Seductive Poison

by Deborah Layton

  3

  Lost and Found

  Back in San Francisco, in my father’s American car, I felt disoriented. Compared to the English cars I was now accustomed to, this one felt immense. Papa and the steering wheel were on the wrong side of the car and the traffic was streaming by on the wrong side of the road. I had finally come home and yet nothing felt right.

  When Mama greeted me at the door, I struggled to remain composed. I wrapped my arms around her and choked down a cry, once again painfully aware of how little I knew her.

  After I had my cast cut off and had the stitches taken out, I swam daily to strengthen my shriveled arm, lay in the sun to give it color, and sat outside on the front porch with Mama, together at last. Papa went to work in the mornings but came home early to spend time with me. On weekends we drove up to our land in Sea Ranch on the Northern California coast.

  Although it was good to be home with my parents, by my fourth week I felt antsy, anxious to visit Larry and meet the man who knew everything. It was not easy, however, to convince my parents to let me go. They were troubled by my plan. Larry had been alarmingly uncommunicative since he had joined the humanitarian self-help group up north in Ukiah. In the three years he had been involved with the group, the Peoples Temple, Larry had visited our parents only once. Papa called him regularly but was always told Larry was gone, busy, or at work. Papa thought something was odd.

  Larry had married Carolyn, his college sweetheart, in 1967. After their graduation the following year, Larry was struggling to obtain a deferment from the Vietnam War. He had requested alternative service work, explaining he was born and raised a Quaker. While waiting to hear from the Draft Board, Larry and Carolyn had moved north to a little community called Potter Valley, where Carolyn taught high school. She chose this location after listening to a sermon given by Reverend Jim Jones, a handsome preacher there who criticized the war in Vietnam, racism, and social injustice. She and Larry attended church services and found themselves in the company of many other college graduates. Jim took a special interest in the attractive young couple and offered to help Larry write the final appeal for Conscientious Objector status. Jones said it would be a miracle if Larry received it. In the spring of 1969, Larry was granted the impossible. A miracle.

  Larry and Carolyn were impressed and they stayed on to work with Jones in his fight against prejudice and poverty. However, soon thereafter, Carolyn and the minister became close working comrades, spending more and more time together on important church matters and with her mentor’s help, she divorced my twenty-two-year-old brother.

  Looking back I can see how well orchestrated the demise of their marriage was. But at the time no one saw the contrived and more sinister meaning. It happened during a small meeting Jim had arranged to discuss Larry’s C.O. status. During the session Jim mentioned he’d observed a “distance” that had grown between the young couple. Larry agreed, saying he worked long hours at two jobs and that Carolyn had grown quite cold. Carolyn agreed and, much to his surprise, asked for a divorce.

  “I’m sorry that is how you feel … but if that’s what will make you happy …” Larry whispered, visibly shaken.

  Jim suggested that Larry meet Karen, a devoted new member. Karen just happened to be in the building and was summoned to Jim’s meeting. The Reverend introduced them officially and said he felt in his heart and psyche they would be well matched. Within six months Larry was divorced from Carolyn and dating Karen. They married soon thereafter.

  I had seen Karen’s photograph on Papa’s desk. She reminded me of a cover girl, young, blond, hair blowing in the wind. She looked honest, sweet, and fun. She had been a homecoming queen in college. I was eager to meet Larry’s new wife and to see for myself what the man Larry called the Prophet was all about.

  Finally, my familiar promises of good behavior worked and my parents gave me a few days away from them. I boarded a Greyhound bus for the three-hour ride north to a place where the summer heat reached over 100 degrees.

  Karen and Larry met me at the Ukiah bus station and we drove to the Mendocino coast for a picnic. I followed them along the sunny beach as they held hands and we searched for the perfect sand dollar. Larry found three. When we finally laid down the picnic blanket, Karen began to talk about their remarkable pastor, Jim Jones. Part American Indian, he had been born May 13, 1931, raised by his mother in Indiana, and grown up deeply opposed to racism. In 1952, at only twenty-one, he had become assistant pastor of his Methodist church, and by 1960, he had his own congregation.

