shadow. At the mouth of the canyon we stepped into a world of white sunlight. The difference in temperatures must have been thirty degrees. We ran across the road to Queenie’s door and it opened before I could knock.
“Jordan, what are you doing here?”
“Good to see you too.”
“Shhh, Hiram’s sleeping. Come on, let’s talk in the garage.” She led Elektra and me across a dark living room, down a path worn in the carpet. In the garage she turned on a painter’s lamp. A thick beery light illuminated a workbench and a gun rack mounted with rifles and shotguns. “What are you up to?” she said.
“I guess you heard about my mom.”
“Of course I did.”
“Well, I’m looking into a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Like what really happened.”
In this light Queenie’s face looked yellow and cold. She hadn’t changed much, still beautiful, still a rebel gleam in her eyes. Her mother married my father not long before I was kicked out. She was his 23rd or 24th wife, I think, a bucktoothed woman who ate her nails. They met through this polygamy personals website ( www.2wives.com ; check it out). She showed up at the house with her thirteen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth. My father started calling the girl Elizabeth the Second to avoid confusion with another girl. I remember how shocked she looked those first few weeks in the house: the livid brow, the sense of betrayal in her eyes whenever her mother called her Elizabeth the Second. She knew she had landed in a very strange place. As for me, I took to her because she seemed, well, kinda fabulous, although this was of course before I had ever used that word. One night she told me she hated everyone calling her Elizabeth the Second. “It makes me feel like the fucking queen,” she said. The what? She gave me a brief tutorial on British royalty. At first I didn’t believe her. The Prophet had said on one of his tapes that although England had managed to avoid total destruction in the last war, there was nothing there now other than a ruined people living in huts and sheds. “He’s lying,” she said. I told her she was the one who was lying, but this wasn’t long after I had refused to slaughter the dogs and the sheep. These two events rubbed together, shaping a baby pearl of doubt. Six weeks later my dad caught us holding hands. You know the rest.
In the garage I asked Queenie what had happened after I left. “It was no big deal,” she said. “Your punishment was excommunication. Mine was marriage. The Prophet chose Hiram for me. Or I guess I should say he chose me for Hiram. Hiram was twenty at the time, so not really that old. We were sealed the next day. You know how it goes, you’ve heard the story a million times. But you know what—and this is the insane part—we fell in love. He’s a good man. He loves me. He loves our little girl. Jordan—stop making that face.”
“What face?”
“You think I’m out of my mind.”
“No, no, it’s great,” I lied. “He sounds great.”
Was she kidding? Love? In Mesadale? “I’m just surprised,” I said. “Monogamy is sort of a no-no out here.”
“I know. Lately the Prophet’s been putting pressure on Hiram. But so far we’ve resisted.”
I asked how her mom was. She looked down to Elektra, then back up. A gray storm had moved across her eyes. “She’s dead.”
“What? How?”
“She got sick a few years ago. Her kidneys.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But that wasn’t it,” she said. “About six months ago she started having doubts about everything. She wanted to leave your dad. She wanted out of here. So they murdered her.”
“Excuse me?”
“They put salt in her dialysis machine. It crystallized her heart. She went into the clinic for a treatment and never came home.”
OK, let me stop for a second. I know what you’re thinking. And I’d be thinking it too. But in Mesadale it’s not as unlikely as it sounds.
“Who do you think it was?”
“The Prophet. Well, not
“Jordan, what are you doing here?”
“Good to see you too.”
“Shhh, Hiram’s sleeping. Come on, let’s talk in the garage.” She led Elektra and me across a dark living room, down a path worn in the carpet. In the garage she turned on a painter’s lamp. A thick beery light illuminated a workbench and a gun rack mounted with rifles and shotguns. “What are you up to?” she said.
“I guess you heard about my mom.”
“Of course I did.”
“Well, I’m looking into a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Like what really happened.”
In this light Queenie’s face looked yellow and cold. She hadn’t changed much, still beautiful, still a rebel gleam in her eyes. Her mother married my father not long before I was kicked out. She was his 23rd or 24th wife, I think, a bucktoothed woman who ate her nails. They met through this polygamy personals website ( www.2wives.com ; check it out). She showed up at the house with her thirteen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth. My father started calling the girl Elizabeth the Second to avoid confusion with another girl. I remember how shocked she looked those first few weeks in the house: the livid brow, the sense of betrayal in her eyes whenever her mother called her Elizabeth the Second. She knew she had landed in a very strange place. As for me, I took to her because she seemed, well, kinda fabulous, although this was of course before I had ever used that word. One night she told me she hated everyone calling her Elizabeth the Second. “It makes me feel like the fucking queen,” she said. The what? She gave me a brief tutorial on British royalty. At first I didn’t believe her. The Prophet had said on one of his tapes that although England had managed to avoid total destruction in the last war, there was nothing there now other than a ruined people living in huts and sheds. “He’s lying,” she said. I told her she was the one who was lying, but this wasn’t long after I had refused to slaughter the dogs and the sheep. These two events rubbed together, shaping a baby pearl of doubt. Six weeks later my dad caught us holding hands. You know the rest.
In the garage I asked Queenie what had happened after I left. “It was no big deal,” she said. “Your punishment was excommunication. Mine was marriage. The Prophet chose Hiram for me. Or I guess I should say he chose me for Hiram. Hiram was twenty at the time, so not really that old. We were sealed the next day. You know how it goes, you’ve heard the story a million times. But you know what—and this is the insane part—we fell in love. He’s a good man. He loves me. He loves our little girl. Jordan—stop making that face.”
“What face?”
“You think I’m out of my mind.”
“No, no, it’s great,” I lied. “He sounds great.”
Was she kidding? Love? In Mesadale? “I’m just surprised,” I said. “Monogamy is sort of a no-no out here.”
“I know. Lately the Prophet’s been putting pressure on Hiram. But so far we’ve resisted.”
I asked how her mom was. She looked down to Elektra, then back up. A gray storm had moved across her eyes. “She’s dead.”
“What? How?”
“She got sick a few years ago. Her kidneys.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But that wasn’t it,” she said. “About six months ago she started having doubts about everything. She wanted to leave your dad. She wanted out of here. So they murdered her.”
“Excuse me?”
“They put salt in her dialysis machine. It crystallized her heart. She went into the clinic for a treatment and never came home.”
OK, let me stop for a second. I know what you’re thinking. And I’d be thinking it too. But in Mesadale it’s not as unlikely as it sounds.
“Who do you think it was?”
“The Prophet. Well, not
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