‘They were committing revolutionary suicide,’ he corrects. ‘It was beautiful.’
Danny keeps crying inconsolably. He has lost Clarisse and baby Libya Eugenie.
9.
It is not a perfect legacy, but it’s one to be proud of, they agree, listening over to the recording of Jim’s final sermon. The worst parts, Mona ensured to stop the recorder for. Everything else, well … it’s understandable that they should grieve a little at the end of the world.
‘What a beautiful little family,’ Jim says, peering over the top of the bunk at Jin-sun and Carrie’s tadpoled bodies, their swaddled baby like a shared heart between them. He looks at Evelyn. ‘Have you taken care of Soul?’
‘Not yet.’
Sally-Ann, Frida, and Mona avert their faces as Jim follows Evelyn into the next room. Dr. Katz hovers on the threshold, preparing a syringe.
Evelyn lifts the covers.
‘Beautiful baby,’ Jim says ceremoniously. ‘Beautiful Soul.’
Evelyn knows from his tone that he hasn’t changed his mind.
Yet there’s always a chance he will. Always a chance. Just let her keep him like this; never to wake, never grow, just breathing; the shine of his hair, the pink of his cheeks.
‘Ready.’ Katz hands her the syringe. ‘Ready when you are.’
Evelyn sits cross-legged on the bed, adorns Soul’s sleepy head with a garland of feverish kisses. Inhales his powdery little boy scent. She lifts the pudge of his forearm. No.
‘Little Mother,’ Jim prompts. ‘Be objective.’
Objective. Only a push of her finger. Only a prick. Only a fine layer of skin. Only a deeper kind of sleep. Only a birdlike peep, escaping his lips.
After all, he’s had a good life … a life of mostly play, puppy dogs, people giving him rides on their shoulders.
She holds the rage tight in her chest. Holds Soul tight as the sweating starts, the rash-like red, the choking, spasms. Stillness.
‘Brave mother. Brave soldier.’ Jim puts an arm around her, grazes the gloss of her temple. They sit like that for a time, smelling the bitterness, dead flames. Then Jim picks up her right hand. ‘It’s time, darlin’ … There’s nothing left.’
Mechanically, Evelyn tucks Soul in again. Follows Jim.
Follows him into the next room. The glow of his red shirt in the cabin’s dim; yesterday’s shirt, she chose it. He pulls the pistol from his pocket, beckons her with it.
Evelyn stops. ‘No,’ she says.
Katz looks up from the punch he’s pouring. The girls, from whatever they’re doing: scrawling notes, tearing up sketches, putting on jewelry.
‘C’mon, now,’ Jim says. ‘A promise is a promise.’
‘No,’ Evelyn repeats. ‘I don’t want to.’
Jim mugs at her, expression thick, skin gray. That’s how I want it. My right-hand. Sally-Ann catches Evelyn’s eye; jumps to her feet in a sudden bolt of understanding.
‘Father,’ she says. ‘It’s better if a nurse does it, don’t you think? Someone with medical experience?’
‘Yeah, Father,’ Frida agrees. ‘It’ll be quicker and cleaner if Sally-Ann does it.’
‘We don’t want you suffering, Father,’ Mona chimes in.
Jim stares at Evelyn a moment longer, her blank white face, crossed arms.
‘Alright, Sally-Ann,’ he murmurs, holding out the pistol. ‘Th’nk you, darlin’.’
Sally-Ann takes the pistol, takes Jim’s arm and helps him out the door, giving Evelyn a last bright look over her shoulder.
Evelyn smiles wanly, dashes a tear. Too little, too late, like everything.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, reaching past Katz to take a cup.
There are things she would’ve liked to live for, of course. Nothing revolutionary, just things. Spend more time with Soul. See her parents. Vicky and Richard the Second in Manhattan. Visit France again. Work in France. Perhaps work for the UN. Perhaps … a haircut.
New earrings? She is missing an earring.
She is missing an earring. Rose earrings given to her by Lenny Lynden, who was her husband in another life, her beautiful blue-eyed boy-husband with the smile that made her wince, but not this life. This life is stepping over. This life is a shimmering blood-sunrise over jungle so beautiful, like a fairytale, MomandDad, I must finish this letter soon, the boat is going out. This life is the new life. This life is the dawn of revolution and she is ready to meet it in a necklace of thorns, sprouting black feathers, adorned with the reddest roses.
Author’s Note
On November 18 1978, a US congressman, three members of the media, and a Peoples Temple defector were assassinated on Port Kaituma airstrip — seven miles outside the Peoples Temple Agricultural Project of Jonestown, Guyana. Meanwhile, in Jonestown, over 900 Temple members ingested a fatal mix of potassium cyanide, tranquilizers, and fruit punch. A third of the victims were minors. Over two-thirds were African-American, with African-American girls and women making up approximately 45% of the population. The leadership of Peoples Temple, however, was predominantly white.
