Shattered Dreams

by Irene Spencer

  He whirled me around to face him again. “I love you, don’t you understand?” he said desperately. “I’ll write to you. We’ll keep in touch. I know in a few days you’ll change your mind.” Hungrily, he threw me against the wooden wall and pinned his body firmly against mine. I felt his hardness as his burning kisses aroused my own yearnings. He almost brought me to the point of surrender, but terror stopped me. I had never come so close to giving in. I felt I was teetering on the brink of Hell.

  Fearing what Verlan would do if he found us there in open defiance, I jerked away. “Be sure to answer my letters,” he called softly as I turned to go. “I’ll never give you up, Irene.”

  I hurried back to the house before Verlan could discover I’d disobeyed him yet again. Wanting so badly to change my mind, to pack up my children and flee with Oreliano, I settled for a last peek at him through my window as Verlan ferried him away. He told me later that he bought Oreliano a one-way ticket to Chihuahua and made sure he got on the bus.

  Alone again, I suffered a dozen conflicting emotions. I tried to block it all from my mind to erase the temptation. The next minute, I thought how thrilled I’d be to get one of Oreliano’s promised letters. I vowed to obey God and Verlan better than I ever had before, to work extra hard for that joy and peace I’d been told would come. On the other hand, maybe I could still find a way to justify my love for Oreliano and eventually get up the courage to go to him. I acted on none of this.

  It took six months for Verlan to relinquish his hurt. Except on one occasion months after our flirtation, Verlan never spoke Oreliano’s name to me again. In a moment of anger, trying to hurt me as I’d hurt him, Verlan confessed to me that he’d “intercepted,” and “read with disgust,” then “destroyed” three of Oreliano’s “adulterous letters.”

  If I was to have any hope at all of being satisfied with my husband, or at least of sticking it out with him, I was going to have to quit comparing him to other men. This meant closing my mind and heart to something I’d long hidden there and I’d often gone back to for confidence and escape—Glen. My love for Glen, his love for me, the way we’d been together—these were things Verlan and I would never have in the same way. I had to finally let them go. Six years after I last saw him, I said good-bye to Glen for good.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Steven was now ten months old, and I’d been enjoying a glorious, unexpected hiatus from my procreative duties. I couldn’t explain it, except that Verlan had been working away from home a lot. I just figured God really did know how much we could stand at any one time, and I was extremely grateful.

  Still, my skirt had been fitting a little tighter, so I put myself on a diet. I was already behind my opposition on this score. Lucy was a size ten, Charlotte was a twelve, and I was a fourteen. I couldn’t risk letting myself get fat.

  I was relaxing on my bed one evening, talking to Verlan, when all at once I felt that old familiar flutter in my tummy. I didn’t want it to be true, but I knew there was no other reason to have butterflies in my stomach. I told Verlan I thought I might be pregnant again. “I’d better go to Casas tomorrow for a checkup.”

  “You’ll just feel silly,” he said, getting up to go. “I think all you felt was gas.”

  Since I had been delivering babies myself, my attitude toward doctors’ examinations had drastically changed. Being more at ease now, I went quite voluntarily to see Dr. Hatch. He asked what he could do for me this time.

  “I’ve gained a little weight. I wonder if it’s possible that I could be pregnant.”

  “When was your last period?” he asked, preparing the examination table.

  “I quit nursing five months ago. I haven’t had one since my baby was born.”

  “Get up on the table.” He felt around my pelvic bones, pushing hard and kneading my stomach. “I’d say you’re about four months along,” he announced, helping me down.

  Darn. “Then why don’t I have morning sickness?” I asked.

  “Oh, sometimes you do, and other times you don’t. Your baby is due between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  Verlan was elated. This would be his thirteenth child, and he was still a young man. His dream of siring countless descendents to populate his future kingdom was coming true.

  I don’t know if it was the pregnancy itself or my disappointment about being pregnant, but I woke up the next morning violently sick. Verlan was disgusted when I jumped up grabbing for the pot from under the bed, but missed and puked in all directions.

  “Hey, cut that out. It’s all in your head,” he informed me.

