The Sacred Lies of Minnow Bly by Stephanie Oakes

air.
    â€œGod has sent me a message,” he called. “I am to take another wife.”
    The crowd exhaled. The Prophet had received this message many times since we moved to the Community. He already had eight wives. They were huddled close to the porch railing, looking lost. No children jostled into their calves like the other women. None of them, not a single one, had managed to bring a baby to term. They’d produced some crooked little skeletal things that might’ve been babies in some daydream of God’s, but that’s all.
    â€œAnd the woman who will be my new wife,” the Prophet continued, “who will serve God through me, who will bear beautiful children of light, is our own dear Minnow.” A smile bloomed under his big, gray beard.
    I didn’t understand at first. I was too conscious of other things, like my hands chapped from scrubbing clothes on a washboard, the purple smoke burying into my sinuses, and the image of Jude’s face that I couldn’t shake out of my eyes no matter how hard I tried.
    The Prophet approached me.
    â€œWhat do you say to this, Minnow?” he asked. “Do you not rejoice?”
    â€œNo,” I said, my voice traveling.
    He placed his hand on my shoulder, his thumb tracing the strap of my undergarments.
    â€œDoes it not please you, Minnow, to know you will be servant to God’s chosen messenger? That you will bear the children of God’s chosen messenger?”
    I searched the crowd but no one would catch my eye. No one but my mother. She stood at the other end of the courtyard. From beneath her bonnet, I could see a strand of the simple blond hair I didn’t inherit and the dead eyes I’d grown used to, not registering any of the unfolding events. Silent, impassive.
    â€œI don’t want to marry you,” I whispered.
    The Prophet smiled as though I’d made a joke. And it was a joke. There was no choice. I’d be forced to marry him whether I wanted to or not.
    â€œI am sure you will feel differently when your belly is round with a child of God.”
    I breathed a sharp breath and, without thinking, slapped him hard across his bearded cheek. Everyone gasped, including me. I held my hands together over my open mouth and took a quick step back.
    His fingers found his reddening face. I could practically see the plans forming inside his head, the tortures, the punishments marching into formation like soldiers, hot pokers and stocks and cleverly tied rope.
    He took one step toward me, then another, until all he had to do was lean forward to place his lips near my ear.
    â€œYou
will
be my wife,” he whispered.
    He straightened and looked for my father. “Take her to the maidenhood room where she shall be sequestered until our wedding day, praise God.”

Chapter 20
    D r. Wilson holds his hands on either side of his face. He hasn’t written any of this down, just listened. It occurs to me that he may have heard this story before.
    â€œWhat did your father do?” he asks.
    â€œI told you not to interrupt.”
    He dips his head. “Sorry.”
    I exhale and stare at the black paint peeling away from the frame of my bunk. “What do you think he did? He followed the Prophet’s orders.”
    â€œYes, but how did he appear?”
    â€œJust . . . the same as always. Like he’d had his insides ripped out and the Prophet’s hand thrust up in his body cavity, like a puppet.”
    â€œStunning visual,” he says. “How do you feel about your father now?”
    â€œI hate him,” I say without pausing.
    His head tips to the side.
    â€œWhat?” I demand. “You think I shouldn’t?”
    â€œNo,” he says. “I think you should be angry if you’re angry. But it’s also true that hate has a way of hurting you more than the person you’re hating.”
    He pulls a pad of Post-its from his bag and writes something down. He