For Time and Eternity (10 page)

“Or sister,” he conceded with a gentleness unlike anything I’d ever heard from my own father.

When Nathan peeled off to settle the team in the barn, the girls and I went into the house to see what we could scare up for an unexpected supper. Inside, Kimana was already busy at the stove, laying slices of bacon to fry. She turned around long enough to grace me with one of her rare smiles.

“Mr. Fox home?”

Kimana had been a member of our family since her own had been largely destroyed in a cattle dispute before Lottie was born. Severely wounded by a gunshot in her thigh, she’d been too weak to travel with her people and too proud to be a burden to them. It was Nathan who had found her, still as death in the middle of a scorched field. And it was he who brought her to our home, himself covered with her blood, determined to make restitution for the violence done to her people.

“Yes, he’s home. A little earlier than we expected. What a nice surprise. Of course, I wish I’d known. We could have put on a stew with some of the lovely things we pulled from the garden. But bacon’s fine. And maybe eggs?”

I prattled on, nervous, wishing I’d had a chance to get the house in order. The kitchen was still cluttered with pickling jars, and I hadn’t bothered to sweep the floor since Nathan left.

“Mrs. Fox.” Kimana’s calm voice interrupted my monologue. Her smooth brown face ever placid, she shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Be happy he has come home. And make him happy too.”

“Of course; that’s what matters.”

Still, I enlisted the girls’ help, giving Melissa full charge of the broom while Lottie straightened the jars into neat rows along the back of the long kitchen shelf. Leaving Kimana to fix a light supper, I went into the yard behind the house to hang up the afternoon’s washing.

After a time, I heard the sound of water being pumped in the front yard and, having hung the last of the girls’ stockings to dry, poked my head around the corner to see Nathan standing at the bucket. He’d stripped off his worn blue shirt and plunged it now in the water, using it as a washcloth to cleanse himself of the dust from the road. I watched, marveling at the beauty of him much as I did that first night on the shores of the Platte River, even though the child now moving within me bore testament to the maturity of our love. The teaching of the prophet rang in my ear, telling me I should be ashamed, seeing my husband bare-chested, without the covering of his sacred undershirt. But I squelched it, choosing instead to revel in the beauty of this man God had given me.

True to his word, once we cleared and washed the supper dishes, Nathan gathered us around the table to dispense the gifts brought from this latest visit into Salt Lake City.

“Really, my dear husband, you’re going to spoil us if you insist on bringing back gifts with each visit.”

“And what could be the harm in a little spoiling?”

I admit, I was sometimes as foolish as the girls, my mind racing with the possibility of what might be hiding inside the boxes and bundles he’d brought down from the wagon. Nathan always had the ability to make me feel like a woman and a little girl at once—loved and desired and indulged.

As we settled into our seats, Kimana wished us good night and was headed out to her one-room cabin behind our house.

“Just wait one minute,” Nathan said, lifting a package wrapped in plain brown paper. “I have something for you, too.”

Kimana’s eyes shone like jet beads, and she stood before Nathan, her hands softly clasped in front of her.

“Open it.”

She took the package and carefully, unused to such an activity, unfolded the paper. Lottie jumped up and down at her elbow, urging, “Faster! Faster!”

Finally my little girl snatched the loosened paper from the old Indian woman’s hands. The puzzled look on Kimana’s face captured all of our attention, and I stood to look over her shoulder and see what she’d been given.

It was a small oval frame, not much bigger than the palm of my hand, and inside it, a very familiar image.

“It’s Joseph Smith,” Nathan said proudly. “He is our leader. Our founder. Our ‘chief,’ if you will. And I thought you might like to have a picture of him to hang in your room.”

Kimana stood, unblinking, her eyes transfixed on the small portrait. Melissa and Lottie were highly disappointed and returned to their seats to kick impatiently at the chair legs. Nathan beamed, but I felt my own face burning with the uncertainty of how such a gift would be received.

