50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Page 9

  My teacher nagged me to master my addition and subtraction facts. She required everyone to recite the answers in front of the whole class. The few times I dared think I had them mastered, some fifty-four eyes stared me down, as the other students waited to harass me when I messed up. I always did.

  The reading and math charts posted around the room were proof to me and to the others of my ignorance. Sophia Allred was at the bottom of all of them. I was in the lowest reading group, and couldn’t get one good grade on spelling tests. The more I tried, the more stupid I felt. The more stupid I felt, the less I tried. So, one day I decided to quit trying.

  All I really wanted to do was fly away. “Please, God, please let me fly,” I prayed. “At the very least, let me out of these school doors so I can run . . . run . . . and soar under the beautiful blue sky.”

  *****

  I’d beg and plead and beg Mom some more. “Don’t make me stay overnight at Aunt Maryann’s house! I can go home to sleep or stay somewhere else,” I’d say. But I couldn’t give her a plausible excuse, and she said there wasn’t anyone else for me to stay with while she worked graveyard shifts at the Cottonwood Stake Maternity Hospital. I thought I had no choice but to stay at Aunt Maryann’s two or three times a week.

  Rick had begun molesting me again. These times weren’t nearly as terrifying, I convinced myself. With Maryann’s two girls, two boys, and me all in one tiny bedroom, he didn’t dare risk going as far. He’d sneak in during the middle of the night. If I could sleep, he’d wake me up, reach under the covers, and slip my panties aside or down, then fondle me while he manipulated himself. During the day, Rick’s gaze and actions were tormenting. He let me know in no uncertain terms he wielded the sword of power. If I didn’t sleep on the outside of the bed, if I wriggled away from his reach, and if I didn’t hold still…he’d lift the blade higher the next day.

  CHAPTER 8

  Our Catastrophes

  1962

  By 1962, there were so many converts to the Allred Group Dad had to install a speaker system in nearly every room in the house to accommodate the large crowd who wanted to attend any meetings. You couldn’t always see who was speaking, but you could hear them.

  Every Saturday, it was my job to clean the house. It was still my brother, Darrell’s job to set up chairs. He’d also put two large pitchers of water, a couple loaves of Mom’s homemade bread, and her best sacrament plates on a small table near the front of the room. Then he would neatly cover all of it with a beautiful, white linen cloth.

  During the meeting, the young priests would kneel in front of the table and say the sacrament prayer on the bread. Then, they’d break the loaves of bread into small pieces and place them on four plates. Each one held his left arm behind his back while he offered each person in the house a small piece of bread. Since I’d been baptized I, like the other kids, could participate in this ordinance. With our right hand, we’d take one piece of the bread, which represented Jesus’ body. While we chewed it, we were to contemplate the sacrifice He made for us and what we would do with our lives to be worthy of His offerings.

  Then, the water was blessed in the same manner and served to each person in a glass. We were to think of the blood of Jesus and how He spilled it freely to pay for our sins.

  We were told we wouldn’t become ill from the germs passed from mouth to mouth on the edge of the glass because the water had been blessed. But it still concerned me to take my sip of water from the same glass others had. It especially bothered me if Jon Thomas, Gregory Maynard, or my cousin Craig, all men I couldn’t tolerate—had taken their swallow from the glass before it got to me.

  *****

  One Sunday morning when one of my cousins came over, I was still in bed. She wanted to know why I wasn’t ready for Sunday school.

  “I have morning sickness,” I told her.

  “No, you don’t,” she retorted.

  “Yes, I do,” I insisted.

  “No, you don’t, Sophia!” she yelled.

  “I do too!” I screamed back at her. “It’s morning, and I am sick, sick, sick! So I’m not going to Sunday school today. Okay?”

  The more she laughed, the more offended I felt she didn’t believe me. Finally, she explained. When a lady says she has morning sickness, it means she is pregnant and going to have a baby. The representation of my ten-year-old naivety was so embarrassing to me, I nearly cried.

