“You didn’t want to wash up?” Rena asked, sounding a little tentative like her mother might.
“What’s this all about? And who are you?”
“Wash later if you like. Right now you must be thirsty.”
“I’m not anything except furious at being illegally taken and transported like some kind of chattel. You’re fools for allowing yourselves to get involved. I don’t know how much my parents are paying you, but it’s not nearly enough to get yourselves mixed up in kidnapping.”
“Come into the kitchen. I think Ken’s put together some of his special vichyssoise.”
Pinky stared at her. Had she misheard? Vichyssoise? It was so unexpected that she simply followed Rena into the kitchen. And there was Ken, a younger, brighter-looking version of Bert Parks, busy chopping chives into a large pot. She could tell it was cold from the white, frosty accumulation on the outside of the pot.
“Sit down,” Rena said pleasantly, holding out one of the black wrought-iron chairs and tapping the red plastic seat invitingly.
Pinky was curious. She sat. And sure enough Ken smiled and immediately ladled the white soup into a deep bowl. Adding just a touch of nutmeg and some snipped chives, he set the vichyssoise down in front of Pinky. It looked good, and the aroma was a pleasant mixture of the freshness of the cut herbs and the light pungency of the nutmeg. To refuse would of course be only a gesture and temporary. She would be uncooperative and simply wait out whatever stupidity her parents had arranged, but starving herself was pointless and self-defeating. It was probably more important to keep sharp enough to handle this strange couple. Granting herself the necessary permission, she dropped the paper napkin to her lap, picked up the spoon, and dipped in. She had to suppress a smile of pleasure. It was delicious and particularly so after the weeks of the greasy junk diet she’d been on with the family. And she was hungry.
They watched her like loving relatives, quick to anticipate any need. Salt? Another piece of French bread? Enough pepper?
She made no sign that she heard them, and they in turn made no sign that they noticed her lack of response. When Ken offered seconds, she made no protest so he refilled the bowl. She ate the second bowl slowly but finished it all. Meanwhile, Ken and Rena carried on the most ordinary stream of small talk about whether leeks were a necessity or onions would do. Ken felt it had to be leeks for the hint of sweetness that you wouldn’t find in onions. Rena disagreed but not with any real conviction. And then, chuckling, she turned to Pinky. “Truth is,” she said, “I haven’t made it in years. I used to use onions because leeks were difficult to find, but today they’re common in any supermarket.”
Pinky was surprised that Ken seemed annoyed. “If you took the trouble you could always have found them.”
“I’m still not so sure it’s worth the extra bother,” Rena answered him in kind.
And he snapped back, “Not if you’re happy with mediocrity.”
“And you think I am?”
Ken’s answer was a shrug of his shoulders and a conspiratorial, unkind smile to Pinky who watched fascinated and totally confused. Who the devil were these people who arranged kidnaps and lunch and then argued over recipes?
“Where are my parents?”
“There’s no need to worry about them,” Ken said, scooping up the empty soup bowl and taking it to the sink.
“I’m not worried, I’m just asking. You must know about them since they’re probably paying you.”
“We don’t take money.” Ken turned to her, holding the soapy bowl. “Whatever we do is because we want to help.”
This time Rena agreed. “Yes. We want to, and we think we can.”
“But my parents sent you.”
“No one sent us,” Ken said, pulling up the seat next to Pinky. His lively face seemed incredibly honest and intelligent. “They told us about you, and we offered our help.”
“Just like that, huh? No money. Nothing. Just the goodness of your heart and a deep interest in someone you’ve never laid eyes on before. Sure.” Pinky shook her head, spreading her lips into a sarcastic smirk. “Happens every day.”
“Not every day,” Rena answered, and she too managed to look sincere, “but fairly often. More often than we’d like.”
“You’re deprogrammers. Hired guns for the mind. Right?” Pinky said, aiming for the soft spots.
But that wasn’t one because Ken’s expression was just as open and frank as before. “It’s true we’re not completely selfless in what we do. No more than most people who have a cause, I guess. To be honest, it fills our own needs, gives us a satisfaction we probably require. Perhaps that’s altruism reduced to its basic. Whatever we get it from it, it isn’t money.”
Pinky would have continued her skepticism, but the truth was she didn’t feel it and, being a fairly honest person herself, let it pass. So they didn’t get money. Still, they were kidnappers sent by her parents to steal her from the life she had chosen. To violate her personal freedom; that in itself was infuriating. As if she had no power in her own life. How dare they? All of them. Again her parents were intruding in her life. She was their flesh and blood which gave them divine control. It had to be her mother. Her mother never had any respect for her as any identity other than her daughter. Not her father, but he was weak when it came to his wife.
It was a marriage of more than thirty-five years, and Roseanne Fowler, a poor, minimumly educated girl from the Bronx who had come to the marriage early and grateful for the privilege of marrying a young lawyer from good professional people, had, after two children and years of running a house and doing charity work for church and PTA, found she was a natural leader with a greater control over other people’s lives than she had ever imagined. Starting with her husband. Then moving on to her two daughters. The older one, now married with two young children, after a difficult puberty came into line in her late teenage years, and by that time she was well along into studies leading to a career in special education. Fortunately for Lisa, she never was put to the test because Allen came along. She dropped out in her senior year when the marriage date was set, and from there on Roseanne had nothing but ease of mind with Lisa.
