The 19th Wife (37 page)

On the stairs I heard Brigham greet my mother. I heard the door open and the Prophet’s heavy boots on the porch. I went to my window and watched him walk down the path. Outside the boys were throwing rocks at a lizard. “Lorenzo! James!” the Prophet called. “How would you like it if some great big thing was throwing stones at you?” Brigham lowered himself heavily to one knee and pried open the boys’ hands. He took their armament of rocks and gently set them upon the ground. He whispered something to the boys, who listened carefully, then smiled and laughed, throwing their arms around him. At the same time, the apparition up in my room spoke.
Everything is for them.
The voice was Brigham’s.
Everything you do now is for your boys.

THE
19
TH WIFE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Faith in Marriage

On our first anniversary Brigham transferred me, along with my mother and my boys, to Forest Farm, his agricultural compound south of the city. “I know you don’t care much for your little cottage,” he said. “Many people say Forest Farm is one of the prettiest places in all of Utah. I think you’ll find the land good for the boys. As for you—I spent twenty-five thousand dollars on the house. It has two stories, not including the cellar. If this doesn’t suit, my goodness, I don’t know what will.” In this he was truthful: the house was a gabled, Gothic-style home laid out in the shape of a double cross. It sat upon a fine flat parcel of rich soil, with a black walnut orchard and open views to the mountains. It seemed as fine a place as any in Deseret to raise my boys.

What I did not know, nor did Brigham inform me until my arrival, was that most of the farm’s operations were now my responsibility. Forest Farm served as Brigham’s larder. Each day it delivered fresh milk, eggs, butter, vegetables, and meats to his scores of wives and children throughout Salt Lake. Every day in the black of morning I rose to begin my chores in the barn, finishing long after the sun had set. My mother did the same, looking after the house and cooking for the thirty farm hands who tended Brigham’s field of beets and alfalfa, his cocoonery, and his thousand heads of registered cattle. When one chore was complete, five others waited. The end of each day simply brought the beginning of the next.

“I’ve never worked so hard in my life,” I said to my mother.

“You don’t know the meaning of the word.” My mother had the common outlook of the Pioneer—that the ordeal of the early Saints would never be surpassed. In terms of toil and hardship, I am certain she is right. Even so, the farm work wore away at my spirits. “Do you ever wonder why we’re doing all of this?” I asked my mother.

My mother buttoned up her expression in a manner that meant,
No point in asking about the will of God.
My mother is an intelligent, experienced woman. She has known many kinds of men. When people ask me now, why is it that I continued to believe in the teachings of the Mormon Church for so long, I speak of her. Dear Reader, let me tell you this: Love and trust are Siamese twins, as conjoined as Chang and Eng. I loved my mother and trusted her judgment, even more than I trusted my own. Every time doubt formed hard in my heart, my mother broke it apart with her love.

From time to time Brigham drove out to the farm to inspect his operation and visit with me. While engaged with my husband upstairs, I could hear the boys playing on the rope that hung from the locust tree. They played more loudly when Brigham was present, shouting in a way they never did when we were alone. As I lay with my husband, I imagined they were calling to me:
Mother! I have not forgotten you!
It was the thought I held to through Brigham’s visits. This was how I put him out of my mind, even while he was there.

Each Sunday we rode into Salt Lake for services to renew our faith. Church lasted several hours, and with the afternoon meetings it took most of the day. For some it was also a social affair, with a few female Saints flaunting their garments as if they were sewn from the shrouds of Christ. Some men, though certainly not all, would boast of business transactions and successful crops and their latest wives. This kind of vanity is not exclusive to the Saints on Sunday, I know. Anywhere the devout gather to worship, there will always be a parade.

During this period I began to form new questions. I thought of the men around the country, indeed across the Globe—from the high-hatted Pope in Rome to the turbaned Caliph among the Turks—who stood before their people and proclaimed, each in his own language, a set of infallible truths, many similar to those Brigham offered. How can so many men claim the key to Divine Truth? At the time, I could not articulate this question or others, not in the manner I have just now on the page. Yet they were forming, in the manner of the pearl, I suppose, grinding into a truth. It was an all but imperceptible feeling, but on Sundays I sensed it, rubbing against me, deep within. It would be years before I would fully recognize this gem.

