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

  “If you really wanted to help, you would have long before I had to turn into a raging maniac!” Mom’s bloodshot eyes and runny nose intensified her miserable, enraged appearance. The glass plate she slammed into the sink shattered into pieces, slicing the palm of her hand open.

  By then, tears were sliding down my cheeks. I felt ashamed of myself for not cleaning the kitchen, and sad for my mother. When I’m older, I decided, I’ll do all of the work for her. Then she’ll never have to be sad or angry again.

  CHAPTER 6

  My Salvation

  1960

  About thirty-five miles from Murray, near Tooele, a caravan of seven or eight cars pulled off Highway 80, traveled a half mile or so down a dirt road, and parked near a water hole approximately six feet in circumference and about four feet deep.

  On a bitter cold Saturday in the spring, I stepped out of Dad’s car wearing only a pair of white socks and my long, white cotton slip, with a large blue towel wrapped around me. There was a brother eleven months older than me, a brother six months younger than me, several of our cousins, and a few more kids who were just over the age of eight who were going to be baptized.

  For those who would become members of the LDS Church, baptisms were then (and still are) customarily done in a baptismal font in an LDS chapel. For fundamentalist Mormons, this ordinance is performed wherever possible—usually in a swimming pool, a pond, or a mud hole.

  This ritual served to wash away our sins, grant us membership into God’s church, and prepare us to be confirmed with the gift of the Holy Ghost. In Sunday school we learned, “having the gift of the Holy Ghost, would let us know right from wrong, if we listened.”

  In the middle of the pond, clothed in white, Jon Thomas held both of his arms above his head, with both hands facing forward away from him, and began to pray. “Our Father in Heaven, by the power of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I dedicate this pool of water for the purpose of baptism. I ask Thee at this time to cleanse these waters from earthly elements that might be harmful to the human body. I ask Thy Spirit to be with us at this time; and I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

  We watched Jon baptize two of his children. He called my name and reached in my direction as if to take hold of my shivering hand. Mom directed me toward him, but his haunting eyes forced me backwards, away from him.

  “I won’t go in the water with him,” I told my mother. “I don’t like Jon! I want Uncle Marvin to baptize me.”

  This time, Mom didn’t try to persuade me into compliance. She respected my childhood intuitions. Holding my little hand, she smiled.

  While Jon Thomas performed baptisms for several more children, I wondered if something was terribly wrong with me. Why do other children and adults seem to trust and like a man my little soul is so repulsed by?

  Uncle Marvin’s white shirt and white slacks clung to his long old-fashioned undergarments as he baptized his son and a daughter. “Um, you ready now, Sophia?” he asked. He stretched out his large, comforting hand and helped me slide into the muddy pond. He grasped my hands snugly and showed me how to hold my nose closed while he ducked me under. “Are you ready now, honey?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He said, “Sophia Allred, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Then Uncle Marvin pushed me backwards under the water. An assigned witness made sure every single part of my body had been immersed.

  I got dressed in the car, my privacy protected only by the towel Mom held in front of the window nearest the crowd.

  I’d been taught the baptismal lessons several times. Still there were things I didn’t understand. Dad said God is perfect, and He also created nothing but perfection. His babies and our souls all come to this earth perfect and innocent, without sin or blemish. Yet by the time we are eight years old, we must have committed so many sins they have to be washed away. I was still uncertain about the sins I’d apparently committed. I also wanted to know what bad things all the other kids had done. If I only knew, I could determine if they measured up to the bad things I’d supposedly done.

  No one was quite sure how to satisfy all of my never-ending questions. “It’s okay,” they’d tell me. “Sometimes we don’t understand all there is to know. But now you have the gift of the Holy Ghost, to discern right from wrong. It’s all in God’s plan of salvation. Surely you want to be part of his kingdom, don’t you?”

