The 19th Wife (54 page)

“Start with his wrists.”

“I can’t.”

Alton pushed the gun into my mouth and told me to kneel. “I think you can.”

Tom took the rope and began measuring off a section.

“Now, Jordan,” said Alton. “Put your arms together, wrists facing, and stick out your hands…. That’s right, just like that. Now you, tie them up. Make it tight.”

Tom looped the line around my wrists. “Jordan, I’m sorry,” he said.

I tried to say it was OK but the gun barrel was heavy on my tongue.

“Guys, no talking.” When the line was tight around my wrists, Alton said, “Now tie up his ankles.”

“Why are you doing this?” said Tom.

“Just do what I say.”

He stood up. “First I need to know what’s going on.” Alton pointed the gun at Tom.

“Tom, do what he says.”

“Why should I?”

Alton pressed the gun to my chest. “Because you and I both don’t want to see his heart splattered across your nice pair of khakis.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Are you really willing to risk finding that out?”

“Tom, please, do it.”

Tom stood in place, his eyes burning. Then his jaw slackened and the light in his eyes went out. “All right.”

“You, Jordan, lie down on your side so he can tie up your ankles.”

In five minutes I was looped together with forty feet of laundry line.

“You’re next,” said Alton. He yelled back into the house: “Queenie! I need you.”

When she saw me she gasped. “Jordan, my God!”

“Honey, tie him up.” He pointed to a yellow nylon rope, then to Tom.

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine.”

“Queenie,” I said.

“Don’t talk to him,” said Alton.

She tried to ignore me, turning her head in the opposite direction, but our eyes met. She was scared, I could see that. Otherwise I had no idea what was going on. She got busy with Tom’s wrists, then ankles. Soon we were both lying on our backs. “Now tie them together,” said Alton. “At the ankle and wrist.” We had to turn to face each other, then she tied up our hands. She was out of rope so she used a bungee cord to loop our ankles together. By the time she was done we were so close together I could feel his breath on my face. “Romantic,” I said.

“Now gag them.”

“Please, don’t do this,” Tom tried.

“Gag them.” He handed her two rags, strips from an old flannel shirt. Tom resisted, shaking his head and sealing his lips. Alton laid his fingers around my throat. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Queenie gagged me next. There was no way she could do it without looking at me. Before she could get the rag in my mouth, I managed to say, “Why?”

“Honey, don’t talk to him. Pretend it’s someone else.”

When she was finished Alton checked the knots. “Good job, everyone.” He left the room.

The line pressed hard into my skin, and the gag made it difficult to breathe. But more than that was the fear. I suppose for everyone there’s a moment when you realize you’re about to die. For some people, the moment is extended over the course of a long illness. For others, it’s just a few seconds before a flash. For my dad, it must’ve come once he saw the gun. Even people who die instantly, they must have a tiny, immeasurable moment of awareness. I like to think that. It seems only fair. And now here was mine. I didn’t know how much time I had left, but I understood very clearly I would not survive the night. Tom had been very still until now. He saw me crying and his eyes filled too.

“I’m really very sorry about all this,” said Queenie.

I looked at her. “Queenie!” called Officer Alton from the living room. “Let’s go.”

“I’m coming.” She touched my cheek. “I never thought it would be like this.” She kissed my forehead and her lips were warm. “You too,” she said to Tom, stroking his ear. “You take care of him, all right? Give him what he deserves.”

Tom yelled, the gag muffling his words.

“Don’t yell,” she said. “We can’t leave if you’re yelling.”

“Queenie!”

“I’m coming.” At the door she waited another moment, looking at us, her face flat with pity. “Good luck.” She turned out the lights and shut the door.

I heard the front door close, then car doors slam, an engine turn. Tires on gravel. In my mind I could see the patrol car backing out of the drive, headlights sweeping the yard. I could see it as if I had seen it in a movie; everything about the scene was that clear. When Alton’s cruiser was gone, the only sounds were Tom and me trying to breathe. It was too dark to see his expression, but his eyes were glowing. One of his fingers found one of mine. They clasped together, locked at the knuckle. I’m sorry, that’s such a bunch of corn, but that’s how it went—lying there on the concrete floor, bound and gagged, we reached out, our fingers found each other, and they linked. We were alone like that for a long time.

After some time we heard a car out front and a door slam. Then footsteps in the house. This is it, I kept thinking. This is it. Here we go.

The door to the living room opened and a head peered around. A pair of silver eyes. A fish-faced look of surprise. It was the Prophet. And he was shocked to see me like this. Really shocked, not fake shocked. This wasn’t part of his plan. My face—well, I have no idea, but I bet I looked just as surprised. There we were. Two faces shaped by the same set of emotions at the same moment in time. We went on looking at each other for a while, saying nothing because there was nothing to say. That’s how it goes, right? Eyes meeting up like that. Through a slab of glass. In the cineplex dark. At the Malibu Inn. Eyes saying good-bye in a garage. Who’s to say what will come next? Who can say they know what it all means? You got to live with it. The not knowing. The wondering. The unanswered questions. The murk of life. You got to accept it—the why.