Above all, one sermon imprinted itself upon my mind. Many weeks had passed since I had received word from my husband. My daily life involved such a variety of tasks that many days would come and go without his name or image entering my mind. Over time Brigham became a distant figure, such as the men of Washington are distant to us. Certainly we know they exist, for we read of their declarations and pronouncements. Yet to many they do not feel alive, no more than a Roman statesman depicted in the History book feels alive to the student today. This was my benign opinion of my husband when one Sunday he opened up on the topic of his wives.

Shall I tell you now the question most men and women concern themselves over? The truth most Brothers and Sisters seek? Shall I reveal to you the inquiry that most preoccupies your minds? I know this because often I meet you on the street, or you call upon me at the Beehive House, or when I travel round the Territory, driving to the most remote Stakes to greet the Faithful—no matter where this is, it is always the same question brought to me. And so now I shall share it with you. Brother Brigham—the sincere man or the sincere Sister, and even sometimes the sincere child; Brother Brigham, tell me how many Mrs. Youngs do you possess? How many women sleep at night in the Lion House? How many times have you been sealed? My goodness, is this your most profound question for me? You are at liberty to bring me all inquiries, any unsettling of the mind, and yet this is always the first off your tongues. How I wish you asked me something else. Brother Brigham—how do I know if I am living righteously? If I am serving the Kingdom? If I love my wife, if I love my husband, if I love my daughter or my son? Brother Brigham, what does our Heavenly Father want of me? How shall I know if I am His child? Brothers, Sisters, Saints everywhere—why not these questions, and many like them? Why not the enlightened questions about service and humility and devotion, and evil everywhere conquered by peace? Why no examinations of the Gospel? Of the Revelations? Why do I never hear the question—Brother Brigham, tell me how I can be a true Saint? Instead, always, tell me of your bed! Listen to your words—for in them are all truths of the spirit, and thus they shall be.

This sermon, long remembered by many, and reprinted before, had good effect in quieting Brigham’s critics. It armed his defenders with rhetoric to respond to the many questions about polygamy. It caused many people, whose curiosity was natural, to feel profane for wondering about such things. It transferred the misdeed from Brigham to his opponents. By the end of the sermon, these powerful words had erased the question—
Brother Brigham, indeed, how many wives do you have?
—from the minds of thousands of Saints.

As for me, these fine words would have done much to buttress my eroding faith—were half of them true.

THE
19
TH WIFE

CHAPTER NINETEEN

My Awakening

After more than three years at Forest Farm, an agent from the Church rode out one day to notify my mother and me our services were no longer needed and a wagon would come for our belongings in the morning. I did not know this man. He was one of the many polished, eager youths who worked for the Church administration. He told me I was being transferred to a new house in the city, while my mother was being sent home.

“Home?” said my mother. “What home?”

The boy read through a letter but could not come up with an answer. “Your home, I presume.”

“Don’t presume anything, my boy.”

The boy’s face shone with the youthful dew that no one misses until it is gone. I did not know what he was thinking, what his ambitions were, how deep his faith, but I could imagine he hoped for wealth and a large enough house for many wives. Why should he not? Certainly many men in Deseret remained true and loyal to their first and only wife. The average man’s family life was no different from that of the average man’s in Babylon. But among the leaders of the Church and the leaders of the Territory, who were one and the same, among the men who controlled industry and land resources and deeds to water, who ranked in the militia and the police services, who managed the supply of goods and protected the routes between settlements, among the men who administered the post and the judges who ruled from the bench—among these men, plural marriage was common and admired. Of course this boy, who was already serving Brigham in such intimate capacity, would want the same for himself. I told him I would be ready in the morning.

The next day the boys and I settled into a large, handsome, Gothic-style house of beige adobe located near the Temple. The house’s most remarkable feature was a splendid stained-glass window depicting a golden beehive surrounded by sego lillies and opulent fruit. (Ever since my apostasy, the window has become a recognizable attraction to the curious visitors of Deseret, for many people hope to catch a glimpse of my former abode, and the unique window confirms that, indeed, I once lived within.) In fairness to Brigham, I must admit this new house was ample, clean, and in many ways appealing; and, most important, it was mine. I hesitate to complain about this fine dwelling except that two inadequacies burdened my days there. One, my mother was not permitted to live with me. Brigham claimed he could no longer afford supporting her, which had hardly amounted to anything at all.

The second inadequacy was a lack of a well, forcing me to draw water from my neighbors. I tried to distribute my borrowings equally among them. I would take James and Lorenzo with me, so we could draw as much water at one time. I was always ashamed when I knocked on the doors, pail in hand, humiliated by every force that had brought me to this moment of begging before my boys.

