The Lonely Polygamist Part 36

There were a dozen minor scuffles as they grappled for position, the ba.s.s-drum thump of someone's head landing on the lid of the casket, a shouting match over whose foot was being jammed into whose back. And the heat inside the car was a punishment (though Golden had the AC cranked and all the windows open, the tight knit of bodies stymied any kind of airflow and radiated a sweatshop heat of its own). But eventually they began to sort themselves out. In their badly knotted neckties and wrinkled funeral dresses they negotiated for s.p.a.ce, wiggling into niches and voids, the older ones taking the brunt of the weight, stiffening their arms and spines to protect those underneath, bracing their legs against seat backs and door handles, managing a quickly engineered scaffolding of limbs held in a trembling balance, bodies leveraged against one another until they seemed to be holding each other aloft.

Now the procession crested the cambered incline of Grover's Hill, filed past the remains of the old rodeo arena, the wooden corrals and chutes silvered with age, and onward to the north past a group of Herefords who could not be bothered to lift their heads.

"Doing good, kids," Golden called out to them, his voice thick, "it won't be long."

He let Pet steer the downslope straightaway and swiveled around to make sure no one was suffocating or succ.u.mbing to heatstroke. From the dregs of the rear seat came a weakened, desolate whine and from the farthest back somebody-possibly Naomi-said in the most matter-of-fact of voices, "I think my whole body is starting to cramp."

"Okay then, all right," Golden said. "Just hold on, you're all doing great, all of you, just hold on."

For a while there was nothing but the subterranean gurgle of the car's engine and the children's collective breathing, a noise like the gentle crash of surf that lulled Golden into a moment of heavy-lidded torpor-which was interrupted when Pet discovered the Cadillac's horn. She pressed the shiny chrome b.u.t.ton at the center of the steering wheel, giving it one short blast and one long, like a medieval call to arms, making everyone jump, causing the sheriff to crane his neck out the window to see what was the matter and Golden to raise both arms in demonstration of his innocence. It was at this moment that Pet gave it one more good blast and from behind there was a wheeze and a giggle and then the children were all laughing at once, a swelling, cackling cheer that was one of the sweetest sounds Golden had ever heard.

The cemetery in view now, they rattled over the last cattle guard on the way up the hill. There was a full minute of peace before an agitation started in the rear seat, a ripple of an argument that crescendoed in a burst of complaint and backbiting, which triggered a structural collapse in the far back, setting off a general howl of woe, and then the last straw, a sharp, bitter stench that quickly filled the car. Novella, sitting next to Golden with Louise on her lap, covered her mouth with her hand and said, "Oh, dear dear," and that was when it hit him. At first he thought it had to be something wrong with the engine, a melted hose or failed radiator, but then he realized that Cooter, spooked by the commotion or moved by simple spite, had relieved himself under the seat. Those who could pressed their noses toward an open window and those who couldn't cursed the day Cooter was ever born.

Finally, they rolled through the cemetery gates and everyone, including Cooter, bailed out in a slipstream of tumbling bodies before Golden could bring the hea.r.s.e to a stop.

Only Golden took his time getting out. For a few moments he was alone again, just him and the boy, and there under the outstretched arms of an old locust, the other cars filing slowly past, he let himself have his cry.

ONE MORE CHILD OF G.o.d In the sharp heat of noon, the graveside ceremony was mercifully short. Uncle Chick dedicated the grave, said a few final words, and that was all. The mourners offered their condolences and went back to their lives. Soon it was only the Richards family, the funeral director, Mr. Baugh, who sat sulking in his Buick because, once again, he had not been allowed to drive the company hea.r.s.e to transport the body, which was only customary and proper and part of the comprehensive funeral package comprehensive funeral package, and, of course, Tellis Blackmore, the county grave digger, waiting patiently to finish his job.

The Richards family plots took up most of the northwest corner of the cemetery. There were sixteen of them, an area of nearly seven hundred square feet bisected by a three-foot-wide walkway. Royal was buried just southwest of the center, Glory three plots over to the east, and Jack's small headstone stood at the far southeast corner next to a red currant bush. Rusty's grave, dug with meticulous care by Tellis Blackmore and his backhoe, lay just kitty-corner to his grandfather's. Golden stood in the expanse of all that pristine red dirt and realized it would never be sufficient, never close to enough.

