Seductive Poison (25 page)

“But I thought …”

“No … it wasn’t the truth. All wrong, darling … all wrong.”

She held her hands to her face and wept. I had seen her cry on only three other occasions, twice about me and then on the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I was amazed how this story from the past, a story I never knew, could remain so raw and painful for her. I had no idea that something that had happened so long ago could still eat at one’s heart as if no time had passed. I was troubled
by my feelings of hurt and anger. Why had all this been kept a secret? Why had so many important events in Mama’s life been shrouded in mystery? I concentrated on not crying, too. I did not want Mama to see my pain. I dared not add to her grief with my own.

I felt helpless and overwhelmed, incapable of caring for her. I wanted to run away from her increasing dependence on me. Mama needed to be with Father. We needed to hurry and escape to the Promised Land where life was easy, and where solutions to all our problems lay. I was only twenty-four years old. Father could take far better care of Mama than I could.

While we packed, a soft knock sounded at Mama’s door. Marcie stood before me, a pained look on her face.

“Our attorney, Charles Garry, has just arrived and is down the hall, in the radio room. Jim is talking to him from Jonestown.” My heart sank. “Father wants Lisa to give the statue to Charles before you both leave.” She paused. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I turned around to look at Mama. Her face was as pale as ivory as she looked into my eyes and seemed to ask, And now this, too?

“Debbie, I cannot … It is not mine to give. It is an heirloom and must be returned to your father. I do not have the right …” Her voice choked with emotion.

“Lisa,” Marcie came into the room conspiratorially, “let’s do this for now. I will present it to Charles and then, next week, I will meet with him and feign confusion, explain that it was my mistake and get it back for your husband.”

Mama rose as though Jim had sent her the executioner. She motioned Marcie to the bronze woman statue on her coffee table, then turned to the tiny barred window overlooking the decrepit tenderloin, and wept.

Sadly,
Die Erwachende
has never been returned by the Garry estate and when he died we were impeded in our search for it. I pray someday someone will recognize the statue as ours, and return it.

Early the following morning, on December 6, 1977, without saying good-bye to our family, Mama and I traveled to New York. During our layover I suggested we have dinner at an expensive restaurant and ordered a bottle of red wine. Mama was concerned because it was against church rules to drink and the restaurant was expensive. I was not worried. I felt safe in my position as financial secretary
and anyway, I thought, What’s a $100 supper when we were each carrying $10,000? Furthermore, what was $10,000 when we had millions abroad? I wished I could tell Mama not to worry, that we were safe, that there were millions of dollars stashed away in numbered accounts for when we needed it.

Once we got to Jonestown everything would be fine. Everyone said it was beautiful there. Father had made it a beautiful place. There were pretty one-room cabins with lofts for the parents, a school, and a small river just past the trees. I couldn’t wait to mingle with the Amerindians and to swim in the river. The last film I had seen was so enticing. I remembered watching and listening to Mark as he spoke into the camera, with his adorable thick accent and beautiful greenery in the background. He discussed the process of clearing the land and building our homes. “Our pioneers,” as Father lovingly called them, had accomplished so much in the last five years, getting ready for us. I imagined that by now there were even more beautiful wood cabins scattered throughout the countryside. Our house might have a veranda. I could see myself sitting outside after an evening of lovemaking with Mark. Jonestown was going to be home for a thousand of us for the rest of our lives. I couldn’t wait.

On the final leg of our journey to South America, I looked out the window and into the dark jungle expanse. I wondered if my mother’s life would have been different if she had traveled to America with her mother. Would they have forged a stronger relationship? Would it have kept her mother happy and alive? Would my journey with my mother safeguard our new lives together? As our plane slowly turned, making our final descent into Guyana, a sea of green jungle peeked up at us, vast and uninterrupted. I gazed at its powerful beauty and saw what seemed to be the capital, teetering on the edge of the ocean. It was tiny in comparison to the boundless jungle we had just passed over. Holding Mama’s hand tightly, I leaned over the armrest and kissed her cheek.

“I hope this is everything we’ve ever dreamed of, Mama …” I whispered into her ear.

She turned toward me and smiled.

“A toast to Jonestown!” She pronounced, then grabbed my arm tightly, as if letting go might mean losing me forever.

9
Guyana—The Promised Land

A muggy lethargy took hold of me as I emerged from our air-conditioned cabin. My clothes were wet, though I’d barely moved. Mama, however, seemed to be breathing easily and more deeply.

“The air is good,” she smiled.

We moved in slow motion down the stairs and out onto the tarmac. It was five in the evening and I could feel the heat radiating up from the old cement runway, trying to melt the soles of my shoes. A sign glued to a window of an old, dilapidated building read, “Welcome to Guyana.” We entered the terminal through thick glass doors. The building reminded me of a World War II airplane hangar … long, old, dark, and noisy. Scattered uniformed employees, their dark brown arms appearing from under elbow-length shirts, watched us and smiled. Everyone’s skin looked smooth, as if doused with cream.

Herded forward toward the Customs agents, I waited and watched as the young men examined each passenger’s possessions. As Mama approached the guard, Karen Layton suddenly appeared. She looked her usual cute, perky self, giggling and talking with the examining officers. I presumed she was arranging for our luggage not to be searched.

“Mom! Welcome home!” Karen waved. She still had that sexy commercial smile. Touching the young official’s arm, she thanked him and ran around the table to hug Mama. The two of them walked slowly ahead, engrossed in a conversation while I floundered
behind, wishing a porter could help me with the load of our duffel bags.