Finally Kimana said, “Thank you, Mr. Fox.” Her words often lacked inflection, and I couldn’t tell now if she was truly grateful for such a token or if her reaction fell somewhere between amusement and offense. She held it carefully away from her as if it might bite or break and, wishing us good night, walked out into the quiet darkness.

“Did you get us something better, Papa?” Lottie asked. Her hair glowed gold in the lamplight, and her eyes shone wide, fearing a portrait of the prophet might be in her future too.

“Mama’s next,” Nathan said, handing me a long, canvas-wrapped bundle. “And be careful with that. It’s fragile.”

I set the bundle on the table and carefully unrolled its wrapping.

“Oh, Nathan,” I said when the contents were revealed. It was a lamp, the base of which was frosted blue. Young girls danced all around it, connected by a flowing white ribbon. “It’s beautiful.”

Melissa held out a cautious finger to touch.

“Your aunt Rachel made that,” Nathan said. “She painted the design, anyway.”

I could picture her, sitting at the little table by the window in her new ladies’ parlor, the room she’d begged Tillman to add to the house last summer.

“I’ll have to write a note to thank her.” I looked around our sparse room. There was the table at which we sat and two other chairs by the fireplace. We had a cookstove and a wide kitchen shelf. “I don’t know where I’ll display such a fine piece. The mantel is really too narrow.” Then, worried Nathan might think I lacked contentment, I said, “Perhaps in our room. On the little table next to the bed. Wouldn’t that be perfect?”

“Who would have thought we’d someday have trouble finding a place for our possessions. After all—”

“When she hopped on the ferry, she had nothing more than an old notebook and a piece of silk ribbon.” Melissa’s voice held none of the warm nostalgia usually given that story. “Now us, please?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Nathan let out an enormous yawn, stretching so that the shadows of his arms reached from one wall to the next. “I’m pretty worn-out from the ride home. Maybe yours can wait until tomorrow?”

“Don’t be cruel,” I said, raising my voice above the understandable protest.

He made quite a show of digging into his knapsack and brought out two oblong boxes, each tied with a bright pink ribbon. He held one to his ear, seeming to listen, before declaring it belonged to Melissa, and the other to Lottie. On a count of three, both girls tore into the packages—with me helping Lottie untie the bow.

“Oh, Papa!” Their twin exclamations filled the room as each little girl lifted a brand-new doll from its newspaper nest. The dolls had sweet, painted porcelain faces and hands, with rich, curling hair cascading to their calico shoulders.

“Mine has yellow hair, like me!” Lottie cried.

“Mine looks like Mama,” Melissa said thoughtfully.

“I thought it only fair that you girls should get your own new baby, since Mama is getting hers,” Nathan said.

Within minutes the dolls were given names after the girls’ favorite flowers—Lilly for Lottie’s, Rose for Melissa’s. After a quick face-washing and prayer, my daughters were snuggled in, clutching their babies and drifting off to sleep before I even snuffed the candle. In our room, Nathan was already underneath the covers, arms behind his head, dozing. I took off my apron and sat on the edge of our bed, ready to begin the struggle of taking off my shoes. My gyrations shook the frame, bringing a sleepy comment from my husband.

“I think I’ll just need to stay barefoot until the baby comes,” I whispered. He responded with a sleepy nod.

By the time I had my hair down and brushed and braided and my warm cotton gown stretched over me, he was snoring outright. When I climbed in beside him, one arm instinctively curled around me, and I settled my head against his heart, soothed by its rhythm. This was the time of night the baby always sprang to life, and I felt him—or her—roiling within me. Nathan must have felt it too because he cuddled me a little closer and brought his hand to rest on my shifting stomach.

It was one of those moments when I felt perfectly content and safe. I imagined God looking down on our little family, and I hoped we pleased him with our love and devotion. Surely he could ask no more of a man than to love his wife and care for his children. I chased away thoughts of Rachel, alone in her own bed somewhere, her husband in another room, with another woman.

