Shattered Dreams

by Irene Spencer

  From what I’d seen, all the cheese must go sour.

  He went right on. “The ones that do go sour are the only ones our families will be allowed to eat. We’ll divide the imperfect ones among us equally.”

  Verlan instructed me to clean the place up while both men left to attend to other chores. So I began my new job. I scrubbed the stale whey from the cement floors with an old, broken broom. I hauled in heavy buckets of fresh water from the well. Then I washed and scalded all the equipment. I turned the clean tub upside down and hid the salt can so it wouldn’t be dusty or crapped in the next day. I took the stiff strainer cloths back to the house, where I could wash them out well for future use. The cheese house took on a new look. I was proud of my small accomplishment.

  When the men returned and saw the results of my labor, they immediately delegated me chief cheese maker. It was a job I learned to appreciate. I felt useful here, and it kept me from being bored beyond what I could bear. I could plop myself on the wooden table anytime I wanted and munch on fresh curds I knew were made under sanitary conditions.

  ON SATURDAYS, THE LEBARON brothers took turns riding the bus twelve miles to El Valle, where they would sell three or four cheeses and return with salt, sugar, oil, rice, perhaps a few oranges, and various other indispensable items to be divided among the four families. I understood that Verlan was strapped by this arrangement, but oh, what I wouldn’t have given for a place of my own. I was so desperate to live freely with my husband, I even coveted the relative sanctity of the cheese room. Verlan said he wanted to keep his wives united by us all living together, so I should never mention the subject to him again.

  At twenty-three, he was seven years my senior. I’d long been conditioned to obey my elders, but it was hard to obey my husband, whom I loved and admired as a peer. He was over six feet tall and blond. His strides were so long, I often complained about not being able to keep up with him. His hands were large and callused, and he had long, hairy arms covered by his holy garments even in the Mexican summertime. Usually a broad smile lit up his handsome face, and he could be quite charming when the mood struck him. When he was upset, his blue eyes seemed to puncture me. Though stern at times, more often he was understanding. He listened to my frequent rants and raves without ever seeming to take them to heart. When I was finished yelling at him, he would usually ask with a grin, “Are you over it now?”

  Verlan loved to work. Most mornings he’d get up at 6:00 A.M., rain or shine, and he kept busy all day long, trying to accomplish as much as he possibly could before having to go to bed. Soon I learned he was also a strict disciplinarian, demanding that the various houses he owned throughout the years be kept clean both inside and out. Even after his wives thought they’d gotten everything spotless, Verlan could always find one little thing that wasn’t quite right, and he’d demand we take care of it immediately. Aside from that idiosyncrasy, he was fairly easygoing. He loved my jokes and tolerated my playful naughtiness as we laughed together often.

  TWO WEEKS AFTER my arrival at the ranch, I was in my bedroom alone. It was Charlotte’s turn to sleep with Verlan. Since we had no screens on the windows, I had a sheet pulled up over my head to keep the flies from bothering me. The early morning sun shone brightly through the window frames. I drifted in and out of sleep, enjoying the cool morning breeze.

  Without any warning, I heard heavy footsteps below the open window directly behind my bed. Then I heard someone take such a deep breath that the sheets seemed to billow up and down with his inhale and exhale. I froze in a panic. Was it one of those terrible bandidos my mother warned me about? The heavy breathing grew even closer and louder. My mind tore through the possibilities. Surely any moment now, a dagger would be thrust through my heart. Or perhaps I’d be raped right here in my own bed.

  I was so paralyzed, I couldn’t even scream. Why did Verlan have to be sleeping with Charlotte when I needed him here, protecting me? Even if I could scream, Verlan and Charlotte wouldn’t be able to save me in time. More heavy footsteps. The breathing grew even louder. I simply had to do something, or die trying.

  It took all my courage to throw back the sheet and whirl around to face my predator in the window. There he was . . . a shaggy gray burro. With his head now hanging in over my bed, he snorted and brayed loudly right in my face, “Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw.”