  “He was always selfless, Debbie, and encouraged all his parishioners to follow his example,” Karen told me, her eyes filled with admiration and pride. “We are a denomination of the Disciples of Christ,” she explained, handing me a grassy vegetarian sandwich.

  “Jim was appointed Director of the Human Rights Commission when he was only thirty years old!” Karen continued. “Then, in 1961, he had a vision of a nuclear war and worldwide devastation. He traveled to Brazil and other South American countries, searching for the safest place for his followers to live. He determined that Ukiah would be safe from nuclear fallout, even if San Francisco and Seattle were hit by nuclear bombs, and he moved here five years ago.” Karen smiled at me. “That’s when I met him!”

  Later I found out that in the mid-sixties, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, Esquire magazine had published the nine safest places to hide in the event of a nuclear war. Jim had chosen Northern California from the listing and found a cave that could house all of his followers until the fallout had subsided.

  “Oh, Debbie, I was lost, just like you. Jim showed me how egocentric and self-indulgent I had been. He needed my help to stop the ugliness of prejudice which has kept the blacks and Indians down. I stopped smoking marijuana and joined him in his fight to rid the world of hatred. Oh, Debbie, what a saint he is. He has adopted three young orphans from Korea, a black son, and he was the first minister to have a black man as his associate pastor. That’s Archie. You’ll know him right off. He usually begins the services, then sits on the podium during Jim’s sermon.” She touched my cheek gently with her hand. “You really will learn that ours is the only path to enlightenment.”

  I was duly impressed. Karen, Carolyn, and Larry belonged to a very important organization.

  The next morning Karen drove me to the church in Redwood Valley, a ten-minute commute north of Ukiah. Larry had kissed me good morning hours ago and gone to his weekend job at the lumber mill, a job he took to earn extra money to give to the Temple. Weekdays were spent in his alternative service job.

  The Temple was a large wooden building Larry had helped build. There were floor-to-ceiling windows and a beautiful stained-glass one behind the podium with a dove in flight. The church was surrounded by vineyards and the entire community was encircled by beautiful rolling hills.

  Karen ushered me into the sunny sanctuary and I glimpsed a letter posted on a bulletin board. It was a thank-you note to Pastor Jones signed by Governor Ronald Reagan, embossed with the seal of the state of California.

  I’d have to tell my parents about the letter when I got home, I thought. I was shown to a metal folding chair and looked up toward the stained-glass window. The dove was now shining with the reflection of the sun as the minister’s voice, warm and nurturing, caught my attention. His handsome face was framed by coal black hair that fell slightly onto his forehead.

  I was struck by all the young faces in the audience. The congregation was made up of equal numbers of blacks and whites, although most of the black members seemed far older. There was a crowd of Asian, Indian, blond, and kinky-haired children chatting and giggling near the enclosed indoor pool. I wondered which of the children belonged to the pastor. I had seen his family’s photograph in the foyer. Karen had pointed out his wife Marceline, the three adopted Korean children, two girls and one boy about my age; an American Indian girl who was a young adult, a black son who looked eight or nine; and his own biological son, who appeared to be about fourteen. K
aren had whispered into my ear that some of the members’ children were among the privileged few being raised by the pastor himself. She pointed out a white twenty-two-year-old and said, “John moved in with the pastor’s family some time ago and is being groomed for a very important role. He will study law at Stanford.”

  I watched Jones’s pained face as he spoke about the injustices in the world, why the war in Vietnam was wrong, how discrimination cut away at his heart, how he suffered when his black associate minister was mistreated, and how he, too, felt the pain of the little black children being sent away from the all-white schools. His manicured hands punctuated each statement. As I listened to his sermon I became aware of how spoiled, privileged, and white I was. He spoke about the pain we had to encounter to grow and fuel change and I thought that maybe with his directions, I’d be able to understand where I had gone astray and how I could correct the wrongs I had perpetrated.

