Seductive Poison (33 page)

On some days our field work involved foraging for edible shrubs along the jungle’s extremity. I always concentrated on finding a special green leaf, the one Mary, the magical chef, and her kitchen staff used for our Sunday-only vegetables, my favorite treat. There was also an extraordinary purple root, which we used to season other rare dishes. Mary’s special leaves, the long, mossy, green one with blood-red spines, were always hidden under a faint emerald mother shrub with bright saffron flecks. I moved forward, squatting, my knees growing sore, diligently searching.

We always carried empty burlap sacks with us to the worksite. They smelled of previous gatherings from different fields. Sometimes a hint of pineapple wafted up into my nostrils, other times sugarcane. We filled sack after sack with sustenance for our comrades, heaved them onto our heads, and transported them back out to the clearing.

As the mornings passed slowly into noon, I would begin to feel weak, hungry for the cassava bread and plantain sandwich sitting on a burnt log where I’d thrown my outer shirt. The ants never attacked our food; probably the strange-smelling additive kept them away. I liked the plantain, from the banana family. It was slightly sweet, its texture thick and filling, reminding me of the sweet potato pies I’d eaten after our revival meetings and at Mary’s home, so very long ago.

When I didn’t dream of food, I fantasized about my shower, how I’d rinse the dirt off my body, the water dripping onto my shoulders, gently running over my breasts, in dark muddy rivers that poured down my legs and onto my feet.

Planning one’s shower was important because showers also had restrictions. Anyone reported to have allowed the water to run longer than two minutes was assigned to the Learning Crew for a day. But one especially pleasant grandmother, Clara, usually gave me an extra minute by acting as if another person was already taking a shower when I got there.

“One more minute!” she’d yell, as I jumped in and took that one minute of no one’s time, just to get an extra rinse.

I didn’t know how the cold water was transported from the river, but it was preciously rationed. Never wanting to waste a speck of the precious liquid, I stripped, then lined up my toiletries neatly on the wooden planks next to my feet so that they were immediately accessible. Quickly and carefully I turned on the water and rinsed briskly. Not much water was needed, I got my body just wet enough to lather my head and torso. Another quick rinse and I continued to lather the crusted dirt from my arms and legs. Once well soaped, I turned the faucet on again and relished the ecstasy of the cold water running all over me. I was always cautious to keep my mouth shut in the shower while the water ran over my face so that I wouldn’t swallow any and get sick.

Even with all the rules, taking a shower was luxurious. After drying off, I would change into my only other outfit, an oversized T-shirt, and step out. Looking over my shoulder to make sure I was
alone, I would lean over and hug my secret accomplice, who was still seated at the entrance of the showers.

Every now and then, my daydreams were interrupted by a welcome rumbling sound. Emanating from the northern part of the forest and working its thunderous way toward us would be a rain squall. Its winds would cool the air and the intensity of the downpour was usually so great we had no choice but to take a break, a glorious respite that could last ten minutes. During the rainy season, if we were lucky, several rains would come in a day. They would drench the trees’ upper canopy, turning the leaves into channels that tunneled the liquid of life downward to the forest floor in a wondrous roar. Massive leaves would sway up and down until the cloudburst moved on, farther south, and then the quiet resumed. Once more the sun would shine down upon us, steam from the rains would filter back up into the atmosphere, and we would continue to labor on until sunset.

One day, the Learning Crew worked through a downpour. Not only were these downtrodden cast-offs praised for their stamina, each of them was miraculously released from the crew for having proved that they were correct thinkers. Once branded sinners, the former crew members were now revered as the devout, and they seemed to hold grudges toward anyone who had not lived through the hell they had experienced.

The rules changed after this incident, and no one was allowed to break during the day anymore. If the rains came, we worked through them, even if we couldn’t see the ground. But in our eleven-hour days of hoeing, raking, planting, foraging, burning, or clearing land, there were fleeting moments of relief. On some evenings instead of hiking back in, the flatbed truck came out and carried us, worn and weary, back to the center of the compound. Above us a crimson, orange, and turquoise Guyanese sky would melt around our sorry crew as we jerked and bounced back and forth on the rutted dirt road, and I would fantasize about how wonderful it would be to see such a sunset someday away from Jonestown, someplace safe and free.

