I saw an SUV with California plates approach. I stepped out and flagged the car down. It slowed and we ran to the window. A young couple sat inside, the back of the car filled with all kinds of equipment.
“Where are you two going?” the woman asked. She had black hair gathered into a messy ponytail and a colored snake tattoo on her arm. Her nostril was pierced clean through with a silver ring. I had never seen anyone like her before, but I was not in a position to be fussy about who we rode with.
“As far as you’ll take us,” I said.
“Climb on in, I’ll open the back,” the young man said. He walked around to the tailgate and lowered it, making room for us. “I’m Mark, this is my girlfriend, Blair. We’ve been shooting a nature documentary up in the red rocks. We’re going back to California,” he said, offering me his hand.
“We’re headed in that direction too. I’m Brenda,” I lied, using the first name that came to mind. “And this is my sister, Leigh Ann.”
We climbed into the back of the car and crawled beneath the furniture blankets that Mark gave us for warmth. When we began driving, I saw that Marianne had already fallen asleep. Exhaustion settled over me and I didn’t fight it, letting it take me and pull me into the numbness of slumber, safe behind tinted windows as we hurtled along the highway, the lights of Moab receding behind us.
An hour or so later, we stopped at a Circle K convenience store at the side of the road and Blair turned to me. “You two want anything inside?”
“I have money,” I said, jumping out the back of the car to join them. I didn’t want to seem like freeloaders taking advantage of their kindness. We left Marianne in a deep sleep in the car.
Inside the store, I wandered the aisles while Blair and Mark used the restroom. The clerk was a skinny, pockmarked man who smoked a cigarette, dropping the ashes into a Styrofoam cup. On the television behind him, I heard a newscaster’s voice and I stopped cold in my tracks.
“The police raid this morning on the FLDS community of Pineridge here in the Utah desert has ended with the arrests of Kenton Barton, the self-proclaimed prophet, and his brother, Wade Barton, as well as a score of others. After finding several underage girls pregnant, Children’s Services was brought in and many of the youngsters were taken from their homes and put into protective custody.… ”
The images of Uncle Kenton and Wade, handcuffed and being put into a police car, filled the screen. There had been a raid! How could such a miracle have occurred? Perhaps there truly was a God in heaven who listened to the prayers of those without hope. I thought of Ann Marie, who paid so dearly for her attempt to get away from the misery of her life with Wade. She would be free now. The newscaster moved to talk with a pretty, dark-haired woman in a business suit.
I stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear myself away, my heart pounding wildly.
“This is attorney Lucy Miller, who was instrumental in getting warrants to go into Pineridge. How did that transpire? What tipped you off to the possible abuses that are now being investigated by the authorities?”
Then Mrs. Miller said the words I had not allowed myself to imagine could be true.
“I was contacted by a young man who had been expelled from Pineridge. He was physically assaulted by a group of men and left for dead in the desert. He was told that his fourteen-year-old girlfriend was going to be married against her will to the middle-aged brother of the man who calls himself the prophet of this community, Kenton Barton. We’ve been hearing about these kinds of cases for years, but as these are closed, insular communities, it is very hard to get a way inside. But this young man showed tremendous courage, giving us names and details of criminal activities that have been taking place as well as other cases of underage girls being forced to marry.”
“And where is that young man now?”
“He has since left the state for his own safety. We were hoping to get to Pineridge in time to find the girl he loves, but so far there is no sign of her. We are continuing the search for her.”
Joseph John was alive! And he had been trying to help me from the outside, even in my darkest moments when I thought everyone had forsaken me! He had been with me all along. He was out there somewhere, waiting for me. And I would find him.
Then photos of Marianne and me with our fair hair and FLDS clothes flashed on the screen. I flinched and bumped into Blair and Mark, who had come up behind me, but I had been too engrossed in the news story to notice them.
The newscaster continued, “If anyone has any information on these two missing minors, Alva Jane Merrill and Marianne Ludie Jaynes, please contact the Utah police department.”
I looked to Blair and I could see in an instant that she knew we were the missing girls. I didn’t want the store clerk to catch on so I moved quickly to the counter with a pack of chewing gum. As Mark paid for their purchases he casually asked the clerk, “So what do you think will happen to those two girls when they find them?”
The clerk snorted. “They’ll take ’em back to their parents, where they belong. This is about freedom of religion. Those people should be allowed to practice their faith in peace; they’re not hurting anyone. This is Utah, people understand that here. The charges won’t stick.”
