Shattered Dreams

by Irene Spencer

  He put each wife on a strict budget he supplemented with clothes and shoes from the secondhand stores, most of which was given to him because it was so torn, stained, dirty, or simply out of style, no one would pay for it. We still ground wheat for bread and cereal on a hand grinder. Each wife was more or less left to fend for herself, with rarely more than was needed to cover necessities.

  One weekend when Verlan was able to come home from Vegas, he arrived to find my two-year-old, Connie, deathly ill. Her eyes would roll back in her head as she lay clammy and barely moving. My usual home remedies and prayers brought about no marked improvement. I knew if we didn’t get professional help immediately, we’d lose her. She was near death when we arrived at the government hospital in Ensenada. Dr. Martinez, the attending physician, diagnosed her as having pneumonia and gave us little hope for her recovery.

  Once she was admitted, Verlan was in a hurry to leave because he had only eleven hours to get back to Vegas in time for work. I was frantic. He was about to leave me there alone, and I felt emotionally incapable of dealing with the situation. Not even in an emergency could Verlan find time to be with me. Anxiously, I pled with him to stay longer, at least till we knew she’d be all right. Verlan tried to hush me, ordering me to dry my tears. He left, angry I’d made such a scene in front of the doctor.

  In my own desperate way, I tried to understand. Was it utterly unrealistic for him to take off work each time one of his neglected wives or children got sick? I’d endured six of my babies’ births without him. God, I prayed, why can’t my child’s own father be here to comfort us at such an uncertain time?

  I should have been strong, able to bear whatever was necessary, but my heart was wrenched seeing my precious child so ill. I was sick with apprehension lest God decide to snatch her away from me as he’d done with Leah. Tiptoeing into the ward, I found Connie strapped into an iron crib. Despite all the other children in the room who were crying, Connie appeared to be sleeping. I watched the glucose drip into my beautiful child’s arm. Please, God, watch over her. Please let her recover.

  I had no alternative but to leave her in the doctor’s care while I caught a bus and sadly returned home to my other duties. It was Sunday, and there was a great deal to be done before school the next day.

  While Connie was in the hospital, I rode six miles into town on the bus every day to check on her. I was only allowed short visits. I’d see her screaming, begging for me. I pleaded with the nurses to let me untie her so I could hold her, but they refused. It was so hard for both of us; the two-week ordeal seemed to last forever. Dr. Martinez cared for my baby and kindly befriended me. I’m sure some of it was pity, especially when he met Lucy and learned Verlan had a string of wives.

  My guilt mounted as quickly as the hospital bill increased. I knew we were spending precious money the whole family desperately needed. Everyone had to cut back whenever there was an emergency. Verlan sent $400 of tithing money from the church coffers to make a down payment on the bill, promising he’d pay the balance as soon as he could.

  Dr. Martinez called me into his office. He told me to go get the file paper from pediatrics and take it down the corridor to the cashier. I had to settle the bill before he could sign Connie’s release so I could take her home.

  I watched as the nurse stamped a couple of forms and then handed the original to me. “That will be seventy-five,” she said matter-of-factly.

  I was shocked. Thinking I misunderstood, I asked, “Seventy-five dollars?”

  “No, it’s seventy-five pesos.” That was six dollars at the time.

  I paid her, knowing there’d been some grave mistake. I returned to Dr. Martinez’s office, hoping he could rectify the matter. But when I tried to explain, he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Señora, I worked things out so all you’d have to pay was a minimum that the government hospital requires. All my services are free. Tell your husband to take you on a long, overdue vacation with the money. Tell him it’s my prescription for you.”

  My house was unheated except for what warmth came from the gas range in the kitchen. The doctor refused to let me take Connie back there because he knew the conditions wouldn’t be conducive to her recovery. A friend, Juleen Hafen, insisted I stay two weeks with her while Connie regained her weight and the color returned to her cheeks. I don’t know what I’d have done without kind friends like Juleen, who seemed to appear in many of my darkest hours.

