Save Johanna!

by Francine Pascal

  “To the bride and groom!” Laurence raises his glass, and we all do a minute of touch tapping to make sure everyone clinks his glass for good luck.

  Claudia makes a loving toast, wishing us good fortune and hoping marriage doesn’t cut into our sex lives too badly. Louis gets God to give us his best and there’s more toasting and tapping. David opens another bottle of champagne and Mary Gail quotes some obscure gem from a nineteenth-century feminist. Nobody understands but we all drink to it anyway. There’s more glass clinking, and then Roger rises, glass on high.

  “And,” he says, “for the final toast [the bastard is only anxious to move onto the poker game] I propose we drink to the poker group. May we survive the marriage as well as we did the courtship!”

  “Skoal!” says David, and we all drink up.

  “Shall we take the pie to the poker table?” Roger asks, standing and grabbing his tart.

  “Number one, Roger, that magnificent item wasted on you is a tarte aux pêches, not a pie, and number two, I have another announcement.”

  “Ugh,” Claudia moans, “a baby . . .”

  “Jesus, Claudia,” Laurence says, “people are eating.”

  “Just take it easy, smart alecks,” I tell both of them. “It’s not a baby, not yet, at least. Though it is a birth of sorts. It’s my first novel. I’ve decided to retire from the magazine field in favor of fiction. I’m writing a novel.”

  As I say the words I turn to David, and he gives me the reaction I’d hoped for. My gift is well received. His face lights up with love and pride and great pleasure, reaffirming once more that this sensational person is all the family I will ever need.

  Now the rest of the reactions come in, starting with Mary Gail. “Sensational!” she says and lifts her glass.

  “What’s it about?” Laurence asks.

  “Mind control,” I tell him, “evil, charisma, religion and its possession of people . . .”

  “Avrum Maheely again?” David’s voice cuts in above mine. I stop talking and look at him. There’s a sudden quiet at the table.

  “Yes,” I say, and his joy of a moment ago vanishes. In its place there’s a more serious reaction, not quite anger, something deeper and more permanent. Damn it! I was dumb to pretend this wouldn’t happen.

  In the four years of our love, like everyone else, we’ve had some important problems. But we’ve always been able to deal with them, solving the ones that could be solved and at least understanding and trying to accept the others. But the problem of Avrum Maheely was never really resolved. We just took the easy way out and let it fade with time. Of course, it did just that. The series was over, and as far as David was concerned Avrum was out of our lives. And yet he wasn’t. I knew I was going to do this book almost from that first interview over a year ago, but I never told David. From the beginning, when I first got the assignment, something was strange about his reaction, and it made me uncomfortable and confused. This was my first New Yorker profile, and Neil had gotten me a thousand more than I had anticipated. Naturally I was ecstatic and expected David to be his normal supportive, enthusiastic self, but he wasn’t; he was almost sullen, completely out of character for him. He explained his reaction by saying that cults just turned him off. He had no curiosity at all about Manson, Jones, or the Moonies, or the whys and hows of any of their followers. He said he never even read more than the initial accounts in the newspapers and didn’t believe it was a subject that would have much public interest beyond the hard facts. Of course, I said I thought he was being very narrow-minded, and we batted it back and forth for a while, but I could see that the subject actually revolted him and that I would never convince him otherwise, so I let up. It was the first thing I’ve done that I couldn’t discuss fully with David. We barely talked about it, but I know he resented the time I spent working on the Maheely profile, particularly my time with Avrum. It was almost as if he thought they were going to contaminate me. It got very bad when I received some threatening letters from fringe cult people and other nuts. Finally David had something tangible to rest his case on. Now, he claimed, I was in danger, which was ludicrous because writers always get letters from crazies. You can always spot them too. They’re scribbled in pencil on lined paper torn from old school notebooks. Most of the time I don’t even read them, but this time I thought I might get some insights. My mistake was letting David see them. For Valentine Day he bought me two beautiful presents, iron gates for my fire escape and a Fox lock for the front door. When it came to Avrum Maheely, that was probably our lightest moment.

