Thinking Straight (15 page)

“Children of God,” she says, her tones large and round, “do you see what sin can do? Even among those who want so much to love God and each other? Even here, there is sin. For sister Marie is pushed toward hatred of sin that borders on hatred of the sinner, and brother Nate becomes angry with sister Marie for her fervor.

“Romans, chapter twelve, verse nineteen: ‘Don't seek revenge yourselves, beloved, but give place to God's wrath. For it is written,
Vengeance belongs to me; I will repay, says the Lord.

“Romans, chapter fourteen, verse ten: ‘But you, why do you judge your brother? Or you again, why do you despise your brother? For we will all stand before the judgment seat of Christ.'

“Children of God, reject sin but not the confessed sinner. Do not allow sin to cause discord among us. Brother Leland?” And here she turns toward him. He seems startled, as though he'd been sure the worst was over and yet now he's faced with more.

“Brother Leland, do you repent?”

Warily, it seems to me, he nods.

“Speak it! Say it aloud so that we may all know your heart.”

Leland begins to speak but nearly chokes. He tries again and manages, “I repent.”

Mrs. Harnett looks like she'd just won the lottery. “Halleluiah! Children, rejoice with me!” And all around me there are shouts of “Halleluiah!” and “Praise the Lord!” just like last night. Only this time it's for a reason I can't accept.

I
do
not
repent, I say deep inside me. I do not repent. I
so
do not repent.

And then the most awful thing happens. Marie, tears running down her face, goes over to Leland and practically lifts him out of his chair. She takes his hands in hers and shouts, “I forgive you, brother! I forgive you!”

For his part, Leland is crying, too. But it doesn't seem to me there's any joy in it. I could swear he doesn't want the forgiveness of sister Marie, or of anyone else, except possibly Ray himself. Which he can never have. So he cries, all right. He cries. And I feel so bad for him. If it had been me, I would have pushed her clear across the room, but he stands there and does his best to pretend it's a good thing. Pretend all is forgiven. Pretend he doesn't know that she hates him as much as a dog turd she's stepped on in her new Sunday shoes. I watch like I can't turn my gaze away from a train wreck.

I feel kind of like crying, too, some for Leland and some for me. I mean, how am I going to fake this crap? My mind is sending up a prayer that's part thanks, because I can't speak and so don't have to celebrate the way everyone else does, and part a plea to help me figure out how the fuck I'm going to get through six weeks of shit like this when I want to run screaming from the room after only two days.

I look right at Mrs. Harnett, the founder of this feast. She's looking right at me. So I think of Will. And in my head, I tell the Saint on the throne there, “Jesus loves you. But I'm his favorite.”

I guess my expression is calm enough; she smiles as though satisfied with what she sees and turns to look around the room at other kids. So I turn my attention back to Nate, who's confused me by coming to Leland's rescue, only to see that
he
is looking at
me.
Christ, is everyone in this room looking at me? He smiles, too, but it doesn't look like the same kind of smile as the one the Saint had given me. It's like I've passed some kind of secret test. And it confuses me even more.

Meanwhile, the room is gradually calming down. The thing between Marie and Leland has turned into a mini hugfest, but kids are backing off now and returning to their seats.

It dawns on me suddenly that Charles is very quiet, that he didn't shout when most everyone else did, and he didn't go over for the group hug. I look at his profile, and he must sense it, because he turns to me. And I get yet another smile, from him this time. Such a sad smile, so much pain in it.

I don't go to the library after Prayer Meeting. I'd thought I might, but instead I turn in early. Despite my nap that afternoon, I feel drained and exhausted. Charles sits at his desk for a while, and I hear him get onto the floor just before I fall asleep, no doubt praying at his chair again.

Halfway through the night or so, I wake up. At first I'm sure I'll fall asleep again, but my mind starts making lists. Lists of impressions I'm getting about the other inmates here. I start with my roommate, snoring quietly in the other bed.

