50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Page 4

  Back at home, Lucinda set about asking Dad for permission to marry. Though Dad wanted her to finish high school first, she continued to beg, argue, and persuade. Finally, Dad said if she still wanted to get married after she turned sixteen, he would give his consent.

  My mother told me, sometime in January 1952 (the year I was born); Wayne called to ask Dad if Lucinda could go down to stay with Grandpa and Grandma Cooke again. He said it would also allow Lucinda more time with his family, so they could get to know each other better. Wayne promised Dad, as a brother in the gospel, he would take proper care of his daughter while she was away.

  Even after many years, Mom looked faint as she told me, “But the next time Lucinda returned home from Short Creek, she told us she and Wayne had gotten married and had consummated their marriage, which had been sanctioned by their prophet, Leroy Johnson.” I don’t think my sister ever told Mom who actually performed her underage polygamous marriage. (Then, the legal age in Utah was fourteen.) My parents were distraught and angry. Even with the recent conflict between the two groups, they couldn’t fathom the idea, men they once loved and revered would stoop so low as to steal their innocent young daughter and marry her off without their knowledge or permission.

  They asked Uncle Rulon if they should have Lucinda’s marriage annulled, but when they approached her with their plan, she stood firm, emphatically warning them not to try to keep her away from Wayne or they’d never see her again.

  *****

  Mom’s “devils” were driving her mad. It seemed her family was being blown to smithereens. Eleanor’s self-involved behaviors, Dad’s inability to be fair, the anguish Mom felt from her daughter’s childhood marriage, and Mom’s confusion as to which man on this earth held the keys to the priesthood—all these threatened her values and her salvation.

  Mom prayed, fasted, read the scriptures, and prayed some more. With renewed strength and conviction, she recalled the promises Joseph Musser had made in her patriarchal blessing, and after quite some time, the Spirit of the Lord returned to her. The Spirit’s much needed survival message would carry her forward. “Your basement house will soon be finished and paid for. Your baby will be a girl. Your family will have the food and clothing they need, and, dear Vera, your daughter Lucinda will go through much tribulation, but she is married to the right man to receive her posterity.”

  *****

  On March 30, 1952, my dad moved my pregnant mother from Draper into Maryann’s cramped four-room bungalow. Dad needed to use the rent money from the Draper home to help build Mom’s new basement house, which would be just down the street from Maryann’s and Eleanor’s homes.

  Soon, nine children and two wives were packed into Maryann’s tiny home. Dad’s overnight stays were quite infrequent but joyous. His kids gathered around him to eat popcorn and listen to his jokes, songs, and adventure stories. The days ended with family prayer. Dad said he didn’t need any blankets since his horde of children wrapped him with their arms and legs, and poked their knees into his ribs. They kept him warm, wide awake, and smiling.

  Soon, Dad poured the concrete foundation for Mom’s house. While her home was under construction, Dad’s sons and brothers also built a bridge over our five-foot-wide creek, graveled our long driveway, dug a cesspool and lined it with rocks, and drilled a well. By the first week in September, Mom’s three-bedroom basement home was completed enough for her and her seven children to move into.

  As always, Mother considered it her “righteous duty” and sole purpose in life to share, serve, and give to everyone. She would never allow herself to consider her own needs or desires before anyone else’s, especially her husband’s. Therefore, it came as no surprise to anyone when she consented to Dad’s latest request. She would share her new home with Maryann and her two sons.

  “I really was happy to be in our new home,” Mom assured me later. “When we moved in, I began to sink my roots and feel like we’d at last be safe here in Murray. But more than anything in the world, I looked forward to having you, Sophia, my darling baby girl.” She smiled at me tenderly. “Oh, how truly blessed we were.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Drill

  1952–1957

  My thirty-seven-year-old mother didn’t have any idea I would be her last child. It wasn’t her choice to quit after having eight. Because of her Mormon upbringing, she believed she should have as many children as the Lord would give her. Not only is this a strong Fundamentalist conviction, but if women obey this edict, God will provide for their large families as they grow. Even more promising, Fundamentalists believe the more children a woman has, the more glorified she will be in heaven. Mom said she never did feel she’d fully completed her duty to God and her husband’s posterity. She tried for many years to have more children. She conceived twice but miscarried both babies. She thought it was her unrighteousness that influenced her procreative inabilities.

  Between labor pains the day I was born, my mother and her mother tried to visit with my father’s sister, Beth, and her husband, Lyman. Their home, just across the street from Mom’s, was always like Grand Central Station—a constant gathering place for every polygamist in our neighborhood. Mom squeezed her mother’s hand as the contractions grew closer together and more intense. “I hate to end our visit,” my timid mother told Aunt Beth, “but I’d better get myself up to Eleanor’s before I don’t make it at all.” Between each labor pain, Mother supported herself on Grandma’s arm as they hastened along toward Aunt Eleanor’s.

  “You weren’t going to wait one minute longer!” Mom told me years later, “I thought you might be born right there on the street in front of the whole world, but I pled with God to make you wait until we got to Eleanor’s house.”

  “I still hate waiting!” I reminded Mom as we tenderly looked into each other’s eyes.

