The 19th Wife (10 page)

AN EYE IN THE DARK

When I got back to St. George I bought a ticket for whatever was playing in the cineplex’s Theater 8. I walked down the aisle to the front of the theater, folding a piece of paper into a little wedge. I opened the fire door and propped the lock with the wedge of paper. After fetching Elektra from the van, we slipped back into the theater. She seemed to know something was up because she came along silently, staying close to my side. I sat in the second row against the wall, and Elektra curled up at my feet. The movie was about a pair of detectives, one black and one white. They’re not supposed to get along, but they actually like each other and they go on to catch a jewelry thief who has some connection to international terrorism, and then it turns out the black guy’s Muslim and the white guy’s a Jew. I know: what? Then I fell asleep.

I woke up, slowly remembering where I was. Elektra was asleep on my feet. The movie was ending, the credits rolling up the screen. But the theater looked emptier than before.

“Wow,” a voice said from behind. “You must’ve been wiped.”

When I turned around I couldn’t see anything but an eye gleaming in the dark.

“You slept through the movie twice.”

“What time is it?” And then, “Who are you?”

“Johnny Drury.” He said it like we knew each other.

“How long’ve you been here?”

“A lot longer than you.” The house lights were coming up, and now I could see the guy. He looked like every kid in Utah: blondish, blue, a splash of freckles. “This place is closing,” he said.

“Closing?”

“Dude, it’s almost one in the morning.”

I turned on my phone. The kid was right.

“Do you have a dog with you?”

“Look, I have to go.”

“Me too!”

The kid followed me up the aisle. Now that we were standing, I could see he really was a kid, twelve or thirteen, a late bloomer, just this side of puberty. His turquoise muscle T showed wiry but strong kid-arms. The lobby was empty except for a heavy girl in a black-and-buff cineplex uniform vacuuming popcorn from the carpet. “Can’t have a dog in here,” she said, but you could tell she didn’t care.

Outside it was still hot in the parking lot, the asphalt throwing back the heat. “Look, I’m leaving,” I said.

“Yeah, same here.” He had one of those kid voices that goes high and low and back again in one sentence. “How about a lift?”

“Where do you live?”

“Well, you see, right now I’m sort of in between places.” He said it so smoothly, I figured he’d picked up that line from someone else. He followed me to the van, staying real close. He came up to about my chest, and I bet he didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. “Nice van,” he said, touching the pom-pom on the side. The truth is, it’s a piece of shit and no one ever says anything about it except, that thing really run?

“I can drop you on St. George Avenue, but that’s it.”

“Awesome.” He didn’t wait for me: he crawled across the driver’s seat to the passenger side and started bouncing in the seat. “This is the phat-test van I’ve ever seen.”

“Put your seat belt on.”

“Where’d you say you were going?”

“Just tell me where on St. George you want me to drop you.”

“Here’s the thing.” He forced his voice down an octave. “I wouldn’t mind staying with you for the night. Just one night. That’s all.” He was talking in a voice he must’ve picked up from the movie. “But no funny business, you know what I’m saying?” He thought this was especially funny, slapping his thigh and throwing his head back in laughter, like a little kid watching a cartoon.

But this was my van and I wasn’t going to be insulted by a kid. “No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“You know. I’m no fag.” More of the cartoon laugh.

“I am.”

The kid stopped. He looked at me with big, no-shit eyes. Then he smiled. “I get it. Very funny. You had me for a second. Ha-ha.” He stopped. “Wait a minute, you telling me you’re a homo?”

“Only because you brought it up.”

He whipped a three-inch kitchen knife out of his pants and pointed it at my chest. “You touch me and I kill you.”

I knew he wasn’t serious. In one slow gesture I took the knife from the kid. “What’re you doing with this?”

“Protecting myself from pervos like you.”

“Get out of my van.”

“Fucking faggot.” He unclicked his seat belt and pushed open the door and slid a leg out. He was so small his foot dangled several feet above the asphalt. But he didn’t jump.

“Get out.”

“Fuck you.” The thing is, he said this almost tenderly. He stayed in the seat, his face all broken up. “I thought you were cool.”

