Bodies of water. Planets of water. Ships on the water with white sails, black sails.
It’s dark when Lenny opens his eyes. His body like a wet sponge, slopping as he stirs. From the mud, strange mists rising. He trudges toward the glow of the Dining Tent.
Rice. ‘Th-thanks,’ he swallows, not looking at the sister serving, clamping his wrists together so she won’t see his scars. Shambling with clamped wrists, mumbling a little. Crazy, someone whispers. Ever since his mom died — crazy.
‘It’s alright,’ Lenny answers the whispers. ‘Alright … I said I’m alright.’
He notices Norm, his Pan Am buddy, seated at a long table. Nods and sits. ‘Lenny Landon!’ Norm says, then points to the woman to his right. ‘This’s my new girl, Bessie.’
Bessie is heavyset, but her eyes are nice and she has a nice shy smile, dimples. Lenny nods again, avoiding Bessie’s nice eyes. He looks at his rice, his spoon, his clamped wrists.
‘Bessie works in the soap factory. That’s why she smells so nice, ha-ha.’
Lenny shivers. His clothes are wet. If only he could take them off? But that’d be crazy.
He picks up his spoon between two crabbed fingers, scrapes it along the inside of the bowl. Hands trembling, wrists still clamped, he raises the spoon to his mouth. Rice drops.
Over the PA, Jim burrs: Don’t forget — I want it to be a matter of course now — when you’re walking by each other, take the time to smile, give a friendly greeting, a pat on the shoulder …
Lenny fills his spoon again. Again, tremulously lifts it to his lips. On the back of his neck, something large lands. Prickles.
He lowers his spoon. The thing crawls from his neck to his collarbone; then, with apparent deliberateness, nosedives into his rice.
He sees legs, six of them. Antennae. Wings. A body, seemingly metallic in its hardness and sheen. He sees, and then he doesn’t see, because he’s killing it.
‘Kill it,’ he mutters, flipping the bowl, pounding his fist on the table. ‘Kill it,’ his voice not his own. The bug’s body crunches, squelches. ‘Did you kill it?’ he growls and someone chimes in: Yeah, I think you killed it, man. Lenny looks at the brown slime on the side of his hand. ‘That’s fucking disgusting.’
He wipes the slime off. Dirty. Starts hitting again. ‘Kill it. Kill it.’
… Show some love and kindness, wherever you go. Nobody can say we ain’t a loving people.
Bessie shrinks away as he dents the table’s wood. So does Norm.
‘Killed it,’ Lenny announces. ‘I killed it.’ His fists are torn, leaking. ‘It’s alright …’ He swipes a bloody hand across his forehead and smiles. ‘Don’t touch me, or I’ll kill you.’
There’s silence inside him, blue and sweet, like standing at the center of the universe, patterns swirling around him. The back of his neck prickles again.
Lenny turns. Looks through the shrinking crowd and sees:
Evelyn and her gray eyes, watching him.
Beautiful Day
1.
When she heard the doorbell ring on that smoky blue evening in the Fall of ’66, in the house she shared with her many girlfriends, Evelyn had been ready to fall in love with whoever might be standing on the other side of it. A bone-deep readiness bordering on boredom: she was bored, she could admit it; after Bordeaux, Jean-Claude, those miserable weeks staying in hostels without Jean-Claude, the weeks after those weeks back in her parents’ house not knowing why she was there, how she could’ve given up the world for the slow drip-trickle of church, relatives, everyone tiptoeing around her broken engagement like she’d die if it was mentioned; yes, bored. She was bored of those girls she lived with — Joan, Linda, Marilyn, Mary-Kay — and the little house they’d taken such pains to beautify. Bored of how she acted around those girls, like a pinwheel desperate to spin faster, brighter than the rest; sharing stories of lanterns along the Pont de Pierre, recipes for Crêpes Suzette, spurning cosmetics and prim shift dresses to go about fresh-faced, in flouncy gypsy skirts. She’d even mastered talking about Jean-Claude without getting upset, and if anyone dared to ask what they were all wondering, why?, could summon the perfect tone of worldly resignation: ‘Honestly? The better my French got, the less interesting he was.’ Yet this didn’t change the fact that she was bored by the sound of her own voice; that her life, for all its grand intentions, had never seemed so trivial. It was enough to make her want to — well, maybe not kill herself, but join the Peace Corps maybe, spend a year on the Ivory Coast, or maybe, just maybe, fall in love again.
