To save himself the humiliation, the boy said to Coach, Can't do it Can't do it, and Coach cupped his hand behind his ear as if he hadn't heard correctly. CAN'T? CAN'T? Coach boomed, giving everyone a crazy, wide-eyed look as if this were the most astounding word he'd ever heard. Coach boomed, giving everyone a crazy, wide-eyed look as if this were the most astounding word he'd ever heard. CAN'T CAN'T, Coach said, was not in his personal dictionary. CAN'T CAN'T was a word for Democrats and war deserters. was a word for Democrats and war deserters. CAN'T CAN'T, Coach said, has no place in his gym, or in the US of A and its sovereign territories, for that matter. So get your goldarned b.u.t.t up to the bar and give it your best goldarned shot. has no place in his gym, or in the US of A and its sovereign territories, for that matter. So get your goldarned b.u.t.t up to the bar and give it your best goldarned shot.

The boy stepped up on the little stool and grabbed the bar with both hands and hung there for a few seconds, doomed. He decided he wouldn't even try, would just hang there feeling sorry for himself until Coach told him to get off. But something happened: he started to get mad. He was mad, of course, about Coach turning his pull-up into a larger spectacle than it otherwise would have been, but then he started to think about his sorry life, his bad haircut and foot odor problem, about how everyone in Old House teased and badgered him, called him names like Busty Rusty or whispered, Ree-Pul-Seeeevo! Ree-Pul-Seeeevo! whenever he came into the room, how Aunt Beverly wouldn't talk to him or look at him for an entire day and then during family prayer would make a special point to ask Heavenly Father to help the boy come closer to Christ and improve his self-control. He thought about his father, who barely knew his name, who not only ignored him but his mother as well, his mother who was spending more and more time up in her dark bedroom instead of trying to bring the boy back to Big House where he belonged, and right there, hanging from a bar in front of everyone with his gym shorts threatening to slide down, the boy nearly wept with rage, his head hot, his mouth filling with spit, and he realized he was pulling himself up, nearly halfway already, his arms burning and fingers cramped, and somebody cried, whenever he came into the room, how Aunt Beverly wouldn't talk to him or look at him for an entire day and then during family prayer would make a special point to ask Heavenly Father to help the boy come closer to Christ and improve his self-control. He thought about his father, who barely knew his name, who not only ignored him but his mother as well, his mother who was spending more and more time up in her dark bedroom instead of trying to bring the boy back to Big House where he belonged, and right there, hanging from a bar in front of everyone with his gym shorts threatening to slide down, the boy nearly wept with rage, his head hot, his mouth filling with spit, and he realized he was pulling himself up, nearly halfway already, his arms burning and fingers cramped, and somebody cried, Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! and somebody else shouted, and somebody else shouted, Don't strain your girdle! Don't strain your girdle! because this was Coach's favorite saying and it was one of the few insults you could use in cla.s.s without getting into trouble. And then, for some reason, an image of his Aunt Trish pa.s.sed through the boy's mind, her long neck and shampoo smell and full bust stretching the fabric of her sweater, and he began to plead with himself, because this was Coach's favorite saying and it was one of the few insults you could use in cla.s.s without getting into trouble. And then, for some reason, an image of his Aunt Trish pa.s.sed through the boy's mind, her long neck and shampoo smell and full bust stretching the fabric of her sweater, and he began to plead with himself, No b.o.n.e.r, please, please, no b.o.n.e.r No b.o.n.e.r, please, please, no b.o.n.e.r, because of all the bad things that had ever happened to him, a b.o.n.e.r while attempting a President's Council on Fitness pull-up just might be the most tragic. He was able to fight off the b.o.n.e.r successfully but in the process lost some of his momentum, which only made his face get redder, his whole body shaking as if electrified, his eyes bulging dangerously from his head, and, lifted by hot gusts of fury and l.u.s.t and frustration, he made one last pull, groaning and grimacing and straining his girdle so badly it felt like his intestines might fly out of his b.u.t.t like paper streamers.

