Free The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall

time with each wife in direct relation to the number of children that belonged to her), until these last couple of years Golden began working at distant job sites, spending four or five nights a week away from home, and his schedule became so unpredictable a grand council of the world’s greatest logistical minds couldn’t have come up with a schedule that made any sense or satisfied everyone. Every Sunday they met for what had come to be known as the Summit of the Wives, in which each wife made her case for the week, claiming Golden for an anniversary or a birthday, a teacher’s meeting or 4-H show.
    Of Golden, big as he was (and whose presence at these meetings was considered more or less irrelevant), there was simply never enough to go around.
    Often at these meetings Nola and Beverly, whose relationship had developed into one long rivalrous dance, would lock horns over who had been shortchanged the week before, which wife deserved an extra night that week, which child had been deprived of her father’s presence at something so emotionally formative as the county spelling bee. Trish and Rose-of-Sharon made it a habit to stay out of the way, occasionally making a point or taking sides in a way that favored their own particular agenda, taking whatever leftovers they could get. Never once had they had a run-in until, it seemed very likely, right now.
    Rose-of-Sharon had begun to talk in a way Trish had never heard before, a kind of breathy, headlong chatter, about Pauline’s recent ascension to first chair in the high school band, and her advances in the French horn, which is the most difficult of all the brass instruments by the way I don’t know if you knew that or not and because of its mellow sound was often included with the woodwinds and anyway Pauline is so excited about going to Cedar City for regionals that she hasn’t slept in two nights! and oh she’s been practicing like MAD for a month and it’s going to be quite a treat to stay in a motel and see the sights without the rest of the children tagging along…
    As she spoke, her trembling hands had begun to grip Trish’s head, her fingertips slowly increasing the pressure until it felt like a bird of prey had sunk its talons into her skull and was attempting to lift her bodily out of the chair.
    “It’s a big deal for her, a very important event,” Rose said, her voice thin and distressed.
    “Yes—oh, ow—I can imagine,” Trish said.
    “She’d really like it—it’d really be nice, you know…”
    Here it comes , Trish thought, hoping it would come very soon, before Rose-of-Sharon’s fingernails pierced her scalp.
    “…if she had her family there, besides just me…”
    Come on , Trish thought, get to it , please.
    “If maybe. If her…”—she seemed to hold her breath for a moment and then let it out in a rush of words—“ father -could-be-there-oh-it’d-be-something-she’d-never-forget.”
    Trish grabbed Rose’s hands, now locked into paralysis, and with some effort pried them from her head. She sat up and tried to look her in the eye, but Rose stared resolutely at the swirl of water disappearing down the sink’s drain.
    “He hasn’t been over in two weeks,” Trish whispered, even though now that the dryer had rattled into silence her words carried easily into every part of the room. “I’ve seen him twice in the past month. If I don’t see him tonight, who knows how long it will be, you understand? Rose? I’m beginning to think he won’t even recognize me anymore.”
    She laughed—a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood—but Rose only nodded. Unable to speak or make a gesture of condolence or regret, Trish sat in the sunken chair, a black-hearted villain in her bank-robber’s mask, her shameful features hidden from view. Nola, whose scissors had been poised above her customer’s springy hair during the entire exchange, sighed and resumed her snick snick snick . Rose eased her hands from Trish’s grip and gently dried her