Chapter Text
“I can’t do this anymore,” Becca says, blurting out the words like she’s hacking them from her throat.
Jeb freezes with his hand halfway towards the jug of orange juice. It’s late, and the light from the open fridge spills across the kitchen, its warm glow cutting through the darkness like a switchblade. They stare at each other, and Jeb honestly doesn’t know who’s more shocked.
For a long moment, there’s nothing except the hum of the refrigerator. Then the ice machine clicks on, and Becca promptly bursts into tears.
The twins are at a slumber party. Becca and Jeb just came home from what had been—by all appearances—a romantic evening out. Becca had worn her nice dress with pearl buttons and a lace collar. Jeb wore one of his nice slacks and a button-up, foregoing a jacket so he didn’t look like he was on the clock. She’d held his hand, and he’d held her chair out for her. Conversation over the gingham tablecloth was light and warm. Maybe Jeb had tried a little too hard to make Becca laugh, and maybe Becca’s smile was a little strained around the edges, but they’d done their best. They’d tried.
Now Becca’s crying into her hands at the kitchen table, and Jeb’s just standing in front of the open refrigerator, cold air blowing at his back, knowing he should move. As the priesthood holder of their family, he should go to his wife. He should sit next to her and wrap his arms around her shoulders. Knowing he should comfort her. Hold her. Strengthen her.
But his legs are weak with relief, and he doesn’t trust himself to move.
The marriage required for access into the celestial kingdom didn’t permit—or even contemplate —divorce. In the temple where Jeb and Becca exchanged their vows, couples are bound together for eternity. Viewing marriage as a mere contract that’s easily severed is considered an evil meriting severe condemnation.
So they were warned.
“And I say unto you, Whosoever shall put away his wife, except it be for fornication, and shall marry another, committeth adultery: and whoso marrieth her which is put away doth commit adultery ” (Matthew 19:8–9).
When Jeb had looked into Becca’s eyes, bright with happiness, as they stood before God in His temple, he had sealed himself to her in an everlasting covenant.
That was before Ron and Dan Lafferty walked into their brother’s home and killed his wife Brenda and baby daughter Erica. Before every step that brought them to hold the knife to Brenda’s throat was justified by a messianic delusion that had been nurtured by their church. Before Jeb learned about the blood-soaked history of his people. Before his testimony died behind clenched teeth even as his lips moved through the rituals.
So it’s only right he takes the fall.
At first, Bishop Young counsels them together. He has them join hands and kneel to pray for help and for the Lord’s healing power of atonement. Becca cries, hot tears of shame rolling down her cheeks. An image of Brenda Lafferty, fruitlessly begging her Bishop for a divorce, flashes through his mind, and Jeb stumbles mid prayer, hollow words curdling in his mouth and coating his tongue. After that, Bishop Young focuses on Jeb, counseling him alone.
Jeb sits, day-after-day, with hands in his lap and listens as his Bishop strongly urges him to consider that “the remedy for what ails your marriage is not divorce, but repentance.” He’s polite in his rebuttals, only tensing when Bishop Young mentions the impact a divorce would have on their children.
“Think of Annie and Caroline,” Bishop Young says earnestly, leaning towards Jeb, voice soaked in concern. “Children are the first victims of divorce. This act will separate their interests from yours and weaken their relationship with Heavenly Father.”
Jeb exhales harshly and closes his eyes. He thinks of his mother’s final words to him and holds fast to what he knows to be true.
During the next session, Bishop Young adjusts tactics.
“Perhaps you are not to blame in this,” he suggests in a low, soothing voice. “Many priesthood holders in our ward have had wives who betrayed the sacred covenants or abandoned their marriage responsibilities. Perhaps you have experienced such abuse?”
Jeb’s head snaps up. Fury bubbles inside his chest. He’s angry on Becca’s behalf—on behalf of every desperate woman who’s sat in this room, looking for guidance, only to have the blame placed squarely on her shoulders.
“Becca has been a loyal wife, devoted to the sacred covenants,” Jeb says—aiming for calm, but Bishop Young recoils at his tone. “She deserves a priesthood holder that can bring her closer to the Lord, not one that leads her astray. Either I leave her, or we leave the church together.” He smiles and adds, “As a family.”
They’re granted permission to begin the divorce process shortly after that session.
Jeb tells Becca to keep the house.
Bill opens his door when Jeb knocks. He’s barefoot, clad in a white tank top and loose sweatpants. Jeb blinks, surprised. The sacred garments made it impossible for a Mormon male wear sleeveless shirts. His eyes are drawn to the slope of Bill’s collarbone, the point of his shoulder. He can’t help thinking that Bill looks naked like that: bare shoulders, mussed hair, fingers bare of their rings, and his long length of his neck exposed.
But Bill still stares at Jeb in that way he has: head-on and assessing, taking in everything with a solid, steady gaze. Jeb knows Bill sees the duffle bag at his feet and how his hands are clenched in his pockets. He knows Bill can tell that Jeb feels naked too, shifting from side-to-side on Bill’s doorstep.
Bill taps his fingers twice against the door frame and stands to the side, usher Jeb through.
“I thought that was you,” Bill says. “No one else knocks with such determined courtesy.”
Jeb thinks Bill’s being mighty courteous himself, letting him into his house without asking any questions or making Jeb explain what has him knocking on Bill’s door on a Sunday morning when every other Saint is praying with their neighbors in temple. But it’s not like Bill didn’t already know. Small town gossip aside, Bill has a knack for seeing the pieces and painting the whole.
And what a picture it makes: Jeb hugging his daughters goodbye as they clung to him and cried and asked why he and mom couldn’t just apologize to each other; Becca standing in the hallway with her arms crossed and head down, blonde hair hiding her own tears; Jeb waiting until the neighbors had driven away to pack up his car and creep his way through empty streets, feeling like a thief in his own town.
The shame hits him, sudden and sharp. He clears his throat, and the noise he makes sounds shattered.
