by John Herrick
Hunter felt Gabe’s muscles relax.
Hunter’s thoughts started to wander. “One week in summer, back during my college days, I went to the beach with a bunch of friends. We had a blast catching rays during the day, building bonfires at night. But what my friends didn’t know is that I’d sneak out of the hotel room after everyone went to sleep. I’d make my way down to the sand and walk the shore after dark. Nights just like tonight, but much warmer. I’d walk half a mile along the empty beach, listen to the waves tumble onto the sand, feel the wind graze my cheeks.
“I’d stop and stare at the expanse of ocean, and it would remind me how big God is. In the dark, I couldn’t see the horizon, but I knew it was there. I knew if I got in a boat and sailed due west, I’d end up on the coast of Portugal or Morocco.” Hunter felt fervor rise within him as he peered at Gabe. “Then a thought would hit me: God designed that ocean. He set the boundaries of that huge expanse and keeps it under control. He knows each person on the opposite shore. He cares for them, and understands their cultures and foreign tongues. And I realized if God can handle that ocean and take an active role in all those people groups with their details, then He can handle any detail in my life.” He turned to Gabe. “So why should my own circumstances seem like such a major issue?”
“Maybe because they churn in the depths of your heart and soul,” said Gabe. “Language, cultures, people groups—those all come and go. But right now, this is your life. This is your journey. It affects you now, so it’s a big deal to you. And if it’s important to you, it’s important to God—as important as keeping that ocean inside its parameters.”
Hunter nodded, grateful to have another individual in his life who understood.
He reached for Gabe’s hand, which felt warm inside his own. Hunter rubbed his thumb along the edge of Gabe’s palm and stared up at the stars. As had the ocean years ago, tonight those stars reminded him of how big God is.
CHAPTER 49
On Monday afternoon, in deference to the public memorial service for Lucas Hampton, schools and businesses in Hudson closed early. A private funeral for the Hampton family had occurred the prior day. The public memorial service took place on the green at the town square, where Hunter and Gabe had sat the night before. Attendees’ vehicles filled nearby parking lots and vacant spots along the streets. Those who lived within walking distance trekked to the center of town. Morning drizzle had cleared; sunshine emerged in time for the service. Although seating accommodated two hundred people, many more attended than organizers had estimated. Those who stood around the chairs outnumbered those seated by a ratio of two to one. Wreaths and flowers adorned the podium area, which paled in comparison to the flood of signs and wooden crosses individuals had placed around the high school in the days since Lucas’s death.
A few students at the high school had worked with the city council to arrange this afternoon’s event. As it turned out, while few had gotten to know Lucas, many sought a way to honor him. Parents spoke among themselves about how they might feel if this tragedy had befallen one of their own children. Several ministers in the community, including Chuck Barlow, shared words of comfort at the memorial service. Lucas’s pastor had received an invitation to speak, but perhaps in a moment of soul-searching, he had respectfully declined.
The high school choir performed a final hymn a cappella to conclude the memorial service. As attendees began to depart, their eyes appeared void to Hunter, their faces reflecting a somber mood. Though the service was intended as informal, some men had dressed in suits and ties; others wore casual shirts and khaki pants. High school sports teams had attended in their uniforms to show solidarity of support for the Hampton family. Hunter marveled at the age range of individuals, from children to parents to retirees, who had gathered for the occasion.
When the choir concluded, he gazed at Gabe and Ellen, with whom he had stood during the service. They considered grabbing coffee in Twinsburg once traffic dissipated.
As the crowd thinned, Hunter looked toward the far end of the green and saw his father, hands in his pants pockets, meandering toward him. His father had worn a shirt and tie. Despite dressing that way in his professional career, Hunter knew his father hated wearing a tie unless he needed to, so he must have taken Lucas’s death to heart.
When Ed Carlisle reached the trio, he did so in a manner Hunter would describe as unsure, trying to appear casual as he gazed at the hundreds of people heading toward the perimeter of the town square. Ed nodded to Gabe, and though his father’s expression was solemn, Hunter perceived in it neither resentment nor anger toward Gabe. If anything, he detected a sense of peace.
“Hello, Gabe. I believe we’ve met,” said Hunter’s father with a handshake, then turned to Hunter. “Can I speak to you alone for a moment?”
Out of respect, Gabe and Ellen took a few steps backward and began a conversation of their own. Hunter couldn’t fathom what his father wanted to talk about in this context. He searched for clues in the man’s eyes but deciphered nothing. When it came to stifling evidence of what stirred within one’s soul, Hunter and his father shared that suit in common. As Ed shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hands still in his pockets, Hunter could tell this wasn’t easy for him. He heard car keys jingle in his father’s pocket, which meant the man was fidgeting with his hands.
His father gestured toward the now-vacant podium. “Hunter, this whole … situation … has caused me to do some thinking … reevaluating … I’m not sure how to put it. I’m not a words man. But I’ve thought about what it means to stand with family.”
