Seductive Poison

by Deborah Layton

  “Threats?”

  “The attack last night. We need more protection sent down. In fact we need to get the American Embassy to agree to our getting guns to protect ourselves from the enemy.”

  I thought about Mama. I hoped they hadn’t had another White Night.

  “How can they help?” I asked.

  “Easy. They agree with us that our self-defense is necessary.”

  “But how do they know about the attacks?”

  “I talk to them almost every day. In fact they recently told us to shoot any planes down if they fly over us in a threatening manner.” She smiled. I heard the car leaving our yard while Sharon continued, “Today Father wanted us to do ‘crazy nigger’ at the Russian Embassy. You know, impress upon the consulate that our requests are urgent.”

  “But I thought we were offering them money to allow us to immigrate to Russia.”

  “Well, that hasn’t impressed them, so now JJ wants us to cry, scream, talk about the invasions, and the threats to kill our people. We’re there now telling them that we’ll commit revolutionary suicide if we can’t protect ourselves from capitalist threats. The Russian consulate needs to see how serious we are about the issue of our survival. If they don’t let us into their country soon we’ll be killed by the CIA or die defending ourselves.’’

  I spent the next few days making myself indispensable at the capital headquarters, so that I would not be ordered back to Jonestown right away. I needed time to come up with a plan. I couldn’t just run away on my first day here. How, with no passport, money, or outside contacts, could I get out of the country? Jim had repeatedly told us that he had moles inside the American Embassy and if any of us ever told them anything, he’d in turn be told. I needed to figure out how everything worked before I could invent a safe way out.

  I set about getting the house in order. I cleaned and straightened, organized sloppy closets, hung clothes on hangers, transferred all outside-meeting clothes and fancy shoes we put on to impress people, into one closet. I washed walls, straightened the kitchen, and tidied the jumbled pantry. I rearranged the living room, then picked colorful weeds from our empty lot, and arranged them on the wooden crate I hauled up from downstairs. It looked stunning. Father always said, “Appearance is everything,” and we had many important guests to impress.

  Once the upstairs was immaculate, I took on the lower level, which consisted of a large dismal room for storage and sleeping, and the tiny, cramped radio room. Relayed radio transmission communiqués were buried under a stack of clothing. I arranged papers by “author,” and created cubbyholes for each person’s missives. I even constructed an enormous cardboard calendar with large squares designated for each day. I penciled in our schedule: times and places of appointments and who was meeting with whom. Also incorporated on the bottom of the day was an after-hours section, which included all evening events that had to be attended. If we were to tape-record a meeting for a later blackmail attempt, I asterisked the appointment. I required that each person, upon his or her return from a meeting, report the outcome to me so I could immediately transmit the information to Jonestown. Although Father was adept at detecting deception, I prayed he would misread my scheme and would once again be simply impressed with his perfect “little soldier.” It worked. A week later he ordered me to remain in the capital as the coordinator of all the PR activities.

  I eagerly awaited the first night of our performances at the Guyanese Cultural Center. The Temple was hosting this well-publicized, week-long exhibition for the citizens of Georgetown. The ministries had begun to complain that Temple members “only arrived in Guyana,” but were never seen again once they were sent into the interior. Offering free admission to the shows was shrewd public relations thinking, which had always been Father’s specialty.

  It was the same propaganda program Jim had presented to invited dignitaries such as the American consul, the Prime Minister, Carlton Goodlett, publisher of the San Francisco-based Sun Reporter, and Lieutenant Governor Mervin Dymally, when they visited Jonestown. There were always ten adorable girls and five handsome boys, mostly black, adorned in colorful African costumes. Dancing to Caribbean music, they would sing songs of freedom, “The Internationale,” recite socialist poems, and always end with music accompanied by an acrobatic dance.

  Everyone stationed at the house wanted to attend the venue. Although Jim and Carolyn had specifically assigned me to chaperone the kids to and from their performances, I could tell how badly Sharon wanted to go. I boldly suggested she take my place. After all, I had seen the rehearsals many times in Jonestown. I appeared genuinely chivalrous in offering to stay home alone and guard the premises. While she and the others had fun, I was going to initiate my maiden act of treason.

