“How do you know what’s a cult and what’s not?” Conrad asks.
She flips through her big orange binder and settles on a page filled with tiny handwriting. “That’s the key question. I’m still sorting it out, but my impression is that a cult has to have some or all of the following things.” She reads from a list: “A) A taboo against sharing the group’s secrets with outsiders. B) Some sort of penalty for leaving the group. C) A set of goals or beliefs that are outside of the mainstream. D) A single charismatic leader. E) An insistence on having members donate their work, personal property, and money to the group without compensation.”
“I think B and D are the most interesting,” she says.
“Is the Catholic church a cult?” I ask. “You’ve got the charismatic leader—the Pope—and you can be excommunicated if you don’t follow the rules.”
She frowns, thinking. “I don’t think so. If something is around for long enough, or becomes super-popular, I’m not sure it can be classified as a cult. Also, a cult is desperate to keep people in the fold, and the Catholic church seems like it would rather lose members than have members who overtly disagree with its teachings. Also, the church’s views are mostly noble—charity and good deeds—and aren’t outside the mainstream.”
Conrad gets up to check out the snack table. “What about the Mormons?”
“No, I think they’re legit. They have some odd rituals, but the same can be said of every major world religion.”
When he comes back to the circle with his paper plate and two Cokes, Conrad sits one seat closer to Isobel. “Legitimacy is relative, isn’t it?” he says, handing one of the cans to Isobel.
She reaches over and takes a cookie from Conrad’s plate, and I can tell it makes him happy. Isobel could do worse than Conrad; despite the mild case of affluenza—not his fault, really—he’s a good kid.
“What was it like to grow up in San Francisco during the era of the People’s Temple?” Conrad asks me. I can tell he’s trying to impress Isobel.
“Just how old do you think I am?” I ask, curious.
He shrugs. “Fifty?”
“Not quite,” I say, smiling. “I was just a baby when Jim Jones lured his followers to Guyana. When I was growing up, though, I sometimes heard my parents talking about a family they knew who had died at Jonestown.” I think of photos I saw a few months ago on the anniversary of the massacre. I was amazed to see that the jungle had grown over the entire encampment, leaving almost no clue that Jones and his followers had ever been there.
“The good news is that cults aren’t nearly as popular now as they were back in the day,” Isobel says. “My thesis is that the Internet and increased public information have drastically reduced the appeal of cults. The ones that do exist work really hard to cut their members off from information.”
As the other kids trickle in—Emily, Marcus, Mandy, and Theo—I mull over the conversation. By Isobel’s definition, The Pact doesn’t qualify as a cult. While Orla may be a powerful figure, the goal of the group isn’t outside of the mainstream. In fact, The Pact’s goal is the very definition of the mainstream. Also, The Pact doesn’t ask for financial support, to my knowledge. The opposite is actually true, when you consider the nice parties, personal trainers, and access to relaxing weekend getaways. Of course, it does check a couple of key boxes: You’re not allowed to discuss it with anyone on the outside, and, once you’re in, there’s no easy way out.
At the heart of it, though, the mission of The Pact and my primary goal in life happen to be identical: a successful, happy marriage to the woman I love. In my heart, I know that The Pact is bad—very bad—and yet there’s no denying that its aim is to provide me with the one thing I want most.
Conrad pulls a book out of his backpack and shows me the cover. “Our right-wing lit teacher wants us to read The Fountainhead—not going to do it.”
“You should give it a chance,” I suggest.
Isobel scowls at the book in disgust. “Why should we read that scary fascist propaganda?”
“It is scary, but not for the reason you think. The scary part is that you might find yourself agreeing with some of it.”
“If you say so,” Conrad says. But the eye roll he gives Isobel is a clear signal that they’re in this together. When did I become the face of authoritarianism?
56
Every time I hear a bike coming down the street, I find myself tensing up, thinking of all the things I’ve done wrong. Usually, as I hold my breath, I hear the wheels, the chain, the gears, flying past the house and down toward Cabrillo. Today, however—Wednesday—the bike stops at our house. I hear the telltale click of bike shoes pattering up our front steps.
It’s the same messenger as last time. “Dude,” he says, “you guys are getting my legs in shape.”
“Sorry. Want something to drink?”
“Sure.” And then he’s in the house. He places the envelope facedown on the console in the entryway, so I can’t see whose name is on the front.
In the kitchen, I pour him a glass of chocolate milk. I pull out a bag of cookies and he sits down at the table. To be polite, I sit down too, but all I really want to do is go over and check the name on the envelope.
He launches into a long story about how his girlfriend just moved out here from Nevada to be with him. I don’t have the heart to tell him it probably isn’t going to work out. There is a whole range of telltale signs, and I’ve been subconsciously checking the boxes as he talks. Because of the outrageous rental prices, she moved in with him. He admits it’s too fast, that he wasn’t yet ready for that step, but she’d given him an ultimatum. If she didn’t move to San Francisco, she told him, the relationship was over. I can already tell that the premature cohabitation, combined with the fact that he feels pushed into it and that she’s the kind of person who feels comfortable giving ultimatums, can’t lead anywhere good.
As soon as he’s out the door, I pick up the envelope. I flip it over and my gut hurts. It’s for me. And then I’m ashamed, because I should be happy it’s for me. I remember what JoAnne said: Spread the blame, don’t let them get too focused on Alice. The only thing I can figure is that they know I forgot Alice’s present. Of course, I think, shuddering, it could be worse. It could involve my trip to the Hillsdale mall.
I dial Alice’s number. I’m surprised when she picks up on the second ring, but then I recall The Manual: Always answer when your spouse calls. Today, they’re doing the deposition of an infamous tech executive who assaulted an intern last year. Apparently, in a room full of people, the executive started screaming at the intern for not being fast enough with the PowerPoint. The exec pushed the intern out of the way, and the poor girl fell and hit her head on the table. Blood everywhere.
There’s noise in the background. “We just took a five-minute break from the shitshow,” Alice says. “Be quick.”
“The bike messenger came by.”
Long pause. “Fuck. I hate Wednesday.”