Favorite Wife (17 page)

My vision blurred and my head throbbed as I stared at the ugly shoes. I hated them! I despised myself too, for not having the nerve to say anything, but marriage was all too new to me, and I didn't know what my rights were.

Verlan was watching me, a contemplative look on his handsome face. “Go ahead and walk in them,” he said impatiently.

Dutifully I obeyed. Words of rebellion were in my head but choked out of utterance. I felt stifled and out of control of the situation. How did a bride argue with her groom, when he was twenty-three years older than she, and the President of the Twelve Apostles? Verlan stuck out his hand. I put my ten-dollar bill into his palm and watched without a word as he paid for the shoes, pocketed the change, then ushered Sharon and me out of the store.

“Real fine, then!” he said happily. “Those ought to last awhile!” Where had I heard those words before? I plodded along next to him, too mad to see.

Sharon's eyes met mine as we climbed back into the car. Why did you let him do that? She silently questioned me.

Verlan seemed oblivious to my withdrawn mood. As we drove through the streets of Chihuahua, he talked to Sharon, asking her about the historical landmarks of the city. She drove past a huge marketplace that was under tents, where the smell of fried Mexican food permeated the air. I brooded in the back seat of the Volkswagen. Was I being childish and silly to feel so upset? Maybe Verlan made all the decisions for his wives. I wondered if he selected their shoes, also, or if he thought that I was so young and inexperienced that I needed someone to choose for me. Well, I would have to put a stop to it in the future.

Sharon pulled up next to a little stand along the road and purchased zucchini squash and tomatoes. “Let's go home and make supper,” she said.

Dan was on the couch, gently snoring, as we walked into the house. We tiptoed past him and on into the kitchen. “Poor baby,” Sharon crooned, looking at him from the kitchen doorway. “He won't be much company tonight.”

Good, I thought. I had dreaded the possibility of another doctrinal discussion between Dan and Verlan. It made me uneasy, and I knew Verlan wanted no part of it. I wondered how long he planned for us to stay here, and I hoped tonight only. I wanted time alone with my husband—time to get better acquainted before we arrived in Baja where the rest of his family was. I'd thought constantly of the shoe incident, and was convinced that it was nothing more than a misunderstanding. Verlan was wonderful, thoughtful, and loving, and I needed more patience. I wanted to recapture the closeness between us, the feeling of companionship that we had experienced before the wedding. I needed to behave as a wife behaved, and then he would surely stop treating me as a child.

Sharon made a delicious dish with the zucchini and tomatoes, and she cooked steaks that were pounded thin and breaded. She called them “Milanesa.” We squeezed lime juice over the top of the meat, and the dish tasted exotic and delicious.

Dan joined us at the table, his eyes swollen from lack of sleep. With his mouth full, he began as I knew he would, to talk doctrine. “Verlan,” he mumbled through the food, “I want to show you a place I found in the D&C that backs up Ervil's position on the Civil Law. I don't think you've really studied on this before, Brother, and I'd like to help you to understand. Maybe there's hope still, that we leaders of the church can see eye to eye.”

The “D&C” Dan was talking about was the Doctrine and Covenants, the book of revelations from God to Joseph Smith. I glanced at Verlan, and could feel him tense. He chewed, then swallowed and answered, “I'm willing to listen, but it'll to take a lot to convince me.”

“Well, for your sake I'm going to try,” Dan said wryly.

I glared at him. Boy, didn't he think he was something! Verlan made no comment, and I admired him for not losing his patience. If he were speaking to me, I would have wanted to smack his insolent face.

After the meal, the men retired to the living room. As Sharon and I did the dishes, I could hear Dan's nasal voice as he read aloud. I tried to ignore the sound, and I wondered how long this impromptu meeting would continue. As the time for my delayed wedding night drew near, I hoped the meeting would linger. I was scared.

