no reassurance in his gaze, and now he knew I was in this house alone. With hands shaking, I turned and slid the door’s iron bolt across, taking some reassurance in its strength.

* * *

Evangeline came home some hours later, looking quite refreshed. A hearty pink infused the otherwise-pallid face beneath her freckles, and her green eyes sparkled with renewed life. I reached out to relieve her of some of the bundles she carried and was rewarded with a healthy whiff of all the scents that came from spending a winter afternoon in a big city’s marketplace.

“Oh, it was lovely,” she said, fairly skipping back to the kitchen. “I asked for an extra ration of salt pork, and what do you know? They gave me that and bacon
and
a ham. Can you believe it? Not just the few slices I usually get. An entire ham. Just for the two of us. Well, really, just for me, because they don’t know . . . but isn’t it wonderful how well the Saints provide?”

This was the most talkative I’d seen her since my arrival, and in her I saw a shadow of the girl I became friends with back when we were both so young. Never did she pause for me to contribute anything to the conversation, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of interrupting her parade of praise. Whether through a spirit of generosity or obedience, Brigham Young’s followers were directly responsible for her survival. That, at least, I could not fault.

“It’s God’s provision,” I said, lifting paper sacks of flour and cornmeal out of the shopping basket.

“Through the Saints.” Her voice took on the thinness it always did if I ever said anything that even hinted at criticism of the church. “God isn’t going to drop ham onto my table.”

“You never know. He sent manna to the Israelites in the desert. And Jesus fed the crowd of five thousand with just five loaves of bread and two fish.”

“Heavenly Father needs his people to do his work.”

“That’s true.” I must admit to feeling grateful for Brigham’s edicts to feed the poor; my mouth nearly watered as I uncovered a sack filled with two generous scoops of dried beans and, underneath, an onion. “But if you had faith in him—just him, without the Saints—he wouldn’t let you starve.”

“You cannot separate faith in God from faith in the prophet, Camilla. They speak in one voice. Obedience to one is obedience to the other.”

I bit the inside of my lip to keep myself from contradicting her. After all, this was how God had chosen to meet my immediate needs of shelter and food. There would be other opportunities for conversation. Perhaps we’d both be of a better temperament after filling our stomachs with a hot, steaming bowl of ham-and-bean soup. To lighten the mood, I suggested as much, though we’d have to let the beans soak overnight. She did, however, have five potatoes, and we sliced one thin along with half of an onion, setting it all to sizzle with thin slices of salt pork.

It was the first smell of real cooking I’d experienced since coming to this house. Really, the first since I’d left my own home now fully a month ago, and I almost wept with the anticipation of it. With my careful calculations, we had just enough to give each of us a generous serving—not enough to save any left over. We cleaned our plates and wiped them cleaner still with slices of fresh bread.

“And to think,” Evangeline said, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her plank-flat stomach, “I’ll be eating like this again tomorrow. I ran into Sister Bethany at the market, and she invited me to dinner after meeting. Said she was making a pumpkin pie. Sure you won’t come with me?”

“I’m sure. Thank you for understanding.” The combination of good food eaten near a hot stove gave me such a feeling of weight and warmth, I could have gone to sleep right there at the table, even though it was not quite seven o’clock.

“Well then, I guess it’s up to me to be the obedient one.” Evangeline was in better humor too. She rose, stretching. “Leave the dishes for now. I’m going to heat water for a bath.”

And so we each trekked out to the water pump just behind her house to fill her kettle and pots with water, which we set to boil. One split log after another was added to the fire, until the little kitchen glowed as warm as an August afternoon. I took it upon myself to wipe down the washbasin, just as I always did for my girls, before filling it.

I don’t know why I didn’t leave the room. Evangeline was a grown woman, after all—not a little girl. But something about her seemed so small and frail, I simply stayed. It was I who grazed the back of my knuckles across the water’s surface to make sure the temperature was just right; I who shaved thin slices off the cake of sweet-smelling soap and dropped them into the water; I who fished around until I’d found every last pin in the crimson nest atop her head.

“I could help you wash your hair, if you like,” I said as the stuff sprang to life beneath my hands.

“Oh, could you? I have such a time—it gets so snarled.”

So, fully dressed, Evangeline sat on the floor and I guided her until the back of her neck rested against the edge of the basin. My own sleeves rolled to my elbows, I scooped the water up until her hair was saturated clear to her scalp. I worked the bar of soap into a lather between my hands and ran them through the wet tresses, massaging her scalp, then rinsing it with warm water. Once satisfied, I twisted it into a thick rope and wrung as much of the water out as I could, then wrapped it in a square of toweling.

Rising to my feet, I promised to comb and braid it after she’d finished her bath.

“Wait.” She reached for my arm to help her stand. “Would you mind going upstairs to my room and fetching me a clean set of garments from my top bureau drawer?”

I hesitated for just a split second—almost to the point of asking for clarification—before saying, “Of course.” How could I ever forget?

I took a long match from the box by the stove, touched it to the flame within, and lit a lamp.

