One of our world’s greatest musical performers had passed away just the summer before. Grandfather Steed had been conducting a choir when he fell off his platform and hit the back of his head, resulting in a coma and his eventual death. We still grieved for him but took comfort in the fact that he had lived a full life and died doing something he cherished. Grandfather had not been afraid to shine in his music, but he was also a man. It was only at Suzuki camp that I felt like there was a place for a female musician in my world.
Mr. Jeffs had come to think of most music as being worldly and showy. Although he would call on me to play at nearly every school program, he constantly reminded me that all the glory must go to the Lord lest I become an instrument in the hands of the devil. I became quieter about my talents. Fortunately, around that time, another special artist entered my world. Peter Prier made and sold string instruments in his shop on 200 East and 200 South in Salt Lake City, which was a treat to visit. On these rare and special occasions, Peter would ask me to play various pieces of music on different violins. When I finished, he would clap and rejoice as if I were playing at Carnegie Hall! I learned to celebrate the musician within me, even if only privately. It was enough to keep going, and the validation kept me from seeking other sources.
Some girls my age had begun covertly wearing makeup or arranging clandestine meetings with boys. While the occasional thought of boys was secretly exciting, I had no desire to sneak around. I was influenced in part by a book called Fascinating Womanhood, which made the rounds among married and singles alike in the FLDS around that time. It included advice on how to stand out in a crowd; how to please a husband and awaken his deepest feelings of love; and how to make him think every good idea was his. “The role of a woman when played correctly,” wrote the author, Helen Andelin, “is fulfilling, fascinating, and full of intrigue. There never need be a dull moment. The practice of this art of womanhood is an enjoyable one, filled with rich rewards, numerous surprises, and vast happiness.”
Since FLDS women literally had to stand out in a crowd of their own sister-wives in order to be noticed, it was little wonder this book made waves, and the men loved it. For a girl like me whose only desire should be to fashion myself into that kind of bride, it held a certain amount of intrigue. I read it with great fervor, and I began to carry myself quite differently than before. Still, much of the book drove me crazy! We were supposed to slyly remind the man of how weak we were compared to him, but FLDS women were physically very strong. We had to be—it wasn’t like there was always a man around to carry a fifty-pound bag of flour or crate of newly canned peaches. So now I was supposed to jump up on a chair and cry out, “Ohhh! Come and kill this spider!” whenever a man was present? I had killed plenty of spiders and hauled many heavy boxes.
Still, my mother and Mama Alice encouraged me to act more like a refined lady. I practiced to please them and found that sometimes these skills seemed to work. My brothers noticed I didn’t climb my tree anymore or beat them in races. However, I began to feel different inside than I had before. I was realizing I could create the kind of woman I wanted to become. The question was, what kind of woman was that? Frail and weak? Or a woman of genuine grace and strength who could make a difference?
The concepts of obedience and self-worth filled my mind as I returned to Alta for my eighth-grade year that fall of 1990. Classwork and homework would again be demanding. Mr. Jeffs was bound to be just as hard on us, if not harder. I did my best to respect him, but sometimes his behaviors were downright creepy, though I would never say it aloud. For example, he had signed my yearbook fifteen times, all over his pictures. Not even my best friends did that! At times his body language was strange around me and other children. Rumors abounded throughout the school of his beatings whenever a child didn’t toe the line. Although we faced abuse in our home from Irene, I knew plenty of families who didn’t practice corporal punishment, so this was quite shocking. I noticed that children also left his office changed in a way that I couldn’t put into words. I deliberately steered clear of there.
We had all grown up afraid of the secret rooms in Uncle Rulon’s old home, which were now part of Alta Academy. There were secret panels that could be locked from the inside, but we noticed that others locked from the outside. They had supposedly been built to hide women and children in case of another raid. However, it was rumored that ill-behaved children learned what it was like to be locked up in the dark. If I simply remembered that Mr. Jeffs, my father, and the Prophet were always right, perhaps I could stay out of trouble entirely.
Once during Priesthood History, Mr. Jeffs asked us to raise our hands if we thought women should have the right to vote. Immediately I raised my hand—and realized I was the only one to have done so. My principal berated me. How could I possibly think that a woman could have the faintest idea of how to vote, or what the country would need more than her husband? “The only reason a woman should vote,” he said, “is to give more power to her husband and the church.”
It wasn’t only in the classroom that Warren antagonized me. He seemed to notice that something had changed over the summer in the way I held myself. He went almost crazy pushing the girl/boy issue, incessantly asking, “Did someone pass you a note?” “Did he touch your body?” Every time, I answered with a firm no. His questions made me feel sick inside. I wasn’t interested in boys, except as the perfect Priesthood bride for a man when I was older—or at least creating a life that would be pleasing to God, whether that entailed the affections of a man or not. I looked at my FLDS role models—my mothers, aunts, and cousins—and everything they had to endure. Like most of them, I felt that I could handle anything in this life if it meant my salvation in the next.