On a few occasions Lee was brought back to lead a crew in the field. One evening I looked at him, perched cross-legged on the edge of the truck, swaying and nodding with the direction of the vehicle, his muscles relaxed enough not to tense and jerk. I wondered what he was thinking—who he wished he could be with, who he dreamed of embracing. Lee must have sensed my gaze and turned his head
toward me, smiled, and looked back at the last of the spectacular sunset. I longed for someone to hold on nights like these, to kiss and to love. Someone I could trust with my secret thoughts. I looked around at my work crew, all of us up since dawn with the screeching of the howler monkeys, working the fields until dusk, each of us expecting so much more from our lives and futures than this. But it was getting too late for dreams. Our spirits were weakening and our hopes were being deliberately drained from us. Jim’s arsenal of manipulation and deceit was stripping away our dignity, ensuring our numbed allegiance and unquestioning loyally.

When there was a minute of solitude I often wondered what life would be like without Father. I loved the natural tranquility of the interior, the dark, frothy river so close, just through the trees, yet inaccessible. Our cabins, tin-roofed and small, could have housed families, lovers, children with their parents, but instead we were partitioned into nonbonding arrangements. Like the inmates of a prison camp, we could not make close contacts. There was no one to confide in, no one to whisper to in the middle of the night, no one to make plans with, no one to trust. And solitude was disallowed because it too was dangerous. Time alone could lead to introspection and capitalistic thoughts.

I was always afraid of how Jim would perceive my visits to Mama: too often, too long, too early, not late enough. There was a fine line between too little and too much empathy. Too much compassion meant you’d break under torture and questioning by the enemy. Too little proved you could become a turncoat and traitor to Father. I’d learned to walk the fine line. But my feelings about Mama were chaotic. I loved her and hated myself because my love for her weakened my dedication to the Cause. I was disgusted by the panic I felt when I thought she’d get us both into trouble. I was always fighting with myself over each decision to see or not to see her. Sometimes I selfishly believed she was a drain on me, a weight that pulled me deeper into confusion and self-loathing each time I visited. If I stayed away from her, I would be viewed as loyal and unencumbered by the dangerous “worldly” pettiness of family ties. But I had to struggle with severe guilt as a daughter.

When I resolved to sneak a visit to Mama’s, I usually lay on her cot talking softly as she sat at my side. And the next thing I knew, I would find myself being gently awakened by Mama’s protective voice.

“Debbie … Debbie, honey. It’s been a couple of hours, you better get up now.” I would slowly focus upon Mama’s worried face, her eyes filled with sorrow.

“Oh, Mama, you shouldn’t have let me sleep. Now we won’t have time to visit.” As I got up to leave she’d beg me to eat the hard-boiled eggs she’d saved up from her senior’s allotment, not satisfied until we shared an egg together.

“No, Mama, you need this to keep up your health,” I would protest. But she would not give in.

“Debbie, they have you working too hard, I want to tell Father this is not good for you. They do not feed you kids enough protein for this type of work.”

“Mama, please. Promise me you won’t protest.”

“The meetings are too long and I’m concerned about the way he has those children spanked and punished. It’s not right to subject the children to the Well or the Box.”

“Mama, whatever you believe or want to say, it must only be said to me,” I kept urging her. “Promise me, Mama, tell
no one
but me your fears and concerns. These will be our secrets. Otherwise you will be confronted, Mama. Tell no one!!!!”

I longed to confide in her. But to tell Mama I wanted to leave would mean burdening her with knowledge of a treasonous thought and she could be brutally punished for not telling. No, it was too dangerous. Even the most innocent and caring of people had harmed a loved one by naïvely misspeaking their minds to Father. I couldn’t tell anyone because they would have thought I had been assigned to test their loyalties. I was the perfect disciple; after all I had been one of Father’s trusted few in the United States, and now I lived in the cabin with his sons. There was no one I could tell. I resolved never to share my thoughts, never to trust anyone, and to play the game by their rules.