“Are you sure you need that?” Evangeline was doubled over, unlacing her boots. “I thought you’d know your way around by now. And they’re right in the top drawer.”

“I won’t let it burn a second longer than I have to.” I’d almost grown used to the dark in this house, but I wasn’t entirely comfortable in it.

The heat from the kitchen dissipated long before hitting the second floor. I set the lamp atop the yellowed doily and opened the top drawer, my eyes immediately landing on the familiar, white cotton fabric. Though it was now folded to hide its sacred symbols, I could clearly picture the stitched images—the square and compasses across each breast, the marks at the navel and the knee. Long-sleeved, extending from its high collar to the ankle, I’d worn such a garment until the night before I left Nathan. So many burdens woven into this fabric, and yet I knew, to Evangeline, to wear it was to wear her very faith.

Garment in one hand, lamp in the other, I used my elbow to close the drawer and made my way back to the kitchen. The fire that had burned so valiantly to heat the bathwater had all but disappeared, and the chill of a near-empty house on a winter’s night was slowly creeping back in.

“We should build the fire back up,” I called out as I rounded the corner. “Or you’ll catch your death—”

The sight stopped me midstep. Evangeline was small enough to fold herself up and bathe right in the galvanized tub, and so she had. She stood now, the water up to her ankles, wet hair heavy down her back. Her garment—identical to the one I held in my hand—clung to her, sopping wet against her skin.

“C-c-can you help me?” Her teeth chattered around the words as her fingers struggled with the tied closure.

“Oh, sister . . .” I set the lamp and garment on the table and ran to her aid. “You can take this off long enough to bathe, you know.”

She kept her lips clamped shut and shook her head.

There was a tie at the top of the shirt and another midway down between the symbols stitched over each breast. This second one was knotted, and the fact that it was wet made it even more difficult to dislodge.

“Come closer to the light.” I gave her my arm to help her over the tub’s edge and led her to the table. The tremors that had made her hands unable to work the knot now took over the whole of her body, sending her into violent spasms. “Hold on to me,” I instructed. “Try to be still.”

She clutched my upper arms, further hindering my efforts, forcing me to work close—so close, I could see her very bones protruding beneath her skin.

“Do you think this might be easier if I had all ten fingers?” I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Maybe that’s the m-m-miracle we should pray for. That they’ll g-g-grow back.”

Soon, though, I could see that untying the closure would not happen anytime soon. “I’m going to have to cut it.”

“N-n-no!” No joking here. Her gritted teeth did nothing to lessen her insistence.

“Either that or wait until it’s dry, and you’ll catch a chill if you wear it too much longer.”

“You c-c-can’t—”

“Just here at the tie,” I soothed. “And we can stitch it right back on.”

“You know b-b-better.”

“I know that it’s silly to catch a cold.” I tore myself away from her grip. “I’m going to go get a pair of scissors.”

I left her with the lamplight, knowing my way well around the parlor and the exact place where her sewing basket sat next to her favorite chair. My fingers quickly closed around the cold blade, and I grabbed a wool blanket from the top of the pile of bedding Evangeline kept folded on the end of the sofa, hoping she’d see fit to wrap herself in it and allow her body to warm itself before putting on the new, dry garment.

I returned to find her just where I’d left her, only on her knees, hands folded in prayer. I, too, went to my knees, praying silently beside her.

Father, God. Thank you for freeing me from this same bondage.

Then I touched her shoulder. “I’ll fix it tomorrow. While you’re at church.”

She nodded, and I pulled at the garment, sliding the scissors between it and her cold, pale flesh. In my mind, freedom for Evangeline would come with one quick slice. Soon enough, though, I found myself in a different scenario as I worked the blades against the wet fabric.

“When did you last sharpen these?”

“Never have.” Her eyes were closed as tight as the knot.

“I don’t want to dull them any more than they are. Or rust them.”

“Get a knife.”

“Are you sure?”

I took her silence as permission and went to the counter, where the same sharp knife we’d used to slice potatoes earlier still sat with the rest of the unwashed dishes. I exchanged the scissors for it and returned to Evangeline, who now had tears streaming down her freckled face. She looked so small, so much like a child, and I wanted nothing more than to wrap her in the blanket, take her in my arms, and rock her until she was once again warm.

“Heavenly Father,” she prayed, warmed at least enough that her teeth no longer chattered, “forgive me. Forgive me for being such a fool, to not think—”

“You’re not a fool.” To my knowledge, I’d never interrupted somebody in prayer. Indeed, I was unsuccessful in doing so here, as she continued without stopping.

“I should have untied it first. I should have known. Forgive our violation of this sacred garment. Forgive Camilla, who sins on my behalf.”

Whatever protective, loving thoughts I’d held before disappeared. This time, I did not go to my knees. Instead, I reached down, looping the two fingers of my left hand under the knotted tie. Evangeline’s eyes flew open as I yanked the fabric away from her skin. In one none-too-gentle motion, I slid the knife’s blade beneath the fabric. One swift slice, and Evangeline was free.