Thinking Straight (17 page)

“Sure,” he says. “Let's get there a little early. See you later, Marie.”

And we're off. We don't even look back. In my head I hear Will say, “Good move, Ty.”

Once we're in the hall, Leland half-collapses again, but he manages to say, “Thank you, Taylor. Thank you so much. Was it that obvious that I was, you know, desperate?”

I grin at him and nod. And I really would like to get to the meeting room a little early to go over my minispeech one more time, so I keep walking, and he stays with me. He's quiet, but that's okay with me.

By the time the others start to arrive, I've gone through my motions a few times. Leland is puzzled, but he knows I can't tell him what I'm doing. I figure at least I'm giving him something to think about other than what's going to haunt him the rest of his life.

I choose a seat with easy access to the front of the room, wondering if I shouldn't be taking one near the exit instead, and then wait patiently while the girls stand around chattering. Charles stands next to me, as usual. I turn to him and smile. He looks kind of out of it. And suddenly I wonder if he's gone all day without eating. Wasn't at breakfast; wasn't at lunch; didn't eat dinner. What's he doing, going on some spiritually inspired fast? Does Harnett know? Is this condoned? Should I be worried about him? Well, starting as soon as I've delivered my little speech, I'll be out of SafeZone; Harnett said that would be my release from it. So I can grill him afterward.

After her prepared/ad-lib prayer for the group, Harnett reads a few verses that are apropos of my transgression by way of intro, like she did for Leland last night. Then she closes her Bible and, again like another edition of last night, she says, “Brother Taylor, please come to the front.”

Unlike Leland, I don't sit there glued to my chair. I stand, even though my stomach is shaking itself and me into a frenzy, my breathing is shallow and useless, and my pulse is making crashing noises in my brain. Harnett is waiting for me, and she reaches out and pulls the yellow sticker from my shirt. Then she chooses a chair for herself where she can watch the show. With my hands shaking just a little, I raise my Bible.

I close my eyes, take one very deep breath, and then look around the room. There are confused expressions everywhere. They may have recognized the signs of someone being called front and center for a Public Apology, but most likely those are carried out much as Leland had done last night. Which is to say, somebody just carries a piece of paper and reads from it and then cries. But I raise my Bible. And I read.

“Paul's Second Letter to the Corinthians, chapter two, verse ten: ‘Now I also forgive whomever you forgive anything. For if indeed I have forgiven anything, I have forgiven that one for your sakes in the presence of Christ, that no advantage may be gained over us by Satan; for we are not ignorant of his schemes.'”

I take my paper out of the Bible cover, lower the Book, and—shaking just a little—I read, “Brothers and sisters, I have transgressed. Yesterday in the laundry room a brother chastised me for something I believed wasn't my fault. And I spoke.” I pause a minute to let this sink in. “That was wrong of me. I understand that SafeZone means I may not speak, and yet I spoke. I broke a Program Rule. I could say I was provoked, but I could also say I allowed Satan to outwit me, for I spoke. I could say there is nothing for which I need forgiveness, but I see Satan's schemes called to life all around me every day, and I see others fall prey to them. I don't want to be one of those victims.” I'm dying to look right at victim Marie here, but—no.

Bible up. No more shaking. “Psalm fifteen, verse two: ‘He who walks blamelessly does what is right, and speaks truth in his heart; he who doesn't slander with his tongue, nor does evil to his friend, nor casts slurs against his fellow man…He who keeps an oath even when it hurts, and doesn't change…He who does these things shall never be shaken.' Psalm eighteen, verse twenty-five: ‘With the merciful you will show yourself merciful. With the perfect man, you will show yourself perfect. With the pure, you will show yourself pure. With the crooked you will show yourself shrewd. For you will save the afflicted people, but the haughty eyes you will bring down. For you will light my lamp, Yahweh. My God will light up my darkness. For by you, I advance through a troop. By my God, I leap over a wall.'”

Bible down, paper up. “I am not blameless. I don't know anyone who is. But I believe that blaming others for my own sins will heap more blame upon me and make darkness return. I have enough blame of my own and don't need to go looking for more by throwing it around. With the help of God, I want to leap over walls. I cast no blame for my transgression on anyone else, or in the darkness I won't even be able to see that wall.” I like that one a lot.

