Cult Insanity

by Irene Spencer

  Caution drove Verlan and Siegfried, Verlan’s counselor in the church, into hiding. Before he left, Verlan said, “Look, I know Ervil intends to kill me. I’ve just got to lie low for a while.”

  I knew Verlan feared for his life, and rightly so, but his decision sent rage pulsing through me. “How can you just leave me and our children here in Colonia LeBaron like sitting ducks, with absolutely no protection?” I asked him.

  “You’ll just have to have faith and pray that God will protect you,” Verlan said. To convince me, he reluctantly gave me his prized shotgun and a box of bullets. “Use this if you have to; you’ll be justified.”

  Apparently Verlan thought it wouldn’t hurt to put a bit of faith in firearms as well as in the Almighty, but I wasn’t convinced that either would be able to protect us from his power-crazed brother. Besides, I would never have willingly let him go if I’d known then that I would not see or hear from him for six months.

  NIGHTS WERE THE WORST. The uncertainty, the waiting, nearly drove me mad. I felt I could not cope with the impending violence. At dusk one evening, I ran across the gravel road and then held down a section of loose barbed wire, taking a shortcut through the fence. I made my way to my best friend, Linda Liddiard’s house. Both of us had thirteen children, and we had endured poverty, polygamy, and countless disappointments. I still had ten children at home.

  As required, I knocked and identified myself at the same time. Keeping the rules would assure my safety, because most people in town had guns to defend themselves. “It’s Irene, let me in.”

  As the door opened, Linda’s frightened youngsters scattered down her long hall, running to hide.

  “What’s up, Linda?” I asked, seeing fear in her eyes.

  “We got a phone call saying Ervil’s group will be here any minute to blast us with dynamite. Irene,” she said, trembling, “he’s determined to kill us all.”

  By now, Linda was trying to calm her frightened children, who had overheard her. She grabbed pillows and blankets from the two adjacent bedrooms, throwing them into the hall. She instructed the older kids to bed down beside the smaller ones, and added, “We’re safe here in the hall because there are no windows, and these thick adobe walls will protect us.”

  Despite our fear, both Linda and I tried to reassure the upset children. “Be quiet and go to sleep. You’ll be okay,” I said.

  I ran home, tearing my blouse as it snagged on the barbed wire. I couldn’t wait to take my own children in my arms, but I wondered if I was capable of protecting them.

  I spent a miserable night. Thoughts of sleep fled as I listened to my pounding heart. Whom would I grab if we had to flee for our lives? Would I take the baby and leave the other nine to fend for themselves? Whom would I take and where would I run?

  My agitated mind could not keep on facing death every moment I was awake. I had to come up with a plan. The next morning, I walked three blocks to my ex–sister wife Helen’s rock home. In a rush of words, I told her of my concern for my children’s lives and that I needed help. She agreed, and we walked together out of the house and through her backyard. She unlocked a small feed room adjacent to the goat corrals. Once inside, I scoped out the space. I could move a few bales of hay and, by stacking them a little higher, make a little more room in the shed. Helen offered a twin-size mattress that was stored on top of the hay. With a promise from Helen to tell no one, relief flooded me. I had a hiding place for my brood of children. We would be safe.

  Helen drove me home. I loaded two sleeping bags, several blankets, and four pillows into her car. She did me the favor of unloading the bedding in the shed, making it ready for me to use.

  Shortly after dark, I sent out my tribe of kids by twos. They moved quietly down the road, through a broken wooden gate, to our hiding place. Margaret took Seth, and Barbara walked with LaSalle into the night. Sandra and Connie left with others about four minutes later, carrying two quarts of drinking water. All the children had complained of being too fearful to go ahead without me. “Being quiet and keeping our hiding place a secret will keep us safe,” I told them. “I’ll be right behind you. Don’t be afraid.”

  Following minutes later, close behind my children, I held the hand of my youngest child, three-year-old Lothair. I hugged the shotgun with my free hand as I paced along the gravel road, praying no one would detect our presence.