My breath in sync with Nathan’s, just as our steps had been as we walked home, I placed my hand on his, and together we touched the child within. Soon I drifted off, praying, my heart full of so much gratitude, it had no room for fear.

Chapter 11

The birth pains started the first morning I awoke to a hard frost on the ground. I stayed in bed almost until sunrise, waiting for one and another pain to pass. I had a vague recollection of Nathan kissing my cheek before going out to milk the two cows and draw up the wash water—both chores that fell to me whenever he left our little farm to cut temple stone out of the quarry. I must have gotten a full extra hour’s sleep, and by the tightening pain I felt across my back, I would need it. With God’s will and protection, our newest child would be born before nightfall.

Kimana gave me a knowing look the moment I walked into the kitchen, attempting to tie my apron strings.

“It comes today?”

I nodded.

“I take the children to Mrs. Ellen.”

Brother Thomas and Sister Ellen, besides taking us under their wings as we journeyed here, were our nearest neighbors. Our little town was one sprung up from necessity, serving to meet the needs of those who worked in the temple quarry. Therefore, it lacked the precise, gridlike organization of other settlements. Each day I had only the distant puffs of chimney smoke to bear witness that I had neighbors at all. And yet, in times of need, they seemed only steps away.

“After breakfast,” I said, scooping flour for biscuits. “We don’t want to be an imposition, and there’s hours yet before the baby comes. I’ll have Nathan drop them off on his way to get Sister Maude.”

Kimana made a dismissive sound and gently nudged me away from the mixing bowl.

“If it were up to me, I would have you as my midwife, but Nathan is very particular about these things. The church is, I mean. You understand?”

“I understand. I thought things might change now that I have a picture of your leader.”

So rare was it for Kimana to make a joke that I had to stop and consider if she had made one now. If the flatness of her delivery gave no clue, the twinkle in her eye did, and I knew I’d been forgiven.

“Maybe,” I said, breathing deep, “instead of taking the girls to Sister Ellen’s, they could just spend the day with you. You could help them make some new clothes for their dolls.”

Her smile rewarded my idea, as did the delighted agreement of Lottie and Melissa.

I spent the morning moving about the house, sitting for a spell, then standing in the open doorway, taking great gulps of crisp fall air. The sky had that special lavender hue I’d never seen anywhere but here in the Utah Territory, and I looked to God beyond the distant mountains.

“Keep me safe, O Lord,” I prayed, “and deliver this child.”

By noon I’d taken myself to bed, sitting up to take sips of the fragrant tea Kimana brought in a steaming mug.

“He’s doing well,” she said, her brown hand rough against the quilt stretched over me.

“He?” I handed the mug back in preparation for an oncoming pain.

“I am certain.”

Just then the front door opened, and soon after, Nathan ushered in Sister Maude. The woman had served as midwife for both of the girls, and I felt as comfortable with her in the room as I would have with my own mother. Maybe more. Over the years, her hair had so melded together blonde with gray, I could scarcely tell which was which, and it always seemed like she had pinned it up on her way out the door. Now she bustled into the room, rolling up her sleeves, barely giving Kimana a brief, dismissive look.

“And how are we feeling?” Her voice was like honey.

“Tired,” I said truthfully.

“Time for that later, missy.” Sister Maude sat in the chair at the bedside and took my hand between her soft ones. “Be sure you have plenty of water on to boil and clean towels ready.” I assumed she was speaking with Kimana, though she never turned her head. Kimana came to the same conclusion, as she silently backed out of the door. “Now, Brother Nathan, come lead us in a prayer.”

The three of us joined hands, but whatever words Nathan prayed aloud were lost to me as my body was seized with another birthing pang. I tightened my grip to the point where the slickness of the sweat from my hands threatened to disjoin us all, while I waited for it to either pass or be lessened in the wake of my husband’s words. Neither happened. Instead, his voice grew stronger and louder, gaining power through my pain.

