Seductive Poison (15 page)

“May I sit with you?” Jim’s voice drifted down toward me. The sound of him speaking to me was exhilarating. Why did Father want to sit with me? I wondered if Carolyn had suggested he talk to me about the work I was doing for her. But his time was so precious; it was considered an honor to have any private time with him. Like being near the President of the United States, it was an important moment when he humbled himself to notice and speak with you.

Earlier that day, Father had preached endlessly on how difficult his life was—how he was never allowed a rest, how he was always needed, always being called upon. He mourned the lack of time he had to spend with his adopted children. He complained that our own people, members and guests in the congregation, required all his time. I had felt sorry for Father and now I suddenly felt guilty. Now I was going to steal his precious time.

It was not quite dark yet, but everyone was tired, speaking in hushed tones, so as not to disturb Father. I looked up at him.

“Father, I’m fine. You don’t have to sit with me.”

He looked exhausted, worse than I had ever seen him. He bent down toward me. “I’ve been thinking of you,” he whispered, so the other passengers couldn’t hear.

“Your skin looks so smooth,” he blew his words into my ear.

Night floated down upon us, the worn and tired travelers fell silent, drifting off into sleep. Now, as he leaned down, I smelled something foreign on Father’s warm breath—alcohol! How terribly strange. It couldn’t be. Father had taught us that it was bad to drink. It was capitalistic. As socialists, we always had to have our wits about us. His arm brushed my breast as he sank into the cushioned seat next to me.

“I wanted you today, when you came to the podium.”

My stomach began to swirl and churn. Father released the seat lock and reclined his chair into the row behind us. He wanted to see if his son Stephan, who was seated behind us with his girlfriend, was already asleep. (It was okay for teenagers to have boyfriends or girlfriends, as they were still too young to be enlightened.) Having made sure no one was observing him, Father brought his seat back to the same level as mine. My head began to throb as he touched my leg, my thigh. Unable to think, afraid to breathe, I sat very still. Father’s unsaintly hand began to massage my thigh.

A shudder worked its way up from deep within me while Father’s hand kneaded my flesh. My mentor’s fingers inched inward. What was he doing? I didn’t want this … I stared out the window at the passing trucks, the green exit signs, the rushing white lines in the road. I tried to fix upon something stable, something real and constant, but I still felt him touching me. I tried to restrain my trembling and make sense out of this madness. Powerless, unable to take control, I felt belittled and defeated. I wanted to appeal for a second chance, beg him to stop. But afraid of what he would do if I did, I sat perfectly still.

Fear and humiliation drowned out coherent thoughts. Why was he doing this to me? I’d been faithful, I’d done nothing wrong. I tried to remember what had happened on the stage in front of the congregation earlier today: I’d gone to the podium to give Father the offering count and stood off to the side waiting for Father to stop and sip his water. His face was kindly and angelic. The black hair above his forehead had fallen toward his dark glasses. As he gently pushed his hair back into place his grand white robe with the red sash fell backward over his arm. He looked like Jesus speaking to the masses. He had nodded at me, signaled me to approach, his hand
gently covering the microphone. I’d leaned over, as closely as possible, and whispered the count softly into his ear. I had then turned to walk away when Father motioned me to come back to his side. I’d respectfully hastened back and again leaned close to hear his words …

“Don’t whisper so closely,” he had admonished. “I am attracted to you.”

What had I done? I left the podium, afraid of the shadow I’d cast upon my innocence. Father no longer viewed me as one of his children.

He was my teacher, my father, our savior. Why was I being singled out? I loved Father, believed in his words, never complained to him, and never pulled on him. I was not one of those awful few he complained about—those needing him, wanting him, begging him for favors. I was a good disciple.

As Father’s hands continued his bidding, the shame of his touch uprooted my very foundation. I was not sure which one of us I hated more. Perhaps I was being tested. Yes! Yes, perhaps this was only a test. Pushing the metal button on the top of my jeans, Father’s hand then rubbed my stomach softly.

“Your skin is heavenly,” he murmured as the converted Greyhound bus cruised up the highway toward San Francisco.

