Cult Page 5

  The emotion, Naomi sensed, despite the number of times Mrs. Prococino had told this story, would never go away. It came out of her fresh, raw, with all the bitterness and vitriol intact.

  “Once they lure you into isolation, it’s all over. There’s no newspapers, no television, no conversation, unless it’s controlled by them. Control! That’s what they want. Control! And every time you say you want to go home, they lean on you, push you to stay, supposedly “for your spiritual health.” That’s a laugh. Besides, it’s not easy to find your way back to civilization. Their camp is far away from any means of public transportation. They’ve got you cornered. They usually bring the kids in during the night and hand them sleeping bags, lining the boys up on one side, the girls on the other. They crash in on your sleep. Cut it down to three or four hours. You’re exhausted all the time.” Mrs. Prococino took a sip of her iced tea.

  “That first morning they wake you up with familiar songs, with restructured lyrics with words like “centering” and “glory,” innocent words that float into your subconscious. They split you into groups of twelve. Six are Glories, only the new kids don’t know that. Each kid had his own Glory watchdog, a girl for a boy and a boy for a girl. They call them spiritual brothers and sisters. They’re with you all your waking hours, even when you go to pee. They control you with eye contact, a kind of hypnosis. Eyes! Powerful instruments. It’s all titillation at first to draw you in, but they withhold sex. You start off the day by marching around to the head, a wash, then off to breakfast. There, you get sugared up. Cereal with sugar; Kool-Aid, sugared up; coffee with sugar. They withhold protein.”

  “But how….” Naomi heard her voice, then retreated when it was ignored. It was a question that had arisen since the meeting with Phillip. How can they make someone believe, commit their lives, so quickly? It was a stonewall against her reason.

  The boy must have been weak, ready for it, vulnerable, she decided.

  “After breakfast you all sit around and talk about your lives, your innermost secrets, real heavy personal stuff, whatever sins against themselves or society they had imagined or actually committed, all to great applause. It was called ‘getting out the garbage.’ Like Catholic confession. The Glories liked to tell him they were just like Catholics. They record what you say, ready for use. Blackmail. Everything you do is declared marvelous by them. You’re Mr. Wonderful. When you fart it’s like you sang the “Star Spangled Banner.” You’re back in the womb, in a warm bath of manufactured admiration. They control your environment. Your information. Your diet. Your time. You play crazy games, like dodge ball. They call it ‘team building.’ They sardinize you.” She paused.

  “This goes on for three days. Then they start to fill your mind with the Father Glory pitch. You’re ready, you’ve been prepared, you’re not thinking clearly, your ego inflated to its furthest limit. You are never alone. They take you to the bathroom, to your meals, to the lectures. And they push you to call home, telling you exactly what to say, listening in when you talk. It’s a critical time. They don’t want intrusion.”

  “I spoke to her at the beginning,” Barney interrupted. “It was like you said. I knew something was wrong.”

  “Bet she told you she’d met these fantastic, wonderful, caring, loving people, that she was having a fabulous spiritual experience.”

  “Yes. Exactly that.”

  “And she was going to stay just a little while longer.”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you finally inquired where she is or got suspicious, she wouldn’t tell you where she was. Not precisely. Not enough for you to hop a plane to find her.”

  He nodded, trembling with anger.

  “Finally, it’s too late. Franco would scream at him when he called. I would get hysterical. We had no idea. No idea.” For a brief moment, Mrs. Prococino’s large eyes welled up and her voice broke. “They give you this amulet or charm and you wear it around your neck for the rest of your life. It’s in the likeness of Father Glory’s head, complete with his wide smile and foreboding eyes. There’s a liquid in it, ‘holy water’ blessed by Father Glory. I think it’s poison. Maybe one day it’ll be like Jonestown.

