Inclination (12 page)

I’ve been sitting
here in my car for well over an hour, probably closer to two hours, thinking it
all through—how I arrived at this dismal spot in my life—but I haven’t sorted
anything out. However, thinking back about how I’ve gone from being a slightly
confused, but relatively happy, Catholic kid to a beaten up social pariah who
needs an intervention to save his soul, actually gives me a measure of
perspective on my problem.

I need to decide
where I stand on gay Christianity. Sooner, rather than later, if possible. I
still don’t know if I’ve actually done anything to deserve my bleeding lip, my
swollen eye, the pain in my side, and the loss of my friends and my youth
group, but at least I know how I ended up this way. I guess that’s all I know
for sure.

And not knowing
what else to do, I pull my cell phone out of my jeans pocket.

He parks behind
me on Lincoln Street and hops in the passenger seat of my car, and after taking
one glance at me, sputters, “Shit, dude.”

“Yeah, I know.”
It hurts to talk. My bottom lip is split wide open.

“
Rinaldo
Vera
did this to you?”

“Uh huh… David, I
can’t go home looking like this. My mom will lose it.”

He nods in full
agreement. “Yup, she will. Nothing personal, but you don’t look too good right
now.” He lifts his hand, and I think he’s going to reach up and touch my lip,
but then his hand falls back to his lap. I’m unspeakably disappointed. “Come
back to my house. We can clean you up some before you head home.” David doesn’t
make a move to get out of the car, though. And he keeps on staring at me. “You…uh…you need to
go to the hospital or anything?”

I’m not sure what
“or anything” refers to. “No. I’m okay. He only hit me twice.”

“Um…maybe you
need to see the dentist?”

I’ve already
checked my teeth and none are loose. “Nah, I’m good.” I’m about the opposite of
good, but the process of “coming out” is turning me into a rather adept liar.

Then David
surprises me. He reaches out and grasps my shoulders. “This isn’t right, Tony.”
He holds my shoulders with a firm grip, which is exactly what I need. Actually,
what I
really
need is a hug, like the
kind your mom would give you when you were seven and you fell off your bike and
skinned your knee and elbow badly. “
Wanna
get in my
truck?”

I probably
shouldn’t be driving. I can only see out of my left eye, but I refuse. “No, I
can drive myself. I’ll follow you.”

It seems as if he
doesn’t want to let me go. Finally, though, he nods and lets his hands to drop.
“Okay, but
I’m
gonna
follow
you
.”

I know he called
his Mom on the way home because she’s waiting for us at the front door. “Oh,
honey! Oh, dear—you’re a mess!” She comes running out onto the front steps when
we approach.

Gabby and David
each take hold of an arm and they help me into the kitchen. I’m incredibly
thankful for
Gabby’s
non-stop, nervous chattering,
and the fact that it doesn’t seem to matter much to her if I respond. Answering
questions is not high on my list of things I want to do at this particular
moment in time.

“Oh, honey, that
boy got you good—your bottom lip—well, I don’t know if it could use a
stitch…it’s completely split. And what happened to the back of your head…oh, my
goodness…is that gravel in there? Tony, you are
gonna
have a shiner tomorrow under your right eye…. Let me clean the cut…and I hope
this one on your lip doesn’t leave a scar!”

David and I sit
silently in the same two chairs we sat in earlier today, my one-eyed gazed
locked onto his. I notice that the same clutter fills the table—all of David
and his mom’s research on why God loves gay Christians. When I was here before,
I felt like the doors of hope were opening to me. This time I’m bloody and
battered—those hopeful doors slammed cruelly in my face. I don’t feel loved by
anyone at the moment, let alone by God.

As she cleans my
face and the back of my head, Gabby continues rambling. “I need to call your
parents, Tony. They need to look at you and decide if you should see a doctor.
And they can take you down to the police station so you can press charges.”

My left eye gets
round. “Press charges?”

“This ‘
Rinaldo
’ boy, well, he assaulted you. We need to take this
type of hateful violence very seriously.” She steps back to get a wide-angle view
of me. “Did he hurt you anywhere else?”