Charles. Pious, even self-righteous. Wants to do everything right. Wants to love people, but seems to have as hard a time as St. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians (the famous text starting in chapter thirteen that talks about how useless and empty he is if he's without love). Tries hard; a little too hard. Seems desperate to leave his past behind—including his gay past—and to convince others to do the same. Desperate: an important word in understanding Charles. He needs to give up desperation before he can let Jesus take any burdens off him. But if you're desperate because you're afraid, how do you let go of desperation when that increases the fear? Faith, that's how. Faith. And Charles is desperate for it.

Nate. Inscrutable Nate Devlin. Interpreter of scripture. Rescuer of those in pain, of those under assault. Especially if they're under assault from Marie Downs. Condemner of those in disobedience. Irritating. Arrogant, and self-righteous in his own way, though it's different from Charles's way. Gay? Don't think so. Then why's he here? Drugs? Disobedience? That would make sense; he comes down so hard on others who are disobedient, including me. Mysterious. Intriguing. Gives off mixed signals. I've no clue what others, except maybe John McAndrews, think about him. And what does Sean think? Why was it so important that no one see I'd asked that about Nate? “What's with Nate? Who is that guy?” That's all the paper had said. But Sean wanted no one to see it. Why?

Sean. Gorgeous body. Pretty sure he's gay. Sweet nature, doesn't want to rat on people, doesn't want anyone to get into trouble. I need to know what gives between him and Nate. There's something, I'm sure of it. He seems to frighten easily; probably doesn't have enough backbone to be relied upon in a crunch. Remember that.

Marie. The word
bitch
comes to mind immediately. I'd guess she's one of those people who look for ways to cut others down. Probably makes her feel more righteous, more holy. I don't believe for a second that she embraced Leland tonight out of any sense of sisterly love, or any other kind for that matter. Putting on a show for Harnett, more like. Likes being the center of attention. Avoid at all costs.

Jessica. Friends with Marie, or just taking the opposite approach from me? Does she feel safer if she always knows what Marie is up to? So there won't be any sneak attacks on her? And something about the way she poked at Charles at breakfast Monday didn't ring true. Almost like she was playacting. Hard to know what to make of her. Avoid whenever possible.

Dawn. Now, there's someone I'd like to talk with. Refreshing. But I don't think she disobeys the rules—despite that hair. One reason it looks unruly might be just that it's growing out. She reacted positively to Charles's Monday night confession scene. Coming from some of these other characters, I might have doubted what was said about it. But I think Dawn was sincere. Make friends with Dawn.

Leland. Shattered. That's the first word that comes to mind with him. Then tragic. I think I have a pretty good idea what happened with this Ray thing, and even though I didn't see Leland react to the suicide, I have enough imagination to get there anyway. I wonder if there's any way to reach out to him. Not the way Marie meant, I'm sure! More like one gay brother to another. I'm convinced he said he repented tonight just to escape the spotlight, just to be left alone sooner. I wonder if anyone has
him
on suicide watch.

Somewhere in there my mind drifts off, coming up with bizarre ways to watch someone who might be likely to do himself in. And then I have this dream.

I'm in some room, without windows, but it's brightly lit. Too brightly, really. Other guys are in the room with me, and there's some kind of difference between one group and another. It comes to me that I'm in prison, and there are other prisoners like me, and there are guards—fewer guards than prisoners—who aren't armed, but no one makes any attempts at escape. The feeling of hopelessness, of despair, is enough to keep us prisoners contained.

I have a kitten. I've had it since before I was in prison, and it's with me now. It's very attached to me, and I love it very much. But I'm worried for it. How can I protect it in here? Many people in this place will want to hurt it. And it's inquisitive. It likes exploring and doesn't want to be held all the time, so it's difficult for me to protect it. I hold it as much as possible, and often it asks to be picked up, but also it wants to explore. It wanders off, and I'm frantic with worry, and then it's at my side, reaching a soft paw up for me to hold it.

