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

  My amazing Swede was never affectionate, but I walked over and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. Never before had I seen him cry, nor had he ever allowed me to comfort him.

  *****

  In that ice-cold, treacherous winter, we had two more unbearable deaths to count before the year was over. My brother, James’ third wife had just bathed her eighteen-month-old twins. She drained the tub and ran out to help her sister-wife get the car started, so she wouldn’t be late for work. When she returned to the house, she found her babies floating in an overflowing tub of scalding hot water. One of the two-year-old siblings thought the babies needed some water in the tub. He had turned on the only faucet he could reach.

  In all of my grief, torment, and pain, I prayed. This tragedy seemed more than I could possibly bear. Compared to the terrible ordeals others had suffered that year, my life was a soft summer breeze nudging fluffy white clouds across an aqua blue sky. I had no room to complain about anything.

  CHAPTER 31

  Forbidden Friendships

  1985–1987

  As usual, the lack of money plagued our large family and most others in The Group. Poverty lurked in every corner and contributed to nearly every disagreement, even behind closed doors. Now it was about my six children, Diane’s four, and other various needs.

  My little Opel was always breaking down, just like every old car we had owned. On lucky days, I could find a hill and park on top of it, with the front of the vehicle pointed toward the decline. I would load my kids into the car, and stand next to the open front door. With one hand on the door frame and the other on the steering wheel to guide the car, I’d push with all my might. Once my car got rolling fast enough, I’d jump in, turn over the engine, and pop the clutch out really fast. If the car started and kept running, we’d smile and sometimes laughed in relief. If not, we were in deep doo-doo again. If there wasn’t enough room at the bottom of the hill to push any further, I’d hide my pride and embarrassment and ask a passerby for help. My jumper cables were the saving member between my car battery and someone else’s.

  While I raised my children, there were only a few years during which I had a dependable car. The vehicles I drove were seldom compassionate; they would die in the scorching heat of summer, the blizzards of winter, and anytime in between. A couple of times, when I found a payphone to call for help, I’d realize I didn’t even have a quarter to my name. On those teary days, I’d pack the youngest of my kids in one arm, hold the hand of a toddler, and have the others follow close by as we walked home.

  To add to my frustration, our telephone service, heat, or power would often be turned off for nonpayment. Michelle would notice and find the money from some undisclosed resource, to have the service restored. This was only one of the many things she had done for the kids and me, so I felt indebted to her for her ongoing kindness.

  Throughout the spring and summer of 1985, Michelle and I, as the Primary presidency, created new Primary manuals that would teach basic values such as; honesty, cleanliness and work ethics. Not that the children weren’t being taught some of those ideals in our families; we just felt the focus shouldn’t start with the higher laws of the gospel. We believed it was important for children to live the lesser laws before they even thought of abiding by the tough, crazy-making law of polygamy, which would soon inundate every aspect of their lives.

  I was still very entrenched in serving the Lord by helping mankind. While I continued to write lesson plans, I also led the Primary teacher’s meetings, taught a Primary class, and taught a fourth-grade class at our private school. I attended Relief Society “area” meetings to help quilt and prepare various items for the needy. I made sixteen loaves of bread to sell at our regular Wednesday-night Relief Society meetings, cleaned house three days a week, and attended Sunday school and sacrament meetings. Through all those good deeds, I felt sure I should attain a glorious entrance into the kingdom of God.

  However, even with all of those renewed convictions, single parenting was getting more difficult by the day. As the boys approached adolescence, it seemed one or the other of them had to be picked up from the police station every four or five months. Mark was never with me in those ordeals.

  Being an insecure polygamous woman, I was still afraid of everything and nearly everyone. My awkwardness and humiliation, I assumed, were obvious to the authorities. The police always asked me where my son’s dad was, after they’d already asked my son. Since the diamond had fallen out a few years earlier, I wasn’t wearing my ring. During the times when I was obviously pregnant and had to retrieve one or both of my sons from the police station, I was sure they presumed I was an unmarried, wanton slut.

