Thinking Straight (27 page)

Okay, Taylor, don't take the bait. Calm. Patience. “I don't think I know what you mean.”

“The first two were very real. They were different from each other, but they were real. The second two show a certain reluctance to be open.”

“Why do you think that?” I'm not going to assume I know what he means. No assumptions. And I'm not on this earth to please him.

He turns toward me. “You have changed a good deal in the past week. Are you aware?”

“Aware of change?” And I wait.

“Aware of
how
you've changed.”

“I don't think it's wise for me to assume I know what you're seeing. I know how I feel, but I don't know what you're seeing.”

“And how do you feel?”

This is how the interview goes, at least for a while. I feed him as many questions as answers, and always I toe the line between honesty and lying very closely. I tell him I feel closer to God, which is true; that I know myself better, which is true; that I'm learning more scripture, which is true (I carefully avoid talking about interpreting said scripture). I tell him some of the things that have impressed me, like Harnett's little speech about God giving us all things, not just the good ones. I have to be very careful; this man could have a lot to do with whether I get out in six weeks or eight. And maybe whether I still have to go to military school.

“What have you learned?”

“More than we have time to talk about.” What I'm praying I've learned is how to survive a session with someone like him without breaking down.

“And what have you repented?”

Careful, Taylor. “Arrogance. Pride. Anger. Stubbornness.” I stop.

“What else?”

“Hatred. Rebellion. Judging people too harshly.” Again I stop.

He sighs. “We have only an hour today. But we have much time in the coming weeks if we need it. What else?”

“What is it you want me to say?”

His voice is louder. “Have you repented your sinful lust?”

I think for just a second. If he hadn't qualified it, if he hadn't called it sinful, I'd have been in trouble. But he did. And he didn't say anything about sex. “I have repented sinful lust.” You see, what I feel for Will isn't sinful, not in this century, and it's only partly lust. I'm not sure I've ever really committed sinful lust, but that makes it that much easier to repent it.

He picks up a Bible from the pew seat. With one hand he holds it in my direction but doesn't release it. “Place your hand here.”

I oblige him. He puts his other hand on top of mine, which feels weird, and not just because his is a little too warm. It's like that kid said that day in the kitchen. Creepy.

“Repeat what you said.”

I do, looking as humble as possible, trying not to see Will raising his eyebrows comically at me over Bartle's shoulder.

He withdraws his hand and then the Bible, but he doesn't set it down. “Tell me what it means to repent.”

I tell him, evidently to his satisfaction, because he doesn't correct me. Instead he opens the Bible and tells me to read certain passages. Of course, they have to do mostly with sex and sin and men lying with men. Each time I finish one, he makes me talk about it. And each time, I manage to say something that satisfies him without saying something that will add lying to the list of things I must repent. I didn't realize there were so many places in the Bible where sex of one kind or another is mentioned. He must have found them all. But I also didn't realize how few there are that refer specifically to me. To gays.

It's an effort to remain seemingly humble without looking false. I'm really not a humble person, but I know I've got to carry it off or regret it. When it starts to feel too artificial, I think about Charles standing up at Prayer Meeting the night Harnett let everyone throw stones at me. He'd called me wise. And he'd said the wisdom must be tempered with humility and then I'd be a formidable soldier for God. And that's what I want to be. Just not quite the same kind of soldier as Bartle.

Without warning, Bartle closes the Book and says, “You were laughing when I opened the door earlier. At what?”

At what? I barely remember. But I do remember it wasn't something I'd want him to know, so I come up with something else. “This morning I got Charles to chuckle. Well, at least grin. That's rare.”

“How did you do that?”

I actually chuckle a little myself as I tell him. And because the story really begins when I was still in SafeZone, the morning I'd tried to avoid showering, I manage to work in some of the sins I've repented. I'm thinking I've done pretty well when Bartle stands up to face me. I stand, too, but he pushes me back onto the pew.

“I am concerned, brother Taylor. I'm worried that your feelings for Charles are not pure.”

A sharp puff of air escapes me; is he kidding me with this? Ah, but hold on, Taylor; maybe he is. Or testing. I take a breath and try to remain calm. “If you're thinking I love him, you're right. If you're worried I lust after him, you needn't. I don't. I feel grateful to him. He's been patient and spiritual and kind, and I'm very glad I got him for my roommate. And that's it.”

“Come with me.”

Christ, now what? He kneels to face the altar, and I kneel as far away as I can without drawing attention to it. Or so I think. He looks at me and points to indicate I should move closer. But I'm willing to get only so close to the guy.

“Now,” he says, “I want you to pray for Charles. For what he needs most. Aloud.”

I breathe a few times, bow my head, close my eyes, and do my best to pretend that man is not beside me. “Holy Father, sweet Jesus, I ask for your guidance. Not for me, though I know I need it, but for my brother Charles. Help him to understand how much you love him. To know that even when he thinks his efforts are not enough, that your strength is always there. Calm his anxiety and take away his desperation. Help him to put his trust in you, to know that you guide him in everything, whether he can always see it or not. And make him know that I love him, and that you can help him through others. Even through me. Amen.”

Bartle waits a discreet moment or two and then says, “What is Charles desperate about?”

This feels odd. Wrong, even. Charles has told me that he won't be pumped for information about me, but I feel like Bartle is pumping me about him. But I don't think I'm telling Bartle anything he and Harnett don't know already. “To be right. Righteous, really. It's not that there's error in that, but he's so desperate for it that he's not convinced it's there. And he seems desperate for God's love, too. Which could mean he doesn't quite believe in it yet.”