I'm in a smaller room now, with only a couple of other prisoners. I'm sitting on a wooden chair, and my kitten is exploring the room. A man sitting on another chair, between me and the door, is reading a newspaper. One ankle rests on the opposite knee. He has a different feeling about him, different from me and the other prisoners. He's some kind of warden. Not just a guard, but someone with real power. He's flaunting his power.

As I watch the kitten, worried about it, the man begins to talk. He tells me that he can do things for me, take care of me, see that nothing bad happens to me. Or to that little cat. But I'll have to pay the price. Whatever the warden says, I have to do. And if I don't, the kitten will pay.

I imagine myself agreeing to one demand, and then to another, and then balking at the next, and I know the man will hurt the kitten, torture the kitten. The man keeps talking about how pleasant he can make my life, and the kitten's, or how miserable. I know the pleasant part is really a lie.

I feel the kitten's paw on my leg. It's asking to be held.

The man sets his paper down and looks at me, a smirk on his face. And then he looks down toward my lap, and so do I. The kitten is there. Dead. I've snapped its neck.

Suddenly I'm sitting upright in a bed, breathing hard. It's my bed. Or rather, not mine, but the one I've been assigned in this prison. And even though I know where I am, even though I know that was a dream, even though I'm in SafeZone, and even though I might wake Charles up, I ask, “Where's my kitten?”

C
harles says absolutely nothing in the morning until we've showered and dressed, I've put my yellow sticker on, and we're preparing to head out for breakfast. Only I have to stop by Harnett's office first to hear my sentencing. I'm just contemplating how I'm going to let Charles know that without writing when he says, “Listen, Taylor, would you be okay on your own at breakfast today?”

His voice sounds odd. Strained, kind of. I wait for him to say more, to tell me why, but when he doesn't I just nod.

“Thanks. I just don't feel like dealing with all those people this morning. Not after last night.” He starts to turn toward the door but stops. “Do you understand?”

I do, I guess. I nod again.

“If anyone insists on knowing where I am and they ask you, you can write that I went to the chapel.” He turns, then says over his shoulder, “Don't forget your sticker.” And he's gone.

I reach up and slap my shoulder, expecting to feel nothing but cloth. But the sticker is there already. Weird. I pocket a pen and a sheet of paper, just in case I have to explain Charles's whereabouts, and head out on my own errand.

The door to Harnett's office is open, so I just knock on the frame. She looks up.

“Ah, Taylor. Come in. Sit down.”

I sit, and watch her finish some writing she's doing. She starts speaking again before she puts the pen down.

“I've read the MI you left last night. We'll still talk tomorrow at ten, as arranged, so I won't go over it in detail right now. But I want you to know that although I understand you feel as though Nate pushed you into speaking, I know two important things that render that a little irrelevant. One is that Nate has voluntarily returned to us twice since his first summer here, so I understand him pretty well. And I do not believe that he would step over that line in the way you imagine. He is extremely well aware of the protocol here, and he makes every effort to stay within it. This does not mean he makes no mistakes, and I will speak to him about how he approached you to find out where his heart was. But that is not your problem.

“The other thing is that you've been with us only a couple of days. And even if you've been exerting your best efforts to maintain the integrity of your SafeZone, it's important for you to understand that sometimes our best efforts fall short. Yours fell short, and there are consequences. If there were not, your motivation—especially as a new resident—could falter.

“So I've decided what your punishment should be. During your Contemplation time this afternoon, you will write an Apology to your brothers and sisters. It doesn't need to be long, but it must be long enough to communicate these points: one, that you understand what you did wrong; two, that you blame no one but yourself; and three, that you apologize to all the other residents, especially the ones in SafeZone, who may have heard you break protocol yesterday.”

She sits back, and I think she's done. Certainly that's bad enough. But then she adds, “And tonight, during Prayer Meeting, you will emerge from SafeZone by reading it aloud.”

Stunned. I think
stunned
is the best word for how I feel.

“Any questions?”

Yeah; are you fucking kidding me with this?