  With all my heart I wanted to be part of salvation, whatever it was. I certainly didn’t want God to take all of my family to heaven except me. Yet I was quite sure He would do exactly that. After all, I got the impression everyone in our neighborhood knew me as the naughty, abandoned kid with a dirty face and unkempt clothing—the matted-hair orphan for whom God and most of the adults had no special regard.

  *****

  Our huge upstairs front room served a dual purpose. In my heart, I knew there had to be another reason why Dad built such a massive room and kept it so empty. My brother Darrell would set up a row of folding chairs so Uncle Rulon and his priesthood council—my father, Uncle Marvin, Eslie Jenson (father of the current prophet of The Allred Group or Apostolic United Brethren), and Jon Thomas—could face their small but rapidly growing congregation. Here, each of the men would take turns conducting Sunday school, Sunday sacrament meetings, and Wednesday-night priesthood meetings.

  I still felt sick to my stomach around Jon, so I always tried to sit as far away from him as possible, which was never far enough.

  My cousins, siblings, and the few non-relatives in the Allred Group looked proud when they were asked to stand and bear their testimonies. It really shouldn’t be hard, I often thought to myself, especially since I’d heard the same exact words repeated over and over again since I was an infant. Still, I just about slid off my chair when Daddy asked me to come up and bear my testimony. I was sure my heart was going to pound right out of my chest and bounce across the floor.

  I let go of Mom’s hand, and sauntered to the front, where everyone in the room stared at me in contemplation. Of course, all my know-it-all thoughts escaped me in holy terror and got stuck somewhere between my brains and mouth. I couldn’t get one word out.

  After what seemed forever, Daddy—who was directly behind me—gently held onto my arm. “It’s okay, little Sophia. You can say a few words, can’t you? You don’t have to be so scared. Just tell us what you are thankful for.”

  I shook in fear, with what seemed like five hundred people gawking at me, expecting me to come through. At last, I attempted a few familiar words I’d heard from the older kids so many times before.

  “Uh . . . uh, I’m thankful for uh, uh, my mom and my dad, and uh . . . uh, I’m thankful for God and for Jesus . . .” With those few words finally out, I was able to pick up speed and start feeling pretty good about myself. “And I’m grateful He died on the cross for me and you, to pay for our sins . . .”

  What sins? I still wondered. Sidetracked, I stopped cold. What sins did all of us commit? For a minute or so I panicked. Would everyone know what I was thinking? They must not have, because their kind eyes and gentle smiles urged me on. Okay, I can do this, I told myself.

  “And uh, I’m thankful for my brothers and my sisters and . . . for my cousins and . . . for all of my relatives.” Then I blurted out the most important part: “I know the gospel of Jesus Christ is true.”

  My eight-year-old convictions had just gone on a replication rampage, but inside my heart, it didn’t feel real. Did I just lie again? I questioned myself. I’m not sure if I know the gospel is true or what the gospel really is. All the other kids say they know. Why don’t I know? I shouldn’t have said I did, when I don’t.

  Flustered again and scared I may have been caught in a lie, I felt my face turn red and my eyes start to water. I had to finish and get back to my chair as fast as I could.

  “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” I said really quickly

&
nbsp; Dad squeezed my arm. “Good honey,” he whispered.

  A few of the adults giggled appreciatively as I made my way to the far end of the front row. Once I was in my seat, a few more smiling relatives gazed in my direction.

  Mom put her arm around my back and kissed my forehead. “Very good, my darling!”

  I’d passed my performance with flying colors.

  *****

  One day, Dad asked me if I wanted to walk up to Aunt Maryann’s house with him. Of course I did. He held my hand, and we walked so slowly it was driving me nuts.

  “Dad can’t you walk any faster?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He picked up his pace.

  “Come on, Daddy, can’t we run?”

  “Guess so, if you’re sure you want to be left behind.” He looked at me questioningly.

  “Of course I’m sure. Let’s race to Aunt Maryann’s front door.”

  “I’ll be leaving you in the dust.” Dad smiled.

  I smiled back and said, “One, two, three, go!”

  I waited on the front porch for Dad. “What took you so long?” I teased. It felt so good to shout those familiar words my brothers used whenever they won a race.