“Sorry to bother you on a weekend… I… I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Jeb confesses as Bill closes the door behind him with a soft click. It’s easier to accept that he has nothing, no one, outside his ward when he’s not looking Bill in the eye.
“That’s all right, Jeb,” Bill says. He briefly cups the back of Jeb’s neck and gives his nape a soft squeeze. His palm is warm and reassuring. “Mi casa es su casa. You know your way to the guest room.”
Jeb had spent the night at Bill’s a few times while they were finishing up the paperwork on the Lafferty case—notes scattered across Bill’s kitchen table as Bill and Jeb filled out official forms in careful block print, the smell of McDonald’s and exhaustion heavy in the air—catching a few hours of sleep here and there in the soft double bed, a worn quilt pulled up around his shoulders.
Bill’s house is small. One of those new constructions that popped up like a mirage in the desert—blink twice, and it’s there. Several members of Jeb’s ward (former ward) live in this neighborhood. Young couples, mostly. Pregnant or expecting their first child.
The layout is generic: entryway, living room, hallway to the bedrooms on the left, kitchen straight ahead with a back door that leads out to a small yard, and a side door that connects to the one-car garage. However, Jeb finds it impossible to separate the home from the man who lives in it. Bill’s touch is everywhere. The carefully categorized record collection in the living room, the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen, and the scattered gum packets over every horizontal surface are all Bill. Jeb doesn’t even need to glance at the framed print of the Paiute tribal flag hanging on the wall and the photos of Bill’s sons to know whose home he’s in.
Jeb steps through the living room and down the hall, dropping his duffle bag in the guest room. He stares at the quilt covering the mattress, the hand-woven blue rug in front of the closet, and the guitar in the corner and breaths deep. Settles into place like the slat wood wall panels that run from the gray carpet to the white popcorn ceiling.
He takes a few moments to unpack. Hangs his work clothes in the small closet and folds his underwear and shirts neatly into the small dresser that doubles as a nightstand. By the time he’s lined his shoes up next to the bed, Jeb feels less like his world is fracturing around him.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Bill asks when Jeb joins him in the kitchen. “Water? Juice?”
Jeb laughs and scrubs a hand through his hair. His voice, when he speaks, sounds resigned. “How about a beer?”
Bill's eyes sharpen when he turns to him, lines on his face going tight. He holds himself still, watching Jeb like he’s trying to figure out how to approach a distraught witness, before nodding and pulling a can of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale out of the fridge. Bill pops the top and holds it out to Jeb in offering, eyebrows quirked in unspoken humor.
Jeb takes the can, fingers brushing Bill’s as he does so. He stares at the can, feeling its weight in his palm. A bead of condensation rolls over his thumb.
“Want to tell me what’s going on, Jeb?” Bill asks, tucking his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and leaning back against the kitchen cabinet. Standing like that emphasizes the broadness of his chest. The muscles in his arms. Technically, Bill is only a few inches taller than him, but the sheer bulk of him is something Jeb is always grateful to have at his back.
Jeb shakes his head and sits down at the circular kitchen table. It’s the chair he always sits in when he’s over at Bill’s. The wood creaks familiarly as it takes his weight. He places the can down on the circular table.
“Becca and I are getting a divorce,” he says.
Across the kitchen, Bill releases a soft sigh. “I’m sorry, Jeb. I knew you guys were having trouble. I wish I—”
“I’m an apostate,” Jeb interrupts him.
Bill blinks. Processes. Jeb can see the exact moment when he understands. Bill pushes himself away from the counter and crosses the kitchen to sit in the chair across from Jeb. He’s holding himself carefully, watching Jeb like he’s a skittish animal. The feeling of Bill’s eyes on him, like a physical touch, makes him fidget as he waits for Bill’s response.
“Well,” he says finally, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “that explains the last couple minutes.”
Jeb laughs weakly, leaning back in his chair.
“You want to talk about it?” Bill offers, tentative but sincere.
“No,” Jeb tells him, summoning a smile. It feels shaky. “Thank you, but no. I just need to… wrap my head around some things.”
“Sure,” Bill says easily.
Jeb reaches out and presses his fingers against the cold metal of the beer can. “It’s it okay if I stay here for a couple days? Just until I find a place willing to rent to a divorced ex-Saint with child support payments?”
A wave of guilt accompanies his question. Jeb’s always felt impressed—felt a duty—to help the people around him. It’s more uncomfortable than he expected, being on the other side of things.
“Stay as long as you need,” Bill says. His lips quirk, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Just don’t drink all my beer.”
Jeb laughs. It’s easier this time. More honest. “I won’t. I promise.”
“You want me to put that back in the fridge for you?” Bill asks, nodding at the beer can.
Jeb considers the out Bill is offering him and shakes his head. As casually as he can, he lifts the can to his lips and takes a sip. He feels Bill’s eyes on him as he swallows.
“Bill, that’s disgusting,” Jeb says after a long moment.
Bill scoffs and takes the can from him, but he’s smirking as he does so. “That’s the good stuff. I have to drive over state lines to get my hands on this kind of quality.”
“If that’s the good stuff, maybe I’ll just stick to water for now.”
“Suit yourself.” Bill’s smirk widens. “Probably best to ease into our sinful ways.”
Jeb chuckles, cheeks heating up at Bill’s teasing. “Thanks, pal. I appreciate it.”
It only takes a week to fall into a routine with Bill.
The church taught that routine improved your life, and it’s hard to break habits he learned with his feet swinging from the pews. Prayer, breakfast, school, church, success, church, wife, church, children, church, prayer, breakfast. Wash, rinse, repeat.
After the Lafferty case, Jeb still went through the motions. Led his family in prayers he knew were empty and listened to sermons he knew were based on lies. He did it for Becca. For his mother. But mostly he did it because it was easier than looking at his life and figuring out what would be left.