I shake my head.
She doesn’t need to see what’s throbbing like a rock band’s bass drum beat
underneath my shirt.

“What’s your home
phone number, Tony? I’ll call and tell your folks where we live. They can come
over and get you.”

Again, I shake my
head. “Thank you, Gabby, but I can drive myself home.”

David leans in
toward me and says quietly, “Forget that, dude. Ma’s not
gonna
let you drive anywhere.”

So instead of
arguing, I tell David’s mother my Dad’s cell number and she heads off to use
the phone.

“What happened
tonight, Tony? How come you were at St. Mark’s, anyway?” David pulls his chair
closer to mine.

I relish the
nearness of his body; it makes me feel safe. I pull my chair even closer to his,
where I can better feel his heat. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this needy. “On
my way home from your house this afternoon,
Laz
called and said that Our Way wanted to meet with me tonight.” I’m trembling
noticeably and make a conscious effort to stop. “Remember that intervention
thing they did for that senior guy, back when we were freshmen?”

He thinks for a
second and then nods, ignoring my shaking. “The boozer dude?”

“Y-yeah.”

Then it hits him.
“They did one of those
interventions
for you?
Cuz
you’re gay?”

I nod a couple of
times. “Quoted the Conference of Catholic Bishops’ decision on how to treat an
individual with a ‘homosexual inclination.’ Then they read a bunch of Bible
verses and ended by saying whatever came to mind.”

“That’s fucked
up!” I note that David, while sporadically gritting his teeth in an effort to
stay calm, can’t stop his nostrils from flaring in fury. “What did you do?”

“What c-could I
do? I just s-sat there.” Yes, I’m still trembling. It’s embarrassing.

“You could have
frigging gotten up and left.”

I’m strangely
fixated by his nostrils now—they flare even wider, bringing to mind an
antagonized bull. And I realize that I never even considered walking out on my
former youth group. “They essentially told me that I was…um…well, that I was
damned
if I do, but
not
if I don’t. You know, they were referring to whether or not I
act on my
tendency
.” I try to smile
but it stretches the skin on my lip painfully, so I give it up.

“That’s their
narrow-minded opinion, man.”

“They said
celibacy is the way to go—and it’s apparently my only chance at surviving my
‘disorder’ without ending up in hell.”

“Homosexuality is
not a freaking disorder. And celibacy is a
gift
,
Del
Vecchio
.” David hasn’t called me by my last name
for a while now, but he’s what I’d call wildly pissed off right now. He even
springs up from his chair and starts to pace. “Celibacy is not meant for
everyone. God doesn’t want it to be for everyone. And those of us who have not
received the gift of celibacy, well, it’s meant that we be married before God.”

A mini Bible
lesson—just what I need. The thing is, I want to believe him, but everything
has gotten all jumbled up in my brain again and I don’t know if I can.
“Whatever.”

“Are you saying
you’re buying the bullshit those intolerant assholes are selling?” He stops
pacing and turns to look at me, his face almost as furious as
Rinaldo’s
had been before he threw the first punch. “Are
ya
fuckin
’ kidding me, dude?”

“I honestly don’t
know at this point.” I drop my head into my hands. “I don’t know anything right
now.”

He sighs and then
he’s by my side again, rubbing my shoulder, and I like it probably way too
much. “No worries…I get where you’re coming from, Tony. I’m just pissed-off, is
all. We’ll talk about this shit when you’re feeling better, like later this
week.”

I look up at
David, and his blue eyes are soft and sort of damp, if I’m not imagining it, as
they gaze down on me. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Hey, we’re buds.
Of course I came to get you.” He blinks a few times, and I know he’s holding
back strong emotions. “I’m here for you, dude.”

“That’s what
Elizabeth O’Donnell said, ‘Anthony, we’re here for you’, just before
Rinaldo
Vera beat the crap out of me.”

David’s nostrils
flare again, and he looks away.

Upset
doesn’t even scratch
the surface of my parents’ sentiments at seeing my beaten face. I’ll put it
this way: Mom and Dad are sweet and generous and extremely loving, but when you
mess with one of their children, they are pussycats no longer. The claws and
fangs come out.

