Thinking Straight

by Robin Reardon

  She thinks for a second and then says, “I’ll walk out with you and make a photocopy, then. By the way, Taylor, it doesn’t look as though you’ve picked up your messages. You’ll find one from John letting you know that you’re assigned to kitchen detail this week. Breakfast is done by paid staff, so your hours are the same as they were for the laundry room.”

  Kitchen? I throw a glance at Nate, who gets my drift and tells me, “I have special dispensation to stay in the laundry room. I keep an eye on the new kids.”

  Well, this sucks. Not much I can do about it, though. Maybe I’ll get a chance to test John’s leadership potential.

  At the copy machine outside her office, she keeps the copy she makes and hands Nate back the original. Then she turns to me. “See you at ten, Taylor.”

  Crap. I’d nearly forgotten our appointment.

  I grab the message from my mailbox, and Nate and I walk toward the dining hall. He keeps his voice low as he says, “I know that seemed rather less than satisfying. But believe me, she is really upset. She won’t just sit back. She’ll do something; I just don’t know what.”

  “Look, Nate, I don’t doubt you, or her, or your intentions, but what will she be able to do other than confront the guy? We need to get rid of him, get him away from—”

  “I know. Listen, you know how I’ve been coming back year after year?”

  “I do. I think you’re nuts.”

  “When I get to college, I’m going to study psychology. And what I’ve been doing here, with my mom’s support, is stuff like leading the circle, like talking one-on-one with kids like Ray and Leland and Charles, because both Mom and I want to understand what’s driving kids to kill themselves. Especially gay kids, so we can stop adding to that by what goes on here. So we’ve collected a lot of information, including things Bartle has been saying in his own one-on-one meetings. We’ve been building a case against him. We just never knew he’d go as far as rape. Or murder.”

  “So she’ll put all this together?”

  “Exactly. And go after him. And she’ll take some steps to protect Charles.”

  “But in the meantime…”

  “In the meantime, Taylor, you stay the hell away from Bartle.”

  “I was gonna collect a whole bunch of us villagers and hand out torches and clubs…”

  “Hush.” He’s trying not to laugh. But he knows it isn’t funny.

  We step into the dining hall and I do a quick scan. No roommate in sight. I say, “I’m going back to the room to get Charles.”

  “Okay. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

  Charles is not expecting me to walk into the room. He’s at his desk, writing again, and when he sees me he jumps nearly out of his chair and frantically reaches for whatever he was writing to turn it over. When I’ve seen him do this in the past, I’ve just assumed he was writing home. He’s always hidden his writing immediately. But he’s never been so frightened. I just look at him, wracking my brains for some way this could be connected with Bartle.

  I guess my silence disconcerts him even more. He has to clear his throat before he speaks, and then his voice is kind of squeaky and odd. “Taylor! I, uh, I thought you’d gone to breakfast.”

  I watch his face for a few seconds. Then, “You didn’t show up. I’m here to escort you.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll just finish this up and be right there.” He gives me this big, fake smile.

  “I’ll wait.” I pull out my chair, sit, and watch him. I’d warned him already. I’m the hawk now.

  He does not—I mean, does not—want to go back to whatever he was writing with me sitting there. “Taylor, you know, this is…well, it’s kind of private.”

  “Fine. I can’t see it from over here.”

  He makes a few attempts to write, but I can see his hand shaking. He sets the pen down. “Taylor, you’re going to be late for breakfast.”

  “I won’t if you come with me now. If not, then we’ll both miss it, won’t we?”

  His hands flutter in the air for a few seconds as he tries to decide what to do with them, and finally he gives up on whatever his writing project is. “All right, all right. Could you just wait outside the door for a second, please?”

  I give him a heavy look. “Secrecy, brother? Do you need coaching?”

  This makes him kind of shake all over. “Taylor, please. I really need you to do this for me.”

  It’s got to have something to do with Bartle. From just outside the door I hear drawers opening and closing, things shuffling around, and it sounds like Charles is moving around the room. I imagine he’s looking for a good hiding place. Try the inner sole of your shoe, I want to tell him. That’s where I’m still hiding the article Will brought me.

