Shattered Dreams

by Irene Spencer

  “Well, I have. I have a sure knowledge about God.”

  “Let’s hear it,” he said, sounding truly interested.

  “The night before I called you to come and get me, I had a spiritual experience that happened very suddenly. I can barely put into words what it was like. The spirit of the Lord seemed to come upon me, and instantly the scales of confusion and disbelief fell from my eyes. Everything I perceived seemed more alive, maybe even alive for the first time. There was no time or space, no beginning or end. All was an eternal now. It was as if I merged with the divine, removing all my fear, even the fear of death. In that moment, the doubt and despair that had claimed so much of my energy over the past few years was replaced with a joy and peace that surpassed all understanding.

  “It was made known to me that I didn’t have to try and do or be anything. I simply needed to be still. I know the experience came about because I surrendered. When I quit trying to control my life and mind, it was made known to me that God is the doer. It’s our strong sense of self that brings about our delusions and pain. By surrendering, we tell God, ‘Not my will, Lord, but thy will be done.’ The essence revealed to me that everything was on time and okay exactly as it was.”

  Verlan was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “That’s beautiful, Irene. I hope you’re right. But if your experience is true, it may just do away with Mormonism.” He sighed heavily. “You know, I never thought Joel would die. He held the highest priesthood office on Earth. He gave me the second highest. Without these two head priesthood offices, the church can’t function.” He paused, in deep thought. “Irene, if something should happen to me, you can know that Joel was merely a good man, and we all just barked up the wrong tree. In that case, please teach the kids simply to be honorable people and keep God’s commandments.”

  Before I realized it, the morning light was beginning to filter in. It was 5 A.M., and sleep hadn’t been a consideration for either of us as we’d reminisced and shared some of our deepest feelings. Then Verlan said he needed to leave early to go to his office and get some writing done. His office was in Lillie’s house. He read my mind.

  “Irene, I’m not leaving you to go spend time with Lillie, honest. I need to try and accomplish a few things. I can’t sleep, anyway. Will you forgive me if I leave so early?”

  “Of course, go ahead,” I said.

  I spent the next day with my kids, but I was preoccupied with thoughts of Verlan. Very soon, I’d need to tell him I was separating myself completely from him and his religion. Although it would be hard to come by, I would need more than a few minutes with him in order to do it. What I had to tell him couldn’t be settled quickly.

  I retired early and extra tired because of the sleep I’d missed the night before, but I was awakened by a violent dream. I woke up my eighteen-year-old daughter, Barbara, who was sleeping with me. “Someone is going to die,” I said. “I wonder who it could be.”

  I told her I’d seen a car wreck. Three people were in the crash. Two of them were covered with blankets and lying on the side of a freeway. Then a stranger appeared on the scene, yelling at me, “Someone you love has been killed.” In the dream, I cried out to God, “Please give me strength to bear this.” Just as I was going to lift the blanket so I could see who it was, I woke up.

  Barbara reached out to comfort me. “It’s only a dream, Mama, just a silly nightmare.”

  “No,” I answered stubbornly. “I know someone is going to die. I feel it.” Would it be one of my sons? I tried to force those thoughts from my mind. If I dwelt on it, I warned myself, it might come to pass.

  I BARELY SAW VERLAN for the next two days. He was about to leave town again. I was filled with anxiety, worn down emotionally from the year of disappointments and loneliness, and dreading what I had to tell my husband. I found him packing his suitcase and his sleeping bag into the trunk of John Adams’s Volkswagen, parked between the church and Lillie’s house. I shook hands with John, a curly-haired convert I’d known for several years. He had driven from Utah to attend our annual church conference.

  Verlan shook the seat of the car as he spoke to John. “Boy, this little car sure is flimsy! If we had a wreck, neither of us would survive. I hope we make it to Nicaragua and back safely,” he said. They were going to check on some property Verlan maintained there in case he ever needed it for a refuge.

  “Don’t worry,” John answered. “This little Rabbit is great on the road. We’ll make it to Mexico City just fine. We’ll spend two days there and then go on to Nicaragua.”