Prior to 9/11, the Jonestown massacre was the largest loss of American civilian life in a single, deliberate incident.
Beautiful Revolutionary is not the all-inclusive story of Jonestown and its victims. At most, it is the story of some (mostly white) characters who become involved with a fictionalized version of Peoples Temple, and who are instrumental to the final tragedy. While these characters were often inspired by real individuals, and informed by years of research, they are ultimately fictional.
My fellow researchers sometimes speak of ‘the Jonestown vortex’ – a whirling mass of information that pulls you in, until you’re drowning in details. Possibly, my novel may draw some new readers into this vortex. If so, I encourage you to keep reading.
Alternative Considerations of Jonestown & Peoples Temple (jonestown.sdsu.edu) is a website sponsored by San Diego State University. It’s totally free, and comprehensive in documenting, presenting, and memorializing Peoples Temple and its members.
Dozens of books have been written about Peoples Temple, but some reputable general nonfiction titles include: The Road to Jonestown by Jeff Guinn (2017), Stories from Jonestown by Leigh Fondakowski (2012), A Thousand Lives by Julia Scheeres (2011), and Raven by Tim Reiterman (1982).
Memoirs by Jonestown survivors include: Jonestown Survivor by Laura Kohl (2010), Slavery of Faith by Leslie Wagner-Wilson (2008), and Seductive Poison by Deborah Layton (1998).
For a perspective on the teenagers of Peoples Temple, see And Then They Were Gone by former schoolteachers Judy Bebelaar and Ron Cabral (2018).
For a LGBTIQ perspective on Peoples Temple, see A Lavender Look at the Temple by Michael Bellefountaine (2011).
Black Jonestown (www.blackjonestown.org) is a new website devoted to the African-American victims and survivors of Jonestown, with an emphasis on the history and experiences of black women in the Temple. Founded by author and educator Dr Sikivu Hutchinson, together with Jonestown survivors Leslie Wagner-Wilson and Yulanda Williams, it is a key resource for anyone interested in learning more about Jonestown’s largest demographic.
Acknowledgements
The people of Peoples Temple — whether I was speaking to you directly, reading your words, watching your interviews, or searching for you in the documents of forty-plus years ago — you’re the beating heart of this book. I will always cherish the time I spent with you, and I hope that this story does you justice (or, failing that, entertains you a bit). Thank you for making me feel like I was part of your world.
Rebecca Moore and Fielding McGehee III – aka, Becky and Mac – aka, my ‘America parents’. Thank you for welcoming a random Australian into your home three years ago, and for everything since then – the emails, the Skype sessions, the anachronism prevention efforts, the friendship. Thank you for Alternative Conside
rations and your commitment to preserving the history of Peoples Temple and its members. I don’t know how I would’ve navigated ‘the Jonestown vortex’ without you as my trusted guides.
Thank you, further, to Becky and John Moore for sharing your memories of Carolyn and Annie.
Kathy Sparrow, for showing me the Carolyn you knew at Davis.
The nonfiction authors who investigated Jonestown before me, and particularly those who took the time to meet and/or correspond with me: Judy Bebelaar, Ron Cabral, Jeff Guinn, Julia Scheeres. Also, to all the contributors to Alternative Considerations of Jonestown & Peoples Temple and The Jonestown Report over the years.
California Historical Society, for opening your archives to me.
Ukiah Library, likewise.
Dave’s Bike Shop in Ukiah, for aiding me in my pilgrimage to the old Temple building. (Sorry if I was weird.)
Mary Lee Fulkerson, for Pyramid Lake and your stories of being a bad-ass artist, activist, and army wife.
Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers’ Centre, for providing me the perfect cabin in which to write out those frenzied ‘Eve of Destruction’ days.
The John Marsden / Hachette Prize for Fiction 2014, for helping fund my research. Melbourne Writers Festival 2015, for giving me a platform to talk about it.
Scribe Publications, and especially Marika Webb-Pullman, for believing in this book before it was a book. Our talks always leave me feeling clear-headed, and your advice and edits have taken BR from strength to strength. Also, Laura Thomas, for yet another stunning cover.
Grace Heifetz — it’s so great to have you in my corner.
My family, for being incredibly proud and patient. Finally, you can read the damn thing.
Kirill Kovalenko — best friend, bringer of Pepsi, boy of my dreams. Thank you for being with me for the writing and, more importantly, the aftermath. Without you, it wouldn’t mean so much.
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