So she was the first to jump at the sound of the bell, to abandon the canapés they were fussing with, to wipe her hands and chime, ‘I’ll get it.’ The canapés were her idea, but already it was clear they’d overdone it; some grad students had cancelled last minute and, to make up the numbers, Joan and Mary-Kay had spent the afternoon inviting random cute boys while the rest of them cleaned and shopped. Yet so far, the only guests to show up were Linda’s cousin Judy and Cronkite, a neighborhood cat whose visits coincided with the evening news.
There was a wine glass in her hand. A barrette in her hair; over the summer, she’d decisively grown out the chic French-girl bob she’d worn since sophomore year. Sipping her wine, tucking her hair; feeling the glitter of wine in her eyes, the warmth on her cheeks. That’s how she was when she opened to the smoky blue evening, the beautiful blue-eyed boy whose name she didn’t yet know was Lenny Lynden.
‘You’re here.’ Evelyn beamed at him. ‘I’m so glad.’
2.
They’re ready, or as ready as they’ll ever be. The paths have been swept, the toilets scrubbed, the bushes pruned, the dogs deloused, the children’s hair combed and braided, ribbons to match the girls’ dresses. Cooking smells stir the air like weather, an incoming storm of meat, dough, gravy. They’re all ready, except Jim.
‘The Congressman has arrived,’ she tells the shadows. ‘We need you at the pavilion.’
Jim, from his pillows, chokes out a tangle of cusses and objections.
‘You know we can’t turn him away. The lawyers have given him permission to be here.’ They’ve hired and flown in a pair of famous civil rights attorneys; Bertrand, who worked extensively with the Black Panthers, and Marshall, who has authored several books about government conspiracies. ‘We just need to get through the next twenty-four hours. Then we’ll have peace.’
An anxious crackle rises from the radio: Mona, asking if the Congressman’s Party can be given a tour.
‘No tours,’ Jim croaks, and gestures for water. Evelyn brings it, holds the cup to his lips; he snatches it away, spilling half down his front. ‘Never had a moment of peace. Never—’
‘No tours,’ Evelyn tells the radio. To Jim: ‘The longer we keep him waiting—’
‘Bitch. Who’re you working for?’ Jim barks, then crumples his face and clutches his heart. ‘Harry. Call Harry. I’m having another heart attack. Oh God. Quickly—’
Evelyn sighs, retrieves Jim’s oxygen mask from the bedside. ‘Breathe,’ she tells him. She fetches a tiny amber bottle from the fridge, fills a syringe. Jim peers at her warily with his underwater face as she locates a vein, penetrates it. Once the needle is out, he lowers his mask.
‘I want Harry,’ he says obstinately.
The afternoon in thick, yellow, idle. A picturesque game of basketball on the court. Children swarming the playground, clambering skyward. She notes Soul’s glossy dark head but doesn’t stop. She does stop, however, for a putty of fresh green bird shit on the walkway.
‘Excuse me,’ she calls to a white man idling nearby. ‘Could you clean this?’
She doesn’t realize it’s Lenny Lynden until he turns, so skinny and unshaven it’s hard to keep the shock from her face. He shuffles over, peers down at the shit. ‘Yeah,’ he says.
‘Ask the kitchen for a cloth and bucket,’ she instructs. Lenny no
ds so morosely, she’s compelled to justify: ‘We can’t have the guests getting it on their shoes. Unfortunately.’
Lenny nods again, avoiding her eye. Shaken, she stalks off to the pavilion.
She’s calm by the time she reaches the gathering of officials. Congressman Hanson, a hawk-nosed Democrat about her father’s age, dressed down in a maroon polo and chinos. Hanson’s doe-eyed aide, Luísa, gold-shouldered in a spaghetti-strap dress. The lawyers, Bertrand and Marshall. Rosaline, Joseph, Frida, Phil. A platter of untouched pastries between them, jungle fruits buzzing in the heat.
‘Jim is counseling a young man with schizophrenia,’ Evelyn lies. ‘He’ll be here soon.’
‘Usually, when I’m late for a meeting, it’s because I pressed the snooze button one time too many,’ the Congressman jokes, then leans against the table. ‘I’ll wait.’
It’s over an hour before Jim shows up. Mincing across the pavilion with lamblike steps, black head huge on his shoulders, red shirt untucked, legs short in beige slacks. She’d selected the outfit. A bad choice? Certainly, it’s painful to see him in broad daylight. It’s a relief when Rosaline steps forward, steers Jim toward the Congressman.