I remember thinking,
Will he never say amen? Can he not reach out to his God without holding on to me?

In the end it was Sister Maude who, at the next hesitancy of phrasing, offered up a conclusion and released herself from my grasp.

“Now, Brother Nathan, if you’ll busy yourself elsewhere, I’ll send for you when the babe is arrived.”

He knelt beside me for just a moment, and the pain subsided. By the time he kissed my brow and told me he loved me, I was quite at rest again, strengthened by his goodness and faith.

It was, after that, an easy birth. Some women will tell you there’s no such thing, and maybe that’s because we like to claim those hours as our particular brand of heroism, but I recall very little pain after that shared moment. I like to think that God knew how precious little time I would have with the life being born through me and didn’t want me to spend any part of it engaged in battle. His ways and reasons are lost to me. All I know is that shortly after nightfall I was holding a precious, perfect baby boy in my arms.

By that time the room was lit with the lamp Rachel had painted for me, and I counted it responsible for the distinctive blue tinge to my son’s tiny, wrinkled body. But the lamp’s light could not account for his shallow, catching breath, and by the time Nathan was at my side again, I’d dedicated my life to memorizing his tiny, startled face.

“Send Kimana for Elder Justus,” I said, stroking the baby’s warm, soft head. “I think we’ll need the blessing soon.”

* * *

For two days Kimana and the girls worked tirelessly, preparing our home as they would for a celebration. Every inch from floor to ceiling was scrubbed clean; the aroma of baking breads and pastries filled the spaces in between. Word was sent to all of our neighbors, with someone sent into town to fetch Rachel and her family. I, in the meantime, was restricted to equal time resting in bed or sitting in the rocking chair Nathan had made in the months before Melissa was born, holding the tiny, struggling form of our son and praying, “Lord, give him strength for one more breath.” Moment by moment my prayers were answered, and I thought I could spend the rest of our lives just like this, holding him until he was a man full grown.

To spare him the effort of crying, I held him to my breast every hour, through the day and night, praying my milk would fill in whatever it was his body lacked, and during those moments, his bright, button-blue eyes looked up into mine with a gratitude that fueled me.

Nathan was by my side when he could be, holding the baby when I permitted myself scattered minutes of sleep. I heard him in the darkness, whispering, just as he had to our daughters during their first days of life. “When you were still a spirit up in heaven, I was a little boy . . .” And he went on to tell all that he could remember of his childhood. Nothing about his parents, as his earliest memories were those of living in the St. Benedict Home for Abandoned Children, but about his very life in that orphanage. Boys he played with, hours spent learning the craft of carpentry, his fierce protection of his sister.

In the past, I’d often pretend to be asleep so he could tell his stories without the usual guard he put up whenever he had occasion to share a memory with me, but this time I found myself startled into wakefulness.

When you were still a spirit up in heaven . . .

The first time I’d heard Elder Thomas speak about a preterrestrial life—the idea that all humans live as spirit children born to Heavenly Father before being reborn into this earthly life—I found it to be a rather sweet, comforting idea. Imagine, all the while I was preparing to be this child’s mother, all those years living as a child myself, this little baby was a mature, healthy spiritual being.

Oh, I’d heard Nathan tell the story over and over. But I listened to it now with new ears, and only half of it rang true. Yes, Nathan had lived before now—he’d been a little boy, a young man, my husband. But he and I made this child, through the miracle of God’s design. I listened, waiting to hear some word about the role I played in the child’s creation, wanting to share some part of the spiritual lore, but heard nothing. Instead, I heard empty words whispered by a father about to lose the very son he’d longed for, words that held more wonder at the life the child had already lived than sadness at the one he never would.

As that tiny spirit fought for every living breath, something inside of me began a slow, sour churning. I closed my eyes and listened to my husband’s secrets and my son’s struggle, but both were eventually drowned out by a smaller voice within me repeating a single refrain.

It isn’t true.