This sounded positive, but Hunter kept his defenses rigid. He remained silent and allowed his father to put words to whatever he believed he needed to say.
With a tentative glance, Ed continued, “The way I responded to you wasn’t … right.” Ed grimaced and smoothed his eyebrows with his fingers. “I don’t know what you’re facing in your life. I can’t pretend to understand. I’d be lying if I tried to act like I’ve been there. But I … I want you to know I support you as your dad. I’m trying to, at least. The best I know how. I’m not good at talking about … I mean, expressing emotional things, but I want you to know how much I love you, son. I don’t say that much … or ever, maybe … but I … do.”
Hunter felt tears well up, but he forced them back. Biting his lower lip, he nodded to let his father know he had accepted his sentiments.
Ed shook his head and lowered his gaze to the grass at his feet.
“What happened to that boy, the way he ended his life,” said Hunter’s father, “I never want that for you. The way things played out with that boy … I can’t help but think you could’ve been in that kid’s situation if things had unfolded ten years ago. It wouldn’t have ended only your life. It would have ended mine, too.”
Hunter’s father ran his finger and thumb beneath his eye as if to remove a speck from his eye, but Hunter knew the man had wiped away a tear he hadn’t anticipated. Hunter couldn’t blame him for the disguise. The man never wept. He probably didn’t know what to do when a tear came. But Hunter couldn’t doubt his father’s sincerity.
“Am I making any sense to you, son?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“I don’t understand why you feel the way you do about … well, you know … but I know there are things you don’t understand about me, either. And you’re still my son.”
With that, perhaps to ease the awkwardness the man felt in this moment of honesty, he gave Hunter a gentle punch to the shoulder, the way he did when Hunter was a child. When Hunter had enjoyed the luxury of life’s innocence.
Ed Carlisle scanned the crowd, which had thinned to a fragment of its original size. He took a deep breath and exhaled. The way he squinted let Hunter know his father had more to say.
“How some people have treated you—it’s just not right,” said Hunter’s father almost under his breath. He turned his attention back to his son and looked him in the eyes. “I mean, who is understood one hundr
ed percent by anyone else? Who doesn’t come a step or two short of people’s idea of perfection? When we see them doing something we don’t like, do we plaster our views about them for everyone to see, to humiliate them?”
Absent of a fitting response, Hunter shrugged. Despite all the years he’d wished he could talk to his father, now that it had happened, he couldn’t figure out how to react.
“I haven’t been a perfect dad to you over the years. I haven’t given you all the cheers I should have. I realize that now. But I can say this: I’ve noticed something about you, Hunter. I’ve always noticed it. You were never one to cut other people down or humiliate them. You never treated anyone the way you’ve been treated lately, not from what I ever saw. I’ve seen a hope or faith about you since you were a teenager. I’ve seen it come through during this public flogging. And whatever it is about you, I want that for myself. That may sound ridiculous coming from your dad, but nevertheless …” He jingled his keys and coins in his pocket again. “You’ve been through fire—dealing with this since you were young, and the last few months in particular—and you’ve stayed strong. So whatever the source of your strength is, it must be genuine. I respect you more than I respect the fearmongers out there. And if it’s faith, then one day, maybe I want it for me, too.”
Hunter shuddered inside—a good shudder. It sounded like his father was proud of him.
His father stammered a moment. “Maybe, uh …”
Hunter couldn’t believe what he saw. His father inched forward, then retreated as if to reconsider. He lifted his arms in a cautious way. A hug? If that were the case, the man had reevaluated more than—
Before Hunter knew it, his father had drawn him into his embrace. Hunter fought back tears, tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He felt bad for not responding better, but this display of affection had taken him aback. Though their hug lasted less than three seconds, it felt like dawn in Hunter’s heart. Ed Carlisle punctuated the embrace with a quick pat on the shoulder blade before they separated.
“You okay now?” asked Hunter’s father.
“I’m okay, Dad.”
When they parted ways, Hunter rejoined Gabe several yards away. Hunter took a quick glance over his shoulder as his father treaded across the green.
Gabe didn’t ask what the two men had discussed. Instead, with his elbow, he gave Hunter’s arm a gentle bump.
Gabe didn’t need to ask. He already knew.
Hunter now realized Gabe had wound up alone while he’d talked to his dad.
“Where’s Ellen?” Hunter asked.
With a shrug, Gabe examined the people around them, then pointed to the gazebo where he and Hunter had sat the night before. “There she is.”
Standing beside the gazebo, Ellen conversed with someone, but with passersby blocking Hunter’s view, he couldn’t determine the other individual’s identity. It was a man, but he faced Ellen with his back toward them. Hunter and Gabe meandered toward Ellen, and once they reached the gazebo, they decided to hang back.
She was talking to Brendan. Their conversation didn’t appear romantic, but it looked amiable.
Hunter wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but in this case, he wound up close enough to where he couldn’t help but overhear them. He chalked it up to concern for his friend.