“Susan,” Sharon said suddenly. “If there's anything I can do for you, or any questions you have, I'd be glad to help you. Feel free to ask, okay?” She was smiling at me, and I nodded, my face flaming.

All too soon, Verlan called to me. “I'm going to get ready for bed. I'll be waiting for you, honey.”

I fidgeted nervously. Dan grinned at me as he walked into the bathroom. “Just make yourself at home, Susan,” he drawled. “Take a bath, or whatever. Take your time.”

I glared at his back. He was so smug! I sat alone on the couch for a few minutes, searching for the courage to face my wedding night. Finally I walked into the bedroom.

Verlan was in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin. He winked at me as I grabbed my suitcase. “I'll be right back,” I muttered.

Sharon was in the bathroom combing her hair. I joined her, set my suitcase down, and closed the door. She glanced at me in the mirror, then turned to me questioningly. “Everything okay?”

“I do have something to ask you,” I whispered.

“Go ahead, honey. Don't be afraid to ask.”

I looked down at the floor. My face burned as I asked, “Do you think I should wear my bra to bed?”

Her effort as hiding a grin failed. “If you do, it won't stay on very long.”

I nodded and felt miserable. She consoled me with a gentle pat on the shoulder. “It'll be okay. Just relax and enjoy it.” She patted me again, kissed my cheek, and left the bathroom.

I stared after her for a minute, then locked the door and undressed. As I showered I thought about Aunt Thelma. At home on the day of my wedding, she'd pulled a pale pink negligee out of her suitcase. Holding it in front of her, she'd danced around the bedroom, singing, “Boy, won't ol' Verlan love this!” She'd handed it to me with a sweep and a curtsy, and I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I wouldn't wear something like that. My dilemma was, I didn't have a real nightgown. There had been no time to think about it in the two busy days before the wedding, and now I found myself in a quandary. Should I wear the sheer nightie, or a tee shirt and panties? In desperation, I searched my suitcase, hoping for a miracle, a nice, long flannel nightgown. I groaned as I slipped Aunt Thelma's nightie on and looked in the mirror. My full breasts, the nipples appearing dark and round, were plainly in view through the filmy, pink material. No! I told myself in panic, this won't do! What would Verlan think? I removed the frothy, wisp of nothing, put my bra back on, and pulled my red tee shirt on. It reached my waist, leaving my white panties and pale legs uncovered. I can't have him see me like this, I thought grimly. I yanked the nightie on, over the tee shirt. Why, oh, why hadn't I anticipated and prepared? I didn't even have a robe.

The lights in the hallway were off, and Dan and Sharon's bedroom door was closed. I tiptoed to our bedroom and stood outside the door. My heart pounded alarmingly as I tried to convince myself that I could do this.

My hand shook as I opened the door a fraction, reached, and flipped off the light switch. Then I ran swiftly and threw myself onto the bed, diving under the covers. I did it quickly, and it occurred to me that I was in bed with a man for the very first time.

“Hey! Wait a minute,” Verlan chuckled. “You didn't even let me see your nightgown!” He reached over in the darkness and shoved at me, trying to push me off the bed. When I wouldn't budge, he crawled over me and turned the light back on.

“No, Verlan, no!” I shouted in panic. “I don't want you to see it! Please don't look!”

“Shh, Shh!” He darted a hasty look toward the door. “Keep your voice down, Dan and Sharon will hear you!” He eyed me in exasperation, and then flipped the light switch back off. “It's all right for me to see you, now, sweetie. You're my wife, remember?” He crawled back over me and got under the covers.

As Verlan had stood in the light, it shocked me to see that his body was covered, to the wrist and ankle, in long white garments, the type that Mormons wore who had been through the temple ceremonies. They wore the garments as a symbol of purity, and as a covenant with God. Why Verlan wore the garments of another church, didn't make sense, but I couldn't worry about it now. I would have to ask about this later, when I knew him better. He looked strange, with black tufts of hair poking through the three sets of strings that tied the top of it together. A pair of white briefs, over the cotton leggings, covered his hips. I felt the urge to giggle. My wedding night attire couldn't look stranger than my bridegroom's did.

