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

  “Dammit, Sky, I told you to get your ass back upstairs!” Mark yelled. I heard Diane whisper something. There was no going back now. I pounded on the door, knowing there was a possibility I might get pounded on when it opened.

  The door squeaked open about five or six inches. Mark’s shocked face and naked shoulder were in my face. “What do you need, Sophia?” he asked, unable to disguise his frustration and guilt.

  Even the anger in my voice couldn’t conceal my horrific heartache. “Just came down to verify what I already knew! That’s what I needed!”

  It was a struggle to climb the stairs. Every muscle and organ in my body hurt. I turned off the oven and the heat under the potatoes. Jack woke up when I changed his diaper and dressed him. After I splashed cold water over my swollen eyes, I marched across our back field with Sky, the baby in one arm, and the diaper bag across my shoulder.

  I knocked on the door and waited to hear Swede’s deep, warm voice. “Come on in!”

  The delicious smell of Swede’s corned beef hash and gravy permeated the air. When I walked in, there was Diane and Mark sitting at the table set for three. Miraculously, I composed myself long enough to ask Swede to loan me two eggs. In front of my cheating partners, it was difficult not to ask him right out loud, if I could borrow “two, bloody, stinking, fat-ass, cheating eggs?”

  The two large suitcases on my bed were nearly full when Mark came in. Adrenalin-surged anger and pain had propelled me so rapidly I was still flying around the house gathering clothes.

  “Where are you going, Sophia?” Mark finally asked.

  I had no energy to speak even if I wanted to.

  “I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “It’s just that—”

  I became faint from hyperventilating. I turned to go in the boys’ room when Mark grabbed my shoulders. “Stop and talk to me, Sophia!” he demanded.

  I pulled myself away to grab a few more diapers from the hamper. They unfolded all over the floor. Before Mark could bend down to pick them up, I grabbed them up in one heap and shoved them into the diaper bag.

  Mark followed me into the kitchen. “Stop running around and listen to me!”

  I snatched a few baby bottles, some baby food, and Jack’s formula from the cupboards, stormed back to my room, and bustled around, looking for my old, comfortable shoes.

  When I turned toward the bed, Mark forced me to sit down and again demanded I listen to him. But I couldn’t sit. I sprang up again.

  “I don’t want to listen or talk about anything anymore! I am done!” I blurted. “I’ve had it! I am sick to death of Diane’s shit and your shit! You can stinking have each other! I am out of here!” I yelled.

  Mark pulled me back on the bed next to him and held me there. “Don’t leave, Sophia. We can work things out.”

  Again I fought with him to get back up, but I had no more energy or strength left. I elbowed his arms off of me.

  “Just leave me alone, Mark. I have to go. I won’t deal with this shit anymore! I’m leaving with the boys before we die!”

  Mark repeated every sincere and reasonable excuse he could possibly come up with to console and cheer me and get me to stay.

  “Diane is really insecure. She doesn’t feel like I love her as much as I love you. I made a big mistake by being with her today, and I am so sorry. She’s always jealous because she sees what you and I have together and she wants to have that same relationship with me. You have Swede’s place to escape to, and she wants to be a part of his life as well.”

  “She has her family and friends to escape to, Mark! I’m sick of her trying to take, copy, borrow, do, and have everything I have and do!”

  “I know, and I agree with you. But when I was at Swede’s place this morning, she walked over. He felt obligated to ask her to have dinner, like he does with you and me.”

  “I don’t give a crap, Mark! We had an agreement. You two screwing around on my time was the most disrespectful thing you could do! And what were you two going to do, wait until I’d fixed all of us an elaborate meal, and then tell me you’re not hungry? Or were you two going to fake it and pig out anyway?”

  “You’re right. I was very disrespectful and wrong in the way I was trying to console her insecurities. You have lots of friends, activities, and things to do. You’re talented and beautiful. You see, Sophia, Diane sees and knows how much I love you, and it’s killing her. Please forgive me, and her. I can’t do this—I can’t live this way without you.”