Coach, who never cursed in front of the students, shouted, Holy Christ, son, that's enough! Holy Christ, son, that's enough! and the boy let go of the bar and flopped to the mat. People clapped him on the back, saying, and the boy let go of the bar and flopped to the mat. People clapped him on the back, saying, Good job, good job, Good job, good job, and Thor Erickssen, the third-most-popular kid in the seventh grade, nudged him with his toe and said, and Thor Erickssen, the third-most-popular kid in the seventh grade, nudged him with his toe and said, Nice going, whatever-your-name-is Nice going, whatever-your-name-is.

Now, only a few hours later, the boy has nearly forgotten all those twisted, uncontrollable feelings, remembers only the glory of the moment, sees only the certificate in his hands, signed by Jimmy Carter, President of the United States of America.

He goes to the closet and, from his hiding spot at the back of the unused and difficult-to-reach top shelf, takes down some of his secret things. This is where he keeps his notebooks, into which he empties the messy contents of his head, as well as his other special items, most of them stolen or salvaged: comic books and magazines and canisters of black powder, a crucifix taken from a roadside memorial, a railroad spike, and piece of jasper that in the boy's mind is a miniature planet over which he presides like a jealous but benevolent G.o.d. In this family, nearly all of the children have appropriated some niche or hidey-hole where they can squirrel away their treasured objects, the talismans that embody their most vulnerable selves and so must be protected from the obliterating crowd.

The boy's notebooks are full of doodles and scribbled observations and endless pages of lists (7 Favorite Ice Cream Toppings, 12 Best Insect Monsters of All Times), the longest by far his comprehensive LIST OF REVENGE LIST OF REVENGE, which he revises at least twice a week and comprises, at the present time, thirty-nine names. One entire notebook is reserved for blueprints and strategies and plans, some minor:

Fake Blood Recipes - 1. Katchup + water - 2. Elmers + food coloring - 3. Melt red crayons in pot some slightly more ambitious:

How to Get More Popular at School - 1. take a shower - 2. bell bottoms - 3. hand out candy - 4. mustash?

and the one, of course, he has been developing lately, his Grand Master Plan, which he has already put into motion by giving June the picture of his fake mother, and which will take care of his troubles once and for all:

GRAND MASTER PLAN Rose-of-Sharon + June + = Good Times Forever Rusty + Aunt Trish

To the boy, this makes perfect sense. It is simple and yet complicated, which he believes all good plans should be. He also believes, despite all evidence to the contrary, that he can bend the world to his will, that he can manufacture a place in it where he will be happy.

Once the boy saw a commercial that begins with a father and mother and their two children walking around the house stiff-legged and grimacing, in obvious discomfort. They each fix themselves a big gla.s.s of Metamucil, drink it down, and the next thing you know they're sitting around the kitchen table, cheerful and unconstipated, eating waffles and having a good laugh. And then the deep, mellow voice of the narrator comes on: Metamucil: Just One More Regular Family Metamucil: Just One More Regular Family.

The boy can't get the commercial out of his head. A regular family. That's all he's ever wanted. A regular family that can sit around a regular-sized kitchen table drinking some refreshing Metamucil and having a good laugh. But when he tries to picture his ideal regular family, things get a little odd. His mother is there, of course, happy and full of life in the morning sunshine, and June whistles an old-fashioned melody while making waffles and bacon for the boy, who is dressed, for some reason, in full Royal Canadian Mountie regalia and is grooming his n.o.ble steed, right there in the dining room, while he waits for his secret admirer, Aunt Trish, to come downstairs for breakfast in her gauzy nightgown.

That his father does not appear in his fantasy or in his plans for a happier life is not lost on the boy. He tries not to, but most of the time he hates his father, blames him for the sorry state of his life, wants to hurt him in ways that make him scared of himself. Sometimes he has no choice but to put him right up at the top of his LIST OF REVENGE LIST OF REVENGE at #2 behind Aunt Beverly. But tonight, for these few hours, he is willing to forgive, to suspend his plans and schemes and give his father a chance. For the boy, it is terribly simple: all his father needs to do is come home and remark kindly on the boy's certificate. It won't take much, maybe a smile, a squeeze of the shoulder, and the boy will go to bed happy and all will be well. at #2 behind Aunt Beverly. But tonight, for these few hours, he is willing to forgive, to suspend his plans and schemes and give his father a chance. For the boy, it is terribly simple: all his father needs to do is come home and remark kindly on the boy's certificate. It won't take much, maybe a smile, a squeeze of the shoulder, and the boy will go to bed happy and all will be well.

