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WE NEVER SAW COMING

Short story by Nina Killham

(To think I wrote this short story over a year ago…)

I’ve always been very fond of you, my father says and instantly I know we have entered the final stage of good-bye. This is a new language between us now and I know I need to pay attention. But I’ve been at his bedside for two weeks and my boss, back in Australia, who had initially been supportive–‘Right place to be’–is getting a bit more clipped in his responses. ‘You coming back anytime soon?’ Your father’s heart is strong, the doctor says, this could take a while. Reluctantly, I kiss the translucent skin on my father’s forehead, smooth the bulging veins on his mottled hand and walk away.

On the airplane, I smile faintly at the man squeezing into the seat next to me and flick through the on-flight magazine, gazing at beaches I no longer have any desire to visit. I remember when an airplane ride was a big deal, a glamorous capsule that would take you to an adventure. Now the five-hour flight from Washington D.C. to Los Angeles feels like a bus ride: sandwiches and iPads carried in, bags jammed into over-head racks, coffees balanced precariously on seat arms while hands fish for seat belts.

The sleeping pill will have to come later–on the second leg of my trip–the Guantanamo Bay-like internment from Los Angeles to Melbourne where I moved seven years ago to be with someone I met backpacking along the crystal hills of the Annapurna Circuit. I only recently noticed that I’ve led my life like the owner of a bolshie dog who doesn’t know how to heel, following instead of leading, often scrambling to pick up the crap left in my wake. I settle into the twenty-four-hour trip with steely resolve and, a fitful snooze later, wake up with my father murmuring in my ear. I lean to the left, trying to hear the words, but his voice fades. I glance at my watch, amazed. We are not far from L.A. I peer over, past my two seat mates, towards the window to look out. I’ve always loved this moment of the flight—the descent through the deep purple night into the Inca gold city. 

I think of my father, bald and unmarked as a new-born pup, curled like a fetus in his nursing home cot. He is alone now, my mother ten-years gone. I try my best to be a good daughter but that is difficult, especially when I am so far away and my father cannot fathom the technology that was supposed to connect us.

It is one of the passengers who first points out the fire. Look! he cries and slaps his hand against the windowpane right next to the nose of his teenage son who doesn’t glance up from his phone. But I do and catch the flash of scarlet and yellow in the hills around Topanga Canyon. They look like a comic book gunfire against the blackening night.

By now everyone is peering over, twisting and straining against their seat belts which have been ordered fastened for the descent. Even the teenage boy looks up and then immediately shoves his head into my view.

When we touch down, people jump up, intent on the next thing. Bags in hand, iPads in the other, they shuffle past the tightly smiling flight attendant who urges everyone to have a nice evening. Soon, I think as I walk past, they will have robots to do that. They’ll have a smooth plastic-molded machine rolling back and forth along the aisle offering snacks and alcohol, a credit card imprint embedded in its chest.

On my way out of the domestic gate I recognize the shop where I bought my family-size bag of peanut M&Ms for the flight to D.C. two weeks ago. I enter again, defeated by the sugar pull–after all, I will need something to keep me entertained for the next fifteen-hour flight, not to mention something to sooth the fact that I moved a million miles away for someone I have lately realized I do not love. I also succumb to the allure of an O magazine which offers optimism in a quick five-minute read.

I make my well-worn way to the Tom Bradley International terminal and smile at the sight of a hijab-wearing security guard telling a passenger to lose his shoes. I wave my little baggie of make-up but no one is particularly interested in me or my regulation clear baggie. I stand on the painted feet signs and raise my arms like a good girl.

Past security the air is rarified–clean and filtered–catering to the new flying class. Images of icy blue water cascade from 90-foot high screens. Jungles of exotic flowers bloom from others. Gucci, Burberry and Bulgari beckon like children catchers. Inside the shops, customers twirl in their webs.

I stop for a cappuccino and sit next to a family slurping through a hundred-dollars worth of Frappuccinos and muffins. I observe the crowd. There is nothing else to do. I have not coughed up for the exorbitant international roaming charges and so am stuck watching men and women staring at their phones, their heads at a 45-degree angle like oil rigs.

