Blackbird (23 page)

Solomon was squatting in front of the chair where I sat; he pulled me down to the floor with him, directing me to kneel.

“You are possessed of unclean spirits,” he said, like the school nurse telling me I had a touch of the flu. “Possession by unclean spirits is not uncommon, and has quite a bit of biblical precedent. In Mark five – ”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard.”

“Oh well. At any rate: with the healing power of the Holy Spirit, we are going to bring those spirits out of your body, out of your soul, and rid you of them, forever. I’ve done this many times before, so you can feel very confident of success. Now” – he put his hands on my shoulders – “we’re going to pray for you – all of us – for your deliverance. It may take a little while; we’re prepared to wait as long as it takes. Because Jay-zus wants your soul much more than these unclean spirits do.” Solomon’s voice was steadily rising in volume, and he was beginning to squeeze my shoulders to an uncomfortable degree. “And the pow-ah of Jayyy-zus is stuh-rong-gah, than any and all unclean spirits. Praise Jay-zus!”

“Praise Jesus,” parroted Daniel.

“Now, when the spirits leave your body, they may come out as a sneeze or a coughing spell or something like that. I’ve had one or two people throw up. But I know these spirits will leave you. By the pow-ah, of Jayyyy-zusss.” Solomon shut his eyes again, holding my shoulders in a vise-like grip. “Lord Jayzus,” he began, his Billy Graham tribute in full swing, “send us your Holy Spirit here this day; raaaaaaain down your healing, yo-wah heeeealing, pow-ah! And heal, and HEEEEEAL this yo-ah child!”

“Yes, Jesus!” said Daniel.

“Please, my Jesus!” said Mom.

Solomon let go of my shoulders, and took my head into his hands (his long fingers encircling my skull), and gripped it tight, shaking me by the head as he prayed, his voice rising in volume and pitch, his tone growing steadily more urgent, his accent steadily more Eastern:

“Lord Jayzus, we pray for your pow-ah, for your great healing
POW
ah!” “Yes, Jesus,” repeated Mom, her fists clenched, her face clenched.

“Look down upon us assembled heah this awf-ternoon, and SEND us your great healing pow-ah! Look down on this your child” – he gave my head a particularly vigorous shake – “and HEAL him! CLEANSE him! Lord God, de-LIV-ah him from ungodly spiritual forces which hold him … CAP-tive, which … im-PRI-son him in chains of unnatural … de-SI-yahs.”

“Hallelujah,” shouted Daniel, his palms upturned toward the ceiling.

“All we here gathered acknowledge that thou art God – Hallelujah – and that thou art able (Thank you, Jay-zus), that thou art able to delivah, to DELIVAH this your child, this your servant from the bondage of unclean spirits. Look down upon us, Lord, and have MERCY!”

“Lord, have mercy,” whispered Mom.

“Please, Jesus,” added Dad.

“Thank you, Jeeezussss,” hissed Daniel.

And so it went. For five minutes. For ten. For half an hour; then an hour. And I felt no different, save for a little soreness in my thighs and haunches from kneeling, and in my neck from Solomon shaking my head for an hour. And it was somewhere in the first few minutes of the second hour that I decided to face facts: nothing of any consequence was going to happen here. Because, in the final analysis, I knew I was no more possessed of unclean spirits than the man in the moon. Because, when it came down to brass tacks, I just couldn’t seem to bring myself to believe that the God who made me what I am could be any more displeased with me for not being heterosexual than for not being tall. Because, when you got right down to the real nitty-gritty, I didn’t really want to be anything other than what I am. And wanting to go straight so Mom and Dad wouldn’t cry anymore didn’t count.

I looked up at Solomon, his eyes still shut, his hands still tight around my scalp. His boyish brow was crimped with frowns, and he was sweating like a long-distance runner. I knew he was beginning to lose his voice; he could barely rasp, “Please-Jesus-have-mercy” yet another time. I looked at my mother, my father, our hirsute, formerly Jewish youth minister – all of them sweating great drops, squeezing their eyes shut, wringing their hands, and petitioning the Almighty with all their collective might for my deliverance. If it hadn’t been me down there on Solomon’s Hunt’s living-room floor, I might have found a certain dark humor in the situation. But it
was
me. And it wasn’t funny. I felt sad and cold, and very much alone. And I knew what I had to do.