  I caved in to the sound of goodness coming from Mark. I knew he loved me, at least most of the time. For the sake of survival and righteousness, I had to believe everything he said. I was sure he was trying to do the best he knew how to do, considering he had two insecure, berserk women to please. Besides, I had to be there for the long haul anyway. What could I do differently? Where would I go? Who would ever treat my four boys like their own? Who could ever love me as much as Mark did?

  He’d tell me all the time. “No one will ever love you as much as I do, Sophia. No one will desire or touch you the way I do. I love you more than anything or anyone on earth! I am nothing without you and my kids—nothing!”

  *****

  It took me a while to forgive Diane and Mark again. In spite of all the hardships in our family and in those plural families all around us, Diane and I were still making strides. I knew we were feeling a deeper bond of sisterhood and camaraderie. In fact, it meant the world to me when she apologized for the hurtful things she did and said before she married Mark. In retrospect she realized how mean she had been by showing me her honeymoon lingerie and for sprawling herself all over Mark in front of me. She told me even the idea of Mark ever taking another wife was hard for her, let alone the reality of it. When she asked me to forgive her, I could honestly tell her I already had a long time before. But her awareness and caring meant a lot to me.

  *****

  It was a terrible sin to talk negatively about your husband. I knew better, yet I didn’t stop. If husbands weren’t doing what they should, wives were to pray for them until they did. “Behind every successful man is a good woman, or two or three.” The male God I grew up with had everything figured out. If Mark wasn’t fulfilling his priesthood calling, it meant Diane and I were not faithful and qualified enough to change him; yet another way women are at fault.

  In one of my particularly frustrated moods, I jumped down the stairs to complain to Diane about our husband, and to get some support from her. I had several things to say, but I began with the worst of my grievances.

  “I shouldn’t have to be cleaning other people’s houses all day, and then come home to my filthy dirty house, and do everything else around here! I hate using food stamps while Mark sleeps or reads all day long and does very little to help and support us.”

  Diane threw in her two cents worth. She too said she hated the distance he kept between him and our children when he was home. He should take our kids places and do fun things with them.

  “He should be our spiritual leader, Diane! How is he going to get us to the celestial kingdom if he won’t even be the patriarch of our household?”

  Suddenly I sensed Mark’s presence and his hurt. “Quit now, Sophia,” I heard my soul warn. But I didn’t listen or stop. I looked around the room and continued to run amok.

  “Mark could do anything, something to make some money. I’ve given him a hundred suggestions. He could go to work at night, so if he got a masonry job during the day he’d be available. With his talents, he could make things at home and sell them. Even a part-time job would be better than nothing!”

  “Stop it now, Sophia!” My soul prompted me again. “If you don’t, you will be sorry!”

  Again, as I too often do, I ignored my soul and went on. “He should love us and care for us enough to—”

  In an instant, Mark was at the bottom of the landing. “To what, Sophia? Care enough to what? I’ll tell you what I care about. I care enough to get the hell out of here! I ca
re enough to know when and where I am not wanted!”

  I felt as though my body had been slammed against the wall. I was sure I deserved every bit of it.

  Mark hurtled back upstairs. I chased after him. In our room he dumped three drawers of clothing onto the bed. His whole body shook from heartache and anger. While he urgently separated the socks, shirts, and underwear he wanted into piles, I begged him to forgive me and to please stay. “Please don’t leave us, Mark!” I wailed. “I am so sorry! I knew better than to complain, and didn’t stop. I am so sorry.”

  He didn’t say one word to me. I sat on the edge of our bed sobbing. I muttered some more nonsense until he stormed out of our room and back down the stairs. Ten minutes later he reappeared with more clothing and an old metal suitcase. As quickly and tightly as he could, he crammed every inch with his things before he smashed it shut and snapped the metal bars over the latches.

  The fire in his eyes scorched my soul. “I’m leaving Sophia!” he said somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “Maybe you’ll hear from me in a few days—maybe not!”

