I ask her to tell me about Nami’s birth, and she smiles and says it was a beautiful experience.
“He said he wanted to keep a purity about the pregnancy and the birth. Only he had put his seed within me, and only he would bring it to life. In all the time I was with Avrum I never made love with anyone else. In fact, I had very little to do with the others. He kept me almost isolated. He prepared a daily regimen for me, what to eat, what exercises to do, and every day we spoke together privately for at least an hour. It was in those times that he took me into his deepest thoughts and I began to feel a part of him. I could lean into him the same way I had been able to put myself in Christ’s hands as a small child. But it was closer. In Christianity I was only a worshiper, but with Avrum I went within the magic circle and became part of it. Through Avrum’s power the actual birth of Nami became a spiritual experience for me, exquisitely combined with heights of joy and passion I will never reach again. From the very first he stayed with me, talking to me, wiping my face with wet cloths, absorbing all the pain and anxiety from me. He became physically part of the birth, breathing my deep breaths, knotting in contraction and pressing in release, and always leading the way. I felt a trust in him so strong it was almost tangible, in the sound of his voice, his touch, even the way he watched me!”
Pinky’s face glows as she speaks, and the deeper she relives the birth the more emotional she becomes until tears run down her cheeks as she describes the moment when Avrum, with a slow and steady pull, eased the baby from the grip of her body and placed the wailing infant on her stomach.
Now she tells me how he called in the others, and one by one they came silently and looked down at the baby and at Pinky and without a word backed away and disappeared. All her earliest memories of Madonna and Child came back to her as she lay there naked and bloody with her child and felt at peace and at one with Avrum.
Watching and listening to Pinky I know that there’s no way for me to bring any kind of reality into this experience so I let it pass silently, without any questions. When she pulls herself together I ask her about Nami; is she being fair to him, bringing him up here in this cultural and intellectual isolation where most of his options are closed out before he even knows they exist?
“I have found the true way,” she says. “Can I withhold it from him?”
“How can you be so certain?”
“If you had found it, you would know there is no room for doubt. It’s as positive as the sun.”
“No, it isn’t. The sun is right there for all of us to see. But what you’ve found is only a feeling inside you.”
“You’re wrong, Johanna, it’s not some small private feeling, it’s not based on a narrow religious faith. It’s another existence that’s as true and certain as the sun, and anyone can see it if they know where to look. The sun is part of it. Everything on earth is part of God’s consciousness.”
She seems to possess a deep serenity I almost envy. Nothing now troubles her. Will I ever know such peace? I study her. How alike we are, I think, how similar our early lives. I took one turning, she another, and yet, I reflect, there but for the grace of God—or blind chance—sit I. Possibly like Pinky, the mother of Avrum’s baby. The thought is disturbing.
There is almost a condescension in Pinky as she speaks of her beliefs with such perfect certainty. And in a short time my reaction becomes one of impatience, touched with compassion because she’s so badly misguided.
With cult people I know it’s a mistake to attack their faith head-on. In order to make any inroads, you have to arrange it so that they themselves ask the questions. I’d like to help Pinky, and I’m tempted to try because I feel a kind of alliance with her. She’s more like me than Swat or Imogene, and we’re both involved with Avrum. Of course, my involvement is peripheral, objective, only as an observer. Nonetheless, he is an influence in my life right now, and that gives me some small understanding. I think the best approach is to try to get her to parade everything right out front so that she can get a clear, clean look for herself.
In the next three days I spend many hours with Pinky, and a surprisingly strong relationship begins to build. The book and the research seem at times almost obscured by the friendship that has taken hold. So much honesty comes out of both of us that I feel it must work. And then it does begin—slowly. Within Pinky small doubts starting as hairline cracks grow until they’re too big to avoid, and when we talk about them, I feel an excitement. There’s a power to truth that’s inspiring. Little by little Pinky begins to feel that power, and by the end of the third day I know I’ve started something inside her, and I can sense a small change. That night I hate to leave because I feel she could be on the brink of self-discovery, and I want to be there to direct it and reinforce it. But I can’t insist or I risk upsetting the delicate balance. She has to take the steps herself or it becomes just another kind of enslavement.
She walks me to the street, and we feel great warmth toward each other. A feeling that no one else can be a part of, not the Gurus or Avrum or even David. We kiss good night like the loving sisters neither of us had.
I’m especially early this morning. I had a good night last night, no pills, nothing, just went straight to sleep. I feel filled with energy and anticipation for the day. Obviously it’s a latent minister’s daughter’s compulsion to save souls. It’s an enormous high to pluck a creature from darkness and bring her out into good strong sunlight.
Pinky is usually waiting on the porch with Nami, but I’m so early this morning that she isn’t down yet. I sit in one of the rocking chairs to wait. I can’t control a discreetly low off-key hum as I rock back and forth in the chair. The weather here is unbelievably beautiful.
The short, dark-haired girl from the restaurant with one of those awful names they pick, something that sounds like Urema or whatever, comes out with a message. Something’s wrong. I can tell from the smug pleasure on her face.