I screamed.

I sucked in a good long breath and screamed from the top of my falsetto to the bottoms of my feet. I screamed to do Fay Wray proud. The term “blood-curdling” would not have constituted hyperbole.

Needless to say, I stopped the show. Solomon stopped delivering. Mom and Dad and Daniel stopped Hallelujah-ing. Mrs. Hunt emerged from the kitchen, where she’d been keeping herself conveniently busy and out of the way for the entire proceedings. Everybody looked at me. Solomon slid his hands from the top of my head down to my chin, lifted my face to his, and, smiling a John-Boy Walton smile, said: “That was it, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “That was it.”

“And you told them you were cured. Healed, delivered.” Efrem poked at the ice at the bottom of his paper cup with the straw.

“I didn’t have to. They all assumed my unclean spirits departed my tortured little body in the scream. We all Hallelujah’d and Praise-the-Lorded ourselves into a froth, and sang ‘Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound,’ and went on home.”

“And why a scream, if I may ask?”

“I thought it would be more impressive than a coughing spell.

And I’ll be darned if I was going to throw up for them. Funny thing: Solomon said my unclean spirits were obviously strong and many, because he usually gets rid of them in less than an hour. Sounded like an exterminator.” I chomped into an onion ring.

“Do you suppose your folks really believe you’ve gone straight?”

“About as much as yours believe you, I guess. I mean, they do and they don’t. They want to believe it, of course. They need to, like they need oxygen. But they still look at me like I was a time bomb, about to go off any second.”

“I know what you mean. Well” – he clicked the edge of his cup against the counter top – “at least my father hasn’t beaten me within inches of my life lately. He hasn’t looked me in the eye in recent memory, either, but them’s the breaks. God, I’ve got to get out of there. Barmaid!” He waved his empty cup in the air as a signal for a refill.

“I know. I can’t wait till the fall.”

“I don’t intend to wait that long, if I can help it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m leaving this ass-kissin’ burg, and soon. John and I are gonna move to San Francisco. It’s supposed to be gay heaven up there.”

“You’re not even gonna finish school?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on when John decides it’s time to hit the road. I know damn well I’m not hangin’ around
here
all summer long.” Efrem stared into the onion rings while Gloria deposited another 7-Up and left. He tried to speak up at the exact moment I tried to speak up.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“No, you go ahead.”

“It’s rather personal.”

“Hey, you’ve just given me the blow-by-blow of your exorcism, for cryin’ out loud. Heaven forbid we should get personal.”

“All right, then. About John: are you in love with him?”

“No,” he said with little hesitation. “Not really. He’s kind and sweet, just a basic nice guy. Not great-looking, but nice-looking. I like him a lot, and I like … you know, being in bed with him and all, but – see, ever since I was a little kid, I’ve had this dream of meeting a guy, a certain guy, and falling in love and setting up housekeeping with him, and living happily ever after, like in the movies. And I still think that guy is out there someplace, and I’ll find him. Or he’ll find me.

“And I’m pretty sure I’ll know that guy, practically on sight. You know, I’ll just feel something. ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ and all that. Anyway, John isn’t that guy. Just isn’t. But, like I said, I do like him, and he’s nuts about me, don’t ask me why. And he’ll get me out of here.”

I was about to tell Efrem all about Marshall, everything, in detail – I didn’t know where in the world to start – when Efrem said, “May I ask you something personal now?”

“Sure. I guess you’re entitled.”

“I don’t believe I’m really going to ask you this.” Efrem rolled his eyes ceilingward, then leaned forward and whispered, “Are you attracted to me?”

That took me back a step. I’d hardly even thought of Efrem in sexual terms before. I’ve always thought he was good-looking, in that pale, big-eyed, bookish sort of way he has; but sexually? I quickly revised Efrem’s question in my mind, asking myself if I would consider making love with Efrem Zimbalist Johnson; to which the answer was an unequivocal yes. I liked and cared for Efrem, and while that wasn’t exactly the same as having the four-alarm hots for him, I decided it was close enough that I could say, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” Efrem smiled. He didn’t smile all that often during the best of times (his wonted facial expression is more of a mid-range smirk), which is a shame, since he is most handsome when he smiles.