When Brigham visited the cottage for the first time, he announced he was bearing bad news. “I’m afraid my revenues are no longer what they were,” he said. “We’re all scaling back. I’m going to have to cut your allowance.”

“Cut it? By how much?”

“I’m afraid we’re cutting your allowance entirely.”

“You’re giving me nothing?”

“Not nothing. You’ll live in this house without rent and you can still collect your rations at the store.”

Here I must honor the promise I made at the outset of this book. I swore that I would not withhold the details the Reader is most keenly interested in. In my experiences as lecturess, no matter the venue, no matter who sits in the audience before me, always the same questions arise. They are difficult questions to pose before your peers, but eventually a brave soul, typically a woman, ventures forth. Then there is great relief in the hall as everyone’s mutual curiosity is satisfied. Never have I told my story without someone inquiring about the conjugal relations between Brigham and myself. I will sate your curiosity now by telling you those relations ceased between me and Brigham sometime in my third year at Forest Farm.

I now realized a great cost attached itself to this revised arrangement. Once Brigham had removed me from the farm I was merely, like so many plural wives no longer on the schedule, a financial burden.

“How am I to feed my boys?” I asked.

“Start a garden. Hire out your needle. Take in some laundry.”

“Take in some laundry! I have to walk up and down the street with bucket in hand begging for water. You don’t know—no, you can’t know—what it’s like for me to have to ask for water. These people, these kind people, don’t have the heart to turn me away. But they work hard too. The well is only so deep. Why should they have to share their water with me?”

“Because they are Saints and they would do well to remember who brought them here.” His hideous anger spilled over. It squeezed out of him in perspiration and ire and a dire loathing of everything before him. The Prophet was reduced to a bilious, fat, old man. He blew out of the cottage. I could not know then he would never visit again.

To ease my financial duress, I decided to take in boarders. Ever since the completion of the railroad a few years earlier, Gentiles had been arriving in Deseret in numbers never seen before. There was an inadequate number of hotels to house them, and quickly there became a custom of Saints renting out rooms to these new visitors and residents. It was an odd evolution for our isolated Territory—Saints who had never known the outside world suddenly were sharing a home with Babylonian strangers. Of course, every Saint in Deseret had been raised on stories of depravity among the Gentiles: They worship falsely, they fornicate loosely, they eat their young! Although I did not believe every tale, they had left me with a general impression that I could never trust a Gentile. In the end, my empty purse over-ruled my superstitions and I placed an advertisement in the
Daily Tribune.

The first person to reply was Major James Burton Pond, formerly of the Third Wisconsin Cavalry, ally of John Brown, and now a reporter for the
Tribune
itself. He arrived at my house in full uniform, with a silver-handled sword. “Is the room still free?”

“It’s three dollars a week,” I said. “Board included. Washing is extra. You must like children. I have two boys, James, who’s nine, and Lorenzo, who’s eight. They’re good boys, but they are boys and can make noise. You’re free to congregate here or on the porch, but not in the kitchen or the dining room. Visitors should be out by ten, and if you—”

I stopped talking, for Major Pond was regarding me queerly. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you really a Mrs. Young?”

I told him his information was correct.

“Why on earth are you letting out your rooms?”

“Because I have spare rooms and no income. I’d rather take in boarders than deprive my sons.”

“What about your husband?”

“Would you like to see the room or not, Major Pond?”

Judge Albert Hagan, the old Confederate colonel, wise man of legal affairs, and mineral attorney, and Mrs. Hagan became my next boarders. Judge Hagan lived mostly in California, but his expertise in mining law brought him to Salt Lake for extended periods. He seemed to me, at least at first, a gentle, fluffy-haired soul, with a cautious mouth buried in a cottony beard. Mrs. Hagan was, in my estimation, the most suitable creature for her husband: She was ample in every sense, including a plentiful bosom atop an abundant heart. The nature of their relationship was a revelation. Judge Hagan never once failed to thank his wife, praise her intelligence, or appreciate her presence. Ten times a day he said, “I’m the luckiest man in the world,” and lay his hand upon her soft behind.

Thus my house was transformed in less than a week. It was by coincidence and circumstances of the time, but in no part by design, that my three boarders were Gentiles.