CHAPTER 4
Armageddon
During the next few years, my only refuge was my music. I was allowed to go to Suzuki camp again and continue my lessons. Although I had been classically trained in violin, I began to adore the energy and adventure of fiddling, as well as the unique sense of belonging when a group of us fiddled anything from Irish reels to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” a song that would have been strictly forbidden at church or school. At home, everything except the monotony of homework seemed to change rapidly. In 1991, Savannah graduated from Alta Academy, followed the next year by Brittany. It seemed impossible to me that my babies Joshua and Jordan had now begun second grade, Zach was already in first, and Elissa was no longer toddling around. Sometimes I cried quietly at how quickly my siblings were growing. However, Mom had had another sweet baby girl, Sherrie, who had come on the heels of Levi, so there wasn’t much time to miss diapers and bottles.
As we adjusted to an ever-changing household, it became apparent that something was dreadfully wrong with Christine. No one was able to pinpoint the cause of her mysterious suffering, but she had difficulty breathing, suffered from headaches and intense pain in her chest, and couldn’t seem to rest. We didn’t dare take her to a doctor, so she became the subject of many experimental treatments. Our mother, aunts, and concerned friends tried multiple homegrown and home-tested remedies—everything from fasting to colon cleanses to ice baths. She chopped raw onions and pressed them onto a paper towel, which she laid upon her chest and abdomen every night for a year.
Sometimes when I went to visit her room to brush the hair back from her dark and sunken eyes, I listened to the sounds of the house and wondered if she was suffering a physical manifestation of the hopelessness of her eventual fate. She was now twenty, hardly a spring chicken in the eyes of the FLDS.
When Rulon Jeffs had become our new Prophet, he had halted the practice of quickly marrying off women as soon as they turned eighteen, desiring “to get to know his people” first. Only recently had the aging Prophet begun performing marriages again, so there was hope of a marriage and family for Christine soon. But daily my sister saw the ugly reminders that while marriage could be a way out, it could also give entry into a graver situation than ours. Certainly there were healthier familie
s, but we knew some who were much worse off. What would it mean to be shackled here and in the eternities to an undeserving Priesthood holder? Or a sister-wife who beat our children?
Whatever the case, at school when the girls separated from the boys in Home Economics, we received constant training from Mr. Jeffs about exactly what kind of obedient wife we should turn out to be. Spouting the words of the Prophets, he said we must keep sweet, never complain, and always, always, defer to our husbands in every important decision. Women were not to try to lead their husbands.
Boys, on the other hand, were taught never to let a woman get the best of them, or be seen by the Lord as weak and undeserving of his Heavenly kingdom. Having to be manly in word and deed, they especially studied building and craftsmanship.
Cole used those skills and went to work for Warren’s brother Lyle, who owned a construction company. Occasionally I would go to visit him or bring him lunch on Lyle’s construction sites. When lookouts warned of oncoming OSHA inspectors, boys as young as eight would hide out, lying on the floors of pickup trucks with tinted windows until the inspectors drove away. Then they went back to work in pits, up on scaffolding, framing, and rooftops. Lyle took advantage of his young labor crew, often refusing to pay by saying proceeds were going to support the Prophet and the church. Cole finally quit, but Lyle didn’t care; he had an endless supply of young labor.
By 1992, my sophomore year at Alta Academy, doing my best at school kept me out of much trouble for a sixteen-year-old. Not all of my classmates were of the same mind-set. Some were secretly cutting a class or two, even hitting the slopes with members of the opposite sex—an unpardonable sin in our society—especially among the “illustrious” elite at Alta Academy!
Mr. Jeffs began catching wind of some of these clandestine meetings. “If you know of this happening, you are as guilty as they are!” he would say sternly. Those who were trying to toe the line were getting the short end of the salvation stick—none of the fun and all of the damnation!
My half brother Timothy often cut class, then came home to brag to me and Cole about his snowboarding adventures. One day in spring when the weather was exceptionally pleasant, several students were missing from Geometry, a class taught by Mr. Jeffs. It was painfully obvious they weren’t all sick or at work, as the alibis usually went. When Mr. Jeffs couldn’t get answers from anyone else, he turned to me.
“Rebecca Wall,” Mr. Jeffs said sternly, “is Timothy home sick today?” I’m sure I looked like a deer in the headlights. I had never ratted anyone out! But I had warned Timothy that I would not lie for him.
“No,” I answered, feeling equally relieved and terrified at the same time. Within a few minutes, several students were in serious trouble. By the following day, the fallout was unbearable for me. Most of my classmates were cold, and the ones who had gotten caught were mean and bitter. They began making snide comments whenever a teacher left the room. While I had been somewhat popular in my circle of friends, I now felt like a total outcast. Only my best friend Sandra Keate and a handful of others remained kind, but even then they were somewhat withdrawn, given the way I was being treated.
Toward the end of the school year, I waited in Big Blue one afternoon for my older sisters. I expected Irene to be cranky because they were late, but she seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood.