  Once in the darkened shed, I put three smaller kids beside me on the narrow mattress. The two older boys slept in sleeping bags, while the other five crowded onto the blankets on the floor. I looked around hoping to find something to use as a potty when I spied an empty gallon-size metal paint can. I knew it would be perfect. I cautioned the children to whisper. We did not want to be discovered by anyone.

  The constant bleating and milling around of the dozen or so goats prevented us from falling asleep for quite a while. Finally, after praying to God for our safety, I soon heard sighs and deep breathing from the children. I checked at the head of the mattress, feeling to make sure I had quick access to the shotgun, in case of an emergency. My mind pinballed, unsettled from the predicament I’d found myself in. An overwhelming sense of hopelessness engulfed me. I could handle death, but my precious children didn’t deserve to be caught up in a religious war, especially among brothers. I listened to the goats’ movements, their playful antics and occasional butting. My eyes hung heavy with sleep, but my mind refused to settle down. I wished there was a way I could run with my children far away to a place where no one could ever find us. I endured a stressful, sleepless night.

  With the first rays of morning light, I knew I had to wake the children and get them back into my adobe house before our safe haven was discovered. Once home, we stayed inside, always on the alert, unable to relax. The kids kept on the lookout for any strange vehicles or unusual activity.

  At night we resumed our ritual. Each night after prayer, tucked safely in the goat shed, I thanked God that we had made it through one more day. I ached as I observed the changes that had come over my children. The little ones, especially, seemed paralyzed with fear and clung to me as though I were their life line in a stormy sea. Their need for constant reassurance, the fear-filled nights, and my inability to protect the ones I loved wore me down emotionally and physically. Besides, even for self-defense, I knew I could never pull a trigger and kill someone. I felt like a hypocrite. Here I was, pretending to be strong and protective, when I knew I was scared spitless. But my cheerful facade was all I could offer my children to ease their terror and give them hope.

  For two weeks we went to the shed every night. For two weeks I endured the questions from the children: “Are we going to be safe, Mother?” “Can’t we go somewhere else?” And the question that hurt the most was “When will Daddy come home?” How could I answer them when I didn’t know myself?

  I ran to Linda’s each day for comfort. The two of us would break away about four o’clock to the only refreshment stand in town. Going there for our daily Coke kept us energized and boosted our morale. We had to act confident, hiding our fears and concerns as we continued to run our overcrowded households. Our bonds of friendship kept us both focused on our responsibilities and gave us the motivation to cope. I knew that no man could begin to understand the devastation of being alone, vulnerable, and unprotected. Living under death threats with the huge responsibility of rearing numerous children plagued us and wore us down. I knew I would never feel safe or experience peace until Ervil was apprehended.

  JUST BACK FROM NICARAGUA, Verlan surprised me one day with an invitation to accompany him to Dallas. He went on to explain we were going there to look for housing for some of his wives and children, although we didn’t discuss which wives at the time. I hesitated to leave the children, afraid something would happen to them while I was gone. For months I had yearned to spend uninterrupted days with my husband, but now I felt torn. Did I dare leave my children in the care of others in these frightening times?

  Verlan assured me that they would be as
safe with Lucy as they would be with me. He had already made arrangements for her to be in charge and to sleep with my children to avert their fears. He assured me he needed my help to get the family situated, and then he gave me fifteen minutes to throw some clothes into a bag while he gave orders to the children.

  The four-hour trip to El Paso was the longest stretch of time I had spent with Verlan in several months. Despite my concern for the children, I relished each moment with my husband as sacred, a gift from God. How fortunate I was to be chosen out of all his wives to accompany him on a four-day trip.