  Even when the policeman would ask, “Do you want us to call his dad?” I felt it was a derogatory question and they were really thinking, “No wonder this poor kid is a juvenile delinquent! He has a hussy for a mother. He needs a dad around to teach him how to be a responsible young man.”

  Or they could have been thinking, “Oh, this poor, pregnant, polygamous woman. Here she is again, while her husband is off screwing one of his younger, more attractive wives.”

  I wanted to scream at them, “Yes, please call him now!” I wanted to flip out and madly tell them everything that crossed my mind during those incidents. “You’re right. I wish he could be here, but he’s not! He’s either in California working to provide for his large polygamous family, or he’s sleeping with his other wife when I have to pick up my sons; and I am sick to death of having to live like this!”

  I didn’t, of course. Even though in all of those situations I felt angry and ashamed, I forced myself to hide my tears until we were in the car. Then I let the flood gates open wide.

  *****

  I stood under the street lamps around the corner from our home. It was 2:15 in the morning. I was sure it was already way too late to save my son Alan from the evil clutches of teenage Barbra. It was said, her goal was to deflower every young male in our neighborhood.

  Barbra’s two dogs would bark, growl, and bare their fangs every time I approached the locked gate to their driveway. A light flickered high and then dimmed in the huge red barn where my son Jake told me Alan was “getting educated.”

  I’d been taught a mother should be willing to sacrifice her life to save her children’s virtue. Here was one of the greatest tests on earth. I should risk my own death to save my son from fornication, or I’d be held accountable to God for his sins. I would have to climb over the gate, run for my life, and hope the dogs didn’t tear me to shreds. If I made it to the door, it would surely be locked. If not, I might be able to barge in and try to stop the evil deed that most likely had already happened.

  For the millionth time in my life, I daydreamed someone would hurry up and invent a cordless phone I could carry everywhere I went. How stupid—as if I had anyone to call at that hour of the morning anyway! I paced, cried, walked back and forth, and stared at the barn, just like a chicken-ass momma, sobbing like a baby. I didn’t have enough nerve, courage, or integrity to save my own son from a sin “as evil as murder.”

  We were taught we’d be accountable for our children’s every action, good or bad. We’d pay the price if we “lost” them to the world. My mothers and those around us would often say, “I’d rather lose a child in death than to the world.”

  I pictured myself standing before God—if I ever made it even near Him.

  “Where is your son Alan?” God would ask in His deep, accusing voice.

  “Uhh . . . uh . . . I lost him, God,” I would cry in anguish and disgust at myself. “Yes, Lord, I lost him to one of the most grievous sins of the world.”

  “That you did, Sophia, and all because you didn’t have faith. You were not willing to sacrifice yourself to those dogs to save your son’s soul. You failed him, too. What kind of mother would do that, Sophia? How pathetically selfish of you!” God would thunder.

  “You are right, God, but you already knew that when you gave him to me,” I’d have t
o reply before He condemned and sentenced me to eternal damnation where I would live for eternity without my children, without a husband, without my family.

  For nearly an hour, I was in my self-inflicted hell. As I paced back up the street toward home, my soul spoke to me again: “None of it is true, Sophia! Not one single bit of it!”

  “Really?” I asked out loud. My soul told me she was speaking the truth. I knew it from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I started to laugh. Soon I was dizzy and lightheaded from the oxygen surging rapidly in and out of my lungs. I probably sounded like a laughing hyena, and for a moment I wondered if the neighbors might think I was drunk and call the police. But I didn’t care. The God of love let my soul share a key of hope.

  In my joy, I contemplated. Why do I keep hanging on so tightly to all of those lies? Why do I keep on trusting the horrible God I was raised to believe in? A loving God would not destroy even one of His children over another soul’s free agency, especially over situations we have no control over.

