‘Oh God … Oh God … I don’t wanna die …’
Distracted by Bob’s pissed pants, Luce hadn’t noticed Phyllis’s rising desperation. Now folks are turning to look at her.
‘What’re you saying, sister?’ Jim asks, in a tone Luce knows isn’t as affable as it sounds. Surely Phyllis knows, too. That doesn’t stop her repeating herself.
‘Oh please God … Help … I don’t wanna die!’
‘Phyllis says she doesn’t want to die,’ Joya reports, with a sweet, condescending, utterly Midwestern cluck of the tongue.
‘You don’t want to die, sister?’ Jim puffs himself up. ‘You don’t want to leave this life of misery and injustice? Sister, to leave this life behind is a protest. To lay our lives down, that’s the most revolutionary act in this inhumane world. Our deaths won’t go unnoticed.’ He moistens his lips. ‘As your leader, I’m glad to die tonight. My individual life ain’t nothing. You think your life has meaning? You think some sky-god’s gonna swoop down and save your ass?’
But Phyllis isn’t listening. Breathing too fast, in-out, in-out, her face like a sheet in the wind. Could that poison be working already? Luce doesn’t feel it. Maybe it works on women quicker? As he wonders, Phyllis shoots to her feet.
‘P-lease!’ she bleats. ‘I have to get to a doctor!’
Maybe Jim nods at Luce. Maybe he doesn’t need to. Mongoose-quick, Luce springs up and blocks Phyllis’s path, grabs ahold of her fleshy wrist. Phyllis lets out a tiny, ‘Oh! ’ Then, just like Luce feared, her eyes flutter white; her body falls against his like a tipped cow.
‘Looks like she’s fainted, I guess?’ Luce says awkwardly, doing his best to hold her up like she’s a Hollywood damsel in distress.
‘Get her out of here.’ Jim gestures dismissively. ‘We don’t want no traitors here.’
‘I never trusted that bitch!’ Terra bursts out, shaking her hair like an actress. A few folks stare at her and she pinkens, swallows her words.
It’s Meyer who helps Luce move Phyllis. Luce would’ve preferred someone with muscles: Joseph, Phil, even Ralph or Tobias, those fit young queers who’re always palling around with Liesl Lynden. They push backstage, where a couple of young guards are slouching around by the musical equipment, Dot’s on-off sweetheart, Paolo Jones, among them.
‘Jesus!’ Paolo, irreverent as his dad, slaps burly Quincy Watson on the shoulder and the two take over, lie Phyllis flat on her back like the world’s most well-fed mummy. Meyer finds a sheet to cover her with, then stands by the guitars, pinching his nose-bridge. Paolo flashes Luce a cocksure smile. ‘We got this.’
Joya always hoped to see Dot and Paolo married, to be co-in-laws with Jim and Rosaline. Luce guesses that won’t happen now.
‘Alright, Gene?’ Jim asks as Luce wanders back in. Luce nods, ‘Alright.’ Then, as if in proof that all is right, Lenny Lynden lies back, hands behind his head like he’s cloud-watching.
‘What’re you doing, Lenny?’ Jim crows. ‘That poison can’t be working already!’
‘Not yet,’ Lenny says. ‘I’m just making myself comfortable for the next life.’
‘How d’you feel about dying, Brother Lenny?’ Jim persists, amused.
‘I feel glad,’ Lenny says flatly. ‘I’m glad to leave the pain behind forever.’
Luce looks at Lenny Lynden: over thirty by now, no longer the kid he used to drool over, brown hair already beginning to recede. But stunted-looking, young in the face, like something stopped growing in him at twenty-three. Once again, Luce feels like gagging.
‘I’m glad to die too, Father. Oh, you betcha, I’m glad,’ Joya asserts. ‘Just one thing I’m wondering …What about the kids?’
Luce knows she can’t be talking about their full-grown kids: Dot, right there in the meeting with them; Roger and Danny, living with their wives in the Promised Land; the traitor-bitch, living wherever traitor-bitches live. Hattie, she means, and the others she’s adopted with Meyer since — Tremaine and Alisha. Luce hadn’t even thought of them or of his new wife Juanita, fast asleep back at the Potrero Hill commune. He looks at his cheap wedding band and his throat slimes up with guilt.
‘What about my wife?’ he chokes out. Jim looks dumbfounded. Embarrassed, Luce prompts: ‘Juanita and me. We got a full house in Potrero Hill.’
At that, other folks snap out of it. Jim rolls his tongue around his mouth, tilts his head away from their questioning. With a flick of her wrist, Evelyn steps forward.