It is full dark now. When a car comes down the road he can't be sure if it's his father's pickup because all he can see are the glare of headlights. He must wait for the headlights to reach the turnoff into Old House's driveway, and each time they pa.s.s by, keep going over the hill toward town, the bubble of anger in his stomach quivers and swells. Downstairs the other children are madly practicing their piano solos and reciting their poems and arguing over who will get to open the door when the big moment comes. Cars pa.s.s, one after another, but the boy keeps his position on the radiator until his b.u.t.t is sore and his head hurts.

It is bedtime now and he has lost count of the cars that have pa.s.sed-his best guess is six thousand-and his vision is blurry, the lights sprouting strange rainbow colors, and when one more pa.s.ses, the bubble in the boy's stomach pops and he is seized by a spasm of rage so intense and electrifying that he misses it when it's gone. On shaking legs he goes to his closet and from his secret hiding spot takes down a plastic canister, the one with Green Magnesium Flash Powder Green Magnesium Flash Powder written on the side. He opens it and taps out some of the powder-black, not green-onto the face of the certificate. He opens the window, letting in cool air and the smell of new gra.s.s. He can hear a dog barking, the quiet murmur of the river. He takes a match from the book he keeps in his nylon wallet and waits for a staggered line of cars to pa.s.s, written on the side. He opens it and taps out some of the powder-black, not green-onto the face of the certificate. He opens the window, letting in cool air and the smell of new gra.s.s. He can hear a dog barking, the quiet murmur of the river. He takes a match from the book he keeps in his nylon wallet and waits for a staggered line of cars to pa.s.s, one...two...three one...two...three. He waits for one more car, only one, he will give his father one final chance, and when the headlights pa.s.s by he strikes the match and touches the flame to the corner of his certificate.

It doesn't burn well at first, so he tilts it down a little and when the sifting powder reaches the flame he is blinded for a moment by the bright green flash. Jerking back, he lets the certificate go into the night, where it catches a cushion of air, flaring and spinning for a moment, and softly the boy says, Huzzah, Huzzah, as he watches it circle in the breeze, burning until it is just a husk of glowing ash spiraling into the dark bushes below. as he watches it circle in the breeze, burning until it is just a husk of glowing ash spiraling into the dark bushes below.

19.

NO ORDINARY SLEAZEBALL

THE FIRST TIME SHE CAME, GOLDEN WAS ASLEEP ON THE BARGE. HE liked to stretch out on the old orange and brown plaid dinosaur and doze for a while before retiring to his trailer, which was about as roomy and comfortable as an iron lung. He brought the Barge out here after Sister Barbara, his part-time secretary at the office back in Virgin, refused to come to work unless he got rid of it. The couch's signature tuna smell, she claimed, was activating her migraines. So instead of hauling it out to the dump where it belonged, he'd brought it to Nevada and set it out in the dry desert air, which so far had done very little to dispel the fishy odor. Made with enough lumber and hardware to construct a footbridge across a Peruvian creva.s.se, the Barge had been rained on once, suffered a few direct hits from the local crow population, but had held up nicely otherwise. Golden figured that if he left it in this isolated spot and someone came across it, say a couple of centuries hence, it would be in much the same shape, though one could hope the fish smell might be gone by then. liked to stretch out on the old orange and brown plaid dinosaur and doze for a while before retiring to his trailer, which was about as roomy and comfortable as an iron lung. He brought the Barge out here after Sister Barbara, his part-time secretary at the office back in Virgin, refused to come to work unless he got rid of it. The couch's signature tuna smell, she claimed, was activating her migraines. So instead of hauling it out to the dump where it belonged, he'd brought it to Nevada and set it out in the dry desert air, which so far had done very little to dispel the fishy odor. Made with enough lumber and hardware to construct a footbridge across a Peruvian creva.s.se, the Barge had been rained on once, suffered a few direct hits from the local crow population, but had held up nicely otherwise. Golden figured that if he left it in this isolated spot and someone came across it, say a couple of centuries hence, it would be in much the same shape, though one could hope the fish smell might be gone by then.