  I flung myself off the bed, pulling the tangled sheet along behind me, and ran into the kitchen, screaming with horror. As soon as he heard my cries, Verlan came flying out of Charlotte’s room, ready for battle. But when he realized what had happened, he started laughing uncontrollably.

  I felt so foolish. The bandido was just an old donkey, but I was the one who felt like a jackass.

  I WENT OUT BACK to the outhouse. As I sat shooing flies, I realized it was my time of the month. Generally, I hated periods, but this one made me smile. Since I wasn’t pregnant, I’d get to have sex again.

  I didn’t want to bother Verlan, but I needed products immediately. We couldn’t afford toilet paper, so how could I ask him for sanitary napkins? This was the first time I’d ever discussed such a personal matter with a man. When I timidly informed him of my plight, he first tried to humor me. “If my mother could make her own napkins, surely you can,” he said.

  I blushed and said, “Let’s be serious.”

  “Just stitch together soft knit rags lengthwise, and in minutes you will solve your problem,” he said.

  I was taken aback. He was serious! “You may think you know what you’re talking about,” I said, “but why sew them up if I’m just going to throw them away?”

  “Because rags are a luxury,” he answered. “You can’t discard them.” He enlightened me further as my jaw dropped open in disbelief. “You’ll have to wash them out so you can have them for next time.”

  I ran into my room, locked the door, and threw myself across the foot of the bed, pouting. Soon I decided it might be more effective to pray. God, I’m willing to sacrifice, but only if you require it of me. It’s bad enough to be cursed with menstruation, but are you really going to make me wash my rags? I lay still, hoping God would realize this was an emergency, and I needed an answer fast. My mind wandered to the Bible. I was certain this sacrifice was not mentioned in the Old Testament.

  These thoughts were interrupted by Verlan rapping his knuckles on my locked door. He tried not to laugh as he said, “Honey, didn’t you tell me you wanted to be a pioneer like your grandmother? This’ll just help build your character.”

  “Character? Hell!” I retorted. I opened the door, holding it ajar just enough to look out at him, and lowered my voice so Charlotte couldn’t hear what I said next. “I will never, ever, ever wash them!”

  “What makes you so sure, Irene?” he laughed.

  I knew the scriptures would back me up, so I declared triumphantly, “Because God did away with blood sacrifices!”

  He had no response to that. Smiling, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

  CHARLOTTE WAS ALWAYS CIVIL to me, but we were never friends and never confidants. I continued to feel that she disapproved of my overall manner, and frankly, we now had just too much else between us to ever work through it all. We never tried. We simply stayed a respectful distance from each other, though I think I was probably a little more respectful than she was by virtue of her being older and being first.

  By now I discovered Charlotte was pregnant with her second child. We still shared the same house, but I didn’t feel I belonged there. I tried to fit in, but I resented Charlotte for always taking liberties I didn’t feel I could take. High on that list was her habit of calling Verlan endearing names in my presence, as if she owned him.

  I complained about it to Verlan one night when we were alone. I told him I wasn’t being given any recognition. I didn’t feel I was really his wife.

  He tried to console and reassure me. “I’m the master of this household,” he said. “You are both equals. You can feel free to call me whatever you want.” />
  I told him I always felt intimidated because of Charlotte’s proper attitude and the fact that she’d married him first.

  “There’s no problem; just speak up. Call me whatever you want, as long as it’s ladylike,” he chuckled.

  The following day, it was Charlotte’s turn to do all the cooking. After dinner that evening, she placed a lemon pie on the table for dessert. This was a rare treat.

  Verlan smiled at me as he served himself. Then he knocked his knee against mine under the table as though telling me it was time to speak up and test my equality. I swallowed hard and addressed him bravely. “Sweetheart, would you please pass me the pie?”

  Charlotte froze. Then, without a word, she pushed herself away from the table and ran to her room in tears, slamming the door behind her.

  Verlan looked at me in disgust. “Now see what you’ve done!” he said. Then he got up and went in to console her.