  Danielle had begged me to tell Charles about it. But I don’t think he can stand any more stress right now. It will have to wait.

  Between breakfast and my ten o’clock meeting with Mrs. Harnett, I decide to take the time to write a scanty letter home, still not very pleased with my folks for forcing me to come here. Maybe they couldn’t know there’d be someone like Bartle here, and I have to believe they never knew the whole truth about Strickland’s attitude, but they still want me to be someone I’m not. Someone I can’t be.

  The letter doesn’t take very long, so when I’ve finished I devote a little bandwidth to something that’s been kind of nudging at me from the back of my brain since yesterday afternoon. It had gotten kind of smothered with all the stuff about Bartle, but it deserves some thought. And it concerns the person I’m to see at ten.

  Mrs. Harnett is Nate Devlin’s mother.

  I struggle to recall some specifics of our past conversations. Times when I was sure she was just another mouthpiece for Straight to God’s philosophy. Sure, I remember how angry I was that she’d put me back into SafeZone, but the only other unpleasantness I can come up with is in the conclusions I’d made about her. Conclusions based on the false assumption that she was on the other side of the gay issue from me.

  So if she’s on the same side of that can of worms, which is what it is around here, why haven’t I been able to tell? Maybe because she couldn’t afford to let me know?

  What stands out the most in my memory are times like the day I’d told her how tough I thought her role was. How she couldn’t teach something just by saying it, that she had to find a way to get me to learn it for myself. She had seemed—well, gratified. Hugely gratified. And she’d tried not to show that, either. She had seemed like a real person.

  But now she’s refusing to let on what steps she’s taking about Bartle. The question is, should I trust her, as she’s insisting? She hasn’t proven herself to be untrustworthy, exactly, but can I just sit back and do nothing? Even God doesn’t want us to do that.

  By the time I show up at her office, she’s recovered from her earlier distress and is her old calm self again. It’s like nothing happened earlier this morning in this very room.

  “Do you have any impressions you’d care to talk about, Taylor?”

  I guess I’ll have to play along. “Well, I’ve survived my first week; only five more to go. I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not counting in days anymore.”

  “Were you counting days?”

  “I was counting minutes.”

  “And now it’s weeks?”

  I consider this. “Actually, now it’s minutes again. Because I’m worried about Charles in every one of them.”

  “I appreciate that, Taylor, but I need to ask that for now we don’t refer to that situation. I assure you I’m doing everything in my power to address it.”

  The rest of the meeting is pretty meaningless. I ask if I can stay in the laundry room, and she says no, that I need to learn the other aspects of service. Fine. Whatever. By the time I leave, I don’t know any more than before what she’s going to do about Bartle. All I know is, I can’t sit back and do nothing. I just have to decide what to do.

  Every chance I get all day, I look for Ch
arles. I even stop by the mailboxes as often as possible to see if he’s got a summons from Bartle, but there’s never anything in there. I see him at lunch, but he’s already at a full table, so I can’t sit with him. I’m so focused on him that it’s hard to appreciate the fact that I’m eating lunch I helped make.

  In the afternoon John has me breaking apart lettuce heads, which is about as mindless as filling detergent containers in the laundry room. You know where my mind goes. What the hell am I going to do about Charles? How the fuck can I help him? And what, if anything, is Mrs. Harnett going to do?

  I can’t help thinking about Bartle, about the smarmy things he did. I think back to last Sunday, the day I got here, and try to remember: had he done anything like that then? The comment from that kid in Kitchen last week comes to me, and then I’m nearly stunned by a mental image of poor Leland’s dick rubbed raw. But as for me, I guess it’s been just the neck squeeze when Charles turned me over to him, and of course that hug he gave me after tearing me apart.

  What a bastard. Who would do such a thing?

  And then I realize that I’ve done it myself. I did the exact same thing to Charles Saturday night. I hammered at him, just like Nate said, until he cried. And then I held him.