  “Well, it may have been all in my head, but it’s all over the floor now,” I replied.

  Being pregnant again rendered my chores more difficult, but I made the best of it. I’d been cooking on a woodstove, which also provided our only heat. At night when my baby cried out for his feeding, I’d light the kerosene lamp, holding the milk in an enamel cup over the flame to warm it. The cup would get all black with soot, but that was easier than making a fire in the stove.

  Since we now had windows but no real heat, on cold winter nights I’d wrap blankets around the kids’ bodies, pinning them under their arms so they wouldn’t kick the covers off and freeze. Every evening, I’d put my round, galvanized tub on the kitchen table to bathe the children. I would put one in at a time, scrubbing them clean. I pulled their foamy hair up into combs like roosters, crowing “Er-er-er-er-er.” We loved to play and giggle through it all.

  One evening, I finished bathing and rinsing my kids off with fresh water. My three-year-old nephew, Joel Johnson, stood watching the whole process. When he saw I was through with the others, he started to undress himself. So, I thought, what the heck? His mother will be glad if I bathed him, too. I stuck him in the tub and was just rinsing him off with clean, warm water when my six-year-old niece, Sylvia Esther, came in. She looked surprised. “Aunt Irene, how come you’re bathing him? He’s not your kid,” she said defiantly.

  I threw a towel around Joel’s wet body and stood him on the edge of the table. As I briskly dried him, I answered, “Well, honey, he was so dirty, I had to bathe him so I’d know who to send him home to.”

  STEVEN WAS FIFTEEN MONTHS OLD when Brent was born on December 28, 1959. Brent was a darling child who came to us with one blue eye and one brown one. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the mood for another child. I was sad enough about it even before my postpartum blues set in. My sadness turned into an ongoing depression. Lucy faithfully came around to comfort me, rubbing my feet and back at night so I could calm down and sleep.

  I began to feel a deep gratitude for Lucy. She was a quiet, gentle woman with a servant’s heart. She was also humble and unassuming, the least likely of the three of us to demand her fair share. As time went by and Verlan’s already thin resources were spread even thinner, this meant she became increasingly neglected.

  I remember one time when Verlan was leaving town for three months, and he went around and individually explained to us how very tight things were for him at the moment. Then he asked us each what was the least we could get by on while he was away. He refused to tell any of us what the others had said, but we compared notes afterward. Charlotte had demanded $200, I’d asked for $100, and poor, compliant Lucy had offered to live off nothing at all. Verlan took her up on it. When I found that out, I shared my allowance with her.

  Lucy and I spent most of our days together, tending and feeding our kids, sewing clothes, but mostly just helping each other survive. As determined as I’d been not to, I found I even loved her. Miraculously, she’d forgiven me for all my jealous antics. Sweet and calm, she never tried to outdo any of her sister wives. She tried to teach me to relax and not fight life, but I wasn’t the complacent type. I longed to stretch my wings and soar to new heights; instead, I seemed to be bogging down deeper and deeper.

  During the six years of my marriage, I’d always been frank with Verlan. I spent hours baring my heart and soul to him. He knew my inner conflict, and he was
deeply saddened by what he saw and heard. Using scriptures and husbandly advice, he tried to inspire me to place my hope in my eternal rewards.

  “You may not be happy in this situation, but hang in there,” he urged. “Be faithful, and when you die, you’ll find that peace and eternal love you’re aching for.”

  I wanted love now. “Besides, those promises don’t make much sense to me,” I said. “If I’m obedient and sacrifice, having all the children I possibly can, if I’m good and patient, you say I’ll receive a great reward. In eternity, I can look forward to having even more sister wives, to being pregnant and popping out kids like popcorn forever and ever! You call that a reward? It just doesn’t entice me at all anymore. If this is a preview of what I’ll have for eternity, they can stop the show now.”

  “Irene, of course you’re not serious. You’re just upset. For heaven’s sake, you don’t mean all this.” Verlan looked concerned. “I think all you need is a change. You can go with me on my next trip to the States.”

  In the next breath, he had to spoil it. He didn’t want me getting any ideas about pulling out on him, so he insisted I leave all the children home except the baby. He went on to remind me that if I ever left him, the kids would belong to him.