  Mark slammed the front door with such terrific force it sounded like a bomb exploded. From my glazed-over eyes, I watched the tires of his old white Chevy pickup fling mud and gravel against the garage door as he spun out of our driveway.

  I could hardly function. Our kids were scared and wondering what happened to their dad. Neither Diane nor I heard from Mark for nearly five days. When he finally talked to me, his voice was cold, short, and snappy.

  “I’m in California working for my brother. There’s a lot of work here, so I’ll send you as much money as I can, as often as I can. I’ll keep only what I need to get by.”

  “Okay,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “All right, goodbye then,” he said quickly.

  “Wait, Mark! I really am sorry I hurt you so much. I was clearly out of line and I knew better than—”

  He interrupted, “It’s okay, Sophia. I deserved every bit of it. I am all those terrible things you said. I have been a real asshole. Now that I’m way out here, you and the kids won’t have to put up with me anymore.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I replied. “Now you won’t have to put up with us, either. If I were a better wife and more grateful for all the things you have done and tried to do for us, this wouldn’t have happened. You’re not as awful as I made you out to be, Mark.”

  “I know,” he said somberly. “I know exactly how you have felt for a long time. That’s why I had to get out of there and come here to work. You need me away from you so you can heal and have your spiritual needs met without me holding you back.”

  “Will you be okay?” I asked. “How long will you be gone? What else can I say to let you know how sorry I am?”

  “I’ll be fine. I don’t have any idea when I will be back. We’ll see how things go and take it from there. Got to go now.”

  “Mark, Mark, are you there?” I asked into dead airspace somewhere between his hell and mine.

  *****

  On August 16, everyone in the Allred Group received the message; Ervil LeBaron had died in his cell at the Utah State Prison. While it was reported his death was from natural causes, many of us wanted to believe it was God’s retribution for his evil deeds. Still some of us felt he got off much too easy and should have suffered. Either way, we were jubilant “Evil Ervil” was in hell where he surely belonged.

  *****

  We’d been living in our new home for six and a half years, but our whole yard was still a disaster. Over the years, most of the topsoil and fill dirt that used to be in three or four piles had been mixed up and spread across the front yard. It was scattered with Tonka trucks, Hot Wheels, and holes full of muddy water. The boys’ bike trails and jumps also ran up, down, over, and between. What was left of the dirt piles was packed down as hard as rocks.

  The only cheery thing about the yard was the bouquets of dandelions the boys proudly picked from the weeds that blanketed the few spots of fertile earth around the perimeter.

  At least a hundred times, Mark had described his big dreams for the front yard. Because of his plans, he didn’t want me to do anything until we had the time and money to build a retaining wall. He wanted two layers of lawn, a sidewalk, a driveway, a flower garden, and more. But none of those dreams had come to fruition. As our lives had proved thus far, we would never have money to finish the yard. It was more important to put food on the table and clothe our kids.

  Those years were way too long and one day too many. I was so embarrassed about our yard disasters I never wanted our neighbors to see me. I knew any more humiliation would surely turn me inside out.

  Mark was gone and couldn’t do anything to help. Nor could he talk me into waiting for the “someday” that may never come. With Ellen’s encouragement and prodding me forward, I decided to make things happen, one baby step, one shovel, and one day at a time.

  With Mark’s old work gloves on both hands, I hauled a bunch of old cinder block from our junkyard in the back field, to the front. About five feet out from the front brick wall of our house, I dug a ditch eight inches wide and two inches deep. It ran the full length of the house. From the outside edge of our five-by-five-foot porch, going in both directions, I placed the blocks end to end in the trench. Then I lugged at least a hundred (it seemed) wheelbarrows full of rich, dark soil from the old pigpen and our chicken yard to fill the three-hundred-square-foot span.

  A few weeks later, when the space was full and level, I purchased discounted, nearly dead plants from garden shops and solicited as many flower starts as I could from friends and family members. With tender loving care, I planted each contribution in my first, large flower garden.

