Further Tales of the City (15 page)

M
ARY ANN TURNED ON THE SONY. “I’M AFRAID I’M
a little muddled. I’m not exactly sure where to begin.”

“It isn’t your fault,” said DeDe. “I haven’t let you play with a full deck.” The flesh around her eyes was so dark, Mary Ann observed, that she could have been recovering from a nose job.
What on earth had happened?

“Where are the children?” asked Mary Ann.

“Upstairs with Mother and Emma. I don’t want them here while this is happening. Any of them.”

“I see.”

“Frankly, I don’t know
what
you think of me at this point. I suppose you have every reason to regard me as a certified nut case.”

“No way.”

DeDe smiled feebly. “Well, it doesn’t get better, I can promise you. I suppose you already know that Jim Jones wasn’t a healthy man?”

“To put it mildly.”

“I mean physically, as well. He had diabetes and hypertension.
One of the women who slept with him told me he was supposed to have seventeen hundred calories a day, but he was hooked on soda pop and sweet rolls. He also had a chronic coughing condition.”

“I’ve read about that,” said Mary Ann.

“He coughed all the time. A lot of Temple members thought he was just taking on their diseases.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, he cured people, you know. Or he went through the motions, anyway. A lot of people looked on him as a healer. He would hold healing sessions where he’d pray for somebody who had, say, cancer … and he’d leave the room and come back a few minutes later with a handful of chicken gizzards which he said was the cancer.”

“You mean …”

“He had yanked the cancer right out of their body.”

“They believed that?”

“Some of them did. Others humored him, because they approved of his goals.”

“Like a lot of people here.”

“Yes. And a lot of those poor souls believed that he took on their disease as soon as he cured them of it. It was his way of going to Calvary. His illness was all the more pitiful—we were told—because it was really
our
illness, and he was bearing it for us.”

“How awful.”

DeDe shrugged. “You have no idea how noble it made him look at the time.”

“You weren’t buying it, were you?”

“The point is,” said DeDe, almost irritably, “the man was sick. Anybody could see that. It’s easy to look back
now
and see that a lot of it may have been psychosomatic or something … but it looked pretty damn real at the time. So did the arthritis. The swelling in his wrists and hands was quite noticeable. I was shocked the first time I saw it. I came into the nursery one day and found him with the twins …”

“There was a nursery?”

DeDe thought for a moment. “The Cuffy Memorial Baby Nursery, to be precise.”

“Cuffy,” repeated Mary Ann. “That’s sort of sweet, actually.”

“He was a black liberation leader in Guyana.”

“Right.”

“At any rate, Dad was … Jones was standing there in the nursery, holding little Edgar, singing something to him … with those huge swollen hands. It was pathetic and horrible all at the same time. I should’ve felt complete revulsion, I guess, but all I could feel was an odd sort of pity … and panic, of course. I moved closer to hear what he was singing, but it wasn’t his usual revolutionary anthem; it was ‘Bye Baby Bunting.’ ”

Mary Ann almost said “Aww,” but caught herself in the nick of time. “There must have been
something
decent about him or you wouldn’t have stayed so long. You didn’t even plan your escape, did you, until you heard about the cyanide?”

DeDe nodded. “Partly because of his illness, I guess. It made him seem less threatening, more vulnerable. And partly because I was … used to things. It was a shitty little world, but at least I knew how it worked. You know what I mean?”

Mary Ann nodded, flashing instantly on Halcyon Communications.

“The truth is,” DeDe continued, “I was an idiot. I actually cried when he called us together and announced that he had cancer.”

“When was that?”

“August, I guess. Early August. Later in the month, a doctor named Goodlett came in from San Francisco. He examined Jones and said he couldn’t find any cancer. He said it was probably some sort of fungus eating at his lungs. Anyway, he tried to get Jones to leave the jungle for proper tests to diagnose his illness, but Jones was terrified of leaving Jonestown even for a day. Charles Garry made special arrangements for him to have a medical examination in Georgetown—without getting arrested, that is—but Jones was afraid of a rebellion in his absence.”

“So he was still
thinking
clearly.”

“Always,” said DeDe, “when it came to keeping control. Of course, later that summer the addiction started. Quaaludes
mixed with cognac, Elavil, Placidyl … Valium, Nembutal, you name it. Marceline saw him falling apart before her very eyes and realized that something had to be done.”

“Who was Marceline?”

“His wife.”

“Right,” said Mary Ann hastily, feeling stupider by the minute. “I’d almost forgotten he was married.”

