Seductive Poison (35 page)

Maria, Carolyn, and the boys’ room was more like mine, with bunk beds. But they had a private shower with a bench and a ledge holding bottles of shower gel, shampoo, and a razor with fresh blades. Several yards away was a single-unit one-seater latrine. I walked inside. It was silent … no furious green-tinted flies buzzing about. And next to the clean seat I saw a mirage, a roll of soft white toilet paper. The confiscated contraband taken from our luggage, earmarked for the elderly, was at my fingertips. What a treat to use this treasured item instead of the scraps of magazine pages we were allotted.

I walked away from their cloistered, secretive, and fenced-in world, feeling jealous. How come they lived better than the rest of us? My breathing became quicker, as I ran toward my cabin. How come we could not live like Father? Where, I wondered, was all the money going? Perhaps it was needed for another immigration. We had offered the Soviet Union a couple million dollars to allow us safe passage. I stopped my grumbling as I approached my own cottage. I was lucky, I reminded myself, to be in a privileged cabin.

Reaching my hut, I heard Lew’s tape deck playing.

“Hey, want a bite of an egg sandwich?” Lew proposed.

“Lew, how’d you get this?”

“Friend in the kitchen … Want a bite?”

Living with Father’s sons made my life a little more enjoyable. I trusted them, they could be funny, and for some reason Lew always had food.

As dusk descended, Father’s tired voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Tonight please, children, go to bed early; it’s been a difficult week and you need your sleep.”

“Well, thank you, Jim.” Stephan coughed as he hopped down from a bunk.

I jumped up in delight that we didn’t have a socialism class, and Lew’s contraband egg sandwich flew into the air. He yelled and our chase to save it aroused Tim and Jimmy from their bunks. The four of us made a sport of sharing what was left. Jimmy restarted the
Marvin Gaye tape, “What’s Going On.” Soft melancholy music drifted down around us as Beth strolled up.

“Alan, check out the sunset …” Lew gasped.

The evening sky had turned a brilliant magenta. We moved outside and sat on the stair. Lew hummed along to “Mercy, Mercy Me” and rubbed Beth’s neck.

We stared at the sky as it grew dark. With little noise the boys put on their fatigues and took off to protect the compound. Beth and I remained outside on the stair, listening to the voices of other residents bedding down for the night, no doubt relieved we had been given a night of rest. I thought of Papa and Annalisa, Tom, and Larry, who still remained in the United States. I wondered if any of them had written to me or had I, too, been forgotten, like my other Jonestown brethren?

Late that night, I had a dream. I was staring into the Pavilion. Beautiful green, red, and purple flowers were weaving their way through the Pavilion, through the fence and onto the wooden benches. Life was working its way back into our arid, deadened space. My eyes were fixed upon Father’s armchair and tears streamed down my cheeks. There were no flowers there. Not a single plant had risked attaching its tendrils to Father’s poisonous chair.

And just then the siren began to blast.

When I arrived in the Pavilion, Father motioned for me to join him in the radio room. I heard an angry voice demanding vehemently to speak with his mother and sister in Jonestown.

“I don’t want to speak with you,” the voice demanded. “I want my sister. I want my mother. Now! I want to hear from their own lips that they are being treated well.”

It was John, the young man whom Jim had taken under his wing and raised since age twelve and who had been in Panama.

Father was livid, but spoke in a kind and calming voice.

“Son, you must be under a great deal of stress. Why don’t you …”

The voice was disrespectful and interrupted Father. “Get my sister on the radio
now!”

There was a commotion and the mother and sister in question rushed in from the Pavilion, pale and with fear in their eyes. Father instructed them exactly what to say.

“He wants to know how you are. Tell him that you are very happy here.”

The sister spoke first. “I am very happy here …” The mike was snatched from her hands and put in front of the mother.

The angry voice softened … “Are you there of your own free will? Are you free to travel? Come back and I will care for you …”

Father told the mother what to say.

“I don’t understand why you’re questioning Father. We are very happy here,” she repeated.

Father got on the mike again. “You are welcome to come and visit us. You know, my son, that you are always welcome.” Again he was interrupted.

“I don’t give a damn what you say, I just want to speak with my family,” spewed the voice. “Don’t try and coach ’em. I heard you instructing them!”

The angry exchange continued until Father tired of it and moved the dial off frequency. The radio screamed loudly.

The room fell silent. Father slowly turned around to face me.

“You can never return,” he said. “He could harm you. He knows too much … your trips … the finances … He’s joined forces with the FBI.”

I remained very still and forced a resolute smile. I was to leave in another week. John knew I had gone to Panama and now I could never go home. I struggled desperately to hide my despair. We were 250 miles inside the jungle on a tiny portion of cleared land. All around us, imprisoning and concealing us from the civilized world, were hundreds of miles of impenetrable growth. Armed guards were now posted along the Jonestown road.

How could I have ever entertained the idea of an escape? As my last thread of hope disintegrated, a relief swept over me—Jim’s sons were on the security team. We had guns in the loft. If there was no escape for me, I could shoot myself.

14
Forsaking Mama

One day in early April, my fate took a turn. I reported to the radio room at 7
A.M.
to begin the day shift. Father, who had been on night shift with Carolyn and Maria, seemed unusually attentive to me as I entered the room. He smiled, grabbed me from behind, and rubbed my neck, his hands moving forward, then downward toward my breasts. “I look forward to your full report this evening,” he said.

“Of course, Father,” I replied obediently. Why was he so friendly? Now Maria would be mad at me. Sometimes I wondered if he did this on purpose.

