Cult Insanity

by Irene Spencer

  “Boy, you sure work fast,” Verlan said. “What will you do if Delfina doesn’t accept her?”

  “Well, God definitely instructed me to marry her, so I’m sure he will help me explain my actions to Delfina.”

  “Good luck,” Verlan said, picking up his bucket of milk.

  As though Ervil was speaking to himself he said, “I don’t know about my Catholic wife. She’s never been touched by the Holy Ghost, and she needs to be in order to deal with plural marriage.”

  When Verlan brought in the milk for Charlotte to strain, he welcomed Mary Lou, asking her to join us in our evening meal of boiled pinto beans and hot tortillas. While we ate, Verlan began explaining the difficult situation to the new bride, trying to give her hope. “When Delfina gets over having a tantrum, we’ll all get back to normal. I know it will be hard on her to accept you. She has fought the principle of plural marriage ever since she got married. But,” he added, trying to justify Ervil’s actions, “he has never lied to her about plural marriage. He always told her that he would live polygamy someday. So, in a way, he has tried to prepare her.”

  While Mary Lou offered to help Charlotte wash up a few dishes, Verlan had me accompany him outside in the dark to the woodpile. I’d barely extended my arms for him to start stacking the chopped mesquite branches in them, when, from the distant darkness, we heard strange cries through the night. “Is it an animal howling?” I asked, frightened. Bracing ourselves, we both listened.

  “It’s Delfina,” Verlan exclaimed. “It sounds like she’s lost it. Let’s go over there before she flips out.”

  The incessant, wailing cries of sheer agony troubled me.

  Her bloodcurdling screams of anguish wrenched my soul. I’d never heard anyone cry out in such wretched despair. Verlan ran ahead. I followed at his heels as the wails grew more distressing. Outside Ervil’s two-room unplastered adobe hut, we both encountered Delfina thrashing violently, trying to free herself from Ervil’s grasp. “Let me die!” she screamed again and again. Trying to get away from Ervil, she grabbed Verlan for security and comfort. Verlan’s consoling words were drowned out by her sobbing gasps of complete devastation.

  In spite of the darkness, I could see Delfina’s wild, wounded spirit. Her countenance made me think of a frightened, snared animal trying to free itself. By now, I, too, was crying tears of sadness. I could barely tolerate polygamy and I was the product of four generations. How could Delfina, who had never been taught this principle, even begin to comprehend it? I wondered, because I was still trying to come to terms with it myself.

  Verlan ordered me to go home. He wanted to spare me the pain of witnessing Delfina’s mental breakdown. He could tell by her bizarre behavior that this wasn’t going to be resolved anytime soon. Obediently, I started for home. Verlan’s crazed sister, Lucinda, had joined in the unintelligible commotion from her nearby cell. I heard her garbled ranting mingled with Delfina’s, like an eerie chorus. Disconcerted, I stopped walking and stood still.

  “Go on home!” Verlan commanded. “Do what I tell you!”

  Traumatized and shaken by the event that had just taken place, I obediently headed for home down the rocky path. It was my night with Verlan, so I crawled into bed, anticipating his return. Tears flowed . . . tears of anger . . . tears of hopelessness. Why is it, I asked myself, that the gospel brings so much pain to women? Between God and these men, I concluded, a woman had no recourse. It was always their way or hit the highway.

  I heard Verlan entering the kitchen. He went into Charlotte’s room to tell her about Delfina’s breakdown. He briefly told her in English so the new bride would not understand. He had decided to let Ervil deal with Mary Lou tomorrow. He kissed Charlotte good night, then wearily came to bed with me.

  Disheartened, he said, “I had to help Ervil force Delfina into the rock feed house. She was so violent, actually spitting and biting. We shoved her inside to keep her under control. I guarded her while Ervil went to his house to get a couple of blankets and a pillow for her to sleep with on the cement floor.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Yes, the door is chained and padlocked so she can’t escape. Boy, did she ever put up a fight. I hope by morning she’ll get a hold of herself and come to her senses. It’d be a shame if we had another Lucinda on our hands.”