What I really want to do is return to Washington and set up camp in a room next door to my father. I like the other oldies at the home—they make me feel so young—and I could sit quietly in the evenings with a good book, eat at the common dining room—I’m used to old people’s unappetizing skin lesions by now—and just be. Just be a successful daughter. Not the failed girlfriend, lover, partner, whatever you call it, that I am now. In another era I would probably have been the daughter who remained unmarried to stay home and care for the parents. There was always one. No one does that anymore. Children are now tossed from their home like old toys. Or they run from it. As if it were on fire.

I return to my walking, willing my body to expend its energy so that it will consider resting during the oncoming hours of captivity in the economy seat of a Qantas A380. I am rounding my fourth cycle of the entire concourse when I notice the jostling at the windows. Was there an accident, I wonder as I join the crowd and lift myself on tippy toes to see over the three layers of heads bobbing up and down in front of me.

I gasp. A fire burns ferociously just outside the window, lapping at the runway. At first, I think it is a car or one of those vehicles always zipping around overladen with baggage. But I can’t see a car and now notice a similar fire burning a hundred feet further down. And another. In fact, a whole line of them stretches in both directions. It seems to be the same fire as before, only bigger. Much bigger.

“Will you look at that,” the young woman next to me whispers, jiggling a fractious baby in her arms.

My first thought is to be grateful. Maybe I won’t have to go back. Maybe I will be able to stay in the airport hotel, order room service, read my book. I could email my girlfriend/lover/partner from the hotel server and finally tell her that… Suddenly the crowd shifts, its murmur rising in pitch, and heads for the far side of the building. I glance back at the gate but no staff is around and so I trail the swarm as they all run-walk through the hall, eyes glommed to the TV monitor hanging from the wall of the faux Irish pub. This time the gasp is in unison.

Shot from a circling helicopter, the view presents LAX surrounded by a circle of leaping fire.

People shush each other so loudly I can’t hear the anchor and can only watch the text that reads: Fire raging at LAX– Exits closed for containment.

I wonder if Jen will see this on TV. What is the time in Melbourne? I picture Jen curled up in the Egyptian cotton sheets we bought with so much fanfare and lust, snoring in that gentle yet relentless way she has. Between Melbourne and Washington there is a fourteen-hour difference. When I call my father from my apartment in Melbourne I love to joke that I can guarantee the sun is going to rise that day. Is Jen worried about me? Of course, Jen always worries about me. But for all the wrong reasons.

Just then the sprinklers go off. We all duck, some starting to flee–but there is nowhere to go. It is as if the ice water screens have sprung leaks and are now gushing with fury. Then, as suddenly as they started, the sprinklers stop. People look around, three teenagers in identical sports jerseys laughing nervously. A businessman with too many expensed-lunches around his girth swats at his soaked suit arm, cursing.

I look over to catch a flight attendant rushing by, pursued by a line of honking travelers, chanting I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know…

In search of answers, the flow of passengers surges towards the west side of the building. Someone with a determined edge to his voice has declared there is an information booth that way. As we pass the vast picture window, we can see how the fire has made a bee line along the beach past the neighborhoods of Santa Monica and Venice before hopping over the water way at Playa del Ray. It now stealthily circles the LAX, waiting to pounce.

At the info booth where a frightened older woman, staining the under arms of her white regulation uniform yellow, tries to fend off chaos, we learn that the planes are grounded — though a few pilots seem to be making executive decisions and careen down the runway just inches ahead of the flames. Flames that now make assured jumps across the tarmac towards the airport, clutching like rock climbers onto trucks and catering vehicles for support.

Panicky announcements crackle from the PA systems–mumbled, incoherent, something about staying put, advise against…what? I can’t hear. Against what exactly? By now my crowd, I call it my crowd, are separating into clumps — families turning to each other and hunkering down around bottles of water and boxes from Dunkin’ Donuts which unlike the other shops is still open. Still manned.