But Pinky was different. Born almost twelve years later, she was unconventional from the start. Not openly difficult or hostile, just very individual. A threat to all the values Roseanne held dear. And also George’s favorite. Pinky was deeply religious and that seemed to hold her in check, but it wasn’t the kind of religiosity Roseanne knew from her own youth or even from her church groups. Pinky’s was more mystical and aloof. But Roseanne didn’t worry because the Church had a tight grasp on her younger daughter, and she could trust Catholicism to keep her out of trouble.
At fifteen, Pinky left the church over a moral issue. Roseanne had never known anyone personally who would actually take such an enormous step over a matter of personal value. She couldn’t even understand the issue. It was a part of religion she normally left to the clerics, but now her own daughter was excommunicating herself and moving further and further away from all the normal and accepted life-styles she knew and approved of. It frightened Roseanne. She reacted badly, and that, of course, exacerbated the situation. Roseanne didn’t ever think in psychological terms, but she instinctively knew that something about Pinky’s actions was directed against her. She felt unspeakable thoughts; the worst was that Pinky didn’t love her, and, though she would never admit it to herself, she didn’t love her youngest daughter either.
But that didn’t look good. Not loving your own child. So she did the next best thing. She overwhelmed her with attention, advice, instructions, and criticism. It worked perfectly for a number of years, and then one day Pinky unexpectedly left home. She left a note for her father, asking him to understand and saying that she loved him and would be in touch sometime in the future when she had found the strength and peace she was looking for.
There was no mention of her mother. George, who wasn’t always the quickest to spot nuances in human relations, kn
ew enough to tear up the note before Roseanne saw it. Since that day George hadn’t had one moment of peace. Roseanne was obsessed with finding Pinky, her lost baby, and reclaiming her. That’s where the Franklins came in. He, Ken Franklin, was well known for the work he had done with Korean War prisoners and some spectacular cases of young people caught up in the Moony sect. There were still lawsuits pending on the latter, but both Franklins were dedicated, and nothing as secular as a lawsuit was going to stand in the way of saving human beings from the bondage of mind control. Deprogramming was Ken’s specialty. He never ceased to respond to the challenge. Pinky Fowler was only a marginal test. A young girl, barely out of the nest four months and not even involved with one of the strong, organized cults, just some ex-con with charisma. Under a week was his guess and then a generous donation from the parents to the Franklin Foundation, a feature story in one of the New York newspapers, and for the Franklins, personally, another notch on the barrel aimed at those who would steal others’ minds, personalities, their very souls.
“Pinky,” Ken asked gently, “are you still hungry?”
But Pinky wouldn’t answer. She didn’t look at him. With her head lowered, she catechized to herself, moving her lips but making no sounds.
“Remember what is ours,” Avrum had always said to them. “Now and forever.”
These people, the Franklins, were her enemies. They would try to steal Avrum from her, but she had buried him deep within her spiritual being and would hold him there forever. As long as she could do that, she would be safe.
Pinky kept out all voices but her own as she repeated over and over again to herself, “I am one with Avrum. He is my breath and my body. He is my beginning, my ego, and my love. He is the whole of me.”
Rena asked if she was praying, but she wouldn’t answer.
For the next few hours Ken and Rena took turns talking to her in soft, calm voices, ignoring her long silences.
As the time passed Pinky grew tired and her defenses weakened, and more and more of their words broke through to her.
They seemed to be assuring her in a most nonthreatening manner that she was not to blame, that she had been brainwashed, and that they would help her reclaim her lost freedom.
Did they take her for a fool, Pinky thought, promising her freedom and then locking the doors? She would never be stupid enough to believe them. These were the enemies Avrum had told her about. They were bent on destroying him, he said, because he was the prophet of truth and they were the Antichrists. Never would she betray Avrum. Never!
The hours moved on, and still they talked. They asked her questions about Avrum and said they would answer any questions she might have, but she remained silent.
At midnight Rena suggested they go to bed and led her into a small bedroom at the end of the apartment. The room had twin beds that looked freshly made.
“Would you like the bed near the window?” Rena asked.
Pinky shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t care.
“Take it,” Rena said. “It’ll be cooler.”
But Pinky shook her head. She wouldn’t be indebted to either of them and instead sat down on the bed farthest from the window.
Rena smiled, undisturbed, and sat down on the other bed and began to remove her shoes.
Pinky sat fully clothed until long after Rena had gotten into bed and turned out the lights.
Sometime later exhaustion overcame her, and Pinky lay back on top of the blankets and fell asleep.
The next morning over breakfast the Franklins resumed their steady stream of talk, most of it concerning Avrum’s background, of which they were very knowledgeable, and all of it discrediting him as a fraud and a psychopath.
Ken asked her what Avrum had done to benefit anyone but himself. “How has he shared that great love he talks about?”
At first Pinky ignored them, but later she spoke in an attempt to quiet their criticisms. “He has reached out and given love to those who had none,” she said.
