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

  “My dad is not a pig-a-mess!” I protested. “He does too keep God’s rules! And my dad does too keep all of his things nice and neat. He’s not ever messy. Sometimes my mom says my brothers’ room gets messy like a pigsty, so maybe . . . I guess they are pig-a-messes, but my dad isn’t a pig-a-mess!”

  The other kids looked at both of us in wonder. Then Tia said, “Well, your dad is a pig-a-mess, cuz my mom said he is! So maybe he should keep his room clean—then he won’t be a pig-a-mess anymore.”

  As young as five and six years old, my public school peers chanted tauntingly, “Sophia is a pig-a-mess! Sophia is a pig-a-mess!”

  I hid in the toy closet behind the shelves and cried until my teacher gently pulled me out by the hand. She held me in her arms and reminded the other children to be nice to everyone.

  They were nice to me after that—at least for a few more years.

  *****

  In the summer before I attended first grade, a big white station wagon pulled up at our house. The homely male driver leaned toward the passenger window and said to my mom, “Good afternoon, Sister Vera. We’re going for an ice cream cone and want to know if Sophia can go with us.”

  Mom smiled and prodded my shoulder, as she assumed I’d like to go with Gregory Maynard and my second cousin, his wife.

  “No!” I blurted out. I didn’t know why, but that man terrified me and made me feel sick inside. I didn’t want to be in his car or near him—ever.

  Mom, who always wanted to please others, seemed embarrassed by my behavior. But the more she tried to coax me into going along with Gregory and his wife, the more anxious I felt she’d make me go.

  I clung tightly to her legs and cried until she finally said, “I’m sorry, Brother Gregory. I don’t understand why Sophia’s behaving like this, but thank you for the offer anyway. Maybe another time.”

  After they left, Mom, in her trusting naivety and her desire to be gracious and hospitable, scolded me for my behavior, telling me I’d been ungrateful and rude. Neither Mom nor I knew the reason for my intense feelings, and it would be many more years before we would.

  *****

  I was a pretty good student in the first grade. I didn’t like my teacher as much as Mrs. Holiday, my kindergarten teacher, but I was happy Mac was in my class again. He sat right behind me so he could play with my wavy hair, which nearly reached my tailbone. My flowing, platinum blond tresses were my pride and joy. But my tender head was my curse.

  On yet another day, Mom was in a hurry and in one of her terrible moods. While she tried to untangle my hair, she took it out on my head. For all I knew, she could have been angry or jealous about Dad, Aunt Eleanor, Aunt Maryann, life, work, or school, or all of the above, or something else I had no clue about. While she yanked at my hair, I shrieked and begged her to stop, but the more I squirmed and cried, the more impatient she became. When I held on to the base of my hair with my fists so it wouldn’t hurt so much, Mom smacked my hands with the back of the wooden brush and yelled, “Move your damn hands, Sophia, and stop screaming!” By then, Mom was crying too. Her face was bright red and she’d gone totally berserk.

  “I’ve told you a million times, if you won’t take care of your own hair, you don’t deserve to have it!” Mom screamed at me. Horrified, I watched her head toward our beautiful sideboard and get her scissors from the top drawer.

  “Please, please don’t cut my hair!” I begged. “Please, Mom. I promise I’ll take care of it! I won’t cry anymore! I’ll brush it, I promise. Please . . . please!” But all I could do was watch piles of wavy locks fall down my back and chest, and drift like feathers across the kitchen floor.

  In the mirror, I could barely see through my puffy white eyelids. My now uneven, shoulder-length hair and my freakish, bulbous red face startled me. I won’t go to school today or ever again! I swore to myself. I hid under my brother’s bed until Mom left for work. Somehow I managed to stay out of sight and skip school for the next couple of days. Then Aunt Maryann discovered me asleep on a blanket in our storage room under the stairs. When I told her of my woes, she walked me over to Aunt Beth’s house. Aunt Beth fixed my hair as best as she could until it was cropped above my shoulders. Then she held me while I cried some more.

