We were discussing aunts. I don’t know how we got there, it was still
early in the evening.
I told her about M.’s depression (my father’s sister), the pills
prescribed, the young South American with the wooden flute. He’d answered
the door, last time I went over, without any clothes on. But with the flute. She said, That’s nothing, and told the following story: My aunt was in a cult, you’ve probably heard of them, they were famous
for a while. Everyone was married to everyone and whomever you weren’t married
to you were sleeping with. Drink and drugs, first the smokables then the
needles, infectious disease. Thirty years ago the government raided their
compound. This was on the Mexican border I think. A standoff, there were a lot
of casualties. Essentially murders, even the suicides were murders. Only fifty
out of say a hundred survived. Then about three years ago a man she knew in the
cult got in touch. He was a friend of one of her husbands. Said he missed their
togetherness—the camaraderie—he wanted a reunion. Apparently he was in touch
with others too. They all agreed to meet for a weekend—in the desert or a public park, halfway between the coasts. Everyone flew in. My aunt was nervous but
had a wonderful time. They all did, the survivors. They called themselves
Survivors. Long story short, they decide to buy second homes next to each other in
a development of sorts. A retirement community—they’re getting old, they’ll
take care of each other. Crazy I know. She’s moving down next week.
| 