  Verlan excused the two of us, promising John he’d return shortly. He had some important things he had to do before they could leave. He guided me down the dirt road, hugging me. Wearily, he said, “I hate to go, I really do. I have a feeling I won’t be coming back.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Damn it, Verlan, then don’t go!”

  “No,” he said, resuming our pace, “when your time’s up, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  I didn’t want to hear such nonsense. We walked down Lillie’s sidewalk toward his office. I knew if I didn’t say my piece now, I wouldn’t get another chance until he returned. I didn’t want another wife showing up to interrupt me, either. I thought about the psychics. They prophesied I’d be here a year, and then I would know the reason I had to return to Verlan. Another week, and my year would be up. Verlan planned to be gone for at least a month, so I must tell him now.

  He put the key into the lock on his office door. After a couple of twists, it opened, and he led me inside. “I know you’re in a hurry,” I began, “but I need to take this opportunity to talk to you.”

  “Hurry up then. I’m rushed, and John is anxious to leave.”

  “Verlan, I think you’re a great man and I respect you, but I’m miserable living here in this situation, and I want a divorce. I want to move to the States before school starts.

  “Please,” he interrupted, “we’ll discuss this when I return.” Then he added, “Maybe I’ll solve all of your problems by not coming back at all.”

  “Verlan,” I pleaded, “I’m living the biggest lie. I don’t want this life another minute! I’m being stifled. Try to understand. It’s not you. I take full responsibility for my actions. I just want out! I cannot continue to live like this anymore.”

  He opened his desk drawer. I knew he wasn’t hearing a word I said. “Now listen carefully,” he demanded as he held up a stack of papers. “This is my will. It’ll be right here in this top right-hand drawer. Please see to it that there are no fights over it. I tried my best to treat you all equally.”

  “Please, Verlan. This is ridiculous,” I cut in.

  “Pay attention,” he continued. “I have two insurance policies in here also. I know it won’t be much, but it’ll help out a little anyway.”

  “Verlan, please don’t act like this.”

  He stood up and took a picture he had painted off his office wall. “This is for André. You’ll notice I wrote a name on all these pictures, photos, and books. They’re for whoever’s name is written on them.” He made me look in the desk drawer again. “All the important papers are right here, okay?”

  I must have looked abashed as he took me in his arms. We silently held one another. Then his lips urgently found mine. Unable to fight back our tears, we both cried openly and brokenheartedly—me because I had to leave, him because he thought he was never coming back. Then he pulled away and took his hanky from his pocket to wipe his tears. “Just say a prayer for me,” he said sadly.

  I didn’t turn back to look at him again for fear I would lose all self-control. I walked rapidly, yet resolutely away. I couldn’t tell him the reason I had to give up loving him was simply for survival. He would never have been able to understand that it was only when I didn’t care that I could bear it all. No woman would ever again receive Verlan’s tender affection within my view. I’d rather have nothing at all of him than share him any longer. So I was going away again, this time for good. It left me
feeling numb, yes, but at least I was free.

  John kept the motor running as Verlan dashed into my house a couple of hours later on their way out of town. My daughter Margaret, who is a spitting image of me, was in the kitchen when he came in. Her father spoke out of breath, “Where’s your mother?”

  “She just left a few minutes ago for San Diego to be with Kaylen’s wife, Jean, while she has her baby.”

  Verlan engulfed Margaret in his arms and wept. When he pulled away from her, he was clearly embarrassed. “I’m sorry I missed her,” he said, then added gravely, “Please give her a message for me, will you? Tell her I . . . loved her. She never believed me, but I truly loved her.”

  The following week, Jean and I prepared for the arrival of her first child. I was anxious for her labor pains to start. Her due date was six days away, but I impatiently longed to have the ordeal over with so I could get on with my own life.

  It was August 18, 1981. A mild breeze blew in through the open screen of the trailer house door. The air felt good on my face as I relaxed on the floor, enjoying the peace and quiet, trying to rest my overworked body and mind. A ringing telephone brought me out of my trance. Thinking me asleep, Kaylen snatched up the receiver and softly said, “Hello?” After a moment, he shouted into the phone, “Are you sure?”