  WE COULD PLAINLY SEE we’d never get ahead financially by paying rent, especially on several houses. So Verlan purchased a lot around the corner from my small house. With the help of his older boys and a couple of wives, he started building a home large enough for several of us to live together. We called it the Big Brown House.

  In the meantime, Lucy’s heater caught fire and her trailer burned to the ground, destroying everything she owned. No one was hurt, but she had to move into the Big Brown House before it was completely finished. Charlotte had no sooner set up her living quarters with Lucy when Verlan moved me in also. Beverly’s trailer was set up behind the house.

  We were thrilled to have hot water and never thought to complain that we only had one bathroom. Around the walls of the dining area, Verlan built a one-piece bar that served as a table. He also built long wooden benches so all the kids could sit down at once to eat.

  We three wives took turns doing the cooking. For breakfast, the three oldest girls—Rhea, Donna, and Laura—held plates over the stove while I rationed out the food, making sure everyone got his or her share. The girls then served a plate to each child. It was a riot. I often made hotcakes for all thirty of us. I found that it was easier to make each person one large pancake the size of the frying pan. That way, no one came back for seconds, and it kept the confusion down.

  Even in these strained circumstances, I believed we needed to “live a little” because, well, we couldn’t postpone happiness forever. Once, I got the ice cream vendor who made daily rounds through our neighborhood to give me credit until the weekend. Verlan paid for the twenty-six Popsicles when he returned home, but he was disgusted with me when he found out I was spending money unwisely. I ignored his reprimand because we didn’t have many other joys. The squeals of excitement from all those kids made it worthwhile. I found a way to buy a large pan full of Popsicles at least once a week. They only cost twenty centavos each, so we continued the ritual without mentioning it to Verlan.

  With only the one bathroom in the house, Verlan set up the faithful old outhouse in the backyard. There were so many of us using it that he knew it would fill up fast, so he made the hole extra deep. It was already half full when I stepped into it one day, big and pregnant with my tenth child. My little two-year-old, Connie, stepped in beside me. With no warning, the floorboard gave way, and down we went. Before I could grab her, she fell right into the awful cesspool. One of my legs went through also, but my stomach saved the rest of me from flying through the hole in the floor.

  I screamed bloody murder. Six of the boys were just outside the outhouse, playing marbles. They came running with Lucy and Charlotte close behind to see what all my screaming was about. They helped me up, but Connie was in up to her armpits. They tipped the toilet house on its side, and before eleven-year-old Chad knew what was happening to him, Charlotte and I shoved him, screaming, headfirst into the hole. We were holding onto his feet, shouting for him to grab Connie before she went completely under. Chad was terrified that we would drop him in there with her. He didn’t even want to touch her, but we forced him to reach down through the filthy slush and grab hold of her arms. Within a few seconds, we drew them both out of the stinky hole.

  I sprayed both Connie and me off with a hose. Then I put her in a tub of water and scrubbed her with soap, vinegar, Pine-Sol, and even Purex. Nothing seemed to eliminate the awful odor. I finally had to cut her hair off. That was the only way I could get the nauseous smell off her. She’d been a world-class thumb sucker before our outhouse incident, but now she would smell her thumb and
just cry. She gave that habit up real quick.

  We made sure not to dig a toilet hole that deep again, but Connie’s continual fear of falling in drove her to use the inside bathroom faithfully. I told her that whether or not any of the other kids wanted to believe it, she really was the cutest little stinker I ever had!

  CHARLOTTE GOT A JOB teaching school in San Diego. Lucy and I were left to tend all the children, including Charlotte’s eight, in the Big Brown House. One day while washing clothes outside, I suddenly heard screaming coming from the house.

  I opened the door and saw Lucy whipping Mark with a belt. Not wanting to question her authority over the kids, I said nothing. I couldn’t imagine what they’d done to deserve it, but from what I could tell, everyone in eyesight was going to get it before Lucy was finished.

  Twelve-year-old Susanna was Lucy’s next victim. Charlotte’s daughter Susanna was the sweetest and most timid of all the kids. I couldn’t stand there and watch Lucy whip her. Not wanting any trouble between us, I grabbed Susanna away from Lucy, stating, “If she deserves to be whipped, then I’ll do it and I’ll do it good.”