  I waited until the Land Rover drove out of sight, then rushed to the desk with a phone, a clock in my lap, its secondhand ticking away in front of me. The call had to be less than two minutes. Any longer and the call could be traced. That much I knew from the United States, where I had made innumerable diversionary calls. But here, I was unfamiliar with operating procedures. Even the international operator, who had to connect my call, could conceivably give me away. Nevertheless, I took the risk, desperate to hear a familiar voice and talk to someone I could trust.

  With my heart beating so loudly I could barely hear the clicking of the dial, my finger slowly rotated the numbers. There was a five-hour time difference. My sister would probably be home now, making dinner for her four-year-old son, David, and her daughter, Lori, who was eight. I had to make sure the call was less than 120 seconds. I also had to be careful not to upset or scare her. If she perceived any danger from me she might feel compelled to call someone, like Dad, for help. Wanting to protect me, Papa would then innocently blow my cover by calling the San Francisco Temple headquarters demanding to know what exactly was happening down there? Father had taught me the fewer who know, the safer you are. As the ringing began, I watched the secondhand on my clock to note the exact moment of contact. The phone rang. Eight … nine … ten …

  “Hewo!”

  “Hello, David? Is your mama there?”

  “Mommy’s aou’side picking stawbury jam.”

  “I need her quickly, sweetie. Can you hurry and run outside? Tell her it’s an emergency.”

  I could hear the phone slide off the counter, dangle from the cord, and knock against the kitchen-counter wall. I heard their back door slide open.

  “Mommy. ’Mergency’s on the phone …” Twenty-nine seconds. Hurry! The thumping of the receiver stopped.

  “Mommy said who’re you … ?”

  “It’s Auntie Debbie, honey, and I haven’t much time.” More precious seconds faded away as another communiqué from child to mother was transmitted. Finally, a breathless voice answered.

  “Debbie? Are you okay? I received Mom’s letter last week. It didn’t sound like her. It’s been months! How’s Mama? Is everything okay? Debsy, are you all right?”

  “Oh yes. We’re both fine.” I felt stilted, afraid, suddenly, to speak. What if the phone was tapped? Hurry, say something positive to her. “It is very beautiful here. We love it. Yes, truly, Mom and I are happy here.” I should have checked the baseboards for bug-wiring.

  “Debbie? Speak up. I can barely hear you …”

  “Mom and I are very pleased to be here.” I raised my voice. “Annalis, you sound so close. I can almost feel you here in the room with me. I wish you were …”

  “Debs, speak up. What’s happening? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, but I don’t have much time. I just wanted to call and say I am writing you a letter. I’ll try to mail it tomorrow.” If I can get to the post alone. “I will explain everything then. Please, Annalis, be careful. Tell no one I called. I’ll explain later. No one can know.”

  “But, Debbie, I need to know more. I want to …”

  “Trust me. I love you, but you must do as I say.” Oh, Annalis, too much is at stake. “I must hang up, I’ve run out of time. Bye
! And, Annalis, don’t try and contact me here, understand? I never made this call.”

  “Debbie? Debbie, wait. What did you say? I didn’t …”

  “Love you,” I whispered into the phone, then kissed the receiver and disconnected. One hundred and nine seconds, exactly.

  I tried to catch my breath, feeling as if I had just run the sixty-yard dash. My hands were sweaty and my lips and mouth were dry. I bolted upstairs to make sure the elderly couple who had arrived earlier from the States were still in bed and had not heard any strange sounds. I went back downstairs and began to clean the radio room. The radio was on and garbled, demonic murmurs were bleeding over and into one another from different frequencies. I turned down the radio and while I waited for Sharon and the others to return, continued cleaning up and making order.