  *****

  Fourth grade was even worse. Whenever my teacher asked me questions, I didn’t know the answers. Most of the time, I didn’t even understand what she’d asked me. Everything on my mind was how hungry I felt, and when school would be out so I could run home and fix some bread and milk with honey all over it.

  One day at school we heard what sounded like an explosion. Within a few seconds our desks began to vibrate in front of us. My teacher screamed, “Get under your desks!” I watched her climb under hers and heard her yell again, “Hurry, class—get under your desks!”

  But my hands were frozen and wouldn’t dislodge from the sides of my desk, even as it quivered back and forth. The window panels stretched across the length of our whole classroom rumbled and began to crackle. We screamed.

  I was sure it was the end of the world—the catastrophes Dad and Uncle Rulon and the other brethren had prophesied. There wasn’t one protective angel in that classroom to watch over me, and it had never felt like “holy ground.”

  The thundering sound carried on for minutes, it seemed, and the war inside my head didn’t stop when the earthquake subsided. My delirium kept going. After all, most of The Group has gathered and left this wicked city—they won’t even miss me! No one will ever come after me. “I’ll starve to death,” I heard myself say out loud. Several classmates started laughing.

  “Good grief, what a rush,” the class comedian yelled. “Come on—let’s have some more!”

  The students laughed. They’d already pulled themselves back up from underneath their desks and were filing out of the room, per the teacher’s orders.

  “Come on, hurry up, kids. Quickly now. Line up by the door fast. Come on, kids. Move faster,” she demanded. Then I felt her hands on top of mine, prying my clenched fists from my desk. She smacked my arms and shoulders. “Get up now, Sophia,” she yelled. “I know you can hear me! Why in the world are you just sitting here?”

  As if I’d come back to life, I noticed my heart pounding. The world hadn’t come to an end after all. My thumping heart reassured me I was still well and alive. Some of the kids looked back to snicker at me, while I noticed Jeanie’s eyes reflected sadness and concern.

  God stopped the destruction of the earth this time, but that earthquake must have been one of His tests and warnings I’ve been told about all of my life. I’ll have to be a better girl from now on.

  Jeanie, the new girl in our class, was a black-haired, brown-eyed beauty, as they say. I’d stare at her and wonder where she came from. On my way home another day, I saw her walk toward a big brown house at the top of our street, catty-corner from our school. When I said hello to her, she invited me in for some snacks.

  When she asked me if I was going to church, I told her, “No, I don’t go to church.”

  “Aren’t you a Mormon?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then why don’t you go to church?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied.

  She grinned. “Maybe you could come with me to Primary tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I’ll ask if I can,” I fibbed again, trying to act normal. I didn’t have to ask anyone. There wasn’t one person who would even know I was gone.

  The next day, we walked up the street from Jeanie’s house to the LDS meetinghouse. When I walked into the building, where most of the kids in our school attended church meetings, I was amazed. “It’s huge and pretty!” I said, sorely wishing we had a church building like theirs.

  In Jeanie’s Primary class, the teacher started her Bible lesson about the Tower of Babel. When I correctly a
nswered several of her questions, she asked me again who I was.

  “Sophia Allred,” I said.

  “And where did you say you live?” she asked. “Did you say you are a Mormon, but you don’t attend church? How is it you know so much about these stories?”

  I told her my mom and dad were too busy to go to church, but they read to me and told me the stories in the Bible and Book of Mormon, and we had Sunday school in our house, every week. I was pretty good at this by then. Even so, I felt queasy every time I had to make up one story to cover for another one.

  On the way out the door, the Primary teacher told me to be sure to come back the next week. Jeanie touched my hand and beamed, saying, “I can tell we’re going to be best friends.”