Later that afternoon, during the funeral luncheon, he would get a call from a Mr. Edward Pinsker, one half of the s...o...b..rd couple who had purchased Old House with the intention of transforming it into the Jewel of the Desert Bed and Breakfast, who, having been back and forth to Minneapolis for the past month and not terribly interested in the local media, would have no idea that Golden had just buried his third child in as many years. For the sixth time, according to his records, Mr. Pinkser would be calling to complain that some of the house's old outbuildings that were supposed to have been razed, per the purchase agreement, were still very much standing, and he would wonder when he might expect to see them gone. Golden would not respond except to hang up the phone, go out back where the old Case front loader was parked among all the other machines currently being put to use in the Big House renovation and, still in his funeral clothes, the knot of his tie thick as a fist at his throat, drive the mile and a half to Old House, where he would chug up the driveway at full speed, lowering the big bucket as he came, and plow through the old chicken coops, flattening them in a hail of splinters, as if they had never been there at all. He would continue along the side of the house, his necktie slapping him in the face, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Pinsker watching from behind the safety of the screen door, and under a black haze of diesel fumes push Doll House, with a great shrieking of nails and snapping timbers, thirty yards across the gra.s.sy banks and into the river.

(All of this would be reported later by Nephi, who had been enlisted by Beverly to follow Golden in the work truck, to make sure he didn't do anything extreme; she had heard his end of the phone conversation and had seen the look in his eyes.) Sitting stiffly in the rusted spring seat, the exhaust pipe clattering and belching smoke, Golden would watch the remains of Doll House float out of sight, debris spreading out and disappearing along the big bend in the river, and then would spend a minute or two considering Raymond, loitering near the fence to watch the proceedings. Raymond, of course, had survived the accident that had taken Rusty's life. His breast feathers had been singed and he'd taken shrapnel to one of his legs, but other than a mild limp was no worse for wear; he stood at the fence with his head held high, blinking his girlish lashes. After a time Golden would back up the loader and pull up next to his work truck in which Nephi sat wondering how, exactly, he was supposed to have stopped his father from doing, as his mother put it, "anything extreme." Nephi would later report the look on his father's face as "kind of weird and freaky" as he told Nephi to move aside, casting around under the bench seat and coming up with a strange, old-fashioned long-barreled pistol. Carrying the pistol close to his leg, he would walk down the driveway, across the bridge and up to the ostrich pen, which he would open, letting the gate swing wide. Nephi was sure, he would later say, that his father was going to shoot the thing, the way he brought the gun up at it, but would end up pointing a few feet over its head, the echoing crack crack sending it charging from the pen, around the house and into the road, where it would pause on the double yellow line, looking around as if wondering how it had managed to end up there. Golden would discharge the gun once more, and with his memory now refreshed, Raymond would sprint through the Pettigrews' south pasture, scrabble wildly over a sagging barbed-wire fence and strike out across the raw desert, growing smaller and less distinct as he weaved and bobbed through the brush, dissolving and reappearing under the lip of the horizon until he seemed to have vanished into the sky. sending it charging from the pen, around the house and into the road, where it would pause on the double yellow line, looking around as if wondering how it had managed to end up there. Golden would discharge the gun once more, and with his memory now refreshed, Raymond would sprint through the Pettigrews' south pasture, scrabble wildly over a sagging barbed-wire fence and strike out across the raw desert, growing smaller and less distinct as he weaved and bobbed through the brush, dissolving and reappearing under the lip of the horizon until he seemed to have vanished into the sky.

All of this would happen a few hours from now, in a final tide of anger that, after everything, Golden would not have believed he had left in him. But here, surrounded by his wives and children, he was merely exhausted, aching, sapped by the heat of the day. It was all he could do to stand in place in front of the casket mounded with flowers and let Rose lean in to him.

The other mourners were long gone, the children getting restless, the younger ones beginning to wander out among the stones and monuments, their shoes and pant cuffs powdered with red dust, but Rose showed no signs of being ready to leave; she stared at the casket almost without blinking, as if trying to memorize the pattern of its grain. Mr. Baugh got out of his Buick and started toward them slowly, professionally, both hands clasped behind his back in a way that suggested all things must come to an end all things must come to an end, but a cold look from Golden stopped him in his tracks.