“You’re the one who’s not being cool.”

He moved a little closer to the edge of the seat but still didn’t jump. “Look, I’ll stay with you tonight, but you got to promise you won’t touch me.”

“Kid, get out of my van.”

“But why?”

“Because you asked for a ride and now you’re calling me all sorts of names. I don’t put up with stuff like that anymore. That’s why I blew off this place a long time ago.”

The kid slid his leg back into the van. “Wait a minute, you don’t live around here?”

“Nope.”

“What’re you doing here, then?”

“Long story.”

“You run away or something like that?” He closed the door and the overhead light went out.

Then I figured it out. “Are you from where I think you’re from?” I said.

“Yup.” He pulled his knees into his chest. “Was it hard making it on your own? I mean, look at you. You got a phone and a van. You’re rich.”

“I’m not rich.”

“To me you are.”

“You said your name’s Johnny.”

He nodded eagerly.

“Want to get something to eat?”

“Totally. But first, can I have my knife back?”

Twenty minutes later we were outside the Chevron, eating a sack of microwaved burritos. “Now I know who you are,” said Johnny. “But remind me: why’d you get kicked out?”

“I was caught alone with one of my stepsisters. What about you?”

“I was listening to the Killers. It wasn’t even my disc, it was my brother’s. But they caught me. I don’t even like the Killers.”

That wasn’t the real reason. They get rid of the boys to take away the competition. With no boys around, the old men have the girls to themselves. I handed Johnny the last burrito. “How’d you end up here?”

“Two of the Apostles drove me in. Worst night of my life. I was crying my eyes out and they just sat up front and pretended like I wasn’t there. I kept asking why’re you doing this? I’m just a kid. How’m I going to live? But they wouldn’t even talk to me. I had to stare at their necks the whole way. I wanted to cut off their heads. If I had a better knife, I would’ve. You saw my blade, it’s pretty lame. Then they left me in the parking lot of the Pioneer Lodge.”

“When was that?”

“Six months ago.”

“What’ve you been up to since?”

“Hanging out. I stayed in one of the Butt Huts for a while, and then I went down to Vegas, but I didn’t really like it so I came back here.”

“And the knife?”

“It’s my mom’s. I took it from the kitchen. It’s the only thing of hers I got. See, she wrote her name on a piece of paper and taped it to the handle.” He showed it to me proudly.
Tina,
in a bad blue cursive. His mom probably wasn’t yet thirty.

“Do me a favor and be careful with that.”

After that we watched the cars pull in for gas and the people running inside for cigarettes and visine. “Isn’t your mom like in jail?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that.”

“She didn’t do it. Everyone thinks she did, but she didn’t.”

Johnny was eating a bag of potato chips, tipping the remnants down his throat. “When I heard about what happened,” he said, “I wasn’t all that surprised. Things are weird out there right now. Something’s happening. There were all these rumors going around before I left.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Like we were all moving to Texas or Mexico or something. And there was this stuff about your dad.”

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know. Just stuff like he was trying to take over from the Prophet. I don’t really know everything, but I just heard stuff like that. Other stuff too. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when I heard he was killed.”

I said nothing. Was the kid full of shit or did he know something? We hung around the Chevron for about a half hour until the manager told us we couldn’t loiter. He was nice about it, just said the cops watch the parking lot and we had to leave.

I turned to Johnny. “Where to?”

“You tell me.”

“Let’s go out to Snow Canyon. I know this place we can park overnight. It should be cool there.”

“OK, but no funny business.”

“Get out.”

“Kidding! I thought you gay guys were supposed to have a sense of humor.”

We drove out on Highway 18. The road was dark, the only light from the moon and the stars. Johnny fell asleep, his head against the window and his mouth open. When I parked the van he rolled his head around, murmured, then went back to sleep. Like this, he really looked like a kid. It was hard to imagine anyone with a thump in his heart abandoning Johnny. I picked him up and laid him on the futon. I pulled a sheet over him and rolled up my sweatshirt for a pillow. I lay down behind him on my back with my arm behind my head. Elektra was curled up between us. I wasn’t tired, and for a long time I looked at the ceiling of the van. Johnny was snoring. Nothing loud, just a soft little chug. Kids don’t really make a racket when they sleep. I thought about what I would do in the morning. What did he know? I pondered it for a long time, then fell off into a shallow sleep.