Tonight, he had himself spread out the entire length of it, with his head on one arm and his toes touching the other. Still damp from his evening shower and with nothing to do but watch the sun set golden and smoky over the distant mountains, he closed his eyes to listen to the mild desert breeze, napped a little, woke up briefly at the call of a mockingbird.

He'd hardly slept since learning Weela was Ted Leo's wife. He'd been puzzling it out, going over every angle, and he'd been able to convince himself, mostly, that this new development was a good thing, a blessing. Maybe even G.o.d's way of looking out for him. She was off-limits to him now, even more so than when he thought she was a prost.i.tute, and he would have to forget about her and get back to the things that mattered: finishing this job, getting his business out from under the threat of bankruptcy, and focusing on his family.

And so, feeling just a little bit virtuous and exceptionally clean-he had succeeded, finally, in washing every trace of peanut b.u.t.ter out of his private area-he had sunk into the worn springs of the couch intent on a round of fitful dozing under the wide Nevada sky before retiring to his bunk for the night.

He woke up to the sound of footsteps. He was sure it was Leonard, who sometimes got bored with perusing p.o.r.nographic magazines and playing poker down at the motel with the other men, and showed up at Golden's trailer wanting to throw a Frisbee or show off a few of his self-taught tae kwon do katas. It had turned dusky, the sky still molten at the edges, and in the gray light he could make out a shadowy form about a hundred yards off, coming up the shallow rise.

Golden sat up, yawned. "Leonard," he called. "That you?"

Not until she stepped out of the sagebrush about thirty yards off could he see who it was. "Allo?" she said.

"Yes?" he said. "Weela?" The word sounded ridiculous in his mouth, and he said it again under his breath as a kind of practice. He got to his feet, then sat back down, unsure of how to receive her. He was wearing an old work T-shirt, cut-off sweats, and his hideous flipperlike feet-malformed from years of wearing too-small shoes, covered in bunions and terrifying to look upon, especially for the unprepared-were in plain view.

She smiled and held out an aluminum pan covered in tinfoil. He jammed his feet as far into the fine desert sand as they would go. She wore a denim skirt, a rough green hand-knit cardigan, and her hair in a single thick braid. "The other night, I made too much food," she said, eyes lowered. "So I bring this."

He made swimming motions with his arms in the struggle to extract himself from the collapsed cushions of the Barge, and once he'd made it onto his feet there was an awkward exchange involving the transfer of two potholders along with the pan. To be this close to her made him a little dizzy, and he tried to come up with something to say, something that would keep her from turning around and going back home.

Suddenly he needed to sneeze, and his nasal spray was nowhere in sight. He rubbed his nose, looked back at the trailer, grimaced, and then made a reluctant gesture toward the Barge. "Would you like to have a seat?"

Like just about everything else in his life, the Barge embarra.s.sed him, but once they'd settled down on it (she took the middle cushion, which seemed significant), he felt grateful to have it; its generous proportions offered ample s.p.a.ce for two respectable people to sit and converse comfortably without having to worry over questions involving propriety or decorum. Even better, they could accomplish this out in the open, nothing to hide, for G.o.d and all the world to see.

The pressure continued to build inside his head, and he tried to ward it off by studiously refusing to think about it and then shaking his head in abject denial, but it came anyway: a big, furious chop of a sneeze that rocked him backward and sounded out over the quiet hills like a gunshot. Weela flinched, but seemed to recover herself quickly.

"G.o.d bless you," she said.

He rubbed his nose. "Sorry about that, Weela, I didn't mean to scare-"

"My name," she said. "Huila. Weela, no. Ooo-eee-la, yes." She crouched and wrote it out with her finger in the sand. HUILA HUILA "Ooo-eee-la." It sounded like the call of a bird. "It's pretty. I'm sorry I've had it wrong all this time."

She pointed at the trailer. "This is your home?"

"Oh, this thing," Golden said. "It's my home away from home, I guess."

