Choir Boy (31 page)

“Sometimes. A lot of it is insanely boring and frustrating. We have a beauty writer who doesn’t understand the esoteric word count concept and a bunch of advertisers who don’t want their ads next to the horoscope or what have you. But yeah. Has its moments.”

Holding hands with Canon Moosehead meant Maura had to crabwalk into Carlo’s. She wore a V-necked blouse that only revealed a smidge of cleavage and a knee-length skirt. Winter wear, Berry decided. She clutched a small oblong purse and perched sunglasses on her forehead. Canon Moosehead wore a denim jacket and baggy gray corduroys over his black shirt and white collar. They got milkshake-looking coffee drinks and joined the others.

Maura introduced the Canon to Anna Conventional and Peter, aka Bishop Bacchus. “Peter here had a religious experience after Berry’s dad stranded him in East Bumfuck, pardon my language.”

Anna Conventional nudged Berry and winked.

“I know how that is,” Canon Moosehead said. “I got lost once, thought I’d lost my mind. I didn’t know where I was or how to get home. I’m still not sure how I pulled through. I found strength somewhere. But it changed me. Everything I cared about before seemed small afterwards.”

“That’s exactly what it was like! I got changed. I discovered something and now I’m a new person. I’m almost born again, but without the bad haircuts and homophobia.”

“You have to reach your lowest point before you can shine your brightest,” Canon Moosehead said.

“Yes!” Peter said, clapping his hands.

Anna Conventional and Berry stared at each other. Anna gaped and stuck her chin forward in a “what the fuck” motion. Berry made “don’t ask me” hand gestures.

“It’s like dying and being reborn,” the Canon said.

“It’s like losing your luggage,” Peter said. They went on like that for a while.

“Road to Emmaus!” Canon Moosehead shouted.

“Road to Damascus!” Peter shouted back.

“If Jesus is the answer, I hope he’s multiple choice,” Anna Conventional muttered.

“Everything happens for a reason,” Peter announced.

“Yeah, it’s just that some things happen for really stupid reasons,” Berry said. “I mean, I’ve been transformed and reborn and suffered and whacked. But I still haven’t got a clue what I’m doing here or where I’m going and if I think about it for more than two seconds I get so scared I want to throw up.”

Maura gave Berry a hug. The whole restaurant seemed to watch them. Berry felt bad that he’d torn down the tent revival with his confession. Expressing his non-stop simmering terror hadn’t made him feel better about it. If anything, it was harder than ever to ignore now that it was in the open. He violently hated the Canon and Peter for their easy answers.

“It’s too bad you’re not Jewish,” Canon Moosehead told Berry.

“Excuse me,” Anna Conventional said. “Aren’t you like liber Jesus guy?”

“Sure, sure.” Canon Moosehead cleared his throat. “But I’m the first to admit when other faiths offer advantages, and one of the best things about Judaism is it recognizes the stage of life you’re gong through right now. You could celebrate it by having a Bar Mitzvah or maybe in your case a Bat Mitzvah. You know, celebrate the new person you’re becoming but acknowledge you’re a work in progress.” “Jewish people have the suckiest music,” Berry offered. “I went to a synagogue once and they couldn’t keep a tune if it had a collar and leash.”

“But maybe there is something we can do,” the Canon said. “For both of you. We’re supposed to baptize some babies tomorrow morning at Eucharist. It’s a horrid ritual. One of them always vomits on my surplice. But maybe we could work you two in. Berry, is there a new name you’d like to be baptized under now that you’re a young woman?” “Still Berry. Like the fruit, I guess.”

An hour later, Peter and the Canon still sparked. They discussed gay priests and the importance of ceremony in W. B. Yeats and WB dramadies.

Berry tried to call home. The machine picked up but the outgoing message was blank. All the breath left Berry and he knew in his gut’s heart his mom had followed Marco’s example and disappeared. She was halfway to some other city by now, seeking a life without a kid who didn’t know what he was.

Berry left a message, including Anna Convention al’s cell phone number, then he found the girls room. He balked only a little at the door to the place where he’d suffered so much lately. He forced himself to sweep the door before him. Then he hunched over the sink, crying without moisture. He washed his face several times and tried to decide if “orphan” rhymed with “dolphin.” All this religious talk only stoked Berry’s dread—you only talked religion outside church when you were in trouble or decorating. Berry saw his own thought patterns circle like drainwater. Always back to the choir and its impossible awe. Dr. Tamarind said the purpose of therapy was to bore you, to help you sicken of your own repetitive thought sequences and obsessions, all the better to discard, edit, renew, accept. Berry realized he’d gorged on his constant thoughts of the choir whenever religion, sex, or self-image came up. Thinking about the choir finally started to bore him. But he had nothing to replace the choir with. He washed his face for the millionth time. He tried to make up a lovely hymn about being orphaned.