“Then I can admit I’ve had a crush on you practically since we first met.”

“You’re kidding. Me?”

“Yes, you. Not everybody loves the blonds, you know.”

“Oh, really? And what blonds are we discussing here?”

“Okay, fine: play it coy. Do the names Skipper Harris and Todd Waterson mean anything?” He suddenly sobered at the mention of Todd.

I’d felt a certain sinking of the stomach at the mention of Todd’s name, but I decided it was best to keep it light.

“Was I that obvious?”

“I wasn’t sure, of course. Cherie threw me off totally. But, in light of recent events, a lot of behavior starts to make sense. And, while we’re on the subject, what about Cherie?”

“Cherie knows. She’s known almost from the beginning. Her and Skipper.”

“Skipper?”

“Oh, yes, and some snowy night by the fire I’ll regale you with that little saga. I’ve got lots to tell you” – I was simply itching to talk about Marshall – “but not tonight. I’m so sleepy.”

Efrem leaned forward across the table and whispered, “Do you want to come home with me?”

“What? Spend the night? Are you nuts?”

“No. I could sneak you in through the window. I really want you to.”

“I want to, too.” And I really did. The thought of holding Efrem in my arms after all this time, of seeing and feeling what my buddy was like all naked and hard, was intriguing, at the very least. “But I’d be too scared to risk it. And I should think you’d be too. You haven’t got the best history of sneaking people in and out of bedroom windows.” Efrem blanched.

“I’m sorry.” I reached out and touched Efrem’s hand, then quickly pulled back. “Really.”

“S’okay. Well, you cannot claim I never offered you the riches of my small but wiry body. Maybe next time. We better go, huh? It’s practically dawn.”

We ambled over to the register.

“Are you coming back to school tomorrow?” I asked.

Efrem shrugged. “Maybe.”

As soon as we got out the door, I had an idea. I grabbed Efrem by the arm and led him toward the back of the building, out by the dumpsters. It was almost pitch-dark back there, and it stank with the sort of acrid stink peculiar to decaying junk food.

“Jeez, Johnnie Ray, what’re you trying to do? Make me sick?”

“We won’t be long,” I said, leading him back behind the piled-high dumpsters, where I was sure we would be completely obscured from the view of any who might pass by. I took Efrem in my arms, and we held each other tight for a long moment. Then kissed, softly and tenderly, on the lips.

“Be happy, Efrem.”

“You, too, Johnnie Ray.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Efrem did indeed return to school the next morning; he and Cherie and I were at the old stand in the choir room at a quarter to eight, pretty much as per usual. I would have expected Efrem to be treated to a few prying questions from our classmates – some rude, searching stares at the very least. But no. It seemed to be business as usual around the choir room. I suppose what with the semester drawing to a close all around us, and final exams, commencement exercises, and Life itself lying just over the next hill, Efrem’s accident was yesterday’s news.

When I asked Efrem how he was doing, he shrugged and said, “Okay, I guess.” Then he sighed a long deep sigh and said, “I can’t wait to get out of here,” like a man just this side of stir-crazy.

“Do you know when you’re going?” I asked as we sat on the Drama-room porch during lunch hour.

“Soon,” he said; and I could tell he really didn’t know when (maybe even
if
) he was leaving, but was hoping to God on high it would be soon. I knew the feeling well. I also knew that, in the final analysis, Efrem would be all right. If he ended up hanging around long enough, he’d graduate, probably with his usual 3.8 GPA intact; and if not, he’d still get along. Efrem was just altogether too sharp not to.

As for me, I’d gone underground, after a fashion. I still lived with my parents, but I avoided them whenever possible. I’d always been one for spending most of my time in my room with my books and my records and my macramé for company; now, if anything, I spent even more time alone than ever, venturing out only infrequently and briefly, for meals and the bathroom. When I did see Mom and Dad, the sense of being watched, studied – the infinitely uncomfortable feeling of being under surveillance – was next to unbearable. During dinner, I’d look up from my peas and carrots to find Dad peering intently at me over the meat loaf; or Mom would say, “Have you read your Bible today?” while staring a hole through me, and I’d find it difficult to swallow my food. It’s not so easy on the nerves, feeling like a time bomb.