Seductive Poison (26 page)

I mulled over my conversations with Father in the San Francisco radio room after I’d moved Mama down the hall. Had Jim been concerned about my bourgeois attachments? About my hidden
weakness for family? Had I lied about it all along? In all my handwritten catharsis reports, I had never insinuated that my mother meant so much to me. And now … Father must be having second thoughts about me. Maybe he believed I wasn’t as trustworthy as before. Yes! That was why my passport had been taken from me when we arrived. It suddenly occurred to me that Robbi must have reported on my frame of mind when she returned from visits with me in the hospital. I had been desperately glad that Jim was away so I could focus on Mama alone. Did Father know I had had fleeting thoughts of leaving on my way home from Europe?

Paula returned from her talk at the table, more serious now. She sat down on the couch, gently pulling herself closer to Mama.

“Oh, Lisa … I’ve heard so much about your tribulations in the States, but you’re here now and once you’re in the interior, near Jim, you’ll heal quickly.”

I forced myself to smile and appear calm. There had been a discussion. Paula knew everything.

Sharon came in from the outside staircase and hugged us both.

“Paula, Bonny just drove up …”

We all rose and walked behind Paula into the twilight and down the stairs. The full moon was coming up behind us. Mama grabbed my hand and gave it a loving squeeze. As Paula disappeared into a long black car, Sharon ushered Mama and me into the basement. It was cooler underneath the house. Two mats on the cement floor had been made up for us. I hoped the clamor of the adjacent radio room wouldn’t disturb Mama’s rest.

“This will be home for the next few days while we wait for the boat. It’s in drydock having a checkup. Come visit me later, Debbie,” Sharon said, then crossed over into the radio room. I could hear the usual droning sound of frequency switching as she began to make contact.

“Eight Arr One … Eight Arr One, this is Eight Arr Three … Do you read me? Over.”

Mom began to undress. She was visibly exhausted and needed to sleep. I sat with her as she lay down on the matting, wishing she could sleep on a soft bed. I debated how to say what I was thinking without upsetting her.

“Mama, the wine at dinner?” I asked softly. “Can we keep it our secret?”

“Of course, darling.” She nodded in conspiratorial agreement. I
sensed that Guyana was not the place for confessions of this kind. I shuddered and Mama grabbed my hand.

“Are you all right, darling? You’ve been unusually quiet.”

“Yeah … It’s just all so new here.”

I didn’t try to find a way to tell her that things were not as they seemed. Why had our passports been taken away by Karen? What was it about Jonestown that could divide us into those who belonged and those who didn’t? What would I have to do to prove myself, to belong again?

I leaned over and kissed Mama’s warm cheek. I watched her chest rise and fall. She seemed to breathe more easily in the humid air. I wanted to cuddle up next to her and go to sleep. I wanted to call to her in my childhood mantra,
“MOMMY … I’m afraid
…” but I could hear Jim’s voice in the radio room. I knew where I was supposed to be.

The next morning, on our first real day in the capital, Karen took Mama and me on a stroll through town. We walked through the open market, ablaze with brightly colored fabrics hanging from stall posts. Chocolate-skinned East Indian women in their long multicolored saris walked with black women in short skirts. The wonderful smells of curry, cardamom, cumin, and cinnamon wafted through the warm air. Tables were covered with fruits and vegetables I had never seen before: yellow star-shaped fruit, prickly sphere-shaped pears, purple squash, and miniature reddish bananas that tasted like potatoes. Children were seated under the tables, hiding from the relentless sun. I grabbed Mama’s arm and pointed at the baskets of spices while Karen purchased a Coca-Cola for us to share. It was syrupy sweet and thicker than the soda in the States. The cacophony of voices, intertwined with the sound of steel drums, was intoxicating. I closed my eyes to concentrate on the sounds of the varying accents around me: British, East Indian, Caribbean, and Spanish. Silly excitement washed over me as a couple of handsome, well-dressed young Latin-looking men stopped to speak with Karen. I was beginning to like this part of Guyana, the town, the market, and the friendly people. When we left the bazaar, Karen explained that the gentlemen were Cuban doctors sent to Guyana, their sister country, to provide a year of medical-humanitarian service work before going into practice back home.

“The Guyanese government is very appreciative,” she said. “They try to entice the doctors to stay and settle down. There are often functions, dances, and dinners hosted by the Ministry of Health for their benefit.”

I was enchanted. As we continued our tour of Georgetown, I peeked into a department store window. The display windows were empty and dust was collecting on the encased planking. Karen motioned for us to come inside. The building reminded me of an old Woolworth’s store. The dark wooden floors were scuffed and unpolished. Behind every counter a young woman stood smiling, adorned in an oversized white pharmacy coat. I did not see much merchandise.

“Why are they open if there is nothing to sell?” I asked.

“Guyana is a socialist country. Besides being on the verge of bankruptcy and glad to have our income, they can’t afford many bourgeois goods. What would people here use them for anyway?”

It was true, I thought; capitalism was always trying to entice the little man. The capitalist world did not consider people as individuals, only as consumers.

Later that evening, after Mama went to sleep, I walked upstairs hoping to sit alone in the living room. Everyone was busy in meetings in bedrooms and I was not included. I was glad for the time alone. Although life seemed more austere here in this house called “Headquarters,” I had high hopes for life in the interior after our delightful tour of the town. I envisioned daily excursions into small villages, browsing through lively markets and sending gifts home to Papa.