  “I had no idea you could run so fast, Sophia,” he said as he picked me up and gave me a huge bear hug. I kissed his neck, and so he wouldn’t feel bad, I told my forty-six-year-old father, “It’s not because you’re slow, Daddy. It’s because you’re getting so old.”

  Dad laughed. “No. For your young age you are quite speedy!”

  For weeks after our daddy-daughter competition, I overheard him brag about my incredible speed.

  Running was exhilarating, and it was as close as I could come to flying. I stretched every leap and stride to the maximum. I’d dream the wind would swoop me up and carry me high above the trees, where I’d be in control of my speed and zenith. Once I was completely exhausted and couldn’t sprint a minute longer, I would drift down to earth and catch my breath again.

  Now I had a reason to run even faster. I wanted my dad to be more proud of me than he already was. I ran faster and longer every day. I begged everyone to race with me. Dad’s praise of my speed gave me a short-lived sense of purpose, and for the first time, I felt I had an individual identity among his huge family.

  *****

  In our Sunday school class, the seven- and eight-year-olds would sit on the edge of the two beds in my brothers’ room while one of our older cousins gave the lesson.

  One conflicting subject was faith. Our teacher told us, in Mathew 17:20 Jesus says, “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, remove hence to yonder place: and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you.” And in Luke 17:6, He says, “And the Lord said if ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye might say unto this sycamore tree, be thou plucked up by the root, and be thou planted in the sea, and it should obey you.” But even more, my cousin ardently told us, if we had no doubt or fear, and faith as strong as Jesus’ faith, we too could walk on the water, even as He did.

  After her profound lesson, I knew I had strong enough faith to walk on water as well. I didn’t know one iota about swimming and was terrified of water even up to my chin, but at Uncle Rulon’s pool I boldly stepped toward the deep end to prove to myself and to Jesus, I too had far more faith than just a grain of a mustard seed.

  I waited for a good clearing between the guys who were diving off the board and coming up in the shallow end. I am not afraid. I have faith! I told myself again. And without a shadow of a doubt, I knew I could walk on top of the water clear to the other side. My faith was strong. I could hear my teacher’s reassuring voice, “If ye have faith, even as a grain of a mustard seed . . .”

  It seemed I’d taken two or three steps before my terrifying descent to the bottom of the pool. Panicked and devastated, I thought I was going to die. Later, Mom heard me tell God, I didn’t like or trust Him anymore, especially this time, because He always made promises He didn’t keep.

  “He did respond,” Mom exclaimed. “He didn’t let you drown. He made sure Shane would jump in for you and pull you to safety, didn’t He?”

  “But what about the faith I had? What about those promises from God, you, Dad, my Sunday school teachers, and the scriptures? All of you keep promising me protection, and again, it didn’t happen!” I cried. No matter how hard Mom tried to explain God’s reasons for letting me down another time, I was heartbroken and in turmoil. Either God hated me and felt I had to be punished, or He didn’t care about me enough to protect me. There had already been way too many unkept agreements.

  *****

  Aunt Beth’s three youngest daughters were all close to my age. I loved to hang out with them, but they were girls—girls who wanted to play house or dolls most of the time. I always preferred playing tough boys’ games, but Plygville, to me, bore the signs of entitled male egos and chauvinistic, patriarchal mentality. Because I was a girl, I was banned from basketball, football, and soccer games with the guys, no matter how many times I begged. I had to pacify myself by playing house with my female cousins. My role, I always insisted, was of the storekeeper, the nurse, and mailman—anything but one of the moms, kids, or wives. Aunt Beth’s girls portrayed their female rolls to perfection. Just like their mother, they were humorous, exuberant, and full of pizzazz.

