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

  I dumped the dirt and what was left of my crumpled pansies out of a twelve-inch clay flowerpot and stuffed the contents of my box into the pot. I would haul it to my back porch, light it with a match, and watch the ashes and smoke rise up into the universe—my higher power would, I was sure, take care of everything from there on out.

  The cold December breeze doused the first match, then another and another. Finally I drew a sheet of paper out of the flowerpot, lit the corner, and stuffed it below the others. I gently blew on the paper until sparks ruffled black and red edges around my risqué collection of pictures. Within seconds, fifteen-inch flames and huge ashes sailed toward the roof. I panicked. “You stupid imbecile,” I yelled at myself. “The neighbors will call the fire department for sure!”

  For considering myself such a safe pyromaniac, I was totally inept that time. Within seconds the flames were nearly two feet in the air! Crumpled, flaming chunks of computer and Kodak paper tried to forsake my ceremonial ritual as I frantically tried to snatch them back into my caldron.

  That’s all I need—to be forced to chase bits and pieces of photos of nude bodies down the stairs and grab them from the hands of good Samaritans who might offer to help.

  “Criminy sakes Sophia!” I heard my mom holler from somewhere in the sky, “Good-Heavens, are you trying to light us on fire?”

  I thanked the universe when the flames finally leveled back to the top of the pot. The ashes flashed brilliant red and blue colors before they smoldered at the bottom. I had no sooner taken in a few deep breaths of gratitude, than the suffocating smell of rubber burned my nose and the whole porch filled with black smoke. The pot was melting itself to the outdoor carpet! I charged into the kitchen in search of something to douse the whole thing with. For sure someone will call the fire department now! I’ll be arrested and be fined! I’ll owe money I don’t have! Bad choice, Kristyn, you stupid, dumb, totally inept pyro!

  The fire was out by the time I got back. I hit the side of the scalding hot vessel with a wooden ladle. It didn’t budge. Using a hot pad, I grabbed the rim of the pot and pulled upward with all my might, but it still didn’t shift. Standing back next to the wall, I gave the pot a swift kick with the sole of my shoe. Still no luck. Finally, I sat down, planted both feet firmly against the container and my back against the porch wall and pushed as hard as I could. The pot came unstuck, but clinging to the bottom like tentacles were stringy globs of melted carpet fibers and tar that had once surfaced the floor. All that was left was a circle of scorched particleboard where the dark blue carpet used to be.

  When the pot and fibers cooled off, I trimmed the remaining carpet with my scissors and laughed right out loud. How would I honestly explain this crazy episode to my landlady? In spite of everything, my deepest concern was whether or not the proof of my wild fling made it up into the Universe for safe keeping. Or would someone find a few remains and try to use them to sentence me to hell someday?

  *****

  Only three of my five Cedar City friends were able to make it for the “thank you” dinner I planned for my last Friday evening in Cedar City. I’d invited the few, but good friends I’d made, to thank them for being such an integral part of my life the past year.

  My first try at mixing margaritas turned out great. I found the vodka, triple sec, and tequila in three different stores. A friend gave me the recipe on the phone and told me how to mix and freeze it ahead of time so it would be nice and slushy.

  During and after our meal, I served the best margaritas on earth—at least all of us thought they were. We were flying so high on just one glass of those delicious spirits, there was no need for any more. My jaws ached from laughter. And while my heart felt truly satiated with the love and kindness those friends had shown me, I already missed them terribly.

  By Saturday afternoon, I had everything packed and ready to be hauled out, other than my kitchen and bathroom things. When Mark arrived with Norma in his truck, and her husband Jared pulled into the parking lot right behind them in his truck, I talked myself out of acting on the anger I felt. But they picked up on it anyway. Mark said he and Norma “had to talk,” and that’s why she rode down with him. She continued to tell me she and my husband had nothing more than a God given friendship, and added another excuse for spending so much alone time with him. “You and Mark are twin rays, and you two should be together forever.”