  I was furious. I felt like calling him names all right, but not endearing ones. I cleared the dishes and went off to my own room, enduring thirty minutes of sheer agony while I waited for Verlan to join me. Would he put her in her place? Would he make her understand our equality? Finally he came to bed. I knew his silence meant trouble, but I was in hot water already, so I spoke first. “What’s the matter? Can’t she take it?”

  He chose his words carefully. “Irene, she feels bad because you called me ‘sweetheart.’ That’s her special name for me. Try to understand. You’ll just have to find another name she doesn’t use.”

  I blew up. “Okay, let’s see . . . she calls you honey, sweetheart, darling, dear, and sweetie! Just what names are left? Tell me, Verlan, what’s left?”

  He lowered his voice, hoping I’d do likewise. “We’ll just find one that’s not hers.”

  I thought hard for a minute. “I know. Here’s one she’ll never use!” I announced victoriously. “It’ll be different from hers, but it’s the only one I’ll ever use. And I’ll call you this forever.”

  “Good,” he sighed with relief. “What is it?”

  “It’s ‘lover’!”

  Terror crossed his face. “Oh, no! That’s too worldly! You can’t use that!” he sputtered.

  “Whether you like it or not, from now on, you’ll always be ‘lover’ to me!”

  He shook his head in disgust. Turning his back to me, he was soon fast asleep. I lay in the dark seething, all my thoughts bitter as resentment swept over me. Whose side was he on? Did I have a husband who wouldn’t defend me?

  I realized then he could never treat us as equals. I’d suspected it all along. I really was second fiddle.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After a few months at the ranch, I seldom wrote to Mother. She would occasionally write to me—updating me on family milestones, telling me about her work with handicapped kids, and expressing her love—but she rarely asked me any questions. I guess neither of us wanted to get too specific about what befell me in Mexico. It was just about as bad as she’d predicted, maybe worse. I thought it would break her heart to know the ins and outs of my circumstances, so I told her very little.

  For instance, I never mentioned how completely isolated we were from the outside world. We had no reading materials, no newspapers, no radio. Charlotte owned about ten religious books, but I’d soon read them all many times, cover to cover. When I lived out in the sticks with Mother at Trout Creek, I at least got to listen to the radio, and I was also able to read lots of classics as well as Mother’s monthly Reader’s Digest. But here, I had none of that. With no friends and no real family besides Verlan, I longed for a few novels or a radio to distract me.

  On Sundays, I got some relief from the intense boredom. We would hitch up the horses to our rugged old wooden wagon, take a pot of cooked beans and a couple of loaves of fresh-baked whole wheat bread, and travel five miles to a small settlement we called Spencerville because it was owned by the Spencer family. There were usually about thirty of us there, including Floren and Ervil’s families. We would gather outside the Spencers’ tiny, three-room adobe farmhouse for Sunday services. The men took turns preaching. Later we ate lunch; then some of us would gather around an old-fashioned organ. Seventeen-year-old Lucy, the oldest Spencer daughter, would play it for us as we sang hymns all afternoon until we were hoarse.

  I tried hard to ignore the flirtatious smiles constantly passing between Verlan and Lucy. I had no right to be jealous. Verlan told me all along that Lucy planned on being his third wife. I secretly hoped she’d change her mind, but that didn’t seem likely. Besides, Verlan needed three praying wives to be more worthy of godhood. And, according to the Principle, I was to minister unto my husband. That meant it was my duty to court Lucy for him. I often muttered under my breath, “I’ll be damned if I will.”

  The Mormon scriptures say, “If any man have a wife . . . and he teaches unto her the law of my priesthood [polygamy] . . . then shall she believe and administer unto him, or she shall be destroyed.” (Doctrine and Covenants, 132:64) Well, I didn’t have to wait for God to destroy me. Jealousy was beating him to it.