“Are you going to the baseball game tonight?” she asked. Among the Northern Utah FLDS, ball games were the only times we met for recreation.
“I don’t think so,” I said glumly. “Even though it’s Friday, I have a lot of homework. I’m going to need the whole weekend to get it done!”
“Oh, but it’s such a beautiful day! We’ll find a way to get you there, if you want to go.”
I stared at her, a bit dumbfounded. The games were held far south of town in Riverton, and she was never that generous to me. Irene then suggested I run in and grab the girls, which I did. We all jumped back into Big Blue and were making our way home when Timothy asked me to help him with some slivers in his hand he had gotten from woodworking. I rummaged through my large Home Ec sewing kit and found him a needle—but also discovered something else in the box.
It was a note: a typed note signed by Carl Keate, asking me to meet him during the ball game. Carl was Sandra’s brother. He was a quiet, shy, “good” Priesthood boy; I had never known him to break the rules, but there it was in black and white! What on earth was so important that he would dare to write a note? This could get us both in huge trouble. No boy had tried to talk to me alone before, and certainly not Carl. A terrible knot rose in the pit of my stomach.
Nervously I arrived at the ball field that evening. I looked for Carl and saw him pacing the pavilion in the distance. Quietly, I made my way through the crowd toward him. He turned and looked at me.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, pulling his note from my pocket. I didn’t normally speak this way, but I was furious. Carl’s own face, which had been masked in anger, changed to a look of surprise.
“What do you mean? I got one just like that, except it’s signed from you!” We looked at each other, realizing we had been set up. But by whom?
We looked over at the crowd but didn’t see anyone watching us. Together we agreed we wouldn’t fall for any more notes. “I’m sorry for the trouble,” we both murmured, and quickly went in separate directions.
That night I confided in Christine, who suggested I tell Dad. My adrenaline still pumping, I decided she was right. Fortunately Dad believed me. He said not to worry about it. Still shaking, I went to bed, only to toss and turn. Who would do this, when our reputation was all we had?
The following Monday after school, I was in the computer room with several other students working on our papers. Carl Keate was in there, but to my relief he didn’t acknowledge me. Several minutes later, Mr. Jeffs poked his head in the door.
“Carl Keate, go home right now!” We all looked at Carl in surprise. For the first time, he glanced in my direction, grabbed his stuff, and headed out the door. Our principal went back to his office, and the moment he left, I ran and called my mother.
“Mom, what’s going on?” I asked breathlessly.
“Sis, Mr. Jeffs called us. Someone took a video of you and Carl Keate together.”
Suddenly the principal’s voice boomed over the intercom, calling me to 310—the dreaded office.
“I want you to see something,” he said when I entered, and handed me a video. “Put this in.”
Even though my mother had warned me, I still trembled as the screen clearly showed me walking out to meet Carl Keate at the pavilion at the ball field.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here?”
“Exactly what you see,” I blurted. “I found a note in my sewing box. I was so upset at him—thinking he was getting us into trouble. We found out we each had a typewritten note and someone else signed our names.” Warren asked me several more questions regarding the video. I was grateful that we hadn’t touched, not even elbows or fingertips. The video showed no signs of anything improper.
“Do you know who took the video?”
I shook my head.
“Well, let me tell you how I came to find out. Someone set this against the door to my office.” He showed me a manila envelope, and a note in block writing:
To whom it may concern:
Rebecca Wall has been sneaking around, engaging in multiple encounters with Carl Keate. They’re always making eyes at each other. We just happened to have a video camera handy to prove it because no one would believe it.
Signed,
A concerned individual.
“Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“Yes, sir. It looks like Devon Johnson’s.” Most of us knew each other’s writing as we had been in small classes together since grade school.
“I was ready to expel you. Your saving grace was that you already talked to your father.”
I trembled, knowing what the outcome would have been if Warren
Jeffs had thought I had been lying. He pressed further anyway.
“Did he say or do anything inappropriate to you? Did he touch you? Are you having any boy problems with him?”
“No! I’m too busy to have boy problems! I have too much homework.”
“Good,” he said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. The one who points the finger is the one who is guilty of this themselves. Don’t speak of this to anyone.”
I took a small measure of comfort in his words, but my mind was spinning.
The very next morning, Mr. Jeffs had all the high school stay for a Morning Class test.
“Now I want to talk to each and every one and you. ‘The words of the wicked lie in wait for blood, but the speech of the upright rescues them.’ Last week, there was an attack on two of our student body. We have a good idea of who was involved. If you do not come forth and confess and apologize, you will be expelled for the rest of your years in school.” The classes held their breath, but no one spoke. A few days later, Nancy Jeffs and Stefanie Fischer apologized to me. Nancy was the one who’d signed my name. She said the boys had come to them, and because of Devon’s handwriting, I had sort of figured it had to be them. I realized my half brother Timothy must have been involved, but what she said next was shocking.
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