Thinking Straight

by Robin Reardon

  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.

  What to say? Nothing is right. Nothing touches what I’m feeling. He kisses me again and then reaches into a pocket. He pulls out some paper that’s folded small and hands it to me.

  “Ty, you’ve got to read this. It’s fucking amazing. Are you okay?”

  I nod, grinning like an idiot as I tuck the paper away into my khakis. It’s so good to hear the word fucking spoken aloud. It’s so good to hear his voice at all. “Yeah. Christ, I miss you.”

  “Me, too.” Another kiss. “But seriously, read this. It will help. It’ll help you, and it might help some of the others as well. That kid Nate said he wasn’t gay. Is he?”

  “No. Why?”

  He gives me his gorgeous lopsided grin. “Good. I was feeling a little jealous. He looks like a great guy, and if you liked him…”

  I start to laugh but have to smother it. “He is a great guy. But no worries. You’re it for me.”

  Another invasive kiss, and I say, “You’ve got to leave. You weren’t supposed to come back at all.”

  “I had to get this to you. Shit, but I’m glad I got to give it to you and not Nate.”

  “Go. Please. If we’re caught I’ll be in here much longer.”

  One more kiss. “Hang in there, Ty. I’ll be here.”

  From my spot on the ground I watch him walk away. He turns a few times and grins at me, and then he rounds a corner, and then he’s gone. I whip my head around to see if anyone is watching.

  Someone is. Someone else who, like me, must have wanted to be left alone, had found a spot under a tree a little farther away than the one I’d chosen. It’s Rye, and he’s watching me.

  Shit. Well, there’s nothing for it now. We’ll see what he’s made of. I hadn’t reported him for anything; maybe he’ll return the favor.

  I let my head fall back against the building and close my eyes against the sun. And on the insides of my eyelids, I see Will’s face. It’s clear again.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  When I feel like I can stand again, I turn back toward where I’d come from, and now, between me and Rye, is none other than John McAndrews. He’s at the corner where I’d leaned so nonchalantly earlier, looking at me. I do my best to smile at him as I walk in his direction.

  “Brother Taylor? What do you think you’re doing?”

  Maybe if I ever get out of here I’ll consider a career in acting. The look I give him is puzzled but not concerned, I’m sure of it. “Just getting some sun away from the crowds.”

  “Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to leave the yard?”

  “I’m sorry, brother. I wasn’t thinking of this space”—and I gesture along the building where I was sitting—“as not in the yard. I’ll come back, since you think it’s important.”

  He looks at me like he can’t quite figure out whether I’m having him on or not. Maybe I’m not such a great actor after all. But what can he do? He can’t have seen Will or he’d be confronting me with that. And I wasn’t doing anything like trying to escape, or masturbating in the open air, and I’m doing as he says. I glance at Rye, wondering where his head’s at. He half-smiles and nods once. I decide to take this to mean that he’ll keep his mouth shut about Will.

  John says, “I was looking for you. I wanted to thank you for helping out Friday night.”

  “No problem. I loved the band. And Peter taught me a few things about PA systems.”

  “Also, I wanted to talk to you about something. Someone, really. Walk with me.”

  We saunter along the edge of the yard, and it seems John is carefully avoiding getting too close to anyone else. I’m almost aware of a crinkling sound coming from Will’s folded paper in my pocket. After a minute or so, John says, “It’s about Charles. I’m wondering if we should suggest a change in rooms for him.”

  What is he, like, clairvoyant? And does he think I’m in love with Charles, like Bartle did? I do my best at a casual shrug. “I don’t know what purpose that would serve. How much longer will he be here, anyway?” Maybe he knows, and can tell me, what Bartle wouldn’t.

  “Might be a week, might be two.”

  “Who decides?”

  He looks at me from the corners of his eyes. “No one person. Will you miss him?”

  “Of course. He’s a terrific guy. Honest, kind, full of God’s love.” You know, I never used to talk like this before I got to this place….

