Thinking Straight

by Robin Reardon

  “And what have you done?”

  “What?”

  “Your note said you feel lust. What have you done about that?”

  “Well…I’ve masturbated. I put that in my MI.”

  “In one of them. Have there been other times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  I close my eyes. “Once I pretended I was pinning him against the wall near his desk. Behind the door, where no one walking by could see. I had his wrists in my hands, against the wall above his head, and I kissed him.” I wait.

  “And then what?”

  “I, uh, I sucked on his neck, and then I pulled his hands together over his head so I could hold them both with one of mine. He struggled, but not very hard. And I ripped his shirt open.”

  Bartle clears his throat. “And then?”

  “I sucked his tits while I undid his belt and then his fly.” I stop again. I’m going to make him work for this.

  “Did he cry out?”

  “What? No. I mean, he wasn’t really there, you know?”

  “Of course. Go on.”

  “Well, you know.”

  He takes a breath. “Taylor, if we’re going to purge these feelings from you, you’ll need to be specific about what they are. Pretend I don’t know.”

  But I know he does. I know he does. “Okay. Well, like I said, his fly. And I pulled him out—”

  “You pulled what out?”

  “His dick. I pulled his dick out.” I risk a sideways glance, and I can see Bartle is really getting into this. “It was hard. Really hard. He wanted me really badly. In my imagination. And by now he was pretty helpless, so I could let go of his hands and he stayed where he was, and I knelt in front of him. I took him—I mean, his dick—in my mouth.” Time to test again; how much detail is he hoping for?

  He swallows. “Is that all?”

  “Well, no. I mean, I’ve done this before, so I know what to do.” I close my eyes again. “I ran my tongue in circles around him, and covered my teeth and sucked, and then I poked into his balls with the tip of my tongue.” I can hear him breathing next to me. “His hips started spazing a little, and his ass clenched. And he was making these quiet little grunting noises, and—”

  “Stop!”

  I look over at him. His head is hanging forward, his jaw is clenched, and his eyes are tight shut. Then he breathes loudly once or twice and says, “Almighty Father, be with us here. Come into Taylor’s heart and purify it. Help him to understand that these desires are beyond sinful, that they are devouring his very soul. Tell him what he must do in order to drive Satan out, to make room for our Lord Jesus. Please. Please, speak to Taylor.”

  Maybe thirty seconds of silence later, he lifts his head, but he still doesn’t look at me. He says, “Taylor, did you hear God’s words?”

  “Um, no. I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Father above, I pray that you will help Taylor understand that it is you he longs for, not Charles. Not a boy, not a man. Only you.” More silence. “Listen hard, Taylor. Can’t you hear? Can’t you open your heart and your mind, and understand what God is asking? What God is requiring?”

  Okay, so I listen again. I could fake something, but that’s too dangerous. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “Father, tell me what I can do to make Taylor hear you. To make him understand.” Silence. Then, “Is that the only way?” Silence again. It’s like listening to one side of a telephone conversation. Then he bows his head. “The Lord’s will be done.”

  Slowly he gets to his feet, and I’m thinking, okay, what did The Man say? Bartle holds out a hand to me, but I don’t want to touch it. I say, “You want me to get up?”

  “Come, Taylor. Come and learn how you will shed this sin.” His hand is still out, but I don’t take it. I’m wondering at what point, exactly, I’ll have the proof I need. The look on Bartle’s face is weirding me out—kind of wide-eyed, like he’s focusing on something in the distance, and no expression to speak of. Like he’s been taken over by something.

  I get up without help and stand a little away from him, but he moves toward me. This is too creepy. Without really meaning to, I say, “Look, you’re scaring me.” Damn! I shouldn’t discourage him.

  He stops, closes his eyes, and lowers the hand he’s holding out toward me. “It’s a powerful thing, Taylor. I don’t mean to frighten you.” He opens his eyes, and he looks sort of normal again. “Feel the love, Taylor. Feel God’s love. It’s all around us. And it’s in me, too. God’s love for you is coming through me.” He smiles. It’s almost convincing.