  Too shocked by the frightful experiences and overwhelmed with grief, I barely kissed Verlan good night and turned over. It suddenly occurred to me that out of three plural marriages, two women were already locked up. Statistically speaking . . . things were not looking good!

  After a week of incarceration, confined in the darkened room—the only light came from between the cracks in the door—Delfina showed no progress at all toward recovery. She jabbered incoherently, mumbling through her tears in utter hopelessness. Ervil asked his brother Alma to drive Delfina and him four hours south to Chihuahua City to Delfina’s parents’ home. He figured they might have some idea as to what to do with her. “I can’t deal with her right now, especially when I’m still honeymooning with my new wife. I want no part of the dilemma,” he informed Alma. Ervil took their three small children with them so his mother-in-law could care for them.

  Before Ervil and Delfina left, he explained to Verlan the urgency of getting her out of the colony. He knew now that Delfina, like Lucinda, was possessed with several demons. He claimed he had actually had to fight off a few of them as he restrained her. “It’s easy to understand that when a person gives in to their jealous spirit it gives Satan a chance to take them over. This is really Delfina’s fault because she wouldn’t accept the gospel, so I’m going to let her family deal with her.”

  In Chihuahua City, Ervil stayed long enough to make sure his wife was admitted to a mental hospital. We had no idea it would be nearly five months before she returned home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was eight months pregnant with my second child. Having lost my first baby in a home delivery, I longed to be delivered by a doctor in Casas. I voiced my fears one day to Verlan in Ervil’s presence. I thought maybe if Ervil heard my concerns he would speak up, defending me. I asked Ervil, “Don’t you think it’s better for me to go to the hospital than to take another chance on losing my baby?”

  Verlan cut in. “You know there’s no need to worry. Every mother on earth has gone through the pain and uncertainty of childbirth. I promise you will be okay.” Then he joked, “Believe me, you don’t need to worry, because it will all come out in the end.”

  Mr. Know-it-all Ervil, who seemed to be the ultimate authority on any and every subject butted in. “Having a baby is no big deal,” he said, looking directly into my eyes. “I’ve seen Delfina give birth three times. It’s no worse than getting your finger smashed.”

  I became riled. How dare he take my fear so lightly! Where was his compassion? He seemed so insensitive; I couldn’t help but lash out at him. “Well,” I said sarcastically, “the next time Delfina has a baby, we’ll both be there. And every time she has a labor pain, I’ll personally put your thumb on an anvil and smash it with a hammer. Each time you scream out in pain, I’ll tell you, ‘It’s no big deal!’ ”

  Ervil was shocked. “You’re so outspoken! I wonder how Verlan allows it.”

  I hated to be put down, but I could see I was outvoted, so I stomped off to my bedroom, where I had a good cry. I wanted to argue with both brothers, but I knew I would be in big trouble with Verlan if I continued to voice my opinion. Since not being obedient invariably caused repercussions, I decided to remain silent. I feared he would make me forfeit my night with him as punishment. He didn’t appreciate my sarcasm, especially in front of his brothers.

  How clear it became to me, as my tears flowed, that women have no rights! It looked to me as though we were just the breeding stock that kept the movement expanding and alive.

  WE SAW MY BROTHER-IN-LAW JOEL only every month or so. He dropped by the ranch while hauling loads of produce from the mountains where he lived with his wife, Mag
dalena. He bought and then resold beans, potatoes, and corn. It was a real pleasure to see him each time he came. He had such a pleasant personality and always seemed so upbeat.

  On the other hand, I always felt very uneasy around Ervil. I deliberately stayed away from him. Somehow, I knew he would still try to take me for his wife if he ever got the chance. He was far too friendly, so I avoided him whenever possible.

  I’d never felt really close to Alma either. He was nice enough, I guess, but he was just so odd.

  Needing someone to converse with, I turned again to poor, crazy Lucinda. At least she didn’t judge me. Since she couldn’t remember much or tell a story straight anyway, I went up to her window often—her door was locked. The interior of her adobe hut was appalling. The dirt floors stank of urine and excrement. Only one room had roofing. The other had a meshed web of chicken wire, tightly nailed down over it to keep her in while the sun could shine in for light.

