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Show in my father's house/ 130 we heard a car rumble up to the tent. It was Gerda, who had been in Utah working. We were so excited to see her --it had been months -- and she had brought dolls for each of the little girls, and a toy car for each of the boys. And she gave us oranges and nuts and cornflakes -- things we hadn't had for months. Suddenly we felt like queens in a castle! It was as perfect as Christmas without snow or pinetrees can be." "Soon after Christmas, Rachel's Emily got so sick with dysentery she almost died. We expected to lose her several times that year..." My mother's voice rambled on, sketching each fine line, each detail of her first stay in Mexico, speaking with the same precision as she played the piano, going back over dates and trifles until she rendered the story to her satisfaction. Aunt Helga did not break in, did not argue the facts as she might have done before my mother's illness. I listened and let my head droop against the back of the seat. The big orange moon blurred and seemed to smother my brain like honey. I didn't wake up until after we had crossed the border into Mexico. In retrospect, it seems fitting that I learned about physical exile before full exposure to the pervasive psychological banishment of our little group from the close-knit Mormon society of Salt Lake. And how appropriate that our place to hide would be Mexico, where my grandparents had entered plural marriage, |