  “What did God say to do?”

  He stops smiling and just looks at me. “Perhaps you’re not ready for this. Perhaps you need to lose more of your soul first.”

  This sounds good to me; it means I can leave. But if I do that, I won’t have my proof, and he’ll be back at Charles again in no time. And maybe other kids, too.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Receive love, Taylor. That’s all. Let God’s love take the place of Satan’s urgings.”

  “But…how do I do that?” This is so fucking hard. I don’t want to lose those urgings, and I don’t believe they come from Satan.

  “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “I think maybe we need to give you some more time. You obviously don’t trust God yet, and without that—I’m afraid I can’t do anything to help.”

  “I trust God.”

  “If you trusted God, you wouldn’t keep asking for details. You wouldn’t keep asking why, what, where, on and on.”

  This is bullshit, and I know it, but if I don’t give in, I won’t get my proof. “Okay, I’ll stop asking.”

  He looks at me for what seems like a really long time. I’m actually starting to get a little dizzy. Finally he says, “Do you want purity?”

  He waits until I say, “Yes.”

  “Do you want love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you forsake Satan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come.” And he turns away and walks toward that corner room. He doesn’t look around to see if I’m following, he just keeps walking. Slowly, but he keeps walking.

  I’m rooted. How the fuck can I go in there with him? But how can I not? And what can he do to me, anyway? I mean, he’s tall, but so am I, and he’s kind of scrawny and I’m no weakling. Plus I can scream really loud.

  But, who would hear me?

  Do I have a choice?

  Of course. I could leave right now. I could turn this whole thing over to Mrs. Harnett and just not let Charles out of my sight.

  Bartle disappears into the room.

  This isn’t about me now. Not really. And suddenly I remember what Will was ready to do for me. How he was ready to sacrifice his college plans to keep me safe from this very place.

  I lift one foot off the floor, and I come so close to setting it down in the direction of the hall outside. But I don’t. I go toward the room.

  I stand in the doorway. Bartle is sitting in a chair to my left, its back to the wall beside the doorway, and there’s another chair facing him, sort of facing the door. He’s looking at the chair, not at me. So I sit in the chair. At least he doesn’t close the door.

  “Have you ever eaten too much sugar, Taylor?”

  “What?”

  “It wouldn’t have to be sugar. Have you ever eaten so much of anything you wanted that it made you sick?”

  “Once when my mom was making chocolate chip cookies, the phone rang, and I made off with the bowl of batter. I ate most of it.”

  “Did you get sick?”

  “I didn’t throw up or anything, but I felt really sh—really crappy.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t do that again, did you?”

  “No.”

  He nods. “You are a very special person, Taylor. I’ve felt this since the first time I met you. I was even more convinced on that Sunday when we brought you
into the Program. Many would have been discouraged by how you acted at our last meeting. You were pushing me aside. You were denying my help, denying me, denying God. But you are very special. And God has put you in my care. God has commanded me to help you.”

  Mrs. Harnett had told me to beware of people who said things like this to me, about how special I am. I wonder if she suspected anything like this.

  He stands, and I start to get up but he shakes his head. He moves to my left, goes behind the door, and opens the drawer of a filing cabinet, but he doesn’t reach into it, which seems weird. But this whole encounter is so frigging weird; what’s one more thing? And now that he’s back there, he pushes the door closed. My eyes follow the slow swing all the way to the door jamb. The handle clicks into place. It looks like an ordinary handle; I’m sure I could open it in a hurry if I needed to.

  “What we’re going to do, my special boy, is teach you not to eat cookie batter. It’s interesting, you know? You can’t get too much of God’s love, but you can get too much of Satan’s lustful sin. And just like the cookie batter, when you’ve finally had too much, you won’t want any more.”

  WTF? What’s he going on about?

  And now he’s between me and the door. “Stand, Taylor.”