  As he went on and on about the “haves” and “have-nots,” I began to fidget and play with the seam of my skirt. He sure talks a lot, I thought. I wish he’d hurry … I’m hungry. Suddenly there was silence. He had paused. I was afraid that he had somehow caught me and judged me as spoiled, restless, and unfocused.

  “Do not feel guilty,” he resumed. His eyes seemed to look directly at me. “You can change. We all have the ability to become better human beings.”

  This minister, the man his followers called “the Prophet,” “our beloved Pastor,” “my best friend,” and “Father,” felt so deeply about the inequities in our world that I made an effort to stay focused on his words. He seemed to be addressing every single person in the congregation.

  “Yes, come join us. Help me eradicate injustice from all our lives. Work with me to help those who are not strong enough to help themselves.” I wondered what eradicate meant.

  “Come forward. Be a part of a fellowship that will work to rid our society of hatred, racism, and poverty. I am inviting you to join in a new beginning, a life you can feel challenged by. Through my ministry you can help make history. As a group, we can wipe out racism and immorality throughout America.” His voice was warm and compassionate. “Yes, many of you are too selfish to make a commitment to help those not as lucky as you. However, those of you who can and do make that commitment will profit in this life and in many more to come.”

  Could that be reincarnation?

  “Yes,” the minister seemed to answer me. “Those people who cannot commit to more than their own personal journey, those who do not give of themselves, will come back as lesser organisms. Yes, they will return again and again until they learn through centuries of lives that giving is greater than receiving.”

  I was dumbfounded. It was as if he had read my thoughts.

  “There are only a few who are enlightened enough to be able to communicate with me in this manner. I am speaking to you. You can grow exponentially if you stay within my aura. It is not an accident that you came today. You are here because there is something greater in store for you in this world. You are meant to be a part of this cause. You came here today because there is a greater power and he wants your help. I want you to help me make this a better world.”

  Could he be talking to me? I wasn’t special.

  “Oh yes, you are important. I need you. Stay here with me and you will become everything you can be. I want souls with fighting spirits, people who have been underestimated, underprivileged, misunderstood, and have not been given the chance to realize their potential. You are the one.” I lowered my eyes. My face felt flushed, the minister was looking at me. “You, darling, are what this ministry is all about.”

  How could he want me? He must not know how bad I’ve been.

  At the end of the sermon the audience rose, yelling out praises to the handsome, kindly, fatherly pastor, the Reverend Jim Jones. He seemed truly embarrassed and humbled by all the accolades.

  “Thank you, Father,” shouted the elderly gentleman behind me.

  “Thank you, Jim,” waved a blond teenager across the auditorium.

  “You’ve saved my life! Thank you, thank you, my savior!” called out an old woman with white hair.

  “You’re truly the only one who understands! Thank you, blessed Pastor Jim,” cried another.

  “You gave me another chance, you gave me hope to continue on this rocky road,” proclaimed the elderly black woman next to me.

  I was flustered by all the commotion around me. People were jumping up and down and clapping their hands to music. I wished Larry were there so that I could ask him all the questions on my mind. I was glad to get up and stretch my legs. We’d been sitting for three hours. I noticed the young black organist playing and singing dramatically. She looked about my age, seventeen. I watched as the young people began dancing around, happy, comfortable, not the least bit self-conscious. I took it all in, mesmerized by the energy in the room. I watched in wonder as this family of all races, ages, colors, sizes, and shapes strolled from group to group, hugging one another, gabbing, laughing, and sharing stories. I felt insignificant and wished I, too, could join their great temple of humanity.

  While women were laying out food on buffet tables at the back of the church, little children ran about with towels and swimsuits, yelling to their parents to watch them dive into the pool. People were lining up with plates and utensils at the food-laden tables. I noticed a group of teenagers who had gathered around the pianist, singing a Marvin Gaye song. I realized how close the young black singer was to the reverend. She accompanied him the entire service. Sometimes she played loudly and people would sing along; at other times, according to his tone of voice, her playing was soft and ghostly.

