The 19th Wife (15 page)

A WOMAN SCONED

“You stink,” said Johnny.

“
I
stink?” But he was right: we both stunk. I turned in the direction of the pool. The envelope of pictures was in my lap but I didn’t want to open it right away. I guess I was afraid of them. Not the gore, I could handle that. I just wasn’t ready for what they might say.

The municipal pool attracts all sorts. Old ladies with achy knees, stoned teenagers, homeless guys avoiding the heat. I guess technically Johnny and I fell into that last lot.

“That’s a dollar seventy-five for you,” said the girl at the registration. “And a dollar twenty-five for your brother.”

I didn’t correct her, thinking it might hurt Johnny’s feelings, but he piped up, “He’s so not my brother.” I gave him a don’t-be-a-dick look. “What? You’re not.”

We threw down our towels on a quiet strip of concrete. Johnny took off, leaping feet first into the pool. He swam over to four boys hanging on to the lane dividers. It took him about ten seconds to become part of their group. They started a game of underwater tag and Johnny wiggled across the pool, looking happy. And clean. He was laughing with his new friends, karate-chopping water in their faces, oblivious of me.

There were twenty pictures in the envelope, xeroxes but clear enough. They documented the scene pretty much as I imagined it. There was the door to his basement den with the
NO TRESPASSING
decal. Inside, the painted concrete floor, the ripped corduroy sofa, the swamp cooler in the corner. His cot was unmade. Even in the low res of xerox the sheets looked filthy. Then his desk: a door over two filing cabinets, a computer, and a plastic margarine tub filled with rounds of ammo. The next photos were more graphic: his computer chair with a hole chewed through the mesh and wet with blood. The blood on the drywall, splattered like mud on a flap. A picture of the computer screen showed his poker hand and the chat session the bullet so rudely interrupted. Actually there were three chat sessions—so there’s something the
Register
didn’t report. The one that nailed my mother, between Manofthehouse2004 and DesertMissy, and two others that looked pretty average, I mean given the circumstances.

Manofthehouse2004: where in st george?

ALBIL: u no the Malibu Inn?

Manofthehouse2004: yup

ALBIL: not far from there

Manofthehouse2004: live alone?

That’s where the chat ended. You ever stop to imagine things differently? What if my father had been sitting there waiting in such overheated anticipation for the answer to his question—
all alone
or
my husband’s gone till morning
or
with my girlfriend
—and his heart got so worked up with stupid male hope that it broke. Imagine it. His head lolling on his neck. His body going cold in the basement. Sister Rita would’ve found him like that, dead from a stupid old heart. Imagine if that’s how it had ended for my dad. Everything would be so different now.

The second chat went like this:

SweetieNVAZUT: how old?

Manofthehouse2004: 47 but look 39-42.

(Please.)

SweetieNVAZUT: married?

Manofthehouse2004: yes

SweetieNVAZUT: go fuck your wife

Manofthehouse2004: rather watch u fuck her

SweetieNVAZUT: she got a hot pussy?

Manofthehouse2004: depends

SweetieNVAZUT: you nasty prick

They could’ve put it on his tombstone.

Johnny plopped down on my towel. “Let me see.” But I turned the pictures over. “Hey, if I’m your sidekick, how’m I going to help you get your mom out of jail if you don’t tell me everything?”

“You’re not my sidekick.”

“Love you too, bro.” He flipped over on his back and turned his head. “Did I mention I knew your dad?”

“So?”

“I’m just saying he taught my Sunday school.”

“Big deal.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m sure it was nothing.”

“What was nothing?”

“Nope, it’s not worth going into.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You going in the pool or what?”

“First tell me what you’re talking about.”

“First go swimming. You reek.”

I swam a few laps past a trio of teenage girls, each in a bikini smaller than the other. “You’re such a slut!” one shouted to her friend. Clearly this was a good thing.

When I got back to my towel, Johnny was leafing through the photos. “What’re you doing?”

“You see this one?” He was holding out the last picture in the pile.

“I’ve seen it. Now give them back to me.”