I trembled as I stared at the dark ceiling and waited for Verlan's hands to touch me. I was as far over on my side of the bed as I could be. I knew I was being childish. I loved him, and I was his wife. I shouldn't be afraid. But I was afraid, and I jumped when he reached for me. He casually ran his hand up and down my back. The material of Aunt Thelma's nightie was smooth and thin over the top of my tee shirt, and Verlan's hand stopped abruptly.

“What are you wearing this thing for?” He demanded, pulling out on my bra strap.

“I always wear it to bed.”

“Humph,” he growled. “You should take it off. It cuts off the circulation during the night. What's this thing?” He was yanking on the sleeve of the tee shirt. I ignored him and turned away from him. The silence between us grew, and as the minutes passed, I wondered if he was asleep. Then out of the stillness, he whispered, “Can I?”

The uncertainty in his voice amazed me. Verlan, timid and hesitant? This important man, with five wives, was as nervous about our wedding night as I was! He seemed at a loss as to proceeding. My fear of him lessened considerably, and I began to feel in control of the situation.

“Can you what?” I whispered back.

“You know.”

“No, I don't. Can you what?”

Verlan sat up in bed, his voice filled with whispered alarm. “You don't? Susan, don't you know?”

Immediately my heart went out to him. I couldn't bear the uncertainty in his voice. “Yes, Verlan, I know,” I patted his arm in reassurance.

In one movement, covers were tossed aside, my panties were removed, and Verlan's garment-clad body settled on me. His hard, dry kiss stifled the silent screams that arose as burning agony tore through me. My invaded body trembled with pain and shock, and my hair became damp with the tears that ran from my eyes.

It seemed an eternity; in reality, however, only a few minutes had passed. Verlan had moved to his side of the bed. He fumbled for my panties, kissed my cheek as he thrust them into my hand, wrapped his arms around me, and mumbled words of endearment. In moments he began to snore.

After a few seconds, I moved from his tight grasp. Tiptoeing out, I dashed for the bathroom. Still shaking and swallowing sobs, I sat on the toilet and heard the droplets of blood and other matter reaching the water below. Dear God! My paralyzed mind screamed for release. Had this raw, disgusting union been it? Was this the beautiful act my sister Rose Ann had smilingly, smugly told me of? It was horrid.

I sat huddled and insensate until my quivering legs began to cramp with cold, then I gingerly moved to the sink, cleaned myself, and tiptoed to our room. I crawled in next to Verlan's sleeping form and pulled the covers up. Wide-eyed in the darkness, my private parts still burning and numb, my brain mulled over what had happened.

I had expected gentle kissing and shy fondling, rosy happiness and breathtaking exhilaration, and a dizzying, bonding rapture. How could I have been so misled? What had I done wrong?

Surely there was more! Verlan was such a warm, caring man. It had to be me. I was an ignorant child, and I'd led him to believe I was mature and ready for womanhood.

Well, it was over! The worst was behind me and there was no turning back. I was married and I had to make the best of it, and I would. I would show Verlan a warm and willing wife, and together we would build a satisfying relationship. Next time would be better. It had to be.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

V
erlan seemed happy to be leaving Chihuahua City and as anxious as I was to leave Dan far behind. “I've had enough of his nonsense,” Verlan whispered to me. “Let's get a start on our honeymoon. We need to be alone.”

Sharon took us to the train station where we waved goodbye and boarded a train bound for the resort town of Mazatlán. From there, Verlan told me we would go by bus up the Sonora coast. First to Hermosillo, then on around the top of the peninsula, through Mexicali, and on to Tijuana.

I sat by Verlan on the train's unpadded wooden bench and snuggled against him. Forcing away thoughts of the previous night, I determinedly nestled my hand in his and grinned up at him. We're finally going to get to know one another, I thought. We will visit, and laugh, and feel comfortable with personal questions. We will simply erase last night and begin anew. So long as we can be friends and sweethearts, I can handle the other thing.

