Cult Insanity

by Irene Spencer

  I CONSIDERED MYSELF more or less the middle child, since I happened to be the thirteenth of my father’s thirty-one children. Four generations of my family before me had practiced polygamy, so I thought plural marriage would be a piece of cake. After all, that’s all I’d ever been exposed to.

  Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon Church, claimed an angel with a drawn sword appeared to him, stating that if Smith didn’t live in polygamy, he and his people would be destroyed. In the Doctrine and Covenants 132:61, I read “And again as pertaining to the priesthood—if a man espouse a virgin, and desire to espouse another, and the first give her consent, and if he espouse the second, and they are virgins, and have vowed to no other man, then he is justified; he cannot commit adultery with that which belongeth unto him and to no one else.”

  Verse 62 states, “And if he have ten virgins given to him by this law, he cannot commit adultery, for they belong to him, and they are given unto him; therefore he is justified.”

  I’d wrestled with my beliefs. I wanted a love of my own, someone who needed and cared for me. In my heart I longed to be the apple of my husband’s eye. I shuddered at the thought of another woman fulfilling my husband’s sexual needs. Yet, I’d been indoctrinated to believe that I had to give up all my “selfish” desires to become a goddess. By living in plural marriage, I could one day be exalted. I would give my husband numerous wives, which would qualify him to become a god and rule over his own earth.

  I respected Charlotte for her faithfulness and determination in upholding polygamy. She held such a strong belief in plural marriage that she told Verlan that if he wouldn’t live that law of the gospel, she wouldn’t marry him. I wondered how she could have actually given me to her husband in a ceremony, allowing me to also be his wife. Even more, I wondered if I would be able to do the same when the time came.

  I WAS ALMOST a thousand miles from home, wondering if I’d ever return to Utah to see my family again. As I mentioned, I’d actually married Verlan without the knowledge of my father and mother; both were very much against the LeBaron family. My father ranted on and on each time I’d see him, insisting the LeBarons had insanity in their family. I was so hurt by his judgmental accusations that I avoided him. My mother had divorced him when I was six. She bore her own heartache and emotional scars from living in polygamy.

  My relatives gossiped about Mother’s failure to keep God’s commandments and the fact that later she’d married a “gentile” (anyone who was not Mormon). To them it was unforgivable. I’d been persuaded by my aunts that she had failed God by leaving my father. I questioned if she would ever be exalted, having broken her marriage vows. I’d been taught that all women needed a man to make it into heaven. A woman’s husband was going to be her savior. He would take her hand and lead her through the veil into heaven. By divorcing my father, my mother had no one to save her. Though I had seen her unhappiness and tears, I was all the more determined to step up to the plate and show God that I had it in me. Therefore, I didn’t confide in my parents; I was married in a secret ceremony. I did, however, tell my older brother Richard, who promised to defend me and tell my mother that I had married Verlan and moved to Mexico.

  REALITY HIT ME IN THE FACE when Verlan took me on a tour of the ranch. I hated what I’d seen of Mexico—sandy, barren hills and valleys full of mesquites. It was hard for my brain to compute the reality of the landscape. I’d held visions of a sprawling ranch, as I’d seen in Utah, with luscious green alfalfa fields, a large barn, and a big farmhouse surrounded by a white picket fence. The four other adobe buildings that I could now see looked worse than anything I’d seen in even the poorest parts of my hometown. The dry, hot August air was stifling. There wasn’t a hedge or flower in sight.

  I met Alma’s wife, Luz, and Ervil’s wife, Delfina. The two women chattered in Spanish, and I couldn’t understand a word. Verlan interpreted the conversations. Both women were kind, but I detected suspicion in their eyes. They didn’t know about my marriage to Verlan, and I was sure that any single girl on the ranch was a threat to them.

  From across the yard, on the north side of the clearing, we heard incoherent jabbering coming from a small, two-room adobe hut. Before I could get too upset, Verlan quickly explained that the noises came from his sister Lucinda, who was detained in her own private cell. “She once was a plural wife who lost her mind several years ago. Come and meet her. She won’t hurt you.”

