Seductive Poison (24 page)

“It will make her very ill and there is only a fifty percent chance
that it will help.” While I was wondering what I should tell Mama, Robbi came to the hospital with the latest news: Grace’s and Tim’s efforts had culminated in the issuance of a custody order for John-John Stoen and a warrant for Jim’s arrest for contempt of the Guyanese court.

With each new exposé from
New West
magazine and the subsequent articles in the
San Francisco Examiner,
Robbi treated me to a blow-by-blow account of the celebrities who had been patched-in via telephone and whose messages had been blasted over the loudspeakers in Jonestown and in our San Francisco meetings. On one particular day during what seemed to be six days of hysteria, while Robbi was describing both Angela Davis’s message of support and that of Huey Newton, the Black Panther leader, the telephone rang next to Mama’s bed. It was Teresa, sounding panicked.

“Lucinda, leave Robbi with Lisa and hurry over! We have an emergency. Jim wants you here to receive the instructions with me. Do you copy?”

Poor Teresa hadn’t been out of the radio room for weeks. I wondered if I had time to get her some chow mein from my favorite Chinese family grocery store on Filmore Street before joining her and Jim.

“Tell her now!” I could hear Jim bellow. “This is life and death and she cannot dawdle.” Odd, I thought, even from there he has his intuitive abilities.

When I drove into the church’s dirt parking lot, one of our guards ran over, said he’d park the car, and motioned for me to hurry to the radio room. Teresa was manning the dials as Father’s hoarse voice crackled through the radio waves.

“Do you copy? Is Lucinda in the room now?”

“Roger, over,” Teresa replied.

“Lucinda, you need to become more focused now. I realize you have been upset about your mother’s condition, but we are in a life-threatening situation here. Teresa needs your support and help. Do you copy?”

I looked quizzically at Teresa and took the mike. “Roger, this is Lucinda … I copy.”

“This requires your full attention. Lisa will get better when she is closer to me. Now …” The radio hissed and sputtered. “I need you to make some calls …” Father sounded extremely agitated and I thought I heard yelling far off in the distance on his end of the transmission. He instructed me to call a high-ranking Guyanese official,
who was visiting the United States, and deliver a threat: Unless the government of Guyana took immediate steps to stall the Guyanese court action regarding John-John’s custody, the entire population of Jonestown would extinguish itself in a mass suicide by 5:30
P.M.
that day. The message seemed a little contrived. I wondered why he would take his intimidation to such a violent-sounding extreme. Of course, I understood the end justified the deceitful means. This was only one of his strategic moves, I told myself, and his diplomacy skills would carry the day in the end. As a good soldier I made the contacts, relayed the threats with emotion, and wondered about Teresa’s misgivings.

Her strange doubts about Father worried me, yet, as always, I stashed my own fears into the secret compartment that rational thought couldn’t penetrate. On the whole, I was more concerned with Mama and the doctors’ admonition about her treatment. I could not get interested or in tune with the endless Jonestown frenzies. Later that evening it sounded as if the crisis had been halted. Another intense mind game, I thought, and hurried off to be with Mama.

It was a broodingly warm October dawn when I was roused from sleep and summoned by Teresa for another important assignment. I had to squint my eyes to adjust to the light in the radio room. It was 5
A.M.
and my eyes were not ready to awaken. Teresa looked haggard as she signaled for me to sit next to her at the radio controls. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked as though she’d been crying.

“Lucinda? Did I raise you from a lovely dream? Over.” Father’s voice seemed to snicker over the radio.

“No. Over,” I lied into the microphone as Teresa’s eyebrows rose.

“We are in dangerous waters and the snakes have begun to swarm their prey,” Father began. “You must find George,” he ordered. George was Tim Stoen’s code name. “You didn’t have any luck last time, but now we know where to snare him. He’s supposed to be arriving at City Hall today. He plans to join forces with the witch [Grace] in order to steal the boy [John-John] from me, the rightful father. Thank God the boy’s now safe with me.” He sighed. His voice sounded brittle, as if it might shatter with tears if he wasn’t careful.

