For Time and Eternity (16 page)

We hadn’t had any new snow for days, and the afternoons had been warm enough to melt much of what had been on the ground, leaving overturned lumps mixed with mud. A mess to be sure, but an early harbinger of spring, a hint of warmer days to come. I couldn’t wait to get back home, where I could close my eyes and breathe deep the sweetness of moist, cool air—that which came before the world surged green with new life. Perhaps Nathan and I could have a new life started of our own. I scooted closer and slid my arm through his.

“I missed you, Millie,” he said. “But did you have a nice visit?”

“Mm-hm. But busy.”

“Did you visit Sister Evangeline?”

“Just for one afternoon.”

“And how is she?”

“Hard to say for sure. You know how she’s always joking.”

“Aunt Rachel says Auntie Evangeline needs to get married or she’s going to end up a charity case until the day she dies.”

“Melissa!” I twisted in my seat to look into her mischievous blue eyes.

Nathan laughed. “That sister of mine has always had a way with words.”

“A talent I hope our daughter doesn’t inherit.”

By then we had arrived at the hub of activity in the heart of the new Zion. Blinding white stone, its brightness the envy of the snow, hewn and fit perfectly together. As close as we were, it was impossible to take in the whole building in one glance. The entire structure was intersected with scaffolding, and the music of men’s voices raised in song rang through the sound of hammers and saws and pulleys.

“Look, girls,” Nathan said, bringing the team to a halt. “Those walls? That’s what comes from the quarry. Imagine, just a few months ago, that wall was just part of a big rock until we dug it out and brought it here to smooth and square it off.”

“Can we go inside?” Lottie was stretched so far over the wagon bed’s wall that Nathan reached back to grab her.

“There is no inside right now,” he said, lifting her up and over into his lap. “And I’ll be an old, old man before there is.”

“We’re lucky,” I said. “We get to enjoy these very stones in their real temple.”

“What do you mean, ‘their
real
temple’?”

“Back home. In the quarry. Where they’re part of God’s creation. There’s more of God in the side of any mountain than in any temple built by man. The Bible says our very body is a temple. All of this—” I gestured to the construction in front of us—“is simply—”

“Our way of showing our devotion to Heavenly Father.”

I could sense Nathan’s disapproval and opted to say nothing more, but I couldn’t quell the distaste I felt for the scene. So much work; so much sacrifice. Building this temple, the same way men like Tillman were building their families, and what did they have on the inside? Or Evangeline, with her heart so devoted and her life so empty.

“I just meant that we’re lucky. To have so much.”

Seeming satisfied with my response, he settled Lottie on the seat between us and climbed down from the wagon. Once he was on the ground, he took off his jacket, revealing his nicest green wool shirt and leather suspenders. He also lifted his hat and quickly ran his fingers through his hair before replacing it.

“You look very handsome,” I said, sounding more like a proud parent than a supportive wife. My little attempt at humor did nothing to lighten the moment, however, and he simply rubbed his hands together and looked around, seeming lost. That’s when a man dressed in an impeccable black wool suit came upon us. He was a stranger to me, but he looked like any other powerful Mormon in the basin—white hair, thick jowls covered with wiry whiskers, narrowed blue eyes encased in soft folds. He and Nathan were obviously well acquainted because he took Nathan’s hand, offering a friendly greeting.

“What have you got for us this time?” He looked up into the wagon. “Besides your lovely family, I assume.”

“My wife, Camilla,” Nathan said. “And my daughters, Melissa and Lottie. This is Bishop Johansson.”

I nodded. “Good afternoon.”

Bishop Johansson did little more than acknowledge my presence before turning his attention back to Nathan. “Show me.”

“Show him the beehive one, Papa!”

For the second time that afternoon I found myself turned around, hushing Melissa. Nathan barely gave her a glance. Still, he lowered the wagon’s tailgate and lifted out the same chair he’d shown us earlier. Somehow, here in sight of this massive structure, the chair seemed significantly diminished.

“You know,” Bishop Johansson said, slowly circling the chair, “we are getting so many new European converts. One man who just arrived last summer from Brussels is a fifth-generation craftsman. A true artist.”

