50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Read online

  I quickly wandered upstairs to the landing and out the front door. When I caught my breath in the cold night air, I took off on a dead run. I ran for blocks, until I fell down. Then I got up and ran some more. At the time, it didn’t matter how far I went, if I ever stopped, or if I’d ever return.

  After running away and then slowly walking back to Diane’s house, I climbed into our freezing cold car to wait. I had no idea how long I’d been gone, or if I was even missed. All I knew was the shame I felt for acting out, for not being in control, and for letting my jealousy get out of hand. I didn’t want to see Diane right then, and I certainly did not want her to see me.

  On the way home, Mark said, “You know I love you, Sophia, more than anyone and anything in the whole world. I wouldn’t be courting Diane if you hadn’t encouraged me to. You know I never want to hurt you . . .”

  After a long period of silence, I finally said in anguish,

  “Just because I encouraged you to court Diane doesn’t mean you two are justified in making out with each other! You don’t have a right to break the rules! Nor does it mean I shouldn’t or won’t be in turmoil about your damn hurtful choices.”

  Mark apologized for days, while my imagination ran wild, stirring raw emotions and lack of trust. Like my mother’s torment, I thought I would plunge into the depths of hell if I didn’t get a handle on myself. Though it felt quite impossible, I drove myself into good behavior—more work, more crafts, more service.

  A couple of weeks before Valentine’s Day, Mark showed me the engagement ring he intended to present to Diane when he proposed. It was exquisite. And I was so happy for her. She deserved Mark’s love, kindness, affection, and the gorgeous ring. But at the same time, I felt shattered. He hadn’t bought me a ring when we became engaged. “Rings are no big deal,” he had told me repeatedly. For three years after our marriage while I asked for, hinted at, and practically had to beg him for a diamond wedding ring, his comments were always the same: “Come on, Sophia, rings aren’t important. It’s love that makes a good marriage, not a ring. Why isn’t your gold band good enough? Don’t you like it? Besides, we can’t afford one.”

  Even more hurtful, the wedding-engagement ensemble he bought for Diane without discussing it with me also had small diamonds and rubies. It looked way too much like the rings Mark had finally bought for me on our third anniversary. The reasons he’d used for why he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get me a wedding ring when we were first engaged once again challenged my value and worth to him.

  I slipped away to Swede’s, my newfound safe house. He was my friend, my papa bear next door. With his help, I could usually talk myself into feeling rational again.

  “We are no more financially stable now than we were then!” I cried to Swede. “It hurts so darn much that he is showing Diane more love and consideration than he did me. It seems he didn’t care enough about me, when we got engaged, to forfeit something of value to get me an engagement ring.

  At some point I had to calm down and get the spirit of the Lord back. “Mark tries every day to be a better person,” I told Swede. “As he said, I’m sure his actions were not meant to be insulting or hurtful to me. I’m sure his intentions were to do the right thing this time around. I was the practice run. My poor husband; I’ve got to straighten up and get back to being a well-behaved wife!”

  A week or so before the wedding, Diane took me into her bedroom to show off the teddies and negligee she’d purchased for her honeymoon with my husband. I dutifully smiled and approved of her eveningwear, all the while wondering how she could be so cruel and insensitive. If she loved and cared about me, why would she hurt me so much? I felt like she wanted to prove a point, as if to say, “I am here now. He loves me. And there’s nothing you can do about it!”

  *****

  Diane’s sister, my friend Val, who’d already given my brother Charles another wife, told me, “You can’t be alone on their wedding night, Sophia. We’re going to have a sleepover, play games, and eat junk food until we’re sick.”

  One week later Diane handed me an invitation to my husband’s and her wedding celebration. Attached was this note:

  Dear Sophia,

  Thank you so much for your love and friendship. You’re a very special person and I’m thankful to you for letting me be part of your family. I love you and I hope I never do anything to hurt you.