  “Well, God answered my prayers.” Mom sighed. “Right then your Uncle Marvin showed up. He helped me into his car and rushed us up the street. Eleanor had no sooner helped me get settled onto her bed when you flew out. If she hadn’t been there to catch you, I don’t know . . .”

  “Wow!” I chuckled. “No wonder I have so many dreams of flying.” Mom and I laughed together.

  “Your Uncle Rulon got there just in time to check on you and make sure all of your parts were put together properly,” Mom said proudly. “Everyone was in awe of my baby girl, since I had four sons in a row!

  *****

  On July 26, 1953, when I was seven months old, all of Dad’s family except Mom and I had joined the rest of The Group in American Fork Canyon for Sunday school and sacrament meeting. There, in God’s gorgeous array of nature and sunshine, the Allredites felt they could openly worship Him to their heart’s content, free from the eyes of supposed do-gooders who might report their suspicious activities.

  As Mom entered the kitchen holding me across her arm, she heard a shocking news flash from her RCA Victor radio. The reporter announced another “raid”—an ongoing, in-depth plan to rescue underage brides and polygamist children—this time in Short Creek, Arizona. Mom said the raid (that was really an attempted rescue) was called Operation Seagull. At approximately 3:00 that morning, Utah and Arizona state troopers crept into the desert city, hoping to find everyone asleep and docile. As the long procession of law enforcement reached the crossroads, they saw fireworks flash across the sky. This was the community’s way of warning citizens of encroaching enemies. Rather than finding an unassertive clan of polygamists, troopers found the city of Fundamentalists huddled in a huge circle, singing hymns and praising their Lord.

  Thirty-one men were taken into custody. Over a period of 10 days, 263 women and children were taken in buses to shelters in Arizona where they were allowed to stay together.

  For a week, my father called the Arizona authorities every day, trying to find his daughter Lucinda. He wanted them to give him custody of her and his forthcoming grandchild. Finally, Dad got the call. Obviously not realizing my parents were also breaking the polygam
y law, Social Services told my parents they could come get their daughter if they promised to keep her away from “those horrible polygamists” and never let her return to Short Creek.

  Before long, Utah and Arizona authorities conceded to public pressure and to the high cost of housing, feeding, and clothing so many polygamous families. Within a few years, most of those families were back home and reunited.

  My sister’s baby was born eleven days after my first birthday. Lucille and her daughter stayed in Murray with our family until the spring of 1955. While at home, she completed eighth grade and helped watch James and me while Mom did shift work at Murray Laundry, and cooked at the Salt Lake County Infirmary (hospital).

  *****

  Early one morning just after I turned four, I woke up when I realized Mom’s hand was pressed softly over my mouth. “Shh,” she whispered while kneeling close to my face. “Be real quiet.”

  Feeling no fear, only curiosity, I did exactly as Mom told me. She wrapped a blanket around me and carried me to the car, where four of my brothers were waiting. She placed me gently into the arms of a brother sitting in the back seat, then climbed in the front of the car and quietly shut the door. Dad drove slowly down our gravel driveway, up the next few roads, north on State Street, and out of the Salt Lake Valley.

  An informant had warned polygamous families of another possible midnight raid. This time, it was to be across Salt Lake and Utah counties. Dad drove through the night. When the lull of our 1947 Hudson came to a halt, my brothers and I woke up and rubbed our sleepy eyes. “We’re finally here.” Mom sighed.

  For most of my early years before we fled, and after Mom’s and Maryann’s kids returned to Murray, our basement home was full of the fun-duh-mental-ly insane. Six of my brothers haggled over the space in the small north bedroom. The middle bedroom was packed to the hilt with me, my sister Francine (before she too ran away to get married at the age of fourteen), Maryann’s two daughters, and one of Dad’s wives—depending on which one wasn’t sleeping with him every third night in the south bedroom.

  Even though living inside was quite dismal, our home was nestled in the midst of acres and acres of clover fields, grasslands, cow pastures, and swampy wetlands—a child’s paradise! Along the east side of our dead-end unpaved road, eight or nine more homes overflowed with Fundamentalist friends and loved ones. Our childhood wonderlands were called Plygville.

  *****

  Just before kindergarten, Dad drove me to the Allred Group’s alternative doctor, a “nonbeliever.” Apparently, Uncle Rulon was in hiding again somewhere—delivering another baby, with his huge family, or counseling one of his hundreds of followers.

  “It’s just a checkup,” Dad said when we arrived at the doctor’s office. “The doctor is going to see if you’re healthy enough to go to kindergarten.”

  In the large waiting room, couches lined the bare, white walls. A few of my dad’s friends smiled at me warmly. When the doctor called me, Dad gently nudged me in his direction.

  “Go ahead, honey. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

  The doctor took my hand and led me into a cluttered examination room with the overwhelming smell of cleaning solution. As soon as we were in the room, he let go of my hand, locked the door behind us, and told me to take my clothes off and climb on the table.

  In a petrified stance, I stared back at him. “My dad didn’t tell me I have to take my clothes off!”

