50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Page 6

  *****

  I loved summers: running, jumping, climbing trees, riding my brother’s bike, playing in the ditch, and following my brother James whenever he’d let me. Those were glorious days.

  Then one day, I no longer had to fear Rick. My brother Shane’s early years of polio had curled his toes under so much he was still having a hard time walking. After the surgeon had done more repair work on his feet, he got to recover in the living room on a hospital bed, where he could always see the bathroom door. I pictured being able to run up to Shane’s bed, jump up on his chest, and tell him how much I loved him. I’d have begged him to stay there forever, even after his toes healed. “You could make this your bedroom forever!” I’d have pled with him. I wanted so much to tell him he was my guardian and savior. But Shane could never know.

  The best part of the summer before second grade was Mom and Dad let James and me stay in Duchesne with Francine for a few months.

  I was still terrified of the dark. The evil spirits and ghosts continued to hide and wait to grab me from behind. They’d follow close behind every time I was alone. If I wanted to get up at night, I’d have to stand up on the bed, get balanced, then leap as far away from the bed or couch as I could possibly get so they wouldn’t grab me and drag me under. There was definitely no way in heaven or hell I dared head outside alone to Francine’s privy during the night. By morning, I’d be in total agony.

  One of those mornings, when my bladder felt as if it would burst all over the house, Francine asked why I was doubled over in pain and crying. Ashamed to tell her why I avoided the dreaded trip to their outhouse, I tried to make other excuses.

  Without a word, my perceptive, ingenious sister saved my dignity and freed me from further terror and discomfort. She located a large metal mop bucket and an old rickety toilet seat. Then she told my brother, all her kids, and me, “From now on, everyone has to use this during the night, and I’ll empty it in the morning.”

  While James and I were in Duchesne, we went with Francine’s family to Brother Jon Thomas’s house. Francine said the Thomas family had been in The Group for a long time. All day long the brood of Thomas kids, Francine’s kids, and James and I discovered childhood treasures and trinkets as we frolicked around the Thomas’s slice of land near the top of a volcanic cliff bank. While the adults visited for hours, we navigated and explored our surroundings like pirates on a new island.

  With the major exception of Mr. Thomas, I liked everyone in his family. At mealtime, whenever he looked at me, I felt lifeless and unresponsive—as if his venomous eyes and hands had ravaged my body. The rest of the evening was totally destroyed. I ached to get away from him. I couldn’t eat, talk, or play anymore. With Mr. Thomas’s eyes on me, I wanted to become invisible again. On the road back home, I told Francine I never wanted to be around that stinky man ever again. Later in our lives, the reasons for my feelings became clear.

  Every time James and I went to stay with Francine, it was a new adventure. Her husband was always moving her sister-wife (who is Aunt Eleanor’s daughter, Hannah) and their kids somewhere different. It seemed they relocated two or three times a year, but it never mattered to us where they lived. I loved staying with my sister so much, going home was a miserable occasion. Each time before the dreaded trip back to Murray, I’d call Mom and beg her to let me live with my sister forever—well, at least a year. And when Mom said no to that too, I begged for just a few more months, or even another week. But she always made me go back home.

  One summer when James and I returned to Murray after staying with Francine, we saw a new home in our yard. Dad had built another house on top of the basement. I walked through the new rooms like a child in a mystical land, totally in awe of all the space and beauty. Dad, I thought, must be the richest man in the world. To me, he became the greatest king on earth when I found out the new house was for our mother.

  A few months later when the house was completed, Mom moved upstairs. Aunt Maryann moved into Aunt Eleanor’s newly painted little green house I was born in. Aunt Eleanor and Dad repaired, painted, and carpeted her new basement before she moved in downstairs.

  Our kindhearted mother was famous for letting everyone live with us. Her friend Marlene stayed in one of our three bedrooms while she went to nursing school with Mom. My five brothers shared the second room, and Mom let me sleep with her in her bed. “Mom’s night” with Dad meant it was time for me to crash on the couch again.

