Something magical happened after we’d been in there half an hour. There was no bell. I didn’t hear anyone call for attention. Nothing. But everyone stopped talking almost at once and said goodbye to the people they’d been yammering at, and they left. Charles, who hadn’t let me get more than a couple of feet from him the whole time, led me out the door and on to Isaiah. I wasn’t sure—in fact, I didn’t have a clue—who would be in our group, other than Charles and me, and probably Jessica and Marie, given what they’d said at breakfast.
As it turned out, our group included about twenty kids, including Shorty. I looked right at him as he was heading for a chair across the room from me, wondering if he’d smile or what. But he looked right through me, as if he hadn’t been reduced to giggles at break this afternoon by my effrontery and his own unexpressed irreverence. Jessica and Marie were there as well, of course. And from where Charles and I stood—dead center at the very front—I had to turn and look around to see that there were three other kids in SafeZone, including Sheldon, who was by a chair about as far away from the front of the room as he could get. I figured Hank must be here as well, but he wasn’t next to Sheldon. I looked around and finally saw Hank in the row behind me and off to the side. So it would seem there was no rule about hanging with your new roomie, despite Charles’s irritating tenacity.
Mrs. Harnett had told me she was our group leader, but even so, it surprised me somehow to see her there, sitting in a larger chair than ours (enthroned, perhaps?). At least our chairs weren’t in neat little rows. They were in a kind of semicircle, facing the throne.
I started to sit, but Charles’s hand shot out and caught my arm. “We wait for the ladies to sit.” Jeez. Guess I’d forgotten that part of the Booklet. I looked around. There were three girls standing off to one side of the seating area, chatting. Most of the other “ladies” were seated, including Mrs. Harnett, but all the guys were standing. A couple of them were talking, but most of the guys were at some kind of casual attention in front of their chairs, hands clasped over their crotches, waiting.
Finally Mrs. Harnett stood and clapped her hands once. The talking petered out pretty quickly, and when all the girls were sitting, Mrs. Harnett resumed her throne. And then all the guys sat at once. It was eerie.
Charles leaned toward me. “Mrs. Harnett might stand again when she talks, but we don’t have to. Watch me for a cue when we need to stand again.”
Sure enough, Mrs. Harnett stood. I wasn’t feeling particularly well-disposed toward Charles, but I thanked him silently anyway.
“Brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus,” our fearless leader began, “we will bow our heads in a prayer of thanksgiving.”
So we did, and—silly me—I thought it would be a moment of silent prayer. But no.
“Almighty God, Jesus our Savior, we are humble before you. We are grateful for everything you have done for us, everything you have given us. And we know that if you gave us only pleasure, only joy, we would not learn what we need to learn to be worthy of your grace. So we thank you for the challenges, for the difficulties, for the pain, for the sorrow. And we thank you for your patience, your forbearance, your limitless presence in our lives. We thank you for helping us to be worthy of the ultimate joy that exists only in you.”
She sort of had me. I could identify with everything she’d said. And I was ready for the “amen.” But she wasn’t.
“Merciful Father, open the hearts of everyone in this room. We are sinners, every one of us. Help us to see that, and help us to put behind us the things that tempt us into sin. Some are tempted by things that alter our consciousness, by drugs and drink that pull us into evil and make us do Satan’s bidding. For some it’s Inappropriate Love [my capitals this time], whether for a boy or a girl, a man or a woman, that takes us away from your intended life for us and into a pit devoted only to earthly pleasure. For some it’s the exhilaration of disobedience, of stealing, of flaunting the authority of those you have put in charge over us. There seems to be no end of ways we can find to sin. We are grateful that there is also no end to your forgiveness. And we understand that this forgiveness is granted only to those who truly repent. To those of us who confess our faults, our temptations, our misdeeds, and earnestly vow to take a new path. A path to holiness. A path to you.
“We pray that you forgive the sins we are about to confess, that your patience and love will hold us up as we strive to be worthy.”
Long pause.
“Amen.”