On the coffee table, a small paperback book entitled
Guyana Guide
caught my attention and I opened it.

Guyana, South America, formerly British Guiana, became independent in 1966. She became a republic with the British Commonwealth in 1970. Her largest racial groups are: East Indians (300,000), then Negroes, descendants of African slaves (250,000), and the remainder being Chinese, Portuguese, other Europeans and the indigenous Amerindians. Guyana is a country for serious adventurers only and is not to be attempted lightly. The wild beauty of its jungle interior is visited at a price of rigorous—sometimes dangerous—effort. Few of Guyana’s 780,000 residents venture into the jungle interior. Those who do contend with tropical heat and humidity (63°-105°F, rainfall of 105 “annually), tropical insects and the risk of malaria.

Romantic? Exciting? Wild? Yes!—But one must remember that a trip to Guyana is no fool’s holiday. Certain precautions should be taken while traveling here …

I put the book back on the broken table. Father had certainly picked a safe place for us, I thought. The CIA couldn’t get us now!

An enormous roach traipsed across the wood-planked floor in front of me, then suddenly flew across the room and into the kitchen pantry. I could hear the far-off sound of the rain coming and took a deep breath. I liked the subtle change in the atmosphere. Kicking off my sandals and wedging my feet under me, I tried to make sense of the vague angst I had been feeling.

If I could put things into perspective I knew I could calm my jittery nerves. Why were our people acting so differently here in the capital? I knew them all, had known them for years, and yet I felt we hardly recognized each other. Father used to say in his sermons that if people stayed away from his teachings for too long, they became estranged. Had I become estranged, or had these people in the capital stayed away from him too long? But I knew from Teresa that Father assigned people to the capital for only short periods of time. They needed to come back into the fold every few weeks. Only Paula had been allowed to stay away for more than two months before being pulled back into Father’s aura. If Guyana was “a country for serious adventurers only,” perhaps all of us had to change. I would have to meet the challenge as best I could. But what if Father, too, was different now?

We had been in the capital for a week when Paula called Karen and Sharon to remind them of an important dinner-dance being hosted by the Guyanese government. Paula suggested I join them. Sharon chose a pretty dress for me to wear. Life at our headquarters was so serious and now we were going to a dance? In a dress? I had never worn a dress with a halter top, or heeled sandals. Karen suggested I put on blush and eye shadow. Mama looked lonely when I said good-bye. I promised I’d tell her all about it in the morning. She smiled and said I looked lovely.

When we entered the courtyard, couples were already dancing to exotic music. I felt shy and awkward, but followed our entourage to
the designated table. Sharon encouraged me to dance with a Cuban doctor who came to our table. I had not danced since boarding school, six years ago. I imagined this was how Paula lived. Enjoying life and serving Father at the same time. When I returned to the table, Karen and Sharon encouraged me to continue to dance. The evening felt like a fabulous dream. I decided I might enjoy living here. I might even become friends with the Cuban doctor. I liked the idea. He was charming, enjoyed teaching me the salsa, made me laugh when I stepped on his toes. He listened to me with real interest and asked me to have lunch with him at the hospital the following day. As dawn approached, Sharon signaled to me that it was time to leave. The doctor accompanied me to our table and asked Sharon if he could drop by our home. I felt her disdain. I must have looked puzzled. In the car she began to lecture me about “capitalist enticements.” She even shook her finger at me.

“I saw you dancing with the same doctor all night! I can’t believe how close he was to you!”

Alarmed, I went to take a shower. What would I tell Father? Why had I enjoyed the gentleman? He had asked about my organization and was interested in our humanitarian endeavors. I had mentioned our need for physicians to visit our compound and examine the residents. He seemed genuinely interested. Had I erred? I did find him attractive … I hated Sharon. She always did this. She encouraged you only to get you into trouble later.

When I descended the steps outside the radio room, I could hear Sharon discussing the incident with Jim. I stopped outside the basement door and listened to his response.

“Anna …” Jim said softly, addressing her in code. “Lucinda’s been under pressure, as you know, and needs to be near me for a while. She’s been out of focus during our Six-Day Siege and still remains unaware of our trials. But I hear something else in your tone. Perhaps you’re jealous … You just finished saying that you did not dance. Our purpose was to meet the doctors and ask them to visit Jonestown and give free medical advice. She aroused his interest. Often that’s the only way to get men to do the right thing. Now, let’s backtrack … I received your note about Paula. What are your concerns there?”

I was relieved. Thank goodness I was headed to Jonestown where Father understood and would protect me. I wondered what important historical event was called the Six-Day Siege.

10
Welcome to Jonestown

The trip into the interior was long and treacherous. We boarded our old tug, the
Cudjoe,
at the Georgetown dock, where she was berthed. There were now additional arrivals from the States who were joining us for the second leg of the trip.

We sailed out into the Caribbean for the twenty-five-hour voyage to the mouth of the Kaituma River. The seas were rough and no one was spared the ocean’s wrath. We stayed in our places, hanging on tightly, heads bobbing, stomachs croaking. We heaved ceaselessly into the waves, which crashed onto the deck and drenched us. As our bodies slumped down on the dirty barge deck, the day turned dark and I was no longer able to decipher time, nor did I care to. The swells continued to rise above the sides of the tug, the ocean’s salty mist splashing over my face and lips, stinging my swollen, unopened eyes. My clothes were soaked with seawater and vomit. I wondered how Mama was doing inside her small cabin on the little bunk bed.