Seductive Poison (23 page)

When lunch was over, we drove back into the sunless noisy Castro district, where Mama now lived. I wanted to stay with her, aware that she was worried about the visit to the doctor. We had not mentioned it over lunch nor had I warned her of Father’s concerns. I felt as though life was very thin and at any moment we might fall through the delicate crust.

On my return to Maria’s stale, windowless attic room, I closed the door. I was afraid. I was being tested and wasn’t sure why. Father wanted to test my honesty. And now Mama’s doctor was worried about something. I could feel myself sinking. She needed me now more than ever, she who had never once been sick. She had always been the one who took care of me. I opened the bag of cookies, laid my head on my arms, and began to cry.

Days passed and the previously dull radio room came alive with the humming and crackling noise of radio frequencies from late afternoon until the early hours of the morning. While Father was waiting for the boat to take him into the rain forest, he had set up shop in Guyana’s capital, Georgetown. His voice boomed over the airwaves, spouting orders. In return he received minute by minute updates on the latest antics of the press in the States. I hoped, once he was situated in Jonestown, that the Promised Land would calm his nerves and mellow his mood.

On an early Tuesday morning, while the radio room was buzzing, Mama and I went to another follow-up examination. The X-ray had shown a dot on Mama’s lung and the doctor wanted her to come in for a bronchoscopy within a couple of weeks. I had seen this procedure before and knew Mama would not be put to sleep. The sensation of choking would make the procedure very uncomfortable and frightening.

I talked to Teresa. She, too, loved my mother and told me not to worry, just to stay with Mama. We spent a long day at the hospital and when I brought her back to her commune, I cooked her some supper. I knew I was slacking off on my duties by spending that much time with her.

When she had finished eating, I broached the subject of her living with me.

“Mom? Move into the church. You could have my old room. The sun shines in every afternoon. It’s not nearly as dark as this room.”

“Oh, sweetie … You don’t have a kitchen and I wouldn’t be able to bake there.”

“I could get you a two-burner hot plate. I can convert the closet into a tiny kitchen for you.”

“Not now, honey. I like using this oven. And I enjoy your ability to spend the nights with me now.”

It was true, I had far more free reign since Jim had left and Teresa had okayed my sleeping at Mama’s.

Once Jim was safely ensconced in Jonestown, he demanded more supplies, food, clothing, and Bibles. Carolyn had recently joined him and her son Kimo in the interior. More often now it would be her voice requesting leather boots, socks, mosquito netting, and more clothes for the children. Endless strategies were barked, in code, over the airwaves, to be translated and implemented. Teresa dutifully spent most of her time in the radio room, jotting down notes, decoding Jim’s messages, and relaying what the press were up to.

Back home, our church meetings had become significantly smaller since over 800 members now resided in Jonestown. Ever conscious of our image, Jim demanded we add an extra digit to the attendance figures, both to mislead whoever might be eavesdropping on our broadcasts and to bolster the Jonestown residents by letting them think that our services were well attended.

“We had two thousand members join us in prayer today. Every one of them is supportive of your actions and understands why you had to leave when you did. We all hope to join you in Guyana soon,” we would regularly declare. Truly, only 200 had come, if that many. Our numbers were dwindling.

In late July, several weeks after Jim’s departure, Temple members organized a rally in support of Jim’s decision to flee. Many of our high-profile benefactors, including Assemblymen Willie Brown and Art Agnos, County Supervisor candidate Harvey Milk, Reverend Cecil Williams of Glide Memorial Church, and
Sun Reporter
publisher Carleton Goodlett, came to Jim’s defense. From deep in the rain forest via a long-distance radio-telephone link, Jim addressed the crowd.

“I know that some of you are wanting to fight, but that’s exactly
what the system wants. It wants to use us as sacrificial lambs, as a scapegoat. Don’t fall into this trap by using violence, no matter what kind of lies are told on us or how many.

“Peoples Temple has helped practically every political prisoner in the United States. We’ve reached out to everyone who is oppressed, and that’s what is bothering them. We’ve organized poor people and given ourselves a voice. The system doesn’t mind corporate power for the ruling elite, but for the first time, we’ve given some corporate power to the little man and that’s an unforgivable sin. And that’s the problem in a nutshell.”

I listened along with the other parishioners, feeling proud of our work. I thought about all the people we had helped, the famous ones like Angela Davis and Dennis Banks, and the little people who were constantly lost within the system. There was a lot to be proud of, in spite of the defectors, the press, the whole controversy. I was relieved to hear Jim come across as strong and confident. Clearly, I thought, our Promised Land had already restored his spirit.

But as the days passed, Jim’s mood grew worse. He was frantic about the proposed investigations and angry that he had been compelled to run. Having always been in charge of every situation, his inability now to call the shots and manipulate circumstances was wreaking havoc with his sensibilities. With each broadcast from his outpost, he sounded more discontent. There were rantings about the conspiracy against us and long tirades against Grace Stoen, who had stepped up her effort to get her little boy, John Stoen, back.

On a drizzly afternoon in late August, I brought Mama back from her bronchoscopy. The surgeon had biopsied a small segment of tissue for further examination. Mama was visibly shaken. I settled her onto her couch-bed, and prepared to go. She asked me not to leave her but I explained that I had to at least touch base with Teresa. Mama didn’t complain; she went into the kitchen and put some of her protein cookies in a bag for me to take to Teresa.

When I entered the cramped radio room, Teresa looked exhausted and worried. I pulled out the bag of Mama’s cookies and she sprang from her seat to grab it, and pulled me down into the chair next to her as she stuffed one into her mouth.

“We need to talk,” she said, then she hesitated. She seemed to be listening to the static, as if she was afraid. She started when Jim’s voice crackled through the radio, ugly and adamant.