  If I’m going to prove myself better than Bartle, I have to help Charles. I just have to.

  One thing I can do is watch. After Prayer Meeting Charles goes to the library, not the chapel. It makes me wonder if Mrs. Harnett has said anything. I sit there for a while at another table, until I’m sure he’s not leaving to go meet his tormentor.

  Tuesday at lunch Dave finds me. He says, “Looking forward to seeing you later this evening, brother.” Which I know means there’s a circle meeting. Then he adds, “By the way, there’s something in your mailbox.”

  “Thanks, brother. See you later, for sure.”

  After lunch I head toward the offices, and the message is a summons from the famous Dr. Strickland to see him at three o’clock today. I haven’t seen him in over a week, and he’d promised an audience when I was out of SafeZone. But I guess he didn’t say how long out of it. Maybe John will give me onions to work on and I’ll be really smelly by the time Strickland and I have our little consult.

  No onions; too bad. As it turns out the whole thing with Strickland is pretty much a formality. All through it I get the sense he’s just doing it so he can say he did. I’m sure he’s had tales from Mrs. Harnett and Bartle about me, and he’s probably trusting them to provide the necessary carrots and sticks to ensure my purification and humiliation. There’s no mention of Charles. Or Bartle.

  I distract myself every few minutes by wriggling my right foot and imagining I hear crinkling. And I need the distraction; without it I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking that this is the man who’d rather see me kill myself than be gay. I’m struggling not to feel hatred, for him and for Bartle.

  Strickland seems his usual self. Or as much himself as I can assess, given my limited exposure to the man. He seems just as cool, just as sure of himself, as before. Why doesn’t he seem as insane as his comments in that article? I wriggle my toes again and think of Will. And I remember the conversation we’d had—our first one, really—when we’d talked about self-confidence. Will had said that people who are truly self-confident are most comfortable around other self-confident people. I wonder if that’s true for Strickland, or if his seeming self-confidence comes more from the need to feel superior. A kind of righteous arrogance. If the latter, then it might be kind of fun to try and puncture it—though probably not worth it.

  And out of nowhere it comes to me. I realize what I have to do about Charles. For Charles. As soon as I’m out of there I start laying plans.

  Chapter 15

  Whoever causes the upright to go astray in an evil way, he will fall into his own trap; but the blameless will inherit good.

  —Proverbs 29:10

  As soon as I’m released from kitchen detail so I can get ready to eat the dinner I’ve been helping to prepare all afternoon, I dash to my room, fling myself into my desk chair, and grab a pad and pen. I’ve been thinking about what should go into this note ever since I left Strickland’s office, but I still need to work on it a little. I decide to start writing and see how it looks. But when I’m done, I realize it’s a little over the top. Especially the quote about lust from James that I’ve recycled from my Public Apology. So I scratch some stuff out, tone some down, and this is what I end up with:

  Reverend Bartle,

  I have lied to you. Worse, I feel lust for another brother. You were right on Sunday. My thoughts and feelings about Charles are not pure. He is blameless and has done nothing to tempt me. He probably doesn’t even know how I feel. But my feelings are beginning to overwhelm me. The more I pray, the more I’m sure that I’m hateful to God. The more I know I’m unworthy of grace. Help me, please.

  That will have to do if I’m going to get it into his mailbox before dinner without Charles seeing me. As I’m standing in front of the mailboxes, eyes glued to where the label that says J. BARTLE—he has a first name?—is taped, I ask myself if I’m really, really, really sure I want to do this. I take a deep breath, pop the note in, and then push myself away.

  The first part of the evening is kind of a blur. The only thing I remember is that I’d hoped to sit beside Charles in Isaiah, but he’s managed to sandwich himself between Hank and a new kid named Ronald.

  Before I head toward the laundry room for circle, I go to check the mailboxes. I want to know if Bartle has picked up my note. I know which box is his now, so my eyes lock onto it from a little distance away. And it’s empty.