The newsstands have clanged shut their metal gates and people gaze longingly and angrily at the candy.

“It’s just going to melt,” says one astute child.

I look around. No one is catching my eye. I am going to have to ride this one out alone. I’m used to that. It’s fine. I examine the long line at Dunkin’ Donuts. The staff is already making slashing marks of SOLD OUT against most of the menu. My half bottle of lemon-flavored vitamin water and family pack of peanut M&M’s is going to have to get me through.

A sudden screech and a wave of awe flows through the hall. A plane attached to Gate 148 has just burst into flames. Black smoke pours through the door into the departure lounge like a malevolent ghost.

A swarm of incredulous passengers shove their way past the slower, more infirm, who squeak piteously like cornered mice. I trip over a roll-on that some idiot insists on hanging on to and come down hard on my elbow. The pain shoots through my whole body and I cry out. But no one notices or doesn’t care–they are busy running to the other end of the building–past the shut Petrossian Champagne Bar, the Hugo Boss shop, the Porsche Design.

The travel boards are now black. The info woman has fled and no employees of any airline can be found. I stand in the middle of the panic, alone and feel strangely calm, as if I am watching the whole episode all on Netflix, curled in my duvet, a Boatrocker brew in my fist.

The water sprinklers suddenly switch on again. And this time people don’t flinch. Better than nothing we tell each other. This will clear the air. Heads nod up and down in agreement, eyes stuck in wide open mode. But then again the sprinklers suddenly cease and we now know to brace ourselves for the smoke lurking down the hall towards us.

I blink slowly, carefully as I look around. The lights click off. The TV dies. The cool blue water disappears. The building seems to slump as the pressure of climate acclimation collapses. Outside I can see the helicopters circling–blinding white lights peering into the darkened airport. The girl who lamented the melted chocolate is now struggling to breathe. Her mother rummages in her carry-on, screeching ‘Where is it? Paul, you packed it didn’t you? I told you to pack it!’ Paul sits on the floor holding his daughter’s hand and shaking his head rhythmically as if in beat to a song only he can hear.

The heat rises. People loosen shirt collars. Some women strip down to their bras–no longer giving a fuck. Men lie back rasping too much to give a fuck. One sad soul tries to break the glass of an emergency exit and is wrestled back and clobbered. The general consensus being that what is out there is a far worse.

Not everyone is panicky though. Some have managed to pry open the accordion steel shop gates and are looting the high-end stores. Well, not looting exactly. They are grabbing bags and shoes and carrying them out to the concourse only to waddle back still laden with their gains when they see the thickening air. Some resolutely take selfies.

I glance down at my own phone. With my lack of international plan, I can’t alert Jen in Melbourne and I don’t want to distress my father. I am unsure he is even thinking of me now, so intent he must be with his dying. I suppose I could ask to borrow someone’s phone, but they all seem to be on them, crying or texting rapidly. I assume those who aren’t have run out of juice.

Would a text work, I wonder. They’re different to phone calls, aren’t they? Maybe it will go through, pass through the ether and hit its target in Melbourne like a missile. And so I waggle my thumbs over the screen, spelling out ‘I love you.’ I stare at the screen, unconvinced, until I finally pump at the backward button to delete all trace of my affection. I put the phone in my pocket and sit there, watching. Though soon it’s too hard to see through the suffocating smoke. Even when the glass shatters and the burning embers dig into my flesh, I can’t believe what is happening. To the end, I still think someone will rescue us, that someone will do something and not let us die one by one, snuffed out by a rage we never saw coming.

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THE STRANGER by Nina Killham

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I have no idea how he got in but there he suddenly is, leaning on my kitchen counter, jelly belly sagging over his jeans, a tattoo chaining his neck, lips plump and greasy.

“You right, mate?” he asks.

How did he get in? I do a quick swing of my eyeballs around the room, past the kitchen table piled with school crap and abandoned in muted fury—like I know anything about cosines–the overflowing recycling bin, the empty hand sanitiser that for the life of me I cannot find a replacement for. Did the kids leave the back door open? How many times have I told them? How many times? I sigh. Well, however he got in, the main thing to do now is to get him out again, as quickly as possible. Maybe, if I pretend I don’t see him, he’ll go away. I open the fridge and lean in, looking for my next snack.