‘Pleasure to finally meet you,’ Congressman Hanson says, offering Jim his hand.
‘Wish I could say the same.’ Jim shakes the hand; weakly, it seems. ‘But, ah … I’m a humble man. Don’t enjoy the attention. Just me, walkin’ the jungle, talkin’ to little old ladies, that’s my — Didn’t come here for attention.’
‘I understand that,’ Congressman Hanson replies, ‘And last thing I want is to disrupt your way of life. From what I’ve seen, you’ve got a good thing going here …’ The Congressman gestures expansively at the fruit, the green beyond the pavilion. ‘… But it’s no secret, there are people out there who are concerned about their relatives in Jonestown. Seems to me, the easiest way to dispel those concerns is to let them see you’ve got nothing to hide.’
Jim rolls his tongue over his lips, clenches and unclenches his jaw. Evelyn’s stomach ices over; her heart refuses to beat. She pictures knives, guns, deviations from order.
‘Of course,’ Jim murmurs diffidently. ‘We’ve got nothing to hide.’
They’re ready, and they’re eager to please. It’s there in their quick-flash smiles, their Friday-night best, the friendliness of the kitchen staff, bearing plates of pork and biscuits, jugs of fruit punch. They’ll sing on command. They’ll make nice with their treacherous relatives, the same ones whose throats they’ve vowed to slit. They’ll have fun and look spontaneous doing it.
‘It’s a misconception to think we hate America, just because we’re socialists.’ Evelyn courts Don Gonzalez, NBC correspondent, after Sister Cassandra’s soulful rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’. ‘There are many American values we continue to hold dear. Liberty. Democracy. Equal opportunity …’
Don Gonzalez nods distractedly; dabs his mouth and peers down the table at Jim, who’s attempting to tell the Congressman much the same, tripping over his words.
‘… America. Pains me, leaving behind — Had ideas. People many times told me I could do the — Congress? President, even. Well, ah, ain’t worth now, ah, dwelling … Too humble. Wouldn’t survive the bigwhite — big white houseonahill. But ideas …’
A cameraman swings by, getting a wide angle of the stage, the children giggling and mimicking Sister Fantine’s jiggling backside. Jim ducks, as though the camera is a swooping pterodactyl, and stares around: lips pale and slack, eyes like jelly behind his sunglasses.
‘Rude,’ Jim mutters. ‘Rude. Wasn’t that rude?’
‘He could walk into someone that way,’ Evelyn agrees.
‘He could’ve walked into a senior,’ Frida chimes in, disgusted.
‘Walked into a senior,’ Jim repeats. ‘Could’ve … Who did that? Who—?’
‘That’s Rand Carlo from NBC.’ Phil leans forward, silver-gold eyes on Jim’s. ‘He’s good. He’ll get some great footage.’ Phil leans back, scans the stage. ‘Fantine, isn’t she great?’
‘Great,’ Evelyn and Frida chorus. Great: the lawyers, the newsmen, and Luísa, who’s been giving Phil the eye all night. Great: Jim and Congressman Hanson.
At Evelyn’s side, Don Gonzalez rises. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Can we get you anything?’ Evelyn widens her eyes, touches his wrist. ‘More punch?’
‘Just stretching my legs,’ he says tersely, and strays into the crowd.
Evelyn sits back; toys with the silver rose at her ear, drums her fingers to the music. Jim’s gaze slides across her chest, the pussybow at her neck. He doesn’t need to beckon.
‘You couldn’t keep him? ’ he growls, swirling his punch. ‘Uptight cunt, you need me to pour this up your vagina? ’ He slurps down the contents, places the cup pointedly on the table.
‘Well, I think we could use another jug.’ Phil stands. ‘Anything else while I’m up?’
‘Yes, actually,’ Evelyn purrs. ‘Could you check on Solomon Tom?’
If Phil is surprised by the request, being asked in front of everyone, he doesn’t show it; just smiles cleanly, nods, strides off. ‘Will you ever return to America, Reverend Jones?’ Mike Yi from The Examiner prompts Jim, who’s chewing and sucking on his lips in a silent funk.
‘Is this on the record?’ Frida retaliates. ‘If it is, Jim hasn’t consented—’
‘America,’ Jim obliges. ‘America, the beautiful. I love Guyana … but I ain’t Guyanese. Pains me, being torn from my homeland.’ He wipes his face mournfully. ‘No, I don’t think I’ll ever return to America. Guyana. I’ll die in Guyana, among my people.’