After the train was underway Verlan squeezed my fingers and quietly said, “Susan, sweetheart, we are going to have to be a bit discreet. You see, these people traveling with us won't understand if they see us like this all cuddled together. They'll figure you're too young to be my wife, so you must be my girlfriend. See what I mean? We wouldn't want to give the wrong impression, would we? We're supposed to be an example to the world. We better let them think you're my daughter. Don't you agree?”

Wordless, I withdrew my hand, moved to the opposite seat, and stared out the window. Hurt and resentment bubbled inside me. We were married, weren't we? What did I care what other people thought! Did their opinions count with Verlan more than mine? Verlan lounged on his bench, looked around, then opened his Book of Mormon and immediately became engrossed. He made no move to soothe my wounded feelings or speak, except once when he said, “Honey, I hope you don't mind my taking the time to read for a while. I've needed time to catch up on my reading for ages so I would have an idea about how to handle certain church problems. You understand, don't you?”

He didn't wait for my response. Instead he dropped his eyes to the book and turned the page.

Throughout the day as he read and napped, I concentrated on controlling my anger and confusion. I determined to make the most of my trip. I'd traveled little enough, and seen few places, and the eleven-hour train ride was breathtakingly beautiful. The train ran through mountain passes and along rivers and sheer ledges. The hillsides were a gorgeous array of fall colors, with brightly plumed birds, and small furry animals darting among the underbrush. Occasionally the train chugged through gorges so deep I felt claustrophobic before we finally reached the top.

We arrived in Mazatlán after dark and took a taxi to a motel where we settled in for the night. In spite of my clumsy efforts at conversation during dinner, and although I tried acting romantic once we were in our room, our intimate time together was again painful and bewildering. The night proved to be miserable and sleepless for me.

Why, I wondered as I lay next to Verlan's snoring form, was he so abrupt? Was it because he considered sex for procreation purposes only and not an act of love? While I was certain Verlan desired me, it just didn't compare to the intense love and need I felt for him. Why couldn't he treat me with gentleness? He must be afraid that behaving the least bit sensual was displeasing to God. Oh, I had so much to learn about him! Even conversation had become a struggle.

At breakfast the next morning I quickly agreed that we should forget the sightseeing in Mazatlán and leave immediately for Ensenada.

By mid-morning a taxi dropped us off at the bus station. Shifting my suitcase to my other hand, I looked around for a place to sit, while Verlan bought our bus tickets. I spied a vacant spot on a bench next to an old Mexican gentleman and, picking up my bag, I lugged my things to the bench. The old man obligingly scooted over and moved his suitcase to make more room.

“Gracias, Señor,” I murmured as I sat beside him. Scrunching up his lined old face, he gave me a toothless smile and winked his faded brown eyes. He looked jolly and happy and seemed like a sweet old man. I wanted to put my head on his shoulder and tell him my troubles.

I looked in Verlan's direction as he stood in line for our bus tickets, and I sighed again. Within me burned the desire to be a good wife. How could I accomplish this? What was lacking in our relationship? I realized he had lots to think about, the problem of Dan and Ervil, the church work, other wives, and children to care for. At this point I was truly grateful that we had decided to cut our honeymoon short. I couldn't take any more strain, as I had for the past three days.

He hurried toward me waving the tickets triumphantly. “Okay, it's all set, and the bus is ready to pull out. Let's go.”

I smiled and said goodbye to the old man and followed Verlan to the bus. The huge bus was different from the old wrecks I had ridden in Chihuahua. It was shiny and new with gray tinted windows, and it glistened like silver in the bright sunshine.