I really want to know what Harnett's face looks like. Is she impressed? Furious? Struggling to hold herself back from shouting me down? But no one says anything, so I go on.

“The Letter from James, chapter one, verse thirteen: ‘Let no man say when he is tempted,
I am tempted by God,
for God can't be tempted by evil, and he himself tempts no one. But each one is tempted, when he is drawn away by his own lust, and enticed. Then the lust, when it has conceived, bears sin; and the sin, when it is full grown, brings forth death.'”

I take a chance here and glance up. All eyes are on me, that's for sure.

“God does not tempt. If Jesus is God made into man, Jesus does not tempt. Our task on earth is to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. Therefore, I must not tempt. And if by my transgression yesterday I tempted other brothers and sisters to break their SafeZone, or to break any rule, then I am deeply sorry. For I will not be the cause of anyone's spiritual death. I pray I do not even cause another to stumble. I must not tempt.”

Paper folded back into Bible. Head bowed. “I ask forgiveness.”

This was the point last night when Marie stood and pointed her condemning finger at Leland and shouted scripture at him. Tonight, though, from the corner of my eye, I can see she's as still as glass. As well she might be; half of this was for her.

Nothing happens for long enough that I finally raise my head again. Harnett is standing, looking around the room. But all is quiet. So Harnett turns toward me and says, “Brother Taylor, do you repent?”

Now, I've carefully avoided using that word, even though I had a feeling she'd say this. But she didn't say repent what. Repent means choose a different path, vow not to repeat something. And I'd mentioned quite a few things in my monologue. So, really, the way she said it, I can select for myself. I select tempt; I really don't want to do that. In as humble a voice as I can manage, I say, “I repent.”

“Brothers and sisters?” she says to the room. “Do we forgive brother Taylor?”

Leland stands. “I forgive you.”

Charles stands. “I forgive you.”

One by one, and sometimes two by three, they all stand and say the same thing. Or almost all. By the time the room is quiet, the only person sitting is Nate. At first Harnett doesn't seem to notice, but as she's flashing a beaming smile around the room, her eyes land on him at last.

“Brother Nate? You withhold forgiveness?”

Now he stands, and he weaves through the chairs and people until he's right in front of me. And then he kneels. “I'm not worthy of forgiving brother Taylor for this transgression. Not as long as the sin of temptation is on me. For whether I meant to or not, I tempted him, and he fell. Brother Taylor, will
you
forgive
me?”

I'm standing there struggling not to let this go to my head. This was supposed to be
my
little theatrical demonstration, my part in a play. One I could in good conscience portray, to be sure. But if I forgive him now, there's a very weird juxtaposition going on. On the one hand, it will be even more like theater. But on the other, it will be even more real for me. And I don't want to get sucked into it. I don't want to lose control. I don't want to take this too seriously.

Not that I have much choice about what to do here. So I nod. And then I remember I'm allowed to speak again, so I say, “Yes.”

Two things happen at once. Nate gets me in this bear hug, and Harnett starts shouting, “Satan loses again! Rejoice, children of God, rejoice!”

Then, as everyone is shouting the usual
Halleluiahs
and
Praise the Lords,
a third thing happens, and I feel Nate's hand behind me digging into my hip pocket. WTF? I didn't
think
he was gay, but—in this place, who knows? His fingers move like they're jamming something between the fabric layers, and then in my ear I barely hear him say, “Don't read this until you're sure you're alone.” Then he presses his hand against my ass, takes my shoulders in his hands, and beams at me before he walks away.

Anxious for this whole weirdness to end, I go back to my chair and stand there, head down and hands crossed over my groin (which has swollen a little, I confess, from brother Nate's ministrations), and wait. At least, my body waits. My brain waits for nothing; it's racing like a panicked rabbit, bolting and dodging in no particular pattern to try and confuse whatever is chasing it. Whatever that is. And I haven't a clue.

So I miss most of the confessions of Earl, a kid who looks like the alcoholic he says he used to be. He's made an attempt to clean up, but his hair obviously doesn't want to look combed, and his clothes don't seem to fit right. He's skinny—scrawny, really—and even though he's probably only about a year older than me, his skin looks faded. Kind of gray. I try to follow his story, but—I mean, holy shit…what
is
this thing in my pocket?