  I bolted upright, begging God, as I had in my dream, Please, Lord, let me be able to bear whatever it is.

  Tears were forming in Kaylen’s eyes. “Is John dead, too?” Then, covering the mouthpiece, he turned toward me. “It’s Daddy. He and John got killed in a car wreck near Mexico City.”

  In shock and disbelief, I asked, “What is the date today?”

  “It’s the eighteenth, Mom. He died three hours ago.”

  It was far too surreal. My mind flashed back. Verlan saw it in a dream. Then I saw it in a dream. And even the psychics said I’d know in one year why I had to go back to Mexico. Verlan died exactly one year after the day I returned.

  They also said I would teach or show Verlan something no one else could. In the years since, I’ve pondered what that might have been. For one thing, I let him know I hadn’t given up on him even though I was walking away from all the rest. I’d also been able to share with him my certainty of God’s existence, goodness, and sovereignty. Who else in his life could have shown him all that?

  It’s hard to recall the next few hours. Kaylen and I tried to comfort each other as we contacted all of Verlan’s children and close friends by phone. I relayed the message to Charlotte’s mother, Aunt Rhea, in Salt Lake City, who, in turn, called reporters. The LeBarons were well-known in Utah because of Ervil’s threats and violence. So Verlan and John’s deaths appeared on the ten o’clock news. Word of their deaths came through Elizabeth, Verlan’s ninth wife, who received a call from the Red Cross stating that Verlan and John had been in a terrible car accident near Puebla, Mexico. John died instantly. A “flight for life” helicopter arrived and transported Verlan to a hospital in Mexico City, where he died approximately two hours later. Their friend Harvard Stubbs, who was also in the accident, was hospitalized briefly, but he recovered completely.

  Three vehicles packed with wives, children, in-laws, and friends started on the fifteen-hour trip from San Diego to Colonia LeBaron. I drove all night while my children cried, tormented by the thought of losing their father. They all tried to catch what snatches of sleep they could so they’d be rested for the funeral.

  Charlotte and Chad, Lucy’s oldest son, flew to Mexico City and made arrangements to have Verlan’s body flown to Chihuahua. Then it was to be driven to Colonia LeBaron.

  A strange quiet pervaded the large crowd of mourners we found waiting on the lawn of Charlotte’s ranch-style brick home. The silence was eerie. People spoke in hushed tones as they awaited the arrival of the hearse. Most of them were Verlan’s own wives, children, and other relations.

  Forty-two of Verlan’s fifty-six children were able to attend. Priscilla and Lillie were both pregnant and in a few short months would give him a grand total of fifty-eight children. At the time of his death, Verlan had only six wives left—Charlotte, Lucy, Lillie, Elizabeth, Priscilla, and me. The other four wives—Helen, Susan, Beverly, and Esther—had withdrawn from his fold, divorcing him. Their divorces caused him to feel tremendous failure.

  The six of us wives milled around quietly, hoping the hearse would arrive soon. We all wanted to spend a few private moments with the man we loved.

  I walked into Charlotte’s house to sit down and rest. Right then, Kaylen came to the screen door. “Mom, they’re bringing Daddy now.”

  Ten or twelve of Verlan’s sons huddled around the door of the hearse. The driver motioned for people to stand back, out of his way. Then they slid a large wooden crate out the rear door of the hearse onto the graveled road. All was silent except the screeching of nails as the boys pried them out with crowbars. They ripped the nails from the pine boards, tearing the wooden crate completely apart, revealing a masculine gray casket inside.

  The crowd moved aside to make room for six of Verlan’s older sons—Verlan Jr., Mark, Steven, Pierre, Kaylen, and André. They took the handles of the shiny casket, lifting it off the baseboards of the disassembled crate. Reverently, they carried their father’s body into Charlotte’s living room and placed his casket on a sturdy coffee table.

  The moment of truth had arrived. As the lid was raised high, an explosion of sobs burst forth. Wives and children cried out in unison, the reality piercing our ears and hearts. Our husband and father had truly expired.