  “Something’s troubling him. Do you know what it is?”

  I look right at him. Is he kidding? And is he really the second person today to ask me something like that? “I’m not sure what you want me to say. We’re all troubled in one way or another.” That seems safe enough.

  “True, but there’s something particular on his mind. Something’s eating at him.”

  I have to be careful not to say anything that lets John know how much I differ from him on what I see as the problem. “Couldn’t it be that he’s struggling so hard to change himself?”

  “I suppose.” He sounds unconvinced. “But I feel in my heart there’s more to it. I’ve seen lots of boys struggling with issues around Inappropriate Love, and his struggle seems to have some other source. I just can’t put my finger on it, and I was hoping you might be able to shed some light.”

  Much as we might disagree on one important point, I have to say I believe John at this moment. I believe he’s worried, I believe he believes what he’s saying. And he just might be right. But if I say too much, it might screw up Charles’s departure schedule, and I think he needs to get out of this place. So all I feel safe saying is, “I wish I could.”

  We’ve come to where some kids are sitting in the shade, watching the volleyball game. John stops, turns to me, and says, “Well, thanks, Taylor. If you can think of any way you and I can help, please come talk to me.”

  “I will. Sure.” Wouldn’t do to make an enemy of this guy; he’s in too good with the establishment. And if he hadn’t been involved in my room search, I might actually like him.

  Chapter 13

  He lies in wait near the villages. From ambushes, he murders the innocent. His eyes are secretly set against the helpless. He lurks in secret as a lion in his ambush. He lies in wait to catch the helpless. He catches the helpless, when he draws him in his net.

  —Psalms 10:8

  If it hadn’t been for that illicit, marvelous meeting with Will, I might be more focused on what John has said about Charles. As it is, what’s driving me crazy is that I can’t seem to get alone long enough to read what Will gave me. It’s still in my pocket, crinklin
g quietly whenever I sit or stand or walk, or maybe I’m imagining it, but I’m aware of it all the time. I try going to my room for some privacy, but Charles is writing at his desk again. He can’t be writing home still, can he? How long are these letters supposed to be? Or maybe he’s stocking up on MIs for the week? But Charles wouldn’t do that. I’ll never know for sure, ’cause he keeps leaning over whatever it is and I never get a chance to see it.

  I’m on my way to hunt for an empty Prayer Meeting room, just starting in that direction, when I see Leland coming toward me nearly at a trot.

  “Taylor!” His voice is a hoarse whisper.

  I imitate his tone. “What?”

  He’s shaking his head and looking around him like he’s scared of something. When he gets close enough he says in a low voice, “I’ve been looking for you. I have to talk to you.”

  First John, now this? Who else is scheming to keep me from Will’s message? “Fine. Talk.” But then I really look at him. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” he says, nearly sobbing. “No. Please. Can we go someplace?”

  Now, the last thing this place is set up for is to let two gay guys go anyplace together and be alone. Finally I say, “Will there be anyone in the dining hall right now?”

  “Good idea. Not many, for sure, and we’d see them before they could overhear us.”

  “We need a cover. Got your Bible?” He didn’t, and neither did I, but there’s always spares in the meeting rooms. So we head that way and grab a couple. I debate whether to stay in here and let Leland dump whatever it is he’s dying to say, but someone could sneak up to the door and listen from the hallway and we’d never know.

  In the dining hall I suggest we get soft drinks to add to our cover. Besides, I’m thirsty. We find a remote table, open our Bibles to Psalms, and try to look scripturally earnest. At least, I do; Leland is getting more frantic by the second.

  “Okay, Leland. Spill. What’s up? You look—”

  “Here.” He lays his palm on the table and nearly shoots it toward me. There’s a tiny corner of paper visible, and I hold it down with one finger while he withdraws his hand. I hold my Bible up, my back to the wall, and unfold the paper over Psalms 77:1: “My cry goes to God! Indeed, I cry to God for help, and for him to listen to me.”