  Under no circumstances will I be fool enough to show him the letter I got a couple of days ago from one of Avrum’s followers now in prison, Alice Rheinlander, better known as Swat. Most of the women in the cult seemed surprisingly malleable—hysterical but controllable—with the exception of Swat. My only contact with her so far has been watching her testify at the trial. I remember a face cemented in anger. I could see the open hostility in the way she moved her body. Her very walk was a challenge, her voice coarse with fury. A tall woman with large bony hands and hard angles of elbows and knees that jutted through her clothes, she was an extremely ugly person for whom no one seemed to feel sympathy, which was probably the most sympathetic thing about her. Recently I wrote letters to both her and Imogene Winters about the book and the possibility of an interview. Swat answered for both of them. It was a long three-page harangue, searing in its condemnation of me and my article, but still giving me permission to visit her. She called me a cunt, accused me of wanting, in her words, only to fuck Avrum, and then came a whole ranting, raving section about how jealous I was because Avrum loved her and how she was a part of him and that I’d better never try to get him or she’d find some way to get out of prison and kill me. I’ll admit when I first got the letter I said to myself, forget it, I’m not going to deal with that lunatic. But then I thought more about it, and the truth is these two women are the linchpins of my entire project, and if I don’t see and talk to them at far greater length, I’ll have to forget the whole idea. Then I comforted myself by saying that Swat was safely in prison and not due out for a lot of years. Besides, if all her anger rests on my making a play for Avrum Maheely, then there’s certainly nothing to worry about. I would love to have thrown the letter out, but I know I’m going to need it, so I stuffed it in my files. No question about it, it was an unnerving experience; still is, a bit. But it would be ten times worse if David knew about it. Poor David. I feel like such a rat, but this book is a natural. Even Neil, who’s a very tough agent, agrees with me. He thinks I could have a big winner if I can carry it off. I know I can, and I know I have to try.

  Once David understands that most of the legwork is done except for some interviews with the women, he’s certain to feel less anxious and then, perhaps, less negative. Two-thirds of the work is going to be done right here at home. He’s going to love that.

  One look at his stricken face across the table and I know I’m going to have to do some very fancy convincing. But I will because he’s extremely important to me. Both of them are, David and the book.

  “Yes, the main character is Avrum Maheely,” I say to David, “but the fabulous thing is that most of the research is finished. Now all I have to do is sit down and write it.”

  I can’t say he’s overjoyed, but his face does relax a bit, and the conversation moves on. I figure I’ll tell him about Swat and Imogene later, when he’s come around a little more.

  I explain that I hope to capture the essence of the Maheely-type personality and find out whatever it is that gives him such terrible power over people.

  “He’s insane,” Laurence says with disgust. “He’s an animal, that’s all he is.”

  “You can’t just dismiss him like that,” I say; “he’s got to be explained so he can be understood.”

  “Why? The guy’s an aberration. A freak. They all are.”

  “They’re not all insane, and neither are their followers,” I say. “That’s just a superficial a
nalysis, and it’s worthless.”

  “It may be a fast answer, but I think it’s the right one,” Claudia says. “I agree with Larry. They’re insane. Joey, you just don’t realize how many nuts are walking around loose. My God, take a walk down Broadway sometime. And it’s getting worse.”

  I run into this attitude all the time, and I try not to get impatient. But they don’t even make an attempt to understand. “I’m not saying these are normal personalities,” I say. “Sure, they’re abnormal, but don’t be foolish enough to think they’re insane. Insane is incompetent. Not functioning. And God knows, these people are functioning at a terrifying level. Can’t you see that?”

  “Joey,” says Claudia, “you sound like you’re defending him. He’s slime. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “It’s not a question of defense. I’m simply trying to look beyond and find out what causes the Maheelys and their adherents. There are going to be more Jonestowns, more kids lost to cult groups and instances of brainwashing.” I’m feeling very uncomfortable because David hasn’t said a word. I press him. “David?”