“I’m sorry, Ellen,” said Brendan. “I didn’t realize how much the pressure had gotten to you.”
“It’s not your fault, Brendan. I should’ve said something.”
Brendan gazed into her eyes. Creases appeared across his forehead. Even from a short distance, Hunter saw the sincerity in his expression. Brendan paused for a moment, then spoke again.
“Could we give it another try?” Brendan asked. Then, as if fearful she might reject his offer, he added, “We don’t need to be engaged if you’re not ready for it.”
Brendan reached down, took her hands, and enveloped them in his own. Hunter watched Ellen’s shoulders ease.
“I don’t want to lose the most important person who ever walked into my life,” said Brendan, his eyes trained on hers. “And if we can find a way to make this work, keep our communication lines open, I’d like to do that.”
“Yes. I want that,” Ellen nodded. “I really do.”
Brendan continued to hold her gaze. His face beamed as he grinned.
“No more walls between us?” he said.
Ellen shook her head.
“No more walls,” she replied.
Hunter felt Gabe’s arm wrap around his shoulders.
“No more walls,” Hunter whispered to himself.
EPILOGUE
Ten years later, Hunter sat in the den of his home in Phoenix and powered up his laptop computer. When he checked his email, he discovered a message from Gabe Hellman. Though they had parted ways in their relationship under mutual agreement, they had remained good friends and had kept in touch ever since.
Scanning the message, Hunter read that all was well back in Ohio. Gabe remained single, but he had peace. His clinic continued to thrive. In fact, upon adding two more partners to the business, Gabe and his team prepared to move to a larger location.
Hunter couldn’t help but smile as he contemplated the season of discovery he and Gabe had shared. Their relationship had lasted more than two years. Looking back, neither Hunter nor Gabe regretted it. To this day, Gabe knew Hunter better than almost anyone else.
Oftentimes, when Hunter thought of Gabe, his mind wandered to their mutual friend, Ellen Krieger—that is, Ellen Pieper. After slowing down for a year, Ellen and Brendan reinstated their engagement and, after another year, they married. Hunter served as Brendan’s best man. Brendan and Ellen finished building their house, where they lived today. On occasion, Hunter still heard from Ellen, but once he moved to Phoenix and time marched forward, she kept in touch less and less. Hunter knew it wasn’t intentional on Ellen’s part. Ellen Krieger—that is, Ellen Pieper—tended to live in the here and now.
Not long after her wedding, Hunter accepted a sales position in Phoenix. Setting distance between his past and present, spending time in the opposite corner of the country, had helped him come to terms with whatever might lay ahead for him. And he had to admit, he savored the abundance of sunshine and desert heat.
He opened the attachment Gabe had sent with his message—a photo of Gabe standing in front of the new office building, arms folded across his chest. Hunter could see the excitement in Gabe’s eyes, as well as the familiar compassion which had drawn Hunter to him the day they had met.
After relocating to Phoenix, Hunter created a blog, which he wrote in the evenings and continued to operate. His number of readers grew by the year. Often he received messages from individuals expressing gratitude for the way he’d voiced how they felt inside.
He kept his identity anonymous on his blog, which allowed him the freedom to express his heart. The journal Gabe had given Hunter on their first Christmas together had proven a pivotal turning point and had given him an emotional outlet. Nowadays, in his blog, he offered encouragement for those walking through homosexuality. Hunter couldn’t bring back Lucas Hampton, but he’d determined to prevent another individual from reaching Lucas Hampton’s decision to end his life.
Lucas Hampton. To this day, he crossed Hunter’s mind on a regular basis. Though he would have been about thirty years old by now, he remained a kid in Hunter’s mind. Hunter never forgot the image of the teenager sitting in church, consumed with unspoken sadness.
Hunter closed Gabe’s email message and took a moment to ponder the past, his personal growth, and God’s grace in the midst of it all. He whispered a quick prayer, thanking God for how He had brought Hunter to a place of peace in his life.
Hunter wasn’t perfect. He had struggled to find balance. Yet God had gotten him there somehow.
As Hunter sat at the computer, he felt a pair of arms wrap around him. One hand overlapped the other across his chest.
Hunter located a favorite freckle on the right hand and planted a k
iss there. With that, he peered up at the one who gazed down upon him with eyes of love.
“I’m so thankful for you,” whispered Hunter.
###
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FROM THE DEAD
A Novel
by
John Herrick
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CHAPTER ONE
Jada Ferrari lit the collection of miniature candles along the coffee table. Darkness evaporated from the living room.
As Jada leaned forward, Jesse Barlow admired the curvature of her figure, the way her brunette hair fell in curls past her shoulder blades.
“I just bought these today,” said Jada, who brushed her hand above the flames and sent the aroma of jasmine wafting through the air. Ever the center of attention, she sat on the edge of the sofa beside Cameron and Gavin, friends from an apartment downstairs, as Gavin lit the round of joints.