Now the time Jeb used to reserve for morning prayer is set aside for lacing up his sneakers, the rhythmic pounding of his feet on pavement, the sound of his heartbeat, and the taste of the desert in his lungs. In the evenings he looks through the papers for rental listings and talks with his daughters over the phone, hearing all about their days and sometimes answering difficult questions.
“Daddy, when are you coming home?” Annie asks one night.
Jeb closes his eyes at the burst of pain in his chest. “I’m not, honey,” he reminds her gently. “Your mom and I aren’t living together anymore. But that doesn’t mean we love you any less.”
The call ends in tears and a quick debrief with Becca. Jeb hangs up the phone and rests his palms on the kitchen counter, trying to remember how to breathe.
Sundays are spent quietly, taking long walks in the morning and sipping iced tea over a book in the afternoons while one of Bill’s records plays in the background.
Some of Bill’s music is not to Jeb’s taste.
“It’s Hendrix, ” Bill says like that’s an explanation for the stereophonic mismatch of noise coming out of his record player. Jeb gives a look of pure disgust in response—a look that would have earned him a sound scolding from his mom, but Bill just laughs and changes out the record for a Nina Simone album.
Part of Jeb feels guilty for insulting Bill’s music. It is, after all, Bill’s home, and Jeb is a guest in it. If it were anyone else, Jeb would politely compliment the artist and do his best to tune out his electric whining. But Bill has a way of bringing out his gracelessness, nudging and pushing him in a way no other person has. Sometimes it ends with Jeb screaming “fuck” over a desert canyon, but mostly it just ends with Jeb shooting Bill a dirty look or making a rude comment under his breath.
And every time Jeb does so—every single time—Bill seems to delight in it. Each eye roll is greeted with a chuckle, and every offensive word that escapes Jeb’s mouth is given a little smile in return.
It’s not always easy. They’re both grown men sharing a small space. They get in each other’s way and step on each other’s toes.
Jeb is ashamed to find that he’s not used to cleaning up after himself. He expected Becca to clean his dirty dishes, put his shoes away, or neatly fold his clothes. More than once, Bill has snapped at him to clean up after himself and to stop leaving his “shit everywhere, pardon my language.”
In a particularly embarrassing moment, Bill has to teach Jeb how to do his own laundry. Bill doesn’t mock him then. Just calmly teaches him to sort his whites from his coloreds and shows him how to add the proper amount of detergent to the machine.
And Bill, while a gracious host, is obviously a bachelor and unused to sharing his space. He stays up late, watching television with the sound up too high. Every midnight, on the dot, he smokes a cigarette on the back porch, and the smell will waft through the open window in Jeb’s room, waking him up.
Then there are his awful TV dinners. Jeb started cooking dinner for both of them in a desperate attempt to bribe Bill into eating a vegetable every now and then. He’s not the best cook, only having a few post-marriage recipes at his disposal, but it works.
A little too well.
Suddenly Jeb is cooking for them every night, which is annoying, but at least Bill’s not eating food that smells like plastic in front of the television. And it’s nice to share a meal with someone again—one that isn’t full of tense silence or strained conversation. He can relax as he chats with Bill over the dinner table, his tie off and Bill’s shirt collar unbuttoned, both their legs spread out and arms loose as they talk about whatever's on their minds that night. It’s worth the hassle of cooking every night to have Bill ribbing him about his casseroles or laughing as Jeb lectures him about his salt intake.
“It’s called seasoning,” Bill says, a coy glint in his eyes. “Your people should try it sometime.”
“Well, you can cook dinner tomorrow if that’s how you feel,” Jeb shoots back, balling up his napkin and throwing it at Bill’s chest.
(Bill—Jeb is surprised to find, what with his TV dinner habits—is actually a decent cook. His roast chicken makes Jeb moan out loud.
“You okay over there?” Bill quips, eyebrows at his hairline, and Jeb’s face goes crimson. “Or did you need a moment alone?”
“Just dying happy,” he replies. Bill chuckles at the call-back.)
The paper bounces harmlessly off him, but Bill plasters a put-upon look on his face. “And trust you do the dishes properly?” He leans back in his chair, crossing one long leg over another. “No, I think this arrangement is best for both of us.”
Jeb laughs.
He’s surprised at how much he laughs these days, considering how hard it is not to see his girls every night—not to be there to kiss them goodnight or hear their voices in the background, counting down the days to his custody week when he can do so.
Bill, like Jeb, is a creature of habit and starts his mornings lifting weights. Sometimes when Jeb returns from his runs, he can hear the clink of mental and sharp exhalations coming from the garage where Bill keeps his equipment. He finds himself lingering next to the door, a glass of water in his hand (he took a sip of coffee from Bill’s mug one morning and pronounced it just as disgusting as beer). Once the noises stop, Jeb shakes himself and pads to the guest bathroom—bare feet sinking into the soft carpet as he steps down the hall.
Jeb showers fast, hands cleaning himself perfunctory. The main bathroom is on the other side of the wall, and the walls in this house are thin. He can hear the water in Bill’s shower click on as he brushes his teeth. If Jeb presses his hand against the tile, he can feel the vibrations of the water in the pipes. Occasionally, Bill sings as he showers. Jeb smiles around his toothbrush when he recognizes the tune.
By the time Bill dresses and makes his way into the kitchen, Jeb is already at the table with a bowl of cereal and the newspaper. Jeb hands over the sports sections as Bill sits down, coffee in hand. Bill makes a soft sound of thanks and eats his own breakfast. Halfway through, they trade sections—Bill taking the news and handing back the sports to Jeb.
They wash their dishes together, standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the sink. Bill will complain about Jeb’s dishwashing skills, and Jeb will laugh, delight bubbling in his chest at the criticism. Jeb will tell Bill what the girls are up to that day, and Bill will listen attentively, eyes crinkling in a half-smile. In return, Bill tells Jeb about his sons, in high school now, living on the reservation with their mother—a three-hour drive away that Bill makes every other weekend.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Jeb says one morning. “Annie and Caroline are a ten-minute walk away, and that still feels like too much.”
