The Lonely Polygamist (14 page)

The congregation murmured and Uncle Chick stopped his sermon to have a look out the window. He stepped back from the pulpit, spoke in a low voice to the prophet, and then motioned all the apostles in attendance—only six on that day—to the back room.

“Well, we knew he’d show up sooner than later, and here he is,” Uncle Chick said.

Golden, always a little behind and trying to catch up, said, “Who is it?”

“Ervil LeBaron,” said Apostle Barrett, peering out the window. “Look at him. Nutty as they come. And I think that’s his brother driving.”

Golden had heard the name. The LeBarons were an infamous bunch: violent, scheming, and backward, they gave their fellow polygamists a bad name, which was saying something. When they weren’t attacking or killing their enemies, who included the Mexican and American governments, the Mormon church, other polygamist clans, and pretty much anyone else who declined to bow before their claims of divine and absolute authority, they were attacking and killing each other. Ervil would eventually become the most notorious LeBaron of all for sending one of his wives—chosen because she was the prettiest of the lot—to murder an influential and beloved polygamist leader in Salt Lake City.

“He’s been making the rounds, trying to get everybody to pledge obedience to him and his people,” said Apostle Coombs, loosening his tie. “Up to Manti, Jonas Silber told me, they had to run him off with shotguns. Anybody got a shotgun?”

“No, no shotguns,” said Uncle Chick. “That’s the last thing we need.”

Outside, Ervil LeBaron was barking out scriptural condemnations at an astonishing rate, calling the folks watching from the windows a perverse and stiff-necked people, going on at length about abominations and whoredoms and bilious cankers on the holy church of God. He was getting hoarse, and a little impatient, if the tone of his voice was any indication.

“Got my thirty-ought-six in my Chevy,” said Apostle Throckmorten. “Might take me a minute to find some shells, though.”

“Am I talking to myself here?” asked Uncle Chick. “No shooting. My cripes. He’s not carrying a firearm. He’s a bully, here to intimidate. So we’ll just send him on his way.”

He turned to Golden, gave him a long measuring look, seemed to settle on something. “I got an axe handle in the back of my Ford out front. I want you to go get it and invite this gentleman to peddle his papers elsewhere.”

Golden blinked. “Axe handle?”

“Right, nice hickory one, up front by the hay bale.”

Was this a joke? Golden registered the mood of his fellow apostles, who appeared to have about as much confidence in this plan as he did. He said, “
Me?
”

“There’s that movie where that southern deputy fella goes around beating up the hillbilly riffraff with a axe handle,” offered Apostle Lambson, nodding. “Worked pretty good for him.”

“You’re a servant of God, remember that,” said Uncle Chick. “Pay attention, let the Spirit guide you. Now go. We’ve got a service to finish up.”

Like a bride left at the altar, Golden walked the center aisle alone, head bowed, every eye in the congregation following his progress. He made it a point not to let his gaze wander to the left, where his wives and children sat. Outside, the air was cold, sharp. He went to Uncle Chick’s pickup, found the axe handle. New snow, frozen overnight, crackled under each step. Ervil LeBaron fell quiet as Golden approached. He stretched out his arms as if waiting for the big man to walk into them.

“Every knee shall bow!” he barked hoarsely, his face a deep, chapped red, his eyes shining with wonder at the truth and power of his perceptions. “And every tongue confess!”

“Please, you need to go,” Golden said, stepping forward. He had to concentrate to hold the man’s gaze and could barely hear himself over the thump of blood in his ears. “We’re trying to have our services here.”

Ervil LeBaron moved a half step back but continued to carry on with his nonsense. He pulled a large sheaf of parchment paper from his jeans pocket, claiming he was not leaving until everyone within the sound of his voice put their name to it. Golden stood in the snow, bewildered, waiting for a prompting from the Holy Spirit, some guiding voice that would tell him what to do. But the only thing he could hear was Ervil LeBaron popping himself on the chest and shouting about everlasting burnings and the blood of the lamb.