  Toward the end of the week, my fear of the American Embassy was confirmed. I desperately wanted to alert them to my desire to leave, but Jim had warned us that he had moles inside the embassy. I assumed they were official informants who wittingly and unwittingly offered Jim information that he then used against us. Father warned us constantly: “I have my ways of getting the information I need.” I wished the embassy officials weren’t so thickheaded. Weren’t they trained to detect fraud and deceit? It was true, when government visitors, doctors, even our attorney, Charles Garry, came to Jonestown we put on a tremendous show for them. The guests were wined and dined with foods we never got to eat. In fact, when they looked into our faces we really were happy because on these special occasions we, too, got better food and we worked only half a day. The teenage dancers, the band, and our rehearsed pretense of freedom, reenacted for their benefit alone, worked every time. Perhaps it was impossible to see through our veneer. Jim had perfected it so well.

  That’s why I was afraid to go to the embassy for help. Embassy officials were scheduled to visit Jonestown pretty soon. I could imagine how the visit would unfold if I confided in them: One of them would stand before Father and proudly taunt him, “Well, things aren’t so great after all; we’ve been approached by one of your people in the capital and she wants to leave.” It could happen that fast and Father would have no difficulty finding out which of us was the traitor who had gone to the embassy.

  What amazed me was that these government officials did not understand that the information they shared with Father would be used to maim us. It appeared the embassy did not believe the stories they were hearing from the United States, the letters and calls from Concerned Relatives asking for an investigation. Maybe they wouldn’t believe me either.

  I had several assignments in the capital: to chaperone the youth at the cultural presentations, to get Carolyn’s tax clearance for Barbados, and to accompany six young couples to the American Embassy so they could acquire Guyanese birth certificates for their newborns.

  The meeting for the six young couples and myself had been set for 9 A.M. Thirty minutes later the consul waved us into his office. I carefully positioned myself behind the others, who were sitting on chairs in a semicircle facing the consul, Dick McCoy.

  “Tell me,” the consul began his inquiry, “just how much do you enjoy life here? Are you happy, or would you prefer to return to the United States?” With his fair skin and hair, I knew he would never survive in the fields of Jonestown.

  From behind the others, I tried to catch his attention and secretly alert him to the fact of my dissension. I raised my eyebrows and slightly shook my head, hoping he’d be compelled to speak with me later. He did not seem to notice. Father always said honkies were stupid.

  “Yes, I love it in Jonestown. That is why I want my child to have Guyanese citizenship.”

  “How about you?” He pointed. “Are you happy here?”

  One of my favorite young women, Vera, stood up as if being confronted in Jonestown. With her body erect, her muscular, ebony arms hanging stiffly at her sides, she began.

  “I wish we’d come here sooner. Even my complexion is better.”

  Giggles ensued. With each official question, another youth successfully replied with our rehearsed responses.

  “Why do you like it here? What is your name, for the record?”

  “Yolanda, sir. I love it here because I am free to live a life that is not obstructed by racism.”

  “Ahhh, you experienced this in America, did you, Yolanda?”

  “Oh yes. At least here in Guyana we are free to live with people of every color. Black, white, and East Indian. My baby will grow up unencumbered by prejudice.”

  “And, Jonathan. Was that your name? Tell me a little about your daily activities in Jonestown.”

  How old Johnny looked! Where was the freckle-faced boy he’d been eight months ago, in the States?

  “Well, Mr. Consul, I am one of the child-care workers and responsible for care of the infants during the day. While some parents are working, others are visiting friends in Port Kaituma. But what I miss the most …” He looked at the watch Sharon had loaned him for this meeting. “Right now, the toddlers are heading to the pond for swim lessons … and I’m not there.”

  As their answers became more elaborate and convincing, I tried again to signal my dissent. Why didn’t he interview each of us separately, alone, behind closed doors? That’s how it was done in the movies when someone really wanted to get to the truth.

  Forty minutes into the session, the diplomat looked at his watch. “Goodness, I hadn’t noticed … I’m unfortunately out of time.”

  As we rose to file out of his office, I trailed behind the others, stalling for time. Using the door as a shield and closing it slightly against my shoulder, I whispered into his office and away from my waiting companions.

  “Sir, I was hoping to speak with you alone.”

  Vera grabbed my arm and yanked. “Come on, Debbie.” The consul approached, pushing the door open.