  I pulled the frightened girl into the closest bedroom and locked the door. Susanna started to cry. I whispered to her, “Keep it up. Scream loud, and carry on each time this belt hits the bed.” I lashed the bed and yelled out, “Don’t you ever do it again.” Then I motioned for Susanna to scream louder.

  That’s how she got the whipping of her life. My pretend violence scared Lucy so bad, she either forgot or decided not to punish the three remaining culprits for whatever they’d done. Years later, Susanna admitted to her mother that I hadn’t really whipped her. She loved me even more because I came to her rescue.

  BEFORE LONG, Lucy also got a job as a nanny in the States. She and Charlotte were only home occasionally, for a few days here and there, usually just for a weekend. During this time, Verlan added on to the Big Brown House so Beverly could move out of her trailer. Esther was still in Los Molinas. Meanwhile, I inherited all the parenting responsibility for Verlan’s twenty-five children living in that four-bedroom house.

  I had to send fifteen kids off to school every morning. They all wore uniforms I had to keep washed and ironed. Four babies were in diapers, and we couldn’t think of buying disposables. I prewashed all the stinky diapers by hand so they could be washed a second time in the Maytag wringer-washer, which ran continually. The older boys always filled the washer and the rinse tubs with water before they left for school. The older girls made beds, swept floors, and dressed the younger kids while I made breakfast and braided nine heads of hair. It was pandemonium getting them all out of the house on time.

  I had to bake twelve loaves of whole wheat bread every other day. I cleaned, served, washed dishes, ironed, and cooked for the whole crowd, plus the many visitors who always seemed to be on hand. (Church members dropped in unannounced several times a week on their way to Los Molinos, because our house was the halfway point from San Diego.) The little kids and babies cried for their own mothers. I cried with them at night from sheer exhaustion.

  I tried hard not to complain about my job. I told myself God required it of me and would bless me for it. For his glory and for our future kingdom, I was raising these children born under the covenant. My reward would surely be great.

  To that end, and with Dr. Cortez’s help, the stork brought me a ten-pound baby on November 7, 1967. Verlan named him LaSalle after an old friend of his. It all happened so fast, I barely had time to summon the doctor. There went another $35, and still no vacation from my dormitory duties. Now I had a newborn to care for, too.

  My heart longed for Verlan, especially when I’d get the blues. But I’d remind myself how hard he was slaving away with a paintbrush in the 90- to 100-degree Las Vegas heat just to clothe and feed his kids and contribute to the Lord’s great cause. The burden was too great for him to bear alone. Like my Mormon pioneer ancestors, I squared my shoulders and pushed onward.

  Verlan didn’t have much to give me physically or emotionally, but he did praise me. And he needed me; I could see that. I was gifted with being fast, organized, and able to multitask. I knew we were living through the toughest years. The boys would soon be old enough to go to work and help support their brothers and sisters. Until then, I just couldn’t let Verlan down. I, too, would work for the cause and strive for heavenly glory. There was certainly none to be had on Earth.

  I also worked hard so Verlan would love me more, as he frequently promised to do. As much as ever, I wanted to be his favorite.

  IN JUNE 1967, my brother Douglas, who lived in Victor, Montana, decided to surprise me. He brought Mother, along with his wife and ten kids, to pay us a visit. All he had with which to locate us was a post office box number in Ensenada. When he inquired there, the postal clerk didn’t know any more about us than Douglas did, so Douglas set out to find us on his own. He knew we lived about six miles outside of Ensenada, so he searched every beach and housing area within that distance, hoping to locate us.

  This was only Mother’s second trip to Mexico to see me in fourteen years. They were disappointed when they couldn’t find us after driving all the way from Montana. But even after two days of looking, Doug wasn’t ready to give up. He traveled south out of Ensenada to the Chapultepec area, asking everyone who could understand English if they’d heard of us or knew our whereabouts. At 5 P.M. on the third day, he decided to give up the search and go home. Mother broke down crying, so Doug drove west to check one final beach.