  I’d never witnessed such an appalling situation. Lucinda, in her mid-thirties, half naked, and with uncombed, matted red hair, reeked with a foul odor. Seeing her jolted all my senses. How, I wondered, could anyone live in such a filthy cage? Could she ever get her mind back while living in such atrocious circumstances? I quickly withdrew, walking briskly ahead of Verlan. He caught up with me, laughing. “Hey, she won’t hurt you. In fact, she said you were pretty.”

  Verlan’s brother Alma had seen us from his adobe house close by. He was the only brother living there whom I hadn’t met yet. As he sauntered toward us, I stood still waiting, with my hands on my hips. When Alma was close enough, he reprimanded me before Verlan had time to introduce me. “Nice girls don’t put their hands on their hips,” he said. And without further ado, he continued on his way.

  “Is he crazy too?” I asked Verlan.

  “Oh, no.” Verlan laughed apologetically. “He’s just a little different.” He paused a moment before continuing. “I guess I’d better tell you before someone else does.” He flushed a bright red as he spoke. “A couple months ago, Alma was deceived by our cousin Owen from Canada. He claimed that flying saucers were coming down to take both of their families to heavenly realms. Owen convinced his own two wives and children, and Alma, to run around the ranch naked. They paraded through the orchard then up on the foothills. Finally the Lord told Owen that the group should congregate on the roof of Alma’s house and await the arrival of flying saucers. Joel was humiliated and in shock over their actions, so he notified the authorities.”

  Seeing the surprise on my face, Verlan tried to comfort me. “Hey, the police showed up before the saucers did.” He laughed again. “Please forgive Alma. Since Owen returned to Canada, he’s repented and seen the error of his ways.” I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Alma still had a loose marble or two. I felt spooked around him. I began to understand why my father and mother did not want me in the LeBaron family.

  OUR ONLY RECREATION was held five miles south of the ranch at Spencerville. My mother’s second cousin, Aunt Sylvia, as we addressed her, was the second wife of Carling Spencer. They had lived in Mexico for eight years, where she cared for her aged husband and their dozen children.

  Aunt Sylvia’s poor living conditions troubled me. I watched as a pot of beans began to boil on her kitchen stove. She held a chipped blue enamel cup in her hand, which she used to scoop up the dead weevils as they floated to the top of the water that covered the beans. The longer the beans boiled, the more weevils floated to the top of the kettle. My stomach felt queasy, and I fended off my urge to vomit.

  When Aunt Sylvia saw my ashen face, she laughed apologetically. “A little weevil won’t hurt any of us. In fact”—she chuckled again—“it’s a good source of protein. We’re just lucky to have beans to eat.”

  Her undernourished goat produced only a pint of milk a day. Every bit was fed to the baby. The other small children watched eagerly as the baby was fed its cereal. When a blob of food fell onto the high chair tray, the hungry youngsters took turns licking it up. Aunt Sylvia didn’t even own enough utensils or dishes to feed all the family at once. They had to take turns using what few small bowls she owned.

  I watched Aunt Sylvia make wash soap from the fat of a butchered burro. Her kids were ragged, yet she kept them clean. I never heard a complaint from this woman. She showed gratitude for even the fresh air she breathed. Her one luxury was a small grape arbor that loaded with concord grapes each summer. Her kids kept them picked, hardly giving them time to ripen.

  Though poor in
deed, nonetheless, she graciously opened her home each Sunday for the four LeBaron brothers—Ervil, Alma, Floren, and Verlan—and their families, as well as others from the community, to meet together for worship. (Joel and his wife, Magdalena, lived in the mountains, too far away to join us.) We’d hook up horses to a four-wheeled wooden wagon, taking a pot of cooked beans and some homemade bread. We would hold Sunday meetings and then eat lunch together.