  After an hour or so, Verlan Jr. requested that only the immediate family remain in the room, allowing each one to offer his or her final respects. Hanging onto Linda while the others left, I stood back and watched as Verlan’s five other remaining wives touched him, each trying however inadequately to express her innermost final thoughts and feelings. I wanted to cry out loud, to tell Verlan how lucky he was just to be at peace! There would be no more quarreling. No more being fought over for a little of his time. No more jealous fits of anger. And no more turns.

  Lillie patted Verlan’s stocking-covered feet. Lucy kissed his large, cold hands. I sensed that all our hearts were bursting with the same agonizing grief. Tears of sadness mingled with anger streamed down my face. In death, just as in life, we had no damn privacy. We were always intruding on each other, always having to postpone feeling our own personal feelings.

  I wanted to cry out to Verlan one last time, to reassure him of our friendship and thank him for my freedom. I needed to validate his worth as a wonderful human being, but also suggest to him we’d both been victims caught up in the tangled web of a fanatical religion. I wanted to yell and get it all out.

  This dedicated man, just fifty-one years old, tried for so many years to pull me toward heaven, insisting I accompany him to a celestial glory. Silently now, I confessed to him that I didn’t think I ever really wanted to be a goddess. All I truly wanted was to live a normal life, loving him and enjoying his undivided love. Most of all, I wanted to fulfill his needs and mine together as the only woman he ever desired.

  I reflected on my wedding night, recalling the aspirations and dreams Verlan shared with me. It seemed like such a far-fetched illusion then—his desire for at least seven wives and fifty children. But he exceeded even his own wild expectations.

  Violent tears blurred my vision. Linda slipped her arm comfortingly around my waist. “Come on, kid. Be strong. You’ll be all right.”

  As the lid of the coffin was about to be lowered, dozens of weeping, screaming children reached in to touch their father for the last time. I watched as his wives quickly kissed his hands and his lips, trying to hold on to one more moment of him.

  Linda tugged at my arm. I stood before the casket in a trance; I didn’t move. But I couldn’t bring myself to touch him, either. I wanted to treasure the good times, remember his kisses being warm.

  The lid closed with a thud. Immediately, frantic, crying children forced it open about six i
nches for one final peek. His son Mark called out in agonizing despair, “D a d d y!”

  My mind was exploding. I wanted to send everyone outside and raise the lid again to say all that was really in my heart. But how does a wife bare her soul with five other wives present?

  I peered at his face for one short moment as the casket closed for the final time. Then, feeling Verlan’s presence and knowing he’d understand, I whispered, “Good-bye, lover!”

  EPILOGUE

  After all my struggles to finally choose freedom, it was tragedy that actually ended my twenty-eight-year marriage to Verlan LeBaron. The timing of these two events haunts me to this day. Was it just one of life’s synchronicities? Was his death preordained or merely an accident? Did I leave him, somehow knowing subconsciously we’d reached the end of our marriage anyway?

  During my first twenty-one years as Verlan’s polygamous wife, I became the mother of fourteen of his children. I shared my husband with nine other women and a total of fifty-eight kids. We lived in utter poverty, laboring to raise our own food, make our own clothes, and build our own houses. Most of that time, we lived without electricity or indoor plumbing.

  Six of my children at some point in their lives became entangled in a polygamist lifestyle, but today, all but three of them are living in monogamy. I still keep in contact with some of Verlan’s other wives. We remain friends and stay with each other during funerals and weddings. I currently have 118 grandchildren, the oldest only twenty-six. I have thirty-seven great-grandchildren, with more on the way. Yes, I do know all their names. Six of them are named Irene, after me. I guess I must have done something right, after all. When people ask me about my family tree, I tell them I have a family forest!

  I’m grateful I’ve been able to treasure the many good memories I have of the years described in this book. It wasn’t all bad, though it was all tainted by a terrible delusion. After sacrificing so much to try and attain “celestial glory,” I think my greatest accomplishment is the bond of love and friendship I share with all my children and grandchildren. In this way, Verlan was right—I truly am a blessed woman. Still a close family, we visit each other as often as we can.