Saints

  Harriette's words burned her like lightning down a tree. Don't you know your husband? Dinah had not known how much it would mean to her, to have another woman speak of Joseph Smith and say those words.

  "I assure you it was not Brother Joseph who came to Sally."

  "Who was it, then?"

  "I promised Sally that I'd never tell, and I keep my word. I didn't tell Brother Joseph, either. I only asked him if there was such a doctrine. And so he swore me to secrecy and told me all about celestial marriage."

  Now it occurred to Dinah that perhaps Harriette had even more in common with her than she had thought. "Are you also his -- "

  "No. The Lord did not give me to him. Would it matter if I were his wife?"

  "Of course it wouldn't." Don't lie to yourself. "Yes, it would. Isn't that stupid of me? I knew he had another wife when I married him, and yet I'd be jealous of you if -- "

  "Yes, it's stupid of you. But then, it's plain you didn't understand the doctrine from the start, Dinah. When Joseph was explaining that carnal pleasure was not the purpose of the doctrine, he told me that one of his own wives had refused to let him into her bed, and that he did not regard her as any less his wife because of that. It was at that moment that I knew: he was the lover you were writing to, and you were the wife so unbelieving that you denied your body to your husband."

  "I was testing." It sounded even to her like a lame apology. Dinah had long been prepared to bear criticism of her accepting Joseph's offer of marriage; she had never imagined someone might criticize her for refusing him.

  "You were testing the Prophet?"

  Harriette insisted on looking at things so backwardly. "I was testing myself."

  "Ah. Yes, I was afraid of that, too. That I believed only because I wanted to, and not because God wanted me to."

  "How can you want to believe it?"

  "Because, Dinah, only a man who already has a wife will look at this ugly woman and realize that she might be something worth having."

  "You aren't ugly."

  "I have looked thirty-five ever since I was thirteen. To a man, that's the same as ugly."

  "Until you turn thirty-five." Log walls formed themselves in the moonlight. "There's my house."

  "There's no light. Does that mean that he is there or that he isn't?"

  "I don't know. Neither."

  "Don't you have signals already planned?"

  "How can we? We've never done this. He might not even come tonight."

  "You've never done this? Dinah, do you mean that tonight will be -- "

  "If he comes.

  "I wouldn't have come with you if I had known. I'll say good-night here -- "

  "No, come in with me."

  "I'll no more come in with you tonight than I would go in with Sally." Harriette kissed Dinah's cheek and then hurried away into the darkness. Dinah watched her out of sight, which wasn't far, despite the moonlight; the bushes, still bare of leaves, were like a low fog, and Harriette was soon lost in it.

  Dinah went to the cabin and opened the door, her hands cold and trembling. He was not inside. He was not sitting on the edge of her new bed, waiting for her. She was relieved; she was disappointed. It was not a new feeling, to be disappointed at the opening of a door. For all these months in America, she had opened doors now and then and been startled, grieved that Val was not just inside, playing on the floor, that Honor was not toddling to meet her, even though she had not been thinking of them until the door opened, even though she did not expect ever to see them again; the patterns in her heart were worn too deep, and she anticipated without knowing it, longing for that familiar, beloved sight. Joseph had never been behind the door, yet he, too, was anticipated, was familiar; she had dreamed him too often, had needed him so many times in years past, when it was Matthew behind the door. She had been disappointed then, too.

  She closed the door and latched it, cutting off the wind; yet it wasn't that much warmer with the door closed, and for a moment she was afraid that the fire had gone out cold. But no, there were some coals. She nursed a flame to life with tinder and a few gentle puffs of breath; soon she had a blaze that filled the room with light. Then she slowly undressed, put on her nightgown, and then sat at the table for a few minutes to write in her journal. But when she tried to put down words about what she had done, what she had seen and felt today, she could not think of anything to write. "Charlie married," that was all. Then she set her pen aside and scanned through recent pages. She hadn't written more than two or three proper entries in months. Only poems. How could she baldly write the dilemmas that had torn her all this time? Someone might find this journal, and the evidence would be damning. The world would never understand that her marriage to Joseph was holy, not profane.

  So holy that she wondered if perhaps she had waited too long. Harriette was wrong, of course. He would not come tonight. He might not come at all. Her note had been so cryptic; perhaps a clerk had intercepted it, and thought it not important enough to bring it to the Prophet's notice. Even if he knew she wanted him, why should he come at a woman's bidding? After she had refused him once, he might well feel it proper to repay one rebuff with another. No, he would not be so petty. Their marriage was pure. Maybe all his marriages were pure. Maybe that's how celestial marriages ought to be.

  If so, then to hell with celestial marriages.

  Dinah shuddered at her own thought. Forgive me, she thought. Come to me, Joseph. I've waited too long already.

