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Authors: Dianne Day
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educated, then. I thought so. I said to the others, just last night, that I thought from the way you speak you must have spent a lot of years in school."
"I did, yes, that is true."
"But you were not a schoolteacher." Tabitha came over to the window and leaned against the window sill. Sunlight shone behind wisps of her soft brown hair, surrounding her head in a golden halo.
"No. How do you know that?"
"By the dress you were wearing when Father brought you here. It's very fine—I mended it myself. I've never seen a dress like that, with such a narrow skirt, and such pencil-thin pleats and tucks on the bodice; and that high lace collar on the dickey has little, thin boning in it, to make it stand up. Teachers do not have such clothes."
I smiled. "I think some teachers in San Francisco might. Though they probably would not wear them for teaching."
"San Francisco!"
"That is where I am from." And where I must return, as soon as I possibly can. I knew better than to say that aloud.
Tabitha frowned. "Once we're here, we're not to talk about where we were before. Especially you."
"Why is that?" As soon as the direct question was out of my mouth, I regretted it. All my instincts told me that the only way to learn anything about this household was by stealth and indirection.
But Tabitha surprised me. "If I tell you, may I stay and sit with you awhile?"
"Of course," I said. "I should be glad of the company."
"Father says we are not to tire you." She brought over the other straight-backed chair.
I said, "I appreciate that. But on another hand, it can be tiring in a different way to have no distractions or diversions, especially as I cannot move about and I have no books to read. Except, of course," I hastened to add, "for The Book of Mormon, which Mr. Pratt gave me." And which I did not intend to read; I consider it my duty to resist indoctrination of any sort. Otherwise I should be untrue to myself, and then where would I be?
"Very well." Tabitha sat at a slight angle to me, arranging her skirt so that only the tips of the toes of her leather shoes were visible. "I would like to talk with you more, but you must tell me, Carrie, if you start to get too tired."
"I will. Now, you said you would tell me why it is you're not— we're not—supposed to talk about where we come from? Surely one's origins are important?"
"The people, our families, are certainly important. We must bring them all into the fold of the True Religion, and that can be done only in the Temple."
From Pratt's instruction I had already learned that when a Mormon said "the Temple," it meant the temple in Salt Lake City. Rather in the same fashion as, to the Jews, there was only one "Temple," and that was in Jerusalem. Exactly what might reside in such a sacred precinct would be most interesting to see. Though I supposed one would be struck blind after. Highly religious experiences tend to be tedious that way.
"But," Tabitha continued, folding her long-fingered hands in her lap, "the places themselves where we have lived are not so important, especially to Father. He is very devout, you know. He takes his priesthood so seriously."
Tabitha broke off, biting her lower lip and looking a little troubled. "He can explain this much better than I."
Although I was listening attentively, another part of my mind was equally occupied with making the kind of observations for which I had been trained as a private investigator. I had completely recovered my memory. Among other things, I knew perfectly well what Michael and I had been doing on that ill-fated train. But I'd chosen not to let the others, particularly Melancthon Pratt, know much at all about me; they believed I still suffered from some memory impairment. It was a ruse, which I intended to maintain as long as it proved useful to me.
"Pray continue," I said by way of encouragement.
Continuing my observations, I noted that Tabitha's hands did not appear to be so accustomed to hard work as Verla's, or even
"I did, yes, that is true."
"But you were not a schoolteacher." Tabitha came over to the window and leaned against the window sill. Sunlight shone behind wisps of her soft brown hair, surrounding her head in a golden halo.
"No. How do you know that?"
"By the dress you were wearing when Father brought you here. It's very fine—I mended it myself. I've never seen a dress like that, with such a narrow skirt, and such pencil-thin pleats and tucks on the bodice; and that high lace collar on the dickey has little, thin boning in it, to make it stand up. Teachers do not have such clothes."
I smiled. "I think some teachers in San Francisco might. Though they probably would not wear them for teaching."
"San Francisco!"
"That is where I am from." And where I must return, as soon as I possibly can. I knew better than to say that aloud.
Tabitha frowned. "Once we're here, we're not to talk about where we were before. Especially you."
"Why is that?" As soon as the direct question was out of my mouth, I regretted it. All my instincts told me that the only way to learn anything about this household was by stealth and indirection.
But Tabitha surprised me. "If I tell you, may I stay and sit with you awhile?"
"Of course," I said. "I should be glad of the company."
"Father says we are not to tire you." She brought over the other straight-backed chair.
I said, "I appreciate that. But on another hand, it can be tiring in a different way to have no distractions or diversions, especially as I cannot move about and I have no books to read. Except, of course," I hastened to add, "for The Book of Mormon, which Mr. Pratt gave me." And which I did not intend to read; I consider it my duty to resist indoctrination of any sort. Otherwise I should be untrue to myself, and then where would I be?
"Very well." Tabitha sat at a slight angle to me, arranging her skirt so that only the tips of the toes of her leather shoes were visible. "I would like to talk with you more, but you must tell me, Carrie, if you start to get too tired."
"I will. Now, you said you would tell me why it is you're not— we're not—supposed to talk about where we come from? Surely one's origins are important?"
"The people, our families, are certainly important. We must bring them all into the fold of the True Religion, and that can be done only in the Temple."
From Pratt's instruction I had already learned that when a Mormon said "the Temple," it meant the temple in Salt Lake City. Rather in the same fashion as, to the Jews, there was only one "Temple," and that was in Jerusalem. Exactly what might reside in such a sacred precinct would be most interesting to see. Though I supposed one would be struck blind after. Highly religious experiences tend to be tedious that way.
"But," Tabitha continued, folding her long-fingered hands in her lap, "the places themselves where we have lived are not so important, especially to Father. He is very devout, you know. He takes his priesthood so seriously."
Tabitha broke off, biting her lower lip and looking a little troubled. "He can explain this much better than I."
Although I was listening attentively, another part of my mind was equally occupied with making the kind of observations for which I had been trained as a private investigator. I had completely recovered my memory. Among other things, I knew perfectly well what Michael and I had been doing on that ill-fated train. But I'd chosen not to let the others, particularly Melancthon Pratt, know much at all about me; they believed I still suffered from some memory impairment. It was a ruse, which I intended to maintain as long as it proved useful to me.
"Pray continue," I said by way of encouragement.
Continuing my observations, I noted that Tabitha's hands did not appear to be so accustomed to hard work as Verla's, or even
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