Dad picks me up
from the Gandy’s house where he officially meets David and Gabby. All I can say
about their brief introduction is that Dad is beyond words and doesn’t seem to
be in the mood for small talk. Because once Dad gets a good look at me, he is,
how to phrase it… he is
highly
distracted.
But thankfully Mrs. Gandy is extremely understanding, and
before we leave, my body practically dangling from my father’s arms because he
seems to think I’m unable to walk, she tucks her cell phone number into his
jacket pocket and insists that he and my mom call her when things have settled
down.

Where Dad is
beyond words—he remains silent for the entire trip home, with the exception of
making me recite the basic facts of the incident—Mom is beside herself. And she
finds words. “Oh, my Lord, my baby!”

“Mom, I’m all
right,” I protest, knowing it will do little good to keep her calm. She’s
already worked up into a major frenzy.

“You are
not
all right. I’ve
seen
all right…and this is
not
all right!” And just like that, she’s crying. “Who did this to you? I mean, I
don’t know who would
ever
hurt you
this way. Anthony, you said you were going to the church tonight—
the church
! Boys don’t get beaten up at
church!”

Well, this boy
did.

By that point,
Dad has pushed me onto one of the barstools at the island in the kitchen and
has succeeded in lifting up my shirt. The sound of muffled curses indicates
that he has seen the red mark made by
Rinaldo’s
work
boot on my side. “Son, I think we should head over to the ER. You need to be
checked out for internal injuries.”

“Dad, I can tell
nothing is broken. Remember, I’ve had a broken rib before—when I had pneumonia
last year. Nothing’s broken…just bruised, I’d say.” My voice sounds feeble, but
it’s not as much from pain as it is from emotional exhaustion. I want to find a
big rock to crawl under.

“Then if we’re
not going to the hospital, we’re going to the Wedgewood Police Station.” Dad
sounds like he means business, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go in that
direction either. “Gina, dear, please go get as much ice as you can. We need to
put ice on his injuries so they don’t swell up.” It’s already way too late for
that but I don’t object.

“Mom, I’ll come
with you and make ice after you empty the trays.” Mary, the only one of my
sisters who’s still awake, is taking in this entire situation, top to bottom.
Her eyes are wide and disturbed, and I experience a renewed surge of guilt at
bringing this pain down on my family. “And bro, this isn’t your fault. You got
me?” The two of us are mentally connected—she always seems to know what I’m
thinking.

I redirect my
attention to my father who’s standing in front of me with his hands on his
hips, waiting for a decision about whether we’ll be going to the police station
or the hospital. “Dad… I’m not sure I want to do that…you know, go to the
police about what happened. You know, he only hit me twice and….”

“And kicked you
hard enough to break your ribs!” For the third time tonight, a furious male is
scrutinizing me. “Well, then we’ll go to the school. I’ll call Principal
Craigson
. That boy should be suspended, if nothing else.”

“Dad, this didn’t
happen on school grounds.”

“True. But it
did
happen on church grounds….”

A sudden rush of
anxiety engulfs me. “No, Dad. We’re not going to Father Joseph about
this—everybody from St. Mark’s already hates me enough. I don’t need to go and
rat on
Rinaldo
. That’ll make everything worse.”

My father is
probably angrier than I’ve ever seen him. “Dammit, Anthony, it’s not called
ratting on
him. It’s called reporting an
assault. That boy is a danger to society. The next kid who suffers his wrath
might be more seriously injured than you were, or worse. How would it help
anybody, including
Rinaldo
, if he killed someone
because he couldn’t control his anger?” Dad stops to take a few shallow
breaths, and I worry about his heart—he’s all red-faced and panting like he’d
been the one assaulted.

“Listen, Dad, he
only hit me twice and kicked me once—I’m okay.” Dad’s face turns several shades
redder, and I know I need to offer him a compromise. “Okay, we can talk to
Father Joseph…but not the police…please.”

