Breath and Bones (19 page)

“I see that,” said Sariah, in Myrtice's same voice.

“She is from Denmark.”

“So her name would figure it.”

A small Mormon child dared enough to hug his father's leg. Heber leaned down and rumpled the boy's hair as if to find the right words there. “Sariah, my dear, I have married her.”

With a word, Sariah sent the children inside. “I reckoned as much,” she said when they were gone. “Though what a man like you needs with three wives, I can't rightly say.”

Famke snapped to attention.
Three
wives! She looked around and saw no other women. Then that must mean—She looked at Myrtice and saw the girl's face was turned toward the ground. So there was no Georgia husband: Myrtice, and Famke's new husband for that matter, were liars. Famke regarded them both with new interest.

“I have the wherewithal to support all three,” said Heber, studiously avoiding Famke's blue stare. “And it will help you to have another pair of hands in the house, what with the new silkworm venture . . .”

“I didn't ask for another wife.”

“But, my dear,” Heber said gently, “when you asked me to marry your niece, I did as you requested.”

Sariah turned suddenly to Famke. “Well, young lady, you want some time to yourself. Myrtice, you, too.”

It was clear Famke would have this time whether she did want it or not. After exchanging a long look of wordless communication with her aunt, Myrtice showed her inside, to a bedroom for children; it contained several straw mattresses, a wooden cupboard, and nothing else.

“Could I have some water?” Famke asked. She was rewarded with a reddish glassful and the loud sound of Myrtice's heels clicking away over the floorboards.

Though she knew she wasn't welcome, Famke felt quite at home here. Salt Lake and Prophet and indeed the whole West might be nothing like Copenhagen or even New York, but this barren room was not so far from the studio in Nyhavn. She drank deeply, loosened her clothing, and, while Heber and Sariah quarreled about her below the open window, counter-paned a bed with the
Salt Lake City Daily News
. Using Myrtice's spectacles, she read it thoroughly.

An interview with senior apostle John Taylor, now in hiding to avoid arrest by federal anti-polygamists. An Indian on trial for scalping a Saintly family. A new turquoise mine in New Mexico, silver in Colorado. Advertisements, delicately worded, for corsets. Advertisements for cough syrups. Advertisements for livery stables, buggy whips, railways: Rio Grande Western, Atchison Topeka & Santa Fe, Union Pacific—all the West on the move or dreaming about it. Some train derailments and hotel fires. A new wing built onto a hospital in the far reaches of California. Auction lists. Endless local church reports, and one marriage record after another.

There was nothing about Albert.

Famke sat back, crumpling the newspaper and chewing her lip. She was aware of an impulse to cry, probably because she was so tired—but she wouldn't give in. She wouldn't. It seemed impossible that in all this ugly, empty, violent land her Albert had not made an impression. Famke told herself she should have asked for more than one paper, for every paper in Salt Lake City. Now she had to find a way to get back and collect more news. Somewhere, somebody must be writing about his activities, just as that English reporter had written about his departure. Someone must be watching him create a tranquil, perfect, clean world out of this dreadful one.

She shoved the paper aside and lay down full length, listening to the argument outside. Heber was describing Famke's skills with dustcloth and needle—inventing talents for her, Famke realized with a bleak sort of amusement. Sariah remained strictly unimpressed.

Apparently, then, plural marriage wasn't as joyful to all participants as Heber had made it seem. But the discovery that she was only a third wife made no difference to Famke—truth to tell, she considered it an advantage,
for now she knew Heber would have two women to console him when she left.

How curious that Sariah had asked Heber to marry her niece. Perhaps that was the custom among these strange people, but Famke was fairly sure the good sisters of the Immaculate Heart would disapprove . . . Sister Birgit would scold! Sister Saint Bernard would take Heber out beneath the elder tree and give him a good caning. Someone such as Albert, however, would be intrigued. He would want to know about the domestic arrangements—Heber flitting from bed to bed like a moth, or hopping loosely like a frog . . . He would paint a picture and call it
The Latter-Day Bluebeard
.

Famke rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up toward her chest. For the first time in days she had the privacy and inclination, and she tucked her hands below her skirts.
There is a frog, and in his mouth he holds a paint-brush
. . . She had little doubt as to how the conversation outside would end; the fact remained that Heber had married her by most of the laws of his and Sariah's church, and so she had a right to remain here as long as she wanted, to stand by and be Heber's wife.
A lily pad supports a bud, and he will paint the white bud red
. Soon, of course, she would find news of Albert and be gone.

Albert
. It seemed forever since she'd seen him, though it hadn't been more than four months. When she tried to think of him now, painting the lily, it was Heber's face she saw, or features of the two somehow combined: Albert's big eyes with Heber's small glasses, Albert's thin mouth with Heber's thick beard . . .

The bud withered, the frog vanished, and she fell asleep.

Behind a high wall, is the Tabernacle, and near by it, on the east, enclosed within the same high wall, are the foundation walls of the new Temple. Within the same walls may be found the Endowment house, of which so much has been written. In this building the quasi-masonic rites of the church are performed
.

F
REDERICK
E. S
HEARER
, E
D
.,
T
HE
P
ACIFIC
T
OURIST

The ceremonies of baptism, sealing, and marriage were held that week among the bishops of Salt Lake City. Sariah placed Famke's hand in Heber's, and the dourness of her expression was eclipsed only by the radiance in Heber's as he laid his hand on Famke's topknot and pressed her gently into the baptismal tank. Though all present wore special white robes over their clothes and Gentiles were strictly forbidden, Famke thought none of what took place was more arcane than her first communion. She would certainly forget it much sooner. Other pictures already took precedence in her memory: Albert appearing with the carriage that day in Dragør,
Nimue
emerging from her linen veil. The blinding light of Brother Voegtli's flash pan as he captured “The Goodhouses and their housemaid” on glass. Herself in the black horsehair wig that Sariah insisted was proper for a Mormon wife. Heber in bed that first night, for their wedding's consummation.