  In May, I accompanied Verlan to Vegas, as promised. From there, I took the bus to Salt Lake City by myself. I had a good, long visit with my mother for two weeks. On the way back to Mexico with friends, however, I became extremely ill. Shortly after my arrival, a burning fever sent me into delirium. Lucy cared for me and for my children as well. She coaxed me to drink herbal teas and to submit to other home remedies, but the days passed, and I grew worse. I kept calling Verlan’s name over and over in my mind. Why was he always gone when I needed him?

  My dear friend Betty Tippetts had been off on a trip to the States. When she and her husband, Harold, got home and saw my condition, they were so shocked, they immediately took action. Betty held the door open while Harold carried my frail body to the car. They rushed me to the hospital in Casas.

  I was badly dehydrated. Worse, I needed a blood transfusion. I was in critical condition with typhoid fever. When the Mexican government sent someone around giving the typhoid vaccines, I’d refused on religious grounds. Consequently, I was the only one at the ranch who contracted it, thank God.

  Dr. Hatch drew blood from a sister-in-law of mine for my first blood transfusion, but he ordered Harold to immediately find someone else who could donate more. There was no time to waste.

  My neighbor Mauro offered to donate, and to the doctor’s relief, his blood was a match. When it was over, Mauro leaned over and whispered to me, “This ain’t only gonna save your life, it’s gonna give you new life! We Mexicans are hot-blooded. Verlan better watch out!”

  Still, despite three blood transfusions, my life seemed to be ebbing away. Charlotte and Lucy sent word to Verlan, who was working in Las Vegas. They told him to cancel his commitments and come home immediately. It was urgent. I was hemorrhaging from the bowels, and they didn’t expect me to live.

  With apprehensive strides, Verlan entered my hospital room. He was relieved to find me still alive, but so shocked at the havoc the illness inflicted on me, he sat beside my bed and wept. My once-beautiful twenty-three-year-old body was now just a bony frame.

  He buried his face in my hands, sobbing. “I lived in fear all the way home, imagining that you’d already be buried (Mexican law required the dead to be buried within twenty-four hours). I promised myself I’d . . .” He hid his face, crying so hard he couldn’t finish his sentence. “I’d dig you up to tell you good-bye.” I had no idea he felt so deeply about me. I was racked with guilt. He did love me. So why wasn’t I happy?

  Somehow I fought off death. But the doctor warned Verlan it would be weeks, if not months, before I’d be completely well. He prescribed quiet, bed rest, strained foods, and above all, no stress. After I spent two weeks in the hospital, Verlan took me home, but it was too soon. Two more days of vomiting and high fever convinced them to readmit me for another week.

  Dr. Hatch thought maybe I’d lost my will to live. I would need love and encouragement if I was going to pull through. Verlan did his best. When he took me home the second time, it was to a new, two-room house he bought for me a block away from both of the other wives. The kitchen in this house was plastered, and the cement floors in the two rooms were not rough like the ones I’d put up with in my other houses.

  Verlan stopped briefly in the kitchen with me in his arms to show me the apartment-size gas range he bought in Casas especially for me and then installed himself. I was so weak and sick, I didn’t give him all the praise he deserved, but after five years of cooking on a woodstove with no oven, deep down I was most grateful for the gift.

  He allowed me a few minutes with my kids and then put me to bed so I would have complete rest. Typhoid had taken its toll on me; I had lost fifty-three pounds. I was too weak even to care for myself, much less anyone else. For the next month, Lucy took on all my responsibilities. She fed and loved my four children, keeping them at her little two-room house so I could recuperate.

  Food was tasteless to me, but Lucy and Verlan coaxed me to eat. The only food I wanted was strained potatoes and carrots. I gained a pound or two, but when I tried to get up, I fainted. After that, I restricted myself to sitting up in bed a little each day. Finally, Lucy helped me out of the bed so I could take a few steps, but to my consternation, I’d forgotten how to walk. My legs wouldn’t obey my mind. I would swing them about as I stumbled around.