I was increasingly worried for Mama. I had begun to see her fears and stress as new lines and dark marks under her eyes. She was not sleeping well. Fear was making her agitated, quick to jump at little sounds. As the world around us became more malevolent I felt she was in danger and could become a danger to me. She and Mary had already made a grievous mistake of judgment in an incident the previous week.

Mary had concocted a wonderful jam, made of some tropical fruit she must have secretly gathered. It tasted like marmalade and was
just as orange. Mama had served it to me on a few occasions, furtively pulling out Mary’s gift and spreading the preserves on the cassava bread she had saved from breakfast.

The ugly incident happened on a night after several days free of suicide drills. All of our spirits were lighter than usual. Father was laughing in his infectious, high-pitched cackle and life felt as though it might be beginning to look up at last. I was sitting with Stephan, laughing at his impersonation of his dad’s chuckle, when Mary decided to bring her elixir to the podium for Father to taste. On nights like these Father would be joking with the children or relieving the miserable sods who’d been sentenced to the Learning Crew, telling them they had proved themselves and were no longer restricted. Everyone felt less apprehensive when Father seemed to be okay again.

Mary, sensing the light mood, stepped onto Father’s platform to address him at the public microphone.

“Yes, Mary…. What is it you’d like to say on this gloriously calm evening?”

“Father, I’ve somthin’ here I want you to taste.” She made her way up to his chair.

“What’s this?” He raised his eyebrows, pulled down his reading glasses, and smiled.

“It’s a treat I’ve been workin on, Father…. Yes, sir … and Lisa’s been my taster and says it’s good enough to sell in the capital.”

With gracious pride she handed the tiny orange jar to Father. Out from her apron pocket appeared a spoon and Father took a wee lick.

I watched, delighted.

Like a snake, Father flicked his tongue into the concoction.

“What an extravagance!” he spat. “How much time have you wasted on this?” My blood curdled. “Where did you get the fruit to make this?” he screamed. Mary shuffled back slightly, away from Father’s spraying spittle. Terrified, I pinched Stephan’s finger. Without a warning, “little Lisa,” my mama, stood up in courageous defense of Mary.

“Oh, Father, Mary’s marmalade is sweet, good, and it’s marketable. … I think you could learn to truly enjoy it.”

“Shut up, woman,” he yelled. “I want Mary to answer from which field she stole the fruit to make this bourgeois extravagance!”

But his anger had been diverted and he turned from Mary, still seething.

“How
daarreee
you!” He glared at Mama. “Are you arguing with
meee?
Are you telling Father, I am mistaken?”

“Father knows what’s good,” yelled an anxious voice. Someone grabbed Mama’s thin shoulders, trying to get her out of Father’s view, praying he’d lose his train of thought if he couldn’t see her. Father admonished the crowd.

“Quiet! Silence!”

Everyone froze as he rose from his chair and glared down at Mama’s small frame.

“Lisa … you dare to challenge me?” he sneered. “Let this be a warning to you. You are no different from the rest of us!” Mama remained standing as was required during confrontation. I sat in silence, a paralyzed coward, too afraid to stand and defend innocence.

I tried to think. Father’s anger did not fit the crime. He was speaking to me! Through his actions toward Mama he was warning me. Perhaps he had seen me giggling with Stephan earlier that night. I could hear his previous admonitions reverberate in my head…. “I will punish those closest to you if you ever deceive or hurt me.” Father was letting me know that he had tired of his charade of concern for my mother. She was just another soldier who needed correcting and punishment.

“Get out!” screamed the inner voice I had systematically silenced for so long. “Find a way to get both of us out.”

13
Sickly Ascension

About a week after the marmalade scene I was sent to Port Kaituma again to attend the monthly PNC, People’s National Congress, meeting. Seven of us sat under the same thatched roof of an open-sided hut discussing Guyanese political issues with several Amerindians. I listened to the leader of the meeting, glancing at his scantily clad body, his callused hands, bare legs, and feet, and I wondered if I could trust anyone here. Could I pull one of these tribal men aside and ask for help?