  “I said, take your clothes off and climb on the table like I told you to!” the doctor ordered. “I’m not going to hurt you. I have to see if everything is normal down there.”

  I couldn’t move. Tears began to stream down my cheeks. The doctor stared at me angrily, then grabbed me and plopped me down on the cold table. He hurriedly and roughly removed my dress and panties and told me to lie down on my back. When I still couldn’t move, he pushed me back onto the table.

  “Just relax now,” he snapped while he spread my legs apart. But I squeezed them tightly together and began to whimper. When he forced them apart again, my chubby white legs began to tremble. The doctor traced my labia up and down, over and over again. Through foggy eyes, I saw him lick his fingers and leave them wet with spittle. While I tried to squirm my way into a sitting position, I sobbed and begged him to leave me alone.

  “Stop it now! Hold still!” he commanded again. He pushed me back against the table. Holding me down, he put his face right next to mine. “Do not make one more sound, little girl!” he said slowly, emphasizing every word. “If you do, you will bother everyone out there, and that will make them really mad at you!”

  Totally petrified, I tried hard to hold still and not make a sound, but I couldn’t help it. When I continued to whimper, I feared he might hit me. It seemed forever. I stared at the ceiling squares and quivered in terror while his fingers pressed and manipulated just inside my vagina. Suddenly I felt something large and cold start to push farther inside me. It hurt so much I couldn’t help but scream. I sat up and tried to push him away. The doctor abruptly backed up and looked at the door behind him. Then he demanded in a guttural voice, “Get dressed now, naughty little girl!” At last, he unlocked the back door and disappeared.

  All alone, I could hardly catch my breath or move. I slowly sat up on the end of the vinyl-covered table. Hot tears poured onto my chest and bare legs. I slid down to the footstool a little at a time, and then carefully stepped down to the linoleum floor. I found my underwear on a wooden chair and pressed them between my legs, hoping the burning pain would stop. Then, I slipped them up over my legs and my dress over my head as fast as I could, before the doctor could come back in.

  As I shuffled into the waiting room, I looked at Dad through hazy eyes. He was oblivious and still talking to his friends. I wondered if I’d explode inside and out—all over.

  Why did my dad leave me alone with the mean doctor? Why did the doctor do that to me? What if the doctor comes out here and tells Dad I was a naughty girl and misbehaved? Dad might make me go back in there and behave myself.

  Next to my father, I leaned way back and pushed myself as hard as I could against the couch. I forced away my tears so he wouldn’t ask me what was wrong. I wished I could become invisible. He won’t believe me, my thoughts repeated. So I forced myself into perfect compliance.

  On the way home, for a second or two I thought I ought to ask or tell Dad something. He smiled and spoke to me as if nothing in the world was wrong. A million things were going through my young mind. I’m supposed to respect my elders and do as they say. Guess the doctor had to, to see if I am okay, just like Dad said. What if Mom gets angry because I let the doctor touch me “down there”? The doctor called it “down there,” too. I must be a bad girl for not holding still. Maybe if I had, it wouldn’t have hurt and made me feel sick all over. I won’t ever tell anyone. I’m sure they’ll be really mad at me.

  *****

  In our dreary, dark basement, just before I started kindergarten, I heard Mother’s excited voice. I paced back and forth down our hallway so I could stay close enough to hear her. When she hung up the phone, she knelt on the linoleum floor in front of me and gave me a huge squeeze.

  “I get to go to school, to become a nurse!” she said. “I’ll be able to help other people get well and make some money to help your papa support our family.” She smiled. “I’ll still have to work in the kitchen at St. Mark’s Hospital some of the time, so I won’t get to see you very much, but Aunt Maryann will look after you and your brothers while I’m away.”

  Seeing my mother happy made me feel like giggling all day long. Whenever I asked her why she was crying, she would always say, “Oh, nothing. I’m okay. I’ll be all right.” Now I hoped her wishes would come true. She would at last be all right and happy.

  In September, I attended kindergarten at McMillan Elementary School, just a few blocks from home. I thought the first day was the best day of my whole life. “Kindergarten must be what heaven is like,” I told Mom. I was so happy to be in
Mrs. Holiday’s class! I woke up every morning eager to go to school. I wasn’t afraid of her, and I was sure she loved me.

  I loved my friend Mac. He was so much bigger than all the other kids, and he was also in my class. Mac held my hand, pushed me on the swings, and talked to me whenever he could. Every time the bell rang, he’d save a place in front of the line for me. If I charged up to the door and ended up behind anyone else, Mac would give me a piggyback ride to the front of the line, where Mrs. Holiday would make him put me down. We smiled at each other throughout the day and talked about being best friends forever.

  Near the end of my kindergarten year, while Tia and I were playing house, I asked her how many moms she had. When she told me she only had one, I bragged, I had three. She was pretty excited for me. “Why do you get to have three moms and I don’t?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her.

  The next day Tia said her mom told her my dad was a “pig-a-mess and a very bad man, cuz he don’t follow God’s rules.” She added with a smirk, “And my mom told me I shouldn’t play with you anymore cuz you’re a pig-a-mess too.”