  Love,

  Diane

  Two nights before the nuptials were to take place, I forced myself to hide my resentful and jealous feelings. I smiled graciously and treated myself sadistically. Mark and Diane flirted back and forth while the three of us set up and put sheets on their brand-new king-sized bed in the master bedroom, just below mine. Diane’s room was the same one my sister Francine and William had shared just over a year ago.

  At the wedding, guests sat in our living room facing us. Dad instructed me to stand on Mark’s right side, and Diane to stand next to me.

  Facing the three of us, Dad performed the plural wedding ceremony. At one point during this long, drawn-out ritual, he asked, “Are you, Sophia, willing to stand as Sarah [biblical Sarah, who gave her servant, Hagar, to her husband Abraham to bear his children] and give Sister Diane to your husband as his wife for time and all eternity? If you are willing, please manifest your approval by placing Diane’s right hand within the right hand of your husband.”

  I ignored the searing pain in my stomach. No matter how much it hurt I forced a thankful, gracious smile. Because I believed with all my heart that ceremonial sacrifice was necessary for our salvation, that it was my righteous, womanly duty, I placed Diane’s small hand in Mark’s hand. Then I stepped back next to his left side, while Diane took her my place on his right. To appear strong, I gave him a peck on the cheek and stepped back into my place to his left.

  The rest of the day my thoughts were somewhere deep inside, while I portrayed the personification of a token first wife. I remembered watching my husband and his pretty young bride wave goodbye, heading off on their honeymoon. Of course, I’d never had a honeymoon. I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes so no one would see them.

  Val and I watched a comedy and talked about the “blessings” of that life-altering day and everything else under the sun. Then we climbed into my bed and talked some more. After she fell asleep, I grieved in total silence, not wanting her to know of my agony. I couldn’t let her know I wasn’t as good of a first wife as she must have been when my brother, Charles, was justified in a new love affair with his beautiful new bride—his second wife.

  My stomach was in knots as I kept hearing Mark’s words of passion, the ones he had so freely shared in our lovemaking for the past eight years— expressions for only me. I trembled inside with nausea and anger while I imagined his and Diane’s bodies entwined, pulsating in sensual rhythm, not just tonight on their romantic honeymoon, but in the morning, again and again, for the rest of our lives. I knew from that day forward the overpowering bond he and I had shared in our lovemaking would never again be the same. Why had I ever agreed to do this? It felt like my heart was being torn out of my chest.

  The torture wouldn’t stop. In the middle of the night, I woke to the sounds of Mark’s and Diane’s heavy breathing in a far off motel room. How can he do this to me—to us? Those torturous feelings ripped at my heart like he was cheating on me.

  “He’s not cheating, Sophia! You know this is the way God intended it to be,” I heard my mother’s words in my head. “Halt these evil whisperings from Satan’s imps. They will stop at nothing to destroy you! Satan wants you to feel these repulsive, painful feelings so you’ll give into them and fall from the graces of God. Stop now! Command them in the name of Jesus Christ to stop before they destroy you.”

  I reached for the medicine box in the hall closet. Through swollen eyes I searched for the valerian root capsules. I knew four of them would make me sick to my stomach, but it would help sedate my grief. Their atrocious smell and bitter taste gagged me. In between more outbursts of
tears, I sang a few gospel hymns until I fell asleep.

  Nearly every woman knows a husband’s wife or wives are observed and scrutinized when a new one enters the family. It’s like a brutal but necessary ritual polygamous women unwittingly thrive on. Either way, the older and previous wives get to be the theme of everyone’s scrutiny and gossip after their husband’s most recent nuptials.

  “Oh, she’s such a sweet wife.”

  “Look how kind and loving she is while her husband’s attentions are on that pretty young girl.”

  “Well, how about that? She’s doing great! We didn’t think she’d be . . .”

  “How can she put up with that?”

  Or it might be:

  “Good grief, does she ever need our prayers and help!”

  “Oh dear! She’s awful to her poor husband and his sweet, new wife!”