Mom comes
upstairs with a big bowl of ice she got from the freezer in the basement. She
wraps it in dishcloths and applies several small packs to my face. My father
presses one to the bruise on my side. At first the cold shocks me, but soon it
begins to ease the throbbing of my face and body.

“Gina, a boy from
Our Way,
Rinaldo
Vera, is responsible for Anthony’s
injuries. But Anthony would prefer not go to the police, and he has agreed to
discuss this situation with Father Joseph.” My father is not pleased—not with
the situation or with me. “He
understands that this whole thing is out of control.”

Mom is still
sniffling, but Dad’s comment is a clear invitation for her to babble. “You said
was it was
Rinaldo
Vera…I
know
Rinaldo
, and his mother, Edie, too.
They seem like very nice people. I have no idea what would inspire a boy to do a
thing like this… And weren’t you always friends with
Rinaldo
?
You two used to have play dates…well, back before his parents’ divorced.”

I think back and
remember that “sweet
Rinaldo
” had turned into “reclusive
Rinaldo
”
after his parents’ nasty split. But nobody had been affected enough by his
withdrawal from the world to ask him if everything was okay in his life—me
included. “Mom, I think he planned on just talking to me, but then he lost it.”

“Why on earth
would he be concerned with
your
sexuality?
Unless he is interested in you…
like that
.”

“I don’t think
that’s it, Mom.” My head is starting to throb and the bruise on my side is
pounding again. “May I have a couple Advil?”

Mom sends Dad a
worried glance and he goes to the cupboard to get me a glass of water and pain
relievers. Meanwhile, Mary comes back upstairs, studies me for a second, and
says, “Hey, Tony. You look like something the cat dragged in… just saying.”

“Mary! Your
brother doesn’t need the teasing right now!” Dad uses his sharpest voice, but I
smile at her, or at least form the best smile I can with my split lip that
refuses to stop oozing blood.

“It’s okay, Dad.
Mary’s trying to lighten things up around here. And… I want to lie down.”

“Well, you’ll be
sleeping on the living room
pull-out
sofa tonight
with me, son. You hit your head, and even though in the car you said it wasn’t
very hard, I want to keep an eye on you tonight.” It appears that being alone
isn’t going to be in my immediate future.

“Can I stay home
from school tomorrow and Friday? I don’t want anybody to see me like this.” I
haven’t yet looked in the mirror to see the damage to my face, but Mary and
Mom’s horrified expressions every time they look at me tell the whole ugly
story. “My friend David can pick up my homework for me.”

Mom and Dad
glance at each other. “That’s fine. I guess we’ll say you have a severe
headache.” Mom hates to lie, but it isn’t too much of an issue in this case as
my head is truly killing me. “Okay, keep the ice on his injuries, Paul, and
I’ll make up the
pull-out
couch.”

And then that
overwhelming dreading sensation I’ve become familiar with lately takes hold of
my heart and my head. I dread tomorrow because I know I’m going to be one
seriously hurting unit, and I dread Sunday because I won’t be going to Mass, and
I dread Monday because I’ll have to see the kids who’d confronted me in the
intervention last night and they’ll wonder about my beat up face, and I dread
sitting down with Father Joseph and
Rinaldo
to
discuss the whole situation.

There are plenty
of dreadful dark clouds lurking in my future, but, strangely, there are a few
bright spots too. Like my family. I couldn’t have a better family and I know
they’ll help me through this. And I look forward to after school tomorrow when
David will hopefully come over with my schoolwork.

Before I stretch
out on the sofa beside Dad, I send David a late-night text, thanking him for
helping me out, and asking him to pick up my schoolwork for me. I figure he’ll
respond to me in the morning, so I stick my cell phone on the table beside the
couch. As I’m saying my prayers, it dings, indicating that someone has texted
me.

I lean over to
pick up my phone, and the place on my side where
Rinaldo
kicked me feels like a knife is stabbing my gut. When I stop cringing from pain, I look and
see that the text is from David.

“This is
gonna
sound cliché, but WTF, it’s true? God doesn’t make
mistakes. U & me, we r exactly the way he wants us 2 B. See U after
school.”