  Because of the stroke Uncle Lyman had when I was two years old, I never could understand what he said. His half-leaning shuffle, saggy bloodshot eye, and drooping mouth always scared me, but I felt sorry for him. One afternoon, while playing house in the barn, deeply immersed in our laughter and child’s play, we heard his loud voice coming from an open door. He sounded irritated and angry. Apparently, his daughters already knew how to evade his temper. Without a second’s hesitation, they quickly darted around him and disappeared, leaving me trapped and scared senseless. Uncle Lyman shook his doubled-up fist near my face while he ranted on and on. Not one of his angry words made a bit of sense to me.

  “Wh–why are . . . are you . . . ma–ma–mad?” I tried to ask. I squeezed past him, aiming for the narrow doorway, but not swiftly enough to escape his fury. Powered by his pent-up frustration, Uncle Lyman’s functioning arm swept way back before he landed his doubled-up fist in the middle of my back.

  In the bathroom, I often stared at the baseball-size, hideously colorful bruise between my shoulder blades to remind me why my back hurt so much. From then on, I avoided Uncle Lyman. He always scared me, and after that unwarranted incident, I didn’t like him either.

  *****

  One beautiful summer day, a cousin who was close to my age asked, “Why did you pick all of the tulips and daffodils from my mother’s flower garden?”

  I told her I didn’t, but she insisted I did. Trying to convince her or anyone else of my innocence was totally futile. She said someone saw me do it, so it was a fact. She said, “Everyone knows you did it, Sophia! So you’re a big, fat liar.”

  Tormented by her accusations, I felt the whole Plygville nation had thrashed me with a belt and condemned me to hell. I was chock-full of sadness and injustice, feeling insignificant in our community, in heaven, and at home, school, or anywhere else I would wander. At home, deep under the covers of Mom’s bed, I’d cry myself to sleep and wondered why I was on earth in the first place. Why did I exist?

  A few weeks after the flowers were stolen; another cousin told me they’d been discovered in a large paper bag in the backyard where my accuser had tried to hide them. Remnants of leaves and petals were left in a tin can.

  *****

  Still, in my opinion, neither God nor Santa came through for my mother. Either she was gone, crying, angry, sleeping, working, or reading. She, I believed, had become proficient at escaping unpleasant life situations. Whenever she was through with her work, she read. She read at home, on the bus, in the car, in the bathroom, and in bed. When we’d talk to her, she answered, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” as if she was listening. Our method paid off when we wanted to
go somewhere or do something she would otherwise have answered no. In the realms of her religious books, Mother could avoid her conflicting feelings and emotions. She would stay in her soothing, peaceful solitude and gather a million more righteous reasons to sojourn there even longer.

  Even so, Mom tried with all her might to keep her promise to be a better, happier parent. In order to spend more time with James and me, she took us, one at a time, with her to Linton’s Rest Home where she worked graveyard shifts. My paper sack held a coloring book, some crayons, a jacks set, and a book—things for me to do between the times I watched or helped with her geriatric patients. Occasionally, Mom had something significant to talk about besides the gospel of Jesus Christ and how I should always be a good girl. Otherwise, more often than not I felt ignored.

  No matter what did or didn’t happen, I was sure she loved me. Late at night when most of her patients were asleep and I was dozing off next to her, she would cuddle close to me, kiss my forehead and cheeks, and tuck the loose strands of hair behind my ears over and over again.

  Lincoln was a twenty-seven-year-old amputee for whom Mom had been caring at the rest home. She felt so sorry for him she invited him to come live with us since Marlene was married as a second wife, and gone. Besides, helping Lincoln meant Mom could earn a little extra money.

  I was fascinated by the way he could maneuver his whole body through the house without his wheelchair. He moved swiftly by swinging his torso and the five-inch stumps of his legs back and forth using his large, muscular arms and hands as legs and feet.

  Lincoln was really kind, and always wanted me to hang around to visit or play games, so he wouldn’t be so bored and lonely. Yet right from the start, something about him gave me the creeps. To sit with him very long made me feel crazy, but I felt so sorry for him, and every now and then Mom reminded me to be nice to him. So I’d make myself sit long enough to listen to another one of his gruesome war stories.