“Oh hey. Your mom called,” Anna Conventional said when Berry returned to the table. “We’re meeting her for dinner at Buffalo Country.”

Canon Moosehead held forth about the importance of Aramaic scholarship in deciphering the Gospels and the possible existence of a “Q,” or source Gospel. Maura stuck her tongue in his mouth and held it there until he stopped trying to move or talk. Then she brushed his face gently, tongue still in mouth, knees visibly nuzzling his crotch. After a paragraph’s space, she pulled her tongue out. The Canon squinted as if he’d never seen her before. He carefully wiped his mouth with a wad of napkins.

“He’s a great guy,” Maura said to Berry, “as long as nobody gets him talking shop.” She drew Berry aside. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something. This is totally hypothetical and who knows if it’ll even happen, but . . . Canon Moosehead and I have been talking about maybe tying the knot in the spring or summer, you know how these minister types are, all marry-or-burn.”

“You really think he’s going to marry you?” Berry said. “I mean, he’s always been really political.”

“He’s changed. Anyway, so we might tie the knot and I’ll just pretend I’m a virgin.” She giggled. “Anyway, we would be like so totally honored if you’d sing at the wedding if it even happens and now I need to touch wood just for mentioning it. But seriously, it would rule. No choir, just you. You could wear a bridesmaid’s dress or choirboy gear or hockey pads, I don’t care.”

“Wow,” Berry said. “Wow. I’m like . . . that’s really cool. Thanks.”

“Don’t tell anybody. I’m totally jumping the gun here. I’m just so stoked at the idea of being a preacher’s wife like Whitney.”

Everyone piled in Anna Conventional’s SUV and drove from one patch of business district to another. Along the way they noticed a group of a dozen or so people toting signs and candles. A single television crew followed the small crowd, one man with a shouldered camera and another with a boom mike. “Now there are some people with nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon,” Anna Conventional remarked.

“Wait, slow down,” Canon Moosehead said. “I recognize somebody. That’s Rodney Gretzen. And there’s Anita

Gartner. And . . . and ... oh my. I recognize all of these people from church or the Downtown Association or both.” The Canon’s eyes pooched.

Berry spotted Lisa’s mom walking out front in a parka and holding a sign he couldn’t read. Her jaw clenched.

And there, next to her, marched Lisa herself in a plastic yellow raincoat. Lisa had a candle in one hand. Wax dribbled past its paper holder onto her thumb. She stared at her shoes.

One of the signs swiveled enough for Berry to read: NO DRAG QUEENS IN OUR CHOIR.

Berry said something profane.

“Definitely people with too much Saturday afternoon and not enough imagination,” Anna Conventional said.

Another sign turned out to say something about queers, and a third quoted an obscure passage from Numbers about clothing the lamb in linen and the fish in diapers or something.

“I just can’t believe it,” Berry said.

“Stop the car,” Canon Moosehead said. “I want to talk to them.” He yanked at his seatbelt and reached for the door handle.

Anna Conventional plunged her foot all the way down onto the gas. “No fucking way. You don’t want to make those asslickers feel more important.” The SUV sped past the protesters.

“But they’re my parishioners.”

“You’re dating a transsexual,” Maura pointed out. “You can’t afford to draw attention to your own glass house, hon.”

Canon Moosehead squirmed.

“Please just drive, just drive,” Berry prayed. He yanked at Anna Conventional’s shoulder strap.

“Don’t do that! Going as fast as legal,” Anna Conventional barked. She slapped Berry’s hand and ran a red light. Soon the group shrank to angry, sign-waving flecks.

Berry hated sports. Buffalo Country had sporting equipment everywhere he looked, a basketball hoop next to the bar, a dartboard in the corner, trophies and pictures on every brick surface. Judy and Mr. Allen sat at a table with a big net across its center. Plates of nachos and wings crowded the net. “Sorry we’re late,” Berry told them. “Got distracted on the way over. ”

The six o’clock news came on during dinner on the big screen TV behind the basketball hoop. A candlelight vigil at St. Luke’s was the third story. The camera made the turnout look way larger than the handful of people they’d seen on the street.