I could not have felt the sting of his words more strongly if he’d slapped my face with them. I didn’t turn to look at Nathan, but I knew him well enough to know the expression on his face. His eyes would be bright, his jaw set, his lips such that the top would seem to be swallowed by the bottom.

“Our papa’s an artist. He makes furniture for everybody.”

This time I did not hush Melissa’s outburst but silently reached my hand back to find her shoulder and give it a quieting pat.

“Of course he is,” Bishop Johansson said. “But we are dealing with matters of great importance here.”

“I understand completely,” Nathan said, and I knew he’d taken a deep breath and put on a big smile. “Perhaps I’ll leave these with you for you to consider—”

“I’ll make a sketch.” The older man reached into his breast pocket and produced a small notebook and pencil. “I’ll share it with Brother Brigham at the next opportunity, and we’ll send word to you of his opinion.”

“Fair enough.” Nathan held his arms up and summoned Lottie to climb down into them. “In the meantime, I’ll take my girls—all three of them—for a little stroll.”

Without questioning, I gathered my skirt and allowed Nathan to hand me down from the wagon’s seat.

I waited until we were out of earshot before asking what he thought of the bishop’s reaction.

“He thinks I’m a fool. I could design the throne of heaven and he wouldn’t care.”

We walked the expanse of the temple’s foundation; we could fit the whole of what we claimed as our property within its midst. If I thought the tour would soften the blow of the bishop’s opinion, I was mistaken. By the time we returned to the wagon, the man was gone, having abandoned the wagon full of Nathan’s handiwork to the street. His judgment could not have been more pronounced.

“That’s it,” Nathan said. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Another long ride. Our conversation slogged every bit as much as our wagon’s wheels. Not even the girls’ enthusiastic recap of the week’s events could elicit much more than a preoccupied grunt from their father.

“This is pretty slow going. You must have left home in the middle of the night to have arrived so early.”

“I woke up in the middle of the night missing you.” No light hint of romance in his reply.

“I missed you, too.”

“Nonsense. There are a dozen people living in that house.”

I hazarded a quick kiss on his shoulder. “But none of them are you.”

Silence for at least another mile.

“Would you like to stay with her for the summer?”

“No,” I said, uneasy with his question. He never asked questions unless he had an idea of the answer he wanted to hear. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because I don’t know if I want you and the girls to be alone.”

My uneasiness dug deeper. “Where would you be?”

“I had a chance to talk with Tillman today—just for a moment when you were getting the girls ready. There’s a company coming in from England, due to land in New Orleans. They want to hire men who can give them a swift, safe passage.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“There is if you have money for new wagons—and you’re not one of a hundred of them.”

“They’re not part of the Emigration Fund?”

“Nope. Private party.”

“Why would you do this?”

“Money,” he said without much thought. “Enough to cover whatever work I’ll miss while I’m gone. To give us an easy winter when I get back.”

“All right,” I said, unconvinced. He’d never been one to care about money before.

He slouched in his seat, letting the reins go slack in his hands. His head drooped, and I knew he was searching for the words that would be least hurtful. I waited. Silence was not a new thing to us. Finally, after taking a deep breath, he spoke, still keeping his gaze focused on the ground that passed beneath our wagon.

“I’ve lost my way, Camilla.”

For the briefest moment, I almost brought myself to a different conclusion. I hoped to hear that my absence had convinced him that he needed me—and only me—in his life. That moment was the brightest of the entire drive. Maybe, if I’d never asked, “In what way?”

“I’m nothing here.”

“You’re everything to us.”

“I’m nothing in the eyes of the church.”

“Would you rather the opinions be reversed?”

I don’t know that he even heard me, for which, looking back, I am grateful. His answer may have been unspoken, as most obvious answers are.

“I can’t contribute my art to the temple. I don’t have the approval to go on a mission. The last time I felt a true burning in my spirit was when I was on the trail here. I figure if I can’t bring people into the church, I can bring the church into Zion.”

“Are you quite certain the burning in your spirit didn’t have something to do with me?”

He tilted his head and offered me a crescent smile. “Of course that played a part.”

Living so near the quarry, I’d heard the iron chisels being pounded into granite, and that contact creates a sound that you feel in the very back of your teeth. Such is precisely what I felt at that moment.