  For nearly a week I was in my glory. After school, Jeanie and I drew pictures, watched television, and played Parcheesi. Her mother prepared the most delicious snacks I’d ever eaten and treated me royally. Feeling a little bit like a normal kid was exciting and wonderful. I was ecstatic to be going to Primary like the rest of the kids near our neighborhood.

  All of my life I’d heard good things about the LDS Church. I grew up with the same scripture lessons and beliefs. I’d been taught the same Mormon values and principles as my peers on the outside had been learning. Dad said the main difference between us and the LDS Church is we believed in the “fulness of the gospel.” He frequently affirmed his love and respect for the LDS Church, as well as the laws of the land—unless, of course, they violated the laws of God. He admonished us to adhere to those same ideals.

  As soon as Jeanie and I entered the classroom the next week, the Primary teacher took me aside. “I am so sorry, Sophia, but I can’t allow you to stay.” She removed Jeanie’s hand from mine and guided her to a nearby chair, then returned to me. “Our bishop said you can’t come to this church anymore because of your parents. They are breaking the law and are apostates.”

  I didn’t even know what an apostate was, but once again I knew the overwhelming feeling of being discarded.

  Across the street at McMillan Elementary School, I sat on the cold concrete stairs leading down to the playground and tried not to cry. More than anything, I was angry at myself for caring, for wishing and hoping to feel normal and accepted.

  Like the other short-lived friends who came and went in my life, Jeanie would never be my friend again. I was dispensable and replaceable. Why should they care anyway? I thought. Something really is wrong with me. I am stupid, bad, ugly, and fat.

  While crying nearly all the way home, my soul again reminded me to keep going, reassuring me, I really was a good person.

  CHAPTER 9

  Foes and Shame

  1963

  Along with my maturing age came more responsibility. I made simple meals, did the dishes, cleaned the whole house, and did the laundry with Mom or alone. I helped my brother Darrell set up hundreds of chairs in our new garage, which served as The Group’s church, and then I played outside as long as possible. I really didn’t mind having those duties, but I knew unless someone realized I hadn’t finished one of my chores, I would not be noticed or missed at all.

  One long weekend break from school, I decided to prove my point. Friday morning I ran and walked twelve miles to Draper City to stay with a new friend. Once I got there, I told her mother if it was okay with her, I could stay over for two nights and then ride back home with them when their family drove to Murray for Sunday afternoon sacrament meeting.

  Sunday evening, Dad asked angrily, “Why didn’t you clean the house and help prepare for church today, Sophia? Where have you been all day?”

  “When did you notice I was gone?” I asked.

  “When we noticed the house hadn’t been cleaned,” he complained. “It wasn’t at all presentable for church.”

  “I knew, Dad,” I replied, the magnitude of my disappointment reflected in my voice. “I knew I wouldn’t be missed by you, Mom, or anyone else unless my jobs weren’t done! I’ve been gone for three days, and no one even noticed or missed me until this morning.”

  The sadness in my dad’s eyes melted my heart. He got down on one knee and said, “I am so sorry, honey. Who is supposed to be watching over you while your mother is working and sleeping?

  “I don’t know, Dad! I haven’t known forever.”

  Most of the children in our community loved the pond between our home and Uncle Marvin’s, with its muddy water, willows, tadpoles, and frogs. When the adults filled it with gravel and dirt to create a big parking lot for our growing congregation, the children felt betrayed and devastated. It seemed every opportunity for fun and adventure was eventually ruined by the growth of our fundamentalist community.

  Toward the front of the parking-lot field, and fairly close to the main street (which was no longer a dead end), my cousin Craig and his wife Charlene built a simple three-bedroom home for their rapidly growing family.

  Mom was a friend and spiritual guide to Charlene, who often confided her deepest concerns to my mother. She would hold Charlene’s hands while she cried. As with most curious children, I’d often tune in to their conversations, even though some of them made me cringe.

  “I’m always fertile, having one baby after another, faster than I can physically or emotionally handle,” Charlene told Mom one day. “I want him to leave me alone! He won’t even stay away from me when I’m pregnant.”

