"Cocky little runt, if I remember him. Very full of himself. Seemed to think everything was quite amusing. I thought him an ass. What did he think of me?"
"He didn't like you half so well. No, I won't read it to you, you'd only get angry and torment me with your torrent of self-defense. What I intend to read you is his hideous lies about Mormon women."
"Did any of our women speak to him?"
"The Principle seemed to fascinate him. I quote: 'With the gushing self-sufficiency of youth, I was feverish to plunge in headlong and achieve a great reform here -- until I saw the Mormon women. Then I was touched. My heart was wiser than my head. It warmed toward these poor, ungainly and pathetically "homely" creatures, and as I turned to hide the generous moisture in my eyes, I said, "No -- the man that marries one of them has done an act of Christian charity which entitles him to the kindly applause of mankind, not their harsh censure -- and the man that marries sixty of them has done a deed of open-handed generosity so sublime that the nation should stand uncovered in his presence and worship in silence."'"
She closed the book with an emphatic thump. The bed was shaking. She looked over at Brigham to see his eyes squinted closed as he shook in silent paroxysms of laughter. "It wasn't that funny," she said.
He only laughed harder, tears squeezing out of his eyes.
"You might think to defend the women of the Church. Or the Principle. He is laughing at sacred things."
"Let him laugh. I'd far rather have the world's scorn than the world's pious outrage. No one ever killed for scorn."
"I'm disappointed in you. Shall I spread the word that Brother Brigham thinks us all an ungainly lot?"
He turned on his side, facing her, and smiled. "Not all. I saw to it that he didn't ever see our real beauties."
"Hid the pretty ones away, did you?"
"Kept them all for myself. And farthest away, where none could see, I hid the sacred virgin of Manchester, who was captured away by Heber Kimball and kept untouched in the harem of the grand sultan of Salt Lake City, that vile and reprehensible Brigham Young."
"I'm hardly a virgin."
"Madam," he said, "after thirty years of abstinence, you became an honorary virgin. In another five years you become one in fact."
Since he brought up the subject, perhaps --
"I never aspired to renew my virginity," she said.
"You never aspired not to, either."
"Perhaps we're old enough to be above such things as adolescent lust."
"I have always thought that lust, like wine, matures with age."
"You're not supposed to know anything about wine," she said.
He reached and touched her arm. Instead of recoiling, which he plainly expected her to do, she leaned into his arm, bent to him and kissed him.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" he asked her. "I thought you never changed your mind about anything."
"Don't tell anyone," she said.
But twenty minutes later, they had to admit defeat. Brigham was dejected. "It's never happened to me before," he said.
"My fault," she said. "I'm just too old."
"Dinah, I am an expert in what happens to women of middle age when their corsets come off. You are the only one of all my wives who wears a corset for modesty rather than buttressing."
She chuckled.
"I wasn't being clever," he said. "We're being punished." He lay on his side and traced patterns on her skin.
"For what sin'?"
"For abstinence where God never meant his children to abstain."
"So it's my fault after all?"
"You were such a beautiful girl, Dinah. But formidable. I should have braved the fortress long ago, when I still had vigor for it."
And they began to reminisce about times that had been painful to live, but were good to remember. All the time they talked, he touched her, and she caressed him in return, and after a while he smiled and said, "Miracle of miracles," and they finished what they set out to do after all.
Afterward she lay in his arms, his breath against her cheek. "If I had known you would be so lovely at fifty-eight, madam," he whispered, "I would have picked the lock of your door twenty years ago."
"And if you had come to try it, perhaps I would have let you in."
"I've loved Joseph and admired him and sometimes almost worshiped him, but this is the first time that I've envied him. You'll be his in the next life."
"You've had me as a wife longer in this one."
He kissed her lovingly. "You don't know what a crushing blow it would have been, if my failure had been more than temporary. I've been compared to Moses in other ways, but I had always hoped to earn his epitaph."
"Epitaph?"
"Deuteronomy 34:7. 'And Moses was an hundred and twenty years old when he died: his eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated.'"
"I'll see to it that it's engraved on your headstone. If they doubt it, I'll swear to it. And if I die before you, I'll leave a deposition."
"You won't die before me."
"My mother died younger than I am now."
"You're tougher than she was."
"I don't think so."
"If you plan to die before me, Dinah, you'll have to hurry."
She stroked his cheek but did not argue with him. It was true. And he needed no comfort. If any man had little cause to fear death, it was Brigham Young.
"There's a voice in me, Dinah. It says Hurry hurry hurry. Hurry and get the Temple dedicated. Hurry and get the quorums reorganized. Hurry and set the order of the Twelve so John Taylor will succeed you. Hurry and set things right with your most cantankerous wife. All done now. All finished, or nearly so. And when it's done, do you know what will happen?"