“Man, look at him.” It was the only picture of my dad. Manofthehouse2004 slumped in his computer chair, eyes rolled back in his head, mouth open, one hand turned at a funny angle like a claw. He looked ancient—the flesh hanging off his bones. Just a diabetic, arthritic, swollen-ankled, Viagra-popping old man. Why were we so afraid of him?

“Dude, that sucks. I know he was an ass and everything, but he was still your dad.”

“What were you going to tell me?”

“Just that he used to teach us about the end of time. He kept saying it was coming soon. He used to bring his gun to church and show us how he’d fight the enemy until the end. It was kinda cheesy.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, like I said, it was nothing.”

I lay on my back and threw my arm over my eyes. Do you ever wonder how you got where you are?

Then I sat back up.

“What kind of gun was it?”

“I think a Big Boy. Why? Is that important?”

“I don’t know.”

We went over to the internet café where I’d been leaving Elektra. The place was pretty sleepy, a couple of kids nursing lattes on a saggy couch. It was called A Woman Sconed, and the goth girl who worked there was in love with my dog. “Who’s my girl?” she said the minute we walked in, and she wasn’t talking about me.

I started drafting an IM. After a few rewrites I had a note that sounded friendly but serious. I sent it first to SweetieNVAZUT.

Hey, I know you once chatted with someone named Manofthehouse2004. Can I ask you a few questions? I’m his son and I’m just trying to find a few things out. He died the night you talked, actually he was murdered. There are a lot of things we don’t know, and I’m trying to figure them out. I know this is weird, but it’s true.

Johnny sat down, read my note on the screen, his lips moving, and about halfway through his brow squiggled up.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing. I’m not saying a word.”

“You think it’s too creepy? I was trying to make it sound sincere.”

“This is your show, bro.”

He was probably right. I wrote up an IM that didn’t say much—just hey, want to chat?—and sent it off to ALBIL and DesertMissy.

The goth girl asked if she could give Elektra a cupcake. “On the house,” she said. She reminded me of 5, which reminded me I needed to talk to her again.

“Holy shit!” said Johnny. “You’ve got mail!”

It was from ALBIL, and she went straight to the point:
You sound nice. Got a pic?

“Score!”

“Johnny, sit down.”

“Hey, wait a minute, let me see that pic you’re sending her.” He looked at the picture I pulled down from my myspace profile. “Not bad. But you look gay.”

“I am gay.”

“I guess just send it anyway. See what happens.”

About thirty seconds later she wrote back:
Nice, wanna meet?

“Dude, for a gay guy, you sure know how to work the ladies. Tell her to meet us here.”

“Us?”

“Well, yeah. Besides, I’m just a kid. She’ll take one look at me and know you’re a decent guy.”

He was right. About an hour later a woman walked through the door. She had that pale and plump look that made her seem both young and middle-aged. “You can have her,” Johnny whispered.

“Be nice.” I called out, “ALBIL?”

She looked a little startled when she saw Johnny. “You must be Jordan. Wow. You look just like your picture. Most guys don’t, you know.”

“I know. Sit down. You want something to drink?”

She was nibbling the stem of her sunglasses and looking at Johnny. “I didn’t realize you were bringing your son.”

“He’s a friend. I’m just looking after him for a little while.”

“Since moron’s not going to introduce me, I’m Johnny.” He offered his hand. It was at moments like this—when his hand hung out there, so small and clearly belonging to a boy—that I remembered how young he was.

“Johnny, you want to—”

“Yup, give me some quarters and I’ll go play Ms. Pac-Man.” I gave him the change in my pocket and he hopped across the café.

“I guess that means you like kids.”

“I never really thought about it until he came around.”

“How long’re you looking after him?”

“Only a couple of days. Listen, ALBIL—”

“Alexandra.”

“Alexandra?”

“ALBIL’s my screen name. Alexandra Likes Being In Love. I’m a romantic. I probably shouldn’t put that out there in the first five minutes, but there you are.”

“That’s all right.” Now I really felt bad. “I have to tell you something. I asked you here because, well, I wanted to ask you some questions.”