B
RIAN AND MICHAEL SPENT SATURDAY MORNING
roller-skating in Golden Gate Park—a precarious undertaking at best, despite the sleek, professional-looking skates Mrs. Madrigal had given them the previous Christmas.

“You’ve been practicing,” Brian shouted accusingly as they wobbled past the de Young Museum. “That’s against the rules, you know?”

“Says who?”

“Mary Ann said you went skating on Tuesday. With your cop friend.”

“That was
indoors.
That doesn’t count.”

“Where’d you go?”

“The rink in El Sobrante. It’s loaded with Farrah Fawcett minors, blow-dried for days….”

“Girls?”

“You wish. Twinkies. It’s an amazing sight. I should take you and Mary Ann sometime. We can take the bus.”

“There’s a special bus?”

Michael nodded. “It makes the rounds of half-a-dozen gay bars, then drops everybody off at the rink. It’s a lot of fun.
You get to make out on the bus on the way home.”

Brian smiled nostalgically. “I remember that.”

“So do I. Only I never did it in high school. I never did it at all until last Tuesday. I remember, though … all those kids listening to Bread and making out in the dark in the back of the bus on the way home from out-of-town ball games.”

Brian held out his hand to stop Michael at the intersection. “Watch it,” he said. “Don’t get lost in your memories. This place is lethal on weekends.”

“Think of that, though. I was thirty-one before I ever kissed anybody on public transportation. I consider it a major milestone.”

“It was more than that,” teased Brian. “Some people
never
get around to kissing a cop, much less doing it on a bus. It
was
the cop, wasn’t it?”

Michael feigned indignation. “Of course!”

“Hey … what does a breeder know?”

Michael grinned. “Where did you learn that word?”

The light changed. They proceeded with graceless caution across the pebbly asphalt. “One of the guys at Perry’s,” replied Brian. “He said that’s what the faggots call us.”

“Not this faggot,” said Michael.

“I know.” Brian turned to look at him, almost losing his balance.

Michael grabbed his arm. “Easy … easy….”

“Anyway,” said Brian, regaining his composure, “it’s not even applicable to me. I’m thirty-six years old and I’ve never bred so much as a goldfish.”

When they reached the other side, Michael aimed for a bench and sat down. Brian collapsed beside him, expelling air noisily.

“Do you want to?” asked Michael.

“What?”

“Have children.”

Brian shrugged. “Sure. But Mary Ann doesn’t. Not right now, anyway. She’s got a career going.” He smiled benignly. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

Michael began unlacing his skates. “Where is she today, anyway?”

“Having lunch. On the peninsula.”

“What on earth for?”

“Just … business.”

They sat together in silence for several minutes, watching the passing scene in their bare feet. Finally, Michael said: “I think you two should get married.”

“You do, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have you told her that?”

“Not in so many words,” replied Michael.

Brian grinned. “Neither have I.”

“Why not?”

Brian reached down and yanked up a handful of grass. “Oh … because I think I know what the answer would be … and I don’t need to hear that right now. Besides, there are lots of advantages to living alone.”

“Name one.”

Brian thought for a moment. “You can pee in the sink.”

Michael laughed. “You do that, too, huh?” Suddenly, he clamped his hand on Brian’s leg and exclaimed: “Well, get a load of
that,
would you?”

“What?”

“Over there … by the conservatory. That overdressed blonde climbing into the limo.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s Prue Giroux.”

“Who?”

“You know … the dizzy socialite who writes for
Western Gentry
magazine.”

“Never heard of her.”

“She’s grinning like a Cheshire cat,” said Michael. “Where do you suppose she’s going?”

A
NYWAY,” DEDE CONTINUED, “MARCELINE
KNEW
how sick he was. She was worried about it all the time.”

“You knew her?”

DeDe nodded. “We were friends, of sorts. She was a pretty savvy woman.”

“Yet she didn’t …?”

“Hang on, O.K.? I wanna get through this. A Russian doctor named … Fedorovsky, I think … I’ll have to check my diary … this doctor came to Jonestown in the fall and said that Jones had emphysema. Marceline made a special trip to San Francisco to tell Dr. Goodlett that Jones’ fever was getting worse. He told her he couldn’t be responsible for treating him, if Jones wouldn’t leave the jungle for proper treatment. He washed his hands of it, in other words.

“At this point, apparently, Marceline decided to approach a former Temple member who lived in San Francisco. This man was one of Jones’ most devoted disciples, but he was also a serious mental case … so serious, in fact, that Jones had refused him permission to participate in Jonestown.”