  At school the next day, Mac was so upset and sad because my long blond hair was gone, he told me he’d never speak to me again.

  “But my mom cut it when she was really, really mad!” I cried out. “It’s not my fault it’s all gone.”

  Tears filled his eyes as he yelled back, “I don’t care! I loved your hair. Now it’s all gone.”

  I closed my eyes so tightly I got a headache, but I wouldn’t let myself cry in front of the other kids. The second I was outside after school, I cried enough to fill a puddle. It wasn’t me Mac loved—it was my hair. For the rest of his school years in Murray, he kept his word and never spoke to me again.

  *****

  Nearly every family home evening, Dad would drill his kids about the safety rules. “Remember,” he would say, “I could go to prison and all of you could be stolen away from your mothers if you’re not careful. You’ve got to practice and remember exactly what you should say.” He’d dart out the questions as if he was the bogeyman, policeman, or the bad guy, and we would reply in unison.

  “Who is the lady who lives with your mother?” Dad would ask.

  “She’s my dad’s sister,” we’d say.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Aunt Maryann.”

  “Where is your dad, little kid?”

  “I don’t know.” We’d shrug our shoulders.

  “Sure you do, kid. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” we’d say.

  “Who are all those kids living with you?”

  “They’re our cousins.”

  “Good!” Dad would say. “Why is that woman living with you?”

  “Dad helps take care of his sister and her kids.”

  Our father smiled in approval. “You plyg kids are getting good at this.”

  My siblings would laugh, but my stomach hurt. Even though I knew the drill, I was only seven and feared I’d mess up. When my dad would see my tears, I’d tell him I’d try hard to remember.

  This time, as usual, he put his arm around me and pulled me next to him. “I’m sure you’ll remember, my precious,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll do just fine.”

  After we practiced every possible “what if” scenario, as well as listening to Dad tell us all the things we shouldn’t say, he leaned forward on the couch and said emphatically, “One day you will be called at a moment’s notice to run and get in the car. You must jump up immediately and do exactly as you are told! There will be no time for you to stop and ask why, or to wait for anything or anyone. The last days are upon us. It won’t be long before the earth will be destroyed with earthquakes and fires. The wrath of God will fall upon the wicked. Yet He will call His people out of darkness and into the light. We are His chosen handful who, if we continue to obey His commandments, will be saved. This, my children, is why it is so important for you to always be exactly where you say you will be. This is why you must come immediately without question, whenever you are called.”

  “You know,” Dad went on, “we will all be tested to see if we will hold fast to the iron rod—the teachings of God—and follow His direction in all things. God will test us to the degree we may feel we can no longer bear to hold on to our beliefs and our convictions. Like Job of the Bible, we may cry in agony. We will be horrified because of the carnage and abominations of evil men and women. We will be devastated by the terrible destructions that will take place on this earth. Even still, my dear ones, if you will hold to the gospel of Jesus Christ and God’s truth, you will be saved.”

  I was so scared. I wanted to yell at my dad, “Stop talking right now! Stop it, Daddy!”

  “And always remember, my loved ones,” he continued, “God’s laws are much higher than the laws of the land. Therefore, there is nothing wr
ong with the little white lies you are required to tell to protect your family and others. We are living God’s higher laws and commandments, and there are evil people on the outside who would rather we weren’t in the graces of God. They will do anything to thwart our righteous endeavors. They will stop at nothing to destroy us!”

  By then I was sobbing, and Dad stopped his lecture to console me again. He pulled me onto his lap and asked, “What’s wrong, my little darling? Are you still worried?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said between sniffles. “You are scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry, little Sophia. You will be okay, I promise you. We’ll all be okay because we love God and Jesus Christ. And because God and Jesus love us, they will protect us.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” I said in a strong, loud voice. “I will try to be a good girl, and brave.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Plygville

  1957–1959

  My stepbrother Rick acted like my best friend, at least most of the time. He played all kinds of games with me: Cowboys and Indians, No Bears Are Out Tonight, and Tag. Sometimes he’d hold my hand and stick up for me when some of my cousins called me snot-nose, chubby, or fatso. My brothers, on the other hand, couldn’t stand him most of the time. Having to share a room with Rick often felt like a curse to them, since they considered him a spoiled-rotten brat. They were often angry with Aunt Maryann, because no matter how irritating or tormenting Rick was, she always took his side. To try to get her to defend them or listen to the truth was hopeless. So they’d fight instead. Maryann would clobber them with her fists or whatever object she could find.