Sariah's sons had moved out of their room to make way for Famke; they would sleep in the parlor until another room, or suite of rooms, could be added for her and her brood-to-come. Ephraim, Brigham, and Heber the younger would begin mixing the adobe tomorrow; like the rest of the house—Heber promised, as if Famke cared how his house would look—the walls there would be plastered inside and out, and scored to imitate stone masonry. The floors would be pine, finished to imitate oak. They would be fine rooms . . .

The house was ominously silent.

“I have kept my word,” whispered Heber, alone with Famke in her nightgown and her special union suit embroidered with the map to heaven. He wore the undergarment, too. “I have honored my wives in turn, first Sariah, then Myrtice, each thrice. I have done my best to give each one a child . . . And I will do my best for you,” he said tenderly, reaching through the darkness with both arms.

Feeling his movement, Famke backed away, aspirating a cough he thought beautiful in its reserve.

“I—I don't—Heber!” she cried when she could breathe. He'd trapped her against a wall. “I don't wish to hurt anyone . . .”

“You are the wife of my heart,” Heber said, still in that tender whisper, then added hastily, “Of course, one tries to love all one's wives in equal measure, and to show no preference among them . . .”

Was this really possible? Famke wondered. If she were married to Heber and Albert at the same time, it would be very clear which one had a greater share of her heart. But even with that thought, Heber's arms, enfolding her insistently, reminded her that she was married only to him.

“Famke—may I?”

Her mouth was still averted, so he kissed her cheek. His beard, so wiry aboard ship, seemed softened now with Utah's dust. His lips were moist and they felt . . . kind.

Heber was surprised to discover his new wife was weeping. Her body barely shook, but the cheek he'd kissed was slick with tears.

The old rush of words poured from him. “My dearest—it does not hurt, I promise you. I will do it gently. I will do . . . my best . . . I . . . love you . . .” He punctuated the last few sounds with kisses, on cheek and brow and hair. A daring kiss fell on her neck.

And then Famke buried her face in her hands. She seemed to say, in Danish, “It does not matter. You may hurt me.” But he couldn't be sure, because she was sobbing more strongly now.

He lifted the slender length of her in his arms. She was still just a girl. He carried her to the bed and slipped her between the sheets the way he'd done with his daughters when they were small. Then he slid himself in next to her.

So I have come to this
, thought Famke. A detached part of her mind was coolly observing even as another part of her, the feeling part, continued to
weep. To be a bride and a Mormon: This was her destiny, for now. She had to play the part.

Famke bit the inside of her cheek until she felt quite calm. Then she hesitated. She fumbled. She half-invited and half-allowed. The tears still flowed, but more slowly, as her body and her mind gradually became intrigued. For Heber's touch was unhurried, and even through the cumbersome underwear's embroidery it lingered on her tender parts in a way that Albert's beloved hands had rarely done.

Famke relaxed. Heber pushed her nightgown up over the union suit and undid buttons where they needed undoing, but he left her mostly clothed; complete nudity, it seemed, was un-Saintly even at a time like this. He kissed her long and gently, and she barely remembered to clench herself hard, very hard, at the moment when his map met hers.

“My dearest,” he whispered into one ear, in which the tears had puddled like stars, “it will be soon. It is decreed . . . I must . . .”

He kept chanting those words, but it wasn't over soon. He dipped in and out of Famke like a pen filling at an inkwell, ready to add shades and subtleties to those maps. Famke began to shiver, but not unhappily, and Heber stopped speaking to kiss her again and again: little stippling kisses on her eyes and lips. His hands opened her map further and explored the earth and forest beneath.

“My
darling
,” he breathed, and at the word a sudden wave of feeling swallowed Famke. Her breath caught and she heard her throat make a little noise, while all over her map the earth began to shake. She barely noticed that he, too, was gasping, or that he'd flooded her, or that Myrtice and Sariah were now pacing in the hallway outside.

In a moment, Heber slid away. Suddenly his hands were clumsy, and they fumbled with the buttons on his own underwear, closing his map again. Famke felt her mountains and plains turned to one vast briny lake, and she tried unobtrusively to mop it up with a wad of nightdress. She was not sure how a chaste Saint would respond, but she herself had always disliked that ticklish leaking sensation.

Heber touched Famke lightly on her shoulder and felt how hot she was. He was certain that her whole body was blushing at the first assault to its virginal perfection; neither of his previous wives had reacted as violently as Famke did, and he could not help being pleased with her refinement. So he
inched considerately to the very edge of the bed—where, much as he would have liked to remain a comforting wakeful presence, he fell fast asleep.

When Heber began to snore, the pacing in the hallway stopped. Lying in the messy sheets, Famke heard other noises as well, but after a few sharp exclamations and stamped feet, the house settled in for the night. The hour was already quite late; there was work in the morning, and nothing to do about what had already happened.

Famke was tired, too, and strangely relaxed and dozy, but she pinched the skin of her thigh hard and made herself keep awake. Heber's breathing evened out and deepened, until Famke thought she felt him dreaming beside her. Dreaming, perhaps,
about
her, which was an uncomfortable thought.

She had to begin.

Famke drew in her breath and coughed. She coughed as hard as she could without shaking Heber awake. There was just the smallest taste of blood, but it would be a start; and the rest was not so unlike what he had left behind. As he snored beside her, she wiped her hand between her legs and then on the sheet beneath. She coughed again.

In a little while she felt the tickle growing stronger in her chest. There would be an abundance of coughing that night, many chances to weave this illusion.

And so, as in the days of Abraham, it was.