“We have got to get her to change before Father sees her!” Soon enough, they had reached me.
“Becky!” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes. “You must change now! You mustn’t let him see you like this! You know he won’t approve!”
I looked at her insolently. “I am not his wife yet!” My head was hot, like it had felt in his office. I wanted to wear this dress to symbolize everything that I had not dared voice: I did not want to marry him. Except as my Prophet, I wasn’t seeking a relationship with him.
I tried to turn away into the crowd, but both Brittany and Christine pulled at me, pleading now with full-blown tears streaming down their faces. The look in their eyes spoke the truth: my rebellion would reflect badly not only upon me but upon them and quite literally my entire family. I stood rigid and then sighed and went in to change, though not without several muttered, unladylike words under my breath. By the time I came out to play for the Prophet, I had changed into something he would find demure and pleasing. Still, I played “Orange Blossom Special” as defiantly as I could. Oblivious, our Prophet whistled merrily along.
A few days later, after Rulon and the rest of the visitors had left, I went for a long walk with my sister Brittany along the pond. We talked casually, but suddenly her tone became somber.
“Jason pressured me to consummate our marriage,” she whispered.
“Consummate?”
“That means he and I had marital relations.” I nodded, not wanting to appear stupid. I had overheard Warren use this term many times before, but I didn’t fully understand what it meant. Because of the strict admonitions in school and church to never let our thoughts wander to those topics, I had always shied away from any conversation regarding this subject. I looked more closely at Brittany for clues and noticed the twinkle in her beautiful blue eyes hadn’t returned, and she had the beginnings of dark circles. I wanted to kick myself. I had been so caught up in my own impending marriage that I hadn’t seen through her outward guise of happiness.
“On our wedding night, I said I wasn’t ready,” she revealed. Her bottom lip began to quiver. “I begged him for more time. He said he would.” Brittany paused, and looked away. “He gave me only one day… and then no more.”
A tear slipped down Brittany’s cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. My heart felt a stabbing pain, and I looked at her, horrified, with great compassion. Uncle Jason was the older brother of Winston, the bishop. The thought of him forcing anything on my sweet Brittany made me appalled.
Still, I was confused as to what exactly she meant. I had seen Dad peck my mom on the lips, or give her a hug. I knew he slept side by side in the same bed with his first wife on her allotted nights, and my mother on hers, but what did that mean? I had seen my uncle Jason around his wives. He seemed jovial and often swatted their bottoms mischievously. I began to suspect maybe there might be more going on in the bedroom than I had ever realized. Visions of farm animals I had seen worked their way into my mind, but I quickly brushed them aside. We were not like animals. We were taught in our lessons that we were higher than animals. It was only when we were carnal that we became just like them. Was that what Uncle Jason was doing? Was that what my husband would expect?
The knot that had formed in my stomach the day Warren forced my dad’s hand had swollen to enormous size. I didn’t understand what it meant to have marital relations—whether for pleasure or procreation. I only associated anything remotely akin to it with guilt and shame because of how my half brother Sterling had touched me.
Then, in spite of my compassion for Brittany, I pulled in a deep breath of relief. My husband-to-be was much older than Uncle Jason! Just like women were “put out to pasture” once they were too old to bear children, surely men of a certain age didn’t partake, either. Our Prophet was way past the age of fathering children—by decades! None of his younger wives had children.
I suddenly felt steadier. Uncle Rulon wouldn’t think of touching me, not like that. Not if he could no longer have children. Surely that could not be Priesthood approved!
CHAPTER 6
Sudden Royalty
At the end of the summer, I was given no choice but to return to Salt Lake City to face my destiny. On September 17, 1995, wearing the dress I had sewn with my aunts and sisters, I became the nineteenth wife of Rulon Timpson Jeffs.