“Anything good?” he asks.

I open my mouth to respond but shut it tight–do not engage–and pull out the roast lamb we had last night for dinner. Slice or two of that with some mayo, two slices of rosemary sourdough, some lettuce, and my life will be complete.

I feel the tickle of his fingers on the back of my neck. “I said, Anything good?”

I put the lamb back. I’ve lost my appetite. I squeeze around him and sit down in the living room. I can hear the kids in their rooms, talking to their friends on Skype. Maybe Netflix will keep me company. The missus is in the garage jogging through the alps on the new exorbitant running machine she insisted we buy before she went mad from not being able to go to the gym. After one particularly expressive day on her part, I gave in. So here I am, alone, unloved, except for the goon who has plunked his nasty ass right down next to me.

“What are we watching?” he asks.

Don’t get me wrong, by this time I am desperate for company. A month of lock-down will do that to you. Oh, yeah, you can still go to the shops, but by this time I am terrified of catching anything. I approach stepping out for some milk like a soldier crawling along the Kabul-Kandahar highway. Everyone has become so jumpy, hands snatching back if they came within an inch of each other. People, now having to standing in line just to get into Coles, are getting pissy if you zone out in podcastland and get too close. The look they give you. That Stand back, motherfucker, I’ve got kids to feed!

So I hightail it back to home. Home. Never gave it much thought before. It fed me, kept me company in the evenings and on weekends. When I was there. But a lot of the times I wasn’t. I was busy, very important. Spent my lifetime in meetings, and strange hotels with shame-tingling TV cable channels. My second home was an airport, and a bar. Yeah, a lot of bars where the light was syrupy golden and the drinks were paid for by the company and the company was, if not dazzling, at least convivial. Knew the difference between a concessional and a non-concessional contribution and didn’t yawn like a cheetah when you told them what you did for a living. Superannuation. It’s going to keep you in chocolate biccies, baby, when your teeth are falling out is how I like to put it. Many a conversation has died a gritty death around the words pre-mix strategy and conditions of release. Well, they’ll know when it matters, believe me. If they’re lucky. My Mary, she still doesn’t know the what an allocated pension is. And is proud of it.

I’m the cheetah now, padding around the house, poking my nose into teenage bedrooms and getting an earful for my efforts. I force myself twice a day to walk around the block, dragging the pudgy spaniel who has already been walked by Mary and is in no mood to move. I’m addicted to endless doomsday podcasts, corona this corona fucking that. How many are dead, that is what I always want to know, first thing in the morning, like it’s fucking Christmas and the answer is underneath the tree.

Everybody going on about how it’s time to refuel, recalibrate like we’re fucking tires out of alignment. Read, they urge. Be creative. Ha. I pick through the stack of books that I have put by my bedside in a bout of self-deception and then just stare at the first page for about five minutes before my hand reaches of its own accord and taps that bloody blue bird on my phone. What the hell is going on out there? Help! Save me from myself. Talk to me, somebody. Please.

So yeah, I’m desperate. I flick through the TV choices: House of Cards, season three, what a fucker that lead actor turned out to be, but man he is good. That twitchy thing he does with his cheek when he gets angry, scares the shit out of me, I would have done anything he asked. Love The Americans who, just whenever you are getting too moist about what good guys the two are, murder some innocent bystander with a deadly neck-breaking snap. Mary and I flesh out our entrenched TV habit with a couple of Nordic Noirs with their sick rape/murder/dismemberments.

I glance over at the guy who by now has oozed himself onto the couch next to me and is nodding enthusiastically at one of the Nordic Noirs with its preview of the little blond number all sliced and diced.

“That one,” he says, raising his finger and grinning.