  “We’re ordinary people, Mr. Harrigan. Second-generation Italians. Not good Catholics. Not bad Catholics. Vinnie worked for the Post Office in New York and was transferred to Washington. He had a good administrative job. Franco had just graduated from college. We got his medical school acceptance while he was in their hands. Imagine that kind of explosion in a family that lives on dreams for our children. He was going to be a doctor. You know what that means to a family like ours. A doctor. It tore our hearts out to get that acceptance letter. He was giving that up for nothing.” She sighed. “We researched. We did all the things you’re doing now. We read Father Glory’s alleged Bible. Bullshit. All bullshit. They want numbers. People they can turn into moneymakers. People are money. Money is power. They have an apparatus. They’re a force. They’re something now, like Waco was. The Glories are a million times worse, because they’re a million times bigger.” She shook her head and sucked in a deep breath.

  “He was our child, our hope. Finally, we flew out there and went through hell to get to see him. They had this lawyer you had to go through. Real Ivy League. Pompous. An obvious phony.” Her anger peaked and ebbed. “By some miracle, we finally got to see our boy. He was zonked out, glassy-eyed, a zombie. He was always with this girl, his Big Sister. He couldn’t make an independent decision. He called us Satan’s people. Imagine that.”

  As she talked, Mrs. Prococino explored Barney’s face, as if she were gauging the effects of her words on him, testing, prodding. “The law was with them. There was nobody to turn to for help. We couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

  She seemed to be debating whether or not to continue. Then she nodded and went on. “All Vinnie and I could think about is what we’d done wrong, where we made our mistake. At night… we just lay there in bed, the two of us, Depression babies from Italian immigrants who came up the hard way, and they had reduced us to two quivering jellyfish. Nobody ever told us how to handle this. Nobody. In the camp, these bastards would tell us, ‘Withdraw. Withdraw,’ and call us Satan. Franco would shout back, ‘Fuck you, you monsters. Fuck you.’ But that only made it worse.”

  Naomi understood her earlier reluctance. “They had taken away my boy, not only from me and Vinnie, but from himself. And the worst part was that I hated him for it. My own flesh and blood.”

  She held back tears to the limit of her control, then they came gushing out. Turning away, she wiped them, embarrassed. When they saw her face again, she was smiling thinly.

  “Listen. It has a happy ending. We went through six months of hell, trying to figure out ways to get at him. We tried everything, letters to our congressmen, to the FBI, even the CIA. We contacted others who had lost loved ones to the Glories, spoke to ex-members. Nothing. Just like you. I’m sorry, Mr. Harrigan. Your plight is not unique.”

  “But how did they start?” Barney asked.

  “Who knows? They’re tyrannical, especially in politics. It may sound nuts, but they want to take over the world. God help us. Father Glory as the great one, leader of the world. The living Jesus.”

  “Unbelievable,” Naomi said.

  “Bastard,” Barney muttered.

  “Father Glory,” Mrs. Prococino said contemptuously. “He lives like a potentate. He’s a front within a front within a front. He’s got worldwide business interests. He needs numbers, believers, and the best way to get them is through religion. Then he sends these kids out to raise money. That’s all they do once they’re completely under control. Raise money and get other kids in… to raise money. That’s the scam.”

  “The meek aren’t the ones who inherit the earth,” Mrs. Prococino said suddenly, and a sour bitterness filled the room.

  Naomi couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Prococino was letting h
er hate blind her.

  “And your son?” Barney prodded. “How did you get him out?”

  It was, of course, the central issue for Barney. He asked the question with frantic anticipation.

  “Kidnapped him. That’s the truth of it. Call it what you want. We told the press ‘subterfuge.’ Sure it was illegal, but who gave a rat’s ass? It was, believe me, the only way. Kidnapping. Pure and simple. We picked him up selling candy. He was on one of their fund-raising teams. They either raise money or do things to gain credibility and acceptance so they can raise more money.” She checked herself. She had started off again on the well-rutted path, stopping suddenly when she realized that she had continued to stray.