Climbing into the old rickety van, I noticed that all the vehicles in the lot were spattered with mud. The ride from the airport was long and frightening. The road was narrow. Little, run-down, flimsy taxis honked and sped by, even if there was an oncoming car. We passed a decrepit industrial plant with yellow clouds and a sickeningly sweet odor. Karen looked at my face and laughed, explaining the stench was the by-product of the hops factory, an important export product of Guyana’s. I stared out the window and felt guilty … I was disappointed. Everything was old, shabby, and neglected. There were pathetic sheds along the road, each with a sign in the front window announcing that they, too, sold Coca-Cola. Partially clothed children were sitting on the hard brown dirt outside shacks, waving exuberantly for us to come in. After an hour and a half of bouncing down the road, past empty fields and desolate countryside, we slowed and entered a decaying township. The main thoroughfare was one-lane wide, but the buildings on either side of the road had once been elegant Victorian homes. There were weathered shingled mansions with huge wraparound porches, which looked as though someone had spray-painted them with dust and chipped paint. Perhaps in a previous century these buildings had been magnificent and white. Slender, proud, black- and brown-skinned people strolled about in the street. A black gentleman, dressed in a suit and carrying a leather briefcase, climbed the stairs to a formidable building. His body was erect, his presence polished, and I imagined him to be a barrister, educated in the “mother country,” Britain, and having returned home to give something back to his once magnificent homeland. But this country was no longer grand. It seemed we had entered an impoverished hamlet beset by antiquated pride.

“… And this is the capital of Guyana, Georgetown,” Karen announced.

I rolled down my window, wanting to feel the energy on the street and hoping to hear the strange accents in the conversations nearby. Children were running along the road calling to each other as adults bustled away from an open market with bundles and sacks poised on their heads.

Our van crawled through the crowd and then we turned onto a rutted dirt road. Karen turned to face us in the backseat.

“We’re here!” She pointed to a house in front of us. “This is home.”

“But where’s the capital?” I insisted, expecting large official buildings.

“That was it, we just drove through it.”

The truck stopped in an earthen driveway. The house was large and the yellow paint was fading. We seemed to be in a comparatively prosperous part of town. Around us was an open, weed-filled lot. The closest house seemed a block away.

Climbing the outdoor stairs to the main floor, I smelled the dampness in the air. Far off in the distance, I heard a roaring sound that seemed to be moving toward us.

“Rain’s coming,” Karen announced.

Karen showed us into the sparsely furnished living room. What furniture there was, was disheveled and haphazardly placed. The torn couch was facing the kitchen at an off angle. The two armchairs had been pulled closely together as if made into a napping bed. There was no sense of character or order. Karen suggested that Mama and I have a seat on the couch while she ran downstairs to the radio room to tell Jim we had made it safely.

I excused myself and walked down the hall. A mattress lay on the floor of what I presumed was the master bedroom. I poked my head into the bathroom and saw a water bucket in the shower with a washcloth hanging and dripping from its side. The house felt strangely unlived in, like an office rather than a home. There were notebooks piled on the floors and scissors next to stacks of Guyanese newspapers.

When I returned to the living room, the inhabitants of the house had just settled down around the kitchen table. They glanced up and dutifully smiled. Over the course of the next hour, while Mama and I were waiting, I watched them. They were Temple members I had known well in the United States, but here in South America their personalities seemed changed. They were serious and vigilant, and they looked at me as if they knew something I did not. They were the newly anointed emissaries from Jonestown, doing Father’s business at the Guyanese government ministries. They were discussing a meeting the following day at the Ministry of Defense. There were notes on the living room table entitled, “Jim’s Thoughts for Embassy Meeting.”

I suddenly realized that Mom and I stood out. We were different and belonged to another era in the church. Here in this socialist country, Jim seemed to have become a powerful force and Jonestown was his monarchy. These meetings were not with small
mayors and assemblymen. In Guyana, the Temple had close connections to diplomats and the Prime Minister. A new breed of followers seemed to have arisen, more sophisticated and militant, and I was not one of them. I could feel that history was being made here. Great decisions were being debated: how to approach an issue with the Deputy Prime Minister, who would meet with the Soviet Embassy staff tomorrow, and when to take the owner of the newspaper out to dinner. They spoke in serious tones and their postures conveyed a sense of urgency. I had fallen behind. My once respected status was of no importance here.

This new elite talked on about important plans, ignoring me completely. I was relieved when a voice called to me from the back room: “Welcome home!”

Paula came running out in a beautiful full-length dress and hugged Mama and me. Her hair was lighter, almost blond, and pulled back into a soft bun.

“I just came by to say hello and grab a couple of things. Bonny and I are on our way to a dinner at the U.S. ambassador’s home. Hell be here shortly …”

“Wait …” came a voice from the next room. “You need to hear this before you talk to Bonny.”

Paula excused herself and joined the discussion group. She was lucky, I thought, being able to dress up and date a non-member, and still be loyal to the Cause! I wondered what it was like to sleep in in the morning with no one there to “write you up,” to eat whatever you’d like, to look in a refrigerator and make your own meals. And then to be able to go to a dinner party at a high official’s home! Paula looked radiant, happy, and rested. No one could get mad at her because she was on a daily mission to keep the Guyanese ambassador to the United States comfortable and gratified. I’d heard he wasn’t a very good-looking man, rather heavyset with a bad complexion from childhood, but what did that matter if he really loved her? I contemplated the sensation one might experience from being adored. I wondered if feeling cherished by another human would change me? I thought about Father and hoped he wasn’t disappointed in my behavior since Mama’s illness. I had not been able to pull my own weight. Teresa and Robbi had had to compensate for me.