  But he did not come. No poem would come to her tonight, either, and so she put her pen away, closed up the inkwell, and blew out the candle at her writing table. Only the fire burned. She threw on a log, so it would last the night. Then she put off her slippers on the dirt floor, and slid under the cold and rough cotton sheets. She curled up, brought her knees to her chest, and prayed -- it was too cold and dirty to kneel beside her bed. The wind reached down the chimney and made her fire flare out into the room, putting a little of the acrid smell of smoke into the air. A thin film of dust skittered across the dirt floor. And then, suddenly, she awoke, though she had not been aware that she had dozed. There was a cold wind on her face. The door was open. And a man stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the moonlight.

  As the night grew late, Joseph tried to think how he might make his way to Dinah undiscovered. It was Emma herself who gave him the excuse.

  "Joseph, I wish you wouldn't wait till noon to go to Warsaw."

  "The trip's been planned for a week," he answered. Little Joseph snuggled into his neck and murmured, "Talk softer, Papa, I'm trying to sleep."

  "That's what I mean," Emma said. "You're getting careless. You know that assassins from Missouri have crossed the river. You should never let them know your comings and goings in advance, it fairly invites them to try their luck with you."

  "You make me sound like a hunted buck."

  "It's what you are."

  "Papa, shh. You'll wake me."

  Joseph took little Joseph up the stairs and laid him in his bed. Emma was waiting for him in the hall as he closed the door to the children's room. "Leave at dawn, Joseph."

  He didn't blush or stammer. Plotting to sleep with another woman did not hinder his speech at all. "It takes till noon to get things underway in the morning. I'll go tonight."

  Startled, Emma protested. "But you need your sleep -- "

  "I have friends. I'll stay in a farmhouse overnight. Let my murderers look for me by daylight and they'll have no notion where I am."

  "I have a better idea, Joseph! Don't go at all!"

  Joseph shook his head. "If I can make a deal with Stephen Douglas and his friends we'll have no hindrance in this state. And they've made it clear they want to deal with me." He smiled. "There are actually some people who like me better than they like John Bennett."

  Emma frowned. "I don't like John Bennett at all. I think he's a liar."

  "If he is, he's a very talented one. The whole state of Illinois believes our charter."

  "He smiles
too much."

  "He's a cheerful man. Give me a kiss, love. I'll have Port hitch up the carriage. No need to waken anyone else."

  "What shall I tell the Brethren?"

  Joseph laughed. "You tell them nothing! I'll leave a note for Hyrum. The Brethren don't much like taking their instructions from my wife."

  "The world would be better if more men took instructions from their wives."

  "Too bad that I'm the only man who does," Joseph said. He kissed her again and walked down the stairs.

  She called after him. "You don't either, except when it happens to fit what you already had in mind!"

  "Quiet! You'll wake the children!" He laughed at her from the foot of the stairs, and she smiled down at him, and then he turned and went outside in search of Porter Rockwell, hurrying so that he could get to Dinah before she went to sleep.

  Port stopped the carriage where Joseph told him. "Take the carriage on to Brother Simon's place, and tell him I want people to think I stayed with him tonight."

  "Where will you be?" Port asked.

  "I'll be at Simon's place by morning."

  "But what about tonight?"

  "If I wanted you to know, I'd tell you."

  Port had his stubborn face on. "You're not just Joe Smith, you know. If the Church should need you, someone ought to know where you're to be found."

  "It's my destruction if it's known where I am tonight."

  "If you don't trust me by now, you're a damned fool," Porter said. "I wouldn't tell God himself if he asked me."

  "God already knows." Why must my friends always test how much I trust them by asking me to trust them all too much? "I'll be at a new cabin on Mulholland, about a half-mile north of here, four blocks or so east of the temple."

  Porter nodded. "Dinah Kirkham's place."

  Joseph was annoyed. "How did you know?"

  "I make it a point to know who lives in every house between Nauvoo and the nearest patch of wild country. If I don't know where you'll be safe, what the hell good am I as a bodyguard?"

  "I'm on the Lord's business there tonight."

  Port shrugged. "Whoever's business it is, it sure as hell ain't mine." He clacked at the horses and the carriage lurched off into the darkness.

  It was a fair walk to Dinah's house in the dark. With the temple going up on the hill now, a good many people were building up here, and Joseph had to walk around several foundation holes. But there were no houses yet; no one saw him as he made his way northward through the night.

  When he got there her cabin was dark. It surprised him. Surely she would be waiting for him -- or had he misunderstood? What if the note wasn't from her after all? What if he had been so obsessed with her that he had read an innocent letter all wrong? He could not decide whether to go on to Brother Simon's house or go up and knock on Dinah's door. So he did neither, and was standing outside watching when Dinah and Harriette arrived.

  He couldn't hear what they had to say. They talked only briefly, and then Harriette went off westward, alone. It was a good sign and a bad one: good because it meant Dinah wanted to be alone, bad because Harriette was no fool, and might guess why Dinah was so rude as not to invite her in.

  As soon as Harriette was gone, Joseph started for the door. But he stopped short of it. Cold as it was he could not bring himself to knock and go inside. He was afraid, and had a thousand reasons for his fear; a thousand reasons, and only one that he believed: What if she wouldn't have him after all? He saw a candle lit near the oilcloth window; he told himself he dared not go inside when candlelight might reveal to a watching stranger his face at the door. The candle went out, and still he hesitated, not wanting to startle her immodestly as she undressed. But at last the cold breeze mocked him more than he could bear. Had he come as a husband or as a beggar to her door? If the latter, he should waste no more time, and go away. If the former, it was his right to go inside.