We settle back and watch in silence for bit, but I start feeling like something is missing. Like a beer: cold and soothing. Naturally, I offer him one—I’m not a dick–and he nods, not taking his eyes off the knife slicing through the pale virginal flesh. In the kitchen I rummage in the refrigerator. We have plenty of beer—I practically took a tow truck to Dan Murphy’s so that is no problem. I just had to find it behind all the other food we’ve also stashed up on: smoked salmon, for Christ’s sakes, coming out of our ears. And Mary upped our ice cream stash by several factors just in case the kids go without a sugar rush for two hours. “But they’re bored, darling, we need to do something.”

Mary has taken to starting every evening with a glass or three of champagne like she’s the mistress of some stone manor in the fox-run wilds of England. We keep telling ourselves that we are saving oodles by not going out to cafes and restaurants and movies and whatever else we seem to fill our endless time with. So we can indulge. And no, I haven’t lost my job yet. I’m keeping to myself the rumours. Which I heard last night at Jeff’s place.  I told Mary I was walking the dog but went straight round to his place. He lives alone, no control freaks in his household. And yeah, Matt and Blue were there too and their alibi dogs. And we had a beer. So shoot me. And that’s where I heard the rumours about the lay-offs. Jeff was freaking out, snot and tears everywhere, and so we took turns patting him on the back. We’re not complete assholes.

No need to worry Mary just yet. Let her keep swilling the champers. I might make the cut. You never know. So yeah, I can spare a beer for the mess taking up space on my couch, watching the Swedish murder scene with way too much attention. I hand him a cheeky microbrew I’ve discovered down the Peninsula and a bowl of peanuts too, just to keep him busy.

“You ready,” he asks, his hand like a limp rag as he dips it into the peanuts.

“For what?”

“For the end of the world…”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“…as you know it.”

Mr. Drama Prince. No. I say. All these people going on about how nice the world is, so quiet you can hear the birds and all the bunnies swimming in the canals, and everyone being matey and pole dancing on balconies, and chatting with friends you haven’t thought about for twenty years (there was a reason, mate). No, I prefer it like it was before. Give me smog you can chew on any day. Give me the sweet sweat of a stranger. The packed nonsensical lives of a teenager. The complete disinterest of your common man. Hand me over consumption and petty squabbles fixed up over a picnic in the park. Give me love with too many people for your own and their good. Tight Coles aisles and the eye rolling and the bad breath. God, what I would give for a bout of someone’s bad breath riling my day. Or fresh food markets with the barking vendors and the crushing crowd and the bright fleshy root vegetables piled high like tarts showing their tits. Give me heaving humanity in all its glory.

The stranger raises his eyebrows. “Too late now, mate. Should have made your predilections clearer.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

He thinks a moment. “Nah, not really.” He raises his empty beer bottle. “Another for the road?”

“Dad?” It’s Tim, finally coming up for air, his face pouched with boredom, his body slack from lounging all day at the computer. His eyes are slits, barely registering the moocher on the couch.

“Your kid?” The stranger says. Master of the obvious. I nod, unease creeping into my guts.

“Get some breakfast and go for a bike ride,” I bark at Tim. His eyes widen at the thought of so much activity. “Now,” I insist. I want him out of the stranger’s eyesight.

“Yeah, yeah, OK.” Tim pulls his face back from the open door and closes it.

“Nice kid,” the stranger murmurs. “Pity.”

I want him out. Now. No more beer. No more savage television. Time to go. I have been welcoming enough.

He nods his head in agreement. “Yes, yes, you have.” He heaves himself up from the couch, patting his pockets. “Got everything? Probably not. Oh well, onward and onward.”

He holds out his hand for a shake. “No hard feelings, mate.”

I ignore the hand and open the front door for him to leave just as Mary appears, the lead attached to the dog in one hand, her iPhone attached to earphones in the other. Who’s that?” she says, eyeing the grease ball disappearing down our path.

“No one,” I say.

She nods then puckers her forehead as she places a hand to my clammy cheek. “Oh, mate,” she says, “I can’t believe you let him in.”