He knew one thing: he could not hit this man. Intimidated by his own size, he had always kept himself from everything but the mildest gestures; right now he doubted he could so much as raise the axe handle in a threatening manner. While he reviewed his options, trying not to think about the crowd watching from the church windows, his gaze fell on the car, which had obviously been well cared-for. Even though it was several years old, it had been freshly painted a glittering, medieval green, and appointed with swirling white pinstripes along the fenders and door panels. The engine rumbled and the brake lights blinked on and off. Golden ducked his head to get a look at the smirking driver, who was obviously impatient to be on his way.

This was a man, he thought, who didn’t want to get involved. This was a man happy to let his brother do the dirty work while he waited safely behind the wheel. Golden stared for a few seconds at the throbbing passenger-side brake light and then, with a quick, almost surreptitious motion, gave it a slight chop with the axe handle. The glass housing broke with a tinkling crunch, leaving a mosaic of bright red shards in the snow.

Golden had to admit: that had felt pretty good. The thought occurred to him that maybe he could do this.

“My car!” shouted the driver. “He hit my car!”

Ervil LeBaron fell quiet. Golden stepped up to address the remaining brake light and by the time the driver understood what was happening it was too late. He’d just gotten it into gear, the tires starting to spin, when Golden took a swing like somebody who knew his way around a baseball bat, and nearly separated the whole assembly from the body of the car.

The driver screamed as if he himself were being bodily assaulted. The car started forward with Golden close behind. Ervil LeBaron had grabbed his arm by this time, hanging on like a man trying to board a moving trolley and shouting some decidedly unbiblical phrases into his ear, but Golden was not going to be denied: he wanted to know what it would feel like to put a nice clean dent in the lid of the car’s trunk, and it turned out to feel very, very good.

The car spurted forward and then slowed, the driver giving his brother one last chance to jump in before abandoning him once and for all. Ervil, it appeared, had a choice: he could accept the humiliation of retreat or be left here in the cold with a whole congregation of extremely unsympathetic people and one unpredictable giant and his axe handle. He chose retreat, but as the car roared off, he hung on to the still-open door, bellowing for all to hear that, like the Son of Man in the fullness of times, he would be back.

When Golden entered the chapel after replacing the axe handle where he’d found it, there was no cheering—these were not the kind of people who cheered—but there was a burbling of excitement well beyond the great good luck of having a drab church meeting interrupted by an episode involving cursing, violence, and a hot rod car. There was the collective feeling that
something
—and everyone would have their ideas about exactly what—had just happened. Some felt merely grateful they had been able to stand up for themselves against the forces of evil, others that a defining blow had been struck for righteousness and truth, and there were the few who would suggest that they had all witnessed a transforming moment, like Moses’ slaying of the Egyptian slave master, that would betoken the rise of a new prophet who would bring about the liberation of God’s chosen on the earth.

This was nearly ten years earlier, which was more than enough time for everybody to get over their disappointment; Golden was not the One Mighty and Strong—any fool could see that now—and what occurred on that December day had no special value except as an anecdote to be repeated and occasionally reenacted for the amusement of children and strangers. Even so, it had been a high point in Golden’s life—he’d traded for several years on the goodwill that single episode had earned him—and everything since had felt like a bumpy downhill slide.

Now, in the hearse next to Uncle Chick, he dug at his eyes with the pad of his thumb and did what he always did when faced with evidence of his failures: he apologized. This habit, of continually expressing regret and asking forgiveness, had been irritating his wives for years, so much so that Nola had started calling him, in a Pepe Le Pew–style French accent,
Monsieur Pardonnez-moi
.

“I’m sorry,” Golden said. “For everything.”

“Stop that,” Uncle Chick said, back to his gruff self. “You got nothing to be sorry for. Now, what are we really here to talk about?”

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Golden said. “Something I should have told you some time ago.”

Uncle Chick rolled down the window, spat. He said, “This a confession?”

“Something like that.”

“Well good. I’m glad someone in this group of ours has actually committed a sin worth mentioning. I was worried everybody’d turned perfect while I wasn’t paying attention.”