  He came to the door, prepared to knock, and then saw the shadow of the latchstring in the moonlight. She had left the way clear for him to come in tonight. He had been a fool to wait. He pulled the string softly; the latch rose inside. He pushed the door gently, and it would not budge; pushed it harder, and it fell open suddenly, throwing a gust of wind into the room. He heard the leaves of a book turn in the breeze; he stood, trying to get used to the sudden firelight.

  "Joseph," she said sleepily from the bed.

  He couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, now that he was here. "I came to dedicate your house."

  "Yes," she said. "Come in." But there was no hint of gladness in her voice. He was at such a pitch of expectation that her near monotone sounded like coldness rather than the timidity she really felt.

  "He closed the door behind him, and drew the latchstring in. "It was careless of you to leave the door like that. You never know who might come in at night."

  "I left it for my husband."

  She sounded so distant. She didn't want him, he realized now. She didn't love him the way he loved her. She just wanted to obey the Lord. It would be torture to her, having to receive him in her bed, and he couldn't bear to know she felt that way. "I wouldn't do this if the Lord hadn't commanded it."

  Her smile grew even thinner. "Be obedient then," she said, "and do your duty."

  He turned away from her, faced the fire, and carefully undressed. He knew he looked brutish to her, coming in from the night for this purpose only. This wasn't how it should be between husband and wife; but how could he handle things any other way, without being discovered? He sat on the foot of the bed and pulled off his boots, took his feet from his trousers and put the clothing on top of a nearby trunk. He felt timid, embarrassed as a virgin, and so to deny that feeling he turned to her, the fire hot on his back. "You know that I'll never go to prison again. I'll never come to you if there's the slightest risk that I'll be caught."

  "I know," she said softly, her eyes deep and red with reflected fire.

  "Until the world is ready to endure the Principle, I'll have to deny you. If we conceive a child I'll never say it's mine. If a member of the Church should accuse you of adultery, I can't speak up in your defense."

  "I wouldn't want you to," she said.

  "Even if they excommunicate you, Dinah. Do you understand that? For the safety of the whole church, for my life's sake we can't tell."

  "I can bear anything," she said. She opened the sheets for him, and he joined her on the bed.

  He was angry at himself for having wanted her, and it hurt him that she did not want him too. But he knew it was better this way, without illusion, without lies. He hated liars, couldn't bear to be one, though he knew as he took her that he was lying to Emma. It made him angry. It made him abrupt and quick, ungentle with her, so that even the way he took her made him ashamed. He could see in her face that his manner had caused her pain, that she regretted this night's work; he rolled to the side of the bed, turned his back to her, and hated himself for lying to Dinah even in the way that he had lain with her. Even if she did not want him, he wanted her now more than ever, for her body had been sweet and beautiful, her kisses fiery, and he loved her so much that he yearned for her even now, when he had just possessed her.

  "Joseph," she said. "Don't you want to love me, even a little?"

  Did she doubt him? "A little?" he asked. "Enough that I risked ruin to come. Enough that I think of you so often that I'm constantly afraid I'll say your name without meaning to. Enough that when I took the plate from your hand today I wanted to bend and kiss you in front of everyone."

  "I wish you had," she said.

  Did she love him, then? When the Spirit had told him she was his, had it been true after all. Tears came to his eyes in spite of himself, tears of relief that his love for her was answered. He could not think what to say, and so he said, "You're the first of my wives I've lain with, except for Emma."

  She laughed gently. "Then you've fai]ed in your duty, haven't you?"

  He rolled over to face her. "I tried to do it for d
uty alone, but I can't."

  She kissed the tears on his cheeks, touched them. "You are husband, brother, father, children to me now."

  "All of those?"

  All of those, and one more she did not name: for the face she touched now was the face of God, the light that she had followed across the sea. "If I ever lose you, Joseph, I've got nothing left. But if you lose me, what have you lost?"

  His answer was plain, and comforted her much.

  He got up from the bed in darkness, dressed quickly in the cold, and put another log on the fire for her as he left. They said nothing, just kissed once more; she tried to get up from the bed to see him to the door, but he gently held her to the bed. "I want to look back from the door," he said, "and see you there waiting for me." So she lay there and he looked back at her, and she was glad when he looked at her body with owning eyes: you, she said, this belongs to you, all those years of Matthew, but all along I belonged to you. And when he was gone she lay tingling under the sheet and blanket and comforter, as if the cotton were the touch of his hand. She prayed that she would conceive a child for him. She prayed that a miracle would happen, and Emma would embrace her and welcome her as a sister, and the two of them would stand beside Joseph in a public meeting, both equally honored as his wife, both surrounded by the children they had borne for him. She prayed for it, even pretended that it was a vision. But she knew that it was not. He would always come to her in secret, and go again; she would have to put a lifetime's marriage into a few hours each month, a few days each year.