The wedding was a blur of activity. From the crowds of relatives, friends, and other FLDS members who came to celebrate, only a handful of faces remained in my memory. The first was that of my Prophet, clasping my hands and standing across from me, bent from extreme age. Dad, who had been temporarily given authority by the Prophet himself to perform the ceremony, repeated the words I’d heard so many times before:
“Do you, Brother Rulon Timpson Jeffs, take Sister Rebecca Wall by the right hand, and receive her unto yourself to be your lawful and wedded wife, and you to be her lawful and wedded husband, for time and all eternity, with a covenant and promise, on your part, that you will fulfill all the laws, rites, and ordinances pertaining to this holy bond of matrimony in the new and everlasting covenant, doing this in the presence of God, angels, and these witnesses, of your own free will and choice?”
“I do,” said Uncle Rulon, his eyes twinkling at me from behind his glasses.
“And do you, Sister Rebecca Wall, take Brother Rulon Timpson Jeffs by the right hand, and give yourself to him to be his lawful and wedded wife, for time and all eternity…” I only half heard the rest of the oath, which mirrored Rulon’s.
How could I say I do? I had asked that very question of my mother that morning. She had said I could do it because God and the Prophet were always right. And if I were to keep sweet and not complain, I would be blessed. I had heard that all my life, and yet here I was.
“I… I do,” I answered finally, my voice faint. My father sealed our marriage by the authority of the Holy Priesthood in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I froze, and the crowd laughed at my wide eyes as Rulon pecked my lips matter-of-factly, and then grinned triumphantly. I put on my best smile for the people, but it didn’t match my eyes, and somewhere in the crowd was a person who knew the truth. My brother Cole had graduated with honors from ITT Technical Institute as a drafting engineer in June. An exceptionally brilliant student, he had learned to ask critical questions to fully understand the object of his studies. Feeling like his sisters were each being auctioned off to the highest bidder at the whim of our Prophet, he left the reception early. I felt he was the last of those who truly cared about my destiny.
That night, after the wedding festivities were over and the crowds had departed, Rulon’s wives were still enjoying the celebratory energy. They mistook my melancholy countenance as wedding-day jitters. We made our way down the hall slowly to his office, a few new sister-wives giggling at me, while others helped our elderly husband get there safely. We entered Rulon’s office, and my sister-wives set Rulon and me down on the visitors’ couch. I was grateful to see them perch around us, not yet ready to leave.
“Father, can we get you a glass of wine?” one of them asked. He nodded cheerfully and accepted the alcoholic beverage. I was not surprised. Although for well over a century Mormons had believed in the “Word of Wisdom” from the revelations written in the Doctrine and Covenants that strictly discouraged alcoholic drinks, tea, and coffee (as well as tobacco, narcotics, and overconsumption of meat), the FLDS had long argued that the Mormons had cowardly set aside the Celestial Law of polygamy for the lesser law of the Word of Wisdom. We believed the WOW was more of a suggestion, and these items were commonly imbibed among many of the FLDS. My father, who had been through the Mormon temple before partaking of plural marriage, still did not have alcohol in our cupboards at home, but the Prophet liked his wine, liquor, and coffee. Among the people it was felt that as he had the courage to live the higher law, his drinking was considered morally justified.
Rulon winked at me as he sipped carefully from his glass, and another wife unclipp
ed his tie. When they handed me my own glass, I sat, blinking at it. I had never consumed alcohol before. The liquid was shockingly nasty and dry, though surprisingly warm in my throat. The heat from my sips seemed to creep all the way down into my stomach. In the company of all these women and in the spirit of the festivities, I almost let my guard down. Then one of my sister-wives spoke.
“She could stay with you tonight,” Ora giggled.
“That’s a great idea!” Rulon agreed, and my heart leaped back into my throat, all comfort and warmth forgotten. I tried not to panic as each sister-wife said good night. These women, who had played a variety of roles in my life—as teachers, mentors, cousins, aunt, and sister—hugged us before parading out of the room. Christine was the last to go, sashaying happily, her long skirt swinging and swaying. Just before she shut the heavy oak door, she turned to us with a playful smile upon her face, and then playfully waved her fingers good-bye. She was gone.
