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 unclipped 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.
My cousins picked me up, and as we made our way up the canyon, I was awed by the changing colors. We spent the day hiking, picking wildflowers, and laughing. When it was time to turn back around and hike down the mountain, I felt suddenly heavy and exhausted. There was such an element of expectation in being one of the Prophet’s wives. My future seemed joyless, and I was afraid of letting everyone down—not just my family, but all of my people. After I said good-bye to my cousins, I watched their taillights disappear into the distance.
Upon entering the house, I discovered that the Prophet was flying out to Short Creek that Monday, and I was to go with him. It had been determined in my absence that I would move to Rulon’s Hildale mansion because they had run out of room in his Salt Lake residence. Christine told me Rulon said he wanted to show off his new bride to the people.
I felt a strange glow, and while I was packing I got excited, in spite of myself. Even though this marriage wasn’t what I had dreamed of, perhaps I was genuinely appreciated. I remembered my father’s words and realized I had a choice—I could enjoy being married to Rulon or I could be miserable. I pondered that for a while, and my gaze rested on some flowers on the dresser. For my wedding, I had amassed a very large number of long-stemmed red rose buds, every stem wrapped with a note from each one of Rulon Jeffs’s children who were still at home, my students, and each of my seventeen living new sister-wives. The roses were beginning to bloom, and I realized it could represent a bouquet of love. I read several seemingly heartfelt messages from women I deeply admired and loved, including Christine and Ora. I was not used to people making such a fuss over me, but note by note, I began to feel accepted into the Jeffses’ home.
Christine, who thankfully would be accompanying me, suggested I bring the bouquet with me, to enjoy the beauty of the roses while it lasted. I felt like royalty holding them as Warren’s older brother from the same mother, LeRoy Jeffs, picked us up at the door in Rulon’s Lincoln Town Car to take us to the airport. There we would board the Learjet the FLDS leased for the Prophet to fly back and forth between Salt Lake City and Colorado City.
The pilots and staff were very respectful, and Wendell Loy Nielsen, known as Uncle Wendell, watched over the whole process carefully. While I had been on a Cessna with my dad, who was a pilot, I had never before traveled on a large plane—much less a jet. This one was stocked with an array of sodas and sugary junk food that most FLDS members were discouraged from stocking their cupboards with, which somehow added to the thrill.
Uncle Wendell fixed Rulon a Bloody Mary, and we settled in for the short flight. As we landed, movement outside caught my eye. Security guards lined up to greet Rulon, and I was soberly reminded of my duties as the Prophet’s wife. I decided I would do everything I could to be a caring Prophet’s wife among the people. Holding my bouquet, I carefully descended the stairs into the hot stillness of the southern Utah sun, secretly praying I wouldn’t trip.
We drove straight to the Jeffs property, where the Prophet’s home was located, a sprawling mansion, which, over the next seven years, would eventually entail six massive wings built into the shape of a giant letter P. Several hundred thousand square feet, the mansion was surrounded by a lush green lawn and hundreds of trees—an oasis of sorts in the middle of the desert town, totally encircled by gates, tall hedges, privacy fences, and security cameras. Eventually Seth, Nephi, and Warren would build houses on the property, creating a Jeffs family estate even more colossal than the Salt Lake City one. A prominent citizen of Hildale and member of the church had built much of the original mansion with his own money and labor for his family. I came to understand that Rulon acquired the house much as he had acquired his new home in SLC. He saw it, he wanted it, and despite the fact the man had built it to house his own family, Rulon got what he wanted—another perfect reminder that no one said no to the Prophet.
At dinner that night, all of Uncle Rulon’s “Hildale wives,” the overflow wives who did not fit in his Salt Lake City home, were just as kind and gracious as their city counterparts had been.
“Sit here by Father!” they cried, guiding me to the place of honor at his side. Again, the atmosphere during the meal was grimly quiet as we ate the fine food, but afterward there was plenty of chatter and revelry. I still didn’t know quite what to say, so I remained silent.
Abruptly, Rulon pounded the table to get our attention.
“So, ladies,” he drawled, patting his belly. “Are you ready for two more?” Marjorie and Christine, along with the other women, exchanged puzzled looks.
“What, Father?” someone asked. “Two more of what?”
“Two more wives!” he boasted, and beamed at us.
I felt astonishment ripple over me and through the room as I looked at the shocked faces around me.
“Yes, this Saturday,” he continued, “we’ve got two more coming: Helen and Rebecca Steed, daughters of Lawrence Steed.” He turned to me. “Three young ’uns! Isn’t that great? I told them you were on deck, and that they had to wait.”
I just sat there, mute. Christine stared, still horrified.
Marjorie glanced at us nervously. “How… exciting, Father!” she said, her enthusiasm sounding contrived. “I went to school with Helen.” The rest of the wives murmured niceties and congratulations to Rulon, but they kept glancing my way. Christine’s expression changed to one of pity and sorrow, but I couldn’t look at her any longer. My head felt like it was about to explode.
