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Poem for a Prophet

I cannot breathe today,
stagnant air burning my lungs,
my mind mired in sorrowful yesterdays,
So
many
wasted
days and anger cemented in my mind,
spackled mud on the toes of a child
who is carefree laughing full of joy
Not me, anyone but me.

Your dark and twisted philosophies of love and life
shadow me throughout my days and I cannot
shake
them
off
no matter the care I take
in long sandpaper showers and scrubbing
my skin raw with soap,
it bleeds between my fingers
and sticks in my mind.
The mud won't wash off.

Why I cannot rid myself of this darkness you call glory
and mockery you sing hymns about,
seems most apparent in your everyday life, when
time stands still and you dress up in
your
blue
suited
Sunday best and make your way to
a building I cannot even fathom,
to a world I will not join
and a life I cannot embrace.
I don't belong.

You cannot touch me there, anymore, that deep
abyss I reserve for truth and you
amaze me still that giving up is the last thing
you will ever do, trying once again to
swallow
me
whole
in your words and your ironies and your
twin knives of love and harmony.
Your temple is my nightmare, your endowments
the very last thing I will ever touch.

I will destroy myself first, slowly and methodically,
drink acid from a rusted cup, recite nonsensical
prose and utter foolishness, and pass it off as
bright,
glorious
praise.
I shed my clothes and revel in a naked dance
of sex and lust and bodies intertwined and only
now does my future appear before me,
possible at last.

---

"Will you love your brothers or sisters likewise, when they have committed a sin that cannot be atoned for without the shedding of their blood? Will you love that man or woman well enough to shed their blood?. . . I could refer to plenty of instances where men have been righteously slain, in order to atone for their sins. I have seen scores and hundreds of people for whom there would have been a chance (in the last resurrection if there will be) if their lives had been taken and their blood spilled on the ground. . . This is loving our neighbor as ourselves; if he needs help, help him; and if he wants salvation and it is necessary to spill his blood on the earth in order that he may be saved, spill it. . . That is the way to love mankind."

—Brigham Young, second president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
(Deseret News, Feb. 18, 1857.)

---

Chapter One

I was six years old the first time I had an inkling God would not always protect me.

My parents raised their children according to the strict tenets of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. What was offered to us as truth was simple: all one had to do was be baptized, pay a faithful tithe, and follow the teachings of the Lord's prophets—nothing too difficult, even for a first-grader to grasp. I swallowed it dutifully, wholeheartedly, relieved that life was simple and easy. I knew the difference between right and wrong. I knew the basic truths of God's plan for us. I felt comfortable and assured that I would wake up the next day knowing exactly what to expect.

On a sunny, warm April afternoon in 1972 my friend Cindy Caldwell and I blissfully played on their property, two miles from the nearest house. Eight-year-old Cindy had picked me as her best friend in the Farmington Fifth Ward, despite our two-year age difference. I had a serious case of hero worship.

Our playground was two acres of big boulders, trees and brush and lots of places to hide—a child's paradise. We'd received permission to go there from Cindy's mother, who was grateful for anything to distract us so she could plan her Relief Society lesson.

We knelt by the side of the shallow, ice-cold creek that flowed down from high up in the Wasatch Mountains. By the time it reached us—near the valley floor—it had divided many times, and was now no more than a small stream of water. We dipped our Barbies into the swimming hole we'd formed for them by damming up the water with rocks and twigs. The older and wiser Cindy explained to me the consequences of being baptized, something that had happened to her just a month before.

". . . And when you get baptized, you can't sin anymore, 'cause God won't automatically forgive you." She gave me a knowing look. "You don't have to worry about that yet, Alli. You still have two more years."

"What's a sin?"

"A sin is when you do something really bad, like steal something, or touch somebody's private parts. After you get baptized, if you do that stuff, you have to repent and tell the bishop."

I was quiet as I digested this information. I thought of the time several weeks before when my good friend Bernice Franklin and I had explored each other's girl parts while we played doctor. I remembered it felt really good when Bernice touched me there, and I squirmed with the memory. Feeling good was a sin? I was in deep trouble.