The note is from Pinky and says simply that she’s sorry but she can’t see me today. No explanation. Nothing.
“I don’t understand this,” I say, offering the paper so she can read it. “Where is she?”
“Upstairs.”
“Then why can’t I see her?”
“I guess she doesn’t want to.”
“Or she isn’t being allowed to.”
“There are no restrictions on any of us here. No man-made restrictions, at any rate.”
“I don’t believe she doesn’t want to see me.”
“Have it your own way.”
“And I’m not leaving until she tells me herself.”
She shrugs. “Do you want me to give her that message?”
“Yes, please.”
She goes into the house. I have no idea whether she’s going to give the message to Pinky or whether they’ll let her see me or what. I have to control my fury and keep remembering that I’m not in a position to storm the gates. I have to be clever and careful about this or I’ll lose Pinky absolutely.
Almost ten minutes pass, and then to my surprise Pinky appears at the screen door. She comes out. She looks quieter but the same.
“Can you talk?” I whisper.
“Yes.” Her voice is cool, the feel is distant.
“I don’t understand what’s happening. Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why did you write that note?”
“There’s nothing more to say. I’ve given you all the information you need, haven’t I?”
It’s as if we were meeting for the first time. All those hours together have simply been wiped out. This can’t be. Yet one look at her face and I see it is. We’re back at square one.
“Pinky, is it me? Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” she says, and some of the old closeness softens her voice. “It’s just not possible, that’s all.”
“You mean our friendship.”
She shrugs.
“Have they objected?” I motion to the house. But she shakes her hea
d, no. “Then what is it?”
“I have all that I need in my life. Avrum’s shown me that so clearly.”
“You spoke to him?”
“No. I got a letter this morning.”
Of course, I should have guessed. It had to be something that powerful. Something the size of Avrum. Still, I’m amazed that with only a few words on paper he could negate all that we had been feeling together.
“Good-bye, Johanna. I hope I’ve been able to help you.”
It’s a total dismissal.
“I wish I’d been able to help you,” I say a little bitterly.
She smiles that vacant smile of our first meeting and turns to go back into the house.
“Pinky,” I call. She stops. “Would you mind if I looked at the letter?”
“No, I’m sorry but I don’t think you’re ready to see it yet.”
“Are you implying that one day I will be?”
“Possibly.”
“You’re very wrong. But it’s not important. I was only curious to see what he could say that would turn you around like that.”
“Have a good trip back,” she says and, opening the screen door and stepping in out of the sun, is swallowed up by the dark hall.
I leave feeling frustrated and disappointed. Disappointed that I couldn’t help Pinky and frustrated and even angry at losing to Avrum Maheely. He’s been overpowering me all week, first with Swat and Imogene, and now Pinky. It’s the power of that core I’ve got to find out about.
On the drive back to San Francisco I remember Imogene’s letters. My preoccupation with Pinky had swept them from my mind. I haven’t even looked at them. It’s time I did.
Chapter Nine
There’s a message from David back at the hotel, but when I call he’s already left the office. I try his cell, but there’s no answer. I keep trying, but no luck. The more I try the more important it becomes to talk to him. I need someone on my side—if he is anymore.
All the inspiration and energy I felt earlier this morning have been drained from me. Suddenly I feel very far from home and alone. I guess I’m not really alone; Sephra is out here, but that’s something I never seem to be ready to face. I don’t know why my initial reaction to Sephra is always uneasiness. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s really very nice and nonthreatening, and I don’t know why I tighten so at the thought of her. I should call her, say hello, maybe even stop over for a quick visit, be mature, not like those fools I’ve been dealing with for the last few days.
In the meantime a Valium helps me unloosen a little, and I lay back to enjoy a joint and study Imogene’s letters.
The first one could have been written to anyone. It reads like a cross between a sermon and a hypnotherapy session. The words are direct and electrifying, yet soothing as they work at carefully unpeeling, layer by layer, all the fears, doubts, and anxieties one would have. These negatives, once exposed, are lifted and taken from the reader, leaving comfort and peace and, I would suspect, a thick cord of dependence. Running through all of this is a strong inspirational undercurrent, the promise of a grand purpose with Avrum Maheely at its center.
The letter is extremely effective. Like a good play or story, it encourages a suspension of disbelief that allows one an incredible latitude of acceptance. Even I, as an objective observer, experience an instant involvement. I’m not sure how much is a result of his powerful style and the hypnotic feel of the repetition or the joint I’ve been smoking and my own vague disturbances, but whatever it is, I find myself very receptive, and if I respond that way, Imogene must be mesmerized. And even Pinky.
The last line of the letter brings the presence of Avrum uncomfortably close. “Remember what is ours,” he writes. “Now and forever. The time is near.”
The second letter is very short and adds to the confusion. It’s a love letter, simple and caring, with a tone as gentle as David’s might be.
I can’t seem to get a fix on this man, on who he really is. One moment he’s a monster, the next a messiah, lover, healer, killer, priest . . . the closer I get, the more varied the levels. Even admitting these contradictions makes me uneasy. If anyone suspected that I thought Maheely was more than raw evil, they’d think I was bewitched.