It's all I can do to flip through my Bible in some attempt to look like I'm following along as the meeting goes on from here, trying not to think about Nate's deposit. Something I can't touch, something I must pretend isn't there. Whatever it is, Nate has taken a huge chance. All I have to do is take it out now and start reading it, and someone will see and ask what is it and where did I get it, and…and it will be all over for brother Nate. Whatever it is. No matter how innocent. Because it was given in secret. But since he did it in secret, how innocent can it be?
What
can it be?

And by
not
taking it out now and letting all that happen, I'm by default in collusion with Nate. Breaking another rule, right on the heels of having been forgiven for another.

Then it occurs to me that Nate never did say he forgave me. Was that intentional?

Jesus Fucking Christ, but I'm confused. This gets worse every day. Thirty-nine more now? May as well be lashes. At least that would be quicker.

S
o the meeting ends, and I'm torn between rushing to get someplace alone so I can read this thing—though where that might be, I haven't figured out—and asking Charles what's going on with him.

Truth be told, I'm a little afraid of this thing in my pocket. I turn to Charles. “Are you going back to the room?” It feels weird to speak to him, but I'm sure I'll get over that.

He shakes his head, touches my shoulder with one hand, and turns away.

“Whoa! Wait. Where are you going?”

He looks exhausted, and stopping to answer my questions is a strain. “The chapel.”

“You on some kind of fast or something?”

He opens his mouth once or twice, finally says, “I'll see you in the room later,” and leaves. I suppose I could tackle him, but I'm not sure I want to focus Harnett's attention on him. Not until I know what's going on. So all I can do is watch.

And as I watch, I feel a slight touch on my upper arm. It's Nate. He says nothing, just nods, walks past me, and follows Charles. Quietly. From a distance.

To the rescue again. I guess I'll have to trust him.

I'm standing there considering my options in terms of being alone to read when Harnett's voice sounds in one ear.

“Taylor, that was quite an example you set tonight.”

I can't read her face. I'm sure she banks on that with everyone. “I wasn't trying to set an example. What kind of example did I set?”

She doesn't answer my question. “How long did you work on that?”

I blink. Who cares? “I dunno, most of Contemplation, I'd guess.” I want to ask why she wants to know, but I'm not anxious to continue the conversation. She may start to smell the burning fabric of my hip pocket, which feels hotter by the second.

“And the idea? Where did that come from?”

“The idea? For what?”

“For using scripture like that to make your points.”

What's she looking for? All I can give her is the truth. “It's not my idea. You do it all the time. My minister does it. Everyone does it.”

“We've never had a resident do it during an Apology.”

“Oh. I'm sorry; I didn't know I wasn't supposed to.”

She just nods. “We'll talk tomorrow morning. See you in my office at ten.” And she turns to speak with someone else.

Leland is standing by the door, eyes on me. I head his way, but Hank is in front of me suddenly.

“I, uh, that was really great. The way you did that. It was great.”

A man of few words, Hank, so he needs to repeat some of them. He holds out his hand for me to shake it, so I do. Then Silent Sheldon's replaces his, and he just smiles and nods. He's not out of SafeZone yet; probably tomorrow.

Before I can move toward Leland again, Dawn is upon me.

“You do not hide your flame under any bushel, do you, brother? Come here.” She wraps me in this big hug and sways side to side a few times. I can't help grinning, though in the back of my head something is saying, “You don't really know what she means. Which flame? Be careful.” She lets go, slaps my back, and leaves.

There are a few more hands to shake, sometimes accompanied by someone saying, “Welcome home from SafeZone” or something along those lines. I don't hear from Marie, which suits me just fine.

By the time I can escape, Leland isn't there any more. I go out into the hallway and look up and down, but I don't see his head among the others.

I sort of want to go to the chapel and see how Nate and Charles are getting along, but that seems like an intrusion. Plus there won't be any good light, and I want to read this thing.

Wait! There's no one in my room!

Trying not to be too obvious, I head that way, nearly limping from the burning weight on one side of my ass. When I get there I practically throw the Bible onto my desk and start to shut the door before I remember I'm not supposed to do that. And doing it would not only break a rule, but it would also mean someone would be very likely to open it and coach me. I've had quite enough coaching for a while.