Without meaning to, I've actually given Bartle what he wants. I've given him honesty, at least about Charles. I've been open.

There's a long silence, and I'm not sure what to make of it. I'm a little uncomfortable here; Bartle is looking at me the whole time. Finally he says, “Charles may be leaving us soon.”

He's watching me, so I do my best not to react in any particular way. “Really? He hasn't said anything to me.”

“This is the end of his sixth week with us.” I nod, but I don't really know what that means to Charles. When I don't say anything, Bartle asks, “Do you know whether he's anxious to leave?”

“No, sir. I don't. He hasn't talked about that either.”

“What would you say if I told you we were putting you back into SafeZone?”

I can't help a look of resignation. “I guess I'd say I'm getting used to it.”

“Would you know why?”

“No.”

He looks at me another minute and then says, “I think we're done here for today, Taylor.”

I can't quite believe it; if it's true, I've gotten off really, really easy today. He walks me to the door, and I'm wondering whether I'm in SafeZone or not, whether he's waiting until the last possible second to hit me with something in his arsenal. But he doesn't hit me at all.

It hasn't been an hour yet, so there's no one else waiting their turn in the pit. We say “Go with God” or some such thing that maybe neither of us means, and as I'm walking back to my room—mostly because I can't think where else to go at the moment—it occurs to me that maybe he'd just wanted to see how I'd react to a threat. And maybe to repeat the subtext—be afraid—I got from the room search, which I'm sure he was in on because it seems like just his style.

But I won't. I won't fear him. I'll placate him if necessary, but I won't fear him.

Charles is in the room when I get there, finishing his weekly letter home by the look of it. Though he shields it again. Who the hell cares what he puts in his letter? I sit at my desk and watch him for a minute, and finally I say, “How much longer will you be in this place?”

He looks up, and something about him makes me think of a rabbit that's trying to figure out which way to run. “I'm not sure. I thought I might be going home this weekend, but Mrs. Harnett told me at least one more week.”

“What difference will that make?”

He looks off into space. “I'm not sure.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Trust you to what?”

“And should I trust you?”

“Taylor, what are you talking about?”

“Just now, Reverend Bartle was pumping me about you. He asked me to pray aloud for you about what you need most.”

Charles swallows hard. “What did you pray?”

“I asked Jesus to help you feel less desperate. To help you see how much love there is for you.”

His eyes hang on mine, and if I thought he was desperate before, that was nothing. And suddenly I get it. He loves me. And not quite the way I love him. He wants me. It comes as an unbelievable shock. And he's been fighting this for—how long now? Maybe he said something to Harnett, or enough to make her suspect, and she told Bartle, and he was trying to find out how I feel about Charles. And maybe to find out how dreadful it might be to me if I was in SafeZone right before Charles leaves.

Charles covers his face with his hands.

I ask quietly, “Do you want a different roommate?”

Without looking at me he shakes his head. “I can't heal myself by avoiding things that make me sick.”

So many things occur to me, so many things I want to say to him, shout at him, that I can't stay in the room with him.

We're allowed onto the grounds more or less unsupervised on Sundays, and it's a hazy, nasty, hot day, but I go outside anyway. There's a volleyball game going on, and softball out in the back field, but I find a tree and sit under it, leaning against the strong, firm trunk for support. I'm feeling really shitty, and I don't know why. Should I be doing something to help Charles, or is he just determined to make himself miserable beyond anyone's help? And if I try and fail, will I feel about him the way he feels about Ray? Not that I think Charles is about to do himself in.

I'd asked him if he wanted a different roommate. Maybe I should consider that option for myself. I love Charles, sure; but I don't want him. I hadn't lied to him when I'd told him that. Even if it weren't for Will…

Will. I close my eyes and paint his face. It seems fainter than just a couple of days ago, and when I realize that, I nearly cry out. I won't forget him! I won't! I press my palms against my eyes like it will hold his image inside my brain, but the clearest thing is the leather thong on his wrist—the one I'd seen when Nate gave him that note yesterday. And when I finally let my hands fall, I see stars. To clear my vision, I look out across the yard to the street, and then down the side of the building away from the sun. And I can see there's someone standing at the far corner. Near where the chain-link fence begins.

It looks like Will.

Hell, it
is
Will! Did he think he could contact Nate today? I look around, desperate to look casual—contradictory though that sounds. Anyway, I need to get to him. I have to. He draws me like a magnet. I do my best to saunter toward the near corner, lean against it a minute, hands in my pockets, and look all around me. When I look in Will's direction, he's looking right at me.

Holy shit. My breathing is odd, but there's not much I can do about it. He's
so
obviously not a resident; his clothes are his own—not of this place. And that hair! Christ, but I want to grab a fistful of it! I look back toward the yard again to see if anyone is looking my way. Don't think so. I make my way slowly along the side of the building, avoiding windows. Across the street is a huge utility and storage shed, but I don't think there's likely to be anyone in there today, and I can't afford to worry about everything. So I keep going. And Will is moving slowly toward me, like he's aware that quick movements are more likely to draw attention.

We're three feet away from each other and I'm about ready to scream when he reaches for me. His tongue is in my mouth in a nanosecond, and we collapse onto the ground, hands everywhere, panting. Finally he pulls away and takes my face in his hands.