  He parked his white Chevrolet pickup in long-term parking at El Paso International Airport, and we hurried inside to the counter of Southwest Airlines. Verlan bought two round-trip tickets to Dallas. As we walked to the gate his eyes never stopped moving, scanning the crowd to make sure no one was following us. Every few seconds he turned to look over his shoulder, fearful that one of Ervil’s henchmen was pursuing him. I longed for his touch, just to hold hands and snuggle close to him as we took our seats on the plane. Once we’d buckled our seat belts, I leaned into him. “I’m too nervous, Irene. Please don’t demand that I pay attention to you in public. I’m shut down emotionally.” He sighed. “After being absent for six months, I didn’t even take the time to make love to anybody. I left them all disappointed and angry. All the pressures and problems have left me depressed. Affection and intimacy aren’t even a part of me right now.” He patted my knee and then stated wearily, “I hope you’ll understand.”

  I tried to, but my mind couldn’t even go there. I thought, I am a human being . . . a woman . . . and I am passionate and hungering for my husband. It exasperated me. What the hell did I care if he had disappointed the other wives? They were his problem, not mine! When would I ever be able to show him affection? It seemed as though there was always an excuse. “Don’t show affection in front of the other wives,” he would say, yet somehow they were always around. And now I couldn’t even show affection in public? If not now, when?

  The intense desires I’d felt over the years resurfaced as the plane rose into the sky. I wanted to be loved for me, to be needed, and desired. Why couldn’t he run into my arms without reluctance or hesitation? But no. All my attention and affections depended on whether it was “my” night. I always had to wonder if I was next on his rotation list. Like a crystal ball, he consulted it to see who might be there that night to please him. I felt like a number, a tool in furthering his dreams of grandeur. And I’ll never forget his words to me on our wedding night: “Irene, you are the key to plural marriage. No matter how many wives I get, you will always be the key.” How I hated to be a damn key! I wanted to be pursued, to feel the sparks as he enveloped me in his arms. I’d always regretted that I wasn’t his source of sexual discovery. The act of lovemaking had been tarnished from my first encounter. As his large frame loomed over me, my mind asked a thousand questions: Will he enjoy me as much as he did my sister? Am I adequate? Is he comparing my every move to hers? As my love for him grows, will he feel pangs of love for me in return? Or am I just the key to his future world, populated with throngs of plural wives and children?

  Interrupting my reverie, Verlan pointed out the window, “Look, that’s the outskirts of Dallas below. We’ll soon be landing.”

  Erv Lowther, a church member and friend, met us as we descended the airport escalator. We shook hands, greeting each other. I noticed Erv’s toupee was askew, and his yellow trousers were as bright as his smile. “You’ll love Dallas,” he said as if he thought he was convincing me.

  “She doesn’t know all our plans yet,” Verlan said apologetically. “I figured I’d tell her after she had a chance to look the place over.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  Verlan smiled uneasily. “We’re going to find a place to rent,” he answered. “You get to take first pick from the two apartments because I am leaving you to oversee Susan and Lillie, who will share the other apartment.”

  “How will you ever support us here?” I asked, shocked, since he could barely support us in Mexico where he owned his own homes.

  “Erv has several businesses set up around town, and he’s agreed to let all three of you work for him. You’ll be selling jewelry in hotel lobbies. It will be good experience for all of you.”

  Erv’s habit of pulling his trousers constantly up over his protruding stomach was beginning to get on my nerves. I wondered how he could run a business if he couldn’t even keep his pants up.

  Once in Erv’s black Lincoln Town Car, I relaxed, trying to be open to this crazy idea as Erv drove us to a large Holiday Inn.

  “This is where I want you to work, but first I’ll show you the ropes. I know if you can care for a dozen or more children, you’re capable of selling lots of jewelry.”

  We both followed Erv down the long corridor beyond the reception desk. Twelve feet from the registration counter was a large table covered with a red cloth. Various pieces of silver-and-turquoise jewelry were arrayed artistically on the tabletop. A pretty bleached blonde, whose attire (or lack of attire) surprised me, was standing at the table. Her firm breasts were only partly covered. I wondered if she was trying to sell the jewelry or herself. Erv embraced the stranger and then introduced her, “This is my wife, Judy.”