I also did not want to have to tell our bishop about my sins. Bishop Harwood was a big, loud, jovial man with shiny red cheeks, almost no hair on his head, and great tufts of it everywhere else we could see, including his nostrils. It sprang from the dark holes like a big unruly hair forest, hiding all types of unknown beasts and vengeful creatures. I had a hard time looking at him without fixating on his nose and all the wiry hair that came out of it.

Our neighbor, Rodney Crowell, who was in my first grade class at school, spent the entire summer a year before trying to convince Bernice and I the bishop was a werewolf. I told my mother, and Rodney didn't come out of his house for a week. He never brought up the werewolf theory again.

"Now, when they baptize you, they do this," Cindy prattled on, apparently not noticing my discomfort. She took her Barbie and placed her in the water. "I baptize you, Barbie Caldwell, in the name of God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost."

She dipped her Barbie under the water and held her there.

"How do you keep from drowning?"

"Silly!" Cindy giggled as she pulled the doll from the water and shook it off. "They don't hold you down very long. They just dip you down and then lift you back up."

She moved from the side of the creek to the little chapel we had built a short distance away. "Now we need to confirm them. . . "

A crrrr-aaaackkk filled our ears, and we both jumped and screamed, as only little girls can. After our first shaken moments of terror, we looked at each other, and Cindy said "Ralph!"

Cindy's brother Ralph, sixteen and a bully, lived to torment us. He'd gotten his first shotgun for Christmas that year and was always up at the Caldwell property looking for rabbits, squirrels, birds, and other small creatures he could torture and murder.

"Ralph!" she yelled, standing up. Her knees were covered with dirt and little red dents from the pebbles we knelt on. She had her hands on her hips, like my mother did when she scolded us. "Ralph, where are you? You're gonna get it. When I tell Mom you shot around us with your gun, you'll never see it again! You know Dad will take it."

No answer came, no snicker, no sign of Ralph. I fidgeted with uneasiness, and realized I had to pee badly and the only toilet was far away.

Cindy looked around, shrugged her shoulders, and sat back down. As she reached for her Barbie, we heard the snap of a tree branch and we both jumped again.

"Knock it off, Ralph! Dammit! Mom's gonna kill you."

"You said a bad word!"

Cindy gave me an impatient look and turned back to the trees where we believed Ralph to be hidden.

"Is swearing a sin?" I needed to know, because my devoutly religious father swore all the time.

"Alli!"

We looked over to the area across the creek where we'd heard the noise, and I saw a sight that caused my heart to jump in my chest—the barrel of a rifle pointed directly at us. We couldn't clearly see the person holding the rifle because he wore camouflage, but he sported a dark beard peppered with gray. Ralph shaved once a month at best.

Slowly it hit me. This was not Cindy's brother.

We were going to die.

"Stand up," ordered the man. His unfamiliar gruff voice caused prickles of sheer terror to run up and down my legs and arms.

I couldn't move.

Slowly, Cindy stood up.

"Stand up!" he ordered again. Cindy grabbed me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. I'd sat too long, and my feet and legs had gone to sleep. Now pins and needles ran through them as the blood began to circulate. I couldn't help it—I hopped up and down trying to ease the pain.

"Knock it off, you little bitch!" he ordered. I couldn't stop dancing, and he lifted his rifle and aimed it directly at me. I think my heart stopped, and Cindy jumped in front of me, as though she were going to save me. He jerked the rifle up into the sky and fired a warning shot.

I peed my pants right then.

"Take off your clothes," he commanded. "Take them off now!"

We still could not see much of him besides his beard and the gun as he stayed hidden behind the tree and heavy brush.

"We won't take off our clothes!" Cindy said in a brave voice. "We won't. You'll have to kill us."

It was quiet for a moment. I imagined he was deciding whether or not he wanted to murder us. I was too young to consider any of the implications of our removing our clothes. Silently, I prayed, vowing fervently to never tattle again, never sneak cookies when I had been told no, never pick on my brother Kevin.

Please, God, please, don't let us die. Don't let the man kill us. Please save us. I promise I'll be good.

"All right," he yelled. "Little blond girl, you run. Run now. Run fast. Don't look back or I'll shoot you."

He meant me. Cindy had beautiful long brown hair that curled up at the ends. I hesitated. I wasn't going to leave my friend.