‘All our members will be taken care of.’ That high, finicky voice that could give a snake tinnitus. ‘The sleeping quarters have been fitted with diffusers containing poisonous gas. Within twenty-four hours, everyone will be dead.’
Evelyn folds her arms, steps back, stares to the side, profile razor-sharp, hair flat against that dainty skull. From Jim, such words would seem necessary; from her, they inspire a surge of hate. Luce reminds himself yet again that she has a baby.
Jim looks at Evelyn curiously, then nods.
‘You’ve all been carefully chosen on the basis of things I’ve seen in your karmic makeup. It is very important that you die with me, so you can realize your full potential during reincarnation.’ Jim inclines his head at Joseph Garden. ‘Joe, your work in the Promised Land has not been in vain. The project will continue to flourish in the hands of our pioneers.’
Roger and Danny will live. Be fruitful and multiply with their pretty, colored wives. Luce guesses he should feel grateful: lines continuing, seed spreading, all that. Luce guesses he’s done his job. Luce would’ve been fifty next month. Old.
‘What’ve you got there, Mey?’ Joya swivels her head as Meyer slips back in through the curtain, guitar in hand. ‘Oh no, you didn’t!’
‘Thought we could have a little sing-along,’ Meyer confirms with a sheepish grin.
Stupid thought, Luce thinks. But nobody’s asking him, and Jim is beaming. ‘That’s nice. We’ll leave this world singing. Ain’t that nice?’
Meyer takes a place by Jim, starts strumming gently.
‘Thank you, Father!’ Diane Chatswood rises to testify, clutching her breast, tears in her eyes. ‘Thank you for choosing us to cross over with you!’
Molly gives Bob her big chevron cape to cover up his piss-stain. Diane kisses her Temple-wife, Regina O’Neal, a busty real estate broker. Other folks give out hugs. Dot taps Luce on the shoulder and, serene as can be, says, ‘See you in the next life, Dad,’ wraps her arms around his neck like she’s a cuddly seven-year-old again. Terra ambushes Luce with one of her full-body flowerchild hugs, whispers, ‘Later, Officer,’ her smile wavery. Petula Bellows, breaking away from Isaiah and their younger daughter, Alice, to choke up a verse from Revelations, ‘… Neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore.’ Liesl Lynden and her queers, offering their svelte bodies up to him like he’s one of their own. Joseph. Phil. Then Joya, with a canny grin, a gruff little laugh, seizing him in a bear-hug. ‘Looks like you’re in heaven already, big guy!’
But over Joya’s shoulder, Luce has noticed something fishy. Evelyn and Frida consulting, scratching notes. Terra, after finishing a round of hugs, going to them, peering at the notes. Then Terra swoops back to the floor, starts clapping and singing with exaggerated zeal. Evelyn points Frida behind the red stage curtain. Returns to Jim.
‘There grows a tree in Paradise …’ Jim halts his singing as Evelyn withdraws from his ear. ‘Forty-five minutes! The forty-five minutes have elapsed, people!’
Everyone stops, unsure if they should be keeling over. Kay Harris coughs uncertainly. Joya’s face sags. A group of young people trade glances, then crack up.
Lenny sits up, running a hand through his thinning hair.
‘I know you’re eager to step over to the other side. But not today, darlings,’ Jim announces in a sacrificial tone. ‘This was a test. Most of you have made me proud.’ At that moment, Frida
opens the curtain to Phyllis, leaning on Quincy’s arm. ‘Phyllis, you are still too attached to life in America. A true socialist would prefer death to this corrupt existence. Until you understand this, you cannot be trusted.’
‘Oh! Father—’
‘It has been decided, Phyllis: you will go to the Promised Land in two weeks. This is not a punishment, but a chance for you to learn a new way of living.’
‘Two weeks, Father?’ Phyllis rounds her lips. ‘But I … My asthma, Father, it’s worse in the heat, and I burn … real easy. Wouldn’t it be better, if someone young and health—’
‘How dare you question your leader, after you’ve proven yourself so unworthy? ’ Jim booms. ‘How dare you insult our pioneers? Dr. Katz is a medical genius and our clinic will soon be the world’s best! Miserable bitch, I shoulda let you choke.’ As Phyllis gapes like a fish, he turns conciliatory. ‘No, Phyllis, the decision is final. This will do you good, my love.’
Jim rises slowly from his sofa
‘It has been a long night. We are weary, very weary.’ He beckons to Terra, who beckons Dot, who touches her pale pageboy and dutifully takes Jim’s arm. ‘Sweet dreams, darlings.’