“Jordan,” the Prophet said.

I said, They set up my mom. Except because of the gag my words were lost in my throat.

“What’s this all about?”

I said, My mom. It’s about my mom. Except I sounded like someone shouting into a towel.

I don’t know how long we stared at each other like that. Tom’s back was to the door. He was trying to maneuver himself to see who was there. He said something, but what?

The way the Prophet was peering around the door, I could see only his head and a hand. A dried spotted hand, knuckles yellow and white. And that sunken, tired face. An old man. Almost any old man.

The Prophet left, the door closing. The ghost of his face remained, hanging in the space where he’d been, an afterimage, or maybe even a dream. Then it too was gone and Tom and I were alone on the cold concrete floor.

June 12, 2006

President and Prophet Gordon Hinckley

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

50 East North Temple

Salt Lake City, UT 84111

Dear President Hinckley,

I want to thank you for making the Church Archives available to me. My research into the complicated legacy of Ann Eliza Young and the end of LDS polygamy has been invaluably aided by the wealth of documents I was able to study thanks to your intervention. I hope you agree that your decision to open previously sealed records has been beneficial to our understanding of our history. I know some people think these matters should be left alone, but I have always found inspiration in the title of your book,
Truth Restored.

With your help, I have completed my archival research and will soon begin writing my thesis. I look forward to sending you a copy when I submit it for graduation next April. My conclusions may not be what you expect, but I can assure you they have been reached through careful study of the record.

I also want you to know how helpful Deb Savidhoffer of the Archives has been. She is a friend to scholars, and to our beloved Church. I owe her much indeed.

Most Gratefully Yours,

KELLY DEE

Candidate for Master’s Degree

Brigham Young University

I HAD NO IDEA

I know I need to explain what happened. It’s pretty simple. You probably figured it out on your own. After two hours in the garage, Sister Karen found us. She knew something was wrong when we didn’t come for the dogs. When she saw us like that—tied up on the concrete floor—she cried out in terror. That’s how I know she didn’t have anything to do with it. It’s hard to fake fear.

Once she got over the shock, she started working to free us. First the gags. The old flannel pulled from my mouth. We told her what happened as she tried picking the knots loose. The knots wouldn’t give. “In my pocket,” I said, “I have a little knife.”

She pulled out Johnny’s knife and started cutting Tom free, then me. As she worked she told us what she knew. “You don’t know what’s going on, do you? I helped them escape tonight, Hiram and Queenie. The Prophet was coming down hard on them because Brother Hiram hadn’t taken another wife.”

“He just married someone.”

“No, the Prophet was pressuring him to marry a girl, but he wouldn’t, he loved Queenie too much. They knew they had to leave. It nearly killed them, but they had to go.”

That didn’t explain everything. “I guess it doesn’t make much sense,” Sister Karen said. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“I don’t know.”

On our way out we found the note on the living room sofa. I could’ve walked by it, but something told me to look over and there it was.

Jordan,

I never wanted to do anything like this to you but by the time you find this we’ll be on our way and everything will be better that way. I’m sorry for doing this to you. And Tom. He seems like the nicest guy in the world.

I love you,
Q

The second note arrived three days later at the Lincoln County Sheriff ’s Office, postmarked Denver. It’s all we needed for this to end.

Sheriff,

In regards to the death and murder of Brother Scott, husband of Sisters Rita, BeckyLyn, and etc., I’m the one you want. He was about to marry my wife. The Prophet didn’t like me not having more wives. As punishment he was taking Queenie away from me and giving her to Brother Scott. She went to see him that night to talk him out of it. I followed her and was real pissed. I didn’t plan on anything, but outside his door I heard him saying all sorts of things you don’t say to another man’s wife, and I lost my head. I picked up his Big Boy and shot him. I don’t know why he had that suppressor on the gun but he did. It took as long to kill him as it took me to write this sentence. He was gone. I didn’t intend any of this. We slipped out the well window. No one saw us come and no one saw us go. I was always surprised they didn’t notice the open latch. Queenie had nothing to do with it. We never wanted Sister BeckyLyn to take the heat. We figured they’d never know who did it, so many had their reasons that they’d never arrest anyone over it. I was really upset when they arrested Sister BL. That’s not how we meant it. The only reason we tied up Jordan and his friend was because they were stopping us. We were planning on leaving tonight anyway and sending this note so the truth could be known and Sister BL could go free. That’s how it happened, I swear by my love of God. How can you be sure? I was careful to leave prints all over this note. They’ll match those others you have on the Big Boy and all over the basement. I know you’ll try to find Queenie and me but I’ll tell you now, you never will. Feel free to start in Denver. Be my guest.