  During those battles, my heart would pound so hard and fast I thought it might pop through the top of my head. “Stop hitting Luke! Stop it!” I’d scream at her over and over again. Sometimes I wrapped myself around her legs, clinging to her thick polyester-knit pants. I’d smack her legs and bottom, wherever my arms could reach, to stop her from forcing my brothers out the door. But to her, I was nothing more than an irritation to slap off her legs like a pesky fly.

  I never knew when or if my brothers would return home again, and Maryann seemed to be proud of the fact she won every encounter. Her harshness toward my brothers, and her random kindness to me made me feel guilty and responsible for their heartaches—a soreness I could never resolve.

  James would hug me and say, “Don’t worry, Sophia. She hates you too. She just pretends to like us so Mom and Dad will be happy, but we both know by the way she treats us, she doesn’t like us at all.”

  *****

  Aunt Maryann left her kids, James, and me home with Rick quite often. On one of those forsaken days, while the other kids were off somewhere playing or sleeping, Rick coaxed me into the bathroom.

  “We’re going to play a game where you have to be real quiet. You can’t make one sound,” he told me. “If you do, we’ll get in big trouble.”

  Rick told me I had to pull my dress up over my head so I couldn’t see where he was. Then I should lie down on the floor by the tub and hold real still.

  “I don’t like this game. Let’s play another game!” I pled.

  My soul knew none of that felt right, but I feared he wouldn’t love me or be my friend anymore if I didn’t concede. Still, I begged him, “Please, Rick. Let’s play something else.”

  “Come on, Sophia. This will be fun! Just keep your eyes shut. Be quiet and you’ll see. You’re my very best friend, and I’m your best friend—forever, remember?”

  Soon, Rick’s body was on top of me. I wiggled and pushed on his chest to get out from under him. “Come on, Sophia, hold still and be real quiet!” he’d say. “This is a quiet game.” I felt him push something long and sticky between my thighs. With his legs on the outside of mine, he pushed mine together so hard I could feel his nasty thing press against my pubic bone. Again I tried to push him away from me.

  “Sophia, be a good girl and let me do this! I’ll be really nice to you, if you’ll be nice to me. I’ll even buy you a candy bar the next time I go to the store.”

  I held still. Rick made his body go up and down on top of me and started breathing really hard. I got so scared I started to cry, but he didn’t stop. A few minutes later I heard him growl like a bear, and then his whole body weight sank on mine. I couldn’t breathe. When he finally climbed off me, I opened my eyes. Through the thin skirt over my head, I saw him pull his jeans up over his naked bum.

  “Okay, Sophia.” I heard his zipper roll up. “You were a really good girl. You can open your eyes after I go out and shut the door.” Then he stopped abruptly. “You’d better not tell anyone about our game, or we’ll both get in big trouble.”

  When I stood up to pull my dress down, a whole lot of sticky, gooey stuff ran down my legs. Trying to wash it off my legs made me nauseous, and I wondered how and why Rick put snot all over me.

  *****

  Mom was nearly a licensed practical nurse, but she never dared get a driver’s license. During her working and school days, my siblings and I got to ride with Dad to take or retrieve her. When we went to pick her up, Dad would stop the car in the parking lot. James, Shane, and I would stare at the door to the school or the hospital, hoping to be the first one to see our mother. “There she is!” we’d scream.

  Those, it seemed, were the only times we got to see her. In the car, Mom would smile, give us big hugs, and tell us she was sorry she was so busy at work and with her studies she couldn’t be with us more. And then she’d ask the horrible question: “Are you being good kids?” I’d get quiet, keep my eyes dry, and never answer out loud. Am I? I’d ask myself. It doesn’t feel like it anymore.