In the evenings Judge Hagan and his wife, along with Major Pond, liked to gather on my porch for conversation. They invited friends and acquaintances, intelligent, lively men—lawyers, journalists, historians, and other reasoned Gentiles—who typically brought their equally bright and lively wives. These women, most of them wearing their hair in the loose (and prohibited) waterfall style, knew as much about any topic as their husbands. Almost every night outside my parlor window, a seminar of ideas and philosophy was conducted. “Have you any thoughts on the Modocs?” Judge Hagan would begin, initiating a long engagement of opinion, agreements, and disagreements. Everyone would participate, the women’s estimation of all matters listened to with equivalent respect.

Each night I worked in the kitchen while listening in. I have always hated washing dishes, but never more so during these evenings when the water and the clinking cutlery obscured an important word in the dialogue. I took to propping the window with a block of wood so that the ideas could travel to the kitchen more clearly. I longed to join my boarders but knew I could not.

One night Judge Hagan said, “The more I learn of polygamy, the more I despise it. I admire Brigham a good deal, but he’s got to be careful with this thing. Everyone knows it’s the wild wick that burns down the house.”

“More than anything,” said Mrs. Hagan, “I think about the children.”

“Has anyone,” asked Judge Hagan, “ever met a partner in a polygamatic marriage, man or woman, who was happy? I mean truly happy?”

“What do you mean by happy?” said Major Pond.

“What does he mean by happy?” said Mrs. Hagan. “He means happy. Happy: cheerful, glad, fortunate, hopeful. Happy.”

“I’m only asking, Mrs. Hagan. I’m not supporting. They of course believe this is their ticket to Heaven. Now if you believed that, I mean truly believed that, I mean believed it as much as you believed the sun will rise tomorrow and the sky will be blue, then wouldn’t you be happy, even if a few extra wives caused some inconvenience or indignity in this present life?”

“I have an idea,” said Mrs. Hagan. “Let’s not speculate, not when we have Mrs. Young as an expert witness.”

In a matter of seconds she was in the kitchen, begging me to join the conversation. I told her there were dishes and a late loaf in the oven, but Mrs. Hagan would not relent.

In addition to the Judge and his wife and Major Pond, that evening there was the Rev. Mr. Stratton, a Methodist. He was the first representative of a foreign religion I had ever known. All my life Brigham, the Apostles, the Bishops, the Elders—everyone in a position to know—had told me that I must mind my purse and person around Gentiles. “But a reverend, a preacher, a man of their cloth, he is the devil in our land,” I had been warned since I was a child.

And now the Rev. Stratton was rising from his rocker to shake my hand. “Will you join us, Mrs. Young?” The group regarded me with gentle curiosity. I longed to open up, to tell them all I had seen. At the same time, I felt a lingering duty to defend my faith. “It’s all rather complicated,” I said. “There are many sides to the debate.”

“Don’t feel obliged,” said Mrs. Hagan.

“It’s quite rude of us,” said Rev. Stratton. “Why, it’s none of our business at all.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Hagan. “We didn’t mean to make a specimen of you.”

I accepted their apologies and left their company, although I longed to tell them all I knew.

The next day the Rev. Stratton sent his card and an invitation to call upon him and Mrs. Stratton any time. For two weeks I kept the card in my pocket, fingering it as I went about my work, rubbing the embossing so many times that it had begun to wear away by the time I decided to pay them a visit.

The Strattons lived several blocks away, in a new neighborhood where Gentiles clustered, a foreign land I had never visited before. I left the boys with Mrs. Hagan and walked to the Strattons, taking a circuitous route, careful to note anyone who might be spying on me. My relations with Brigham had deteriorated to such a state it was possible to imagine him trying to blackmail me with evidence of betrayal. A walk that should take no more than twenty minutes took nearly an hour, as I zigzagged through the neighborhood and finally arrived at the Strattons’ gate.

Mrs. Stratton shared her husband’s dual nature of seeming both youthful and wise. Her posture was so erect I never once saw her sit back in her chair. This was remarkable given that my visit, originally planned for twenty minutes, lasted almost four hours. I had not intended to unload all my grief to these strangers, but the Rev. Mr. Stratton broke away my reserve when he said, “Mrs. Young, you should know, my wife and I, we already consider ourselves your friends.”

There was no reason for the Strattons to make such a declaration—Except, is this not how Man is meant to treat his fellow creature? I was too weary to be skeptical, too raw to protect myself further, and too depleted, in every sense, to lose anything more. “I don’t know where to begin,” I said. Rev. and Mrs. Stratton said nothing further. They were not going to pry, nor even, as some do, pretend they were satisfied with nothing said when in fact they craved every detail. “I hardly know what’s happened.”