THE
19
TH WIFE

CHAPTER THREE

The Doctrine of Celestial Marriage and the Death of Joseph Smith

Now, having described the religious conversions of my mother, Elizabeth, and my father, Chauncey, and their unyielding allegiance to Joseph Smith; having depicted the horror of the massacre at Haun’s Mill and the long migration out of Missouri; having spilled perhaps too much ink describing the rise of Nauvoo, Illinois, and the peace the Saints found therein; having established all this for you, my Patient Reader, I shall move forward to the subject that no doubt first drew you to these pages: the doctrine of celestial marriage, otherwise known as polygamy.

On the evening of June 6, 1844, Joseph visited my parents’ home in Nauvoo. He came bearing news. The Prophet stood before them in the keeping room, clearing his throat several times, making the Ah-hem sound familiar to anyone who knew him. (The skeptical Reader will ask, How does Mrs. Young know all this? To him I say, My mother has spoken of the Prophet’s visit to her home at least once a month for the past thirty years.)

“I have received a new Revelation,” Joseph began.

Elizabeth could not contain the excitement in her heart. For her, hearing a Revelation was all but the same as hearing the words of God.

“The Lord has commanded us to expand the Kingdom,” Joseph explained.

Chauncey asked, “Do you mean we’re leaving Nauvoo?” Ever practical, he did not want to abandon his wagonry yet again. He had done so twice before, in Ohio and Missouri; often he said he would not move a third time.

“We’re here to stay,” said Joseph. “Nauvoo is our Zion. The Kingdom is to grow here.”

It occurred to Elizabeth that Joseph had not heard her news. Hence she told him in September there would be a child. “If it’s a girl I’ll name her Ann Eliza,” she announced.

“It’s a blessing,” said Joseph. “And now I must tell you the words of our Heavenly Father. He has commanded us to fill the Earth with Saints, to replenish the lands with the devout.” As Joseph spoke, a high whistling sound mingled with his words. The source was a missing tooth, an injury from a mob attack in Ohio many years before. The whistling rang out like a tiny, tiny bell.

“What more can we do?” said Chauncey. He reminded Joseph of their two newborns lost in infancy and Elizabeth’s poor health thereafter. Chauncey knew this child should be Elizabeth’s last.

“I asked our Heavenly Father the same question,” said Joseph. “What more can I do? Tell me, Dear Lord, what must I do to expand the Kingdom? Over time, the Revelation has made itself clear. Now I must share it with the most faithful, Saints like you.”

“I’ll have my child,” said Elizabeth. “And if the Lord wants another I’ll have another. And yet another, until He decides I can’t bear more.”

“You’re a good woman, among the best of the Saints. That’s why I’ve come to tell you what I know.”

Joseph looked to the ceiling in a moment that suggested he was peering up at the feet of God.

“Do you recall my words about Abraham and Sarah?” he began. “God ordered Abraham to take another wife. This was not Abraham’s wish, it was not Sarah’s wish, but it was God’s command. And so Sarah told Abraham to take Hagar as his wife, although she was his wife. Was Abraham wrong to do it? Did he commit adultery? No, because it had been commanded of him by God.” Joseph stopped, then turned to Elizabeth. “Sister, do you understand me?”

Many times before this night, Elizabeth had heard the rumors of Joseph’s marital relations. Faithless people permitted their tongues to flap, going on about a bounty of wives—a dozen, two dozen, some said more. Elizabeth never listened to such talk. It is true, once she witnessed the Prophet driving intimately with a woman who was not Mrs. Smith. Another time she spotted him calling at the door of the widow Mrs. Martin. Yet Elizabeth never permitted such evidence to indent her belief. Now Joseph had come to reveal the rumors were true. The incidents she had witnessed were indeed indiscretions—and she had defended the Prophet when he was indefensible. Even more startling, Joseph was telling her these acts of passion were divined by God! Imagine, Reader, this good woman’s shock and dismay!