  *****

  Some time before I was born, one of my older, more affluent cousins began to rent the large, drab Murray Recreation Hall for the Allred Group dances. The monthly dances were for everyone twelve years of age and older, unless it was Christmastime. Then everyone, including Santa Claus, was invited to attend the festivities.

  Our enormously fat, white-bearded Santa always plopped himself down in a huge easy chair right in the center of the stage and patiently listened to the wishes of at least a million polygamous children. While I waited in the long line, my wishes kept changing or getting totally shamed into nonexistence. I thought of the Christmases I could remember and realized this one wouldn’t be any better than the last five.

  “Are we bad kids?” I had asked Mom at the end of Christmas Day the previous year. “Why doesn’t Santa bring us anything? Doesn’t he like us?”

  “You should be grateful you have a house and a roof over your head and you’re not starving,” she responded.

  “I am grateful! I just don’t understand why Aunt Eleanor’s kids and Aunt Maryann’s kids and all of my cousins in our neighborhood get beautiful dolls, doll clothes, toys, and hair ribbons. Their brothers get cars, trains, and a lot of other stuff—”

  “I don’t know,” Mom interrupted impatiently. “Santa isn’t always able to be fair, and we just can’t afford to make up for the things he doesn’t bring. I have to give your dad all of my money so he can pay the bills and give the mothers grocery money. We can barely get by, let alone have any money for gifts.”

  Mom blinked back her tears. “I’m sorry you don’t have any toys or new clothes, Sophia, but we must be grateful for everything we have, and glad for those who do have things. We shouldn’t be selfish. Wanting things for ourselves will distract us from keeping the Spirit of the Lord with us.” Then her voice perked up. “You know what we do have to be grateful for? We have each other!”

  A quick hug and a kiss on the cheek and Mom was back to reading, while I quietly stepped into the bathroom to hide my jealous, shameful tears.

  So, it was just as well I had a long wait in a long line before I could talk to Santa, to change my stupid mind. What good would it have done to ask for a stupid new pair of tennis shoes, or a stupid used bike? I determined I would ask Santa for the most important thing in the whole world. And since God hadn’t helped much in that matter, maybe Santa would.

  After all the children got to speak to Santa and he left, our parents would come alive. While they’d dance, laugh, and visit, the children would get going on a good run across the massive tiles by the stage, and then slide as far as the hard soles of our Oxford shoes would take us. It was never far enough for me, so I’d try again and again to beat my last mark, as well as the mark of every child who would dare to compete with me.

  After sliding until we were worn out, we’d sit and watch the adults, until it was our turn to dance the Bunny Hop, Pop Goes the Weasel, or a vigorous, heart-pumping polka. I never got to dance to my heart’s content.

  Pretty soon Mom made me stop dancing and come sit next to her. She had that look on her face—the one that always made me wonder what was going on in her mind. What did I do, or not do this time? I thought I had it figured out. I’ve been too rambunctious again . . . I just about plowed over a few smaller tykes while I was leaping across the dance floor to the beat of John Paul Jones. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I quickly said. “I’ll slow down and try to be—”

  She smiled, leaned toward me, and whispered, “Someone told me what you asked Santa to bring this yea
r. It made me cry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to hurt your—”

  “It’s all right, my precious,” she cut in. “These are not sad tears, but happy tears.”

  I felt a little bit embarrassed, but she pulled me close to her. “My good friend said you told Santa, since God wasn’t helping much in this matter, maybe he could. He said you promised Santa you wouldn’t ask him for anything ever again, if he’d promise to bring your mother the gift of happiness. Oh, my darling little Sophia, you are my gift of happiness! Don’t you know how much I love you? San—I mean my friend—said you told him your mom is sad or mad all the time, and all you want is for her to be happy.”

  Crying, Mom pulled me onto her lap. I felt her warm breath on my cheek. While she whispered in my ear, she wiped away her tears with her hand. “I am so, so sorry, Sophia. I’ve been a mean, ornery, grouchy, depressed mom! I’ve treated you kids awful! That’s not the kind of mother I wanted to be. I’ve let all of my stresses and worries make me behave really badly. I promise I’ll make myself be happy. I’ll smile more. I have so much to be grateful for.”

