The Wedding Dress (12 page)

From the far end she could hear Timothy's snores. Beside her Ellen moved. Today was the Sabbath, and with a contented sigh she began anticipating the day. There would be no work except for feeding the stock. After breakfast there would be worship, but until then this precious jewel of empty time was hers.

She slipped from the bed and quickly dressed. As she reached for her bonnet, she noticed the black-bound Book of Mormon which Bishop Taylor had given her. It bulged with Joshua's last letter and some clean sheets of paper. She tucked it and the stub of a pencil into her pocket and crept down the stairs.

The sun was still behind the mountains, and those dark rugged lines shadowed the valley. Rebecca walked slowly to the street. Before her, to the east, stretched the city. Here and there among the adobe and log buildings, she could see the fresh green banners of trees newly transplanted from the mountains. To her left and behind her, the cultivated land was already a sea of green moving in gentle waves with each touch of the morning breeze.

Unlike Winter Quarters and Kanesville, there was a neatness and a sense of order here. The squatty houses huddled companionably close to each other. Gardens, chickens, cows and the outbuildings with their plows and harnesses created a homey picture. It spelled comfort and security—progress.

But there was a goad. She looked beyond the city and saw the gray-green of the desert. It seemed to push at them with a quiet pressure that reminded them of how little they had gained and how quickly it could be lost.

When she reached the creek, she settled herself in the shelter of the trees and tried to recapture the good glow of freedom with which she had greeted the day.

She fingered the pages of the book in her lap. Where was that holy feeling which had marked the Sabbath in the past? “I need to learn about God. I want to know the whys of all this.” She looked about her, at the book, at the letter.

She smoothed the letter. It had been read so many times that the pencil marks were smudged and the creases worn thin. Still, she puzzled over it, feeling her heart respond and lift each time she read it. These Whitmans. What did he mean when he talked about a kind of glory?

She tried to fasten that word to all that surrounded her and even to her everyday life. There was drudgery, pain, the constant battle for life. Faces floated before her. Last winter's agony had etched them in a forever way. Ann's features had become lined with a kind of fatal gentleness. That kind of living didn't spell glory. Those people living in Oregon must have had times as hard and fearful as the Saints. What kind of glory could possess their days?

She shrugged off the questions and returned to the tender part of the letter, the part she couldn't quite grasp. It was unlike Joshua to be reaching out to her like that. What did it mean? At home he had been rough and silent. No, not rough. That wasn't the word. A youth can whip a team of horses where they don't want to go. He can push through stubborn soil and split a cord of wood faster than anyone on the hill, but rough? Not when he gentles his voice to speak and polishes an apple shiny bright before he gives it away.

Rebecca's heart strained with the effort to recapture the memories, and she hungered to relive those shadowy days. Why must Joshua have gold? She didn't want gold. She remembered the poor little house on the side of the hill and the helpless look on Tyler Smyth's face when little Jamie was ill.

There are things that can strip the soul from a man; sometimes it was as little as not having enough to give. Her heart stilled. She couldn't ask that of Joshua.

She opened the paper and spread it across her knees and picked up the pencil.

“Dear Joshua,” she wrote. “You'll probably never receive this letter, but then that may make it easier to write. I have no idea where to send it, but I'll be thinking it off to you. I am still remembering the way you looked sitting on the back of that horse. You were all light. Joshua, why did you say that life must be a glory? How can it be a glory when there is no more to it than grubbing and fighting to keep alive? I don't have the roots of glory in me.

“Joshua and gold. I suppose it's fitting, the golden man digging gold out of the ground. Don't you get those pretty yellow buckskins all dirty.

“Gold. Is that really what you want, a something you can put in your hands and call glory? I am still looking for my glory. But I am so caught up in the fight to keep alive that most days I forget.

“You see, I am only one of a mass. We are people, we Saints, but thick as ants, mindless as geese, fruitful as cows to be ridden like horses. And in the middle of it all, I wish I knew a moment of standing alone, of knowing what I really am down underneath. Is it possible to be a part of a group, really belonging without first being a single whole person? I think I am meaning I feel like an ingredient in a johnnycake, and I need to know me as a pinch of salt first.”

She dropped the pencil into her lap and stared down at the filled sheets. “Why did I say those things? I didn't even know I thought them.”

The sun was high over the mountains now. Its heat pushed away the night coolness and, as it moved across the streets and adobe houses, life stirred.

Rebecca caught a glimpse of a black-coated man, and she remembered it was the Sabbath. She jumped to her feet and hurried back to the Samuels' house.

Cutting across the yard, she hugged the black book to her. Maybe this would be the day she would learn, really hear those things they said.

When it was nearly autumn, Rebecca realized her town was becoming a city of strangers. No longer did she move down the streets, calling greetings to everyone she met. Some of these strangers didn't speak English. But bright, friendly eyes caught, there were smiles and nods. The smiles were saying, “I recognize you, I don't know your name, but you are one of us. You have suffered and overcome. We are kin.”

One day Ann brought her worries home from Relief Society meeting. “There's talk,” she said. “This last bunch of Saints that came in have a schoolteacher with them. They say she's real uppity. She's been to some kind of a finishing school back east and knows all there is about teaching. Rebecca, could be you'll be out of a job this winter.”

Rebecca's hands dropped into the kettle of beans she had been washing. “What'll I do?” she whispered. “I do love teaching, but I have no education except what Brother Taylor taught me at Kanesville.”

“We'll just go see Brother Brigham himself.”

“He'll never have time for such as us.”

“I expect that we can just pester him until he listens. Besides, I've heard he has a weak spot for women, especially if it looks like they might shed a tear.”

