Sanctuary

Bile rose in Hope’s throat at the thought of her eighteen-year-old sister not being young enough for Arvin. Or maybe it was the mental image of him touching Faith in the first place that bothered Hope so much. “We should call the police,” she said. “If Rachel’s not eighteen, that’s statutory rape.”

Faith’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t do that to Daddy. It would bring too much negative publicity on the church and hurt families who are trying to live the principle the way it’s meant to be lived.”

Hope had some questions as to how the principle was meant to be lived in this day and age. But she understood that Faith would be much more sympathetic to the church’s beliefs than she herself would, especially after being away so long. “Sexual predators shouldn’t be tolerated in any community. Even one as tightly knit as this,” she said, sticking with a line of reasoning Faith could not refute.

“I don’t think you can call him a predator,” she said. “Rachel married him willingly enough. And he’s careful not to touch anyone who isn’t his wife.”

“Are you sure about that? What about his children?”

“I don’t think he’s hurt any of them,” Faith said, but the lack of conviction in her voice made Hope more than a little nervous.

“Have you talked to Jed about your suspicions?”

“What suspicions? I said I don’t think he’s hurt any of his children.”

“You’re worried that he might.”

Her sister didn’t answer right away.

“Faith?”

“Okay, I tried to talk to Daddy about some of the things Arvin’s said to me, but he didn’t want to hear. Arvin’s his brother and a pious church member.”

“Pious?” Hope scoffed.

“He pretends to be, especially to the other Brethren. And you know the police won’t do anything. You’ve heard Daddy say it a million times: ‘This is America. It goes against the principles on which this country was founded to persecute people for their religious beliefs. We’re just living God’s law. Are we supposed to forget what our God has told us just because man decides we should?’

Hope was willing to concede that respect for religious freedom might be a small part of the reason the police typically left polygamists alone. But she knew politics were at work, too. In 1957, the last time authorities had made any kind of concerted effort to stamp out polygamy, television stations had aired newsreels of fathers being torn from their crying wives and children, and public sentiment had quickly turned against the police and their efforts.

“The police will help if we can prove that children are being abused,” she said.

“That’s the problem. I have no proof. Just this nagging sense that something isn’t right with Arvin.”

Hope had experienced the same nagging sense eleven years ago. But it was tough to convict someone on suspicion alone.

“They love you, you know,” Faith said out of nowhere, spinning the conversation in a new direction.

“Who?” Hope said.

“Daddy. Bonner. Maybe even Arvin.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, Daddy does at least.”

“There’s no room in a heart filled with such beliefs.”

“I know he’s passionate about the church, Hope. But he’d let you come back. You just have to show him you’re willing to repent.”

Hope had already repented. She repented every day—for trusting an eighteen-year-old boy who said he loved her more than life. And for being financially unable to care for the child he’d given her. But she knew that wasn’t the kind of repenting sweet, innocent Faith was talking about. “And that embarrassment you mentioned earlier?” she said. “How could Jed forgive me for something so monumental?”

If Faith picked up on the sarcasm in Hope’s voice, she gave no indication. Her face remained as solicitous as ever. “He’d have to forgive you, Hope. The Bible says, ‘For if you forgive men their trespasses, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.’

Hope knew what the Bible said. Verse after verse had been drilled into her from birth. She’d scarcely been allowed to read anything else. But she hadn’t so much as glanced at a single page in the entire eleven years she’d been gone. Because of the way the scriptures had been used—as a tool to force her into a life she didn’t want—just the sight of the black simulated-leather binding made feelings of claustrophobia well up in her. “Seventy times seventy,” she muttered.

“That’s right,” Faith said. “If you come home, the Brethren will insist that Daddy forgive you, even if he won’t do it on his own. And then you and Bonner can be together at last.”

She and Bonner…“Along with a couple of my sisters and the Widow Fields?”

“Is that so bad?”

“Maybe not to you.”

“Then marry someone else, someone who refuses to live the principle, too. Maybe someone who’s not even a member of the church. There’re people here in Superior who don’t believe in plural marriage. And there’re other towns close by. You don’t have to separate yourself from us completely.”

“I thought marrying outside the church precludes me from heaven,” Hope said just to hear her sister’s response.

“I don’t know, Hope,” Faith said. “I don’t pretend to know much about heaven anymore. If there is one, I’m having a tough time believing in it. Since I married Arvin…well, Mother would say that my faith is being tested.” She offered Hope a weak smile. “But I’m not so certain everything the church teaches is really true. If it is, why are we the only ones who believe it? Surely we’re not the only people on earth who are going to heaven. Anyway, I know this much—family is all we have in this life. And we’ve missed you. Daddy might have thirty-five children, but Mother has only five, and you’re one of them. She hasn’t been the same since you left.”

Hope couldn’t help reaching for her younger sister’s hand. They’d lost eleven years they’d never be able to recover and she regretted the pain she’d caused her mother. “Faith, I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do,” she said. “I didn’t leave here because I wanted to. But I can’t come back. If I don’t live the principle, Jed would never let me associate with you. He’s too afraid I’ll pull you and the rest of his children away from his beliefs. Besides…” Hope hesitated, unwilling to barrel on for fear she’d upset her sister.

“Besides what?” Faith prodded.

“I don’t want to come back here,” Hope admitted. “I can’t live in a place where guilt is used to motivate my every action. I can’t submit my will to a man’s, because I no longer believe women are inferior. I can’t believe our sole purpose here is to procreate, not when we have so many other talents and abilities. And I can’t believe God has so little compassion for His daughters that He would expect us to give more to our husbands than we get in return.”

Silence met this announcement. Hope felt slightly embarrassed about the passion that had rung through her voice, and knew that what she was saying would probably sound radical to her sister. But she’d spent many years agonizing over what she believed and what she didn’t, and she could hardly feel indifferent about her conclusions.

“I’m not going to say I think you’re wrong,” Faith said, “because I don’t know.”

“Then how do you do it?” Hope asked. “How do you stay here and let Arvin come to your bed?”

“I’ve been telling myself the dissatisfaction I feel is Satan tempting me away from the truth but—” she tucked her dress around her legs “—you’ve probably already guessed it’s not working. If it was, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be protecting myself from your ‘dangerous influence,’ as Daddy told us all to do after we saw you today.”

“That was generous of him,” Hope muttered. “I guess he feels a little differently about prodigals than the father in the Bible did, huh?”

“He said the prodigal in the Bible was humble and repentant.” She turned her face toward the cemetery. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think it was easy for him to spurn you today.”

Hope didn’t want to debate the issue. She had almost no feelings left for her father. She’d never had many positive ones to begin with. “What does Mother say about your situation with Arvin?”

“She claims having a baby will help. But she admitted the loneliness will probably never disappear.”

“Don’t you think that’s a tragedy?”

“What?”

“To expect to be lonely your whole life, when you’re beautiful and healthy and only eighteen?”

Faith bit her lip as she seemed to consider Hope’s words. “I think she sees it as a burden we, as women, must band together and carry,” she said at last.