 

 

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Mormonism for Women

A couple of years ago when Mormon polygamy marriages were top news I wrote a short story. As the campaigns of presidential candidates heat up, I thought I’d share it with you. It’s in the form of a newspaper article and offers a different take on polygamy called polyandry.

Mormonism for Women

by

Nina Killham

Newtown-Utah. The real problem about polyandry, says Jennifer Lind, is managing so many husbands. “It’s exhausting. They can get pretty rowdy.” She should know. Lind, 39, has five of them.

On a sunny October day, she sits in the immaculate living room of her ranch house and discusses how her religion, which allows multiple marriages, is misunderstood. “People have this impression that I’m some sort of dominatrix standing over my husbands with a whip or something. It’s not like that at all,” she says, sipping tea handed to her by husband number four, J.J., 23. (His real name is Jeffrey but there already was a Jeffrey, husband number two.)

“We’re a family. Yes, I’m the head of the family but we all participate, we all belong.”

Her men agree. “People ask us about this all the time. They’re fixated,” laughs Kevin, 25, as he socks co-husband, Jeffrey, 28, playfully on the arm. Jeffrey grabs Kevin in a headlock. The two men glance adoringly at their wife who smiles at them then asks for another cup of tea.

Lind lives with her husbands and ten children in a five-bedroom home filled with bunk beds and sports equipment. “Yes, it can get cozy,” she admits. “but good cozy.”

To accommodate the crowd, they share three cars, stagger their bed and rising times, and eat and watch television in shifts. But they pray in one shift, congregating together in the living room and thanking God for her blessing.

Their religion, called Lessingism after their prophet Anna Mae Lessing who set up a commune in the area in the mid-1900’s, preaches that man must submit to woman because she is the source of all sustenance. She is provider of love, of education and, most importantly, of food.

“To be frank, it’s all about breasts,” says Lind. Lessingers believe woman to be the source of all good, a miniature God on earth, and instill in their children a reverence for the power of a woman’s body. Breastfeeding is the pinnacle of achievement.

It’s a distinction that some men in the church are uncomfortable with, suggesting that their orthodoxy is too narrow. “Well, they can fuss all they like,” says Lind “but if they don’t got ‘em, they don’t got ‘em. It’s biology, and you can’t argue with biology.”

As a result, men take a back seat in the leadership of the religion. But not in the donkey work. In 1955, Lessing took on another husband to help her with the care of her children. It was so successful she took on another and decided to write it into the covenant. Lessing died in 1997 at the age of 72, her sixth husband, 25-year-old Brandon Vier, at her side.

Lind turned to the little known religion when she was 26 years old. “I had been searching to find something that gave me a sense of community, that had values that were in keeping with what I thought was an ethical way to live. When I finally found it I had a sense of homecoming. Life suddenly made sense. It’s a belief system I hope to impart to my children.”

Her children, Tanya, 13, Jeff, 11, Jilly, 10, Rachel, 9, Bruce, 7, Billy, 6, Sarah, 5, Karen, 3, Ken 2 and Alicia, 4 months, are the product of her marriage to the five different men. When asked how she can tell who a child’s father is, she explains patiently about DNA testing. Before the tests, she says, husbands just had to take their wives’ word for it. And though technically speaking it’s illegal in this state to marry several men, Lind maintains that she is only exercising her freedom of religion.

“It’s not like we’re hurting anyone,” she says.” It’s all completely consensual.”

Kevin’s parents disagree. They were uncomfortable with their son’s decision to marry Lind and tried several times to talk him out of it. His father has gone as far as to bring a civil suit against Lind. “I think she is a corrupting factor,” Mr. Rogan says. “She gets them young when they don’t know any better.”

But Kevin is staunchly behind his wife. “My parents just don’t understand,” says Kevin who married Lind when he was a 20 year old college sophomore. “They think I’m living in the dark ages or something.” Kevin was a high school buddy of Jeffrey’s and was intrigued by Jeffrey’s marriage. “He just kept hanging around so much I finally decided to make an honest man out of him,” laughs Lind.