Bill goes quiet, back straightening, and Jeb knows he’s overstepped.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
Bill jerks his head, cutting Jeb off. “We all make sacrifices for our family, Jeb. You should know that better than anyone else.”
They leave it at that.
Usually, they drive to work together, but if they’re working on different cases, they can end up on opposite schedules and pass each other going in and out, exchanging nods or slaps on the shoulder. Bill’s back is always firm under Jeb’s hand. Firm and steady, muscles shifting under the cloth.
It’s so easy to fall into a routine that sometimes Jeb forgets himself. Finds his foot automatically stretching underneath the table to slide against Bill’s like he used to do with Becca. Leaning in on his way to work for a hug or tilting towards Bill as they watch Jeopardy together on the couch—Bill smugly beating Jeb out for the majority of the answers.
Jeb always catches himself. Pulls himself back in time.
Then, one day, he doesn’t.
Jeb works a late shift that left his head muzzy. He wakes up early, as usual, and is using his morning to head into the station to finish off some paperwork. Bill’s still at the kitchen table, reading the paper. They’re talking—or Bill’s griping about the San Francisco Giants’ recent performance and Jeb’s yawning along—as Jeb washes his dishes in the sink.
He’s turning towards the garage door when Bill reminds him, “Don’t forget to take the steak out of the freezer. You’re cooking for the girls tonight.”
Jeb doesn’t think. His mind’s already at work—already mentally filling out his paperwork. He moves on instinct: pivoting on one foot, pulling the steak out of the freezer, and—without thinking— bending down and kissing Bill on the corner of his mouth, a “yes, dear” on his tongue.
They both freeze. Jeb’s bent over Bill, thumb pressed into the line of Bill’s neck, heart skipping in his chest. Bill’s sitting ramrod straight, eyes wide in shock. This close Jeb can practically count Bill’s lashes. Can smell the soap on his skin. The faint taste of mint on his lips.
Bill looks up at Jeb out of the corner of his eye, studying him in that quiet, piercing way that feels both like a provocation and an invitation. Jeb flushes, and Bill’s eyes crinkle in wry amusement. He smiles crookedly.
“It’s going to take more than that if you’re hoping for my seasoning recipe,” Bill tells him. He shakes out the paper and turns away from Jeb. “I’ve told you, Jeb: family secret.”
Jeb laughs wobblily and pulls back, running a nervous hand over his chest to smooth out his tie.
“Sorry. Becca used to.” He stops mid-confession, mouth too dry and skin too tight on his body.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bill says, glancing at Jeb, dark eyes alight with laughter. But there’s something else there. Something intense peeking out from behind the dark swoop of his lashes. Jeb adverts his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time my irresistible charm’s made someone forget themselves.”
Jeb forces out a laugh, gives Bill’s remark some sort of a vacuous response, and books it to his car as quickly as he can without running.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
Those words follow Jeb all the way to the station ringing in his ears.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
Seeing Becca is… difficult. Jeb knows he hurt her. She put her faith in him, and he failed, forever shaming her in the eyes of her LDS community.
Becca hurt him too. It was clear the church came first. Before everything. His struggles, his doubts, his resentment at the parts of his religion that lied, manipulated, and hurt others—these were all things he couldn’t share with the one person in his life who vowed to help shoulder his burdens.
The worst part is the fear in her eyes. In Utah, Jeb could argue that his children are his property, and reduce Becca to a part-time figure in their lives. He knows it. Becca was raised to submit to it. It doesn’t matter that no Mormon judge would grant custody to a man who’s left the church or—more significantly—Jeb would rather cut off his hand than do such a thing. He’s an apostate. A son of perdition who forfeited his Heaven, sold his birthright, and betrayed his people. They were both raised to distrust such individuals. Once someone strays from the path, there’s no telling what they’re capable of.
Perhaps that’s why she’s so motivated to make shared custody work. Why she signed the papers that gave them shared parental responsibility with such palpable relief.
Jeb wants to believe it’s because Becca’s honest and caring—that she would never try to deny him his paternal rights. But her threat still rings like a warning bell in his ears: “I married a man of faith, and that's who I plan to raise them with, whether that's you or somebody else.”
Perhaps, when Becca looks at him, she sees her own fear echoing back. Maybe she sees the distrust in his eyes and thinks of all the ways he, an officer of the law, could take their children from her.
But, for now, they’re putting those concerns on a shelf and making it work.
There’s not enough room at Bill’s house for Jeb and Becca to follow the custody agreement to the letter, with the girls spending equal time with each parent. (Bill offers up his room, but Jeb draws the line at kicking his host out of his own bed.) So, instead of sending Annie and Caroline back and forth between their parent's homes, they agree to compromise until Jeb finds a place of his own.
Until then, Jeb walks them to and from school when his schedule allows for it—Annie clutching his hand and chatting away while Caroline skips a few feet ahead. When Becca goes out for an evening, he’ll come over and take care of the kids, feeling like a ghost wandering through a home that’s not his anymore.
During his custody weeks, the girls will come over to “Uncle Bill’s” for dinner every night. Jeb will walk over to his… Becca’s house, help Annie and Caroline don their roller skates, and jog next to them as they roll their way to Bill’s—giggling in delight as they try to outskate their father.
They always greet Bill with joyful shrieks. Bill catches them easily when they throw themselves into his chest. He grins at Jeb over the tops of their blonde heads. Jeb smiles back, a tightening in his chest he doesn’t dare look at too closely.
Jeb cooks dinner. Sometimes the girls will sit in the kitchen, talking over one another in their eagerness to share what they learned in school, what piece Annie’s learning on the piano, or the bake sale Caroline’s Girl Scout troop is planning. Other times both of them will follow Bill around, asking him about his records or bullying him into weeding the small flower garden out back.