He had made me, not Maria, the only liaison between himself and the capital and had become increasingly impressed with my ability to field questions, suggest alternatives, and solve problems. Just this week he had acted on my suggestion to send a new contingent to the Cuban Embassy. So far our shrill appeal for the Cubans to allow us to immigrate into their country had been met with reluctance. We’d explained that our agricultural project here was not fruitful and the American government was trying to hinder our progress by constantly attacking us. Tomorrow our PR staff at the capital would implore the Russian Embassy for asylum. Father had instructed them to offer the Russians several million dollars for our safe passage to Moscow. He was still trying to find safe passage for us into either Cuba or Russia.

By the time the day was at its hottest, I heard Father on the loudspeaker at his house. “Brigade’s about to begin.” I hurried outside and tied my laces; my boots now had two holes in them.
It was time to head out to the far field for “bucket brigade.” With the end of the rainy season we were having a drought. The sun glared down upon our desolate, man-made quadrant, the soil of which was no longer protected or moistened by the jungle. The tiny seedlings would wither and die if we did not soak them. Everyone who was capable of standing and walking was required to line up. The process was slow. One hundred of us, some old and wobbly, lined up alongside the jungle barrier. Mama, too, stood with us, not as far down into the field, but a laborer all the same. Our queue started just inside the curtain of foliage where a small river flowed by and it was in this reservoir of muddy water that buckets were dipped and passed from person to person down the long line and into the field. Each of us was careful not to splash the valuable asset from its container. Then, as Father watched, the last individual on the line would cautiously walk down the row and gently pour the sacred liquid onto one tiny green sprig. Wasting water was an offense!

As I carried my bucket to the next sprouting seedling, Father called out: “Where’s my report?”

I finished pouring the water on my plant and walked back down the brigade to him. “I gave it to Maria earlier when she came by the radio room.”

Jim looked at me quizzically and whispered into my ear, “Maria’s had a few uncomplimentary things to say about your reports. Perhaps you should join us later this evening in the radio room.” I could feel my stomach turn and I swallowed hard to keep from vomiting.

A little later, I reported to night duty with Father, Maria, and Carolyn as I had been instructed, and plunked down next to Maria on the couch. Jim sat in command, manipulating the dials on the ham radio, switching frequencies masterfully. Tonight, he was not asking for more guns to stave off the mercenaries, he was giving directives to the leaders in the San Francisco headquarters on how to answer the flood of investigative reporters’ questions. He discussed who in the city’s political caverns could be used for one more favor. I waited for Father or Maria to confront me, or at least clarify why I was there. By midnight, Father finally implored Maria to do or say something. She shrugged, shook her head as violently as any two-year-old, and continued to look sullen. Finally, Father seemed to take pity on me and excused me. A little baffled, I rose to leave the radio room when Maria mumbled after me, “Have a good trip.”

A good trip? All the way to my cabin? I turned toward the door and rolled my eyes.

“Deb, wait a sec …” Carolyn followed me outside. “There’re a couple of projects we need you to take care of. I want you to arrange for my tax clearance to Barbados. I have to travel there soon to take care of some financial business. We also want you to chaperone the youth group into the capital tomorrow. At 9
A.M.
”

My mind raced and I could feel my lip wanting to quiver, but I lazily cocked my head and furrowed my brow.

“But that’s in only nine hours,” I noted, trying to sound as calm and nonchalant as possible.

“Yes, I know.”

“What about the radio transmissions?”

“Maria will take ’em over.”

“I thought Ron was going in with the youth. He’s been working so hard on that comedy skit as part of the presentation at the convention center.”

“Jim doesn’t trust him and he won’t be able to go.”

“Oh …” I felt sick. I knew how hard Ron had worked on his production. His father had been a battalion chief in the Los Angeles Fire Department a long time ago. When he died, all his kids, including Ron, had gone berserk. Ron had become a heroin addict. But he had made some huge changes here. He was focused now.

“Carolyn? How come you don’t go?”

“I just don’t have the time right now. Besides, Jim wants someone to watch the folks in the capital. He’s concerned. Some of their work’s been sloppy, as you know, and he senses someone is about to commit treason.”

“Annie’d be good.” I’d say anything to hide my eagerness. My greatest fear at that moment was that the offer would be withdrawn, that my chance to accompany the youth group out of Jonestown would be denied in the end. I had never imagined such a stroke of luck in all my dreaming since the day I’d arrived.

“Annie needs to stay and monitor Jim’s health and take care of the boys at night,” she said adamantly. “Anyway, the decision has been made and Jim and I have chosen you. Plus, you look young enough to pass as one of the teenagers you’re watching. You’ll blend in. It’s extremely important that Jim has someone he trusts with them when they report to the embassy so that they won’t veer from our rehearsed script.”

“Who’s making them report to the embassy?”

“Well, apart from the conspiracy against us by the United States Government, their parents have joined forces with some mercenaries. You’ve heard them shooting at us at night—hired militia men, soldiers of fortune. What gets me is that they know this is Paradise, a dream come true for their children. But are they thankful? No. They just moan and complain to the press and the embassy. They were the selfish ones in the States and now they’re trying to rob their kids of a chance to live in a Utopian society. The fifteen kids we’ve selected will deny their charges personally at the embassy. They’ll refute all the lies their parents have leveled against us. Don’t you see, Debbie? What if one of them suddenly wants to go home? Jim can’t have just anyone accompany them to the embassy. It must be you.”

“Won’t it look odd, my just sitting there, watching? I don’t want to appear as if I’m their guard.”

“You’ll think of something clever. Father has entrusted this job to you. He’s confident you will serve us well.”

No one was assigned to the capital unless they had loved ones inside Jonestown. Father knew I would never forsake Mama.