And just like that they were making small talk. For so long he'd gotten little more than silence out of her, and hearing her speak felt like a privilege. They talked about the construction project, about what it was like to live in a brothel ("Not good," she said, shaking her head). He asked her why she sometimes washed her clothes in the pond and she explained that Ted Leo, instead of buying her a washer and dryer of her own, insisted she use the community appliances in the brothel's common area, where she was always running into the hookers with their extravagant underwear and shrieking laughter. So she went up to the pond every once in a while to get away, to wash a few clothes in peace, even though the water of the pond was not exactly clean.

"Ted Leo," she had said, laughing, "he says sometimes, 'Why do I have this dirt in my pockets?'" and Golden felt an undeniable stab of pleasure at hearing her mimic her husband's froggy voice.

And then she said something that flummoxed him: "Your wife. Does she miss you all the time you are here?"

He'd a.s.sumed Ted Leo had told her about his lifestyle, which was one of the reasons he felt so gratified for the kindness she had shown him; most women outside the church, he'd found out over the years, were not at all agreeable to the idea of polygamy, or those who practiced it. Men, on the other hand, never failed to be intrigued.

Six years ago he'd been audited by the IRS, and his case agent was a plump, flirtatious woman from the Phoenix field office, who touched his arm when she talked and made him feel giddy and uncomfortable at the same time; the entire process seemed more like a date with an old girlfriend than an IRS audit. At the end of their first meeting she went over his list of deductions, and she spoke with the tone of a mother scolding a naughty child.

"Sixteen dependents, Mr. Richards! My goodness goodness, you've been quite a busy man!"

Golden bunched up his shoulders. "Hee," he said.

"But I'm having a problem with some of the birth dates here. Three of them fall within two weeks of each other, in the very same year. There must be a mistake?"

"No mistake, ma'am." He knew the three birthdays she was referring to. They belonged to Wayne, Martin, and Boo, aka the Three Stooges, whose births marked a grim and trying chapter in the Richards family history. They had all moved into Big House together for a few weeks with the idea that a ma.s.s consolidation would make everything easier, but with all the wives in either the last stages of pregnancy or the aftermath of a difficult birth, Golden, with the reluctant a.s.sistance of a couple of the older girls, was left to be nanny, cook, maid and disciplinarian. Instantly the place fell apart. Children ran wild, scavenging whatever food they could find and splitting up into guerrilla factions that carried out raids on each other, finally sectioning off and declaring different parts of the house their own sovereign territories. The Three Stooges, it turned out, were all cranky, colicky, insomniac, or some perfectly evil combination of the above, and the never-ending late-night shriek-a-thon was enough to break the most hardened prisoner of war. To escape the noise, the other children called a temporary truce and set up camp in the bas.e.m.e.nt, leaving Golden to make bottles, change diapers, and spend hour after midnight hour with one newborn or another braced against his shoulder, doing anything and everything-sometimes including taking one or two of the little b.u.g.g.e.rs out back to set them on top of the vibrating swamp cooler-in the all-out quest to induce a burp.

The IRS agent pushed her reading gla.s.ses onto the bridge of her nose and had a closer look at his return. She said, "Then how on earth...?"

"I'm the husband to the, you know, mothers."

She peered at him over her reading gla.s.ses, and it began to dawn on her: he was not just some ordinary sleazeball off the street who'd fathered sixteen children by several different women and had the unbelievable bra.s.s to list them all on his tax return. He was actually married married to these different women, at the same time. You could tell by looking at him: the homemade chinos, the flannel shirt, the believer's haircut. He was one of to these different women, at the same time. You could tell by looking at him: the homemade chinos, the flannel shirt, the believer's haircut. He was one of those those.

She gripped her pen like a weapon and pushed away from the table as if he might make a move to grab her. He leaned back and put his hands in his pockets to show her he was just as harmless as the next guy, but she fled the room, and the next thing he knew he had a new agent, a man with a bristle cut who gave Golden the hairy eyeball and said he wanted only one-sentence answers to his questions and no lip. By the time the audit was over Golden owed the IRS an extra three thousand dollars.