At some point Trish stepped away from the graveside to help Beverly and Em gather wayward children; a few of the girls were collecting beauty-pageant armfuls of dried-out wreaths and bleached plastic flowers, Herschel and the Three Stooges were climbing all over Tellis Blackmore's backhoe and Ferris already had his pants down and was pressing himself into the cool, polished marker of one MRS. ONEITA TORGERSON, 19011959, CHERISHED SISTER AND AUNT. MRS. ONEITA TORGERSON, 19011959, CHERISHED SISTER AND AUNT.

After getting Ferris back in his pants and calling the boys away from the machinery, Trish stopped near Jack's headstone. She was here, of course, to mourn Rusty, to support and comfort Rose, but could not help pausing for a moment, standing a little off to the side as if she were doing nothing more than scanning the cemetery for additional troublemakers. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch the small marker, to pull the weeds growing at its base, to swab with the hem of her dress the dust that had gathered in the carved letters of her son's name.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Golden look back at her and then he and Rose were stepping forward to gather several bouquets off the casket. With Golden beside her, Beverly laid a mixed wreath at Glory's grave, and eventually Golden stepped away to rest a bouquet of carnations against his father's stone. Trish did not know how long they maintained those positions, mourning alone in their separate corners, only Rose comforted by the soft weight of her sister's arm. Freed of any pretense, Trish bent on one knee to wrestle a few clutches of chickweed from the ground, and when she rose Golden was next to her, holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums. He arranged it carefully on the small grave, and when he stepped back he was so close the b.u.t.tons of his jacket cuff grazed her arm. He wiped his mouth and whispered, so low she almost couldn't hear, "He was a beautiful boy." His hand drifted sideways and, just for a moment, touched hers.

For some time they stood that way, without moving or speaking, the sun so high they stood perfectly inside their own shadows. Mr. Baugh checked his watch and the younger kids chased each other through the stones, their shouts carrying on the warm air, and Tellis Blackmore sat in his preferred spot under the shade of a gnarled juniper, finishing up his lunch and waiting patiently to lower one more child of G.o.d into the earth.

43.

A FUNDAMENTAL TRUTH

THE MONSOONS CAME EARLY THAT YEAR. EVERY AFTERNOON THE clouds would build to the south, darkening the far horizon and throwing down the occasional thunderbolt. The dry gra.s.s along the ditches would stir, the cottonwood leaves clatter like loose coins, the clouds swell and fold and spread, blocking the sun and pushing great walls of water-cooled air in front of them, bending trees and making laundry jump on the line, the temperature dropping fifteen degrees in twenty minutes. During the average monsoon season it didn't rain every afternoon, but this year it seemed to, storms lining up like causeway traffic, pushing up from Mexico by way of Arizona one after the other, sometimes well into the night. clouds would build to the south, darkening the far horizon and throwing down the occasional thunderbolt. The dry gra.s.s along the ditches would stir, the cottonwood leaves clatter like loose coins, the clouds swell and fold and spread, blocking the sun and pushing great walls of water-cooled air in front of them, bending trees and making laundry jump on the line, the temperature dropping fifteen degrees in twenty minutes. During the average monsoon season it didn't rain every afternoon, but this year it seemed to, storms lining up like causeway traffic, pushing up from Mexico by way of Arizona one after the other, sometimes well into the night.

Though almost everyone was grateful for the moisture, the relief from the heat, the beauty and distraction of such big weather, for Golden, trying to complete the Big House renovation as quickly as possible, it was a nightmare. Luckily he'd dug out and poured the new walls of the expanded bas.e.m.e.nt before the rains came, but the entire south side of the house had been torn away to accept the new addition, and though the opening was draped with twenty-foot lengths of clear plastic, the rain gusted in, soaking into the subfloors and drywall. Part of every day was lost to channel-making and dam construction to keep the water from flowing into the kitchen and the bas.e.m.e.nt, and everywhere you walked it was mud and slop and branching tributaries of brown water spanned by bridges of plywood sc.r.a.p or warped two-by-sixes. Even worse, his crews balked at working in the rain, even the Mexican framers and roofers who wouldn't have thought twice about hammering right through a dust storm or logging a twelve-hour day in one-hundred-degree heat. Some were terrified by lightning and others seemed to believe that a rainstorm was nothing less than a memo from G.o.d reminding them to take the day off or risk the consequences.