She must see that question on my face. “Taylor, this may seem harsh. But remember what I told you Monday about these rules? They are here to help you. A diligent sheepdog keeps his sheep from straying too near the cliff edge. Our job here is to teach you how to herd your own thoughts, your own actions, for the sake of your immortal soul.”

So now they want my thoughts, too? And I've just finished telling myself that my thoughts are my own. That Harnett might find out what I write, but not what I think.

Alone, I make my way to the dining hall for breakfast, kind of on autopilot. I don't care whether I'm even going to know anyone else at whatever table I end up at. I'm Safe, so I don't have to explain anything. My mind is racing, jumping, frantic to come up with something that will make it possible for me to keep the attitude I know Will would have and at the same time avoid outright insubordination. Like, how can I stand up in front of the whole prayer group, tell them everything the Saint just laid out, not lie, be true to myself and to Will, not get expelled, not have to go to military school, where I won't see Will in class every day—hell, where I won't see him for months!

I can't do it. God, it would take someone with the maneuvering skills of Machiavelli or Houdini to do it! If only my last name ended in an
i.

I find a table with no one, which suits me just fine. But before I can even salt my scrambled eggs, there's someone across from me. It's Sean.

He looks at me and then down at his tray immediately, like he's ashamed, or like he thinks I'm mad at him. And in my present mood it's hard to appreciate how gorgeous he is, so I'm sure I'm scowling. What's he doing here, anyway?

He says grace and immediately puts more jam on his toast than I think I've consumed in the last year, and then he doesn't even take a bite before he says, “Taylor, I'm real sorry about yesterday. Really. I was just going toward you guys to quiet things down. But I didn't get there soon enough.”

He drinks his juice almost in one gulp. Then, “If only so many people hadn't heard you. Y'know? But everybody did. So I had no choice.” He takes a huge mouthful of jam. I mean toast. “I'm in a tough spot. It's kind of like I'm one of you guys, but I'm not. D'you see?”

What can I say? And I'm not sure I do see. I shrug.

He looks down at his plate and I don't see the whites of his eyes again until he's nearly done eating. Which actually doesn't take long.

Then he says, “I have to get to the laundry room. Get things set up. But—look, you gotta understand my position. I can't slide. I can't give them any reason to think I'm not toeing the line.”

He looks at me, and there's this intensity in his eyes that pulls at me across the table. It makes me want to hold him, to tell him it's okay. Which is weird, 'cause I'm the one who's in SafeZone. I'm the one who's got to make the Public Apology about something I don't even think was wrong. But he looks—I don't know, fragile. And again I get that sense that even though he's probably a sweetheart, I wouldn't want to depend on him if my back were up against it.

I sort of nod and shrug at the same time, hoping he'll get that I understand and he can now stop pleading, or whatever he's doing. And he finally throws the last bits of his breakfast into his mouth, washes it down with the dregs of his coffee, and gets up. He holds the tray in one broad, powerful hand, and with the other he squeezes my shoulder.

“You're a stand-up guy, Taylor.” And he leaves.

A stand-up guy? I wonder how many other impressions I could leave people with by not speaking, by allowing them to draw whatever conclusions they want to about me with nothing more to go on than what they want to see in me.

When I show up at the laundry room, Sean puts me to work on towels again. That's good; I don't have the focus to learn anything new, and if I had to work with someone else—like Sheldon yesterday—well, let's just say it's better not to. When break time comes I sit on a bench as far away from everyone else as possible, under the green overhang, which is a little noisy today with drizzle falling onto it. Then back to towels.

No sign of Charles at lunchtime. That's weird. I go to an empty table in a corner and get out my pen and that piece of paper, the one I'd stashed in case anyone asked where Charles was instead of at breakfast. Between bites of ham sandwich, I write down everything the Saint told me to include: I did wrong; I blame only me; I pray I didn't tempt others. I'm just starting to write ideas about what's wrong with what I did when I'm interrupted.

“Hello, Taylor.”

I look up. Shit; it's Marie and Jessica. I wave hello, goodbye, whatever, and bend back over my paper again. Maybe they'll go away.

They don't. They sit. Marie on my right, Jessica across from me.