“We need Bibles! More Bibles, big shining Bibles. I want you to
go to the Bible Exchange! We need them for protection. Do you copy?”

Teresa, her hand shaking, began to bite at her fingernails. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out on her upper lip.

She slowly picked up the microphone, intermittently depressing and releasing the button as she spoke, deliberately breaking up her message back to Father.

“We … ve … poor … We can’t … py … do … re … me? Repe … Ur … message. Ov … We are un … to read … do … Py … Over.”

“The Guyanese government has turned against us, violated our sovereignty.” We heard the crystal-clear message from Jonestown. “They have joined forces against us … We will have to make a stand. You must send more Bibles for our study program. Do you read me? Over.”

Again, Teresa feigned radio problems. I looked at her, amazed.

“Teresa, I understand what he’s saying. He wants guns!”

“We cannot read you.” Jim sounded exasperated. “Your transmission is too broken up. We will try again in an hour. Over.”

There was silence.

“What’s the big deal?” I asked.

There had been a time when a demand for Bibles would have been understood simply as Bibles, a ploy to present the Temple as a church for those people monitoring our radio communications. Recently, however, Bibles had begun to be a code word for weapons and ammunition.

Teresa looked at me defiantly, moved the radio dial slightly off frequency, and turned down the volume.

“We need to talk …” she repeated.

I followed her into the narrow windowless closet she called her room. Notes were strewn on the floor and file folders were piled high on her bureau. Her sleeping bag was still crumpled up on the floor under her long built-in desk.

“Lucinda, I’m afraid,” she said, keeping her voice down. “Something’s wrong. Something is happening to Jim.”

I was confused. In my understanding back then, it made sense that Father would want to protect our community. After all, we were close to the Venezuelan border and Jim had initially told the Guyanese Prime Minister that we would be a bulwark against possible infringements on the border. I had no idea why guns in Jonestown
would cause Teresa to lose her nerve and act in a completely uncharacteristic way. She must be totally exhausted, and unable to think clearly. Why should anything be wrong? Jim sounded, as always, worried about the conspiracy. Perhaps Teresa had been away from Father’s aura for too long and was losing her way. I felt disconnected. For the last few weeks, my thoughts had been with Mama and Teresa’s terror didn’t make sense to me.

I looked into Teresa’s tired and dark circled eyes. Her blond hair was oily and she needed to shower and take a nap.

“Father has his reasons and we should not try to outguess him,” I said.

“Lucinda, it’s not right. It isn’t the same anymore. He’s not thinking clearly; he’s acting strangely and what he is asking for is wrong.”

I shrugged and left the room. It was another of Father’s odd requests which would come to nothing. I wanted to be with Mama and all my worries were with her, but I knew I had to step in and review the situation with my other comrade on the Diversions Committee. We decided to take the situation in hand. I gave her a large sum of money for the acquisition of guns to be immediately purchased and covertly shipped to Jonestown. In the meantime, I asked Robbi to take Mama to her follow-up appointment to get the results of her bronchoscopy.

I was in my room listening to Teresa, who was again simulating transmission problems, when Jim’s private telephone line began to ring in my room. Jim’s wife, Marceline, a kindhearted woman, had just come in to check on our finances when I lifted the receiver. A tiny voice was trying to talk to me and my body stiffened with fear.

“Darling … ?”

“Mama? Is that you … ?”

“Honey …” Her voice became even quieter and I closed my door to drown out the sounds from the radio room.

“I have cancer.”

My body sank. I sat on the floor, trying to say something.

“Are you there, honey?”

“Yes, Mama …” I whispered.

I could not control my breathing. Marceline was suddenly kneeling next to me, staring wide-eyed into my face.

“Mama? What happened?” I asked with tears streaming down my cheeks.

I felt claustrophobic. Marceline was too close. I needed space to
breathe. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to scream Get away, for God’s sake. Let me talk to my mama alone.

“They want to remove part of my lung.”

Marcie was leaning into me, trying to take the phone.

“Please, Marcie. I’m fine.” I wiped at my eyes. “Can I speak to my mother in private? She is calling from the hospital. She has lung cancer.”

Marcie grabbed my shoulders and squeezed me, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Of course. Go to her now. I’ll inform Jim.” She headed to the radio room.

“Mama, I’ll be right over. I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”

“Oh, Debbie … I’m so sorry … I …”

“No, Mama … don’t … I’m coming.”

Mama’s illness engulfed me, and I ebbed further and further away from the front lines. Marceline and Teresa arranged for Robbi, one of my faithful Offering Room workers and my friend, to take over the daily finance dealings with the banks.

On August 25, 1977, Mama’s cancer surgery took place. I wandered through the hallways, making superstitious pacts with myself. If I didn’t step on any of the floor-tile borders and managed to walk smoothly never touching the edges, Mama would be fine. If I stared at the couch across from me, without blinking, the power of my concentration would make her well. After she was transferred to the ICU, I stood in the room near her while the heart monitor beeped out shrill, irregular tones, and willed Mama to recover, cell by cell, with each beeping sound, as if each beep represented hope.

The doctor had had to remove Mama’s entire right lung, along with an adjacent lymph node. Throughout her drugged recovery, she softly complained of her difficulty breathing. I held the oxygen mask slightly off her nose to reduce her sensation of suffocating and had the nurse increase the oxygen flow. Mama awoke intermittently and asked for my forgiveness, anguished about having gone back to work when I was still in grade school, blaming my unhappy childhood on herself. I lowered my head and cried.

Mama grew stronger but in early September, her doctor met with me and explained that her cancer had metastasized. It had spread into her other lymph nodes and she would need aggressive treatment.