  More often than not, I’d find Lucinda stark naked, sunbathing. At times she’d act so irrational that deep down I really was afraid of her, but my heart went out to this neglected soul. She needed someone she could depend on, so I made my visits to her almost daily, in spite of my misgivings.

  One particular day, I stood close to the barred window of two-by-fours and greeted her with a friendly smile. Six months pregnant, I decided to share the news with Lucinda, hoping she wasn’t incoherent. I smiled as I rubbed my bulging tummy with one hand, displaying the good news. “Look, Lucinda,” I bragged contentedly. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  She laughed, flipping her matted strawberry blonde hair without responding. Without warning, she became angry and screamed, “You stole my cold cream and never gave it back!”

  “No,” I said, lowering my voice to calm her. “That must have been your sister Irene or someone else. It wasn’t me.”

  She shook the wooden bars with her large strong hands, laughing, almost sneering at me. There was a wild animal look in her eyes.

  “Lucinda, I’ve never done anything to hurt you,” I said, trying to calm her.

  Before I could back away, I felt the joy and words wrung out of me. Lucinda had thrust her long freckled arms through the bars and grabbed me by the throat. Her deadly fingers were choking the breath out of me. I fought to release myself from her imprisoning clutches. She laughed crazily, grinning with sheer delight, shrieking, “I am going to kill you and you’ll be resurrected tomorrow.”

  Frantically I pried her long fingers away from me and, exhausted from the struggle, leaned on the adobe hut just long enough to get my breath, then ran to the corral where Verlan was milking the cows.

  He had heard the commotion. He could see I was crying as I approached, yet he still asked, somewhat irritated, “What is it this time?”

  “Lucinda grabbed me by the throat!” I cried, still gasping. “She said she’d kill me and I’d be resurrected tomorrow!”

  Verlan just laughed while he checked the bruise marks on my neck. “Stay away from her, Irene. It looks like she’s still plenty dangerous.” And he went right back to his milking.

  He might have been used to Lucinda’s madness, but I was so upset I went two full years without talking to her again. During all this time she’d call out to me as I walked across the yard. Traumatized by her actions, I refused to go anywhere near her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lucinda had once been a second wife to John Butchereit. Shortly after the birth of her third child, she suffered a nervous breakdown. Her German husband, not wanting the Utah authorities to discover he was married to her, asked her father, Dayer, to come rescue her and their children and take them to Mexico. Because this was only the latest in a string of mental breakdowns she had suffered since the age of sixteen, her brothers gave up hope of her ever recovering.

  The twins—Joseph and Joan—and Maudie, were Lucinda’s three children. They grew up on the LeBaron ranch, where they lived with their grandmother Maud. Later she decided to go to the States, where she could earn money as a piano teacher and help support Alma, Ervil, and Lucinda.

  After their grandmother’s departure to Las Vegas, Lucinda’s children were passed back and forth between Alma’s and Ervil’s wives. The kids essentially became slaves to their uncles’ families. They carried heavy buckets of water to both houses from the well, about fifteen yards south of their adobe huts. Joseph chopped the mesquite branches, stacking them for firewood. Daily he herded thirty or more goats up to the rocky, cactus-covered hillsides, where they scrounged for sustenance.

  The colony had no electricity, so the children—all of us, really—suffered from the heat in the summer and the cold in the winter. The homes had no indoor plumbing or running water, but flies, mice, rats, cockroaches, and pesky bedbugs could be found at every address.

  The children visited their insane mother, Lucinda, regularly, taking her a plate of food three times a day. They hauled her water to bathe with and to drink. They were used to seeing her naked, sunbathing in the one room that wasn’t roofed.

  Maudie and Joan tended to the babies, washed dishes, and scrubbed clothes and pressed them with heavy irons that were heated on the stove. They had very little time for play, and, even worse, while they worked they listened to Ervil’s and Alma’s endless hours of rhetoric . . . polygamy and priesthood, priesthood and polygamy.

