Seductive Poison (21 page)

“Which routes?” I asked.

“Members can no longer leave from the San Francisco airport. Kilduff and his flunky helper, Tracy, are probably watching. We could have had this whole exodus completed in April, two months ago, had Guyana allowed us to charter the planes we had lined up. I guess Paula hasn’t calmed her lover’s nerves.”

After our sudden influx of almost 400 members the month before, the Guyanese officials had requested a hiatus while they reviewed the surge of immigration applications. Jim was furious with Paula, but when he promised to deposit a half-million dollars in the Bank of Guyana, we were again granted permission to continue our mass exodus to the Promised Land.

“Now we’ll have to bus our members to large anonymous cities. Get your friend at Anderson’s Travel on Polk Street to begin reserving blocks of seats leaving out of Miami and New York. Every night we should have a new busload arriving in these cities for the midnight flight to Georgetown.”

The new phase, our Exodus, and everything Jim had discussed and prophesied would now be implemented. Jim had told me I would remain behind with Teresa and Carolyn to close down the operations, which meant that I would once more be outside of Father’s purview, free from his all-knowing gaze.

I handed the article back to Teresa and looked out the window at the beautiful shade of turquoise with hints of pink coloring the dawn. I fantasized about stealing a moment every now and then with Mama. I thought about Papa, all alone, and pictured him cleaning the summer leaves off the surface of the pool, hoping I’d come by to swim. Life outside our walls always seemed to beckon me.

“By the way, your mom’s cough is bad. You should take her to the doctor, soon. We should make sure she gets out before the “old man” calls the feds.”

“Papa?”

“Jim thinks your dad has instigated trouble for us from the start. Your sister came to meetings, wouldn’t join, and has probably met with Kilduff too.”

“Annalis? I can’t imagine …”

“Jim wants you to visit your dad more. Take your mom too. Act as though everything is fine. He needs to see you more often. This article is damning. Keep an eye on your family … Deb, this thing with Lisa … Tomorrow I’ll help Maria while you take her to Kaiser.”

My mind was still racing when Teresa left the room and I lay down on my sleeping bag. What could I do to make Mama more comfortable? Since I would soon have to move into Maria’s barricade down the hall, with its bolted floor vault, money bags, and financial ledgers, I planned to move Mama to my room. We’d be able to see each other more often and without surveillance.

On my recent secret sleep-over in her modest commune situated in a run-down part of San Francisco, I had noticed how gaunt and fatigued she looked. I knew she didn’t want to complain about her new surroundings. It would be bourgeois and materialistic to miss her former life. She had coughed a great deal that night and had awakened drenched in sweat.

“Mama, you must go to the doctor and have that checked,” I had urged her back then. “You’ve been coughing for too long.”

“My sweet, you know it’s disloyal to see doctors for every ache and pain. Father says we shouldn’t indulge ourselves. It is a bourgeois luxury which we must not pamper ourselves with. The poor have never been given enough money to see doctors. Remember Jim’s sermon about the poor black men in Tuskegee, when the government secretly experimented on those who had been infected with syphilis. Father warns us in every service, honey. I realize you don’t attend most of them since you are in the offering room, but we must not succumb to self-centered concerns. Debbie, when was the last time you saw a physician?”

What Mama said was true. We were not supposed to see doctors. It wasn’t necessary. Father would protect us. He had already given us lists of required preventative measures and foods: We had long been instructed to ingest vitamins, three apricot seeds a day, sunflowers, cranberry juice, lecithin, kelp, and large doses of protein powder. These and a warm mixture of honey and cider vinegar were preventative measures which we had all become accustomed to years ago when Father decreed they would ward off cancer.

I followed her into the communal kitchen and glanced fondly at the cookie recipe:

She had created and faithfully brought me these delicious morsels of her love every Sunday. They actually made me feel good and healthy. She worried that I was not getting enough nourishment. The last time I had seen a physician was when I became ill after Father’s first unsolicited, painful intimacy, almost a year before.

“Mama, make an appointment,” I begged her again. “I’ll take you.”

“You’ll get into trouble for spending time with me. I’ll go this week. I just don’t want to be a drain on you. You are the one who is overworked and tired, darling. I know it is selfish of me, but I wish you could visit more. I miss you. I had hoped to see more of you by joining.”

Then in July 1977, Jim’s predictions came true. Rosalie Wright, the editor of
New West
magazine, called our headquarters to read Jim the article set for their August 1 publication. As was our procedure, I picked up the extra line in Jim’s room and proceeded to tape the conversation. Carolyn sat next to him on the couch and Teresa knelt down next to me. I could hear Maria in the bedroom opening a file cabinet while I was watching Jim’s expression.

Rosalie’s voice was flat and unemotional.

“Our cover line is ‘Inside Politically Potent Peoples Temple’ and on the Table of Contents page our lead-in reads as follows: ‘INSIDE PEOPLES TEMPLE—Within four years the Reverend Jim Jones has become one of the most politically potent religious leaders in the state’s history. His estimated twenty thousand voters, largely in San Francisco and Los Angeles, give his Peoples Temple more clout than local unions.

“But there is more to the Jones story than that. Much more.’”

I noticed Jim’s hand tightening on the receiver and he repositioned himself on the couch. He shot me a quick conspiratorial look to see if I was taping, then winked. He tried to moisten his dry lips with an equally dry tongue coated with a white film.