“At the next rest stop, I’ll order everyone off the bus to exercise,” Father whispered. “When it’s clear, go into my compartment and wait for me.” His eyes were soft and kindly and yet I felt as though he could see through my clothing.

When we stopped, Father gave the orders and my comrades disembarked. I stayed on, pretending I was asleep. As she was getting off, Carolyn paused at my side, then moved on.

Father’s bus was customized especially for him. He had his own private compartment in the rear quarter of the motor coach with a wall and a door. It was a place where he could disappear into his own space, where no one could see or hear him. We knew this was where he worked long hours while his disciples slept. Here, Father took care of important, godly business.

It seemed like hours as I waited, hunched behind the door in his dark room. I wondered if Carolyn had noticed I was missing. Suddenly, the engine started. I stood up to greet Father, but he didn’t return. Not sure what to do, I sat at his desk, then nervously perched on the end of his bed. I was sick with anxiety. What was I doing here? Perhaps I had misunderstood him. I moved again, hunkering
down behind his door where I felt safest. I heard voices as the door opened. Father was speaking with someone. His head was turned toward them, but his body quickly entered my space. I stood before my leader, unsure how to greet him.

“Please unbutton your shirt.”

My head reeled. I promised myself I wouldn’t have capitalistic thoughts anymore. I wouldn’t think about leaving. His hands began to caress me but they didn’t feel soft, like a minister’s hands. They were less sweet and attentive than my eighteen-year-old boyfriend’s hands had been. I whimpered. This wasn’t how God should act.

“You look frightened,” he whispered. His voice was soft and consoling as he guided me to his bed and pulled off my jeans. “Please don’t be afraid. I am doing this for you … to help you,” he comforted me. “You don’t realize what a pretty girl you are.” He tossed my pants on the floor and unceremoniously unzipped his trousers. Desperately embarrassed, I looked away. Had I given Father the idea I wanted him to do this to me?

His hands were now softer, his voice consoling. Completely clothed, pants open just enough, Father got on top of me, heavy and smelling ghastly. I felt a searing pain. Father continued to push against me. I could no longer decipher his words. I was suffocating. There were no kisses. Just the lonely sound of hot and heavy breathing on my neck. I descended slowly into paralyzed confusion and further downward into absolute darkness. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. He pushed himself back off me and zipped up his pants.

Ashamed, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Father.”

“Not to worry, my child. You needed it. I would never harm you. This is for your own good.” He was busy brushing the creases from his shirt. “When we get to the next rest stop, I’ll empty the bus. Get out quickly then and don’t let anyone see you.”

“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.” Saddened that he felt he had to do this to me, I pulled on my shirt and tried to push the buttons through the impossibly small holes. My hands trembled as I pulled my jeans back on, wishing I was invisible, wishing I was who I had been just a few hours ago. Despite his words, I didn’t feel any prettier.

When the bus finally stopped, I waited anxiously for Father to return and tell me that it was safe to leave, that everyone was off, but he didn’t return. I huddled again on the floor behind his door. I
wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to be on the other side, where I wouldn’t question my own thoughts.

The engine started again, its vibration cutting through me as we pulled out slowly from the rest stop. Without warning, Father’s compartment door swung into my hunched figure.

“What? You’re still in here?” Father seemed annoyed with me as he came in and closed the door. “Now you have to wait until everyone is asleep again.” Then he went back out and I was alone again in his sanctuary.

I waited and waited next to his bed, screaming insult after insult at my tired and numbed mind. Then, in what seemed like the middle of forever, he knocked on the door to notify me it was safe and I tiptoed back out to the safety of my sleeping brethren. As I tucked myself away into the luggage rack, I thought I heard Carolyn’s voice and wondered whether she had been awake and noticed me.

I awoke as the bus pulled into the San Francisco headquarters parking lot in the early morning dawn. The sun had barely decided which color to paint the morning as I grabbed my tote bag and rushed off the bus to my car. I didn’t want Father to see me again. What would I say? What in the world would he do?

Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge under a brilliant orange and blue sky, I struggled to make sense out of what happened between me and our leader and wondered what would happen next. And then suddenly I was roused from my numbed state by a memory of an incident that had happened more than a year earlier.

It had been an all-night session for the leadership and Annie and I had been late because her nursing classes ran longer on Wednesday nights. We drove in at record speed from Santa Rosa. The meeting this night was in the Ukiah hinterlands, at the home of one of the Planning Commission members. The sitting room was already crowded when we arrived. Excusing ourselves, we pushed toward the back of the room, managing to find places on the hardwood floor in front of the warm wood-burning fireplace. Father’s reclining chair was situated up front, in the middle portion of the room, and everyone fanned out from around his feet. We always sat on the floor because no one’s head was to be above Father’s.

Comfortable but exhausted, Annie and I sat close together listening to someone trying to explain why he had done something wrong, trying to defend himself without acting defensive. As usual, Annie had brought sunflower seeds for us to munch on; sucking on the
salty husk and working out the little seed inside it helped keep us awake.

Suddenly Father’s voice seemed louder and very serious. The room was hushed and I felt profound fear in the air. I stopped chewing.

“I want the person who begged me for sex and threatened suicide to stand.”

Not again, I thought. Don’t these blockheads ever get it? I was filled with disdain for these women who could not control their sexual cravings. They made me sick. Their capitalistic and selfish acts of sexual aggression made these all-night meetings run even longer into the morning. I sighed with scorn and impatience.

Father’s voice began to growl, “You know who you are. You’re no different. What makes you think you’re special? Stand up!”

My impatience suddenly turned to fear and confusion, and I sat up straight. His anger seemed to be focused in my direction. Just the thought of his rage was terrifying. I reached secretly for Annie’s finger. Slowly, her hand trembling, Annie removed the bag of sunflower seeds from her lap and placed them in mine. My breathing became shallow. The silence in the room was deafening. Annie was leaning toward me. I thought she was trying to tell me something. She seemed to be struggling to get her legs out from under her skirt. Annie rose and my world slowed into a haze. Annie? Sweet, honest Annie? Not you!

As I listened, too embarrassed for Annie to look up at her, I tried to comprehend what was happening. Our tiny little world, the one only we shared, was being defiled and shattered. Now Annie could no longer be my friend, not the old way. She had been transformed into one of them. Every single one of “them” had changed, acted differently … as if they were better. They all got more important responsibilities, as if they were more trustworthy than the rest of us. They all, somehow, got closer to Jim. It didn’t make sense. I felt anger, a sense of betrayal and abandonment. No more giggling, acting stupid, making dumb jokes. Annie had left me.

I could hardly bear to listen to Annie recite her litany of reasons why she had begged Jim for sex, what a wonderful lover he was, how he helped her feel better about herself. I couldn’t imagine it. Someone began to yell at her for pressuring Father. How dare she? Someone else stood up and screamed obscenities at her. I kept my head down. It just wasn’t Annie, not the one I knew. Why, Annie, why? I thought. Why would you beg him for sex? You, the last
person on earth who’s interested in such boring things. Wildly disappointed, defeated and alone I sat there, wiping my eyes. Jim’s voice piped up.

“Debbie … Debbie, you haven’t said anything. Aren’t you upset with Annie?”

I rose up. “Yes. I am.”

“Well, what do you have to say?” Father pushed for a response.

“I am sickened by it.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell her how you feel,” Father demanded. “Tell Annie how angry you are!” he yelled.

I turned only very slightly. Annie was looking past, through, and far beyond me. I looked into her face but it wasn’t hers any longer. It was blank, numb, and old. She was no longer twenty years old.

“How dare you have done such an awful thing to Father!” I screamed.

The bridge now far behind me, I wiped the tears from my eyes. I wondered again why Annie would have threatened to kill herself to have sex with Father. It just didn’t make sense.

I resumed my new responsibilities working for Carolyn and came to see the bus incident as an aberration. But, too soon, my turn came again. This time, after an early evening Sunday service in San Francisco, I was standing in the auditorium, having just finished counseling someone, when I looked up to see Father beckoning me over.