Under Uncle Warren’s strict edicts, I had genuinely taken a lot of comfort from a society that told us men were snakes and prohibited girls from being alone with them. So now, alone with Rulon, I had no idea even what to say.
Does it matter? He can read my mind. He knows my heart. He’s not a man. He’s the Prophet.
Rulon motioned to me to help him up. I’d never imagined that my wedding night would involve a crash course in geriatric care, but my new husband was older than my grandpa Wall. Rulon was very tall, and it took all of my strength to get him up. He leaned on my arm and we shuffled to his bathroom, one small step at a time. I had never realized how unstable he was. I helped him into the small bathroom, where he placed his hands upon the guardrails.
“Now go upstairs and get your nightgown on,” he commanded. I left him there, hanging on to the railing, and went to Ora’s room, where I had left my purple duffel bag. My aunt wasn’t there, and it was a relief to be alone with my thoughts as I stepped out of my wedding gown. It had been extremely stressful for me to be in the presence of the Prophet, since it meant I was in the presence of God—just me and him.
Come on, I told myself. You can get through this.
Mechanically, I slipped on my nightgown and looked at myself in Ora’s bathroom mirror. The gown, which I had sewn myself, was beautiful. It was simple but soft and silky, even over my long underwear. My robe, though, was almost too elegant—a soft, pink georgette with one long, asymmetric ruffle, made from the same soft fabric as the gown. But all I could see were my frightened eyes, like those of a cornered rabbit on Grandfather Steed’s farm. Taking a determined breath, I descended again to the Prophet’s room. When I arrived, he was sitting at his desk, grinning at me.
“Well, hello, sweetheart!” He motioned to me and I pulled him up out of his chair again, using my whole body to steady him. He motioned to a wall partition that divided his office from his bedroom. We went around the right-hand side, where one lamp illuminated a sparsely furnished bedroom. There was a king-sized bed, a bedside table, a gold-and-tan Schwinn exercise bicycle, and an oxygen machine.
Carefully shuffling to the foot of the bed, where he faced me, he used my weight as leverage to lower himself onto the bed. With all my strength, I held him carefully until he set himself down. Abruptly he tapped the top button of his white dress shirt.
I scrambled to unbutton it, embarrassed that he had to ask me that way and nearly forgetting I was undressing a grown man. I had helped my younger siblings prepare for bed, but I had never imagined I would have to help the Prophet undress. Kneeling at his feet, I silently undid the rest of the buttons. My fingers trembled, but I refused to look at his face. He was unable to undo his own cuffs, so I did that, too, surprised at how smooth and superthin his skin felt.
He pointed to the bike, where I hung his shirt; then he began tapping again—only this time it was on his suit pants button. My mind was racing. As I unzipped his pants, the sound filled me with horrific panic. It took me a moment to realize the last time I had heard it was when I was locked in my half brother’s room as a child, right before I escaped.
I choked back bile and rising fear, but Rulon didn’t notice my watery eyes. He leaned back.
“Now pull,” he demanded. I had to tug his pants down to his hips and then pull them off.
Wearing only his long undergarments, he stared at me for a long moment. It felt sacrilegious for me to be alone with him this way. I kept my head bowed until he was ready to move back onto the bed. Lifting his legs as he instructed, I pushed his body into a more comfortable position, and tucked a pillow beneath his knees. He didn’t get under the covers. Instead, he had me pull up the crocheted sea-foam-and-cream tasseled blanket that lay folded on the bottom of his bed.
Suddenly he patted the bed beside him. I stared at him for a moment, and then carefully removed my robe and placed it beside his shirt and pants on the bike. I was about to get on the bed when he remembered his oxygen. I helped place the clear tubing precisely into his nostrils and behind his ears. The purr of the machine filled the room as Rulon got settled. Once again, he patted the spot next to him. Gingerly, I went around the other side and lay down, as far on the other side of the bed as I could. Again, he patted the spot right next to him, this time rather impatiently. I reluctantly pulled myself as near as I could without touching him. I couldn’t breathe. He turned onto his elbow, and the strain of it holding him up caused the whole bed to shake.