  I’d longed for recreation, for social interaction, but when Verlan started courting Aunt Sylvia’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Lucy, at the meetings, I literally wanted to die. At every opportunity, she shared her love for Verlan with the crowd, making sure both Charlotte and I knew she had been in love with him since she was ten. Verlan had asked Lucy to marry him before he proposed to Charlotte, but she’d refused. She told Verlan she knew she was to be his third wife. Therefore, she encouraged him to find two wives and then return for her, which he did. Lucy became wife number three in May 1955. My spirit had been broken by the poverty and hardships in Mexico. But when Verlan married Lucy, my heart broke as well. Less than a month after her wedding, Verlan brought her to our three-room adobe house to live with Charlotte and me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  From what I’d seen, Ervil did very little physical work on the ranch. When I mentioned it to Verlan, he told me that from the time he could remember, Ervil had always given orders and bossed his brothers around. With resentment in his voice, Verlan shared with me how Ervil gave commands to his siblings to draw heavy buckets of water from the well and water the orchards by hand. While they sweated away in the hot sun, he relaxed in the shade of a tree, sleeping or reading the scriptures. Many times he would walk through the orchard, following them around as he expounded pertinent Mormon beliefs. Ervil felt menial work was beneath him, but he kept tabs on the brothers, prodding them to keep working throughout the day, while he daydreamed of greater things. He would milk the cows only when he was forced to in an emergency or if his brothers weren’t there.

  When I suggested to Verlan that it was an injustice for Ervil to be so lazy while he slaved away, Verlan explained that Ervil thought he was better at delegating than digging ditches or carrying heavy buckets of water.

  Ervil wore out his welcome with me when he’d come to my house and preach incessantly, no matter if I was busy or not. He’d follow me around when I went to the well for water, or to haul in wood for the stove, never offering a helping hand. He was too busy expounding the scriptures. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had just spilled out what he was trying to say and get it over with. But he’d tell me a story and then retell it in different words, quizzing me between sentences to determine whether I understood. “I’m not stupid,” I’d tell him. “I certainly don’t need you to explain it to me three times. Really . . . I got it the first time.”

  He never seemed to pay attention to my replies, and he would simply continue on with his rhetoric. I wondered if he preached to me just because he liked listening to himself talk and maybe to convince himself how knowledgeable he was.

  Ervil’s tall six-foot-four frame, and long legs and arms, made it almost impossible for him to find clothing in the right size. In the early days his Levi’s were always too short. He rolled up the long sleeves on his shirt because the sleeves didn’t extend far enough for him to be able to button them at his wrists. My eyes were often drawn to his sockless feet and ankles. One time, when his jeans were ripped in the crotch, though embarrassed, I brought it to his attention, offering to fix his pants. He apologized for exposing himself, explaining that he owned no shorts. On that occasion and another, I had him step into my bedroom and remove his torn Levi’s. He handed them out through a crack in the door. I mended them and gave them back. In a way I pitied him, wondering why Delfina didn’t mend for him; but I soon discovered she had no sewing supplies, a luxury the couple simply couldn’t afford.

  ERVIL’S DISSATISFACTION WITH HIS MEXICAN WIFE, Delfina, was constant. He complained to Verlan and me that he’d married beneath himself. The fact that his wife was a professing Catholic convinced him that God himself felt displeasure toward her. “After all,” he announced, “the Catholic Church is referred to in the scriptures as the ‘great and abominable church.’ ”

  Even Verlan shook his head as Ervil continued. We couldn’t believe how disparagingly he spoke of his tall, pretty wife and her beliefs.

  “In a way,” he said, “it’s not her fault to be counted less worthy.” He looked at me as he continued enlightening me. “It says in the Book of Mormon that the Lamanites—you know those are the Mexicans—became wild . . . full of adultery and filthiness. We’ve been taught that we can upgrade the race by marrying these native women, and producing ‘white and delightsome children.’ ” He laughed. “We’ll build up the race all right. We need people in the Kingdom of God, so if we can’t convert ’em, we’ll produce ’em. That’s how we’ll raise up righteous believers.” He sounded determined. “I always wanted an American wife”—he glanced at me longingly—“but I never had the opportunity to court one.” He looked at Verlan and said, “You were sure lucky, Verlan, because when you went to BYU you had a chance to find an American woman.”