  Long before the festivities would’ve normally ended, the music abruptly stopped, and everyone was asked to gather in a close circle to hear an announcement. A priesthood bearer began to pray for safety, protection, and guidance for all of us. Someone said there were more threats against polygamous families.

  In the parking lot, faces carried fretful smiles. Folks all around us spoke in quiet voices as they quickly exchanged hugs and encouragement, as if they were being scrutinized and in danger.

  “Godspeed,” I’d hear.

  Another voice would ask, “Where is Uncle Rulon? Anyone know?”

  “Don’t worry, brother. God is watching over us. We’re in His hands.”

  Our splendid Christmas celebration ended in gloom that year.

  Once we were in Dad’s car, Mom promised she’d always love me, no matter what happened to her or to Dad. She said if anything were to happen—if they ever had to go away without me—I would go live with my sister Francine. Was I ever excited! I hoped Mom and Dad would have to go away together for a while. All I ever wanted, it seemed, was to go live with Francine, and if Mom would go away with Dad, I thought, it would make her so happy. They might get to spend a lot of time together, hug and kiss, and love and talk some more. I hardly ever saw them smooch, but when they did, my whole insides would jump for joy.

  *****

  After school one afternoon, I sat next to my mother and enjoyed the pictures as she turned the pages of her photo album. She said she couldn’t find more than five or six pictures of me.

  “I remember when Lucinda took this picture!” Mom smiled.

  In the small, black-and-white photograph, Lucinda’s baby and I were sitting in a wagon just outside of the basement house. Holding her tiny hand out toward her mother, my niece looked like a princess. I looked unhappy and ready to jump.

  I told Mother, “I felt like a princess when I could stand on the car seat next to Dad. I’d put my left arm around his neck as he drove. I also remember when I was learning to walk I’d parade back and forth in our hallway to get applause and cheers from everyone. I think I would have been close to a year old when I was standing in my crib, drinking the milk from my baby bottle as fast as I possibly could so I could get to the syrup from the bottom. Oh, and I remember when I heard Aunt Eleanor tell someone my sister was going to have a baby, and you got mad at me when I was telling everyone.” (My sister, Hannah was William’s second wife, which was why no one was supposed to have evidence of yet another plural marriage. Pregnancies were kept secret for eons; especially in underage cases.)

  Girls “disappeared” during pregnancy for many

  reasons. We were not supposed to tell people if

  someone was pregnant.

  “Another great memory,” I told her, “was when an older woman handed me a baby doll, then lifted me onto her lap. She rocked back and forth, with her arms wrapped around my tummy. I felt like I’d melted into a huge soft pillow. I wanted to stay there forever.”

  “I’m sure you’re remembering grandma Balmforth. She was one of my dad’s wives, and was really good to you kids,” Mom said. Then in a solemn voice she told me, “I’m glad you have such a good memory of her, because she died when you were only four years old. Your dad’s mother died several years before you were born, and my mother died when you were barely two, so you didn’t get to know any of them.”

  I always wished for a wonderful grandmother to love and care for me, but those memories of Grandma Balmforth started the ball rolling, and my mother wanted to hear more. So I told her.

  “I guess I was close to two years old. I woke up in our dark basement and looked all over to find someone, but no one was home. I was so scared, and my bottom hurt so bad I could hardly walk. I cried until snot and tears dripped into my mouth. Then Francine came home. She gathered me in her arms, changed my diaper, powdered my blistered bottom, and dressed me in dry, warm clothes. After she got me some food, we walked all over the house and yard. Then she snuggled right next to me on the piano bench and let me bang out noises on Maryann’s piano.” Again, I told Mom how much I loved Francine, and how much I wished she’d come home and live with us all the time, since Mom wouldn’t let me go live with her.