Of course I do.
"He'll come for me."
"The Lord?"
"The Lord's too busy. No, the man God put at my head years ago, who has guided me ever since, Joseph. I've felt as though he is still watching over the Church, saying, No, Brigham. Careful, Brigham. What are you so timid about, Brigham? And now he'll come and say, Well, you're finally ready. Come on into the Kingdom, I've got work for you that's been piling up for years."
He smiled, but his eyes were filled with tears, as if to say, Hasten the day. He said nothing more, just lay there until he slept.
Dinah blew out her candle. But she did not sleep for a while. Just lay awake, wondering if Brigham was right. If Joseph comes for him, might he not also come for me? What will I say to him then? And as so many times before, her lips moved in silent rehearsal for that conversation, until at last she slept.
Brigham died four months later, calling out Joseph's name. Dinah was not there; she was in a meeting of the Relief Society presidency. She did not grieve; she merely thought congratulatory thoughts, and envied him a little.
The day before the funeral she submitted a letter of resignation to John Taylor, who as President of the Twelve had already taken over the leadership of the Church. The day after the funeral, the letter came back with a curt note in Taylor's own hand:
Sister Young, I am returning this letter because it is not appropriate. Upon the death of the President of the Church, all officers who are not ordained priesthood authorities are automatically released from their positions. Therefore the office of president of the Relief Society is vacant, and with thanks for your competent service for these many years I inform you that the place will be filled by another sister.
She took it well. It was his right. It was time for someone else, and she didn't mind giving up the office. She did resent the ungenerous word competent, but even at that she refused to harbor ill feeling. She even understood. The Saints weren't used to anyone but Brigham at the helm; the last thing he needed was to have a woman who was called the Prophetess diluting his authority.
The only reason she reconciled herself to this change so easily, however, was because of what it surely meant. My work is finished; the Lord has released me from my duties. Now I'll have a pleasant few months in which to
write some poems, read some books, plant a garden, visit Charlie and his children and grandchildren, even sleep more than five hours a night. Soon enough the Lord would take her.
After she had been out of office for a few years, people began coming to her door. Some of them were old acquaintances, wanting to know what she was doing these days. But most of them were strangers, or people she had met but once at a conference somewhere. Aunt Dinah, you changed my life. Aunt Dinah, I have a problem and I need advice. Aunt Dinah, can you give me a blessing? It was a good thing, she knew, and she enjoyed the visits, but surely this was not what God kept her alive for.
Then, in 1890, John Taylor's successor, Wilford Woodruff, gave up the struggle with the government and issued the Manifesto, renouncing the practice of the plural marriage in the Church. Then the visitors came to Dinah's door pleading for her to help them understand how God could change a law that had been so vital for so many years; or asking her to denounce the Manifesto as proof that Wilford Woodruff did not have the authority to speak for God. To all of them she said the same thing: A prophet taught us the Principle; a prophet has told us to stop practicing it. If he does not have the authority to end the practice of plural marriage, then no prophet had the authority to begin it. You cannot pick and choose among the prophet's words and take only the ones you like. Now go home and obey the Lord. They went home. Most of them obeyed the Lord. She watched the Principle fade from the Church, despite a few dying gasps, and thought: I saw it born, I saw it die, and I helped the Saints endure both passages. That must be why the Lord persists in leaving me alive. Now my work is done, and I can go.
But the Lord delayed. The Lord postponed her death. The years passed, and still she was alive. She began to wonder whether God had any sense of timing at all.
50
Dinah K. Young Salt Lake City, 1896
As she walked from the carriage to Charlie's house, Dinah heard the booming of fireworks celebrating the end of Utah's direct rule by the federal government. Utah was a state, and at last the Saints would be able to govern themselves. She tried not to think of what had been given up to achieve peace with the government. The Lord moves in mysterious ways.
Children were shouting far down the street. No, not down the street. They were playing in the back yard of Charlie's house. They did not know that their grandfather -- or was he their great-grandfather? -- was dying inside the house. But that was right. Children should not be interrupted by death, not the death of an old man.
But he isn't an old man, she thought. He's younger than I am, and he has no business dying now. There should be some order in these things. He still has a young wife, who is pregnant with their first child. Surely God would have taken account of that and taken Dinah in his place.
She did not knock at the door -- Sally always chided her if she acted so formally. Inside, there were men and women of many ages, and many children, too, sitting or standing or walking, conversing quietly or weeping or just silent, staring into space.