Inappropriate Love, indeed. From inside my head I yelled, My love for Will is not inappropriate! All right, she hadn’t been very specific, but I knew damn well what she meant.
I couldn’t quite tell whether this sort of all-inclusive prayer was something she spouted off at the start of every Prayer Meeting or whether she was improvising. It sounded practiced, but it also sounded spontaneous. I know this seems conflicting. It is. When I heard her again the next night, I learned that although the themes didn’t vary much, the words did. I give the lady credit; she came up with something fresh—at least relatively fresh—every night I heard her pray.
Everyone raised their heads up again, although I noticed Charles didn’t. He was still looking at the floor. Mrs. Harnett sat down again and said, “We have three new penitents in our group this week. Let’s welcome them. Taylor Adams, please stand.”
I wasn’t prepared for this. Should have been, probably. I stood, penitent or not. In unison, everyone around me chanted, “Welcome, Taylor. We love you.” I said my own tiny prayer of gratitude that I was in SafeZone and so could not be expected to reply to that. It would have gotten me into trouble. Maybe that’s what SafeZone is all about?
“Sheldon Wainwright, please stand.”
Sheldon, way in the back, shuffled to his feet and then stared fixedly down at them.
“Welcome, Sheldon. We love you.”
“Monica Moon, please stand.”
Monica Moon? With a name like that, no wonder she’d ended up in here. A girl about fifty pounds overweight, long dark hair kind of stringing around her face, heaved out of her chair and looked anything but penitent. I thought I remembered seeing her in the laundry room earlier, but I wasn’t working near where the girls were. Maybe she couldn’t speak, but her expression said plenty. I felt a certain kinship with her immediately. What had I looked like when I’d stood? I kind of hoped it was a lot like her—impenitent. Minus the extra weight.
“Welcome, Monica. We love you.”
I expected another introduction, with three kids besides me wearing yellow stickers. But no one else was asked to stand. I looked around for the fourth kid, a guy, looking comatose. Or autistic. He was actually rocking back and forth in his chair, staring at the floor. At first I had no clue who he was, but then I remembered something Charles had said at breakfast, something about Leland being in SafeZone. “Again.” Could this be the famous Leland? What had he done?
Mrs. Harnett smiled at everyone in the room, one at a time. It took nearly a minute. And she must have noticed that Charles was still looking at his hands, clasped in his lap. She said, “Brother Charles, you seem troubled. Tell us what’s in your heart tonight.”
Charles didn’t start, he didn’t snap to attention, he didn’t budge. He must have expected this. In fact, I wondered if he’d deliberately planted himself at center front and then set about to look as distracted as possible so he’d be called on. At any rate, that’s how things happened.
“I need forgiveness” was all he said at first.
“Tell us why.”
At first Charles just took a couple of shaky breaths and fidgeted with his fingers, but our Fearless Leader waited with saintly patience until he went on.
“I have broken a Program Rule [my capitalization again; I’m getting good at this].” And he stopped again.
The Saint prodded. “Which rule, Charles?” Her voice was gentle but insistent.
“I interrupted the very first Contemplation of my new roommate Taylor.” He to
ok a breath before he could go on. As for me, it nearly stopped my breathing. He looked up at the throne. “His very first one! It was his time, his own time, for reflecting on how he came to be here, on what he needs to learn, for understanding what things will help him and what things will hold him back. I was overwhelmed by the temptation to check on him. I—I confess my own lack of faith.”
Holy shit. (Demerit be damned.) Charles was confessing his violation of my privacy! Where would he go next? Is he going to talk about what he found when he committed this “interruption”? I was really holding my breath by now.
Mrs. Harnett was nodding. Then, “And what do you think led you to lose faith, Charles? What was preying on your mind?”
More finger fidgeting. “I think it means I’m still too attached to my own failure.” He closed his eyes, and for a second I thought I saw something fall. A tear was the only thing I could think of, but his voice didn’t sound like he was crying. “I haven’t been successful in turning over to God what happened to Ray. I’ve held onto it.”