"No," I said in a squeaky voice, the loudest I could manage. "No. I won't leave her." I grabbed Cindy's hand and pulled her with me, and we ran. My shoes were loose, because Mom always bought them big so they would last. I lost them both as we ran and didn't dare stop to look back or to pick them up. Fleetingly, I thought of my mother and father. They would be mad I had lost my shoes. We didn't have much money.

I heard him crashing through the brush as he chased us. I held tightly to Cindy's hand, and I turned for just one second to see if he was close.

It was a mistake.

I tripped over a large root pushing up through the dirt, and the last thing I remembered was hitting my head on a large rock. When I woke up, cold, wet, and terrified, there was no sign of Cindy. Frozen with fear, I couldn't move, afraid the man was still there, afraid he would shoot me. I prayed silently, the same words over and over: Dear God, please save us. Dear God, please save us.

But there was no longer an "us." It was only me. Where was Cindy? How long I lay there I didn't know, but the cold, desperate fear that kept me unmoving gradually released its hold and I slowly, cautiously sat up. I looked around but could see no one.

"Cindy?" I whispered. "Cindy?"

She didn't answer. I moved my head slowly, and the world swayed as I sat up and looked around me.

"Cindy?" A little louder, but still no answer. The sun was setting now in the late afternoon sky, and soon it would be dark. Our mothers would be wondering where we were. Did Cindy go home without me? Was she tired of a littler girl tagging along with her?

I stood, all shaky, looking around carefully, watching for the bearded man with a gun.

"Cindy? Where are you?"

I heard a slight crack from behind me, like the sound a twig makes when somebody steps on it, and I whirled around but could see nothing. I walked backward away from the noise, Dear God, please save us, running through my head; and I mouthed the words silently. I heard nothing more, but knew someone was out there. Someone was watching and waiting for me.

Still walking backwards, I tiptoed off the pathway and into a copse of trees and bushes, heavy and scratchy. I tore my arms and legs on the brambles, and there was blood in my eyes from my earlier fall, but I didn't care. My fear numbed my pain. I settled down onto the ground in the bushes and waited, praying silently all the while, ignoring the tickles that could be bugs. I couldn't move.

I waited for Cindy to come back. I waited for God to save us. I waited.

---

"Cinnnnndy? Allllliissonn?" a voice called. A voice I recognized—my father.

It was dark now, and with each deepening shade of gloom my fear had intensified, but I couldn't move. Couldn't find my own way to safety.

"Daddy? Daddy!" I tried to jump to my feet and yell, but I couldn't keep my balance and I fell over again, the bushes and brambles scratching at me more. The sound of his voice released some of my fear; and I reached up and touched my head, feeling the deep wound that no longer bled. I'm hurt. Someone help me. My left eye was partially glued shut, probably from dried blood, and I squinted with my right, trying to compensate for my lost vision. All this I realized now that I felt rescue was close.

"Help!" I yelled. It came out as a squeak. "Daddy!" It wasn't very loud, but it was enough.

"Hey, Richard, over here," yelled another voice. I recognized it as belonging to Brother Jacobsen, one of our neighbors. He moved toward me, and the flashlight hit my eyes, momentarily blinding me.

"Oh, shit," he muttered as he picked me up, and I heard the voices as other searchers came to us. "Call an ambulance, she's hurt."

My body went limp as I rested in the comfort of his arms. Safe. I was safe. I heard the squawk of a radio and knew our local police force must be here also, although I had a hard time discerning the shapes that surrounded me—until one stepped forward.

"Allison, where's Cindy?" It was her dad.

"I-I don't know. I think the bad man took her." I felt responsible.

It didn't matter that I prayed, or that I ran—I had turned to look back and fallen. Now Cindy was gone. God must be terribly mad at me.

They took me to the hospital in Ogden. I screamed when the doctor came at me with the curved needle and must have passed out again. I woke up in a hospital room with my mother asleep in the chair by my bedside. The doctors and nurses were in and out of room many times during the night, and I heard whispered words I didn't understand. Their sad faces as they exchanged mournful glances with my mother made me feel all the more guilty and responsible. Everyone was sad—sad that Cindy was missing, I guessed, and because I was not. The beautiful girl with the brown curls should have been the one saved.

All I wanted to do was sleep. When they asked me where Cindy was, I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't know where she was, and that hurt.