  Okay, that’s better anyway. Easier to make a run for it from my feet.

  “Now, I want you to use your mind. Use your imagination. Pretend to yourself that I am Charles.”

  “I—uh, I don’t think…”

  “It might help if you close your eyes.”

  “No. No, I don’t think that would help.”

  “You told me you’ve been praying that God will send Charles home. But you can’t heal yourself by avoiding things that make you sick. That’s only a very temporary solution. You need to be purified. Do you want to be purified, Taylor?”

  Holy shit. That’s exactly what Charles had said, about avoiding things that make you sick. Christ, how many boys have bought this line? This whole mess? But I’m so close now; and I don’t think I could go through this charade again, so I need to get my proof and get out of here.

  Jesus, help me. Be with me. Protect me. And I close my eyes. Now, this is trust in God.

  “I’m Charles,” he says. I can smell him, his soap, his breath. One hand is on my hip. “Remember that I’m doing God’s bidding. What happens next gives me no pleasure. No pleasure at all. If it weren’t for God’s instructions, I’d be risking my own soul to save yours. But God has commanded me.” The other hand is behind my neck.

  Before I can even think, he yanks on my waistband, pulling my groin against his, and I sure as hell know what it feels like when a guy’s hard dick is pressing against me. Bartle’s is hard. Then he kisses me. Right on the mouth. Hell, right in the mouth. He’s stronger than I’d thought, and it’s really hard to push him away. But I do. His back hits the door, though, so I can’t get out quickly.

  We stand there staring at each other for a minute, then I wipe my mouth off, and his face softens. His voice is silky. “Trust! You must trust. This is what Almighty God has commanded me to do. I hate it; please know that. I hate doing it. I hate what it is and everything about it, just as you will. I promise you that. It will save you, Taylor. This is the only way. You must have too much of what Satan wants you to have, and I am God’s tool. Now, close your eyes and submit to God’s will.”

  Not a chance, fucker. “I’ve got what I came for.”

  He blinks stupidly at me. “What did you say?”

  You know all those movies you see where the hero has caught the bad guy, the perp, gun in hand and about to do the bad deed? And instead of getting help or doing anything sensible, he tells the perp “Gotcha” and the perp shoots the hero? And you always say to yourself or whoever’s watching with you, “Why the hell is that idiot telling the perp what he’s going to do?” Well, I have a better understanding about that now. It’s like you can’t help yourself.

  “You’re doing this to Charles, aren’t you? And you were doing it to Ray. He didn’t kill himself. I know that, and you know that. You murdered him. And how many others?”

  He stares at me, nostrils flaring. “No! No, you have to understand. The boys who died were too far gone. Some of them died by their own hands, and some died because God commanded me to end their sinning before it consumed them. This isn’t true for Charles, and it doesn’t have to be true for you. Pray with me, Taylor. Pray hard, and God will let you see through me, his humble tool, how truly evil this is! Please, for the sake of your very soul!”

  It occurs to me to wonder if maybe he really believes this shit he’s spouting. Could it be that he doesn’t consider it murder because he has some sick voice in his head he’s mistaken for God Almighty?

  Whether he believes it or not, I’m getting out of here. “My soul is doing just fine, you sicko pervert. I pray, but not for this. Not for your services!”

  His face kind of sags, sad, pathetic. He says, “What are you going to do?”

  “What d’you think? I’m gonna spill my guts. You’re done here.”

  For a second he looks like he’s about to cry, like he’s ashamed. And then he lowers his head and steps to the left and away from the door. But it’s a fake. Just as I’m reaching for the handle, he shoves me hard and I go flying to the right. I fall over something on the floor, barely aware that he’s turned to that open file drawer and back toward me, and by the time I can get to my feet again he’s got a rope around my chest, arms pinned to my sides.

  He’s lassoed me!

