After the above, Jim Jones had told her to wait on the bus by pretending to be asleep at the next rest stop, and to slip back into his private compartment at the rear when everyone had deboarded... (p. 73-74):
It seemed like hours as I waited, hunched behind the door in his dark room... Not sure what to do, I sat at his desk, then nervously perched on the end of his bed. I was sick with anxiety. What was I doing here? Perhaps I had misunderstood him. I moved again, hunkering down behind his door where I felt safest. I heard voices as the door opened. Father was speaking with someone. His head was turned toward them, but his body quickly entered my space. I stood before my leader, unsure how to greet him.
“Please unbutton your shirt.”
My head reeled. I promised myself I wouldn’t have capitalistic thoughts anymore. I wouldn’t think about leaving. His hands began to caress me but they didn’t feel soft, like a minister’s hands. They were less sweet and attentive than my eighteen-year-old boyfriend’s hands had been. I whimpered. This wasn’t how God should act.
“You look frightened,” he whispered. His voice was soft and consoling as he guided me to his bed and pulled off my jeans. “Please don’t be afraid. I am doing this for you . . . to help you,” he comforted me. “You don’t realize what a pretty girl you are.” He tossed my pants on the floor and unceremoniously unzipped his trousers. Despereately embarrassed, I looked away. Had I given Father the idea I wanted him to do this to me?
His hands were now softer, his voice consoling. Completely clothed, pants open just enough, Father got on top of me, heavy and smelling ghastly. I felt a searing pain. Father continued to push against me. I could no longer decipher his words. I was suffocating. There were no kisses. Just the lonely sound of hot and heavy breathing on my neck. I descended slowly into paralyzed confusion and further downward into absolute darkness. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. He pushed himself back off me and zipped up his pants.
Ashamed, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Not to worry, my child. You needed it. I would never harm you. This is for your own good.” He was busy brushing the creases from his shirt. “When we get to the next rest stop, I’ll empty the bus. Get out quickly then and don’t let anyone see you.”
“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.” Saddened that he felt he had to do this to me, I pulled on my shirt and tried to push the buttons through the impossibly small holes. My hands trembled as I pulled my jeans back on, wishing I was invisible, wishing I was who I had been just a few hours ago. Despite his words, I didn’t feel any prettier.
. . .
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