“All right then.” Golden said. “I guess I’m real embarrassed by this, that I didn’t come to you with it in the first place—”

Uncle Chick held up one crooked finger and shook his head. “Now. I’ve got pork roast and potatoes waiting for me at home. And Jell-O, the particular kind I like, with the whipped topping mixed in. So if you please.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Golden bit the inside of his cheek, gritted his teeth. “You know the project I’ve been working on…”

“The old folks’ home.”

“I’m not building an old folks’ home, Chick. That’s what I’m trying to say. I’m building something else.”

“The cathouse.”

After a moment of mild shock, Golden allowed himself a smile; he was surprised only by the fact that he was not in the least surprised. “How long have you known?”

“Long enough, you dummy. I was hoping you’d fill me in on something I didn’t know about. That would’ve been something. Now how ’bout we turn this rig around. I’m hungry.”

“You’re the only one who knows?”

“My dad, course. Barrett. Bill knows. He’s the one found out. Half of us are in construction, Gold, my cripes, word gets around. I’ve sworn them boys to secrecy. They won’t talk about it, not if they’re smart.”

“So you don’t think it’s a problem?”

Uncle Chick turned, seemed to fix Golden with a hard look through the smoked lenses. “Oh, it’s a problem. Your Beverly finds out, it’s a real serious problem. For you and me both. Anybody else in the church finds out, why, it’s a problem. Your church status has been slipping lately—you’ve been missing your share of meetings, which I can tell you Nels Jensen isn’t shy about pointing out. I wish you was putting up a hospital for kindhearted old widows and orphaned kitty-cats, but I know what it’s like. I don’t like that you went off and did this thing alone—it ain’t like you, but I respect it. You’ve got a family to take care of. This church relies on you. You want me to tell you God’s with you on this one? Can’t do it, but I don’t know that it matters. No turning back now anyhow. Times are bad wherever you decide to look. We do what we have to.”

We do what we have to
. Those words should have offered him comfort, lifted his burden, but he felt nothing except the same tension that locked up his insides, ruined his ability to concentrate or feel. True: he had taken the job because he had no choice. His contractor’s business was barely paying the bills, rents were down on his units, and without a big job like the PussyCat Manor—the biggest single job he’d ever worked on—he’d be filing for bankruptcy before the year was out. Yes, he was risking his church status, his good name, maybe his everlasting soul on behalf of his family, but there was something else, something that could not be rationalized or explained away: he was doing it to escape. To get away four or five days out of every week from feuding wives and the ever-circling mob of little ones, from the jealousies and long-term resentments, from church meetings, from the dentist bills that arrived with horrifying regularity, from the darkness that fell on his heart whenever he walked through the halls of one of his homes, looking in on the children tangled in their bedsheets, thinking,
Whatever happens, I am responsible. They all rely on me
.

For going on three years now, he’d had difficulty sleeping, pitching fitfully in whichever bed he’d found himself on that particular night, until there was nothing left for him to do but wander the house—a jumble of angles and corners to hurt himself on—checking and rechecking the children, staring out of windows, pervaded with a nameless dread. And when he was finally able to drift off, usually laid out on a couch or propped up in a rocking chair, it was with the knowledge that he would be up before dawn, feeling nothing of his old appetites for the bright hours of the day, for the surprises his overcrowded life had come to provide.

Being away and alone seemed the only solution. So he’d jumped at the chance to work on location in Nevada, where he enjoyed the freedom to eat all the beef jerky and canned food he desired, to spend his off hours alone wandering the desert or confined in a travel trailer that smelled like the inside of a lunch box. He had not found the peace and perspective he’d hoped for, but more of the same strangling anxiousness, the unnerving nighttime quiet, and the knowledge he had made a mistake. This sense of desolation was not part of his life in Virgin, but part of
him
; he would take it with him wherever he might go.

Had he the courage or the words, he would have explained all this to Uncle Chick. He would have told him that the only thing that gave him a moment’s peace was not the comforting touch of his faithful wives, or the sweet sight of his children come to meet him at the door, or his faith in his God. It was the thought of a woman—a dark-skinned stranger, probably a whore, with round calves and wide feet, whose image pulsed brightly and often in the foggy reaches of his mind.