No one else was breathing either, I swear. At least, that’s how quiet it was in the room. Then Mrs. Harnett, obviously knowing the answer but wanting him to say it, asked, “And what happened to Ray?”
Honest to God, I saw him shudder. But he went on bravely. “He took his life. He overstepped the limits of Free Will. He lost ultimate faith.”
Whoa! Was he telling me that the last guy to sleep in my bed, use my desk, had killed himself? The shock almost made me miss the Saint’s next question.
“And how does this concern you?”
Eyes still closed, it was obvious now that he really was crying. His breath was catching oddly as he went on. “He was my roommate. And I took too much responsibility upon myself. And he’s gone.” The word gone was almost inaudible.
“Did you lose him, Charles?”
“No.”
“Did you falter in your determination, in your own thinking or acting?”
“No.”
“How have you sinned?”
“In my lack of faith.”
“Go on.”
He took a deep breath, a shaky one, but it seemed to help. He snuffled, and opened his eyes. “I did everything I could to help Ray remain steadfast. I loved him. I set a good example for him. But I wasn’t enough. I tried so hard, like I was trying to do God’s job. I took on myself the things that are God’s to do. And when Ray was lost, I blamed myself.”
“And who else?”
“What?”
“Who else do you blame?”
Charles blinked. “No one.”
“Not Ray?”
“No! Ray was lost. He couldn’t be blamed, not by me, not for anything.”
“Not Leland?”
Several kids turned to look at the unfortunate fourth in our SafeZone club. So that was Leland.
“No. Not Leland. I can’t blame Leland for his weaknesses. It’s not my place to judge.”
Weakness? There was some kind of weakness of Leland’s that had to do with Ray? You know where my mind went; they must have been lovers. Or wanted to be. Whatever. And my breakfast companion Marie had done something that—according to what Charles had said this morning—was in Leland’s best interests, whether Leland agreed that it was nor not. But what?
The Saint already knew what it was, of course; it was old news to her. So she went on pinning Charles to the floor. Wall. Cross. Whatever it was he was begging to be pinned to. She said, “Do you blame God?”
Silence. Now, this was interesting. Everyone seemed to think so, for now all eyes were back on Charles. There was a tense moment, and then Charles was out of his chair and on his knees. “Jesus, Savior, forgive me!”
Holy shit. I’m not repeating myself. I’m not repeating myself.
I had started listening to this little confession of Charles’s thinking it was all about me. It wasn’t about me at all. It was about my role, though. My role as the gay roommate of Charles Courtney.
And suddenly it was all about me again.
“Taylor, come forward, please.” The voice from the throne.
In a trance, I moved toward her.
She handed me a pad and pen she had reached for after I’d stood up, and said, “What would you like to say to Charles?”
I wrote, “I’m not Jesus. Charles isn’t talking to me,” and Mrs. Harnett read it aloud.
“Does Jesus work through us, Taylor? Nod or shake your head.”
Nod. Of course he does.
“Then what would you say to Charles?”
I looked at Charles, who had raised his wet face to look at me. I knew what he wanted to hear. Or see. But I had a question first. I wrote, “What happens if you fail with me, too?” Mrs. Harnett read this silently and gave me, I swear, a look of interested respect. Or maybe it was concern; how many suicides could there be in her group before she got into trouble? Kinda gives a new meaning to Straight to God. Anyway, she read it aloud for Charles.
Charles started to speak, had to stop, and started again. “I would pray for guidance. I would pray for the strength to lean on Jesus. I would ask God to show me what to do and what not to do. I would pray for the safekeeping of your soul and know that I can’t provide that for you.”
One side of my brain was thinking, What a drama queen. The other was thinking, I’ve misjudged him. He’s really sincere. He really believed that prayer he prayed last night, the one thanking God for me. He meant it. He was goddamned fucking honest. And he desperately needs a second chance.
I was still staring at him when Mrs. Harnett asked me, “Is there something else you’d like to say to Charles?” She held the pad out to me and I took it.
