Seductive Poison (38 page)

“You’ve always been good, Bobby. Father’s very appreciative of your hard work,” I told him.

“Yeah? Well, he’ll never know about it now.” He sighed again, then looked over his shoulder. “Everyone on?” The kids shouted in the affirmative and we pulled away from the wharf.

I wondered what was happening back inside that had caused this new rift. Had Jim said something bad about me to Maria? Perhaps
she was really envious of me. Poor Maria was never given an opportunity to leave, not in the States and not in Guyana.

As we drove through town, I was comforted by the sight of people milling freely around the market and the official buildings with the flags of foreign countries. This was the “outside” world! I would have human contact outside our tightly controlled group. There had to be help somewhere. After all, the capital was a part of the civilized world!

As we passed the market, the Ministry of Justice, and the Pegasus Hotel, I noticed a steeple protruding from a dilapidated building.

“What’s that?” I pointed.

“The spire? That’s the building Ben’s dad owns. It’s the newspaper.”

As we drove down the crowded main street, I wondered how this relationship with Ben and his father had been formed and whether it might be useful also for me. Did Sharon now have to “give herself for the Cause,” which meant having an affair?

Perhaps Paula’s influence had led to this new and potentially significant relationship. Paula had been good friends with Mama, and she used to come to my parents’ home with me occasionally. But down here, I’d barely seen her. She was so lucky. Even though I believed her affair with Bonny was a sacrifice for her, at least she got to sleep in every morning.

“Look, check it out. See the sign?” We were passing by the newly erected Guyanese Cultural Center where a large sign had been posted across the marquee:

Peoples Temple Agricultural Project
Presents
A Cultural Presentation to the Guyanese People
A Dance of Freedom

“We’re gonna be famous,” Yolanda exclaimed.

“Get serious, Yolanda, this is really important,” Vera stopped her. “Father says we gotta do our best. Through us, the Guyanese people will understand how we are a part of this country.”

“It’s not the people. It’s the government,” Johnny explained. “Didn’t you listen to anything Carolyn said? It’s the Prime Minister who’s upset that we don’t mingle more with the people here.”

“Guess none of you understands what’s happenin’,” Vera declared.

“The real reason we’re here, well, it’s to show them we are as happy and capable as they. Like Father said, we are as misunderstood as Cuba and Russia. The conspiracies in those countries pay people to say ugly things against their government. I bet they get thousands of dollars from the CIA.”

“We’re home.”

Our house looked larger and prettier than I had remembered. I noticed a small car parked outside the radio room window.

“Yup, he’s still here,” said Bobby. We pulled up next to it and stopped. Everyone started battling to be the first out.

“Dibs on the upstairs shower,” cried Joyce.

“Listen up,” yelled Bobby over the commotion. “There’s been a water shortage in the capital and showers have been reduced. Make sure the buckets are placed under the showers so there is no wasted water. That way the next person can use the bucket water.”

“Here too?” someone yelped.

We had a two-level house with no interior connectors. The only way to pass from the downstairs to the upstairs was the outside steps. The kids ran up the stairs to the main house, pushing and laughing, vying for a good place in the shower queue while I stopped at the top of the stairs to look at the homes scattered around the weedy fields.

If only I had a plan. If only I could talk to someone. If only there were someone I could trust. Jim even had the officials in Guyana convinced that there were enemies all around. If I asked any of them for help they’d probably think I was a double-agent provocateur.

I turned and went downstairs into the radio room. The space looked like a tornado had blown through. Notes were strewn on the floor, clothes and shoes piled in mounds, the radio unattended. I walked over to see which frequency we were set for, and noticed the telephone on the wooden desk. Did they have a contraption attached to this to record outgoing calls? Would the number I dialed be recorded onto a statement? I sat down at the desk and thought about Annalis. What time was it? She must be five hours behind me.

Above me in the living room, I heard the kids’ voices and then the rhythmic bumps, stomps, and claps of their dance. I pictured them standing in a double line, the tall girls in the back. Each one of their beautiful young black faces devoid of fear because they were too excited about their momentary freedom, too ensnared in their fantasies, wishing their mothers and little sisters could see them getting ready for the presentation. All of them had family waiting securely
in Jonestown, making sure they wouldn’t be tempted by the dangerous capitalists.

I looked at the phone again. I hadn’t seen one in months. It looked silly sitting here with its oversized cradle for the heavy black receiver. Suddenly the rhythm of the dance upstairs was interrupted by a quick shuffling and footsteps coming outside onto the stairs. I jumped away from the phone.

“Debbie?” It was Sharon.

“I’m down here.”

Sharon entered the room, breathless and bedraggled. I decided she could not be having an exciting affair and look so miserable.

“The kids are practicing. It’s wonderful. You should come watch.”

“I’ve been watching them rehearse for weeks, inside.”

“Inside? How odd … Inside …” She played with the sound of the word on her tongue. “Debbie, you said inside. That’s a strange way to characterize the Promised Land.”

“No. I just mean it’s safer there than it is here on the outside. Say, who’s responsible for scheduling transmission into Jonestown?”

“Michael, but the reason no one’s manning the radio just now is because we needed enough people to go to the Russian Embassy today. Father told us the embassy had priority, but we’ll try right away to connect with the States about the new threats.”