But Huila, apparently, had not yet been given any reason to view him as a s.e.xual maniac or an exploiter of women. As far as she was concerned he was just your average guy with one wedding ring and one wife to go with it. He was normal normal, was what he was, and for him normal normal was a condition so rarely experienced it felt exhilarating, maybe even a little naughty. was a condition so rarely experienced it felt exhilarating, maybe even a little naughty.

So when she asked if his wife missed him, he answered like any normal man with normal thoughts and a normal life might: "Oh, she misses me to death death, you know, but I guess she'll have to find a way to make do."

Huila laughed-a cute, childish sound like a burst of hiccups-and Golden was beginning to think this business of being normal was highly underrated.

He asked her where she'd been the previous week-he hadn't seen her on his daily walks. She explained that they had gone to Las Vegas, which meant that Ted Leo went out and conducted business and gambled while she stayed in their condominium watching soap operas.

"I would rather be here, I think, but Ted Leo is the husband, you know."

"Yes, I know. I mean, I think I know."

There ensued the awkward silence of strangers in an elevator. She patted the cushion a couple of times and stood up. "So I will go. Ted Leo will be back soon."

He stood, still holding the pan, grinning like an idiot. Before he could think of anything to say, she said, "Bye-bye," turned, and walked back down the hill.

When the idea struck him that he should at least say goodbye in return, it was too late, she was much too far away, already dissolving into the winking dusk.

He took the pan into his miniature kitchen, where he studied the potholders-both handmade and decorated with cross-st.i.tched roosters-and then peeled away the tinfoil to find baked ziti on one side and lasagna on the other. Though she'd said these were leftovers, the pasta looked and smelled freshly made. He found the only clean utensil available-a splintery wood mixing spoon-and took three or four bites of the still-warm, delectable ziti before he realized, with a small zing of terror in his heart, that he couldn't eat any more: for the first time he could remember, he had lost his appet.i.te.

THE COUNCIL OF THE TWELVE At home that weekend Golden attended Council Meeting for the first time in two months. Traditionally it was held on Wednesday nights, but because of Golden's difficult out-of-town schedule Uncle Chick had given the okay for a special session on Sunday afternoon. Even though the special meeting was billed as a favor to Golden, for him to be able to get up to speed on church business and fraternize with his fellow apostles, Golden knew the truth: Uncle Chick was worried that Golden was losing his standing and influence among these men and-because Golden was Uncle Chick's staunchest supporter and, by the reckoning of some, his heir apparent-that Uncle Chick was losing something as well.

The meetings were held in the narrow, cramped room behind the chapel, and the men all gathered around a rickety banquet table, hunched over their arms as if the ceiling were slowly lowering itself upon their heads. Weak afternoon light filtered through the single small window, giving the room, with its rough stone walls and subterranean chill, the feel of a monastery prayer chamber or a cell on death row. Generally they took care of church business in the first half hour, spent another half hour debating doctrine and scripture, and spent the rest of the time commiserating-which is to say, complaining in communal fashion-about their exhausting and absurdly complicated lives. More than anything, coming to council meeting was the best excuse available to get away from the wives and children for a couple of hours.

Though these meetings had never been the highlight of Golden's week, he had begun to miss them. It was rea.s.suring to be among men who understood the daily struggle of keeping mouths fed and bodies clothed, of being forever and always on the spot, of bearing up under the weight of their dubious authority with any grace at all.

On this Sunday afternoon, as he ducked under the doorway, his nose suddenly a.s.saulted by the competing aromas of at least half a dozen aftershaves, the first thing he heard was, "The Golden One!" This from Apostle Coombs, a jolly little man p.r.o.ne to outbursts of good-natured shouting. Apostle Coombs hollered this greeting at every opportunity and Golden had yet to pin down whether the man was using it sarcastically-in reference to Golden's widely known failure to become the One Mighty and Strong-or if he was simply being friendly in his obnoxious way. Along with Uncle Chick, it looked like the rest of the apostles were already in attendance. Mostly they were men of a certain age, chapped by the weather and dressed in snap-b.u.t.ton shirts and suspenders, who looked like they should have been hanging over the rail at a cattle auction rather than fidgeting in this gloomy room, preparing to discuss the sacred business of G.o.d's one true church upon the earth.