“Didn’t even know that was there,” Bill later confesses, staring, baffled, at the sagebrush Annie had discovered underneath the dense scrub and clumps of dead plants. He touches the gray leaves. Jeb watches Bill stroke the three-lobbed tips, thick fingers moving delicately over the small flowers just starting to bud. “These things are everywhere on the reservation. Guess, when I left home, I just stopped looking for them.”
Jeb squeezes his elbow and, for a moment, Bill leans into his touch.
On another memorable occasion, Caroline discovers Bill’s bench press in the garage, and Bill ends up spotting both girls as they pretend they can lift the 45-pound bar all on their own.
After dinner, Jeb will help the girls with their homework, if they have any, or play games with them when they don’t. One night, Annie and Caroline want to practice hymns for their Sunday school performance.
Jeb sits on the couch, listening and doing his best to smile through "We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet" and “Ye Who Are Called to Labor.” Bill comes into the living room with a beer and sits next to Jeb on the couch, an arm stretched over the top of the seat, behind Jeb’s head. Halfway through the second song, Jeb starts to feel uneasy, and he can’t seem to stop bouncing his leg. Bill reaches down and clasps Jeb’s shoulder, his strong grip reassuring, grounding him. The fidgeting stops.
Jeb claps after the girls finish “I Will Be Valiant,” throat too tight to do much else.
“Wonderful,” Bill says, clapping along. “You could give Julie Andrews a run for her money.”
Annie and Caroline stare blankly.
“Mary Poppins,” Jeb explains.
They curtsey, beaming from ear to ear.
“What’s your favorite hymn, Uncle Bill?”
Bill shoots Jeb a mischievous look, and, for an alarming second, Jeb thinks Bill’s about to teach his daughters the Paiute prayer that the colonists would vanish—not sure how he would explain that one to Becca.
“Have you ladies ever heard of Johnny Cash?” Bill asks instead.
When Jeb walks the girls home that night, he’s carrying both their skates so Annie and Caroline can holler, “I'll wear my suit, my Sunday best. I'll be there lookin' my best, if the good Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise,” at the top of their lungs while skipping to the beat.
It’s not always so easy.
The next time Bill drives to Cedar City to visit his sons, Caroline and Annie come over to spend the weekend. Jeb knows something’s wrong from the moment he picks the girls up. Annie’s still chattering away, but it’s manic, as though to make up for the fact that her sister is silent the whole walk back to Bill’s. At dinner, Caroline picks at her food and asks to watch television instead of playing cards with Jeb and Annie.
Annie’s extra cheerful in response, calling out “Good game, Daddy” a little too enthusiastically. Jeb doesn’t pry, knowing his daughters aren’t the type to hold things in for long.
He’s tucking them into his bed in the guest room when it comes out.
“Daddy, will we see you in Heaven?” Caroline asks, and Annie immediately starts sobbing.
“Whoa, hey, hey,” Jeb says softly, soothing them. He pulls Annie into his lap. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and buries her face in his neck, crying loudly. “Where’s this coming from?” A horrible thought claws at him. “Did your mom say—”
He breaks off midway through his question, knowing before Caroline shakes her head that Becca would never suggest such a thing. Whenever someone in their temple said anything of the sort, Becca would shut down the conversation immediately, saying the matter of who did and didn’t get into the Celestial Kingdom was between Heavenly Father and His prophet. Jeb had always loved that about her: her iron will and steadfast decency.
He watches Caroline pick at the quilt. It’s the one Jeb sleeps under, but it smells like the rest of Bill’s house. Like laundry detergent, freshly ground coffee, and mint gum. Sagebrush after a spring rain.
“Did someone at church say something?” Jeb asks gently. “Maybe one of your friends?”
Caroline bites her lip and looks away, tears trickling silently down her cheeks. Jeb wraps his spare arm around her waist and pulls her close. She curls into his side, shoulders shaking, and Jeb feels like his heart is cracking in two. They’re both so small against him. Bodies so frail. He wants, more than anything, to shield them from this. From the hurt he brought into their lives.
“Tell me what you know to be true,” he prompts, voice even. “Do I love you?”
Both Annie and Caroline nod.
“Do I want what’s best for you?”
Caroline nods again. Annie makes a sound of affirmation into his neck.
“Are we still family?”
“Yes,” they both say—quiet but certain.
“And family is forever, right?”
“Yes.” The response is louder this time. Annie tilts her head, peeking up at him. Jeb smiles down at her, running a hand through Caroline’s hair.
“I know this is confusing,” Jeb tells them. “Your friends and LDS family are going to have different opinions about me and your mom. It’s not okay that they share them with you, and I’m sorry this is happening. It’s not fair.”
“It’s really not,” Caroline agrees in a tone that promises trouble. Jeb spares a brief thought for the next person who brings up this topic with her but dismisses it. One problem at a time.
“Hold on to what you know to be true.” He kisses each of his daughters’ heads in turn. “Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, Daddy,” they both say.
“Good.” Jeb pokes Caroline in her ribs, making her giggle and squirm. “Whoops. My hand slipped.” Annie shrieks as he does the same to her. “Oh shoot, it slipped again. Must be all that butter I had for dinner.”
“You didn’t have any butter for dinner,” Annie accuses, laughing as Jeb finds the spot under her armpits that makes her wriggle. “No! No! No tickling!”
Caroline rallies to her twin’s defense and smacks Jeb on the back of the head with a pillow.
Things devolve from there.
The girls go to sleep eventually, each of them tucked under one of Jeb’s arms. Jeb lies awake for a long time. He stares at the ceiling and listens to his daughters’ heavy breaths. Inhaling deeply, Jeb smells sagebrush after a spring rain and thinks of all new ways to hate himself.
Jeb wakes up on Saturday emotionally drained, eyes heavy from lack of sleep and back sore from holding himself still all night, but he does his best to hide it from the girls. He pulls his car out of Bill’s driveway and parks it on the street, giving Caroline and Annie free rain to cover the entire pavement with chalk art. Rainbows, butterflies, and triangle-shaped mountain tops spill out onto the sidewalk, and their dresses are covered in chalk dust.