  By the middle of September, I had picked, shoveled, and spread only a tiny slice of the remaining topsoil. I still had at least nine-tenths yet to level.

  One day, I rested on the porch to catch my breath. As I pressed my hand on my abdomen, I was overjoyed to feel my twenty-week-old baby squirming inside. On both sides of me were bundles of tiny sweet Williams ready to bloom. I sipped from a tall glass of ice water, letting it drizzle down my chin and onto my chest. My whole being felt soothed.

  I recalled the first time I held Jake, my firstborn son, in my arms. I had stared in awe at the tiny human who had grown in my womb. That was absolutely the most exhilarating day of my life up to that point. Other than a few seconds now and then when people nagged me into mistrusting myself, I had no doubt my first baby was in fact a male.

  With the exception of taking my baby daughter out of my womb and holding her like I did in my dreams with Jake, I was sure I was carrying our first daughter.

  While Carrie, Sky, Jake, and Diane’s toddler played in the dirt a few feet away, I thanked God for my tears of joy, and for the health and strength to be able to make a little progress in our front yard. I thanked God for the flowers that would soon be in full bloom, smiling at us. I also thanked God for our old dog, Brandy, and our six new ducks eating and pooping all the earwigs around our back porch. We would sell Brandy’s litter of purebred pups to help us purchase school clothes. Our six or eight chickens gave us eggs each day, and we had a passel of adorable chicks. For all that was good, I thanked God. At last I asked Him for the strength and the money to get the rest of our front yard leveled and planted with grass seed before it got too cold to germinate.

  “Come on, kids, let’s get out those rakes and shovels and dig in again,” I shouted. But the kids couldn’t hear one single word over the sound of our neighbor’s Bobcat. They ran up to the porch for fear Gary might run over them. He drove his Bobcat right up next to me and turned off the engine.

  Gary had probably spoken a few words to me in the three or four years he’d lived next door. I was in shock when he asked, “So what is it you want done out here, Sophia?”

  I wondered if this was some kind of joke. I felt sure his wife would rather we didn’t live here at all. She often complained my children had or hadn’t don
e this or that. Once she called the Division of Family Services on us “plygs.” She told them we were giving our food stamps away and starving the children. The service worker just laughed after he saw our plump, tall, healthy children. He said our neighbor’s “simple-minded” complaint came when she saw my older boys fight over a piece of candy.

  From our front porch, the kids and I were encircled in clouds of dust for nearly an hour. All of us eagerly watched Gary level and grade the earth from my flower garden down to the road. When our live motion picture had come to an end, we meandered inside to clean up.

  I looked in the hallway mirror just inside our door and laughed out loud. The dust powder had entered my smile lines and covered my teeth with grit.

  The next day, when Swede and I were on our way to purchase lawn seed from our neighborhood Intermountain Farmers, I told him about Gary’s good deed.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I gave him a piece of my mind! I told him, ‘You damned well ought to be ashamed of yourself sitting on your ass right next door to Sophia, watching her try to level the whole damned yard with a rake and a shovel. Dammit, Gary, if you’re any kind of man, you’ll get your ass over there and get it done for her. If its money for gas you’re worried about I’ll give it to you.”

  I was still so elated over the help, even if it was coerced, I fluttered around the store full of appreciation for Swede, for Gary, for the whole wide world. I splurged on a thin, five-foot maple tree and some quality lawn seed.

  About five feet from the road and our bumpy dirt driveway, I planted my tree and nicknamed it “my Karleen tree,” after our forthcoming baby girl.

  I watered the grass seeds three times a day. I guarded our freshly planted area as if it were gold, and watched intently for the first pristine blades of grass to pop through the earth. As days passed, the mailman and most passersby commented on how nice the yard was looking. After seven years of that weed-patch-pile-of-rubble eyesore they’d been looking at, I could only imagine what they really wanted to say.