For a long time the room was silent, the evening sun burning low outside. Elizabeth looked up to find her young boys, Gilbert and Aaron, outside peering through the window, eager to catch a glimpse of the beloved Prophet. Their noses were pink and had the look of two fresh buds beneath a glass. Elizabeth shooed them away.

“As you know,” said Joseph, “we must accept God’s will.”

The idea of sharing her husband, in the manner of lustful animals sharing a lair, was abhorrent to Elizabeth. She could not accept it as true. She turned in her chair, for she could no longer look at Joseph Smith.

“Sister Elizabeth, tell me, what do you say?”

“My husband has a wife,” she said. “Me.”

The hour was dusk. The room had filled with the silver of the gloaming. Joseph’s face was now obscure, except the blue stones of his eyes. “I’ll tell you, I first resisted this Revelation as well. My dear sweet Emma, she turned against it. She wanted nothing of it. For a long time we denied it. Many nights we prayed over it. Now the time has come to embrace it, for it is the Truth. Consider why the Lord would want us to accept it. Think of what He has planned for the Latter-day Saints. He has chosen us to populate the Earth in preparation for Judgment. To fill the lands with the faithful. To ready His people for—”

“Stop!” cried Chauncey. “For God’s sake, stop. We don’t want any part of it.”

For some time thereafter all three were silent, staring at the fire dying on the stone. After many minutes, Joseph said it was time to leave. Before he departed, he made a final attempt.

“I said the same thing. I begged the Lord to change this Truth. This was the one Revelation I pleaded to be not so. Do you think this is what I wanted? He has commanded it, as with all else. Your regret does not surprise me. I expected no other response. Before I leave I must ask one thing.”

“My wife has said no,” said Chauncey. “Even if she were to say yes, I would never agree.”

The quality of his resolve placed him even closer to Elizabeth’s heart. At this moment she felt a love for her husband that surpassed any emotion she had known before.

“I understand,” said Joseph. “And I ask you to pray over the meaning of God’s love.”

When Joseph was gone, Elizabeth and Chauncey fell to their knees. They prayed for knowledge, but it did not come, for their hatred of the Revelation would not relent. Chauncey took Elizabeth’s hand. In his fingers she felt his fury. It nearly crushed her bones.

“Tomorrow I’ll go see him,” he said. “Even if I have to wait all day I’ll tell him we can’t follow this order. The other Revelations guide us to lead a good life, but this one?”

“He says it’s the Lord’s will.”

“No, this time Joseph is wrong. He’s using his authority to cover his own personal sins.”

“If Joseph is wrong about this…” said Elizabeth. Yet she could not finish. The meaning was too heavy to bear.

“I’ll go tomorrow,” said Chauncey. “And tell him you refuse.”

“What if he says I’m unfaithful?”

“Do you believe you are?”

Yet the next day the events of history preceded Chauncey’s defiance. On June 7 the
Nauvoo Expositor
published its maiden issue, every inch of its newsprint determined to reveal the truth about Joseph Smith. The newspaper accused him of “abominations and whoredoms.” Most damning of all was the fact that former Saints were printing these stories, men who had once believed in Joseph and yet had come to recognize him as a liar and scoundrel. Each of the newspaper’s two principal editors, William Law and Robert D. Foster, had a particularly damning story to tell. Law, a leading economic advisor to Smith, had learned that Smith had asked his wife—and by this I mean William Law’s wife!—to become a spiritual wife. That is, quite simply, a theologically cloaked manner of inviting a woman to commit adultery. Robert Foster, a contractor, returned home one evening to discover his wife dining alone with the Prophet. She admitted the Prophet was trying to convince her to become a wife. The Prophet was, as they say, seducing women all over town.

There is no fiercer wrath than that of the cornered animal’s. Joseph was wounded by the
Expositor
’s revelations. For years his loyal Saints had ignored the rumors of adultery, polygamy, and a Prophet who too often succumbed to lust, but now it was impossible, for the accusations came from friends. Law and Foster were among Nauvoo’s most prominent, known for their honesty and devotion. On that day in June 1844, in the beautiful city of Nauvoo, beneath the high summer sky, there was not a Saint who did not have a cloud of doubt in his heart about Joseph Smith.

