Lena Jones 02 - Desert Wives

emerged from the kitchen. She held out another apron to me. “I’m Sister Jean, and you must be Sister Lena. Better get moving before Ermaline sees you sitting around.”
    Stung, I heaved myself out of the chair, slipped the apron over my head, and trudged toward the kitchen, all the while thinking that if I had been back in Arizona, I would still be sleeping. But considering my dreams, maybe making biscuits was preferable.
    When I entered the kitchen, which was almost as large as the living room, the amount of activity so early in the morning amazed me. With its spotless ceramic tile floor and commercial-sized refrigerators, ranges and ovens, the kitchen looked like something you would see in a top Scottsdale restaurant, but the women preparing breakfast hardly looked like sous chefs. Most of Solomon’s widows were blonds, which didn’t surprise me, and they ranged in age from pubescent girls to grandmothers. Except for the very youngest and oldest, all were pregnant.
    They worked in concert, their movements as synchronized as those of a ballet troupe. A platinum blond removed items from the pantry, a honey blond carried dishes from another cupboard into the dining room, and yet another blond hovered by the sink, snatching at the dirty pots being passed to her.
    A severe gray-haired woman stationed at a tub-sized mixing bowl barked orders. “Get moving! You’re like molasses today!”
    None talked back. As they worked, I noticed that the women’s long dresses were in much better condition than those I’d seen at the community meeting, and their snowy aprons were ruffled and beribboned. At least Prophet Solomon dressed his wives well, even though their dental care had been neglected. Every now and then one of them would sniffle in an emotion I first believed was grief, but on closer inspection saw to be fear.
    The elderly woman at the mixing bowl looked up at me. “I’m Sister Ermaline, Prophet Solomon’s first wife. Get over here and watch what I’m doing.”
    I took note of the swiftness with which she’d established her superior position in the family’s pecking order. Although Saul had told me that Ermaline was in her mid-sixties, a life of hard work made her appear even older. She might once have been attractive but now her plump cheeks sagged into dewlaps and her pale eyes squinted through a pair of unadorned wire rim glasses.
    When I didn’t move quickly enough to suit her, she barked at me again. “Don’t stand there gawking, Sister Lena. I expect you to work.”
    Reluctantly, I moved forward.
    At one end of the long work table, Cynthia, the girl I’d met the day before, patiently instructed dull-eyed Cora how to roll out the biscuit dough. The task appeared to be more than Cora could manage, because she kept dropping the rolling pin, eliciting more fierce noises from Ermaline.
    “Stop dropping things, you clumsy girl!”
    Ermaline’s barks made Cora even more clumsy and she dropped the rolling pin again. When Cynthia bent over to pick it up for her, a book fell out of her apron. She tried to grab it, but Ermaline beat her to it.
    “What’s this?
Gray’s Anatomy?
” She flipped through it quickly, her dough-sticky hands soiling the pages. “Pictures of naked people! Just what you think you’re doin’, girl, reading this trash?”
    “It’s just a text book, Mother,” Cynthia said, reaching for the book. “I told you I was interested in medicine.”
    “It’s no text book your father ever approved! Your husband, if any man is foolish enough to ever want you, will teach you all you need to know about bodies. I’m throwin’ it out.”
    “
No
, Mother!”
    Ermaline slapped Cynthia’s outstretched hand. “Don’t you talk back to me.”
    Cynthia didn’t make a sound but Cora began to wail. “Cindy hit! Cindy hit!”
    This made Ermaline so angry she drew back her hand again, but before I could rush to the child’s rescue, Jean stepped in front of her. Taking the book out of the surprised older woman’s hand, she said, “Let me throw this thing in the dump where it belongs, Sister Ermaline. The longer it stays in here, the more minds it’ll corrupt.” She turned to Cynthia. “Apologize to your mother for reading this stuff.”
    For a moment I thought Cynthia would refuse, then she darted a quick look at Jean said quietly, “I apologize, Mother.” She kept her eyes averted from Ermaline, however.
    Jean then nudged Cora. “It’s your turn. Apologize to Sister Ermaline