With surprising strength, however, he roughly pulled me to him with his other arm and kissed me. It was over before I realized what had happened. Then he kissed me again, and my whole body shook from disgust. The slobber from his mouth was still on my lips, and though I flinched, I didn’t dare wipe it off. He held on to me for a long moment before pushing himself away.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he said. “A kiss is enough for tonight.” He turned over, and I stared at the back of his head.
A kiss is enough? Enough of what?
Within moments Rulon’s breath came even and deep, the hum of the oxygen machine the only other sound in the room. I inched myself away from him to the far edge of the bed. I usually never had trouble dozing off, but his words troubled me. I lay wide awake, not daring to move. I was alone in bed with a man. Not just any man—a man as close to God as any man on earth would ever be.
I had been groomed for this my entire life. Surely marriage to my Prophet was supposed to be divine. So why didn’t it feel the least bit Heavenly? I was related to plenty of women who had married under similar circumstances. Mama Ida married my grandfather Steed at twenty, when he was seventy-eight. Aunt Shirley had been just seventeen when she married Uncle Roy, age eighty. And my own aunt Bonnie—now Ora, my sister-wife—had married Rulon when she was twenty and he was eighty. My situation was normal, I tried to reassure myself.
Suddenly Rulon lurched in his sleep and our feet touched. I recoiled instinctively and gripped the covers in fear. My heart had just started to beat normally again when Rulon began making gasping noises like a big fish out of water. Once again I panicked, ready to jump out of bed and run for help.
Rulon began to breathe again—normal breaths—and went right back to sleep.
I just stared at him, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I longed to just sleep on the floor, though I was pretty sure that would be severely frowned upon. Just before dawn, I fell into a fitful sleep, only to have an endless loop of nightmares play, nightmares that involved Uncle Warren and my new husband leaning on my arms, crushing me with all of their weight.
The next morning Rulon crisply informed me that he had breakfast served to him every day at seven a.m. sharp. He sent me upstairs to get dressed, admonishing me to hurry. When I rushed back down, I learned from the next sister-wife companion for Rulon that my sister-wives and I would all take turns being on duty with him. That meant that we took care of his every need during our twenty-four-hour watch, including the overnight stretch. I had taken over the night portion of one wife’s watch, so now it was another wife’s turn. Rulon kept track of
who he was staying with in the order in which they were married. I quickly calculated in my head. Nineteen wives, eighteen of them still living… between his Salt Lake and Hildale wives’ schedules, perhaps it would be nearly three weeks between shifts. A sense of guilty relief rushed over me.
I entered the dining room to discover that my sister-wives had made a special place for me—to the Prophet’s right on the foldout bench. Unconsciously, I think I had been waiting for the type of fallout my mother had faced from Irene. I had just spent the night with their husband, and yet I was met with kindness and sincere smiles. As I sat, I discovered another unspoken protocol in the Jeffs household: near silence during meals while the Prophet ate. After the meal was through, however, the wives resumed a lively conversation. Ora, who sat next to me, chatted animatedly.
“Becky’s family from Canada is asking if she and I can go for a hike in the mountains today before they leave town, Father,” Ora announced. My face went white, and I glanced sideways through my lashes at Rulon. What would he think?
“Up the canyon?” he asked.
“Yes, to Secret Lake.”
He studied Ora carefully, and then turned to me.
“Do you want to go?” he asked.
“Yes!” The word leaped out of my throat before I could contain it. Some of my sister-wives looked at me in surprise.
“Look at that,” he chuckled. “My new bride would rather go hiking with her cousins than spend the day with me.” I flushed deeply. I had messed up again! Although the Prophet seemed good-natured about it, I didn’t dare leave to get ready for the hike until long after breakfast was over.
The Witness Wore Red: The 19th Wife Who Brought Polygamous Cult Leaders to Justice Page 9