  Being nearly eleven, I had a good idea what Charlene was talking about, and I winced. Little by little, I’d figured out what “the birds and the bees” had to do with how babies came to grow inside the womb. Pregnancy didn’t come about from that great big, juicy wedding kiss or the wedding ceremony like I used to think. And God didn’t just make a new baby magically appear after a mother spent hours of agony in a bedroom and then suddenly emerged looking much thinner. I don’t know just how I figured it out, but I learned that condition came about by the thing you do that Mom says is “evil and disgusting if you’re not married, but wonderful and beautiful if you are.”

  So, I was puzzled. Charlene and Craig were married, so it was supposed to be wonderful and beautiful, yet Charlene told Mom that she felt plagued by her oversexed husband. Those conversations made me despise Craig more than I already did. I hated the way he looked at me and the other little girls. I hated the way I felt if he was home when I had to help at Charlene’s house.

  When they moved in next-door, Mom assigned me to be Charlene’s personal maid and assistant. After school, on weekends, and whenever Charlene needed a housekeeper or babysitter, I was expected to be her servant. It was okay at first, but I started to resent my lack of playtime, and all of my hard work, for which I rarely received a word of appreciation.

  “But she needs your help!” Mom charged whenever I’d try to ditch my responsibilities. “You know you should always place others and their needs before yourself. You are a servant of the Lord, and by serving others you are serving Him. Now put your shoes on, Sophia, and get over there now!”

  I helped Charlene with housework and with her children so much that I felt like I practically raised her first two or three children, as if they were my responsibility. Now she was expecting again. Based on Mom’s convictions and example, I believed it was my job to help Charlene fulfill her parental and household duties, so I tried to be sweet and happy about it.

  One day, I’d finished cleaning their house, and was nearly done with the dishes, when Craig came in the kitchen door. The look in his eyes completely drained me. Then, as if he had picked up on my loathing, he made his body brush against mine as he passed by. I felt diminished and sickened. I should have just left, but my obligatory respect for adults and my codependency kicked in.

  For a few seconds, I stood in the kids’ room where they were watching Elmer Fudd hunt Bugs Bunny with his double-barrel shotgun. I stood by the chair Craig was sitting in and tried to find the courage to tell him I was leaving even if Charlene wasn’t back yet.

  Without a word, he grabbed my arm and forced me down o
nto his lap. He made sure my legs straddled his. I tried to get up, but he held tightly onto my forearms. At first, I thought Craig was just teasing me and he’d let me up in a second. But he didn’t. Then both of his hands crawled under my blouse and up to my newly developing breasts. I was scared to death, yet I’d been told over and over to respect adults. Craig’s slimy hands were on my body where they didn’t belong. I hated him!

  Is this love? Is he loving me? I asked myself. Maybe I should like this because he does. I didn’t! I felt terrible and ashamed. While he squirmed beneath me, he held me so tight against his chest with his arms wrapped around me and his hands on my tiny breasts, that I started crying. If I scream, his kids will turn around. If I jump up and run away, he might hurt me. If I run, that might hurt his feelings. He’ll feel bad. He’ll get mad at me. None of this makes any sense! I was crying when I finally broke away from Craig and ran to the bathroom.

  My vomit splashed back onto my face as it hit the water in the toilet. I could hardly breathe. What will he do when I open the bathroom door? Will he grab me or hit me? Maybe he’ll pull me back into Charlene’s room and torment me some more. It must have been ten minutes before one of his kids banged on the door. I opened it and ran home.

  His assault haunted me for many years. No matter how many times I thought about telling Mom or anyone else, I couldn’t. Craig was my elder whom I’d been taught to respect. If I told Charlene or Mom, they might think I was lying, and if they did believe me, Charlene’s world might have fallen apart. She was already too depressed and fragile as it was. I wasn’t brave enough to cause her more grief.