“And in return,” Rena said, “has demanded blind obedience.”
“That is a small price to pay for something so precious,” Pinky replied.
“No, Pinky,” Rena corrected her. “Giving up your mind and your soul is the greatest price a human being could ever pay. Nothing of true value would demand such a sacrifice.”
Pinky said, “That is only ego speaking,” and turned away.
All through the day Ken and Rena spoke to Pinky. They talked about the value of freedom, the right of a human being to think for himself, to make decisions, to lead his own life.
After some days Pinky began to respond to their questions, at first only in monosyllables; then the answers grew, and the Franklins knew they were making progress.
Pinky felt herself thinking and acting as she hadn’t in months. And she was surprised and bothered to realize that, against her will—Avrum’s will—she was changing.
The Franklins made a point of telling her that she looked different when she used her mind. It registered on her face and filled her eyes, they said. The next time she went to the bathroom Pinky looked in the mirror, and she thought she saw a difference.
Day after day the Franklins worked relentlessly at releasing Pinky from the bonds of Avrum.
Progress was slow, but the Franklins were patient people. Painstakingly they worked at making Pinky see that she had been hypnotized by Avrum’s charisma, that she had been possessed, and that the only way to free herself was to allow her brain to function on its own.
Little by little she began to react to them more openly, first with hostility, then, as that cooled, with hints of trust.
As the grip of Avrum loosened, a different Pinky began to emerge. This one looked to be neither fish nor fowl, but someone so strangely enervated and compliant that it almost seemed as if she had merely exchanged masters—the Franklins for Maheely.
Ken hadn’t expected as much resistance as he had encountered, but he hadn’t wanted such complete capitulation either. Sometimes a mind could be overtampered with.
Perhaps in her own home, with time and love from her family, that might change. The Franklins didn’t consider their work with Pinky a failure, but it couldn’t be counted a complete success either.
Ken was disappointed, but Rena, ever the pragmatist, thought quite possibly the Fowlers might like it better this way.
Chapter Thirteen
“We’re considering living apart for a while.”
Mary Gail waits for my reaction. It’s Friday afternoon, and she’s terribly upset. Her hands are shaking as she lights what must be her fifth cigarette since she arrived twenty minutes ago.
“Is this Larry’s idea?” I ask.
Her lighter won’t work. She looks around desperately for a match, as if she can’t answer my question without a cigarette. I don’t smoke anymore so there are none around. I have some in the kitchen and practically race out of the room to get them. Emergency. At a crucial moment a cigarette can be that way. I still remember.
Still hurrying, I take a matchbook from the drawer next to the stove. And then stop. My dearest friend Mary Gail, sweet, wonderful, generous person to whom I can turn at any time for anything, is out there in my living room suffering the catastrophe of her life, and all I can think of is, why does this have to happen right now in the middle of my own work? It’s not that I don’t care about her. I do. Deeply. But as a writer I know I have to fortify the barriers around myself because there are too many demands out there, too many interests all wanting bits and pieces of me. But I can’t spare them this time. I need them all for myself.
Or am I fooling myself, making excuses for not caring enough? Is it Avrum again, claiming bigger and bigger chunks of me? This is an especially difficult interruption because it’s not something I can deal with quickly and lightly. I have to involve myself with Mary Gail, and I’m already so deeply involved in the book. And I’m tired. I don’t want to sink into somebody else’s emotional morass.
Right now, though, I c
an’t see that I have a choice, so I arrange the proper concern on my face and go back to Mary Gail.
She takes the match from me, lights it, and says nothing. The rhythm has been interrupted, and we must start again. I don’t want to, and that makes me feel despicably selfish.
“Does Larry want this separation?” I force myself to ask the question.
She studies me for a moment, perhaps sensing less than full interest. But her need is so great the floodgates open anyway.
“We both do. At least that’s what I thought. Now I don’t know. I think I’ve been fooled.”
“How?”
“I feel I was manipulated into thinking it was a shared decision, when it’s really Laurence looking for a comfortable way out. I think he needs me to be part of it, to share the blame, to soothe his own guilt. I don’t know. He’s a coward.” She pauses, and her face tightens and she looks away from me. “Besides, I think there’s someone else.”
Though I don’t know of any other woman, I find with Larry I’m not surprised. “Do you want him to leave?”
“No.”
“Then don’t help him. Fight it. Let him struggle through with all the guilt or blame or whatever he’s so afraid of.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? If that’s your ammunition and you want to win, why can’t you use it?”
She shakes her head. “I have to give him a chance to be happy. I owe him that because I never loved him enough.”
I look at Mary Gail, a woman who has infinite quantities of love that wash over all of us, especially Laurence, and wonder how it couldn’t be enough. Tears well up in those enormous, gentle eyes and run down her flushed cheeks. “From the start I knew it wasn’t complete. There was more to give, but I couldn’t. I don’t think he ever knew.”
“Then how did it hurt him?”
“I cheated him,” she says. “He could have had more. We don’t always have to know what we’re suffering from to suffer. That love might have filled out his life, brought him to another level. I owe him that chance to find completeness.”
Save Johanna! Page 13