  Rick offered to tend me more and more. Maryann would dress up and head out. Sometimes she’d take her girls, Jolie and Melanie, with her. I tried to hide or get away, but Rick always found me. To cheer me, he’d bribe me with more money or candy. Then he’d make me go into the bathroom with him again.

  After a while, Rick started making me take my panties off and watch while he stood above me going up and down on his penis. Even when he saw tears well up in my eyes, he wouldn’t stop. As with all self-seeking perpetrators, his gratification was more important than I was.

  “I’ll try not to hurt you, Sophia. I’ll be real careful because I love you,” he’d whisper. Then he’d be on top of me again. I learned real fast, fighting or begging him to quit only infuriated him.

  “Stop fighting, Sophia! You know you are in on this too! If you ever tell anyone and get me in trouble, I will hate you. I’ll have to beat you up and hurt you really bad.” Then he’d calm down. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, Sophia, because I love you. You know I do; don’t you?”

  Like a petrified log, I wouldn’t move. When he’d finish and shut the door behind him, I’d pull myself up next to the toilet and vomit. Tears would stream down my face as I washed myself over and over again. Sometimes I’d stay in the bathroom for a long time, staring at my pathetic face in the mirror and wishing I could disappear.

  After several months, Rick and I hardly ever saw each other outside of the bathroom. His plans no longer included me, unless it was to serve one purpose. I couldn’t look at him anymore, no matter where he was. I hated his guts.

  However, my wishes in front of the bathroom mirror came to my rescue. Whenever Rick molested me, I imagined I was as high as the tallest trees, on top of my tall, lanky father’s shoulders. He’d charge around the yard like a prancing horse. I’d raise my shimmering purple wand toward the sky and shout, “Now I’m a princess! Take me to my beautiful white castle in the sky!” And then Dad would turn into a magnificent white unicorn and we would fly into the white fluffy clouds. “I am more brave and strong than any girl in the world,” I’d proclaim. “In my castle way up here in heaven, no one can call me names or touch me. Up here I am in charge and safe, not in our bathroom.”

  My own description of wanting to fly away

  (age 7)

  My mother’s words reverberated in my head. She was always reminding
us to be good kids so God would “protect us and keep us from harm and danger.” For as long as I can remember, our daily prayers included those words. “Always do what’s right and be obedient,” Mother would say. “If you’re not good, God won’t protect you. Harm and evil will befall you.”

  Every day, I questioned why God had concluded, I, Sophia Allred, was such a bad person I deserved to be punished. Maybe, I suspected, was why He wouldn’t let Francine come and take me home with her. More often than not, I assumed I was a dreadful little girl.

  In the quiet, dark lonely nights, when I’d hide under my covers from the devil’s imps and the bogeymen that were always after me, someone deep inside of me would lull me to sleep. “That’s not true, Sophia. You’re not a dreadful child. It never was true!” I’d hear the soft, kind voice repeat. “You are a good girl, and God loves you.”

  On other nights Jolie, Melanie, and I would sneak huge scoops of peanut butter from the kitchen and lick the delectable stuff like a lollypop. We’d hide the spoons under our double bed and ditch them in the mornings. We’d jump on the bed until our heads scraped the ceiling and laugh until our guts ached. During those times together, it crossed my mind to tell Jolie about Rick’s so-called horrible game. No! What a stupid, stupid thought! I’d tell myself. I’m a bad girl, and if she knew, she might tell her mother. For sure I’d get punished.

  There were no more cookies left after we ransacked the jar. There were never enough cookies! I piled on the pounds, while Jolie and Melanie stayed as skinny as sticks. All I wanted to do was eat, eat, and eat. In the kitchen I’d open the cupboards and the fridge, searching for something to relieve my restlessness. Since Rick is Jolie’s brother, she wouldn’t believe me anyway, I’d remind myself every time I got tempted to tell her the deep, dark secret. I wished there had been a whole lot more food for me to eat. I’d have felt a whole lot better.