Golden worked every day except Sunday, with or without his crew. On a given afternoon you might have found him trying to put up plywood sheeting alone or straddling a high truss in the middle of a squall, pounding away with his oversized framing hammer, soaked through, buck teeth exposed and hair plastered to his head in a way that brought to mind an irritable muskrat. He got so used to slipping in the thick clay gumbo that he would go down on his back or side, smeared all the way to the shoulders, and be right up and moving on to the next thing as if nothing had happened. Some evenings he'd come in for dinner nearly encased in dried mud, his eyes and teeth flashing white like some Aborigine on a vision quest.

Every night he would take a long shower, go to church meetings, or play with the kids upstairs, and every night at the chime of the clock he would show up for his ten-thirty appointment with the Barge. For weeks he'd been falling into a desperate, lost sleep, but sometime in late June he began waking in the early hours, stirred by an ache he at first took for sorrow, before realizing what he was feeling was desire. The kind of rich bodily pangs he was sure had abandoned him for good. More than once he awakened to discover Trish standing over him, a pale shadow in a long white T-shirt, a vision created out of the moist vapors of his longing. By the time he could rub the crust from his eyes and rouse himself completely she would be gone.

Sometimes, unable to get back to sleep, he'd creep down the hall and stand in the doorway of the utility closet, noting how the blue radiance of the water heater's pilot light played over her sleeping form. He allowed himself to go no further, only to look.

Trish, feigning sleep, would watch through the blur of her eyelashes, keeping perfectly still. But Golden only stood at the door, a stark black cutout backlit by the dim light of the hall. In the days after Rusty's funeral, acutely aware of the two weeks since her missed period, the tenderness in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the growing tightness at her waist, Trish had convinced herself that this new child would be enough, that-especially considering the illicit way in which it had been acquired-she should be grateful for what she had, with the life she had made for herself. But Golden's dark form in the doorway had imprinted something new and painful on the hard plates of her chest: that old devil, hope. The kind of hope that abandons you in your worst moments and is suddenly there again, weeks later, trailing you like the stubborn, slinking dog who will not take no for an answer. The kind of greedy hope that tricks you into believing that at least some of the things taken from you might be restored, that after everything, you might find your way back to something like happiness.

So Trish lay in her cot, Cooter's hot little head wedged into her stomach, hoping, trying not to hope. When Golden appeared in the doorway she would attempt to lure him in like a hunter lures a bear: with a silence and stillness too delicious to resist. She knew how broken with sadness he was, how uncertain around his wives, how unworthy he felt, how nearly impossible he found it to look any one of them in the eye. There was part of her that still wanted to punish and hurt him, to meet his reticence with hers. But since her own betrayal-for which she continued to place, unfairly or not, a large portion of the blame at his feet-she had found herself less and less able to work up anything like anger or jealousy. She wanted only what she had wanted all along: a loving touch once in a while, the companionship of family, to belong.

One night, a steady procession of thunder skipping through distant canyons, she awoke from a fitful half sleep to find Golden in the doorway and without thinking opened her eyes to look right at him. He disappeared into the hall but, spurred by a sudden, reckless clarity, she followed. He was already sinking back into the Barge, trying to wrestle himself under his Mexican blanket. When she approached he closed his eyes and froze in place like a lizard playing dead. She shook her head and sighed, wondering why they had continued with this silly game for so long.

She said, "Having trouble sleeping?"

Blanket clutched under chin, Golden seemed to conduct a quick debate with himself over whether or not to continue the ruse. Without opening his eyes he said, "A little."

"Me too," she said. "A lot."

"The thunder," he said, "it's kind of loud."

"I was thinking maybe it's this c.r.a.ppy old couch you're sleeping on. I was also noticing how big it is. How it might be big enough for one more."

He looked at her for the first time, and together they confronted two possibilities: he could stay as he was, protecting himself, pretending he hadn't heard her, and she could go back to her cot in the closet, her independence and pride intact. Or something could be risked, a new reality seeded with the promise of pain and disappointment that attends every act of love. Damp air gusted through the plastic curtains that shielded the gaping breach in the house. In the half-light the whites of her husband's eyes were luminous, the sides of his mouth pinched, his nostrils flaring with what might have been excitement or fear. He lifted the blanket to let her in.

This time, she did not rush. She did not smother or clutch at him, as had always been her inclination. She let her body ease into his. This is what she had always loved most about him: his body, his movement and shape, his smell. It was a smell that, when mixed with the rich, percolating odors of the couch, produced in her something like yearning or nostalgia; there were the bodily perfumes of thousands of children in their various ages and incarnations, baby lotion and wet diapers and shampooed hair, the faint metallic tang of old pennies and autumn leaves stuck to the bottoms of shoes, the residue of smoky winter nights and summer dust. For her, it was a smell that meant family and memory and time. It was the smell-and she could find no better word for it-of home.

