Save Johanna!

by Francine Pascal

  “Miss Morgan? Hi,” she says cheerily. She looks genuinely happy to see me. “Gee, you’re pretty.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for giving me this interview.”

  “I used to have a blouse something like that. Avrum bought it for me. It was a real surprise.” She enjoys the memory for an instant and then adds wistfully, “I don’t know what happened to it since I came here.”

  “I’m sure all your things have been put away carefully so that . . .” I see her hanging on my words. So that what? She can have them when she’s eighty? “So that they’ll be safe.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, definitely.” I find myself talking to this twenty-four-year-old woman as simply and patiently as I would to a child of ten. It is possible that that’s the mentality that I’m dealing with, but I want to be very careful because, as slow as she might seem, she is not a child.

  “Have you heard from Avrum?” I ask her.

  “Oh, yes. All the time.”

  “That’s nice. Do you save his letters?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I’d love to see one.”

  “OK.”

  “Or as many as you want to show me. How many do you have?”

  “Two. Do you want them now?”

  “That would be great, Imogene, I’d really appreciate that. Where are they? In your room?”

  “Oh, no, I always carry them right here with me.” She carefully takes the two letters from her pocket, and, gently pressing out the worn and softened pages, she puts them on the shelf in front of her. I almost hate to take them but I can hardly wait to get my hands on them, and when she offers to give them to the matron right now I agree instantly.

  She buzzes for the matron and hands these very precious possessions over to give to me, a total stranger. I’m touched by her trust and innocence.

  “I promise to mail them back the minute I’m finished with them,” I tell her, and she smiles and says she knows I will. I go back to my notes. “You said that you heard from Avrum often; do they let him phone you?”

  “He doesn’t call me, not so far, anyway. Mostly, it’s inside talk.” And she puts her hand on her heart and then to her head. “That’s where we always talked best.”

  “What does he say to you?”

  “He says he’s going to come get me. He promised.”

  The words sweep me back to yesterday and Swat’s threats, and for the moment I’m unnerved.

  When I pull myself together, I ask what else Avrum tells her, and she gives me the party line. I don’t know how much any of it means to her, but she’s memorized it all: he’s going to save America, maybe the world, he’s our salvation, the new spirit and so forth, everything short of the word God, but it’s obvious that’s who he really is. I’m fascinated to see how completely Imogene belongs to him. Fascinated and horrified. He hasn’t seen her in more than eleven months, yet, in absentia, his power remains wholly intact. I know it’s not fair to judge his impact by his influence over this woman who is obviously very nearly a borderline defective; nevertheless, her worship of him isn’t that much different from Swat’s.

  I’ve gotten a good deal of background on Imogene from the trial, and I’ve used a close approximation of it in my novel, so most of my questions focus on her life with Avrum. Yet here the information is surprisingly scant. She’s better at feeding me back rote responses than original thoughts, and all I get from her is minimum information until she starts telling me about her sex life with Avrum, terribly intimate descriptions all couched in the kind of vivid obscenities rarely heard beyond the Chicago docksides and yet somehow inoffensive from the mouth of someone who has, really, no notion of verbal niceties and means simply to be as honest as she can. Even so, despite the crudity of her sexual expressions, she conveys the intensity of her sensuality; the hunger of her passion and her love makes itself felt to me and manages in some way to be almost erotic. I’ve never experienced such a totally sexual being before. With complete openness and an absolute purity she reveals a highly developed state of sexuality far beyond my own, and I find myself momentarily mesmerized by what has now become some sort of paean to sex. I stare at this creature and wonder if there could be such a thing as an idiot savant with a genius in sexuality.

  A picture is beginning to emerge of the kind of interaction that exists between Maheely and his followers. The one strain that is constant in all these relationships is a powerful sexual bonding. Sex is the weapon of command, and Maheely uses it with both the men and the women.

  I ask Imogene if Avrum was very close to Swat, and her silky eyes take on the look of a frightened deer. “Swat gets very mad if anybody talks about her. She told me that I’d better not say anything to you about her and Avrum, so I can’t.”

  “That’s OK, Imogene, I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”

  “Besides, Avrum hardly ever fucked her. Especially not after Pinky came around.”

  “Who’s Pinky?”

  “Some girl.”

  “A friend of Avrum’s?”

  “Avrum really liked her a whole lot. He did almost everything all by himself when her baby got born. I wiped her forehead and all over her face with a wet rag all the time. Swat vomited, so he told her to get out.”

  “I don’t remember anyone named Pinky. What was her real name?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe in the beginning she had another name, but Avrum always called her Pinky, so everyone else did too.”

  “What was she like?”

  “She had blond hair, the yellow kind, and very long. And not messy curly like mine.” She impatiently flips back a handful of her shimmering, golden-orange ringlets. “I wish I had straight hair like Pinky.”

  “You have beautiful hair.”

  “Sometimes Pinky used to let me brush her hair, and it was so smooth. No matter what, it never had any knots, even after it was first washed. Avrum liked her hair too.”

  “Was she part of the family?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where did she come from?”

