Andrew Valencia: Lord of California

You got something you want to say?

Anthony looked up from his plate and glared at me. It was weird seeing Daddy’s eyes in someone else’s head. You Catholic?

No. Why?

Your mother. Was she married to our father by a priest?

Not that I know of.

That’s what I thought. My mother was married to him by a priest in a Catholic church. That means she’s his real wife before the eyes of God.

What’re you talking about? Daddy wasn’t Catholic.

Doesn’t matter. He still got married in a church.

I looked to see if Mama had heard us. Fortunately, she was preoccupied watching Anthony’s mother fuss over the toddler Karina. I set my chin on her shoulder to catch her attention. Can I go look around, please?

You’ve barely eaten anything, she said.

Please? I’m tired of sitting still so long.

Well. All right. But don’t wander too far.

After putting the full space of the yard between Mama and me, I kicked off my fancy dress flats and let my bare toes luxuriate in the loose soil by the edge of the orchard. Up close as I was, I came to notice that the trees on Katie’s property were plums instead of nectarines, and it got me thinking about all the ways Daddy had diversified his investments over the years—different crops for different families, different wives for different children. In my solitude I felt the pang of real sadness come over me for the first time since Mama opened up about his lies. All those months I had held on to the hope that eventually someone, whether Mama or one of the other wives, would explain everything to me in a way that made sense, and then I would finally understand how he could do that to us for so long, and how he could leave us with such a mess on our hands. I’d been waiting for one of them to set me straight, but now I was starting to get it. They could smile and talk over a plate of barbecue, but they were every bit as lost as me.

The sun set slow over the valley, with a few dry clouds hanging in the sky, and the day’s heat stinging our skins. The mothers herded the little ones into the backyard with the older kids assigned to watch them. I kept waiting for Mama to send me out to keep an eye on Jessie and Gracie, but instead she had me stay close by as she and the other wives settled onto cushioned chairs and sofas in the living room. Katie’s boys, Logan and Will, also stayed behind, as did her daughter Beth, who was only a year ahead of me but already so filled-out that she could’ve passed for a sixth wife if no one knew better. Anthony had refused to hang around inside with the women, mumbling something on his way out the door about wishing he’d stayed home. I was glad for his absence, frankly. I’d spent enough time looking after Gracie to know when somebody’s on the verge of a tantrum, and the way that boy was going, it wouldn’t have taken much to set him off.

I suppose it’s time we got down to business, Jennifer said. She opened her leather satchel and took out a manila folder stuffed with papers. We only had four channels on the TV at home, but Jennifer reminded me of every lady lawyer on every crime show I’d ever seen.

Hope business wasn’t hanging over your head all through dinner, Katie said. I thought it’d be nice to hold off on the serious talk until evening. Sorry if it made you antsy.

Oh no, Jennifer said. I’m fine. It was a lovely meal. I just assumed we were all eager to get the nitty gritty details out of the way. That is why you asked us to bring copies of our parcel allotment forms, right?

I was wondering about that too, Dawn said. Her back grew stiff as all eyes converged on her. I was hoping somebody could explain how all of this works. Elliot and I never discussed the property papers. We’d only had the farm a year or so before he went away and got sick.

All afternoon, none of the other wives had spoken Daddy’s name. Now the whole room became charged with a fearful energy, as if Dawn had unknowingly let in some venomous insect that we were all trying to veer away from. She gripped the allotment forms tight between her fingers.

We’ll be getting to that in a minute, honey, Katie said. First off, I think we should take a second to clear the air. Get out anything we’re holding back that might keep us from reaching an understanding.

I’m not sure what you mean, Jennifer said. We’ve only just met one another.

True. But I doubt there’s a woman alive who could find out her husband was keeping four women behind her back and not come away with some pretty nasty preconceived notions about the other gals.

Again the energy of the room seemed to dip toward nervousness. I could already tell I liked Katie a lot, but she was maybe too direct for the rest of the wives. Mama especially was more likely to let her feelings fester than to open up a wound. I listened close for changes in her breathing, for signs that she was gearing up for another episode.

I’m not saying we need to quit being angry, Katie continued. To the contrary. Far as I’m concerned, that man deserves to have his name cursed for as long as it’s remembered, deceased or not. What I’m saying is, we don’t have the time or luxury to sit around acting catty and pretending like everyone else involved is a lying slut. That’s not going to help us, and it’s not going to help our children. Fact is, we’ve all been hurt by this man. Hurt about as bad as a wife can be by her husband. And the way I see it, we have a choice about how we can face it. We can either go ahead on our own, spend nights crying over our wine bottles, and call each other bitches behind our backs. Or, we can accept that we’ve all been hurt, that all of our pain is equal, and that together our pain makes us sisters in a way. And then we can move on together. What do you say?

It felt oddly satisfying to hear Katie talk about Daddy like that, if only because no one else had even dared to admit they were upset. I wanted to clap my hands and cry out in agreement, but it was awkward when I was child to the man along with three others in the room. Mama had let me stay because she thought I was grown-up enough to handle their talk, but I didn’t know where my place was at when it came to speaking up. Daughter, sister, half-sister, and victim. Each new title seemed to eat away at my freedom to decide for myself. I don’t know how the wives and mothers stood it.

I’m sorry, Jennifer said. I know you mean well, and I agree that none of us are at fault. But as for the sisterhood, you’ll have to count me and my children out. I agreed to come here today because I thought they had the right to meet their siblings, and I knew eventually we’d have to iron out the details concerning Elliot’s estate. But as for working together from now on, I don’t see how it could help any of us in the long run. Take away the common thread and we’re all very different women with farms in different parts of the state. We can get together now and then for the children’s sake, but beyond that I don’t see any point in pretending we share anything more than a dead husband and the same last name.

I don’t see the point either, Claudia said. She had been sitting as peaceably as a portrait angel up till then. Now she uncrossed her legs and scooted to the edge of the seat cushion, looking out at the other wives until all their attention was hers. The man we called husband committed a terrible sin, she said, and now he’s receiving judgment for it in the afterlife. It falls on us to raise our sons and daughters according to how we see fit, and for me that means raising them in a Catholic household. I know the rest of you don’t share my beliefs, and that’s your right the same as mine. We should hold parties once in a while like we did today, and when the children are older they can decide for themselves if they want to have relationships with their half-brothers and sisters. But five different women, working together, and raising their children in common? Sorry, no. That’s Mormon talk.