  Verlan told me when Maudie and the twins were young, he chanced upon the three playing under a tree in the nearby orchard. He thought they were probably playing “house” or “cowboys and Indians.” He listened for a moment, hearing them bickering among themselves as to what role each should play. Verlan said Joseph got hot under the collar because he insisted that he, not Joan, should be Jesus Christ. He said, “I’ll be Jesus Christ this time, and you can be the One Mighty and Strong. And, Maudie,” he added, “you can be the Holy Ghost.”

  Maudie piped up, whining in her own defense, “It’s not fair! I had to be the Holy Ghost last time.”

  When I arrived at the ranch, I learned that the twins had never been to school. Verlan informed me that his mother had been trying to teach them to read. Their text was the Book of Mormon.

  Wanting to help further their education, I offered to listen to Joseph read. He never missed a word for the first three paragraphs. “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents . . .” He read on until he got to the fourth verse.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Let’s continue.”

  He ducked his head in embarrassment. “I don’t know that verse yet.”

  It was then that I realized he couldn’t read at all. He had memorized the verses as he listened to Grandmother read to him.

  When I began reciting nursery rhymes to the children, they giggled and laughed excitedly, begging to hear more. I soon learned that they had never heard a nursery rhyme in their lives. They were mesmerized by my rendition of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and other fairy tales. Though I was only five years Joseph and Joan’s senior, they respected me and soon adopted me as their mom. Still today, they call me Mother and introduce me as such. My heart really went out to these poor, abandoned children.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As far back as the family could remember, Verlan’s father, Dayer, had claimed Joseph Smith’s priesthood mantle, which his grandfather, Benjamin F. Johnson, had supposedly handed down to him. The final one to hold the mantle would prepare the people for the Second Coming of Jesus Christ and lead them into Christ’s presence.

  Frequently, the older boys, Ben and Wesley, who lived in Salt Lake City, had cajoled their aging father, each vying for the coveted mantle, hoping to have it conferred on them.

  Once my uncle Owen (Rulon’s younger brother) wrote to Floren. In the letter, he stated that Dayer had no authority and never would. Floren claims that he read the letter to his sickly father as he lay in bed, to which Dayer responded decisively, “I want you to understand that I do have some authority through the mantle my grandfather conferred upon me. The day will come when we will take the lead over th
e Allreds and everyone else.”

  Eventually Joel claimed he had received the mantle just before his father passed away on January 19, 1951. In early September 1955, thirty-two-year-old Joel boarded a second-class bus in the mountains, intending to come to the ranch to visit his brothers. Shortly after he had taken his seat, he got the surprise of his life. Jesus Christ appeared to him and in no uncertain terms told him to go to Salt Lake City and incorporate a church in which he would be the One Mighty and Strong. It was to be called the “Church of the Firstborn of the Fullness of Times.” After personally having a one-on-one with Jesus, Joel thought he knew what was required of him. He was cautioned to tell no one about his miraculous encounter or the instructions he’d received. I often wondered if Christ knew the future slogan “Save the Fuss and Ride the Bus.”

  Our first hint that there was trouble in Utah’s land of Zion was a letter Aunt Sylvia received. Our Sunday gathering was interrupted when she read the shocking words to us. According to the eyewitness who had penned the letter, Joel’s countenance had become black and he had started a church. In fact, the next paragraph depicted Joel as a man gone mad. The writer declared that Joel had been cursed by the Lord himself. Just like in the Bible, Joel had been given the curse of Cain.

  The room buzzed with statements of disappointment, disbelief, and judgment.

  “Joel, of all people!” Aunt Sylvia commented. “Starting a new church? Why, he always seemed to be the least religious of all the LeBaron boys.”

  Ervil and Verlan voted to adjourn the Sunday meeting. “There’s no use to even pray this morning,” Ervil stated matter-of-factly. “I’m sure with the displeasure God’s feeling toward this sinful act of Joel’s, our praises and petitions wouldn’t ascend to God’s throne.” They all knew Joel could not be the prophet that would usher in the millennium.