3.
‘You. Where’d you put my hat?’
Luce’s new wife’s face is accusing but her body is polite: hands clasped, two feet’s space between them, despite the smallness of the converted laundry that serves as their bedroom.
Juanita likes her own space. Luce knows this because his body takes up too much of it.
‘Your red hat?’ Back in the day, Joya used to give him points for noticing colors, fabrics.
‘Mister, you ever see me in another hat?’ With a hiss of impatience, Juanita turns her back, fastidiously points out a bare hook on her shelf. ‘I had it right here. So?’
Luce is familiar with his new wife’s methods of storage: her hooks and baskets and dry-cleaning bags, and stacked plastic tubs strategically draped with tablecloths. Yet he’d never dare touch her things uninvited. ‘Sorry, Juanita. Haven’t seen it.’
‘He hasn’t seen it.’ Tugging the patchwork curtain aside, she bustles out, muttering. ‘The man hasn’t seen it. Somebody did.’
Luce takes Juanita’s absence as an opportunity to do what he often does in her absence: look at the portrait of Albert on her shelf. Albert was Juanita’s first husband, married to her when they were teens in Tuscaloosa. Albert was handsome. Albert died in an East Bay shipyard accident in 1942, breaking Juanita’s heart so bad she tried to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. Luce would’ve been fifteen in ’42: a tall and pink-cheeked blond boy, hitting home runs, poring over the G.I.s in Stars & Stripes.
When Juanita waltzes back in, hat atop her crimpy updo, Luce stops looking at Albert. ‘Look at that. You found your hat.’
They’re on the next bus to Geary Boulevard within ten, along with half the commune. Rondelle, a big blunt-faced girl who always has attractive boyfriends, takes up two seats while her latest, Ray, a smooth young thing in a velour shirt and striped bellbottoms, does chin-ups with the handstraps. Gina, a shaggy-haired white girl who works at the dry clean with Juanita, leans over her seat and tries to flirt with Ray — ‘I know who you look like in those pants! The Hamburglar! Can you steal me a hamburger, Ray?’ Across the aisle, Martha is giving Earlene some unsolicited advice on her wayward teen son, Jerome. Juanita sits by her pal Corazon, a hard-of-hearing senior, and starts loudly bemoaning the foolishness of the commune’s young people.
Luce stands apart, trying not to look like he’s eyeballing some men in tight jeans and T-shirts. When they get off at Castro Street without a glance his way, he strokes his silver stubble.
‘Should’ve shaved,’ he says quietly; then, loud enough for Juanita, ‘You think I should’ve shaved, Juanita?’
‘Too late now,’ Juanita says pragmatically.
‘Whassat?’ Corazon croaks.
‘Too late for the man to shave now.’
‘Mm-hm,’ Corazon agrees. ‘Too late now.’
From behind them, Rondelle lets out a groan over Martha’s latest boast about her twin sons, Joey Dean and Bobby James, both pioneers in the Promised Land. ‘Lady, Earlene don’t give a damn if your boy’s the next Tarzan, so how ’bout you give her some peace and quiet?’
‘Excuse me,’ Martha rejoins. ‘But how’s anybody supposed to find any peace and quiet with the likes of you screaming all over the place?’
‘I’m just sayin’ what everyone’s thinking.’
‘Whassat?’ asks Corazon.
‘Just more foolishness,’ Juanita explains.
By the time they reach the Temple, the cafeteria is packed. Juanita and Corazon join a table of seniors while Luce fetches their meals, then returns to queue up for his own. Waiting, his eyes go to Meyer and Joya, sitting to eat with Hattie, Tremaine, and Alisha, and it hurts, if he’s honest. He turns his attention to Dot and Paolo at the edge of the cafeteria, looking none the worse for whatever happened last night; piss-pants Bob Harris, a little ways ahead of him in line; Ray and those striped bellbottoms; where does Rondelle find these guys? Then, because last thing he needs is to get hung up on another straight man half his age, Luce glances to the back of the line and lands on Lenny Lynden, clutching an empty tray with the miles-away look of a mental patient.
Too depressing for words.
Dinner is some kind of potato-bean mush, soaked up with Wonder Bread. Luce wolfs it leaning against the wall. When something small collides with his leg, pokes him in the belly, he narrowly avoids dropping his plate.
‘Shouldn’t scare a man when he’s eating,’ Luce chides Hattie, ‘Unless you want to wear his dinner.’