Joseph responded by denouncing the
Expositor
and the men behind it. This time, however, his denials were not enough. It seems he never considered telling the truth. Instead he gathered his city council, declared the
Expositor
a civic nuisance, and sent his men to destroy it. A squadron from Joseph’s private militia, the Nauvoo Legion, cousins of the infamous Danites, marched over to the newspaper’s offices, tore apart the press, and burned every copy of the
Expositor.

It must be noted at this time Joseph’s enemies beyond Nauvoo were taking aim. His theocratic rule in Nauvoo had long piqued the political elite throughout the country, stirring up profound animosity and suspicion. Clerical leaders all over Illinois were denouncing the Mormons and their leader as impure. With the
Expositor
’s unconstitutional destruction, Joseph’s outside enemies had reason to pounce. Threatened by Joseph’s accumulation of power, the Governor of Illinois could no longer tolerate a Prophet of God as a rival. The Governor charged Joseph with riot and treason, ordering his arrest.

The news of these events came as great confusion to Elizabeth. She prayed for understanding—is it a whoredom and abomination if it is commanded by God?
Heavenly Father, tell me.

Before his arrest Joseph addressed his followers outside the new Temple. Chauncey and Elizabeth stood in the crowd, listening to the Prophet defend himself. “The newspaper lies,” he cried. “The legislature lies. The Governor lies. Next, I tell you, the President of the United States will lie to you. Show me where in all Nauvoo are these supposed abominations and whoredoms? Where, I ask you? Where? If they are here, I should like to see them for myself and judge them for myself, as should you!”

These were the last words Elizabeth was to hear from her Prophet. She struggled to perceive their meaning. In her struggle she reached a pitiful conclusion—she was no longer faithful, for now, during Joseph’s time of need, she had abandoned him to doubt.

The order came for Joseph to submit to the jailhouse at Carthage. At midday on June 24 Joseph and his loyal brother, Hyrum, and several others departed Nauvoo, riding through the Flats. They knew the dangers awaiting them. The hatred for the Saints, and Joseph especially, had grown in recent days. At night, packs of invisible men slit the throats of the Saints’ oxen and burned their crops. They pulled Mormon men from their horses and threatened their wives. They poisoned their dogs. That bright June, the mood in Nauvoo turned dark and perilous.

Joseph rode to Carthage without force. Emma has since reported he said to her, “I am going like a lamb to slaughter.” At Carthage he spent two nights. The jailer, Mr. Stigall, moved him and the others from the suffocating dungeon to the debtor’s cell on the first floor, which exposed them to assassins, and finally to his own bedroom atop the stairs.

It was evident to all that the prisoners’ lives were in danger. I do not believe we will ever know if Mr. Stigall, who lived in the jailhouse with his wife and daughters, played a role in the murder, although it is unlikely, for his daughters were present at the time of the attack. He was away from his post when the mob arrived on June 27 in the afternoon. There were between 150 and 200 men, many with faces blackened by coal soot. They stormed the jailhouse, mounted the stairs, and fired through the door into the bedroom. A ball hit Hyrum beside the nose. Joseph lunged to aid his brother, but he was already dead. Soon the attackers broke through the door. Joseph ran to the window—his only escape. It was twenty feet to the ground. He hesitated at the sill. Shots rang out and he took two balls to the back. A rifleman stationed at the water well below shot him through the heart. Joseph plunged out the window to the ground. Willard Richards, a witness and friend, claims the Prophet’s final words were, “Oh Lord, my God!”

The agony of martyrdom is almost too much to bear. In the early hours, when the loss is fresh, there is no comfort in knowing Glory will live on. We speak of the martyrs of History but we cannot know the actual pain they suffered in their final living hours. They enter the realm of the mythic, but we must never forget these were men like ourselves. When their flesh is torn, they cry out. They suffer as you and I would suffer, although more bravely. Remember Christ. Although I am now an enemy to Joseph’s legacy, I shudder when recalling his pain.