  I stand there and take several breaths. I’m just about to turn away when I notice something in my own box. Can’t be another summons from Strickland. Could it be a message from Mrs. Harnett about our little situation? But it seems unlikely she’d communicate with me about it like this. I pull it out and open it.

  It’s from Bartle.

  All it says is,

  Pray with me tonight in the chapel after your meeting.

  J. B.

  Pray with him. Oh God.

  But—there’s a circle meeting. I’m sure that’s not the one Bartle meant. Nate had said, though, that there would be times I’d need to decide when I shouldn’t go, and that not everyone always comes.

  Now I’m really torn. Torn nearly to pieces. I could forget the whole thing and go to circle. But Bartle has taken the bait, or so it would seem, and the only way to follow through is to show up. But it’s going to be hell dealing with him. I don’t know what he’ll do, what he’ll say, or how much trouble I’m going to get into. What I want, of course, is for him to come on to me, to think he can treat me like he treats Charles. But I won’t let him, and then I’ll have proof that he’s a monster. Though it’s also possible he won’t do anything at all. I mean, I’m not actually sure that he’s mistreating Charles physically. He’s certainly capable of reducing kids to tears just by talking to them.

  Circle? Or Bartle? Retreat to the safety of loving friends, or take this guy out for Charles and Ray and anyone else he’s hurt?

  Okay, Taylor, you set this trap, and you know what you have to do.

  I start walking, my knees shaking, my arms wrapped around me not unlike the way Charles’s arms had been wrapped around him. When I get to the chapel, the doors are closed. I sit on a bench along the wall for a couple of minutes. Collapse on the bench is more like it.

  Deep breaths, Taylor. Focus. What would Will do?

  Will would probably just charge in there and accuse the guy and see how he reacts. But I don’t think that will work; Bartle’s been at this far too long and I’m just another kid. If he’s really doing this, then I need to catch him, not accuse him. I need proof.

  Sorry, Will. This time I’m doing what I have to do.

  I stand, feeling a little more secure now, and open the door.

  There’s no one in sight. I start down the center aisle, hearing nothing but my heart
pounding in my ears. Is it possible he wants me to go to that corner room?

  “Close the door please, Taylor.”

  A sound escapes me, and I smell a sharp odor—my own fear. I wheel around. Bartle is sitting in the far corner, just about where Nate and Leland and I had lain in wait for Charles on Sunday. If I’d thought my heart was pounding before, well, let’s just say I didn’t know what that meant. But I manage to go back and close the door. Then I turn to face Bartle, who’s now walking slowly toward me. He stands there a minute, scouring my face with his eyes, and I know he can tell I’m terrified. But this might be a good thing; if I’d meant every word of my note, wouldn’t I be afraid?

  He turns suddenly toward the altar. “Come.”

  Oh God. Is he leading the way to that room? But no, he stops at the front and kneels. I sort of assume I’m to do the same, so I do. He doesn’t look at me, but he speaks.

  “Taylor, my son, thank you. Thank you for your honesty, for your sincere desire to turn away from sin. You say you are praying, but I’m sure that there are ways to make it more meaningful.” About a hundred of my heartbeats go by, and then he says, “Does Charles know you’re here?”

  I swallow. “No.”

  “Who does know?”

  My belly is quivering. “No one.” Too late, I realize it might have been a good idea to let somebody know.

  “What have you been praying? What have you asked God for?”

  Now, I’ve actually given this a little thought. It occurred to me during my brain-wracking in the kitchen this afternoon that I was going to have to say something that sounded convincing. So what I decided to do is give him Will, like I hadn’t done that first Sunday, but not Will the person. I’m going to pretend that I feel for Charles what I feel for Will. That’s not only convincing, it’s also very real for me. I won’t have to make anything up—remember how complicated that can get?—and it will reel Bartle all the way in.

  But I have to lie a little to get things started. “I’ve prayed that he won’t be in the room when I get back after Prayer Meeting, so maybe I could go to sleep before seeing him. I’ve prayed not to dream about him. I’ve prayed that he’d be sent home. I’ve prayed—”