  A week later, bored as I could be of my own four walls, I convinced Verlan to help me walk the block to Lucy’s. I was desperate for my children and felt guilty about not being able to care for them. Verlan told me it was too far for me to try to walk, but I insisted. He supported me as my legs flopped in all directions. Slowly, he guided me toward Lucy’s house. “If you’re too tired to walk the whole block, I’ll take you back,” he cautioned.

  I refused to give up, forcing myself to take more steps. When we finally got to Lucy’s gate, Verlan was going to release his hold on me long enough to lift the wire hoop over the post. He steadied me as he tried opening it. When he momentarily let me loose, my legs buckled instantly beneath me. He caught me just before I hit the ground. Then he carried me in his arms all the way back to the house.

  BY AUGUST, VERLAN WAS BACK in Vegas and I was improving, though I was not yet back to normal. Still, I felt alive enough that I wanted to celebrate when Verlan came home for a spell. I pleaded with him to make love to me.

  “The doctor said you mustn’t get pregnant for a year at least, or you may die.” Only two months had gone by.

  “Well, at least I’ll die happy,” I joked. I suggested some form of birth control. When Verlan hotly refused, I threatened divorce. I figured if God knew my circumstances, he’d make an allowance for me. Was I to abstain for another whole year? I’d done that once, and heavenly rewards or not, I swore I’d never do it again.

  Dr. Hatch emphasized I was to have absolutely no stress. I knew I was causing undue strain on us both with my pleas and threats. Instead of consenting to a divorce, Verlan gave in, very tentatively, just this once. As before, he first made me agree to take responsibility for it before God and man. That night, much to my chagrin, we conceived our sixth child.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  My sister-in-law Flora, who was Alma’s second wife, asked me to come to her house to fix the tension on her sewing machine. Now one year old, Brent needed to go down for a nap. When I left, five-year-old Donna was bouncing him on the bed, trying to get him to sleep. I told her she could follow me as soon as he fell asleep. I wasn’t half a block down the road when she came running after me. “Go back. Stay with Brent. Don’t come until you’re sure he’s asleep,” I said.

  “He is, Mama,” she insisted. So I waited for her to catch up.

  I oiled Flora’s machine and cleaned the metal bobbin case with a chicken feather I brought from my coop. In less tha
n fifteen minutes, I adjusted the tension and left it running like a top. She thanked me, and Donna and I headed for home.

  When I stopped briefly to get the mail, there was a letter from Verlan. I tore it open and read it as I hurried home. “Dear Irene. I worry about the kids. Please watch them extra careful for me.” I quickened my step as I continued reading.

  I tiptoed into my room to check on Brent, but he wasn’t on the bed. I looked under it, then in the closet. I began to panic, running outside. “Brent,” I called. “Brentsie, where are you?”

  I ran to Lucy’s, but she hadn’t seen him. When she saw my concern, she joined in the search. When Charlotte heard my frantic calls, she also got alarmed. He wasn’t at her place, either. We searched, called, looked in the corrals and ditches. I ran through the mesquites and down the cow trails to the alfalfa field. Maybe by some slim chance, he’d gotten to the pasture. He hadn’t. Our hunt became more intense as most of the town—about twenty adults—had now joined the search team. We looked in every hole, lifted every lid, and scoured the landscape.

  I was six months pregnant at the time, and my stomach ached from all the running. After forty-five minutes, I was worn out and breathless. But I couldn’t stop. We’d still found no sign of him. Word spread. Mexican neighbors from across the highway joined in the search. Everyone was hunting for my missing toddler, but we had no clue of his whereabouts. I racked my tired mind to think of any place we hadn’t checked two or three times already.

  The wells! There were three open wells we used for irrigation, each of them fourteen feet in diameter. I didn’t want to consider the possibility, but there was nowhere else he could be. I reasoned that if he was in one, his plastic baby bottle should be floating on top of the water. I knew Brent had taken it with him because it was no longer in the house.

  I headed for the well that was closest to the highway. Verlan’s mentally ill brother, Ben, followed close behind me, saying, “The spirit of the Lord told me you’d find your baby floating in the second well.”