Every time they gathered, it was hard not to notice that they were a Council of the Twelve who numbered-since Apostle Barrett pa.s.sed on last year-only eight.

Because he'd been playing hooky for two months it was, naturally, Golden's turn to offer the opening prayer. Even as he called on G.o.d to bless them with His spirit, to guide them in their deliberations, images of Huila flashed into his mind: smiling shyly as she sat next to him on the Barge, close enough to touch, or picking her way through the glowing rabbit brush toward home, stealing a look back over her shoulder. Even as he thanked G.o.d for His generous bounty, for the truth of the Principle that guided their lives, he was in his heart thanking his lucky stars for the aluminum pan and cross-st.i.tched potholders that sat on the kitchen counter in his Airstream, for all they represented, for the excuse they provided him to see Huila again.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not summon the will to pay attention during the meeting. Nels Jensen, as always, was doing most of the talking. Nels was a smiling second-generation Swede who was so thoroughly and annoyingly friendly that no matter how hard you might try it was impossible to work up any real dislike for the guy. He had left the Short Creek church after a doctrinal dispute with the elders there, and after showing up in Virgin only seven years ago he had already established himself as a political and spiritual force. His humble ambitions-to make more money than any single person in America, to marry as many wives and father as many children as the good Lord would allow, to one day lead the church into the latter days and help usher in the Second Coming of Christ-never seemed calculated, but just a natural part of his person, like his cheerful, rubbery accent or big velvety ears. He was deeply dedicated to Principle, believed in priesthood lineage and direct revelation and the infallibility of G.o.d's sacred texts, none of which, according to him, was anything to be ashamed of. "Do we have to dress like b.u.mpkins and hide out in the weeds like criminals?" he would ask in the reasonable, Scandinavian manner that never seemed to offend any of the b.u.mpkins or criminals in question. "We should be candles on a hill, yes? How can we be ashamed of the truth?"

As the successful salesman of a broad range of chemical fertilizers and pesticides, he knew the importance of advertising, of spreading the word. During council meetings he often wondered aloud why they weren't more missionary-minded, why they weren't bringing the world around to their way of thinking instead of worrying all the time what the world thought of them. Someone, usually Apostle Lambson, would bring up the fact that their lifestyle was, technically, illegal, and to go out proselytizing might induce the authorities, as they had in the past, to swoop in, throw the men in jail and leave the women and children at the mercy of Social Services. Apostle Jensen would inquire agreeably if this wasn't fear and doubt talking, and would Jesus have brought His truth to the world if He had given in to fear and doubt? Apostle Lambson would remind Nels that for all the wonderful things Jesus had accomplished, He did, let's all remember, wind up getting Himself into some fairly serious trouble.

Uncle Chick, in his smoked-lens gla.s.ses and chambray work shirt, always listened to these exchanges with an air of weary patience, as if he had heard it all before, which he had. Patience, along with hard work and obedience and long-suffering, were the virtues Uncle Chick preached, and there wasn't much point in arguing about any of it. G.o.d worked in His own way, in His own time. It was up to you to watch, to wait, and if you were faithful and obedient, His will would be revealed. Uncle Chick was the most practical of men, living in a most unpractical way, and so it was not difficult at all for him to abide Nels Jensen-an obvious threat to his authority, a man who viewed patience as a weakness rather than a virtue-for the simple reason that Nels Jensen paid more in t.i.thing than all of them put together.

The only thing Golden could hold against Nels Jensen was that Nels, in nearly every way, made him look bad. He had a successful business, four happy wives and eighteen children who lived in a single three-story mansion with all the latest in features and design, including a restaurant-style kitchen and an intercom system that allowed the inhabitants of the cavernous house to keep track of each other's whereabouts at all times. The house even had a complaints box in the foyer, all tricked out with a tidy pile of sc.r.a.p paper and a pencil affixed to a string.

Whenever Beverly praised the Jensen family-which she seemed to be doing on a regular basis these days-Nola would always be sure to remind Beverly that she was sure Nels Jensen had room in that big mansion of his for another wife, and Beverly would always give Nola a look that said, I would love to join the Jensen family, if only to get away from you I would love to join the Jensen family, if only to get away from you, and Golden would find himself thinking that if he ever became delusional or foolhardy enough to outfit one of his houses with a complaints box, it would need to be about the size of a refrigerator.