As always, Jim did not reveal the source of his information or suspicions. He gave the uncanny impression that he just knew, as though he pulled these things from the ether plane, from where he
said he came, or as though he had spies everywhere. It was too scary to think about.

Finding Tim, this time, was easy in the subterranean parking lot. When I approached him, I was taken aback by his sincere smile and kindness.

“Debbie, I know you are under pressure to scare me. I want John-John back. Grace is his rightful mother and he should be here with her. When she left, it wasn’t safe to take John-John; she wanted to find a home first, not frighten the boy. She was looking out for his welfare all along. I know you think you are doing the right thing, but I’ve been to the Promised Land. I’ve seen …” He stopped mid-sentence as if fearful. Perhaps he thought I was taping the conversation. His voice was pleading with me, as though hoping I would grasp his thread of insinuation. I wanted to ask him what he was saying, but felt disloyal for yearning to understand a traitor. And then it was over. Tim looked around nervously, patted his briefcase, and headed toward the staircase. Watching him disappear into the darkness, I stood very still. I was trying to figure out how to proceed when I heard Tim’s voice calling back to me.

“You’re a good kid, Debs. None of it is what you think.”

I felt ill and confused about Tim on my drive back to the Temple. It would take me eighteen years to learn the whole story: Tim had become disillusioned with the harsh life in Jonestown and used one of his legal missions in the capital to flee. Initially he went to England, but was tracked down by Jim’s aides and persuaded to return. Fearing for his life, Tim came back only long enough to try and destroy any Temple documents that might defame him, then defected again.

When I reported back to Father, I was afraid to tell him I didn’t push Stoen to take more money. Tim was sure of himself, seemed sane, and I didn’t understand my own feelings about him. Why had I momentarily understood his plight? Why had I wondered what Tim had wanted to say? I was frightened by my own disloyalty to Father when I entered the radio room to relay my account.

“George refused the money. Over.” I prayed Tim would not give me away in subsequent conversations with Jim.

“What? You saw him? What happened?” Jim sounded defeated.

“He refused. He was adamant that money was not the issue …”

“Dear God, he’s become principled too?” He exhaled in disbelief, his voice filled with grief. I heard shuffling, as if someone was walking
toward Father. I wondered if he was whispering something into Carolyn’s ear. I heard more shuffling and thought perhaps they would assign someone more effective than me. I felt ill. What if Teresa approached Tim and asked him why he wouldn’t take more money? What if Tim said I never offered him any? What if he announced that I had understood and shown him compassion? Oh Jesus. I would be killed for such a betrayal.

But my worries receded when nothing happened and Teresa and the transmissions from Jonestown quieted into a faint hum. I returned to my concerns and focused on Mama. I needed to have her closer to me. I determined that I would have her move in.

By late October, Larry, who was now living with Papa, came over and helped move Mama into my old room at the Temple. He brought a little refrigerator Papa had purchased for her, which fit into the closet I had fixed up with a hot plate. Every day after work, he shopped for fresh fruits and vegetables for Mama, and picked colorful bouquets of flowers from Papa’s yard.

Now I saw Mama every day. In the evenings I’d check in on her and often slept on the floor next to her. Mama was changing. She was frightened. The cancer they had removed was a rare form and her doctors had asked her permission to send samples to other research hospitals. Mama asked me if it was because she was not a good enough believer that she had gotten sick.

“After all,” she pondered, her voice trembling a little, “Father says people who leave or have doubts often find themselves riddled with cancer …”

I worked hard to convince her that that wasn’t true, not for her and not for me. But deep inside, in the secret compartment where I stored bad thoughts, I felt betrayed. By whom, I was afraid to say. Had it been my doubts that had made Mama sick? Father had said it was dangerous to deceive the leader.