Strutting in front of the bus was our little Mexican driver. Dressed in a starched gray uniform with a matching chauffeur's cap, his crisp black hair curled jauntily over his collar. A handlebar mustache drooped around full lips. He rattled off Spanish in a commanding voice as he directed the loading of our luggage. “No-no, Chico! Do it right, do it right! Watch how you handle people's belongings!” he shouted. The young boy doing the work cast resentful glances at him and continued to toss luggage into the compartment.

When all was loaded, the driver skipped up the bus steps and settled into his seat, then motioned for his passengers to board. I walked up the steps and held out my ticket. But instead of taking it from my hand, the man leaned his arms on the steering wheel, lazily allowing his gaze to travel from my new shoes to the tip of my head and then down again. The look was impudent and suggestive, and I haughtily dropped my ticket on the floor and stepped past him.

Cocky little rooster! I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see an angry glare in my husband's eyes. But he was oblivious to the driver's lustful leers. He scanned the loft above us for a spot to stow my overnight bag. “Would you mind if I sat by the window?” he asked. “I'll have better light to read by.”

Why wasn't I surprised? I settled in my aisle seat and glared at the Book of Mormon, which Verlan has hastened to pull from his jacket pocket. I wanted to swipe it from his hands and toss it out the window. How could he be so insensitive? How could he not care if other men came on to me? Didn't I matter as much as his old book?

Making certain boxes and bags were stowed properly, the driver hustled down the aisle. He grinned at me, and I almost laughed. His two front teeth were capped in silver, and gleamed like the mirrored sunglasses perched upon his thin nose. Like a brazen, silver robot in his starched gray uniform, he swaggered to his seat and backed the bus from its berth. Suddenly we were barreling through the streets of Mazatlán, swaying around corners and darting through traffic. Verlan's book crashed to the floor and slid down the aisle, gliding over the slick metal surface, and into the swinging, open door of the restroom. A smug feeling of satisfaction passed through me. His book was exactly where it belonged during our honeymoon.

“He's worse than Tijuana taxicab drivers, and they're the worst I've ever seen!” Verlan gritted out as he clung to the back of the seat in front of him. He motioned to the front of the bus where a long rosary hanging over the rearview mirror swayed. On the wall nearby was an oval miniature of the Mother Mary. “Now we know why he has his saints and beads hanging around. He's counting on them to save us all! We'll be lucky to get to Hermosillo in one piece.”

Soon we were on the highway. Verlan scooted past me to retrieve his book, and I glanced around, my gaze stopping on the rearview mirror up front. Staring at me from the mirror were the driver's black eyes. He'd removed his glasses and arranged the mirror so that he could watch me. I hastily looked away.

Verlan climbed over my legs and settled into the plush maroon seat with a sigh. “At least it's not wet,” he scowled, examining his book. “It's a wonder, too, the shape that restroom is in.” He opened it, found his place, pushed the button to recline his seat, and was once again preoccupied.

I looked at him. His expressive eyes followed the lines on the page, fascinated. The wind from the open window had blown his hair on his forehead, and he appeared young and handsome. I wanted to touch him, but I knew he would frown. He'd been very strict about any show of affection in public. I didn't begin to understand why. It was our time alone before the rest of the family could have a claim on him. We couldn't act like sweethearts or even like a couple because the strangers around us might not understand. I wished I had the nerve to tell him how lonely and unhappy, how hurt I felt at his various forms of neglect. I'd even practiced the words. I'd run through them in my mind repeatedly. “Verlan,” I would say softly, “I want with all my heart to please you. I want to make you happy. But I want you to pay attention to me. Can't you please put your book away and let's just talk together as man and wife? As friends?” But the words would catch every time I tried. My throbbing pulse would slowly return to normal, and I would wipe my wet palms in cowardly despair. I just couldn't do it.

My gaze roamed the bus in misery as our time alone ticked away. There were those flirting black eyes in the mirror again, bold and voracious as they swept over me. Suddenly the prominent eyebrows raised twice in suggestion, the full lips pursed, and the conceited man blew me a kiss. I gasped in repulsion. I wished I had a wedding ring! I would flaunt it in “Mr. Hot Shot's” face. Of course, with the kind of person he seemed to be, it probably wouldn't matter. Men of the world were so wicked.