  “I don’t know. One day, except it was really night, she just came to the door. This other guy Ross said she was a runaway, and he didn’t want her to stay because he said maybe the police might start nosing around, but Avrum said she could, and after that nobody said anything about her going away anymore. Swat would have liked it if she died, she hated her so much. I don’t know why because Pinky was really nice to everyone all the time. Even to Swat, and Swat was never nice to her.”

  “You said something about a baby. Was it Avrum’s child?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are they now, Pinky and the baby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she in prison?”

  “No. She’s a Moony or something like that.”

  “In San Francisco?”

  “She said she was going to write letters to me, but she didn’t.”

  “Maybe she will.”

  “You think so?”

  “She sounds very nice. I’m sure she will. If you could remember anything else about where she’s living now, maybe I could get in touch with her and ask her to write to you.”

  “Swat said not to.”

  “Maybe Pinky doesn’t have your address. I could give it to her.”

  I feel a little slimy, tricking her like this, but Pinky could be an important contact for me.

  “Promise?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “OK. She lives in Sausalito someplace. I don’t know, but it was next door to a Guru restaurant.”

  “Do you remember the street or anything else?”

  “Uh uh, but Avrum once took me there way before Pinky came, and there were a whole lot of people, and they were all wearing these long white dresses, even the men. We were on the front porch of the restaurant, and you could see them all from there.”

  Then before I can stop her she goes into a long description of what she ate, right down to the last bean. It’s not exactly l
ike listening to dinner at Lutece, but I’m amazed at how keen her memory is. She’s certainly slow-witted, possibly because of some brain damage, but apparently not affected in the memory area. And, from her sexual awareness, not in the sensation part either.

  She talks a bit more about Pinky and then about her new friend in prison. Imogene seems to have a highly developed animal survival instinct. Instinctively she feels the currents and moves along with them, which is probably the best way to survive in a place like this. She’s become the private pet of one of the most powerful inmates, an older woman serving a life sentence for murdering her husband. In return for the liaison, she gives Imogene the protection she doesn’t know she needs.

  I ask her more about her relationship with Avrum, but that concept seems too difficult for her to handle. She relates some little stories that in themselves seem pointless, but I do manage to pick up what could be an important insight. Avrum’s treatment of Imogene is different from his approach to the others. He has never once directed his explosive temper at her, nor has he ever touched her in anger. That’s unusual because, except for Imogene, he always used the fear of physical violence as an important control. He was strong and would spring unexpectedly with great force. They all feared him. He appeared to have an instinct that would immediately home in on a person’s greatest weakness or most desperate need. With Imogene, the weapons were love and patience, and Maheely, the merciless killer, seemed to have an abundance, when needed, of those gentle qualities.

  As the interview ends Imogene makes me promise to write to her, and I say I will.

  Then, just as I’m getting up to leave, she says, “Please don’t go yet.”

  “I have to. My time is up.”

  “Please. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

  “Imogene, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  Like a child whose mother is leaving her in a strange place she pleads with me, “I want to go home. I promise I won’t be bad anymore. I swear I won’t.”

  I tell her I can’t do anything for her and get up to ring for the matron. Now Imogene is crying, and I feel sick.

  I try to cheer her up. “I really will write to you. I promise.”

  But she’s beyond consolation. Through tiny, timid sobs she begs me to tell Avrum to come get her. If only she could come home with me she would do anything for me. Pathetically she tells me how she would help me around the house. Somehow she thinks I can get her out.

  The matron, a different woman from yesterday’s bitch, opens the door. I go over to Imogene and whisper good-bye. She looks up at me, her beautiful eyes swimming in tears, her nose reddened and wet from the flood of tears that has dampened stray pieces of front hair, making them stick to her cheeks in little circles. Heartbreak is on her face, and if I could I would take her in my arms and comfort her. I know the terrible things she’s done, but she doesn’t belong here. She’s not responsible for her actions.

  “I’ll write to you, and I’ll see that Pinky does too,” I promise.

  But she’s not listening to me. The matron opens the door behind her and in a rough, uncaring way grabs her by the arm and pulls her toward the door. She moves along like a rag doll, sniffling through little whines, “Please help me. . . .”

  And I stand on the other side of the screen, apologizing.

  At the door, Imogene stops and, wrapping her free hand around the side molding, holds herself still against the matron’s pull. She looks directly at me and, screwing up her face tight until it’s squeezed into an almost unrecognizable wrinkled fist of ugly meanness, suddenly spits out at me, “I hate you!” And then, yanked by the matron, disappears through the doorway.

  “Don’t pay any attention to her.” The matron’s voice from behind startles me. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time.”

  I smile at her and say I know. All I want to do is get out of this place. Fast and for good. I thank the matron and whisk past her down the hallway toward the front desk.

  “Your letters,” she calls to me, and when I turn she’s waving Imogene’s two letters.

  I take them with a quick thank you, shove them into my attaché case, and I’m out the door. Free.