  When I returned home, I climbed into my nice warm bed, turned my son over to another deity of love, and slept like a baby.

  *****

  For a long time, Diane had wanted and needed her own place. She checked out a few possibilities she’d heard about and got help from a government agency to pay a good portion of her house payment, so she went house shopping.

  When she took me to see the one she wanted to buy, we jumped up and down in excitement. We would both have our own homes and more space. Other than the distance between our children, and us, we loved the idea.

  In June 1986, Diane signed a home loan. After eight long years of miserable basement living, she happily moved into a split-level home in West Valley. Mark was happy for us, but not at all happy about his travel time, or the extra cost for gasoline. He couldn’t keep up with all the bills for one home, let alone another. He told me, “If Diane gets the house; she’ll have to pay for her own expenses.”

  I was happy for each of us to be enjoying more space in our own homes. But I also envied Diane’s ability to be independent and financially secure. With an extremely low house payment, her secretarial skills, a stable job with a good income, she was able to be her own families’ breadwinner. At my house, we were barely getting some of our bills paid with the money Mark was sending me.

  In my new gratitude for life and changes, I counted on things looking up.

  *****

  It was a beautiful, sunshiny day in August. My homemade, flowered curtains swayed in the breeze coming through the open windows. I changed the sheets on my bed and listened to Michelle’s younger children (whom I was tending) and my three youngest laugh and play in the back yard.

  Suddenly, my soul directed me to check on the kids. Since I was so disgustingly tenacious about finishing anything I’d begun, I decided it would suffice if I peeked out at them through my upstairs window. The yard was fenced in. I counted all six little children happily running around on the back lawn, so I carried on. In less than a minute I heard the voice again, this time shouting at me, “Go now, Sophia! Go outside and check on the children, now!"

  By the time I flew downstairs and out the back door, the kids were all standing around a hole in the ground, screaming at me, “Anne fell in! She’s in the hole”

  Someone had removed the concrete cover from the septic tank clean-out, and all I could see was the top of two-and-a-half-year-old Anne’s head.

  Needless to say, while rescuing and cleaning her up, I beat myself up until I’d had enough agony to last a lifetime. She, I’m sure, was about to walk toward the hole when I first peeked out of the window. If only I had gone outside the first time, she wouldn’t have fallen in.

  For months our family and friends made jokes to lighten our hearts. “Let’s hope that’s the deepest shit Anne ever gets herself into.” Everyone laughed but me. I tried to, but the guilt was still tormenting me. How could I ever live with myself, after hearing my soul’s voice, if I hadn’t acted quickly enough?

  *****

  By November, Mark’s tolerance had maxed out. He’d had enough of my rebellion where Michelle was concerned. He was sure she was the cause of all of our problems. With her out of the picture, he believed things would work out between us. So he decided to recruit my father for assistance.

  Dad tried to take the middle ground but leaned more in Mark’s favor. He said he wanted me to limit my friendship with Michelle. “Mark is right,” Dad said. “You are his wife, and your responsibility is to him and your children first.”

  “But—” I started to question.

  “No ‘buts,’ Sophia. She’ll be taken care of. I’ll talk to her and her mom. We’ll get her the help she needs, so your friendship can wind down.”

  At first, I was really angry with Mark for forcing me into compliance. My don’t-tell-me-what-to-do mind wanted to rebel. I was also livid my husband had told my parents Michelle was a lesbian. After all, I was working so hard to stay in denial. If I keep refusing to believe it, it won’t be true, and the problem will just go away, I must have told myself.

  I’d tried many times to change Mark’s mind. “She might feel attracted to me in that way, but as long as she doesn’t act on her desires, she isn’t a lesbian!”

  “She is and has been acting on her gay tendencies for a long time now, Sophia! Are you blind?”