Families ride their bikes past, and the girls wave at their friends, not seeing the troubled glances the parents shoot in Jeb’s direction. Jeb waves at them calmly. Most of them wave back. Some turn away.
After lunch, Annie asks to play in “the secret garden” out back. Caroline wants to stay inside and draw. She asks if she can listen to more of Bill’s records.
Jeb gets the girls set up and has just started on the dishes, keeping a watchful eye on Annie—who’s telling a story to Bill’s accidental patch of corkscrew onions—when the phone rings.
“Taba residence,” he says, tucking the receiver into his shoulder. “Jeb speaking.”
“Well, good afternoon to you, Jeb,” Bill says, voice crackling over the line.
“Bill.” A strange rush of relief washes through him. The knot of tension that’s settled in his chest Friday night loosens a little. Jeb sets his dish on the drying rack and leans against the counter, holding the receiver in his hand. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, just fine. I’m using this conversation as an excuse to bow out of playing another round of basketball with Eric. Only so many times a man can stand to be humiliated by his son... Is that Johnny Cash I hear in the background?”
“Caroline can’t get enough,” Jeb tells him, smiling.
Bill chuckles. “Artistic, smart, and has good taste in music. That’s quite the kid you’re raising.”
“Yeah,” Jeb says, trailing off. He glances over at Caroline, who’s sprawled on the living room carpet next to the record player. She’s filling in her scripture stories coloring book, feet kicking in the air along to the bass.
“Jeb?” Bill asks cautiously. He’s always been able to read Jeb’s silences. Know when to nudge, when to pull back, and when to punch him in the gut.
Jeb turns his back to Caroline and rests his head against the grain of the kitchen cabinets. “Actually, Bill, I think I’m a pretty bad father.”
“All right,” Bill says, smoothly transitioning into his ‘I’m not sure what's happening, but let’s see where this goes’ voice. There’s a faint clicking sound: Bill tapping one of his rings against a hard surface. “Tell me how you reached that informed opinion.”
“Caroline asked me if we’d meet in Heaven,” Jeb tells him. “I couldn’t say yes because I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“Not sure how you got from A to Z with that one.”
Jeb clenches the countertop and the edge of the laminate digs into his palm. “Last night I realized how much easier their lives could have been if I had just kept going through the motions with Becca.”
There’s a long pause. Bill’s exhale is a soft, private thing, but Jeb hears it like the beat of his heart.
“Chances are that would have made everyone a lot more miserable,” Bill tells him quietly.
Jeb shakes his head. “I could go back to our temple on Sundays… even that would be— But the thought of walking through those doors… I can’t do it. Not even to get people to stop scaring my kids. What kind of father does that make me?”
“One who’s trying his best,” Bill says calmly. “You’ve got to stop thinking the world is black and white, Jeb. The road doesn’t always stick to the straight and narrow. All we can do is keep putting our best foot forward. If you can go to church and come out without pieces of yourself missing, then, by all means, pray away. But children can tell when their parents aren’t whole. And, in my experience, that does more damage than a few snotty comments.”
Jeb rubs a thumb over his forehead. He breathes out once and lets Bill’s words quiet the noise in his head. “I know; I know. You’re right.”
“Of course I am.” There’s soft muttering in the background, a female voice. Bill must cover the receiver to reply—his voice muffled and even—before continuing, “You’re a good father, Jeb. You’re doing right by you and right by those kids of yours. Don’t let some people with sticks up their asses make you feel any less than.”
“The name calling is unnecessary,” Jeb scolds, but he’s choking back a laugh.
“Oh, admit it.” Bill’s voice deepens. Jeb’s fingers flex at his side. His cheeks burn. “You enjoy a little vinegar with your honey every now and then.”
“Is that Uncle Bill?” Annie asks, standing in the open doorway, absolutely covered in dirt. “Can I talk to him?”
“Annie. Annie! Take off your shoes. Annie! Not in the kitchen.”
Bill might be two hundred and twenty miles away, but his laugh reverberates out of the phone like he’s standing right there in the kitchen, pressed against Jeb’s shoulder.
The news of Bill’s hiring reached the American Fork Police Department before the ink even had a chance to dry on the contract.
“A Lamanite? What was the Chief thinking?”
Jeb heard that question more than once. He didn’t add to the gossip about his new co-worker, but he didn’t shut it down either. Instead, he kept his head down, even though he had a couple of opinions of his own.
Options like: “Maybe because none of you can file your paperwork properly, much less be trusted to run point a case.”
Or: “If you prayed as hard as you trash-talked, maybe Heavenly Father would have helped you pass the NDIT.”
And: “I’m thankful to be getting a partner who can handle our growing caseload, granting me more time to spend with my dying mother instead of babysitting you all.”
And one time: “Someone who skips on his tithings shouldn’t be so quick to judge others.”
He didn’t say any of those things. Never said a word. It wouldn’t have been very brotherly.
So his co-workers continued to talk about the New Guy From Vegas: Not One of Us.
“That poor man,” was all Becca said when Jeb told her what was happening. “He’s going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
Jeb thought that was a bit obvious, but then Bill arrived for his first day of work, and Jeb realized what an understatement that was.
He still remembers the first time he saw Bill. Jeb came into the department one morning, and there Bill was, setting up his office. Dark skin, silver rings flashing on his fingers, patterned shirt, no tie.
Everything about him was distinctly Not LDS.
Everything about him was striking.
Jeb paused in his doorway, overwhelmed. He’d interacted with plenty of non-Mormons before—he was called to Florida for his mission, and there was a growing Catholic population in Utah—but he had never seen anyone as singular as Bill Taba.
Bill glanced up, dark eyes locking onto Jeb’s and holding steady. Jeb smiled and stepped into the room.
“You must be Detective Taba,” Jeb said, shifting his briefcase so he could hold out his right hand in welcome. “I’m Jeb Pyre.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bill said, taking Jeb’s proffered hand. His grip was strong. Confident. As they shook, Bill’s gaze slid over Jeb, sizing him up. There was that overwhelmed feeling again. Almost shivery.