“Threats?”

“The attack last night. We need more protection sent down. In fact we need to get the American Embassy to agree to our getting guns to protect ourselves from the enemy.”

I thought about Mama. I hoped they hadn’t had another White Night.

“How can they help?” I asked.

“Easy. They agree with us that our self-defense is necessary.”

“But how do they know about the attacks?”

“I talk to them almost every day. In fact they recently told us to shoot any planes down if they fly over us in a threatening manner.” She smiled. I heard the car leaving our yard while Sharon continued, “Today Father wanted us to do ‘crazy nigger’ at the Russian Embassy. You know, impress upon the consulate that our requests are urgent.”

“But I thought we were offering them money to allow us to immigrate to Russia.”

“Well, that hasn’t impressed them, so now JJ wants us to cry,
scream, talk about the invasions, and the threats to kill our people. We’re there now telling them that we’ll commit revolutionary suicide if we can’t protect ourselves from capitalist threats. The Russian consulate needs to see how serious we are about the issue of our survival. If they don’t let us into their country soon we’ll be killed by the CIA or die defending ourselves.’’

I spent the next few days making myself indispensable at the capital headquarters, so that I would not be ordered back to Jonestown right away. I needed time to come up with a plan. I couldn’t just run away on my first day here. How, with no passport, money, or outside contacts, could I get out of the country? Jim had repeatedly told us that he had moles inside the American Embassy and if any of us ever told them anything, he’d in turn be told. I needed to figure out how everything worked before I could invent a safe way out.

I set about getting the house in order. I cleaned and straightened, organized sloppy closets, hung clothes on hangers, transferred all outside-meeting clothes and fancy shoes we put on to impress people, into one closet. I washed walls, straightened the kitchen, and tidied the jumbled pantry. I rearranged the living room, then picked colorful weeds from our empty lot, and arranged them on the wooden crate I hauled up from downstairs. It looked stunning. Father always said, “Appearance is everything,” and we had many important guests to impress.

Once the upstairs was immaculate, I took on the lower level, which consisted of a large dismal room for storage and sleeping, and the tiny, cramped radio room. Relayed radio transmission communiqués were buried under a stack of clothing. I arranged papers by “author,” and created cubbyholes for each person’s missives. I even constructed an enormous cardboard calendar with large squares designated for each day. I penciled in our schedule: times and places of appointments and who was meeting with whom. Also incorporated on the bottom of the day was an after-hours section, which included all evening events that had to be attended. If we were to tape-record a meeting for a later blackmail attempt, I asterisked the appointment. I required that each person, upon his or her return from a meeting, report the outcome to me so I could immediately transmit the information to Jonestown. Although Father was adept at detecting deception, I prayed he would misread my scheme and would once again be simply impressed with his perfect “little soldier.”
It worked. A week later he ordered me to remain in the capital as the coordinator of all the PR activities.

I eagerly awaited the first night of our performances at the Guyanese Cultural Center. The Temple was hosting this well-publicized, week-long exhibition for the citizens of Georgetown. The ministries had begun to complain that Temple members “only arrived in Guyana,” but were never seen again once they were sent into the interior. Offering free admission to the shows was shrewd public relations thinking, which had always been Father’s specialty.

It was the same propaganda program Jim had presented to invited dignitaries such as the American consul, the Prime Minister, Carlton Goodlett, publisher of the San Francisco-based
Sun Reporter,
and Lieutenant Governor Mervin Dymally, when they visited Jonestown. There were always ten adorable girls and five handsome boys, mostly black, adorned in colorful African costumes. Dancing to Caribbean music, they would sing songs of freedom, “The Internationale,” recite socialist poems, and always end with music accompanied by an acrobatic dance.

Everyone stationed at the house wanted to attend the venue. Although Jim and Carolyn had specifically assigned me to chaperone the kids to and from their performances, I could tell how badly Sharon wanted to go. I boldly suggested she take my place. After all, I had seen the rehearsals many times in Jonestown. I appeared genuinely chivalrous in offering to stay home alone and guard the premises. While she and the others had fun, I was going to initiate my maiden act of treason.

I waited until the Land Rover drove out of sight, then rushed to the desk with a phone, a clock in my lap, its secondhand ticking away in front of me. The call had to be less than two minutes. Any longer and the call could be traced. That much I knew from the United States, where I had made innumerable diversionary calls. But here, I was unfamiliar with operating procedures. Even the international operator, who had to connect my call, could conceivably give me away. Nevertheless, I took the risk, desperate to hear a familiar voice and talk to someone I could trust.

With my heart beating so loudly I could barely hear the clicking of the dial, my finger slowly rotated the numbers. There was a five-hour time difference. My sister would probably be home now, making dinner for her four-year-old son, David, and her daughter, Lori,
who was eight. I had to make sure the call was less than 120 seconds. I also had to be careful not to upset or scare her. If she perceived any danger from me she might feel compelled to call someone, like Dad, for help. Wanting to protect me, Papa would then innocently blow my cover by calling the San Francisco Temple headquarters demanding to know what exactly was happening down there? Father had taught me the fewer who know, the safer you are. As the ringing began, I watched the secondhand on my clock to note the exact moment of contact. The phone rang. Eight … nine … ten …