Evelyn and Frida trade an uncomfortable glance.
‘Sometimes I feel like a dying man,’ Jim moans. ‘What can I do? My people need me.’
‘He’s had some heart trouble,’ Frida intervenes. ‘But Dr. Katz …’
They trot out a well-worn rhapsody to Katz’s genius, Jonestown’s world-class medical facilities. Jim falls silent, stirring only to repeat salient points, loudly enough to make them sound like his own; slurring suggestions — ‘Did you ever have a prostate exam, Congressman? Harry can do you, right now.’ Phil returns with a fresh jug of fruit punch just as they’re extolling the healing powers of papaya. He takes the seat beside Evelyn.
‘I’ve been snubbed by a three-year-old,’ Phil informs her with a quiet smile, refilling Jim’s cup, the Congressman’s, her own. ‘He said “I cand dance when you liff me, Brodder Phil”.’
Evelyn takes up her cup. Lowers her eyelashes and sips.
‘Matty Nieubaker was seen passing a note to the NBC correspondent,’ Phil lowers his voice another octave. ‘Ike and Oscar are questioning Matty now.’
Evelyn’s pulse quickens. Her lip curls in contempt. ‘Keep it contained,’ she murmurs behind her raised cup, stealing a glance at Jim. Sips again, sweetness coating her nerves.
‘Congressman, I’ve been trying to think of a way to get you to give up your seat by Luísa all night,’ Phil says brazenly. ‘This is the best I could come up with: how about a speech?’
‘Phil! Don’t be a chauvinist pig,’ Frida hisses. ‘She’s here to work.’ She turns to red-faced Luísa. ‘Sorry about my brother. He thinks he’s Robert Redford.’
‘Speech?’ Jim rasps dolefully. ‘Speech …?’
‘It might be worthwhile,’ Evelyn muses. ‘People are curious. At the very least, it would comfort them to know you’re not a Republican, Congressman.’
The Congressman chuckles. Jim squirms, starts one of his rants: ‘Told you ’bout that Republican wanted me—’
‘Your musicians are a hard act to follow,’ Congressman Hanson speaks over Jim. ‘But I wouldn’t want anyone to go to bed tonight thinking I was a Republican.’
The table bristles with laughter. ‘Rosaline can introduce him,’ Evelyn tells Jim in a soothing underto
ne. Jim just nods, sulks. Minutes later, Rosaline rises from her place at the next table, where she’s keeping peace between the Concerned Relatives and their people: Wayne Bud and his large family, Mona’s rich Italian-American parents, Bobbi Luce holding her brother’s new baby in her lap. The music stops and Rosaline sidles onstage.
‘Thank you, brothers and sisters … Can we get some quiet now? Thank you … and I just wanna say before we introduce our guest of honor, thanks to our very talented musicians—’
Don Gonzalez, NBC correspondent, creeps back to the table. Phil sacrifices his place by Evelyn; he goes to Luísa’s side and smiles down at her. Evelyn smiles up at Don Gonzalez.
‘How are your legs?’ she asks coquettishly. ‘Are they stretched?’
They’re ready, but they’re getting restless. Instruments clang. Seniors nod. Children bump into each other, cry, collapse on benches. A white fieldworker, Matty Nieubaker, is pushed from the radio shed by Ike and Oscar, shaking on his feet. A sister from his crew, Rondelle Mayberry, is hustled in, emerging later with a stony expression, sweat on her brow. Ike storms up to the relatives’ table and, unprovoked, calls Bobbi Luce a ‘traitor-bitch-dyke’. Wayne Bud and Eric Hurmerinta shoot to their feet in her defense. Rosaline, pink-faced, places her body between them, scolding, ‘Ike, that wasn’t necessary!’
‘Ro’?’ Jim bleats. ‘What now? Ro’?’
‘Just a misunderstanding!’ Rosaline calls brightly, leading Ike away.
‘Alcohol is strictly prohibited, but the natives have been known to trade fermented beverages with some of our people,’ Evelyn bluffs. ‘It’s a problem we’re anxious to resolve.’
Phil gets up to talk to Oscar. After some time, Rosaline and Ike join them. Then Rosaline takes to the stage again:
‘Seniors and those of you with little ones, please take this moment to say goodnight and return to your cottages. Adults, please pick up any trash you see on your way.’ She smiles wanly. ‘The Congressman’s Party will be back bright and early tomorrow.’
Beautiful Revolutionary Page 37