  I struggle to get a hand up high enough to grab onto his arm, the rope, anything, but he’s too quick. He wraps more rope around me, the coarse fibers digging into the skin below my short sleeves. It hurts to struggle, but I don’t care. I have to break out of this!

  I try kicking, but he just pushes me over; you can’t keep your balance very well when you can’t use your arms. So now I’m helpless and I’m on the floor. I guess this is the time to scream. So I do.

  He just stands there, watching me. Then, “Really, Taylor, who’s going to hear you?”

  I fill my lungs and scream again. He sits down in a chair to watch. Shit. Fuck! How the hell did this happen? I’m trying so hard not to cry. I absolutely refuse to cry. But I’m scared shitless.

  “I made a mistake with you. I took more time with the others, prepared them better. I see now that Satan has had a hand in this. He got me to move too fast, and I’ve failed you. The only chance for you now is for God to take you before you can sin any more.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” My voice sounds like someone else’s.

  “See? See?” He shakes his head almost sadly. “You know, I didn’t kill all those other boys. Well, maybe one or two. But mostly they just couldn’t go on living, knowing what God thought of them. So they killed themselves.”

  “Are you like Strickland?” I’m nearly spitting at him. “Do you think death is better—”

  “Than living a life of abomination? Absolutely. I’ll be God’s tool, one way or the other, to do his will regarding you. You’ve rejected the way that would have saved your soul while you lived. It will be up to God what happens to it when you’re dead.”

  “No! No. You can’t do that. You have to let me go. What choice do you have?”

  “Oh, I have lots of choices. I may not have lots of time, but I have lots of choices. My only decision at this moment is whether to teach you a lesson before you kill yourself. Of course, I’m talking about the cookie batter here. If you leave the world hating it, Satan may lose his chance to claim your soul.” And he starts undoing his belt.

  Okay, I’m hyperventilating now. He’s going to rape me and then kill me? I have to raise my head off the floor to look him in the eye, but I do it. “You can’t exactly leave a violated corpse. They’ll never believe suicide.”

  “You poor, desperate boy. You know, Taylor, I’ve done this before. You haven’t.” Why does this sound familiar? In what previous lifetime have I heard those wor
ds? “And besides, I have God on my side. He won’t risk losing his instrument. So he’ll help everyone believe that you tied yourself up, you see? With that noose as a start, it’s not inconceivable. You tied one end of the rope to the kneeling bench in the balcony, then you put the noose around your arms and turned round and round until it circled your neck a few times, and then you jumped. You’d been tying yourself up in an effort to keep yourself from sticking whatever you could find up that hungry ass of yours, but it hadn’t helped, so you asked God and this is what he said to do. It will all come out when I tell them about your confessions to me. God will dictate to me what I should say. I’ll blame myself, of course. I should have taken action when you told me some of the things you’ve put up there. As long as they don’t find semen, it will all fall into place. A condom will suffice for that.” He stands and pushes his slacks and underwear down to the floor. His dick is pointing at me, red and angry. “And it’s my fault, too, for not preparing you well enough. But God will forgive me. You’ve been such a challenge.”

  My last-ditch effort is to try and roll away from him. And one final prayer: “Almighty God, help me! Please!”

  The door behind Bartle crashes open. I wrench my body so I can see in that direction, and there’s a very impressive black figure standing there.

  It’s Sean.

  Bartle wheels around. For several tense seconds nothing happens except for Bartle pulling up his pants, and then Sean says, “Let him go.”

  “Sean, my son, he has denied sanctification. He has denied—”

  “Let him go. Now.” No one moves. Sean raises his voice. “Now!”

  Bartle takes a step toward Sean, who pulls his fist back, ready to strike. They’re frozen like that for four, maybe five seconds. Then Bartle starts shouting scripture.

  “Blessed are those who have been persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven! Blessed are you when people reproach you, persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely, for my sake.” His arms shoot up over his head and his voice rises so he’s almost screaming. “Rejoice and be exceedingly glad for great is your reward in heaven! For that is how they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”