  SINCE CHARLOTTE AND I offered each other very little companionship, and since Floren’s wife Anna was generally off somewhere with Charlotte, I spent many of my afternoons with my Mexican sisters-in-law, Luz and Delfina. Luz was Alma’s wife, Delfina was Ervil’s. Neither of them spoke much English. After being around them for four months, I learned to talk better with my hands than with Spanish. I still understood so few words, I became quite discouraged. I would grow weary of trying to communicate with them. Boredom would then force me to visit Verlan’s crazy sister, Lucinda. She may have been out of her mind, but I could at least get her to respond to me in English. I went to see her almost every day, taking her a wildflower or some sort of goodie now and then. For three months, I listened to her fragmented prattle, trying to piece together her tragic, unfulfilled life. The terrible despair in her eyes said more than all her jabbering.

  Lucinda, too, had entered polygamy. She, too, had been a second wife and tried to conduct herself and her marriage as she’d been taught by our fundamentalist faith. In the process, something went terribly wrong. I asked God many times why he allowed her to lose her mind when she tried so hard to obey him. I never heard a hint of joy in her words or her voice—no dreams fulfilled, no happiness.

  She would beat the gnarled, craggy sides of her adobe cell whenever I asked her probing questions about her youth. Each time I mentioned her husband’s first wife, Martha, she would grab a large spoon and begin to dig violently into the hard clay walls, trying to make a hole through which she could escape.

  I feared jealousy did this to her. As time went on, I grew more and more certain of it because I could feel the seeds of craziness in my own mounting jealousy. If I didn’t overcome this sin, Satan would destroy me, too. From now on, I would have to be nicer to Lucy or risk being damned. Besides, Verlan would love me more if I served him better.

  THE LONGER VERLAN AND I managed to stay “pure,” the more I longed to be held and loved physically. He insisted he loved me, but his words didn’t match up with his actions in any manner that made sense to me emotionally. Every other night, after he started his soft snoring next to me, I’d cry myself to sleep.

  I pled with him to change his strict rule about sex. My mind consented to the doctrine, even agreed with it, but my body kept demanding to be touched. I was a tortured example of the old Bible dictum we’ve all heard a hundred times about a willing spirit plagued by weak flesh. As long as Verlan remained aloof to it, my weak flesh threatened to destroy me.

  In an effort to bring him over to my way of thinking, I tossed out all the significant Mormon scriptures I could think of. For example, “Men are, that they might have joy.” (2 Nephi 2:25). Surely, women are, that they might have joy, too, I argued. “Sex would give me joy.”

  “Irene,” Verlan answered sternly, “sex is not to be used for pleasure, only for procreation. You know that. If we allow ourselves to enjoy the sex act, God
will punish us for the sins of the flesh.”

  I fought with him almost every time he came to my room, but he continued rejecting my loving advances. “Sex once a month is sufficient for anyone,” he reminded me, determined to drive his point home.

  One night I was particularly determined to have my way. “I thought God was no respecter of persons,” I challenged him.

  “He isn’t.”

  “Then why is he spoiling you? You’re the one who seems to be having all the fun!”

  “You know I didn’t make the rules. Besides, I’m just doing it for duty’s sake.”

  I was so frustrated, I couldn’t speak. I beat my fists into my pillow and then used it to smother my sobs so Charlotte wouldn’t hear them. I couldn’t even scream when I wanted to.

  Of course Verlan didn’t understand my new urgency. How could he? I’d only known for about a week that I was pregnant, and the law of purity completely forbade sex during pregnancy. The longer I kept enjoying our monthly “procreating” without telling Verlan that I was pregnant already, the more obvious it would eventually be to him that I’d violated the law of purity with knowing intent. I felt I had to tell him about the baby the next day, so tonight would be my last chance to experience a truly passionate love. After that, nothing for nine endless months, plus however long I nursed.

  Harsh as it was, that was the rule. I often likened it to a person who goes her whole life without sweets. Then one day she gets invited to a birthday party where she’s given a giant slice of a delicious, moist, chocolate-frosted cake. After two fabulous bites, someone yanks it right out of her mouth and tells her, “Stop! Turn off your taste buds.” Well, my taste buds just wouldn’t turn off.

  As I continued to sob into my pillow, Verlan pulled me close and whispered, “Just say your prayers more often, Irene. God will help you overcome this.”