  For a while, my pride held back my gratitude. But as several months went by, I recognized the value in Dad’s and Mark’s decisions. In Michelle’s absence, I experienced a relief beyond measure. The pressure I’d felt to always be available for her happiness and to go along with her powerful, know-it-all intellect was finally alleviated. My life began to feel so much like my own, I lost nearly twenty pounds without even trying. Phone conversations and correspondence between Mark and me also improved.

  *****

  In April 1987, while Mark was in California, three years and two months after Anne’s birth, our precious Keith came into this world just as he had promised his sister right after she was born.

  In the middle of his fairly normal delivery (other than the debilitating pains that seemed to be worse than ever before), the contractions completely stopped. By then Keith was in the birth canal. There was a grave possibility he could have severe birth defects if he wasn’t born quickly.

  “Are you going to have any more kids, Sophia?” Aunt Amelia asked in aggravation while my young midwife gave me a shot of Pitocin in my thigh.

  I told her no. I was positive this was the last baby I’d ever have. My body’s pain tolerance had gone far beyond the call of duty.

  In an instant, I was in labor again, one contraction after another—faster, heavier, harder. My back hurt so much, I thought I’d scream.

  There are no words on this earth to depict the relief my body and heart felt when my handsome Keith was at last born—with no injuries or birth defects. When I held my amazing son in my arms, I cried tears of gratitude. My childbearing years were finally over.

  Mark and I had the seven children we always knew we would have. The basketball team I’d talked so often about was now complete. We had our five handsome sons and two beautiful daughters.

  Everything about Keith’s infancy was perfect. He had a knack for nursing; and unlike the rest of the kids, Keith weaned himself from nursing right to a drinking cup. I reveled in each stage of his development and celebrated when there were no more stinky diapers to change—at least until I became a grandmother, which I looked forward to a long time in my future.

  *****

  Diane wanted to have Mark’s first girl. I felt sad for her sake, I had that privilege. As per our religion, a woman’s value is too often placed on how many children she “gives her husband,” especially sons, so I was full of gratitude to have given Mark his first and last son, his first and last daughter, as well as four more incredible children in between.

  Looking back, Diane and I produced ten children with Mark. One of us had a child every year for six years in a
row. In all of those births, neither of us chose to invite the other to be a part of our babies’ deliveries as some sister-wives do. Some of the things I felt I was “supposed” to do to be the altruistic sister-wife felt too intrusive. To hold onto my autonomy, meant privacy in any way possible. I especially felt that way with childbirth, which is such a vulnerable and intimate time. From my early childhood, I wanted my personal space away from everyone else. One way to keep my autonomy, and perhaps for Diane too, was to remain reticent at those times.

  Underlying the respect and love Diane and I felt for each other after living plural marriage together for nearly ten years, was our unspoken resentments, frustrations, and jealousies. Always there, flanked by our good and happy times, was our acute awareness of each other—the other love in Mark’s life. Each of us was, “the other woman” who wanted and needed his love—the one who would take his devotion, love, and affection and offer it back three-fold. With all of that rubbish in the forefront of our minds, when we dared let our thoughts venture, there were still the lingering, tormenting questions. Does he love her more? Does he enjoy sex with her more than with me? Does he wish he was with her or is he thinking of her when he’s with me?

  Therefore, communication was seldom sincere, and maybe not talked about at all, especially after Mark felt exiled to California. If either of us dared to try to communicate with him about our personal hurts and feelings, we risked creating a troublesome gap between him and ourselves. It was best for Diane and me to be as passive, agreeable, and as kind as we could make ourselves be. For weeks and months we’d hold on to our miseries so they couldn’t turn into hostilities. We may have wanted to punch or scream at Mark for things he did or didn’t say. It could be something he’d done, or not done, or possibly something created by our own imaginations. But if we dared bring up any hurtful issues, we risked our “good standing” with him. We might as well have voluntarily sent Mark off to his sweet, cheerful wife who was grateful to love and placate him, even if she knew better.