  Val’s mother had taught her well, how to deal with this psychoanalysis. The day after the wedding, my dear friend tried to help me save face with my newlywed partners and with the judgmental blather I would also have to undergo. Val couldn’t help but notice my puffy, swollen eyes—she must’ve known I’d cried most of the night—but she didn’t say a word. Before she left, she reminded me to practice everything I would say and do when Mark and Diane returned, as well as for the next few days, weeks, and months—especially in public.

  “I’m telling you, this way is better than looking and acting the way you may really feel inside,” Val said. She advised me to practice and visualize over and over again, until I had my gracious words and actions memorized. I should plan my actions, my hugs, and kisses—every step and every word. She promised it would help me feel better about myself and help me keep my dignity intact.

  During the five days after Mark and Diane’s wedding, I felt as if I accomplished a year’s worth of work and play. To keep myself distracted, my little boys and I watched more VHS Disney movies, and went to the park and to friends’ homes more than in any few months before.

  When Mark and Diane returned, I flawlessly performed my routine. I said all the words and carried out all the actions I’d visualized and rehearsed a hundred times over—just like a perfectly programmed robot. I did so well I actually believed every single thing I said and did. I felt I’d passed my test with honors. “Act as if . . . and it shall come to pass.” With my hugs, kisses, thoughts of missing them, telling them I was glad they were home—all the sweet, kind, gooey stuff—I was sure Mark, Val, my mother, and even God must have been very proud of me.

  Mark stayed with me the night he and Diane returned from their honeymoon. Without a word, he and I held each other tight until morning. While he was asleep, I wondered if Diane was also. In the crevices of my mind, I saw them naked, holding each other.

  Stop, Sophia! Don’t ever let yourself go there, ever again, I demanded. Think of other things, of happy thoughts, of the kids. You know Mark loves you. He’s right here to prove it to you. You should be happy now—this is what you wanted. This is what God wanted, and He expects you to be happy and endure to the end. Be proud. You and your family are finally on your way to the highest glory of heaven—the Celestial Kingdom!

  *****

  A couple of weeks later around midnight, I woke up to thumping noises and whispering voices. “Please, God, don’t let this be what it sounds like!” I heard myself cry out under my breath. Get up, I told myself. Go in the front room and sleep on the couch! The obvious noises got louder until I wished I could jump up and down on the floor, flush the toilet five hundred times, break a window, and die.

  Then it got quiet. Thank God I was wrong! They don’t enjoy sex together. They never do. Just go back to sleep, Sophia, I thought. Then, wondering if I’d been hearing things or was going crazy, I got on the floor and put my ear against the furnace vent. The few minutes of telltale noises gave me a vivid picture that knocked the breath out of me and made me dizzy. Somehow, I dragged my limp body to my bedroom door, down the hall, and to the kitchen.

  “Get the knife! Get the knife, Sophia!” I heard a voice say. “You might as well die now. Just get the knife before you pass out!”

  I reached for the butcher knife in the cupboard above the stove. It was there, thank God. “Now, all it will take is one swift blow,” the voice told me again. “The stab can’t possibly hurt more than you already do. Do it, Sophia! Go ahead and shove it into your heart, deep and fast. Then your pain will be forever obliterated. Do it! Do it! Do it!”

  I pressed the end of the blade to my chest until it indented my dark blue nightshirt and burned against my skin. One swift, heavy blow—that’s all it will take. I drew the knife a foot or so away from my chest, ready for the plunge.

  Suddenly I heard Schuyler cry out.

  “It’s now or never,” the voice warned. “If you don’t kill yourself now, you never will, and you’ll have to deal with this pain for the rest of your life.” My baby’s cries became louder and more demanding. I quietly set the knife back on top of the fridge, feeling guilty and grateful I hadn’t been caught with it. When I reached Schuyler’s crib, I thanked God for my precious little sons, for Sky’s loud cries, for his precious smile and his infant arms that reached out to me when my soul came back for him.