I wrote, “If I were Jesus, I would forgive you.”
She looked at it but didn’t read it aloud. “Take it to him,” she said.
I walked back to where Charles was still kneeling on the floor. He read it and started sobbing. He stood up and wrapped me in his arms and dropped tears all over my shoulder.
WTF? I mean, What The Fuck? (Which is worse—IM or what it means?) What am I supposed to do with this?
What could I do? I hugged him back. Everyone in the room stood up and started clapping. I heard, “Praise the Lord!” and “Thank you, Jesus!” and “Amen!” It was like being at a revival, or at least the way I’d always imagined a revival would be. And I have a little confession of my own to make. It felt great.
Hell, it felt fucking fantastic. Before I knew it, I was getting a little misty. Not sobbing like my new best friend Charles, but still…I don’t remember who pulled away first; not sure it matters, anyway. But I do remember being on such a high that I had a hard time focusing on anything that was said, by anyone, for several minutes afterward. Everyone turned in their Bibles to the different places the Saint called out, and she asked some kids to read, but I couldn’t tell you what the verses were. My own thoughts kept preempting the regular programming. They ran something like this:
Charles turned himself in.
Charles didn’t turn me in.
The Saint didn’t ask him if he’d seen anything worth interrupting, or even if he’d had a reason to suspect that he would.
Charles has a trustworthy spirit; Proverbs says so.
The Saint might just be okay.
When I started listening once again, a girl was standing, reading from her Bible. I had been able to focus just well enough to turn to the references the Saint had been calling out, so I was open to Hebrews. She was reading chapter 4, starting at verse 12, the one about the sword of God being sharp enough to divide soul and spirit, not to mention bones, joints, and other unmentioned body parts. The sword knows our thoughts, actions, attitudes—it knows what’s in our hearts, and we can’t hide anything from it. In fact, it leaves us cut open in a way that lets those we might have injured see into our hearts as well.
I was sort of familiar with this text, but I’d never really understood this bit. I mean, what’s the difference between soul and spirit? How can
the two be divided? And as for a sword being able to judge…It was some kind of metaphor, I’d figured that out. But it all seemed kind of jumbled.
The girl who’d been reading sat down again, and the Saint let several seconds go by before she said, “All of these verses we’ve just been listening to can help us to understand what Charles is going through. But I think these verses from Hebrews are the clearest. Who would like to offer their thoughts?”
Marie, the girl from breakfast, raised her hand. The Saint called on her, and Marie said, “God saw that Charles’s faith was too focused on himself. On what he thought he could do on his own. So he had Charles break a Program Rule that affected Taylor. Then God’s sword cut into Charles so that everyone could see what was wrong.”
I hated what Marie said. In fact, I was getting to hate Marie. She’d tried like hell at breakfast to get at Charles, and she was at it again. It was like she needed to cut him down to her size.
The Saint smiled in a knowing kind of way and asked the group, “Could this have had such an effect on Charles if his heart had not been open?” No one said anything. I had to stand up for him. I raised my hand.
The Saint blinked at me. “Taylor, you’re in SafeZone. You can’t take an active role in the discussion this evening.”
What the hell had I been doing before, then, during the “Charles Tells All” routine? I picked up the pad of paper, still at my feet from before, and held it aloft.
Such a sad smile she gave me. “I’m sorry, Taylor. We can’t allow that. It was necessary to call on you earlier for Charles’s sake. That was a decision I made. But it was an exception. Anyone else?”
I didn’t know whether I was more confused or more hurt. Here I’d been thinking this was all about love and connection and good will, but I’m obviously not to be included in all that wonderfulness. I’m on the outside.
I decided what I felt was anger. I barely heard the Saint call the name Nate, but when everyone turned to look at him, I turned with them. I almost didn’t; I mean, if I was ostracized, then I may as well just go sit at the back of the room, and I was thinking of doing just that. But before I could decide, Nate started to talk. And when I turned, I realized it was Shorty. From the laundry room.
Thinking Straight Page 8