First I step behind the open door, where no one can see me, and I reach into my pocket. It seems to be a folded piece of paper, standard white eight-by-eleven or whatever. I open it to see that it's a photocopy of a newspaper page with one article title circled in green. My eyes go quickly to the other green marks at the bottom of the page, where it says,

I have to grab the back of Charles's chair for support. Will! This is from Will! My Will! Holy mother of God, how—where—and then I remember Nate walking over to the fence at break and ending up with something in his hand.

I'm nearly screaming in frustration. Was Will
right there?
Fifty fucking feet from me, and I didn't see him?

Christ!

I pull the chair out and sit, panting, close to weeping. I've crumpled the paper in my hand without knowing it, and as I sit there gasping I flatten it out on the desktop. I stare again at the green. Will's signature color. I smile, but it wobbles, and just for a minute there I do cry. A tear falls onto the paper and just misses where Will wrote my name. I blot it quickly; I don't want any smudges on this.

But—what can I do with it? Where can I keep it?

Well, first I need to read it. There's no telling how quickly Nate might talk Charles into coming back to the room, so I can't stay at this desk. It occurs to me to take my Bible to the library, this paper folded inside, but I don't know what this thing is yet, so I don't know what my reaction will be. I could go to the bathroom, but there will be guys there showering and talking and wandering around.

I decide the best thing is to sit at my own desk, as far from the door as possible to keep my face from being in full view of anyone walking by, fold the paper in half the way the article falls on the page, tuck it into my Bible, and pretend to be reading that.

It works pretty well. The light's not great this way, but it works. And here's what the article, from the
Springfield Crier
says.

Insane. The man is insane. He must be. Where in God's own Bible does it say that suicide is a good way to save yourself from anything? It doesn't! I don't even have to browse through the concordance to know that!

Hatred. I struggle with hatred. It's harder when you have specific objects for it. Like Strickland. Like Marie. Thank God my folks would be unlikely to see this newspaper. But how had Will found it? I fold the paper into the middle of my Bible and set the Book on my desk. Then I fold my arms over it and put my head down.

I can't say how long I've sat like that before I hear footsteps coming into the room. I look up; it's Charles. His eyes are puffy and red, his face blotchy. Just like me on my first night here. Just like me after spending time in that chapel. What is it about the chapel?

He sort of nods at me and falls onto his bed.

“Taylor.” I jump at the voice from the door. It's Nate. “Why don't you come with me and we can give Charles some privacy?”

It seems unlikely that I'll get anything out of Charles tonight about what's going on with him, so Nate's idea is a good one on two counts—privacy for Charles, and I can also ask about Will. I stand quickly and nearly push my Bible onto the floor, grabbing it just in time. The article is in there! I stare at it. Should I leave it here? Why would Charles or anyone look in my Bible? Nate solves this problem, too.

“Why don't you bring that? Perhaps we can do some scripture study.”

Not exactly what I have I mind, but it'll do for an excuse. I pick up the Book. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace we can talk.”

We take the most circuitous route, and I'm trying to guess our destination. Library? Nope. Prayer Meeting rooms? Nope. Someone's room?

Sort of. We stop by Sean's room. He's at his desk, and as I gaze around it's obvious this is his room. Alone. I want to ask why there's no roommate, but Nate doesn't give me time.

“Hey, brother,” he says to Sean. “Less than an hour?”

Sean digs in a drawer, coming up with a key. “That's about all you've got till lights-out, anyway.” He looks at me and nods, almost like he'd expected to see me.

The key opens the door to the laundry room. Makes sense Sean would have it; but why do we? Nate locks the door again behind us, and something about the way he's going about things gives me the feeling we need to be quiet. The room is fairly dark, but a couple of overhead lights are on. We work our way to the far corner, behind a bank of washing machines. Then he sits on the floor, so I do, too.

“Do you know why I've brought you here?” he asks.

“To talk?”

He grins. “To talk very quietly about things we wouldn't want just anyone to overhear. Do you trust me?”

“Do you trust
me?”

He laughs, and has to clamp a hand over his mouth. “I like you, Taylor. Yes, or I wouldn't have given you that paper, and I certainly wouldn't have brought you here. Now. Do you trust me?”

“I guess I could get you into a lot more trouble right now than you could get me into, so I suppose I do.”

“As you say, right now. That's key. If we go on much longer with our conversation, we'll both be in the thick of it. I'm already there, of course, but you probably have more to lose.”

This seems odd. So I ask, “Why do I have more to lose?”