Together they listened to a line of heavy rain pa.s.s over the house and move on. He put his hand on her hip and from that point of contact radiated a warm, tingling current. Lifting her chin, she searched the shadows of his face, and a question rose in her mind that she was not quick enough to beat back: "All this time, you weren't really impotent impotent"-she took special care with the word's p.r.o.nunciation-"were you?"

He stiffened, pulled away a little, and just like that the spell was broken. What had gotten into her, to ask this question, at this moment? Slowly it came to her, with some satisfaction, that maybe she did did still have her pride, that this still have her pride, that this was was the perfect moment, maybe the only one they would have, to clear the air in a lasting way, to start fresh. the perfect moment, maybe the only one they would have, to clear the air in a lasting way, to start fresh.

"Not," he said, searching for the proper diplomatic construction, "in a manner of speaking."

She almost laughed but sighed instead, with only the barest hint of bitterness. "I should have known, I really should have. You'd think I'd have you figured out by now."

"Trish, I'm sor-" and he caught himself. "It's just, I didn't know what to do or how to act. I still don't. I don't know that I ever will."

"You're getting better," she said. "This is a start."

"I'm trying," he said. "For you and the others."

"And there's going to be a new one? For sure?" Why not? Why not? she thought. Here they were, about to make love for the first time in nearly a year, and who does she invite to the party but the new wife, the one who will one day compete with her for nearly everything that matters, who will just as likely come to view her as an enemy as a friend, who could even turn out to be the raven-haired mistress with the beautiful name who Golden had been courting and cuddling these past several months while she sat at home alone in her sad sweatpants trying not to lose her mind? she thought. Here they were, about to make love for the first time in nearly a year, and who does she invite to the party but the new wife, the one who will one day compete with her for nearly everything that matters, who will just as likely come to view her as an enemy as a friend, who could even turn out to be the raven-haired mistress with the beautiful name who Golden had been courting and cuddling these past several months while she sat at home alone in her sad sweatpants trying not to lose her mind? Why not, really? Why not, really? On this crowded couch, in this crowded house, here it was: the crowded life she had chosen, in all its glory, a life that had to be, by its very definition, divided and shared and shared again. On this crowded couch, in this crowded house, here it was: the crowded life she had chosen, in all its glory, a life that had to be, by its very definition, divided and shared and shared again.

"It looks like it, but I don't want to think about that right now. Do you?"

"Not really. I guess I kind of like knowing what you're up to."

After this interruption it took them a while to find a way forward. There was a hovering indecisiveness that quickly turned into urgency. Beginning to kiss, they shifted to find a better angle, nearly dumping Trish over the edge of the couch in the process. Golden was quick to throw his arms around her and pull her back, squeezing with such force her breath left her and her joints popped. Trish kissed him hard, grasping his collarbone as if it were the rung of a ladder, and in one motion hoisted herself on top of him. Quickly she shed her own T-shirt and then spent a dozen precious seconds working his over his inconveniently enormous head. Distant lightning ignited the windows twice, three times. He began to strain against her, bearing her up as a wave lifts a boat, a muggy heat rising off him, making her sweat. Centered high on his hipbone, she pressed down, searching for leverage, her vision pulsing with the beat of her heart. Thunder sounded against the walls of the house and she heard him saying something, what she thought might be an expression of pleasure, but then he was grabbing her arms and she heard the word, "Wait."

"Trish," he gasped. "Please."

"What?" she said, still moving against him. "What is it?"

"I don't think-" He began to sit up. "I don't think I can."

Her body weak, shuddering with desire, she could barely keep from shouting. "Don't start that again, I know know you can! We just talked about it!" you can! We just talked about it!"

"No," he pleaded, shaking his head. "It's not that. Please, I have an idea. Can you give me just a minute? One second?"

With his free hand he cast around the living room floor for his jeans, from which he extracted his overstuffed leather wallet. He rifled through it contents and removed a square of gold foil with the words A PleasurePlus Prophylactic A PleasurePlus Prophylactic printed across it in cursive. printed across it in cursive.

"What is that that?" she said, though she knew exactly what it was.