Ann made good her declaration, and before Rebecca could draw a deep breath, an appointment was set up for the two of them to see President Young.

The building that housed Brigham Young's office was one of the first buildings in the city that was neither adobe nor crude stone. Its white clapboard set with shiny windowpanes even boasted a smooth wooden floor covered with soft carpets. Rebecca could hardly remember the reason for their visit as she stared about.

Brother Brigham came out of his office to greet them, and Rebecca was tongue-tied with awe as she stood close to the man for the first time. A ribbon of thought spun through her mind. This short, powerfully built man with the twinkling blue eyes was the leader of the Latter-day Saints. He was revered as prophet, seer, and revelator. Her hands were damp, and Ann filled the silence, repeating the story she had heard at Relief Society meeting.

“Well, my dear,” he soothed, “with Zion on the increase, I doubt you'll ever be without a job. Why, there's a perfect horde of young ones that have come into the valley this summer. We could use a dozen more like you right now.”

His eyes became steely. “Only I want it understood. You are to be teaching things profitable to their souls. Reading and writing is important only as it enables them to understand the first principle of their religion and relate it to every day of their lives. You will dwell on the Book of Mormon, the writings of the Prophet and the Bible. Let's not have any frivolity and ungodly books.”

“Oh, yes sir!” she gasped. “Besides, we don't have much except a few primers. We could use some dictionaries and a history or two.”

“I suppose you need slates and pencils too?” he chuckled.

Not catching the irony in his voice, she eagerly replied, “Oh, yes, and paper and ink. It would be nice to have a blackboard. I heard tell of—”

He cut in, “And this year, I think we'll be doing good just to keep the victual box full. Maybe next year. Meanwhile—” he bowed. The interview was over.

He started for the door and stopped. “Young lady, are you married?” Rebecca shook her head. “Why aren't you? You're plenty old enough. There's many a man around here who needs a wife. I'll see what I can do.”

“Please, sir!” she cried desperately, “I don't want to be married. There's—”

“Oh,” he nodded wisely, “is he a Saint?”

She shook her head, and he snapped, “Then forget about him unless he wants to become one of us. We can't have anyone pulling you away from the church.”

Rebecca was walking down Main Street. The sun was a pleasant warmth on her shoulders. Her stride lengthened, slowed. The basket she carried began to swing in a contented arc. She beamed and nodded at her world, acknowledging the changes.

The aroma of raw lumber still lifted above the scent of horses and dust. Hammers still banged and saws screeched as the city expanded. This spreading girth reminded Rebecca of a contented lady claiming her rightful share of the earth. Indians no longer roamed the streets, poking their inquisitive heads through every door. Now cattle didn't disappear as frequently, and in the evening it wasn't uncommon to see young people strolling casually down the city streets.

It was September 1850. The city of Great Salt Lake had existed for three years. During those years the poor adobe and crude log huts began giving way to more substantial buildings. Three sawmills poured milled lumber into the valley.

Streets, arrow-straight and wide, cut through the city. Bridges crossed creeks, and fences divided property. Beyond the city, the stone wall that had circled cultivated fields with a twelve-mile girth was now a line in fields that overflowed, pouring greenness beyond as far as the eye could see.

As quickly as people poured into the valley, Brigham pointed them on to create new communites. There was talk of a vast horde waiting to come from across the ocean—Saints eager for Zion. They would build this place for their home and then they would wait for the coming of the Lord of Zion. She shrugged away the thoughts that didn't seem quite real.

“Rebecca, Rebecca Wolstone!” She turned and watched the round little lady making her way through the crowd.

“Why, Mrs. Tucker, it's been such a long time since I've seen you.” The two continued down the street together, stepping carefully on the slabs of flagstone that paved the street in front of the stores. “Where are you going? I'm headed for the dry goods store. I must have some paper, if there's some to be had.”

“You'll be teaching again this year?”

“Oh, certainly.” She looked quizzically at the woman.

“I just wondered. There's talk Bishop Willis is sparking you, and since he's moving to Fort Utah, I wondered.”

“Sparking! He's old and married!” Rebecca said indignantly.

The woman turned to study Rebecca. “You aren't taking the principle seriously. Girl, you've got to live your religion.”

“That's it, I'm just a girl,” Rebecca said hastily to cut the tide of talk she was hearing more frequently. “I'm still young, and I'm happy with my teaching.”

They traversed another six squares of flagstone in silence, and then Mrs. Tucker said, “I hope you do continue with your teaching. My Aaron is full of wanting to learn. It would be nice to have more books, something different.”

They parted in front of the store, and Rebecca entered. “Good-day, Sister Wolstone. Come to smell the soap again?”

She laughed at the rotund little man whose cheeks looked as freshly scrubbed as his stiff-collared white shirt. “Indeed I have. It's a wonder there's any. I'd guess Mrs. Cassidy used it all to keep your shirts that sparkling white.”

“Not this perfumed stuff. Besides, she says nothing whitens like lye soap. Now if you want some lye—”

“No, no,” she shook her head. “I've come for paper and ink.”

“Lots of paper, not too good a quality, but I expect you'll be inventing your own ink this year.”

“There wouldn't be one book in that shipment?” She looked around the store. Every inch of the rough log walls supported an item. Curing hams were wedged between hoes and harnesses. Shelves held bolts of gingham and calico. There was even a single bolt of carefully wrapped silk. She knew, because, like most of the other women in the city, she had been permitted a glimpse before it went on the shelf to wait for a more affluent customer. Ann and Rebecca were holding a wager on which one of Brigham Young's wives would be wearing that length of silk.