  Then my attention was drawn toward the pulpit where a long line of people waited to speak with the Reverend. A sudden spurt of bravery made me get in line behind the old black grandmother who had sat next to me during the sermon. She turned slightly on her beat-up cane and smiled at me.

  “Honey? This yur first meetin’? I saw yah lookin’ antsy an’ scared.”

  “Did I look scared? I didn’t think … Oh, I’m just visiting my brother for a couple days.”

  “Baby, you ain’t got nuttin’ to be ’fraid of and you ain’t gonna be disappointed. I guess you ain’t never been to a revival meetin’ like this ’fore now?”

  “Oh … Well … I went to Quaker meetings and …”

  “What’s you doin’ in this line, baby? You needin’ som’ healin’?”

  “No, I thought I’d introduce myself …”

  “Lordy, chile, he don’t need you tellin’ him who you is. Oh, honey, he already know’d that. No, chile, this man knows the pain you been suffered and the healin’ you need to make this body whole ’gain. Uh-huh, Uh-huh. Yes, Lordy, he know’d everythin’ ’bout each of us. God knows, he done healed me of cancer and I’s hopin’ he’ll find a way, if the spirit’s right, to rid me of this here walkin’ cane.”

  She shook her old, battered cane in the air and I looked around to see if anyone noticed. “You said somethin’ ’bout a brother?” she continued.

  “Oh, my older brother? Larry Layton? Do you know him?”

  “Any relation to Miss Carolyn Layton?”

  “Well, she was married to him …”

  “Oh, chile, she works so hard for Father. Why I seen her makin’ sure he gets his water during service … No, I ain’t never seen him take any time for hisself. He always givin’ to others. Oh, chile, Jim Jones done got my grandson off heroin. I told him ’bout my heartache and he done sent his Carolyn on down to Frisco to get him. Yes, ma’am, they done brought him up to Ukiah and got him well. Yes, honey, you ain’t never gonna find a man as lovin’ as him.” She pointed toward the podium where the Reverend was ministering to a mother and small child. “Why, if it weren’t for that Miss Carolyn, Pastor Jones wouldn’t have food or drink. That’s right, honey, that man only gives. Yeah, uh-huh, she’s an angel come help him minister to us poor folk an’ hers a heart o’ gold …”

  As th
e line shortened and I got closer to the Reverend, I looked at his grand mahogany lectern. It stood elevated upon a blue carpeted riser with two steps up to where Jones was talking to a young boy. The child looked upset. I could not tell if there were tears on his face, but the Reverend seemed to be calming him, leaning forward and whispering to the child.

  I waited as he spoke at length with other individuals. There seemed to be no concern for time. One man talked to him for what seemed like an hour about his inability to give more money because he lived on a small pension and had barely enough to feed himself. The Reverend responded compassionately,

  “I never want you to give money. Your willingness to donate your home and yourself when we have guests in town is more than enough. No, Mr. Brown, it’s not you I am coaxing to pledge.” He sighed. “It’s those who have the means and ability to pay. They are the ones I am speaking to. My precious Mr. Brown, it is because of your good heart that I continue to do my work. It is for you that I ask for this money. God knows, if only more members felt the way you do, my job would be that much easier. It is because of you I feel the strength to carry on through the darkness. I hope you can make our Wednesday night meeting.”

  When the elderly man left the podium I noticed a lightness to his walk as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Then an even more aged, hunchbacked woman hobbled toward the Pastor. Although she spoke quietly, I could hear tiny portions of their conversation. She talked of extreme pain in her lower back and as she spoke, Jim held out his left hand and touched her gently around her neck and forehead. His hands were an olive brown and looked sturdy but not hard, his nails beautifully rounded and clean. He wore no jewelry, no watch. He had removed his tie and opened the first button of the shirt under his black robe. His face was clean, radiant, and handsome. It was easy to trust such a face.