Seductive Poison (27 page)

I was too weak to pull myself up from the deck and make my way to her cabin door, and too sick for Mama to see me. As the tropical winds whooshed around me and the groaning of my sick deckmates became a frightful chorus, I tried to calm my overwhelming desire to die. As the night crept on and turned to dawn, my body was transformed into one enormous cramp.

Lying in the same place, the flecks of vomit washed overboard with the waves, I felt the soothing, voluptuous warmth of the sun slowly penetrate my drenched back. I slowly lifted my head from
the deck. Was Mama there? Was she okay? But the effort of lifting my head was far more than my body would allow and I fell back into a trance. As the morning warmed into midday, the healing radiance from the sun actually revived my senses. I took a deep breath and opened an eye to see Mama sitting on the deck, her legs crossed, gazing down at me.

“I brought you some rice, it should help settle your stomach. There is more in the galley with milk and brown sugar on it.” Weak, but glad to find her near and looking well, I smiled at her frail little form and accepted the nourishment. “The captain says we’re close to the Kaituma River. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. We’ve been at sea over twenty hours.”

“Only eight more hours to go!” yelled a crew member as the
Cudjoe
entered the mouth of the Kaituma. My stomach settled as we made our way into the calmer river waters. Peering over the gunwale, I noticed the change from endless blue-green waves to a dark muddy water. The jungle river was thick with life, snakes, piranha, and curious debris from the rain’s torrential runoff. Its root-beer-colored water shwooshed past us, carrying felled trees and other plant life uprooted from its banks. This mighty waterway roared up against the hull of the tug and commanded respect. Its turbulence was ominous and prophetic, cautioning us against further travel, but we continued on, deeper into the interior. An occasional thatched-roof hut gave us a glimpse of human life on the river. The canopy of plant life continuously changed texture and formation, becoming thicker and darker green and the river narrowed, making our passage more difficult. From the top of a 200-foot-tall tree, a macaw flashed her bright red tail in warning.

The conversations around hummed with excitement about life on the inside. I wondered which friends I would see first, where I would live. I thought about Mark, a stranger now. His accent still made me smile.

“Iey, Debs, I caunt wait to seay ye again. It’s bean so long and I’ve naever given up hope yu’d be coming. Father says yu’ve been a real hard warker, even call’d ya a soldier. Just to think, in England, how lost yu’d seemed. Now look at whar yu’ve come to. Oh, Debs, this place is havenly. The land we’ve cleared is beutiful and the cabins we’ve built are sturdy.”

A sliver of moon peeked out from behind a cloud and shone down upon us. The night was cool and I closed my eyes. We were now a little over halfway into the third leg of the journey, far away from
everything familiar to us. As I settled into my fantasies of the Promised Land, the captain walked out onto the scuffed deck.

“Listen up. Any correspondence you are taking in is to be handed over to me now. No communications are allowed until they have been reviewed by the Clearing Committee.”

I sat very still and tried to calm my feeling of alarm. Why were letters from family members being censored? A nagging unease filtered up. I shuffled into the tiny cabin to find my duffel bag. Why were these letters dangerous? How could they possibly harm anyone? I removed the stack of notes I had excitedly collected from families and friends for their loved ones inside Jonestown and my heart began to sink.

Later that night, hours after handing over our outside correspondence, we arrived in Port Kaituma. This was the final inhabited spot—a small, mostly Amerindian-inhabited village, home to only a handful of people. Here, the flatbed truck awaited us for the fourth and last leg of the trip to Jonestown. For all but two of us, Mark and me, this ride would be our last before leaving this earth.

“Hello thar, mate,” came a familiar brogue. Mark beamed excitedly.

“Mark’s come all the way here to greet you, honey.” Mama smiled proudly.

I managed a smile, but I was still upset about the letters. Mark stood and watched as we, the boat people, made our way up the embankment. He hastily came to Mama’s aid, grabbing her arm and lifting her up and onto the leveled ground.

“Here, Mum, com sit in th’cab of the truck with us.” His voice was sweet and sincere.

“Debs, wud you join us aup har?”

I squeezed his hand gently and said it would be too crowded for Mama. I’d stay in the back of the flatbed with the others. I felt ill with foreboding. We waited while the boat crew unloaded our cargo. It must have been near midnight. I had lost my watch during my ordeal on the rough sea. I could see Mama’s head through the Plexiglas of the cab as Mark started the engine. She was talking and looked comfortable. I was thankful that Mark had chosen to greet us and was taking special care of Mama.

The following ride in the truck was agonizing. We sank into deep troughs and struggled back out as the truck sputtered on, taking us farther and farther into the jungle. After two exhausting hours, I suddenly heard oohing and ahhing and sat up. Not too far in the
distance I saw lights. It seemed as though we were nearing an enchanted city. The halo illuminating the sky ahead of us was captivating. Mama was pointing toward the brightness. A shiver shot through my back and into my stomach and I knew everything was going to be all right.

When we reached the lights, the dreamy haze vanished. I spied poles with lightbulbs swinging from them. There were primitive structures scattered about; many were just canvas tents with open sides. It reminded me of the army camp in the television show “M*A*S*H,” which I had once watched at Papa’s house. Our truck pulled sluggishly into an opening a few yards from a large, open-sided tent and rolled to a stop. I looked around and saw only dark green military tents interspersed with wood huts. Even at that hour of the night, I could tell there was nothing reminiscent of the life I had known. I heard loud pronouncements over a broadcasting system and vaguely recognized Father’s voice. Here, as in the capital, the people seemed different. They looked intense, distraught, perhaps tormented. No one smiled at us as we piled out of the truck.

