Free The Chosen One by Carol Lynch Williams Page A

meat makes Mother want to puke. I can’t believe how good the food smells.
    My mother says, “We’re ready, Richard.”
    Father nods and he and my uncle come in to sit at the table.
    Uncle Hyrum presides, taking Father’s chair. He makes me sit next to him. And makes Mother Sarah eat with us, too, though her lips go pale as she sits there. I’m not sure if it’s the beef or Uncle Hyrum that make her feel sick.
    “Dear God in Heaven,” Uncle Hyrum prays when we kneel at our chairs for the blessing on the food. “We thank thee for this bounty. We thank thee for the truth. Help us to see it and be believing. Help those here who must yield.”
    I think my heart might stop beating. If I’m lucky, my heart will stop beating. But there is Joshua tonight. I can make it till one in the morning. I could do anything until one in the morning.
    We wait for Uncle Hyrum to fill his plate. I make sure there’s grape juice in his glass at all times, like he tells me.
    Uncle Hyrum has six wives of his own. Six! What does he need one more for? Why? He’s greedy.
    I can tell by the way he eats. With his mouth open. And piling so much on his plate there’s hardly any left for the rest of us.
    No one speaks but Uncle Hyrum. He talks on and on of God and his family and the blessings that are his. The blessings that will soon be mine.
    “Just one month,” Uncle Hyrum says, “and you, Sister Kyra, will be bound to me and headed toward heaven.”
    What can I say to that? Nothing.
    What do I think? You make me sick. With your balding head and meat stuck in your teeth and the way you smack your lips when you eat. You make me sick and I’m not planning on sticking around here. I’ll leave, I’ll take my sisters away, I’ll go. You can’t make me stay here .
    He smiles and I see where his tooth should be and I realize this is another reason to hate him.
    He talks and talks. About discipline. About obedience. About lalalalala and dadadida. If I could get to a piano right now, I would play Chopin. I would try a bit of Liszt. I would hammer out Beethoven just to make this uncle—my future husband—be quiet. I could care less that he’s an Apostle. I just want him to shut up. How could this man be my father’s brother?
    At last, at last, Uncle Hyrum is done eating. He calls on Father to say the closing prayer. My uncle hasn’t spoken to anyone once. Just at us. He’s never asked for a response. And all I can think is how much I hate him.
    Then Uncle Hyrum says, “Kyra, walk me to your gate.”
    “We don’t have a gate,” I say. Bricks line our yard, separating it from my father’s other wives’ yards.
    “Oh yes,” he says. His eyes are like buttons. The kind on an old coat that have lost their shine from so much use. I hate him! Hate him and his button eyes.
    I keep sitting.
    “Kyra,” Father says, his voice low coming across the table at me. Margaret says, “Don’t make her go with him.” She starts to cry and then Carolina bursts into tears, too. Laura hurries to the kitchen sink like she’s anxious to do the dishes. Now I feel like I might weep, but I don’t. I feel so much hate, I could spit.
    I walk to the door where Uncle Hyrum stands. He tries to take my hand in his, but I won’t let him.
    I’ll never let him , a voice that I don’t even recognize screams in my head.
    Outside the evening is cool and the moon has given the yard a milk-washed look.
    “Do you understand what is about to happen?” Uncle Hyrum says when we reach the bricks that border my mother’s yard. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t think you do.” He links his hands behind his back and rocks on his heels. He stares off toward the Temple. “You were saved for me. I saw you when you were young and prayed for you to be mine then.” He’s quiet a moment. “Doing what you’re supposed to do will make life much easier for you, Kyra. And your father. And your mothers.” He takes a breath. “Don’t send your father to Prophet