Blair and Mark exchanged a troubled glance but said nothing.
We walked to the car in silence. I climbed in the back wishing we had never stopped, that they had never seen or heard anything of us. Mark closed the door behind me. I heard them talking outside; they were arguing. I pressed my ear to the window to hear what they were saying. Their voices carried and my heart sank.
“We can’t just drive away with them, they’re minors! We could get into a lot of trouble!” Mark said.
“If two little girls are hiding by the side of the road late at night, they must be getting away from something pretty damn bad! You heard what the clerk said, they’ll be sent back to their parents who were trying to marry them off!”
“You don’t know that. We’re dropping them in Salt Lake City.”
I couldn’t listen anymore. We had gotten so close to freedom; I could feel it just beyond our reach. Mark and Blair climbed into the front seats, and then Blair turned to me.
“Okay, I figure you are the girls they mentioned in that newscast. If the police are looking for the two of you, we need to know the truth of what is going on.”
I saw Mark looking at me in the rearview mirror as he started up the car and began driving. I had to trust them. The road ahead of us was long and the night was deep, silent. I gathered my thoughts for a moment and then I began. I told them my story. I told them everything.
The road disappeared, the car covering mile after mile as my words poured out, filling up the spaces around us in the closed interior. Mark and Blair said nothing.
I saw the road signs for Salt Lake City and I braced myself for what I knew was coming. They would stop to hand us over to the Utah police, and after that, we would be back in the nightmare we had so narrowly escaped, just like the store clerk said.
Mark slowed the car as we approached the turnoff for Salt Lake, then pulled to the side of the highway, the engine idling. He looked at Blair, he looked at me, and then he said, “I think we should drive straight on through to California. What do you think, Alva?”
I stared at them in disbelief.
California. Another world. Another life. Freedom.
“I think that’s a very good idea.”
Mark stepped on the gas and we pulled back onto the road, disappearing into the inky blackness of the desert night.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE FUNDAMENTALIST LATTER DAY SAINTS ARE A VERY secretive and insular community, marked by a sense of persecution and being outside the boundaries of general American society. As such, it is quite difficult to access information about their customs and practices, apart from the accounts of members who have abandoned and fled the FLDS. I read many accounts of women who had been raised in the FLDS and subsequently left, and their stories were shockingly s
imilar, from British Columbia to Utah to Arizona to Mexico.
The wording of the sealing ceremonies or marriages described in Keep Sweet were drawn from Elissa Wall’s courageous book, Stolen Innocence, accounting her own forced marriage to her cousin. The words of the character of the prophet, Uncle Kenton, were inspired by transcripts of FLDS texts and sermons. The disciplining of Sister Ann Marie Barton was based upon an account of a woman who witnessed such an event as a girl in an FLDS community. I spoke to a former FLDS member who requested that I do not mention her name or even her initials, given that she still has many relatives living inside the FLDS. I gathered together details and inspiration from all of these stories to weave together Alva’s experience in the fictional Pineridge and Brotherhood of the Lord; any similarity to any real or living person is coincidental.
Acknowledgments
AS WITH ANY BOOK, THERE IS THE ACTUAL WRITING of it and there is the research and preparation as well as the managing of the rest of one’s life to find the time and psychological space to write. I have many people to acknowledge in all of those areas. As far as research is concerned, I would like to thank all the courageous women who have left the FLDS and shared their stories, helping to bring awareness to the struggle of young girls who are powerless in these communities. My amazing editor at Simon Pulse, Anica Rissi, had the talent and wisdom to guide me to tell Alva’s story in the most moving and effective way. Her input made this book immeasurably better and made me a better writer as well. My book agent, Kevan Lyon, believed in this book, and her support and understanding of this story were instrumental in finding the right home for it. My mother, Dorita, babysat on countless afternoons, making it possible for me to sit behind a closed door in my office and work. Father Mark Weitzel and Elaine Loke allowed me access to the little room at the top of the stairs overlooking the altar, when quiet time and space were impossible to find. I was able to get so much good work done in that blessedly peaceful environment. Thank you to Joseph Sharp, a fellow storyteller, whose miraculous reappearance brought with it support, encouragement, and conversation over coffee, Fight On. And to brave Sadie and Hadji, Fidel and John Moore, who guarded the house and the home fires while I tapped away on a keyboard late into the night.
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