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Authors: Dianne Day
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Norma's. How interesting.
Tabitha said, "I really am not sure I understand it all very well myself. But you probably know that we are, well, different."
"I am not familiar enough with Mormonism to make any comparisons," I said, while thinking that Sarah, whom I had seldom seen, bore a physical resemblance to Tabitha. Further, I wondered if Sarah's hands also might be less work-worn, as Tabitha's were. I tried to mentally picture Selene's hands, and could not, but no matter—she was so young I could not really think of her as one of Pratt's wives. In fact, I hoped she might still be in school somewhere.
"I didn't mean Mormons are different—although of course that's true, and is the whole reason Prophet Joseph Smith started our religion. What I meant was, we —that is, Father and the families in the area who follow him—are different from the rest of the Mormons. We adhere more closely to the true spirit of the teachings of Joseph Smith. Father has recovered this purity in the same manner that Joseph himself achieved it: through communication with an angel."
"Um-hm," I said, "fascinating."
"Father says we are the True Saints."
I raised my eyebrows, but could think of no way to remark upon this extraordinary notion. As I had my own suspicions about Pratt and his angel, not to mention his possible sainthood, I decided to change the subject. "Tabitha, it has just occurred to me that Sarah bears a considerable resemblance to you."
Tabitha blushed. "It's the other way around. / resemble her. We're sisters. She is three years older than I."
"Oh, I see." And both married to the same man. How bizarre.
To keep my thoughts from continuing along that line, I doggedly pursued my alternate train of thought: "May I hazard a guess? In the division of housework, you're in charge of the sewing. And Sarah, does she do the same?"
"Well, yes," she replied, cocking her head to one side. "How could you tell?"
I said, "Your hands are smooth, which suggests to me that they are not often in hot, harsh water. Therefore you do not wash clothes or dishes, or scrub floors. Or do much work outside, as in a garden, raising vegetables or flowers. Furthermore, in the bright sunlight I see tiny prick-marks on the fingers of your left hand, which I think should be from a needle. And a slight indentation at the tip of the middle finger of your right hand, as if you often wear a thimble on it."
"Goodness, how clever! I must go get Sarah, she must hear this." Tabitha jumped up out of the chair excitedly. "I'm sure you got so clever by spending all those years in school. We both wanted to go longer to school, you see, but then, well . . ." She blushed. The high color in her face was most becoming.
I smiled and said nothing, as I could not think of anything to say.
"I'll be right back. And I'll, I'll—well, Sarah and I will have something to show you. You'll be pleased, I think, to see how right you are."
"All right," I said, still smiling, and now curious too.
But as soon as Tabitha had closed the door behind her and I was completely alone, gloom descended upon me.
I have never been very fond of mountains; given the choice of a trip to the mountains or to the seashore, I would always choose the sea. So, to have those mountains as the only view available to me was exceedingly oppressive. More oppressive still was the sense of hopelessness that continually threatened to take me over. In a way, I might have been happier if I hadn't recovered my memory.
"No, no," I muttered aloud, "I mustn't think like that."
Silently I recited; I am Fremont Jones. I live in San Francisco. Michael Kossoff is my partner, in life and in work. We are the J&K Agency, private investigators. Our telephone number is 3263.
The Pratts had no telephone. I had inquired, of course, on the second day after regaining my senses. I'd asked Verla, who had frowned at me and said, "What a notion!"
Being unwilling to give up so easily, I'd approached Norma, who came in later that
Tabitha said, "I really am not sure I understand it all very well myself. But you probably know that we are, well, different."
"I am not familiar enough with Mormonism to make any comparisons," I said, while thinking that Sarah, whom I had seldom seen, bore a physical resemblance to Tabitha. Further, I wondered if Sarah's hands also might be less work-worn, as Tabitha's were. I tried to mentally picture Selene's hands, and could not, but no matter—she was so young I could not really think of her as one of Pratt's wives. In fact, I hoped she might still be in school somewhere.
"I didn't mean Mormons are different—although of course that's true, and is the whole reason Prophet Joseph Smith started our religion. What I meant was, we —that is, Father and the families in the area who follow him—are different from the rest of the Mormons. We adhere more closely to the true spirit of the teachings of Joseph Smith. Father has recovered this purity in the same manner that Joseph himself achieved it: through communication with an angel."
"Um-hm," I said, "fascinating."
"Father says we are the True Saints."
I raised my eyebrows, but could think of no way to remark upon this extraordinary notion. As I had my own suspicions about Pratt and his angel, not to mention his possible sainthood, I decided to change the subject. "Tabitha, it has just occurred to me that Sarah bears a considerable resemblance to you."
Tabitha blushed. "It's the other way around. / resemble her. We're sisters. She is three years older than I."
"Oh, I see." And both married to the same man. How bizarre.
To keep my thoughts from continuing along that line, I doggedly pursued my alternate train of thought: "May I hazard a guess? In the division of housework, you're in charge of the sewing. And Sarah, does she do the same?"
"Well, yes," she replied, cocking her head to one side. "How could you tell?"
I said, "Your hands are smooth, which suggests to me that they are not often in hot, harsh water. Therefore you do not wash clothes or dishes, or scrub floors. Or do much work outside, as in a garden, raising vegetables or flowers. Furthermore, in the bright sunlight I see tiny prick-marks on the fingers of your left hand, which I think should be from a needle. And a slight indentation at the tip of the middle finger of your right hand, as if you often wear a thimble on it."
"Goodness, how clever! I must go get Sarah, she must hear this." Tabitha jumped up out of the chair excitedly. "I'm sure you got so clever by spending all those years in school. We both wanted to go longer to school, you see, but then, well . . ." She blushed. The high color in her face was most becoming.
I smiled and said nothing, as I could not think of anything to say.
"I'll be right back. And I'll, I'll—well, Sarah and I will have something to show you. You'll be pleased, I think, to see how right you are."
"All right," I said, still smiling, and now curious too.
But as soon as Tabitha had closed the door behind her and I was completely alone, gloom descended upon me.
I have never been very fond of mountains; given the choice of a trip to the mountains or to the seashore, I would always choose the sea. So, to have those mountains as the only view available to me was exceedingly oppressive. More oppressive still was the sense of hopelessness that continually threatened to take me over. In a way, I might have been happier if I hadn't recovered my memory.
"No, no," I muttered aloud, "I mustn't think like that."
Silently I recited; I am Fremont Jones. I live in San Francisco. Michael Kossoff is my partner, in life and in work. We are the J&K Agency, private investigators. Our telephone number is 3263.
The Pratts had no telephone. I had inquired, of course, on the second day after regaining my senses. I'd asked Verla, who had frowned at me and said, "What a notion!"
Being unwilling to give up so easily, I'd approached Norma, who came in later that
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