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Show in my father's house/ 114 Singly, each of the men was warm and personable, smiling and hugging their way through the crowd, stopping to pat me on the head or lift me up to kiss a cheek. But as a body -- lined up on the blue sofa of the meeting hall or massed, as now, in a single room, this group of men who stood together outside the law radiated a power that was almost scarey. Usually, the men spoke of "the Other Side" and "the City of Enoch," or my father brought up group problems: Brother Oveson was having trouble with his number three wife. Brother Pratt had lost his job and his five families were going without. What could the brethren do to help them out? But today Brother Butchreit took the floor. Threats of another raid circulated -- directed this time at my father's group and my father's family in particular. My father spent most of the morning in meetings behind closed doors. The mothers moved red-eyed and quiet through dinner preparations. Sunday school felt empty without the men, the hymns sung like dirges, the prayers mournfully long. The day passed in a haze of worry until my father got a call from a sympathetic policeman who said that another polygamist round-up was in progress. He explained that all children born since my father's prison term must be taken beyond the borders of the nation, for we were proof of his broken agreement with the state. We had only hours to get away. My mother's voice was like an out-of-tune piano. "I can't |