  The four of us sipped leftover margaritas and munched on goodies. Then Mark massaged Norma’s feet and back for over an hour while I packed the bathroom and then scrubbed it. Jared recounted another of his many tall tales that got more and more elaborate with each recap. When I’d finally had enough of Jared’s, Mark’s, and Norma’s insensitivity, I shifted into high-gear workaholic mode, ignored my jealous feelings, and again wondered what in the hell I was going back to. I must have been totally crazy.

  Before long, powered by a sugar-induced, margarita super buzz, I danced to and from boxes; swirled around with my cleaning rags, whisking away dirt and debris; and had the whole kitchen packed in less than forty-five minutes. I was so high on the possibility of a wonderful future, I successfully convinced myself Norma and Mark were being honest, and our love was divinely planned and ordered to remain as such.

  Without my request, a couple of friends returned Sunday morning to help Jared and Mark load my boxes and furniture into their trucks. Then I wandered back in a few more times to say farewell to my sanctuary of five months. As we pulled away I stared at the apartment building until it was out of sight and I prayed for a glorious new beginning.

  CHAPTER 46

  For Better or For Worse

  2001–2002

  Mark drove while I snuggled tightly against his legs and torso. Nearly all the way home we planned our new, happy life together as we dreamed it would be thirty-two years ago just before we got married. Again, we reviewed our list of ideals and made new pacts and promises to each other. We’d always be considerate, discuss and stick together on issues. We’d be completely honest, choose each other over others, and fall in love again. That day, all of the horrendous, regrettable, and mundane trials that shattered our marriage seemed totally illusory in our minds. “All we have to do is love each other enough,” Mark repeated a few more times while we travelled northward. With all my heart I chose to believe him.

  Piles of snow concealed most of the yellow grass and overgrown weeds in my flowerbeds. The first glance reminded me of more things left undone and gone to ruin. Pangs of resentment flooded in.

  Mark, Norma, Jared, and I haphazardly parked most of my things in the middle of the front room until I could decide where everything should be put. Then I took a tour of my home as if I hadn’t been there in years.

  Other than a vase of yellow and orange daisies Keith and Anne placed on the table with a “welcome home” note my upstairs kitchen felt icy and impersonal, Their bedroom arrangements reflected their personalities and comfort zones. I just smiled.

  I was saving the best part of my tour for last. I could hardly wait to move back into my beautiful new basement again. Like a child in anticipation of Christmas morning, I descended to the bottom of the stairs. I could barely push the door open all the way. The whole room was still full of my sister Amy’s household furnishings! My gorgeous bedroom was filled with her belongings as well. I sat on the only bare space of my beautiful purple carpet and cried. She’d known for months I was moving back home in December. Apparently she didn’t care one single bit. She’d taken her body back to her marriage and left everything else in my way!

  Mark sat next to me on the floor. “Don’t worry, Sophia [he said he just couldn’t call me Kristyn] we’ll have all of this out of here in no time.

  When I called Amy, she said she and her husband had Christmas shopping to do and a zillion other things that had to be done. They wouldn’t be able to move their things out of my way for at least two weeks.

  Mark and I cuddled under a pile of soft blankets in our wonderful king-size bed. While I c
ried in anger at my sister for being so obtuse about my situation, I tried to smother my overwhelmed feelings with sleep. My to-do list is a mile long: move all my stuff back in, move Amy’s things out, clean, scrub, do laundry, buy groceries and a few Christmas gifts, plan a family party . . . with whom—angry kids? With what money? Just shut up, Kristyn! Just shut up and go to sleep.

  The next day I packed Amy’s things as fast as I could while Mark, Jared, and Keith loaded and hauled two heaping truckloads of boxes and furniture back to Amy’s house. When we were a half truckload away from being finished, Mark said he had to leave. The threesome had a dinner date, he said. I needn’t be worried—he’d help me get the rest of Amy’s things moved out of my way within a few days. I must have stood there in shock, with my jaw dropping to my chest. I was so used to Mark’s ill treatment by then, I must have begged for it. Just like my mother, I too must have exuded “victim.” “Here I am Mark. I came back to you so you can tromp on my heart and wipe your feet all over my face!”