“I don’t suppose,” I said, speaking through the sharpness of the pain, “the same will play a role again?”

“I can promise you, that isn’t my design. But I have to contribute something. I have to
do
something.”

“Does it matter what I say?”

“I’d love to have your blessing.”

“But you don’t need it.”

“No.”

“When do you leave?”

“First of May. Tillman is giving me the pick of his horses.”

“A swift pony?” I made no attempt to disguise my bitterness.

“Hardly. Beautiful Thoroughbred. Two-year-old bay named Honey.”

“I was talking about the promise you made to me. How you’d take me home if I ever lived an unhappy day.”

“I didn’t understand back then how God works. We can’t run away from unhappiness, Camilla. It’ll just chase us down.”

“And you can’t chase happiness, Nathan. It’ll just run away.”

“I’m not chasing happiness, love. Trust me, the horse that will take me east will run just as fast bringing me home.”

Chapter 16

I mourned Nathan’s absence as would a widow, and at first I was treated as one by our neighbors. Not a day went by without having someone show up at my door with a gift: loaves of bread, rinds of cheese, and jars of anything that came out of their spring gardens. And every gift came with the same conversation:

“We miss seeing you and your lovely daughters at church.”

“You can return the platter when you come to the Sabbath meeting.”

“The recipe? Of course! I’ll bring it to church on Sunday.”

But I didn’t go. Not once. And the only tug on my conscience came from the fact that I’d promised Nathan we would. Every Sunday morning I felt I was living a lie to him. Still, I reasoned, it paled in comparison to the promise he’d broken.

It wasn’t long before our community abandoned me as surely as he had. The first week of June marked a week since I’d entertained any sort of social call or, for that matter, any friendly return of a greeting when I made my way to our trading post. Normally, on trading day, all of the children would play outside while parents conducted their business inside. Today I’d brought five balls of good butter and two dozen eggs, which Brother Nelson grudgingly took from me, giving me a sparse handful of coins in return. At first I thought there had been a mistake, that he’d miscounted or confused the value of our newly minted money. But when I asked if that were the case, he merely shook his head and turned his back, tending another customer with contrasting grace.

As I was turning to leave, Melissa appeared at my elbow, complaining that none of the children would play with them.

“They called you a heretic, Mama.” She looked just like her father then, her face set in the same mask of hurt and defiance I’d seen on his so many times before. “What do they mean?”

Lottie was clinging to my skirts, her thumb in her mouth.

“Who said that?” I dropped my voice to a whisper.

“Mary Justus. She said Papa was weak-willed and that you were a heretic. And she sounded so mean.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, because I didn’t know what the word meant. What is it, Mama?”

“Never you mind.” I dropped the money in my pocket and gathered the girls to me as I walked out of the store, fully aware of every eye following.

The walk back was brisk and silent. Whenever one of the girls asked a question, I simply picked up the pace, rendering all of us too breathless for conversation. When we finally arrived at our house, Kimana was pulling a pan of biscuits out of the oven. A nagging at the base of my skull compelled me to latch the door once we’d gone inside, an action not lost to Kimana’s watchful eyes.

“Problem?” she asked, poking her finger through the top of one biscuit to check that it was baked through.

“Not at all.” I made no attempt at cheerfulness.

“Good trade?”

I offered a wan smile. “We’ve had better.”

“Sit,” Kimana said as both an invitation and a command. “I’ll get you a drink of water.”

I eased myself into the rocking chair, still breathless from the walk. My throat felt parched, the word
heretic
lodged at the top of it. I tried to gulp my fear down with the water from the cup Kimana brought to me, but it only grew with each swallow. At last, when I wiped my sleeve across my mouth, Melissa took the cup from me and set it on the table.

“Can you tell me now, Mama? Is it something awful?”

“No,” I said, drawing her into my lap, big girl that she was. Lottie was engaged with Kimana, rolling and cutting another batch of biscuits, oblivious to our conversation, though I knew Kimana wasn’t missing a single word. “It’s not necessarily awful. Not in my case.”

“What does it mean?”

“A heretic is somebody who believes things are different from the way you believe.”

“What kinds of things?”

I thought carefully, choosing my words. “Religious things, mostly. A heretic has different ideas about who God is or about what happens after we die.”