  “There’s no question that mind control is always a danger,” he answers, and I relax a little, “especially today with all the new sophisticated psychological methods at our disposal. I just wonder if Maheely is the right point of attack.”

  “Of course he is,” I say, trying to control the touch of irritation I’m beginning to feel with all of them. “He actually did it, and we have to find out how and why.”

  Laurence reacts to my irritation with a bit of his own. “I see you doing that same old liberal hogwash. We must understand the criminal mind. Have pity for good old Joe Bananas, somebody hid his teddy when he was four.”

  “I say fry ’em all!” Roger jumps in.

  “Come on, Roger.” Mary Gail giggles and gives him a light poke on the shoulder. “Don’t fool around. Johanna is serious, and her knowledge of Maheely is on an entirely different level than ours. Once you’re aware of different levels in people you can never define them the same way again.”

  “Maybe the real story isn’t Maheely or Jones but the people who need them,” Claudia says; “maybe it’s only another religion.”

  Louis, who’s been silent up to now, joins in. “That’s just what it is.”

  We’re all surprised.

  “They all start as cults, and if they last long enough they become accepted religions.”

  “It’s true,” Mary Gail says. “Look at the Quakers. They were considered a cult and thrown out of England.”

  “So I was right,” Claudia says. “Not bad for an atheist.”

  “Except that the Maheely-, Manson-, and Jones-type cults are really antipodes of most of the other developed religions,” Louis continues.

  “Think of it as black magic versus white magic,” Laurence says, and Mary Gail accuses him of reducing everything to an ad campaign, but Louis says that it’s a fair statement. “The black magic part is a perversion of Christianity because it’s based on death, while good religion is based on life.”

  “Christianity is filled with death,” I say.

  “But that’s a different concept,” Louis says. “In Christianity the dying is done ritually rather than literally, leaving the people free to pursue life. Death is handled by Christ.”

  “Maheely thinks he is Christ,” I say.

  “Christ is authority. Maheely is power.”

  Laurence wants to know what the difference is, and Louis says that to his mind authority is the ability to come to terms with self and have standing with others. “Power preys on those unable to come to terms with themselves.”

  I have to agree. “Maheely’s followers are perfect examples of incomplete development, of adults without maturity.”

  “Not uncommon,” Laurence says. “I know a lot of people like that. And I think most of them work for me. How about you, Roger, what do you think?”

  But Roger has been involved in his own arrested development. “Deal!” he says, and the conversation stops as we all look at him in great surprise. He has cleared off the entire table, taken every dish into the kitchen, given out chips, mixed the cards, and dealt for dealer. Surely Roger doesn’t do that much at home in a year. Everyone has to smile. And the tension of the conversation softens into good humor and busy pregame preparations.

  “I’m afraid to look in the kitchen,” I say as we all move over to the poker-cum-dining table.

  Claudia points to the stack of chips in front of her seat. “Is this twenty dollars’ worth?” she says, digging into her pocketbook for her money.

  Roger nods his head yes, and everyone starts pulling out twenty-dollar bills and throwing them in front of me. The banker is traditionally the host or hostess.

  There’s a spate of drink filling, coffee getting, chair adjusting, and general getting down to business.

  Claudia antes fifty cents and deals out five-card stud. High only. Roger’s pair of aces takes it. I love it when Roger starts off winning.

  The game meanders along with five-card, seven-card, and then the wilder games start slipping in. I get wiped out in a game called the Good and the Bad, where your entire hand can change radically on the last card. The last card canceled out a pair of wild cards that would have given me a royal flush. Now all I can make is a nine low. All the bets are in, so there’s no point in dropping out now. If I’m lucky everyone else will go high, and I’ll steal half the pot.

  I’m not lucky. A perfect low splits with four kings, and I throw in another ten dollars.