She met her last two husbands, J.J. and Richard, through their mothers, also Lessingers, who offered their sons as excellent marriage material. “They see the value of this system and so they brought up their sons to think accordingly.”

Lind marries her men in a private ceremony at home, attended only by close family, the co-husbands and the church’s leader, Mary Ann Garnett. “It’s a happy affair, Garnett says. “We make a big batch of chili and then the boys play tag football. Jennifer and I watch.”

Garnett, 45, who has been an elder in their church for 10 years, believes the polyandry is good for the children. “And that’s what’s important here more than any personal satisfaction.” She believes the practice lessens the burdens and frustration of the nuclear family. “It’s not that we have anything against nuclear families, we just think this is a better way to live.” Garnett herself has only two husbands. “They’re just about all I can handle.”

According to Professor Sarah Standish at City University, polyandry is a humane way to live. “When you think that one of today’s social problems is the rise of marginal men, it’s perfect. The practice incorporates men into strong families and gives them something to do. I think it’s the future of society.”

Lind sets down her cup of tea and readjusts baby Alicia at her breast. Her fifth husband, Richard, 22, is playing in the corner with the three toddlers. An ex-Sunday school teacher, he takes care of Ken, Karen, and Sarah and teaches them simple psalms and songs. Their little minds lap it up, he says smiling. “They really want to know their place in the world.” When asked if the boys are disappointed by their future as one of many husbands, Richard looks puzzled. “No. I certainly don’t teach it that way. And the girls, their sense of responsibility must be instilled as soon as possible.”

Next year Sarah will step up into Grant’s care. Grant, 35, is Lind’s first husband who she married when he was 23 and she was 27. He was a high school teacher at the time but gave up his work when Jeffrey joined the household. He now homeschools the eldest six in the old master bedroom which has been converted into an old fashioned school room complete with desks and white board. Grant teaches the older children the Notebook, which is the word of their prophet. “We are fundamental. We go strictly by the Notebook.”

While Lind feeds the children, her husbands support her by cooking, shopping, cleaning, babysitting and earning money outside the home. “I provide the grub,” she says, “and in turn they do their service.”

J.J. takes away Lind’s cup and retreats to the kitchen where he begins his daily task of cooking a wholesome lunch for sixteen. “Around lunch time things can get pretty hectic what with the kids’ play group schedules and some of the guys’ sports schedules. I try to anticipate any problems.”

He slides on his apron and gives a quick tour of the kitchen, showing off industrial sized pots and pans, a humongous salad bowl and a grill large enough to sear a horse. He is also in charge of the family’s laundry. He proudly shows off his late model washing machine that Lind bought for him last year. He twirls the bottle of bleach around his finger like a pistol. “Mess with my detergent and you’re dead,” he jokes.

Kevin and Jeffrey both work outside the home. Kevin as a computer analyst, Jeffrey as a pilot. As Jeffrey is away from home a lot he tries to make up for his absences by taking extra “marital satisfaction” shifts. “I read up on the latest orgasm techniques. And so far Jennifer seems pretty pleased. I like the lifestyle. I look at men in regular marriages and I think what pressure they have. They have to be on call every day. I get all this free time and yet I know I contribute to the whole. The guys and I have a really good time. And Jennifer, she’s great. Really relaxed, caring. She makes me feel…good about myself. Like I’m a valued member of the team.”

Richard, however, is a bit moody these days. Jennifer has decided to marry again. Her choice is Byron, 21, a male model, who will be joining the household next month.

“I figure we could use the extra income and well, he’ll certainly be easy on the eyes,” grins Jennifer who plans to have Byron continue his career. Richard frowns. Jeffrey nudges him playfully, explaining. “It’s always hardest for the last husband. You take it hard at first but then you lighten up.”

Because in the end, Lind says, their union works. If they didn’t like it, she maintains, her husbands wouldn’t stay.

The men nod philosophically.

“Whatcha gonna do?” says Kevin. “She’s the boss. It’s the way God intended it.”

Jeffrey gives him a high five.

photo by Bob auBuchon (flickr)

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