“But how could anybody believe anything different? Everybody knows there’s only one God.”

“Yes, but they see him differently. For example, what do you know about Jesus Christ?”

“He is the first baby born to God in heaven.”

“And, you see,” I stalled, knowing my place in this family would never be the same after this conversation, “I don’t believe that to be true. I believe Jesus was born to Mary, in Bethlehem, just like we celebrate at Christmas.”

“Well, of course he was,” Melissa said. If she’d been standing, she’d have had one hand on her hip. “But he was born in heaven first. Like we all were.”

“I don’t believe that, either.”

Melissa pulled away from me. “Mama! It’s true!”

“Oh, darling.” I pulled her close to me again and let the chair rock. I looked over the top of her head to see Lottie, happily eating a lump of biscuit dough half the size of her fist. Kimana locked her eyes with mine, and in them I saw something I’d never seen before. Understanding. This was more than those times when she empathized with my pain or shared my frustration. This was a moment where our souls seemed to be reaching out to each other, and something stirred within me.

She knows. Somehow, she knows what I’m trying to say.

And then another message, unspoken but clear.

Be careful.

“So,” Melissa said, listlessly twisting a lock of her hair, “is a Gentile and a heretic the same thing?”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

She ignored me. “Papa says the Gentiles hate us. And that they used to burn our houses and hurt our people. Is that true?”

“Some did.” I remembered the last time I saw my father. “They were afraid, I think.”

“Afraid of what?”

I didn’t know how to explain. At the time I had wondered the same thing. What was to be feared from good, kind, God-loving people who simply went to a different church? I couldn’t have known then just how much there was to fear. How everything I knew to be true about my Lord would be stripped away. How my children would be brought up not knowing the truth of who Jesus was. And how they would raise children under the same lie.

Melissa craned her neck and looked at me, demanding an answer.

“It’s difficult to explain.” All I could offer.

“You were a Gentile before you met Papa, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Were you afraid?”

“No. But I loved your papa first. . . .” If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been holding this little girl in my arms. I squeezed her and kissed her nose. “And I’m so glad I did.”

“Our neighbors act like they’re afraid of us.” Had I blinked, I would have missed the quiver in her chin; if I looked too closely, we would both be in tears.

“They’re not.” My own lump of fear grew again.

“Is that why we don’t go to church anymore? Because you don’t believe in Jesus?”

“Don’t say that.” I spoke more harshly than I intended, startling Melissa and even calling Lottie’s attention away from her overworked dough.

“You must listen to your mother.” Kimana came over with a warm biscuit for Melissa. “She knows Jesus. In her heart. She’ll teach you.”

“Papa used to teach us,” Melissa said. She dabbed her tongue on the biscuit. “I miss that.”

“I miss Papa too,” Lottie said, nibbling her dough.

“Me too.” I held out my arm and beckoned Lottie to me. She squirmed into my lap, and the chair creaked under our combined weight. “But there’s no reason I can’t teach you lessons.”

“But you told me you don’t believe—”

“I’ll teach you the lessons I learned when I was a little girl. Would you like that?”

“I suppose,” Melissa said, sounding unconvinced.

“I would like to learn your lessons too, Mrs. Fox.” Kimana kept her eyes on her flour-dusted hands.

“That would be fine.” I jostled the girls out of my lap and stood. “We’ll have our first lesson this evening right after supper. For now, girls, go play outside.”

When they were gone, I stood facing Kimana, neither of us speaking. Her face was its usual placid mask—mouth turned down slightly at the corners, eyes a sparkling deep brown. Then, in a gesture of unprecedented affection, she held her arms open wide to me, and the little ball of fear that had been wedged in my throat burst open, bringing with it tears that I shed on her soft shoulder while I wept in her arms. She made soft clucking sounds in my ear, which I eventually recognized as quiet words spoken in her native tongue. Nathan forbade any such utterances, claiming they were the heathen sounds of a godless people. But I found it profoundly soothing, as I instinctively knew that she was whispering prayer.

“Oh, Kimana,” I said even as she held me. “What have I done?”

“You have spoken your heart.” She ran her soft hands in circles across my back, and I felt myself relaxing against her. My own mother could not have given more comfort.

“I don’t think you fully understand.”