“What was his name?” asked Mary Ann.

“I don’t know. Marceline never told me. The point is … this guy bore a really freaky resemblance to Jones … the same body type and coloration, the same angularity to his face. He even capitalized on it by wearing sideburns and mirrored sunglasses.”

“But … why?”

DeDe shrugged. “All of the others wanted to follow Jones. This one wanted to
be
him.”

“Did Marceline tell you this?”

“Uh-huh. I also saw it with my own eyes.”

“In Jonestown?”

DeDe nodded. “I saw them meeting together one night. Jones and this guy. I could barely tell them apart. The plan—according to Marceline—was for the imposter to run the operation until Jones could get to Moscow for medical treatment. A week at the most, she said. He would do most of his work on the loudspeaker system, with occasional walkthroughs to keep people in line. The man was briefed on
everything,
including the suicide drills. Jones was so sick, of course, that no one expected him to sound like himself … or even to actively participate in the day-to-day life of the camp. He just had to
be
there, a figurehead to prevent an insurrection.”

“Then … this happened?
Jones left?”

“I don’t know. Two days after the imposter arrived in camp, Captain Duke told me about the cyanide. I didn’t stick around to find out. For once in my life, I missed out on the action and was damn glad of it.”

“So you left … when?”

“Two days before the congressman and the others were murdered at the airstrip.”

“Meaning that this man … the imposter … may have been the one who ordered the mass suicide?”

“Yes.”

“And may have been the one who …”

When Mary Ann faltered, DeDe finished the sentence. “The one who died.”

“My God!”

DeDe simply blinked at her.

“That’s … DeDe, that’s
grotesque.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“But … surely … the government must’ve checked those bodies at the time. Somebody must’ve … I don’t know … what do they do? A blood test or something?”

DeDe smiled patiently. “There were nine hundred bodies, remember?”

“I know, but …”

“One of those bodies was lying in front of the throne with its head on a pillow. Bloated as it was, it
looked
like Jones … and it was probably carrying his identification. Do you think they stopped to check his fingerprints?”

“Wasn’t there an autopsy?”

“There was,” said DeDe, “and I’ve been trying like hell to find the report. That’s why I needed
time,
don’t you see? If someone could prove to me conclusively that he was really dead …”

“What about those Temple members?”

DeDe grimaced. “They were useless. They wanted no part of it. They treated me like I was crazy or something.”

Mary Ann said nothing.

“Mary Ann … please … don’t write me off just yet.” DeDe looked at her imploringly as her eyes filled with tears. “I haven’t even gotten to the crazy part.”

Mary Ann took her hand. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m listening.”

“I don’t know what to do,” sobbed DeDe. “I’m so damn tired of running …”

“DeDe, please don’t. It can’t be as bad as you …”

“I’ve
seen
him, Mary Ann!”

“What?”

“Yesterday. At Steinhart Aquarium. Mother was driving me crazy, so I drove to the city … just to walk around. I went to a concert in the park … and later I went to the aquarium … and I saw him there in the crowd.”

“You saw … Jones?” Mary Ann was thunderstruck.

DeDe nodded, her face contorted with fear.

“What was he doing?”

“Looking …” She was almost incoherent now. Feeling her own lip begin to quiver, Mary Ann squeezed DeDe’s hand even tighter.

“Looking?” she asked guardedly.

DeDe nodded, wiping her eyes with her free hand. “At the fish. The same as me.”

“It’s awfully dark in there. Are you sure you …?”

“Yes!
He was thinner looking, and much healthier, but it was him. I knew the minute I looked into his eyes.”

“He
saw
you?”

“He smiled at me. It was awful.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran all the way back to the car and drove home. I haven’t left the house since. I know how this sounds, believe me. You have every right to …”

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“I believe it’s real to you. That’s enough for me.”

DeDe’s sobs stopped. She glared at Mary Ann for a moment, then jerked her hand away angrily. “You think I’m hysterical, don’t you?”

“DeDe, I think you’ve been incredibly brave …”

“Brave?
Look at me, goddamnit! I am scared shitless! Do you think I don’t know what the police would say about this … what the whole goddamn world would say about that poor little rich girl who went off the deep end in Jonestown? Look how
you’re
acting, and you’re supposed to be my friend!”

“I am your friend,” Mary Ann said feebly.

“Then what am I gonna do?
What am I gonna do about my goddamn children?”