  If his and Norma’s big plan to help us work things out while protecting Diane’s friendship and happiness meant keeping us apart, along with lies, secrets, and deceit like the whole previous year was full of, Mark should have been honest and decent enough to have told me right up front. At least I could have consciously agreed or disagreed with their plan, before I went back to his bedlam! And if I’d have been listening to my soul as much as I wanted to believe I had been, I would have told Mark right then, “Enjoy your life without me!”

  For the next three weeks before Christmas, Mark’s waking hours with me were infrequent. He spent most of his time working with and hanging out with his best friends. He said he was sleeping on Norma’s couch. Now and then he’d climb in bed with me in the middle of the night to cuddle, make love, or just sleep. He convinced me to believe the reason he couldn’t stay with me more was because he needed to make his divorce from Diane as easy as possible on her, so she wouldn’t fall apart.

  “She’s a good person, and I just can’t hurt her more than I already have,” Mark said. “Please hang in there with me. All I want is for us to work this out. It will take some time, but it will happen. The sooner I can finish things with Diane the right way, the faster we can be together forever.”

  I reminded myself he liked and deserved his space and freedom, and that’s what I wanted for him. And in the too many minutes my heart was breaking from his ignorant choices, I determined not to have any expectations. I would have to agree to deal with things the way they were, or I would have to move on.

  On Christmas Eve, Mark took Keith and me to Norma’s house to see her ornate and elaborate Christmas village. Mark showed off every detail of Norma’s collection of many years, while Jared bragged about the nonstop, days-on-end collaboration it took Mark and Norma to lay out her beautiful arrangement. The cramps in my guts from anger and jealousy were masked by my oohs and ahhs.

  Then, on the wall behind me I noticed a picture of Norma posing under a bristlecone pine tree—one of the many, Mark had snapped many months ago. She fussed about how Mark had it enlarged and framed . . . something this and something that. Most of her words came and went. The proof of “their” lovely vacation, Jared and I were so privileged to chaperone, cut and sliced at my stomach. I was busy holding on so I wouldn’t throw up.

  I was so good at keeping sweet and pretending, that I resented the hell out of me.

  At 3:00 in the morning, tiny green Christmas lights reflected on my wet cheeks. I set a few more gifts next to our grandchildren’s under the tree. I knew Anne and Keith would understand. So would the other kids. They were used to our meager holidays, interspersed with excessive or sufficient ones through years gone by.

  All morning long I smiled, silently reviewing my long list of things to be grateful for. I even conjured up some more to help dissuade my blues. No matter how hard I tried every single year to change my frame of mind and experiences, especially for the kids’ sakes, Christmases were always full of anxiety. Around 9:30 on Christmas morning, I held in my tears and asked Mark to, at least, get up long enough to watch the gift exchange.

  Anne opened her snowboard and helmet from her boyfriend, and the costume jewelry Mark and I bought her. Keith got to unwrap a few pairs of pants, a couple of shirts, and some desperately needed underwear. Then Mark went back to bed.

  Throughout the morning all of our kids arrived, except Jake. He hadn’t spoken to me since I became the “witch who ruined our family.” Around noon we had our traditional Christmas brunch of ham and egg sandwiches. Mark got up, ate a few bites, and socialized for a little while before he announced his planned departure to Diane’s for her Christmas dinner with Jared and Norma’s family.

  By 2:30 all of my children and grandchildren had gone in different directions to celebrate with other loved ones. I encouraged Mark to take Keith with him so he’d have something to do and family to hang out with. When Mark left, he said he’d “be back in a few hours.”

  In the quiet solitude, it felt as if a hundred-pound bag of sand had dropped on my chest, preventing me from breathing. For the first time in my whole life I was completely alone on Christmas Day.