"It's-"

"I know what it is, Golden. Where did you get it?"

"I'm thinking you probably don't want to know."

"Then why are you showing it to me?"

He was giving her a strange look, one of equal parts expectation and embarra.s.sment, hoping the square of gold foil might communicate everything that he could not.

"And what?" she said. "You want us to use that? Now? Now?"

He nodded, but with such an air of uncertainty he might as well have been shaking his head. He said, "You don't understand?"

"What?" she said. "What am I supposed to understand?"

The words came out with an edge of hostility she hadn't entirely intended and he looked away, the muscles of his neck clenching in a way that suggested he was trying to hold back tears.

"Golden, no, don't do this, not now." She felt a surge of nausea at the base of her throat and wondered, not for the first time, if there was simply too much that had happened to them-could their relationship be so irretrievably damaged that they could not manage even a simple act of lovemaking? Old folks, invalids, dumb teenagers, complete strangers did it all the time; monkeys, she read somewhere, were known to do it thirty times a day. So what was wrong with her and Golden? The only good answer she could come to was that the chasm that had opened between them over the past year and a half was too wide to breach, and that in deciding to stay, she had made a terrible mistake.

"See?" he said, turning back to her. His face was soft, his eyes bright but without tears. "It's just that, right now, I have to take care of the ones I already have."

The air seemed to go out of her then, leaving a feeling of empty calm. "I see," she said. "I do." Yes, she did. She understood that her greatest wish had turned into his greatest fear, and that if there was going to be a compromise, she, of course, would have to be the one to make it. And yet she'd already taken what she wanted, hadn't she, stolen it for herself with a boldness that surprised her still? And why not, she wondered, why not allow him to believe, at least for a little while, that he could exercise some power over life and how it was given? He would learn soon enough that when it came to children, there was no way to control how they came and went. They arrived as miracles and were s.n.a.t.c.hed away again without meaning, without the least reason or sense, and she and this sweet, sad man were going to have to help each other accept this as the most fundamental truth of their lives.

So she set about kissing him again, and as she did she pried open his fist and removed the condom crumpled inside it.

Coming up for air, he said, "I have to tell you, I don't have any idea how to use that thing."

"Oh," she said, "don't worry, hon, I do."

In one quick motion she pulled down his sweatpants and underwear, and while she was busy noticing how very un unimpotent he was-a rather difficult fact to miss from her vantage point-something else caught her eye. It appeared as if the hair around his genitals had been trimmed back in an almost perfectly round circle, half an inch long or so, like the green on a golf course cut from the surrounding rough.

"What," she said, "is this this?"

He looked down at himself. "Yeah," he said, "this. I don't know. A while back I got some gum gum caught there somehow. I guess I got carried away cutting it out." caught there somehow. I guess I got carried away cutting it out."

In a few moments Trish and her husband would make love for the first time in nearly a year, with such vigor and abandon that they would have to bite their lips and hold their hands over each other's mouths to keep from waking the house. But right now, slipping the condom from its little golden pouch, she laughed longer and louder than she had in a very long time.

44.

A WEDDING

A SAt.u.r.dAY AFTERNOON IN LATE SEPTEMBER, THE SKY A CHECKERBOARD SAt.u.r.dAY AFTERNOON IN LATE SEPTEMBER, THE SKY A CHECKERBOARD of clouds, the air soft with the coming fall. The Big House renovation is winding down, and none too soon; the work, as always, has been plagued by mishaps and delays, broken sewer pipes and code violations, bureaucratic snafus at the county office, nasty weather of all kinds. The crew, offered a handsome bonus to finish the job by the end of the month, lay shingles and set windows and paint trim with uncommon industry, the entire rear of the house so jumbled with ladders and scaffolding and scrambling men that the whole enterprise brings to mind the Tower of Babel. of clouds, the air soft with the coming fall. The Big House renovation is winding down, and none too soon; the work, as always, has been plagued by mishaps and delays, broken sewer pipes and code violations, bureaucratic snafus at the county office, nasty weather of all kinds. The crew, offered a handsome bonus to finish the job by the end of the month, lay shingles and set windows and paint trim with uncommon industry, the entire rear of the house so jumbled with ladders and scaffolding and scrambling men that the whole enterprise brings to mind the Tower of Babel.