Jeb did what he always did with these feelings: put them on a shelf.
“Boy, I’m sure glad to have you on the team,” Jeb said. Bill raised an eyebrow. “American Fork seems to be sprawling further and further out every year. Keeping up with the paperwork has been a struggle.”
“Happy to be here,” Bill said blandly—not looking that happy about it.
As the days progressed, Bill continued to give the impression that he’d rather be anywhere else. He did his work, did it well, and did little else, making barely any effort to get to know his colleagues outside of the office or become acquainted with the community beyond the duties of his position. Jeb did his best to make a connection, bringing Bill one of Becca’s pies or sitting next to him at lunch. Bill was always polite, always complimented Becca’s cooking, but he stayed guarded, keeping his distance.
Then, on one of Josie’s good days, Becca suggested having Bill over for dinner.
Bill arrived on time, still dressed in his work slacks and blazer, bringing a salad that Jeb was pretty sure was just chopped up iceberg lettuce. Jeb welcomed him with a smile and introduced him to Becca, who hugged Bill and thanked him for his thoughtful addition to the dinner table. Annie and Caroline bounded into the room, pigtails bobbing as they invited Bill to tour their playroom.
When Bill met Jeb’s mom, Josie stared at Bill in the way that meant she was trying to figure out if this was someone she knew or someone she was meeting for the first time. Bill smiled at her, and it was an honest smile: wide, bright, and open.
“Hello, Mrs. Pyre. I’m Bill Taba. I work with your son. Heard a lot about you.”
“Ah, yes,” Josie said, smiling back, following Bill’s lead. Jeb’s stomach swooped gratefully. “So pleased to meet you.”
Dinner went smoothly. Caroline led the prayer—Bill politely added his own “amen” at the conclusion, which had given Jeb a pleased little flutter at the time. Josie was quiet for the most part but was able to tell Bill a bit about Jeb’s father and how much Jeb turned out like him. Jeb ducked his head, as he always did when his mom said such things, half in embarrassment and half in pride. When he glanced up, Bill was watching him, a smile toying at the edge of his mouth.
After the table was cleared, Becca started getting the kids ready for bed. Jeb got his mom set up in front of the television, just in time for a program that she found calming, and joined Bill on the porch for a glass of lemonade.
They sat there, sipping their drinks in easy silence. The night was pleasantly warm. A lazy breeze teased their hair, blowing a few locks over Bill’s forehead. Along the street, the yellow glow of lights seeped from the windows of every house, promising safety and comfort within. Occasionally, a bullfrog croaked in the distance.
“Nice family,” Bill said. The words were bland, but the emotion behind them was heartfelt and a touch sad.
“You have kids?” Jeb asked, following the thread.
“Two,” Bill told him, pulling out his wallet to show Jeb a picture of two boys with Bill’s nose and identical lopsided smiles. “They’re in high school. Honor roll,” he added with a touch of pride. “Eric’s gunning for Stanford. Wants to build skyscrapers or something.”
Jeb gave a low whistle. “Stanford. Wow, that’s something.”
“Something expensive,” Bill cracked, eyes twinkling and expression open. Jeb laughed. “Thankfully, the cost of living out here is cheaper than Vegas. Safer too, which puts my folks at ease. And the drive to the reservation is about the same. I’ll be able to tuck a good chunk of money away for Eric. Lucas too, although his mom and I are hoping he sets his sights on a state school.”
Abruptly, Bill went tense. Jeb got the sense that Bill was waiting for something. He could guess what Bill was expecting. If Jeb was going to bring up religion, this would be the time to do it. He’d invited Bill into his proper LDS home, introduced him to his proper LDS family, and said an LDS prayer with him over his table. It was Jeb’s duty as a Saint to help others receive the Restored Gospel and come unto Christ.
Instead, Jeb traced the strong profile of Bill’s brow, the straight line of his nose, backlit by the last strains of twilight, and took a long drink of his iced tea. “Well, whatever brought you to American Fork, I’m sure happy to have you.”
Bill turned and stared at him, taking stock. Jeb found himself tensing in return, wondering just what Bill was seeing when he looked at him like that—like he could look into the very core of him.
Finally, Bill gave Jeb another one of those crooked half-smiles, and the tension passed.
“Thanks for having me for dinner, Jeb.”
“Anytime, Bill,” Jeb said and meant it.
Bill was looser with him after that. It translated well to their work. Jeb found himself falling into step with Bill, seamlessly exchanging paperwork on cases, and smoothly entering into a give-and-take during case debriefs and interrogations.
Jeb wasn’t a fool. He didn’t think a few shared meals or a cooperative working relationship suddenly made them best friends, but he hoped it made it easier for Bill to be here, an outsider among Saints.
Everyone stares at Jeb these days.
At work, he gets confused stares from his colleagues and pitying stares from the Chief. When he tours rental properties, he’s met with suspicious stares from landlords—men he once sat next to in a temple. Even in the grocery store, Jeb can feel the stares crawling over his skin: curious, invasive, and condemning.
“How do you do it?” Jeb asks Bill one day. He’s cooking dinner, beef stroganoff, and Bill’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading a Stephen King book that he says Jeb would hate (honestly, the sight of the book cover was enough to tell Jeb that). “How do you live in this place where everyone looks at you like an outsider?”
Bill looks bemused. “Jeb, this isn’t anything.”
His response almost makes Jeb hang his head in shame. It reminds him of all the times someone insulted Bill around him and he said nothing. It makes him feel like he’s back in the car, having his eyes opened underneath the sickly glow of his car's dome light—his entire worldview coming apart with every turn of the page. Like he’s spent his whole life wrapped in a cocoon, shielded from the harsh realities of life.