I turned my anger inward, on myself. You fool! You damn fool! And you thought you mattered? And what is this “on deck”? What the hell is that? Why had there been this great rush for me, then? Just when I had begun to think that I could do this—that I could fulfill my role as the Prophet’s wife—it’d been made clear that in my five-day-old marriage, I was simply another number. And there’d be another Rebecca? I wondered if I would be given a different name just like Ora had.
Staring down at my cup, my heart ached with a kind of pain I had never known. But I couldn’t show it. I knew quite well what was expected of me. As the Prophets taught, there was no room for jealousy in an eternal, Celestial marriage. Doing all the right things meant an increase in blessings in the world to come. In fact, not only was my husband likely to obtain even more wives on this earth; that number would increase exponentially in the hereafter, as it would for every man faithful to the Work. As the Prophet, then, he would marry thousands, if not millions, more women in the Celestial Kingdom of God.
I looked at the examples these women had already set for me—their kindness and charity. I had been taught that envy was a manifestation of evil, and the last thing I wanted was to be an ungrateful sister-wife, or anything resembling Mother Irene. I tried to alleviate the crushing sadness inside of me. Christine reached underneath the table and gripped my hand. I held on to it for comfort.
A little later I numbly helped wash dishes, eager to be excused. I left the room with as much dignity as I could muster, but as soon as I was out of sight, I fled down the stairs to my room. Flinging myself on the bed, I sobbed into my pillow like a little child, tears soaking the fabric. Not long after, Christine quietly let herself in.
“I don’t know why this happened, Becky,” she said, her expression filled with compassion. “God never gives you something you can’t get through.” Though she meant well, her words felt empty. God seemed to be overestimating my abilities.
A few days later, the entire Jeffs family came down to Short Creek. I was happy to see Paula, Cecilia, and Naomi, three of my sister-wives from Salt Lake. They were kind and bright to my face, but Christine told me later they had quietly asked, “How is Becky?” Not one of them openly expressed sorrow or indignation, though. Decorum wouldn’t allow that.
I was shocked by my own sadness. I certainly didn’t love Rulon Jeffs as anything more than my Prophet, and I had never wanted to be married to him. But something in my heart died that day. I had to throw away the authentic Becky, keep sweet, and do what was expected.
When Saturday night arrived, I joined my sister-wives in singing to the Prophet and his new brides: “We Are Blessed of the Lord to Be the Prophet’s Family.” My voice faltered, but I carefully mouthed the words. Rulon’s daughter Rachel, whom I had always looked up to as Warren’s assistant and a teacher, held my hand as we sang. We never spoke about it, then or even later, but I loved her forever for that gesture of kindness.
The weekend of the wedding, I helped out where I could, though I ducked out of much of the socializing. Later, I happened to walk past the kitchen, where I overheard my sister-wife Mother Ruth commenting to Mother LaRue that the two of them had been put out to pasture.
“It’s only a matter of time for the others,” she said plainly. That struck me hard. I could see how they were suffering from the pain of growing older as their husband added these new, exciting young brides to the family. They had done their duty—even bore him children and raised them. Yet day in and day out, he rarely acknowledged them.
As I pondered this, I realized I didn’t want to set myself up to be hurt like them—nor did I want to hurt another wife. I decided to set aside my own desire for love. That night I slammed the door shut on my heart and locked it tight.
Rulon and I headed to Salt Lake City with Helen and her sister to make their debut there. My honeymoon was over, and I would be heading back to Alta to teach. It had been decided that Rebecca Fern Steed would go by “Fern” because she had a middle name. I didn’t let it hurt to have the young wives come up to Salt Lake with us. I didn’t let it hurt that I was to be a Hildale overflow wife because Rulon had so many wives. I consoled myself with the fact that now that there were twenty-one wives, I would have to be on duty with the Prophet even less often. This unrealistic expectation would prove to be my downfall. I soon learned I would be forced to be with my aging husband twice a month or more. Out of the twenty-one wives, thirteen of us were among the group of Rulon’s “young wives.” It made me sick and a little angry inside to realize that he stayed only with his young wives at night—from Ora on down. He didn’t bother to bed or sleep with or even hold any of his older wives.
Warren Jeffs picked us up from the airport in the Town Car, and we settled into the backseat. My new relationship with my former principal was awkward. He was now my son, but I still called him Uncle Warren. It was strange to hear him call me “Mother Becky.”
Warren peered into the rearview mirror to see me sitting beside Rulon.
“Ooooh, Father!” he snickered, “there you are with your new young bride! Why don’t you give her a big kiss?”
I was shocked by Uncle Warren’s words, but even more so when Rulon put his arm around me and began to kiss me in front of everyone—and not the matter-of-fact kisses I had experienced so far. I pulled back from his slobbery lips and tongue with hot embarrassment and shame, as the girls to the side of me giggled nervously. I kept my eyes to the floor of the car almost the entire ride home, but at one point I glanced up to see Warren grinning lasciviously at me in the rearview mirror. The man who taught me that men and boys were snakes! I hated the confusion in my brain, but also I hated him in that moment, and how he made me feel dirty.