"It was the man. The man with the beard. He shot his gun at us. He threatened to kill us if we didn't take our clothes off."

I told that same story to the police officer standing by the side of my bed the next day. He glanced uneasily at my father and Mr. Caldwell, Cindy's dad, and I was scared. Was he getting ready to arrest me? If I hadn't turned and looked, I wouldn't have fallen. Cindy might still be safe.

Soon after the policeman left, my parents took me home and put me in bed. They moved my younger sister Corrie's pillow and books to the room that, for the time being, she was forced to share with our youngest sisters, the Little Girls. She glared at me before leaving, and I turned away and tried to bury myself under the covers. My head throbbed and the gash on my forehead, which had required twenty-four stitches, ached and itched. I kept touching it, perhaps to remind myself I was still alive.

I fell asleep, and when I woke up I could hear a hushed voice through the partially open door.

"She hasn't asked about Cindy. . . No, I think she's in shock. . . No. . . No, not yet. . . Yes, she was. She was. . . "

My mother was on the phone. Her voice went quieter, and I could no longer make out the words. I got out of bed and wobbled across the floor, still dizzy and feeling sick to my stomach. My head throbbed with each step I took, and it seemed as if I walked miles before I reached the door. I opened it a little wider and slipped through, following my mother's voice to the kitchen. I stood in the doorway and listened.

"No, there's no sign of. . . no sign of rape or abuse. . . They found footprints that led to tire tracks. . . Only one set. They think he. . . ." Her voice cracked as she struggled to regain her composure. She glanced over to the doorway and gasped when she saw me standing there.

"I'll call you back," she said quickly into the phone and replaced it on the cradle. She hastily wiped away her tears and came toward me.

"Allison, honey, you need to get back in bed. You've been hurt. The doctor said you have to stay down for at least another day or two."

"Where's Cindy?"

She didn't answer. I asked again.

"Honey, we don't know," she said, her chest heaving as she spoke. My mother rarely cried, except at church services when the spirit moved her, and my heart clutched as I watched her agony. Her face was lined, her eyes deep and mournful, her dark brown hair spotted with gray. My mother looked old to me for the first time—old and very tired. The mother who had worn lipstick every day—"Always wear lipstick for your husband, Alli, even if you don't have time to do anything else"—was gone.

I remembered the boxes of Clairol hair dye on the kitchen counter next to the sink, my mother with her head under the tap, an old towel wrapped around her shoulders as she rinsed. I'd stood next to her with the ingredients, magical, mystical woman things that enhanced our "beauty" and made us "alluring," at least according to the box. I'd handed each thing to her as she asked for it, including the actual dye packet—in a color called Chestnut.

Now I realized I couldn't remember the last time she had colored her hair, or worn lipstick—even for church.

She was so sad, so sad for Cindy. But Cindy had just disappeared. These changes in my mother had been happening for a long time. Was this my fault? Had I disappointed her? Was Cindy's disappearance going to be the worst of all the things I had done?

No one was glad that I was safe and had not been stolen away, but I understood that. I let them down. I didn't save Cindy.

Mother reached up as if to wipe the tears again, but they were no longer there. She had become my mother again, the tired mother, and it was her job to protect me. She put on her "mother" face, the one she always wore when dealing with us children and our problems. It was her job to wipe our runny noses, to clean up the vomit and diarrhea, to bathe us and feed us.

My father went to work and came home, a hot meal on his table each morning and night. His job was to lead our household, to give us Priesthood blessings, to see we didn't stray from the teachings of the church. Should we become errant, it was also his job to see we were disciplined and led back into the fold. This often meant whippings with his belt, or any other item that was handy.

But my mother—she did the real dirty work. The cleanup. Sometimes that meant explaining why bad things happened, and convincing us that it really did hurt my father more than it hurt us. And often, that meant hiding our little indiscretions from the head of the household. In our tight-knit Mormon community, where everyone knew each other and spent hours of each week in meetings together, this often backfired on her, but she continued to do it. It was her job.

She hustled me back to bed, pulled the covers up to my chin and stroked my cheek before she left the room. Today there was no explanation. That meant things were really bad.

I knew she couldn't protect me. If God couldn't save us, the most powerful being in the Universe, what could I expect my mother to do?

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