  Other than having Mark to herself, Diane’s secret dreams appeared to be coming true. My kids, grandchildren, Diane’s kids, Jared and Norma’s kids, and Mark were all together at her house without my presence.

  In the frozen silence my head throbbed from the past three weeks of restrained emotions. I plopped down on my bed and gave myself time and permission to lament every morsel of rejection, hopelessness, and self-pity I’d been feeling for so long. Then I’d kick in the reality department and pulled myself through again. I had so much to be happy about!

  From the past many experiences, Marks words about returning in “a couple of hours” really meant five or six hours, or not at all. So I wouldn’t expect him until much later—maybe eight or nine. To expect or hope for anything had been my mistake from day one in our marriage! Either one of those verbs got me in big trouble on too many occasions. So I strove not to care about or to count on anything. I didn’t dare expect, wish, or even hope Mark cared enough to keep his word that time either.

  Around 6:30 Mark called to tell me he was almost ready to leave, so he’d be home soon. By 9:30 I was exhausted and satisfied. I proudly noted my sum of grand accomplishments in the six hours since I’d dragged myself up and decided to keep busy. Trying to remain sane had helped me rearrange my room; clean out drawers, shelves, and cupboards around the house; wash and fold piles of laundry; and scrub and wax the old linoleum floor in the kitchen on my hands and knees.

  I showered, put on my pajamas, and desperately tried to ignore the pounding, throbbing, pain making me want to scream out loud. I watched TV, read, and wrote to rid my mind of the angst I was feeling all over again.

  From our picture window, through the pasture in our back yard, I saw the lights were still on at my dear friend Racine’s home. Though it was 10:30, I called her, threw on some sweats and a coat and ran over. While she poured raspberry wine into beautiful Christmas goblets, I knew I wouldn’t be able to say one word or my emotions would explode.

  “You’re dying inside, Kristyn. I can see it all over you! What on earth is going on?” She asked. I lost it. After five minutes or so of uncontrollable sobbing, I confessed more heartaches than she’d ever heard during our therapeutic hikes and walks over the past few years.

  By 11:30 I’d gathered strength in the warmth and safety of Racine’s friendship to meander home. I was glad Mark looked and sounded like he was asleep. The old, familiar nausea was back again. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel or not feel—what I should or shouldn’t say. No matter how I might attempt to express my feelings I’d be in trouble. So I wouldn’t. I gently climbed in bed, hoping not to touch or wake him. I didn’t want him to touch or hug me, either. He didn’t, thank God. The energy was cold and tingly. All I could think of was getting to sleep as fast as I could so the day would be over and gone.
r />   “What did you do today?” Mark asked suddenly.

  I couldn’t answer. My mouth wouldn’t even open. Does he really want to know, I wondered? Can’t he see? Does he really care?

  Finally, in an effort to “keep sweet,” I told him, “Just kept really busy.”

  “What did you do?” he asked again.

  Are you an idiot? Are you blind? I wanted to scream at him. Instead, I said in a trembling voice, “A whole lot of things that needed to be done. I’m really tired and want to get some sleep.”

  “You’re mad at me!” he snapped.

  “I’m not so much mad as I am—”

  “I know you’re mad! You’re mad because I didn’t stay home and kiss your ass like you wanted me to. Norma said you’d be really pissed because I stayed longer at Diane’s than you thought I should and you weren’t invited!”

  After a few minutes of silence he started again. “You wouldn’t have gone even if you were invited, So-phi-a!”

  “I don’t think I am as mad as much as I am—” I tried to explain again.

  “I know you are. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  “I was really hurt and alone—”

  Mark intruded. “You are too, mad at me! I can tell you are. You’re always mad if you don’t get your way. If I’m not where you think I should be when you think I should, then you’re mad. I’m sick to death of kissing your ass. If you don’t get exactly what you want when you want it, you go into one of your pouting fits! Well, I’m fucking tired of it! I’m not putting up with your bullshit any longer!”