Occasionally, the roofers pause in their hammerivng to watch the spectacle below. On the broad, weedy lawn a couple hundred people have gathered for a wedding: rows of folding chairs, banquet tables spread with desserts and finger food, and up front, at the outer edge of the milling crowd, the happy couple, the handsome groom and lovely bride.

The ceremony doesn't take long. A thin silver cloud pa.s.ses in front of the sun, casting everything a deeper shade of itself, and as if this is his cue Uncle Chick asks the crowd to be seated. There is a brief bout of musical chairs that leaves at least thirty disappointed stragglers searching for a place to stand. Mostly, this is a typical fundamentalist crowd, comprised of the usual mob of children, the men in polyester suits and bolo ties, the women with their long hair brushed and shimmering in the gla.s.sy light. But there are a few who obviously don't belong (invited here by Golden unbeknownst to Uncle Chick or anyone else): Nelson Norman, settled in next to the banquet tables, having already sampled three kinds of cake and two flavors of punch; Leonard Odlum, looking sorely out of place in a rented maroon tuxedo and trying in vain to make meaningful eye contact with some of the young ladies in the audience; and near the back, Nestor, flanked on one side by a few of his hungover bandmates, and on the other by Huila, her son Fredy, and her silver-haired uncle Esteban, who accompanied the boy on the journey from Guatemala.

Clearing his throat, Uncle Chick takes his place before the groom (who sweats despite the cool air, as if at the tail end of a forced march) and the beaming bride in the pale chiffon dress she wore for her first wedding nearly seventeen years ago, altered to show a hint of cleavage. She lifts a hand to keep her complicated and newly dyed hairdo in proper alignment, and the sudden movement causes the dress, already showing signs of considerable strain, to make a sharp tearing noise at one of its seams.

An hour or so ago, to prepare himself for this moment, Golden snuck out to his work truck while the older boys were busy setting up chairs and fished out his jelly jar from under the bench seat. Though tempted on more occasions than he could count, he had not partaken of it since Rusty's accident. He held it up to the light: less than an inch of amber liquid at its bottom. One sip for comfort, two for courage One sip for comfort, two for courage, he thought, and took one exceptionally long and very deep sip until the jar was emptied. He shuddered, gave himself an exhortatory slap on the face, and tossed the jar into his neighbor's trash heap on the other side of the fence.

Now, while Uncle Chick cracks his oversized Bible-and-Book-of-Mormon combination to a random page and without looking at it begins to recite a series of wedding-related scriptures, Golden concentrates, making sure not to teeter or sway. Speaking at a good clip, as if he's trying to get this over with as soon as possible, Uncle Chick explains to the couple that they will be required, from this day hence, to love and support each other, that it is the sacred duty of the wife to submit herself to her husband in all things and in return he must protect and provide for her, to cleave unto her as if she were his own body, that they must share all things in love and righteousness and always keep their marriage bed pure-here he pauses to give Golden a less-than-enigmatic look through the smoked lenses of his gla.s.ses-and if they will heed this counsel and keep G.o.d's commandments they shall forever be as one mind, one flesh.

The sun slides free of the silver clouds and Golden is dazzled for a moment, he has to close his eyes and turn his head, and when he opens them again he is looking at his four wives, seated side by side in the front row just to his right, wearing identical cream-colored dresses. They are holding hands and in each of their eyes, even Beverly's, is the evidence of tears.

For a moment he experiences that familiar, almost thrilling sense of dislocation-How did I get here? How did this happen?-and then the web of phosphenes and colored dots clears from his vision and he is struck by the beauty of these women, their generous mouths and graceful arms, their backs held straight as if in defiance or pride. His own body, compressed for so long under the weight of sadness and doubt, creaks at this sudden and irregular expansion of feeling, with the swelling of belief that he can can do this, that he has the capacity to love and care for these women-his wives!-that his heart is s.p.a.cious enough to accommodate them all, even this strange woman at his side who nudges him a little to direct his attention back to the matter at hand, her hair crackling in his ear. do this, that he has the capacity to love and care for these women-his wives!-that his heart is s.p.a.cious enough to accommodate them all, even this strange woman at his side who nudges him a little to direct his attention back to the matter at hand, her hair crackling in his ear.

In this single bright moment, surrounded by his loved ones, his new home being raised in a racket of hammering and shouts, the air imprinted with the scent of hot sawdust, he is ready to believe that anything is possible.