Verlan turned a page and cleared his throat. I looked at my left hand and tried to imagine what it would look like with a wedding ring. Verlan had told me he would buy one soon. I wondered if it would make me feel any more married.

We finally careened into Hermosillo, screeching and swaying into the enormous bus station. Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, was our first big city on the sixteen-hour trip to Ensenada. It was nearly midnight, and once we exited the bus, Verlan stretched his legs, arched his back, then walked to the ticket window and conversed with the agent. “Well, come on,” he said in a discouraged voice as he walked back to me. “We may as well go get something to eat. The first bus heading to Mexicali doesn't leave until 4:00
a.m.
I'm hungry. Let's find a taco.”

I trotted obediently after him. The dark street was deserted, and Verlan's long strides made it difficult for me to keep his pace. My pride, my understanding of male chivalry, and mostly, my romantic ideas of love—were being shattered. As the frustrating, last days of my honeymoon were nearing, I thought of Verlan's wives and children who would be expecting a radiant bride. I would need to conceal my hurt feelings and my confusion. I had made my own bed, as my dad would say. I couldn't have them see a whimpering, homesick little girl. I hoped with time, things would improve. Meanwhile, I would have his children to become reacquainted with. Verlan would be away most of the time, and presently, the thought was a relief.

The taco shop was quaint. The smells of fried corn tortillas and fresh, spicy salsa reminded me of my favorite little restaurant back home, and a wave of homesickness overcame me. Verlan led me to a table and ordered tacos. Feeling numb, I ate in silence. He hadn't bothered to ask me what I wanted for supper. Instead he ordered for me as if I were a child! Yes, I was only fifteen, but he had thought me old enough to wed, hadn't he? Surely I was old enough to be respected. He had selected my shoes and my food. I had to find the courage to stop it. He needed to understand that I had my personal opinions and preferences, and a perfectly good brain. I had to get the courage to tell him.

Verlan swallowed the last of his food and cleared his throat. “By the way,” he said, “I called Charlotte from the bus station. She'll pick us up at the Tijuana bus stop. She's taking an extra day off from school so that she can take us right on down to Ensenada. I did tell you, didn't I, that she lives in San Diego and teaches preschool? She drives home to Ensenada every weekend to see her kids. Lucy's taking care of both hers and Charlotte's right now. It's quite a handful for Lucy—you can imagine. Fourteen kids under one roof. I'm sure she would appreciate any help you can give her.”

As he said this, I remembered Franny's words.“You'll be stuck tending all the other wives' kids, Susan,” she had said. “A free babysitter.” It sounded as though Franny was right.

As we hastened back up the street, I thought of Charlotte. I knew she was Verlan's first wife, and I remembered her from my childhood, when I'd played with four of Verlan's children. Three of them were Charlotte's. I felt ill at ease at the thought of meeting her again. I'd learned through the years that Verlan's first wife had a profound influence over him. How would she react to me? Would she be as warm and welcoming as Irene had been? Charlotte had obviously accepted Verlan's four other wives—surely she would do the same for me. She must be a firm believer in the principle of polygamy, especially being married to the President of the Twelve.

Taking a determined breath, I boldly took hold of Verlan's arm. I knew I was being rebellious, but I had to begin somewhere showing him I had a mind of my own. My heart pounded as I waited for him to unwind my fingers. To my surprise, Verlan tucked my hand beneath his arm and covered it with his. He slowed his stride to mine and grinned at me in the darkness. Suddenly stopping, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me, gently, then passionately, as he had at Grandma's prior to our marriage. The hurt and rejection I had felt over the past two days crumbled. The stored-up tears released and coursed their way down my cheeks. I was glad it was dark so he couldn't see my face. I couldn't understand his change, but he had, and that's what mattered.