While I toiled over financial ledgers again, Teresa was busy manning the radio and Larry was working longer hours at the hospital. Mama waited, alone and lonely, for my visits. Papa’s offer to take care of Mama at his house, which had once been their house, was rejected and he, Annalisa, and Tom were not allowed to visit inside the Temple. It was nearly impossible for them to contact us. Mama didn’t have a phone in her little space and I never dared to give them Jim’s private number in my room.

By November, Jim asked that I begin attending to the radio communications. Once Teresa had established contact, she
often leave me alone while Father talked with me. Jim consoled me, spoke about Mama and the effect of her condition on me. He was concerned that I had become overworked. He often talked about the beautiful cabins awaiting Mama and me in the jungle. Then he put Mark on the radio. I was embarrassed, especially when Mark spoke of his dreams of our living together in Jonestown as husband and wife. I could feel my cheeks redden when he said how much he missed me and fantasized about the day we would be as one.

Every evening, I’d rush to Mama’s room and repeat Father’s stories about our Paradise, and she, too, painted pretty pictures in her mind of our life together away from America. Finally, the day before Thanksgiving, good news arrived. Father had invited us to the Promised Land.

“Lisa is strong enough to travel and she needs to be with me now. Plan to bring her and help her settle in. I think you would feel more comfortable knowing she is happy. Plan to stay two months, then you can return to your duties there and Robbi can come here and visit her family. Consider yourself on a bi-monthly schedule.”

I was ecstatic. At last we would leave these cramped quarters. Mama would again be in an environment she loved. She’d be in the open air, surrounded by nature and near her recently acquired friend, Lynetta Jones, Father’s biological mother. Lynetta was a writer and Jim said that she was Mark Twain in her previous life. She and Mama could discuss the books they both loved. Mama’s health would improve.

“By the way, Debbie,” Father added, “Shanda wanted you to know you’ll be living near her … And let Lisa know that my mother is exceptionally vigorous and looks forward to her company and their long walks together.”

Mama’s doctor wrote a release so that she could travel to Guyana. I had met with him privately and asked that he not tell her that the cancer had metastasized. She had already decided that she did not want radiation or chemotherapy and I desperately wanted to get her to the Promised Land where I, too, believed she needed to be. We would both flourish in Jim’s sickness-curing aura. Once we were near Father again, Mama would get better, I was sure of it.

The evening of our departure I explained to Mama that it would be unwise to notify anyone of our trip. Papa already knew we planned to go, but if he knew the date, he could call in “forces”
stop us. Jim had told me via the radio that Papa had ties to the CIA. He warned me to be cautious.

Mama was extremely upset. She wanted to go but did not understand why she could not say good-bye.

“Mama, aren’t you glad you’re going?”

“Yes, honey. It’s just that we are leaving under a veil of secrecy.”

“But you must know by now how important secrecy is! Outsiders are dangerous, especially family members.”

It was always best to do things first and announce them later, when it was safe, I assured myself. They could come visit us there when Mama was settled.

“Darling … why the need for such secrecy? I want to say good-bye to your brother and sister. I don’t want Papsche, your grandfather, to feel that I deserted him. I can’t do it to him, too …”

More tears ran down her cheeks.

“To him, too? Mama, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, darling Debbie,” she sighed. A weight seemed to be pulling her down on to the couch. “Mutti took her life when I left her and moved to Utah.”

I dropped the pair of trousers I was folding for her.

“Mutti? But Grandma Anita died in Hamburg! … from a heart attack.”

I stared at her in complete disbelief.

“No, darling. Mutti died here … in New York. She committed suicide. She jumped from her apartment window. I was thousands of miles away and never able to say good-bye. Papsche received hundreds of letters from concerned Quaker Friends. In December, six months before her death, I had moved away to Utah with your papa. I thought I could visit her, but with three little …” Her voice trailed off and her chest heaved. “Had I been with her … had she been able to talk to me …”