“Where's Charles?” Marie wants to know. Like I can tell her anything.

Shrug, shake my head. Back to the paper.

“We didn't see him at breakfast either. Very mysterious. I do hope he's all right.”

I want to glare at her, but even more, I want to ignore her. I ignore her.

But she doesn't give up. “What's that you're writing?”

Just in time I catch a flash of motion as she reaches out to take it, and I snatch it away. I scowl at her, fold it up, and struggle to get it and the pen back into my pocket.

“Taylor, brother, you seem to need some coaching. We have rules here, as you know very well, about consideration for each other. Especially around how boys should treat girls. And even more, about secrecy.”

Head down, I'm still tucking things away, wondering how I can get away from her before I do something she
really
won't like, when a now-familiar voice speaks.

“And, sister, perhaps you could use some coaching as well. Especially around how residents treat brothers who are in SafeZone.”

It's Shorty. Nate. And he sits in the empty chair next to me. Guess he's not ignoring me today. Or really, what he's doing is rescuing me from Marie. I could be anybody—Charles, Leland, it doesn't matter—but I'm grateful nonetheless.

Marie's face turns sour, but what can she say? He's right. Again. She says something anyway. “There are no secrets here. There are not
supposed
to be any secrets here. If Taylor is hiding something, it needs to see the light.”

Nate turns to me. “Taylor, are you hiding something?”

As it happens, what I'm working on will be public soon enough, and that's not secrecy. So I shake my head.

“There; you see?”

“He is! He snatched it away when I asked to see it. That's hiding.”

Quietly, Nate says, “Taylor, as you know, residents in SafeZone are supposed to write comments to other residents only when there is a pressing need. Now, here's where I see things at the moment. You were writing something that Marie tried and failed to see, so you weren't writing to her. So that rule wasn't broken. However, she's now accusing you of being secretive. That is serious and could constitute a pressing need. So I offer you two alternatives. If you would like to offer an explanation, tear off part of your paper and write what it is. If you don't feel an explanation is necessary, just shake your head, and I'll support you. Which is it?”

On the one hand, I don't want to give Marie the satisfaction of an explanation. But on the other, if Nate is going to stand up for me, he has a right to know why. I pull out my paper, and on one corner I write, “I'm preparing something I'll read aloud tonight.” I tear that off and give it to Nate.

And he laughs. Then he pockets my scrap of paper, looks right at Marie, and says, “I will bear witness that what brother Taylor is doing is not secret, and that in truth he's not hiding anything. Sister Marie, if you still feel there has been a serious transgression, then we should all petition Mrs. Harnett and request her advice.”

“I want to see what he gave you.”

“There's no need. I've borne witness, and I'll maintain it. If you persist, and we go to Mrs. Harnett, part of what she learns will be the nature of your conversation before I was fortunate enough to join you here.”

Wow. Now, this is useful. I take a close look at Nate, closer than ever before, and I realize he's probably at least a year older than me. I hadn't thought that because he's short and his voice is a little high, but he must be older. And Harnett had said this was his third summer here.

I refold my paper and stow it away again.

“Now,” Nate goes on, “perhaps we'd benefit more by talking together about last night's meeting. It was very moving, sister Marie, when you approached Leland toward the end. What was in your heart?”

Marie blinks a couple of times, clears her throat, and finally says, “There was so much in my heart, I'm not sure I could tell you the half of it.”

“Understandable. So just share one thing.”

This guy is so good! Understandable, indeed; it sure is, but not in the way she wants us to understand.

“Well, I felt love.”

“Love?”

“Of course. For Leland. We're commanded to love each other, after all.”

“Yes, and I'm sure you do. And you made it so obvious, going over to him like that. I wonder if you felt, too, any remorse.”

“Remorse? For what?”

“Terrible things happened after you reported Leland kissing Ray.”

WTF?

Her back goes very straight. “Why should I feel remorse?”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Well—why
not?
Because they shouldn't have been doing that! They were endangering each others' souls. I had no choice!”