“Stop. I should say up front, you can ask me
any
thing. I’m just that kind of person. Nothing to hide. So just to get it out of the way, I’ll start: I’m thirty-six, divorced, have two kids but they live with my wasband in Kingman, and you see these extra fifteen pounds, they’re not going anywhere. I’m so glad you like kids. I mean, that’s a relief because that would be a real problem.”

“Um, that’s not exactly what I meant.”

“You know what? I like you.”

“Here’s the real reason I emailed you.”

As I explained everything, her eyes opened to the size of poker chips. “Oh my God. Killed?” She pulled a napkin from the dispenser and held it to her mouth. “Wait a minute. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t want to. You gotta understand. She’s my mom.” Alexandra looked like she couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. “Do you remember chatting with him?”

“I don’t know, I’m still in shock.” She fanned herself with the napkin. Johnny was absorbed in his video game, his little hands bonded to the joystick. “I don’t know what’s worse, you lying or your dad being murdered.”

“The thing is, he was a real prick. I bet he didn’t tell you he had more than twenty wives.”

“Oh my God, it gets worse?”

“Yup. He lived in Mesadale. So, do you think you remember him?”

“There must be some mistake. I never chat with married men. I’ve been down that road. Twice.”

“He probably lied to you about that. Do you remember anything?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I do like to play some poker every now and then as practice. Two or three times a year the girls and I go to Vegas for the weekend, and I don’t want to show up rusty. When did you say this was? Saturday? What time?”

“Around eleven.”

“Yeah, that sounds right, I think I was online. But I don’t know if I remember your dad specifically. I tend to strike up a chat with whoever’s at the table. You know, to be friendly.”

“He might have said he was pretty religious.”

“Around here they all say that.”

“Maybe he talked about trucks? He loved trucks.”

“Ditto.”

“He’s a big hunter.”

“Who isn’t? Wait a minute! Was he the Gulf War vet with that strange disease?”

“No.” We ended up doing this—the misfired question, the off-the-mark response—for another few minutes, but eventually we both realized their chat had been too insignificant to leave an impression. “I don’t want you to think I spend a lot of time chatting online,” she said, “but I guess I do.”

“If you think of something, you have my email.”

“Give me your number too, just in case.” She wrote it down in a blank appointment book. Turns out Johnny had kept his eye on us the whole time because he raced away from the video game. “Could you help him?”

“Not really.” She sounded like she had taken this personally. The bell on the door tinkled for a few long seconds after she said good-bye.

December
1, 1852
The Beehive House
Great Salt Lake

B
ROTHER
G
ILBERT
W
EBB

Great Salt Lake

My Dear Brother Gilbert,

You ask a fair question, and I shall attempt to answer it fairly. Your facts are correct. Indeed there were instances when I publicly discussed our unique institution in a manner I knew to be not wholly forthright. If I am to be judged solely on this one indiscretion, without regard to other struggles and achievements, so be it.

Without seeming to evade your accusation, I should like to establish the context for my withholding. I need not remind you, I am sure, the persecution the Saints once faced. Lawless mobs, antagonistic governors and sheriffs, 100 foes to every friend—we were, and remain, a feared people. Shall we recall the dead from the Zion Brigade, Haun’s Mill, and Far West? Is there a Saint anywhere who does not weep when he hears the name Carthage? We will forever hear the shot that took our beloved Joseph.

Above all, I see that here on Earth I have been charged with two duties. First I must do whatever I can to guide the faithful to Heavenly Glory. It is a humble task. Second I must protect the tens of thousands of Saints who risk their well-being because they believe in the Restoration. Had I openly acknowledged the institution before reaching the security of Zion, I would have risked the lives of all our Saints—yours too.

I appreciate very much your letter and invite you, Young Friend, to call on me at the Beehive House. I admire most among our youth he who can set forth with an open heart and a probing mind. Now go forth and share the Truth, for that is what it is.

Please send my greetings to your parents, your brother, Aaron, and your sister, Ann Eliza, angel that she is.

I am,

Most Sincerely,

Your Prophet

BRIGHAM YOUNG