He can't help himself; before he turns back he steals a look across the heads of family and friends, finds Huila near the back standing by the propane tank. He can't be sure, but she appears to be holding Nestor's hand. They both smile broadly, her son clutching his mother's leg, the weathered old uncle looking around, an expression on his face that says, These are some very strange people. These are some very strange people. Huila is wearing the peasant dress he first saw her in, the one decorated with yellow pineapples and bananas in rough yarn, and he knows that for all the undeserved bounty of his life, she will always be there, at the edge of his vision, to remind him of all the things he can never have. Huila is wearing the peasant dress he first saw her in, the one decorated with yellow pineapples and bananas in rough yarn, and he knows that for all the undeserved bounty of his life, she will always be there, at the edge of his vision, to remind him of all the things he can never have.

Uncle Chick asks the wives to come forward and take their place next to the bride: Trish closest to Maureen, then Rose-of-Sharon, Nola, and Beverly at the end.

Now that Trish is standing, the slight rounding of her belly is obvious. After that first night months ago, until her morning sickness (which seemed to peak during evening hours) got the better of her, they'd had s.e.x with some regularity on the Barge's smelly decks, healing s.e.x, tired s.e.x, s.e.x whose only purpose, it seemed, was to make the world and everything in it disappear. Though she was never enthusiastic about it, Golden insisted they use the condoms he had purchased, in a moment of abject embarra.s.sment, from the old bald druggist in St. George. Now the sight of his young wife, flushed at the cheeks, radiant with the new life inside her, he can only accept as a miracle, a divine rebuke to his selfish desires.

Both Rose and Nola have a different look to them as well, Rose with her hair in a simple bun, her skin tanned from a summer spent mostly outside, away from the hubbub of construction, herding kids and working in the family garden, and Nola, who has shed a good fifteen pounds since finding out that it would be Maureen Sinkfoyle joining the family (she has let it be known that her new life's goal is to be "only the second tubbiest wife in the Richards clan"). And there is Beverly, at the end of the line, a flash of new gray at her temples, coughing quietly into her fist. A month ago, after she had succeeded in her campaign to ensure that Maureen would be Golden's fifth wife, she informed him in the most matter-of-fact way that she had been to see the doctor, who told her what she had suspected for quite a while: she had inoperable lung cancer, almost certainly contracted from exposure to radioactive fallout. She would not seek treatment, which had little chance of helping anyway, and her only request of him was that he keep this news a secret for as long as she asked. She would spend the rest of her time tutoring Maureen and making peace with the other wives, to ensure that once she was gone the Richards family would soldier forward in harmony and righteousness until the promised day, on the other side of the veil, when they would be joined together again.

From the back of the house there is the sharp whine of a power saw followed by some good-natured cursing in Spanish, and one of the redheaded Sinkfoyle brothers (both of whom will be adding their number to the ranks of the Richards family any moment now) makes an off-color joke under his breath that draws a few t.i.tters from the crowd. Uncle Chick barks out a cough of warning and turns to address the wives. He asks them if they are ready to stand as Sarah of old and sacrifice their personal desires to the greater glory of G.o.d and His kingdom. To each one in turn he asks, "Do you, willingly and of your own accord, give this good sister to this man in marriage for time and all eternity?" and each one, with only a slight hesitation, nods, says, "I do."

At this point of the ceremony, it is up to Trish, as the last wife, to deliver the bride. She takes Maureen's wrist, but doesn't seem to possess the strength to lift it. A muscle in her jaw flares and, in a single, insistent motion, she places Maureen's right hand in Golden's and covers them both with her own. The other wives step forward to do the same and as they huddle close, breathing the same air, Golden hopes to meet their eyes, to a.s.sure them of his love for them, his good intentions, but he can see only a series of wet, flesh-colored blurs, and the moment is lost when Uncle Chick, by the power vested in him by no one but the true and living G.o.d, p.r.o.nounces them man and wives. They step back, and for those in attendance it is difficult to say if the tears they discreetly knuckle from their eyes are tears of sorrow or joy.

The groom is instructed to kiss the bride, and Maureen tugs Golden down by his tie and mashes her face into his. The crowd exhales a sigh of relief and the Richards children, prodded by the several old church ladies who value politeness and decorum above all else, step uncertainly forward to offer their congratulations. Under a wide western sky they gather round, father, mothers and children, the whole mob of them shaking hands, giving kisses and exaggerated hugs, as if hoping to convince themselves, once and for all, that they are that most wondrous and impossible of things: one big happy family.