  I fixed his bottle and held him tight in the front-room rocking chair. My endless tears burned my eyes raw. I went through the scenario of my temporary madness as if watching a movie. Was I really going to end my life and lose my children because of my jealousy over God’s principle of plural marriage? How could I have been so wicked? I knew then I’d never end my life. I would leave Mark, if I had to, before I would abandon my children over jealousy because of another woman.

  In the morning I woke with Sky’s little body curled up next to mine. Could he ever comprehend my love for him? Would he someday realize I decided to stay in this life to give birth to him and to raise him with my other children? When I heard his cries, I once again chose to stay for him, Jake, Alan, and the rest of the children I knew I would have with Mark.

  CHAPTER 23

  Nothing Sacred in This

  1978–1979

  Mark’s adoration and affection wasn’t only shown in all of the lovemaking we enjoyed, but also in his kindness toward me. We’d been spending so much “play” time together I tried to deceive myself into thinking he wasn’t having any fun with Diane.

  As long as I kept busy, ignoring anything and everything that looked or sounded suspicious, I was feeling I could survive our new lifestyle.

  As is customary among most polygamous families, Mark’s evenings were divided between his wives. Every other night he was with me, and every other night he was with Diane. A few months after she got settled downstairs, she asked me if we could split Mark’s clothes between the two of us. Before I answered her, my mischievous mind got the best of me. Since I was already sharing him, my time, our food, his clothing, and everything else with Diane (including his genitals), I pictured myself with a pair of scissors, crazily hacking his underwear right down the middle from bellybutton to crotch and back up the crack. “There, now!” I’d snap at Diane, “you can have all the right sides and I’ll take all the lefts, then Mark can ‘hang out’ with either one of us!” Those thoughts made me laugh so hard my face turned red and my eyes watered. Diane started to chuckle at my giggle, even though she had no idea what was so funny to me.

  While Mark was at work we went through all of his clothes. Like two young girls picking out their favorite pieces of candy, we took turns choosing his shirts. We started with the best-looking ones and worked our way down to his grimy old work shirts. Then we did the same things with his pants, underwear, and socks. Once we each had a pile of Mark’s clothes in front of us, we marked our initials on the ­inside labels, as if his clothing were ours to disburse and claim.

  “You should have asked me first!” Mark yelled when he realized his closet space in our room was half empty.

  “You’re right,” I said. “But Diane needs to feel like your wife as well, and thi
s will help her feel—”

  “I don’t give a crap about how she feels about this!” Mark cut me off. “Those are my clothes, not yours or Diane’s. I want my things in one place where I know where they are and what I have!”

  “I know that! But Diane wants to be able to wash and iron your shirts, and to have some of your things in her closet and in her drawers too. She wants to be—”

  “That’s just tough, Sophia! I can’t believe you agreed to this! You need to get my stuff back up here.”

  “Listen, Mark. I really didn’t want to do that either, and we should have asked you.” I started to snicker a little, picturing his underwear cut in half, hanging lopsided on his skinny behind.

  “But this is really the right thing to do. You know how much I hated it when Dad always had to leave Mom’s house to get his change of clothes from Aunt Eleanor’s house. I’d see the hurt look in my mother’s eyes. Even worse, he’d often have Aunt Eleanor bring them to him, no matter what time of the day it was. She loved taking care of all of Dad’s things. It gave her further control and information of his whereabouts. Besides—” I grinned from ear to ear as new, even more wild pictures entered my mind “—I decided it would be good to share washing all of your laundry, folding and ironing with Diane. Just think, that will cut my wash load in half.”

  When I started laughing out loud, Mark probably wondered what on earth was happening to me. I stared at his crotch area. I blinked my right eye, then my left, then my right eye open and shut several times. “Let’s see now, who did you sleep with last? Are you wearing the right or the left side of your shorts?”

  Some of his father’s wives had to deal with a sister-wife who was very much like Aunt Eleanor. “Every plural family has to have one or more antagonists,” Mark often mocked. “That’s how women get tested and refined, you know.”