Our excitement dissipated as some of our Jonestown brethren approached. I could see in their eyes that they had lost hope. Without news from the outside world from the families they had left behind, they now believed that they had been forgotten. Expectant faces hovered around us, hungry for a connection, for news of their loved ones, news that had been taken away from us and would perhaps never arrive. I wanted to run.

We were directed to a tented area where the “Greeting Committee” awaited us. Our trunks and bags were placed upon their examination tables. There was no time to talk to the hopeful onlookers. The Greeting Committee were a very busy few. Addressing each newcomer with “Welcome to Jonestown,” they quickly inspected, questioned, examined, and confiscated most everything from our luggage. As I stood in line waiting to have my trunk opened and examined, fear crashed down upon me. What would this little committee report about me when they saw the things I’d packed?

I could just hear it, “Oh, you wouldn’t believe the capitalistic things she packed, Father. Lace panties, a negligee … She isn’t prepared to come here and work. Her head is right up there in them love clouds!” As my trunk was unlocked, opened, and each item removed, I stood by and pretended not to care. If only I had known we’d be searched. The nightie I had spent hours shopping for and dreamed I’d wear on my first night with Mark was now being held
up by disapproving hands. The committee removed my shoes, shirts, panties, socks, toothpaste, soap, and body lotion, and handed me just four T-shirts, four pairs of socks, a toothbrush, toothpaste, four pairs of undies, and a bar of soap. Nobody dared ask where their things were going. We would soon learn that what we had packed for a lifetime in the Promised Land would now be the property of the commune, stored in a shed and available only through requisition forms and proof of need. Especially precious items were set aside in case Father needed them. I watched as Mama’s trunk was searched and emptied of her cancer pain medications, Percodan and Vicodin, and incorrectly presumed that they were being set aside for the medical unit. Much later I would see my mother’s pain medications on the bookshelf in Father’s house with the many other prescription drugs taken from Temple members. Then I caught a glimpse of the first of several precious acts of treason when an elderly black committee member who knew Mama pushed a bottle of Paregoric, the painkiller Mama needed, back deep inside my mother’s belongings.

As we were systematically stripped of our previous identities, never to be allowed private possession or autonomous thought again, the lost souls watched. Later on I, too, would feel the excitement when the siren sounded to announce the new arrivals. It was a strange rush to watch these outsiders, these newcomers, pull into the camp and realize they’d been desperately wrong. We felt vindicated when we saw other new arrivals’ faces fall. But after trying it once, I never wanted to make contact with new arrivals again. It was too painful to look into their faces as they searched ours, mine, for silent reassurance, for hope.

Once you were in, it didn’t take long to learn the ropes: keep your head down and don’t talk unless it’s absolutely necessary. For each person showing weakness by speaking of his or her fears, another would become more trusted for reporting it. There were no enduring friendships—everyone soon learned that it was just too dangerous to run the risk of confrontation or public beating and not being trusted. No, it was best to write everyone off and keep to yourself, the only place one could dream, hope, and plan, and not get reported.

With my meager armful of belongings, I trudged down the hill from the Pavilion behind my guide, past the medical unit to the right and into my assigned cabin. The one-room cabin was dingy and dark, but I could make out twelve bunk beds stacked closely together.
I felt drained and vacant as I bent down and dropped my things on the lower bunk next to the door, filled with swarming mosquitoes. I wondered where Mama had been escorted off to. I hoped they had arranged for quarters near or with Lynetta.

I nodded at faces peering down at me from the upper bunks. I recognized women who were once friends. Now, they were the knowledgeable ones, and I a dubious intruder. There was an odd look in their eyes as they watched to see if they detected a negative reaction from me. How’s she taking this? they probably wondered. I acted glad to see them: “At last, I made it!” Then I walked back out of the cabin. It must have been 3
A.M.
, yet the compound was bustling with activity. Didn’t they ever rest? Jim’s voice was booming over the loudspeaker and as I stood there listening to his words, observing and being observed, I felt myself emptying, becoming only a shell of a human being.

I made my way to the radio room, where I knew Father was communicating, as he did every night, with Teresa in the United States. I was worried that Sharon had reported more unkind remarks about me over the radio and I had to show Jim that I continued to respect him. My arrival would not be complete until he peered into my eyes to see if I had remained a believer.

I greeted him and his most trusted disciples. Jim had a bloated look about his face and nervously licked at his dry lips. Maria was even thinner than the last time I had seen her and looked as agitated. She barely glanced at me as I stood outside their den of information. I smiled anxiously and she continued in a conversation I seemed to have interrupted. Annie was talking to Carolyn and stopped to nod, as did Carolyn.

As I stood there facing Father, cloaking my fears with adulation and obedient respect, wondering what they were thinking or had been told about me, a hard-shelled black flying beetle, half the size of my fist, landed on my shoulder. Fear is a dangerous weakness in a cloistered society. It means that you could potentially betray your comrades and the entire community. I was petrified but I knew that I couldn’t show it. The beetle began to crawl from my shoulder, up my neck and into my hair. My muscles stiffened, I could feel cramping in my legs as I tried to control my panic. The heavy silence in the room told me to remain still. No one made an effort to help me, to remove the vile, six-legged intruder. My intuition told me that everything
was at stake. I had to control my fear, my hatred, and loathing of Father at any cost. Become the chameleon and survive, I warned myself.

Jim was watching me closely, trying to decipher whether I had become more distant or less trustworthy since my separation from him and the inner circle. Would he allow me further separation and independence? Would his designated few accept me back into the fold? I had to be tested. The beetle was entangled in my locks, pulling strands of my hair as its hairy, ugly legs struggled to free themselves. I shuddered uncontrollably. Jim began to laugh. Suddenly, the tension in the air subsided and the others began to giggle with relief. Carolyn walked over to me, removed the repulsive creature, and smiled. I thought I saw sorrow in her eyes.