HIRAM ALTON
Formerly of the Firsts

THE
19
TH WIFE

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION

Since the publication of
The 19th Wife
some thirty-three years ago, the Mormon Church has been forced to denounce its belief in plural marriage. Before his death in 1877, Brigham ordered his followers to fight until the Day of Judgment for the right to pursue their faith in full glory. This included the doctrine of plural marriage. He anticipated a future day when many pressures, from both outside and within, would persuade some Saints to abandon the doctrine for the sake of political and cultural expediency. He warned them never to succumb: “For the doctrine, as far as I know it, and as far as Joseph knew it, is and always will be the Word of God. Let no man tell you otherwise.”

When Brigham passed on that hot August afternoon, felled by cholera morbus, his final word of life was a quiet call to his friend and Prophet. “Joseph,” Brigham cried out. Then he was gone. He left behind a household of an unknowable number of wives and children—many of them estranged friends of mine—and an estate worth tens of millions of dollars. His unusual will categorized his wives into an inheritance pyramid, with Amelia, his favorite, placed proudly at the peak. Beneath her, the few favored wives. Beneath them, those he visited from time to time. And so on. The many wives he had abandoned in every sense but name received nothing more than lifetime room and board at the Lion House. That would have been me.

Brigham’s legacy includes a vast colonization of the American West. In thirty years he erected an efficient, far-reaching civilization whose institutions stand as solidly as those in countries with five hundred years of history before them. He organized the immigration of more than seventy-five thousand men, women, and children to his desert kingdom, many of them penniless foreigners who had no hope in their original lands. Often Brigham waged peace with the American Indian, at a time when other national leaders preferred execution to accommodation, and thus set an example for our nation’s future relations with our Native friends. Most important to him, I am sure, he provided spiritual comfort and moral direction to thousands of needy souls. These are few among his many achievements. They must be noted by all.

Yet upon quitting life on Earth, Brigham left another legacy, one of a darker, more ominous variety—a fervid population of Saints determined more than ever to defend polygamy.

Not surprisingly, Brigham’s death heartened those fighting for the abolition of marital bondage, whether they lived inside Utah or out. The next decade brought about unprecedented changes in federal law, each a deeper nail in polygamy’s coffin. By 1890, only thirteen years after Brigham’s passing, President Wilford Woodruff, the fourth leader of the Latter-day Saints, recognized his Church was on the wrong end of a national moral battle. A savvy politician, he also understood Utah would never achieve statehood as long as the Mormons practiced polygamy. In his famous Manifesto of September 1890, he denounced polygamy forever, declaring it no longer the will of God. When I first read of this change, I was elated, believing the institution was at last dead. How wrong was I!

As they say, once a polygamist always a polygamist. A number of distraught and confused Saints denounced President Woodruff for abandoning the doctrine they held most dear. These dissenters included my brother Aaron, whose harem sweet Connie still ruled, and my half-sister, Diantha, whose husband had married in total six cheerful, youthful women, Diantha being the exception. After unsuccessfully petitioning the Church to reverse its position, Aaron and his followers broke from the Latter-day Saints, establishing themselves as the First Latter-day Saints, with their capital in the remote outpost of Red Creek, in the southern portion of Utah, just across the Arizona border. Here they remain today, practicing a faith they claim to be the true religion of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. Polygamy stands at the center of everything they believe. The enmity between the Firsts and the leaders of the Mormon Church in Salt Lake will remind many of the animosity between the Reformation’s Protestants and the Bishops denouncing them from the palace balconies of Rome. The full story of this new religious splintering has yet to be told. Many years must pass before we understand the outcome of this divide.

In recent years, it has come to light that many Latter-day Saints, including members of the leadership, have continued to marry plural wives in secret. In public they decried it, in private they swooped up wives numbers one, two, and three. Under pressure from Congress and elsewhere, in 1904 President Joseph F. Smith, the Mormon Church’s sixth leader and nephew of the Prophet Joseph Smith, had to issue a Second Manifesto, reinforcing the Church’s stance against polygamy. In this Manifesto, the Church warned its members that any man or woman caught in a plural marriage would face excommunication—the one fate all Saints feared. (I should know.) And yet, even today, stories of the man with a dozen wives upstairs continue to pour forth from Deseret. Although these abundant households are no longer sanctioned by the Church, they continue to exist. How can this be? Some leaders of the Mormon Church today are secret polygamists themselves, and thus they willfully look the other way.

Now, with the debate over polygamy revived, and commanding much of our nation’s attention once again, I offer here a revised edition of my life, taking into account my full journey from daughter of polygamy to emancipator. I humbly offer these memories and political ideas to my Dear Readers everywhere, hoping they will sustain the women of Utah, now hidden from view, who continue to live in conjugal chains.

—Ann Eliza Young, 1908