He is bewitching though. That’s the power of charismatic people—but not their mystery. The unknown is how charisma happens. What kind of chance alignment of elements creates the phenomenon. I have to understand that in order to capture the quality for my character.
I read the first letter over and over until the written words become meaningless sounds inside my brain. With more weed, I can almost hear his voice in my head and feel his vibrations in the room. I move with them, and a heat begins to smother my body. Sliding out of my nightgown I fling it over the side of the bed. I run my hands down hard over my body, flattening my breasts, digging into the softness of my belly, and then lock them tight between my thighs.
Time passes, and the inner knots untie, and all the things that didn’t work out—David, Pinky, Sephra—all seem to be drawn from my body, and I slip off to sleep.
Chapter Ten
It’s almost six in the afternoon when I awaken, and instead of feeling rested I feel anxious. Too much weed tends to wire me, and the long plane trip looming doesn’t help. Add to that a nasty dream about Swat. She and I are fighting, punching and kicking each other on a narrow ledge high above the street. I’m winning when suddenly she grabs a piece of naked flesh on my waistline, pinching and twisting it. When I try to break her grip she rams her knee into my stomach, and I go flying off the ledge. I wake up seconds before I hit the ground.
It’s been a horrible trip, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here in a state of high aggravation simply because David thinks I take too many Valiums. They happen to relax me, and I only take them when I need them. And I need a couple now.
It’s too late to make the afternoon plane so I decide to save a couple of pennies and take the red-eye special that leaves at 10 p.m. and gets into New York at 6 a.m. That gives me some time to poop around San Francisco.
Or I could drive out and see Sephra. On the spur of the moment, that’s what I decide to do.
I call Sephra first; naturally she’s surprised to hear from me.
Maybe I’m being too sensitive, but I don’t pick up great pleasure on the phone.
“Well,” I say, “I just called to say hello and find out how everything was.”
“Aren’t we going to see you?”
“It’s so last minute, I didn’t want to barge in . . .”
“Johanna, you’re not barging in. We’d love to see you. It’s been much too long.”
“Well . . .”
“I don’t want to push you if you’re too busy . . .”
“No, actually I’ve finished my work.”
“Then why not come out?”
Incredible how those old scary, uneasy feelings wash back over me as soon as I’m in contact with Sephra. It’s nothing she says, nothing she does, it isn’t even anything about her. I don’t know what it is. But it makes me want to run.
I force myself not to this time. “You’re right,” I tell her, “it’d be dumb to miss this opportunity. I haven’t seen the kids in years.”
She sounds genuinely delighted and gives me detailed instructions. It’s a twenty-minute ride, and I tell her I’ll be leaving in about a half hour.
I throw the last few things in my suitcase and I’m checked out in less than fifteen minutes, which leaves me enough time for a nice relaxing drink at the bar. I refuse to allow myself to get uptight about this visit. I’m going to keep it short and easy, no difficult questions, nothing.
I have all kinds of trouble following Sephra’s directions. First I miss the exit on the highway, and then I can’t find the right turn on Cranston Street and end up hopelessly lost in the maze of some housing development. I can’t even find a gas station to ask directions. It makes me nervous to lose my way in a strange place where I have absolutely no bearings. I pu
ll over to the curb, turn on the light, and read the directions again.
I don’t know where I went wrong. It seems to me I followed the directions perfectly except for missing the turnoff, but I righted that by doubling back. Sephra has to have given me the wrong directions. I know she didn’t do it on purpose, but subconsciously she probably didn’t really want me to come. I know that sounds farfetched, and maybe it is, but that’s the way my mind is working in this agitated state I’m in.
And, I decide, I don’t want to go—consciously or subconsciously. I can’t imagine why I’ve forced myself into this position. It’s always the same. The prospect of seeing Sephra starts the same old fears all over again. I suppose it’s no real mystery. She revives all the miseries of my life, the death of my parents and those terrible lonely years of growing up without a family. In a way, I love Sephra; she’s very dear to me because she’s all I have left of them. But getting to her through all that darkness is more than I can stand anymore. Especially now. I tremble from the bad feelings I get at the very thought of seeing her again.
I can’t do it. I won’t. Just saying that to myself lifts an iron weight from me. I’m getting out of here. I’m going home, back to New York.
I start the car up again and, after driving in almost endless circles, emerge finally onto a main street. It’s not the same one I took off the highway, but I head in what seems like a westerly direction and after a few minutes hit the parkway. From there it’s not hard to find my way to the airport.
I’ve hated this trip, and a three-hour wait in the airport doesn’t help. But I know what will.
People don’t understand Oxycontin. They instantly picture teenagers popping them indiscriminately and throwing themselves out windows, but if you know how to use them and you need them, they can be very helpful. There’s no way I can unwind from this terrible trip, especially this last part, unless I creep into a jug of martinis and probably get sick on the plane, or take one quiet little Oxycontin.
Save Johanna! Page 10