Before the closing prayer that afternoon, Uncle Chick asked if Golden had any questions, seeing as how he had been out of the loop for a while. At first, Golden shook his head, and then he thought of something. "Does anybody know how to get gum out of hair?"

The apostles looked at him with their mouths open: could he be serious? This was a question for homemaking day at Relief Society, not for the esteemed members of the Council of the Twelve. Apostle Russell nudged Apostle Throckmorten and wondered aloud if maybe this was the sort of thing that filled your head when you stopped coming to council meetings.

"Little crankcase grease'll get gum outta just about anything," mumbled Apostle Dill, suddenly s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his face up in embarra.s.sment at having revealed himself as a man who might know such a thing. He sighed, added, "But then, you know, you got the problem of what to do with the crankcase grease."

On their way out, Uncle Chick appeared next to Golden, asked him how the job was going, how close he was to finishing. They stepped from the chapel doors into a cool wind scented with sage and ozone that rifled their clothes like a hundred expert hands.

"Getting there," Golden said, praying Uncle Chick would not bring up the subject of Maureen Sinkfoyle and her unresolved marital status. "Next month or two, looks like."

"We miss you around here, you know," Chick said.

Though Golden wasn't sure what "we" Uncle Chick was referring to, he started to say that he missed being here too, but Uncle Chick launched into one of his coughing fits, each cough a dull axe biting into wet and rotted wood. Chick, who had spent much of his twenties and thirties underground breathing the bad air in gypsum and molybdenum mines, had been fighting emphysema for thirty years, but only now did it seem to be taking a toll on him. Up close, in the clear afternoon light, it was difficult to miss the pallor of his skin, the bruised eye sockets behind the dark gla.s.ses, the shaking hand that pressed a handkerchief to his lips. In the week since Golden had last seen him he seemed to have developed a slight tremor of the head.

Seeing Uncle Chick like this only made the realization hit harder: he was letting the man down. With the Prophet incapacitated and confined to a wheelchair, Uncle Chick had spent the last two decades doing everything in his power to keep the church together and thriving, but the job seemed to be getting the better of him: membership was down, many of the faithful having defected to more strident sects or succ.u.mbed to the temptations of the world, and the few newcomers were mostly like Nels Jensen, who came in wanting to change everything, who wanted fresh leadership, a new vision for new times.

"You'd think an outfit like ours could only get bigger bigger," Uncle Chick had said once, a wisp of sadness in his voice, "but this one just keeps on shrinking."

And where had Golden, Uncle Chick's most reliable ally, been during such difficult days? Locked away inside his own grief and guilt, and lately, off in the wilds of Nevada, mingling with lowlifes and prost.i.tutes and pining after his boss's wife.

Uncle Chick, it seemed, had made the mistake so many others had when it came to Golden Richards: he'd given him his faith and trust.

In a gesture of sympathy, Golden attempted to pat the old man on the back, but Uncle Chick tried to push Golden's arm away and the two men ended up temporarily entangled, and both, for their own reasons, too tired to do anything about it. They stood like that for a moment, gazing out over the valley toward black cliffs in the distance, leaning on each other like two prizefighters in the clinch, looking to buy a little time. Uncle Chick let go a gargling sigh, releasing his hold on Golden's wrist, and pushed himself toward the dirt parking lot, where one of his wives was waiting to drive him home.

Over his shoulder he said, "You just finish that job, all right? You finish it fast as you can, and come back where you're needed. We can't wait on you much longer."

FATHER AND DAUGHTER After the drive home from church, Golden pulled up next to Old House. He circled around back, hoping to steal a few minutes of solitude in the Doll House before the Summit of the Wives commenced at four o'clock sharp.

He found four-year-old Sariah, still in her Sunday dress, in the backyard alone. She was squatting next to the back steps, carefully scooping gravel into piles with an old spatula.

"My daddy," she said matter-of-factly, without looking up at him. She picked up a pebble, considered it closely, tossed it aside as if it didn't match her expectations.

"Your mama know you're out here?" Golden said. "It's cold for you without your coat."