  After the tour of Erv’s three workplaces in prominent hotels, we returned to pick up Judy. The table was emptied, and the jewelry was packed in a heavy black case. Then we accompanied our friends to their large sprawling ranch house in the suburb of Richardson.

  The following morning, Erv retrieved his newspaper from his front lawn, and he and Verlan sat down together and scanned through the rental section. A yellow highlighter marked available town houses near Erv’s home. He knew that none of us three wives owned a vehicle, which would make it necessary for him to pick us up each day for work. It was going to be a challenge for Erv to reach out to Verlan’s family in this perilous time, but he felt compelled to help him.

  Erv rented two affordable town houses side by side. I would live in one with my eight youngest children. Lillie and her three children would share the other town home with Susan and her four kids.

  * * *

  WITH EVERYTHING IN ORDER, Verlan, we three wives, and fifteen children left Mexico in two pickups with campers. Our personal belongings, clothes, dishes, and bedding were stashed beneath a sheet of plywood, which was used as the base for a bed. The kids were all excited about the adventure. It gave them a renewed hope, believing they would be safe in a big city.

  The fifteen-hour trip to Dallas was a nightmare. Verlan drove one truck while Susan and I took turns driving with Lillie. That made it possible for Susan and me to have some private time with Verlan. Only a plural wife can understand how rewarding it is to snatch even a few minutes with her husband. Lillie felt upset that she didn’t get a turn, but of the three of us she was the only one with a driver’s license. Verlan promised that he would give her the first night when we arrived, regardless of whose turn it was. We all had to make sacrifices to keep one another happy; my heart ached for all of us. Verlan especially looked devastated. I could tell he was weighed down emotionally, and when it was my time alone with him, he revealed his dilemma.

  He’d endured Susan’s complaints, seeing her tears and cries of desperation. He admitted sadly, “She’s afraid of this new environment I’m taking you all to. She’s especially hurt that I’m making all of you work to support yourselves. I’m depending on you to watch over her, and Lillie.” He shook his head. “You know there is so much temptation in this wicked world. Please keep an eye on my children for me also.”

  I’d waited for more than six months for an opportunity to hash out my problems, but I had enough compassion not to dump them on Verlan now. My heart went out to him. His life was in danger. He was on the run and still had multiple families to worry about. I knew he would break down emotionally if I vented my true feelings, so I just listened to his fears and concerns. My hopes and aspirati
ons were slowly slipping away, unnoticed by Verlan, as I tried to bury my heartache and uncertainty.

  In his absence, Verlan’s two Mexican wives, Esther and Beverly, had found other men to love them, but Verlan still felt obligated to financially support his children. Beverly moved to Mexico City with her five children. Esther returned to Baja California to live next to her parents with her five children and a new lover. Verlan was distraught that he had lost three of his wives. “I can’t understand why God allowed my family to fall apart when I have tried so hard to make it all work. I’ve been so proud of all my wives. It’s strange. But I thought things were going pretty well with everybody. Still, I guess I don’t blame them for leaving; I was gone so much of the time.”

  We were left at the mercy of Erv, in houses with no furniture. With Erv’s advance money, garage sales soon provided a few beds and necessary furniture. Had I known what I was in for, I would have rebelled. My fourteen- to sixteen-hour workdays started when Erv came for me at six thirty every morning. I helped him set up the jewelry display on two six-foot tables and then stood on my feet all day long selling while my varicose veins tortured me. We never closed up shop before eleven o’clock at night. By the time I got home and settled into bed, it seemed it was time to wake up again. I had no time for my children. Fourteen-year-old Barbara cared for my entire brood for the rest of the summer. She and twelve-year-old Margaret were the sole caretakers of all three wives’ children. I worried every day, all day, about the children’s safety.