The editor continued, “The story begins with the following: ‘Jim Jones is one of the state’s most politically potent leaders. But who is he? And what’s going on behind his church’s locked doors?’”

Jim interrupted. “I object. Our doors are locked as are yours at your home. It’s only to protect ourselves from the criminal element that stalks our city streets. My members are free to come and go as they please. Kilduff’s remark is leading …”

“Shall I continue?” she asked as if speaking to an upset and ill-mannered child. She did not wait for a response … “‘For Rosalynn Carter, it was the last stop in an early September campaign tour … If Rosalynn Carter was surprised she shouldn’t have been. The crowds belonged to Jones. Some six hundred of the seven hundred and fifty listeners were delivered in Temple buses an hour and a half before the rally. The organizer, who had called Jones for help, remembered how gratified she’d felt when she first saw the Jones followers spilling off the buses. “You should have seen it—old ladies on crutches, whole families, little kids, blacks, whites, Made to order,” said the organizer, who had correctly feared that without Jones, Mrs. Carter might have faced a half-empty room. “Then we noticed things like the body guards,” she continued. “Jones had his own security force with him and the Secret Service guys were having fits. They wanted to know who the hell all these black guys were, standing outside with their arms folded.”’”

“Ms. Wright,” Jim exhaled. “Don’t you see how jaundiced this article is? How slanted? It clearly states how we were invited. We were asked to fill the empty room for Mrs. Carter. We were only performing the duties that this city and the Democratic campaign rally organizers requested of us. Am I to understand that now we are to be condemned and my parishioners questioned for the support we provided on behalf of the City of San Francisco? I feel violated and the black members of this church have been insulted. I think we should be able to have some say in this article and offer some editorial changes.”

“Reverend Jones, it is not our policy to allow the subject of an article carte blanche in the critique of the material. I decided to read
the piece to you because of all the support letters we received on your behalf, from the governor of California, the banker, the businessman who owns I. Magnin … I needn’t name them all.”

Jim was scribbling furiously on a piece of paper and handed it to Teresa.

“Shall I continue?”

“Of course, please do,” he retorted, his face filled with bitterness, but his voice pure and convincing. As the editor continued, Maria handed Jim his urinal and he released his yellow-brown waste into the plastic container. The liquid was sickeningly thick and, I thought, indicative of his putrid mood.

The editor continued, emphasizing the headlines:” ‘TEN WHO QUIT THE TEMPLE SPEAK OUT—’”

“Tell me, Rosalie,” Jim interrupted once again. “Do you believe that this article will solve the problems Marshall Kilduff seems to have with people of color? Is this piece of work justified considering the damage it will have on the social services we provide? I haven’t heard anything positive yet.”

“Jim, if you’d allow me …”

“By all means, your honor,” Jim grimaced into the line.

“‘Beginning two months ago, when it became known that
New West
was researching an article on Peoples Temple, the magazine, its editors, and advertisers were subjected to a bizarre letter and telephone campaign. At its height, our editorial offices in San Francisco and Los Angeles were each receiving as many as fifty phone calls and seventy letters a day.’”

Jim scratched out another note in bold lettering and held it up to the delight of all of us in the room.

guess we didn’t scare them enough

And then the mood of the article became deadly serious. Jim motioned for Carolyn to get him some medicine from his prescription case. She poured out a couple of bluish-green pills and gave him some distilled water in a tall glass. Jim gulped them down.

Rosalie read name after name of defectors whose interviews, she explained, would be interspersed with their photographs. “‘Based on what these people told us, life inside … was a mixture of Spartan regimentation, fear, and self-imposed humiliation … Sunday services to which dignitaries were invited were orchestrated events … members were expected to attend … four nights a week—
with some sessions lasting until daybreak…. the Planning Commission … often compelled to stay up all night and submit regularly to “catharsis”—an encounter process in which friends, even mates, would criticize the person who was “on the floor” … these often humiliating sessions had begun to include physical beatings with a large wooden paddle…’”

I could barely listen. Of course people were beaten. I myself had been swatted with the paddle. So what? Poor Larry had been bloodied and knocked out during a family-night cathartic boxing match. Sometimes one needed corporal punishment to make meaningful changes. Our church was no different than many Pentecostal or Apostolic congregations: we sang; older, more religious members talked in tongues; and we had strict regimentation.

Again, Jim began licking his lips. I wished I could hand him some ice to suck on because it was obvious he had no saliva in his mouth. He didn’t look well. His face seemed misshapen and bloated. The room was so dark I could barely see, yet he kept his sunglasses on. I supposed his eyes were terribly sensitive since he got no sleep. He worked so hard for us and now this had happened.

“‘… said that extensive and continuous pressure was put on members to deed their homes to the Temple … A brief reading of the records on file at the Mendocino County recorder’s office shows that some thirty pieces of property were transferred from individuals…. Nearly all these parcels were recorded as gifts.

Jim became more agitated.

“‘When Miki left the church along with seven other young people … none warned their parents … “We felt that our parents would just fight us and try to make us stay …” Furthermore they were all frightened. “At one point we had been told that any college student who was going to leave the church would be killed …”’”

My heart skipped a beat. I remembered that. But Jim had said Miki was being paid by the CIA to talk against us. I lost my train of thought as Jim began to pace in the dark, musty living room. I moved backward to give him ample space. When I resettled I saw the note Jim had handed Teresa.