  Relentlessly, he kept on telling us more than I wanted to hear. “The Mormons in Colonia Juárez mistreated us, didn’t they, Verlan? We were ostracized because our father continued to live polygamy long after the Mormons gave it up. The LDS Church excommunicated our father when he married Aunt Onie. It was really hard on our family to be the town misfits. We were snubbed and shunned. Even during our school years, other Mormons were forbidden to associate with us. We had no sleepovers, we were never invited to any birthday parties, and we definitely never had the chance to court their daughters. These Mexican women are difficult to get along with. I could never imagine Delfina living in the same house with another woman like you and Charlotte do, Irene.”

  Changing the subject, he looked at me and said, “Yesterday, Delfina came home from your house crying.”

  “Why?” I cut in, surprised. “Did I offend her with my broken Spanish?”

  “No.” He laughed. “She got upset while she was visiting you in your bedroom. She swears she saw a pair of Verlan’s pajamas tucked under one of your pillows. She says she knows something is going on between you two. If I admitted the truth and told her you were married to my brother, I’d have hell on my hands for sure. These Catholic women are so hotheaded and controlling. She’d never consider nor allow me to take another wife.”

  I could sense the jealousy in his voice. “Verlan, I can’t believe you’re so lucky. Two Americans . . . and both believers.” He shook his head regretfully. His eyes met mine as he spoke. “I’d give anything to have two pretty wives like you and Charlotte.”

  His seething jealousy soon prompted him to take action.

  Ervil revealed to us that three months earlier, he had met a Mexican girl in the mountains, pretty twenty-one-year-old Maria de la Luz, whom he had enjoyed flirting with. He had met her at a corn festival, where she reigned as queen. He lowered his voice confidentially and said, “I feel led by the Lord to go to the mountains and find her. If I can convert her to Mormonism, I’ll ask her to marry me and become my second wife.”

  The next day, Ervil lied to Delfina, telling her he was going to do some missionary work in the mountains and to not expect him to return for at least two weeks. Disappointed and dejected that he was leaving her for so long, she walked him up to the main dirt road, where he caught a bus.

  Two weeks later, while filling my water buckets at the cast-iron pump, I spotted Ervil with a pretty Mexican girl approaching the house. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He’d actually done it!

  I trudged back to the house with my heavy buckets as the couple followed me inside. I positioned the buckets on the counter. Ervil introduced his shy bride. “This is Maria de la Luz, but I want her to be called Mary Lou.”

  I smiled, welcoming her into the house. Charlotte joined us from her bedroom; extending
her hand she made the woman feel welcome. Ervil laughed nervously. “I’m depending on you both to keep quiet about this. I took this woman to Ozumba by bus, where I had her married to me by Brother Bautista’s priesthood authority. I hope I can leave her here with you guys for a while until I can break the news and convince Delfina that this is the will of God.”

  Both Charlotte and I were surprised. According to our Mormon teachings, a man was supposed to get permission from his first wife to marry another one. It was her duty to place the new wife’s hand in her husband’s, thereby approving the marriage. I wondered how Ervil could be so brazen and insensitive to force his religion and plural marriage on his unsuspecting wife.

  Ervil left his bag of soiled clothing with Mary Lou, requesting that she wash them, and he headed home to Delfina and their three small children.

  Who was Ervil to impose by putting us in this awkward situation? Why would he get another wife when he couldn’t take her home?! I knew it wasn’t Mary Lou’s fault, but her presence was a disruption to our demanding, though lifeless routine.

  I could see Mary Lou felt like a fish out of water and I sympathized with her. It had been less than a year since I had arrived to live with Charlotte in secrecy. Although I completely identified with her situation, I was caught between a rock and a hard place. If Charlotte and I were accomplices in hiding Mary Lou from Delfina, we would be left without any friends, because I knew that Luz, Alma’s wife, would side with Delfina. I wondered how long it would be before Ervil broke the news to her.

  Ervil met Verlan coming from the corrals to the house, carrying a bucket of milk. Verlan spoke as he set the bucket down on the path, “I’m surprised to see you back. It’s been two weeks, and I was wondering how long you’d be gone.”

  Ervil blurted out joyfully, “Well, Verlan, I’ve caught up with you. I have two wives now. I just left Mary Lou Vega at your home until I have the courage to tell Delfina. I need to work on her a few days to get her converted.”