Hattie titters unapologetically, flashing her bunny-rabbit grin. ‘Did you work at the railroad today, Brother Gene?’
‘Mm-hm. Day shift.’
‘I still want you to take me to see the trains.’ She toys with the rainbow beads around her neck; a present from Dot, from the days when she still had time for beadwork. ‘If I’m going to drive a train someday, you should let me see them.’
Horse-riding was all the rage with Dot and the other one. Hattie’s obsession is driving: trains, Temple Greyhound buses, heavy machinery in the Promised Land … you name it, she wants to drive it someday. ‘We’ll see,’ Luce says, wiping his mouth, frowning at the grate of his stubble. ‘Should’ve shaved. What d’you think?’
Hattie stands on her tippy-toes to touch his cheek, laughs uproariously. ‘Yeah! Yuck.’
She shadows him through the cafeteria as he returns his tray, happily comparing his hirsuteness with other men in the vicinity. It occurs to Luce yet again that he didn’t think of her during last night’s death-rehearsal; that Joya is indisputably the better parent; that he shouldn’t feel so smug that Hattie favors him. They join the shuffle up to the auditorium, passing by Lenny Lynden, who’s sitting on the floor, apparently engrossed in his uneaten bread crusts. Terra stands nearby with her arms crossed, looking down at Lenny and the crusts apologetically.
‘Lenny needs to shave, too,’ Hattie whispers gleefully. ‘Why is Brother Lenny sitting there?’
‘Likes the view, I guess,’ Luce tries to joke, yet there’s something so sad about that young couple with nothing but bread crusts between them, he ends up frowning.
‘He’s going to miss the film about the Promised Land!’ Hattie says, in a tone of fastidious concern that owes something to Joya. ‘Phil Sor-en-sen’s film.’ She slips her hand into Luce’s. ‘Brother Gene, I want to sit with you tonight.’
‘Sure,’ Luce says, flattered, even as his throat threatens to close up. ‘Sure, you’ll sit with me. Uh … you sure? Sure you don’t wanna sit with all the kids?’
He’s rambling; he knows it; knows Hattie knows. But even more, he knows something’s wrong. With his body: too tight-fitting, heavy as an ox, every orifice seemingly shrunken. With the bodies aro
und him, packed like sardines, unfamiliar, though if he racked his brain he could probably name everyone. Someways ahead, he catches sight of Juanita’s red hat, floating amid the crowd like a jellyfish. ‘That’s Juanita’s hat,’ he says matter-of-factly. He stops in his tracks; places a steadying hand on Hattie’s shoulder.
‘Um, Brother Gene?’ Hattie bites her lip.
Luce hunches down, so his gaze is level with those rainbow beads. ‘Just a minute.’ He breathes through his mouth, for his nostrils feel like a pair of cocktail straws. He straightens up, pats Hattie’s head, walks a few more steps. Can’t go on.
‘Must’ve ate too fast.’ Through the throng, he can make out the projector screen being set up where, just last night, they were saying their goodbyes. ‘I ate too fast … that’s all.’
‘Are you going to throw up?’ Hattie asks with a nine-year-old’s peculiar mix of curiosity, concern, and disgust.
Luce shakes his head — though now the possibility has been brought up, it does seem like that, a possibility.
‘I just need some fresh air.’ Though Juanita’s red hat is already some distance away, he points it out, rather than send her back to Joya and Meyer. ‘Go to Juanita. Go on.’
Hattie looks at him like she’s a puppy he’s just driven to the woods, told to run free, and driven away from.
‘Go on,’ he repeats. He pets her hair, lies through his teeth — the lie of the deadbeat dad who really does only plan on getting that pack of cigarettes from the corner shop. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Whatever his intentions are when he goes to the parking lot, dry-retches by the dumpster, it’s the sight of Evelyn Lynden that decides it. Evelyn, whom he’s not used to seeing outside meetings, let alone outside, let alone outside after dark on her own with her back turned. Bent to reach something inside her small European car, and though he doesn’t want to know what it is, neither does he want to alert her to his presence with any sudden movements. So he stands and watches her pull from the car not the expected box of files but a little boy, her boy, the one they call ‘Soul’. About two years old and so adorable it’s hard to believe he came from a rape in a Mexican prison, as the story goes. But Luce never believed the story. Doesn’t believe it now, watching those chubby arms circle her neck, the round face press against her lapel, something of Jim Jones already about the eyes and nose. She slings her bag, shuts the car. Glides toward the building, creasing her chin to say something to her child. Then, as quick as she appeared, she’s inside the Temple, out of sight.
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