  “To do all this cost us plenty. We hired a guy to kidnap him, a deprogrammer. It was like planning the snatching of a President. All cloak-and-dagger. It cost us every cent we had. We got him into a van and raced away as fast as we could. Then we holed up in a deserted cabin and the deprogrammer went to work. We had to lock him in a room. It wasn’t fun to watch. It was awful. He was kicking and screaming all the way. It was heartbreaking….” She laughed, but it was not with joy. “We were lucky. If it hadn’t worked, we would have been sued by our own son. Maybe even worse. Heartbreaking. It ruined my husband’s heart in the end. He had been through the Brooklyn streets, wars, the Depression. But this finished him off. The old ticker gave.”

  “Can you give me details on this deprogramming?”

  “They reverse the process. You see, the Glories stopped his ability to think, to make decisions on his own. Something to do with the brain.”

  “What did he, this deprogrammer, do to him?” Barney asked. He had been fidgeting with his fingers, now he locked them together to keep them from shaking.

  Naomi had heard about the process, but it was always cloaked.

  “Talk. Talk. Talk. I told you. I don’t really understand it. He believed that he would rot in some eternal hell if he wasn’t true to Father Glory. His mind absorbed it like a sponge. I’m told it clogs all receptors. The deprogrammer has to break down the fear, fight fire with fire. It worked with Franco. He came down like a rock dropped from a mountain.

  “How long did it take?”

  “Three days. Depends, I suppose, on the person.”

  “It’s incredible,” Naomi said. Above all, a mind is free, she told herself militantly.

  “So he’s fine?” Barney asked. Telling the story had drained Mrs. Prococino. She looked exhausted, taking a moment now to sip her tea.

  “It took eleven months for him to really be fine. He was afraid to go to sleep in the dark, jumpy, but mostly he slept. He had no desire to do anything. It was another nightmare. We were perpetually afraid that he would wander back, or they would come and get him. They do that. You don’t know these people.” The flume of her hate revived her.

  “Can you really completely blame…?” Naomi asked.

  “Yes, I can. I saw it with my own two eyes. It’s hell.”

  “How is he now?” Barney asked.

  “Franco’s great. He lost two years is all.” She sighed and smiled, calm now. She had saved her boy. “He’s in his third year of medical school.”

  “And does he remember?”

  “Not if he can help it. It embarrasses him.”

  “Why?”

  “He blames himself for letting it happen.”

  “Everyone is a little at fault,” Naomi said. It had come on her too fast, like a tornado. She watched as Mrs. Prococino shook her head, then sipped her tea. Naomi watched the tendons in her neck work as she swallowed, trying to figure out what she was thinking. Finally, she leveled her eyes at Naomi, seeming to search her. Naomi felt a twinge of discomfort and the sudden realization that she was being looked upon as a skeptic.

  “It can happen to you, lady,” she said. “To any one of us.”

  She decided she would not express any more doubts. She had not wanted this involvement and she did not want it now. Now, she wanted to get away, to run as far from here as she could.

  Then, Mrs. Prococino appeared to retreat, as if accepting the realization that, despite all she had said, she could not properly express her passion. The interview was over. Barney stood up and held out his hand.

  “I really appreciate this,” he said gently. “And I’m sorry if I stirred it all up for you again.”

  Mrs. Prococino walked them to the front door and opened it. Naomi left first, starting down the stone steps edged with blooming mums. But when she turned, Barney was not behind her. He was framed in the doorway, clinging to Mrs. Prococino. They were locked in an embrace, rocking back and forth, lost in private consolation, two poor souls mourning a dead loved one. Embarrassed, Naomi turned away and got into the car.

  Chapter 4

  When he slid into the car beside her, his eyes were still moist. Without looking at him, she handed him some tissues. His exclusion had, inexplicably, angered her. What did it matter? she told herself bravely. He had no obligation to include her.

  “Amazing,” Barney said as the car headed into Washington. Time had slipped away and it had grown dark. She flicked on her headlights. “I’ve seen it on television, read it all in the papers. I’ve heard this all before. Other names. Other faces. It meant nothing. It’s what happens to other people.”