  Incredible. I’m batting a thousand. Obviously, I’m America’s most unpopular prison visitor. Relief starts to wash over me as I get into the car, and, pulling out of the parking lot, I begin to calm down. At least it’s over and I have the letters which, I noticed when I put them away, are nice and thick, and, best of all, I have a very important new lead—Pinky.

  Chapter Eight

  Instead of going back to the hotel I drive directly to Sausalito to hunt for Pinky and the Guru restaurant. Sausalito is a postcard-pretty little seaside town, a pleasant combination of Greenwich Village and Provincetown with that odd expansiveness of California. The town is small enough to cover on foot easily in an hour or so, especially the commercial sections, so I park the car in the first open space. The day is bright and perfect for sightseeing and, for a midweek day, surprisingly crowded with tourists.

  Wandering around, window-shopping, I begin to relax, and soon I’m seriously shopping, popping in and out of boutiques, wrapping myself in fabulous belts, scarves, blouses, jackets, all kinds of wonderful things I don’t need at all. Three quarters of an hour later, the proud owner of a gold-threaded silk scarf and yet another beige silk blouse, I’m about to dive into a mountain of absolutely useless straw baskets and trays when I notice that I’m two shops down from the Guru store. Obviously the group has a handicraft shop, then a restaurant, and next to the restaurant, just as Imogene described, their house. I forgo the straw and walk down to the house.

  It’s a clapboard house with peeling green trim and a rickety old wooden porch that runs clear across the front. There’s an air of benign neglect to it, a quiet kind of shabbiness.

  On the street in front two men with shaven heads and white saris are unloading large sacks of brown rice. I have to smile; brown rice, of course.

  “Hi,” I say to the taller man, and he stops immediately and gives me the sweetest, most welcoming, come-join-us, God-is-with-you, He-loves-you, I-love-you, we-all-love-you smile. Instantly I’m offended. I have a strong natural resistance to having my soul saved by anyone. Probably part of the minister’s daughter syndrome.

  “Hello there,” his happy voice almost sings. “Can we help you?”

  I sing back, “I hope so.”

  “I know we can.”

  We’ll see. “I’m looking for a young woman.” Mid-sentence, his face empties. No souls to be saved here. “I don’t know her full name, but she’s called Pinky.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, just a friend of a friend.”

  Now the other man steps in. “If you want to leave your number we’ll see she gets back to you.”

  “Trouble is I’m leaving for New York this afternoon, so unless I see her now I won’t get a chance.” No reaction. “Is there any reason why I can’t see her now?”

  Now there’s a reaction. Unpleasant; then he seems to overcome his distaste. “Of course not. Anybody can see her. She works right over there in our restaurant.” He points to the small storefront restaurant adjoining the house. “The only problem is she’s on duty right now.”

  “That’s OK, I just want to say hello. Thanks.” And before he can come up with another reason I head for the restaurant.

  Considering it’s the height of the lunch hour, they’re not doing much business. Only two tables are filled. One look at the menu, and I can guess why. Grains as far as the eye can see with an occasional lump of soybean curd thrown in for sheer madness. David’s idea of purgatory is to be forever hungry in a health-food restaurant.

  The only waitress in sight doesn’t fit Pinky’s description. She’s short, with thick, wiry, dark hair and an expression of total boredom. Probably too much grain.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Is Pinky around?”

  “In the back.” She motions behind her with a nod of
her head.

  “Could I see her for a minute, please?”

  A button gets pushed someplace inside her head, and a wide Guru smile snaps into place. I must look like convert material. “I’ll get her if you like. Would you like to sit down?”

  “OK,” I say and sit down at a small table well away from the others. I’m not sure why I feel so cynical about these people, but they give me an uneasy feeling of people who aren’t there. It’s almost as if someone else is in control, pulling the strings. Shades of Night of the Living Dead.

  I hunt the menu for some edible morsel to order, but all I can come up with is herbal tea with mint leaves.

  The dark-haired pod person comes back out of the kitchen. “She’s feeding the baby. Could you come back later?”

  “Would I be disturbing her if I went back there now? I have an early plane to catch.”

  Big decision. “I’ll see.” And she goes back into the kitchen.

  It takes a good five minutes for her to come back with the answer. God knows whom they had to consult. But surprisingly enough the answer is yes, and she leads the way back through a moderately clean, old-fashioned kitchen out to an open back porch.

  It’s a Madonna-and-Child tableau without the halo. Pinky is young. Probably not as young as she looks, maybe eighteen or nineteen, but no more than that. Petite, with straight blond hair that hangs down curtaining the baby from my view, she has tiny, delicate features and pale, bone-china skin that makes her look almost breakable. With her free hand she sweeps her hair back, revealing the baby’s face. It’s a rude shock to see this swarthy, fierce-looking child with coarse black hair clutching at her milk-glass breast. Surely this is Avrum’s child. Hardly an infant, he must be at least ten months old and almost too big and heavy-looking for her narrow lap.

  “Hi.” Pinky looks up at me with a pleasant smile and then looks down at the baby whose shiny dark eyes dart toward me with more curiosity than its mother.