Chapter 20
“Now, children, what is the most important rule?” Jacob asked as our cart approached the center of the city.
“Don’t talk to gentiles about Mother or our aunts,” the eldest, Nephi, immediately replied. He scratched at his dark blond hair before throwing me a careful look. His eyes—Abby’s eyes—stared back at me. I offered an encouraging smile, although my insides twisted into knots.
“Quite right. We don’t know which men out there could be informants.”
Threats from the federal government kept most plural families in isolation these days, rarely coming out into public altogether for fear of detection and possible prosecution, especially after the recent passing of the federal Edmunds Anti-Polygamy Act.
The Sabbath morning sun beat down on us as we traveled. I was surprised to be woken early by Jacob that morning, who declared it the perfect day to travel into town for church for the first time since our wedding.
Prudence was far too close to her confinement to travel in a bumpy cart, and so I assumed care of her Edward. Flora protested that her cooking duties couldn’t be neglected and stayed back with a frown creasing her forehead. Abby simply laughed and shut herself back in her room.
Edward glanced up from my lap. “Are you okay, Aunt Hazel?”
“Oh yes.” I painted on a smile for the child I’d grown so fond of. “I simply didn’t sleep so well.”
His eyes brightened. “Did she keep you up too?”
“Are you eager to attend Sacrament meeting?” Jacob asked loudly, interrupting us.
I forced my gaze from Edward to Jacob. Snatches of memories of his fingers branding me the night before burned like scar tissue.
“Yes, I’m always eager to worship the Lord.” I knew my words were thick with lies. I couldn’t muster the desire to praise God today. I felt only the unbearable need to leave that damned house.
“My righteous Hazel. You’ve blessed me greater than any woman. Our Lord is too good to me,” Jacob said.
I grasped Edward tight against me. “Yes, we’re truly blessed.”
The enormous, silvered dome of the Tabernacle stood out against the farmlands surrounding it as we approached.
Chisels and hammers usually echoed through this square as workers built the Temple, but today was a day of rest. This square was the literal heart of the city, and it would continue to grow as a beacon and as a fierce warning to the incoming gentiles that this Territory was built on the sweat and faith of the Mormons.
Jacob ushered us into one of the large wood doors of the Tabernacle.
The hall was instantly quiet, save the few whispers of the members finding seats bouncing off the massive domed ceiling.
Long rows of brown pews filled the Tabernacle, and painted columns stretched upward along the round walls to hold up the curved balcony.
Without any windows, the only light was that of the hanging lamps and my eyes took a moment to adjust.
We settled into our hard seats, the children reverently folding their arms as they eyed their father’s serious face.
They reminded me of my own siblings when we attended Sacrament services here more times than I could count.
Many parents would leave their children at home, but my father loved to parade his into the Tabernacle, wiggly bodies, frustrating fights, and all.
Sadness wrapped around me as I peered through the gathering congregation of faithful Saints in their Sunday best, wondering if my family would be among them.
As difficult as they’d been at times, I missed my siblings.
I missed their pleadings for piggyback rides and more songs on the piano to dance to.
Heat warmed in my cheeks in a mix of joy and shame.
I’d forgotten too much of a life I used to hold close.
And it seemed they’d forgotten me too, letter after unanswered letter.
Even if they were here today, I wasn’t certain they’d even want to see me.
I tried to redirect my focus and lessen the sting. The colossal mahogany and gold organ pipes along the front wall filled me with longing. My fingers itched at my side, almost feeling the mighty pulse of keys and stops beneath them. But that dream was long gone.
Soon, the Sacrament services began. I shifted in my seat as the prayer was spoken and trays of bread began circulating down the aisles.
The speaker at the pulpit was a man I recognized but couldn’t place.
His long beard, clean suit, and air of authority as he lectured signaled his importance in the church, but his words flew in and out of my ears without my truly hearing them.
The trays continued their way around, the speaker breaking only when it was time to bless the Sacrament water, then continuing on with his words.
He slammed his fist against the pulpit and I startled. I needed to refocus on the words of the Lord. The speaker went on about the truths of polygamy as God’s will through His prophets and my heart heaved.
“Plural marriage or damnation,” he said. “That was the teaching of Brigham Young.”
If these men spoke directly for God, why was it He could speak of nothing else?
I chastised myself, though an ever-growing part of me wished I would stop.
As the Sacrament goblets finished their rounds, the speaker began his conclusion. Worry swirled in my chest. I didn’t want this meeting to end. I didn’t want to return home to all the strange visions and blood-soaked nightmares. If only the all-knowing God would tell me what it all meant.
The first notes of the organ startled me from my thoughts. I hadn’t noticed the chorister rise for the final hymn. The beginning notes of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” sounded dark and distant, like the stops were set in an odd pattern.
But the organ bench was empty.
No one else in the congregation startled or pulled out a hymnbook. The speaker continued his final testimony. I glanced around. It seemed only I heard the music. It pierced through my skin to sink into my marrow.
Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear
But with joy wend your way …
The ghosts of Manwaring Manor had followed me to the Tabernacle. The house’s claws stretched out across the valley and grasped around me. God didn’t care for my struggles and He offered me no balm. But the house—the specter, the breathing walls—they knew me. They saw me and they answered.