  Poker is banter, nonsense chatter that belies the utter seriousness of the action. When you play with the same people all the time you begin to think you know more about them than you really do. For example, Mary Gail, so sincere, so pure that you are dead certain she would never bluff, and it is just that kind of information that can kill you. This time it happens to David. He goes out with three tens against what looks certain to be a straight in front of Mary Gail. It turns out to be a two-three-four-five-jack.

  Time moves quickly in poker games, and soon two hours have passed.

  Laurence and Mary Gail are well into the Courvoisier, David is happy with his beer, and the rest of us, excluding Roger who never drinks when he gambles, are enjoying some weed. The game moves along pleasantly for me. David and Claudia are holding their own; Laurence is winning; Louis, Mary Gail, and Roger are losing. Louis is down the most, probably about fifty dollars. No one is bleeding badly, only minor cuts.

  The atmosphere is easy and friendly. Everyone, even the losers, likes being here, likes each other and the specialness of the game. I guess it’s almost like a club in its exclusivity. The group rarely changes. Occasionally, when someone can’t make it, we bring in the second string. They’re perfectly nice people, those second-stringers, but it’s like the Indian caste system, they know they can never move up.

  At two o’clock we deal around once more to Laurence, cash in our chips, and end the evening. I come out twenty-two dollars ahead. Roger noses out Louis for big loser of the night. I always tell David Roger’s happier that way. It makes him feel more secure. He probably thinks he deserves to lose, and who knows, maybe he’s right.

  Roger leaves first because he’s the only one who has any distance to travel. It’s not terribly far, only to Queens, but he has little patience for amenities past the poker table. Queens is about the only concession he’s given to his wife, Sandra. Since he’s so rarely home she insists on being close to her family, who all live in some place called Rosedale. I don’t know anything about it, and I’ve never been there. Sandra has come to holiday parties and she’ll be invited to our wedding, but I suspect she hates us all for keeping Roger away from home. Or possibly she appreciates us more than we know.

  Mary Gail lowers the lights, and the group rises almost in unison amid groans and chatter and in the dimness appears to be some many-headed giant that slowly breaks apart, then one by one, two by two, drift into the living room taking the seats they usually take, probably a v
estige of some territorial incentive.

  Now the conversation just marks time, very small talk, its only purpose to postpone the inevitable leaving, the cutting off of friendship’s warmth and comfort. If only they could sit silently for a little while, enjoying the good feeling, but even with close friends, there must always be talk long after there’s anything left to say.

  Tonight I want them to go. I want to be alone with David. I sense his disquiet, and I want to assure him and myself that I’ve made the right move.

  Finally, my friends make ready to leave. It takes them a full ten minutes of last-minute preparation, just-remembered questions, information, gossip, and then suddenly, in a matter of seconds, they’re gone and we’re alone.

  There’s an awkward silence that I try to fill with busy cleaning up. With my back to David, I start to pile empty plates, moving them uselessly from one place to another, when I feel his hand on my shoulder. I turn around into his arms. David’s lips are always soft and his mouth gently passionate, but tonight the kiss is more tentative than sensual.

  He moves his face back slightly, enough to look down at me, and he caresses my hair as I hold him tightly. I love this man very much.

  “I just don’t like it, Jo, no point in pretending that I do.”

  “But I told you, most of the research is over. How can there be any danger when all I am going to do is sit home and write?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “If you really don’t, then I think you’re being unreasonable.”

  “Maybe we should have worked this out before.”

  “Okay, we didn’t, so let’s do it now. What’s your real objection?”

  “The most important one is that I feel there might be danger.”

  “Oh, come on, David, Maheely’s in prison for a very long time, maybe the rest of his life, and the others are essentially followers and, without their leader, impotent.”

  “You’re wrong, Jo, they’re still very much a menace and especially dangerous because they don’t follow any of the accepted rules. It doesn’t matter that Maheely’s locked away; he’s alive, and his influence over them is still powerful.”