“I know more than you think.” She held me out at arm’s length. “You do not share the same God as these other people. Not here.” Kimana placed her hand over her heart, leaving a dusting of flour on her dress. I smiled, thinking of the similar trail she must have left on my back.

Still, looking at that mark, I knew. Never had I let the teachings of Joseph Smith worm their way into my heart. I indulged Nathan by listening, but suddenly I felt like I’d been a polite party guest all these years. Like I’d built up a wall around me made of false prayers and forced enthusiasm. But like that wall my father worked so hard to construct around our property, this one was incomplete. I guess I’d never fully closed the gap around what I knew to be the truth—that Jesus Christ needed no new revelation, that his church had not failed, that those who said otherwise were dangerous. My father knew of the danger, as had my mother, but I didn’t listen to them. And now I couldn’t go back. There’d be no swift horse for me.

“You know,” I said, backing away from Kimana’s reach, “I’m suddenly quite tired. Would you keep an eye on the girls while I lie down for a quick rest?”

“Of course.” She wiped her hands on her apron, her normal air of reservation restored. “I’ll take them to see if we can find some wildflowers after I take the last batch out of the oven.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.” Before leaving the room, I grabbed her by her wide, soft shoulders and gave her another hug. She gave no reaction but was smiling when we separated and humming one of her native tunes when I shut the bedroom door.

I truly was exhausted, but I had a need far greater than any amount of sleep would provide. I immediately fell to my knees at our bedside, my face flush against the quilt. I did not weep because in that moment, I had no use for tears. All the cleansing I needed would come from within, from my holy, heavenly Father, from my Savior, Jesus Christ, and from the Holy Spirit—so long neglected—who had been dwelling within me since I was a child.

Oh, Father God.
I spread my hands out flat on top of the bed.
Forgive me. I’ve given my ear to false teachings, and I’ve abandoned your truth. Restore me, Jesus. I know you are my salvation. You alone. Only Jesus.
I repeated this over and over into the silence: “Only Jesus. Only Jesus. Only Jesus.” Not Joseph Smith. Not Brigham Young. No golden plates; no angel Moroni. Only Jesus and his death and his resurrection. My sin—this very sin of denying that power—forgiven with that sacrifice.

I don’t know how long I stayed on my knees. Indeed, I slept for a time, waking up feeling stronger and better rested than I had in recent memory. Renewed in mind and body. Restored. And though I didn’t fully know it at the time, ready to fight a battle beyond my strength. I would not fail my children the way I’d failed my parents. Above all, I would not fail myself.

That evening, after a quick, light supper, the girls and Kimana and I gathered around our table. The blue lamp with the dancing ladies glowed warm in the center, next to a bowl full of cheerful mountain bluebells. I ran my fingers along the cover of our only Bible. It was the small, velvet-covered book I’d been given as “something blue” the morning of my wedding to Nathan, and it shamed me to think of how rarely I’d even looked at it since that day. All of us had come to the table with the air of those attending a very solemn occasion, and the only sound in the room was the click of the tiny latch when I opened the Bible’s front cover.

“We’re not going to read from
The Book of Mormon
?” Melissa asked, eyeing the Bible suspiciously.

“No,” I said gently. “I told you I wanted to teach you what I learned when I was a little girl.”

“New stories?” Lottie bounced in her seat.

“Some of them might be,” I said. “To you, anyway. Now, where to begin?” I opened the Bible to a random page and allowed my eyes to skim the words.
Show me, Lord, where to begin.
Anxiousness bubbled within me. I’d never attempted to teach anyone about the Bible before, and soon my anticipation was consumed by my uncertainty. The words—tiny in their print—blurred in the lamplight, and I felt every bit as lost and confused as I did on those evenings long ago when I faced the intimidating tome that was our family’s Bible. When I could bring a word into focus, I despaired of pronouncing it correctly or giving the isolated verses any meaning whatsoever. I stalled, flipping through the pages, murmuring about finding something perfect to begin our study. Occasionally I looked up around the table to Lottie’s increasingly distracted expression, Kimana’s indulgent focus, and Melissa’s undisguised boredom. The three of them encompassed everything I felt as a young girl, forced by my parents to search for meaning within these complicated Scriptures.