Bill must see some of that in his face because he puts down his book and fixes Jeb with a sharp look. “You’ve got three choices, Jeb. You can square your shoulders and let them stare, knowing that what they see when they look at you is their problem, you can stare right back and deal with the consequences, or you can start doing your grocery shopping on Sundays.”
Jeb stirs the beef broth. “What would you do?”
“Personally, I like to pick my battles,” Bill says, picking his book back up, thumb sliding idly down the spine. “I’m too old to attend every fight I’m invited to.”
The first Sunday Jeb goes to the grocery store, he expects the aisles to be deserted. He anticipates walking through the abandoned produce section, soulless music warbling from the speakers as he picks through the canned tomatoes, and avoiding eye contact with the sole checkout clerk who probably knows exactly what someone like Jeb is doing by shopping on the Sabbath.
Instead, he finds two checkout clerks and a handful of other Sunday morning patrons rolling their carts up and down the aisles, checking items off their shopping lists. The only judgmental glances Jeb sees are directed at the cost of meat.
“$1.40 for a pound of ground beef,” one man says, commiserating in Jeb’s direction. “Can you believe it?”
“Cheaper than the pork chops,” Jeb says, not quite believing it himself. Not the prices but the fact that he’s having this moment with a stranger, a moment of camaraderie he didn’t think he’d experience again.
American Fork isn’t a small town. It has good schools and an active community. Crime is low, Lafferty murder aside, which is the case still reverberates through the neighborhoods—Laffertys only discussed in hushed whispers. It’s also close enough to Provo that you don’t feel isolated and far enough from Salt Lake City that you don’t feel boxed in. The perfect place to raise a family.
Jeb never thought he’d met every person who called American Fork home, but he’s starting to realize that he never really looked for anyone outside of the LDS community. In fact, outside of the necessities of his job and Bill, he’s never made any effort to interact with non-Mormons.
But there’s a mom with her two kids in the cereal aisle, a tired-looking rancher picking through the TV dinner fridge, and a couple in jeans looking at the canned tomatoes right next to him. There’s not a lot of them here, in this grocery store on Sunday, but there’s enough. It’s enough.
Jeb smiles—a bit too widely—at the teen bagging his groceries, who gives him a confused wave in return, and makes his way back out to his car.
A tentative voice stops him in his tracks. “Jeb?”
Jeb turns. His eyes spot the red hair first, short and curly. Then the freckles scattered over round cheeks and a pert nose. Next, the chunky earrings, shaped like lightning bolts, dangling down towards bare shoulders. He blinks twice before taking in the whole person in front of him, clutching a paper grocery bag in front of her chest.
“Eliza Anderson?”
Eliza’s face erupts into a grin. She comes closer, all five feet and two inches of her—no taller than she was the last time Jeb saw her wandering through BYU, braided hair halfway down her back and full-sleeved dress spilling past her knees. It’s a far cry from what she’s wearing now, an orange tank top and jean shorts that barely reach mid-thigh.
“I thought it was you,” she says, smiling up at him. “What are you doing here on a Sunday?”
Jeb’s mouth works, both unsure how to answer that and unable to process the person asking it. “Wow” is all he says. “Eliza, you look…”
“Different,” Eliza supplies. Her brown eyes flick away, uncertain, before meeting his gaze head-on. “I know. I cut my hair off when I was excommunicated.”
Even after all this, Jeb still flinches at the word. His body moves automatically, taking a step back and shifting his groceries in front of him.
Eliza gives him a sad little nod and starts to turn away. “It was good to see you, Brother Pyre.”
“Are you okay?” Jeb blurts out. The words are loud—too loud in the nearly empty parking lot. The rancher, currently loading his bag of frozen dinners into his truck, glances up and stares at them curiously.
Eliza turns back to him, bewildered.
“I left the church,” Jeb adds, shifting his groceries nervously. “I’m just… I know how hard it is, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Jeb sees her understanding. Feels it echo through him and find a home in his bones.
“Oh, Jeb,” she says. “Are you okay?”
Jeb opens his mouth to say, yes, he’s fine. It’s all fine. But what comes out is a watery laugh. “I honestly don’t know.”
Eliza takes two quick steps toward him, and wraps her arm around him in a tight hug. The paper grocery bags are caught awkwardly between them, and her head barely comes up to his chest, but the gesture is so conscious —so aware of the unspoken shame, regret, sorrow, and gratitude hovering around him—that Jeb starts to cave in on himself.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling back to wipe his eyes.
“It’s okay,” Eliza tells him, rubbing his arm. “I cried a lot too. In more embarrassing places than the Grand Central Grocery Store.”
Jeb chuckles. “Good. That makes me feel better, thanks.”
“Do you have a pen?” Eliza asks, apropos of nothing, and it’s so like her—so familiar of the Eliza who would interrupt their study session to ask him the most frustratingly arbitrary questions—that Jeb’s digging around in his pockets without a second thought.
When he comes home from the grocery store, Bill’s sitting in the living room, strumming away on his guitar. When he sees the look on Jeb’s face, he doesn’t do anything as obvious as set his guitar down, but he slows to a slower, softer tune. The tendons in his forearm flex as he plays.
“Shopping go okay?” Bill asks. He’s wearing his customary Sunday sweatpants and tank top, and Jeb can see the outline of his right nipple through the fabric. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Jeb touches the scrap of paper in his pocket. The one Eliza had torn off her grocery bag and scribbled her address on.
“We meet every week,” she’d told him. “It’s small, and Seth’s kind of annoying, but it’s a good group. Wednesday night at my place. You’re always welcome.”
“Yeah, it kind of feels that way too,” Jeb tells Bill and goes to put the groceries away.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got an annoying flair for the dramatic, Jeb?” Bill calls after him.
Jeb snorts. “That’s pretty rich coming from a guy who has more one-liners than Yogi Berra.”
In the living, Bill chuckles—a low, pleased thing that has Jeb’s gut clenching. The sensation is followed by a ripple of anxiety.
He’s not sure how much longer this particular thought is going to stay on the shelf.