  “Yes, miss … I apologize, but I’ve another appointment which I am unfortunately late for. Would you mind awfully just setting up another appointment for later? Of course,” he stopped and looked at all of us, “if it’s an emergency and you must speak with me privately … If any of you need to …”

  “Oh no! That won’t be necessary, really,” I exhaled. “I … I just wanted to extend a thank-you to you from Jim for taking the time to meet with us.”

  “Think nothing of it. It’s my duty. Anyway, I’ll be seeing him soon enough. I’m scheduled to return to Jonestown on May 10. I have already prepared the list of residents with whom I will want to meet. Let’s see, here it is. Yes, Jim asked that I send it in ahead of time to ensure the residents are there when I come. Thoughtful of him. I guess you folks are out and about a lot. I’d hate missing them. Anyway, I must be off and again, please make an appointment if you need to …” This wouldn’t work. They were too dim-witted to be able to help me.

  The couples and I headed toward the double glass doors to wait for our ride.

  “Damn, Debbie … I was wondering what you were doing for a second … trying to talk to him in private? Like you were assigned to or something,” Yolanda smirked.

  “Yolanda, leave Debbie alone. You know that Jim has her doing all kinda things we can’t know about. She might be on a secret mission for all you know,” Vera retorted.

  “Then why were you yanking at her if her mission was so important?”

  “Let it go, guys.” I tried to gain control of the situation. I had to quickly diffuse further comments and the possibility of anyone’s transmitting the dispute to Jim. I could already imagine Yolanda asking to get on the radio and apologizing to Father for interrupting and spoiling my secret mission.

  “It’s just Temple etiquette,” I explained. “We must always thank people on Jim’s behalf. Then they feel important.”

  “So important he didn’t have time to hear you say it.”

  “Etiquette, my dearies, just the same,” I said with British properness, and everyone laughed.

  The Land Rover pulled up as we stepped from the refreshing cool air
of the embassy into the sweltering heat of the capital’s midday.

  “The jerk’s probably CIA,” Johnny announced to no one in particular.

  “Soon it’s going to be the last performance …” Yolanda sighed. “No more applause … Shoo, no more loud music and cola …”

  “I know I’m glad to be going back,” Vera retorted.

  “I know you’re lyin’. Tell me you ain’t gonna miss dancing every night.”

  “Yeah, I will, but I miss my baby. Plus, this place is dangerous. Someone might try and kidnap one of us from here, just like Father says.”

  Once the kids had returned to Jonestown, I should have felt good and confident that I was still in the capital, but everything was taking so long. I still didn’t have a plan. I had not been able to secretly send a letter to Annalisa. I was desperately lonely for someone to confide in. I’d become edgy and nervous. Jim had already commented on my lack of focus. I had to take care not to trip myself up. I had to be ever watchful of his three most trusted aides here in town: Sharon, Karen, and Paula. In America I had been close to all three of them—Karen, with her fingers always running through her thin blond hair; Paula, who was more self-assured and who took her job as mistress to the Guyanese ambassador to the United States quite seriously. Father used both Paula and Karen to influence politicians and Customs agents alike. Funny, he never used a brunette for that purpose. Sharon was brunette and attributed her brown, wiry hair to being Jewish. She was unself-conscious, intelligent, and fiercely loyal. All three of them were trusted completely and were beyond suspicion.

  I found it harder and harder to abide by the rules. One day, Jim ordered each of us to write ourselves up for capitalistic and treasonous thoughts. I thought he was on to something. He was too clever. I was not sophisticated enough to play mind games with him. He could intuit the faintest beginnings of deception. I’d pretended to comply but I didn’t hand it in. Instead, I inserted an empty envelope into the manila folder. No one was allowed to open “trusted” people’s confessions. Otherwise, Karen would have seen that my envelope was empty. Only Father read the inner circle’s disclosures. He had to protect his sources and our anonymity when we reported on each other, which was mandatory. Father said this was the way of socialism. We had to always fight the demons of self-absorption, and being reported upon was a safety precaution, a protection against the disease of individualism. I was just beginning to grasp the deception in this. It amazed me that I had never recognized before how he continually divided and conquered us. I hoped that when the folder got to Jonestown it would look as though my confession had fallen out. I hadn’t licked my envelope closed.