  “Barney….”

  She needed to punch a fresh breeze into this vacuum of emotion, into herself as well. Seeing Barney like this reminded her that they were different people, living on different planets. They felt different things, thought different thoughts.

  “I don’t believe it can happen to just anyone,” she said, remembering what Mrs. Prococino had told her.

  He shrugged, lost in his own thoughts. She hadn’t made any impact.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “Oh.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key.

  “The Marriott. Near the Pentagon.”

  Heading the car through traffic on 16th Street, she realized she was taking the longest way, stalling. She needed to make sure to cover all the possibilities.

  “I’m just wondering… was there anything between you and Charlotte before she left to visit her sister?”

  His wife’s name seemed to recall his sense of the present.

  “None.”

  “No arguments?”

  “We had arguments, sure,” he said, growing restless. His foot tapped on the car floor. “Nothing cataclysmic. We have plenty of money. We traveled. Last year, I made nearly five hundred thousand. She had everything she needed.”

  “Everything?”

  She was probing now, the stiletto in her mind sharpening, the old curiosity exploding. Often in her work, she had to burrow in this way to get at the truth. Recently, she had probed a government official in Rwanda in this way, showing no mercy, deflecting his obfuscations. I’m speaking for the dead and missing, she assured herself. Bleeding for them. Was she bleeding for Charlotte now? Identifying with her?

  “Not everything is measured in material things, Barney,” she lectured, an echo of the past. He bit his lip. She was surprised at his concurrence in the conversation, surprised that he was lending himself so readily. It encouraged her to probe deeper.

  “She had Kevin.” A nerve began to palpitate in his jaw.

  “And you.”

  “Was she happy?”

  “Happy? Why not?” He seemed to be looking deeply within himself now, the flare-up of belligerence subsiding.

  “What kind of a person is Charlotte?” she asked suddenly.

  “She’s like a piece of fine china. I’m not saying she’s a mental giant. She’s smart, but not an intellectual. Not into… you know.” Naomi knew. Not into politics, causes, all the rest. “She was just a decent, good, loving young woman. Her life was her family. Just like me.”

  “Was she Irish?”
<
br />   “She was of Irish extraction, as a matter of fact.” He showed some irritation. She knew his sudden testiness was directed at her.

  His parents must have been happy at that, she thought.

  “Did she like your parents?”

  “She tolerated them. As you know, they’re not exactly charming. My father’s still the great black Irish hater.”

  “I remember,” she said, remembering them, not with fondness.

  “But they loved Kevin. They’ve moved to Lauderdale. I helped get them this condo.”

  “Was she religious?”

  She felt his gaze, but she did not turn her eyes from watching the road.

  “A Catholic. Moderate. Not a fanatic. She went to church a few times a year.”

  “Confession?”

  He hesitated.

  “Apparently not. She said she didn’t need that. Religion wasn’t a dominant factor in our lives. Nay. I swear to you. This was out of the blue.”

  “She never visited her sister before?”

  Barney shook his head.

  “No. Seattle is a long trip. She thought Kevin was too young to leave. Besides, she and her sister weren’t that close, not during the years of our marriage. Oh, they called, spoke. But it was always brief.”

  “Then why this visit all of a sudden?”

  “It wasn’t all of a sudden. She had planned for it for months. It was her sister’s birthday.”

  “A sort of reconciliation?”

  “I thought so. She did not enjoy their being distant. There was guilt in it for her. It bothered her. I thought it might be a good thing. Fat lot I knew. It was a set up. She probably got brownie points for bringing in a sibling.”

  His continuing forbearance encouraged her to proceed. She expressed what stirred beneath the surface. “She was younger,” Naomi said impulsively.

  “Ten years. Not a lifetime.”

  “I mean when you married her.” It had been in her mind from the beginning, and she had calculated it. “Kevin is four. What was she eighteen, nineteen? That’s pretty young.”