“Everybody saw this,” Canon Moosehead said, swinging a nacho back and forth in front of his face by its tip. “It’ll be in the morning paper too. When they gather tomorrow morning, they’ll have many more people waving bigger signs. This will destroy everything.”

“Well, there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Mr. Allen said with forced cheer. “I only wish we had CDs to sell already.”

“Hear the drag queen sing, in living stereo,” Maura said. “Are you insane?” Canon Moosehead reddened. He hit the table, scattering nachos onto every lap. “Of course there’s such a thing as bad publicity. You’ve just seen it, and chances are you’ll see a lot more. This is against all reverence.”

Peter saw the Canon’s aneurysm waiting to happen and put a hand on his new friend’s shoulder. “Hey, dude. Chill out, like turn the other blind eye before you get a mote in it. God will provide and all that.”

“Shut up, you fucking moron!” Canon Moosehead brushed Peter’s hand away. “This isn’t some lark. This is serious.”

“Honey,” Maura said. “Try to relax and think of the big picture. I love it when you get all rise-above-it-all.” She took Canon Moosehead’s hand and kissed it. He snatched his hand away as if it burned.

“I am seeing the big picture. For the first time in months. Fm seeing the Bell Tower Fund going down in flames. I’m seeing the Downtown Association turning its back on us. And St. Luke’s falling into squalor. All because I neglected my tasks and took comfort with the worst of us.”

The Canon stood up and stalked toward the door.

Maura ran after him. “Baby, calm down! I’ve never seen you wig like this!”

The Canon looked at Maura as if he could barely stand to see her. “Cathedrals don’t run on positive vibrations and happy dancing. This is the end of everything!” He ran out the door.

Maura stood and gazed at the shrinking corduroy figure as if deciding whether to follow.

“Don’t,” Anna Conventional said, grabbing Maura’s arm. “Let him go. He needs to be alone.”

“I can’t believe this,” Maura said. “I comforted him when he was all freaked out, and now he just runs off.”

“The Bell Tower Fund.” Mr. Allen shook his head and whistled. “It’s okay, Berry. He can’t keep you from singing.” “Is it too late for me to go Unitarian instead?” Peter asked. “Unitarians don’t have bishops,” Anna Conventional said. “This is all my fault,” Berry told his mom, who hadn’t spoken in some time. “All I’ve done is wreck everything.”

Judy quietly slid the steak knives out of Berry’s reach. She didn’t look at Berry or say anything.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not cutting anything. I’m going to stand up for myself.” All of the chattering in Berry’s head had stopped. The terror was still there, but he could ride it like an elephant. He felt sure of himself for the first time in ages. “If I can’t fix what’s happened, the least I can do is try to bring some beauty out of it. I’ve come too far to let those people shut me out.” Then Berry seized some nachos. He felt ferociously hungry all of a sudden.

18.

Judy surveyed the apartment she’d occupied for ten years. Half-full boxes crowded the middle of the room and the walls and furniture looked nakeder than ever. “Most of this junk we don’t need. What’s not all-the-way broken can travel. Marco gave us the car back. We’ll load it up and head out.”

“Why? I don’t understand.” Berry watched his mom pile. “What’s going on?”

“Time to move on. Start over. I can’t face this town any more. You’re about to become the new poster boy for the religious scream brigade. Neither of us has a reason to stay. I lost my job, remember?”

“You still have school.”

“I’ll transfer.”

“I have friends. You still have Mr. Allen.” Berry looked at the small pile of kitchen gadgets that had survived Marco’s rage. “I think I still have the choir.”

“You don’t. Berry, listen for once. It just turned poisonous for you to keep singing there. Mr. Allen is a nice guy, but he’s not my boyfriend or anything. And he’s a fool if he thinks he can still let you sing.”

Berry didn’t think a few nuts with signs could stop him. “It’s late,” he said. “I have to get up early tomorrow' morning for rehearsal.”

The night hissed like the coffeemaker Marco had destroyed. The refrigerator ticked. Berry remembered Lisa, wax slowly coating her hand, face bent away from the people around her.

“I don’t think so.” Judy crossed her arms and stood by her piles. “I want to hit the road tomorrow morning. We drive all day, we can reach my sister’s place by evening. We’ll just abandon most of this junk.”