Save Johanna! (8 page)

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.

“Hello, I’m Johanna Morgan. Imogene Winters told me about you.”

“Yes.” She acknowledges my statement, but that’s all. No questions, nothing. She goes back to feeding the baby not rudely, naturally. The baby sucks fiercely, drawing deep gulps with anxious hunger, its fingers pressing white circles into the soft breast. All the while Pinky caresses him, gently running her hand along his arm from his shoulder almost to her own breast.

“Perhaps it would be better if I came back after his feeding.”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes. He’s almost finished.”

“Certainly. I’ll wait outside if you’d be more comfortable.”

“No, that’s all right. I enjoy the company.”

It’s a quiet wait, broken only by the sounds of the baby sucking. For the most part Pinky seems unaware of my presence. I try to find something to study. Except for a cradle and our two chairs the porch is empty, and the small backyard is covered with weeds. I end up watching her feed the baby.

The sight of a mother nursing her baby is filled with love. Perhaps it’s the way she watches her child or the angle of her head, tilted slightly to the side and tucked against her shoulder, or her expression, gently involved with just the smallest hint of a smile catching up the corners of her mouth. A lovely picture, but a touch off. Not in the baby, even though it’s an obvious mismatch, but at least the baby is there. You know it. You can feel his weight, his substance. He takes up an intensely solid place on this porch, this very hour, this day, in this world. But his mother is only a wisp, not just because of her physical delicateness, but more importantly because, like the others, these people whose minds have been captured by cults, she keeps a distance from the very spot she occupies, a tolerance so complete that it wipes out her own personality, an airiness, an incompleteness. This is only 60 percent of a person. The other 40 belongs to the brown-rice people.

The baby takes another ten minutes and then falls asleep at her breast. She carries him to the far end of the porch and puts him into a charming old wicker cradle.

“Miss Morgan?”

“Johanna.”

“Johanna, are you a friend of Imogene’s?”

“Not exactly. I’m a writer, and I’m doing a book that deals with cults, specifically leaders like Avrum Maheely. I interviewed Imogene in prison this morning, and she mentioned you and said that you might be able to help me.”

She smiles, saying nothing. I have the feeling that if I start to ask about Avrum straight off I’m going to get rote answers. I have to establish a line of communication with this young woman that’s more personal. And for that I need a little time. At least a couple of days.

“Do you think you could have dinner with me tonight?” I ask.

“I think so. Why don’t you come here, though? It’s easier with the baby.”

“Certainly, if that’s more convenient.”

“Or stay now if you like. I have free time until dinner hour.”

I expected reluctance, but she seems genuinely happy to talk to me. I must call David because I can’t make that plane this afternoon.

I get out my cell and dial David’s office. Ida, his secretary, tells me he’s in a meeting, and I take the coward’s way out and start to leave a message that I’m delayed and will call tomorrow, but when she hears that I’m calling from California she insists on telling David that I’m on the phone.

“Jo?” It’s David. “How’s it going?”

“Terrific. I really feel I’m into something fabulous, a wonderful new break for me.”

“You
are
in San Francisco, aren’t you?”

“No, in Sausalito.” And I tell him about Pinky. Damned if he doesn’t start getting that little irritation in his voice, well controlled because there must be people in the office, but enough to make me feel slightly uncomfortable. It’s as if I’m a little kid making up some excuse for staying out past curfew.

His irritation has deepened to petulance. “What you’re trying to say is that you’re not making that plane this afternoon, right?”

I try to stay sweet. “I can’t, darling, I have to spend at least a day or so with Pinky. It’s a fantastic opportunity. This is the kind of person I think I can talk to. She’s different from the others.”

“How long are you staying?”

“I don’t know. A couple of days, I guess.”

“What about the dinner?”

“Oh, I forgot. But I’d better not take the chance. It could take me a little longer. I’m sorry, David. I’ll call your mother right now and explain.”

“Forget it. I’ll do it.”

“David, I’m really sorry. . . .”

“It’s OK.”

Obviously it’s not, but I’m not about to change my plans. If David doesn’t realize how important this connection is I can’t help it. It’s a decision I have to make myself. But I hate the position he puts me in. “You make me feel so pressured. Why are you doing that?”

“I said it’s OK. Forget it.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Nothing. Look, I’ve got some people here. Why don’t you give me a call when you get back.”

“You don’t want to pick me up?” Where did I get that little-girl voice?

“Sure. If you want me to. Give me a call when you decide what you’re going to do.”

“You don’t have to pick me up.”

“Whatever you want.”

“I’ll grab a cab.”

“OK. I’ll talk to you in a few days.”

“I love you. . . .”

There’s a pause, and he says he’ll talk to me later, and we both say strained good-byes, and I hang up feeling lousy. These last few weeks with David have been more difficult than all the four years before put together. I don’t know whether it’s the book or the wedding or a bad combination of both. All I know is that for the first time I’m beginning to have uneasy feelings about us.

Pinky isn’t on the porch where I left her, but the baby is still sleeping in the cradle. I find Pinky out front in the restaurant. The last customers have left, and she’s setting up the tables for dinner. She does everything in a very precise, nonrushed manner. I watch her carefully arranging the silverware and folding the napkins into a graceful bird-shaped design. She doesn’t notice me.

“Can I help?” I ask, and she turns and smiles and says, “Thanks, but I look forward to doing this.”

“That’s pretty, that thing you do with the napkins.”

She’s pleased and tells me that she used to do origami.

“That always looked impossible to me.”

“I know, but once you get the trick then the only limit is your imagination.”

Her personality seems to sharpen as the talk explores different art forms, and she loses some of that remoteness. It turns out that she studied art at Cooper Union, an excellent art school in New York. I had the feeling from the beginning that Pinky was different from the other drifter types in Maheely’s following.

She describes an affluent background with a strong religious strain that included church every Sunday and Catholic schools until high school when she was able to convince her parents to allow her to go to Music and Art High School. She graduated from there at sixteen and went straight into Cooper Union. At seventeen—feeling deadened, disappointed, and lost—she dropped out, floated around for six months, and then ran off to join Maheely’s group.

“You sound like you’re from New York too,” she says.

“I am. Right now I live on Central Park West.”

“I did too.”

“Really? Where?”

“You know the Dakota?”

“Of course.” Change that to
very
affluent. The Dakota is one of the most elegant buildings on Central Park West, in fact, in the entire city. Now I’m very curious. I don’t think she’s the daughter of a celebrity or it would have come out at the trial. Newspapers are brilliant at uncovering things like that. I ask if she would tell me her real name.

“I’d rather not,” she says, “but it’s not a name you would know anyway. My father is very successful in the food business but not well known.”

I question her about her family, and it turns out she has two older sisters, and, like me, there’s a great difference in age. In her case they’re fourteen and sixteen years older. What with familiar neighborhoods, strong religious and lonely childhoods isolated from our siblings, some of the barriers between Pinky and me break down, and she becomes warmer and more trusting. “When I think back on my childhood it seems my mother was always busy doing good—anyplace but home.” When she talks about her father she’s loving and understanding, but when her mother does the same things it’s all wrong. The terrible bitterness she feels toward her mother sits awkwardly on her sweet face.

To hide her discomfort she walks over to check on the baby. He’s fine. She motions me into the empty kitchen. It’s 1930 preserved intact, scrubbed and neat but very worn with large holes showing in the brick-colored linoleum, a clean but ancient refrigerator and stove, and an uncovered bulb with a chain that becomes a string hanging low in the center of the small, narrow room. Two old Salvation Army–looking bureaus take up one entire wall where a kitchen table might have been.