  More tears welled up in Mom’s eyes. “No wonder you love her so much. She did love and care for you, didn’t she?” Then, Mom shouted angrily, “Why in the world wasn’t Maryann looking after you? She was supposed to be taking care of you kids while I was gone!”

  Many years later, Francine told Mom it was always the same. It was common for her to find us kids screaming, hurting, hungry, and disheveled. Francine often talked Maryann into letting her skip school to take care of James and me. Maryann was grateful for Francine’s offer. It freed her of her supposed commitments so she could be about her own daily agenda with her friends and her own children.

  *****

  My new friend, Mary, didn’t know I was a plyg kid like most of the other kids did, so she invited me to her birthday party with the other girls in my second-grade class. I was super excited, but I didn’t have a penny to my name, so I had no way to buy a gift. I doubt I ever asked my parents for anything. I’d already come to realize asking for anything was relatively pointless.

  The summer before, when I was hanging upside down on the monkey bars, my knees slipped and I landed on top of my head. I heard my skull crack against the blacktop. Though I was sick and dizzy with headaches the whole summer, I still didn’t tell my parents or ask for help. But this time, I wanted to go to the party, and I’d have to take a gift.

  Mom’s friend Marlene was nice to us from the day she moved in. She watched over us now and then, if she had a different schedule than Mom. So I decided she’d be a safe person to ask for help.

  On Saturday, she took me to get a gift and then delivered me to Mary’s parents’ home. As soon as I stepped inside the enormous house, I realized our home, which I thought was so magnificent, was bare and ugly in comparison. Until then, I had no idea the interiors of those attractive, massive homes all around us were so beautiful.

  As my peers laughed and played, I felt ugly, awkward, and out of place. The whole time I was there, I wasn’t sure what to do or how to act. This was my very first experience with children away from elementary school, outside of our culture, and in such an elegant environment.

  After the party, just before Marlene picked me up, I told Mary thanks for inviting me, and then I invited her to my birthday party the following Saturday. All the way home, I wondered, what made that big fat lie shoot right out of my mouth? And even worse, I didn’t have a clue how I was going to get out of such a mess. What, with another fib? Then I figured it all out. The next day at school, I’d tell Mary that my mother said I couldn’t have the birthday party. My foolish predicament would be all done and over with.

  The following Saturday afternoon, when I walked in the door after a day
of play, Marlene glared at me. “Your little friend Mary and her mother came by today with a gift for your birthday party. What on earth was that all about, Sophia? It isn’t your birthday for months. I don’t think there were any party plans either.”

  I had forgotten to tell Mary another lie to cover up the first one. Full of shame, I confessed my stupidity to Marlene. She forgave me but said it was Mary I should apologize to. She told me I had to ask Mary for forgiveness. But I was way too embarrassed and self-conscious. I had no idea what to tell her about my mistake. Mary and I never talked again, and for years I was full of remorse and shame. It wasn’t until I joined a twelve-step program many years later I learned to forgive my childlike mistakes. I was only a little girl begging for love and acceptance. In another insecure, vulnerable moment, I sought for approval that was never meant to be.

  *****

  I think Mom and her kids were the last in our neighborhood to get a black-and-white television. No matter we were only supposed to watch “approved” programs—we were more grateful than buzzards on a dead carcass to finally have a TV. I watched it sporadically. I was way too antsy to hold still long enough to finish anything.

  One afternoon James, Shane, and I were watching Bugs Bunny narrowly escape being cooked for dinner by Witch Hazel while he was trying to save Hansel and Gretel. We heard the kitchen cupboard doors slam shut, and our mother yelling angrily. Soon, she was sobbing.

  “Why can’t anyone clean up after themselves?” she screamed. “At least put this stinking food away! How can anyone stand to live in this pigsty?” Her anger increased by the second. I edged closer to the kitchen entryway. I really wanted to give her a hug and tell her I was sorry I hadn’t done the work, and I’d do it now if she wanted me to. But I knew if I went in the kitchen right then, I might get hit or screamed at. I’m sure my brothers felt the same way, but they inched their way in and told her they were sorry. “What can we do to help you?” they asked.