  As they passed a big winery, Doug spotted two blond-headed boys trying to ride a burro. He stopped the van and yelled, “Do you boys speak English?”

  “Yes,” they answered, jumping off and leading the burro toward the van.

  As they approached, Doug turned to Mother and pointed to the tallest boy. “That’s got to be Irene’s kid. He looks just like I did when I was growing up.” Then he asked them, “Do you kids know an Irene LeBaron?”

  André, the taller one, answered shyly, “Sure, she’s my mother.”

  “Well, I’m your uncle Doug, your mom’s brother. Get in with us and show us where you live.”

  A few minutes later, the blue van pulled into the yard. André jumped out ahead of everyone, shouting into the house, “Mom, Grandma’s here!”

  When I looked out the open door and saw my mother’s now-frail form, I was astonished and grieved. She was an old woman. Her once-beautiful features were faded and wrinkled. She’d changed drastically in the seven years since I’d seen her last. But in a few moments, we were in each other’s arms, weeping and rejoicing that we were together again.

  I was so very glad to finally see a part of my family again. I’d longed for them deeply throughout the years, but my circumstances made it impossible for me to see them except on rare occasions. Even when I got to, there was so much I couldn’t tell them. On this visit, we spent five wonderful days trying to catch up on years of experiences.

  At one point, when Mother and I were alone, she launched onto the topic I’d so long dreaded discussing with her. “I’m glad you at least have electricity,” she said sadly. “I was worried that you’d be scrubbing on a board.”

  How thankful I was that I now had a Maytag washer.

  “How do you stand the constant noise from all the children? Irene, how have you been able to make it through all of this?” The grief on her face made her look even older.

  I told her the sort of lie all good daughters tell their mothers about their most egregious mistakes. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I assured her. “It’s only made me stronger.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  In April 1968, at the age of thirty-eight, Verlan came home from a church conference held in Colonia LeBaron. He had that certain glint in his eye. “I have wonderful news to tell you!” he said. “After the final meeting at conference, Brother Ray asked to talk privately with me. His fourteen-year-old daughter, Susan, wants to marry me. What do you think about it, Irene?”

  I was stun
ned. “Verlan, she’s too young. Why, she’s only two years older than our own daughter Donna!”

  He’d thought of that and had a quick answer. “So it’s got to be from God, Irene. Who else at that age would even consider me? This is a blessing straight from Heaven! Susan will be such an asset to our kingdom. Ah, come on, Irene. Please don’t cry.”

  How could I help it? I was now thirty-one and my looks were fading. Whether he thought so or not, Susan was a tremendous threat to me—her beauty, her youth. Mostly, I was sick and tired of sharing the one and only man for whom I’d given up my whole life. I felt jealous, hateful, and thoroughly uncooperative. I’d coped all these years, struggling just to survive, and now he was marrying one of Donna’s friends for me to compete with.

  Verlan grew more concerned because he could see my depression deepening. “Please don’t look so sad. You know I’ve never courted anyone, have I? Somehow, God just sent each of you to me. Please don’t give me problems, Irene. I’ve got to have you stand behind me.” He wrapped my sobbing body in his arms. “Oh, honey, don’t get silly ideas. This won’t change the way I feel about you one bit. Please, give me your permission.”

  Our circumstances were worse than ever. But I’d sworn to take this man for better or for worse. What else could I say? “It’s up to you, Verlan,” I said halfheartedly.

  During the following months, though I was reluctant, it was gratifying to be doing my duty and seeing Verlan happy. Susan came from Chihuahua to visit. At least she got to see what she was getting herself into. And, for some unknown reason, I found I liked her.

  They’d decided to be married in October at our church’s next general conference in Colonia LeBaron. By then, she’d be fifteen. When the time approached, Verlan began making the required arrangements. Which wife would get the traditional privilege of placing Susan’s right hand in his? Esther was still in Los Molinos. Charlotte and Lucy were off at their jobs in San Diego. It was easy for his fourth wife, Beverly, to make her choice. She had just moved into the new addition Verlan made for her. She would rather tend all the kids by herself than give Verlan a new wife. She wanted no part of it.