"Aunt Dinah," someone murmured in greeting, and then others noticed her and came to shake her hand or embrace her. Many of them were almost strangers to her. She had to ask their names. You're the one who lives in Mexico. You came all the way from Ephraim. Oh, yes. Hannah's girl, you married Peter Black's boy. Slowly she made her way to the stairs, then excused herself and began to climb. Charlie had sent for her. He wanted to talk to her before he died.
The wives were gathered in Charlie's room. Sally, Maria, Hannah. Where was Harriette? Oh, yes. Harriette died years ago. I must remember not to ask for her -- it annoys the children, they think I'm losing my mind. They don't realize that when you live at the edge of death you can't possibly keep straight which of the people you know have already stepped over, and which are still lingering like cowards on the brink. At this age it doesn't make much difference, does it?
Sally, Maria, Hannah. Who was missing that should be there? The young one, of course. Gwen. She must be in the house. If she isn't here in this room it's because we're going to talk about her.
"Did you come to talk to me or admire my wives?" Charlie's voice was so soft that for a moment Dinah didn't realize he had spoken.
"You sent for me," she said.
"There weren't enough people here," he answered. She laughed. Was he smiling? Was that all the laughter he could manage now?
"Well, then, let's get on with it. What is it you want to tell me about Gwen?"
They looked startled. Dinah loved doing that. She used her brains, and they all assumed she was getting revelations.
"Her baby's not due for three more months," Hannah said. "We don't know what to do with her."
"I'm not rich," Charlie said.
"We all have children with plenty of money," Maria said. "And we're all old women. Except Gwen."
"It was stupid to marry her in the first place," Sally said. Everyone knew that she wasn't angry. She had merely become outspoken in her old age.
"No it wasn't," Charlie said quietly.
"Seventeen years old then. And doesn't have a baby till six years later. You should have listened to me, Charlie. I don't know whose timing is worse, yours or hers."
"Don't scold," Charlie said. "I wouldn't have married her if I hadn't thought I was going to live forever."
"You'll get tired," Maria told him. "Let us tell it."
"I'll be quiet," Sally said. "Then he won't get angry."
Dinah listened to their explanations, but she did not need to be told. Gwen was still young, still pretty. Charlie had no fortune to support her, only a little money when all debts were settled and the house was sold. It wasn't fair to leave her still in her youth, with a baby; she needed someone to look after her, help with the child, let her have some freedom so she might find another husband.
Charlie had married her in the last few weeks before the Manifesto. It had been common practice then for young women to marry into grand old polygamous families. Now Mormons no longer entered into polygamy. She was already a relic, and too young to live the rest of her life that way. It would be hard for her to find a young husband when she was sealed to another man. Now that a man couldn't marry several wives, young Mormons wanted to make sure their one wife was sealed to them for eternity. Otherwise she and all their children would, by the law of the Church, belong to the first husband forever.
"With all that against her," Hannah said, "she doesn't need to be tied down with a child, too."
"I should think," Dinah said, "that the child would be a comfort to her."
The wives looked at each other. Charlie shook his head. "She's a good woman, Dinah, but I don't think she wants to be a widowed mother."
Now Dinah understood why they were being so careful to explain it all to her. A decision had already been reached; they did not want advice. They didn't want someone to help Gwen out for a while. They wanted someone to take the child.
"Do I look to be the right age to take on such a responsibility?"
"My granddaughter Sally Ann lives close to you," Sally said. "She says that she'll look in on you now and then."
"Then let her take the baby."
Hannah looked at Dinah helplessly. "Dinah, Gwen says she'll only give the baby up if she gives it to you."
"Then she should keep it! I'm a doddering old woman and I'll probably be dead before Christmas."
Charlie raised a hand, beckoned to her. "Dinah," he said. "How many times have I ever told you what to do, in all our lives?"
"Never that I can remember."
"I was saving up for now."
"If you tell me that I should do it for my own good -- "
"Gwen adores you, Dinah."
"I've only talked to her a few times."
"Her mother always told her as she was growing up that when Gwen was an infant, dying of a disease that made her so weak she couldn't even cry, Aunt Dinah Kirkham prayed for her, and she was healed."
"Am I to be punished for that now?" But Dinah did not feel as flippant as she sounded. She
felt a circle closing around her. She felt a change coming in her life. She was not looking for any change but death.
"Gwen wants to keep the baby and sacrifice her future to rearing it. You see, she loves me. And loves the idea of a baby. She doesn't know yet that the child will grow up and leave, and there she'll be in her forties with nothing, with no one. I want her to give up my baby so she can have a life of her own. She's given enough to me these six years of marriage. To all of us."
"She's a good girl," Hannah said.
"Dinah," said Charlie. "It's killing me faster to talk so much."
"Charlie, I gave up the idea of children fifty years ago. I'm too old."