It was the first time since my foot stepped onto the ferry that any part of me questioned the teachings of Joseph Smith. Perhaps my blinding love for Nathan or yearning to be a part of this exciting, fervent spiritual family had kept me from ever questioning what I’d been told. I’d faced famine and locusts and storms and drought and death with these people, supposing their unshakable faith to be a testament to their doctrine. Not until now did I see a chink in the armor of Joseph Smith’s revelations.

Of course I knew that God himself had chosen to take on human flesh when he came to earth as a helpless baby. But that was a miracle. That was Jesus, God’s one Son, his only Son. And he came for a purpose—to grow and live and die. But what “spirit child,” what glorified spirit being, would come to be born in the frail, ever-weakening shell that was my son? Who, outside of a Savior, would choose to be born, only to die? Because I knew, from the first minutes of his life, that my son was going to die. Not in the same vein that we all will—someday, in the full timing of God—but
that
day or the next. I knew his life would be measured in days, in hours. And only a creature made from the equally frail coupling of two human vessels could come to be so mortally doomed.

How strange to think about such things in those shadows where I counted each shallow breath, measured each spoken word. It was, for me, my comfort. Every woman who loses a child wonders at the wisdom of God. The purpose for ever touching such unbearable pain. But for just a moment, I no longer despised my own heartbeat, and the wonder of God’s grace shone clear. The entire purpose for my son’s existence—within the womb and without—was to bring me to this tiny moment of doubt.

* * *

He would be known in the church record as Arlen Nathan Fox, named for my father. No promises were made to dedicate him to the teachings of Jesus Christ; no requests were made for a life of good health, no prayers for his future wife and children. Just our little family gathered by the warmth of the stove, and Elder Justus, a towering, bearded presence, holding the bundled form of our baby as Nathan’s hand trembled on his shoulder.

“Heavenly Father,” the elder’s voice boomed, “we give this child over to you.” Soon after, he placed little Arlen in my arms, and as our front room filled with whispered prayers, my son fought for his final breath before passing into his first peaceful sleep.

I must have cried out, though I don’t remember making any noise, and I clearly remember not wanting any intrusion on this final moment. I simply sat, trusting the chair to hold me upright as I knew my own body never could, until little Lottie was standing at my elbow, reaching one soft, chubby finger to move the blanket aside from her baby brother’s face.

“Has he gone back to heaven, Mama?”

I couldn’t answer.
Father God, forgive me for the lies I’ve taught this child.
I felt the eyes of Elder Justus boring into me, and I knew if I didn’t say something, he would. Clutching the still form of little Arlen to me, I simply said, “Yes, Lottie. He is in heaven now. With Jesus.”

It was truth as I knew it, sufficient for now. Lottie nodded sagely and withdrew her hand.

By noon a funeral wreath hung on our front door, and all those people whom we’d invited to the blessing of our child came instead to minister to us in our grief. Our little table, laden with food, fed them through the day, but I ate none of it. I tried to be gracious at first, accepting the warm embraces of my sister Saints and the brothers’ attempts at spiritual comfort, but each word of condolence only tightened the wrench of my grief. I could never, ever explain that the solid rock of pain and confusion occupying my head had very little to do with the death of little Arlen, for I knew he was resting in the arms of Jesus. No, my trepidation grew as I listened to them speak, constant murmurings punctuated with words of Heavenly Father, of the prophets and Brother Joseph. All of it tainted with a falsehood I’d never heard before. I felt I’d been reborn with the birth of my son—my ears and eyes as new as his own. When I finally claimed the right of a grieving mother and slipped away, back to the room where I’d borne my child, I curled up on my bed and wept. My tears fell freely for the loss of my son, but the words I spoke aloud repented what I’d lost with my Lord.

“Father God,” I spoke into my pillow lest anyone hear me, “forgive me. I abandoned you, tossed away your truths. I see now what my father warned me about, and I ask your forgiveness for my disobedience. Lord, help me—”